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You were late.
Two minutes to midnight and you were only now leaving your Common Room. Hurrying your strides, you rushed down the stairs, skipping the steps two by two. Your footfalls echoed between the walls. You weren't silent, but then again you didn't need to be. As Head Girl, you had every right to be out in the corridors at this hour.
You descended into the dungeons. Cold air wrapped around you, caressing your bare legs. You drew the flaps of your cloak around you tighter. It was always so damn cold down there, especially at night. Of course, Snape didn't mind.
A ray of light shone under his door. You entered without knocking, slipping inside his office. He sat at his desk, head bent over, grading some poor student's essay. The quill rose, tip dripping red ink, and fell to inflict a devastating blow of a grade.
You shrugged off your cloak and left it draped over the chair. Crouching near the hearth, you kindled the fire to full force, stirring the half-consumed log and adding a new one. The flames flared. You breathed in slowly as light and warmth spilled over you.
"I need more tonight."
He stood right behind you.
You never heard him move. He was always silent as a shadow, giving himself away by voice alone when he desired. He stalked, he oozed, he glided. You suspected he sometimes hid in dark corners and watched people pass by as he cataloged their habits and listened to their secrets.
You rose and turned to face him. Pale, gaunt, draped in midnight black—there was the quintessential Severus Snape. The fire threw flickering shadows over his face, carving a series of pits and planes across his features. His hair fell in inky strands to his shoulders. His eyes held the glimmer of the fire, twin pinpoints of light in two pools of darkness.
"I took a Blood-Replenishing potion and my period isn't for another two weeks," you said. "You can take a lot."
"I need more."
The word carried definite urgency. His canines flashed on the last syllable, his voice dipping into gravelly roughness.
"I heard you the first time, sir."
You knew what this meant. Not only more blood, but more of you, in every way.
Sometimes he only took blood. Other times, perhaps one out of three, he made you take his cock, too. On rare occasions he did both at the same time, and you convulsed in ecstasy beneath him, to later replay those moments whenever you touched yourself.
You had never seen him so on edge, though. Something must have happened—something that rattled him, something that left him standing over the precipice of hunger, of violence. Something that almost shattered his legendary control.
"Do you consent?"
He always asked.
And your answer was always the same.
"Yes."
You didn't see him move. One second he was standing stone still in front of you. The next, he was on you, his mouth spreading cold and wet at your throat. Twin daggers of pain pierced you. You moaned, a shameless, wanton sound that echoed between the walls. He placed a hand at the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, and one long arm around your waist to support you.
And he drank.
He drank in avid swallows. Your lifeblood fled your veins to warm his own. The fire blazed at your back, and soon Snape gained warmth and life, his tall, wiry frame scorching at your front. Pleasure pin-pricked across your skin. Your cunt gave a low pulse, then another. Heat pooled along your nerves, wild, whipping them to attention.
You whimpered, your hands gripping his shoulders. Your hips rocked forward, into his, and brushed against the hard line of him. He groaned into your skin.
Lightheaded, the venom working its way through your system, you kept grinding against him. You had once researched this. How vampire venom worked, how it hijacked the victim's body to induce sexual desire and erase all inhibitions, how it inflamed the pleasure center of the brain and excited it beyond reason.
It wasn't addictive. In the moment, it felt like it—like it was the best drug that could exist. But once it cleared from the system, the subject wasn't compelled to seek it out again. They could go their whole life without needing another hit.
The venom wasn't why you kept coming back to Snape.
Fire at your back, fire at your front—and fire inside you, too, the flames scouring your insides, igniting every sexual instincts. You slurred his name, grinding against the promise of his thick cock. His finger flexed in your hair.
He gave one slow swipe of tongue at your throat and leaned back. You sighed, a strained exhale. His dark eyes smoldered at he looked you over. Blood shone on his lower lip. You tipped forward, intent on licking it, but he turned his head and you ended up with your nose against his jaw.
There was no kissing.
You knew that. You'd always known, even though you'd never tried to kiss him before. A man like Severus Snape—an inviolate, impregnable fortress of guarded steel—did not do kissing. He drank your blood, you had great sex, and that was it.
"Sorry," you mumbled.
You didn't want to spoil this. Whatever messy feeling there were (and there were a lot for you), you had to keep them all bottled up.
He didn't acknowledge your slip-up. He sat on the sofa in one graceful motion. You went with him, body vibrating from need. You wondered if this was how he always felt—if he trembled with blood thirst between feedings, if his nerves screamed at him and his cock ached as long hours elapsed.
"Would you put your mouth to good use, Miss [Last Name]?"
He rarely asked for this.I need more indeed. He must have been terribly in need tonight.
"Yes, sir," you whispered in reply.
You slipped off the sofa and to your knees, situating yourself between his legs. He spread them to make room for you. You made eye contact. His face was not so pale now, his cheeks flushed with life, his lips reddened. Even his eyes had shed some of their usual coldness. If you didn't know any better, you could almost believe he was looking at you with a hint of fondness.
A ridiculous notion.
