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
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: Hey guys, just wanted to let you know that DIFTO was runner up in the ‘Best Hermione Characterisation’ section of the Haven Awards. This is the first award any of my stories has received so I’m extremely grateful to those of you who were kind enough to take the time to vote. DSxx
Kvarta – ‘Please - take care of yourself’ – Thanks Kx – I’m exhausted but at least I’ve managed to squeeze in a little writing time :) ‘don't tell me that she thinks that sponge-baths are sexy!’ – well actually no (although I did go there in ‘The Quickening’ so obviously I think they can be under certain circumstances). ‘it still sounds to me like they can balance each other in a way’ – hmmm, interesting! ;) ‘recent events or a good orgasm?’ – I’m thinking the latter :) ‘she is trying to "fix her plumbing" too? *evil grin*’ – well I think she would if she could! ‘Loads of smiles, hugs and kisses’ – and back to you!! x
Jaded Fate – ‘Where's my fan’ – LOL, he does tend to have that effect, doesn’t he? ;)
OO – ‘A little sexual tension, a little angst, a little jizz on the desktop’ – LOL, that’s my kinda day ;) ‘You might be the master of blending dark humor and depressing moods, feeding them off each other so the reader is left as insane as your characters.’ – that’s one of the nicest things you could possibly say. Even if it does come from being basically insane myself ;) ‘The bleakness of her situation packed into one little nipple’ – I so love how you put that, better than I did x. ‘This is my life.’ L And I’m in a cave. ‘I loved the whole rediscovering his manhood mentality (and it mirrors Hermione's sexual hibernation too)’ – more delicious insights. ‘I love it when you go all Bill Nye on us’ – I had to look him up and saw that he was some buzzardy scientist dude. I suspect I channel him a little again in this chappie (except for the buzzardiness hopefully ;))

Chapter 8 – His and Hers
“Have you tried a topical anaesthetic before?” He reaches to the top shelf of the cupboard and shuffles aside some jars.
“Yes.”
“And?” He turns his head, hand hovering over a jar.
“And I felt anaesthetised,” she responds.
“But was it an improvement?”
“Feeling nothing at all?”
The corner of his mouth quirks down, suggesting irritation but also acceptance of her position. “I expected as much.”
Withdrawing his hand and flicking the door closed with an air of disdain, he returns to his desk. From a small bookcase nearby he selects two texts, placing each slowly and deliberately in front of her before crossing his arms expectantly.
She leans forward.
“’The Biology of Magical Maladies’ and ‘Cursed Physiology’,” she reads aloud. “So you think this is a curse?”
“Do you?”
She sighs before leaning back and trailing a weary hand over her face. “Sometimes.”
“But you also think that there may be a purely biological component?”
She lets her hand fall away. “Yes.”
“So do I.”
She is strangely comforted by the gravity of his rich, deep tone. He is taking this seriously. Perhaps he even . . . cares.
“Which is why I prepared this.”
Slipping his long fingers into his pocket, he withdraws a small vial and hands it to her. She tilts the clear solution, making it twinkle amber in the low torchlight. She hasn’t a clue what it is.
“As you may be aware, low blood calcium can change the firing patterns of nerves, making them hyper-excitable. Your blood calcium would have been investigated numerous times in the past and you would know if a deficit was detected. However, I’m not convinced that a remedy could not be applied in topical form to modulate receptor output. This particular solution also has a generalised curse remedy associated with it. I thought it might be a good starting point.”
Her eyes flicker to his. “So I simply apply this to my skin?”
“Yes.”
“Can I try it now?”
He notes the desperation in her brown eyes.
“This may have no effect whatsoever. You do understand?”
She nods quickly but still that spark of hope is there.
“Perhaps try a location that is not so . . . sensitive. The back of your hand?” he suggests, moving forward to watch.
Pulling out the dropper, she applies a little of the oily liquid to the back of one hand and lifts her other hand to rub it in.
“Stop,” he interrupts abruptly. “You’ll get it on your fingers.”
Suddenly he is kneeling beside her. He takes her hand between his, gently massaging the solution into her translucent skin. Her hand is so small that the three pads of his fingers practically cover the entire surface. Her fingertips curl against the palm of his supporting hand. They flex rhythmically, applying a brief but powerful jolt to his insides each time they whisper against him.
It’s happening again . . . to her also. Her breathing has changed. She sighs now upon each exhalation. Although he can’t feel the warmth of her breath, he prickles as though it is ruffling directly into his ear. He knows without looking that her jaw has dropped, lips forced apart as she strives to cope with the deficit. In his mind’s eye, each delicate pad flutters upon inhalation, as it had when he’d examined her, rapidly firming and ripening with her arousal. His eyes flicker sideways—only as far as her chest. Her breasts rise and fall with an unnatural encumbrance, an audible hitch catching him as his hand slides over hers for a final time, trailing down her fingers before it recedes.
He rises without looking at her. Two long strides and he is behind his desk, sitting abruptly and snatching up his quill.
“Anything?” he inquires, fixing his face with an impenetrable frown.
It’s all there—just as he’d imagined. She looks as though she’s been fucked, and he’d only just touched her . . . barely.
He eases his legs apart to relieve his own encumbrance, consolidating his frown in case she suspects that he is interested in anything other than her condition.
“It’s . . . it’s difficult to tell,” she responds breathlessly, avoiding his gaze.
Absently she trails a finger over the back of her hand.
“I don’t . . .” She falters before looking up at him. “I haven’t returned to . . . baseline, so it’s difficult to say.”
That’s an understatement. She is still projecting so far out of her skin, it’s palpable.
He sighs and drops his quill, unable to take much more of her apologetic arousal . . . her unwittingly intrusive presence. He drags a hand over his stubbling chin.
