Here’s my little masterlist! Modest for now, but growing. All Severus Snape (because I just couldn’t resist writing about him).
✨ Before you interact, don’t forget to read the rules ✨
[Currently not accepting requests]
Last updated: 14 Feb 2026
Masterlist ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩـ
Girl! Dad Snape
Fifty Points for Your Dignity: They thought mocking Snape’s daughter would come without consequences. What sweet stupidity. / Girl!dad Snape / 4k w🔹🔷🔹
Born of Snape. Pampered by Sirius: Another night, another chase. You annoyed Snape—and escaped, thanks to Sirius. / Girl!dad Snape / 750 w🔹🔷🔹
Harry Potter ~ and the Only Brave Boy to Date the Half-Blood Prince's Daughter: You finally had the courage to tell your dad you’re dating Harry Potter. Now Snape is going to confront him... And Harry is praying, sweating, and seriously reconsidering his life choices. / Girl!dad Snape / 1,7k w 🔹🔷🔹
Sʍʊṭ / Not meant for minors ¡!
Wife!Reader
In Bloom Within: ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 In his obsessive urge to protect you, Severus has refrained from touching you for weeks. Now, in your seventh month of pregnancy, doubt coils in your chest, fearing that your physical changes no longer stir his appetite / Severus Snape x Pregnant!Wife!Reader / 3,1k w🔹🔷🔹
Wilted Hardness: ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 After months of distance, you try to reclaim what was once yours, but the war and the stress have stripped him of the man, and the body, you used to know. [Erect!le Dysfunct!on] / Severus Snape x Wife!Reader / 2,4k w🔹🔷🔹
Fem!Student!Reader
The Prefects' Bathroom: ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 In a mischievous bid to sow chaos, Peeves disturbed the dungeons with another prank, feigning urgency to provoke Snape by claiming someone was being attacked in the Prefects’ Bathroom. His shrill laughter echoed as he watched the professor storm in, wand raised, only to find his most exceptional seventh-year student, naked amidst the foam / Severus Snape × Student!Fem!Reader / 3k w 🔹🔷🔹
Sex Pollen Extraction: ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 He entrusted you with a delicate task. You failed. Now, two bodies out of balance—he weakens trying to resist the effects, and you’re drowning in an overpowering ecstasy. / Severus Snape × Fem!Apprentice!Reader / 2,7k w
Fem!Professor!Reader
Possession in Darkness: ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 Deep within the castle, the Defense professor sought a sphere that revealed hidden desires—she didn’t expect Severus Snape to find her, nor for it to expose his: her. / Severus Snape × Fem!Professor!Reader / 2,5k w🔹 🔷🔹
Fem!Ex-Student!Reader
Nostalgia Adulterated: ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 Your former professor, Horace Slughorn, invited you to his abode within the castle to celebrate your promotion at the Ministry. You dragged Snape along, but you hadn’t accounted for the peculiar wine at the reception / Severus Snape x Ex-Student!Fem!Reader / 6k w 🔹🔷🔹
Non Warnings
Unintended Witness / Two-part through other eyes.
Part I — Hagrid’s View: Hagrid was only looking for one of his usual strange creatures, now lost somewhere in the castle... but what he found behind Snape's door wasn’t his mooncalf — it was something scandalously more untimely than he ever could’ve expected. 1,3k w🔹🔷🔹
Part II — Minerva’s View: After Hagrid’s revelation, Minerva is determined to uncover the truth about Severus Snape’s mysterious lover. 2,2k w🔹🔷🔹
I Only Threw This Party For You: Snape received an unexpected recognition from the Ministry and, reluctantly, attends a celebration—unaware it was held in his honor. But it’s not the party that unsettles him... it’s the woman who planned it. Your warmth and persistent attention have begun to soften him. / Severus Snape × Fem!Professor!Reader / 2,2k w🔹 🔷🔹
Hanahaki ~ Between Your Breath and Mine: What you once felt for your former professor never truly faded. Now it blooms again—just not in the way you would’ve wished. You’re wasting away, unable to give voice to a feeling you know he would deem senseless and unforgivable. / Severus Snape x Wife!Reader / 2,5k w 🔹 🔷🔹
If you're learning or polishing your English (or any language, really) and things don’t always make sense, this might help. It's a screen translator I like to keep at hand, simple and super handy. App safe here
What they’ve done with Snape in the Harry Potter series is the biggest downgrade in pop culture history. It is inexplicable how the rest of the casting is so book-accurate, yet such a terrible decision was made for one of the most important and beloved characters in the franchise. A historic mistake. I hate them.
I choose to believe that Minerva still doesnt know what the silver packets were that she found in Snape's room. She just saw him get uncomfortable and assumed it was something rude to ask Muggles about. Or that Snape was just being overly prickly about being caught having muggle stuff around.
I never saw it that way, so I guess it's really up to the reader's interpretation, I remember being so stuck on how to put it into words because of how awkward they were lol~
Anyway, I've been feeling super burnt out and busy lately, I'm so sorry to everyone waiting, but the list isn't discarded¡ I'll definitely get back to it eventually
Today, many years ago, a man was born with an immense inner star that continues to shine brightly even in his absence. May all the love from those of us who admire him and feel inspired by him reach him, wherever he may be.
Summary: You initiated a lethal match against the greatest strategist. With poison hidden amongst the pawns, Severus is forced to sacrifice his pride and dismantle his game piece by piece, solely to save you from your own recklessness.
A/N: Whether you've ever played a match in your life or not, just enjoy the grumpy pieces and the damn smut¡
The Slytherin common room was shrouded in gloom, illuminated barely by the fire in the hearth. Some students occupied sofas and corners, pretending not to notice how Snape paced the room, inspecting with that gaze that was absolutely uncomfortable for everyone, as was usual.
The door opened and you entered with light steps, hands behind your back and a half-smile that already spoke volumes.
"Severus..." you intoned his name with a deliberate sweetness, dragging out the vowels.
He closed his eyes for an instant, as if he could erase the sound, as if the mere timbre of your voice gave him a headache. Without looking away from the nearby table where some poor students sat, nervous under the man’s close and direct supervision, he replied with a voice that was skeptical and dry. "What do you want?"
“Nothing you need trouble yourself over...” you said, sweetly dismissive, with that spontaneity that characterized you. You stepped closer. “But perhaps we should speak outside.”
Snape turned his head barely toward you, without bothering to dissemble his lack of interest.
"If you think I am going to interrupt my work to accompany you, you are mistaken."
You pursed your lips, the mask of sweetness cracking under irritation.
"Merlin... do you always have to be like this?"
"Like what?" He arched an eyebrow.
"As if it hurt you to be kind."
He let out a brief sigh, one of those that empty the lungs of patience.
"Say what you came to say or leave."
"I need mermaid scales" you conceded, your annoyance beginning to show.
Snape went still, from mapping the activities of his students, he turned his gaze to you. There was a flash of disbelief in his eyes that in any other man would have been surprise, but in him, it was a sentence of stupidity.
"Are you being serious?"
"Completely."
"For what?" His tone was slow, inquisitive.
"Beautification Potion." You said it with naturalness, as if asking for sugar for your tea.
The silence stretched for a few seconds.
"You want me to use my... contacts to get you a scarce, volatile, and expensive ingredient... to waste it on cosmetic vanity?"
"It is not a waste to me."
Snape narrowed his eyes.
"Certainly not," he murmured with disdain.
"Oh, come on..." you tilted your head, with pleading eyes. "I would share a little with you, you could use it.”
"Don't be absurd." Snape turned back to the parchment of a student who was sweating cold and pretending not to listen to them.
"Believe it or not, beauty can be an asset in strategy" you went on.
Snape let out a barely audible snort.
"Vanity is not strategy. And you, permit me to say, have nothing of a strategist."
Your gaze sharpened at once, that abrupt shift so typical of you.
To Snape, women had always been uncertain terrain: uncomfortable, unreliable. He would never have admitted it aloud, but not knowing how to handle them unsettled him.
You turned toward two students playing chess in a corner.
"Out."
The boys exchanged an uncomfortable look, but seeing who was speaking to them, they gathered their things and moved away, muttering something under their breath. You let yourself fall into the armchair, with annoyance on your face, and pointed to the seat opposite you.
"Sit."
Snape looked you up and down, brow furrowed. He couldn't believe what you were proposing; you were like an pendulum, impossible to anticipate.
"You are not very good at playing. I have seen you."
"If I didn't have the certainty, I wouldn't dare invite you."
He did not reply. He limited himself to adjusting his cape before sitting down with that slow, measured movement.
The nearest students tried to pretend they were continuing with their tasks, but the diverted glances and the tension in the room gave them away, everyone wanted to watch them.
You made a gesture with her wand, the pieces returned to their starting positions and atop each one appeared a tiny crystal shot glass. The figures of the magical chess set bowed slightly under the weight, as if carrying it were an effort, and the high-pitched of the board began.
"They don't pay me enough for this…" grumbled one of your pawns, wobbling under the weight.
Another, bolder, raised his voice with a mixture of indignation and curiosity.
"And who are you supposed to be?"
The collective murmur of the pieces spread across the board, as if they all shared the complaint. Some wobbled exaggeratedly, as if wanting to make clear the unfairness of their situation.
Snape, sitting across from you, let out something that couldn't be called a smile, but almost. A grimace, barely perceptible, that betrayed that he found the scene more entertaining than he admitted.
"Silence," you ordered the pieces, with a sharp snap in your voice.
They obeyed, though not without a final snort of discontent. The board went still, save for the slight clinking of glass.
"What is this about?" asked Snape, without losing his low, dry tone.
You did not answer immediately. With your wand, you filled the glasses of the row of pawns on both sides with a transparent liquid; they evidently seemed to suffer more from the added weight that forced them to lean forward, taking short, stiff steps to maintain their balance.
The major pieces watched in silence, motionless and upright in their places, as if carrying a glass were beneath them. The contrast only made the moment more pathetic, and comic.
You began explaining the nature of the challenge. "Gin. Four of them have a microdose of poison. If you drink three, nothing happens. The fourth... is lethal." You levitated all the little glasses, shuffled them in the air, and returned them to their places. "If your opponent captures one of your pawns, you drink."
Snape watched it in silence, his frown just slightly more pronounced.
You continued, touching each glass of the major pieces with the tip of your wand. The crystal resonated with a soft clink.
"With the major pieces, it is different. If your opponent captures one of yours… he drinks."
The echo of the taps mingled with the expectation in the room. No one moved. No one dared to interrupt.
Snape was expectant, appearing slightly dislodged from his usual composure; his expression looked as if he needed to ensure he had heard correctly. He let out an incredulous snort, and his eyes narrowed in a mix of bewilderment and suspicion.
"Are you completely mad?" he asked finally. His gaze descended toward the board, then returned to you, fraught with a doubt he didn't allow himself to fully verbalize. "Are you trying to poison us?"
The silence that followed was eloquent, but you seemed not to listen, the liquid filling the glasses of the second rows didn't look like simple drafts, every glint in the crystal suggested something more. With a movement of your wand, you levitated the glasses, raised above the board, they began to spin slowly in the air, mixing with one another like a delicate, suspended dance.
You began to announce calmly: "Diluted Veritaserum, Warming Potion, Forgetfulness Potion, and Healing Potion." Your voice dropped a tone when you pointed to the last glass. This one didn't spin with the others but rested solemnly on the head of the King, who bore it with dignity, immobile. The crystal remained serene, untouched by the sway of the others.
"It erases every symptom of drunkenness and intoxication," you concluded, almost in a whisper, as if revealing the only safeguard within that game.
Snape had followed the path of the cups with an impenetrable expression, but you noticed how he evaluated, calculated, measuring every possibility. And he saw the trap perfectly: his resistance to alcohol was scarce, and that did not play in his favor.
Even so, he was there. And his ego whispered to him that he could defeat you before the liquor's effect made itself known.
"Hmm..." the sound he produced was low, guttural, the kind that ran through your body like a shiver.
Internally, you felt a knot in your stomach. Of course, it was madness, but there was no turning back, that had been the only way that occurred to you to get the mermaid scales you wanted so much, and to hold your cunning high. You, defeating the most skilled chess player, according to all of Hogwarts.
"If one withdraws, they lose," you said, lowering your voice with a solemn note. "The winner claims something from the other. I want you to grant my request... and you?"
Snape did not answer immediately. His dark eyes remained fixed on you, as if measuring every possibility before speaking a word. The silence stretched, dense, until it became almost uncomfortable. Then, finally, he spoke.
"Agreed..." he said, with quiet finality. "If I win, you will have a restriction of total access to the ingredient store cupboard. Not a request, not a loan. Nothing. You will be forced to acquire everything you need by your own means."
He leaned forward barely, without looking away. "Of course... as long as I remain in charge."
You arched an eyebrow. You knew he was serious, the mere fact of losing that privilege was insulting to you, becoming a great inconvenience. And yet, although you weren't entirely sure of victory, you trusted in yourself... and in your plan.
Meanwhile, a young man moved among those present with a leather notebook, crouching to speak in whispers and taking bets. No one knew who was really the best at chess, and even the sympathy toward both professors was limited.
"White," you ordered, sitting up straighter.
The magical pieces reacted instantly; you gave the first coordinate, a central opening, and the figure advanced alone. The glass on its head wobbled, spilling a drop that smelled strongly of alcohol.
The match had begun. The students scattered around the room, not daring to approach or interrupt, held their breath, as if they were witnessing something much more dangerous than a magic duel.
The game advanced with a strange rhythm, almost hypnotic. Every decision seemed to have a tangible weight in the air, charged with expectation. From the start, the disadvantages of each were made evident. You, with dubious and unorthodox movements, revealed your inexperience at the board. Snape, on the other hand, deployed with precision, every play measured and calculated. But what should have been his clearest advantage was undermined by the unusual rule of the game.
It was you who drank first, forced by the fall of two of your pawns and the capture of one of his bishops. The burn of the liquor descended down your throat again and again, accumulating more and more drinks. However, your body barely betrayed the impact. The warmth was real, yes, but in your expression, there was no hesitation.
The white pieces didn't take long to point out your clumsiness.
"That was a disaster!" complained a rook, with a grave and severe voice.
"We warned you, Miss," murmured a pawn, ducking his head under the weight of his glass. "If you keep this up, you'll end up drunk and poisoned before reaching checkmate."
Some even dared to suggest moves, whispering to you with urgency while looking sideways at their opponent.
"Leave me alone," you replied between gritted teeth. "I know what I'm doing."
"It doesn't seem like it," Snape intervened without raising his voice, with subtle irony.
You narrowed your eyes.
"Shut up, Severus."
Snape arched a single eyebrow, appearing to find himself entertained in an almost imperceptible way.
The game had progressed further. He remained firm, but not intact. He had drunk less than you and although his composure was nearly unbreakable, the slight flush that was beginning to color his face betrayed his body's limited resistance. Every glass he accepted, he did so with calculated slowness, as if his pride refused to acknowledge what his organism resented.
The balance, somehow, was maintained. Your lack of strategy clashed with his magnificence; the torment regarding his vulnerability to alcohol fell upon your major pieces.
Then, in an unexpected move, you managed to capture one of his knights; you drank, without a gesture of weakness, but that draft was not a simple burn. Barely a minute later, a light euphoria reflected in your gaze.
The mathematics of death floated in your mind, diffuse from the alcohol but terrifyingly clear in its conclusion: with four doses of poison hidden among your eight pawns, the initial probability of running into a toxic cup was fifty percent, a coin tossed in the air with every piece you lost. You had already emptied five glasses of gin and, although your heart was still beating, the statistic was closing around your throat like an invisible noose, you must have had at least three doses coursing through your bloodstream. You were dancing on the edge of the abyss, a single captured pawn more, a single wrong sip to complete the toxic load, and the match would end with your collapse onto the board before you could even scream "Check."
However, as the haze of euphoria allowed you to focus, you noticed an anomaly in Snape's impeccable offensive. Despite having a clear path to destroy your frontal defense and devour your remaining pawns, his black pieces began to deviate, tracing unnecessarily complex routes and avoiding capturing your infantry soldiers with a deliberation that was too strategic. It wasn't a tactical error, it was a conscious choice. The man looking at you with disdain was sabotaging his own advantage, forcing a closed and difficult game for himself, solely to prevent you from raising another glass to your lips. He was protecting you from your own stupidity, keeping your pawns on the board not because he couldn't take them, but because he wasn't willing to see if the next sip was the one that would kill you. If you died in his common room over some adolescent stupidity, it would be a terrible administrative inconvenience… or so he tried to tell himself to justify the change in tactics.
With a sharp movement, he turned toward the rest of the room. The students were still there, pretending not to look, feeding on the curiosity.
"Get out!" Snape bellowed. His voice didn't have its usual cutting edge, but rather a hoarse, furious weight. "To your dormitories. Now. Ten points from anyone still here in five seconds."
The disappointment was palpable, a stifled collective groan, but no one was stupid enough to disobey. The sound of hurried footsteps and murmurs filled the air until the stone door closed, leaving you alone in a silence broken only by the crackling of the fireplace.
Snape returned to the board. His options had been reduced: to not kill you, he had to expose himself. With a grimace of disgust, he captured one of your rooks. The glass atop the piece vibrated: Warming Potion.
He drank it in one gulp, without breathing. Almost instantly, you saw his pupils contract. It wasn't a pleasant heat; it was an internal ember. He imperceptibly loosened the collar of his tunic, an unusual gesture for him, while the alcohol and the concoctions clashed in his system, making him burn beneath the layers of black cloth. You took advantage of his moment of weakness to capture a pawn of his, forcing him to drink pure gin to "wash down" the potion.
But he didn't stop. He attacked again, capturing your bishop. Diluted Veritaserum, truth potion.
Snape looked at the transparent liquid, cursed under his breath, and drank it. He set the glass down on the table with too much force. It took seconds for the serum to loosen his tongue.
"Your games..." he began, slurring his words. "Are... exhausting. Irritating. Like a constant buzzing in the ear that I cannot... suppress."
You let out a short, slurred laugh, leaning back in the armchair.
"What a novelty, Severus. Even with truth serum, I notice no difference whatsoever in your usual arrogance."
Snape frowned, his black eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you shiver. The shame of what he was about to say darkened the flush already burning across his face.
"What is unbearable... is that I don’t know why I am doing it," he spat the words with contained rage. "I am sabotaging my own match. I am protecting you from poisoning yourself... and you have not the slightest consideration for me. You are destroying my patience and my liver. It is... pathetic."
He covered his face with one hand, mortified by everything. By this point, he was completely drunk.
You, warmed by the alcohol and what already felt like your inevitable victory, moved your queen and captured his knight. Forgetfulness Potion. You drank the cup that corresponded to the attacker. The cold liquid went down your throat and, a second later, you blinked. You looked at the board, then at Snape, then at the empty little glass.
"What...?" You frowned, confused. "What are we doing? Why are we playing?"
Snape looked up, pure incredulity on his sweaty face.
"Have you forgotten.. the purpose?" He laughed, a dry laugh. "Absurd. This is ridiculous. It’s over."
He tried to stand up, driven by indignation, but his legs didn't respond as he expected. The world tilted violently. In a clumsy attempt to grab the table to keep from falling, his hand shoved the board.
The crash was scandalous. Chess pieces and crystal glasses smashed against the stone floor, shattered glass and alcohol scattered across the ground.
Snape swayed, his heavy robes dragging him down. You jumped up, dizzy, and caught him before he hit the floor.
"Careful!"
"Let me go…" he mumbled, though he had no strength to push you away.
With a quick movement of your wand, you murmured a lazy Reparo. The glass reunited, the liquid evaporated, and the board returned to the table, immaculate, though the pieces lay inert, without magic or weight.
Snape was dead weight. You passed his arm around your neck, feeling the feverish heat emanating from his body through his clothes. He smelled of herbs and alcohol.
"You cannot stay here," you said, your voice sounding strangely pragmatic for your state. "And you cannot walk to your quarters…"
He didn't protest when you dragged him toward the immense fireplace of the common room. He could barely keep his eyes open. You took a handful of Floo powder from the mantelpiece, throwing it into the flames which turned emerald green instantly. You pronounced the words of your destination with forced clarity.
The fire enveloped you both, a dizzying spiral that erased the common room.
The journey through the Floo Network did not end as usual, but with a violent expulsion from the fireplace. The world spun in a green, soot-filled spiral, and you both landed on the Persian rug of his quarters. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, but it was reality that hit you a second later.
Snape had fallen onto his back, with a dull grunt that was lost in his throat. You had landed partially on top of him, your hands instinctively seeking support on the rough, cold rug so as not to crush him.
The silence in the room was absolute, dense, broken only by the rasping sound of Snape’s breathing as he looked around, stunned and disoriented. He was burning; the Warming Potion, combined with the gin, had ceased to be a simple elevated temperature and had become a physical fever, an electric tension accumulating painfully in his lower belly, a reaction that his logical mind, now sedated by alcohol, could not suppress.
You noticed it. As you tried to sit up, your knee brushed against his stiffness. The heat radiating from him passed through the layers of clothing. A violent flush rose to your face, you tried to look away, unable to sustain your gaze in the face of his vulnerability. It was an unplanned and unasked-for intimacy that now filled the room.
"Severus, I... I'm going to..." you began, trying to sit up clumsily.
But he didn't let you. Perhaps it was the movement of your body pulling away, or a clouded instinct to cling to you, but Snape rose slightly onto his elbows, with an effort that strained the tendons of his neck. His gaze, dark and glassy, found you, before you could get to your feet, his hand reached you in a touch that held no softness. His long fingers closed tightly in the fabric of your cloak, near the base of your throat, in a possessive, almost desperate grip.
"No..." he murmured, the word slurred, hoarse, a deep thread from his throat.
He pulled you down in a rough movement, devoid of care, guided by gravity and desperation.
Your eyes widened in surprise; a stifled cry died in your throat when your mouth crashed against his. The bitter taste of gin and the feverish warmth of his breath invaded your senses. His lips were demanding and somewhat clumsy, moving against yours with the intensity of a man who has been holding back emotions for a long time.
You couldn't pull away, not counting the grip anchoring you to him, there was something magnetic in the situation that made you yield to his mouth, to taste the alcohol on his tongue, to feel the rawness of a hunger that had been caged for too long. You admitted to yourself, in that alcoholic haze, that you liked it, you liked the desperate possessiveness with which he claimed you on the floor of his dwelling.
His hand, which had been clinging to you, lowered, sliding toward the curve of your waist through the layers of cloth, a grip much firmer and surer than you expected from a man who could barely hold himself up. His other arm, dug into the cold rug, trembled visibly under the effort of keeping your bodies minimally elevated, a pathetic counterpoint to the growing intensity of his desire.
But he didn't stop there. The kiss continued while his hand began to rise, his fingers sliding along the hard boning of the corset until they met the soft flesh of your cleavage. Without delicacy, his large, calloused palm grabbed your breast firmly, squeezing it, making the skin spill out between his fingers. He squeezed without mercy, a possessive kneading, while his thumb sought and pinched the hardened nipple through the thin fabric, tearing a gasp from you that drowned against his mouth.
His touch seemed bewildering to you. Where had the most rigid and insipid man in Hogwarts learned to treat a woman that way? The contrast between his usual academic coldness and this unexpected sensual dexterity threw more wood onto the fire already burning inside you.
Your mind stopped analyzing the madness of the situation, and you allowed yourself to sink into the sensation.
Your hands slid over the rough wool of his tunic, rising to caress the damp, feverish skin of the nape of his neck, feeling the erratic hammering of his pulse beneath your fingertips. You went down his chest, feeling the heat radiate through his clothes, noticing how his breathing became irregular.
He was at the limit of his physical strength, his supporting arm about to give way. You took advantage of that instability and pressed firmly against his chest; Snape offered no resistance, and gravity, along with exhaustion, won out. He fell back against the rug with a heavy exhale, dragging you inevitably with him, leaving you completely atop his body. Eclipsed by reality, urgency took hold of both of you in a shared fever that erased any trace of professional decorum. Your hands, moved by a desperation you would never admit to while sober, abandoned his chest to fumble for the fastening of his lower garments.
Your fingers fought buckles and buttons of heavy fabric, frustrated by the layers separating you from the source of that scorching heat. He grunted at your impatience and did not remain passive. While you fought with his clothes, his rough hands found the hem of your silk dress. In a gesture devoid of delicacy, he pushed the fabric up with vivid need, bunching it at your waist. The cold dungeon air hit your bare legs a second before his fingertips did.
The contrast was notable, the skin of your thighs, soft and sensitive, prickling under the rude touch of calloused hands. Those fingertips, hardened by years of working with corrosive ingredients, moved up, tracing a burning path until they found your wet intimacy. There was no preamble. His fingers pushed aside the fabric and parted your wet lips with an agility that made you shiver, opening you, exposing you to the cold air of the dungeon only to prepare you for the heat to come.
Finally, his cock sprang free against your hand, thick, heavy, and completely hard, firm and throbbing flesh that jerked against your palm as you wrapped it in a secure grip. He reacted involuntarily; his hips bucked in an involuntary spasm, seeking your touch with a pathetic desperation he would never have shown sober.
You rose onto your knees, your skirt bunched at your waist, and looked at him. His face was undone by pleasure and need. With one hand, you held onto his chest to keep your balance, and with the other, you guided the head of his erection toward your entrance. You felt the glans break the resistance of your entrance, stretching you, forcing your body to yield to accommodate his thickness. It was a sensation of absolute fullness, almost painful, as he slid inside you inch by inch, opening a path all the way to the bottom. He gritted his teeth, his neck tense. He let out a guttural, hoarse groan when your buttocks collided with his hips, taking him whole, a thick, hard, and sudden invasion that forced a sharp wail from you. He dug his fingers into your hips with a firmness that was nearly painful. You paused, overwhelmed, feeling his pulse hammering inside you. Then, you began to move.
The initial rhythm wasn't frenetic, but deliberately slow, deep, and steady. It was an exploration of friction, a delicious torture where every descent tore new sounds from both of you. The sepulchral silence of the dungeons was profaned by a symphony of low moans and the wet sound of flesh slapping against flesh. His black eyes, dilated and dark as bottomless wells, locked onto yours, the incredible reality of having the untouchable man writhing with pleasure under your control intoxicated you with an ecstasy you couldn't explain.
You rose and fell on his lap, feeling the delicious, raw friction of his skin against your internal walls. He lifted his hips to meet you on every descent, driving deeper, grazing that exact spot that made you throw your head back and moan his name between your teeth. The rhythm became unsustainable. Snape lost what little self-control he had left; his hands abandoned your waist and dug forcefully into the soft flesh of your buttocks, spreading them obscenely to facilitate his access, forcing you to take him deeper than you thought possible. You were no longer setting the pace. He began to thrust upward with desperate violence, hitting your cervix again and again, seeking that final friction that would make him explode.
The sound of flesh colliding was loud, wet, and constant. Your vaginal walls, soaked and slippery, clamped around his shaft with every thrust, milking him. You felt the tension accumulating in your lower belly like a spring about to snap, an electric pressure that made you moan, breathless.
"Damn it..." he growled between his teeth, his voice broken, just before delivering a brutal thrust that folded you in half.
The orgasm hit you full force. It was a violent contraction, a series of uncontrollable spasms inside you that clamped around his cock like a fist alien to your will. Your thighs trembled, giving way. That involuntary suction was what broke him. Snape threw his head back, letting out a guttural gasp, and with one last dry shove, burying himself to the hilt, he came.
You felt it all. You felt the jerking of his body beneath yours and the hot, thick spurts of semen being pumped deep inside you, filling you, bathing your internal walls in a long, powerful discharge. He held you there, motionless, hips glued to yours, ensuring he emptied himself completely inside you while his breathing sounded suffocated.
Seconds, or perhaps minutes later, your strength abandoned you. You collapsed onto his chest, unable to hold yourself up.
The silence returned to the room, but now it was different. Heavy. Only the harsh panting of both of you trying to recover oxygen could be heard. The physical reality was inescapable: you were stuck to him, your face hidden in his damp neck, his musky, sour scent filling your nose. You felt his heart pounding furiously against your ribs, and between your legs, the sticky, full sensation of his semen beginning to slowly leak out now that his erection was starting to subside.
Snape let his arms fall to the rug, exhausted, staring at the stone ceiling with a lost gaze, while the haze of alcohol began to dissipate to make way for the cold, crushing awareness of what you had just done.
10 years of his earthly absence, but I must say that death is not the end, it is merely the next step in the soul's transcendence. Regardless of beliefs, I have lived and felt that energy never dies.
Alan came here, fulfilled his purpose, and transcended. I know that wherever he is, in that plane of light, he watches over those he admired and those of us who continue to admire him from here, all while witnessing the melody that the seraphim sing to God.
“You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes
You who bares all your teeth in every smile”
could you write (no need to) a short pov, maybe Snape/reader just using that inspiration? Something like observations of their physical or personality differences
Dust dances in the shafts of light cutting across the corridor, particles of gold suspended in an air that, for me, has always been far too heavy. The morning sun filters through the high windows, warm and insultingly bright, falling over you with a precision that feels rehearsed. You are there, in the center of the hallway, caught in a laugh of such unstudied grace.
I linger a second longer behind the angle of the stone, in the shadow of the pillar. The cold of the wall seeps through my robes, reminding me where I belong. But from here, the sound of your laughter strikes a chord against my skin that I haven't felt in years, a jolt that starts at the base of my skull and dies in my fingertips.
Your cheeks are flushed, that violent crimson of someone who has sprinted from the west wing, brimming with a joviality that bites at my insides. It is a vitality I recognize, it carries the same echo of those summers with Lily, back when things hadn't yet become so strained. But she is a faded memory beneath the water, and you... you are a wildfire right now. You make me remember what it is to be alive and, simultaneously, you confirm that I am far too empty to reclaim it. I no longer know how. I've forgotten the mechanics of it.
I watch you, your eyes are a lake of pink sand, an anomaly of pigments shifting under the sun like watercolors poorly mixed on a canvas. It is an obscene contrast against your dark curls and that porcelain skin that looks as though it would shatter at the first hint of dry air. To see you like this is to witness a dance of forbidden enchantments, the kind used to bend the will. You are the persistent error in my logic, my necessary evil.
You laugh again. You show your teeth without care, with an arrogance I would loathe if I didn't know that behind it lies an intelligence that matches my own—a witch who knows exactly how much damage she can do.
"Professor? What are you doing here?"
The boy's voice is a sharp gash in the silence of my hiding place. A fourth-year fool.
The spell breaks, I feel the weight of my own mask falling back over my features, hardening every muscle. You've turned, I know it without looking, I feel the shift in the air, the exact moment your gaze pins itself to the shadow where I stand. You've seen me. He has exposed me.
I step out of the darkness, the sunlight stings my eyes, but I do not blink. I move toward the boy, invading his personal space until I can smell his fear.
"Three more rolls of parchment," I hiss, my voice barely a thread of poison, dragging the syllables so that only he, and perhaps the stone, can hear. "On your class essay. If you open your mouth for anything other than breathing, it will be six"
I do not look at him. I look at you, out of the corner of my eye, feeling the heat of your presence sear my skin while I try, desperately, to turn back into stone.
Reading: The Goblet of Fire. (YES STILL!! I’ve had no interest in reading books since I lost my mum. However, I just picked it up again after months and I’m about 100 pages away from the end and it did help distract me a bit)
Last series: Daryl Dixon Series 4. Though, I haven’t yet finished it as again I’ve not been able to concentrate on anything other than FanFiction.
(So again, I must say a huge thank you to the writers that write for Alan’s characters here. I love and appreciate you all. You have no idea how much it has aided me getting through December) 📚✍️🤍
Last film: Tolkien (2019)
Last song: Moonlight Shadow ~ Maggie Reilly
Sweet/salty: I have a raging sweet tooth. 🍫🍫🍫
Coffee/tea: Coffee (…sadly decaf is all I can tolerate now).
Working on: going back into education in September. I’m going to study Media and Film production.
Definitely a mature student, I’ll nearly be 33 by then *cries* 🙃
@jacks-valentine thank you for the tag! Happy new year to you and everyone that follows me.
Reading: The Goblet of Fire HAHAHSA SORRY I'm pretty sure this is the book in the series we all get stuck on, I'm halfway through 😅 First one to finish wins! Text me when you do¡ Hahs
Last series: From* It's horror, alreadyfinished It, I totally recommend It
Last film: Pirates of the Caribbean the curse of the Black Pearl ♥️
Last song: Santa Baby - Laufey
Sweet/Salty: sweet 😋
Coffee/tea: coffee (same, decaf)
Working on: Making Tiktoks (they pay well) 😭
Thankss for the tag @vintageisbest 🌟💐🎁 Sending you a hug and my best wishes for the new year
This month has been really hard. I just lost my best friend. I’d been visiting her at the hospital, and this weekend she passed away during open-heart surgery. I probably don’t have many followers who care, but I know there must be a few little kitties out there who keep up with what I post. So I’m leaving this as a notice on my profile, I’ll be absent for a while, maybe until next year.
I’m really sorry to the people I still owe requests to, but I’m not feeling well at all. My mind is overloaded.
I hope to come back calmer, with more inspiration and lots of new ideas. Love you all.
Hanahaki: a fictional illness in fics where unrequited love causes a person to cough up flowers, worsening the longer their feelings remain unreturned.
Request by @acupnoodle
Summary: What you once felt for your former professor never truly faded. Now it blooms again—just not in the way you would’ve wished. You’re wasting away, unable to give voice to a feeling you know he would deem senseless and unforgivable.
A/N: This started as a poem. It’s a more lyrical kind of writing. I hope you enjoy it. (sorry it took me so long)
[Masterlist]
2,5k+ words
The flowers take root deep within your chest, where the air should be light, but it isn’t.
Each breath burns, as if the petals were opening and closing inside your lungs, occupying the space that should belong to your body.
And yet, there is a certain delicacy in it, petals soft as silk, faintly tinted, a cruel kind of beauty.
Each one of them born from the love you should not feel, from the desire that should not exist.
And every time you cough, your throat stains with that infamous contrast: a thread of blood wrapped in blossoms, flowers stained in vivid scarlet.
Beautiful. Painful.
How soft your heart, you scold yourself. How weak your will, refusing to accept what this truly means.
Refusing love. Unrequited love. Love that should never have taken root, which you’ve tried to prune through the sheer imposition of life.
And yet, here you are, lungs entwined with roots that refuse to stop growing.
How could you ever tell him?
The mere thought tightens your chest more than the disease itself. It’s ridiculous, a suffocating discomfort that borders on desperation.
To have to speak of this, to him... that man. The one who had taught you since his early years as a professor—young, far too young for the weight of bitterness already resting on his shoulders, the one who placed himself in your path with an indifference that never quite fooled you, at his twenty-one years, when the echo of the first war still haunted the corridors.
You admired him in silence, giving little importance to that adolescent curiosity. And yet, the seeds remained, waiting.
You graduated, convinced that secret affection had been nothing but fleeting.
Years passed. And then, a knock on your door. A vacancy at the institute. A brilliant opportunity. You returned. And there he was—now in his thirties, more lines on his face, more steel in his voice, yet carrying that same intensity that had once caught your curious attention.
Two years have passed since then. Two years sharing tables in the great hall, attending staff meetings, exchanging veiled arguments about students.
Two years in which mutual admiration has woven itself into a tacit respect, a strange, cold sort of support, but support nonetheless.
And still, here you are, drowning in petals that should not exist.
“Not inside the castle”, you tell yourself. You can’t let anyone notice. You can’t risk him noticing.
The cough returns. The petals fall. And you know time is running short.
You leave your chambers for the first class of the day. The corridor is cold at this hour. The torches barely warm the stone walls.
You place a hand on your chest, as if that could contain the tightness. It’s reckless to appear like this, but you can’t afford to be absent. It’s the end of the semester. You can’t disappear now.
You make it through the first half hour with effort. You speak, dictate, write on the board. Your words sound strained, clipped, as if there isn’t enough air to finish them.
No one says anything, but you feel it—the glances, the uneasy murmurs between desks.
Then the pressure becomes unbearable. A fit of coughing bends you over. You try to cover it with your arm, turn your back, but it’s useless.
The sound reverberates against the walls. You can’t pretend it’s normal anymore.
Miss Granger raises her hand—you know her voice, always proper, attentive. “Professor... you should go to the infirmary.”
You hear her as if from far away, an echo that barely reaches you. You shake your head slightly, unable to speak, and make a sharp gesture: class is dismissed.
Chairs scrape against the floor. Confusion, whispers, footsteps fading. The classroom empties slowly, until the final door slam leaves you alone. The silence that follows is cutting.
The coughing returns, raw and merciless. You reach desperately for the glass of water always on your desk. The glass trembles in your hand. You drink, swallow, but no relief comes.
Frustration.
You wish things were different. You wish your body would obey. You wish none of this were happening.
You collapse onto the chair. Your blurred vision struggles to focus on the petals scattered across the floor. Cruel beauty.
Your chest rises and falls in shallow rhythm. You can’t think clearly. You drift inside yourself, suspended.
Hours pass, and you’re still there, unmoving. Your head tilts back, the edge of the wooden chair cold against your neck. You stare at the ceiling without really seeing it.
Everything inside you feels fractured, as if you’ve crossed a line you no longer know how to step back from.
It hurts to admit it hurts. Moments of tears you didn’t contain. You’ve shouted—You’ve cast silencing charms so no one could hear.
Fits of rage you don’t recognize, as if for moments you weren’t yourself, as if your gestures no longer belonged to you. Each outburst sealed within these walls.
Desperation.
You believe there’s no cure. That you’ll die soon. That he has no space for the kind of feelings you harbor.
That your secret is nothing more than a garden of poisonous ivy, doomed to wither inside your chest.
Petals scattered across the floor, on the desk.
You’d gathered a few earlier, trembling hands hiding them in a drawer, as if concealment could erase their existence. The faint, sweet scent of those flowers has begun to seep into the wood.
By now, you are no longer yourself. No longer the charming woman who walks into a classroom and fills it with light.
You are unraveling, the calm that now envelops you is nothing but a fragile interlude of exhaustion and surrender.
It’s in that moment, when you’ve let yourself sink into that strained stillness, the door creaks open.
The sound makes you turn your head slightly, your eyes tired, your temples damp with the trace of sweat.
He’s there. Severus. Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light.
He makes no effort to soften his presence. You see him from the corner of your eye, your gaze clouded, and roll your eyes, an gesture of irony and hurt. A hurt he doesn’t even know he’s caused.
It’s been nearly four hours since that class. Four hours of your absence. Rumors must have already spread throughout the castle.
The door closes behind him. The click sounds far too loud in the still room. You don’t move. You remain in that awkward posture, pale, throat dry.
He takes a few steps forward. His robes brush the floor, the sound grates on you.
“You’ve had nothing to eat. And you’ve not attended a single class.” His voice is low, measured.
You exhale without answering, brow furrowed, eyes squeezing shut as his voice pierces straight through your already aching head.
Severus speaks again.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you?”
Your body feels leaden, the air thick. You look at him without really seeing.
He keeps talking, though his voice reaches you only as background noise.
You recognize the tone, the blend of concern and judgment he uses whenever something matters more than he’s willing to admit.
He studies you. Then the room. Continues after your silence:
“Judging by that dreadful cough… and this—” He gestures lightly, encompassing the petals strewn across the floor. “This… mess,” he concludes flatly, with that cutting tone. “It appears to be some kind of curse, doesn’t it?”
He doesn’t raise his voice. “What was it called…” he murmurs, searching his memory. “I read about it… years ago.”
His gaze returns to you, irritated. “Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”
You don’t know what to say. His presence paralyzes you. But he doesn’t stop.
“Were you planning to die quietly?” His tone is low, yet piercing. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s caused by feelings—unreciprocated affection, isn’t it?”
A long pause, barely a breath. “Then tell me... who is it?”
For a moment, his rigid posture falters, the composure wavers, barely, a flicker of discomfort in his expression.
“It’s none of your concern,” you answer.
The words are steady, though dignity crumbles in your throat.
His eyes narrow with impatience.
“Do you intend to drown in your own cowardice, over a sentiment you don’t even have the courage to name?”
You flinch. The question cuts deeper than any reprimand.
The reply dies before it forms. Of course he’s righthe always is.
“You still talk to me as if I were a student,” you murmur. “As if I owed you an explanation.”
He arches a brow. “As long as you act like one, I will treat you as such.”
“Do you intend to reprimand me for this as well?” you ask, anger laced with hurt.
“I intend to help you,” he replies, his calm holds the weight of a threat. “Tell me who it is.”
You still hesitate, overthinking every possible outcome, his reaction, whether saying it would be wise. You sink into that spiral that feels brief, though the silence stretches unbearably.
He watches you the entire time, motionless, the wait as suffocating as the truth you keep buried.
“Very well,” he says finally, turning slightly aside, as if to end the conversation. “If you won’t speak, at least have the decency not to turn your classroom into a funeral garden.”
When he tries to step away, something inside you stirs—a certainty born of fear itself, if you stay silent now, it will be forever.
You make the choice. Your voice stops him. You swallow your pride, your hesitation, and speak.
“It’s you.”
You feel the pulse in your throat. You don’t say it loudly. You don’t need to. The words cut through the air.
Snape stops mid-step, his back rigid. He turns slowly, a pause suspending the space between you before he even looks at you. And when he finally does, you see doubt, something you’ve only ever glimpsed in him once before, in a different frame of things.
"Don’t say that again." It isn’t an order, but a warning, so low, it almost sounds like a plea.
Your heart races. You can feel your nerves crawling under your skin.
He exhales, deeply. Takes a few steps toward you, his shadow lengthening. "What do you expect to gain from this?"
"I’m sorry," you answer quietly. There’s no tremor in your voice, only weariness.
He doesn’t move. He can’t. He studies you for a moment longer, as if searching your face for a lie, but he finds none. The tightness in his jaw, his posture wound tighter than usual. He says nothing.
You can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much. You know his judgment can be harsher than any punishment. You look down, trying to stay calm, but you feel that familiar pressure—the way his voice alone was enough to leave you breathless.
Suddenly, he closes the little space that remained between you, without hesitation.
And the sharp crack of his hand against the desk, makes you flinch. The echo fills the room, and for a heartbeat, everything goes still. Your pulse hammers in your chest.
"Look at me," he demands, low, firm.
You can’t.
“Do it.”
His tone leaves no room for refusal.
You obey, though every part of you wishes not to.
You meet his eyes, with more effort than you’d like to admit. Those dark eyes bore into yours, that same authority that once restored your control, now only manages to undo you in ways you never imagined.
“Don’t lie” his voice Is tense, as though the words scrape his throat. It isn’t a reproach, it’s an instinctive rejection of something he refuses to accept.
You know that if you try to speak, no word will come out whole. Tears betray you, but what settles in you now is silent anger.
You knew this would happen. You knew he would close himself off the moment you said it.
Frustration overflows.
You press your face against his chest, in sheer helplessness. Your fist lands weakly against his robes. He doesn’t move. He barely reacts.
When your hand rises again, slower this time, he stops you before you can touch him. His fingers close around your wrist, firm, unyielding. You struggle to break free, but his grip is too strong, his composure too controlled.
He holds you there until the tremor in your hands fades, until your breathing slows and steadier.
Then he lets go—slowly, carefully. Your hands remain suspended, barely grazing his chest, too hesitant to pull away completely.
You can feel his heart beneath your cheek beating fast, uneven, as if it too were fighting to understand what it just heard.
Your breath trembles. You want to speak, but only a thread of sound escapes.
“I don’t want to die” you whisper, almost inaudible.
Snape doesn’t move at first. Time hangs suspended between you. And then, slowly, one of his arms comes around you. It’s an awkward gesture, almost unwilling—yet firm.
He holds you, and for a moment, you allow yourself to sink into him, feeling that hurried rhythm steady, little by little.
The classroom has fallen silent. Only the faint dripping from the ceiling, the brittle crack of dying fire in the hearth, and the soft patter of drizzle on the windows remain. A gray afternoon, unmoving.
You breathe slowly, through sobs that don’t quite form. He exhales. The hand not holding you moves carefully to his robes, draws his wand. He says nothing, just lifts the fabric from your back with a delicacy you never expected from him.
You hear the first Vulnera Sanentur murmured low—used only on those he truly cares for. You’re not sure if it’s mercy or something else. His voice barely rises above a whisper, you feel warmth spread from where the wand brushes your skin, a faint, fleeting relief.
He repeats it a second time, softer. The air in the room shifts. It smells of rain, and something faintly sweet you can’t quite name.
The third Vulnera Sanentur dissolves between you. You no longer know if the warmth you feel comes from the spell or his nearness.
You breathe in deeply. For the first time in days, your lungs open, without pain. You don’t know if it’s the magic that heals you, or the way he holds you without a word.
You stay still, breathing slowly. The air enters differently this time, it doesn’t burn, it doesn’t weigh.
Something moves inside, deep, a pressure giving way. The roots once clinging to your lungs retreat, contract, and release you, one by one, making room for air again.
Relief comes quietly, almost painful in its calm. Your chest expands, warm, unbound. You inhale once more, deeper, and the air fills you in a way you’d forgotten.
No petals, no coughing. Only the rain, and the faint meeting of both your heartbeats.
For a moment, you can’t tell if it’s magic, or humanity, or love, still too afraid to name itself.
