Azael's Chains

Meeting

She was being swallowed up by cruel, demanding lips eating at her own, tongue coaxing out each little whimper, one large hand netting her in place. The thumb at the joinder of her jaw drew sweet circles, fingertips pressed bruises into the meat of her neck. Her thoughts were a muddle, oxygen-deprived spool taut between the hungry mouth and possessive grip. As chokingly trapped as her caged heart beat it was a thready rope in the torrent of her grief.

Hips rolled against her, burning through the layers sheltering her from flesh-on-flesh. The solid hardness had wormed between her thighs, one foot arched to the floor and the other helpless over the cushioned back of the seat. Her front chilled as air swirled around her bared breasts, the wet tear of cloth registering after to her mind, and then her lips were freed and mouth and tongue and teeth trailed down her throat and further. He engulfed half of one breast, teeth gnashing until she arched into him with a cry. It was too much and she was wheeling in sensation. The tongue soothed over roughened skin, then he was sucking at her nipple, her hands fluttering like dragonflies against his shoulders, but he was immovable as stone.

She wrapped her fingers in black spider-silk curls and tugged, but the Death Eater groaned appreciatively and molded himself to her.

"Please."

Black eyes rolled up to her tear-stained face and she could read the drugged pleasure in his gaze. The hand not pinning her pulse traversed to her free breast, plucking and kneading in turns that plunged her head beneath dizzying waves.

She could feel her pulse rebelling against the pad of his thumb and wondered how this beast had been drawn by her sorrow. Her palms began swatting at him, her breath spluttering, whines wheezing airily around them until Dolohov wrenched his mouth from her with a sickening pop. One manacled hand swept over her wrists and pinned them beside her head. His thumb stroked her pulse and he stared at her with that eagle sharp gaze.

"Hermione." She'd scrunched her face, lashes tangled and nose wrinkled, but he dug into the thread of her vein and she snapped to him. "You know better than that."

A fine tremble washed through her. "I've tried-- please. I..." Choking sobs wracked her again and the man knelt up over her.

"Shush, sweet girl, shush." The steel at her throat turned to living silk and stroked gently over her skin. "I pushed too hard. Your grief was intoxicating." When her shaking did not subside, he slipped off her and instead tugged and smoothed until she was against his chest, knees pressed together across his lap. "Sh. I know. I've stopped now, kitten." He tangled through her hair, fingers working through knots. Sobs subsided into coughs and heavy warm circles soothed over her lap. Gentle rocking and soft, unfamiliar words laced the air.

When her tears were only salt crusting her lashes, Hermione slowly floated back to herself. "Why are you comforting me?"

The solid man beneath her hummed and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I told you I would be kind as long as you were good. I took advantage before you were ready and that is why you acted out. A man cannot expect an untrained crup to accept affection whilst under duress."

He was back to pet training metaphors, though the prickle of irritation was greatly lessened by numbness of grief settling in her.

"You must be tired, sweet girl. Shall I take you to bed?" When her chin jolted up he chuckled. "To your bed, kitten. Alone. Though I would never turn down the invitation to join you if you wish it." She rocked as he rose and carried her up to her room, tucking her in bed like she was still a child. His weight dipped the bed beside her, calluses brushing against red cheeks and smoothing away stray curls.

She was too exhausted to push him away, to rebel against the affection, and a worm in her gut told her perhaps he would keep his word and leave her be. For the moment, eyes drifting shut and the world spiraling to the dissociation of sleep, it was comforting. She felt almost safe.