Fic: The Devil Wears Tartan (Pomona/Minerva)
Here's my entry for this year's wand_in_a_knot fest. The premise is really fun: each participant gets "tagged" by a previous participant and given a prompt. We then have 24 hours to create a story or art with an R or NC-17 rating. Any characters, any kink. So basically insta-porn. It's a really enjoyable challenge.
My prompt came from mywitch:
You're the picture of the devil's daughter,
I'm a pitcher of holy water.
I flung angels and devils and holy water up into the air, and they fell down as this story.
Title: The Devil Wears Tartan
Author: kellychambliss
Pairing /Character: Pomona Sprout/Minerva McGonagall
Summary: Pomona Sprout's relationship with Minerva McGonagall is a religious experience.
Rating: R
Word count: 1425
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you saw Minerva McGonagall, you were scared.
And thrilled.
Oh, not about her. About Hogwarts. There you stood, on Platform 9 ¾, eleven years old, the only witch your family had ever produced.
You watched the milling, chattering children -- among them, a stern-looking tall girl with spectacles and black plaits -- and you knew some of them would be your friends. It was exciting.
And terrifying.
You felt like two different people at once: Pomona Sprout the brave and Pomona Sprout the timid. You marveled again that you had received that magical Hogwarts letter, and you thought about how everything had changed.
"What about church?" you whispered to your mum, not sure if that would change, too, but half-hoping, half-fearing it would.
"Oh, surely there will be church," Mummy said. "It's a magical school, not a heathen one."
You were a little sorry to hear that. You wanted to be a good girl, of course you did, with a guardian angel on your shoulder.
But a little devil whispered in your ear, "Heathens have more fun."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you met Minerva McGonagall, you fought with her.
Over church.
For of course there was church, a non-denominational Christian service held every Sunday for those relatively few students -- mostly Muggle-borns and "half-bloods" -- who were interested.
You'd been surprised, that first Sunday, when the church group had been joined by the black-haired girl you'd seen at the station. Somehow, she just hadn't seemed the type -- too sure of herself to need to the guidance of anyone else, even God.
"I'm Minerva," she said, putting out her hand like a grown-up. "Who are you?"
You ended up liking her, this intense, bright girl, despite her ignorance of plants and her sharp tongue, for you could be sharp, too, if you had to be -- the way you had to be after that very first church service, when Minerva informed you, in a matter-of-fact tone, that Presbyterians were God's predestined people and that Papists were going to hell.
You were offended -- there was only one God, and he was everyone's God, your mum always said -- and you looked at Minerva with scorn. "I'm a Papist!" you said, even though you weren't. But you said it for the principle of the thing.
You avoided Minerva after that, but following the church service two weeks later, she came to sit with you at the Hufflepuff table, a small package in her hand.
"I was wrong to judge you," she said. "Mother says so, and she's right. I'm sorry. Here. This is for you."
She left the package in front of you and and walked away, straight-backed and stalwart, and your heart fluttered a bit as you unwrapped the paper to reveal a little bottle of liquid with a cross on it.
Professor Macmillan, your Head of House, told you what it was.
Holy water.
You still have it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you kissed Minerva McGonagall, it was fifth year, and you were behind the shrubbery of Greenhouse Three.
You brought her a perpetual-scent, always-blooming rose that you'd grown yourself, and you gathered all your badger-tenacious nerve, and you kissed her.
"This is the devil's work," she said, breathless.
"God is love," you said, and kissed her again.
She kissed you back.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you fucked Minerva McGonagall, you were at Hogwarts, and she was the Transfiguration professor, and you hadn't seen her for a few years. You were there because Dumbledore had interviewed you for the Herbology position, and then he offered it to you, right on the spot.
So you were having a congratulatory drink in Minerva's rooms, and somehow you ended up naked in her bed, and she was kneeling between your spread legs, and her tongue was more agile than you could ever have believed, and you thought, suddenly but with certainty: "she's not new at this."
You were shocked.
And thrilled.
And wetter than you'd known you could be.
She touched just the tip of your clit with just the tip of her tongue, and you could feel your nipples contract, little shivers of ice in your gut. Part of you wanted to buck your hips like a mad thing, but part of you didn't want to move a muscle for fear that Minerva would lose her focus.
So you concentrated on the sight of her dark head and the tantalising curve of her arse that you could almost just see, and then your eyes slid closed and the world was rose-coloured, and you heard yourself begging her, "lower. . .move lower. . .please. . ."
For the sensation had become almost too intense, and you wanted to feel long, slow, sure swipes of her tongue against your whole length, you needed more of the sweet sharpness, you were so close, but you couldn't. . .quite. . .
Minerva stopped.
