All right, my friends, the rating has officially gone up. We are VERY sorry that this is technically late. Thank you so much for the impatience by the way! Made our night 😅 But I think you can tell by the length and the content that it was late for a reason... Warnings for this chapter will be listed at the very bottom of the chapter, for those who prefer to be surprised. This is our longest chapter to date, by the way. But fear not, we will be back to your regularly scheduled unresolved sexual tension next week! Please let us know what you think? This took A LONG TIME.
Cover art, as always, by OpalChalice - Enjoy!
~ Kristina & Abby
The Ties That Bind
"No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind so fast, as love can do with a single thread." - Robert Burton
CHAPTER V: The Lust That Binds
"The cords of passion and desire weave a binding net around you. Wordly confrontation makes you stiff and inflexible. The trap of duality is tenacious. Bound, rigid, and trapped, you cannot experience liberation." – Laozi
~•~
Wednesday, 26th November, 2003 – Much Later That Night…
Severus Snape, 'the unrequited love-struck fool perpetually damned to pining for a ghost' to most of the public – even to some of those that knew him personally – had been in a very, very irascible mood ever since the ceremony. Indeed, on his walk home he'd nearly 'Avada-ed' a poor muggle who'd happened to bend over to tie their laces abruptly, and in so doing, had nearly caused the morose Wizard to stumble and fall.
Then, to make matters even more vexing, he had been forced to take a very arduous amount of time to debate whether or not he should throw himself in front of a double decker. This inner conflict had begun to brew after his beloved teaching cloak had been baptised with a hearty plopping of pigeon shite. And though Severus was no stranger to dramatics – Hades, even melodramatics , to be sure – the said act of suicide due to the inconvenience of having to mutter a cleansing charm, even to him , hardly seemed justified.
Shame, however, for what an inconsequential and frivolous way to go out.
But , the most galling thing about his entire plight was that all of it had been prompted by the fact that since the ceremony, since their kiss – thrice over, might he add – Severus Tobias Snape: Potion Master, Professor, Mentor, Headmaster, the "Greasy Git" – had gotten horny . And was still horny. Incredibly, incontrovertibly, esuriently horny . And it was only by the sheer bloody willpower of a man that had been used, abused, and forced into the realms of becoming a master of self-discipline, that he had triumphed in keeping his bloody erection subdued whilst in public.
And so, as soon as he set foot inside his door, he did what any self-loathing man would do and headed straight for the liquor cabinet in the hopes of quelling his lustful head by keeping Her , the bloody source of his inapposite concupiscence, very, very far away from that of his frontal lobe.
"What a fucking absurd excuse for a union, let alone how any of us wanted to spend our bloody evening..." Severus grumbled to himself as he threw his tainted robes off and pulled the cork out of the firewhiskey bottle with his teeth, spitting it to his left.
He then threw his head back and gave the cylinder a hearty, long chug as he did his utmost to divorce any thoughts as to what she might be feeling at this time – mainly if she, too , were as wretchedly indisposed by 'the afflictions of Eros' for him, as he was for her person, currently.
He could only pray to the gods that she was. That some kind of magic had been infused in the bindings by the Wizengamot to influence and encourage them to copulate sooner than the negotiations that had been settled upon. For, if not, he was unerringly in for a year of hellish self-contempt, continuous blue-balling, and utter, utter despair.
~•~
It had taken scanning through four veritable tomes on ceremonial magic, one on love spells, and two (and a half) full glasses of wine for Hermione to find anything even remotely relevant to what she had been looking for, or that she didn't already know. Even then, she found herself faced with five narrowly-spaced pages about public consummation rituals in unnecessarily florid detail before she came across anything of any real importance. This was not an evening in which she felt at all inclined toward reading about the fascinating history of an entire class of wizarding society whose main pastime was the indulgence of normalising their exhibition kink. By then, the blood in her temples had already begun to pulse with almost as much vigour as the steady thrum that had been swirling wholly southward, forming a tight hold on her midsection, like the clenching of a giant fist.
You are not horny , she told herself forcefully. You are bored and you are drunk. There is a difference.
Though just before the Gryffindor was half-tempted to chuck the entire book into the fire, she finally found a weathered page somewhere towards the back concerning the colour associations for the various bindings of matrimony. This information did not, however, make her feel any less uneasy, though it did almost give her some explanation as to what exactly was happening. Not the why , but one issue at a time…
Red: Lust. Passion. Power. Strength. Fertility.
None of these factors were exactly bad , though the final one did hit her with a certain note of disquiet. But they were definitely all equal parts unexpected and puzzling….
Well, 'Power', she supposed, made sense. On the level of skill in wizardry, neither of them could be said to be lacking that. And they were both rather passionate people. But despite it's high ranking position on the list, lust was not something that she had expected to be a part of this equation. Certainly not at first, and certainly not like this .
Did 'Strength' insinuate their individual power, or the strength of the binding in general?
Harry and Ginny's had been gold, which apparently represented energy, wealth, intelligence and longevity. Or it could have been orange for encouragement, attraction, kindness, and plenty. Was there much difference? She couldn't say. And as far as she remembered, Bill and Fleur had a sort of silvery purple. A combination of both, perhaps?
Whether this had anything to do with the vows she did not know, but, the searing red they had experienced was bold and completely unmistakable in comparison. What decided it? Did they ? Did the person performing the ritual? She suddenly had many more questions and far too few answers for them.
One thing she did know, however, was that the idea of informing her dark-eyed, reclusive husband of this particular discovery made her nearly laugh out loud. Though whether he would refute the discovery, laugh at it too, or even …. embrace it? she daren't assume.
Best not to figure that one out, just yet .
~•~
Severus had been sat in his armchair for a good few hours by this point, exchanging sips for semi-chugs, and vice versa, of his bottle as he substituted one magical book for the next in an idle attempt at self-distraction through revision.
That pursuit having failed him dismally after a time, he then decided it wisest to attempt to read something tersely academic. And something that was of Muggle origin, might he add, for after this evening he'd had enough magic for a second bloody lifetime. And so, he followed through on his decision by selecting a well-worn copy of Swedish Botanist, Carolus Linnaeus' Systema Naturae , which discussed the relatedness of groups of living things via their underlying morphology.
Fascinating to be sure, but overwhelmingly terse it was, indeed.
This volume, however, only managed to retain Severus' attention for about quarter of an hour before he set it aside with an impatient sigh, threw back another gulp, and concluded that perhaps entering the world of another human's story would be far more engrossing, and therefore, distracting to him.
Much to his dismay, however, this turnt out not only to cease to be the case, but also only proved to enhance the germinating situation in his trousers all the more.
Indeed, for having started off by selecting the seemingly safe choice of Charlotte Bronte's classic, and one of his personal favourites, Jane Eyre – the beginning of which was largely melancholy and recollective – Severus failed to retain that in his latest re-reading of the novel, he had left the Early Victorian pair in the midst of quite a flirtatious, and amusing, verbal spar. One that he readily could see Miss Granger and himself portraying. In fact, the more he continued to read the scene, the more so his mind's eye replaced his old visage of Jane's for that of his Wife's, and so too, did the same with Mr Rochester and his own person.
No, no, that gratification certainly would not do. Romance was assuredly not in their cards. How could it be? However, to make matters worse, Severus was all too aware of his own proclivities when it came to the evolution of lust and affection. He must have the latter to have the former. At least, that's how he had always operated, until now, it seemed? So, the notion that perhaps, one day, they might end up happy like Miss Eyre and her Mr Rochester, only proved to elicit the attention of his cock all the more. And with that, he circumspectly shut his sacred first-edition of said book and put it gingerly back in its place, shutting down all accompanied thoughts that had been procured from it as well.
"Right, fuck anything with any degree of romance; had better switch to… gothic horror , yes, far more feasible to do the trick," he muttered to himself as his thick digits fingered the spines of his middle shelf until he deftly, and suddenly, pulled out his copy of The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.
He was convinced that this was the most logical new choice, and was quite content with his clever modification of his reading selection, sitting back down in his armchair, as he began to read where he had last left the doctor as Hyde.
However, yet again , Severus Snape was hoisted by his own petard. Quite so, for in the author's own words about his work – of which Severus had read up on much in his youth – the book's exploration of the "thorough and primitive duality of man" was quite literally what he was presently struggling with. The doctor, who enjoyed "the respect of the wise and the good" whilst concealing his guilty pleasures during the day, was – quite literally – an entirely different man in the shadows of the night. Indeed, for once out of the public eye, he "laid aside restraint and plunged into shame."
