A/N: Sincere thanks to the wonderful Marriage1988 for allowing me to breathe a little life into her delightful story idea. Her written contributions, including some of the most poignant conversations and Severus' history, added a depth to the characters that I could never have achieved alone. Thanks to all of you for contributing your thoughts, particularly those guest reviewers who I can't respond to, Giada and Smithback who have left regular comments. Your engagement with my stories continues to make this adventure worthwhile – it's what keeps me writing. This is my last fic ready to post. I hope to have something new in the near future. Until then, DSx
The waterfall would have to wait this time—she wanted her flat, and quickly. The moon seemed to follow them, like a glowing balloon on an invisible string, as they strode along the darkened streets, their footsteps tapping out an urgent rhythm that only added to the mounting tension that seemed to twine around every fibre of their bodies.
Severus' response to the ethereal draw of the full moon was an exquisitely heightened level of arousal, a keen sharpening of his senses, and a carnal desire that astoundingly managed to surpass all previous levels—even when he'd been under the influence of some serious stimulants. So he could only imagine how Hermione felt. Unlike him, she'd suffered a multitude of wounds, the pawful of ragged scars scoring her cheek and chest testifying to the amount of contact the werewolf had made with her tissues and fluids.
Her grip on his hand had tightened to the point of pain. It was one of the most prominent changes; her strength this evening would easily surpass his. And her stamina was . . . well, let's just say he would need Sunday to recover and still be aching deliciously for any number of days afterwards.
There were only two flights of stairs up to her flat but it was all he could do to force her up them before she'd managed to divest him of all of his clothes. In fact, by the time he thumped the door closed behind them, she'd already conquered everything but his trousers—her covetous hands filled with his, now buttonless, shirt, torn jacket and, amazingly, both boots.
Dumping them on the ground, she slammed him against the wall with the palm of only one hand. He was mildly winded but it wasn't enough to quell the smirk that instantly slid across his lips at her impressive display of dominance. For someone so petite, and often exceedingly proper, her predatory antics and voracious sexual appetite were both deeply endearing and ball-tinglingly erotic. These moments thrilled him, sending a powerful surge of desire shooting straight to his cock, making him wonder if he could possibly be any more turned on.
And then she growled.
It wasn't exactly wolf-like but it wasn't entirely human. More like a hungry tigress, a low vibration rolling exquisitely around the back of her throat—causing his skin to prickle and quiver. He could be more aroused as it turned out—especially at the thought of what was coming next.
Both of her hands lingered on his fly. The fingernail of her index finger—fine, narrow, not claw-like but, again, sharper than usual—she trailed in a languorous line just below his bellybutton making his abdominal muscles dance. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop himself from growling in response. He didn't want to raise her ire. Not that he was worried about her becoming violent, it's just that the following required a . . . gentle touch. If she suddenly developed a taste for fresh meat he'd be in trouble. Half of his blood supply was currently residing in his cock—a good bite and he'd bleed out instantly.
As it was, she kept one hand pressed against his naked abdomen, holding him firmly against the wall as she slithered down his body, pulling his trousers and boxers down with the other. The hand pinning him to the wall wasn't at all required, it wasn't as though he was going to attempt to escape—he wasn't insane—but it was all part of her maintaining dominance, despite her position. And feeling the power pulsing behind the soft flesh of her palm, knowing the impact of her lightning fast reflexes if he even tried to move, was erotic in the extreme.
He allowed the groan to slip through his lips as her warm breath panted against the engorged flesh of his head, throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat.
Without warning, she took him. He hissed—a rapid inhalation of breath sucking between gritted teeth. Her mouth was searingly hot and her tongue longer, stronger and more flexible than any human tongue he'd ever felt. It whipped and slithered around his head and probed insistently at his slit as though trying to burrow inside. He needed to calm down—keep a lid on it—even though he could feel the tension already building in his clenching balls like a pressure cooker. Whilst his stamina would also be increased, and his recovery quicker, he couldn't afford to come too quickly. Not with what she had planned.
He reached down and raked his fingers into her wild locks. It felt thicker than usual—and there seemed to be more of it. Gently massaging, he eventually managed to persuade her to moderate her pace—she calmed a little, rubbing into him like a cat between voracious sucks on his cock. He could temper her a little like this. But she was still very much in control. A fact now verified by the firm grasp on his balls as she tugged him with her strong fingers before forcing his cock further into her mouth.
His head slammed back against the wall. She was utterly merciless, her muscular throat gripping and straining around him in powerful waves. A moan strained from his own throat as he clenched his abdominal muscles, trying to hold on. Even as his fingers ground against her scalp more forcefully, trying to ease her back, she drove the final nail into his cock-shaped coffin.
