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pixydustworld · 2 months

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The room was warm, heat sticking to her naked skin.

The girl beside her was crying, silent wracking sobs, shoulders shaking with effort to keep the sound at bay — the hum of the conversation was too loud, the lights too bright. Hermione inhaled slowly through her nose, bitter air burning her tongue. The collar around her neck was too tight for her to turn her head and that, somehow, was the worst bit.

What if it was someone she knew? Someone she’d grown up with? Someone she had hated, perhaps. Once, but never now.

She wouldn’t cry, not here. Not in front of eager vultures, ready to lick the salt from her skin; she would do it later. In the ever-unfolding after. After she was sold, after she was bought, after she was broken in.

After she killed the men who made the nameless girl beside her sob for a life long past, after she killed anyone who knew about what was occurring — after she slit their throat the muggle way, reveling in the mundaneness of their death. After, after, after,

After she was done, then she would cry.

When Harry died, it felt as if a part of Hermione had died, too. A phantom limb, the feeling of something missing, burrowing all the way to her bones. When his lifeless body tumbled from Hagrid’s arms, she felt it like a blow to her chest, knocking her backward, and splitting her in two.

He’d killed Voldemort. And himself. It made sense, in its own bitter way — in the end, she wasn’t sure if there had been much of a distinction between the two of them.

Then, in the chaos of death, Hermione had run.

After that, everything had disintegrated, crumbling like grand castles of sand, slipping beneath her feet. She had been captured after two and a half years on the run, long enough to begin to believe she could survive, short enough to know she never would. They had cornered her on a cliff’s edge — the churning sea to her back, an unavoidable future to her front.

Without hesitating, she had turned to jump — to be free in death, that would be enough. To belong, unabashedly, to her own choices.

But, she had never been lucky. Always clever and bright, but never lucky. A Death Eater had caught her in their arms before she’d slipped away into the mist of the sea, arms tightly banded across her ribcage.

“Not yet.” They had hissed.

“Do you remember your name?”

The girl tensed beside her and then relaxed at the sound of Hermione’s voice, sobs dissipating, floating away like bubbles in the soft evening air of her childhood. “Daphne.” She whispered. “Greengrass. Tori was in your year, I think.”

“Is Tori here?” It felt foreign in Hermione’s mouth, calling Astoria Greengrass of all people a childhood nickname, but it was somehow grounding, too. To be reminded of all the little things that made someone whole. To know that one day (after, after, after) Hermione would be whole, too.

“No.” Daphne’s voice trembled. “She fought back after the first round of these —” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Auctions, I suppose we’d call it. Said it was barbaric and cruel. Managed to kill three or four Death Eaters before they got her.”

Astoria Greengrass had always been quiet, standing in the shadows of her more vocal friends — clear memories of her smile flittered across Hermione’s thoughts. Of how her nose had crinkled when she’d laughed, how she managed to wish everyone in their year happy birthday, despite their house.

In fact, the last they had spoken had been on Hermione’s seventeenth birthday.

“We’ll make them pay.”

Daphne was silent for a long time, the noise in the room ebbing and flowing around them. “Yes.” She said finally, “We will.”

In the cloudy moments of clarity, Hermione watched from her cell as the world crumbled around her. Unraveling, like a massive trap; a lazy predator, intent on devouring their prey with ease. Sold to the highest bidder for the prize of her virginity. If she’d had enough energy, Hermione might have even laughed — if anyone climbed between her thighs, she would rip out their throat.

She still had her teeth, after all.

An aching routine of Dreamless sleep potions and blurry thoughts, sticky and stretched out, as if her mind was taffy.

Then one night, he came for her.

“Do you want to live?”

Hermione blinked until his face came into view.

“I think I’m already dead.” She said, brows furrowed. “Or dreaming.”

“Hermione.” He said a bit more firmly. “Answer me.”

Hermione frowned. “I did.” She whined.

Draco Malofy was crouched before her, fingers white around the rungs of her cell. He looked concerned. Angry, even, which meant she was definitely dreaming. “I’ve got some Wideye.” He said softly, speaking to her as if she were a cornered animal. “I’m going to give it to you through the bars, alright? Don’t bite me.”

Hermione snapped her teeth at him anyway, biting his thumb. He sighed, as if he’d known it would happen, but let her nip at his flesh until she was content she’d left behind marks.

“Always so scared of me.” She said, taking the cork off the vial with her teeth, spitting it somewhere on the floor. “Even when we were little. Do you remember? The first day of potions? I brushed your hand and you almost cried. Said I was stealing your magic with my dirty muggle blood.”

Malfoy grimaced. “Drink the vial, please. I can apologize for all that later. But I need you awake now, we have more important things to discuss.”

“Only because you’re pretty.” Hermione told the dream version of Malfoy, fondness that didn’t belong dripping across her tone. “And bright, I think. Like looking at the sun.”

“That’s very nice.” He said. The hand that she had bitten flexed and then reached out through the bars, touching a stray curl. “Drink up, now. Alright? For me?”

After, when she was awake and he was still there, Hermione scrambled away from him, all trembling limbs and furrowed brows.

They stared at one another, their breath the only sound echoing through the darkness — she didn’t know what to say. Thank you? Why are you here? Come closer so I can kill you?

She settled with: “I know it was you on the cliff.” Hermione hissed, spit and hatred and all the anger she’d ever felt, pouring gracefully into her words. “I’ll never forgive you for that.”

Someone would’ve caught her in the end, she knew this. An illusion of choice, snatched from her aching hands; it was a bitter thing, knowing it had been him.

“Is this you thanking me for saving your life?” Malfoy tilted his head to the side. “You’re not very good at saying thank you.”

He didn’t deny it, didn’t scramble to invent a reason for his choices — instead he simply looked at her, eyes unwavering. Unafraid of her, it seemed. All the other guards taunted her, nasty and cruel, but they never lingered. Never crouched to her level, never spoke to her, never called to her by name.

“You think you saved my life?” She laughed, feeling a bit unhinged. Feeling like a piece of glass that he’d glued back together, sharp and uneven edges, not the same as she’d once been. Different, now destined to only draw blood. “Leave.”

“No.” Malfoy was still crouching at her level, so calm and even. Had he always been that way? Beneath all the schoolyard taunts and ill-conceived prejudice? “I asked you something, Granger. Do you want to live?” He hesitated, eyes flickering across her bruised skin, the gash in her side, the determined look in her eyes. He knew she’d bite him, and he’d come anyway.

No wonder she had been the top of their class, Draco Malfoy was an idiot.

“Do you want to make everyone here suffer?” He asked in a low voice. “Make them die slow and painful deaths? I want that. I think you do, too.”

Hermione knew what was coming. In three days she would be dragged out by her collar, forced to kneel naked before a crowd. What she didn't know was why he was in the cellar with her, dirtying his expensive pants, talking to her. “Why do you even care?”