Well, Severus couldn't precisely say that he had enjoyed any 'respect' or 'goodness' during his period of post-trial waiting. He had just today been treated like a dog who was expected to be thankful for rescue before having been put to the needle, by the Wizengamot. He could, however, identify with the doctor's unruly shame, especially now. Though, unlike Hyde, Snape was actively trying not to gratify his depraved urges. Clearly, this choice had also been a failure, only continuing to remind him of his own inner battle with 'the bulge'. Therefore, he retired the second book he had hoped might lend him some salvation, putting it back on the shelf with an irritated groan of dismay.
He glanced down at the still maturing protuberance of his trousers and muttered a sharp curse.
"Not. Tonight. Mr. Hyde."
Still resolute on beating the "Goliath" that was his insufferably agitated cock (his mind donning the role of "David"), Severus erratically began to shuffle through his shelves, pulling out volume after volume and tossing them, gingerly, on the couch as he bitterly dismissed each one with an incoherent mumble of reason.
Finally, so dejected with his inability to strike upon any bit of literature that would deliver him from himself, Severus pulled out the next, nearest novel at random, flung himself back into his armchair, and opened the book wherever his fingers happened to fancy to.
And what a choice of novel and passage he had made he reflected to himself as his eyes digested the following narrative with anxious resolve:
"Ah! Léon! Really—I don't know—if I ought," she whispered. Then with a more serious air, "Do you know, it is very improper—" "How so?" replied the clerk. "It is done at Paris." And that, as an irresistible argument, decided her. [...] "Where to, monsieur? asked the coachman. "Wherever you like!" said Léon, pushing Emma into the carriage. And the lumbering machine set out.
[It kept riding on for some time then it pulled up in front of a statue.] "Keep going! said a voice from the inside. […] [The cab driver] could not see what passion for locomotion drove this pair into never wanting to stop. He tried now and then, and immediately heard exclamations of wrath coming from behind him. […] Then, about six o'clock, the carriage stopped in a little back street in the Beauvoisine district, and a woman got out and walked away, her face veiled, without a backward glance.
Severus promptly terminated his reading, his heart still thumping with desire as his artery continued to pump blood south like a speeding train with tampered breaks, and turnt over the leatherbound book to view the title and author he knew would appear.
Madam - fucking - Bovery by Gustave Flaubert. And he, of course , had turnt to the fucking, infamous 'Carriage Scene ' – pun very much intended , and very much regretted , no doubt.
What the bloody fuck was Merlin – or worse, this unknown binding magic – up to?
Severus chucked the book at the sofa insolently, still strewn with the litter of his prior castoffs. And, for once in his bibliophile-life, did not give a flying fuck how it landed or if it's binding and/or pages had been damaged in its fall.
Madam Bovery , he concluded, could very well go and fuck herself.
~•~
The longer the thought of informing Severus Snape of the fact that they'd just been bound together in eternal lust sat in her mind, the more so Hermione Granger began to regret her stringent urge to research the phenomenon in the first place. Whilst it was hilarious given the likelihood of his fastidious response, it also spawned far more distinctive ideas of what that could actually entail, both in the present and in the future ….
Realistically, he would fucking panic of course, but would he deny it? He only could if he wasn't also feeling the impact. Surely he had to be. He was categorically more repressed than she was, at least, she bloody well hoped so. Unless, he'd somehow managed to find someone to shag whilst hiding out and playing dead….
No , Hermione halted, realising she really did not like that idea – for numerous reasons, some of which she was far more ready to observe than others. Even when she discarded the misplaced and illogical wave of envy that flitted through the back of her mind like the ghost of Christmas-fucking-past, it was still unlikely given everything she knew about him. Plus, it filled her head with images she definitely didn't need of him in any kind of carnal light. No , none of that.
Ultimately, left with little choice, she returned to the stupidly large book to try and find something more specific.
Why did she own so many of these bloody things? Post-Hogwarts Library malaise, apparently. But nevertheless, now that she had the what – she then next needed the why?
Why power and desire? Why had she been unable to kiss the man without a ridiculously unnerving and powerful wave of sensation occurring through her? Why had it gotten stronger each time? Would it continue? And, most confounding of all, why had he even been so cooperative to begin with?
On paper it made little sense.
In fact, so much of her adolescence – more than she had ever previously wanted to admit – had been spent brooding on his tendency to ignore her, she had simply expected more of the same indifference. Perhaps more polite indifference, but indifference all the same. But what she received instead was coy, albeit tongue-in-cheek, good humour and tart admiration. Neither of which she had known what to do with save the natural inclination to return it in kind.
It had seemed to spawn some sort of intellectual… intrigue , at least. Certainly a more fascinating and satisfying dynamic than an over-eager student and over-wrought professor had ever been, and certainly leagues above awkward politeness and forced niceties. And that, she recollected, had started before there was any magic performed at all. Before the bloody wedding bands – hers of which, she realised with rising vexation, was beginning to shoot up in temperature once again – had even touched their fingers. Though once it had….
She shook herself out of a wholly visceral recollection of the sensation. Not helping!
Though was the ring encouraging that feeling? Despite the small, obnoxious detail that it apparently didn't even have to be in place to torment them, it was hard to say.
She was relieved, academically, that she had tested that little fact, and yet, the rest of her was beginning to question that series of decisions, too. Indeed, for it was exactly that experiment, and its conclusive results, that was inducing her current level of distress.
Books, Hermione, consult your books.
Though try as she might, no gods of wisdom, from Odin to Athena, Minerva to Isis, seemed to approve of her quest for knowledge, at the moment, ever-seeking though it was. She could find nothing but further iterations of the same information she'd already struggled to find to begin with, just this time with added symbolism that failed to give her any more peace of mind.
Lust. Passion. Power. Strength. Fertility. Fire. Health. Vigour. Love. Aggression. Blood. Transformation. Sex-Magic. Energy. Courage. Confidence. Ambition. Violence. Seduction.
Though how and when the colours were chosen, or if they chose themselves, was still a bloody mystery. She let out a groan of impatience, letting the book fall open onto the opposite side of the couch. There was only one bit of information that she actually needed, and it was nowhere to be found.
Just her fucking luck .
~•~
Indisposed by his cursed choices of reading materials and still possessed by the will of his obstreperous cock – which was still starving for both attention and release, Severus Snape was consigned to a night which would either be proliferous with indomitable lust or compunctious self-indulgence. Thus, with reluctant resignation, he realised that he would have to choose a preference between the two. He certainly couldn't continue to sit there in such a state of limbo that he felt could very easily challenge the hapless waiting of Beckett's pitiful characters, Vladimir and Estragon. But, no 'Godot' would emerge to emancipate them from their earthly afflictions of static expectation, nor come to alleviate him from his unsolicited lechery.
His erection was not going to dissipate out of sheer will-power alone, that was for certain. Either he was going to have to address it head on (ha!) or do his utmost to quell his awareness of it. Drink had not done the trick, and the notion of taking a sleeping draught on top of a bottle of firewhiskey seemed less than advisable. He realised that in hindsight, having employed the latter instead of the former might have been horribly unwise. Damn it all.
However, something speaking to him, deep within the recesses of his mind, prompted him to believe that neither – nay nothing – outside the obvious, human solution would ever be able to allay his calamity. Shite .
He did, however, feel the need to test his resolve. Perhaps, by some grace of Sophrosryne's own cock, he could manage to defeat his lewd foe and resist the urge to physically fondle himself. Surely that would be more noble, more prudent, and would bestow, at the very least, a fraction of self-respect to his person? Indeed, for if he could achieve climax through the mind alone, perhaps this magic wasn't as formidable as he had been assuming it to be. And furthermore, he couldn't rightfully recall the last time that he'd wanked off proper. Wet dreams couldn't be helped, of course, but to do so with intent... Well, arguably it had been years. Therefore, as it was his 'wedding night' perhaps he could clear his pipes without too much self-abasement?
His abstinence from all carnal pursuits, dual, or solo, was certainly an achieved attribute that he was quite personally impressed by, not to mention proud of. He was not some base, pedestrian male who was incapable of divorcing his lubricious needs from his intellectual mind. More to the point, he was not such a one that would so readily fall victim to their siren songs, who so easily was able to replace steadfast resolve with cheap, hasty deliverance via physical means.