He merely tolerated you. And you—well. Anyone looking at you both right now would have seen a submissive student kneeling before her professor, about to suck him off, and would have assumed you did this for better grades.
It wasn't that either.
You undid his belt and the buttons of his fly. That last part had confounded you the first time you'd been face-to-face with it. Buttons, here? And seven of them? But now you handled it with dexterity, and within seconds you had him in hand.
He was big. This had not surprised you. You had heard all the rumors about his overly large nose and what it meant, and you had indulged in silly evenings with the other girls in your dorm room, ranking all the professors based on their hotness. Snape gravitated somewhere in the top three according to the communal result. You'd put him at number two in your personal ranking so as not to give the game away. (Number 1 was Firenze, which was a boring choice that happened to match the other girls'.)
His cock throbbed against your palm, blood-warm and stiff. He had a pulse when he had freshly fed. You took him in your mouth, looking up at him. He sat on the sofa like a king in his domain, his billowing robes spread about him in a pool of darkness, the fire threading glints of amber in his hair. You sensed the minute relaxing of his muscles—barely anything, really, but from Snape it was monumental.
He watched you with a heavy-lidded stare.
You lavished his cock with your tongue and lips, playing along his rigid length. One hand loosely cradling his base, you licked idly at him. From this slow start, you gradually slid into something messier and wetter, drawing the tip of him in your mouth, letting him slip from your tongue, doing it again and again while your hand pumped him.
A sharp tug at your hair signaled he had had enough of your games. He knotted firm fingers at your nape and pushed. You obligingly shifted forward to take him in your throat.
One long, slow slide of cock.
He rumbled in approval as you sheathed his fat prick down your throat. His hand remained heavy at the back of your neck, and he kept you there for a few seconds, breathless, your airway stuffed with his cock. He tugged you back, his fingers like steel, controlling the motion. You gulped in air and grinned at him.
"Such a good girl," he purred.
He pushed you down again. His cock breached your throat. You gagged and drooled around him, maintaining eye contact. He looked at you with fervent, burning focus as he languidly fucked your throat, guiding your head between his spread thighs, in control of every motion. He decided when you breathed. You submitted, utterly, becoming a hole for him—a hot, wet hole for his cock.
He granted you a reprieve as he tugged you back. The smooth tip of his cock glided along your lips, painting them with pre-cum. He stained your tongue with it when he pushed in again, and slicked up your throat, lodging himself deep. His gaze flared with incandescent desire. You burned for him, the venom still in your bloodstream, your cunt so wet slick stained your inner thighs.
God, you needed something inside you.
Groaning, you rubbed your thighs together while he brought you forward, cleaving your throat around his cock. A muffled moan escaped you, nose nestled in the wiry dark curls of his groin. His cock throbbed. For a second you pictured him coming like this, grunting and spurting wet heat down your throat, then withdrawing and having you open wide so he could finish painting your tongue. But he wouldn't. He never did.
He had too much control to fall apart from a blowjob.
"Come here," he said at last.
He released you, allowed you three full breaths, and hauled you to him. He maneuvered you as he liked, arms flexing as he handled you like you weighted nothing at all. Vampiric strength was markedly impressive.
You found yourself on your back, trapped beneath him. He flipped your skirt up and tugged down your knickers. Leaning over you, he leered. His hot cockhead brushed up against your cunt.
One sharp snap of hips broke you open.
You gasped, suddenly filled to the very brim with your professor's cock. His body lay heavy on top of yours, his hands braced besides your head on the sofa. The rough wool of his frock coat pressed up against your bare thighs. He never took off his clothes. He merely got his cock out to slide it inside you, and fucked you like this, in his full professorial outfit while you were half-naked—or fully naked on rare occasions.
Your cunt spasmed around him.His upper lip curled. He drew back and spread you again, advancing mercilessly. You were used to the stinging stretch that came with the first few thrusts. Even with your base state of arousal, even with the venom flooding your body past that state and into an abyss of needy desire, you were on the smaller side, and Snape had a very thick cock.
He settled into a rhythm of long smooth thrusts, finally answering the rabid call of desire that had taken hold of you. You moaned, hips twitching up to meet him, filled with thick, glorious cock. Yes, yes, yes. You scrabbled at his shoulders, nails sinking into coarse wool, more incoherent noises driven from your open mouth. Every hard inch of his prick fit inside you, cradled in your hot walls, and every push scattered sparks of pleasure throughout all of you. Your wetness smeared along his cock and dripped down your thighs.
He was silent.
Moving inside you in rhythmic strokes, face blank, every flicker of pleasure locked away. You were breathless, thighs clenching, hands flexing, whining and moaning, a mess of a student while he remained unaffected, simply pumping between your spread thighs.
"Sir," you whined. "Mmm, sir..."
"You needed this, didn't you?"
His voice rolled over you like molten honey. Your hind-brain short-circuited, your cunt clenching hard, a filthy mewl tumbling from your lips. You squirmed further beneath him. The peak of pleasure that was building which each sure thrust glowed hotter and hotter each second, and his voice drove it to previously undiscovered heights.
You usually did this in silence. He wasn't vocal in bed, except to call you a good girl every once in a while.
