you should do a platonic yandere teacher! someone who sees himself as your dad.
Brief Interactions
Summary: Reader has a brief interaction with Mr. Ford
Reader x Mr. Ford (Art Professor Yandere Dad)
Author's Note: Was unsure how to finish the story, so I'm leaving it up to you guys! Let me know if there are any warnings that I missed. Sorry if my writing is rusty, I haven't written in a long time!
Word Count: 1.1k
Warnings/Tags: bullying, classmates act like high schoolers, but everyone is really adults, established relationship, unfinished story (poll to vote what's next)
Masterlist
He finds your art extraordinary. He sees past the quickly drawn lines, accompanied by the rough shading that you added in the final seconds. Instead, he focuses on the emotions it brings out of him. Emotions that he’s buried for years. The whole class stares at him as he looks at the paper, curious why he hasn’t said a word yet. Normally, he’s quick to judge the art and give his students (not so) constructive criticism.
He’s not too sure why he feels this way about you; you pull so many tender emotions out of him. He feels the urge to treasure every piece of art he receives from you. Of course, they are just for the assignments that he’s given to the class. Nothing more.
Clearing his throat, he comes up with compliments to give you, not bothering to criticize the drawing. “I really like how you handled your perspective. I can see how it would be a bit tricky, but you handled it well. Keep up the work; I’m sure you’ll be even better in a few weeks.” Carefully putting the paper with the others, he lets out a deep breath, picking up the next student’s drawing. He rambles on about how they can improve their perspective, how he thinks they rushed certain areas of the drawing, and how they are better than that.
Every student notices the stark difference. They think you are the teacher’s pet. He’s always asking to talk to you after class, and he takes more time looking at your art, only to compliment it, never telling you how to improve.
It creates tension between you and your peers. They avoid you when you try to talk to them, staying away from the front of the class where you’ve sat. You aren’t even included in the group criticisms; you always seem to be the odd one left out.
You've tried to connect with other students, but they always give you the cold shoulder, acting as if you are a burden. After a particularly rough class, you mentioned it to Mr. Ford. He assured you that it would never happen again. In the next class, he lectured that this class was for adults, threatening to kick them out and fail them if he heard about it again.
After that, your peers were less obvious about disliking you, acting nice to your face but talking about you behind your back. It’s now routine for you to stay behind every class, telling Mr. Ford that you are comfortable in his class and no one is bothering you.
This day is no different. The door slams shut one more final time, and Mr. Ford makes his way from behind the podium, sitting in the chair beside you.
“So, how was your day today? I loved looking at your newest drawing. You are improving so much. I’d keep it for myself if I could." He smiles, his eyebrows raising slightly over his glasses.
You don’t dare to tell him the truth, that you hear everyone snickering about your relationship with the professor. “It was okay. I’m glad you liked it. Keep it if you would like.”
His heart feels like it could pop from the happiness of being able to keep your art. A strange part of his brain sees it hanging on his fridge, greeting him every day during his morning coffee.
As he does with all emotions, he pushes them down, distracting himself. “What are you planning on doing over the weekend? Any fun plans?”
You’ve grown used to all of the questions he asks you, not finding it strange that he’s taken such an interest in your private life. “Not much actually, just resting from the week; I need to recharge my batteries.”
His smile drops, concern replacing joy. “Are the classes too much for you? I can talk to your other professors to give you extra time for your assignments.” His fingers run through his messy brown hair, trying to tame it.
Feelings he could only describe as protective emerge from him, rising once again to make sure you are happy and comfortable. “I can talk to them right now. There’s no reason why you should be pushing yourself.”
He pushes himself from the chair, taking a few steps before he tightens his tie and fixes his appearance to meet your other professors.
“Mr. Ford, you don’t have to do that. Spring break is just right around the corner anyway; I’m just glad to have a break from people.” You stand with him, preferring that he doesn’t make things a bigger deal than they are.
“Are you sure? I would hate to see you struggle with your classes. I know they can be overwhelming at times. It’s okay to ask for help; I’ll always help you.” His brown eyes scan you behind his glasses, looking for any sign that you are lying.
His remark about helping you throws you off, but you stay firm with your defense, “No, I’m sure. I’d just rather stay home rather than deal with all of this adulting, you know?” You laugh a little, wanting to uplift the mood in the room.
“Right, as I said, it’s okay to be overwhelmed with the world at your age, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.” He feels the protectiveness rise in his chest, threatening to emerge at a moment's notice.
You laugh off his serious demeanor, wondering why he gets this weird vibe when you mention issues in your life. “Hey, sorry, I have to take off. I have a group project that I have to meet up for.”
“Oh, okay, yeah, go right ahead.” His expression turns a bit gloomy. He wanted to talk to you more to make sure that you really are okay.
Picking up your bag, you feel guilty lying to him about the group project. You aren’t supposed to meet them for another hour. “Sorry, I had to cut our conversation short, but I’ll see you next week in class.”
“Hey, no, we have all the time in the world. Just do one thing, okay?” He goes around the podium, moving papers around, searching for his sticky note pad. He scribbles his number on the paper and removes it from the others.