After all, he had a doctorate, it could be argued, in self-discipline, self-control, and self-abnegation. It was time, he finally decided, to put himself to the test. For if he could refrain from actually touching himself to the thought of Her , as she was clearly the only muse he could use at this point given this alien magic's influence – then perhaps , he could look her in the eye come their next meeting. Yes, that would do it. He would set himself strict guidelines of mental imagery within which he could explore and would refuse himself the freedom to exploit any and all others . Nothing candidly obscene or pornographic in nature. He could take ownership of that aim, surely… At least insofar as it would take to reach climax…. Right?
And so, belatedly, he readjusted his seat to a more comfortable angle so as to allow his pelvis to straighten and thus permit the prominent bulge in his trousers an extra bit of room, before planting his hands with strict dedication to the arms of the chair. He then closed his eyes as he authorised his mind to drift backwards to the proceedings and occurrences of the evening.
He started simply, recalling the maiden voyage his eyes had taken to look upon her person fully since he had last done so at his trial, and even that had been limited. He had noted how resolved, determined, matured – a bit nervous, too – she had looked, and also, how very much an independent person from her 'treasured trio' she had become. Perhaps marrying the know-it-all wouldn't be as bastardly a fate as he had reckoned, he had thought to himself.
Right, so far so good. Tame and respectable , he congratulated himself internally.
However, that was only to be a momentary victory, for his mind's eye abruptly departed from that visual assessment of her person in lieu of plunging him into recollecting their first little flirtatious tete-a-tete. She had uttered the word 'cunt' and he had commented on how Slytherin-like such a choice it was to exercise such a word. And then , he had proceeded to award her house points to boot. But all of that was child's play compared to his biggest faux pas, when he had – quite uncharacteristically – been infused with an ineffable desire to inform her that she was a " good girl" for having agreed to side with his house on that one.
"Good. Girl."
Well, that had certainly come out of nowhere. Or so he hoped… However, try as he might to resist going down the road of more vulgar temptation, he could not keep from replaying the sound of her dainty, yet brawny voice uttering the word in his mind's ear.
" C–u-n-t ." She had been sure to hit the plosive last letter, and that was undoubtedly when he had first felt a stirring below his belt. How very worrisome that fact was, and also, how very intriguing.
So too, now, was his manhood eagerly appreciating the cacophonous sounds of her statement in his ear over and over, twitching, it seemed, each time he replayed it. He wasn't fully hard yet, but he couldn't be too far off. At least, he had some level of tolerance due to his age.
He then moved on to the osculates shared that day. Three of them in total, with the last being the most lethal and damning. The first, though part of the ceremony, had been unforeseeably and instantaneously electric to the extreme. The rush of desire and thrumming sensation of arousal had washed across him like a tempest wave soaking a struggling ship at sea as his lips had met her own.
That was troublesome enough.
Her then wanting to kiss him a second time had been equally as unanticipated, but even more alarming in its results, the libido it inspired in him even stronger and more pulsing. If he recalled correctly, he even had to cross his legs at one point afterwards.
The only issue with that one, he realised now, was that there had been no binding ropes or ceremonial magic to blame it on.
Hmm, that was a bit of a hiccup… . Well, still, it could easily have been a lingering effect from the ceremony, right… .? Why not? He hastily justified, as they had later found out that the rings were to be exonerated of any premature notion to such a theory. Yes, that must have been it; a lingering residue of planted, horny-inducing magic…. Oy…
Right, back to the task at hand. Or rather, at mind .
Once their business had been done, he remembered with a wince of apology in hindsight, he had been irksomely rude, demanding to learn how soon he would be permitted to leave the premises, and therefore, also, Her . Though even when allowed to exit, he hadn't got off Scot-free. No, not by a long shot.
For there then had been the final, and last, kiss in the middle of the bustling pavement that laid its track right outside of the bloody ministry. It had been a coy, coquettish, banterful scene of what to anyone who had passed them by, likely, would have labelled as uninhibited lovers eager to sort when they could bed each other next - with the obvious, romantic undertones that usually shadowed such antics, to be sure.
Yes, this one had certainly been the worst of the three. She had pressed herself entirely against his person, full-frontal contact that carried with it a session of, though technically tame, intense lip-locking. And that time, he had not been able to restrict his pelvis away from her own quite as much as he would have cared to, so the, albeit mild, tightening of his trousers surely had been a kinetic experience they had both been privy to, however polite, or 'unaware', she may have been about it. His balls, he felt, suddenly flexed at the memory and his cock quivered in jubilant encouragement of their accomplice. Finally, it seemed, he was getting somewhere.
"Fuck that feels divine ," he muttered as shifted his hips back and forth in an attempt to achieve any sort of friction between his offending parties and the cloth of his pants mingled against the stiffer fabric of his trousers.
This next bit, he prayed , would send him over the edge so he could be done with all of this caveman nonsense and go the bloody hell to sleep.
Where was he? Or where had he been, oh, fuck it, right…
She had then called him " Daddy " he recalled – fuck . A very good place to restart – and whilst the context of her having done so was perfectly appropriate, if not a bit morbidly panic-inducing, there still had been as much indirect sexual innuendo fraught in her statement as he had instilled in his one of, "Good girl" . Let it be known, that Severus had been titanically blindsided by that little emission. So much so that he had barely been able to speak, let alone contort himself away from her, or even more preferably, flee…
It was as if she knew its inevitable impact , he contemplated dangerously to himself, the left corner of his lips twitching upwards mischievously for a millisecond.
" Daddy , Daddy , Daddy , Daddy , " the resonance of her voice, the memory of the muscles of her ruby lips flexing in orientation of the word was now sending his head, the southern one , into a tizzy of madness and urgent demand for regard and recognition.
So much so that Severus could not keep from flying his right hand to cover his length over his trousers in order to give it an indulgent squeeze of relief. He let out a low sigh of pleasure at the more direct form of contact and found that his mind had begun to swim to far deeper, more salacious waters of fancy.
Indeed, he wondered what would have happened had he challenged her moniker earlier. What if he had pulled her securely against him? What if he had pressed his hands tightly into her hips in order to grind her lower stomach against his aching cock for the sole purpose of revealing to her just how instantaneously awake it had made him? He would have then leant down to nibble on her ear before husking dulcetly against it, "Oh, I'm 'Daddy' to you now, am I? I'm rather fond of that, my Kitten. Why don't we go back to mine, and Daddy will show you precisely all that he can do…?"
By this point, the half-mast in his trousers had become achingly full. Actually, it had been so from the first memory of her voice's utterance of the sobriquet "Daddy". That, coupled with the addition of his hand's shameful, single aid, caused Severus to suddenly feel the gel-like fluid of pre-cum wetting his cock's ovoid, angry head. And along with it came a guttural moan of anxious anticipation for carnal salvation.
Fuck. No turning back now.
~•~
With a pile of books beside her so high that it threatened to topple, Hermione let her head fall back against the sofa, just about whole-heartedly giving up. If she had to read one more page about binding spells, marriage rites, ritual consummation, colour correspondence, or sex magic, she would entirely combust. From the Celts and the Norse on to the Greeks and the Egyptians – even as far back as the bloody Sumerians, the longer form history of magic was full of every kind of erotic implementation of spell-casting under the sun. And yet, not one of the idiotic books she had at her disposal was willing to inform her as to what the bloody fuck was happening.
And whilst she couldn't say she had ever once been repulsed by the man, nor had she ever found him to be remotely … unattractive – unpopular opinion though that had always been – she at no point had considered manic, sexual frustration as a potential result of going through with marrying Severus Snape. Indeed, why would she ?
I f she were going strictly on past history alone, he had always been terribly rude and demeaning towards her when he had ever condescended to acknowledge her existence. Which, it should be recorded, had been seldom . From that perspective, it should be fairly easy, theoretically, to talk herself out of… whatever this was. If she could just remind herself just how great of a prick he had been to her in the past – and likely still could be – perhaps she would carve out some sort of an exit strategy?
Yes, that would suffice.
He had ignored her, relentlessly, the very first day she had stepped foot into his bloody classroom. Granted, she had been insolently over-eager, particularly after such a dramatic entrance that should have warned her to act otherwise, so perhaps she could not fault him too much there. However, he clearly had considered himself the 'primadonna' of the dungeons, not to be usurped by any of his students – let alone a muggle-born Gryffindor desperate to prove herself.
