|serpens_fic (serpens_fic) wrote,|
@ 2012-03-28 12:53:00
|Entry tags:||angst, darkfic, fests11, hurt/comfort, nc17, neville, one shot, severus/neville, snape|
FIC: One Gold Galleon, Neville/Severus, Severus/Other (NC17)
Title: One Gold Galleon
Prompt: "I should be horrified that a former student sees me this way; that a former student rents my body by the hour and fucks me. But his hands are gentle and he does things – he doesn't say anything, but when he leaves I feel more like a human being and a bit less like a thing to be used, despite the galleons he leaves behind."
Pairing(s): Severus/Various, Severus/Neville
Word Count: 3,600~
Warnings: verbal humiliation, suggestion of past violent partners
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made.
Notes: I selfishly wrote one of my own prompts, because the idea stuck in my head and begged to be written. Much love to my beta C., who caught all my verb tense switching and smoothed things out for me.
Summary: Reduced to prostitution, one particular client makes Severus feel things he thought he was incapable of.
I used to think there were few things worse than being a spy; few occupations so humiliating and hazardous. While I crawled in front of the Dark Lord and dissembled and writhed under the Cruciatus and wondered when I'd be found out and killed – or tortured insane – I thought the lowest floor-scrubbing drudge had a better position than I.
Being a prostitute makes me long for my spying days.
The Ministry was merciful, of course. I'm 'free' – technically – no Dementors haunt my days and nights, no chains keep me in a cold, bare cell. I still have my wand, my magic, my life and my sanity.
But the restrictions on me are endless and chafing. I cannot leave Knockturn Alley except on Mondays, when I may shop for necessities in Diagon Alley – and I must wear an armband when I do so, alerting those around me of my fallen state. I can – theoretically – brew, but the 'dangerous ingredients' I am not allowed access to lest I attempt to poison someone (even myself) is so ridiculously long I am convinced many of the 'dangerous ingredients' made the list only by dint of being a choking hazard. The only thing I am allowed to brew is my own personal lubricant.
And tea; thank Merlin for tea.
While I have my wand, it's wrapped with so many restrictions – I can cast cleaning charms, mending charms, mild healing charms, warming and cooling charms, Aguamenti and Lumos – but that's about the extent of it. Protego is, apparently, dangerous. Merlin forbid I defend myself against those seeking revenge against the Big Bad Death Eater!
The restrictions on gainful employment are ridiculous to the extreme; suffice it to say, at the end of it I can either turn my toes up and sell my organs on the black market – or whore myself.
I wish I could choose the former. Every day I wish it – but then that damned survival instinct kicks in, and I find myself on my street corner, wearing a thin, knee-length robe, nothing underneath it – easy access, I've learned, is key to getting it over with quickly.
For my own sanity, I do have some limits: I don't kiss. I don't do face-to-face. I won't moan or pretend having someone's cock up my arse is the pinnacle of delight. I won't crawl, I won't call anyone Master or Lord, and I won't do (or be done by) anything on four feet.
I'll do pretty much anything else.
No one rents me for my looks; I'm too tall, too thin, too pale, too greasy. My body tells my history in a littering of scars, and many of my clients gleefully add to them, eager to carve their mark, claim their pound of flesh from the Death Eater spy.
For a handful of knuts and sickles, I let them.
"What's the price for a fuck?"
I glance at the pouch against the brick wall, mentally counting today's coins. Three more sickles will not only pay for a room tonight, but the cheapest meal on the menu at Rosmerta's. "Five sickles."
We haggle, before we settle on three. He's a obviously either a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor; a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw would have realized I wanted three to start with.
I rattle off my list of rules, then ask where he would like to go to fuck me. Most people rent a room for a half-hour; there's a cheap inn on Knockturn just for that reason – for all the whores, I mean. Not just myself.
"I want to fuck you right here," the man grins, smug brainless bastard. "Take your robe off, turn around and put your hands against the wall. I want everyone to see me fucking you!"
"Because there are so many people present in the Ally at this hour," I snark, "and every last one of them is, of course, avidly curious about your sexuality and the fact you must resort to a whore for your jollies."
