Riverdale Oneshots

Torn

Summary: "I can hear the words I tell myself in his accented breath, and it raises goosebumps on my arms every time, but I let it affect me that way.

It will make me better."

AbusiveDouche!Hiram. Getting into Hermione's head and how his treatment affects her.

[trigger warning for light physical and psychological abuse.]

I belong to him.

It's true. For so many years of my life, I've been his. He is the one who's so skillfully learned my body, mind, and heart, coming to understand each one so that he can entice it perfectly. He knows my strengths, my weaknesses, what I love, what I need, and, arguably most importantly of all, what I hate.

He knows how to make me feel beautiful. He is one of the only men that has ever done that. He gives me passion, he gives me fire, he gives me romance... everything. He's spent years building me up, making me strong, teaching me everything I need to be his truest partner, not only in life but in business as well. He trusts me, needs me, loves me, just as much as I do him, and I see it in every move he makes. His eyes say it all; whenever he looks at me, they swirl with emotion. I read for myself the love, desire, trust, and it sends the very same flashing through me every time.

But when I see anger there, it never mirrors.

We have everything, or close to it. Our home in New York was even more extravagant, even more attractive. He said he bought it for me, wanting to find somewhere that matched its inhabitants' beauty. This apartment, however, was one he had no say in, and that was rather freeing. But tonight, as he returns to it, I regret that choice, and I do worry... I worry that it isn't perfect. I've done everything, or rather I hope I have. He must understand if I haven't.

He almost always understands.

I can hear him in my mind sometimes. Praising me for what I'm doing, or, as is the case more often, serving as my own self-doubt. I can hear the words I tell myself in his accented breath, and it raises goosebumps on my arms every time, but I let it affect me that way.

It will make me better.

He was there, in the back of my head, when I was with Fred Andrews. Every time we spoke, touched, and then eventually kissed... he was there, berating me, wondering at how I'd gotten away from him. At how I would be punished, as soon as he was able to do so. And I knew it would come to that when I did it. I knew he would be well within his rights to. I would deserve it, when the time came, and accept it gladly, but at that point...

I told myself it was because I missed him. And to a certain extent, it was. But it was more about missing affection at all - missing what he had provided for me in a constant fashion for most of my adult life. Fred was different; obviously so. He smelled of sandalwood, grit, real work, and he was so careful with me, like he was afraid I might break. Like all he wanted was to make sure I was okay, rather than to further the act.

Hiram's scent is subtle, but I don't think I'll ever be permitted to forget it. Clean, fresh, but with more depth than that - somehow darker than that. And he never needs to be careful. He knows he owns me. I would let him do whatever he wanted with me in an instant, simply because I know he worked so hard to get us to this point... because I know I owe him at least that much. The differences are innumerable, but that doesn't matter, will never matter, not when he's still in my head, still whispering to me that what I'm doing is wrong the moment I feel even a fragment of long-forgotten bliss at the hands of another man.

I sit stiffly in the expensive armchair at the head of our dining table, dark nails drumming against the varnished surface, apprehension and excitement combining in my throat to draw it tight. My legs crossed, I try not to fidget, no matter how unsuccessful I know I'm going to be. I'm unsure what to expect - I only know what I wish won't happen, what I wish he won't do. Glancing at the wedding band on my ring finger in passing, memories flood me of an easier time, a simpler one, back when what we were doing could only land him with some sort of warning.

"Mi vida."

Excitement wins out. Relief. The moment I see him, hear him, I'm on my feet, unable to keep the smile from my features as I cross the room to meet him. For a moment, I can't speak at all, but he opens his arms and I fall into them, feeling so small, so frail, and yet perfectly whole in the very same moment.

"Te extrañé," I whisper, barely able to get even that out, relishing in the warmth his embrace brings. He feels familiar, safe, so very much what I need to bring me back to myself that tears gather in the corners of my eyes. I did miss him. I did. He truly is my other half, and the love I feel for him does not diminish in light of actions he has taken, or words he's said. It cannot matter. I am loyal to him, always, and, as I made clear in my wedding vows, will be there for him through everything.

"I missed you too, Hermione."

His arms encircle me in warmth, strong and true, and I sigh in contentment, breathing him in. The piece of me that fell apart when I saw him cuffed in the cop car is finally putting itself back together; all I ever needed was his compassion, his touch. His support means everything to me, and the ease with which he holds me almost comes as a surprise.

I draw in a gentle gasp as his lips touch to the shell of my ear, tension returning to my figure for entirely different reasons now as his hold tightens. Again, I have no idea what to expect - Hiram is many things, but he is most prevalently unpredictable at times like these. Vulnerability clings to my skin, chilling me, and I can't help but wonder.

"Mí angel," he murmurs, the tone bringing up a conflicting sea of emotions in me, and my next breath shakes heavily as it leaves my lips. I wonder immediately what I've done wrong, how I can fix it... whether it's even really worth it to anymore.

"What have you done to us?"

He knows how to raise me up - that much is true.

But he also knows how to make me feel like the world is crumbling at my feet.

He kisses me then, harsh and sharp and yet, somehow, soft, and the world shatters around me as my broken heart gives a final, shuddering attempt to repair itself. Tears sting my eyes and wet my cheeks, but I give him everything I have, all my passion, all my love, just as I should have done even in his absence. I know it wasn't right, I know it, but I couldn't stand the cold, the quiet...

I can't apologize to him. I can't make excuses for what I said or did. He will never allow that, never accept it, and rightly so. Hiram is clever, witty. Beautifully strong. I do not deserve him, never will, because I, in turn, am weak.

And he knows this too, yet for some mysterious, unfathomable reason, he keeps me.

"I love you so much," he whispers, pulling back to wipe away my tears with his thumb, "but I need you to do better."

His eyes are sad. Disappointed. But that isn't what worries me. I see a hint of fire playing at the edges, and it sends a cold anxiety through me. When I glimpse anger in his eyes, tinting them dark, twisting his features into the perfect portrait of a broken man, it never mirrors. Instead I feel despair, but more than that, a dry dread: something I can only associate with the man I would give my life for. There is no fear I have ever felt that is more deep, more horribly striking, than the kind he imbues me with in his fury.

He does this because he loves me. I know that. He just said it himself.

But when I brace myself for the hit I know will come, a part of me is almost certain it will be backed in hate.