Though, if she were being truly honest with herself, there was a part of her that could still recite some of that opening monologue of his, verbatim might she add. The man's voice should really come with a warning label - even at aged 12 she had known that much. Though the mind that sat behind it had intrigued her all the more then, to be sure. Perhaps, she'd always had a bit of a fascination for h–… Focus, Hermione, focus!
Right, yes, so, he had also been infuriatingly rude to her, let alone biased. Indeed, for she had swiftly decided to resent him for neither appealing to her demand for attention nor for applauding her intellect – no matter how intensely she had ever tried to please him, or how high her marks had ever been. A childish habit that still, regretfully, reared its ugly head on occasion, and of which had made the events of the evening all the more dizzying and yet, compelling . Though he had always seemed rather proud of himself for having discounted her so. Arse . Was it house bias or mere sadism? Or, perhaps, both? Could one really ever tell? With him, likely not.
Fuck's sake , was she really falling prey to some deluded praise kink now? Was that what this was? No, that was far too simple - elementary even.
He had insulted her and had acted like a petty child in his obsessive favouritism, had given more than a few students an anxiety disorder, and had pitted children against each other to appease his own repressed need for revenge. He was gleeful in his spite and degradation of others he found to be lacking, and all too eager to show off his own superiority. Though, he had looked bloody good whilst doing it – ugh, what was happening?!
So the man was quick-witted and cunning, and had broad shoulders and piercing eyes, and wore entirely too snug-fitting, Victorian formalwear as an everyday ensemble…. And, she may've had a minor sexual awakening when she'd seen him duel Lockhart and blast the poor fool halfway across the great hall without breaking a sweat, but, who the bloody hell hadn't?! It had certainly taught Harry the only spell she never had to help him with. Still, Snape had been a perpetual arsehole to her. Though, granted, one who exuded power and control and – oh, merciful Zeus, this was turning into an entirely different kink now.
No! No, no, no. This was not what she had been going for. Had Ginny brainwashed her, or had she just brainwashed herself?!
And yet, the urge to squirm restlessly in her seat had not faded as she had so desperately hoped that it would. Quite frankly, it was getting even more infuriating.
Was it a spell ? A curse ? Was the connection enforcing some kind of mandatory component to encourage it? Her only hope of getting some kind of hint, she figured, was to get ahold of the specific book Kingsley had read from. But even then, what did she expect, some kind of a warning label?
Caution: A plague of eternal randiness awaits you, lest you shag yourselves to death immediately. Fucking ridiculous.
She ran her right hand over her face and thoughtlessly onward down the side of her neck, letting it settle somewhere along the neckline of her dress, exhaling a reluctant sigh as she traced the subdued 'V'. The contact, however light, brought a sense of…well, not exactly satisfaction, but relief. Lifting her other hand to 'leviosa' the books onto the floor, she then shifted to lay along the length of the couch unencumbered, stretching her legs outward in the process. Though the normally pleasurable, albeit innocently so, sensation of distension lifted her hips and sent a shockwave of increased titillation down her spine that settled decidedly, and suddenly, between her tensed thighs to the point that it wrung a moan of surprise from her lips.
She immediately froze. Despite knowing she was entirely and completely alone, sans her sleeping cat on the armchair to the opposite side of the hearth, she still felt her eyes widen and dart about in an abundance of unnecessary caution. Yet all was still; there were no shadows, welcome or unwelcome, in the recesses of her hall nor behind the locked partition of her door, and Crookshanks didn't stir a single bandy leg at the disturbance.
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Slowly, she relaxed back into the cushions, trying to recall where her thoughts had even been going. Did it actually matter? The result was the same, no matter the reason. Through hell or high water, logic or no logic, magic or none, she was married to Severus Snape. She had essentially snogged him – and more than once . And despite their legally binding defence against being forced to do so, her body wanted nothing more than to consummate that union.
Was it likely some kind of charm? Yes . Could she do anything to break it? No . Could she even prove it? Also no .
Without said proof, whether it did or did not exist, all she had left was what Ginny had, oh, so perceptively insinuated earlier. That maybe, just maybe, she was far more attracted to the man than she had previously thought. And perhaps the magic had merely latched onto, and therefore expounded upon, that inescapable fact.
For regardless of her mind's hesitation to wrap around the idea, Hermione still found it wandering back through the events of the evening, her thighs squeezing together for dear life in the dying light of her living room, markedly no longer able to fend off whatever force was determined to make her into a throbbing mess. Her right hand had never exactly paused its absentminded tracing of the swell of her cleavage, but merely extended its trek past the neckline of her dress to the point where her nail was mindlessly circling the peak of each of her breasts, each of which had made their excitement known through the barrier of the fabric, sending subtle sparks of sensitivity straight to her centre.
Even her ring finger was pulsing at an even more alarming pace than it had been to varying degrees all night, putting off a greater heat signature than that which she had initially blamed on the wine. But no… decidedly not the case. Resting her hand against her bare knee, she could feel the warmth physically on her skin, not merely some illusion of whatever magic inhabited it, and it was only growing more scorching as it flashed its heat up through the rest of her body despite any encouragement of her own.
Before the awareness hit of what she was surely about to do, Hermione found that she was already stroking a hand slowly up beneath her skirt, feeling the fiery sensation against the more sensitive skin of her inner thighs, which had now drawn up and spread. Her digits finally brushed against the fabric of her knickers and she shuddered at the delightful contact. The vibration coursed through her, not unlike what had occurred when she'd kissed her former professor – though decidedly briefer and less satisfying in comparison. It did not stop her from recalling the feel of his lips on hers, nor that of his hands pulling her closer, however reluctantly. His dexterous, broad fingers digging into her hips through the fabric of her dress, dare she say almost eagerly…?
Oh hell, what other option did she have at this point?! Clearly, this enchantment wouldn't be content until she'd indulged herself, and specifically did so with her husband. Perhaps the mental equivalent would do?
~•~
"Merlin, man, really ?" he found himself asking somewhat tipsily as he lifted his pelvis up to tug his trousers down ever so slightly. The man had many sexual quirks – many of which he had never rightly explored with anyone else – though, the self-loathing of his body was surely up there, which, in turn, meant that clothed sex, of any kind , was quite his cuppa. However, if he was going to break his initial testament to not fulfill himself physically, he wasn't going to permit himself to be any less restricted than he absolutely had to. Merlin, forbid the man ever not metaphorically flog himself.
As he freed his cock from the confines of his black pants, it sprung out like a jack in the box teetering back and forth as it exigently sought out a source that would ensheath it. He was unable to keep his facade from frowning, though, at the poetic justice, and irony, of his newly ordained muse. After all, not only was his newfound bride an ex-pupil – which brought its own conflicting, complicated ethics, especially when it came to potential fantasies – she was also a bloody Gryffindor (petty yes , but for a reason? Also yes ), and a prodigy who had been nurtured to it by his dearest friend to boot.
So, taking all of that into consideration, as well as the fact that for most of her years at Hogwarts, he had actively done his utmost to ignore the insufferable know-it-all who had reminded him all too well of himself at her age, he ruefully issued the first direct contact with his cock's shaft for solely masturbatory purposes in years. And whilst the lack of self-discipline was more than nettlesome to him, the twinge of pleasure that the contact had stirred was oh, oh, so very satisfying.
His brow furrowed, however, as his right hand began the genesis of its lascivious task as he noticed with great awareness that his left was still oddly hot. Burning almost at this point.… Bloody hell, what was going on with his ring?
He decided to disregard it for now, making a mental note to pursue the inquiry at a later, more appropriate time, for his current labour was certainly going to require his full concentration, not to mention, his bloody will . However, both his cock and his mind's eye seemed to have a joint will of their own. And such a one that was in staunch protest to his former, recalcitrant one.
For ever since his own had begun to acquiesce, its foe - gluttonous in its victory, had begun to transmogrify his mental imagery to far more profane and explicit fantasies. To be sure, Severus' 'mind palace' had certainly plunged itself into it's basest, most homeo-sapeian-like of cellars, which held all of his dark desires, kinks, and dirty inclinations. His leading lady, contritefully, being Miss Hermione Jean Granger – how wicked the gods could be to man.
Right, time to focus , Severus commanded himself, a nd choose something, anything that will get this the fuck over with. Think, man think !
