#dry snape

[songbird1309]

Paper Cut

A/N: Hello! This is the first thing I've ever posted on Tumblr, so I'm hoping this goes well🤞 Also, this fic was originally inspired by an old Irish jig so I'll attach a URL if you wanna take a listen.

Summary: After expecting yourself to spend the entire winter break in solitude, you get an unexpected request to visit your potions master. (Works with any gender)

Warning(s): My writing skills...

Word count: >2,300

https://open.spotify.com/track/32AoNRoaOV2xb4YZcFaqi2?si=7_rYzfPCSY6Bp4p-WeHdhw

If you had thought rationally for even a single second before going to the shore, you would've been able to add two and two together. In other words, you would've realized that it would be far too cold to accomplish any form of finger picking, either good or bad. Unfortunately, rationality was far in between with you these days, and those fingers of yours were left hovering over the steel strings of your guitar without an occupation. “Stop shaking,” you demanded yourself, scrutinizing the uncontrollable tremor of your hand. “You're not even cold.” Clasping your hands together in an attempt to warm them up, you looked at the distant family from the corner of your eye.

A father with his two young sons walked along the rocky shore with thick layers on, each of the boys trying to prove who could get closest to the crashing waves without getting their shoes wet. You narrowed your eyes at the father, questioning his parenting skills. You shook your head and let out a huff of discontentment, whispering to yourself, “It's fucking freezing and this is where you choose to take your damned kids?”

What I would give to use incendio right now…

The sleeves of your jacket were going to have to suffice for the meantime. Though, clinging the hems of the sleeves into your tight fists didn't achieve much other than putting only a small amount of feeling back into your fingertips. You were beginning to think the family was never going to leave and the wand you had brought with you would be of no use to you.

The murmuring of the two boys suddenly grew louder but not due their closer distance to you, but instead due to their enthusiastic reactions to a distant black dot flying just above the water. Upon realizing what exactly the spot of blackness was, you understood why they'd be excited about it. It's not often you see a black owl flying amongst white seagulls. Especially when you consider that the only black owl in the U.K. belonged to Professor Snape. While one child had an untamable grin on his face, the other hid behind his father as the three of them watched the owl land atop the log you were sitting on.

“What's the reason for this, huh?” You asked the bird, though he remained unphased much like his owner even as you reached over to grab the letter next to his claws. You rested your chest over your guitar as you opened the envelope, your attempt causing you to yelp in pain. “Ack-” As you pushed your thumb beneath the envelope's tongue from one side to the other, the edge of the paper unpleasantly sliced the skin over your knuckle. A second later, blood was already leaking out of the wound and a small drop fell onto the letter before you could prevent it. You quickly placed the small cut in between your lips as you pulled out the letter to read it, the few words hardly obscured by the damp blood stain.

“See me as soon as possible.

S.S.”

You skipped the part where he wrote ‘Hope your winter break is going well’ or ‘Sorry for the unwarranted interruption to your free time’. Maybe he meant to write it and forgot.

Shaking those naive thoughts aside, you glanced back at the owl, meeting his dull gaze with a raised brow. “Right now?” Even if Snape's owl could answer your question, he wouldn't stick around long enough to do so, leaving you with no choice but to pack up your guitar and find somewhere secluded enough to apparate back to the castle.

– – – – – – – – – – – –

What little frustration you once had quickly melted away as warmth immediately enveloped your body, somehow making your ‘warm’ layers suddenly feel cold against your warming skin. Looking around, you found yourself right back at Hogwarts, within the walls of the potions classroom and as you stood idle, you took note of the professor's absence within his own classroom. You'd be lying if you said you weren't already imagining yourself having to play a game of bloody hide-and-seek just to find the man.

The heat that pleasantly warmed the left side of your body, however, prompted you to look towards his office, the opened door and faintly flickering light from within suggesting that a game of hide-and-seek wasn't going to be necessary. Walking over, you found him sitting at his desk with his head leaning against his propped up hand and a pile of opened books in front of him. He had the fireplace lit, likely due to the dungeon's natural cold temperatures being drastically augmented by the winter. “Professor,” you said as you stood just outside of his office. “I got your letter.”

When his gaze shifted up from his books, he noticed multiple things at once, first being your muggle attire, second being the large guitar shaped luggage you carried with you and finally, the blood stained letter you held in your other hand. “Did my letter find you in the midst of a brawl, Y/L/N?” He asked dryly, noticing the blood on your thumb.

“No,” you responded just as dryly as you took slow steps inside of his office to bask in more of the fire's warmth.

“Why have you not healed it yet?”

You tilted your head in confusion and in turn, he nodded to the cut on your thumb. “Ah- Well, I was around muggles when it happened. I got it when I opened your letter.” You stood your guitar against the wall before walking further into his office, making your way to the chair in front of his desk. “So did you need me for something?”

“Not exactly.”

Once you sat down, he took the bloodstained letter out of your hand and placed it to the side before gently pulling on your wrist so that your hand would be closer to him. He frowned in disapproval as he felt just how cold your skin was. “I take it you were outside.”

“I was.”

“Not leisurely, I hope?” When you didn't answer, his eyes shot up to yours for a brief moment, giving you a scolding glare. “Foolish child.”

With his hand still around your wrist, he lifted his other one to your thumb, his pointer finger keeping it slightly elevated while his thumb pressed against your nail so he could closely inspect the injury. “How did you manage to cut yourself by opening a bloody envelope?”

“It can't be that hard to imagine how.” You were slightly taken aback by his commanding assessment of such a minor injury but nonetheless, you indulged his concern, taking a mental note on how warm his fingers were against your cold hand. “This is why people use max stamps, Professor. Think about all of the people you've sent letters to who've gotten paper cuts because you refuse to use wax stamps.”

“This is evidence of your clumsiness, Y/L/N, I assure you. Not the benefits to using wax stamps.” He released your thumb but kept his grip around your wrist to keep your hand from moving as he casted a cleaning spell on the small wound. Gradually, the dried blood surrounding the area began to vanish and the distance between the edges of skin began to close, leaving only the faintest red line as proof of the cut's previous existence. After a quiet moment, you took your hand back and rubbed the newly healed skin on your knuckle, your thoughts slipping to the lingering warmth around your wrist where he had held it. When he heard you mutter a ‘thank you,’ he simply nodded in acknowledgment, letting a comfortable silence fill the air between the two of you. He didn't seem all that eager to enlighten you on his reason for having you here, instead, he quietly allowed the warmth of the fire to engulf your cold self while he started putting his books away.

“Has your Christmas been pleasant?” You asked as he was turned to his bookshelf. When you got no response, the air became awkward and you assumed you didn't speak loud enough. You faced the fire with slightly flushed cheeks, too embarrassed to repeat yourself.

“It's been bearable.” He placed a small box on his desk. Its surface was a matte black and lacked much character. “Open it.”

With a puzzled expression, you met his gaze before looking down at the box, your hand slowly reaching for it. “What is this?”

“What does it look like?” He asked with a raised brow.

Is it not painfully obvious?

You took the small box in your hand, giving the professor one more glance before lifting the lid. Within the box was a bracelet. Its design was simple with its shape resembling a thin three stranded braid made up entirely of a dark metal material. With a slightly widened grin, you looked up at your professor who was still on his feet, intently watching you. “You got me a gift.”

“I gave you protection.”

His line of words came out like a sudden embrace, the implications of his desire to have you protected feeling slightly jarring, though undoubtedly assuring. “Is it charmed?”

“Yes.” He finally sat back down. “Protego Maxima.”

After putting the box back on the desk, you slid your compressed palm through the narrow bracelet, observing it as it dangled around your wrist. “Well, you gave this to me on Christmas, so it's definitely a gift.” Your bashful smile was presented proudly to Snape and he could feel himself wanting to mirror it. “Thank you,” you said.

“Merry Christmas, Y/L/N.” He actually let the corners of his lips lift into a subtle grin.

“Merry Christmas, professor.”

You looked back down at the bracelet around your wrist as you turned it around with your other hand, the texture of the small braid feeling pleasant against your skin. “If I'd known we were exchanging Christmas gifts, I would've brought yours.”

“There's no nee-”

“Actually,” you interrupted, standing from your chair. “I'll just get it now.” Before he could say anything, you apparate away and his office was enveloped with silence once more.

Upon apparating back into your family's house in Galway, you immediately felt the difference in temperatures which caused a chill to run down your spine. You rushed into your old room and found the narrow, dark brown box containing your professor's gift laying on the window sill. As you walked towards the window, the sound of the cat caught you off guard, his ‘meow’ amplified by the quietness that consumed the house. He laid peacefully on the pillow you were clinging onto when you woke up this morning and you started to feel guilt slowly tearing at you. The cat usually shared this house with the rest of your family who were currently spending the holidays at your grandparent's house in Scotland. Even if you felt like you were just his cat sitter, you were still the only other warm body in the house.

