ficpost: "Victory, Snatched" Hermione/McGonagall
Title: "Victory, Snatched"
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Hermione Granger
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Hermione is of age but still McGonagall's student. There is some kink -- spanking and mild dominance. There is no plot AT ALL.
Spoilers/timeline: Half-Blood Prince
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, not so much me.
Notes: While this fic would have been had we not LOST POWER FOR TWO DAYS is a celebration of multiple joyous and overlapping events (my twenty-second birthday, me and Elizabeth's third friending anniversary, the Red Sox pwnage), it is primarily a fulfillment of my forty_or_better obligation and a gift for thelastgoodname, who shares my birthday (which was last Saturday, when I MEANT to post this). I ♥ you.
Summary: ...and they done sex (Hermione sustains Quidditch-related injuries).
Wordcount 1787
Victory, Snatched
Hermione has never cared for Quidditch as a sport, and though both Ron and Harry have spent most of the past week attempting to explain to her the standings and what they mean, how many points in what direction she must be shouting for, the numbers have flown from her head as Arithmancy never does and left her cheering blindly, wrapped in wool robes and a freshly laundered Gryffindor scarf that almost gleams in the bright May sunlight, the last match of the season that will likely decide the House Cup, that will decide the Quidditch Cup, that seems to have more weight than either award when she looks away from the field to the commentator's podium and Professor McGonagall's erect posture and the gold and scarlet rosette that's neatly pinned to her hat. This year Hermione's been almost burning with want, with impatience and with suspicion and with the ever-harder to ignore itch that has (at last, on this windy morning, she can admit it) nothing to do with Ron Weasley, freckled and magnificent this morning in his scarlet robes, Keeping about as well as can be expected -- she counts goals on her fingers, and hopes.
Ron and Ginny are playing, and Harry's in detention, so Hermione's perched as near to the podium as she can be, an eye on the megaphone which Luna holds and garbles into, a few feet back from McGonagall, who is shouting incoherently towards the pitch. McGonagall's not sat down for half an hour, but tugs anxiously at her hat when Ravenclaw scores, throws both arms in the air when Gryffindor does, and Hermione finds herself leaning forward towards her, lifting from her seat and, "GO GRYFFINDOR!" escaping from her mouth. The future seems to hinge on this match; it could open a door and send Hermione through it, straight from her seat and towards Professor McGonagall, into her bustling robes and a secret destiny.
She never had any particular feeling about Cho Chang except that she was a bit too much for Harry, but when she speeds towards the Snitch, and when they're up but don't exactly have a comfortable margin if they want to win not just the match but the tournament, but when the Cup would be theirs, Hermione hates Cho and wishes it were sporting to hex her off her broom. Then Ginny, blessed Ginny, of course Harry fancies Ginny, who wouldn't love Ginny, has spotted the Snitch too and drops from a pleasant looping flight to a deadly spiral that ends with her fingertips wrapped around the Snitch, just above Cho's head, and they've won, and McGonagall shouts "GRYFFINDOR!"
"Gryffindor! We've won it, GRYFFINDOR!" Hermione leaps from her seat, forgets herself, trips over the edge of her robe and doesn't know if her clapping's accompanied by shrieking or sobbing when McGonagall descends from the podium to find Hermione and, without any warning, sweeps her into a kiss that demands all her breath to endure, all her mental capacities to comprehend. McGonagall's hands are quite tight around her backside and demanding, rigorous and hardly gentle.
"We won," McGonagall whispers, and with an arm tight around her waist ushers her away from the pitch and towards the castle. The retreating sound of joy and jeers, the memory of McGonagall's tongue, tucked briefly against hers, make Hermione breathless.
"That's no excuse," she says. "Anyone could have seen us."
"You are seventeen, are you not?"
"Yes, but that's... you're my teacher and..."
"What will it take to quiet you, sweet?" McGonagall sighs and walks more briskly. Her fingernails dig into the skin of Hermione's lower back, pinching and pricking and demanding.
