100 Moments
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,607
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,607
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Sorrow
Title: Sorrow
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: M/F
Summary: #15 – Sorrow. Sorrow led to nothing, but love made it bearable.
Word Count: 1,022 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. Inspired by the film ‘The Fountain.’
Prompt 15 – Sorrow
Pansy had made her peace with the fact that she was dying, and she wondered why he couldn’t… She wondered if he was so afraid of being alone. Pansy knew that it was not just the fact that he was losing her. All the same, she could not begrudge him his sorrow, most of the time.
When the Healers declared that nothing could be done to stop the slow progression and ultimate degradation of her mind, Pansy remembered taking a slow breath, and nodded her understanding. He, her husband, Ronald Weasley, declared, in turn, that they were going to see a Muggle Healer.
The disease affected her magic, which, the Healers said, was seated in her brain. Admittedly, Pansy could not understand everything the Healers told her about her own brain, and Ron, obviously, was less inclined to understand, but Pansy knew that she was dying, she could feel it. How long she had to live was uncertain. Her prognosis was not optimistic, and everyday, she felt herself slipping further and further away from her life. It was as if pieces of her consciousness were being eroded away.
When the Muggle Healers told her that her disease was affecting her brain by way of producing seizures that resulted in her suddenly losing her concept of time…Pansy took the news well enough. The so-called ‘fainting spells’ had not been ‘spells’ at all…
The Muggle Healers told her that her disease was far too advanced, and the tumor too deep, for any operation to repair it.
So, Pansy waited for death.
“You are only thirty-two years old, Pans, you are far too young for this,” Ron said to her all too often.
Pansy loved Ron. Of course, many years ago, when they were in school together, she would have felt anything but love for Ronald Weasley. But, he was Pureblooded, and her parents were content with that. It was not just that reason why Pansy had pursued him.
They made love more often, now that they knew there was so little time. Lovemaking tired her like it never had before. Ron had to be so gentle with her, or so he thought. Every time he thrust into her, he was gentle, holding himself back for fear of somehow damaging her. Pansy wanted to scream at him…scream that he should take her like he used to…fuck her until she could die happy, and on the wave of orgasmic high.
“But I love you too much to ever hurt you,” he would whisper to her, his erection flagging inside her, tears of frustration and depthless sorrow in the corners of his azure eyes.
“You hurt me when you treat me like I’m going to die at any moment,” she growled, scratching his muscular chest with her red painted fingernails, irritated that he had stopped moving over her.
He chuckled…he always chuckled, despite the fact that she could see the vacant blackness inside him, present in preparation for the time when she was not longer under him, fucking him, loving him, near him…
“But you might die at any moment, love.”
It was a lame attempt at sarcasm, but she smirked at any rate. Her husband of ten years had never been gifted with sarcasm…but he was funny enough, and she loved him for it.
They had never managed to have children, which, if your last name was Weasley, was a mortal sin. Pansy had even felt the pressure from her own family to have at least one child, but after ten years, it seemed as if the Fates were not going to allow a child to be born…and then the cancer came…
It did not matter to Pansy. However, she wished, for the sake of her husband, that they had a child…
Pansy rolled with Ron on their bed, annoyed that her husband had retreated inside himself, sorrow engulfing him, that she, in her still aroused state, was not getting what she wanted. The cancer was not affecting her sex drive…just to her ability to stay conscious at times. She had stopped taking the medicines and potions the Healers had given her, she was in little pain…but it was getting worse…headaches. It had been the potions that made her feel ill, and she wondered: if the potions were meant to help her, why did she felt so horrible taking them…
Straddling her husband, she looked down at him, his long ginger hair splayed upon the pillows. He was incredibly handsome…but as she gazed at him, he looked incredibly pathetic. So, Pansy did something she had done only a few times during their marriage. She slapped him.
“Snap out of it, Ron, I’m not dead yet…” she growled.
She knew she could feel herself dying…but she wanted to feel loved, not pitied…especially not pitied by her husband.
Ron glared at her, just like he used to early in their marriage…angry…but aroused. The first time they had made love, it had been angry, feral, real…and alive.
“Make love to me…like you love me,” she whispered.
Ron studied her face, her lank black hair, the rings under her eyes, the way her bones seem to point from her body at sharp angles…and he saw the woman he married in those deep well-like eyes. In those depthless eyes, there was still a spark of life. In his sorrow, Ron had nearly forgotten that resignation did not mean she was willing herself to die…she was just no longer afraid.
He surged up, his thick sinewy arms wrapping about her, his lips tasting her throat, her small breasts…she smelled like life barely clinging to a frame of skin and bones. In that intoxicating smell, he saw her as he remembered her…beautiful.
Pansy’s fingers buried into his hair, and pulsing through him as his cock hardened against her belly, was no longer just sorrow…but love.
Whatever time they had left, whatever pain would wrack her body, Pansy did not want her husband, her love, to feel sorrow… Impaling herself upon him, Pansy sighed. Sorrow led to nothing, and love…only love, would make her passing bearable, and not only for Ron, but for herself.
