Fic: She Smirks in Scarlet
Title: She Smirks In Scarlet
Pairing: Rita/Severus (with a tiny moment of implied Rita/Pansy)
Rating: Light R
Summary: He knows there’s only one way to master this creature in his grip. Give her what she wants
Notes: Written for snape_rarepairs pairing of the month, and the challenge 'power'. Also for the fanfic100 prompt 'She'.
Pansy Parkinson only liked to talk in the bedroom. She’d say all sorts of filthy things about Harry Potter and that dirty little mudblood, but only when she was on her back with Rita’s fingers in her cunt; while Millicent Bullstrode pretended to be asleep and Daphne Greengrass watched from the shadows.
~*~
She steps out of the Slytherin dorms like she knows them like the back of her hand, but he is better acquainted with the castle than her. Black is more suited to slinking through shadows than scarlet satin.
He doesn’t give her a chance to escape. He’s grabbed her and pinned her to the wall in an instant, hands above her head and one leg between hers, pressing hard against her to stop her from planting a stocking-clad knee in his groin.
“Rita Skeeter,” he says, and her name tastes bitter on his breath, like the potion he takes to prevent the worst of the damage from the Dark Lord’s crucios. “It’s well past curfew. And I thought Dumbledore told you to stay out of the castle altogether.”
He looks down at her. She froze the moment he grabbed her, and is so still now that not even her hair moves, but there is no submission in her eyes. She smirks.
“Going a bit overboard, aren’t you, Professor?” She lifts her eyes to indicate the position he’s pinned her in.
He doesn’t know how she got in here, but it’s only a year since Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, and although some people have forgotten that in the face of his innocence, Severus has not. He won’t forget his encounters with animagi quite so easily.
“You’ll forgive my overcaution,” he hisses. “I take intruders in the castle very seriously.”
She laughs at him. He feels her breasts quake against his chest. She’s not afraid of him at all. “Surely you don’t think I’m a threat, Professor; collecting sordid little stories about Potter and his friends. You don’t honestly expect me to believe that you care, do you?”
She’s not afraid of him at all and it makes him want to break her.
She’s not a woman he’s ever looked at before, but he can’t help it now. Her wrists are small in his hands and she’s a good three or four inches shorter than him. Her eyes are blue behind her glasses - shadowed in the darkness, but blue - and the gaze behind them is cunning and clever, weighing him up even now. She smells of musk, and he can’t help but notice the red of her lips and the fullness of her body pressed against him. He knows nothing about her except that she’s Slytherin, and older than him.
“I’m certainly no Deatheater,” she smiles. “But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
He sneers by way of a response.
“This is getting us nowhere,” she says. Then, quieter, in a whisper that is barely a breath: “Let me go.”
He feels his grip on her wrists relax slightly as if to obey her demand, the he realises he’s got her pinned to the wall, trespassing in the castle, for Merlin’s sake. She’s not calling the shots.
He tightens his grip and lifts her hands higher, shoves her harder into the wall and presses his thigh up against her crotch. “No,” he hisses.
She laughs again, and he knows she knows he nearly gave in. She arches into his body, her breasts against his chest as she grinds herself against him. He feels his body react, his cock twitch, and that’s it. That’s it. He wants something, anything to regain some semblance of control. He bears down on her, stares at her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
Legilimens, he thinks, and feels his tongue touch the roof of his mouth and his lips shape the ‘m’. Immediately, he’s hit with an overwhelming sense of her hunger. Insatiable desire, a predatory thirst for story that borders on the vampiric. A reckless disregard for anything, anyone: dangerous, heady and self-destructive. It’s been a long time since he’s been inside a mind like hers.
It’s like his was, years ago, when Lucius Malfoy offered him power and respect and told him there was only one thing he’d have to do to get it. He’d wanted, wanted so badly that he didn’t care what it cost, and given himself up to it.
He knows there’s only one way to master this creature in his grip. Give her what she wants.
“Perhaps you’d like to show me into your sitting room, Professor,” she smirks. “Give me a few choice words on Potter yourself.” He’s been staring into her eyes the whole time, but her words are what bring him back to only seeing the surface, and he lets his lips quirk into a smirk of his own.
“All right then.”
Triumph flares in her eyes as he steps away, lets her retrieve the handbag that she dropped to the floor when he grabbed her. Then he’s got her wrist tight in his hand again, and he pushes her in front of him.
He opens the door to his rooms with a whispered password he knows he’ll have to change now, and shoves her inside. Turns to close the door behind him then leans against it as he watches her assess her surroundings.
“A man of simple tastes, Professor,” she says, sounding amused, eyeing his sparsely decorated rooms: black leather armchairs and practical furniture in a dark, solid wood. Still, he wouldn’t refer to himself as simple.
“Perhaps,” he responds evenly, sweeping across the room and unlocking a decanter of firewhiskey from his cabinet. He pours himself some, doesn’t offer any to her. Turning again, he settles onto one of his lounges, gestures at the one across from him with the glass in his hand. “Take a seat.”
She’s positively quaking with excitement. He watches her sit and unclip her handbag, pulling from it a notebook and a long, green quill. She glances at the last page of text, smirks a little - at the quill’s wording, perhaps - then flicks to a blank one and lays the book down on the empty seat beside her. Her eyes meet his as she lifts the quill to her lips, tongue flickering out to lick at the nib, then sucking it into her mouth.
Severus shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
She balances the quill on the notepad beside her and whispers to it, smiling when it apparently does what it’s told, and then she’s looking at him again.
“So,” she says, “Tell me about Potter.”
“Potter,” he murmurs, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a sip, rolling the liquor around in his mouth as he thinks. He watches her, and he can feel the tide of power shifting with every moment that passes. She wants, and he has, and the longer he takes to consider his words the stronger his hold on her becomes. He can feel it, and he waits just long enough to be sure she feels it as well.
He glances down into his glass. “Potter is a mediocre student at best, Miss Skeeter, with a reckless disregard for rules, his own safety, and the safety of his friends. He lacks focus and self-control.”
He looks up again, and watches a slight frown crease those red lips. She’s not satisfied. He feels his own mouth quirk into a smile. She sees it and recovers her poise instantly.
“Surely,” she purrs, crossing one stockinged leg over the other, causing her skirt to hitch up her thigh; “Surely you have some stronger feelings than that, Professor.”
His breath catches in his throat and he finds the only way to speak is to snap. “Why should I have stronger feelings?! He’s a child, for Merlin’s sake. An impertinent child who thinks he’s above the rules simply because he’s an accidental hero!”
She smiles, and her quill pauses a moment, then goes into a frenzy of scribbling. She’s peering at him like he’s a book that just opened up for her, and he feels the upper hand slipping through his fingers like water. He curses himself. If she were the Dark Lord, he’d be dead after a slip like that. But then, he muses, he’s never exactly been distracted by the Dark Lord’s legs.
“It’s because you were spy, isn’t it?” she asks, leaning forward a little. “Because Potter is famous simply because he lived, and there you were, risking your life everyday with no one knowing if they could really trust you. No recognition in that, is there?”
And then - somehow - she’s standing right before him, trailing a single finger over the back of his hand, and he can’t move. He is, quite possibly, not even breathing.
“Could it be,” she whispers, sounding for all the word like a gossip column, “That Hogwarts’ menacing and reclusive potions master wants some attention?”
She grips the glass in his hand and prizes it slowly away from him, something smouldering in her eyes. A moment later, he’s tasting firewhiskey on her tongue and scarlet satin is sliding beneath his fingertips.
He knows nothing about her except that she’s Slytherin, and older than him. She proves it with every whispered word, every touch. Cunning, experience. She’s in his head and under his skin. He gives in. Tells himself there is power in release, even as she drags her name from his lips in a ragged breath, makes him beg for more.
“If you print even one word of what I said to you,” he whispers later, grabbing her by the wrists again and pinning her down, “I’ll owl the Ministry and tell them you’re an illegal animagus.”