"More kissing," Hermione suggests.
McGonagall's kiss is insistent, and the skin of her tongue is rougher than Hermione ever imagined, harsh and beautiful on the roof of her mouth. But her hands are vellum smooth around Hermione's cheeks, softer than down, and sweeter. Her fingers leave a trail along the ridge of Hermione's cheekbones till they touch at her chin, and McGonagall releases the kiss with a puckered parting peck. "More later," she says, and they mount the step that leads into the castle.
Hermione has never taken the staircase so quickly, never passed through Hogwarts without taking just a second to shake her head in wonder, to cast a fearful eye about for teachers looking for students-out-of-place. But there are no teachers about but hers, no mystery, no fear, and McGonagall moves with speed that must be magical, leads Hermione through a shortcut that she doesn't recognize even from the Marauder's Map, and in one gesture unlocks a door and pushes Hermione through it.
This world is wrapped in tartan, smells earthier and cleaner than ethereal, ever-dusty Hogwarts. There is, Hermione thinks, a hint of heather here. McGonagall's mouth almost twists into a smile; she parts the heavy scarlet curtains that hide her queen-size bed. "Go on," she says, "we haven't got all day."
"What are we --?"
McGonagall throws her hat aside and it settles gently on a stiff-backed armchair. "We are celebrating a victory," she says. "There have been far too few moments worthy of celebration this year." Hermione walks backwards to the bed, falls into it without volition. "Very good," McGonagall says, smiling still. She kneels and unlaces Hermione's boots, removes them to reveal Gryffindor socks Hermione knitted herself. They are a little baggy but quite serviceable, and necessary in the winter and even as late as springtime sometimes. These socks come off, and the white cotton socks underneath them; McGonagall holds Hermione's bare feet for a moment in hands that shake just a fraction. Then Hermione's feet are released and in a burst of adrenaline McGonagall is upon her, unexpectedly fierce, unknotting her Gryffindor tie with one hand and unbuttoning her cloak with the other. Hermione, who was warm with screaming and the closeness of bodies, is now unbearably hot, and is as eager to kick her way out of her wool prison as Professor McGonagall is to liberate her. Blouse and undergarments give way; she can hear fabric ripping but doesn't mind when her breast is finally bare, exposed to the soft breeze of McGonagall's breath before she lowers her mouth to kiss her breast (Hermione lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding), then the rippled skin around her nipple then, with care, to touch the tip of her tongue to her nipple, then to nip, so softly, till the nip becomes a bite. Hermione grabs the bedspread, red velvet embroidered with gold thread that tells the story of some other conquest, and lets out as a scream the pain that's also joy, and McGonagall bites harder, somehow still able to undress her, for Hermione feels fingers on her mons, a heavy hand wrapped over her whole vulva, that becomes, this morning, her cunt.
McGonagall's other hand is behind Hermione's waist, and with a strength that shouldn't be possible in a woman her age, she directs Hermione towards the headboard, whence she drags herself, spreading her legs and writhing into the teeth, sharper than teeth have any right to be, that twist Hermione's nipple, digging into her skin, reddening it, she is sure, holding the bud of skin tightly before, suddenly, releasing nipple and breast both and pushing back hard. Her mouth finds Hermione's cunt before Hermione knows that her breast is free; it takes her one lick to pull a strand of arousal from her, and though McGonagall's mouth is dry, Hermione's cunt is very wet, and she feels a sob welling up within her and nothing but heat and want and pain in her cunt where McGonagall is licking, nipping, biting at her clitoris and teasing, licking the passage between her outer and inner labia and then taking those lips in her mouth for a moment before letting her tongue fall between them, reaching so far in Hermione thinks that she will drown there, then sliding out again to tease at her clit. Hermione can't follow the movement any longer but only rocks her hips, thrusting, begging, shameless, rolling her head against a soft pillow and then, accidentally, when McGonagall's tongue finds a tender spot and sucks, she throws herself against the headboard, and her head is aching, throbbing, sore, but she is nothing but her cunt, the desire between her legs that aches and grows and opens for McGonagall's tongue, and McGonagall is relentless and precise, licking, sucking, then holding still and sighing audibly at the aching sob of arousal that Hermione finds herself keening.