Prising his lids open, he had to assure himself, not for the first time, that she'd never been touched by that fucking snake. The sinuous undulations of her lips around his cock, the way she wove mesmerically to stimulate him was positively serpentine. And despite all this primitive animalism, this carnal cavorting she remained his—his Hermione. She was still stunning, those caramel eyes, gilt with primal need, were also filled with a deep desire to please him as they locked onto his.
An ocean of warmth flooded him. Even his most exceptional encounters in the past had been infused with a degree of desperation, a constant probing for more, with the knowledge that he would never be fulfilled. But with her, every moment forged a new level of intimacy and a deeper bond. It was unlike anything he'd ever imagined—the idea that someone could open him up like this, taking him beyond the need for self-preservation, away from his old habit of using before being used.
He could come right now. Easily. The sight of her—the Minister—the mouth that had been used to deliver some of the most inspiring and uniting words he'd ever heard, now being used to pleasure him—a man who had previously disgusted her, had disgusted himself, now accepting him deeply into her. He just loved it.
But he wasn't disappointed when she stopped—when she released his cock, flushed and glistening from her tumescent lips. Because they simply relocated upward to his, devouring his mouth, her tongue lapping deliciously into him, probing and licking as she continued to stroke and fondle his cock, stirring him up at both ends until he was panting with desire.
"I want you to fuck me," she murmured huskily, drawing her sharp nails across his jawline.
"Mmmm . . . hard."
He couldn't imagine doing her any other way in that moment. The wolverine taint made his blood simmer, infusing his muscles with a hot tension that made him want to bury himself as deeply inside her as possible. Lifting her with one arm, he used the other to remove her clothing—deft, wandless incantations causing each item to slip off in their wake until her supple, muscular body was lying nestled against his, the moonlight filtering through her windows turning her into a moonscape of milky curves and shadowy crevices.
He inhaled deeply as he ran the tip of his nose down the curve of her neck. "This is all mine," he whispered against her, slithering his palm over her breast, down her abdomen to her pussy, where his fingers burrowed through her bush into her molten channel, drawing a shuddery moan from the recesses of her throat.
"Show me how much you want it," she breathed, twisting her neck to nip at his face.
Lifting his head, he gazed into her shining eyes as he continued to delve his long fingers into her. He could never show her how much he wanted her. His heart would simply cave in. But he would express to her in the language of sex—one he'd thought he'd known well but had learned more about in the past four months with her than in all the years previous—exactly how intense his feelings for her were.
In a flash, he'd spun her around and flung her, front first, over the couch. She gripped the top with her strong fingers, arching herself back so that her buttocks lifted and opened to him, straining onto her toes to give him better access. Crouching, he slithered both hands down her inner thighs and pulled her legs apart before spreading her cheeks and labia with his large palms so that everything was on display.
He loved all of it—her deliciously swelling pearl, warm creamy tunnel and that tight musky opening that she didn't often let him near but tonight she would. Tonight she'd want him to give it a lot of attention. In fact, she'd demand it.
Starting at the apex of her labia, he licked upward, swirling his tongue over and around her clitoris. She gasped and tensed and he felt her buttocks clenching under his fingers. Gradually he worked his way up, catching the sweet nectar that was already overflowing from her pussy before sliding his tongue inside her.
With a moaning sigh, she slumped further over the couch, pressing her stomach into it to lever her backside up for him. It was very much a demonstration of female receptivity, an encouragement to mate, and his cock, twanging excitedly against his stomach was more than ready. But she'd told him to show her how much he wanted her. And so he firmed his tongue and used it to ream the margins of her opening, rolling his head from side to side to drag his muscle in and out of her slick perimeter. It drove her wild-er.
Grunting, she surged up and down, her hips pumping into the couch. He had to move with them to keep his tongue inside her.
"Severussss," she hissed, her fingernails digging into the fabric until there was a sharp ripping sound. "I need you up further. In my—Yessss!"
He was already there, tongue tickling and probing into her clenching ring of muscle. Pulling her cheeks wider, he pressed into her, dipping and delving until she was bucking so forcefully that he just remained still, tongue out, allowing her to guide herself wherever she wanted him, back into her pussy, over her clitoris and finishing on her arse which he coated liberally with saliva. She never wanted a lot of lubrication, she preferred it rough but still, he wanted her to at least be able to sit the next day.
Then he was up, pulling her back a little from where she was practically embedded in the couch before grasping his cock and sliding his head up and down her cleft, tracking it through the pool of juices at her pussy before sliding down to rub against her clitoris and gliding up further to press against her back passage, testing it with his helmet.
"I need you to fuck me now," she moaned, having clearly reached the limits of her patience.
"Show me how much." His voice was gravelly with need. He'd also reached his limit.
Feeling behind herself, she grasped his hand with hers, guiding his cock back down to her pussy before inhaling deeply and ramming backwards, impaling herself on him.
