Author: Dal (slaygirl)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Walden Macnair/Hermione Granger
Word Count: 560
Warnings: Necrophilia, decapitation, some cutting (just on the hands)
Summary: He hated when they cried...
His hand ran over the blade; once, then twice, the third time curling his fingers around the edge, cutting into his fingers. He held his hand up casually and examined it, the small flaps of skin between the second and third joint as he counted up from the palm just hanging there. He bit at one of them, peeling the dying skin away from his finger, between his teeth.
He spat the small flap of skin onto her knee as she knelt; it just stayed there, glistening and covered in blood and saliva. She looked up at him, naked and bushy-haired, hands tied behind her back, tears in her eyes.
He hated when they cried.
He put his glove back on, the slick, slightly oily skin of it rubbing against the cut on his fingers. It didn’t sting for him anymore.
He turned his head so it was easier to focus on her. By some he was called handsome; by others, unspeakably ugly. The latter was more popular nowadays, and he showed her why when he removed the patch over his left eye.
The eye was discolored, unfocused and damn near useless. He knew it stared at her, milky and wet.
She turned her head.
He picked up the axe, its familiar weight seeming to put him back on balance. He left the patch off for this.
She looked at him, defiance still shining in her eyes through the tears.
He always swung on two.
Her head had landed neatly in front of her body, which had in turn flopped forward upon it, dropped by the weight of somewhat heavy breasts. He sighed and rolled his good eye, putting the patch back on.
It would be a while before rigor mortis set in.
He removed his gloves, the odd flaps of skin on the fingers of his right hand sticking to the inside material. He rolled her over and laid her on her back, trying to decide if she was more of a “her” or an “it” now that she was dead. He decided to stick with “her,” as he wasn’t a total bastard. At least, he used to tell himself that, before the death toll had grown too high and he had grown a bit too crazy.
He knelt next to her, picking up her torso carefully. Her breasts were larger than her clothing had betrayed, and although he had stripped her naked and knelt her down in front of him, he had been too fascinated with the sick irony of the kill to notice such things.
He lowered his head and took one of her nipples between his teeth gently – why he was bothering being gentle, he didn’t know, especially since he wasn’t a gentle man. He ran his tongue over the tip of it, allowing her taste to rush to his brain, an unbelievable high. She smelled of blood and sweat and death and crying, and in a moment she would smell like sex, too – his sex, her sex, it would all be the same in a moment.
She was staring with a look on her face that would have been disturbing if he hadn’t seen it so many times before.
He picked her head up and threw it into the bushes, away from her body, his body; he removed his belt, unfastened his pants.
He hated voyeurs.