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lotesseTitle: Calligraphilia
Pairing: mainly just Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Above all things Hermione Granger loves words. She likes to roll them over her tongue in mellifluous rivers of sound, run her hands over the slightly indented letters pounded into the paper-which must once have been white, though it is now yellowed with age-by old-fashioned printing presses. She looks at their curves and down-strokes and hard-hard lines in bed at night when her eyes are closed.
Sometimes she looks at the jagged point of her quill, almost a weapon. Experimentally she drags the un-inked point up her arms in a long, graceful swoop and shivers. And sometimes, if she is feeling very daring and is quite, quite certain that she is alone, she rucks up her skirt around her knees and runs the quill up and down the soft, unmarked flesh of her thighs, exposed above the tops of her stockings. Then she trembles, and her breath begins to come in short, sharp gasps. But then she always blushes and hurriedly puts the quill back on her desk and smoothes down her skirt and pretends that if she looked she wouldn't see traceries of raised, red lines swirling about her inner thighs, pretends that she can't still feel the faint sting of them, the way her woolen skirt catches on the abrasions and the way she can feel them when she walks.
She never inks the quill, because then she would have to write something. And she has nothing to write on the soft pink-and-whiteness of her own body.
Ron has taken to kissing her, gentle and demanding all at once, saying that he loves her and then waiting impatiently for her to say that she loves him too. And she doesn't want to and so she mutters and then her makes her say it again. He always demands, but never outright, always through poking and misconception and manipulation. He would never order her to love him, but he says and looks and makes it very clear that if she doesn't she's a heartless whore who led him on, a man-eater, a bitch. And she loves him, in an uncomplicated way, and can't do that to him, and so she says it in little breathless whispers that he thinks mean that she wants him.
And sometimes he pushes her down on her bed when Lavender and Parvati are up on top of the Astronomy Tower or behind the Quidditch supply shed or in unused classrooms doing what pretty sixteen-year-old girls are supposed to do. And then he rucks up her skirt around her knees and fumbles with the hem of her knickers and the buttons on the front of her blouse. Her heart beats fast with the fear that he will see the quill marks on the pale skin but they have long since faded and he takes it as a sign of desire and permission and undoes the buttons to darlingly slip his fingers around the curve of her still-covered breasts.
She starts unbuttoning her blouse on those airless, heart-pounding nights when the dormitory is empty and she plays with her un-inked quill.
Once she almost tells Ron, because his big hands are teasing their way inside her panties and it makes her feel wild with need. Yes, she thinks, she'll tell him and he'll dip the quill every so slowly into the dark glass of the inkwell and pull it up, dripping dark black literary blood, and she'll take off her skirt and stockings and knickers and he'll scrape it over her entire body, writing dirty words and History of Magic essays and what exactly he wants to do to her long, pale, unmarked body and stray lines of poems that will wander from books into the concavities below her breasts and belly. But Ron wouldn't know those words to write them on her, and he would draw back in horror. In his mind, anything to do with sex that isn't boy-on-girl penis-in-vagina screwing is dirty and wrong and something that only Slytherins do. He might scrawl “I love you” timidly in the space right above her knee, but he would blush furiously the entire time and then refuse to acknowledge that it happened. No, she couldn't tell Ron.
And sometimes when Ron looks at her with lustful, shy, demanding blue eyes and whispers about going upstairs and why don't we and you know we might not have time later, they're all gone and we can and maybe this time I'll… sometimes when he talks like this she says that she really can't, she has to study, she's terribly behind. He smiles at her, indulgent as always, reducing her in his thoughts. She knows what he's thinking: isn't she sweet, so obsessed, so absent-minded, maybe I'll distract her from schoolwork but not now, don't want to upset her. And it makes her angry, because he doesn't understand that she doesn't want to be distracted from it. She wants to make love like a sonnet, like a timeline, like a rune-chart, and she wants him to write the knowledge of the world on her naked body with her dripping quill. And he will never understand. So sometimes she goes up to the dormitory, empty as usual-Lavender and Parvati spend entirely too much time with boys in corners-and takes out her quill. She leaves the inkwell corked on her desk, always, always, but she grasps the quill in a trembling hand and traces art nouveau lines and patterns on her breasts, trailing the feathered edge of it down the center of her torso to tease herself and then digging in with the tip, making swirls that are almost words but not quite, because she can't think of any. And she fantasizes of hands that leave inky poems glistening around her nipples, on the folds of her vulva, on the soft swell of her ass. Sometimes Professor McGonagall, the epitome of academic excellence, exciting and forbidden, writes treatises on her belly because she's run out of paper. Sometimes Padma Patil, long black plait snaking around her neck, writes adolescent erotica on her breasts, shy and beautiful and achingly erudite. Sometimes Professor Snape, sarcastic and detached, makes her bend over his desk and pull up her skirt so that he can write potions recipes on her ass in detention, snarling at her to remember them this time. Once it was even Luna Lovegood, trailing long, dreamy, obtuse lines of unmetered poetry along the inside of her thighs, surprising Hermione so much that she came hard, shuddering and gasping. And the scratching of the pen drives her heart into pounding ecstasy and sometimes one of her hands reaches blindly to feel and flick and fuck and sometimes she gets so lost in the motion of her fingers and the hot, wet feel of herself clenched around them that the quill falls away and is forgotten as she forgets all else in the rhythm and the heat and the blind need. But she always picks it back up again, because she really does have to do homework.
Sometimes she blushes when she sees Ron, thinking of all that she will never tell him. And sometimes she can't look at McGonagall or Luna, because she wants to tell them everything. But she knows that they, like Ron, will not understand. And she finds that she really doesn't want to have sex with Ron after all, because it's so risky and she's really not ready yet, they're so young. And she stops caring whether Parvati and Lavender are out and puts up a Silencing Charm around her bed.
And one night, she inks the quill and writes a shattered sonnet on her thighs. It's black and shining, and she looks down at it and smiles, because she likes how the words look in that secret place, in the pale gold of the wandlight.
Pairing: mainly just Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Above all things Hermione Granger loves words. She likes to roll them over her tongue in mellifluous rivers of sound, run her hands over the slightly indented letters pounded into the paper-which must once have been white, though it is now yellowed with age-by old-fashioned printing presses. She looks at their curves and down-strokes and hard-hard lines in bed at night when her eyes are closed.
Sometimes she looks at the jagged point of her quill, almost a weapon. Experimentally she drags the un-inked point up her arms in a long, graceful swoop and shivers. And sometimes, if she is feeling very daring and is quite, quite certain that she is alone, she rucks up her skirt around her knees and runs the quill up and down the soft, unmarked flesh of her thighs, exposed above the tops of her stockings. Then she trembles, and her breath begins to come in short, sharp gasps. But then she always blushes and hurriedly puts the quill back on her desk and smoothes down her skirt and pretends that if she looked she wouldn't see traceries of raised, red lines swirling about her inner thighs, pretends that she can't still feel the faint sting of them, the way her woolen skirt catches on the abrasions and the way she can feel them when she walks.
She never inks the quill, because then she would have to write something. And she has nothing to write on the soft pink-and-whiteness of her own body.
Ron has taken to kissing her, gentle and demanding all at once, saying that he loves her and then waiting impatiently for her to say that she loves him too. And she doesn't want to and so she mutters and then her makes her say it again. He always demands, but never outright, always through poking and misconception and manipulation. He would never order her to love him, but he says and looks and makes it very clear that if she doesn't she's a heartless whore who led him on, a man-eater, a bitch. And she loves him, in an uncomplicated way, and can't do that to him, and so she says it in little breathless whispers that he thinks mean that she wants him.
And sometimes he pushes her down on her bed when Lavender and Parvati are up on top of the Astronomy Tower or behind the Quidditch supply shed or in unused classrooms doing what pretty sixteen-year-old girls are supposed to do. And then he rucks up her skirt around her knees and fumbles with the hem of her knickers and the buttons on the front of her blouse. Her heart beats fast with the fear that he will see the quill marks on the pale skin but they have long since faded and he takes it as a sign of desire and permission and undoes the buttons to darlingly slip his fingers around the curve of her still-covered breasts.
She starts unbuttoning her blouse on those airless, heart-pounding nights when the dormitory is empty and she plays with her un-inked quill.
Once she almost tells Ron, because his big hands are teasing their way inside her panties and it makes her feel wild with need. Yes, she thinks, she'll tell him and he'll dip the quill every so slowly into the dark glass of the inkwell and pull it up, dripping dark black literary blood, and she'll take off her skirt and stockings and knickers and he'll scrape it over her entire body, writing dirty words and History of Magic essays and what exactly he wants to do to her long, pale, unmarked body and stray lines of poems that will wander from books into the concavities below her breasts and belly. But Ron wouldn't know those words to write them on her, and he would draw back in horror. In his mind, anything to do with sex that isn't boy-on-girl penis-in-vagina screwing is dirty and wrong and something that only Slytherins do. He might scrawl “I love you” timidly in the space right above her knee, but he would blush furiously the entire time and then refuse to acknowledge that it happened. No, she couldn't tell Ron.
And sometimes when Ron looks at her with lustful, shy, demanding blue eyes and whispers about going upstairs and why don't we and you know we might not have time later, they're all gone and we can and maybe this time I'll… sometimes when he talks like this she says that she really can't, she has to study, she's terribly behind. He smiles at her, indulgent as always, reducing her in his thoughts. She knows what he's thinking: isn't she sweet, so obsessed, so absent-minded, maybe I'll distract her from schoolwork but not now, don't want to upset her. And it makes her angry, because he doesn't understand that she doesn't want to be distracted from it. She wants to make love like a sonnet, like a timeline, like a rune-chart, and she wants him to write the knowledge of the world on her naked body with her dripping quill. And he will never understand. So sometimes she goes up to the dormitory, empty as usual-Lavender and Parvati spend entirely too much time with boys in corners-and takes out her quill. She leaves the inkwell corked on her desk, always, always, but she grasps the quill in a trembling hand and traces art nouveau lines and patterns on her breasts, trailing the feathered edge of it down the center of her torso to tease herself and then digging in with the tip, making swirls that are almost words but not quite, because she can't think of any. And she fantasizes of hands that leave inky poems glistening around her nipples, on the folds of her vulva, on the soft swell of her ass. Sometimes Professor McGonagall, the epitome of academic excellence, exciting and forbidden, writes treatises on her belly because she's run out of paper. Sometimes Padma Patil, long black plait snaking around her neck, writes adolescent erotica on her breasts, shy and beautiful and achingly erudite. Sometimes Professor Snape, sarcastic and detached, makes her bend over his desk and pull up her skirt so that he can write potions recipes on her ass in detention, snarling at her to remember them this time. Once it was even Luna Lovegood, trailing long, dreamy, obtuse lines of unmetered poetry along the inside of her thighs, surprising Hermione so much that she came hard, shuddering and gasping. And the scratching of the pen drives her heart into pounding ecstasy and sometimes one of her hands reaches blindly to feel and flick and fuck and sometimes she gets so lost in the motion of her fingers and the hot, wet feel of herself clenched around them that the quill falls away and is forgotten as she forgets all else in the rhythm and the heat and the blind need. But she always picks it back up again, because she really does have to do homework.
Sometimes she blushes when she sees Ron, thinking of all that she will never tell him. And sometimes she can't look at McGonagall or Luna, because she wants to tell them everything. But she knows that they, like Ron, will not understand. And she finds that she really doesn't want to have sex with Ron after all, because it's so risky and she's really not ready yet, they're so young. And she stops caring whether Parvati and Lavender are out and puts up a Silencing Charm around her bed.
And one night, she inks the quill and writes a shattered sonnet on her thighs. It's black and shining, and she looks down at it and smiles, because she likes how the words look in that secret place, in the pale gold of the wandlight.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-10 09:56 pm (UTC)*is in awe*