Shifted

Draco's World

Draco did not consider the ritual a good idea.

Despite what Granger said about herself, most of her ideas were actually not that well thought through. They did not look at all possibilities and outcomes— only the most fortuitous ones.

It was why she was so easy to rattle. Her mind was always moving, constantly changing. She could not stick to one train of thought long enough to execute anything officially.

The only reason she'd survived so long was because she was a damn good fighter. And while her fast train of thought had trapped her so many times, it was also the thing that got her out of the stickiest of situations.

So no, he didn't have any faith in the ritual.

But— the look on her face. She did not even need to speak words to convince him. If she simply walked around looking that desperate— needing him that much— then she could always get what she wanted from him.

He was kneeling between her knees, watching as the light in her eyes disappeared and her curls seemed to settle down around her. As the magic shifted around her, becoming more earthy and less unsettled.

The wolf was forthcoming about all the questions he'd asked— that Granger had thought of. The wolf seemed almost eager to tell him, and yes, part of that was the ritual, but Draco sometimes forgot that he was her mate too. She wasn't just a force bringing two unwilling people together. She had her own stake in the outcome. And much more control over the results.

The kiss, Granger had said, was almost a guarantee. If the wolf wanted to ask for something in return, then a kiss was not all that evil.

The ritual could exchange subconscious at any time of the month. With the right tone of voice, it would lull and— almost, but not quite— hypnotize her.

Draco had been under the assumption he'd be in control. He'd press his lips to hers, mind far away from what was happening, and then he'd pull back, ask for Granger to come forth and they'd move on. Figure out what to do next based on the information they'd gained.

But there was something in the wolf's story that pulled him away from those plans. The way her eyes flashed with hurt, how he related to lack of choice to where she went and how she got there. There was a shared pain among them, an understanding that while Draco held much of the responsibility for how they'd ended up where they are now, she placed no blame on him.

Maybe it was those few seconds where he allowed the pressing guilt to raise off his shoulders, as she leaned in and claimed his lips, that it all fell apart.

Because her lips were so soft. Mind meltingly so. She let him lead the way and gods, they'd never gone slow. Never had the chance too. When they were fucking in cabins across England slow wasn't even a passing thought. That's not what they were aiming for. If there were no elements of violence in their sex— it would have been a problem. She'd already infiltrated deep enough that he'd felt the need to eliminate her.

Since then all they'd had were stolen moments. Embarrassing lapses of control on his part that haunted his dreams. They moved fast because the desperation that had clouded his brain was always so consuming— painful in its ministrations to convince him to let go. And so far, it had always won out.

This time though, he did not have any such thoughts. There was no werewolf pulling the strings on his mind, tearing down his Occlumency walls or enhancing his want. Bringing forth thoughts and images to the front of his mind and playing them on repeat until he was half mad, waking up hard and sweating at night and unable to look her in the eyes during the day without thoughts of fucking her all but taking over.

Here, he was just a man kissing a woman. Slowly. Lips parting hers and exploring her mouth with detail he'd never been able to before. Her hands laced into his hair and she pulled him up, straddling his lap.

That aching hunger slipped up the ridges of his spine and she was weakly telling him he could stop, but her hips ground against him in protestation and he did not want to stop. It had been months since she'd let him put his hands on her like this. He'd been so achingly vulnerable during his last haze and she'd uncovered so many shameful bits of information about him and he was not mad about it but the playing field was uneven and there was something deep within him that shuddered the thought of pleasuring her. Taking care of her the way she had him this past month.

"It's okay," he said against her neck. "I always want this."

His tongue and mind were clearly not connecting because he had not meant to say that, but her breathing sped up at his words and suddenly nothing mattered more than the girl in front of him. He wanted to praise her, to give her everything and then more because she was here and whether or not she wanted to acknowledge, fate had decided that they should be together and it meant something.

He did not pick up the pace as his hands slid into her pants, not even when her hips tried to move faster and he could feel her Occlumency shields sliding down, so slowly she might not even realize.

He was not himself either, and he'd read last night about how those bitten weren't the only ones that had animalistic tendencies with their mate— how their counterpart was just as susceptible to lose their minds to instinct, especially if the other had already surrendered.

His body took the lead, tongue bending down to press hard against her neck and she keened so beautifully that his hips twitched up against hers without his permission. He pressed down on them firmly, because this was not about him.

He inserted another finger into her and the feel was almost too much— and there was nothing else here, just Hermione and this all consuming need to please.

He angled her neck down and sucked on it, the taste slowly intoxicating him and there was this strange instinct to bite, to break the skin, but the sliver of rationale left held him back. He continued tiny nips, sucking harshly and gods, the taste was so good—

She was coming then, gripping his fingers and moaning loudly. It rushed through him like a drug, lighting his nerve endings on fire and leaving little bolts of electricity in their wake.

"You're mine, Draco," she was saying, over and over, singing it like praise that flooded his brain, washing all sense and sanity away and he let himself bask in it. Knew the come down to reality would be painful but he did not care.

He settled her down more comfortably in his lap once her walls stopped pulsing. Turned her head to the other side and began to lick slowly and deeply at it. Feeling drunk and euphoric and uncaring as he ran his fingers through her hair.

He knew it was not Hermione that had said it. That there was some deep down mating instinct that had been brought out. But she came back to her senses and did not pull away— settled deeper against his chest and let the pull of sleep bring her under so he did not hesitate to say it—

"I'm yours, Hermione."