“Just call me if you ever need anything, a shoulder to cry on, or if you are lonely, especially if you need help for any reason, school-wise or for anything else.” He feels like you’ve just taken his life source from him. How is he going to survive not seeing you for a whole week during spring break?
That’s a problem for later; for now, he has to focus on establishing a closer relationship with you. This is just the first step of many; what will be the next step?
What should happen next?
Reader texts Ford because of worsening bullying, leading to hurt x comfort
Reader and Ford run into each other in public, leading to wholesome moments
Ford finds out Reader is hiding things from him, leading to darker moments
Heeey, you’ll get whole 7 pages this time because this all takes places in such a rapid speed and I couldn’t find a good place to cut it lol. So almost half the chapter in one go!
There ya have it, James got dehydrated and desperate enough to drink shit water, making 10x worse very quickly. They’re lucky they are where they are, and that the TRio have such a need to be self-sabotaging do dramatic entrances. Had they just sneaked out in the forest, James would’ve been a goner.
Short mid-chapter break while I sort out the dialogue for the coming part.
Hobbies/Interests: Historian, motocycles, physical media collector, tinkering
Home Planet/Ethnicity: Earth, human, European derivative
Background/Motives: Older half-brother of Dr. Rhett Grayson. Michael's main passion is history, not only of Earth but of many planets and species. He uses history as his personal way of exploration, having no intention of taking to the stars. His fear of flying keeps him grounded in San Francisco.
Discord that was hosting the challenge: https://discord.gg/65uECy7Yep
Day 23 Prompt: Caught in the Potion Master's Quarters
Preview: A simmering cauldron. A touch meant to unravel. And a man who shatters at the quietest whisper of want.
Pairing: Severus Snape/OC
Rating: Teen+ (Mature-ish themes)
He didn't hear me open the door.
I found him exactly where I expected to: half-buried in curls of steam, sleeves rolled past his elbows, hair tied back in a loose tail that had begun unraveling as the early morning wore on. The private brewing lab was warm, bright with simmering potion-fire, and smelled faintly of aconite, clove, and whatever cologne he pretended not to wear.
Severus in work mode was something dangerous.
Sharp. Precise. Lost to the world. A man who could reduce the universe to a single stirring rod and forget I existed.
He rarely heard anything when he was brewing—every sense narrowed to one purpose, as though the rest of the world dimmed around him.
It gave me a moment to simply watch.
To catch him like this: unguarded, focused, beautiful in a way he'd never allow if he knew someone was looking.
Six months married, and I still caught myself stopping to stare. Not because marriage had changed him—I'd fallen in love with the man long before he let me see any part of him without those armor-plated walls—but because there was a softness around him now. A loosening of the invisible iron bands around his ribcage.
He still ran cold to most of the world.
But to me?
He was warm. Warm enough that I found myself walking into this lab determined to ruin his concentration.
"Good morning," I murmured, leaning against the work counter near the door.
His stirring slowed, but he didn't turn.
"You are early," he said, voice like silk drawn across steel.
"You've been down here since dawn," I said. "That makes you late."
A beat of silence—then a sharp exhale that might have been a laugh. Or his version of one.
"I suppose I walked into that," he said.
He finally glanced over, dark eyes sweeping me once—quick, efficient, but soft enough to warm something under my ribs.
I pushed off the counter and stepped into the room properly, closing the door behind me. The latch clicked—deliberately loud in the quiet.
His hand paused on the stirring rod.
I didn't miss the way his shoulders tensed—just a subtle shift, but I'd learned his body language as fluently as any native tongue. Not fear. Not resistance. The kind of tension that said: I know exactly why you closed that door. I'm not sure I'm ready for it right now. But I want it anyway.
"How confident are you in your brewing skills today?" I asked lightly.
Now he did turn, if only enough to pin me with a sideways look.
"My competence," he said dryly, "is never in question."
A slow, wicked smile curled up before I could stop it.
"In that case," I said, drifting closer, "do you think I could distract you?"
The reaction was instant.
He went still.
Not the brittle stillness of fear, nor the sharp stillness of anger. This was the sharp inhale before a fall. The moment a held breath turned into something trembling with possibility.
He didn't look at me fully—just a slanted gaze that said more than any words.
"Heather," he warned quietly.
But his voice betrayed him.
It was not a no. It was not even close.
I closed the remaining space between us with slow, deliberate steps. His breath hitched before my hands even touched him, which I filed away to use against him later.
When my palms slid around his waist from behind, his entire body locked up for a heartbeat—then melted. I felt the surrender in the lowering of his shoulders, the subtle lean of his weight back toward me, the way his fingertips tightened around the rod's handle.
His voice was strained when he spoke again.
"This is… imprudent."
"Mm," I hummed against his shoulder. "That wasn't an answer."
I brushed my nose against the warm skin at the base of his neck. He shuddered—barely—but enough for me to feel the ripple of it beneath his vest.
"You should not," he managed, voice unsteady, "play near volatile substances."