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: M/F
Summary: #15 – Sorrow. Sorrow led to nothing, but love made it bearable.
Word Count: 1,022 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. Inspired by the film ‘The Fountain.’
Prompt 15 – Sorrow
Pansy had made her peace with the fact that she was dying, and she wondered why he couldn’t… She wondered if he was so afraid of being alone. Pansy knew that it was not just the fact that he was losing her. All the same, she could not begrudge him his sorrow, most of the time.
When the Healers declared that nothing could be done to stop the slow progression and ultimate degradation of her mind, Pansy remembered taking a slow breath, and nodded her understanding. He, her husband, Ronald Weasley, declared, in turn, that they were going to see a Muggle Healer.
The disease affected her magic, which, the Healers said, was seated in her brain. Admittedly, Pansy could not understand everything the Healers told her about her own brain, and Ron, obviously, was less inclined to understand, but Pansy knew that she was dying, she could feel it. How long she had to live was uncertain. Her prognosis was not optimistic, and everyday, she felt herself slipping further and further away from her life. It was as if pieces of her consciousness were being eroded away.
When the Muggle Healers told her that her disease was affecting her brain by way of producing seizures that resulted in her suddenly losing her concept of time…Pansy took the news well enough. The so-called ‘fainting spells’ had not been ‘spells’ at all…
The Muggle Healers told her that her disease was far too advanced, and the tumor too deep, for any operation to repair it.
So, Pansy waited for death.
“You are only thirty-two years old, Pans, you are far too young for this,” Ron said to her all too often.
Pansy loved Ron. Of course, many years ago, when they were in school together, she would have felt anything but love for Ronald Weasley. But, he was Pureblooded, and her parents were content with that. It was not just that reason why Pansy had pursued him.
They made love more often, now that they knew there was so little time. Lovemaking tired her like it never had before. Ron had to be so gentle with her, or so he thought. Every time he thrust into her, he was gentle, holding himself back for fear of somehow damaging her. Pansy wanted to scream at him…scream that he should take her like he used to…fuck her until she could die happy, and on the wave of orgasmic high.
“But I love you too much to ever hurt you,” he would whisper to her, his erection flagging inside her, tears of frustration and depthless sorrow in the corners of his azure eyes.
“You hurt me when you treat me like I’m going to die at any moment,” she growled, scratching his muscular chest with her red painted fingernails, irritated that he had stopped moving over her.
He chuckled…he always chuckled, despite the fact that she could see the vacant blackness inside him, present in preparation for the time when she was not longer under him, fucking him, loving him, near him…
“But you might die at any moment, love.”
It was a lame attempt at sarcasm, but she smirked at any rate. Her husband of ten years had never been gifted with sarcasm…but he was funny enough, and she loved him for it.
They had never managed to have children, which, if your last name was Weasley, was a mortal sin. Pansy had even felt the pressure from her own family to have at least one child, but after ten years, it seemed as if the Fates were not going to allow a child to be born…and then the cancer came…
It did not matter to Pansy. However, she wished, for the sake of her husband, that they had a child…
Pansy rolled with Ron on their bed, annoyed that her husband had retreated inside himself, sorrow engulfing him, that she, in her still aroused state, was not getting what she wanted. The cancer was not affecting her sex drive…just to her ability to stay conscious at times. She had stopped taking the medicines and potions the Healers had given her, she was in little pain…but it was getting worse…headaches. It had been the potions that made her feel ill, and she wondered: if the potions were meant to help her, why did she felt so horrible taking them…
Straddling her husband, she looked down at him, his long ginger hair splayed upon the pillows. He was incredibly handsome…but as she gazed at him, he looked incredibly pathetic. So, Pansy did something she had done only a few times during their marriage. She slapped him.
“Snap out of it, Ron, I’m not dead yet…” she growled.
She knew she could feel herself dying…but she wanted to feel loved, not pitied…especially not pitied by her husband.
Ron glared at her, just like he used to early in their marriage…angry…but aroused. The first time they had made love, it had been angry, feral, real…and alive.
“Make love to me…like you love me,” she whispered.
Ron studied her face, her lank black hair, the rings under her eyes, the way her bones seem to point from her body at sharp angles…and he saw the woman he married in those deep well-like eyes. In those depthless eyes, there was still a spark of life. In his sorrow, Ron had nearly forgotten that resignation did not mean she was willing herself to die…she was just no longer afraid.
He surged up, his thick sinewy arms wrapping about her, his lips tasting her throat, her small breasts…she smelled like life barely clinging to a frame of skin and bones. In that intoxicating smell, he saw her as he remembered her…beautiful.
Pansy’s fingers buried into his hair, and pulsing through him as his cock hardened against her belly, was no longer just sorrow…but love.
Whatever time they had left, whatever pain would wrack her body, Pansy did not want her husband, her love, to feel sorrow… Impaling herself upon him, Pansy sighed. Sorrow led to nothing, and love…only love, would make her passing bearable, and not only for Ron, but for herself.