The fangirls have spoken and they want SMUT!!!!
Yes, this week's poll winning theme is Smutfests. Sometimes stories with seemingly one thing on their mind develop a plotline. Those PWP moments expand beyond simple oneshots and become Porn With Plot. Join us this week as we explore stories that are virtual lemon groves!
Want to give Hermione a run for her money in the know-it-all field? Simply play the quiz by commenting on this post with your answers at any time over the weekend. All comments with answers will be screened until the answer sheet is posted on Monday morning EDT. On Monday, all quizzlings with the correct answers will receive a pretty banner to prove their quiz prowess. Ready? Set? Play!
Match the quotes to the story titles without picking the red herring titles:
Soothing Hands by notsosaintly
Out of Depths by laurielover1912
The Love You Take by subversa
MISSION II: Get Hermione Laid...AGAIN! by fervesco
An Army of Snapes by ladyofthemasque
Irresistible by kabochon
The Gift Horse by Quillusion
Snaring Snape by GlindaTrisstt
Father Figure by teddyradiator
Zork 1 - The Great Underground Empire by Trawler
Fallacious Tutor by southernwitch69
For the Potions Master's Amusement by snape_submiss
1. Hermione stared at the eleven professors, all who were scowling at her, at the original Snape, at each other, and at the peach foam scattered around the immediate vicinity like tufts of sugar-spun wool. Peach goo that was still clinging to the original Potions Master’s robes. Goo that looked like it was being absorbed into his skin and hair. Well, it was a bit late to deal with that, but she could handle the rest of it. “Collectus purare!”
Samples of the foam severed itself from each and every tuft, collecting over the cauldron, which was filled with the foamy stuff to a point well above the brim. As the original Snape shrugged out of his teaching robes, she started eradicating the remaining bits. He hiccuped--and another duplicate banffed into existence. Hermione looked at him sharply, wanting to see what he was doing. Professor Snape was scowling at the foamy goo on his hand, apparently scraped from the black locks at the nape of his neck. He looked like he longed for a shower.
“Sir…aside from the hiccups,” Hermione asked him carefully, “do you feel any…side-effects?”
“No.” He gentled the terse response with a little more information. “No extraneous sensations, no dizziness, no sprouting of extra limbs…beyond theirs.”
More than one of the duplicates folded his arms across his chest, arching their brows sardonically. Several of them started to speak, looked at each other, then gestured at the nearest version to the original, electing him their spokesman by right of proximity.
“We,” and Duplicate Snape drawled the word sarcastically, “want to know exactly what the bloody hell is going on, here.”
2. So, after a week of being utterly ignored, I have frankly given up and decided that despite Lupin’s predisposition for obeying Dumbledore’s commandments, that I may just be able to convince him to bend, if not ignore, the rules for one night. Heck, half an hour would do! However, no sooner have I had this thought, currently bottling up my potion and convinced I shall spend the weekend entertaining myself, than Professor Snape suddenly stops before my desk. I look up at him, wondering what the fuck he wants now. Or, more hopefully, who he wants to fuck now.
“Detention, Miss Granger,” he drawls, looking down his large nose at me.
I really do try to hide my smile, but I’m not so sure how successful I am.
“What the hell for?!” Harry snaps, coming to my defence. Damn that boy!
“Not that it is any of your business, Potter, but Miss Granger’s behaviour last weekend was appalling,” Snape replies, raising one eyebrow in my direction. It’s a question, or more an invitation – at least I think it is.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, looking at my desk, hoping everyone else thinks this is because I am ashamed. Actually, I’m trying to hide the broad grin that has commandeered my face and refuses to leave.
“Eight o’clock, my office,” he growls. He gives me one last triumphant look before gliding back to his desk.
3. He'd had much practice- and, if it was not immodest to say so, success- at getting his mind to convince his body that he didn't feel the pain of Cruciatus, the bruises, the breaks, the innumerable tortures he'd endured at Voldemort's hands, and those of his followers. It would only be fitting if that same mind could now convince that same body that he was feeling something pleasant. Suddenly feeling a faint spark of interest in the idea, he decided to try.
