Title: In Time to Thunder
Prompt: 11. Insomnia
Summary: It was impossible to sleep with the thunder and the lightning and the rain crashing down
Warning: the Original Sin: waking up someone who's asleep o.o
It was impossible to sleep with the thunder and the lightning and the rain crashing all down upon the tin roofs and the cats mewling plaintively at the door. It was made even harder by Draco's erratic breathing and tossing-and-turning right next to him.
"Mmph," Harry protested as Draco flung an arm over his mouth. Draco didn't move the offending wrist, showed no signs of moving it, so Harry bit gently at the pointy bone Draco had where his hand met his forearm.
Draco stirred, and Harry bit it again, still gently but a little bit harder. Draco sat up straight, wrenching his wrist out of Harry's mouth.
"Harry!" he protested, sleepily. "How'm I s'posed to sleep when you're doing that?"
"Couldn't sleep," Harry replied. "You were moving too much, and it's storming."
"That doesn't explain why I had to wake up," Draco pouted.
Harry smirked at the pout, tilted his head and considered it. Suddenly, he dove foreword and took the pouty lower lip between his teeth and nibbled slowly, gently. "Doesn't have to," he murmured, pulling back, before he crashed his lips on to Draco's again, to silence him. They kissed in time to the thunder.
Twenty minutes later saw them lying, sated, limbs entangling and fingers entwining and hair blending on the pillow. Harry yawned. "Always were the cure for insomnia, you were," he mumbled, eyelids drooping lower, the fringe just batting at Draco's cheek.
They lay there for a few minutes, before Draco mused, "Perhaps that was a good reason to wake up..."
Harry didn't reply, and Draco opened his eyes to glance at him. "Bugger," he said. "You're asleep."
Harry rolled over, as if in response, and Draco kissed his shoulder softly, listening to the gentling thunder, the storm that was moving away. It was impossible for him to sleep. He lay there for what seemed like hours, but was probably just thirty, forty minutes before shaking Harry awake.
Harry protested, as Draco knew he would. "But... but I was sleeping!"
Draco smirked. "I wasn't."
Title: Uncaring Abandon
Prompt: 12. Permission
Summary: It's the way he can kiss and kill and not even care.
Pairing(s): Morag MacDougal/Voldemort
Warning: Bloodplay, whipping, crying... sadism... sex slaves... oh! And no safe word
It's the way he kisses me that draws me to him. It's the way he can kiss and kill, the way he can have blood (or, rather, curses) on his hands and not care an ounce about anything, about anyone.
It's the danger in the way he doesn't love me, in the way he makes me feel so much amazing, so much fear, so little love.
It's mutually damaging, that's what makes it so amazing. He uses me for his own purposes, whatever they may be, and in turn, I can use him as an excuse to not be killed if he wins the war (I'm a good little sex slave) or if he loses (he forced me into this, I had no choice). It's the way he doesn't know my name, so he calls Bella as he comes, the way I always pant my own name instead of his (he finds my rasping Morag as he whips me sexier than my rasping Dark Lord or Voldemort or especially Tom).
It's his serpentine look, the slitted eyes and the so-flat nose. It's the narrow mouth with the pointed teeth that bring so much sensation to his bites, it's the way he hisses when I graze my teeth on the head of his (rather small) erection. It’s the way he thrusts his cock into my mouth, the way it pounds into me when I’m sucking him off.
It's the way he forces my head under water when he's fucking me, that life-or-death sensation, that heady sensation that makes me scream when I eventually come, that makes my heart beat faster and my breathing quicken, that makes me choke in the way he finds so enticing. It's the whips, so studded with thorns, that draw blood from my naked back, it's the way I call him Daddy as he chains me down, and then chains me up again when he leaves.
It's the way he doesn't believe in safe words, (and, indeed, not having one is most likely safer than ever using one, he's more likely to kill me for using one than through this oh-so-exciting sex) the way that he might go too far at any given point and I could be as easily dead as alive and not even know the difference that makes me yearn.
It's the way his fingernails draw blood when he slaps me, a blood so darkly red, a blood that mingles with my hair and probably stains it, but you can't tell, because he often tells me that he loves the way my hair looks like blood. It's the way those same fingernails make my cunt bleed, whether he's massaging my clit or finger-fucking me. It's the way he sometimes makes me take it through the arse—without any kind of lube.
It's the way he loves it when I cry, and the way I don't mind it when I do cry. It's the way he can make me sure that no one will ever mind again whether I cry or not.
It's the way he makes me beg to come before letting me, it's the way he makes me ask permission to move against him when his cock is in me.
It's the way he fucks me hard, with abandon, with no concern for my welfare that draws me unmistakably to him. It's the way he sometime never gives me permission to come, the way he sometimes forces himself into me without my permission, the way I could die at any given moment that turns me on so much. I'm not even a masochist, it's just his way to make me beg.
Title: Making Excuses
Prompt: 13. Library
Summary: They had no excuses
They weren't either of them Prefects. They had absolutely no excuse to be roaming about the halls after lights-out, absolutely no excuse to be writing essays they weren't assigned.
