I am Hollow (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} coerciveconsent) wrote,@ 2007-10-25 22:16:00 |
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Ficlet. Snape/Hermione
Title: The Absence of Empathy
Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's a creative writing drabble, must I?
Warnings: Dark!fic, moral ambiguity, prostitution, Un-beta'd
Wordcount: A few over 600
Author Notes: Written because I am bored and the porn I watched made me do it. And, well, I'm pervy and needed a creative outlet. My biggest hope is that it will inspire you to write something of your own.
It smells of urine, this dingy mattress she lays on; spots wide and yellow from too many nights of sweat slicked skin. The acrid smell burns. The odor is a flame flaring inside her nostrils, down her throat, into her lungs with each inhalation, though she can’t blame the smell for the tears in the corners of her eyes.
“Roll over,” he rasps, whiskers scratching her in between her shoulder blades.
She complies, although she does not wish to see his face. It really doesn’t matter, however, if he sees hers. Her charms are strong. Strong enough to fool even him, who would recognize her in an instant if she was less competent with wandless magic, or, perhaps he would anyway if he deigned to pay more attention to possible trickery. He had been good at that sort of thing once.
Regardless, he spares her face only a passing glance. If he sees the sorrow in her eyes he doesn’t care enough to comment, his own black and mindless as he shoves her knees farther apart to push back in. The smell isn’t the only thing that burns.
She wonders if he would care if he knew who she was. She imagines telling him … the scene playing out in her head:
“Yes, I’m Hermione Granger … you taught me several years ago.”
His face would contort with surprise … maybe anger … and he’d pull away from her.
“What the hell are you doing in a Muggle brothel?”
It would be useless trying to lie to him, so she would answer quickly.
“I ran when your Lord won. My wand was snapped in the battle …”
He would be intelligent enough to put the rest of the pieces together. Quick enough to realize that without a wand she couldn’t fend for herself … only able to do the most basic of concealment spells. Reduced to a human chameleon as it were.
Maybe then his face would show empathy. She had thought him a great man once – a brave soul who teetered on the fence between darkness and light. He might care enough, then, to do something other than abuse her in this fashion. The thought skitters away with his next words:
“Tilt your pelvis up, girl …” he grunts.
His body is crushing down on hers in a series of violent spasms. He wants her to push back so he can come further in.
He obviously doesn’t care much about a Muggle girl’s comfort. Spares no passing thought for the Muggle girl’s wellbeing or if the Muggle girl becomes pregnant from this unprotected tryst.
Hermione thinks that she probably isn’t much higher on his ladder of importance than a nameless Muggle girl.
No, he wouldn’t care … and even though she is fairly certain that he wouldn’t kill her, he would leave and she wouldn’t get paid. She remains silent.
He gasps and groans and she does everything in her power to ignore the startling burst of wet heat that splashes against her insides. She really shouldn’t be bothered by it as much as she is; this sensation occurs multiple times throughout the course of her day.
When he lifts himself away their eyes meet for one piercing second. She sucks in a breath and holds it, expelling the air only when he breaks the gaze to move for his clothes. There is a moment where all she can concentrate on is the rustling of fabric as he digs through his pocket.
The coins clatter noisily to the floor beside the mattress, spinning uselessly against the concrete. She watches them in favor of watching him dress.
She had thought him a great man once … but her respect is as dead as the wizard of light he’d murdered so many years ago.
When he turns to go she is almost too busy, scraping the money off the floor, to hear his soft words.
“Caring in this life gets you no where, Miss Granger.”
As I said ... just something I tinkered with for amusement purposes. I found some really great sites that help you through the writer's block, and after working a bit on my Winter Smut fic I felt the need to blow off some darker and pervier steam.
CUZ WRITIN' ROMANCE IZ HARD. Okay, so it's channy, lustful, semi-dark Romance ... but there's still a whole lot of bonding going on and not enough hardcore fucking xD Change of pace is good, Lisa. Change of pace is good.
Hope you enjoyed anyway! May the MUSE be with you!