She bucks beneath him furiously and he smirks against her skin.
Pairing: Rita/Severus (with a tiny moment of implied Rita/Pansy)
Rating: Light R
Summary: He knows there’s only one way to master this creature in his grip. Give her what she wants
Notes: Written for snape_rarepairs pairing of the month, and the challenge 'power'. Also for the fanfic100 prompt 'She'.
Pansy Parkinson only liked to talk in the bedroom. She’d say all sorts of filthy things about Harry Potter and that dirty little mudblood, but only when she was on her back with Rita’s fingers in her cunt; while Millicent Bullstrode pretended to be asleep and Daphne Greengrass watched from the shadows.
~*~
She steps out of the Slytherin dorms like she knows them like the back of her hand, but he is better acquainted with the castle than her. Black is more suited to slinking through shadows than scarlet satin.
He doesn’t give her a chance to escape. He’s grabbed her and pinned her to the wall in an instant, hands above her head and one leg between hers, pressing hard against her to stop her from planting a stocking-clad knee in his groin.
“Rita Skeeter,” he says, and her name tastes bitter on his breath, like the potion he takes to prevent the worst of the damage from the Dark Lord’s crucios. “It’s well past curfew. And I thought Dumbledore told you to stay out of the castle altogether.”
He looks down at her. She froze the moment he grabbed her, and is so still now that not even her hair moves, but there is no submission in her eyes. She smirks.
“Going a bit overboard, aren’t you, Professor?” She lifts her eyes to indicate the position he’s pinned her in.
He doesn’t know how she got in here, but it’s only a year since Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, and although some people have forgotten that in the face of his innocence, Severus has not. He won’t forget his encounters with animagi quite so easily.
“You’ll forgive my overcaution,” he hisses. “I take intruders in the castle very seriously.”
She laughs at him. He feels her breasts quake against his chest. She’s not afraid of him at all. “Surely you don’t think I’m a threat, Professor; collecting sordid little stories about Potter and his friends. You don’t honestly expect me to believe that you care, do you?”
She’s not afraid of him at all and it makes him want to break her.
She’s not a woman he’s ever looked at before, but he can’t help it now. Her wrists are small in his hands and she’s a good three or four inches shorter than him. Her eyes are blue behind her glasses - shadowed in the darkness, but blue - and the gaze behind them is cunning and clever, weighing him up even now. She smells of musk, and he can’t help but notice the red of her lips and the fullness of her body pressed against him. He knows nothing about her except that she’s Slytherin, and older than him.
“I’m certainly no Deatheater,” she smiles. “But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
He sneers by way of a response.
“This is getting us nowhere,” she says. Then, quieter, in a whisper that is barely a breath: “Let me go.”
He feels his grip on her wrists relax slightly as if to obey her demand, the he realises he’s got her pinned to the wall, trespassing in the castle, for Merlin’s sake. She’s not calling the shots.
He tightens his grip and lifts her hands higher, shoves her harder into the wall and presses his thigh up against her crotch. “No,” he hisses.
She laughs again, and he knows she knows he nearly gave in. She arches into his body, her breasts against his chest as she grinds herself against him. He feels his body react, his cock twitch, and that’s it. That’s it. He wants something, anything to regain some semblance of control. He bears down on her, stares at her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
Legilimens, he thinks, and feels his tongue touch the roof of his mouth and his lips shape the ‘m’. Immediately, he’s hit with an overwhelming sense of her hunger. Insatiable desire, a predatory thirst for story that borders on the vampiric. A reckless disregard for anything, anyone: dangerous, heady and self-destructive. It’s been a long time since he’s been inside a mind like hers.
It’s like his was, years ago, when Lucius Malfoy offered him power and respect and told him there was only one thing he’d have to do to get it. He’d wanted, wanted so badly that he didn’t care what it cost, and given himself up to it.
He knows there’s only one way to master this creature in his grip. Give her what she wants.
“Perhaps you’d like to show me into your sitting room, Professor,” she smirks. “Give me a few choice words on Potter yourself.” He’s been staring into her eyes the whole time, but her words are what bring him back to only seeing the surface, and he lets his lips quirk into a smirk of his own.
