Entry tags:

femslash, fic, pansy/hermione, smut

Fic: Coming First, Pansy/Hermione, NC-17
I fail at posting fic.

Here is my hpvalensmut fic!

Title: Coming First
Author: foreword
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1410
Disclaimer: So very much not mine!
Warnings: femmeslash, allusions to character death, insanity, and voyeurism, prison sex
Pairings: Pansy/Hermione, reference to Pansy/Draco.
Summary: Granger never came in second.
Author's Note: Written for the brilliant furiosity! Thanks to Aspen and kethlenda for the wonderful betas!

**

It has been two years, three months, one week and four days since Pansy has seen Draco.

He left her with a cool kiss to her forehead, left her to go find his death. She wonders if Blaise ever caught up with him, if Draco ever got her letter.

She wonders if Potter ever found him. She wonders if he's dead.

But Pansy is sure that she'd know, just as surely as she's always known they'd be married someday. The here and now doesn't matter. These were obstacles; this disgusting war, poverty, and disrespect. It would all be righted soon.

Somehow, though, it feels like every day it gets a little darker in here. The bars are cold and dark, but not as dark as what lies beyond them. The cot she refused to sleep on for the first few days is covered in worn, greying sheets, and the walls that keep out the air and sun and life are cold, white stone. She thinks they are white. Perhaps they were, once upon a time.

It has been one year, three months and four days since she has forgotten Draco's face.

She has the days marked on her cell wall, with a bit of black rock she found under her bed, but she would know these figures with her eyes closed. Her sanity is based on figures and counting now. If she can count away the days, she'll somehow reach an end. She has to know, so she does.

It doesn't matter that the guards of Azkaban have changed: the Dementors are inside the cells now, and Pansy can feel them in the recesses of her mind – those dark places that her dreams revolve around now.

But the silence is broken today, and the bars slide open for the first time in sixty-three days.

Hermione Granger stands in the doorway, and Pansy wants to scream, to shriek at her to get out. She'd rather be alone than staring up at that familiar, righteous face. But Pansy doesn't scream. She watches and waits, and Granger's step falters as the bars slam shut behind her.

"Pansy?"

Granger waits like she has asked a question. Pansy looks away, but she can't feign indifference. Granger knows, and Pansy hates her more.

"Pansy, the war…" Granger's voice breaks and Pansy hopes she cries. She has no right to cry, but Pansy's sure she will.

"It's over."

Pansy looks up at her. The silence is deafening, but Pansy waits.

"I… they want you to be put to death," she says in a rush. Granger is attempting her stony, resolved face but it's fractured. Pansy can see reflections of their past in her eyes, remembers shoving her down into the filth of the bathroom floor and taking her.

It takes her a beat to react to Granger's words. She's lost in her memories again, and she's not sure if they're dreams. Perhaps she will die tomorrow. She's not scared.

Granger always said she was brave.

Pansy should get there first, anyway. She wonders if that's what's upsetting Granger. She has always hated coming in second. And Pansy always put her there. Draco did.

"He's dead."

Pansy knows she must mean Potter. Draco can't be dead. Draco never had a choice in life. He should have had one in death.

She doesn't want to ask. She isn't sure what to say. Merlin knows what Granger expects her to do, but Pansy crushes all questions, concerns and objections when she presses her mouth against Granger's, pins her to the cell bars and traps her arms against them.

Granger smells clean and crisp – Pansy is reminded of towering stacks of research, and she's angry, furious that this is how Granger has been wasting her life. Pansy has been dying here for years and Granger refuses to live.

She lets her teeth sink into Granger's bottom lip, and feels a stifled whimper against her chest.

Granger isn't fighting this. Pansy releases her arms, leaving half-moon marks of reminder, and tugs on Granger's spotless, starched shirt until her fingers are brushing skin and Granger's mouth is warm and wet and locked on hers.

Granger surprises her, sliding her arms around Pansy's waist and suddenly she can feel the years of desperation in the way that Granger clutches her arse, and the sort of current that won't let her pull away for air.

Pansy digs her fingers into the dips of Granger's blouse until she feels the buttons give, fabric and plastic snapping against her palms and chest.

Air is hitting the curve of her lower back and in the next moment, Granger is pulling Pansy's greying, oversized shirt over her head.

It's cold in the cell, and Pansy tugs at the clasp of Granger's bra until it gives. Granger shrugs off the ruined shirt and slides her arms out of her bra without breaking contact. Now there are warm, heavy breasts against her own, and Granger is gasping against Pansy's mouth at the cold touch of metal to her back.

Pansy shifts, pushing a leg between Granger's thighs and dropping kisses down her neck to the hollow of her throat at the feeling of hard nipples and soft breasts brushing against Pansy's chest. Granger's clever fingers are working their way inside of Pansy's trousers and Pansy burns with the embarrassing need.

It has been two years, four months, and sixteen days since Granger has touched her, and Pansy plans on making her compensate for every hour.

She slips her hand underneath the waistband of Granger's prim skirt, and her fingers brush against wet cotton just as Granger's fingers curl against her own damp cunt.

She never does it fast enough, always makes Pansy wait, wait until she is squirming and biting and screaming for more. But there isn't time, not today, and Granger only hesitates a moment before she's slipping her fingers past Pansy's clit.

She's fucking her now, twisting and sliding her fingers in slow, even thrusts and Pansy bites down on Granger's perfect, unmarred neck to keep from crying out, her own fingers trembling as she tries to force them under Granger's knickers. It has been too long.

There were nights when she convinced herself that it had never happened, entire weeks that she believed that Draco had never found them together, that her dirty little secret had been a little white lie. But she remembers now, with sudden clarity, the look of understanding on his face, so brief that she almost missed it.

It would have been a marriage of convenience, but not love. Granger never came in second.

Granger's breathing words of comfort against her ear, and Pansy's afraid to close her eyes, afraid that this will be some new sort of torturous dream. She doesn't think she can bear waking up from it this time, to an empty cell and dirty sheets.

But there's a crackle of something familiar in the air, and Pansy knows this is real as she slides a finger into Granger's slick cunt. Granger's neck is hot under her mouth, and her breath is warm against Pansy's ear. She slides her other hand between them, caressing sweat-slicked skin and skating over Granger's tiny breasts as she shifts her hips forward against Granger's steady thrusts.

She wants to feel her deep inside of her, wants Granger to make up for the ache of her absence, and her breath catches at the stretch and burn when Granger adds another finger.

"They're watching us," Granger whispers suddenly, and Pansy moans softly, imagining Potter and Weasley watching them together through the bars, knowing that Hermione Granger has never been theirs, not really. Not like she's hers.

The steady thrust of her fingers falters slightly and Pansy twists hers angrily, brushing her thumb across Granger's clit until she's whimpering against Pansy's ear and clenching around her fingers, hot and wet and shaking.

She hates coming first.

Granger shifts, twisting and pinning her to the bars, Pansy's trousers slipping off of her hips and her hand still trapped in Granger's warm, soaked knickers. Granger kisses her, twisting her fingers until Pansy breaks.

It's a cruel joke, she thinks, that it's always over so quickly.

Granger pulls away, repairing her blouse and adjusting her skirt without flinching, and Pansy stays against the bars, watching.

Hermione kisses her on the forehead, and Pansy closes her eyes, listening to the fading sound of Granger's footsteps. She already knows these numbers by heart.