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firewhiskeyficTitle: Ode to Vertigo
Author:lq_traintracks
I am of legal drinking age in my region: Yes!
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Hermione/Pansy, mentioned of Pansy/OMC
Challenge/Prompts used: Hermione Granger, The Restricted Section, Detention, Time Turner, Spin the Bottle. Wooooooo! \o/
Summary: This is a poem about Spin the Bottle and femslash and stuff and I may have read the first few line of o Howl ahead of time even though the title came to me on my lunch breath at work.
Rating/Warnings: I can never do this tripes? Tipsey! Um, PG-13? Soft r? No. PG-143/
Word count: Some. Almost 800 with he header.
Author's Notes (if any): FWF!!!!!! Yeah baby!
In her laugh, claws;
A fifty foot drop from a dangling cliff.
She drips ruby words from lips stained
black-cherry, taking them down,
one by one.
Us.
Taking us down, Hermione thinks
as she observes Parkinson’s wit,
a train through an unlit tunnel,
all sound and exhaust,
forward thrust; no parry
in her attack; only slice, gouge;
Only the blood of her wine sloshing
in her glass, her eyes wobbly with drink,
her words cut from sackcloth,
black as pearls.
The bottle spins,
a whirlygig, a Time Turner
bringing her back to before
she made her parents forget,
wiping the mantelpiece clean
of her own dust;
They never had a daughter
so bright she made Venus shrink
and Athena cower
and monsters shred like parchment,
and sometimes with only her words too.
They have that in common:
Words like wands, a chorus
of incantations delivered cold
indiscriminate, like an avalanche
bearing down, obliterating into blank white
everything objectionable.
They have this in common: the feathered cut.
The bottle stops on Neville.
Pansy is the first to cite his every shortcoming,
his utter incompatibility with Padma:
the spinner, the one whom he’s meant to kiss.
Pansy tears him asunder, laughs
into her wine glass:
Wouldn’t know how to kiss a girl
if there’d been a NEWT on it.
Fucking Troll out, he would have.
How many glasses now?
She deep into it, Hermione thinks.
Pour after pour, like tonic down her throat;
Her top has slithered off her shoulder,
a snakeskin sloughing.
Underneath, she shines.
That shoulder, pink,
Angelic dirty flower, iris,
Petals taking rain like lips.
No one should look so pretty
while being so vile.
Eighth year, supposed to be their salvation
yet Parkinson’s had more detentions than not.
She fucked a boy in the restricted section,
or so the rumour goes.
No word on the boy
though names have flown
around corners, through chimneys,
behind hands, eyes flitting over to her
even as later it’s Oh Pansy, your hair looks LOVELY, darling!
She’s no one’s darling now.
Hermione’s seen her: alone, book open, lip bit.
Curled into a chair like a child,
tithering a quill, looking lost.
What the bloody hell are YOU looking at?
Flung, like fishing line, looking for bait
across empty water,
empty rooms,
singing a note like please,
Llke a hallelujiah in rewind,
like save me: Em Evas.
Hermione sees it now, that look,
disguised as a Fury, come to slay you
for being mortal:
The bottle has stilled.
‘Of course. Bloody Granger.’
But this seems all she’s capable of.
Hardly worthy, this fool of a foe.
This girl in plaid socks,
This… parting of lips,
A tiny lick of them.
Almost imperceptible.
She’s vile, Hermione tells herself—
as she crosses the space,
sinks her hand into that bob of black hair,
Egyptian silk, mad dreams’ worth,
curling against her knuckles.
Their mouths meet,
and Pansy doesn’t breathe.
Flashing rose neon,
this pulse between them,
all bloodborne and toxic and golden
like a violin string vibrating against the air.
It goes beyond kissing:
They unleash demons.
They move secrets and make words flesh.
They speak in tongues, over balconies,
Waterfalls, everything steep and fraught.
They bridge one another,
hands gripping tighttighttight,
swept through with halting breaths,
breathed in unison, counterpoint,
unison again.
They part regretfully,
magic unfurled between them
lying in pools of weak light,
one undone by the other.
Pansy’s not supposed to taste like ambrosia,
like the swift hand of forgiveness
rushing her body, the fade of time
corroding the rules between them.
Vertigo isn’t supposed to be sweet like this,
like tilting—harsh and ecstatic—into chaos.
She just wanted to shut her up for fuck’s sake.
Watching Pansy blink—the black of her eyes
all sooty and soft—
shouldn’t feel like Apparition,
a side-along into new territory,
no cliffs in sight,
or at least the kind
you run at
with wings opening at your back:
Falling up.