The man's face darkens, and I immediately regret my tongue. Old habits die hard – and I always pay for each sarcastic comment dearly. But I cling to my sarcastic side all the same; sometimes it feels like it's all that's left of myself.
"Think you're clever, do you?" the man snarls, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. "Well, I think I have a better use for your tongue – I think you should suck me. Get me nice and wet – all the lubricant a whore like you needs. You're probably loose enough for the Hogwarts Express, aren't you?"
I suppress a sigh and drop to my knees when he pushes me down, grunting a little as my knees impact with the rough cement. Like the rest of me, my knees have no padding.
I wish I could charge him first, then give him a horrible blow job - maybe employ a little more tooth than comfortable - accidental, of course. But I’m a Slytherin, and a spy at that; no one will trust me with their coin until they’ve received what they’re paying for.
His cock, when he frees himself from his trousers, is uninspiring; more long than thick, ruddy and wrinkled with a heavy foreskin and a salty-bitter smell. With practiced – well, not ease, but familiarity – I take his cock between my thin lips, covering my crooked teeth, and suck it gently, working my tongue against the underside. While he's still only half hard, I swallow as much as I can, licking and covering his shaft with saliva – while I can of necessity deep-throat, I avoid it whenever possible. It gives them too much control over my access to air.
He hardens quickly, fingers tangling in my hair and pulling sharply, hips thrusting until I am forced to swallow him deeply, taking him into my throat, nose mashed unpleasantly into the coarse hair at his groin. He smells of nervous sweat and salt, and when he lets me up to breathe I wrench my head away and glare at him, though most of the effect is lost when I must glare up at him.
He smirks at me, not at all bothered by my glare.
I stand, knees dimpled and stiff from the rough concrete, and shrug off my robe. I've gotten used to the occasional round of public nudity, though my particular corner of Knockturn isn't exactly main thoroughfare. And while I am not entirely comfortable in my own skin, I am at least resigned to the looks I've been given.
A deep breath while I strengthen my Occlumency, and – there. I pull up my mask, the one that hides my emotions. Most of them aren't here for the sex, not when there are cheaper, prettier whores to be had. They're here to get under my skin, to bask in my humiliation, and I won't grant them that no matter how low I sink.
"Go on, then, hands against the wall, arse out – " the man brays, wrapping a hand around his waving prick and stroking it.
Again I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes as I silently obey, pressing palms against the rough brick of the alley wall and spreading my feet a comfortable distance. I arch my back just enough to ease the angle of entry. A moment later, the man's blunt cock is nudging between my arse cheeks; he thrusts, and easily slides in. I've been a whore now for almost a year; I've lost count of the cocks, fingers, hands, and assorted objects I've been fucked with. Preparation or not, his pathetic cock doesn't draw a sound from me.
Nor am I particularly humiliated by how loose I am; I grew inured to that insult months ago. Being fucked without proper lubricant is the greater annoyance; loose or not, spit isn't a proper lubricant and his thrusts chafe. At least it's just a waiting game now; when he starts to speed up his thrusting, I ignore the way his hands bruise my hips and clench around him strongly. He climaxes a bare moment later – no records in stamina, thank Merlin.
I endure him panting hotly in my ear for a moment longer before straightening; he takes the hint and steps away, pulling free abruptly. Warm semen begins a slow seep between my cheeks, but I ignore it for now, picking up my discarded robe and slinging it over my shoulders. I do not attempt to hide that his pitiful fucking did nothing to arouse me.
His eyes narrow, but he stuffs himself back into his trousers and buttons himself up without comment. He plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out the three sickles, then drops them on the ground. One rolls towards the drainage grate, and I'm forced to dart out and snatch it before it's lost – Accio is one of the 'dangerous and restricted' spells, after all.
However, by the victorious look on the man's face, it amuses him greatly to see me scurry after a single dropped sickle. It amuses him more when I pull out my wand, and it takes three attempts for the cleaning spell to remove all the semen. Did I mention the restrictions on my wand make my spell casting weak nearly to the point of non-existent?
When he walks away and turns around the corner, I am three sickles richer – but I feel cheaper for it.