Strings

by lotusgranger

[WIP] Hermione Granger is barely holding on by a thread. The war is over, and everyone around her seems to have put their lives back together, except for her. She needs someone else to pull her strings so she's just a marionette dancing to the pull of someone else's pleasure. She craves it. Theo Nott is as broken as she. But Draco Malfoy? He likes to pull strings. {EWE, Lemons}

Something hasn't been quite right for awhile. She's always needed control. It's like a high. When she's lecturing someone she can feel the slight tremor subside. Being bossy gets her skin tingly and scheduling things into their neat, color-coded, post-it flagged places lets her lungs fill fully with air without the crushing feeling of chaos.

Lack of control makes her panic, it makes her sweat, & shake, & hyperventilate. If it starts to overwhelm her, she withdraws from society, and holes up alone, or with him, in a stimulus-free environment until she can pull all the strings back into a conceivable matrix, a manageable web where she can track each string to its inevitable conclusion. She needs control. She has to have control. Plain & Simple.

Control does't get her off.

Sex is about loss of control—she wants the tremors, the breathlessness, the chaos flooding through each nerve down to the very marrow of her bones. She lives in chaos, and chaos lives in her, but she can only set it free, become the person she craves, when she comes. And control doesn't get her off.

An orgasm is an out-of-body experience.

She doesn't want control.

Someone else pulls her string so she's just a marionette dancing to the pull of someone else's pleasure.

She craves it. The surrender, the utter loss of self into white-hot light pulsing through her veins and making her have the delicious-sort of tremors that don't send her into retreat into herself, or hiding under the bed, or behind a mask as she struggles to even breathe.

Because when she comes, it's transcendental.

Because when the other takes her control, she doesn't have to breathe. He does it for her.

Because when he pushes her against the nearest surface and just thrust, thrust, thrusts, she can feel the chaos building until her fingers feel heavy and almost, but not quite, like they are about to burst. And then.

She.

Loses.

Control.

.

..

…

….

…..

…

…..

….

…

..

.

She wishes she could bask in the moment, but the chaos begins to overwhelm her, bring her to that dark, dark, tremor-filled place. She can't quite hold her hand still, or stand without feeling the weight of the world upon her.

She needs control.

But control doesn't get her off.