Does it tickle when I do that?
To her vast, vast surprise, Hermione discovered that her lover was ticklish.
She didn’t do it on purpose; one night, exhausted after what she could only perceive as a different kind of workout, she stayed awake, watching Severus surrender to slumber. Despite him not being a man who slept a lot or with his guard down, this time, he slept so trustingly, Hermione couldn’t stop looking at him. She tried stroking his hair that night, and he took it in stride. She caressed his neck, and he murmured in contentment –lovely, touch-starved man, making Hermione’s heart clench at the thought of the caresses he missed and the ones she hoped to give him in good time–. Then she trailed her fingers down his chest, careful not to wake him up, trailing down his scars, mapping them, remembering how many times he had been hurt and hid it from everyone.
By the time she brushed her fingers over a nipple, she thought that waking him up with her hand wrapped around his cock wouldn’t be such a bad idea; however, the notion was trumped when her hand slipped down his stomach.
He chuckled.
Severus Snape, former Death Eater, former terror of little budding witches and wizards and an overall snarky, intimidating man, chuckled in a way that reminded Hermione of teenagers in television series.
Just to make sure, she did it again; and lo and behold, he huffed, his muscles rippled as if he was trying to smother his laughter and keep his control even in slumber.
It was the most glorious sound to Hermione’s ears, but if she valued her standing with Severus enough, she would have to cease right this moment.
A witch like Hermione, bright and naturally curious, couldn’t let this incident pass just once; and so, this became a nighttime routine, a post-coital ritual she held when her wizard was giving in to sleep. Feather-like touches to his skin revealed more ticklish spots: if she caressed the back of his thigh on occasions that he was sleeping on his stomach, he would laugh. If she brushed her lips on his side, he would flinch before chuckling –so he was extra ticklish there. If she caressed his back, he’d moan.
Every night of experimenting with his ticklish tendencies revealed to Hermione something: that she loved his body –battered, scarred, pale as it was, she loved it. Every bit of skin, every scar, and obviously every sigh and chuckle her fingers drew out of him. It was comforting, to feel him warm and pliant and relaxed, when she knew him to be like a bow ready to snap from the first day she met him.
One night though, Hermione’s little experiment went awry.
“Witch,” Severus murmured, his hair falling on his face. He had fallen asleep on his stomach and his hair covered his expression. Hermione, who was trying to check whether that sweet spot right under his buttocks was ticklish, froze like a deer in front of the headlights. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”
Hermione gulped, trying to compute quickly what kind of answer would be most likely to make her not fall from his good graces, but she found that no matter what, he’d be royally pissed at her.
“I–I found out that there are spots you enjoy being caressed at, and others that make you ticklish, and I was trying to figure this out–” she said with an astounding lack of stop for breath.
Her hasty answer was met with silence at first, to which Hermione promptly saw the end of her still budding relationship.
Then–
“You have to go,” came his reply, with a voice still hoarse from sleep. “You have to run away.”
“Run? From who?” Hermione asked, just in case–
“From me,” he replied and, with reflexes that were too quick for someone who was recently asleep, Severus rolled around and pulled her down to his body, making her gasp in surprise –only for that to turn into a sigh, soon after.