Chapter Text
Hermione lays on her back, wondering when he'll be done rutting inside her. He doesn't even notice that she's thinking of the grocery list and the specials at Tesco so she can plan the meals she'll be making.
It was between pork dumplings and chicken Primavera when she felt her husband shudder and the rhythm ended, and she turned into his face and kissed him back, hoping that this time would work so she wouldn't get that disappointed look from Molly.
“I love you, ‘Mione.” Ron said as he rolled over and feel asleep.
“Love you, too.” she replied, getting out of bed to clean up and use the loo. After the war ended, she decided to do the safe, comfortable thing for once. She had a job, a house, and a husband. It was stable.
And for the life of her, she couldn't understand why she wasn't happy.
Her dreams were always the same; being pinned down to the floor, blue eyes looking on impassively as every synapse was on fire from the Unforgivable Curse.
The sharp pain of the knife felt clean in comparison as she dragged the razor blade across her flesh, the only times she felt real and alive anymore.
She healed herself with her wand and vanished all evidence, of course. She didn't want anyone to think she was mental.
She would go to work and be an advocate for magical creatures, while feeling dead inside. She made dinner and ate at an empty table as Ronald decided to go eat at the pub with his friends instead.
His portion would keep and he could eat it for lunch the next day. After a while, she felt like nothing more than his maid, cook, and whore at his convenience.
It finally hit a head when she had trouble getting herself to climax by her own hands. She tried all sorts of positions and toys, but nothing got her comfortable enough to let go.
That's when she realized she needed pain in her sex. To not be in control. She tried to explain to Ronald that her sexual needs were different, but all he would do was a half-hearted attempt at cunnilingus before giving up.
She didn't know how to tell him to pin her down, make her hurt and scream and fight as fingers invade her and curl her into oblivion.
Hermione couldn't tell Ron that the only times she really gets off is when she's bound and scared. She settles for charming a dildo to fuck her as she casts relashio on herself and she feels the bite of the magical ropes against her wrists and ankles.
Afterwards she uses the blade against herself and it clears her mind as she carves LIAR onto her forearm, only to heal and vanish it away before crawling back into bed, the ghost of satisfaction slipping away as sleep takes her.
This went on for weeks before Ronald asked if she were on a pill to prevent pregnancy.
“Of course not. We're just not lucky is all.” She would never reveal how grateful she was that it hadn't happened. She saw the charges on their account and knew he wasn't just having a pint with the guys, and her suspicions were confirmed as he didn't want to fuck her as often as before.
She realized that it should have hurt more; instead, she only felt things when it was pain. She didn't even have to hide the “LIAR” on her arm anymore as he'd never look.
She always wore long sleeved robes to work, anyways.
The first time she met a guy through the website, she felt ashamed yet excited. It was different and rebellious, and through their correspondence he knew that she liked it rough and was willing to do things that might otherwise seem extreme.
As the muggle man choked her as she was handcuffed and getting railed by his thick erection, she whimpered in delight as the first orgasm in years crashed through her, leaving her legs feeling rubbery and useless.
She settled the feelings of guilt as she carved “WHORE” into her flesh over her pubic bone. The guys she found online never asked or cared enough as they would restrain her, beat her, and make her come screaming from whatever depraved thing they wanted to do to her.
Ronald had lipstick stains on his shirt, and Hermione didn't care anyone.
Months pressed on and her constant litany of “I'm fine, really” stopped most questions when people saw her limp or wince at work. She developed a reputation of being as clumsy as Tonks, and wondered if she were hiding a similar pattern of consensual pain.
She knew this muggle seemed dangerous. Hermione knew enough wandless magic to get her wand if the situation were dire enough.
She hadn't expected this, though.
The muggle liked to cut flesh and watch her bleed. She felt herself grow wet from the torture and could only think of Narcissa’s impassive blue eyes as she was growing cold.
The man kept rutting inside her ass as Hermione’s eyes focused on the gash on her bound forearms. It wasn't just bleeding, but flowing.
The usual amount of pain that made her feel alive was absent as she felt her mortality slipping away as she served as little more than a semen receptacle for the latest man in her life. It was the only thing that she seemed good for.
Maybe it was fate, or just sheer desperation as Hermione wandlessly cast the killing curse on him out of self-preservation.
Either way, she knew she'd be facing a formal inquery about this.