He cautiously imagined a warm room with a comfortable chair, the scent of cedarwood in the air. He inhaled deeply without realizing it, feeling better already. He let his mind still, finding relief in the simple surcease of mental overload.
A massage. Gentle hands sliding through his hair, gathering it out of the way, softly murmuring a spell to hold it up. He sighed softly, relaxing into this most casual of touches, feeling warmth creep across his shoulders as her gentle hands made the first stroke.
A little deeper this time, sensitive fingers seeking and finding knots, smoothing them with rhythmic kneading motions, calling blood and warmth and healing to the places where they were needed. He moaned a little with the relief, feeling his shoulders flinch at the unexpected pleasure.
The hands swept downward across his skin- when had he taken off his shirt? Oh well, this was a fantasy, after all- and pressed firmly along the paraspinous muscles, sweeping a layer of tension away like rainwater down a dusty riverbed.
Fingers slid through the hair at his nape, gently pressing and releasing, and a soft voice murmured with dismay at the tense ropes of muscle that rose under her touch. She gently tipped his head forward and braced it with her other hand...
... and Severus Snape realized that he was not alone in his rooms.
4. “Are you sure you want to do it ?” George asked Hermione.
“Yes. And you know you want to, as well.” She said caressing his bare bottom. George let out a satisfied groan.
“So, were you imagining him, while we were …….?” George asked, pulling his now flaccid length out of Hermione and lying next to her on his bed. He adored the way her cheeks where always pink after her release. They had been meeting like this for several months now, each encounter more satisfying than the last. That is, until a couple of weeks ago, when they started talking about secret fantasies. They both were amazed to find they fantasized about the same person, Professor Snape.
“No …..well ….. not at the end. With those lovely noises you make before you release, how could I think of anyone else ?” Hermione said cuddling into his side. George laughed. She had told him he was a bit loud and had set up a silencing charm whenever they met now.
“So, when do you want to snare Snape ?” He asked raising his eyebrows on the last two words. She shivered against him.
“Soon ! Which of us do you think he will prefer ?” She asked.
“He’d be crazy to turn you away, that’s for sure. I wasn’t all that sure I liked girls before you came along. Now I’m completely hooked.” George said kissing the top of her head. She laughed.
“You always liked girls, George. But thanks for the compliment.” Hermione sighed.
“How about this weekend ?” George offered.
“Fine with me, but how ?” She asked. They were both quiet for a time, thinking of the best way to seduce Snape.
5. Severus, smiling at Lucius’ gauntlet-throwing and his wife’s locker room pep talk, drew his last card with a flourish. He smirked at the card, raising a dark, silken eyebrow. “Ladies, and Lucius, I ask, ‘What Say You?’” With a deep chuckle meant to sound salacious, he purred, “At this precise moment, what is the biggest change you would like to make in...” he waggled his eyebrows like a villain in a Victorian melodrama. “The bedroom?”
His three opponents, he saw, all wore different expressions. Lucius and Narcissa carefully schooled their features - perfect Slytherins to the core. They would play cross and double-cross, trying to deceive with distraction; divide and conquer. Hermione would be the easiest to decipher; she had a terrible poker face.
Narcissa, Lucius and Hermione bent over their parchments and began writing. The game came with its own ‘Recognise-Me-Not’ quills; once an answer had been written down, the handwriting changed, and once Lucius shuffled the parchments under the table and presented them to Severus, each parchment would look as if written by the same person. It was up to Severus to use his ability and knowledge of his fellow players to deduce who had said what, and this time, he had to correctly identify all three to win.
Lucius solemnly handed Severus the pieces of parchment with the air of an undersecretary delivering a bill to the Wizengamot. Severus took them with equal solemnity, and looked down his large nose through his reading glasses. He smirked, and shook his head. Tutting at his companions, he drawled, “Oh, my. This is a broad church.”
Clearing his throat, he announced. “At this precise moment, what is the biggest change you would like to make in the bedroom? And my esteemed and learned colleagues have answered: one, a better view of the Quidditch pitch; two, a new carpet,” he pronounced, giving his audience a sarcastic, eye rolling look. Finally, with a voice pitched with silken sinfulness, he purred, “And three: uninhibited, bondage-and-discipline sex with a very Dominant Daddy.”
Severus looked up, expecting to see three pairs of averted eyes, avoiding the possibility of Legilimency. Instead of looking at the tops of three heads, he saw two, plus the direct stare of the amber eyes of his wife.
6. I was never really excited by the big, loud games with guns and explosions, though.”
“Oh? What did excite you, pray tell?” he purred. He knew certain explosions excited her, turned her on so thoroughly she melted in his arms. Like the sharp explosion of his flat hand against her round, soft, inviting rump.
Her eyes glittered. “Text adventure games,” she replied softly, licking her lips. Severus’s tone had lowered, becoming a caress, and her helpless body responded to it. As it always did.
Severus frowned. “What do you mean, ‘text adventure games’?”
“They read like interactive stories,” she explained, her hand sliding to his knee. She ran her nails lightly over his thigh. “The game describes a scenario – surroundings, characters, dangers – and you respond by typing your actions. Treasure and adventure abound.”
Severus’s cock was now hard and aching against the confines of his trousers as he contemplated an adventure of another kind. Lightning quick, he grabbed her hand, holding it tightly in his.
“Sounds interesting,” he said, low and seductive. “Puzzles. Treasure. Glory.” He paused as an idea occurred to him. “But… wouldn’t it be better if that story were to come to life? If you could magically turn the text adventure into a real adventure?”
Hermione’s eyes opened so wide he thought her eyebrows might disappear into her bushy hairline. Jumping to her feet, she bent over, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Her tongue slipped into his mouth even as his hands came up to cup her breasts. He groaned against her mouth – her nipples were hard to his touch.
“Severus, you are brilliant!” she enthused, breaking away from him. She seemed like an angel, cheeks flushed, frizzy hair a halo as she put hands on delectable hips. “If I could turn a Muggle game like that into a spell, I could make an absolute fortune…”
7. His voice was a whisper, compelling, insistent. ‘Tell. Me. Now.’
‘I did it on purpose,’ she exclaimed, horrified at herself but unable to prevent the words he commanded her to utter from spilling from her mouth. ‘I knew what would happen if I put the armadillo bile in at that juncture in the brewing.’
He showed reaction to her words in neither his expression nor his voice. ‘You knew there would be an explosion resulting in the melting of your cauldron and the scorching of the work table?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she whispered.
His face was inscrutable, his glittering eyes studying her with dispassionate interest. ‘What did you imagine would be the outcome of this ploy?’ he inquired evenly.
‘You would pay attention to me,’ she blurted, the words themselves drawing a throb from her aching, needy core.
Several beats passed as she waited for his response, trying with all her might not to twist and turn like an insect pinned to his specimen board. Why had he forced her to tell him if he did not mean to do something?
She shifted nervously from foot to foot, her anxiety building, laced with embarrassment and shame. Why did she feel this way about him? When had it started? Certainly before the night in the Grimmauld Place kitchen—he had needled her expertly, as he had always done—but she was the one who had pushed back, pushed for some sort of acknowledgment from him. Why did she need it so badly?
The clock above the mantelpiece ticked the seconds away, and still Professor Snape watched her. She was not sure how much time had passed with him standing implacably before her, holding her immobile with the force of his pitiless gaze, but finally, she could bear it no longer.
‘Please, sir,’ she pled, sinking to her trembling knees, not even knowing what she was asking for … but he seemed to know.
8. “My dear, it has been too long. You must pop into my study, you know.” McGonagall’s hand touched her arm, drawing her in closer to them both. Hermione sensed her Potions Master tensing. She could feel his heat emanating towards her.
The Headmistress continued. “How are your studies going? I don’t suppose they are taxing you too much, but it’s important you’ve ticked all the boxes, so to speak, before your NEWTs. Are you feeling happy about everything?”
Hermione nodded, trying to focus. “Yes, Professor, everything’s going ... very well, thank you.”
“Good. Professor Snape and I have just been trying to provide some assistance to Madam Pomfrey. Poor Lawrence Filmore ... you’ve heard, I suppose ... came a cropper off his broom. Still, you know what these Quidditch boys are like. I’m sure you do ... they all worship you, after all — can’t keep their eyes off her, can they, Severus?”
Snape looked as if he had swallowed a dung beetle.
“And Potions — how is that going? Is our good Professor here managing to keep you interested?” She glanced up at Snape before fixing her eyes back on Hermione.
Hermione felt her cheeks blushing puce. She stammered out amidst a nervous laugh, “Oh, yes ... naturally ... Professor Snape is as ... skilled ... as ever.” She dared not look at him. She thought she heard a strange strangulated noise emerge from his throat.
“Hmm ... that may be, but your knowledge is such that I should think you could teach him a thing or two now.”
“Oh ... I ... I wouldn’t presume ...” Hermione was burning up. The rest of her sentence was mumbled incoherently and trailed off into a silence which quickly threatened to become awkward. They did not look at each other, but the electric tension sparking between them was palpable.
9. A tea service was set out upon a low table before the sofa, and an intriguing-looking book was resting on the corner of the same table. Hermione felt the unease increasing; she was in Professor Snape’s presence, and there was nothing sufficiently distracting to take her mind off the provoking ache in her lower abdomen and the tingling of her nerve endings.
Distraught, she turned to face him, the two of them standing between the sofa and the coffee table. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me!’ she cried, tugging helplessly at the collar of the nightshirt. ‘I feel so …’ she trailed off in embarrassment, loath to put her feelings into words.
Professor Snape spoke compellingly. ‘I think I may be aware of how you are feeling, Miss Granger – will you sit, please? Let me pour you some tea.’
Hermione stood for a moment, irresolute, wringing her hands to keep from reaching out to grasp her professor’s shirt. She felt so sure that touching him – being touched by him – would assuage the feelings inside of her which seemed to grow more intense with every passing moment. It was only his implacable, ‘Sit, Miss Granger. Now,’ which moved her to obey.
Hermione sat on the edge of the sofa with the feeling of wanting to leap from her skin beating against her mind like a fist on a wooden door. ‘Please, sir,’ she said desperately as Snape seated himself in one of the wing chairs and took up the teapot and a cup, ‘I don’t think I can …’
Snape thrust a steaming cup into her hand. ‘Drink,’ he commanded.
Hermione opened her mouth to object, and the professor barked, ‘Now!’
With a moan of sheer irritation, Hermione complied and took a sip. Almost immediately, she felt infinitesimally better. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, raising huge brown eyes to his face.
‘It is an old-fashioned tisane,’ he replied, ‘blended with the strongest sedative I feel safe giving you.’
Hermione swallowed another mouthful. ‘Will it make me sleep?’ she asked trustingly.
‘No,’ he answered shortly – and it seemed to Hermione as if there was also a touch of regret in his tone. ‘In fact, it will also not sedate you for very long, but I hope it will clear your mind enough for you to hear and understand what I have to say to you.’
10. He collapsed into a fit of coughing that only served to make him shake harder than before. Hermione wanted to soothe him but was at a loss, knowing that the aftereffects of the Cruciatus made his nerves supersensitive. A simple touch would make him cringe with pain. A single spell only intensified the already excruciating effects. She let her head drop, not knowing what to do, when her eye caught the book she had been reading.
She hadn’t had the chance to actually use any of the spells in the book, of course, but she remembered there had been something on relieving the effects of the Cruciatus. She looked at the man slumped next to her. She had no idea if it was useful against prolonged bouts of the curse, as he had no doubt experienced, but it was undoubtedly worth it to try.
“Professor, will you let me try to help you?” she asked tentatively.
Only his eyes moved as he attempted to glare at her in his typical professorly fashion. His eyes spoke what he could not: that she bloody well knew there was nothing to be done for him. She had seen him like this at least a dozen times before, after all, and she had been unable to help him then. If he could have spoken, she was sure he would have resorted to calling her ‘silly little girl’ like he had so many years ago.
Fully expecting this response, she directed his withering gaze toward the book on the table. The room became utterly silent as he held his laboured breath for a moment. She had a feeling he would recognise the book. What she didn’t know was that Severus had heard about it but had never found a copy, not through lack of trying. The book was legendary. The possibilities it held were widely known in certain circles. His chest constricted as he held back a grateful sob and simply nodded his head.