“All right then.”
Triumph flares in her eyes as he steps away, lets her retrieve the handbag that she dropped to the floor when he grabbed her. Then he’s got her wrist tight in his hand again, and he pushes her in front of him.
He opens the door to his rooms with a whispered password he knows he’ll have to change now, and shoves her inside. Turns to close the door behind him then leans against it as he watches her assess her surroundings.
“A man of simple tastes, Professor,” she says, sounding amused, eyeing his sparsely decorated rooms: black leather armchairs and practical furniture in a dark, solid wood. Still, he wouldn’t refer to himself as simple.
“Perhaps,” he responds evenly, sweeping across the room and unlocking a decanter of firewhiskey from his cabinet. He pours himself some, doesn’t offer any to her. Turning again, he settles onto one of his lounges, gestures at the one across from him with the glass in his hand. “Take a seat.”
She’s positively quaking with excitement. He watches her sit and unclip her handbag, pulling from it a notebook and a long, green quill. She glances at the last page of text, smirks a little - at the quill’s wording, perhaps - then flicks to a blank one and lays the book down on the empty seat beside her. Her eyes meet his as she lifts the quill to her lips, tongue flickering out to lick at the nib, then sucking it into her mouth.
Severus shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
She balances the quill on the notepad beside her and whispers to it, smiling when it apparently does what it’s told, and then she’s looking at him again.
“So,” she says, “Tell me about Potter.”
“Potter,” he murmurs, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a sip, rolling the liquor around in his mouth as he thinks. He watches her, and he can feel the tide of power shifting with every moment that passes. She wants, and he has, and the longer he takes to consider his words the stronger his hold on her becomes. He can feel it, and he waits just long enough to be sure she feels it as well.
He glances down into his glass. “Potter is a mediocre student at best, Miss Skeeter, with a reckless disregard for rules, his own safety, and the safety of his friends. He lacks focus and self-control.”
He looks up again, and watches a slight frown crease those red lips. She’s not satisfied. He feels his own mouth quirk into a smile. She sees it and recovers her poise instantly.
“Surely,” she purrs, crossing one stockinged leg over the other, causing her skirt to hitch up her thigh; “Surely you have some stronger feelings than that, Professor.”
His breath catches in his throat and he finds the only way to speak is to snap. “Why should I have stronger feelings?! He’s a child, for Merlin’s sake. An impertinent child who thinks he’s above the rules simply because he’s an accidental hero!”
She smiles, and her quill pauses a moment, then goes into a frenzy of scribbling. She’s peering at him like he’s a book that just opened up for her, and he feels the upper hand slipping through his fingers like water. He curses himself. If she were the Dark Lord, he’d be dead after a slip like that. But then, he muses, he’s never exactly been distracted by the Dark Lord’s legs.
“It’s because you were spy, isn’t it?” she asks, leaning forward a little. “Because Potter is famous simply because he lived, and there you were, risking your life everyday with no one knowing if they could really trust you. No recognition in that, is there?”
And then - somehow - she’s standing right before him, trailing a single finger over the back of his hand, and he can’t move. He is, quite possibly, not even breathing.
“Could it be,” she whispers, sounding for all the word like a gossip column, “That Hogwarts’ menacing and reclusive potions master wants some attention?”
She grips the glass in his hand and prizes it slowly away from him, something smouldering in her eyes. A moment later, he’s tasting firewhiskey on her tongue and scarlet satin is sliding beneath his fingertips.
He knows nothing about her except that she’s Slytherin, and older than him. She proves it with every whispered word, every touch. Cunning, experience. She’s in his head and under his skin. He gives in. Tells himself there is power in release, even as she drags her name from his lips in a ragged breath, makes him beg for more.
“If you print even one word of what I said to you,” he whispers later, grabbing her by the wrists again and pinning her down, “I’ll owl the Ministry and tell them you’re an illegal animagus.”
She bucks beneath him furiously and he smirks against her skin.