His facade flickered, but only for a moment. She blinked, and he was back to normal, no trace of anger across his face. “Maybe I’ve decided to no longer be a coward.”

Hermione scoffed loudly. “Not good enough.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed slightly, looking annoyed. Good. “I want to save you.” He said tightly. “So that you can save everyone else. It’s what you do, right? Free the downtrodden?”

“You are part of the downtrodden?”

“No.” Careless in his admission of wealth and security. “But someone — ” He flinched, turning away. “Someone I care about is suffering because of my cowardice. I want to be better. Maybe I can. I probably won’t, but I’d like to try. I’ll buy you and set you free. We can get the other girls' wands. Kill everyone involved.”

Hermione glared at him. Words were pretty, but often empty. Whispering to her in the darkness — that wouldn’t be enough. A lifetime of misfortune had taught Hermione to never ask for more, but here, at this moment in the cellar, in the darkness, at the beginning of the end, Hermione opened her mouth.

“Swear it.” She bit out. “Use an Unbreakable Vow. Swear that you’ll free all of us. That you’ll help me until the very end.”

“Alright.” Malfoy responded without hesitation. “Whatever you want.” He turned back to face her, eyes glittering in the darkness. “I’ll ask you again. Do you want to live?”

“Yes.” She was still spitting, still ready to kill him. But truthful, too. Never lucky, but always clever and bright. If he wanted to free her to soothe the ache in his unredeemable soul, she would let him. “I do.”

Malfoy grinned. Soft and slow, like the sunrise, like the beginning of something wonderful and terrible. “Good.” He said. “That, I can work with.”

And then: “Give me your hand.”

A voice was talking, loud and brash, echoing through the room. Hermione felt more eyes on her body, more and more people drinking in her naked flesh — other girls were brought in, kneeling beside her. Through the corner of her eye, she saw familiar faces. Ones she knew, classmates from her year, from her house, even.

This would never work. Panic was beginning to spread across her skin, flames of worry consuming her completely. She should have fought harder on the cliff’s edge, she should have tried to escape again and again, she should have bitten more people —

Gloved fingers brushed across her skin, tilting her chin upwards.

Knees trembling beneath her, sore from kneeling for hours — her collar shifted under his touch, allowing her to see him.

He looked different. Not like the man from before, the one in the cell who had promised her freedom. Face lit up only by the glow of an Unbreakable Vow. In his place was the mask. A creature who wore his face for comfort; almost unrecognizable, cold and distant.

“Hello, pet.” He said. His thumb smoothed circles along her jaw, a light trace of leather on her skin. Somehow grounding her, all at once. Trembling breaths crashed through her chest, heaving and unrelenting, finally remembering how to breathe. “Don’t you look pretty.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. His eyes were warm on her skin, hotter than the room; he pushed his thumb slowly into her mouth, the taste of his leather gloves heavy on her tongue.

“Careful, Draco.” A voice from her left said. The one from before, loud and brash. The man in charge. She’d kill him last, elongated suffering and such. “This one bites.”

Malfoy didn’t look away from her face. “Oh, I know.”

“I’ll have to.” He inhaled, looking away. “Use you. In front of everyone.”

Hermione thought of the inevitability of it all. A series of choices had led her here, to the cellar, talking about publicly losing her virginity to Draco Malfoy. She could dwell on the missteps for the rest of her life, the moments where she chose wrong, pushing herself off the original path.

But Hermione was pragmatic, even now. She knew, with unmistakable clarity, that she would survive this; that one day, she would return to her beloved original path. That sooner rather than later, she would fix all of this — and it would be because of him, too. Because he was willing to risk his life for her own.

She glanced up, finding his eyes firmly on her face. He never looked below, not even glancing at her shoulders — they’d taken her clothing in preparation for the evening, and he seemed determined not to notice.

“Better you than someone else.” She said at last.

His face was miserable, so often he seemed to carefully conceal how he was feeling — but not now. “I’m sorry.” He said. “For all of it.”

Hermione tilted her head to the side, curls brushing her skin. Shivering in the darkness, watching her only companion, someone she had hated, perhaps. Once, but never now. “I actually think you mean that.” She said softly. “How frightening for you.”

The evening was unfolding slowly, yawning to life. Malfoy stood by her side, thoughtfully petting her hair as he spoke to others, fingers tangling through the curls. Despite herself, Hermione felt herself begin to sag, leaning softly against Malfoy’s leg’s. He didn't even blink, simply adjusted to support her weight.

“— You have breed them well.” A Death Eater she vaguely recognized was saying, “Keep them busy and full. I’m sure you’ll have a hard time with this one, but they all soften after a while.”

“I’ll try my best.” Was Malfoy’s flat reply.

Hermione was fighting the urge to roll her eyes when she felt Daphne stiffen beside her. From the way Malfoy was still absentmindedly holding her chin, she could see the room better, see who was standing next to her.

Theodore Nott was staring down at Daphne, frozen in horror. Hermione had given them detention once for kissing behind a tapestry after curfew. They had run back to the dungeons, hand in hand — the sound of their giggles echoing off the walls; the sweetness of youth, love ever fading. Perhaps it wasn’t all gone.

Despite the terribleness of the current outcome of her life, the swirling dread that permanently held residence in her chest, Hermione felt a moment of relief. Daphne would be alright. She knew nothing about Theodore, about the type of man he was — but she recognized the look in his eyes, understood loyalty, felt it thrumming through her veins, even now.

He wouldn’t leave Daphne behind to the wolves.

The hand in her hair tightened, twisting gently. “Theo.” Malfoy’s voice was soft, a memory of lifetimes ago, whispering to his friends while Hermione glared at them from across the classroom. “Find something you like?”

Theo didn’t look away from Daphne, still staring down at her face. “Yes.” He said finally, voice rough, trembling around the words. Poorly concealed rage breaking through his throat, dripping across his tone. “I think I have.”

“I’d rather you do it now.” Hermione said suddenly. “Here.”

“Here?” Malfoy was blinking down at her in the darkness.

“You’re going to have to fuck me at some point.” Hermione frowned. This had been his plan, had he even considered the outcome? “And I’d rather it be here.” She had thought of how it might happen — how someone might lay her down on a soft bed, trail their hands lovingly up her sides; someone like him, even. Hermione winced at her teenage crush, blinking it away, banishing it from her mind. This was not the time for thoughts like that — this was real, this was happening.

Sort of happening. There was still a cell between them and Malfoy was still looking at her like she’d grown two heads.

“Here?” He said again. Sounding a bit like a broken childrens toy, determined to repeat the same word over and over and over. “Hermione — ”

She blinked away the sound of her name on his lips. “You said whatever I wanted. This is what I want.” Hermione tilted her chin up, determined to win. Like she always had been, unafraid of the road ahead: “And you’re going to give it to me. You promised.”