So lazy with the transferring fics from LJ to here. -sigh
Title: The Absence of Empathy
Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's a creative writing drabble, must I?
Warnings: Dark!fic, moral ambiguity, prostitution, Un-beta'd
Wordcount: A few over 600
Author Notes: Written because I am bored and the porn I watched made me do it. And, well, I'm pervy and needed a creative outlet. My biggest hope is that it will inspire you to write something of your own.
It smells of urine, this dingy mattress she lays on; spots wide and yellow from too many nights of sweat slicked skin. The acrid smell burns. The odor is a flame flaring inside her nostrils, down her throat, into her lungs with each inhalation, though she can’t blame the smell for the tears in the corners of her eyes.
“Roll over,” he rasps, whiskers scratching her in between her shoulder blades.
She complies, although she does not wish to see his face. It really doesn’t matter, however, if he sees hers. Her charms are strong. Strong enough to fool even him, who would recognize her in an instant if she was less competent with wandless magic, or, perhaps he would anyway if he deigned to pay more attention to possible trickery. He had been good at that sort of thing once.
Regardless, he spares her face only a passing glance. If he sees the sorrow in her eyes he doesn’t care enough to comment, his own black and mindless as he shoves her knees farther apart to push back in. The smell isn’t the only thing that burns.
She wonders if he would care if he knew who she was. She imagines telling him … the scene playing out in her head:
“Yes, I’m Hermione Granger … you taught me several years ago.”
His face would contort with surprise … maybe anger … and he’d pull away from her.
“What the hell are you doing in a Muggle brothel?”
It would be useless trying to lie to him, so she would answer quickly.
“I ran when your Lord won. My wand was snapped in the battle …”
He would be intelligent enough to put the rest of the pieces together. Quick enough to realize that without a wand she couldn’t fend for herself … only able to do the most basic of concealment spells. Reduced to a human chameleon as it were.
Maybe then his face would show empathy. She had thought him a great man once – a brave soul who teetered on the fence between darkness and light. He might care enough, then, to do something other than abuse her in this fashion. The thought skitters away with his next words:
“Tilt your pelvis up, girl …” he grunts.
His body is crushing down on hers in a series of violent spasms. He wants her to push back so he can come further in.
He obviously doesn’t care much about a Muggle girl’s comfort. Spares no passing thought for the Muggle girl’s wellbeing or if the Muggle girl becomes pregnant from this unprotected tryst.
Hermione thinks that she probably isn’t much higher on his ladder of importance than a nameless Muggle girl.
No, he wouldn’t care … and even though she is fairly certain that he wouldn’t kill her, he would leave and she wouldn’t get paid. She remains silent.
He gasps and groans and she does everything in her power to ignore the startling burst of wet heat that splashes against her insides. She really shouldn’t be bothered by it as much as she is; this sensation occurs multiple times throughout the course of her day.
When he lifts himself away their eyes meet for one piercing second. She sucks in a breath and holds it, expelling the air only when he breaks the gaze to move for his clothes. There is a moment where all she can concentrate on is the rustling of fabric as he digs through his pocket.
The coins clatter noisily to the floor beside the mattress, spinning uselessly against the concrete. She watches them in favor of watching him dress.
She had thought him a great man once … but her respect is as dead as the wizard of light he’d murdered so many years ago.
When he turns to go she is almost too busy, scraping the money off the floor, to hear his soft words.
“Caring in this life gets you no where, Miss Granger.”
As I said ... just something I tinkered with for amusement purposes. I found some really great sites that help you through the writer's block, and after working a bit on my Winter Smut fic I felt the need to blow off some darker and pervier steam.
CUZ WRITIN' ROMANCE IZ HARD. Okay, so it's channy, lustful, semi-dark Romance ... but there's still a whole lot of bonding going on and not enough hardcore fucking xD Change of pace is good, Lisa. Change of pace is good.
Hope you enjoyed anyway! May the MUSE be with you!
So lazy with the transferring fics from LJ to here. -sigh