His mind jostled for a moment through a cornucopia of aleatory scenarios and sexual 'motifs', all highly inferior to a man of his intelligence and wit, before it finally, and quite precipitously, bit upon something that, Merlin willing, would "turn the trick", so to say.
Deciding once more to be as noble and respectful as he could when it came to exploiting her person for his perverse needs, Severus decided that some 'distance' would be wisest, and therefore required himself to forgo the first person narrative for that of the third. He would watch himself interact with her in his fantasies but he would not play the Judas to his pledge by ever allowing himself to directly see what his imagined self was bearing witness to.
"Stop deflecting and get on with it, Snape," he muttered to himself as his right hand re-gripped his aching member and he shut his eyes once more.
He was at Hogwarts, suddenly, watching himself and Miss Granger sneak down to his former classroom. They were clearly there on some risque marital visit as they both had on their rings and were clearly very enmeshed with one another. Provocative snickers and handsy grabs dominated their behaviour as he viewed them almost stumble down the spiral, dungeon stairs and into the corridor before he deftly scooped her up to sling her over his shoulder.
Severus let out a low hiss of a moan, watching his second self slap her decidedly bare arse with force enough to leave a hand mark as he began to stroke his shaft slowly as the scene continued to unfold.
He bombarded dramatically into the room, as he had always been reliable to do, with her giggling over his figure and inquiring as to just what horrid task he was going to give her to perform for her 'detention' with him. She rightly admitted that she should be punished for her cheek 'in class' and stated how eager she was to make it up to him. He answered her in the affirmative before giving the other side of her backend an equally hard spank. He then set her down, pulled her back forcefully against his chest, and whispered a dirty secret Severus was unable to hear before abruptly bending her over the side of his desk, crouched down over her so that his chest's pressure against her back forced her own to greet his cluttered desktop.
Severus moaned as his hand paused to focus on his cock's head as his other self rumbled against her ear about how she wasn't going to be doing anything. No, indeed. He would be. For he would be doing her . Right there, on his toppled, ungraded papers, stray quills, and a very precariously placed inkwell on the desk's edge. Perhaps , he purred before biting her lobe, he'd fuck her hard and deep enough to send it soaring across the room. But only if she was a 'good girl' and only if she begged for him.
"Oh, gods," he groaned against the side cushion of his armchair as his large middle finger swirled his pre-cum round his mushroomed head with tantalising slowness as his mind's eye continued its film. 'He' then pushed up her skirt now, having received her desperate cry for his cock to infiltrate her core, and spread her wide like he always did so divinely. He watched himself expertly twirl her hair, with care, round his left hand as his right adroitly undid the buttons of his trousers to liberate his manhood from its bulging cage. It flew out with an angry buck. His right hand then teased them both mercilessly as he dragged his tip up and down her soaking folds, taking care to circle her hard nub of nerves before sliding back down to her entrance, thrus—-
"No, no, no! " he hissed as his hand abandoned his cock momentarily and he kicked the ground with the heel of his foot in self-disappointment and disgust. No , that was far, far too conventional a fantasy. Far too predictable and far too…. Well, frankly, unattainable at the moment. Hogwarts felt a lifetime away, and despite being far closer to it than London, his classroom with his desk, felt just as far. No , he needed something better, more nuanced , more specific to him and his awfully smutty propensities.
Take two.
~•~
Before she could think better of it, Hermione found herself with her dress hiked up towards her hips and her dastardly left hand, which might as well have transfigured itself into a furnace for how hot it had gotten, buried in her knickers. Her middle and ring fingers stroked a fiery trail from the swollen bud of her clit to the entrance of her cunt proper and back again. Her breath was already staggered from the first, light stroke and her eyes blown large in shock and arousal, or perhaps, shock at her arousal because she couldn't remember the last time she had been so ...eager with so little physical prompting.
She actually couldn't remember a time in which she'd felt like this ever in her recent or distant past. Though, apparently she had been repressing quite a few details of her adolescence, so she couldn't really say much for certain. All she could say was that somehow the one professor she could never dredge a single fucking point out of had gotten her there with no more than a few kisses, the slightest pressure of his fingers, and barely a suggestive comment. Well, a few suggestive comments… She had to admit, he could easily read off the least sexually-charged entries in Oxford's dictionary with the right tone and still make her squirm. Let alone, Hades forbid, half of the words she'd heard leave his mouth within the last few hours.
Still, it was certainly not her own digits she was imagining delving slowly inside of her, curling and retracting, whilst that voice murmured any number of obscenities in her ear. Her eyes fluttered closed, and in the dark recesses behind her eyelids she could practically feel his taller form looming over her, analysing her mounting frenzy like a slowly simmering cauldron that was due at any moment to boil over. Her brows knitted together and her teeth dug into her lower lip in concentration. Would he call her a "good girl" again? Would he force her thighs to spread wider? Would he give her a snide laugh as her hips bucked against his fingers, helplessly desperate for release?
She was forced to add a third finger of her own to even begin to compare with the size of his hands, recalling very clearly how they'd nearly swallowed hers whilst they were bound together, the circumference of his wedding band in her grasp…. Her back arched, her less encumbered hand slipping into her dress to find her opposite breast, threading the bud of her nipple between her tensed fingers and squeezed – hard . Her eyes shot open at the spark of pleasure, though frustration still coursed through her, gnawing at her nerves and growing all the more infuriating for the trouble.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why was this taking so long?
Her head tilted heavily against the couch's length in impatience, her throat bared to the dark. And despite the wretched emptiness of the room, she could almost swear her skin prickled with the threat of contact. At the very suggestion of those fingers curling around her throat, or his teeth dragging along her jugular, her hips bucked up against her seeking fingers with increasing urgency.
She had practically forgotten to breathe for a moment as she racked up speed. The slick friction audible and indecently loud in the quiet room as it gave way to an exhale which evolved into a veritable growl,almost a whinge, as her inner muscles clenched in on themselves, almost to the point of pain, but yet, still did not seem content to let her arrive. She was sodden, her whole body was on fire, and yet her body's stubbornness prevailed.
She could practically see his lip curl in disapproval. Or was it wicked amusement that danced across his features? Likely the latter… Oh, what a fucking bastard.
She slowed her fingers' determined motions until she was merely tracing a circle around her clit without making contact, her breath slowing as much as it could, and her mind wandering to more spiteful territory. Clearly she was being both too indirect and too impatient, or so it seemed. She knew herself well enough to state that she wasn't exactly the "quickie'' type, though she had never before had any magical aids to the factor with either.
And, at this rate it would have saved them each a lot of stress to have just shagged right then and there, the Ministry headquarters be damned.
Ha. If only.
~•~
Taking hold of his forsaken member once more, Severus tensed his brows in avid concentration as he worked to alchemy up a new circumstance. This time he'd dwell less upon the set-up of the scene, and far more upon the 'porn' of it. Indeed, whilst there was nothing wrong with the former play he had created, he knew himself well enough to be aware that getting caught up in the context of such a thing, was very much his employment of the wrong head. And unless he wanted to edge himself the entire night, he had to get dirtier , faster . And, again, with actions that fell more into his provincial kinks. Well, the kinks that he was going to assent to relish in, that was. There were some that would take a long, long time to emerge from their designated cellar.
And so, he suddenly found himself sat inside…. somewhere: a pub, a restaurant, a club, a music hall? — The 'where' doesn't matter. Get on with it!
Right, so they were sat inside a semi-public place with his wife resolutely perched in his lap, in a comfortable chair that sustained their weight with eager ease. She was whispering something into his ear, that made 'him' smile most impishly and raise an intrigued brow. But what had she said? Surely that was permitted to be defined?
Ah, yes, she had told him she wasn't wearing any knickers, and as such she could very much feel just how rock-hard he was getting in their convenient position. He observed himself growl quietly, as 'his' hands leaped to her hips and ground her against his pulsing bulge. The real Severus exhaled a guttural moan at how smitten her face looked, and at how she murmured his name as she tilted her pelvic floor forwards and backwards.
"You really should surprise Daddy with that lack of dressing more often…"
Severus bit down on his bottom lip as he began to pump the iron grip around his shaft with more force, squeezing his orbs tightly as he watched his second self instruct her to rub against him until she came all over his trousers.
"I want you to mark your territory, Kitten , and I want you to make a mess of it. Such a mess that I'll never want to wash these trousers again. Do. You. Understand?"
He did secretly delight in being egregiously ribald within his 'likes'. And luckily for both of his 'selves', her 'second one' seemed to herald the same such sentiments too, for she flashed him a naughty grin before adjusting her seat so that she was directly centred over his very tented-trousers. Once snugly covering his incarcerated manhood, she proceeded to gyrate against him with such a ravenous vigour that his actual person was convinced he could virtually feel her riding on him.
And as such, Severus was beginning to feel the ever-distant signs of orgasm, as a warm stream of tingling ecstasy began to flow from his cock and balls to his toes, and then to his upper half. Regardless of his third person view, of which he himself had stringently so far maintained. However, Severus still found himself oddly frustrated even with his hand's very direct contact to his pulsating cock.
He needed more. Well, he needed Her , but as that was woefully not an option he would have to forfeit to the next, best thing. Therefore, whatever vow or pact or solemn oath he had previously agreed to with to his former, celibate self, now, fully had to be chucked out the metaphorical window. He needed to come. And he needed to come, now .
And so, Snape ground his teeth as he attempted, despairingly, to scan the fantasy before him in order to sort out what the bloody issue was. She was doing precisely as he had instructed her to do, and by the look on her face, she seemed to have every intention of coming on him hard and proper, and messily so what was — Ah, that was it, wasn't it? Her face. Yes.
Whilst Severus was able to see the reception of her actions on her visage, and his own, quite decently, his 'other self' was rather robbed of the show. Perhaps a profile here or there when she threw her head back against his shoulder in nirvana, however, it was not sufficient enough for him – for them both, as a whole. Yes, they both needed to play spectator to her impassioned contortions in order for the thing to work.
Furthermore, he wanted, nay, needed to see her face for this 'first' of times, and more importantly, he and he alone – not by guidance nor by any of her own actions – needed to be the one in control of eliciting her ecstasies. Therefore, with a marginally regrettable shaking of his head, and adjourning of his hand, he allowed that vision to dissipate into the recesses of his mind.
Right; take three.
~•~
Now that was a thought.
A totally idiotic and off-beat thought, she considered, but a thought nevertheless. And one that her lust-addled mind apparently deemed worthy of hearty – albeit ludicrous – consideration.
For, somewhere between reading about public consummation rituals and remembering the sensation of his hands on her hips in egregiously palpable detail, Hermione's thoughts had turnt to their exchange in the street outside of the ministry's walls. She wondered, with acute curiosity, what exactly the poor man would have done had she simply pounced on him right then and there, against the whitewashed brick of the building that he surely, at one point, considered to be the owner of his gallows.
Question her sanity is what he'd likely do, though she was almost certain that within the confines of those black eyes there was more than a hint of a man with an uncontrolled appetite. Indeed, a man who very possibly would have wrapped her thighs around his hips and taken her right there against that symbolically authoritative wall without a second thought.
Well, perhaps not exactly right there. That would be quite a limitation; pedestrians passing this way and that. It wasn't even the public aspect that seemed to nag at her subconscious, shameful as that, almost, was to admit, but rather the idea that the scenario would be too …. rushed to reach its full potential. And through that realisation, somehow the normally hyper-logical threads of her mind were unraveling to reveal a scenario far more detailed than any she had ever bothered to construct for such a frivolously base purpose before. Magic or unmatched levels of sexual tension, who was to say? But a fantasy she had forgotten she had ever had suddenly took shape quickly and suddenly in her mind, as if it had been sourced from a dream.
Hermione had always wanted to corrupt the sacred walls of the Hogwarts library, truth be told. Be it through spite of the over-delicate hands of its grouchy librarian who had frequently ruined her appreciation of it, or out of a very distinctive brand of bibliophilia she could not say. Though, if the latter, this was far more literal than she had ever previously assumed it could appear.
The position was much the same as her first, initial image, though now her back was pressed decidedly against one of the impossibly tall shelves in the dark recesses of the restricted section. The uneven, ancient spines of so many volumes and tomes, some more cognisant of the disturbance than others, pressing into the curve of her spine as she breathed heavily. Despite the fact that his large, left hand was pressed resolutely over her mouth to silence any potential sound that could escape her, Severus was cheekily asking her very leading questions in a dangerously low voice, Questions that she couldn't possibly answer but with an eager nod or shake of her head. The gold of his wedding band pressed into her lips, hot and nearly glowing much like her own on her finger, flaring sparks of fire against her lower lips with just as much veracity as she stroked herself.
His sturdy form was pressing her into the shelves with such a force that she could almost feel the row of buttons of his frock-coat digging into her abdomen as her thighs flexed in a pleading effort for his hips to move. The head of his cock sat heavy and infuriatingly still against her slit, pressing, but mournfully not filling her yet, as it brought the tortuous ache she felt in reality full-course into the realm of imagination.
Fuck. Even her own brain wanted her to suffer.
With a force of will, she wrangled the scene to maturity, nudging it like with the heel of a boot until she saw, rather than felt, her own eyes shoot open widely as a muffled cry faltered into his palm as he thrust upward with force before allowing her weight to drop fully around the length of his prick. Unsteady grasp on the perspective notwithstanding, a stab of sensation hit her somewhere deeper than she could reach and shot up her spine. The friction under her fingers decreased further as a new wave of lubrication added to the dampness in her knickers.
Though that sudden shock of movement was solitary in its impact, apparently the version of him in her head was even more of a tease than she had expected. Had she really spent so much time viewing him as some kind of paragon of control that she couldn't see him in any other light…? Was she condemned to let him torture her even in her own fantasies…?
Arousing though it was, to be sure.
Her hips arched and circled into her dynamically-steadied strokes, striving for something that would crash through the final wall of her physicality's barrier and send her into blissful oblivion. Though frankly, she figured if elaborate fantasies were going to be the new norm for her in this …unfortunate state, he certainly shouldn't always be the victor.
Hermione was self-aware enough to know, despite her technically limited experience, that she definitely had proclivities that lent to her seeking out more dominant partners. She spent most of her waking hours, and almost all of her adolescence, organising, structuring, and controlling everything around her – men and women alike. Therefore ,the last thing she wanted to do when trying to 'get off' was to have to give any instruction . Been there, and decidedly had done that. But outside of those…parameters, there were certain advantages to holding power in the proverbial bed chamber…
Surely this phantasm had a weakness, and even better, one she could easily exploit. Perhaps watching the ever-stalwart and unmoving Severus Snape squirm was precisely what would solve this problem. Even if only in theory… .
~•~
Yes, focusing on her, and her exaltation, satisfaction, and pleasure was unequivocally the route to take, Severus concluded. His other head certainly agreed with him for it pulsed and delivered him a bit more lubrication to employ. He rubbed the clear, gel-like fluid around his swollen head once more and began to stroke himself in a slow rhythm as his mind cleared to pave the way for a mint chimaera.
They were in his bed now – nay, their bed – nay, their marriage bed. It was dark, the moon was full, and the only other light source to worship her figure by was from a few dozen floating candles caressing the bed's perimeter. She was soft, she was hot as fire, and she was all his . Her curves fit his large hands surprisingly well, he noticed from the short distance that he viewed their coupling from, and he grunted a moan as his hand pumped suddenly very quickly as his other self kneaded and pinched her nipples, before swiftly leaning down to suckle on one and then the other, or as far as he could tell – his angle being blocked partially by his own figure, casting her actual areas of privacy, regrettably, into the dancing shadows.
His head, he saw, then began to kiss its way south of her clavicle, his tongue darting out to drag its way through the valley of her abdominal muscles, kissing her navel, before finally pausing at her pubis mons. There he uttered a snarky comment that though he was unable to discern, certainly inspired her 'inner brat' for she kicked him softly in the left shoulder with the bottom of her foot in playful, argumentative protest. He next viewed himself moving his head down to her inner left ankle, kissing its delicate socket bone with special consideration before peppering licks, nips, and kisses up her leg in pursuit of her inner thigh, so close to her core that he could finally inhale her, and in doing so, almost taste her.
"I suppose now I know what my Amortentia would smell like….."
