Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
A/N:
Kvarta – How exciting that you are off to Japan! I’m hoping to go with the family over the next year or so. So many of my family and friends have been and absolutely adored it. And it sounds like you deserve something special after all your hard work. ‘Transition from degradation over hopeless forced cooperation to something elated and pure.’ – more of your delicious wisdom. That’s exactly what I was hoping to convey but not nearly so eloquently. ‘need to take a bat and beat himself with it in to the ground’ – LOL. They both seem to be rather good at that actually. ‘allow me to quote Oracle "*snort*"’ – hahah, she will appreciate that :) ‘He makes you not only doubt his actions but doubt yourself and your own observations.’ – so true, and I’ve used these thoughts in this next chapter – thanks for that! ‘was this fight over the territory? What is he? A dog?’ – absolutely, he’s marking his territory all over her! ‘I just love how you made that every moment they are together is about him more than her. In fact, it looks like she is there some sort of a mirror that shows the glimpse in to to the other's soul, like she is there to emphasize him.’ – gah . . . too good! ‘And I'm so glad that we are getting more and more of your old self in each chapter’ – as you know, there’s nowhere to hide in this caper. xx
OO – ‘I love how she'd inviting him into her world and bringing him back to life even more’ – mmm, lovely. ‘It's good, Snape, but not enough. You know it's more!’ – Hahah, I love your pep talks to him. I think they might even be getting through :) ‘Mean but great :)’ – that’s just about my favourite ;) Thanks for the fixes, they slip through despite my efforts – glad to have a keen set of eyes to shake them out. ‘nice after dinner jizz-fest. Mmmmmmm . . . healing :)’ – it’s all about the healing ;) x

Chapter 12 - Out and In
Footsteps tapping out an urgent rhythm on the pier, they leave the restaurant behind, laughter and music gradually fading until it is lost in the static rip of Apparition. Two of her short strides to every one of his has her panting but her index finger, balled in her tight fist, and still marinating in the latent heat and moisture of his mouth, is adding a ragged edge to her respiratory efforts.
She is thankful for the rigid angle of his elbow which allows her to cling on as his boots rapidly devour the gravel path to the castle. He is clearly in a hurry . . . Is it for the same reason as she?
Severus thrusts his hand into the pocket of his frock coat. It is the only way that he can hope to discreetly rearrange his tumescent cock which is thudding against his thigh like an over-sized bell clapper. As with the previous times, the urge for relief is over-whelming. He hasn’t any particular plan for how or where it is to occur. But, with or without her, it’s going to have to happen . . . and soon.
The remainder of the journey to the dungeons is at an equally frenetic pace that has Hermione wincing, not only with the vehement protests from her burdened feet but also the mounting throb between her legs. The friction of her knickers against her already-straining clitoris has it buffed into a ball of such exquisite tension that her fingers are practically embedded in his arm. And the immense frustration is that there is absolutely no way to relieve it. Not unless—
He stops.
The sudden stillness of their feet but the continued feverish thud of their pulses and ragged wheeze of their breaths infuses his subsequent invitation with a deep, husky desperation that grasps and wrenches at her pussy.
“Dessert?”
She can only nod.
He unlocks his door with a flourish and then pushes it open for her to enter.
Stepping through and closing it, he turns, expecting for her to have continued into the room. But she is right there. And her hand is on his chest.
“I can’t let you touch me,” she whispers.
He pauses, before nodding slowly.
“Will you let me touch you?”
The pause is greater this time; the frown more severe. But he nods again.
Brown eyes widening with intensity, she brings up her other hand and forces him with surprising strength, back against the door. Momentarily he lifts his hands, an automatic defence, but then allows them to sink back to his sides.
She splays her fingers across his pectoral muscles before drawing her thumbs slowly under the ridged outline that she can feel flexing—even through his coat. He had always been surprisingly muscular. And it seems he has lost little since she’d last touched him like this.
He watches her intently, the dark smoulder of his eyes betraying exactly what kind of dessert he’d had in mind. She hadn’t been wrong. It’s just that, with him, she was bound to second-guess herself. After all, he was the master of disorientation—of driving one to helpless, increasingly frenetic ruminations before collapsing, bereft, under his gaze.
Not this time. This time she is willing to be consumed—to immerse herself in the depth of his intense examination. She would dearly love to. But for his sake she doesn’t—she closes her eyes.
