A/N: Yo, I swore that if I do something like this there would be a decent amount of plot, but hahahahahahahaha. Here we go. This is my first time writing something like this. Sort of. But this is way kinkier.
Lily, if you are still reading my stuff or following me, I apologize for what I am about to do.
George. . . I have no words left. Lol, now that I think about it, you are probably just laughing in the distance. ;P
This one is for lavish, thanks to her fanfic called doing it wrong. I'm sorry it took so long for me to write it. Blame George up there.
I.
She hates Fred and George.
II.
As the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for the last six years, he supposed it could be worse when the little bombs go off in the fourth floor corridors. For one, he might have been hit by those cursed things, but he managed to deflect it onto nearby fourth years. He grumbles a little under his breath as he wonders how was he going to explain that to Dumbledore. The old coot thinks his job is to protect them against such hazardous materials.
It is just dung. Far from hazardous.
He whips his wand at the teacher's lounge entrance, scowling when the door stubbornly remains sealed.
Using more power, he manages to break through the enchantment sealing the door. What he sees next shakes his composure. Nevertheless, his face and lips remains impassive as he shuts the door behind him.
III.
It is a cruel trick.
From the graffiti on the wall of the lounge, it is clear this trap is meant for Professor Snape, not her. YOU GREASEY SLIMEBALL is written harshly and brashly on the walls above her head. Hermione scoffs, swearing that if she finds out who did this, they would receive a failing grade in her class along with a week-long detention.
No, make that a month-long.
The moment she sits in the royal purple armchair, dark in the corner by the bookshelves, black roots seize around her right wrist. She panics immediately, her left hand grasping at the tight root for a moment before restrained by a thicker, cool root. It pulls her left arm against the armchair, tightening its grip.
She gasps.
Wits leave her as she instinctively tries to flee the grasp of the trap. She tugs sharply against the roots, frantically moving. To her horror, the plant-creature seems to be moving even faster than before.
She lets out a shout. "Hey, someone, please—"
A tendril wraps around her throat, cutting off her air supply. Flailing, her right leg kicks futilely into air. Somehow, her right arm frees itself—only to be pulled to the side of the armchair. The root secures her.
Her free right leg kicks at the root before a tendril tightens a hold upon her left ankle. Stuck in this splayed, awkward position, Hermione struggles uselessly one more time before her eyes widen in realization.
Devil's Snare!
What did her books say about it? It will only kill you faster if you keep moving. She curses at herself, fighting against her primal urge to resist. She stiffens, not moving. The plant slows its movements, trapping her.
Just as her luck would have it, the door opens to let someone in and then quickly shuts. Forgetting herself and her somewhat indecent position, she sneers at the intruder. His name is slurred and muffled around the hard root.
Professor Tom Riddle. Defense Against the Dark Arts. She may have been among one of the more fair and kinder professors, but when it comes to Professor Riddle, all of those qualities fly out the window. Snape, she can tolerate in small amounts and preferably on a monthly basis. Riddle, however, she can't stand at all. The students call him one of the best DADA professor with the reputation of being fair, charming, kind, nice. . . She usually stops listening when they start commenting on his appearance.
There is a part of her that believes he's completely fake. There is something deeper, darker within. A beast hidden behind the mask of a man. She sees it in the moments he looks at her, in his eyes, expressions of something raw and hungry beneath.
After a long moment of quiet analysis from him, she begins to feel utterly aware of her vulnerability. His dark eyes run over the writing on the walls before turning back to her.
"Professor Granger," he says, a smirk playing at his lips. He moves a step closer. "Got yourself in a bit of a tangle?"
She gags around the root, tight against her mouth. If her mouth was freed, she would have ordered him to free her immediately. And to not judge her. And to shut it. And bite his head off if he makes any stupid remarks.
He pulls his wand out. Points it at the moving tendrils of the Devil's Snare. Then he pulls back, the end of his wand tapping thoughtfully against his chin. "You know, Professor Granger. . . I admit I like this new look on you." If anything, it appears his smirk, his cheeky little grin, is even bigger than before.
She stares daggers at him. If Riddle was a lesser man, he would have melted under her gaze.
Removing his robe, he sets his wand inside its pockets. He rolls up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, leans over Hermione's sprawled body, and taps at the drool-covered root gag. Blushing bright pink, Hermione could have died right there in pure mortification. The Devil's Snare pulls away from her mouth, saliva running over her cheeks and chin.
"Get me out of here, Riddle."
He casually folds his arms, confidence pouring off of him. He has that stupid smug look on his face that makes Hermione wants to whack him so hard that he won't have a smirk anymore. Utter prat.
She growls at him.
He drawls, "Now why would I do that?" His dark eyes glinting, he purrs, "Then there will be nothing to gain."
Oh, bloody Slytherins. Prats. Dicks. They all want something. She narrows her eyes. "What do you want, Riddle?"
He shrugs. "I don't know," he flippantly replies. He runs his eyes over her slowly. Examining. Then he returns his eyes to meet hers.
Her mouth suddenly dries. No. Fucking. Way.
Heat builds up in her stomach, and her loose-fitting robes suddenly feel too tight on her. She licks the bottom of her lip carefully, and a switch in her head somewhere goes off.
His hand carefully traces her ankle, the roots tightening their grip on her and pulsing. A root snakes around her upper stomach, just under her breasts, and Hermione's breath comes unevenly. Its touch—once so invading and hostile—now muzzles against her throat.
The snare raises her body up, hoisting it in the merciless view of the professor. Hermione's lips meet his, completely unaware she's three feet above ground and her legs are parted even further than before.