He offered the statement up to her cheekily, though with a deadly-serious undertone that she certainly noted, and cherished, with a small grin that greatly resembled that of a cat who had recently caught the canary. He then laid prostrate so as to bless himself with direct alignment to her luscious folds of wet velvet and spread her legs further apart and upwards to her hips to amplify her vulnerable position before him. She was dangerously, gloriously exposed to him. The most private and the most personal portion of her body was on full display to his edacious eyes, tongue, and mouth, and she was exquisitely sublime in her denudation. She was absolutely helpless, and he absolutely adored it
The nectar of her centre was certain to be more intoxicating than any wine Dionysus could procure or invent, and Severus was only too happy to drink her dry and leave them both in a state of euphoric rhapsody. Or so, Severus' real self inferred to be true, as he strained his neck to, perhaps, get a glimpse of what her inevitably be-witching womanhood looked like. His hand twisted round his shaft fervently as he imagined what his first taste of her would inspire on his tongue and how hot and snug she would be when, finally, she was wrapped around him.
"Fuck," he groaned far more violently than he would have liked, though it did not spook him enough to abscond him away from the delirium of his fantasy.
He observed himself tug her pelvis against his mouth, inhaling deeply with a cheshire grin of the utmost satisfaction and gave her a heavy wink of passion before finally running the tip of his tongue from the base of her entrance up, and up, until it found the foundation of her erect nub. He paused momentarily to record the gasp of pleasure that emitted from her lips only to then continue his torment of her by devilishly stoking the underside of said nerves thrice. He halted again, leaning his weight on his elbow to eye her face, which was pregnant with wanton exasperation and need. He attentively pulled her hood back, and tapped her clit with his large thumb, a look of sheer exaltation dominating his face. And only when she cried out with desperate pleas for more contact did he concede and land his wide pad directly atop her swollen nerves, swirling anti-clockwise and clockwise as he massaged it ever, ever so faintly. Oh, he was going to put her on the edge of climax for at least half an hour, to be sure, and he was going to lap her juices up each and every time she was approaching the coiled edge of zenith.
"If you ever thought a detention with me was unbearable, Miss Granger, how I'm about to torture you with my mouth will put any cauldron-cleaning, or other such chore, to shame. For you're about as erect as I am, my little Kitten, and I'm about to take full advantage of it. I'm going to suckle and lick that divinely protuberant clit of yours until you scream my name . I'm going to fuck your cunt with my tongue, and I'm going to finger you senseless until you're forced to relinquish that Gryffindor resolve of yours and beg me for permission to come . And come you shall, my daring. Right. Into. My. Open. Mouth. I. Shall. Drink. You. Up. And then, and only then, shall I fill you to the brim with all of me . Are. You. Ready., Miss. Granger?"
Never before had Severus been so primitively excited in his life. The esurience for her sex, and person, had marooned him into a current state of what felt like having lived for an eon but cursed to famishment. Indeed, it was as if he had never tasted food before, and now, suddenly, he had been offered the Elixir of Life in her. As he ruminated on this point his hand continued its steady movements around his cock as his other tucked itself beneath his balls and enveloped them delicately.
His head fell backwards and he watched her exuberant, conflicted, flushed face with adamant focus as his other self purred another remark to her before performing an unseeable action with his hand. In retort she struggled to sit up, her face with a look of absolute exigency, as she pleaded for him to use his mouth on her core.
Oh, Merlin, he was so very fucking close, he noted, as he felt his balls tighten up and the titillating waves of pleasure beginning to hasten and mount, when suddenly – as if a lunar eclipse had just drowned his word in darkness – his hallowed fantasy vanished in the blink of an eye.
But before Severus could protest, rage, yell, curse, chuck any item within his reach, in anguished protest, a mist of eerie, dark purple smoke flooded his mind's eye and swirled about as if in the process of divine creation. But of what he did not know, nor did he have any fathom of a guess. Something outside of anything he had ever been privy to witnessing or experiencing in their magical world was occurring within him, and he was for the first time in a very long time, astoundingly terrified.
~•~
With decided reluctance, Hermione lightened her touch once again – counterproductive as it felt to do so – and slowly channeled whatever force was clearly determined to make her suffer for the audacity of not having a conventional wedding night. Whatever imagery had been fluttering around the corners of her mind's eye, unfocused and undefined, she swiftly cleared it all away, and in its place threw out the sole instruction that she wanted to make her former professor squirm as effectively as fucking possible.
Surely there was no way her fantasies could turn that against her?
The atmosphere was indistinct, not that it mattered, but her husband was sitting stiffly at a small dining table in a dimly lit room, flustered but otherwise just as steely-eyed as usual. Fine, good . Whatever worked. Though for her own selfish benefit – and just to prove she could hold some sort of dominion in this foreign realm – she ensured he wasn't buttoned-up quite entirely to the scruff for once. Surely there was room for some stretching of the bounds of realism within a magically-induced fantasy.
His dark-eyed focus was not on her, however, but somewhere off in the distance – deep in thought, looking out the window, who was she to assume? – and all the better because it apparently escaped his typically heightened sense of his surroundings that she had dropped to her hands and knees and had begun to crawl beneath the opposite side of the table. Blissfully unaware he seemed to remain, even as she found herself between the spread expanse of his black-clad thighs, her hands beginning to trace the seams that split either side of the stiff wool up the length of his inner thighs toward their apex.
It was then that his body stiffened beneath her teasing touch, twitching even, at the foreign contact, and he seemed to exhale a subtle curse of surprised irritation. Though unimpeded, she continued her initial trek, one pointer finger tracing the final seam that bisected his groin and fed into the line of buttons that made up his fly, feeling the omnipresent bulge beneath flex and respond eagerly.
Reaching the topmost on the short line of fastenings in his rapidly tightening trousers, she tugged bluntly and swiftly until the dreaded button popped and the unmistakable sound of a barely muffled gasp was heard from above her. His left hand was suddenly visible, though it did nothing to stop her, merely flexed tightly against his knee. Taking the action as an unspoken badge of approval she tugged the rest of the links free without delay until his trousers gaped and the only barrier between her mouth and his cock was the thin material of his boxer briefs, which were, predictably, as black as the rest of his attire.
Upon tugging them downward, his cock sprang free from its normally tight enclosure, and though her mind apparently was discontent to presume its visage in detail, there was no mistake that it filled her hand – and then some – as she clutched it tightly. She then slid her hand from its base to its tip, wicked satisfaction spreading over her features as his breath turned ragged, and as audible as if it were directly in her ears.
She shifted closer, her breath no doubt gracing his head, causing that inflexible hand of his to finally move, lifting and stroking over her hair in clear, unmistakable admiration for her choice of occupation. Just as quickly, though, the light touch turned into a frantic grip, as she slowly engulfed the weight of him into her mouth, her tongue leading the charge. That distinctively rich tone spoke, but she didn't bother to register, or conceive, the words spoken.
He was just far enough away from the table for her to see his face clearly as her lips slid further down his shaft, and the look of almost agitated pleasure that crossed his normally stern features gave her far more fulfillment than she had ever initially expected. What was a difficult accomplishment to a perfectionist of her level of tenacity, after all? And hearing a nigh on helpless moan reverberate from the typically unbothered and partially bared chest of this particular academic, was certainly that.
Though before she could properly approach the level of focus that would lead to her final goal of making the man writhe to even remotely the same level she had found herself doing in ramping anticipation – her grasp on the image before her began to fade, slowly but surely, until the details practically blurred before her eyes. Perhaps her skills at visualisation had merely gotten rusty over time from disuse…?
But no, that didn't seem to be it at all. For any time she tried to refocus there was nothing more to recall, as though the very image itself had been all but snatched out of her head and thrown into the abyss.
Bizarre, very bizarre.
Though the more she strived to pull up something, the more her thoughts seemed to cloud, an amaranthine haze looming behind her eyelids, filling the darkness, and she had no conception of what the hell it could mean.
~•~
Severus knew three things to be true. One , he was achingly close to the precipice of orgasm. Two , his left ring finger was so hot he was almost afraid of receiving a third-degree burn from it. And Three , that he was suddenly sat in his kitchen, opposite his very coy-looking wife, with a raging hard-on.
However, unlike his prior fantasies that were clearly self-directed and produced, no amount of blinking nor head-shaking would relieve him of this one. To be sure, for it felt as if he were strapped into this dream as securely as the earth was to its sacred axis.
Or was 'dream' a misnomer. Was it rather a wish ? A desire ? A hope ? A future?
Fuck , who could say. All he knew, right then, wherever the bloody hell he was, was that his wife was between his thighs, under his kitchen table, and very much swirling her tongue around his cock's head, as her bloody faux-Bambi-like eyes looked up at him preciously.
What a little tart, acting so very innocent as she held Daddy's length in her mouth. Merlin's balls, it was fucking hot though….