And then with a sharp snap at her hips, Hermione is belly-down, arse up, and McGonagall's fingers have replaced her tongue and are more torturous and more delightful than that mouth that she memorized, for it touched her everyplace. Her fingers can twist so many places and touch so many corners and folds of skin at once, and how Professor McGonagall can be there, answering every twitch of Hermione's with a knowing stroke, and also somewhere far above, rocking her own cotton-clad cunt against the back of Hermione's thighs, bucking and thrusting and insistently wet, Hermione can't imagine, but she pushes back her legs in answer to McGonagall's thrust and thinks she will fall over, except that McGonagall pulls her fingers away and slaps Hermione hard, twice, no, more than she can count, before resuming her rough frottage. Her buttocks sting and her knees are sore from the embroidery she kneels on, but these are nothing to the empty itching aching neediness of her cunt.
McGonagall rubs against her a moment longer and then is entirely still, and Hermione wonders if so much exercise has actually done her harm, but after a minute she resumes breathing, and a minute later is quite able, with the aid of her wand, to reclothe Hermione, who swallows hard and tries not to reach for her cunt but finds it difficult in the light of McGonagall's glare to avoid quaking with arousal.
She finds her voice, or something like it (a bit quiverier than wonted) and says, "Why didn't you finish, ma'am?"
"To ensure that you return tomorrow," Professor McGonagall says, smoothing the rumpled bedclothes with an idle wand flick. "Go on, then. There'll be a ridiculous rumpus in the common room that you won't want to miss."
Hermione's bottom is tender and her welts swollen, her head is pounding and her nipple raw and she thinks that her thighs were scratched in some exuberance she can't recall. Every inch of skin below her waist is burning with unfulfillment. She cannot imagine a universe where she would not return.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Hermione Granger
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Hermione is of age but still McGonagall's student. There is some kink -- spanking and mild dominance. There is no plot AT ALL.
Spoilers/timeline: Half-Blood Prince
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, not so much me.
Notes: While this fic would have been had we not LOST POWER FOR TWO DAYS is a celebration of multiple joyous and overlapping events (my twenty-second birthday, me and Elizabeth's third friending anniversary, the Red Sox pwnage), it is primarily a fulfillment of my forty_or_better obligation and a gift for thelastgoodname, who shares my birthday (which was last Saturday, when I MEANT to post this). I ♥ you.
Summary: ...and they done sex (Hermione sustains Quidditch-related injuries).
Wordcount 1787
Victory, Snatched
Hermione has never cared for Quidditch as a sport, and though both Ron and Harry have spent most of the past week attempting to explain to her the standings and what they mean, how many points in what direction she must be shouting for, the numbers have flown from her head as Arithmancy never does and left her cheering blindly, wrapped in wool robes and a freshly laundered Gryffindor scarf that almost gleams in the bright May sunlight, the last match of the season that will likely decide the House Cup, that will decide the Quidditch Cup, that seems to have more weight than either award when she looks away from the field to the commentator's podium and Professor McGonagall's erect posture and the gold and scarlet rosette that's neatly pinned to her hat. This year Hermione's been almost burning with want, with impatience and with suspicion and with the ever-harder to ignore itch that has (at last, on this windy morning, she can admit it) nothing to do with Ron Weasley, freckled and magnificent this morning in his scarlet robes, Keeping about as well as can be expected -- she counts goals on her fingers, and hopes.
