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I want to Snape you like an animal complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 16931 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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
- 8
- 9
- 10
A/N: Whew, another small window in which to write. Thank you to the kind peeps who keep me going. I love you all, DSxx
SnapeLove – Unfortunately my work seems determined to kill me too. Hopefully we can both keep it at bay :/. ‘the questions is how the real thing is going to react!’ – absolutely! Coming up in this chapter! I’m glad the last chapter gave you a few cackles. J Hope you enjoy this one too! x
Discord_the_lunatic – Heheh, ‘tis indeed! :)
OO – ‘I can’t believe he went and got the real man!’ – yes, he has got balls after all :) ‘Of course confession followed by a ride would be even more lovely. (But I’m not greedy :)’ – yes you are greedy, and of course I am bound to provide! x

Chapter 9 - Holy Snape!
Hermione approached, her hesitant steps the only sound in the quiet room. He was so perfectly still. Yet she’d never known anyone to convey so much power in the absence of motion. It was palpable—in his stance, the rise of his shoulders, the flex of his heedful hands, even the attentive crook of his little finger.
He was far from relaxed. But perhaps he was feeding off her own apprehension.
Did he still harbour remnants of their interaction from the previous evening? If so, when he sensed that it was her, would he simply leave again? And would that rejection pierce her as acutely, as completely, as it had the night before?
She felt herself wincing, shrivelling inwards, wondering why she was already willing to put herself back into that place again. Perhaps it was because this would be the very last time. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t be with him again. Not like this. And so, as Neville had suggested, it was probably worth taking the risk for a better result. He might even stay to the end, until she was ready to release him . . . for the last time.
He was almost within touching distance. She caught the faint twitch of his jaw, the microscopic convulsion of his fingers.
The Boggart was tense. But so was she.
She was struck again by the compelling sense that, on some level, through some intangible microcosm of association, they had somehow become connected. The tug in her chest, the way he wound her gradually but inexorably towards him, made Hermione feel very much that a part of her had been indelibly bound to this creature. It was why the rejection had struck her so deeply. She understood that the Boggart’s actions had simply been a manifestation of her own fear but she’d somehow convinced herself that their connection was stronger than that, that it would somehow override whatever innate sense the Boggart had of itself. It made no real sense, but neither did this, what she was doing to him now, her fingers slipping under his coat to feel him, sensing his warm flesh through the soft weave of his shirt.
He twitched again, his abdomen this time beneath her fingertips. It was accompanied by a quiet inhalation. She looked intently at his face, or at least the parts visible around the blindfold.
Had he suddenly turned shy? Did he need more reassurance from her?
Withdrawing her hand, she stepped forward and proceeded to slip both arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest, her ear to his heart. She could actually feel its bold thud pulsing against her, so much stronger than the previous evening. And there was something else. A scent. She had never noticed it before but it came now in subtle drifts, mouth-watering motes of cloves and cinnamon. She inhaled deeply, turning her face to nuzzle against him.
He didn’t move to hold her in return, to reciprocate the embrace, but it didn’t matter. She increased the pressure, squeezing him until she felt the tide of tension in his muscles gradually start to recede. His release eased her own anxiety, her body resting more fully against his firm planes, melting like soft wax into his contours.
Allowing one hand to drift around to his side, she grasped his hand and lifted it to cup the curve of her cheek. She continued to rub against him, the tip of her nose grazing into his palm, nudging upward to trace the contours of his long fingers. Her lips and damp breath ghosted over the fleshy whorls, feeling them flexing gently, in turn, against her.
“You should have seen him,” she whispered, her lips nipping a soft trail over the distinctly herbaceous residue that seasoned his crevices. So incredibly authentic. “Your soul bond. He was utterly . . . spectacular.” Her lips curved into a smile before she ventured out, a brief flicker of her tongue, sliding between his fingers, tasting him. His torso tightened against her. “Maybe you felt it,” she continued. “Maybe you feel everything he does, as he feels you.” She slipped her tongue out again, sliding it along the margin of his middle finger until she reached the end and sucked the tip into her mouth. He groaned.
After a few fervid sucks, she tilted her chin, allowing his wet phalanx to pop free. “These hands . . .” She canted forward in reverence, slicking her lips, the side of her cheek against his fingers, trawling her own saliva gratuitously over her skin. “The way they milked her—the Sweet Water Seductress. The way he fingered her . . . just to make a point . . . just because he could,” she breathed. “I can’t stop thinking about it, about him. If he can do that to a plant, what could he do to a woman? What could he do to . . . me?”
Suddenly she captured his digit again, stroking it firmly on the underside with her tongue before sliding forward, engulfing his entire length until she could feel him in the back of her throat. She held him there and sucked, rocking her head from side to side. She already knew he liked it like that. At least he’d liked it when she had been on her knees, taking each fierce thrust as completely as she could.
