SPARK | SLYTHERINMICROFIC PROMPT #1
In order to get over my insanely disabling perfectionism I’m going back to my roots for January and writing 31 days of Harry Potter AUs - a monthlong of canon slytherins coming y’all’s way bby! I’m trying to challenge myself to post first drafts too and keep editing to a bare grammatical minimum because my writing tends to hit golden anniversaries in the editing room before anyone ever sees it… Slytherins are fascinating psychologically (and therefore hot) so I’m looking forward to this.
And a special note to @slytherinmicrofics - I seem to be the only one on this quest so far, but thankyou; get excited ;)
By roots—I mean roots… therefore story no1 is ofc a Pansmione smut fic. (18+!) Beware. [of bad writing]
AO3
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“And your resolutions Hermione? Or are you too-perfect already?” It was almost a chuckle- but it sounded too much like a hiss to Hermione, and no one laughed.
She ignored the jibe, muscle memory coming in clutch with an easy roll of her eyes, but the red in her cheeks deepened. She was hesitating- and suddenly the silence in the circle turned, from purring apathy to a burning vindication.There was no food like an ostensible reputation for a hungry Slytherin. Or nine, for that matter, Hermione thought. Her mind wandered the fine details of the vices she’d only temporarily thrown from her imagination for the sake of the game, and shook her head with a wry smile.
“Definitely not.” She said, willing someone else to face some moral scrutiny, Her eyes drifted to the shadow of a silhouette she could see through the window on the balcony of the tower and she flashed a look towards the clock, stepping out of the game to irritated exclamations she ignored. She still had roughly eighteen minutes to give in to debauchery.
The witch’s white shirt was pressed against the dark wall of the tower, legs lazily slumped beneath her, curve of her back territorial to the brick.
This was a regular spot then, Hermione deduced. She swept her eyes over the glittering view of the lake for a moment, admiring the witch’s taste for a view before walking onto the terrace, moonlight licking the heat of the party’s doorway from her in a cold flash.
“Pansy?” she said breaking the silence whilst resisting a shiver.
Pansy’s head neck almost snapped in the twist of her head towards her voice. Her black hair streaked momentarily against the barely discernible darkness.
“Hermione.” she said, after a beat, adjusting herself. “What are you doing out here?”
Hermione shrugged, eyes sliding to the spark at the end of the paper clutched in Pansy’s pals fingers, the glowing butt of an almost-finished cigarette.
“Care to share one?”
Pansy stared at her for a moment, perhaps wondering if she was serious.
Hermione saw her eyes dart for an instance —to the yellowing lamps through the glass, partygoers’ heads fuzzy, unclear, but unmistakably, engrossed in the night.
“…Of course.” Pansy looked down, her smoke-laden hand wavering as she aimed a thumb at the waistband of her skirt.
But Hermione closed in on her before she could reach, her hand stilling Pansy’s wrist. “Don’t bother,” she hushed, breath on Pansy’s chin. She leant in, hardly believing her boldness. “I know where you’re packing.” Her hand swam deftly down an inch on Pansy’s arm, proving it.
The white dip of the witch’s teeth nipped over painted lips. Pansy’s gaze stuttered on the way up to Hermione’s. The look was questioning, but Hermione could see the smouldering seduction in her eyes; that inscrutable confidence in her unblinking–almost scathing, stare that Hermione longed to shake.
“Hermione..”
“Unless-“ Hermione interrupted, pushing her leg in between Pansy’s, lifting the hem of the skirt with it to reveal the pack of cigarettes, positioned as expected— in the top of her lace stockings, braced tightly on bare skin. Kind of a fire hazard, Hermione longed to point out, but she was already using all of her power to be smooth, not wanting to risk trying to be smart as well. She asserted the name of the brand before raising her eyes to Pansy’s malignant expression once more. Straightening her leg, she could have sworn Pansy’s face blanched at her pulling away. “Unless you’d rather I stand over there and you pass them to me yourself…”
“You’re already making that impossible…” murmured Pansy through - possibly - gritted teeth. She moved as if to pull her still-lit cigarette to her mouth, but stole a breath of the night air instead when Hermione returned her knee —brushing over Pansy’s bare skin with refreshed intention.
