Melly Roell

Source - The One He Couldn’t Collect

"Just... kiss me."

"If it becomes too much... tell me."

I closed my eyes.

As his lips finally touched mine, it wasn't the coldness I expected. It was a searing, heavy heat that spread through me like a slow-burning fire. It was the Kiss of Death—the very thing the Death used to collect the most stubborn of souls—and I felt its immense, gravitational pull. It felt like a warm sensation trying to draw me in, a magnetic force tugging at the very fabric of my existence.

But even as I melted into it, I felt a deep, ancient longing—a yearning that stayed behind a door I could never reach. It was the call to the void, a promise of rest that was forever denied to me. His kiss was a paradox; it was the ultimate intimacy and the ultimate separation. I was tasting the end of all things, yet I remained, anchored to my eternal life, reaching for a finality that brushed against my lips but refused to take me. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and the most alive I had felt in a thousand years.

During the kiss, I felt his fingers slide toward my cheeks, wiping away the moisture on my face. Was I crying? I hadn't even noticed. When our lips parted, he didn't pull back. He exhaled against my mouth, whispering, "I'm sorry."

But then he added, "You are magnificent. No soul, in past centuries, in the present, or in the ones to come, could ever be as precious in my eyes as you."

My head was spinning. The words felt like ancient ink staining my soul, a decree from a god who had forgotten how to worship. He looked at me with a gaze that had witnessed the fall of empires and the birth of stars, yet it was narrowed now, focused entirely on the trembling arc of my existence.

"I have walked the Lethe and stood amidst the silence of the Elysian fields," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, archaic cadence. "I have seen the threads of the Fates fray and snap, leaving behind nothing but the cold ash of memory. But you... you are a flame that refuses to be extinguished, a symphony played in a world of silence."

Source: The One He Couldn't Collect

The One He Couldn’t Collect

Link: The One He Couldn't Collect Hermione has been alive for… a while. Long enough to outlive kingdoms, empires, and every lover she’s ever had. (Though the last part isn’t really her fault. Not entirely.)

Because whenever she starts enjoying someone, Death shows up.

Not the poetic, tragic, hooded figure from myths— but the annoyed, petty, silver-eyed Reaper who has been trying (and failing) to collect her soul for centuries. He can’t kill her. She can’t get rid of him. And at this point, their relationship is somewhere between rivals, exes, eternal nemeses, and… something much worse.

After a few centuries of sabotaging each other’s “jobs,” ruining each other’s timing, and Death repeatedly murdering her lovers out of boredom (or jealousy, but he denies that part), Hermione starts to realize something horrifying:

Death has desires. And unfortunately, she is one of them.

Immortal disasters, toxic flirting, inappropriate timing, and one Reaper who really needs to stop appearing in Hermione’s bedroom.

Sir Draco Malfoy. He is not an ordinary soldier. He is a Knight of the Serpent—a title earned only by surviving an ancient, forbidden curse known as the Venom Rite. It is a trial that kills the weak and twists the survivors into something... other.

He is a faceless terror. A creature of shadow whose skin has not felt the sun, and whose true face remains a mystery hidden behind a helm of cold steel.

Now, the man who is sworn to the King must protect the woman destined to be Queen. But on the long road to the capital, amidst assassination attempts and cold nights, Hermione realizes that the monster guarding her might be the only one capable of understanding the burden of her gift.

“They say he has no heart, Princess. That the venom burned it away. Do not look for humanity where there is only duty.”

Venom & Divinity

"There is no universe in which I don't want you, Granger," he says suddenly, and the certainty in his voice is like a vow. "Not a single one. Not a single moment."

Hermione's breath stutters. It is the kind of sentence that should not be so clean; it should be edged, argued with. Instead, she finds herself letting out a small, disbelieving laugh.

He smiles then, without humor. "It's like you have the claws of a predator—" He falters, shakes his head once as if trying to dislodge the words, then goes on, quieter, almost reluctant: "—and your claws are embedded across my body and my mind, and yet I don't even try to wrench them out."

She can't help it; she laughs outright now, bright and stunned. "If you're between the claws of a predator, wouldn't escape be the whole point?"

Draco answers with a dangerous chuckle. "You are the sort of predator you'd expect in a drawing—no, a lion would do better—brave, hungry, with teeth and claws that make the rest of the world step aside." He casts her a teasing look. "If you bring those 'claws', then I happen to possess the resistance of a venomous serpent."

The car hums around them; his meaning is both threat and promise. "Escaping your claws wouldn't be hard for me," he says, the words a soft dare. "But the question is whether I would want to."

Link: One The Other End

Draco studies every flicker of her reaction, tilting his head ever so slightly. “You’re not used to compliments, are you?”

Hermione drops her gaze toward where her hands nearly brush his collar, embarrassed. “It’s safe to say I haven’t heard words like that in a long time.”

“Then I’ll just have to make it routine.” He leans in closer, his breath grazing her ear. “I could compliment you every day of my life and I doubt I’d ever get tired of it.”

“And you’re… pretty good at this,” Hermione stammers, swallowing. “At giving compliments, I mean.”

Draco grins, showing teeth. “What can I say? They used to call me a womanizer as a joke. Give me a task and watch how perfectly I execute it.”

“And confident, too.”

His eyebrows lift in mock pride, smile widening. “Just trying to be a partner worthy of the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.”

Source: One The Other End

Contains high levels of angst, toxicity, and well...yeah... smut

She turned back, still refusing to meet his gaze. “You’re blocking my way.”

“Am I? Didn’t notice.”

“Draco.”

“Yes, love?”

Her throat tightened. She forced the words out, but they stumbled, her voice losing power with every syllable. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

His mouth curved, slow and merciless. “I don’t think he even knows.”

She flinched, heat rushing up her neck. “Let me through.”

Two years. One mission line. She's a handler. He's the field agent who never listens. No names, no faces. Just clean executions and encrypted orders. She didn’t mean to get attached to a voice. He wasn’t supposed to care who was on the other end. But when your job is keeping someone alive with nothing but your voice— things tend to get... personal.

Hate Me Under the Spell

A spilled potion was supposed to ruin their assignment, not ruin them.

Now Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy are bound by something stronger than hate, forced to face the truth that maybe the line between enemies and lovers was always thinner than they thought.

“That man—”

“Dead.”

The word hits harder than she expects. Her throat tightens, and she swallows, but no response comes.

Whatever he sees in her face keeps him from closing the distance. He stands there instead, water glass in hand, watching her.

“You… you—”

“Yes. I killed him.”

“…”

“For you.”

“But—”

“Hermione.” His voice cuts clean through hers. “What you still don’t understand…”

He closes the space this time, lowering himself to his knees in front of her. The glass is pressed gently into her hands, his eyes locked on hers.

“…is that for you—for your life—there is nothing I won’t do. Nothing I’m not capable of.”

"And also, for the record. When I said you’re not my type, I wasn’t talking about your appearance." He tilted his head to the side. "I usually like to fuck the kind of women who come in here with a bunch of fetishes, down for a good time and gone the next day. But you…"

His eyes drifted over her—her hair spread across the chair, her face.

"You seem like the kind of girl who wants to be emotionally fed. The kind of girl that, if you’re in my life today, I’d want you there tomorrow too. You look like the kind of danger I might not want to let go of."

As he peeled off his gloves, he shrugged. "Or I don’t know, you’ve got the kind of eyes that say if you got hurt, I’d burn everything to the ground. That kind of intensity? Not really my thing."

Then he grinned again as he turned to her. "Otherwise, trust me—I’d be doing everything in my power to fuck you."