Pulp Writer X is my name, pulp genre fiction is my game. Mostly doing Reylo right now, but I also write for Star Wars, Harry Potter, LOTR & Hobbit, Marvel, DC & Watchmen ASK FOR FICS & STORIES @ElChe_1077, Vala Solo Lady Vader on Twitter And check out my deviantART at LolaBlue And for a complete list of recent fics I'm on A03.
"So. Can I get the occasional conjugal visit while I'm locked up in my remote controlled containment habitat at the old Rebel Base on Hoth?"
Leia laughed in spite of herself.
"Any particular woman in mind?"
"Surprise me. I don't think I'll be too picky after I've been alone on Hoth for awhile."
"What about Hi Mom? I love you? Can you ever forgive me?"
"How about I'll do goddamn anything not to be exiled to Hoth?"
"That's your best case scenario, Ben. Most people around these parts want your head on a stick."
"I know where Enric Pryde's going after he gets out of his escape pod. I know where Grand Admiral Thrawn is hiding. You got a most wanted list? I know where they all are. You want them in binders? I'll bring them to you. You want heads? No problem. Just don't send me to frozen Hell."
"What about your father?"
"I stashed him. Frozen in carbonite. He wasn't too happy. He was complaining about me not letting him die in peace. And I told him, look. I'm going to need a big bargaining chip to get out of this. He was okay with the idea after that."
Leia didn't know what to say.
Or do.
"Ben."
"Mom?"
She sighed.
"I'll give you 90 days, Ben. If everything works out? You gave the First Order seven years. You can give the Second Republic seven years of service. Take the Falcon. Bring me Enric Pryde. But first? Bring me your father."
"He's on the Falcon. In the smuggling compartment. He's been there the whole time."
"Luke was wrong about you, Ben. You're a little like my father. But? You're exactly like your father."
Author's Note: This is from a longer fic, from my Harry Potter AU. This occurs after the 7th year. Snape survives Nagini's attack, having swallowed a bezaor. Hermione is looking after him, because he is her Master Magus and she is his Acolyte. Or so she tells herself. It's possible she's looking after him during his recovery because she can't forget the torrid affair they have been having since she reached 17, the Age of Consent in the WIzarding World.
She loves him, she hates him, she wants him. He's the poison candy. Sweet on the outside, bitter to the core. You know its going to kill you. But all you want is more.
As the month drew of July marched on, Snape began to regain his strength.
He had gained some weight, and his skin had gone from translucent to grey and back to its usual pale color.
Snape had succeed in teaching himself to write fluently with his right hand, as well as to use it for much of what he’d once done with his left hand.
His left arm had also improved such that he was now able to use his left arm to do simple tasks, and he was now able to bend his left leg at the knee, although it still wasn’t completely healed yet and he needed his cane to walk.
The improvement was welcome to Hermione, and not just because she was glad to see he was finally getting better.
She was trying to think what to do when the telephone rang.
Another device showing Snape’s mixed heritage.
“Hello?”
“Hermione? It’s Eileen. I’m at the shop. I can’t leave. You’ll have to see to Damien by yourself today. Can you manage?”
“I think so. I can fix his food for him.”
“You’ll have to help him shave. His right hand shakes when he tries, and his left hand’s too clumsy.”
“I can do that.”
Hermione, however, had her doubts.
She had no desire to go to the second floor, where the Headmaster’s bedroom was, and she would have to get a lot closer to him than she was comfortable with to shave his face.
Especially considering the way he’d been acting, lately.
She had the feeling he was just about well enough to back up all that smacking and tweaking and pinching and groping with something a bit more serious, and he didn’t seem like he’d be inclined to take no for an answer.
Still in for a penny, in for a pound, and she went upstairs, warily, and met Snape, dressed in his Y-fronts.
He was crouching in the doorway of his bedroom like a coiled serpent, ready to strike.
She thought about his father.
About Tobias Snape’s record.
Assault.
Battery.
Rape.