“Sleep on it,” he mutters between splayed fingers.
She takes that to mean ‘leave.’
“Can I borrow one of these, please?”
“Of course.”
Selecting the book closest to her, she nods gratefully. “I really do appreciate your efforts, Professor.”
He simply nods in response, fingers still thoughtfully framing his lips.
“And I do understand how frustrating this must be for you.”
He suppresses the need to close his eyes.
Does she have to be so piercingly earnest? So honest? So genuinely fucking grateful?
Her life is shit—he’s just some prick attempting to feel a little less guilty about it. And she happens to be giving him a hell of a lot more than he’s giving her.
Upon his silence, she leaves. Those brown eyes slide away, full of roiling deliberation—thinking too much . . . as usual. The last he sees of her is that small, glistening hand gently closing the door.
He wrenches his fly open and tugs his cock free from his boxers. Sighing, he grasps himself—allowing the elation of wielding his, now vibrant, member to seep in. He finally admits that he has been concerned . . . preparing himself for the possibility that the previous day’s events were no more than a brief glitch, a biological fluke set to torture him for years to come.
The hard heat throbbing in his hand tells him otherwise. He strokes himself, drawing a growl from somewhere unexpectedly primal—a rare conciliation, an admission of desires so fundamental that they’d barely been acknowledged. Of course he will indulge in another wank—he’d revel in it. But what he really wants, and what his body clearly craves—his hips starting to rock of their own accord—is a fuck.
The visceral memories of past encounters captures him as he tightens his grip on his shaft. There were many—so many, in fact, that few stand out as prominent, most melding together in a seething carnal collage of pumping, groaning bodies. He’d increasingly indulged as the pressure of Voldemort’s commands and Dumbledore’s ‘vehement suggestions’ had mounted. Sometimes he’d sought satisfaction within Voldemort’s ranks but he preferred it to be elsewhere—often anonymous, just the raw physicality of indulging in the body of another—without attachment. Indeed, he’d not had the capacity, or the desire, at that time to entertain anything more.
But now? The sad truth was that he probably did have the capacity . . . and possibly even the desire. But until yesterday he’d been incapable of acting upon either. After all, who would want a man who could no longer perform as such?
And then there was the more complex problem of who would want a man who could perform, but was such a compulsively surly bastard that he inevitably pushed them away, isolating himself in the process. And what if that person was incapable of engaging, themselves?
Standing, he makes his way around to the other side of the desk, never faltering in his rhythmic tugging. Stepping up to the desk, he rests the fist gripping his cock on the wooden edge and holds it there as he begins pumping into it. He imagines someone, a certain person, bent over his desk, thrusting into her from behind. Closing his eyes, he places his other palm against the surface of the desk—the small of her back—as he snaps his hips forward, plunging into her over and over again.
Even though his calloused palm is a poor substitute for the hot, slick embrace of a willing pussy, it doesn’t take long for him to feel the gathering promise of another colossal release. His desperate thrusts speed up, his pubic bone slamming into his fist as he reaches down with his other hand to cup his balls. He squeezes them as the pressure builds.
He is vocalising now, groaning at the ceiling as his eyelids sink in ecstasy. He grunts as his straining balls twitch in his fingers and suddenly he is discharging again, his cock shooting come in impressive arcs across the desk, each surging further with the momentum of his thrusts. It is difficult to believe he’d only ejaculated the day before as his cock seems determined to demonstrate its newfound virility by spurting with healthy exuberance, over and over until his desk is similarly defaced. He groans with relief as the last thick drops slide over his knuckles, depositing directly in the centre of the—
“Professor, sorry to interrupt you again but I . . .”
Jerking around, he sees her over his shoulder, rapidly approaching, nose buried in the book. He turns his body away, fumbling with his, still tumescent, cock in an effort to shove it back in his pants.
“I really can’t find what I am looking for in this one and I thought perhaps the other one . . .”
She stops talking.
He doesn’t turn.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
His shoulders drop in mortification.
“I didn’t realise I’d spilt some potion on this book. I’ll just wipe it off.”
He clutches his forehead with one large hand.
Silence.
More silence.
“Professor?”
He can’t move.
“This isn’t potion is it?”
For fuck’s sake.
“Professor?”
Obliviation. That’s the only solution.
Spinning around, he raises his hand to her.
“This works.”
He stops. “What?”
“This.” She dips a finger into the creamy smear in the centre of the book and rubs it between her fingers. “I can feel it already. The sensation is diminished. It’s . . . incredible. Like a small window of quiet . . . amongst the roar.”
Dipping into it again, she rubs the fluid on the back of her other hand, nodding slowly as a grin captures her lips, spreading until her face lights up in a manner he hasn’t observed since her arrival.
“Where’s the rest of it?”
He falters, still on the verge of Obliviating her.
“Please Professor, is there more?”
Turning back to the desk she leans forward for a closer look.
“Yesss,” she hisses.
Before he can do anything, she is scooping his seed up with her fingers and rubbing it over her hands and wrists. She moves hungrily around the desk, tilting her head to catch the tell-tale glisten before descending upon each careless splatter as though it is liquid gold. When she begins happily rubbing it on her cheeks, his mouth drops open. Nothing more than raspy air wheezes out.
Finally she stops her hunt-and-gather expedition across the desk, scanning the floor and nearby surfaces for precious drops.
When she realises, with obvious disappointment, that the supply has been exhausted, she turns to him.
“Could you possibly . . . make me some more?”
He blinks, lips hovering open before pressing closed again.
“Please?”
“I . . .” Those brown eyes again, pleading, appeasing . . . fuck. “I’ll see what I can do.”
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete