Headfuck by pomegranate_seed

Summary:

What are we going to do with that brain of yours, baby? Little girls aren't supposed to think.

Notes:

In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Screamfest collection.

Prompt:

Body Horror intentionally showcases grotesque or psychologically disturbing violations to the human body.

examples:

Tusk

The Autopsy of Jane Doe

Teeth

The Thing

Goodnight Mommy

--

I honestly don't know what to say except I legitimately freaked myself the fuck out writing this and I wasn't sure I was brave enough to post it.

Mind the tags!!!! It's twisted as all fuck from here on out.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

What are we going to do with that brain of yours, baby? Little girls aren't supposed to think.

This sort of chastising triggered a shame deep in Hermione's belly. Every single time. And Daddy knew this, knew it set her tummy roiling, drove fat, hot tears down her cheeks. But that didn't change the fact that the girl was not emptying her head. And not doing as she was told broke the rules. Which made her feel all the more woeful.

The cold wooden floor of the gloomy dining room in Grimmauld Place dug into her delicate skin. She tried to minimise her shivers, Daddy didn't like to see her ingratitude. Goosebumps and chattering teeth filled him with disappointment. He kept her safe, kept her with him. The least she could do was show her appreciation - he could send her away, if she'd rather?

Hermione recalled the lack of understanding from those who were supposed to care for her, the disdain she'd not noticed til he'd pointed it out. The stilted affection from Weasleys. The distance looming between her and Harry. The distrust from Minerva and Andromeda. He'd caught their negativity first and she'd pleaded him to take her with him when yet another dinner at the Burrow had descended into the uglier underbelly of survival - guilt and envy.

At Grimmauld Place, dinnertime was sacred. There was order. Peace. A large hand to eat from. She quickly learned to shoulder discomfort of the floor with grace. A small price to pay, really.

She wanted to be good, and she'd told her Daddy as much. Her brain just wouldn't stop. It was exhausting. Memories bombarded her with uncomfortable feelings - echoes of Those Times; everything that came before he saved her. It was all getting in the way of her being a good girl. And she really wanted to be a good girl.

Sirius looked down at her from his place at the head of the table, his gaunt face finally filling out thanks to her hearty meals. The life in his eyes had returned - he owed that to her, he'd said. She gave him just as much peace as he gifted her. A perfect match, he'd grinned.

He wasn't grinning now.

The crease at his brow cut a severe frown, made all the more foreboding by his long hair scraped into a bun. He sighed, rolling the sleeves of his black cotton Henley to the elbow, and bracing both hands on his sinewy thighs, rings glinting menacingly in the lamplight. Hermione couldn't contain the small wince.

We'll just have to fix your head, little one. Empty it all out so you're the brainless little doll you're supposed to be. What do you say, pup? Should I take a drill to your skull?

She'd giggled at that.

This was far from new. But it still tripped her up that Sirius was so comfortable with Muggle things. Yet another tangible rift between her and the others. They never understood her need to remember, to straddle both cultures.

But Sirius did.

And that connection only grew as his need for innovation became more pressing.

To begin with, he'd Obliviate her. A grey blanket of fog would settle over her mind, turning her thoughts sluggish, a bitterness coating her tongue. Modified to allow her subconscious to cling to shadowy remnants of memories - enough to leave her with inexplicable, severe reactions to certain stimuli (cowering at the spark of a cigarette lighter, heaving sobs with the grind of a knife on whetstone).

At first she hadn't wanted it, found the not remembering terrifying. She had wanted to escape; throw open the heavy front door of Grimmauld Place and run… somewhere else. To a place she could no longer picture. Faces turned blurry. Names unable to materialise on her tongue. And the harder she tried to conjure the images, the heavier her head would get, the harder it was to keep her eyes open at all. Until finally she ceased trying.

When her tears turned bloody that first time, they both knew Daddy had to change tactics.

Stupid brain, doing stupid things like thinking. The only thing to think about was Daddy.

Hermione knew this, had learned that lesson well. It took a while for her to commit her attention to him entirely (had taken several lashings and one miserable week of sleeping outside the bedroom door, curled on her side in the drafty hallway, trying to keep from adding splinters to her switch-raw flesh), but now she was better at anticipating his moods, his needs.