“Good morning, Headmaster. Your Mum’s on her own at the shop, today, so it’s just you and me. I don’t suppose you’d trust me to give you a shave, do you?”
Snape raised his eyebrow at her, nodded, and beckoned for her to follow him to the loo.
He sat down on the khazi.
Hermione opened the medicine cabinet, got out the shaving cream and Snape’s razor, and immediately began to make nervous conversation.
“Now, I’ve done this before, you know. I shave my legs once a week. Twice in the summer, you know. I’ve never shaved anyone else, before…”
Snape got up, and threw some hot water on his face, then sat down again.
Hermione, who was turning off the water in the sink, felt him tug on the sleeve of her tee shirt and she almost jumped a mile.
“What?”
Snape gestured at her to hand him the can of shaving cream.
“Oh. I guess you know how much you want to use.”
After he was finished lathering up, Hermione got the razor and stood behind him, and he put his head back.
Her hands were shaking.
“I’m just a bit nervous. Let me pause, and take a breath. I don’t want to make it look like your face went through a machine, do I?”
She leaned over to begin, and her hair fell into his face.
It was the closest she had been to him in a very long time.
“Sorry.” she said, pushing it back.
The she tried to approach him in such a way that his head wouldn’t be touching her chest, and finally she dropped the razor, and picked it up again.
“Sorry!” she said again, as he rinsed it off in the sink.
Snape caught her eye.
She heard his voice as sharp in her mind as it ever was.
Regretting the link between them.
“Get on with it, Granger. Why are you so fucking nervous? Are you going to cut me throat, like Sweeney Todd?”
Snape closed his terrible eyes, and let his head fall back, to rest on her chest, ever so lightly.
He was both mute and still.
It was a familiarity , no, a liberty, that she had not been prepared to let him take.
She realized the old bastard was toying with her.
Because he had made up his mind, he was going to have her.
He had made it clear to her that he was hers to grope and fondle and kiss, and now he was going to show her she was his to lick and finger and fuck, that was what he was after.
Any moment, he could jump up and grab her, and all there was between him and what he wanted was a tee shirt, a pair of knickers and a pair of cutoff shirts.
He’d strike, just like the Slytherin serpent he was, and tear off her clothes and then he’d do what he’d like to her.
Up against the wall, or bent over the sink, he’d take off his y-fronts and work his big stiff cock into her and fuck her.
Hard.
No.
His big, stiff, hot cock.
Or maybe he’d have her get on his knees and suck it for him, and come in her mouth, or all over her face and her bare tits.
He might even want to put her leg up over his shoulder and…
…and Hermione’s hand began to shake.
She had a terrible moment of anger, the razor in her hand, his long white throat laid out in front of her.
Her heart was beginning to pound and lurch, as she felt herself torn between two equally powerful emotions, directed at the Headmaster.
She turned her head, to make her darkness go, and then made her first tentative swipe with the razor.
“I should cut your bloody throat, you wicked old screw! I should be spending me fucking summer with Harry and Ron, but instead I’ve locked meself up in here with you, and what’s left of your loathsome old carcass!” she spat, venomously.
Snape opened his eyes.
The look in them was savage.
“Oh? I should think the last thing Potter needs right now is your clucking over him like an old mother hen every time he wants to go enjoy himself. As for Weasley, still, blithering fucking idiot that he may be, he’s the blithering fucking idiot who’s in love with you, and that makes him the unluckiest man in England, because the gods only know that you’re about as acquainted with love and fidelity as Harry Potter is with chastity and sobriety. Of course, Potter is decent enough to throw in his lot with Weasley’s sister, who tolerates his bad behavior because he tolerates hers. Or celebrates, I should say. But there’s poor old Ronnie, convinced you’re his own sweet little saint, when you meet Viktor Krum in a series of posh hotel rooms all over Europe , at least once a week, sometimes more. And I feel sorry for Krum, as well, because any feelings he harbors towards you apart from dumb animal lust are totally in-vain.”
