That Was Then, This Is Now
Title: That Was Then, This Is Now
Team: Order of the Phoenix
Characters: Severus/Hermione
Challenge: Not a Gentleman Challenge
Word Count: 100 x 2
Rating: R
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Notes: Not quite my usual Snape, I don't think… but I hope you won't mind this version. He was rather insistent. *g*
It amuses Hermione now to recall that she once believed Severus to be a gentleman.
Shaped by a childhood filled with worthy classic books and costume dramas, she had at first mistaken his frock coat and long hair and scrupulously crisp, correct speech for the signs of nobility. His everlasting scowl and mourner's suit had made young Hermione envision him walking along windswept moors, his dark cloak whipping in the wind and his heart heavy with some obscure, unspeakable sorrow.
Afterward, she'd speculated, he probably retired to his manor, where he would sip brandy amongst disapproving portraits of distinguished ancestors.
Now Hermione knows better.
She knows that his only inheritance consists of a nose, a name and a wealth of bitter insecurity.
She knows that beneath his cultivated accent is a warmer, rougher one, and that when his hands skim beneath her skirt, along her thigh, into her knickers, they are deliciously calloused, not soft and manicured.
And whenever he presses her up against the dungeon wall, where anyone might see, rocking against her with unpolished enthusiasm and passionate desperation, making her nerves sizzle and her heart pound, she knows and she is thankful-deeply thankful-that Severus is no gentleman.
Team: Order of the Phoenix
Characters: Severus/Hermione
Challenge: Not a Gentleman Challenge
Word Count: 100 x 2
Rating: R
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Notes: Not quite my usual Snape, I don't think… but I hope you won't mind this version. He was rather insistent. *g*
It amuses Hermione now to recall that she once believed Severus to be a gentleman.
Shaped by a childhood filled with worthy classic books and costume dramas, she had at first mistaken his frock coat and long hair and scrupulously crisp, correct speech for the signs of nobility. His everlasting scowl and mourner's suit had made young Hermione envision him walking along windswept moors, his dark cloak whipping in the wind and his heart heavy with some obscure, unspeakable sorrow.
Afterward, she'd speculated, he probably retired to his manor, where he would sip brandy amongst disapproving portraits of distinguished ancestors.
Now Hermione knows better.
She knows that his only inheritance consists of a nose, a name and a wealth of bitter insecurity.
She knows that beneath his cultivated accent is a warmer, rougher one, and that when his hands skim beneath her skirt, along her thigh, into her knickers, they are deliciously calloused, not soft and manicured.
And whenever he presses her up against the dungeon wall, where anyone might see, rocking against her with unpolished enthusiasm and passionate desperation, making her nerves sizzle and her heart pound, she knows and she is thankful-deeply thankful-that Severus is no gentleman.