Stupidity deserves severity.

She might not be smart, might not be able to think for herself, but she could surely think about Sirius-

Daddy.

She wasn't allowed his name in her mouth. Still hadn't earned it. Had lost her back teeth to his pliers when, in an unseemly fit over his heavy beating, had dared to spit a vicious "Fuck you, Sirius".

She'd been bloody and swollen for days.

Little girls earn respect. And those teeth just get in the way of enjoying your throat fully. Maybe one day you'll earn name privileges back.

Names are powerful. This, Hermione knew well. She rarely heard her own. Was told behaviour motivated naming. She liked the pretty names he had for her - baby, darling, good girl - but each of those names could turn nasty with a frosty bark or derisive sneer.

She didn't enjoy those names. Didn't enjoy the implications - that she wasn't worthy, that she wasn't good enough. She so desperately wished to be enough. And she'd keep trying. Even if she wasn't there yet.

Still, it's a Daddy's job to train his girl. And Hermione was the luckiest girl in the world to have a Daddy as dedicated as hers. Her Daddy knew the importance of training, understood the danger of complacency. Comfort led to idleness, which would only breed stupidity in little girls; idiotic fantasies like growing up or leaving. So, ever the committed guardian, Daddy made it his mission to devise new ways to help her focus on him and nothing else. And, with the potions rendered ineffective thanks to her stupid exposure-fuelled tolerance on top of the mounting toll of his modified spellwork on her less-than-pliable memory, Daddy had turned to Muggle tools to help him.

Which was how they spent every Wednesday evening after dinner. Her crawling behind him until they reached the library, where she'd kneel on the scratchy red and brown rug before his wingback chair while he experimented.

Hermione was a good girl. She didn't flinch. Not as metals rattled. Not as he huffed and sighed and hummed. Not as she heard skin tear or slice. Not when she felt the occasional tug.

Sometimes he'd ask for her input. She wasn't entirely useless. Still had lots of facts stored away in her brain. And she still loved to share them. Sirius made for a receptive audience.

But how to get the most from the drill? Up her nose? In her ear?

I think here will work just fine.

He brushed the curls above her ear, further back from the temple.

A nice little drilling to get you all good and dolly-like for me.

Now, she squirms in the cradle of his lean thighs. Knows the heat in her belly isn't right. Feels the echoes of her former self rail against her body, the ghost of her former self sensing betrayal in this near-corpse's thrill licking up her spine. Takes a perverse joy in that - the desecration of a living grave.

She is her Daddy's girl after all - made in his image.

Breaks apart on his fingers, his cock, his thigh. Whatever he gifts her, she takes greedily, need consuming her in a relentless fashion. She's insatiable, but Daddy doesn't mind. Likes how she arranges herself on his bed, by his chair, at his feet. Learns how to meld pain and pleasure til she no longer can separate the two, feels a wave of excitement with each bruise and slice, disconnects from her instincts and forges new meaning in fear and despair.

Works extra hard to be treated with a filling. His fingers or his cock or whatever tool he's been using in his library. Begs to gag, chases the near-tearing feeling of unprepared muscle and unyielding force. Every hole stretched, stuffed, wrecked, and still she's ravenous for more as her body cries out in protest (or is it hunger?)

"Maybe you could make a bigger hole, Daddy. Finally put that brain to use."

What was that she saw in his features?

—

Disgust and delight were so intimately intertwined when it came to his pet.

Yes, her brain was a nuisance, but it always served up more depravity to capitalise on. He'd known it long before he'd claimed her. Had seen the pulse of darkness as twisted as his own in her quiet, preternatural stillness. Clocked the discomfort it wrought in those around her. None of them were unscathed from Riddle's war, but Hermione's demons burrowed deep, seeping into every corner of her.

And it called to him.

An erotic bass note, steadily pulsing, growing more sonorous until it could no longer be ignored.

He'd convinced himself long ago that this was the right course of action. The guilt-laden relief from their friends to be rid one more spectre of their past - even one held in the shell of what once was a vivacious girl with an insatiable appetite for knowledge now leeched of life and lustre - was enough to set him on this unforgivable path.

She hadn't come quietly, or willingly, of course. Contrary; until she wasn't. Until she understood the freedom he provided. The escape. The quiet. The focus.

It surprised them both that she learned it best on the precipice of consciousness, her nose pressed to his abdomen as he denied her oxygen; feeding her his cock to distract from the emptiness within her. She had been untouched in so many ways (a perverse gift, he thought, of children fighting the grown ups' battles). In so many ways she was frozen, unaware of herself. He lived to shred that innocence. Ruining as remaking. It had not been easy when she resisted - but it had fed the primal urge in him to overpower, to take, to own.

And now, here they were, not eight months later. She was actively participating in her own transformation.

Knelt now at his feet, droopy eyelids and splintered mouth presenting rich pink tongue, her disposition reminding him of a vinyl spinning without a needle; aimless and unengaged in its cyclical lifespan. A heady emptiness. A cry for fullness, for vibrance.

Wrapping a hand around his soft cock, he pressed it to her right cheek and nostril, watching the flesh cave towards her remaining teeth under his manipulation. She waited patiently, unflinching. It's hardly humiliating for fuckmeat to be fucked with, after all.

Sirius let his mind wander once more to her conspiratorial suggestion as his cock hardened on her wet tongue. Dragged his fist over his length, pressed the flat of his palm to the head of his cock, spit-slick from his girl's useful little mouth, and imagined.

It was a hell of a thought. Vile, undoubtedly, but compulsive; addicting.

He didn't act on it at first; he prided himself in his self-control. Knew all too well the benefits of waiting, of taking his time to plan. Sirius Black was adaptable by nature, and he never made the same mistake twice.

But he was still a man.

As they went about their days together, he'd find himself judging household objects by their ability to break bone. His hand twitched any time the hammer was out on a work surface. The wood axe by the door glinted with a sickening acknowledgement as it rested between exhausting log-splitting sessions.

While he took pride in his patience, temptation rooted quickly. The need for more swirled, intoxicating in his bloodstream.

More frequently than before, he found himself burying a hand in her hair at the scalp, twisting her head to the side to admire that spot. Above the ear, further back from the temple.

He'd press a thumb to it as he forced her head to still in his lap, Hermione spluttering and gasping around his straining cock. He'd lift her hair out of the way when he had her knelt beneath him taking his cock so he could stare at it.

She knew better than to complain, curled small and immobile under his taut frame, but on days where she was less docile, he found ravaging her the most prudent (and enjoyable) course of action to remind her of her place, of how every part of her was his to use, to transform, to ruin.

But that wet, sticky heat made his blood sing and his cock throb. Her laboured breath and desperate whimpers made sinking into her hole all the more invigorating.

Poor little pup, he thought to himself as he peeled back the bandage. He shouldn't indulge himself so soon after he'd pried her open.

Her scalp was raw at the incision point, bone slightly jagged as his combined magical and Muggle approach to surgery proved more volatile than anticipated. But with each breach of her flesh he learned more, refined his technique, until the charmed drill bit whirred and Sirius growled in needy harmony.

He was sure he'd replay this moment forever - that first contact. The texture unlike anything he'd experienced or imagined. The heat and slickness against the pad of this left thumb viscerally overwhelming as he came with a hoarse cry in his other hand.

This had been the final step to ruination. A bittersweet discovery, a catalyst for the end. There was no returning from this depravity. For either of them

The more he explored, the further she slipped away - and he mourned; felt her absence in the stretching silences, missed the way she actively depended upon him so completely. Now, he found himself more active in her daily care as she sat, propped at his feet, a shell of the girl she had been, unmoving, unthinking.

But the loss of her essence and desperation for him wasn't enough to retreat from this discovery. With each thrust she grew limper, but the squelch spurred him on, chasing the tightening sensation at the base of his spine as the hoarse scream from Hermione's throat faded out.

His thumb pressed harder than before, digit slipping deeper, this unexplored tissue that had resisted him finally yielding under the mounting pressure.

With an animalistic grunt, Sirius came and he conquered; Hermione's brain truly his to manipulate in every way.

His softening cock slipped from her cunt and Sirius watched his spend spill from within her, frowning at the waste.

Hooking two fingers, he gathered his cum from between her twitching legs and brought it to her hairline, just behind her right ear, and let it slowly drip from his digits to mark his new favourite hole.