He nodded soundlessly, agreeing without much of a fight. How much had he changed in the years of her absence? How immune she was, Hermione thought, of the idea of new growth. She watched as he Apparated into her cell, standing before her, looking down at her with a tortured expression.

“Just think about her.” Hermione found herself saying. “The one you want to protect. That’ll make this easier.” She let out a shaky exhale, allowing herself tiny niceties. “I’ll think of someone else, too.”

A lie, but he didn't need to know that.

“You won’t bite me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hermione said. “I’d never promise that.”

The Auction was a blur of twinkling lights and laughter. A party, Hermione realized, anger pooling in her belly, spreading across her limbs until it replaced the surface of her skin.

Celebrating the end of the war, celebrating the sale of her.

She hadn’t even bothered to worry about someone else buying her — hadn’t worried about the consequences of the Unbreakable Vow if Malfoy failed. Through glazed eyes, she watched as bodies swirled across the floor, watched as they reveled in their conquest — she watched as Malfoy bought her, voice firm, unyielding. The first sale of the night, the beginning of the entertainment.

Hermione ignored the voices that cooed celebrations, ignored the sharp fingers that tugged her towards Malfoy’s chair, depositing her at his feet. Kneeling, waiting for him to speak — the room had finally grown quiet, blissful in the aching moments before her life would begin again.

Malfoy was watching her through hooded eyes. Slowly, he tapped his lap, soft leather, no emotion. “Come here, pet.”

Hermione blinked up at him, limbs moving at her own accord. Pushing herself up, collar shifting loudly in the silence, golden decorations spiraling across her limbs, pretty and docile, all for him.

Malfoy’s eyes betrayed the emotion beneath, glistening in the warm light. Watching in her awe, she felt. Watching her as she inhaled softly, breath catching in her throat. To survive, was to change, Hermione reminded herself. Persistent, like a weed twisting through the crack in the pavement, growing beyond expectations.

He tugged on the chain of her collar, bringing her to straddle his lap, controlling her movement, a puppet on string. “Come closer,” he said, voice too soft for the world around them. “I bought you, didn't I?”

“Right.” Hermione hissed. “Apologies, My Lord.”

“Can I touch you?”

Hermione nodded. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the ceiling, unblinking. She could barely see him in the darkness, a shadowy shape of sharp limbs, moving above her. Suddenly, Hermione wished she could see Malfoy, if only to know it was him. A blistering reminder, a terrifying twist of fate, leading her towards a destination she’d always wanted. A blurry future, patchwork quilt of memories — the way he would stare at her in class when he thought she wasn’t looking, the sound of his laugh, how annoyingly clever he was, the way his fingers had felt brushing along her skin in Umbridge’s office —

And of course, there had been the sweater incident in their sixth year.

“Go ahead,” she had told Harry, bright smiles, willing to give them without care, too young to ration her joy. “I’ll meet you in The Great Hall. Save some pudding for me!” She had known where to find it, hanging on the back of her chair, in its faithful place — but it hadn't been there. Instead, Malfoy had been standing alone in the room, her sweater pressed to his nose. The moment had been strange and soft, a bit like she was intruding. His eyes had lifted when she entered and they had both stood across from one another, quiet in cautious confusion. She had waited for him to toss it aside, to scoff at the belligerent way she had banged the classroom door open. Instead, he had continued to inhale, eyes closing briefly. “Give that back.” Hermione said after a moment, beginning to sense that her sweater was in danger of transferring ownership. “I’ve only got three good sweaters and that’s my best one.” “This is your best one?” His voice had been muffled by the fabric. “You should invest in some cashmere.” “Thanks.” Hermione had said flatly. “I’ll be sure to do just that.” Bravery was built in, wasn't it? She had squared her shoulders, reaching across the space, tugging softly at the sleeve, fingers brushing along his arm. “Come on.” Hermione had said. “Give me a minute.” He had said. Normal malice lacking, stripped away, only the raw emotion left beneath. “Just one more minute, yeah?” The following week, everything had changed. Dumbledore had died, the war had begun, and, most importantly, before Malfoy had fled, he had stolen her sweater from her dorm.

Then, as if summoned by her own desperate thoughts, he was hovering above her face. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Oh.” Hermione said. She swallowed the urge to tell him to get it over with, to insist he power through whatever gentleman-ly urges remained in his chest and to just fuck her already. “Sure, alright. Yes. Touch away.”

Cool hands smoothed up her sides, trailing across the surface of her skin. She shivered, involuntary and wanting. He grimaced at the movement, seeing it as something else; fear, perhaps. Trembling limbs at what was to come.

But she wasn’t afraid, never had been. Not of the dark, not of the unknown, and not of this, either.

Brave, like she had been during the war. Brave, like she had been in the classroom, tugging her sweater from his trembling hands. Brave like now, too. Refusing defeat, determined to survive, to kill and to be reborn.

She could be brave.

“I used to dream of you.” An admission, given freely. Floating through the air, settling across his skin, sinking beneath the surface. “Of this.” Hermione grimaced. “Well, not this, specifically. There was never a cell involved.” She let out a sigh, her breath fluttering the hair that hung before his eyes.

He had stopped moving, fingers frozen at their place on her skin, spanning her ribcage. “Yeah?” Malfoy asked. Hopeful, a light in the darkness, eyes flickering to meet her own. “I thought of you, too.”

“I know.” Hermione said simply. “You took my sweater.”

“It smelled like you.” His fingers began to move again, trailing down her flesh, tracing patterns across the tops of her thighs. “I still have it. Under a Stasis charm.”

“Does it still smell like me?” Hermione asked, watching as his fingers slipped between her thighs, tracing through her folds, circling along her clit. She squirmed under his touch, frowning when he stilled her thighs with a firm squeeze.

“Yeah.” He said, still looking at her. Memorizing her face, perhaps. Drinking in this version of her, determined to remember every emotion. “It does.”

“It’s you.” Malfoy said suddenly, her bravery contagious, spreading like a fire. “The one I want to protect. I know you don’t need me to protect you — that you don’t want me to protect you — that you’ll bite anyone who gets too close with your sharp little teeth, but.” He hesitated. “I can’t stop the want, Hermione.”

Hermione was quiet, her buzzing thoughts too loud to speak. Insisting to be heard, overflowing like a river swollen with rain; his touch was soft, sliding through the wetness of her cunt, still looking at her with aching conviction. “I want, too.” Hermione said after a long moment.

Malfoy nodded, blinking quickly. “Okay.” He said. “I — yes, alright.” He smiled, unguarded. Beautiful, unbelonging in the darkness of their world. The sight twisted Hermione’s heart in chest. Despite it all, everything, Hermione smiled, too. Fingers slipped through his hair, soft strands, twisting along her flesh.

“I’ll need to stretch you a bit.” Malfoy was saying, sliding down her body.

“Right.” Hermione nodded, unhurried in her movements. Soft beneath him. Like they had all the time in the world. “Okay.”

