Two times I've posted about how reading Snape's worst memory makes me physically ill and unable to sleep. Both times I got people in the comments saying he deserved it. What is it about "this event makes me physically ill" makes people think I'm absolutely fit to hear about how horrible Severus was and how much he deserves it?
No, tell me how it makes any sense to go to a person obviously in emotional turmoil and compound it by saying, 'Hey, you know this guy you feel bad for? He deserved everything that happened to him. Hey, you know the sexual harassment you read about? He brought it on himself.'
What the fuck? Have people lost all empathy? All sense? Do I need to spell it out? I feel like I'm breaking and I don't want to discuss whether public humiliation and sexual assault are deserved.
Fucking reblogging again BECAUSE PEOPLE WON'T STOP TELLING ME ALL THE SHIT IN SWM IS JUSTIFIED. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK IS JUSTIFIED. DON'T TELL ME ABOUT IT.
„Severus x Marauders“ Fanart? Or even worse „Severus x Harry“. I mean like what the hell is wrong with u guys? The Marauders are the reason that Snape never trust anyone anymore Or cant love anymore. Thats just so disgusting that some pervert people ship that and support that kind of ship. Thats abusive and damn toxic. Not to be mean but please get fucking therapy if you really think thats kinda cute or some sort of relatable.
Notice how whenever you bring up James bullying Snape, people are always quick to point out Snape’s actions and make Snape look worse so they can uplift James? They never bring up any discrimination or trauma James faced when he bullied Snape. The only way for them to defend him is to mitigate his actions—not by bringing up the circumstances he was under, but by making Snape look bad so they can pretend he “had it coming.”
Usually, when you bring up a character’s wrongdoings, their fans are quick to explain their behaviour by bringing up what they went through that led to said wrongdoings. With Draco, they’ll say “but he was raised and spoiled by his blood prejudiced parents.” With Sirius, they’ll say “but he was wrongfully imprisoned and emotionally stunted by Azkaban.” With Snape, they’ll say “but he was severely bullied and had abusive parents.” With Remus, they’ll say “but he came from a marginalised community.” What can they say about James? What possible explanation is there for his wrongdoings? What hardships or emotional distress did he face during that time that might resonate with some readers?
James was as privileged as one could be, he was a rich, white, good-looking, pureblood, smart, athletic, and popular Gryffindor who was loved by his parents. His fans, knowing this, will do everything in their power to twist the narrative and victim-blame 16 year old Snape, just so they can argue that all the bad things James did to him were well-deserved.
James’s insane privilege is what makes his character so notably cruel, because, unlike some characters, he had EVERY opportunity to be kind to his inferiors. And he failed miserably.
No, Karen. Snape hated James Potter because he spent every waking moment tormenting him from the second they met on the train. Because he and his mates made a hobby out of harassing him, attacking him, and humiliating him. Because James even went as far as assaulting him by exposing him half-naked in front of the entire damn school. Because he was his damn abuser and, thanks to his family, money, and social capital, he always got away with it. Lily has nothing to do with this — you just want to divert attention so you can paint the victim as a jealous, possessive man and excuse an abuser.
Two times I've posted about how reading Snape's worst memory makes me physically ill and unable to sleep. Both times I got people in the comments saying he deserved it. What is it about "this event makes me physically ill" makes people think I'm absolutely fit to hear about how horrible Severus was and how much he deserves it?
No, tell me how it makes any sense to go to a person obviously in emotional turmoil and compound it by saying, 'Hey, you know this guy you feel bad for? He deserved everything that happened to him. Hey, you know the sexual harassment you read about? He brought it on himself.'
What the fuck? Have people lost all empathy? All sense? Do I need to spell it out? I feel like I'm breaking and I don't want to discuss whether public humiliation and sexual assault are deserved.
Fucking reblogging again BECAUSE PEOPLE WON'T STOP TELLING ME ALL THE SHIT IN SWM IS JUSTIFIED. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK IS JUSTIFIED. DON'T TELL ME ABOUT IT.
The tragedy of Severus Snape is that he embodies what it means to be both indispensable and unwanted.
The war could not have been won without him; Harry could not have survived without him. He gave every part of himself to that fight, and what remained of him was only his bitterness. But, outside of Albus, who wanted him? Who cared?
Even Albus, his staunchest defender, bound him in chains of another kind. His trust demanded obedience, his loyalty demanded sacrifice. The price of Albus’s faith was nothing less than Severus’s life, given piece by piece until he had nothing left to call his own.
And still, he gave. He gave when there was nothing left of him to give. That is the duality so many overlook: that he is both ruin and resilience, cruelty and compassion, a man destroyed and yet a man who still chose to try and make amends.
He is not only the most complex character in the series but, in my opinion, one of the most compelling tragedies in modern literature.
I was inspired to draw this after reading Snape's Worst Memory; an SA that happened to a minor at the hands of his bullies. Most readers regarded the event so, so callously because the bullies grew up to become heroic figures while the victim didn't. People didn't even consider it SA and called it a schoolyard rivalry. Some people had the audacity to call it deserved because he grows up to become a controversial figure. As if cause and effect weren't a thing. As if any fifteen year old deserves to be publically stripped, pointed and laughed at while they hung in the air.
I was torn up about it for days. I wanted to draw it in a way that captured exactly why what happened was horrifying. I stripped the event of its idyllic scenery and highlighted every horror taking place.
His mouth is silenced because they were literally washing it out with soap, choking him on soapsuds. And the headmaster didn't want him talking about a certain prank that almost got him killed—he was physically and metaphorically silenced. His limbs are paralysed because they strung him upside down, essentially crucified in the air.
They stripped him naked amidst a crowd of his peers. He was unpopular, so everyone laughed at his skinny, pale legs and fraying underpants—things that are the product of his impoverished upbringing. That's why his ribs are showing and his stomach is depicted with a cavernous hole—this is what starvation looks and feels like. This is the thing the people are laughing about. It's not so funny, is it?
His eyes are big and empty and horrified. His body is emaciated, without strength, made of lines barely holding him together. Shaking apart. His hands and feet are barely discernible because they can't do anything. He can't do anything but cry. His chest is empty because how could he still have a heart after this?
The 'x'es are made of red and gold—Gryffindor colours, regal colours—because they represent the actions of his wealthy, heralded bullies. There are dark, spidery lines amidst the red and gold to depict the corruption in their regal exterior. The corruption in their actions.
The faces are especially cruel and shallow because anyone who is amused by a scene like this is especially cruel and shallow. The crowd is a monolith, a giant monster. They surround him. Their laughter is suffocating. Their eyes pin him down. Their grinning mouths are eating alive his dignity. It magnifies the hurt he's undergoing at the hands of his bullies. If the background was completely black, without the faces, the horror would significantly recede.
The art style is similar to how traumatised children draw their traumas. Because he was a kid. He was a minor who had something horrible and inexcusable done to him, and anyone who thinks it was deserved is simply foolish.
summary: tom’s been infiltrating your dreams, and you decide it’s time to call him out on it.
warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNIIII, coercion!!!!, dark!tom, mind manipulation, religious undertones, gryffindor!reader, enemies if you squint, fingering, squirting, begging, dream sex, tom riddle is his own warning, so much praise, dirty talk, verbal sparring.
You've never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a child, the smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, a shift in the walls—would jolt you awake. For years, you chalked it up to some ingrained survival instinct, some form of trauma response to whatever part of your childhood still haunts you. You got used to it.
But lately, it isn't sound that’s been waking you. It isn't movement or foundation shifts, either. It's the dreams.
Dreams—strange, lucid, intense dreams of him. Always him. Dreams that make you feel like you're drowning, like you're flying, like you've found a new level of intoxication that you'd never imagined possible—and each time the dreams wake you up, the sheets (and whatever bottoms you may have been wearing) are always soaked, and your thighs are always shaking.
It's maddening.
They feel too real to be anything but a violation, his presence bleeding into your subconscious regardless of how much you try to fight it. You know it means something is wrong. You'd tried to rationalize yourself into going back to sleep, telling yourself it's just hormones or some form of stress, but you're too smart to believe your own excuses.
You know it's more than that.
He's haunting you in your sleep—in the most unexpected way. The dreams are always lucid enough that you can feel it—you can feel him—his mouth on yours, his hands on your hips, his dick bullying your fucking cervix and his magic on your clit—leaving behind nothing but hunger. Hunger that's so intense it makes you want him in a way it almost scares you.
You tell yourself you hate him, you've always hated him—but denial only lasts for so many days, as you realize you can't look at him or talk to him without the dreams forcing their way to the forefront of your mind, making you remember the feelings and the sensations and how much, despite hating him, you want them to be real.
You wanted to believe it would pass. That this was nothing but a phase, a trick of your overactive mind. But deep down, you knew the truth. Tom Riddle has wormed his way into your head, into your dreams—out of spite—and he's not letting go.
So after a hell of a week of this—with damn near zero hours of sleep—you decide to seek him out. To put an end to this madness. Once and for all.
It takes every ounce of courage and Gryffindor-like reckless bravery you can scrape together just to go through with it, but somehow you do. Somehow, you make it across the castle, make it to his door. You're in your pyjamas, for Merlin's sake. It's 1 a.m., and the slick still coating your thighs from what had to have been your tenth lucid orgasm in a matter of a week is a humiliating reminder of why you're even here at all.
And when the door opens, you have the strange feeling that he's been expecting you, even as he makes a great show of acting surprised to see you, looking you up and down with a lazy, smug glance that makes your pulse quicken so viscerally you lose the last shred of sanity you were pathetically clinging to—
"What the fuck—" you prowl forward without hesitation, forcing him a step back into the room. "—are you doing to me?"
Even if you're not imagining some form of surprise in that smug little smirk, he does his best not to let it show.
"Me?" He says, all pretend innocence, flicking his hand out to shut the door behind you with some spell you don't care to name. "You'll have to be more specific."
You glare at him, refusing to acknowledge how unfairly attractive he looks in just sweatpants and an oversized shirt—because of course, even casual looks like this are a weapon in his arsenal.
"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," you snap, and you're not sure if it's your lack of sleep or some form of desperation-fuelled bravery, but you're suddenly invading his personal space, poking an accusing finger into his shoulder. "You're fucking haunting me—"
He blinks. "I’m haunting you. And how am I doing that?”
There's a part of you that knows it's a trap—that this is probably exactly what the smug bastard in front of you has been wanting, but your brain is so deprived of sleep and your body is so starved of respite that you decide 'fuck it'—you want answers, and you're going to get them.
"You're in my dreams," you say, bluntly, forcing an exhale alongside it. "You've been in them every night for a week straight. I haven't slept a bloody minute."
That's when it happens—the tiniest flash of amusement in his eyes, so brief you might've missed it if you weren't ready to tear his fucking throat out.
"You're accusing me of giving you dreams?" He asks, in a tone that makes you want to grab him by the front of his shirt and make him cut the bullshit, and you can't tell how much of your own expression is irritation and how much is lust. "You think I've somehow managed to invade your mind?"
"Don't be condescending," you spit, trying to focus on the spot between his eyebrows that makes the heat in your core roar the least, "and don't act like you're incapable. As much as I can't bloody stand you, we both know damn well your mind magic is strong enough to do this to me—"
"Mind magic," he echoes with an amused snort, "you think I'm doing some kind of mind magic to invade your dreams, is that it?"
He's so damn good at this, you think—infuriatingly good. The way he's playing it off like the idea is absurd, completely laughable—
"Fucking precisely.” You can't hide the heat from your voice. You don't care to try. "These aren't just dreams. They're—they're strong. I feel you. Your hands, your tongue, your—"
Dick. You can't even bring yourself to say it.
And the bastard just smirks, like he's reading your mind anyway. Like he knows. That glimmer in his eyes—arrogant, insufferable—only confirms it.
"Hm," he says with something bored, running a hand through his hair. "Your subconscious—"
"It's not a bloody subconscious thing," you cut him off, uninterested in whatever bullshit he was about to feed you. "It's you. You're invading my dreams—I feel you—my body fucking feels you—"
He laughs at that. Like some sick, sadistic freak. He actually laughs—
"Listen to yourself." He says, with a mocking tone that makes you want to shove him. "Are you that desperate to hate me that you're pinning your dreams on me?"
"Hate doesn't even begin to cover it," you spit, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. He shifts slightly, his back brushing the wall. "You've got a hell of an ego, but even you have to know this isn't something I'd want. I wouldn't put you in my dreams willingly if you paid me to do it—"
He hums, smirk never faltering, if anything it fucking grows at the tirade.
"You've been dreaming of me for a week," he points out, coolly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. "And now, here you are—standing in my dorm in the middle of the night, dressed like this." He takes a step toward you, now. "Do you know what that's called, sweetheart?"
Your lungs hitch at the pet name. Your mind is at war with your cunt and it's losing—
"Delirium?" You choke out, noticing another flash of something in his eyes as the gap between you closes. "Insomnia? Sleep deprivation?"
He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.
"No," he says, in a tone that makes you seethe. "It's called obsession."
"Oh. The irony," you can't help but hiss at him, heart pounding because he's in your space and you're in his and this shouldn't be getting to you the way it is. "It's rich, coming from you, that you'd put that on me when—when you've been mindfucking me every goddamn night—"
"Mindfucking you?" He repeats, almost lazily, as his gaze drops, sweeping over you—your pyjamas, the clear lack of bra, the flush creeping up your neck. "Is that what you think I've been doing? You think—"
The way he doesn't even deny it—doesn't argue the accusation—makes your blood boil in a way you can't control.
"It's the only explanation. You've been—you've been—" you cut him off but your sentence falters because his gaze is moving so deliberately, dragging over you like he's cataloging your weaknesses, and the anger curdles into something raw and desperate. "God, Tom, I just need it to stop. I'm so fucking tense and tired. I'm so wound I can't even focus—I'm wet all the time—"
His eyes snap up to meet yours at that, and he gives you a look you can't even begin to interpret. You bite your tongue, realizing the words that left your mouth just a moment too late to pull them back, and you know you've lost the upper hand in this, somehow. You feel the ground slipping from under you and you hate the way your body shivers as he takes another slow, deliberate, step forward.
"Is that what you are?” He wets his lips. "You've come all the way here, in the dead of night, in your pyjamas, half out of your mind with exhaustion because you're wet. Isn't that right?"
You know better than to answer, though you feel yourself walking straight into the trap he's set.
"Piss off," you snap, but the bravado in your voice is paper-thin as he takes another step forward. He's so close now that his scent overwhelms you—leather and spice, something sharp and smoky that makes your head spin. You recognize it, of course you do; it's the same as in your dreams, and the familiarity makes your knees feel unsteady. "You're—"
"Don't act so offended," he leans closer, his voice a low murmur, quiet, almost silky as it wraps around you, and suddenly you barely remember what you were so pissed off about. "You can't even deny it. I made you cum tonight, didn't I? In your dreams."
Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"
He takes one more step and now you're backed right up against his desk—and gods, Tom's tall, so much taller than you—and it feels like he's looming over you, caging you in.
"Mhm." There's a flash of triumph in his eyes as you lose your words. He leans down, breath grazing your ear just as he brings two fingers to your temple, pressing the pads against it. "Let's watch, shall we?"
Watc—oh no.
A cold sense of dread washes over you as you catch on to what he's insinuating, merely a second too late—
"Tom—"
He whispers something, something that pulls you under, and the next thing you know—in a flash of consciousness you didn't even consider possible—you're staring at yourself inside a dream you remember all too well. A dream sequence where you're moaning and trembling beneath him, your head thrown back, eyes rolling in unabashed pleasure as he drives into you, hips snapping with thrust after thrust after thrust—
And it's one thing to have felt it in the safety of your dreams, in the dead of night when you woke slick and desperate, clenching around nothing. But this—this is visceral. You can't look away because it's projecting inside your mind: the flush blooming across your chest, the arch of your back, the way your lips part with every desperate breath. You hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth, mingling with his low, guttural grunts—and worst of all, you can feel it.
You can feel every ounce of pleasure he's giving you, as if he's giving it to you now.
"Mm," you hear him hum from infront of you—it's too much—you're lost in the memory, the dream, and it's a strange, voyeuristic, intimate experience to watch yourself and him like that. "You're worse off than I thought."
You’re gripping the wood of his desk so hard your fingertips are numb, heart flying out of the room as his hand slowly slides from your temple down to your jaw, holding you in place—
"Stop it." You manage to hiss at him, trying to force some semblance of control back into yourself—the last thing you need is to start melting against this bastard. "Tom—"
"You feel that?" He murmurs, breath brushing your neck, and you can't even focus on anything but the sensations he's forcing through your memory—seeing him above you, feeling him inside you. "You do, don't you? This is exactly what you've been feeling all week, isn't it?"
You want to snap at him, cuss him out, but oh god—
"Damn you," you hiss, even as his hands slide down to your hips—and it almost feels as if he's touching you twice, as if there are two sets of hands on your body. "Fuck, Tom—"
"Mm, you look good from this angle," he murmurs, and you fucking keen as you watch, in your mind, his hands slide over your stomach, pushing up your shirt and exposing your tits, groping as he fucks you. You keen as you feel it. "You love this, don't you? You want this."
"I—" you gasp, trying to convince him, or yourself, or goddamn anyone. Still fighting some invisible battle between resistance and submission because you hate that he's right. "I—god, what are you doing to me—"
"What am I doing to you?" He whispers, and you're not sure if the question is rhetorical, or if he's giving you permission to ask it. "I'm not doing anything that you aren't letting me do."
