Voting - Week 19
Read the voting rules, please!
1. Please don’t vote for yourself or ask/coerce/blackmail others into voting for you.
2. If you submitted a drabble, you are required to vote.
3. Please vote for a Most and Second Favorite drabble. If you do not vote for both, your vote will not be counted. Comments are screened.
4. Vote for the NUMBER, not the name. For the ease of the mods, please!
5. Don’t forget the prompt: thestrals
IF YOU SUBMITTED A DRABBLE, DO NOT VOTE.
Feel free to comment about a given drabble; we’ll be sending out feedback from now on.
1. Author:
Title: Inhumane
Word Count: 146
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: femmeslash, unbetaed
Bellatrix' fingers were like thorns pressing into her skin. Hermione moaned and of course that just gave Bellatrix more incentive to harm the Mudblood. Hermione could tell that's what she was thinking without any Legilimency - it was obvious in her eyes. It was evident in her expression that could tell Hermione was full of longing. It was unwanted and made Hermione think of moments with Ginny up against walls, and the blazing look she had. She remembered what it was to feel Ginny's nipples touching her gently, as Bellatrix brushed against her, obscenely, a dagger in one hand.
“Please!” Hermione cried. She was begging for torture, to die in bliss, as Bellatrix touched her mound. The pain was not as protracted as expected and neither was the pleasure.
Bellatrix really was an inhumane slut, to deny Hermione the wet prize that came with pain.
2. Author:
Title: And One For Luck
Word Count: 439
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, femmeslash, knifeplay
'Happy Birthday to me,' Hermione thought bitterly, stubbornly ignoring the stinging tears at the corners of her eyes as she bit into her lip. It was nothing compared to the pain of the knife's edge that dragged across her flesh, but it served as a small distraction just the same.
“How many is that, Mudblood? Fourteen...Fifteen,” Bellatrix trilled, her voice deepening slightly toward a growl as she pressed the blade firmly against Hermione's chest again. The flesh beneath it parted easily, leaving a narrow line of blood that crossed diagonally through four others, creating a complete set. “Well,” the older woman grinned as she shifted her position, lowering her face down toward Hermione's and smiling wickedly. “Only three more lines to go, then.”
She'd be lying if she said it didn't hurt; in truth, it was nearly agonizing. But after having that word carved into her arm all those months ago, it was at least less wounding to her pride- the small shred of it that remained, at least- to suffer this ordeal. 'One line for every year you've been allowed to live,' had been the mocking mantra of the crazed witch now straddling her hips.
Suppressing a whimper as the silver dagger's blade dragged across a spot of bruised flesh, Hermione focused her eyes on anything she could, seeking any distraction to draw her eyes other than the tangled mass of black curls dangling in her face.
Eventually, when the woman shifted over her a second time, her eyes fell on the bodice of her captor's dress. If she'd been in any other position, Hermione might have laughed.
'Thorns,' she thought to herself, the internal chuckle that followed nearly escaping her lips as her emotions began to fray again. 'How fitting.'
Crossing the swell of Bellatrix's breasts and curving around the pinched waist of her bodice were vines of roses and sharp thorns, outlined in silvery-black thread that hardly stood out from the silky fabric. Hermione's eyes traveled the intricate curls of every vine, focusing on trying to count the thorns even as she felt her skin being cut and marked by the blade in Bella's hands.
“Finished,” the woman crooned at last, her tone sounding sickly-sweet. “Would you like to see your newest marks?” she asked, even as she lifted Hermione's arm. Giving way to a quiet whimper at last, Hermione tore her eyes away from the thorns to see her arm, staring unseeingly at the collection of tally marks that marred her flesh. “Eighteen cuts,” Bellatrix whispered, her thumb caressing the freshest line. “Eighteen cuts, and one for luck.”
Poll
1. Please don’t vote for yourself or ask/coerce/blackmail others into voting for you.
2. If you submitted a drabble, you are required to vote.
3. Please vote for a Most and Second Favorite drabble. If you do not vote for both, your vote will not be counted. Comments are screened.
4. Vote for the NUMBER, not the name. For the ease of the mods, please!
5. Don’t forget the prompt: thestrals
IF YOU SUBMITTED A DRABBLE, DO NOT VOTE.
Feel free to comment about a given drabble; we’ll be sending out feedback from now on.
1. Author:
Title: Inhumane
Word Count: 146
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: femmeslash, unbetaed
Bellatrix' fingers were like thorns pressing into her skin. Hermione moaned and of course that just gave Bellatrix more incentive to harm the Mudblood. Hermione could tell that's what she was thinking without any Legilimency - it was obvious in her eyes. It was evident in her expression that could tell Hermione was full of longing. It was unwanted and made Hermione think of moments with Ginny up against walls, and the blazing look she had. She remembered what it was to feel Ginny's nipples touching her gently, as Bellatrix brushed against her, obscenely, a dagger in one hand.
“Please!” Hermione cried. She was begging for torture, to die in bliss, as Bellatrix touched her mound. The pain was not as protracted as expected and neither was the pleasure.
Bellatrix really was an inhumane slut, to deny Hermione the wet prize that came with pain.
2. Author:
Title: And One For Luck
Word Count: 439
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, femmeslash, knifeplay
'Happy Birthday to me,' Hermione thought bitterly, stubbornly ignoring the stinging tears at the corners of her eyes as she bit into her lip. It was nothing compared to the pain of the knife's edge that dragged across her flesh, but it served as a small distraction just the same.
“How many is that, Mudblood? Fourteen...Fifteen,” Bellatrix trilled, her voice deepening slightly toward a growl as she pressed the blade firmly against Hermione's chest again. The flesh beneath it parted easily, leaving a narrow line of blood that crossed diagonally through four others, creating a complete set. “Well,” the older woman grinned as she shifted her position, lowering her face down toward Hermione's and smiling wickedly. “Only three more lines to go, then.”
She'd be lying if she said it didn't hurt; in truth, it was nearly agonizing. But after having that word carved into her arm all those months ago, it was at least less wounding to her pride- the small shred of it that remained, at least- to suffer this ordeal. 'One line for every year you've been allowed to live,' had been the mocking mantra of the crazed witch now straddling her hips.
Suppressing a whimper as the silver dagger's blade dragged across a spot of bruised flesh, Hermione focused her eyes on anything she could, seeking any distraction to draw her eyes other than the tangled mass of black curls dangling in her face.
Eventually, when the woman shifted over her a second time, her eyes fell on the bodice of her captor's dress. If she'd been in any other position, Hermione might have laughed.
'Thorns,' she thought to herself, the internal chuckle that followed nearly escaping her lips as her emotions began to fray again. 'How fitting.'
Crossing the swell of Bellatrix's breasts and curving around the pinched waist of her bodice were vines of roses and sharp thorns, outlined in silvery-black thread that hardly stood out from the silky fabric. Hermione's eyes traveled the intricate curls of every vine, focusing on trying to count the thorns even as she felt her skin being cut and marked by the blade in Bella's hands.
“Finished,” the woman crooned at last, her tone sounding sickly-sweet. “Would you like to see your newest marks?” she asked, even as she lifted Hermione's arm. Giving way to a quiet whimper at last, Hermione tore her eyes away from the thorns to see her arm, staring unseeingly at the collection of tally marks that marred her flesh. “Eighteen cuts,” Bellatrix whispered, her thumb caressing the freshest line. “Eighteen cuts, and one for luck.”
Poll