"Unnnhhhh." She arched back, the ropey muscles of her biceps bulging as her grip on the couch tightened.
Pulling out, he slammed back into her—over and over again but she had the strength to hold herself steady, bracing her arms so that her backside met him on each thumping return. They were like a perfectly tuned timepiece, each working part fitting and moving against the other except that the clash of bodies was brutal, and carnal, and exactly what they both needed. His balls smacked into her as she reared back into him, her strength continuing to surprise him, despite already enjoying three such glorious nights in the past. And the most impressive part was that her enhanced muscularity extended right down into her core. Her pussy grabbed powerfully at him, strangling his cock, squeezing it like she was trying to wring the come from it before his balls had even had a chance to catch up.
His face was a rictus of effort as he worked to both pummel her and hold off coming. He was determined to take her as many times as possible that evening. Not that he ever missed out in between—they fucked almost daily. But it wasn't about the sex. This night was a reminder that they had survived; both were still alive. The scars were with them, inside and out, but they were challenging them, defying them, replacing those terrifying memories with new ones—far richer and infinitely more wonderful ones. These nights mattered because they memorialised their joy in being alive . . . and together.
She was gasping and moaning and getting close to coming—he could feel her tightening, locked around his cock like a vice. Suddenly, she forced him back so that he was squeezed from her pussy before she reached around to grab his tacky cock and positioned him at her back entrance.
"When you're about to come, turn me around," she panted.
She knew him so well already—knew that this would be his undoing. And he knew her too, exactly how and where she would want him.
"As you wish," he purred, curling his body against hers, cocooning her underneath him so that he was pressing as much of his bare flesh against hers as physically possible. He wasn't going to ram in hard, even though he knew she would take it. He wanted this to be slow and gentle—he did love her after all. Gradually, he pressed his cock into her, holding her tight around the waist as he combed his fingers up under her hair, rolling it back so he could drag hot, wet kisses across the nape of her neck.
She whimpered beneath him, her body quivering as he worked deeper into her. He was confident that it wasn't pain, but the overwhelming sensation of her passage being filled, the sense of him working against the reflexes that were desperately trying to expel him. But he continued to massage her scalp as he licked and kissed her and she began to purr—a soft reverberation rolling up from the back of her throat.
He slid slowly out before easing in, the delicious sensation of being crammed inside her intense heat making him feel so warm and safe that he had half a mind to just stay there, allowing her exquisite body to pulse around him. But she would soon tire of that. She wanted to come. And she wanted to make him come. She was already pushing back—forcing him deeper into her, dragging him toward the point of no return.
He'd been on the verge of coming for so long now that his balls were aching. But she always insisted on watching him. For some reason it was important to her—even when they were doing it wolfie-style.
Halting his thrusts, he pulled back a little but kept his cock inside her. Leaning down, he grabbed her by the leg and pulled it up, twisting her around until she was facing him, her backside perched on the back of the couch, one leg stretched up against his shoulder, the other curled around his waist, oh so beautifully fucking flexible, and hands now locked around his neck, drawing his forehead down to rest against hers.
She saw herself reflected in his impossibly black orbs—like crystal balls foretelling a future of her inside him; him inside her. She loved gazing at the heat burning within him, seeing as well as feeling him wanting her, his restrained but powerful cock now gliding smoothly in and out. Being fucked like this was so raw but so incredibly intimate, she would never have imagined allowing this level of vulnerability with anyone. But she found that she did with him, constantly. It was as though there was nowhere she couldn't go with him, nothing was off limits.
She could let her instincts take over on these nights—let herself go and not be afraid of the consequences. She'd hurt him before—scratched him, bitten him, left marks that hadn't faded for days. And yet he seemed to love it—never allowing her to heal or glamour them, fingering the welts absently as he read his book beside her, or contemplated his next chess move.
She could feel the tension mounting again, a fresh surge of arousal drilling into her muscles, making her want to bite him again. That delicious mouth—succulent lips hanging loosely just an inch from hers. She could so easily sink her teeth into them, simultaneously tasting his life force as he forced himself into her, but she was finding it difficult to breathe now. He was still pumping into her arse, faster now, but two fingers had also slipped into her pussy, easily working the tight angle while he nudged her clitoris with his thumb on each instroke.
As he expertly played her, she never sensed that this was a trick—one of many in his repertoire, to impress her, she just felt him wanting to please and pleasure her as desperately as she wanted to please him. It felt personal. He knew her body and exactly what she wanted. Even on these nights where it was so much more extreme, he knew.
Lunging forward, she finally did capture his lips, sucking and licking them between gasping breaths.
"I love you," she murmured, her lips trembling against his.
He pulled back to look her in the eyes and she watched the complex mix of emotions appropriating his, once perpetually austere, features. He let her see so much now—especially in these moments. The tears welled as his face contorted. He was going to come. And so was she.
