Chapter 16: Snape's thick fingers plunge into Blythe's dripping cunt while his mouth latches onto Elara's nipple, sucking hard as both girls wake with moans. 'We're going house hunting today,' he growls against Elara's breast, 'Somewhere with walls thick enough to contain your screams.'
The first thing he was aware of was warmth. A deep, living warmth that had nothing to do with the charmed, ever-smouldering fire in the hearth. It was the heat of two sleeping bodies pressed against him, one at each side, a tangle of limbs and linen and soft, rhythmic breath.
Snape opened his eyes to the grey predawn light seeping through the leaded windows of the cottage. The ceiling beams were familiar, the shadows they cast a map he knew by heart. But the weight on his chest, the slender arm flung across his stomach, the tickle of chestnut hair against his shoulder—these were new coordinates on an uncharted chart.
Elara lay to his left, her back nestled into the hollow of his side, her face serene in sleep. To his right, Blythe was half-sprawled on top of him, her cheek pillowed on his pectoral, a line of drool making a tiny, damp patch on his skin. The sheer, vulnerable normality of it was more intimate than anything that had happened in the cabin or his quarters. He was trapped, utterly pinned, by their trust.
And he was already hard. A fierce, persistent ache that had nothing to do with the morning and everything to do with the reality of them. The memory of their proposal, their audacious, terrifying rules, the feel of their mouths on his, had fermented in his sleep into a pure, focused hunger.
The future, with its logistical nightmares and whispered secrets and the ghost of a child’s laugh, was a storm cloud on the horizon. This moment, this silent, warm pocket of now, was his. He decided to claim it.
With a slowness that was almost predatory, he began to move. His left hand, which had been resting on Elara’s hip, slid up the curve of her waist, over the dip of her ribcage, until his thumb found the soft underside of her breast. She murmured, a sound of sleepy contentment, but didn’t wake. He traced slow, widening circles around her nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his lazy, repetitive attention. It was a tease, a promise of more, a way to pull her gently from sleep into the same current of need that held him.
His right hand traveled down Blythe’s spine, over the swell of her arse, and into the heat between her thighs. She was already wet, a slick heat that greeted his seeking fingers. He drew a slow, damp line through her folds, a blatant, possessive exploration. She shifted against him with a soft, instinctive grind, her breath hitching.
“Mmm. Early,” Blythe mumbled into his chest, her voice thick with sleep.
“You are unsurprisingly ready,” he observed, his own voice a low rasp in the quiet room. He pressed two fingers inside her, just to the first knuckle, and curled them. Her body clenched around him, a hot, silken fist.
“You’re one to talk,” she sighed, arching into his touch. “Fuck. Do that again.”
On his other side, Elara was now fully awake, her body attuned to the subtle changes. She pressed her arse back against his hip, feeling the rigid line of his erection. “He’s thinking,” she whispered, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were dark in the gloom. “I can hear it. The gears turning. Future, past, rules, risk.”
“Silence them,” he ordered, but it was a plea. He increased the pressure on her nipple, pinching lightly, then rolling the hardened bud between his thumb and forefinger. A sharp gasp escaped her. At the same time, he pushed his fingers deeper into Blythe, finding a rhythm that was slow, torturous, and utterly deliberate.
“Use your words, Professor,” Blythe taunted, though her voice was breaking. She rocked against his hand. “What do you want?”
He withdrew his fingers from both of them abruptly. The simultaneous, frustrated whimper they made was a symphony. In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolled, pinning Elara beneath him. The movement displaced Blythe, who let out a yelp and then a laugh, scrambling to her knees beside them, her eyes gleaming.
Snape looked down at Elara, her hair fanned across his pillow, her lips parted. The analytical clarity was gone from her gaze, replaced by a naked, wanting haze. “I want,” he said, the words dropping like stones, “to be inside this brilliant, insolent mouth.” He brushed his thumb over her lips. “And I want to watch you make her come while I’m buried in that perfect, greedy cunt.” He nodded towards Blythe without looking away from Elara. “And I want to do it now, before the sun rises and reminds us of all the reasons this is impossible.”
Elara’s answer was to open her mouth, her tongue darting out to lick the pad of his thumb. Then she pushed at his shoulder. “Then get moving. Clock’s ticking.”
