grondfic, I have one more piece, a longer-than-a-drabble one, that I'm working on for you, Cthulhu's Christmas, which I'll post pretty soon, plus you've also got Wardfic coming! &hearts &hearts
It is always the same dream that Ben has, night after night. It makes him tremble in his sleep, and wake up shaken and confused, with the scent of oceanic salt-foam in his nostrils and the dampness of sweat on his skin.
In this dream, he finds himself spiralling downwards as if caught in a whirlpool. He chokes and splutters as if water fills his lungs. He senses something lurking, winding tentacles around his struggling body, suckers ripping cloth from skin to leave him bare and helpless. Ben tries to scream, but always his voice fails him, as does his strength as he sinks into the depths…
Emerging from the nightmare to be held in Keamy’s arms, and clinging close, helps the terror to cease for a time.
Once Ben loathed the man who holds him. Now he cannot imagine ever being without him.
Kissing Teddy Lupin hadn’t been too bad, Victoire thought as she hugged herself in bed that night and grinned. It had actually felt sort of nice. He was gentle and sweet, if not very expert, and he hadn’t thrust his tongue right down her throat or tried to grope her, or attempted to get something more than kisses out of her.
He had been a perfect gentleman, in fact, and they had even parted as friends when it turned out that there was no spark between them.
Victoire felt grateful to him, though. Being able to kiss an attractive man like that had made her very, very sure – more so than ever before – that she truly desired to be only with women. And she was really looking forward to her date with Katie Bell the following evening.
Quidditch-playing women were the ones that really appealed to Victoire. They combined strength and softness, athleticism and grace, and always took Victoire’s breath away. As she drifted off to sleep at last, she imagined what it would be like to kiss Katie, and to feel the touch of her skilled and tender hands.
The sensations were glorious. He found his back arching and his teeth sinking through his lower lip to keep from screaming.
Pain convulsed him as he finally opened his mouth to let out a cold and high-pitched laugh. Oh, he may have been bent over, trapped under the powerful body of one who was more beast than man, but he, the Dark Lord, was the one who was in control. The werewolf snarled in rage and thrust harder, but Tom Riddle continued to smirk even as his laughter became an involuntary gasp of pleasure.
Greyback needed a little reminder who was really the master, Riddle mused as his climax drew dangerously near. Perhaps he’d give the werewolf a dose of the Cruciatus curse later that night, and impose a hiatus of a week or two before he would allow Fenrir to bed him again.
Provided that Riddle didn’t enjoy this encounter too much, of course, and crave for more before the break of day.
Why does he always have to be so serious?
I meant it all as a joke! It was supposed to be funny. Hell, it was even cute by my standards! And he had to spoil it all by being a jerk and wrecking the place after all my hard work!
All I did was make our little love-nest pretty for the festive season with a few bloodstained bats and big balloon clowns with glass Christmas baubles for noses!
Bruce does look hot when he gets angry, though. I’m going to be feeling bruised and sore for weeks, I just know it! And I’m glad to know that he loves me after all… when we fight, we end up staying in bed together for hours, and hours… and hours! And this Christmas Eve is no exception, I’m glad to say!
The rotund man in red is usually very jolly indeed at this time of year, but his normally rosy cheeks are pale as he makes his rounds through the picturesque little town with the gambrel roofs. He dares not touch the plates of delicious smelling cookies, or the glasses of milk or sometimes something stronger, left out for him as rewards for his diligence.
He trembles at the very thought of what he must deliver to some of the sleepers in their cosy dwellings – strange books filled with blasphemies, odd packages of stones or powders emitting ominous sounds or scents, toys fashioned into the forms of fearsome sea-beasts with long tentacles and burning eyes.
The reindeer are becoming more and more restive with each subsequent delivery, and it is with great relief that Saint Nick is able to drive his sleigh skyward, his way lit by the stars that he is glad to see will not be “right” for many years to come.
The little creature scuttles through all dimensions, and the brightly coloured gases and strange sentient geometric shapes cannot seem to resist following him from one plane of existence to the next. As they move alongside or behind him, they glow and shimmer in so many different hues that they make nature’s own perfect rainbows, stars and dewdrops seem dull by comparison.
Breaking through the fragile veil of dreams, the hordes of alien creatures light up the rooms and walls of the house in Arkham with their unearthly beauty. Brown Jenkin squeaks and chatters in his dark delight, for he knows that the one now known as Nahab will be overjoyed when she awakes. For she will realise that on this holiest of nights, Nyarlathotep is on his way.