And you had the nerve to leave him to his lonesomeness.

“I'll be back soon, boy,” you assured regretfully, petting the underside of his chin before taking the box and apparating back into the professor's office.

Snape was just as he was when you left, his gaze lingering over the flames and his thumb gently tapping against the wood of his desk. When he heard you return, he looked over and let out an inaudible sigh when he saw you'd come back with a box in your hand. “Give it here, then.”

You sat back down on your chair that was still warm and placed the box on his desk, sliding it closer to him with a certain mischievous glint in your eyes. His distasteful gaze studied the box as it inched closer. “When you see it, just-” You paused. “The timing is a coincidence, that's all.”

After giving you a suspicious glare, he took the box in both hands and used his two thumps to pop the lid open. Upon seeing what the box contained, he felt a tug at the corner of his lips. It was good timing, indeed.

“A wax stamp.”

“Look at the design on it,” you said, trying but failing to calm the grin on your face as you pointed to the head of the silver stamp. His reaction was just about what you could've expected.

The professor placed the box down with the stamp in his hand and he turned it over to see the finely engraved design of a two headed snake. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it at an old thrift shop near Galway.”

“A thrift shop,” He repeated almost condescendingly. It was another muggle thing he wasn't entirely familiar with.

“It's the kind of shop that sells whatever people have pawned off or donated.” You silently watched him for any signs that he was pleased with the gift, but his face was too difficult to read. “And if you still prefer to send letters without wax stamps, I'm sure it would sell nicely.”

Hearing your absurd suggestion, he narrowed his eyes at you. Even if he wasn't already planning on using it, he wouldn't be so insensitive as to sell it for mere coin. There was too much value in the simple fact that you had given this to him. And considering your hands would likely benefit from using it, there was no question. “Nonsense. If it means you'll no longer be giving yourself paper cuts, Y/L/N, I'll make good use of it. Consider your clumsiness my incentive.”

“My thumbs appreciate it.”

The two of you shared the space in comforting silence, letting the fondness that came from exchanging gifts with each other sink in. If not for the fact that this was your first real social interaction since the beginning of winter break, this moment may not have felt as uplifting to you, not to mention a little daunting. You would've never believed that you'd be spending Christmas day with the potion master and, undoubtedly, it felt rewarding having grown this close with him.

[fafodill]

So I've been told today by someone (you know who you are) that it was funny how I was treated like a Snape sexuality guru these days.

It's honestly all I've been expecting from life. Do y'all think I can put it on my resume?

Also just realized I spelled 'guru' ala french so it will be part of the lore now.

[maxdibert]

I imagine Molly Weasley during Order meetings making the occasional comment alluding to the terrible poverty of the Weasleys, saying something like they’d had to cut back on a few things to be able to buy this or that for one of the kids and Severus, without batting an eye, just dropping something like, “Poverty’s really changed these days. Back in my time, you ate once a week and only got new clothes if a neighbor threw theirs out.” And everyone just staring at each other like what, while Dumbledore rolls his eyes because, you know, #humor

[fannedandflawless]

🧽 How Did That Cloak Stay Clean?

Let’s talk about the real magic here—not wandwork, but wardrobe maintenance.

Severus Snape wore a floor-length robe that swept across stone corridors, dungeon floors, and Merlin knows what else. Realistically? It should’ve been filthy. But in the films—and in our collective imagination—it remained pristine. Always. Not a speck of dust on the hem.

And that’s not just aesthetic. That’s intention.

Because this is Snape we’re talking about.

If you told me he cast a mild repelling charm into every seam, I’d believe it. If you told me he invented an enchantment to keep the wool sharp, the silhouette intact, the cloak billowing just high enough to avoid dirt—I’d say of course he did.

Maybe that’s why he walked like that. Tall. Sharp. Cloak in mid-air, swirling before it touches the floor. It wasn’t just drama.

It was preservation.

You don’t survive years in the dungeons, stalking from cauldron to corridor, without making your clothing part of your discipline. He didn’t wear that robe.

He commanded it.

And you can bet your last galleon—if a single scuff ever appeared, it didn’t last long.

Because Severus Snape was many things.