Hermione rinsed off the razor and started working on the other side of Snape’s face.
“That’s just why it’s such a pleasure to serve you, Headmaster. You’re always in such a lovely mood.”
But Snape was on a roll.
He grabbed her arm, and she saw genuine fury in his pitiless black eyes.
“You think this means something to me, don’t you? It doesn’t. I feel sorry for Krum, and Weasley and even Potter, because they don’t realize what you are. If they ever really need you, they will. They’ll find out you’re a filthy little slut, with naked ambition, a lust for sex and power, and a mindless, ravenous cunt where a heart and a soul should be. You’re as black as they paint, Granger, you might as well be the Devil’s own whore, for as false and evil of a cringing little Judas as you are.”
Hermione dropped the razor into the sink, and covered her mouth with her hand.
She saw, in the mirror, as Snape wiped the lather off of his face and inspected his goatee.
There was a cruel laugh in his eyes.
If he had punched her in the face, knocked her to the ground and kicked her in the ribs with his steel-cleated boots until blood bubbled from her lips, Snape could not have hurt her so badly.
Hermione wanted to cry, but rather than cry, she made a fist to punch him in the face, but Snape caught her wrist.
“Aren’t you going to deny it?” he demanded, his eyes boring into her very soul.
She still struck back at him.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me for it? He may have been Lord Voldemort to me, but he was Tom Riddle to you. Almost like a father to you, almost as much as Albus. You were his left hand. Word is he left everything to you in his will, if that’s true, you’ll soon be one of the richest wizards in the world! But you’ll take his money even though you engineered his death. Likewise, when Dumbledore asked you to do away with him, well you didn’t blink, did you? And now you’ve taken his job. Tom Riddle’s money, Albus Dumbledore’s position, living in your dead father’s house. You’re on top of the world, Snape. You got there by being a false and evil cringing little Judas. And you’re my mentor, aren’t you? How does the knife feel when it’s in your back? Not so good, I imagine.”
“You can lash out at me all you’d like, but that doesn’t change the fact that without me, you’re fucked. That idiot Weasley will have you barefoot and pregnant in some yokel Southerner’s college in the hinterlands, popping out his empty-skulled little red-haired bastards until you end up a tired, bitter, broken, fat, saggy-titted old hag before you’re fifty. Your brilliant mind and all the promise of your life squandered. You’d better remember how to be nice to me!”
The look of rage in Snape’s black Rasputin eyes was suddenly replaced by a look of lust.
“Fortunately for me, I used to be the Devil’s left hand man. That makes you just the kind of hellbound whore made for a damn dirty demon like me. Come here, witch. Time for you to pay your dues.”
“If you touch me, I’ll kill you! You filthy old degenerate bastard!”
Snape grinned.
Malevolently.
“I’ll do what I want with you, and you’ll love it, you wicked little slut.”
Then, Snape hauled Hermione into his lap, and kissed her, fiercely.
Hermione pushed him away.
“I’ll scream!”
Snape gave her a quizzical look.
“Alright, Granger, that’s enough of this bullshit. This silly little sex game you’ve been playing with me, aside, are you saying no, or are you saying yes?”
“What silly little sex game?”
“All this, poor me horseshit, as if you’re only putting up with me because you have to, because of some ridiculous antiquated vow, but then again, secretly, you like it, you really do. You’ve always liked it, Granger. You seduced me, don’t you remember? ”
“So? Maybe I don’t want to remember! Maybe I don’t want you! Did that ever occur to you? Maybe I bloody hate you and I’m bloody furious at you, and I don’t want you at all. Maybe I am just submitting to you because you own me, now.”
Snape raised his eyebrow at her, bouncing her body up and down in his lap, dancing the seam of her cutoffs and the rapidly expanding we spot on her panties against his iron-stiff cock.
She gasped.
“Bullshit! Maybe you don’t care how much I hate you or you hate me, maybe you’re just using this nauseating pretence at nobility to your own ends, to justify that maybe all you want is for me to fuck you like I used to do.”