"You do know Bambi was shot, right?" he husked in an almost brutish challenge as his hand reached around to cup her left cheek as her small mouth struggled to take in any more than an inch or so beyond his head.
Severus let out a moan of utter euphoria as a patchworked collage of context, time, and relationship ebbed and flowed. As his hand tangled atop her scalp so too did his actual hand cover his cock's point and urge it to its utmost stiffness.
What the bloody fuck was going on?
Apparently, he couldn't be bothered with that sentiment more than a fraction of a second as whatever force was infiltrating his mind hastily refuted his attention to the task that he had been trying to complete for some time now. And, in so doing, had forced him to come face to face with a fantasy he never would have dared himself to think.
~•~
Just as she was about to give the fuck up and take a sleeping draught to ease the struggle, an image far clearer than any she had previously been able to conceive took shape in her mind, like a waking dream. Darkness, candlelight, and pure, unadulterated stimulation were the first things she could process from the vastly different scenario that seemed to engulf her.
She was naked, entirely – not a stitch of fabric covered her – and, the unmistakable form of Severus Snape loomed imposingly between her luridly spread legs, his teeth making teasing passes at her inner thighs. Though she had apparently accomplished far more than that.
His ever extant frock-coat was nowhere to be seen, and he looked as fully debauched as she could ever have imagined him. The white shirt he supposedly always wore beneath his dark layers was fully visible and hung half open, held up only by the equally-slack, black silk of his cravat. Or so it seemed from what she could tell of him with respect to his current, sprawled position, which was nearly at eye, or rather mouth -level, to the exhibition of her nether regions.
"...I'm going to suckle and lick that divinely protuberant clit of yours until you scream my name . I'm going to fuck your cunt with my tongue, and I'm going to finger you sensless until you're forced to relinquish that Gryffindor resolve of yours and beg me for permission to come . And come you shall, my daring. Right. Into. My. Open. Mouth. I. Shall. Drink. You. Up. And then, and only then, shall I fill you to the brim with all of me . Are. You. Ready., Miss. Granger?"
Oh, fuck me .
While she was not arguing with the allure of the position, it was not something that had come out of any conscious part of her mind. She could feel the flush that had begun to spread over her chest, and up to her cheeks as goose flesh rose in its wake. And she could hear her laboured breath, echoing the clearly tortured form of other self sprawled on his bed, barely stilling herself from grabbing the man and yanking him forward as his fingers spread her wide and his tongue finally made contact with her clit.
Her eyes flew open with a jolt, swearing she had felt that very specific sensation in a very physically present way.
Well if this didn't work, nothing would.
~•~
Severus lurched forwards in his armchair, his eyes still sewn shut lest he lose the orgasmic image of his wife as she bobbed her head around him as much as she could until he felt the back of her throat against his tip, extending a hasty hand down to cup her face as if to silently say, 'don't choke yourself on my behalf – unless you insist .'
But still, even within this whirlwind of a fever-like fantasy, Severus was acutely aware of her comfort. He brushed her matted locks from her face as she looked up at him longingly before tracing her lips with his cock's bursting tip.
" You've outdone yourself, Kitten…. That was quite the treat, but we don't want you to get a sore throat now, do we?"
"Hermi-" Severus bit down on his lower lip to keep from saying her given name as his hand rounded his cock and continued to tug at his length, all the while 'seeing' her small, delicate mouth parted wide, more than eager to receive, swallow, and hold his truest, most base self.
~•~
Hermione plainly whimpered into the dark, panting, dizzy, and fairly certain she had begun to sweat. She was perched, breathless on a precipice and entirely dependent upon whatever illusion this bloody magic had constructed for her to reach any sort of satisfaction. No attempts at blocking out the dangerously realistic scenario worked, though she had to admit that that was quite a brief experiment, because why the hell would she want to?
The slithering of his tongue inside of her gave way to a scalding swipe upward over the painfully sensitive bundle of nerves at her peak, and all she had gotten for the trouble of delving her hand into his hair and bucking her hips towards his face was the enjoyment of watching him dexterously whip his cravat from his collar only to have it immediately, and adeptly, bind her wrists, all with a mocking cluck of his tongue .
A growl of reproach shot from his lips and reverberated against her, the aftershocks of which seemed to transfer to her corporeal body, a shiver shooting through her in perfect conjunction. Though his fanatical teasing had apparently reached an end, for it seemed he was just as eager to please as she was to receive it.
So perhaps her subconscious did have some part in this.
All her mind could view from that point onward was the image of herself being completely, and utterly devoured, fully, and demandingly, as though he were starving and only she could sate him. Then blessedly, finally the white hot ache inside of her rippled and seemed to reach its boiling point, her breath shortening into quick, brisk pants.
~•~
Letting out a plethora of moans and grunts as he hastened his hands work around his cock, paying particular attention to its head at this point, Severus' eyes squeezed more tightly shut as he began to feel the long-ago abandoned sensation of climax begin to hijack his body. Only a few seconds more, surely, as he began to experience the outer swelling pulsations of concentrated waves of euphoria that would inevitably come to seize his person.
Suddenly, as if this magic knew him better than he did himself, the divine-like image of her bobbing head fogged up his mind as he watched her mouth suck and sheath him full and her tongue tap danced on his swallowed head as he began to come hard and fast into her mouth. So full of his seed was he that he almost feared her throat might not keep up. Finally, after a dizzying spell of euphoria, she gingerly allowed him to fall out of her mouth with an arousing plop.
Now, there she was, bent between his thighs, having just swallowed his very essence. She gazed at him with heavy-lidded eyes full of unrelenting desire and adoration, wiping a stray trail of his seed from the corner of her dainty mouth, with its cardinal lips, before staring him dead in the eye as she sucked the fluid from thumb in obvious obscenity. Finally – and this was the cherry on the cake of him – she leant her weight on his knees and and husked a very sultry, very serious declaration.
"Now I'm officially the property of 'The-Half-Blood-Prince.' I'm all yours, Severus"
~•~
Throwing her head back, in illusion and reality, Hermione lost all sense of the boundary between the two. He had said he would make her beg, and somehow even through the partition of her consciousness, he had accomplished it. Muttering out a series of pleading exaltations, her breathing finally halted entirely.
And with a final curl of her fingers around her pelvic bone, before she could even sputter out a gasp and a moan, Hermione found herself thrown over the edge of oblivion with no landing in sight. Though the sound that finally did escape was a strangled curse, too loud for the solitary setting.
She shook as wave after wave crashed into her as she continued the fluttering of her fingers against her spasming, inner walls. The throbbing heat of her ring finger finally became so prominent that not only did the sensation spread but it also seemed to conjoin to the jolt of fiery ecstasy that had already begun. Though it's unavoidable connection to it's companion was no help. Or, far too much.
~•~
Severus' rapture hit him with a colossal force the instant his mind had latched on to that celestial image. He hissed out a great many 'fucks' as his right hand both tugged at and received his cock's climax, overflowing with it as it seemed to be, for the moment, unending.
"Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck… " his head rested against the grateful pillow of his high armchair as his hand continued to pump out the last dregs of his elation as his eyes closed in hedonistic bliss. He only wished that he could replace her with a cleansing charm but, alas, his phantom witch was no more. Still, Severus sat in a state of spent desolation and utter sensory carnage. After dazedly throwing himself in his bed, sated for the first time in years, Severus Tobias Snape went to sleep free of wanting, free of misery, free of pain, and most of all, free of guilt
Fucking hell. What had she done to him?
~•~
Hermione sat panting, suddenly very aware of her lewd position in a room that was nowhere near as dark as she assumed - nor wished it had been given what she had just yielded to. At least she hadn't opened her bloody curtains.
What in the fuck had that been?
Still, alone or not, she found herself quickly easing out of her daze and antsily shifting her skirt back into place whilst murmuring a cleansing charm on her couch. That had better have done something , she concluded with bone-deep weariness and a lingering wave of dizziness, immediately determined to abandon her research efforts and the waking world as a whole. She and her subconscious needed to have a very long "chat" about some heavily repressed ideas it had been clinging onto, and she had apparently been putting it off long enough.
~•~
Warnings - Detailed masturbation, magically induced sexual fantasy, insinuation of exhibitionism, light insinuation of bondage, dirty talk, oral - male receiving, oral - female receiving, re-emergence of the daddy kink, edging, bodily fluids