"I love you, Hermione." His beautiful baritone wavered, the physical and emotional strain showing. "And I love you for . . . loving me—Uuuuhhhhh."
He ground his fingers against the front wall of her pussy as he felt his cock start to seize. His head jerked back and his entire body began to shudder. A rising moan escaped her lips as he continued pumping into her until she shattered around him with a feral cry. Her fingernails pierced his shoulders as her pelvis convulsed and her limbs quaked, both channels simultaneously squeezing his fingers and cock like a spasmodic milking machine. And it was most effective, her shuddering passages drew wave after wave of come from him, sucking him dry and beyond, squeezing him until he felt both completely empty and completely full—full of overwhelming feelings for her—of love.
As his heavy lids opened to behold her, his chest filled until he felt it would surely burst, seeing her at her most raw and vulnerable, in all of her exquisite beauty—lips hanging open in shocked ecstasy, eyelids fluttering over shining caramel eyes, still riding out the last waves of her orgasm, his plunging cock and fingers drawing her out.
Finally, she pitched forward, collapsing onto his shoulder—head rocking gently from side to side as she tried to come down.
After a while, voice little more than a hoarse whisper, she lifted her head and murmured wearily against his cheek, "Bedtime, Sevvy?"
Without a word, he gathered her to him and carried her into the bedroom—that tiny room with the flashing red light that she seemed to want to spend more time in now than anywhere else.
Holding her to him, he lay down and covered both of them with the quilt. She liked to rest on him after sex—arms wrapped around him but legs ensconced between his, head nestled beneath his chin. They would lay like this, dozing on and off, until his eager cock woke her, twitching insistently against her belly, or her hand snaked down to fondle him, signifying that she was ready again.
They fucked twice more during the night. One time he was sitting—she was on top, hands clamped around the back of his neck as she squatted over his cock, her powerful legs lifting and dropping her pussy in a frantic rhythm that had him gripping the quilt in an attempt to prevent himself from coming in record time. She fucked him so emphatically and so thoroughly, that his entire body shuddered with each forceful thud into his crotch. She was definitely the fucker and he the fuckee in this exchange. And still she watched him so intensely, and kissed him so passionately, it was as though she was showing him that he could submit to her and he would still be safe, that she would look after him. And she did. He cried out when he came—a catharsis as all of this was. Each coupling was a release, breaking away another chunk of coping, replacing it with trust in each other's sanctuary.
After that they made love. He was on top, filling her in long, languorous strokes as she cupped his face in her hands, her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him into her. It was impossible in that moment to discern exactly where his body ended and hers began, they had melted together into a single organism, fused together by their mutual acceptance. Tears had trickled from the corners of her eyes even before she came. He no longer worried about it. She was healing as much as he was.
Now she was awake again, stroking him with her singularly silken touch that made him shiver as though back under the waterfall. The light outside had changed, a grey dawn was now spreading across the rooftops.
"We might be done for the evening," he sighed, scratching her head.
"I could keep going a little longer." Hermione lifted her head from his chest, giving him an exhausted but hopeful look, before leaning over and opening her bedside drawer. She pulled out a clear glass potion bottle.
"Parsons' Lycanthropic potion—from the swap." She placed it on his chest.
Severus shook his head.
"I don't ever want you to take drugs or potions to change yourself for me." He looked at her seriously. "Do you understand?"
She understood. He was determined not to carry the shame from his past into their relationship—he'd made that clear on many occasions.
Placing the bottle on her bedside table, she picked up her wand and disintegrated it, leaving a pile of fine shards in its place. His eyes followed hers to a second bottle in the drawer. She picked that up too and placed it on top of the sparkling debris.
"And what about this one?" she asked.
He looked up at her, searching her face. A small, enigmatic smile played on her lips as she fingered her wand.
It was a contraceptive potion. He'd seen enough of those in his life.
They'd already discussed moving into a house together, somewhere bigger, with a yard. Neither had indicated why they needed the extra space. It had simply hung between them, not uncomfortably so, but any admission would signify such an extraordinarily huge step, something so significant that each was averse to broaching it in case it would cause everything to fall apart.
"I don't think we'll be needing that one either." His eyes didn't deviate from hers. It was a risk to suggest such a thing, especially considering how comparatively early they were in their relationship, and especially the manner in which it had all started. But he'd never been surer of anything in his life.
Her face softened, the scars on her cheek turning bronze in the light of the rising sun, and a smile of relief spread across her delectable lips.
Without a second thought, she flicked her wand and disintegrated that bottle too.
"Looks like we're not done for the evening after all," she murmured, lowering her lips to his.
Threading her fingers through his hair she took her time to enjoy tasting the man that felt so familiar and made her feel so contented that she could never imagine letting him go. And now it seemed that she would never have to. He was hers and she was his. They deserved each other. Warts and all.