His hot breath on her center was the only warning Hermione received before he was licking her, tongue twisting its way inside her cunt, thumb lazily rubbing her clit. She reached without thought, pressing his face closer to her center — he grunted his approval, tightening his hold around her tummy, the vibration of his appreciation skittering up her spine, muddling her mind.

Then, Malfoy closed his lips around her clit and sucked, his sloppy noises filling the room. Wetness was dripping from her, sliding across his face, her trembling thighs — heaving breaths were caught in Hermione’s throat, a babbling voice in her head splintering like glitter across her eyes, trapped inside.

He pressed her to his face, fingers digging into her flesh; each time she withered away from his tongue, his lips, even his teeth, his grip tightened, an arm pressed against the flesh of her stomach. When the pleasure became too much, Hermione twisted almost fully out of gasp but he tugged her back, biting her inner thigh.

“That is my job.” She meant to scold him, but it sounded a bit like a mix between a whimper and a moan.

“Don’t worry, baby.” Malfoy said thickly against her clit, “You can bite me later.”

Finally, finally, finally, she felt one his fingers slip across her folds, sliding through the wetness there. A mixture of the two of them, his spit dripping slowly between her thighs. “Alright.” He said, still lazily sucking at her clit. “Here’s two. You can take that, yeah?” He grinned, and she felt it against her skin. “Yeah, you can.”

Hermione nodded, blurry acceptance, willing to sink away into nothing. To take what was given, to live forever trapped in this moment of hazy pleasure. She could take it.

Malfoy’s fingers were so much thicker than her own, entering her with a bluntness she wasn’t accustomed to, twisting her open. Fucking her slowly, with no clear intention of quickening his pace.

“More.” She heard herself demand, voice foreign to her own ears. A version of herself she was unfamiliar with — “Give me more.”

“No please?” He laughed softly when she tugged his hair harder than before, twisting at the roots, tugging. “Okay, baby.” Malfoy said, slowly twisting a third finger in, stretching her open.

He devoured her until she came with a wail, on an exhale, head tossed back. Hermione twisted and twisted and twisted away, but his hold was firm. “Can’t run from me now.” He bit her again, peppering her skin with bruises, with memories of him.

“I could.” Hermione managed to gasp. “I could run and you’d have to chase me again.” She smiled at the thought.

“I’m going to fuck you now.” He said thickly, mouth still wet. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” Hermione breathed. “Alright.”

Pain, but not unbearable. Nothing like torture, but like something else; a stretch of something strange and new, her body trembling around him. Desperate to become as it had once been, but that was the point of growing, wasn't it? Changing? A broken mirror, fractures stretching like spider webs across her skin, but beautiful, too. Like cracks across a frozen pond in the beginning of spring; thawing, coming back to life.

“I’ve got you.” Malfoy murmured along her ear, rocking shallow thrusts inside her. Inching inside, carving a home. She could feel him inside, warm and heavy.

She felt when he slid all the way in, heat beginning to bloom across her skin, flushed and overwhelming, like the beginning of the summer, like standing too close to a flame; like his body above her.

“I know you do.” Hermione gasped.

A twist of discomfort as she sank down on him, a deep ache — less painful than before, but still enough to make her wince at the stretch. The room was blurry, faces mixing together, eyes open wide, drinking her full.

“It’s alright.” Malfoy’s voice was soft against her ear. His arms were a tight band around her chest, just like how he’d held her in Umbridge’s office, just like at the edge of the cliff. “I got you.”

He lifted her, movements unhurried, pulling her back down on himself.

Her naked skin rubbed across the roughness of his clothing, his leather gloves were wet — with her, she realized — and the chains from her collar clinked together as he rocked slowly into her.

Thumb tracing her clit messily, wet circles. He didn't seem to care that everyone was watching, didn’t notice their wandering eyes — only focused on her. On his prize.

Pleasure built steadily inside her until she was twitching, a whimper caught in her throat. His thumb still moved agonizing circles, his cock hitting deep inside her, an explosion of

Unthinking, she leaned forward and bit his neck, silencing the sounds, eyes closed tight.

“Go on, baby. Use me.” Malfoy whispered against her neck. His cock was still thick inside her, pleasure spiraling across her skin. She blinked back to awareness at the firm fingers on her jaw, tugging her to meet his eyes.

He pressed a wand into her hand.

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pixydustworld · 2 months

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I FOUND YOUU 😚

HI BABY 🫶🏽😚😚

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pixydustworld · 3 months

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but no one ever will take my side all i ever do is take the fall

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #MY SON!

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pixydustworld · 3 months

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Season 1 Trivia | PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo tv show #pjo spoilers #percy jackson show

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pixydustworld · 3 months

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Hermione twisted in the saddle, tilting her head back to look at the trees above her. Glittering leaves in the evening light, a glorious sunset, the sky on fire; beautiful in a way she hadn’t expected.

Everything was beautiful, tinged with the novelty of newness.

A day a go, they’d passed the outpost at Spinner’s End: the farthest point she’d ever been in the Kingdom. She’d only spent a few weeks there as a child, before the war, before her father had grown wary of the world and shut her and her brothers away in the castle — and even then, the memories that remained were soft with time, blurring at the edges.

Everything around her was new, bursting to life before her eyes. Here, in the forest, she wasn’t the Crown Princess — she could pretend, for only these few spare moments, that her shoulders were free of the weight of the world. No quest. No prophecy; only her and the glittering leaves.

“Sit still, princess.”

Hermione frowned. Her, the glittering leaves, and her honor-bound guard.

“I’m just looking.” She grumbled.

It wasn’t fair — he had certainly seen the world. Had he not once marveled at sunsets? Had he not blinked away tears at the sight of the Ocean, crashing waves against the shore? He was older than her by ten summers. Old enough to fight in the war that split their kingdom apart; protected her father in battle — now, he had sworn to protect her.

At first, she hated him on principle — she was supposed to be making this journey on her own, not escorted by an armed guard as if she were a helpless child. Then, after meeting him, she hated him for a multitude of other reasons.

Draco Malfoy was too silent, too tall, always looming above her. Stone Faced and achingly protective; if someone even looked at her wrong, he was quick to punish them. On the second night of their journey, a man had bumped into her in the Inn they were staying at — he’d grazed Hermione’s waist as he’d pushed past her, so brief of touch he’d remained silent, not even thinking to apologize. Malfoy had cut his hands off.

“You had no right to do that.” Hermione had hissed at him. Shivering in the cold air, warmed only by her anger — the moon had been low in the sky that night, perfectly lighting her guard's face; his dark eyes, the flecks of blood on his skin, and the clear lack of remorse for his actions.

“He touched you.” Had been his only reply.

“We have leaves back at the Capitol, I’m sure of it. Trees, too.”

“Yes.” Hermione said, tightening her grip on her reins. “But these are different trees and therefore, different leaves. I’m sure you’d recognize that if you were a bit more clever.”

Malfoy’s grin was slow and syrupy. She’d think of the way he looked at her later, when she was alone and too tired to pretend to hate him. “Such a clever princess.” He said. “How lucky your subjects will be, having you to rule them.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring the way his words made her squirm in her saddle. He wasn’t teasing her on purpose, only stating facts. She was both clever and a princess. “Will you not be one of my subjects?” She asked. “Sharing in the fortune of having such a clever Queen?”

“I am no subject.” Malfoy said after a moment, voice soft in the cool air. The sun had faded completely, the fire in the sky turning to the ash of twilight. “ I belong to you, not the Kingdom.”

“Not my father?”

She could feel his eyes on her, watching her in the low light. Even and unblinking, unafraid to stare at her when he’d killed men for doing less.

“No, princess.” He said. “I belong to only you.”

______

The Inn on the edge of the forest was nearly full, only one room left.

They never stopped at the first one, Malfoy usually making them ride until the fourth or the fifth — Inn’s tucked away off the main road, dingy and empty.

But the horses had been tired and Hermione had been hungry, and then, as if the sky had been on her side (she was the princess of the realm, afterall) it had started to rain. Dripping wet and notably unhappy about their current choices, Malfoy had finally listened to Hermione (“Please, please, please, please! ” Hermione had chanted in the rain. “Can we stop here? Please? Please, please, please, please —”) and pulled his horse to a stop.

A small excuse of a bed wedged against the wall, a table with a single chair beside it and nothing else. Malfoy had to stoop to fit under the low doorway —they barely even fit in the room together, the swords strapped to Malfoy’s back clanged against the wall as he turned, ever the warrior, surveying the space.

“I don’t think we’ll both fit in that bed.” Hermione said softly.

Malfoy ignored her, poking behind the curtains with a drawn blade. He did this every night, a routine he refused to ignore. Her safety, as he so often reminded her, was his only priority. As if Hermione was prone to wander off, toppling gleefully into the waiting arms of the enemy.

A completely false narrative — she would never topple gleefully.

“Well,” Hermione scrunched up her nose in thought. “I suppose you could sleep on the bed and I could sleep on top of you?”

Malfoy let out a very loud sigh. “Princess.” He said in warning, turning to face her, blade still in his hand.

“Well, I’m certainly not letting you sleep on top of me.” Hermione said. “You would crush me. And being dead would ruin my quest.”

“I would never let you die.”

It was the way he said it. Devoid of any previous annoyance — so determined to protect her, even from himself.

“Well.” Hermione said. “That’s nice. Thank you.” And then: “I’ll go check on the horses.”

She ducked out of the room before he could tell her no.

______

He found her outside of the stables, watching the moon. The rain had faded to a mist and then nothing at all. Perhaps it really had come when she called.

“It seems bigger here.” She said, “Harry and I used to watch it through my bedroom window. It always seemed so far away.”

Malfoy stood next to her, the warmth of his body seeping across her skin where his arm brushed her own. “Everything is small when you watch it from a cage.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d commiserate with her about her youth. About the cage of her father’s love, all consuming in his need to keep her safe — he never planned to let her leave, relenting only after the prophecy had called to her by name. Perhaps Malfoy had experienced something similar, understood the pain of learning to love a prison.

“Come along.” His voice was warm. Her favorite version of him. “Back to the room.”

Calloused fingers drifted across her skin, settling in their place at the nape of her neck. A tight hold, firm and present — the weight terrifying and delicious and familiar, all at once.

“I’ve been very good.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Have you?”

The first time he’d fucked her, Draco had been carful and slow, rocking gently inside her. Shallow thrusts, his thumb soothing circles across her clit, licking the tears she had blinked out without noticing. Stretched her open to be nice and warm, helping her take more of his cock the next time. It had been dizzying, watching him as he watched his cock sink slowly inside her — the Knight from her girlhood dreams, pressing firmly down on her tummy, feeling himself move inside her.

Now, two months into their journey, he could slide between her thighs with ease. She wanted to fuck him all the time, wanted to spend the rest of her journey on his lap, his cock nestled safely inside her, feeling every bump in the road. In moments of deep fantasy — often when he’d fucked her beyond recognition, cum drying on her thighs, her heart desprate to escape her skin — Hermione wanted to abandon her quest completely; wanted to spend the rest of her days spread out on a bed with her grumpy guard licking at her cunt.

“Yes.” She breathed. Her hand smoothed up his leg, blunt fingernails scraping along the bulge she found there; she smiled at the way he shuddered, still so sensitive, after all their times together. “But I can be better.”

The ground was soft beneath her knees as she knelt before him, fingers finding the opening of his breeches. Draco’s hand tangled in her curls, firm fingers finding purchase. She could hear people talking on the other side of the barn, their voices cutting through the night air. Laughter and loud conversations — everything faded away, soft silence, only the two of them.

Obedient only in their moments together, only when the promise of an orgasm was on the table — Hermione opened her mouth, sticking her tongue out.

“Yeah?”

Hermione nodded.

“There we go.” He sighed as he slid into her mouth. “Good job, princess. Letting me fuck your mouth.” He rocked gently inside her throat, slow and warm, the coarse trail of hair up his stomach brushing across her cheeks.

“I’m going to fuck you know, alright?” He smoothed his fingers through her hair, looking torn between adoration and worship.

“You’ll let me, yeah?” And then he began to move, and Hermione felt her eyes beginning to roll, felt her body begin to relax, felt as everything shifted to be right in the world.

Sloppy and wet, drool was slipping past Hermione’s lips, dripping down her neck — his movements were steady, sinking further inside her throat, deeper and deeper. His fingers tightened around her curls as he picked up speed, causing soft moans to escape Hermione’s throat.

“Use your words.” Draco said gently, “Tell me what you want.”

But she couldn't, not when his cock was filling her throat.

“Mhhm.” His tone was a mockery of soothing, gentle like calmness of death. “Okay, baby. I got you.”

Hermione gasped for air when he pulled out of her mouth, spit still connecting them together. His cock rested on her cheek, smearing across her skin.

“Fuck me now?” Hermione blinked up at him.

“Whatever my princess demands.”

He pressed her against the side of the stable, rough wood scraping across her soft flesh. Her skirts lifted, exposing her glistening cunt. Cool air brushing across naked flesh, quickly warmed by his own body, pressing against her.

“So wet.” He murmured as he sank inside. “All for me?”

“Only you.” Hermione whimpered.

This was where she felt most like herself — when she was being split in two by him, when her mind was finally clear enough to think; her life was meticulously planned out for her, had been since birth. Draco was the only thing she’d ever truly chosen herself — and it was a reward within itself, that he chose her back.

A warm hand wrapped around her middle and tugged, lifting her off the ground until her boots dangled in the air. Held only by his hands as he moved her up and down on his cock, fucking himself with her, sending spirals of pleasure across her skin. There was nothing but this — nothing but belonging to him. Not to the Crown, to the Kingdom; only to him.

The voice from before grew louder as the group began to move closer — Hermione’s fingers clutched Draco’s arm, but neither stopped moving. He felt how she tightened around his cock, the thrill of being caught sending her closer to the edge.

“If they catch us,” Draco said in a low voice. “I’ll have to kill them.”

“Better be quiet.” Hermione gasped. “Or do you want me to scream? Give you something to do?”

“Wicked little girl.” Draco hissed against her neck, moving to hold her with arm so his free hand could find her clit, fingers circling, cruel even now. “You want me to kill them for you? I’ll do it. Whatever you ask.”

Hermione was on the edge, knew he was too — her breath was caught in her throat, her limbs twitching from pure agony and pleasure and the bliss of belonging.

“No,” She gasped. “Stay with me.”

Trembling pleasure coursed through her limbs, an explosion of nothing and everything; life and death, a never-ending circle of fulfillment. Hermione felt the warmth of his cum inside her, felt it even more as he pulled his cock free.

Slipped through the mess in her cunt, gathering the cum that was slowly dripping out of her on his fingers.

“Can I see?”

He glanced up to find her watching, eyes warm — Draco reached up and held his fingers out to her waiting tongue.

“More?” Hermione breathed after she’d licked his flesh clean.

He slipped his hand back between her thighs.

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pixydustworld · 3 months

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raaah comfort character meme

#percy jackson

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pixydustworld · 3 months

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prince with a thousand enemies

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pixydustworld · 3 months

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Hi i asked for the dramione abo one shot, and you can write anything you’d like!!!! I’d enjoy anything!! Thank you again💕

hi !! i just posted it 💗

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pixydustworld · 3 months

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Fate found Hermione Granger in the crowded Ministry cafeteria.

She had done her best to outrun it, but it was inevitable. Like the ocean finding the shore, like the mist that settled in the meadow right before sunrise; something that always happened, spiraling far beyond her control. Accepting defeat, however, had never been in her nature.

She would go down fighting, glorious in her anger.

“I think you’d be happier if you just let it happen.”

Ginny flinched after the words left her lips. “I mean,” she hurried to correct herself, cheeks red, “It’s just easier. Less painful.”

Hermione forced a smile. “I’m fine with the pain.” She said, ignoring the aching hole in her chest as she watched Blaise curve a comforting hand across her friend's shoulder, warm and present and possessive. An Alpha comforting his Omega. “And besides. I like belonging to myself.”

“We just want you to be happy.” Blaise shrugged. “How many heats have you done on your own? Five? Six? It’s unhealthy to do this to yourself, Hermione, and wrong —”

“Thank you.” Hermione interrupted him. “But I’m alright.”

It was a familiar conversation, one she knew well; at the start, Hermione had assumed she’d present as a Beta — Ron was one, she would be one, too.

When her Heat had come, unrelenting and debilitatingly unavoidable, she had known the truth: too bitter to be disregarded, too blatant to be ignored. She was an Omega, praised, prized and often, procured.

“This doesn’t change anything.” Harry had insisted a few days after she’d Presented, holding her close to his chest, fingers trailing along her spine. “You’re still you.” Then he had smiled down at her, self deprecating and familiar, like she remembered, like he’d always been. “And I’m still me.”

Harry had been wrong, as he often was. Perhaps things hadn’t changed much for him: being an Alpha was no different than his life before — but her presentation had changed everything.

“It’s just.” Ginny’s voice brought her back to the present, persistent in a way that could never be completely kind, “I know what you’re going through. You’re torturing yourself. ”

“I’ve been tortured.” Hermione said. The free coffee was not worth this interrogation, nor was the muffin Blaise had proudly presented to her (Alpha instincts, bleeding like an open wound across all of his actions), “It feels much worse than this.”

“Do you have a plan?” Blaise blurted out, seemingly unable to contain himself any longer. He was blunt and unafraid of her wrath, like all Alpha’s were — all except Harry, who still remembered who she was underneath everything. Saw her for who she properly was. “For your next one?”

“Yes.” Hermione said through her teeth, bravely resisting the urge to throw her coffee in his face. “I’ll be alone. Like I have been. For the last six heats.”

Their conversation was ending, the embers of their time together dwindling, which could only mean one thing. The comment that haunted all her interactions, the ghost at her door, the seed of hope that sprouted in Ginny’s chest, determined to grow under any condition.

“What about the Alpha from that one time?” Ginny asked in a rush of words, determined to get it out before Hermione cut her off. “The last one you were with before this whole celibacy thing started. We should get him — ”

“No.”

Memories of their time spent together flashed before Hermione’s eyes, a mirage of naked flesh and shuddering pleasure. Pain bloomed deeper in her chest at the thought and Hermione blinked everything away

“I could try to find him.” Blaise was saying, like he always did. A broken record of concern, echoing over and over. “Let me try, Hermione — ”

“It’s alright.” Hermione said, soothing her friends. A warm bandage of care, a nice thought. “I didn’t know him. And even if you did manage to find him, I don’t think I’d even recognize him.” She smiled, then. Hopeful about finally getting to leave. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

It sounded like the truth.

Or at least, she hoped it did.

“I should go.” Hermione said in a cheerful voice, pushing the rest of her muffin towards Blaise — who, to his credit, hesitated an appropriate amount of time before starting to eat — “It should start tonight, so I’ve still got a few hours left.”

A few more hours to convince herself she was making the right choice.

“Do you need Harry to come by?” Ginny blinked at her. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping you.”

“I’m sure he would.” Hermione frowned, wrinkling her nose at the thought. “I think Theo would mind, too.”

“I don’t think Tho would, actually.” Blaise mused through a mouthful of muffin. “He’s always liked you.”

Their voices blurred together as they started discussing the probability of her childhood best friend and his boyfriend helping her through her Heat — something Hermione did not want nor had she asked for. In fact, she had a feeling everyone involved would be miserable. Everyone but Theo, she supposed. He did like her.

Hermione knew the pressure was out of care, but she was weary from the way her friends loved. Burdened by their thoughts about her life, trembling limbs growing heavy under the weight of their concern.

She did her Heats alone because the other option was too much. The idea that her life could be fixed so simply by another person, was too much for her to acknowledge. It was beyond comprehension — she was her own, the bones beneath her skin the only support she’d ever need.

That, however, didn't stop Ginny from trying.

Hermione was opening her mouth to say something when she felt it: the shift in the air, the prickle of awareness across her neck — like waking up after a long, thick sleep.

He was here.

Which meant she had to leave.

“I’ll send an owl once it’s over.” Hermione interrupted them, ignoring the sound her chair made as it scraped across the floor. “Love you both.”

“Hermione!” Ginny called after her, but she kept going. The door was in sight — all she had to do was leave. It was simple, beautiful and right; she would go back to her office, floo back to her flat and lock herself in her bedroom for the next three days. It would hurt to do her Heat alone (it always did), but that was the price of freedom. Her fingers closed around the handle, beginning to push the door open —

Until Draco Malfoy caught her wrist and tugged.

A fox in a trap. Soon, the snow would bloom red with blood, leaving her body to freeze, no warmth left behind. No warmth but his own — and that was all he wanted, wasn't it? To be her only source of survival?

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She had.

If he entered the room, Hermione left — if he caught her eye in the Atrium, Hermione blinked and faked interest in the crown molding (very ornate!). If he called her name in the hallways, Hermione pretended not to hear. She ignored his owls, his persistent requests to schedule a meeting — once she’d seen him waiting for her out in front of her office and she’d spent her entire lunch in a storage closet, eating her chicken tikka masala on an overturned bucket.

Hermione Granger did a very good job at pretending like Draco Malfoy did not exist.

“I have not been avoiding you.” She hissed. They were surrounded on all sides — leave it to Ginny to pick the busiest time for her impromptu ambush — but it felt like they were the only two people in the room. And it was a dangerous thing, being alone with him. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy?”

He looked the same as he always did. Pressed suit, not a hair out of place, towering above her frame. But different, too. His breath uneven, his eyes were dark, murky with something else — something familiar. He’d looked the same that night. When her Heat had come and he had found her. Hunted her, she supposed.

And she had let him.

“Yes.” Hermione tugged at her wrist in his grasp, but he tightened his hold. “I have a life, you know. One that is my own.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at her tone. “Am I to be expected to endure more torture?”

Fucking Draco Malfoy had been a bad idea, spending her entire Heat with him had been a mistake of massive proportions. It had ruined the careful world she had so lovingly built for herself. As soon as she had blinked back to awareness, Hermione had scrambled from Malfoy’s arms, ignoring the hurt that blossomed at the loss of his touch. Everything had felt too right, too perfect. Dangerously close to forever, which was not something Hermione could afford. “This is never happening again.” She had spat in his direction, trembling fingers searching in the darkness for her clothing. “Hermione,” He had begun, voice warm with a kindness she didn't expect or deserve. “Please, darling — ”

“Don’t call me that.” She hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t seen the heartbreak on his face. “Let’s pretend like this never happened, alright?” Hermione hadn’t found his bite mark until much later. It was alright, she had rationalized with herself, curled up in a ball on her living room floor, fingers heavy on her neck, tracing the shapes he had left behind. She hadn’t bit him, they weren’t bonded, they weren't mates — it was all fine. The next morning, Hermione had seen it. A set of tiny little teeth marks on his gland, precise and perfect, even when she was delirious with want. So proudly displayed, collar tugged purposefully out of the way. Then, her running had begun. And ever faithful, he had followed.

“Yes.” Hermione said, voice tight. “I’ll be out until Friday.”

“Will you need me?”

That was the worst part, his acceptance. Willing to take whatever she gave him, even if it was nothing at all.

Draco Malfoy had steadily changed over time, like a plant finally given the opportunity to spread their roots and grow properly. Change, like rain, washed away all that once was, leaving behind someone else entirely.

Someone willing to endure pain, just because she had decided it.

“No.” Hermione said softly. Just being around him was enough to soothe the ache in her soul. His grip on her wrist had softened, the warmth from his touch extending across her flesh, fire catching and spreading.

Hermione forced herself to tug herself free from his grasp, inhaling slightly when his fingers trailed across her skin as she pulled away. “I’ll be alright.”

“Hm.” Malfoy said. “I highly doubt that.”

“I don’t need your help.” Hermione said. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not when she was sixteen and he’d pressed his wand against her neck in Umbrdige’s office, and certainly not now. “I don’t belong to you.”

His fingers on her neck, brushing her curls aside; she could glamor the scars away all she liked, but he could still feel the indentation his teeth had left behind on her flesh.

He frowned, condescending and full of fake sympathy. “I think you do, baby.”

Hours later, Hermione was almost ready. Her wards were tight, her floo locking behind Ron after he left, the box of premade meals he’d brought her resting happily in her fridge. There was only one thing left to do:

Poking her head out into the back garden, she found what she was looking for.

“It’s supposed to snow.”

Malfoy didn’t look up from his book. “I’m a Wizard, aren't I?”

“Wizard’s can still get hypothermia.”

He looked up then, eyes soft. If it had been anyone else, Hermione would have thought they looked tender. “I’ll be fine.”

“You can always go home.”

They both knew he wouldn't.

“You know me, Granger.” Draco grinned. “I sit and stay, like all the good dogs do.”

She hovered on the edge of her doorway, watching her breath turn frosty in the night air. A storm on the horizon, promising to blow away all her neat plans. He watched her as she fidgeted. Not for the first time, Hermione wished, almost desperately, that she was born different. Born to be soft and accepting. Someone who would fall effortlessly into his outstretched hands.

She ran because she was afraid of the weight of her own feelings, terrified of what happiness could truly mean; being an Omega meant a loss of self, so she clung to her bitter solitude. Fingernails cracking from the pressure of holding herself together, a mouth full of blood from how hard she bit her tongue, preventing herself from calling out his name.

“It’s alright.” Malfoy said, cracking the silence that had swirled between them. “Go back inside. I’ll be right out here, keeping all the baddies away.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m not scared.”

“No?”

“No.” Hermione hesitated. It felt almost like carving herself apart, offering a part of herself. Trembling hands, covered in her own blood. “I have you.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, fingers tightening around the book, knuckles white. “I’ll be here.” He said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

In the middle of the night, Hermione jerked awake.

Stumbling blindly through the house, she found the back door. The glass was cool against her naked skin as she sagged to the floor, heaving breaths leaving her lips, trembling limbs and a pain that spread like poison, blooming across her flesh.

Draco was pressed against the other side of the door, his breath fogging up the glass. Waiting for her to come to him.

“Hi, baby.”

Fat tears were dripping down her neck, sticky and wet. “Hi.” She whispered.

She could smell him through the glass, the scent of him heavy in the air. It would be so easy to unlock the door, to welcome him inside — to sink blissfully down on his cock, swept away by the pleasure his presence provided.

But Hermione was stubborn.

Determined to hold her breath the longest underwater, unwilling to lose any competition, even one against her own heart.

She sank down on her fingers without hesitation, watching him as he watched her. Slick was dripping on the floor, a puddle beneath her shaking knees; uneven movements as she chased pleasure, warm flush crawling across her chest.

“Beautiful.” Draco breathed. Snowflakes were gathering on the tips of his lashes, but he didn’t shy away from the cold. Eyes fixed and unmoving on her — taking what she offered. “So perfect, all mine.”

Her fingers twisted inside, building pleasure “Yours.” She agreed. In moments like this, it was impossible to lie to herself. She loved him, wanted to crawl inside his ribcage and sleep until spring; she had bitten him first, after all, licked at the blood that smeared across his neck — and like always, he had followed over the edge after her.

Her other fingers found her clit, smearing uneven circles, jolts of pleasure almost eclipsing the pain she felt. Small whimpers escaped her lips as she rutted against her fingers, wetness spreading, unable to stop the scream she felt building in her chest —

“That’s it.” Draco’s breath was uneven, his forehead pressed against the glass, trying to be as close as he could. “Fuck yourself open for me. I’ve got you.”

Her orgasm temporarily dulled the pain of emptiness and Hermione felt the fuzziness fade, slowly bleeding from her vision. Returning to herself, sweet clarity, only for a moment.

Draco was breathing heavily, kneeling in the snow.

It struck her, then, that he’d wait forever. Faithful and present, in the back garden. He belonged to her, just as much as she did to him — perhaps it wasn’t all bad, losing yourself. You gain someone else, in return.

Hermione tugged the back door open, flinching at the cold. “Come in.”

Draco was still kneeling, blinking up at her as if she were god, come to rejoin their creation.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a rough voice

“I am.” The snow was blowing in through her open door, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care. “I don’t want to run anymore.”

“You want me?”

“I’ve always wanted you.” The words left her lips on a broken sigh. “I’m just afraid. I don’t know what this means, who I become around you. But I know that I’m afraid that you’ll leave me.”

Draco smiled, soft and slow. “You’ve fed me, baby. I’ll always come back for more.”

“I want, so desperately, to be capable of love. To love and to be loved in return. And.” She felt her breath catch in her throat. “I’m afraid that I’ll find that with you.”

“You will.” He was kneeling before her, arms open, palms facing upwards. The picture of vulnerability, willing and waiting for her to accept him. To become present, to join in at the feast. “You’ll be loved in return, I promise.”

To unequivocally belong to another. The weight of her body, held up by his waiting hands.

“Please.” Begging, broken and crumbling before him. Like a grand ruin, left behind by time, suddenly being rediscovered. “Please, come inside.”

It was soft, the world. No sound, nothing mattered; just Draco, as he rose from the snow and crossed through her wards. His hands were cool and firm, cradling her jaw between his fingers. “I love you.” He said. “I’d love you even if you weren't mine.”

Hermione nodded, helplessly caught in his grasp. “I love you.” She breathed. “Even when I ran, I knew you’d follow. I knew you’d always come for me.”

A spasm of agony shot up her spine, twisting across her flesh. “It’s starting again.” Hermione groaned, flinching from the pain. “Draco, please —”

Draco’s fingers slid from her jaw to her throat. Holding her in place. “Shh,” He whispered along her hairline, tightening his grasp on her throat. “I know what you need, yeah? You’ll let me give it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you deserve it?”

“Excuse me?” She hissed.

“It’s a simple question, baby.” She could hear the humor in his voice, feel the thickness of his cock, pressing into her back. “Do you deserve it?”

Hermione bit his arm.

“Okay.” He looked down at her, soft and warm. “I was going to be nice. I was going to fuck you on your bed. Spread you open, make you all soft for me.” She whined around his flesh and he pouted sympathetically with her, lower lip protruding. “I know, I would’ve liked that, too. Seeing your pretty little cunt, all puffy and wet, spread out on the sheets before me.”

Hermione let him go, a traitorous drop of spit connecting her lips to his arm. “I like that idea.” She said thickly. “We can do that.”

“No.” Draco smoothed his fingers along the shallow flesh of her neck, thumb pressing down hard on her gland. “Now, I have to fuck you right here on the floor.”

Hermione debated sounding too desperate. Her dripping cunt won out, in the end. “I like that idea.” She said, squirming in his grasp. It wasn't fair that he was wearing clothing and she was naked, nor was it fair that he wasn't currently inside her, making a home for himself between her thighs. “We can do that.”

His fingers slipped between her thighs, sinking inside with ease. Two, then three, twisting her open, slick dripping down his hands, smearing across the cuff of his button down shirt. “Messy.” He mused softly to himself.

Kissing him was easy, like falling asleep. She remembered how it had been last time, soft and sweet — this time, it was brutal. Draco pressed her to the floor, climbing on top of her, crushing her with his larger frame. He kissed like she’d run away from him again — if this was how he’d greet her every time, perhaps she would.

“Inside, inside, inside.” Hermione was babbling against his lips, grabby fingers pushing at his slacks. “I need your cock inside me, please.”

“I should make you wait.” He groaned as he tugged his cock free, smearing it across the sticky wetness of her cunt. “I should torture you.”

“You can.” Hermione promised, shaking fingers wrapping around his cock, dragging it closer and closer to her entrance. “You can tie me up and fuck me for days, or hunt me in the woods, whatever you want, I promise. Just fuck me now, and I’ll give you everything — ”

The push of his cock was enough to start another tremble across her limbs, spreading through her as he fucked her open, shallow thrusts. His thumb heavy on her tongue, his other hand still wrapped around her throat.

“My girl deserves to be fucked whenever she wants.” He was whispering, teeth sharp against her ear. “You want to sit on my cock during a meeting? I’ll let you. I’ll have to kill everyone after, it’ll be terrible for business, but I’ll do it —”

Hermione gasped around his fingers. “Please,” she groaned. “I’ll be good. Please let me cum.”

Draco frowned. “Baby, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.” She rolled her eyes, and his grip tightened slightly on her throat. “But I think you need me to fuck some sense into you.” His thrusts were deep and even, lulling her into a haze. Sticky and warm, caught in his trap. “You can’t run from me. I’ll always find what is mine.”

His cock was nudging a part inside her that had her breath catching in her throat, unable to stop the pleasure that was building. Twitching beneath him, breath tumbling from her lips in tiny gasps. Her vision blurred as she looked up at him, sharp teeth and soft eyes, watching her.

When he came, she felt the warmth spreading through her. Like sinking into a hot bath, syrupy and slow; his cock was swelling, locking them together, holding them in place.

Draco tilted his hips softly, still fucking her through his orgasm, fucking himself deeper. “One day.” He groaned, his cum slippery inside her, too much, beginning to drip out from between them. “One day, I’ll fuck a baby into you. And everyone will know how good of a mate I am, keeping you full and warm. They’ll know how perfect you are too, how good you are at making me cum —”

Just like before, Hermione craned her neck, teeth finding the tender flesh of his neck. She bit down where she had once before, on the mark he’d never hid from — bit until her mouth filled with blood, spilling from her blood, smearing across their bodies.

Draco moaned, latching onto her neck,biting the scared flesh until he drew blood, reclaiming her. “There.” He slurred, mouth messy and wet, cock still twitching inside her tummy. “We belong to one another.”

Twisting in his hold, Hermione smiled up at him.

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