Her exploration continues. She gradually glides her palms up the surprisingly soft weave of his coat to his neck before traversing the starched parapet of his shirt collar, and spilling over to the warm flush of his throat. Her fingertips survey his Adam’s apple, the rigid contours absolutely still, betraying nothing. But it is the fierce throb of his pulse alongside that tells her everything she needs to know.
Murmuring a quiet incantation under her breath, she trails one hand down his front, releasing each button in turn, laying their tight formation asunder as her other hand slips through the exposed folds—his first line of defence. Her fingertips engage a smattering of fine hairs, then the ridge of his collar bone, before grazing upward and encountering the first one. He stiffens. She stops.
Her other hand, now upon his solar plexus, opens, the heel pressing against his diaphragm. She feels him begin to breathe again. She wants to check his face but she won’t. Her eyes stay shut.
Her fingertips glide across the knotty knolls and tors of his scar. The skin pulls and strains as he twists his head away but she lingers. He has run from this before. He’d spurned her because of it. It feels stupidly dangerous to go there again but it also feels important. She isn’t up to playing games anymore, she’s too old, and she has to know . . .
More buttons submit to her murmured suggestion. He doesn’t push her away. She moves closer.
Both hands are now free to slip beneath the open hang of coat and shirt, they take opposite journeys across the warm soil, the open field of potholes and trenches that relate the torrid story of his existence. He shudders—an earthquake—but she holds on . . .
And finally he stills.
Pushing aside the solid drape of clothing, she uses his warmth as her guide. Her lips flutter across his skin, riding the quivering vibration of muscles beneath, before alighting on a single location—both hard and soft, the tiny stiff peak of his nipple that her tongue now plies gently as he moans. Her lips snare the pebble of flesh, sucking it into her mouth, and he responds—a sharp inhalation—followed by his strong hand, grasping at her hip.
She instantly traps it. So little of her is better; so much remains intolerant.
His fingernails scratch against the door where she pins them. She understands his agitation—especially considering the increasingly insistent twitches of his bulging crotch . . . and the fact that she’s been carefully navigating its significant presence since she started.
Perhaps it is now time.
She opens her eyes.
His face is awash with a torrent of emotions—as she knew it would be. This type of exposure had always been a source of intense discomfort. And that’s why she had afforded him some level of privacy, at least from her gaze.
He’d shouted many things at her before she’d left him that last time. But the most overwhelming accusation had been that she had violated him. Despite the deep hurt, it was a statement she had revisited many times over the years, ruminating over its source. Whilst she had garnered much from him in his semi-conscious state, this final blow-up had suggested that she had breached something of significance—some sort of pact—some agreement he’d had with himself over preserving the private shame of his suffering. She had witnessed it . . . all of it . . . and without his invitation.
That same pain is written on his face now. But it is tempered by other emotions . . . an intricate collage of influences . . . including, mercifully, those dark motes of desire.
And so she reaches for his fly, pulling the buttons apart and pushing the waist down over his hips. His cock springs free and she catches it, looking him in the eyes as she squeezes gently with her fist.
“Take it . . .” His voice is hoarse as he curls his fingers against the door. She stares at him. “. . . Wherever . . . you need it.”
Take it?
It is so reminiscent of that terrible moment in the Shrieking Shack, when he had asked Harry to do the same. But that time it had been tears . . . his own tears—the final part of himself that he’d had to give.
And he was doing the same for her.
She very rarely wept anymore. There had been so many reasons to do so, and so many emotions that called for it on a regular basis, that she’d become rather cynical about the value of such indulgences. But there was nothing that rationality could do for her now.
Releasing her grip upon him, she stands in silence as her face slowly collapses and the tears begin to fall. She can’t deny her desperate desire for his healing essence. It has become a lifeline that she covets above almost anything else. But the thought that it is all she values in him is pitifully sad and completely untrue.
There are no words capable of bringing the comfort she seeks—for them both—and so she turns to the universal language in the hope that it can begin to convey her feelings.
Lifting a hand, she slides it under his open collar once again before curling around his neck to draw him down to her. Her other hand slips up to cradle his jaw, guiding him to her parted lips, trembling and wet with tears. And he meets her with equal tenderness, pressing one silky pad between hers before drawing her top lip into the warmth of his mouth, the tip of his tongue lightly skimming its contours.
Teary and congested, she releases him to draw a gasping breath before lunging back with increased vigour, lapping into his mouth as the hand on his cheek slides up to tunnel into his hair. His forceful response, mouth opening to claim hers, draws a throaty moan that shocks her with its desirous depth but also betrays everything she wants him to know. She allows her complex feelings further expression through increasingly passionate incursions into him, her tongue exploring and tasting his masculine essence with each thrust, and he meeting her with matching hunger until they are both groaning and panting with abandon.
Finally she pulls away, small frame heaving from the effort, before taking him by the hand. She leads him over to a high backed chair by his table, turning it around before ushering him gently into it. He sits, eyes never leaving her.
Tossing her shawl aside, she hitches up the sides of her dress and locates the elastic to her knickers. With a wandless seam-splitting incantation, they drop to the floor. He notices them—soaked in arousal. Kicking them aside, she approaches, grasping the back of the chair behind his head to steady herself before straddling his lap.
As she stands, one leg either side of his, she leans forward to taste him once more—partly to assuage the grinding hunger that she has for him, the irresistible enticement of that achingly sexy mouth that originally set her in this state back at the restaurant—and partly in an attempt to reassure him that she has feelings for him beyond this . . . beyond what she is about to make him give her.
As she kisses him, she grasps the hand resting on his thigh and guides it to his cock, wrapping his fingers around his own member and her small fingers around his. Encouraging his fist to stroke, she brings her other hand to his bare chest and finds his nipple again, squeezing it until he bites her lip, making her core contract painfully with desire. She whimpers, dearly hoping that his essence will work as well internally as it does externally.
His hand beneath hers tugs forcefully, much less gentle than when she’d done it to him. His breathing in her mouth hitches and she senses that he is already close. Perhaps her earlier attention did have some effect? Releasing his pumping fist, she straightens and hitches her dress up higher until she can position her pussy over him. Placing her hand as a shield, determined not to waste a drop, she watches his face. His eyelids fall closed as his mouth falls open; a groan seizes his chest and she suddenly feels it—warm jets spattering against her pussy and palm.
Managing to hold off until the final surge, she instantly massages his cream into her, spreading it liberally between her folds and over her clitoris which has managed to work itself into a sparking frisson of arousal. She finishes by smearing a generous amount over the head of his cock before positioning the large bulb at her entrance.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she murmurs apologetically. “I understand this is probably not what you want right now but it is going to reach far further than my fingers ever will.”
He’s still breathing heavily but inclines his head to indicate for her to continue. Folding her bottom lip between her teeth, she grasps the back of the chair tightly and gradually lowers herself. The stretch is instant. Her legs stiffen. Stop.
She needs to take it slowly. However, while his cock is currently still swollen enough to assist, she realises it won’t be like that forever. And since she wants it as deeply inside her as possible, she pushes more forcefully.
“Oh, fuck!”
Her head drops down to her chest before she remembers herself.
“Sorry . . . it’s just . . .”
He makes no comment. She glances up to see a mixture of concern and amusement on his face. A small breathy chuckle suddenly escapes her as she realises how painfully ridiculous this is for him also. Still, she must press on—and she does—wincing as his, not insubstantial, member squeezes further inside her.
She closes her eyes. It’s not even erect and it feels like she’s trying to impale herself on a lamp post. Gods! But she can also feel something else happening—something changing. The entrance to her pussy is no longer howling and the soothing relief seems to be spreading. Rocking her hips, she gradually lowers herself further, millimetre by millimetre, until she is finally there—deliciously full.
It’s a sensation she hasn’t felt in years and she realises with a sudden surge of longing, how much she has missed it. There are still aftershocks rolling through her, violent reactions to the foreign intrusion, but they are diminishing, and the relief of knowing that she may, once again, enjoy such intimate pleasures squeezes her heart so comprehensively that she loses her grip on the chair and collapses, forehead on his shoulder, fingers curled into his neck.
“Can I just wait here . . . like this . . . for a moment?”
“Take as long as you need.” His voice is low and gentle and melts her against him just a little more.
He feels her relieved sigh whisper across his skin and he smiles. He’s genuinely pleased—for her—that she has discovered a balm, regardless of the origin, and one that’s as life-enhancing as this is proving to be.
But he is also awash with gratitude for his own circumstance. Despite the fact that he is still aching to touch her, and that she is awkwardly squatting, impaled on the less-than-impressive remnants of his wilting member, he knows that, connected to her like this, he has never felt more complete in his life.
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete