dadadurmut

She/Her Snirius centric account bc i love those manchilds

[dadadurmut]

💌 REQUESTS ARE OPEN 💌

Yep, you read that right. I’m opening my DMs for anything you want from Snirius: drabbles, imagines, prompts… and yes, including HCs, NSFW, and smut. No rules about that.

I'm in a very inspirational momento and i'm in a mood for write so feel free to ask whatever you want!

Let's keep awake this community!

[dadadurmut]

Sirius is the first to notice, and at first he rejects it, he really doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand wanting to kiss that idiot Snape into silence instead of smashing his face in, or feeling the need to pin him against a wall not to punch him but to fuck him, but what he does understand is that every time they fight, he doesn’t get angry. Instead, he gets turned on. And he feels this urge to keep fighting because the more they fight, the hornier he gets, and the hornier he gets, the more entertaining life seems, a life he’s long thought no longer his own. And he rejects it, struggles against it, because Snape should disgust him, and it’s much easier to make excuses to hate him than to admit he wants him and deal with the guilt of everything he’s ever done. And Sirius is the kind of man who says what he thinks, but he’s terrible at confronting his feelings, much less self-criticism, so in the end, it’s all a mess.

Severus notices it later, but far sooner than he’ll ever admit. He rejects it too, but because it disgusts him. And although Black was every adolescent’s dream, with his perfect face, his perfect teeth, his perfect hair, to him he was a goddamn nightmare. A daily nightmare he had to face, and one he swore he would despise until his dying day, though now, finally, he begins to understand why people are captivated by that perfect face, those perfect teeth, that perfect hair that, despite the years, the prison, and the despair, still seem untouched. And the mere thought of starting to understand that makes his stomach knot, and every time he looks in the mirror, he wants to spit at himself for being a traitor. Because at the end of the day, every time he makes that idiot lose his temper, every time he pushes him to his limits, he feels a tingle that boils something inside him, not hate, but pure desire.

[scarletgqw]

sorry but wolfstar is such a nothingburger to me. I haven’t met a single person who could explain why they’re so popular or what makes people ship them so intensely almost to the point of fanaticism especially when prongsfoot and snirius exist and they are far more interesting

[dadadurmut]

Tonks: *looking at Sirius and Severus arguing for any stupid thing*

Tonks: Are they fighting or flirting?

Remus: Yes.

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Snape: Fuck you, Black

Sirius: Try me

Snape: what?

Sirius: what?

[dadadurmut]

Regulus always knew that his brother had a certain fixation on Snape because he knew perfectly well that Sirius wasn’t the type to care about anything mundane, just as he knew that Sirius couldn’t resist anyone who stood up to him and hit back, such like Walburga Black was incapable of restraining herself when someone contradicted her.

[dadadurmut]

Sirius Black, the rich kid trying to play the rebel vs. Severus Snape, the underprivileged boy who wants to bury his origins. Give me two concepts that are more made for each other, literally don’t exist.

[pooldead123]

[dadadurmut]

Snirius is a ship where both parties are insanely jealous and possessive, but their ways of showing it are diametrically opposed. Sirius is loud about it; he can’t bear the thought of another man even looking at Severus in a friendly way, let alone Severus responding in kind. Simply put, he sees himself as superior and doesn’t hesitate to put himself between them and make a ridiculous scene, exposing his complete lack of self-control. He’s the type to ask first, “What the hell were you talking to him for?” and when Severus points out how childish his jealousy is, he just snaps back, “Can’t you see he’s trying to take advantage of you?” Because for Black, the best defense is always a good offense.

When he’s left looking like a lunatic who can’t contain his insecurities, the only thing that comes naturally is to corner Snape against the wall and kiss him like the world’s ending, because if he can’t win verbally, he’ll claim him physically. At the end of the day, he’s territorial like a dog, so no one can fault him for reacting like a beast when someone dares touch his bone.

Severus, on the other hand, isn’t like that. Most people think jealousy just doesn’t apply to him, that he’s too clever to fall for such petty nonsense. And that’s the image he cultivates —especially for Sirius—because the more indifferent he acts, the more it drives the dog crazy. What no one knows is that, deep down, he’s just as jealous. Especially because that little furry bastard is ridiculously something —ridiculously strong, ridiculously handsome, ridiculously charismatic— and he always gets everyone’s attention, always has, ever since they were kids. Sirius draws every gaze, every desire. Severus takes note, of course, but he’s not a rabid dog or a roaring lion who likes a scene. Severus is a silent serpent, a patient spy, a double agent. And like any skilled actor, whenever he sees someone getting too close to Sirius, he waits quietly in the background, pretending he doesn’t notice, pretending he knows nothing… until one or two days later, everyone hears that the person who flirted a little too much with Sirius has ended up in St. Mungo with a “tragic accident” that no one could have foreseen—a tragic misfortune for everyone but Severus, for whom it’s the most convenient coincidence.

[borsukuje]

happy dry humping

[dadadurmut]

WARNING: kinda mature content, NSFW

It was because of the damned ball, the bloody Yule Ball.

Well, no. It wasn’t really the ball’s fault.

It was Prongs’ fault, with his absurd obsession with Evans, trailing after her everywhere like he were the dog, drooling after her robes like some damp mutt whining at the doorstep.

It was Lupin’s fault too, for managing to get a date with that insufferable Ravenclaw girl who did nothing but pull a sour face whenever he suggested something remotely fun. And Peter’s, for falling ill at the last minute and abandoning Sirius without a wingman, left to watch his remaining friends shed their dignity on a crowded dance floor full of idiots who clearly couldn’t spell “second-hand embarrassment,” let alone feel it.

But in the grand scheme of things, yes: it was the ball’s fault.

The ball, with everyone laughing and dancing while Sirius simmered, friendless for once, with even his weirdo of a brother smugly escorted by a date.

It wasn’t that Sirius wanted one, he’d received more than enough invitations and more than enough hints. That was precisely the issue: he didn’t want to go with anyone. Balls weren’t for dates. Balls were for getting drunk, sneaking a bit of weed without McGonagall catching you, for slipping into dark corners to grope whoever you pleased while plotting how many more mouths you intended to kiss before sunrise.

A ball was meant to be a party. And parties meant freedom.

But Peter was ill, Remus and James were slaves to convention, and so Sirius was alone —nursing pumpkin punch heavily laced with Firewhisky— staring with profound boredom at the sea of dancers.

Everyone was dancing.

Everyone except Snivellus.

It didn’t surprise him at first that the greasy-haired bastard had turned up alone. Who would willingly spend an evening with someone who seemed allergic to shampoo? That pathetic, twitchy snake. He’d arrived with Avery and Rosier, who had quickly vanished with their dates, leaving him standing awkwardly in dress robes far too big for him, making him look even more spindly and uncomfortable.

Sirius watched from across the hall with the same sharp, involuntary attention Snape always managed to provoke in him— an intensity that swallowed up his thoughts until the only thing left to do was to track him with his eyes. The alcohol warmed Sirius’ cheeks as Snape’s discomfort grew, and eventually the Slytherin slipped out into the corridors.

Sirius grinned.

A canine, predatory thing.

Blame the ball, or the drink, but when Sirius came back to himself, he was already following Snape at an easy pace. And before he had truly thought it through, he’d seized him by the front of his robes, holding him close, thinking about the greasy hair, the ridiculous nose, the hand-me-down fabric, the crooked teeth.

Thinking how perfectly believable it was that no one had asked him to the ball —that perhaps no one ever would— and how that, strangely, suited Sirius just fine. Because it meant no one else would have him.

And he couldn’t say whether it was the ball, the alcohol, or simply the way Snape’s pathetic loser face always made him think about how obscenely gorgeous he’d be on his knees— but by the time he realised it, he had shoved him against the wall and was kissing him hard enough to swallow his breath.

Snape didn’t react at first. And when he did, he certainly didn’t look pleased— but he yielded soon enough. Sirius wasn’t surprised he kissed like someone inexperienced, hesitant and unsure, and instead of irritating him it made something hot curl low in his stomach. Because he knew he was being the first. Not literally, of course, but the illusion of it clung to Snape like his oversized robes.

When Sirius finally broke away for breath, brushing the dark hair from Snape’s face, a low, feral growl slipped out before he could stop it:

“You look good in black.”

Snape didn’t have time to respond— Sirius cut him off with another bruising kiss.

He hadn’t planned to leave five hickeys and a bite mark on Snape’s neck.

He hadn’t planned to drag him into a shadowed alcove and make him come with nothing more than a firm hand. He hadn’t planned to admit —out loud— while Snape kissed him again, harder, deeper, that his face was the hottest thing Sirius had ever seen, and that mocking him had always been the only way to keep himself from fucking him senseless any day of the week.

He hadn’t planned to come again from the sound of Snape’s moans.

Or to discover just how pliant, how shockingly willing, the long-nosed bastard could be.

That hadn’t been his intention when he’d come to the ball.

But it was the ball —or the drink— or the loneliness, the drunkenness, the heat simmering under his skin, and the months spent thinking, every time he looked at Snape’s crooked teeth:

How badly he wanted to feel them against his lips.

[dadadurmut]

The day James decided he was no longer particularly interested in tormenting Snape around the clock —now that Snape and Evans were no longer friends, and thus there was no need to bully him to prove who held the upper hand— was the very day Sirius Black found himself deprived of any reasonable excuse to pursue the Slytherin whenever he had a spare moment. It forced him to reconsider, quite seriously, why he felt such an imperious need to know where Snape was at all times, to hound him without pause, without allowing the answer to involve the undeniable truth that he simply could not get him out of his mind.

So he tried to persuade James that there was no reason to abandon their old habits, but the Gryffindor merely remarked that with the greasy-haired boy no longer standing between him and Evans, he had no desire to keep testing the girl’s patience. Sirius, however, refused to accept that as a valid excuse. Snivelly was his oldest and finest victim; the natural order of things ought to remain intact.

And then, one day, Peter —absently, carelessly— voiced the question that struck Sirius like a public condemnation:

“Mate, why are you so obsessed with Snape?”

Sirius had no way of forming an answer; instead, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard that even the lamps—enchanted specifically not to sway—shuddered in their brackets.

[dadadurmut]

ALERT: NSFW content "I'm not laughing, you idiot," he replied softly, amused. "Most of our mates are fucking virgins too, you're not behind anyone."

Severus still refused to look at him, leaving it unclear whether his embarrassment stemmed from knowing he was spread-eagled and hard in front of his supposed worst enemy, or from the fact that he was inexperienced and therefore unable to maintain the control he always strove to maintain in all situations. But Sirius didn't care why. All he could think about was how damn desirable it was to have that grumpy idiot beneath him, waiting for him with trembling legs and a body that was like a pile of jelly. Waiting in hopeful surrender to feel part of another person, the same desire Sirius harboured as he sank his teeth into his neck, letting the boy exhale a sigh.

"You're fucking delicious, Prince," he growled as his tongue played with his collarbones.

"Shut up, don't talk shit," he growled, though clearly aroused.

Sirius smiled to himself, even at a time like this, the bastard was stubborn. They were about to fuck for the first time and that bloody git of Snape had the balls to complain. Typical of him, and how it turned Sirius on when he brought out that rabid cat's bad temper, fuck.

"I've never wanted to fuck someone as much as I want to fuck you," he growled in his ear, noticing how the young man's body suddenly tensed up. Sirius had noticed how every time he complimented him, every time he made him feel desired, the Slytherin became tense, as if it took him completely by surprise, a mixture of excitement and disbelief that not only left him totally disarmed but also made his erection harden considerably. Sirius broadened his smile. "You like it, really? Knowing that the heir to the Blacks can't stop thinking about all the fucking positions and places he'd fuck you in, right? Knowing that a bloke like me can't stop thinking about how many different ways you're going to moan his name, huh?"

And he didn't even have to touch him. Just with those words and the brush of his exposed erection against the robe, Severus let out a moan that he tried to hide with all his damned pride, but he could only choke it back in his throat, letting it sound much hotter than he would have liked.

Severus opened his eyes, looking at him with a mixture of resentment and despair. And Sirius felt like smiling, giving him a mocking gesture typical of the cat-and-mouse game they had been playing all this time. But he couldn't. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel the urge to be a complete jerk. For the first time in his life, he had someone underneath him who he really cared about fucking well.

Sirius leaned over him, stealing a couple of kisses from his mouth just before resting his forehead on his.

"I'm not teasing you, I really want this," he assured him, careful that there was not a hint of mockery in his voice.

The Slytherin's breathing seemed to calm down and, to his surprise, what he said next was a far cry from the usual complaints he used to verbalise about absolutely anything.

"I… I do too," he nodded, the nerves palpable in his voice.

Sirius stared at him, his erection dangerously close to the young man's entrance.

"Say it again," he demanded.

Severus swallowed, this time without nerves, without fear, and without any mistrust. He held Sirius's gaze without barely blinking and, in a tone he couldn't identify as a plea or an order, he said it:

"I want you to fuck me too."

"Fuck." And at that moment, Srius was certain that both of them were equally aware that they were completely screwed, they were utterly screwed, and no one could help them now because neither of them wanted help. There was no turning back.

[dadadurmut]

Ok I have an idea: A one shot /drabble exploring their coping mechanisms (Sirius trying to move forward by pretending it never happened while Severus is stuck in an endless spiral of "what ifs" and "I wanna punch my past self so badly")

Alright friends, this is the longest thing I’ve written on this blog so far. I hope you like it. If you want me to make a second part, just let me know <3

It Had Been a Mistake

It had been a mistake. At least, that was what Sirius told himself every morning since it happened. The thought came to him in fragments —between the cracks of memory and the brittle silence of the house— like a refrain rehearsed to exhaustion. It was easier to name it a mistake than to admit he couldn’t stop remembering.

Grimmauld Place made such denial feel almost natural. The place reeked of the past: rot and disuse, stale air steeped in Black family arrogance. The curtains clung to the walls like something diseased, the portraits whispered with venom when he passed, and even the floorboards seemed to creak with judgment. Sirius moved through it like a ghost misplaced among its own relics, barefoot on dust, his laughter echoing where no real joy remained.

He laughed often now. Too often. Especially when he didn’t mean it.

Laughter had become a kind of weapon— sharp, thoughtless, loud enough to drown the rest. At the dinner table, it grated against Molly’s patience, against the fragile calm Remus tried to maintain. But when Snape entered the room, Sirius’s laughter turned to steel.

Because if he didn’t laugh, he might have to feel.

It had been two nights ago. The Order gathered in the drawing room, every voice raised, the air thick with distrust and exhaustion. Dumbledore’s latest orders had been as opaque as ever, and tension was the only language they shared fluently. Sirius had been reckless with his words —because that was what he did when he felt trapped— and Snape, with his habitual disdain, had given him the perfect excuse to bare his teeth.

Insults became the currency of the evening. They traded them like blows—old, intimate, honed over years of loathing.

And when the others had left, when even Remus’s weary sigh had faded down the corridor, they were still there— two men circling each other out of habit, too proud to retreat, too wounded to stop. The fire had burned low; the house had fallen into the kind of silence that dares you to fill it.

That was when it happened.

There are moments that fracture time— moments so brief and unspeakable they exist almost outside of choice.

Sirius had reached out— he would later tell himself it was to shove Snape away, to punctuate a final insult. But his hand had found Snape’s wrist instead, fingers curling where they should not have. Snape’s breath hitched, sharp and furious. The air cracked.

Then the world held its breath.

Not a kiss— no, nothing so deliberate. But it was close enough to one that the difference hardly mattered. The space between them had become too small, charged with something that felt like hatred only because neither of them had another word for it.

And then —like every wrong thing in his life— it was over as quickly as it began.

Sirius stepped back, a curse caught between his teeth. Snape’s eyes—dark, wide, unreadable— met his for a heartbeat too long, and in that brief stillness Sirius saw his own confusion mirrored back at him, stripped of all disguise. Then Snape was gone, his robes sweeping through the doorway, leaving behind the scent of bitterness and smoke.

Now Sirius pretended it had never happened. That was his strategy: to pretend hard enough that perhaps even memory would bow to his will.

He had survived Azkaban that way— by deciding what not to think about. Denial was not cowardice; it was survival polished into art.

When Remus came by, Sirius laughed too loudly and drank too quickly. When Molly scolded him, he grinned like a boy caught with a stolen sweet. And when Snape appeared in the doorway —black-eyed, silent, poisonous— Sirius leaned into mockery as if it were oxygen.

Mock the bastard. Laugh. Keep the upper hand.

That was the mantra. It kept the walls from closing in.

But sometimes, late at night, when the house slept and even Kreacher’s muttering had gone still, the laughter curdled on his tongue. He would remember the exact sound Snape had made —half a gasp, half a growl— and it would burn through him like a brand he couldn’t scrub away.

It hadn’t been tenderness. It hadn’t even been desire. It had been something far worse— something raw, ungoverned, born from all the years they had spent defining themselves in opposition.

Sirius knew ghosts. He had learned their habits in Azkaban: how they cling, how they whisper, how they feed on what you refuse to face.

But this ghost —this one with a hooked nose, thin lips, and too many secrets— was harder to exorcise.

Because it was alive.

______________

Severus, for his part, did not pretend: he dissected.

He always had. Dissection was, after all, the only form of control he trusted. When the world refused to obey, he took it apart until it did. And so he took that night —the moment he refused to name— and laid it out under the blade of thought.

He examined it the way one might handle a cursed object: cautiously, clinically, yet unable to resist its pull. Not the act itself —he would not dwell on that— but the details that clung to it like residue: Black's expression, defiant even in confusion; the metallic taste of the air, thick with dust and firewhisky; the sound of his own breath, too uneven for comfort.

Memory was a treacherous thing. It refused to stay in the past. It replayed itself behind his eyelids whenever his guard slipped, vivid as if it had never ended.

He told himself it meant nothing. He told himself he hated Sirius Black— had always hated him, would always hate him. Hatred was clean, familiar, reliable. It had sustained him through school corridors and battlefields alike.

But the mind is a traitor, and Severus' was more cunning than most. It refused to obey the dictates of reason. It kept returning, again and again, to the wrong questions.

Why did I let it happen? Why didn’t I stop him sooner? Why, in Merlin’s name, didn’t I—

He would stop himself there, every time, as though the rest of that thought were corrosive.

It had not been desire. He would not allow that word. It had been power— yes, power wrested for a single second from a man who had taken so much from him before. Sirius Black had pushed, provoked, cornered; and Severus had refused to yield. It was a reaction, nothing more. An assertion of dominance.

That explanation was neat, ordered, safe. It was also a lie, and he knew it.

Because when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t power he remembered. It wasn’t victory. It was the confusion in Sirius’s face afterward— the disorientation of a man who had reached for hatred and found something unrecognizable instead. It was that flicker of raw, wordless understanding that haunted him most.

Severus loathed that memory. He loathed that it made him human. That made him weak.

Silence was his only refuge now, and even that betrayed him.

Here, in the bowels of Grimmauld Place, he had no true solitude. The so-called laboratory —an old pantry pressed into reluctant service— smelled of mildew and compromise. His cauldrons sweated rust; his ingredients were stale. He worked there anyway, because it was the only place the house seemed to forget him.

He missed Spinner’s End— the narrow rooms, the dim light, the solitude that had once been suffocating but now seemed almost merciful. There, the ghosts were predictable. Here, they whispered with new voices.

Sometimes he caught himself listening for footsteps in the corridor, for the sound of Black pacing above, restless as ever. It was infuriating. To be aware of him —to anticipate him— felt like weakness. Severus despised weakness more than anything.

He told himself it was vigilance. That was easier to bear.

And yet, at odd hours, when the rest of the house slept, he would pause mid-task —quill in hand, potion half-brewed— and realize he was no longer thinking about the Order, or the Dark Lord, or Dumbledore’s endless demands. He was thinking about that moment, suspended between fury and something far less defensible.

It angered him that memory could hold such power. That a single flicker of contact could undo years of careful distance. That he could be haunted not by remorse for the act itself, but for the way it had made him feel alive— for a heartbeat, unguarded, unmade.

He wanted to excise it, to cauterize the thought out of existence. But thought, like magic, obeyed its own cruel laws. The more he tried to banish it, the more vividly it returned.

So he catalogued instead. He took the moment apart until it resembled something inert, drained of meaning. He told himself that was mastery.

But late at night, when fatigue blurred the edges of discipline, the truth whispered back to him from the dark:

That he had not been in control. That he had wanted, even if only for an instant. And that wanting, not hatred, was the unforgivable sin.

He pressed his palms against the cold surface of the worktable, breathing through clenched teeth. The house above him creaked—the sound of old wood settling, or of a man pacing restlessly through his own regrets.

Severus closed his eyes. The silence bit down again.

There would be no peace tonight.

[intotheswollenriver]

🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

[intotheswollenriver]

[intotheswollenriver]

Band au