Your knees feel like they're about to buckle, and it's taking all your strength just to stay standing because the pleasure playing out in your mind is pouring into your veins and you can't even fathom how it's possible but you can't do anything to fight it—
"Oh, god—" you moan, unbridled, your physical body slumping back onto the desk as you feel the slick between your thighs, growing with every goddamn thrust. "Oh my god—"
He takes the opportunity of you slumped back against the desk and instantly leans down, bringing his lips to your ear—
"Not even god could keep your legs underneath you." His hand creeps up your thigh. "You're helpless."
"Helpless," you repeat, with a shaky gasp, and you hate how much the word turns you on. This is the first time you've ever been called helpless, and you're not even sure that you care. He's got you in his clutches, he's winning, and it's so infuriating and so goddamn perfect. “Tom—please, please touch me. I need to—fuck—"
You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck in a way that has you trembling with want, but—fucking hell, that's not what you need—you need his hands on you, you need him to just—
"What do you need?" He cooes, and there's a sly tone to his voice that makes you want to throw yourself at him all over again. "You need to cum?"
You moan, low and needy, writhing against the desk because this fucker—he knows exactly what he's doing. He’s got the upper hand here and you want it back. You want—
"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "I need you to—I fucking need you—inside me—"
As soon as that leaves your mouth, the dream fades from your vision and he's urging you to lay back. There's a soft thud as he places a hand on the desk next to your head, and he leans down, bringing his lips back to your ear, and you can't remember a time when you've ever wanted anyone else this bad.
"I'm touched," he murmurs, fingers slipping to the waist band of your pyjama pants, "that you want me that bad."
"I hate you," you manage to gasp out, but that's a lie, and you think he knows it. His fingers on your skin as he pulls your pants down make you ache for him, and you're struggling to not make another sound that will give him ammunition. "Why do you have to—"
"Why do I have to what?" He asks, and you know he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. "Tease you? Make you helpless?"
Your pants get hardly half way down your thighs before he decides it's enough and slides a finger through your soaked slit, and you can't hold back the moan that tears itself from your throat.
"Fuck, you're soaked.” He hisses through his teeth. “You've been sitting in your dorm for days, hm? Dreaming of me touching you, wishing you could touch yourself without thinking of me—do you want to cum, sweetheart?"
"Yes," you gasp out, and you're not above begging at this point. "Yes, god, please—I want to fucking cum—"
"There we go," he cooes, and he's enjoying this more than you'd like to acknowledge. "You know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that?"
"I'd say at least a week," you throw back, in a vain attempt to keep a shred of your dignity, but that's hard when he's circling his fingers around your clit and your body is jerking against the desk beneath you. God you really are helpless. "Because that's how long you've been plaguing my head, giving me wet dreams like some goddamn incubus—"
He chuckles at that, and you hate him a little less when he slips two fingers inside you, "You think I'm a demon?"
"You certainly act like one," you choke out, because he's crooking his fingers and your mind is going fuzzy and he's not going to let you get the upper hand back, even for a second. "Fuck—oh, yes, yes, yes."
"You've got me all wrong," he says, with a smile that would be boyish if it wasn't so sinister. "Demons come to punish you. I'm here helping you get that relief you've been needing so badly."
"Just want t-to help me," you moan as his long fingers work you open, thumb brushing your clit, "out of the kindness of your heart—"
"Out of the kindness of my heart,” he repeats, with a mocking tone, and it's the way he murmurs those words that's making your thighs clench around him until he grabs the fabric of your pjs bunched around them and pushes your legs up to your chest, working his fingers impossibly deeper. "Out of the goodness of my soul—it's what I do, darling, I'm known for my benevolence—"
"You're a good man," you know he can tell you're being sarcastic, but his fingers are filling you so fucking full you're nowhere near ready to start a fight again when you're this close to losing your goddamn mind on his desk. "You're such a good man, Tom—“
"Mhm," his breath tickles your ear. "What else am I?"
"So good with your fingers," you're moaning, and he's going to get a bigger ego than he already has. You're too far gone to care. "God, you're so good, I'm going to—"
"Yes, you are," he answers, and it takes you a second to realize that he's not correcting your words anymore. He's simply telling you that you are, in fact, about to fall apart for him. "Give it to me. You've earned it."
You almost want to snap back at him, you almost try to, but you're so far gone the words don't form on your tongue and you're not sure you'd be able to fight the fire pooling in your stomach.
"Oh, fuck—“
He doesn't even let you finish that, he just dips his hips down, bringing his hand that's not buried in your slick up to cover your mouth, muffling those strangled screams before they spill out and echo down the hall—
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low hum against your skin. "Be a good girl. Let it all out for me."
And it's that; that stupid combination of cooing warmth and the phrase 'be a good girl' that sends you over the edge, and you're muffling your gasps and moans and screams against his palm because gods, what would happen if someone heard you? What would happen if people realized what Tom Riddle was doing to you—your house rival, your sworn enemy—
"There we go," you're falling apart and he's watching you as if he owns you, as if this is where you belong—writhing beneath him, release squirting out around his fingers. "Ride it out for me. Such a good girl, you needed this so bad, I can tell you were aching for this."
You're struggling to say anything back, the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan of his name, and you've always known how bad he was, heard from other girls how good he could be with his hands, but this—you've never had this, never been this before.
"Such a fucking mess," he's murmuring, his voice low and rough and so goddamn beautiful. “How'd that feel? Hm?"
"So—so good," it feels like the words are being forced out of your throat, and you're struggling to think with enough clarity to form anything that's not an embarrassing moan of how much you needed this. "Needed it, need more, I—"
"More?" He murmurs as he slips his fingers free, and he's bringing his other hand up to your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he brings his soaked fingers to your lips. "Greedy girl."
You're not thinking about the implication of him calling you that, you're not thinking about how you should fight back, you're not thinking about how much you hate him—you’re just thinking about the sinful taste of you on his fingers, when they press against your tongue. Without a second of hesitation you suck them clean, tasting yourself, and it's obscene. You're obscene. But you don't care, it just makes that ache in you grow worse—you need more, you need him.
Dear god, what happened to you.
“So good," he murmurs, the praise dripping like honey from his tongue. You hum and he exhales. "I'll find you tomorrow."
"You'll find me tomorrow?" You repeat, as he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, and you're struggling for air, your chest heaving beneath your rumpled shirt. "What are you going to do, come into my room?"
"I'll come into much more than your room," he says, with a laugh that dances with promises of sin. "Now go. Before someone finds you here."
You push yourself up on trembling arms, pulling your pants up your thighs, your heart hammering in your chest because—god, that was incredible, you want more of it, and you can hardly even believe it happened. With a breath, you force yourself to move.
You look back at him as you get to the door. Your legs are shaking and you're not going to hold it against yourself for needing the wall to support you as his eyes rake over you, the corners of those lips curled up his signature smirk, and you want to hit him so goddamn bad—but then he speaks, like he read your mind, and it snaps you out of it—
"No dreams tonight." He says. "Scouts honour."
"You're no boy scout," you throw back, and your voice is a little breathier than you'd like. "And this changes nothing."
He smiles, slow and languid and knowing. "Of course."
You want to roll your eyes at the condescension dripping off his tongue, but you're worried that if you stay here any longer the only words on your tongue will be 'do it again'.
"You just owe me." You say as you crack the door open.
"I owe you," he agrees, and you think that his smile is just a little too genuine—like he would give you anything you wanted, just for another taste of that. “I'm keeping score, darling. Sleep well."
You hate him for calling you that, you hate his stupid smile, you hate the way he knows he's got you.
What he doesn’t know, is that you’re going to make him pay.
"Good night," you mutter, and then you open the door and slip out into the hallway.
જ⁀➴ was rude to you but would be worse if you turned down his friend request. Js like Harry did.
જ⁀➴ you'd probably team up sometimes if you're also a Slytherin but if you're not then the hatred he has for you is probably worst I'm so sorry. (Specifically as a Gryffindor)
જ⁀➴ in the third year close to fourth year, you guys start being a little more respectful towards each other for whatever reason and that's when your relationship slowly starts forming.
જ⁀➴ once you do start dating after pining over each other for soooo long, he's definitely only nice to you.
જ⁀➴ it took a loonnggg while to get through him and have him open up to you but once he does he lets all of his walls down for you.
જ⁀➴ once he knows he can trust you he starts acting like a true gentlemen, always so gentle and sweet to you and youre low-key a spoiled brat but its ok because its you!!!! he's so so in love with you!!
જ⁀➴ will defend you and your name soo badly like he ain't playing if he so much as get a hint that you're trying to disrespect his amazing y/n he's going straight to disrespectful and dirty and will fight for you if it comes down to it. (though its not preferred.)
જ⁀➴ he's just suddenly the sweetest like ...where's Draco Malfoy and what did you do to him?
જ⁀➴ no but seriously you got teachers and people you've never even interacted with asking you how you did it, yk, what's your secret?
જ⁀➴ like girl only if you knew😭
જ⁀➴ he's big on gifting you things he knows you'll like but on holidays like Christmas, valentine or even your bday? Girllll he's going alllll out nothing is too expensive or too much if anything, its never enough (in his opinion).
જ⁀➴ but that's just because you deserve the world and more and he wants to give you anything and everything you want and need
જ⁀➴ I'd say his love language (giving) would be quality time and love language with a little sprinkle of acts of service.
જ⁀➴ he loves having his hands on you, especially if you're chubby or a little thicker, have more curves ugh his hands won't leave you even in public.
જ⁀➴ he has no problem doing stuff for you, ask and you shall receive!!! Even if he's mad at you or sum he'll still do what you ask of him or if you're pissing him off, it doesn't matter.
જ⁀➴ now, with quality time this is specifically alone.
જ⁀➴ yeah, it's fun hanging with you and friends but he loves it even more when it's just the two of you, doesn't matter where y'all are, just hanging out.
જ⁀➴ you don't even have to be talking or cuddling. Literally just doing your own things near each other gives him comfort.
જ⁀➴ although, he wouldn't mind giving you a few cuddles or kisses from time to time. He's I N L O V E with you bae!!!!
જ⁀➴ carries your books or bag, he insists.
જ⁀➴ does not give one Doggystyle damn if your or his friends tease or make disgusted faces at y'all being lovey dovey or even just a simple interaction. He's gonna show his girl off!!
જ⁀➴ if your e a Gryffindor, your friends probably hate him and only tolerate him because they care about you and your happiness, and clearly, you're pretty damn happy!!!
A/n: I finally decided last minute to finish this and post this as its been rotting in my drafts for months!! Lmk what you thought!
It hurts to know that nearly all members of the Order mistrusted Severus for years and didn't give him a chance until the very end of the war...
Do you know how it felt when they kept on blaming him and throwing those unwelcomed glances at him every chance they got? All for a past mistake he himself regretted the most and probably never forgave himself for.
Oh my goodness, did Sirius ever realize that Severus had sacrificed more than anyone else and didn't deserve the nasty remarks he threw his way? Did Remus ever find out his true intentions before he died?
Remus had to know how it felt to receive those dirty glances that makes you feel like an open wound wherever you enter. He was a werewolf for goodness sake. He had to know how Severus felt all those times.
They had to give this man a chance for redemption. Do you know how cruel that actually is? I also love Remus so much and this situation is equal to how he was treated in the Wizarding community for his lycanthropy, no matter who he really was deep inside. Unfair, isn't it?
I stand by the thought that Severus is the bravest of them all. None of the members of the Order would've dared to take the risks the way he did. If you don't agree with it, you can fight me.
Someone once requested a Snape one shot where he and someone else almost gets caught in the act… whilst I admit that I have yet to fulfil this request, I’ve also decided to incorporate part of that request into the breed-kink one shot that I’m currently writing 🤫
18+
Please note that this is only one small part of what’s going to take place within this one shot… 🤭 it’s gonna be a biggie, so please be patient with me and I will keep you updated with snippets as it progresses!
As always, feel free to let me know if you’d like me to tag you in the final post! 🥰
Professor!reader and severus being married but hiding it from the students, bc they dont want the gossip and are just private people in general BUT one day sev forgets to take off his wedding ring and the golden trio go on this whole mission to find out who hes married to; completely freaking out when it turns out hes with reader cause theyre complete opposites while teaching
(Sorry if this is too long or doesnt make sense :^ i had this scenario in my head for some time lol)
Secret Lovers
Severus Snape x Professor! Reader
Warnings: use of the name "git" a lot lol, reader is the astronomy teacher but you can swap it out for any class, Snape smacks Ron and Harry
A/N: I LOVE THIS REQUEST SO MUCH OMG!?!?!?! also this isnt really set in any specific year but its more leaning towards where theyre older since snape you know.. hits ron and harry over the head and harry has the map <3
You and Severus had managed to keep your relationship secret for a couple years now, with the exception of only Minerva and Dumbledore knowing.
Why does anyone else need to know anyway? It was none of their business!
So one regular morning when you and Sev were getting ready for the day in the early hours of the morning, he had somehow forgotten to take his golden band off. You both would usually keep them in a little ring box at home so they were hidden but safe and put them back on at night, but today Severus had just forgotten to take it off.
You would bid your goodbyes at home before you left together, getting one last kiss in before heading back to Hogwarts, then Severus would put his usual cold face back on.
You both headed to your classrooms like normal, Severus still failing to notice the wedding band still on his finger.
When classes started, everything was going how it usually would: he would deduct house points, snapping at kids whenever they would interrupt his teaching, etc. That is until Hermione noticed a particular shine off her teachers hand.
Hermione looked closer before very quietly gasping. "Holy cricket!" She whispered so only Harry and Ron could hear her.
“What?” Ron asked curiously but not very quietly, earning the attention of Severus.
“On Professor Snape’s hand, he was wearing a wedding ring!” She said in a hushed voice.
“You must be crazy Herminone, there's no way that he’s married to someone.” Harry chuckled.
“Yeah, no ones gonna want to let alone be in any relationship with that old git-” Ron was interrupted by getting smacked over the head by Severus, followed up by Harry getting smacked as well.
Hermione just kept quiet, keeping her giggle to herself.
“Would you mind repeating yourself Mr. Weasley?” Severus sneered down at him.
“...no, sorry.” Ron grumbled.
“Mhm. 5 points from Gryffindor, and that's me being generous.”
After class, Ron, Hermione, and Harry all gathered at the library at break. “Are you sure you saw a ring, Hermione? Was it even on his ring finger?” Harry asked as he sat down some books in front of him.
“I'm certain! The real question is though, to who?” Hermione thought for a minute.
“Harry, why can't we just use your cloak to spy on him?” Ron questioned like it was obvious.
“Brilliant!” Harry exclaimed but Hermione smacked him in the arm.
“That's invading his privacy! It's terribly rude.” She scoffed.
Ron then mocked her, earning a smack. After a while of begs and pleas, she finally caved.
“Alright, alright!” She sighed.
They then all made their way back to the dorm to get everything they needed. Harry also grabbed the Marauders Map so it would be easier to find Snape. And then off they went on their little adventure to hunt down his wife.
They had to do some weaving and dodging to not bump into anyone (they bumped into Neville at some point, terrifying him) until they made it to the staff room. Harry looked down at his map to find Snape and you, they're astronomy teacher, alone.
“What are Professor Snape and Professor y/n doing together?” Ron asked in a confused voice.
Harry hushed him and then looked into the keyhole to find Snape and you talking to eachother.
“Are you sure no one saw the ring?” you asked again.
“Yes, dear, I am sure of it.” Snape said in a somewhat annoyed tone. “If someone did see it, I would be getting hounded with questions!”
“Yeah well not if all the students are terrified of you!” you sighed. “Look I'm not mad, I don't want you to think that, it's just we've gone this long keeping it secret it feels weird to just slip up like this”
Severus stepped towards you and grabbed your face in his hands. “Listen love, no one will know. Maybe in the future we can be more open about it.” He then bent down and kissed her gently, and you wrapped your arms around his neck pulling him closer.
Harry gasped quietly and backed up. He was about to say something before he heard footsteps walking towards the door. “We gotta get outta here!”
They all then scurried off down the hall back to the dormitory.
“Harry, what did you see? What were they doing in there?” Ron asked.
“Its professor y/n, that's who he's married to!” Harry was slightly out of breath from running.
“Professor y/n?? But they're so.. so different!” Hermione was shocked.
“You must be seeing things mate, there's NO way Proffesor y/n is married to the old git.” Ron scoffed.
“I'm telling you! They were talking about how he had forgotten to take his ring off or something and then they kissed!” Harry gushed.
They then talked about why you would ever want to marry Snape for the rest of break. Interestingly enough they next class was with you!
Since you were an extremely nice and open teacher, they felt more comfortable talking to you about it.
"So professor y/n, have you been seeing anyone lately?" Ron asked before class actually started.
You were caught off guard to say the least. "Well... I dont really see how my romantic life concerns any of you," you laugh whole heartedly.
Ron then smirked. "You never denied it. Perhaps another Proffesor that teaches here!" Hermione pinched his side as a warning to shut up.
"I don't know what your getting at, Ron" you chuckle becoming a little worried.
"Well the man I'm thinking of is a mean, old, cranky git that likes potions-"
"Thats enough! You don't ever talk about another Proffesor like that!" You scolded him.
"Alright, sorry proffesor... but im right, aren't i?" Ron smirked.
Harry and Hermione perked up to listen.
You sighed, before making sure that no other student or teacher was around, nd then said "You must not tell anyone."