“Goddamn you, Snape, you know me too well!”
Hermione squirmed closer to Snape’s nearly naked body and kissed him back, greedily, winding her arms and her legs around him.
Snape broke the kiss.
“Well, you’ve been so angry at me, Toby. You know how I love it when you’re angry.” She panted.
“You’re a whore, Granger! A fucking dirty little whore. Divesto!”
That left Hermione naked, and she reached down the front of Snape’s y-fronts.
“And you’re a wicked old Death Eater bastard! Worse than Voldemort, himself! At least he had some calss, at one point. You’re nothing but a manky old villain of a Scouser yob.” she gasped.
Snape stood up, and with her wrapped around him, he staggered to his bedroom, next door.
Carrying her and dragging his bum left leg, still partly paralysed.
He tossed her onto the bed.
“Gods, I hate you, Snape! I hate you like the damned hate Hell!” Hermione panted.
She still had one leg around him.
“Not so much as I loathe you, You plastic Scouser cow! You take on like you’re all high and mighty. Not so much when you want a good fucking. Then, you’re like a little bitch on heat!”
The gods, in all their love of tricks, had put in the ugly body of Severus Snape the soul of a satyr.
Actually, his great-grandmother, like most of the Princes, a brilliant but hot-blooded eccentric, had made the bloodline all the more interesting by marrying a satyr named Vernus, who had been her Master Magus in Alchemy and, of course, Sex Magick.
Severus Prince, his grandfather and namesake, Potions Master at Hogwarts when Tom Riddle was a student there, had horns and one cloven hoof.
He, of course, in his great wisdom decided to marry the Divination Mistress, Aphrodite Lovegood, a half-veela.
Their daughter, his mother, Eileen, who inherited her mother’s looks and not her father’s, married Tobias Snape, a rough-looking Muggle Scotsman who spent much of his misspent life at sea, after departing his native Liverpool as a teenager on a ship bound for the lawless South Seas, where he spent more than a decade as little more than a stupid, drunken, lustful pirate, who never had to buy a woman in all his travels.
Snape, himself, was a Master of Sex Magick in the 3rd Degree.
He was left on the business end of an unfortunate genetic cocktail that, combined with his wayward life left him a hirsute, scarred, heavily tattooed man who was ugly in that Bon Scott sort of way, sporting, when he smiled, a pirate’s crooked grin laid on with many gold crowns by John Granger, who was possessed of a libido, and an endowment, of proportions that were ridiculous in the light of his looks and his personality.
Just as Snape had feared, his lust for Granger, his Granger, his apprentice, his Loilta; it burned in him hotter than the pain of her betrayal, and his anger at her for it.
All three had boiled and roiled and sizzled inside him for months, and in this moment of having suddenly recovered from two months of impotence?
He felt as helplessly driven by dumb animal lust as if he was a beast and not a man at all.
The fact that Granger was panting like, well, a bitch on heat, reaching for him, with her arms and her legs wide open, a look of utter derangement in her eye wasn’t helping.
“That’s what I want…a good fucking! The way you’ve been teasing me, you’d better be able to deliver, you son of a bitch!!”
In the least romantic way imaginable, Snape yanked his y-fronts from his body and threw himself on her with a near-animal snarl.
She squirmed beneath him to press her naked body as close to his as possible, and he devoured her mouth with deep kisses, stealing her breath away.
“…Snape…oooo, you bastard, you ugly, magnificent bastard, I would have spent a year in mourning just for your steely hard stiff hot cock! You had better fuck me like you mean it, or I swear, by the Great God Pan , I’ll kill you while you’re sleeping…”
As soon as he moved on to her tits, which had somehow gotten even bigger than they were before?
He opened his eyes, caught hers.
“My Lolita, my sweet, dirty, beautiful, brilliant Lolita. I could fuck you a thousand times in a day and not have me fill of you. My lovely, filthy little whore…”
Dirty talk absolutely deranged her, and Snape was a silver-tongued Devil.