Author:
lq_traintracksI am of legal drinking age in my region: Yes!
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Hermione/Pansy, mentioned of Pansy/OMC
Challenge/Prompts used: Hermione Granger, The Restricted Section, Detention, Time Turner, Spin the Bottle. Wooooooo! \o/
Summary: This is a poem about Spin the Bottle and femslash and stuff and I may have read the first few line of o Howl ahead of time even though the title came to me on my lunch breath at work.
Rating/Warnings: I can never do this tripes? Tipsey! Um, PG-13? Soft r? No. PG-143/
Word count: Some. Almost 800 with he header.
Author's Notes (if any): FWF!!!!!! Yeah baby!
In her laugh, claws;
A fifty foot drop from a dangling cliff.
She drips ruby words from lips stained
black-cherry, taking them down,
one by one.
Us.
Taking us down, Hermione thinks
as she observes Parkinson’s wit,
a train through an unlit tunnel,
all sound and exhaust,
forward thrust; no parry
in her attack; only slice, gouge;
Only the blood of her wine sloshing
in her glass, her eyes wobbly with drink,
her words cut from sackcloth,
black as pearls.
The bottle spins,
a whirlygig, a Time Turner
bringing her back to before
she made her parents forget,
wiping the mantelpiece clean
of her own dust;
They never had a daughter
so bright she made Venus shrink
and Athena cower
and monsters shred like parchment,
and sometimes with only her words too.
They have that in common:
Words like wands, a chorus
of incantations delivered cold
indiscriminate, like an avalanche
bearing down, obliterating into blank white
everything objectionable.
They have this in common: the feathered cut.
The bottle stops on Neville.
Pansy is the first to cite his every shortcoming,
his utter incompatibility with Padma:
the spinner, the one whom he’s meant to kiss.
Pansy tears him asunder, laughs
into her wine glass:
Wouldn’t know how to kiss a girl
if there’d been a NEWT on it.
Fucking Troll out, he would have.
How many glasses now?
She deep into it, Hermione thinks.
Pour after pour, like tonic down her throat;
Her top has slithered off her shoulder,
a snakeskin sloughing.
Underneath, she shines.
That shoulder, pink,
Angelic dirty flower, iris,
Petals taking rain like lips.
No one should look so pretty
while being so vile.
Eighth year, supposed to be their salvation
yet Parkinson’s had more detentions than not.
She fucked a boy in the restricted section,
or so the rumour goes.
No word on the boy
though names have flown
around corners, through chimneys,
behind hands, eyes flitting over to her
even as later it’s Oh Pansy, your hair looks LOVELY, darling!
She’s no one’s darling now.
Hermione’s seen her: alone, book open, lip bit.
Curled into a chair like a child,
tithering a quill, looking lost.
What the bloody hell are YOU looking at?
Flung, like fishing line, looking for bait
across empty water,
empty rooms,
singing a note like please,
Llke a hallelujiah in rewind,
like save me: Em Evas.
Hermione sees it now, that look,
disguised as a Fury, come to slay you
for being mortal:
The bottle has stilled.
‘Of course. Bloody Granger.’
But this seems all she’s capable of.
Hardly worthy, this fool of a foe.
This girl in plaid socks,
This… parting of lips,
A tiny lick of them.
Almost imperceptible.
She’s vile, Hermione tells herself—
as she crosses the space,
sinks her hand into that bob of black hair,
Egyptian silk, mad dreams’ worth,
curling against her knuckles.
Their mouths meet,
and Pansy doesn’t breathe.
Flashing rose neon,
this pulse between them,
all bloodborne and toxic and golden
like a violin string vibrating against the air.
It goes beyond kissing:
They unleash demons.
They move secrets and make words flesh.
They speak in tongues, over balconies,
Waterfalls, everything steep and fraught.
They bridge one another,
hands gripping tighttighttight,
swept through with halting breaths,
breathed in unison, counterpoint,
unison again.
They part regretfully,
magic unfurled between them
lying in pools of weak light,
one undone by the other.
Pansy’s not supposed to taste like ambrosia,
like the swift hand of forgiveness
rushing her body, the fade of time
corroding the rules between them.
Vertigo isn’t supposed to be sweet like this,
like tilting—harsh and ecstatic—into chaos.
She just wanted to shut her up for fuck’s sake.
Watching Pansy blink—the black of her eyes
all sooty and soft—
shouldn’t feel like Apparition,
a side-along into new territory,
no cliffs in sight,
or at least the kind
you run at
with wings opening at your back:
Falling up.