Ron and Ginny are playing, and Harry's in detention, so Hermione's perched as near to the podium as she can be, an eye on the megaphone which Luna holds and garbles into, a few feet back from McGonagall, who is shouting incoherently towards the pitch. McGonagall's not sat down for half an hour, but tugs anxiously at her hat when Ravenclaw scores, throws both arms in the air when Gryffindor does, and Hermione finds herself leaning forward towards her, lifting from her seat and, "GO GRYFFINDOR!" escaping from her mouth. The future seems to hinge on this match; it could open a door and send Hermione through it, straight from her seat and towards Professor McGonagall, into her bustling robes and a secret destiny.
She never had any particular feeling about Cho Chang except that she was a bit too much for Harry, but when she speeds towards the Snitch, and when they're up but don't exactly have a comfortable margin if they want to win not just the match but the tournament, but when the Cup would be theirs, Hermione hates Cho and wishes it were sporting to hex her off her broom. Then Ginny, blessed Ginny, of course Harry fancies Ginny, who wouldn't love Ginny, has spotted the Snitch too and drops from a pleasant looping flight to a deadly spiral that ends with her fingertips wrapped around the Snitch, just above Cho's head, and they've won, and McGonagall shouts "GRYFFINDOR!"
"Gryffindor! We've won it, GRYFFINDOR!" Hermione leaps from her seat, forgets herself, trips over the edge of her robe and doesn't know if her clapping's accompanied by shrieking or sobbing when McGonagall descends from the podium to find Hermione and, without any warning, sweeps her into a kiss that demands all her breath to endure, all her mental capacities to comprehend. McGonagall's hands are quite tight around her backside and demanding, rigorous and hardly gentle.
"We won," McGonagall whispers, and with an arm tight around her waist ushers her away from the pitch and towards the castle. The retreating sound of joy and jeers, the memory of McGonagall's tongue, tucked briefly against hers, make Hermione breathless.
"That's no excuse," she says. "Anyone could have seen us."
"You are seventeen, are you not?"
"Yes, but that's... you're my teacher and..."
"What will it take to quiet you, sweet?" McGonagall sighs and walks more briskly. Her fingernails dig into the skin of Hermione's lower back, pinching and pricking and demanding.
"More kissing," Hermione suggests.
McGonagall's kiss is insistent, and the skin of her tongue is rougher than Hermione ever imagined, harsh and beautiful on the roof of her mouth. But her hands are vellum smooth around Hermione's cheeks, softer than down, and sweeter. Her fingers leave a trail along the ridge of Hermione's cheekbones till they touch at her chin, and McGonagall releases the kiss with a puckered parting peck. "More later," she says, and they mount the step that leads into the castle.
Hermione has never taken the staircase so quickly, never passed through Hogwarts without taking just a second to shake her head in wonder, to cast a fearful eye about for teachers looking for students-out-of-place. But there are no teachers about but hers, no mystery, no fear, and McGonagall moves with speed that must be magical, leads Hermione through a shortcut that she doesn't recognize even from the Marauder's Map, and in one gesture unlocks a door and pushes Hermione through it.
This world is wrapped in tartan, smells earthier and cleaner than ethereal, ever-dusty Hogwarts. There is, Hermione thinks, a hint of heather here. McGonagall's mouth almost twists into a smile; she parts the heavy scarlet curtains that hide her queen-size bed. "Go on," she says, "we haven't got all day."
"What are we --?"
McGonagall throws her hat aside and it settles gently on a stiff-backed armchair. "We are celebrating a victory," she says. "There have been far too few moments worthy of celebration this year." Hermione walks backwards to the bed, falls into it without volition. "Very good," McGonagall says, smiling still. She kneels and unlaces Hermione's boots, removes them to reveal Gryffindor socks Hermione knitted herself. They are a little baggy but quite serviceable, and necessary in the winter and even as late as springtime sometimes. These socks come off, and the white cotton socks underneath them; McGonagall holds Hermione's bare feet for a moment in hands that shake just a fraction. Then Hermione's feet are released and in a burst of adrenaline McGonagall is upon her, unexpectedly fierce, unknotting her Gryffindor tie with one hand and unbuttoning her cloak with the other. Hermione, who was warm with screaming and the closeness of bodies, is now unbearably hot, and is as eager to kick her way out of her wool prison as Professor McGonagall is to liberate her. Blouse and undergarments give way; she can hear fabric ripping but doesn't mind when her breast is finally bare, exposed to the soft breeze of McGonagall's breath before she lowers her mouth to kiss her breast (Hermione lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding), then the rippled skin around her nipple then, with care, to touch the tip of her tongue to her nipple, then to nip, so softly, till the nip becomes a bite. Hermione grabs the bedspread, red velvet embroidered with gold thread that tells the story of some other conquest, and lets out as a scream the pain that's also joy, and McGonagall bites harder, somehow still able to undress her, for Hermione feels fingers on her mons, a heavy hand wrapped over her whole vulva, that becomes, this morning, her cunt.
