Adjectives on the typewriter.
I'm probably going to regret this, but it might be a good way to distract myself from The Novel.
The first ten (10) people who comment in this post get to request a drabble of any pairing/character of their choosing from me. In return, they have to post this in their journal (unless they really would rather not).You guys know what I like and what ( Read more... )
The first ten (10) people who comment in this post get to request a drabble of any pairing/character of their choosing from me. In return, they have to post this in their journal (unless they really would rather not).You guys know what I like and what ( Read more... )
He is aware of the drama being played out in front of him, is rapt with it, but his pulse is ringing in his ears in time to the tragedy of her body pressed against him.
Her breath is rotten, rank like dead flesh left out in high summer, and it is hot on his face as she heaves each rancid exhale.
Her skin is so pale, he would have expected it to be icy, smooth and cold like bone china, but she is steaming and sweltering. He can feel her putrid sweat seeping into his clothing, and a single drop of moisture gathers at the small of his back and slides over his buttocks, dripping down between his thighs and over the length of his calf until it soaks, inconsequential, into the cuff of his sock.
In his ear, her voice is sweet like turned milk mixed with honey, and it pools thickly inside his head.
“When the Dark Lord claims his kingdom,” she whispers, “you’ll be mine.”
It is this voice Neville hears in the nightmares of his aging, and it never fails to wake him in a cold, frantic sweat.
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