A grim, genuine smile touched his lips. He moved down her body, his hands hooking under her knees, pushing them up and apart. He bent his head, not to her core, but to the inside of her thigh, biting down just hard enough to make her jump. “Patience,” he chided.
He turned his head towards Blythe, who was watching, her hand already between her own legs. “Here. Now.”
Blythe didn’t need a second invitation. She slithered down the bed, positioning herself on her hands and knees over Elara’s face. Elara reached up, her hands gripping Blythe’s hips, and pulled her down. There was no hesitation, no delicate exploration. Elara’s tongue licked a broad, wet stripe through Blythe’s folds, and Blythe cried out, her back bowing.
Snape watched for a moment, the sight of them together—Elara’s focused intensity, Blythe’s abandon—sending a fresh jolt of lust straight to his cock. He positioned himself at Elara’s entrance, the head of his penis pressing against her slick heat. He was thick, and she was tight, still stretching from the night before. He pushed in with one long, relentless stroke, sheathing himself to the hilt inside her.
Elara moaned, the vibration against Blythe making the other girl shudder. The sound was muffled, but the sensation travelled through both their bodies into his. It was overwhelming, a feedback loop of pleasure.
He set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust driving Elara’s mouth harder against Blythe. His hands gripped Elara’s hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her steady for his use. The wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with Blythe’s escalating cries and Elara’s choked, desperate sounds.
“Yes, just like that, oh fuck, right there, El, don’t stop,” Blythe babbled, her hands fisting in the sheets near Elara’s head. Her thighs were trembling.
Snape focused on the feel of Elara constricting around him, hot and velvety and perfect. He leaned over her, his mouth finding her shoulder, biting down as he drove into her. “Is this what you wanted?” he growled into her skin. “This… arrangement?”
Elara couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but take him and give to Blythe. Her hips twitched, meeting his thrusts as best she could. Her whole world had narrowed to the fullness splitting her open and the taste of her lover on her tongue.
Blythe’s climax hit suddenly, a torrent. She screamed, her body seizing, her muscles fluttering wildly against Elara’s mouth. Elara drank her in, her own moans vibrating as Snape’s thrusts became erratic, losing their rhythm.
He felt Elara begin to clench around him, her inner muscles rippling in frantic waves as Blythe’s pleasure triggered her own. The tension in his gut coiled, unbearably tight.
With a final, brutal thrust, he came, a hoarse, ragged shout torn from his throat. He spilled into her, his body shuddering, collapsing his weight onto her for a second before catching himself on his elbows.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths. Blythe rolled off, collapsing onto her back beside Elara, spent and gleaming with sweat. Snape withdrew, a slow, slick departure that made Elara whimper at the sudden emptiness.
He moved to lie between them, on his back again, staring at the ceiling. The storm cloud of the future hadn’t vanished. If anything, it felt closer. He had just bound them to him, and himself to them, in the most primal way possible. The thought should have been a cage. It felt, terrifyingly, like a cornerstone.
Elara’s hand found his, lacing their fingers together. Her voice was raw. “Rule three,” she whispered.
He turned his head. “What is rule three?”
“We never pretend this is just about the fucking,” she said, her eyes meeting his in the growing light. “Even when it is.”
Blythe, from his other side, flung a heavy arm across his stomach. “Damn right,” she sighed, already half-asleep again. “The fucking’s just the punctuation.”
The sun finally breached the horizon, a thin blade of gold cutting across the floorboards, illuminating the dust in the air, the discarded clothes, the three intertwined bodies in the bed. It did not remind them of impossibility. It simply illuminated what they had built in the dark.
The gold light climbed the bed, warming the bare skin of his shoulder, the curve of Elara’s spine, the arch of Blythe’s foot. It revealed everything: the bite mark on Elara’s shoulder, the love-bruise blooming on Blythe’s thigh, the stunned peace on Snape’s own face, reflected in the window glass. He watched it, this invasion of dawn, and found he did not resent its clarity.
Their breaths evened out, deep and slow, within minutes. The spent, heavy warmth of them pressed into his sides was an anchor. Blythe’s hand went slack on his stomach. Elara’s fingers uncurled from his. Sleep reclaimed them with the ruthless efficiency of the young and thoroughly satisfied. He was left awake in a quiet cacophony of feeling.
He extracted himself with a precision honed from years of handling volatile ingredients, shifting millimeter by millimeter until he was free of the tangle. The cool air of the cottage kissed his skin, a shock after their shared heat. He stood for a moment, just looking. Elara’s hair fanned across both pillows now. Blyhe had curled onto her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. They were a landscape of trust.
He pulled on his trousers, not his teaching robes, and padded barefoot into the small kitchen. The silence was different here, expectant. He filled the kettle with a tap of his wand, set it to boil on the stove. The mundane act felt revolutionary. Eggs, he had eggs. Bacon. Yesterday’s bread.
He worked methodically, a different kind of potion-making. Slicing the bread. Whisking eggs with a fork, the rhythmic click against ceramic a quiet percussion. The bacon began to sizzle in the pan, its salty, greasy fragrance weaving into the older scents of woodsmoke and dried herbs. It was a domestic alchemy he had long considered beneath him, a useless language. Now, he found himself speaking it fluently, with fierce concentration.
He brought the first tray back to the bedroom. He didn’t wake them. He sat on the edge of the bed, the worn floorboard cold under his foot, and simply watched them sleep in the full morning light. The storm cloud of the future was still there, but it had lost its sharp edge. It was just weather. They would navigate it.
He leaned down first to Elara. He kissed the hinge of her jaw, just below her ear. “Wake up, you insufferable know-it-all,” he murmured, the insult rendered tender by his tone. His hand smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Sustenance is required.”
Her nose wrinkled. She blinked, those clever eyes unfocused, then softening when they found him. “You cooked?”
“I prepared edible materials. The classification is debatable.”
He moved to Blythe, kissing the furrow between her eyebrows until it relaxed. “Up, lazy creature.” His hand slid under the sheet, finding the swell of her hip and giving it a firm, possessive squeeze. “Unless you’d prefer I eat your portion.”
Blythe stretched, a long, feline arch that made the sheet slip. “You’re in a scary good mood.” She grinned, sleep-rumpled and beautiful. “I like it.”
He brought the trays, settling them over laps. He fetched his own plate and sat in the armchair by the window, watching them eat. He made corrections. “The salt is there, if you require it.” A nod to Elara. “You prefer your bacon crisper. I noted it.” A statement to Blythe. It was observational, clinical, and deeply affectionate.
After, he took the trays away. He returned with a damp, warm cloth. He didn’t ask. He simply took Elara’s hand, turning it over, and wiped her fingers clean with a slow, thorough attention that made her breath catch. He did the same for Blythe, cleansing each finger, the pad of her thumb, the palm she’d bitten during her climax.
He kissed the inside of Elara’s cleaned wrist, feeling her pulse jump. “My logistical nightmare,” he said, the words a vibration against her skin.
He bit Blythe’s freshly-washed fingertip, not hard, a punctuation. “My catastrophic error in judgment.”
He moved between them again, not for sex, but for proximity. He kissed Elara’s shoulder, the one he’d marked. He laved the tender skin with his tongue, an apology and a reaffirmation. His hand found Blythe’s knee under the sheet, his thumb rubbing slow circles on the inside joint. He told them, in a low, factual monotone that couldn’t hide the subversion, how the light made Elara’s hair look like polished walnut, how the freckle just below Blythe’s collarbone was exactly the colour of burnt sienna in a painter’s kit.
He spoiled them with data, with forensic attention, with the terrifying, naked truth of his notice. He was building a new base for that volatile future potion, right here in the rumpled sheets, with kisses that were notes, touches that were promises, and words that were the only kind of spell he’d ever truly trusted. The sun climbed higher, but the storm on the horizon had finally begun to break apart, scattering into a mere
He was building a new base for that volatile future potion, right here in the rumpled sheets, with kisses that were notes, touches that were promises, and words that were the only kind of spell he’d ever truly trusted. The sun climbed higher, but the storm on the horizon had finally begun to break apart, scattering into a mere, manageable drizzle of practical concerns.
Elara watched him, this brooding man meticulously cataloging her freckles, and felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere deep and astonished. It escaped as a soft, breathy sound. She turned her head and caught Blythe’s eye across the landscape of his chest. Blythe’s face was doing that thing, that scrunched-nose, glowing thing she got when something was too wonderful to contain.
“You’re ridiculous,” Elara whispered, her voice thick with a fondness so sharp it bordered on pain. She reached over and poked his ribs. “A forensic report on my hair colour? Really?”
He caught her probing finger, held it. “Accuracy is important.”
“He made bacon,” Blythe said, as if announcing the discovery of a new magical principle. She wriggled closer, nuzzling his arm. “And he remembered how I like it. You’re such a secret softie. A greasy, crispy, secret softie.”
Snape stiffened, the old defensiveness flashing across his features like a shadow. “It is a simple matter of observation and recall, not sentiment.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Elara said, rolling onto her side to face him fully. She traced the stark line of his collarbone. “This is spoiling. Pure and simple. You’re spoiling us rotten.”
He opened his mouth, likely to issue a cutting denial, but Blythe cut him off. She flung a leg over his hips and sat up, looking down at him with dramatic, wide-eyed admiration. “He is! He totally is. Look at this. Breakfast in bed. Post-coital grooming. Poetic analysis of our epidermis. I feel thoroughly fanned over.” She fluttered her eyelashes, the picture of exaggerated devotion.
Elara joined in, propping her chin on his sternum, her eyes sparkling. “We’re being fawned upon. It’s a historical event. Should we mark the date? ‘The morning the Bat of the Dungeons transformed into a decadent concierge.’”
A low groan rumbled in his chest, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upwards against his will. Their combined silliness was a weapon he had no defense against. “You are both deeply annoying. Unbearable.”
“But you’re grinning,” Blythe pointed out, poking his cheek. “It’s tiny. And it looks like it hurts. But it’s there.”
He surrendered. The tension left his body in one long exhalation. He brought his hands up, one to cradle the back of Blythe’s head, the other to cup Elara’s cheek. He pulled them both down for a clumsy, three-way kiss that was more shared breath and laughter than passion.
They collapsed around him again, a tangle of giggles and contentment. The girls fawned and giggled at his spoiling, pressing light, silly kisses to his shoulders, his jaw, his salt-and-pepper temple. They called him their monstrous sweetheart, their tyrannical caretaker, weaving a tapestry of playful, loving ridicule that felt, to him, more sacred than any vow.
The playful chaos settled into a warm, heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and the distant call of a rook outside the window. Snape lay trapped beneath them, their weight a welcome anchor. His hands, one buried in Blythe’s tousled blonde hair, the other resting on the small of Elara’s back, moved in absent, gentle circles.
“We should discuss the Floo network,” Elara murmured into his chest, her intellect reasserting itself even in repose. “Scheduling. You have duties here. We’ll have… lives out there.” The ‘out there’ hung in the air, the vast, unknown world beyond Hogwarts’ protective enchantments.
Blythe snorted. “Lives. Right. I’m taking a job at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, for Merlin’s sake. Hardly a Ministry career.” She tilted her head to look at Snape. “You’d have to be seen with me. The disgraced niece of a blood traitor, now a purveyor of odious prank paraphernalia.”
“Your professional standing is the least of our concerns,” Snape said, his voice a low vibration. His thumb stroked the knob of Elara’s spine. “My being seen with either of you, in any context beyond the transactional, will ignite speculation. Dangerous speculation.”
Elara propped herself up on an elbow, her expression turning serious. “So we establish patterns. Predictable, boring patterns. I visit for advanced potions tutoring. Blythe delivers… product samples for George. We create alibis of mundanity. Until we’re behind a locked door.” Her gaze drifted to his mouth. “Then we burn the alibis down.”
His hand came up to grasp her chin, holding her with a possessiveness that made her breath catch. “You speak of fire with such casual arson.” He pulled her down for a kiss that was not casual at all—it was a branding, a promise of conflagration. When he released her, his eyes were dark pools of intent. “The discussion is over.”
He shifted then, rolling Blythe gently onto her back. The mood pivoted, the logistical chatter incinerated by a sharper, hungrier energy. He looked down at her, her blonde hair fanned across his pillow, her body yielding and open. “You spoke of fawning,” he said, his tone dropping into something rough and deliberate. “Let me demonstrate the difference between that and devotion.”
He moved down her body, his mouth leaving a trail of deliberate, open-mouthed kisses. He bypassed her breasts, though they peaked in anticipation, and went straight to the inside of her thighs. He bit there, not hard, but with enough pressure to make her gasp. His hands pushed her legs apart, wider, holding her open to his gaze and the cool morning air.
“Still so wet for me,” he observed, his voice thick. “From a few kisses and silly words.” He lowered his head and licked a long, flat stripe through her folds.
Blythe arched off the bed, a broken sound escaping her. “Fuck. Yes.”
Elara watched, her own body humming with sympathetic need. She moved closer, her hand finding Snape’s shoulder, feeling the muscle work under his skin as he feasted on Blythe. She kissed his back, the sharp line of his shoulder blade. “Let me help,” she breathed against his skin.
He didn’t pause his ministrations, but he gave a curt, granting nod. Elara slid her hand down his flank, over the curve of his arse, until her fingers found the hot, rigid length of him. He was already leaking. She stroked him, her fist moving in a slow, tight rhythm that matched the pace of his tongue on Blythe.
The room filled with the sounds of them: Blythe’s increasingly desperate cries, the slick, filthy noise of Snape’s mouth on her cunt, Elara’s soft pants as she worked his cock. Snape’s rhythm began to falter as pleasure built under Elara’s hand. He pulled away from Blythe with a wet sound, his breath coming in ragged pulls.
“Enough,” he growled. He turned, capturing Elara’s mouth in a kiss that tasted of Blythe’s essence. He guided her onto her hands and knees. “Now you,” he commanded, his voice guttural.
He positioned himself behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other guiding himself to her entrance. He didn’t ask. He pushed in, a single, deep, conquering thrust that buried him to the root inside her. Elara cried out, a sharp, satisfied sound of being filled. She pushed back against him, taking him deeper.
From beneath them, Blythe watched, her own hand sliding between her legs. “Look at you,” she whispered, her voice wrecked. “So fucking beautiful taking him.”
Snape set a brutal, pounding pace. Each thrust drove Elara forward, her cries punctuating the slap of skin on skin. He leaned over her, his mouth at her ear. “This is the schedule,” he rasped, driving into her. “This is the only meeting that matters.” He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, making her sob. “Your brilliant mind goes quiet. Your clever mouth screams.” He punctuated each word with a thrust. “This. This is our agreement.”
Elara could only nod, her vision blurring, her whole world narrowing to the exquisite friction, the burn of stretch, the dizzying fullness. She felt Blythe’s hand on her ankle, a grounding point of contact.
“Touch her,” Snape ordered, though Blythe was already moving.
Blythe sat up, positioning herself before Elara’s face. Elara didn’t need guidance. She leaned forward, her tongue finding Blythe’s clit, lapping at the swollen nub with a frantic rhythm mimicked by Snape’s pounding. The dual sensation—giving pleasure, receiving it—shattered her focus into a thousand bright shards.
Snape felt her tighten around him, her inner muscles fluttering in frantic pulses. The sight before him—Elara’s arse pressed against his hips, her face buried between Blythe’s thighs—was the most obscenely beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed. His control frayed.
His thrusts became erratic, losing their punishing rhythm for something more primal, more desperate. He fisted a hand in Elara’s hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring himself as the coil in his gut snapped.
He came with a raw, shuddering groan, spilling into her, his body collapsing over hers for a moment as he emptied himself. The force of his release triggered hers; she clenched around him, her cry muffled against Blythe, who followed them over the edge with a sharp, sobbing gasp of her own.
They collapsed in a heap of spent limbs and heaving breaths. The silence returned, deeper now, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Snape withdrew slowly, his body already missing the fierce, wet heat of her. He lay on his back between them once more, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Blythe traced the sweat-damp hair at his temple. “So,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Tuesdays and Thursdays for tutoring. Wednesdays for product delivery.”
Elara let out a weak, breathless laugh. “And every other moment we can steal.”
Snape stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster he knew by heart. The logistical nightmare remained. The danger was real. But here, in this bed, with their scents on his skin and their bodies pressed close, it wasn’t a problem to be solved. It was the parameters of their reality, the borders of a strange and beautiful country they had chosen to inhabit together. He turned his head, first to Elara, then to Blythe. He did not smile. But his eyes were clear, focused, present.
“We steal them all,” he said, and it sounded, finally, like a vow.