She whimpered, closing her eyes against the intensity of the memory. But this time she wanted him somewhere else. She wanted to feel that keen sting and those driving blows directly between her legs, slamming into her core. She knew it was wrong—there was nothing she could do to ease her conscience, but her desperate need to be fucked by him had overwhelmed any sense of rational thought. She wanted him totally unleashed, no holding back—she needed to feel the aftermath of this final encounter imprinted onto and inside her for as long as possible.
Finally releasing him, she looked up to see his soft lips parted, shallow breaths rushing in and out. But still he didn’t move to touch her.
Didn’t he want her anymore?
Her face crumpled. There was something wrong.
“I’m sorry.” She lifted a trembling hand to his cheek. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you. It’s wrong. Because you know, don’t you?” She traced her thumb back and forth along his jawline. “You know the truth—that I don’t really want you. I want him. I want Snape. You showed that to me yesterday—you presented me with his rejection and it hurt like hell—like it hasn’t hurt in a long time. Since the war . . . since my friends . . . my parents . . .”
Feeling the mounting dejection and sorrow enveloping her, she finally allowed her head to drop, resting against his chest as she sobbed quietly.
“I thought he’d changed. He felt so . . . different,” she rasped. “I thought he might have changed his mind about me. That maybe he’d even forgiven me . . . for leaving him. I hoped he might be able to feel the connection that I feel . . . with him . . . with you.”
She fisted his coat in anguish. “I just thought that he might want to—”
Then she felt it. A hand. Strong fingers, tunnelling into her hair, tracing soothing circles into her roots. She drew a ragged breath, fear and hope clawing at one another, tearing at her throat. But as the tension rapidly drained away, lanced from her scalp by his expertly probing fingers, she felt the fear give way to wonder. His touch was incredible, so intensely therapeutic, rippling through her skin in long shivery swathes, soaking into her depths, healing her as if by . . . magic.
Jerking her head up, her mouth dropped open in surprise. The blindfold was gone. Those impossibly black eyes were drawing her in, dragging her down, submerging her in their fathomless depths. This was it. The end.
And then he kissed her.
The shock stopped her mind. And her heart. The lips that captured hers weren’t chaste or cautious, they were firm, hungry, seeking as much from her as they were looking to provide. Hermione felt her paralysis finally release and she responded with her own greedy desire, gorging on his open mouth like forbidden fruit, unlikely to be offered again.
It was far longer into this feasting than should have been reasonably expected that rational thoughts began to permeate the buffer of lust that had enveloped her brain.
What the fuck was going on with this Boggart? And why had he stayed after removing his blindfold?
She continued to maul him, fuelling their passionate exchange with lips and tongue and teeth and anything else she could attack him with, but there were deeper thoughts, more complicated ones, scarier ones that she desperately tried to shut out. Finally, agonisingly, they managed to hack their way through to her consciousness.
Could it be . . ?
She moaned with frustration, almost shrieking into his mouth as she tried to drive the thought away.
Was it at all possible that this wasn’t . . .
She latched onto him again, feeling like she could draw blood.
. . . the Boggart?
The final manifestation of that suggestion instantly parched her throat, froze her jaw. She stopped mid-maul and, shivering with dread, slowly pulled away.
His lips were red and swollen. The line of his jaw was rigid. But it was his eyes, smouldering with black fire, that threatened to undo her now, rendering her little more than a pile of ashes.
Then he surprised her by quirking one dark eyebrow. “You just thought that I might want to . . . what?”
Hermione’s mouth opened and closed, a strangled squeak emerging but nothing more.
He smiled then. A deliciously subtle hitch that gave him that air of boyish charm once again. Hermione was transported back to that moment in the classroom, the deviousness of his intent, the simmering lasciviousness. He was a complicated man. He always had been.
But this was on a whole new level. The fact that he was here. Now. Kissing her. Letting himself be kissed. Putting their harrowing past behind them.
She could see nothing else for it. The way she was feeling, the immaculate strain that he had placed upon her physically, mentally and emotionally, she considered it time to establish just how complicated and lascivious he really was.
“I just thought that you might want to . . . fuck me.” She delivered it with a bold conviction that belied the lurching gait of her troubled heart.
The hand on the back of her head began to knead gently again. “Do you wish for me to . . . fuck you?”
His touch, those words on his succulent lips, drew her into a heavy-lidded stare. Gods, he was so fucking hot she could hardly see straight.
“Yes . . . I want you to fuck me,” she replied thickly. “Like a Boggart.”
He frowned then. “Like a Boggart?”
“Don’t worry.” She grabbed his hand and guided it down between her legs. “I’ll show you.”
- 8
- 9
- 10
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I want to Snape you like an animal *complete*

I want to Snape you like an animal complete