[Fic] "Parseltongue" -- Harry Potter
Nov. 19th, 2003 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edenfallingIn a fit of productivity, I cleaned up and posted Parseltongue at FictionAlleyPark today. It's in the Cookie Jar, since it's only about 800 words and I couldn't figure out what House to put it in anyway. You can also find it here on ff.net, or here on AO3, or you could read it here on my journal. :-)
I'm a bit bemused by the fic since it's the first time I've written anything that qualifies as erotica. It's funny, since I've written sex scenes in original fiction before, but always very short and rather clinically glossed over, unless they were rape scenes. I wrote a rape story when I was eleven or twelve, based on a really terrifying dream I couldn't stop thinking about otherwise. It was pretty good for a twelve year old, I dare say, considering it had thoughts about Renaissance art and the madonna-whore complex, but I still don't like thinking about it. (ETA: It's called Mona's Blood.)
Why is it, I wonder, that I was able to write a fairly detailed story like that so many years ago, but I only now got around to writing something gentler and consensual? Ah well.
Anyhow, "Parseltongue" is all about the boundary between the reader and the word on the page, and between squick and erotica. Read it and tell me what you think. Contains live snakes used as sex aids.
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Parseltongue
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The room is dark; embers flicker in the hearth and heavy drapes conceal the outer world. You lie naked on the sheets, wait in silence for his voice, fix your hands to the heavy frame of the bed. This is his night. This is his gift. This is his place. This is your time to be still.
Listen to the hiss as it slides through the air, like chilled silk caressing your skin. Do you see his tongue flicker as he watches you? There -- it brushes against his teeth, darts as his lips curve and pull back.
Do you see the snakes? They come from the basket by the dying fire, from the piles of cloth in the dusty corners, from the pitch-dark cracks in the old stone walls. See how they slide across the floor, mottled eyes fixed on him, wrapping his feet in endless coils.
Do you see his smile? He bends and offers his arms, waits while they twine their sinuous bodies around his hands and naked skin. They worship him. His voice transfixes them. His soft hissing fills the air, echoes, joins with the force of his gaze. He transfixes you.
Now he caries his serpent-laden arms to the bed, while other snakes coil and twist up the heavy, carven legs, the rustle of their scales on wood and silk a muted counterpoint to his voice. Tongues flicker, brush almost against your skin, so sensitive now, waiting for his touch. Feel the tension in the air as the silk slides against your prickling skin.
He winds one snake around your shoulders, and you shiver at the touch of its scales, cool and dry. Two more wrap around your breasts, and these are warm, heated by their slumber near the hearth. He bends, places his mouth so near to them, whispers soft commands; his warm breath ghosts over your breasts. The serpents turn, twist and coil as they slide; muscles loosen and contract, rasping their scales against your skin. Their tongues flicker in and out, dart and dance, ever nearer the peaks of your breasts.
And then, just as one finally touches, he places another snake -- the cool rasp above your slit, the tongue that flickers through rough curls, pulls a stifled gasp from your lips. He chuckles, a low sound, the first sound beyond a hiss you've heard from him tonight. He trails a hand down through your curls, his fingers cool, dry, slightly rough, matching the scales of his serpents. He touches once, withdraws, leaves another snake to finish his work; its tail and tongue dance light between your legs. You freeze, you dare not move, as one fang grazes flesh -- the tiny prick wreaths through your body, settles in your belly, twists in warm coils.
Now he reaches your feet, but here he has no more snakes; they are all busy, teasing your sides, your neck, your breasts, your cleft, the backs of your knees. He runs his hands up the sides of your feet, gently, his cool touch on your cold body shocking after the heat in your belly. His tongue runs up your instep, moist and hot, and you moan. He scrapes a nail, lightly, down your sole, and you squirm and shiver. He laughs again.
And now, when without him you would grit your teeth and push through the terrible anticipation and snatch at the other side, he pulls his hands away and whispers to the snakes. They slide toward you, curving their lengths up and over your body, covering you in scales, a weighted rasp on your limbs. They twist and coil, pushing over and under each other, tails dragging over your yearning flesh, tongues and fangs touching delicately, teasing, skating the edge of release.
He walks to your head and bends, hisses softly into your ears, runs his tongue lightly over their rims and breathes the scent of your hair and your sweat. You beg with your eyes and his lips pull back again, letting his tongue flicker against his teeth as he calls the serpents. One by one they uncoil and glide to him, to his outstretched hands, and he gently lowers them to the floor. The last to leave flicks its tail against your cleft, earning another gasp, and he smiles as your eyes fix on him as the center of your world, just as the snakes fix on his voice.
And finally, finally, he lowers himself to the bed; his hands run over you, hover a breath from your skin. He smiles, lowers his hand to your hip, and at his touch you pull back your lips and hiss to him, a soft phrase he taught you: "I am yours."
He returns it, and lowers his lips to your mouth, tongue flickering out one last time, to dance with yours as he slides into you.
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End
---------------------------------------------
No, I don't know who the man and the woman are. I don't think it particularly matters either -- that's not the point of the fic!
I'm a bit bemused by the fic since it's the first time I've written anything that qualifies as erotica. It's funny, since I've written sex scenes in original fiction before, but always very short and rather clinically glossed over, unless they were rape scenes. I wrote a rape story when I was eleven or twelve, based on a really terrifying dream I couldn't stop thinking about otherwise. It was pretty good for a twelve year old, I dare say, considering it had thoughts about Renaissance art and the madonna-whore complex, but I still don't like thinking about it. (ETA: It's called Mona's Blood.)
Why is it, I wonder, that I was able to write a fairly detailed story like that so many years ago, but I only now got around to writing something gentler and consensual? Ah well.
Anyhow, "Parseltongue" is all about the boundary between the reader and the word on the page, and between squick and erotica. Read it and tell me what you think. Contains live snakes used as sex aids.
---------------------------------------------
Parseltongue
---------------------------------------------
The room is dark; embers flicker in the hearth and heavy drapes conceal the outer world. You lie naked on the sheets, wait in silence for his voice, fix your hands to the heavy frame of the bed. This is his night. This is his gift. This is his place. This is your time to be still.
Listen to the hiss as it slides through the air, like chilled silk caressing your skin. Do you see his tongue flicker as he watches you? There -- it brushes against his teeth, darts as his lips curve and pull back.
Do you see the snakes? They come from the basket by the dying fire, from the piles of cloth in the dusty corners, from the pitch-dark cracks in the old stone walls. See how they slide across the floor, mottled eyes fixed on him, wrapping his feet in endless coils.
Do you see his smile? He bends and offers his arms, waits while they twine their sinuous bodies around his hands and naked skin. They worship him. His voice transfixes them. His soft hissing fills the air, echoes, joins with the force of his gaze. He transfixes you.
Now he caries his serpent-laden arms to the bed, while other snakes coil and twist up the heavy, carven legs, the rustle of their scales on wood and silk a muted counterpoint to his voice. Tongues flicker, brush almost against your skin, so sensitive now, waiting for his touch. Feel the tension in the air as the silk slides against your prickling skin.
He winds one snake around your shoulders, and you shiver at the touch of its scales, cool and dry. Two more wrap around your breasts, and these are warm, heated by their slumber near the hearth. He bends, places his mouth so near to them, whispers soft commands; his warm breath ghosts over your breasts. The serpents turn, twist and coil as they slide; muscles loosen and contract, rasping their scales against your skin. Their tongues flicker in and out, dart and dance, ever nearer the peaks of your breasts.
And then, just as one finally touches, he places another snake -- the cool rasp above your slit, the tongue that flickers through rough curls, pulls a stifled gasp from your lips. He chuckles, a low sound, the first sound beyond a hiss you've heard from him tonight. He trails a hand down through your curls, his fingers cool, dry, slightly rough, matching the scales of his serpents. He touches once, withdraws, leaves another snake to finish his work; its tail and tongue dance light between your legs. You freeze, you dare not move, as one fang grazes flesh -- the tiny prick wreaths through your body, settles in your belly, twists in warm coils.
Now he reaches your feet, but here he has no more snakes; they are all busy, teasing your sides, your neck, your breasts, your cleft, the backs of your knees. He runs his hands up the sides of your feet, gently, his cool touch on your cold body shocking after the heat in your belly. His tongue runs up your instep, moist and hot, and you moan. He scrapes a nail, lightly, down your sole, and you squirm and shiver. He laughs again.
And now, when without him you would grit your teeth and push through the terrible anticipation and snatch at the other side, he pulls his hands away and whispers to the snakes. They slide toward you, curving their lengths up and over your body, covering you in scales, a weighted rasp on your limbs. They twist and coil, pushing over and under each other, tails dragging over your yearning flesh, tongues and fangs touching delicately, teasing, skating the edge of release.
He walks to your head and bends, hisses softly into your ears, runs his tongue lightly over their rims and breathes the scent of your hair and your sweat. You beg with your eyes and his lips pull back again, letting his tongue flicker against his teeth as he calls the serpents. One by one they uncoil and glide to him, to his outstretched hands, and he gently lowers them to the floor. The last to leave flicks its tail against your cleft, earning another gasp, and he smiles as your eyes fix on him as the center of your world, just as the snakes fix on his voice.
And finally, finally, he lowers himself to the bed; his hands run over you, hover a breath from your skin. He smiles, lowers his hand to your hip, and at his touch you pull back your lips and hiss to him, a soft phrase he taught you: "I am yours."
He returns it, and lowers his lips to your mouth, tongue flickering out one last time, to dance with yours as he slides into you.
---------------------------------------------
End
---------------------------------------------
No, I don't know who the man and the woman are. I don't think it particularly matters either -- that's not the point of the fic!