And, yet, each night saw them in the library, working diligently on false assignments, asking each other periodically for help they didn't need. Each night saw them borrowing each other's ink (and never mind that their fingers brushed when Megan passed it to Morag, it wouldn't have made a difference, would it?), or scrolls of parchment, or, once, broom handle polish.
They had no excuses to risk detention and House Points for something they neither of them wholly understood, something neither of them necessarily wanted to understand.
They weren't Prefects, either of them. They weren't particularly allowed to go traipsing about the castle at night, unless it was to the Hospital wing, but that didn't stop them. They didn't take the classes they had 'work' for, but that didn't stop them from doing the work.
They didn't have any excuses to go about breaking the rules, breaking hearts, breaking vases and windowpanes and book spines. They didn't have any excuses to slip out on brooms one night, just the two of them, separate but together, to go racing and wheeling about under the stars. They had no excuse to owl each other the description of the velvet canvas, the diamond-dust sprinkles, the unbelievable blur and cool rush of flying forbidden at midnight, nor did they have any excuse to not mention the one time they stopped, world spinning below them as they came together in a cataclysmic kiss.
They had no excuse to hide, but they had no excuses to be found.
So they made excuses.
Rating: PG, PG-13
Prompt: 14. neck
Summary: o.o Confusion? Mistaken interpretations?
Warning: Writing fic at three-something in the morning leads to a bit of mistaken interpretations, as well as increasing Arie's tendency to get rather ridiculous in her attempts to write at least one crack!fic.. Also, if you read it three times, you read 666 words total—a useless and rather juvenile fact discovered by Arie, again at three-something in the morning. And what does seducing a ghost count as?(Yes, I wrote it earlier this morning, my internet died and I was sad)
"Can I borrow your History of Magic notes?" Hermione asked.
Well. That was what she had meant to ask, but the question came out more along the lines of, "You have an incredibly sexy neck, don't you?"
Lavender looked up, startled. "Thanks, and you have an incredibly sexy, er, mind..." (Of course, she had meant to say something along the lines of "I don't." or "Do you have a fever, Granger?")
Hermione pouted. "You hate me," she complained, intending to say, "Wait, all I wanted was your notes!"
"No, I'm serious, your mind is way sexy!" Lavender blushed. What she had wanted to say was something more like, "My neck isn't important, nor is your sexy mind, let's go to sleep."
Actually, in a bizarre twist of fate involving the Time-Turner stuff the Death Eater broke when attacking the general assortment of people getting Harry's prophecy awhile ago, and some very hard cheese, Lavender ended up saying what she meant to say rather than what she had said in the first place, only she didn't realize it.
"I don't want to go to sleep with you, Brown!" Hermione said, frantically. (She was replying to Lavender’s intended statement, but, as Lavender was under the impression that she had said what she hadn't intended to say, she thought that Hermione could read her mind)
But I have a sexy neck, don't I?, she thought at Hermione, but the notion that Hermione could know what she was thinking was just a delusion, so Hermione didn't respond. I said, SHAG ME RIGHT NOW, GRANGER!
Hermione still couldn't read Lavender’s thoughts, but through another bizarre twist of fate involving the same old cheese as before and some latent magic on Lavender’s part that made thought bubbles of characters become momentary sanity on the part of fic writers, Hermione managed to say what she meant for once. "So, can I have them, then?"
Unfortunately for her, the question was by that point so amazingly out of context that Lavender fell over to one side, probably in some sort of faint due to the fact that Hermione wanted to shag her. (Which she didn't, but there you go, Lavender’s thought bubbles always seem to cause trouble, just think of Won-Won. Or, rather, don't, you don't want your thought bubbles to go berserk.)
The notes promptly spontaneously combusted, so Hermione went to go see if she could seduce Binns for additional classes.
Prompt: 15. Persistance
Summary: Oliver attempts to explain Quidditch to Percy
"It's persistence," Oliver insisted for the seventeenth time, shoving the scrolls under Percy's nose again. "And aggression."
Percy stepped back (it was the first time Oliver's words had registered), shocked. "What?!"
"Quidditch," Oliver elaborated. "It's all about fighting. To win."
"Ah." Percy shoved his glasses higher on his nose. "Why do I need to know this?"
Oliver rolled his eyes. "Because you're the only other one in the bloody common room at three in the morning, I need someone to talk to, I always need to talk at three in the morning!"
Percy looked at Oliver reproachfully. "It's not three in the morning. Anyways, needing to talk to anyone at such a time is preposterous."
Oliver gestured towards the clock. "It is three. In the morning. And, who says I can't talk to you?"
Percy sighed. He obviously wasn't going to get any more of his Transfigurations essay finished tonight. (Nevermind that it wasn't due for another week) "Fine, go ahead, talk."
Oliver grinned cheerfully at the Weasley. "No need, I proved my point!"
"Ugh," Percy groaned. "Well, then. I have a point to make."
"Don't interrupt my bloody homework, three in the morning or no!"
"What's stopping me?" Oliver asked, interestedly. Percy had never seemed the type to inflict damage on someone for bothering them, unlike the twins.
"This!" Percy exclaimed, and kissed him.