Before you could groan your dismay, her fingers were fluttering along the insides of your thighs, and one hand was kneading your breast, and you thought you might just die, die right there, and you swore you could hear the angels singing, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in your ears, and then. . .oh god, then she was stroking you again with the flat of her finger, slowly, fully, and you felt yourself expand, your legs splaying further of their own accord, as if you couldn't open yourself fully enough. . .
And you came harder than you'd imagined possible, you could hear yourself shouting, your skin felt as if it were being brushed by a thousand feather ferns. You might even have sobbed a little as Minerva stretched herself beside you, her sharp hipbone digging wonderfully into your side, her breasts soft against your arm.
"Oh, my," you said, when you could. "And you a minister's daughter."
Minerva laughed. "Devil's daughter, more likely," she said, kissing your shoulder.
You shook your head. No. This was heaven.
And you wanted to take Minerva to heaven, too. Pulling your bones together with an effort, you sat up and ran your fingers along her lean length, from collar-bone down across that elegant hipbone and pale thigh, to the muscular, Quidditch-toned calf, the high arch, the toe.
Minerva sighed and leant back among the pillows. Willing away your momentary worry about your relative inexperience, you took a deep breath and nudged her legs apart. You wanted to be inside the dark, mysterious core of her, and she was wet enough to take first one, then two, then three of your fingers, her hips rising gently to meet each of your thrusts.
You marvelled at the sight of her. Her breasts were small, so different from your exuberant own, and watching her made you feel so powerful that you were able to wandlessly accio the celebratory champagne from her sitting room. You poured a small trickle onto her chest and relished her gasp of surprise, the way her eyes startled open.
When you licked it away, the champagne was sharp and tart on your tongue, just as you knew Minerva would be when you settled yourself between her legs, soon now, very soon. She would anoint you with herself, as you had done to her.
It was a benediction of sorts, and you felt, as you began your new life at Hogwarts -- your life with Minerva -- that you were starting something almost holy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The last time you saw Minerva McGonagall, her face was lined and tired, and she was too thin, worn down, as you all were, by the hell that Hogwarts had become -- the Death Eaters ascendant, Albus dead, Snape in charge, children tortured and terrified.
But in Minerva's eyes was the same fire you felt in yourself.
You knew that the final showdown between Voldemort and Potter could take place nowhere but at Hogwarts. You knew that you and Minerva would fight in that battle together, killing together and dying together if that's what it took.
"It will be soon, Pomona, I can feel it," she said, as she rose from your bed for what you were both aware could very well be the final time.
You replied, "I'm ready."
Then you took her face in your hands and kissed her and watched as she walked away, your holy devil, straight-backed and stalwart as ever, her taste lingering on your lips.
My prompt came from mywitch:
You're the picture of the devil's daughter,
I'm a pitcher of holy water.
I flung angels and devils and holy water up into the air, and they fell down as this story.
Title: The Devil Wears Tartan
Author: kellychambliss
Pairing /Character: Pomona Sprout/Minerva McGonagall
Summary: Pomona Sprout's relationship with Minerva McGonagall is a religious experience.
Rating: R
Word count: 1425
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you saw Minerva McGonagall, you were scared.
And thrilled.
Oh, not about her. About Hogwarts. There you stood, on Platform 9 ¾, eleven years old, the only witch your family had ever produced.
You watched the milling, chattering children -- among them, a stern-looking tall girl with spectacles and black plaits -- and you knew some of them would be your friends. It was exciting.
And terrifying.
You felt like two different people at once: Pomona Sprout the brave and Pomona Sprout the timid. You marveled again that you had received that magical Hogwarts letter, and you thought about how everything had changed.
"What about church?" you whispered to your mum, not sure if that would change, too, but half-hoping, half-fearing it would.
"Oh, surely there will be church," Mummy said. "It's a magical school, not a heathen one."
You were a little sorry to hear that. You wanted to be a good girl, of course you did, with a guardian angel on your shoulder.
But a little devil whispered in your ear, "Heathens have more fun."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you met Minerva McGonagall, you fought with her.
Over church.
For of course there was church, a non-denominational Christian service held every Sunday for those relatively few students -- mostly Muggle-borns and "half-bloods" -- who were interested.
You'd been surprised, that first Sunday, when the church group had been joined by the black-haired girl you'd seen at the station. Somehow, she just hadn't seemed the type -- too sure of herself to need to the guidance of anyone else, even God.
"I'm Minerva," she said, putting out her hand like a grown-up. "Who are you?"
You ended up liking her, this intense, bright girl, despite her ignorance of plants and her sharp tongue, for you could be sharp, too, if you had to be -- the way you had to be after that very first church service, when Minerva informed you, in a matter-of-fact tone, that Presbyterians were God's predestined people and that Papists were going to hell.
You were offended -- there was only one God, and he was everyone's God, your mum always said -- and you looked at Minerva with scorn. "I'm a Papist!" you said, even though you weren't. But you said it for the principle of the thing.
