100 Moments
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
11,671
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
11,671
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.
Dirty
Title: Dirty
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, Vampire!love, BP
Summary: #98 – Dirty. They had made a promise, long ago…
Word Count: 690 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. Inspired by Gary Numan’s ‘Ancients,’ and HBO’s ‘True Blood.’
Prompt 98 – Dirty
She screamed as a cold hand wrapped about her bare ankle. The shock of it all sent her falling to the icy ground, her cloak falling away from her shoulders, her body impacting roughly. She continued screaming, as the muddy hand seemed to pull her into the ground, when in fact the body to which the hand was attached to was using her weight to pull itself out of the ground.
In the moonlight and the fine falling snow, a body appeared from the ground, like an undead thing pulling up out of a grave. Rationally, Hermione Granger knew that this was happening, but it still made her scream in fright. She kicked, her thin slippers not meant for a fight and slipping off. She turned her body, her skirts riding up her legs to grasp at the grass to pull away.
It was impossible to break free.
Mud and earth fell upon her as icy hands grasped her wrist. Melted snow fell from perfect silver skin to alight on her chest and neck.
A ragged voice was calling her name, but her screams turned onto to close mouthed whimpers. Her eyes were welded shut—she did not want to see, she did not want to breathe.
The nude, icy body was real and heavy atop her own body, shifting against the cradle of her hips. She could feel matted, muddy hair falling against her cheek as cold breath rushed against her face with every word…her name.
It was not until stony lips pressed against hers that her eyes opened. All she could see was mud streaked skin, a dirty brow. She could taste the soil and the staleness and when the body over her pulled away to gaze down at her with mercurial grey eyes, black dirt caking into every fine wrinkle of a face, Hermione cried out again.
A week ago, the face that peered down at her in the moonlight had been composed in death, lying in a rich velvet lined casket. It was a face that she loved with everything she was, and to lose him had been worse than anything she had endured in all her life had.
How was this possible?
“Hermione…” he said, his voice ragged.
He was like a filthy god, silver obscured by mud. In life, he would never be so dirty, in life; he would never be so cold to the touch.
Emotion flooded her and she sat up, wrapping her arms about his neck, no longer frightened, but relieved. It was impossible, but she did not care. She did not care if the grave dirty sullied her mourning clothes, she did not care if she could not feel his heart beating or his warmth. She was with him again, and that was all that mattered.
He held her as if she was his only anchor in the world, he kissed her as if she were air to breathe, and when he bit her throat, he drank from her as if she were a fountain of life. Hermione whimpered at the sharp pain, but soon his mouth, his teeth were gone and he kissed her again.
Blood and soil, it was if her lover was something of the earth itself.
Fangs glinted into the moonlight, as did preternatural grey eyes. He was a god to her, and he was with her again. She knew what he was, but as he kissed her, pressing his burgeoning stiffness against her, it did not matter. Nothing mattered. Draco Malfoy was with her again, and as he drank from her again, she did not care she died in that moment, dirty and aroused, frightened and relieved.
They would be together, literally forever, and as he pressed his oozing, bloody wrist to her soiled mouth, she willingly drank. He pushed inside her body, his organ pulsing as he gasped. She drank and drank until her own vision turned as red as the blood she drank and his hips thrust against and into her body.
They had made a promise long ago, and soon the promise would be fulfilled in blood and dirt, sex and death.
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, Vampire!love, BP
Summary: #98 – Dirty. They had made a promise, long ago…
Word Count: 690 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. Inspired by Gary Numan’s ‘Ancients,’ and HBO’s ‘True Blood.’
Prompt 98 – Dirty
She screamed as a cold hand wrapped about her bare ankle. The shock of it all sent her falling to the icy ground, her cloak falling away from her shoulders, her body impacting roughly. She continued screaming, as the muddy hand seemed to pull her into the ground, when in fact the body to which the hand was attached to was using her weight to pull itself out of the ground.
In the moonlight and the fine falling snow, a body appeared from the ground, like an undead thing pulling up out of a grave. Rationally, Hermione Granger knew that this was happening, but it still made her scream in fright. She kicked, her thin slippers not meant for a fight and slipping off. She turned her body, her skirts riding up her legs to grasp at the grass to pull away.
It was impossible to break free.
Mud and earth fell upon her as icy hands grasped her wrist. Melted snow fell from perfect silver skin to alight on her chest and neck.
A ragged voice was calling her name, but her screams turned onto to close mouthed whimpers. Her eyes were welded shut—she did not want to see, she did not want to breathe.
The nude, icy body was real and heavy atop her own body, shifting against the cradle of her hips. She could feel matted, muddy hair falling against her cheek as cold breath rushed against her face with every word…her name.
It was not until stony lips pressed against hers that her eyes opened. All she could see was mud streaked skin, a dirty brow. She could taste the soil and the staleness and when the body over her pulled away to gaze down at her with mercurial grey eyes, black dirt caking into every fine wrinkle of a face, Hermione cried out again.
A week ago, the face that peered down at her in the moonlight had been composed in death, lying in a rich velvet lined casket. It was a face that she loved with everything she was, and to lose him had been worse than anything she had endured in all her life had.
How was this possible?
“Hermione…” he said, his voice ragged.
He was like a filthy god, silver obscured by mud. In life, he would never be so dirty, in life; he would never be so cold to the touch.
Emotion flooded her and she sat up, wrapping her arms about his neck, no longer frightened, but relieved. It was impossible, but she did not care. She did not care if the grave dirty sullied her mourning clothes, she did not care if she could not feel his heart beating or his warmth. She was with him again, and that was all that mattered.
He held her as if she was his only anchor in the world, he kissed her as if she were air to breathe, and when he bit her throat, he drank from her as if she were a fountain of life. Hermione whimpered at the sharp pain, but soon his mouth, his teeth were gone and he kissed her again.
Blood and soil, it was if her lover was something of the earth itself.
Fangs glinted into the moonlight, as did preternatural grey eyes. He was a god to her, and he was with her again. She knew what he was, but as he kissed her, pressing his burgeoning stiffness against her, it did not matter. Nothing mattered. Draco Malfoy was with her again, and as he drank from her again, she did not care she died in that moment, dirty and aroused, frightened and relieved.
They would be together, literally forever, and as he pressed his oozing, bloody wrist to her soiled mouth, she willingly drank. He pushed inside her body, his organ pulsing as he gasped. She drank and drank until her own vision turned as red as the blood she drank and his hips thrust against and into her body.
They had made a promise long ago, and soon the promise would be fulfilled in blood and dirt, sex and death.