McGonagall's other hand is behind Hermione's waist, and with a strength that shouldn't be possible in a woman her age, she directs Hermione towards the headboard, whence she drags herself, spreading her legs and writhing into the teeth, sharper than teeth have any right to be, that twist Hermione's nipple, digging into her skin, reddening it, she is sure, holding the bud of skin tightly before, suddenly, releasing nipple and breast both and pushing back hard. Her mouth finds Hermione's cunt before Hermione knows that her breast is free; it takes her one lick to pull a strand of arousal from her, and though McGonagall's mouth is dry, Hermione's cunt is very wet, and she feels a sob welling up within her and nothing but heat and want and pain in her cunt where McGonagall is licking, nipping, biting at her clitoris and teasing, licking the passage between her outer and inner labia and then taking those lips in her mouth for a moment before letting her tongue fall between them, reaching so far in Hermione thinks that she will drown there, then sliding out again to tease at her clit. Hermione can't follow the movement any longer but only rocks her hips, thrusting, begging, shameless, rolling her head against a soft pillow and then, accidentally, when McGonagall's tongue finds a tender spot and sucks, she throws herself against the headboard, and her head is aching, throbbing, sore, but she is nothing but her cunt, the desire between her legs that aches and grows and opens for McGonagall's tongue, and McGonagall is relentless and precise, licking, sucking, then holding still and sighing audibly at the aching sob of arousal that Hermione finds herself keening.
And then with a sharp snap at her hips, Hermione is belly-down, arse up, and McGonagall's fingers have replaced her tongue and are more torturous and more delightful than that mouth that she memorized, for it touched her everyplace. Her fingers can twist so many places and touch so many corners and folds of skin at once, and how Professor McGonagall can be there, answering every twitch of Hermione's with a knowing stroke, and also somewhere far above, rocking her own cotton-clad cunt against the back of Hermione's thighs, bucking and thrusting and insistently wet, Hermione can't imagine, but she pushes back her legs in answer to McGonagall's thrust and thinks she will fall over, except that McGonagall pulls her fingers away and slaps Hermione hard, twice, no, more than she can count, before resuming her rough frottage. Her buttocks sting and her knees are sore from the embroidery she kneels on, but these are nothing to the empty itching aching neediness of her cunt.
McGonagall rubs against her a moment longer and then is entirely still, and Hermione wonders if so much exercise has actually done her harm, but after a minute she resumes breathing, and a minute later is quite able, with the aid of her wand, to reclothe Hermione, who swallows hard and tries not to reach for her cunt but finds it difficult in the light of McGonagall's glare to avoid quaking with arousal.
She finds her voice, or something like it (a bit quiverier than wonted) and says, "Why didn't you finish, ma'am?"
"To ensure that you return tomorrow," Professor McGonagall says, smoothing the rumpled bedclothes with an idle wand flick. "Go on, then. There'll be a ridiculous rumpus in the common room that you won't want to miss."
Hermione's bottom is tender and her welts swollen, her head is pounding and her nipple raw and she thinks that her thighs were scratched in some exuberance she can't recall. Every inch of skin below her waist is burning with unfulfillment. She cannot imagine a universe where she would not return.