You avoided Minerva after that, but following the church service two weeks later, she came to sit with you at the Hufflepuff table, a small package in her hand.
"I was wrong to judge you," she said. "Mother says so, and she's right. I'm sorry. Here. This is for you."
She left the package in front of you and and walked away, straight-backed and stalwart, and your heart fluttered a bit as you unwrapped the paper to reveal a little bottle of liquid with a cross on it.
Professor Macmillan, your Head of House, told you what it was.
Holy water.
You still have it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you kissed Minerva McGonagall, it was fifth year, and you were behind the shrubbery of Greenhouse Three.
You brought her a perpetual-scent, always-blooming rose that you'd grown yourself, and you gathered all your badger-tenacious nerve, and you kissed her.
"This is the devil's work," she said, breathless.
"God is love," you said, and kissed her again.
She kissed you back.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first time you fucked Minerva McGonagall, you were at Hogwarts, and she was the Transfiguration professor, and you hadn't seen her for a few years. You were there because Dumbledore had interviewed you for the Herbology position, and then he offered it to you, right on the spot.
So you were having a congratulatory drink in Minerva's rooms, and somehow you ended up naked in her bed, and she was kneeling between your spread legs, and her tongue was more agile than you could ever have believed, and you thought, suddenly but with certainty: "she's not new at this."
You were shocked.
And thrilled.
And wetter than you'd known you could be.
She touched just the tip of your clit with just the tip of her tongue, and you could feel your nipples contract, little shivers of ice in your gut. Part of you wanted to buck your hips like a mad thing, but part of you didn't want to move a muscle for fear that Minerva would lose her focus.
So you concentrated on the sight of her dark head and the tantalising curve of her arse that you could almost just see, and then your eyes slid closed and the world was rose-coloured, and you heard yourself begging her, "lower. . .move lower. . .please. . ."
For the sensation had become almost too intense, and you wanted to feel long, slow, sure swipes of her tongue against your whole length, you needed more of the sweet sharpness, you were so close, but you couldn't. . .quite. . .
Minerva stopped.
Before you could groan your dismay, her fingers were fluttering along the insides of your thighs, and one hand was kneading your breast, and you thought you might just die, die right there, and you swore you could hear the angels singing, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in your ears, and then. . .oh god, then she was stroking you again with the flat of her finger, slowly, fully, and you felt yourself expand, your legs splaying further of their own accord, as if you couldn't open yourself fully enough. . .
And you came harder than you'd imagined possible, you could hear yourself shouting, your skin felt as if it were being brushed by a thousand feather ferns. You might even have sobbed a little as Minerva stretched herself beside you, her sharp hipbone digging wonderfully into your side, her breasts soft against your arm.
"Oh, my," you said, when you could. "And you a minister's daughter."
Minerva laughed. "Devil's daughter, more likely," she said, kissing your shoulder.
You shook your head. No. This was heaven.
And you wanted to take Minerva to heaven, too. Pulling your bones together with an effort, you sat up and ran your fingers along her lean length, from collar-bone down across that elegant hipbone and pale thigh, to the muscular, Quidditch-toned calf, the high arch, the toe.
Minerva sighed and leant back among the pillows. Willing away your momentary worry about your relative inexperience, you took a deep breath and nudged her legs apart. You wanted to be inside the dark, mysterious core of her, and she was wet enough to take first one, then two, then three of your fingers, her hips rising gently to meet each of your thrusts.
You marvelled at the sight of her. Her breasts were small, so different from your exuberant own, and watching her made you feel so powerful that you were able to wandlessly accio the celebratory champagne from her sitting room. You poured a small trickle onto her chest and relished her gasp of surprise, the way her eyes startled open.
When you licked it away, the champagne was sharp and tart on your tongue, just as you knew Minerva would be when you settled yourself between her legs, soon now, very soon. She would anoint you with herself, as you had done to her.
It was a benediction of sorts, and you felt, as you began your new life at Hogwarts -- your life with Minerva -- that you were starting something almost holy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The last time you saw Minerva McGonagall, her face was lined and tired, and she was too thin, worn down, as you all were, by the hell that Hogwarts had become -- the Death Eaters ascendant, Albus dead, Snape in charge, children tortured and terrified.
But in Minerva's eyes was the same fire you felt in yourself.
You knew that the final showdown between Voldemort and Potter could take place nowhere but at Hogwarts. You knew that you and Minerva would fight in that battle together, killing together and dying together if that's what it took.
"It will be soon, Pomona, I can feel it," she said, as she rose from your bed for what you were both aware could very well be the final time.
You replied, "I'm ready."
Then you took her face in your hands and kissed her and watched as she walked away, your holy devil, straight-backed and stalwart as ever, her taste lingering on your lips.