"Sir—"
"Look at you. A prim, pretty little girl offering her professor her tight, hot cunt. Letting him rut between her thighs, moaning in pleasure as he takes his fill of her."
He paused and drew his cock out in an achingly slow motion. You shuddered, cunt empty, brain half-fried from pleasure.
"Please," you said. "Please, sir—"
He hilted back inside you, spearing his way in, pelvis thumping yours.
"Begging for it," he said softly. "For my cock and for my come, mmh? You never stop me. You always say yes. You come here to my chambers, you offer me your throat, you suck my cock, and you lie on your back to take it deep inside that lush little cunt."
You moaned, your back arching. Yes, you did, you did—
He smiled in a quick flash of teeth.
"Why is this?" he asked. "Why are you content to let your professor use your holes to empty his balls, mmh? What compels you to take me deep and milk every drop out of me?"
It wasn't the first time he was asking.
You had never answered him.
He bent down and lightly bit the edge of your jaw, teeth scraping against fevered skin. His lips slid lower, to your throat. He delivered another graze of teeth, and you tensed, expecting a bite.
"Are you spying on me? Hoping I'll slip up one day and you'll have something to bring back to whomever you report to?"
You had anticipated he'd believe this. There was nothing you could do about it. You had not expected he'd just come out and voice it, but it was a fair assumption. As a double agent and Death Eater embedded in the inner circle of the Dark Lord, he was walking a tight rope. But then again so were you. Your family was Dark, some of them serving time in Azkaban. The Dark Lord was eyeing you, and if you'd been a man, you would probably be sporting a fresh Dark Mark on your forearm. It stood to reason that you'd seek protection and turn spy for either side.
Once again, you didn't answer him.
He pulled out and roughly flipped you over. While you were still gasping and breathless, he thrust into you from behind. His hips slammed against your arse with a lewd smack. Your insides cramped, pleasure skewering you.
He moved faster.
Rougher.
Like he did when he was close, when he stopped looking at you and focused entirely on himself, rutting to orgasm between your thighs. His punishing pace drove you into the sofa. Every thrust came with an edge to it, something at once desperate and angry, like he couldn't get enough of you and resented you for that very fact. The slick slide of his cock in your tight cunt was exquisite.
You tried to moan, tried to call out his name, tried to tell him how good this was for you, but your words dissolved under the assault. You could barely breathe, rent asunder by every thrust.
He growled your name.
A snarl at your ear, suffused with brutal desire.
Then he sank his teeth in your throat. Pain pierced deep. You convulsed under him, thrown into an abyss of ecstasy, lightless, where everything burned and you along with it. Your body vaulted past all limits, nerves screaming, feeding your brain an overload of jumbled sensations, pain pleasure, painpleasurepainpleasure.
Somewhere above you, Snape was drinking. He slurped your blood with animal groans as he fucked you, frenzied thrust after frenzied thrust, hilting his cock inside you over and over. Some sort of weak whimper left your lips. You shuddered, cunt gripping him, squeezing him, encouraging him to spill inside you. He gave three more violent thrusts and stuttered to a halt. His cock twitched, throbbed, and pumped hot come inside you in forceful pulses.
You took every spurt.
When it was over, he slumped into you. It lasted precisely a millisecond—the full weight of him on you, the feel of rough wool at your back, his hair tickling your jaw. Then he was off you, and when you turned to look at him, he stood next to the fireplace, cock tucked away, back to normal.
You didn't recover as quickly. You remained prone for a minute or two, then slowly sat up. Your head spun. You felt weak, as you always did when he fed a lot. His seed dripped from your cunt, staining the sofa. You idly wondered how many more Scourgifies the poor thing could take before it gave out completely.
You fixed your clothing and cast a quick cleaning spell on yourself.
Snape hovered next to you. He offered you a glass of water, which you gratefully took and drained in two long swallows.
"Thank you," he said stiffly.
That was how it went.
He drank your blood, he fucked you senseless, you came so hard you nearly passed out, and within seconds he was back to a stern professor, thanking you in a bland tone for your services.
"I'm not spying on you."
He most likely wouldn't believe you, but you had to say it.
His coal-black eyes swept over your face.
"That is exactly what a good spy would say. I command you for your apparent earnestness; it is very well-crafted."
"I'm not. I know you must wonder why I come to you every week, why I let you have my blood and my body, when I ask for nothing in exchange. It seems suspicious. But it's not a trap."
You were certain he would press the issue. Ask why you keep coming back. Tell you not to bother showing your face here again if you couldn't be honest. Demand the truth.
But he didn't.
"I will expect you back here in a week."
"Yes, sir."
You draped yourself in your cloak and headed back to your Common Room.
Why did you keep coming back to Severus Snape?
The truth was simple.
You didn't do it because of the feeling of the venom spreading in your veins.
You didn't do it for better grades.
You didn't do it to spy on him.
You came to Severus Snape and offered him your blood and your body because he needed someone. Because he was terribly alone, and so were you, and while you were together, that aching loneliness faded for a time, however short it was.
You did it because the truth was that you both needed each other.