“I thought you appreciated independent women, Parkinson.” This time the ball of her knee nudged upwards, gently kneading against Pansy’s upper thighs. As if only to unrest the cigarettes from their careful hideout. Pansy’s eyes fluttered. The laughter from the other room roared again, dangerously close.
But the initial antagonism of Pansy’s gaze slipped away at the brush of Hermione’s hand over her waist. Hermione eased the Slytherin’s spine off the wall, her dark eyes locked on the shining plumes of the witch’s green irises. Her grip was gentle—demanding, but with a fervent softness she’d been itching to dispel all night. She held a hand low on the other’s back, hailing her knee a seat under Pansy’s lap. She ground upwards, knee pressed to the wall.
“I- do.” Pansy sputtered, and it was softer than the defiance it sounded like it had been intended with.
With her other hand, Hermione searched for Pansy’s other stocking, racing her fingers under its band, threatening to roll it down as she palmed the woman’s soft, slightly trembling thigh. For a second her eyes closed and Hermione willed the world to take a photograph, just of this second, of Pansy’s lashes fringing her cheekbones—the feeling she was starting to chase on Hermione’s maddeningly- rucking- thigh- still encased privately behind her eyelids.
Hermione longed to share in it, and ground her knee further against Pansy, feeling the witch’s legs start to grip her back with each upwards thrust.
“Oh, Merlin.” she said quietly.
Hermione felt her own pleasure curdling as they moved in sync. The woman beneath her still had her lips parted in what might have been surprise—yet her hips jutted into Hermione’s in all too familiar rhythm, purring out a friction onto Hermione’s midriff that was almost unbearable. She gripped Pansy’s thighs, positioning her tighter as her knee slipped against unmissable arousal- “Hermione.” Pansy sighed, the cigarette falling from her fingers.
“Please.”
Hermione nodded, leaning in, her fingers sliding round the circumference of the woman’s thigh, stretching—
A volatile—moving ruckus suddenly—from the party behind them. Hollers of disgust–approaching fast.
Hermione leapt off Pansy with the grace of a crashing train, just as the lean figure of Draco Malfoy sprinted out and vomited ferociously over the wall. Eurgh.
Faces peppered up in the doorway and the arc of the windows, and she struggled to turn her expression to one that prioritised Draco’s putrid behaviour. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at Pansy, terrified of worsening the already blistering evidence of their—behaviour on the balcony.
She instead opted to turn and hang her head over the wall, wishing they were closer to the surface of the lake to dip her face, and perhaps her hands, in its welcome veil of anonymity.
Her face was flushed beyond the colour of her own house.
After another handsome waste disposal from the inebriated blonde garnering all the attention and a mostly disinterested party, the crowd vanished inside again and Hermione snuck a look at Pansy. For a woman who had been mere moments from screaming her name five minutes ago Pansy was impressively calm and collected. The only sign she’d just had an orgasm ripped out from under her feet was the crimson darting around her nose, and perhaps the frustrated sigh and briskness with which she lit her next cigarette.
“What a goddamn waste of a smoke,” she spoke, eyes glittering with sadism, pointed at the sky until she’d exhaled in the direction of the stars. Then turning to Hermione, “I’m going to kill Draco,” she hissed.
Hermione, equally as bitter as Pansy–a rare occasion–said nothing. Draco Malfoy deserved the wrath of a thousand curses at the minute, for spoiling her rapturous lewdness with Pansy — but in her irritatingly rational way, Hermione theorised it might be a sign - before the clock struck midnight - to stick to her resolutions in the new year.
She said so to Pansy, who scoffed vehemently.
“I thought staying away from me might have been on the list.”
“It was-” Hermione huffed. “It was half of the bloody list.”
Pansy chuckled, her teeth glinting in the moonlight with a flash of the grin Hermione had done it all for. “And the other half?” she murmured, eyes not leaving the night.
“Mhm... To stay away from cigarettes.”
“My, my. You are doing well for yourself, Hermione.”
“Happy new year, Pansy.”
“Happy new year, H.”
