Request #3, for _nissi_
Title: This is a Car Wreck
Pairing/Characters: hermione, harry, harry/hermione, mention of others
Words: 650
Spoilers: None
Rating: Um. Well. I'd recommend chocolate. Extremely close by.
Summary: This is not a happy ending.
A/N: _nissi_ really asked me for some good, ol' fashioned chair/table!sex smut. But, seeing as I have absolutely no control of what my muse does, I went in a completely different direction than planned. Oops. This is what happens when you tell me, "Well, I'd really like to read some more affair fics." and I listen.
there is a place that still remains
it eats the fear it eats the pain
the sweetest price he'll have to pay
the day the whole world went away
nine inch nails, the fragile
This is not a happy ending.
There are no whispers of meaningful confessions. Accidents happen and there are repercussion, both terrible and dangerous. There are secrets. There are hollow promises. There are absolutely no fairytales.
This is not a happy ending.
And snippets, painful snippets, from the story are like this:
[june july hot brutal august]
Today is your twenty-sixth birthday.
And you’re celebrating with half a smile.
You’ve been alive for twenty-six years. You’ve lived between two worlds, neither of them to call your own. There memories of them, some of them as result of coming to close to things in the darkest corners of your mind that you shouldn’t have touched. You are alive, unlike some others. There scars and you’ve lost count.
And every time someone wants to wish you a fucking happy birthday with a plastic smile, you want to hex them until they fall with the bubonic plague. Or something like that.
Today is your twenty-sixth birthday.
And you should be at home. With your wife. A wife who’s face you barely know and don’t care to try. She’s happily married with a man who doesn’t love her, her objective are only geared towards status.
You should be at home. With two hundred other people. Practicing that smile that hurts your face and laughing in all the right places. Because not only is today your birthday, today’s your anniversary too.
You know, the one where you decided to slit Voldemort’s throat and curse him until he was a pile of dust. Yeah. And it happened like that.
Today-
Happy fucking birthday.
You’re spending your birthday in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley, pressing her against the wall and with your fingers in her cunt. Your happy birthday comes in the form of the soft pants that escape her lips as she rocks against you.
Today is your twenty-sixth birthday.
And you don’t know why you’ve lived this long.
But it’s okay. Really. Because you’re with her. And it’s wrong. So very wrong. So very the two of you.
But you don’t care.
Because it’s your birthday.
[december ice desolation january]
You smell like smoke when you come home.
You hate him for picking up the habit. But you know why he does it. He can’t forget and he won’t let her either. This dangerous road is their creation, their self-destruction. And they haven’t been able to stop yet.
Will probably never because they’re them.
You come home to an empty house. Terry is always gone off on his lectures- like your father- but you tend to avoid that memory. And so the house is empty. It’s large. It’s lonely.
And you come back to it smelling like smoke.
You walk slowly up the stairs, quietly peeling off your clothing and letting it fall to the floor. [later terry will come home and find them and think that the spark that’s been missing from their marriage is back and she’ll humor him] Piece by piece trails behind you and you still smell like smoke.
You enter your room and you stop in front of your bed. The sheets are twisted. There are clothes by your bathroom door. You’re naked. You reach up and untie your hair, letting it fall to your shoulders.
It’s when you ease yourself onto your bed, the skewed sheets pressing against your back, with your fingers brushing against your clit-
It’s then when you realize that you like the smell of smoke.
[fall leaves september dead]
“Oh god,” she hisses.
You almost smile. Her fingers are threaded in your hair and she pulls as you begin to thrust inside of her and your cock aches as you move because this is the only time you’ll ever feel even though you and her-
“Oh god. Oh- god-”
You’re on the brink of destroying each other for good.
This is not a happy ending.
done.
Pairing/Characters: hermione, harry, harry/hermione, mention of others
Words: 650
Spoilers: None
Rating: Um. Well. I'd recommend chocolate. Extremely close by.
Summary: This is not a happy ending.
A/N: _nissi_ really asked me for some good, ol' fashioned chair/table!sex smut. But, seeing as I have absolutely no control of what my muse does, I went in a completely different direction than planned. Oops. This is what happens when you tell me, "Well, I'd really like to read some more affair fics." and I listen.
there is a place that still remains
it eats the fear it eats the pain
the sweetest price he'll have to pay
the day the whole world went away
nine inch nails, the fragile
This is not a happy ending.
There are no whispers of meaningful confessions. Accidents happen and there are repercussion, both terrible and dangerous. There are secrets. There are hollow promises. There are absolutely no fairytales.
This is not a happy ending.
And snippets, painful snippets, from the story are like this:
[june july hot brutal august]
Today is your twenty-sixth birthday.
And you’re celebrating with half a smile.
You’ve been alive for twenty-six years. You’ve lived between two worlds, neither of them to call your own. There memories of them, some of them as result of coming to close to things in the darkest corners of your mind that you shouldn’t have touched. You are alive, unlike some others. There scars and you’ve lost count.
And every time someone wants to wish you a fucking happy birthday with a plastic smile, you want to hex them until they fall with the bubonic plague. Or something like that.
Today is your twenty-sixth birthday.
And you should be at home. With your wife. A wife who’s face you barely know and don’t care to try. She’s happily married with a man who doesn’t love her, her objective are only geared towards status.
You should be at home. With two hundred other people. Practicing that smile that hurts your face and laughing in all the right places. Because not only is today your birthday, today’s your anniversary too.
You know, the one where you decided to slit Voldemort’s throat and curse him until he was a pile of dust. Yeah. And it happened like that.
Today-
Happy fucking birthday.
You’re spending your birthday in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley, pressing her against the wall and with your fingers in her cunt. Your happy birthday comes in the form of the soft pants that escape her lips as she rocks against you.
Today is your twenty-sixth birthday.
And you don’t know why you’ve lived this long.
But it’s okay. Really. Because you’re with her. And it’s wrong. So very wrong. So very the two of you.
But you don’t care.
Because it’s your birthday.
[december ice desolation january]
You smell like smoke when you come home.
You hate him for picking up the habit. But you know why he does it. He can’t forget and he won’t let her either. This dangerous road is their creation, their self-destruction. And they haven’t been able to stop yet.
Will probably never because they’re them.
You come home to an empty house. Terry is always gone off on his lectures- like your father- but you tend to avoid that memory. And so the house is empty. It’s large. It’s lonely.
And you come back to it smelling like smoke.
You walk slowly up the stairs, quietly peeling off your clothing and letting it fall to the floor. [later terry will come home and find them and think that the spark that’s been missing from their marriage is back and she’ll humor him] Piece by piece trails behind you and you still smell like smoke.
You enter your room and you stop in front of your bed. The sheets are twisted. There are clothes by your bathroom door. You’re naked. You reach up and untie your hair, letting it fall to your shoulders.
It’s when you ease yourself onto your bed, the skewed sheets pressing against your back, with your fingers brushing against your clit-
It’s then when you realize that you like the smell of smoke.
[fall leaves september dead]
“Oh god,” she hisses.
You almost smile. Her fingers are threaded in your hair and she pulls as you begin to thrust inside of her and your cock aches as you move because this is the only time you’ll ever feel even though you and her-
“Oh god. Oh- god-”
You’re on the brink of destroying each other for good.
This is not a happy ending.
done.