The cauldron bubbled on in front of him, perfectly stable. He was not fooling me.
"Are you worried for the potion," I whispered, letting my lips graze the edge of his jaw, "or for yourself?"
His hand clenched around the rod.
"That is—" His breath broke. "—not the point."
I smiled against his skin.
"It's absolutely the point."
He swallowed hard. The muscles in his throat moved under my mouth.
A quiet, involuntary sound escaped him—half sigh, half tremor. My hands moved upward, fingers skimming the edge of his vest, trailing along the seams of his shirt, circling lightly around his ribs. His breathing stuttered like someone had disrupted a careful pattern.
"Heather…" His voice dropped lower. Rougher. "This is… cheating."
"That's the idea," I murmured.
And I could feel it—the exact moment he lost the rhythm of the potion.
His stirring slowed. Then faltered. Then stopped.
His free hand found the table's edge, gripping hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
I slid one hand upward, curling my fingers under his open collar to touch warm skin. His head tipped back slightly, just enough to brush against me. His reaction was immediate, helpless, beautiful. A sharp inhale. A quiet sound caught in his throat.
If I had touched him more firmly, he might have dropped the rod entirely.
"You are trying to make me ruin this," he whispered, eyes half-closed.
"If the potion explodes," I said sweetly, "I promise to help clean the ceiling."
He gave a quiet, unsteady sound—barely audible, really. More of a shocked exhale that said he couldn't believe I'd said that, couldn't believe I'd reduced him to this.
I kissed the side of his throat, slow and deliberate.
He broke.
The rod hit the countertop with a soft clatter. He turned so abruptly that my breath caught, his hands gripping my waist with a force that was gentle and desperate at once. Heat rolled off him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his breathing… oh.
He kissed me before I could speak—desperate, claiming, not slow at all this time.
When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough against my lips.
"If this potion ignites, it will be your doing."
"I'll take responsibility," I whispered, smiling against his mouth.
He huffed—barely a breath. "You take entirely too much pleasure in this."
"Only because you make it worth it."
He kissed me again then.
This time: not rushed. Not frantic. Slow. Deep. Devastating in a way that felt like someone unraveling a thread I hadn't realized was wound tight around my heart.
His hands came up to cradle my face, fingers trembling just slightly. A strand of hair had escaped his tie, falling across his forehead. I felt the restraint in every movement—how badly he wanted to touch me more, how carefully he held himself back, how soft he could be when no one else was watching.
Merlin, I loved this man.
The kiss deepened, and for a moment I forgot the lab, the potion, the entire world beyond the heat of him. When he finally pulled back, our foreheads touched, his breath fanning warm across my lips.
"You," he murmured, voice like smoke, "do not fight fair."
"You didn't set any rules," I breathed.
He huffed—a quiet, incredulous sound that would've made past-Severus combust out of embarrassment. He let his hands slide down to my hips, grounding himself there, steadying himself.
Then the cauldron hissed behind him.
Severus jerked like he'd been hexed.
"Damn—"
He spun, snatching the rod and adjusting the flame with quick, practiced motions. The brew sputtered, then settled, the surface smoothing from a bubbling froth into a glossy shimmer.
I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching with a smile I didn't bother to hide.
He finished stabilizing the potion, exhaled slowly, and turned back to me with a look that was equal parts reproach and reluctant amusement.
He stepped closer, one hand lifting to brush a thumb across my cheek.
His voice dropped to something gentle and unbearably warm.
"Next time," he said, "warn me."
I raised an eyebrow. "Where's the fun in that?"
He stared at me for a long, quiet moment.
A searching, heated, almost reverent look.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he smirked.
It wasn't a big expression. Severus never did big expressions. But it was real. And it was his. And it was for me.
"You did not allow me to finish," he murmured, leaning closer, lips brushing my temple.
A shiver ran straight through me.
Oh. Oh.
"Finish what?" I managed, breath catching just a little.
He kissed me once, slow and commanding, before pulling back just enough to speak against my mouth.
"Punishing you."
Heat curled low in my stomach.
"And what kind of consequences," I murmured, "are we talking about?"
He stepped backward toward the cauldron, eyes dark and voice low.
"I will show you," he said. "When the potion is stable."
This time, I was the one who lost my composure.
And judging by the small, victorious curve of his mouth, he knew it.
I should have been embarrassed. I wasn't. Not even a little.
Because there was something intoxicating about watching Severus like this—my husband, impossibly mine—come to life in these quiet moments. About seeing him flirt, tease, open himself in ways I never thought he could.
About knowing he trusted me enough to want.
It was enough to make me lean against the counter a second longer, watching him return to his potion with a faint smirk lingering on his lips.
And when he glanced back over his shoulder—hair half-undone now, collar still askew—the look he gave me was low and warm and promising, the kind that said I had, in fact, distracted him, and that he intended to do something about it later.
I smiled. I'd wait as long as he needed.
After all… it wasn't the potion that was volatile.
It was us.
And I'd never been happier to ignite.
Full collection of my Snapetober one-shots on my AO3: Link
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