She groaned, helplessly.
“Toby…”
Sibyl Trelawney had taken to calling him Toby, like his father before him, because Snape hated his first name.
Hermione had just picked it up.
“…my hot little slut, drown me in your dirty, wet cunt. I’m going to suck you and lick you until you scream for mercy, and when you’re just about to come all over me ugly face, I’m going to shove your lovely, big, round white thighs open as far as they can go and I’m going to drive my big, stiff cock into you and fuck you within an inch of your life…”
By the time he had made good on that threat, Hermione, to whom he had just given a world-shattering orgasm was gulping and sobbing with slippery liquid pleasure.
The Headmaster straddled her chest.
“Suck it . Suck the cock that fucked you.” he entreated her.
He watched her for awhile, their eyes locked together as she looked at him with an expression of hard lust and misty-eyed pleasure.
Then, turning them both around a little, Snape could not help but smile to himself before he buried his face between her thighs once again, and they embarked upon a breathless, hungry 69.
Mine.
He thought.
They came, together.
Mine, mine, mine.
Then, they came apart.
A little time went by, and them Hermione turned to face him.
“Now what happens?”
“I release you from your vow. You can go, if you’d like. Or you can stay, and we can pick up where we’ve left off. Naturally I’m furious with you, and you‘re furious with me. But we need each other, Granger, in more ways than one. Things will sort themselves out, I’m sure.”
Snape went to get out of bed and Hermione pulled him back.
“Wait a fucking minute? Is that all you’ve got to say? I mean, isn’t it important to you at all? What’s happened?”
“Granger, I am the Last Man Standing. And I am barely standing. I have a world to rebuild. I’m the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but I might as well be the Minster for Magic. I can’t speak, yet, and ‘m still walking with a limp and dealing with a semi-dead hand. The term begins in September. I’m going to need a lot of fucking help. You betrayed me, but only because you misunderstood what you saw. I know I can trust you, Granger. And I know that you’ll do whatever job I assign to you quickly, efficiently, and almost better than I could have done it myself. Not to mention that everyone in the Wizarding World loves you almost as much as they hate me. I haven’t go the time or the energy to hold a grudge against you. It was war. Let’s leave it at that.”
Hermione was satisfied with that explanation, but when she went to get out of bed, Snape stopped her.
“Did you forge to mention something, Toby?”
“Yes. I’d be the stupidest ugly, mean, snarky old bastard on Pan’s Green Earth to give up my Lolita, wouldn’t I? The only reason I haven’t been fucking the shit out of you since the day you got here was that me left leg wasn’t all I lost the use of for awhile.”
“You still couldn’t keep your hands off me, you filthy old degenerate.”
“Why should I have? I know why you came here. And I know what you want. But that’s the end of all that slap and tickle bullshit. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays’, you’ll not be in that back bedroom, you’ll be right here, in my bed, where you fucking well belong.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then I’ll break into your bedroom. I’ll kick the fucking door in. I’m your Master, you’re my Acolyte; according to the old ways, you belong to me. I’ll make you pay for betraying me, now, Granger. I’m going to have you on every surface in this ramshackle old dump. As hard, and as heavy, and as often as it’s humanly fucking possible.”
Granger took one of his cigarettes from the packet and lit it, using wandless magic.
“And I suppose you’ll make me suck your dick all day long while you sit and watch Monty Python, too. Gods, what a horrible fate! I hope you’re not lying to me, Snape. If you are, I’d be crushed.”
She laughed a little.
He took the cigarette out of her mouth, and she opened her arms to him, again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
You know this story. Benjamin Scrooge, a well-made and still handsome man in his 40's is the meanest, nastiest most cynical miser and hard-hearted businessman in all of 1850's London.
His devoted clerk, mistress and former fiancee Aubrey Cratchit still holds out hope for his reclamation for her sake and that of her sickly brother B.B.
But when Scrooge is visited by the Force Ghosts of Christmas, and the spirit of his dead business partner, Armitage Hux?