The plant seems to refuse binding him to her, not trapping Riddle into the same trap she's in. Its tendrils slip underneath her clothes, smoothly gliding over her bare skin. The dark roots seems cold to her inflamed skin as it curls around her arms like a second skin.
Like a snake.
It takes a brief moment of will of pure desire, of a lack of concentration, and then she can feel his shirt against her peaked nipples. Her breast exposed to the warm air of the teacher's lounge, she lets out a moan as Riddle fiercely kisses her neck, slipping downwards.
Smiling devilishly, he pulls back and purrs, "Now, that is most certainly a far better look—"
Hermione snickers as she quickly vanishes his shirt to his bewilderment. Now that has wiped off his smirk. "Blah, blah, blah, Professor Riddle. More action, less talking."
He quirks a fascinated eyebrow. "Look who's talking. From the way you run your classes—"
To her satisfaction, he shuts up once she takes his mouth and nips his bottom lip. He pushes back by biting, drawing deep into her skin.
She groans as she fiercely pushes herself towards him. The plant ravels itself around her neck, squeezing lightly. She can hardly sense anything but the need that must be fulfilled.
As if sensing her thoughts, Tom's fingers slip lower and lower. It travels over the snare-wrapped hips and finally, finally, to between her legs, to where her clit throbs in agony over the wait. She pushes herself against his fingers harder, but he merely pulls away.
"Tease," she moans.
"Takes one to know one," he replies. His fingers circles her once, testing the areas and remembering where his touch evokes the most liberated reponses. He presses his mouth against her ear, speaking words only she's meant to hear. "Every time you grade those assignments in the Great Hall," he pause, "you chew on muggle pens. Then you lick the tip of it, just thinking."
He brushes between her folds, scissoring his fingers. Hermione's hips pushes forward, desperate for to sate the overwhelming lust.
His fingers slow down again. With a low voice, he whispers, "Aren't you a tease, Professor Granger?"
She would have answered back, if it wasn't for his next move. His fingers trail around her hole, slowly, painstakingly slow. Hermione would have impaled herself on there, but the snare only grips her tighter, forcing her to stay.
"A tease like you, Professor Hermione Granger, should be punished," he purrs.
With those words, Hermione gasps as he ups his techniques. He circles around her pussy lips, and Hermione would have simply died from sheer embarrassment of how startling wet she is.
Ronald or Victor never got this much out of her.
His lips travel downwards, slipping downwards from her neck to her snare-captured breast. He swirls his tongue around her nipple, his other hand pinching. A finger slides easily into her.
Hermione clenches around it, unsatisfied. She wants, no, needs more. . . She hungers for. . .
"Please, Tom," she whispers, the plant tightening around her body harder. It's so much, and if she doesn't find. . .
He looks up at her from her breast, gazing innocently. Popping her nipple from his mouth, he smugly asks, "I'm sorry, Hermione. I didn't hear you there."
"Bloody Merlin, Tom!" she whimpers, as another digit slides into her. She tightens around his fingers, and he groans.
Yet, he pushes her further, curling his fingers. "I didn't hear you," he taunts, watching her unravel even more.
She moans, but what he gives her now is not enough. She closes her eyes and pleas, "Please fuck me."
A mouth swallows her words. "Because you ask so nicely. . ."
She wants to protest when he pulls his fingers out of her. But her eyes greedily watch as he pulls off his belt, smiles evilly when he looks at it considerately for a moment, enthralled by her fear. He tears away his trousers and pants, stalking closer to Hermione's bound form.
He wraps his fingers around himself and pushes his tip at her entrance. Without teasing her any further, he pushes himself in, slowly sliding through and groaning at the way Hermione clenches around him as he sinks himself deeper into her.
He grasps her bound hips and begins to thrust. Hermione, hanging tightly in the mercy of Devil's Snare and the man in front of her, has no choice but to take every vicious, brutal thrust.
She can feel it coming, closer and closer. Her face flushes, and he pounds mercilessly into her, hitting her at the right angle. She screams, unraveling completely before him, her muscles tightening in release.
He quickly follows, feeling the intensity course through him. Pulling out from her, he nearly becomes hard again just from watching his cum slowly drip out of her.
IV.
With a simple wave of his hand, his clothes appear back on as he casually views his fellow unconscious professor. Grinning, he taps against a tendril of Devil's Snare and watches it remove itself from her body.
Pity. He really does love the natural bound look on her.
The plant slinks back into a pot near the cosy armchair it has placed Hermione back into. With a tap of his wand, the pot vanishes. It should be in his office. . .
For further examination. To make sure there is not a sinister motive behind it.
He doesn't bother with cleaning Hermione up of the cum slowly leaking down to her thighs. With a flick of his wand, her clothes return from where she banished them earlier. An idea hits him as he shuffle through her pockets just for the one thing. . .
V.
Heading back his quarters, he smirks as he rolls Hermione's wand between his fingers. He sits at his desk and begins to grade the students' papers. He occasionally glances at her wand.
Then he hears footsteps coming down the hall. He buries himself into grading even more, resisting a smirk.
She opens his door without a warning. "Give me my wand back, Riddle."
"Hermione," he says, giving a bright red T to a paper. He snaps a finger, the door shutting behind her.
"Riddle," she snarls.
He smirks at her. Out of the corner of his eyes, he curiously watches a tendril slip out of the plant pot in the corner of the room and sneakily makes its way towards the unsuspecting professor.
There has always been an intense pleasure derived when she is absolutely infuriated by him, and upsetting her once again proves to be no exception.