But unkempt? Never.

And if we really want to go there—think about what a Potions Master deals with daily: powdered roots, dried beetle shells, splashes of unicorn blood, droplets of armadillo bile. All of it airborne, all of it staining. A cloak that dragged without defence would look like a tapestry of disasters within a week.

So maybe it wasn’t just a repelling charm. Perhaps, it was something older. Older magic. Something stitched by hand and sealed by intent.

Because that cloak wasn’t just clean.

It was untouchable.

A moving shadow that said: “Try me.”

—

✨ Of course it never stained. It wasn’t just clothing—it was control, defiance, presence.

→ Read more: The Uniform Was Armour

[dubhean]

6 amazing movies with Alan Rickman that are not as popular as others:

[nellarw95]

Happy Heavenly Birthday Alan 🎂💔

Alan Sidney Patrick Rickman 🤍

February 21,1946 - January 14,2016🙏🏻

We Miss You So Much 🕊️♾️

Buon Compleanno in Paradiso 🎂💔

21 Febbraio 1946 - 14 Gennaio 2016 🙏🏻

Ci Manchi Moltissimo 🕊️♾️

[evans23]

Masterlist

Cover by @muiitoloko

Hello dear readers,

Thank you for your support and feel free to message me.

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Request open

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Organised by @deepperplexity

Rickmas 2024 here

[darewolfcreates]

Tradition.

[overgrownbat]

13 for the Snape asks?

13. How do you think Snape treats his own House?

Honestly? Fairly and without favouritism against the other Houses. It only appears as favouritism because the three other Houses are constantly alienating Slytherin and looking down on the house with disdain.

The only exception to this would be wherever Harry is involved, but even then it's less about favouring the Slytherin students, and more about punishing Harry himself.

The Slytherin students wait until Severus isn't looking until they begin acting out — this leads me to believe that Severus wouldn't let their actions slide, and that his Snakes are aware that their Head of House will invoke some form of penalty.

Due to the story being from Harry's perspective, we don't know what this would look like. One could assume it's a loss of points, detention or the removal of privileges such as visits to Hogsmeade.

It's also worthy to note that Severus does not award points. Ever. At all. Not even to his own House, and certainly not by the droves at the end of the school year when another House has been lead to believe that they've won the House Cup.

[adelaidewinter]

💛🤎💚💙🩵❤️🧡

New GIFs for my MasterList!

[lumosflairr]

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭

welcome page

summary: You and Theo have always had silent tension, until one day you both finally break.

warnings: making out. thats about it

word count: 1.6k

if you want to know when i post more theo content, please join my taglist!

It started with the way he looked at you. Or maybe it started long before that—before the stolen glances, before the lazy smirks and low-voiced jokes, before you even realized Theodore Nott had a voice that could make your name sound like velvet.

You were both Slytherins. That should’ve made you allies by default. But no—he wasn’t the kind of housemate you exchanged greetings with in the common room. You weren’t exactly friends. You weren’t rivals either. You were something in between—always orbiting one another, never quite colliding.

He was always in the background. In the corner of the room at late-night study sessions, draped over an armchair like he was carved into it. At breakfast, quiet and unreadable, swirling his coffee while the rest of the table buzzed with chatter. You’d pass each other in the dungeons, exchange dry comments in the common room, occasionally get paired for group work.

He wasn’t loud like the others. Didn’t try to charm, didn’t posture. He was observant, precise, untouchable. And it irritated you—the way he always seemed ten steps ahead, as if nothing anyone did could touch him.

You didn’t expect him to start speaking to you.

The first time was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, sixth year. You were both assigned to demonstrate shielding spells together, and he didn’t even glance up when Snape announced it.

You squared off in front of him, wand raised.

He finally looked at you, one brow lifted. “I’ll try not to obliterate you. Wouldn’t want to bruise that pride of yours.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “If anyone’s pride needs bruising, it’s yours.”

That was the beginning.

From then on, something shifted. He’d make offhand comments in the common room when you passed. Sit just close enough during study hours that you could feel the edge of his presence. He never really talked—not in the way others did—but when he did, it always left an echo.

After a long Potions lab one evening, you were trudging back to the common room when he fell into step beside you. He didn’t say anything for a moment—just walked, hands in his pockets, eyes forward.

“Stanchi ma belli, huh?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Tired, but beautiful.” He glanced sideways at you. “You look it.”

You glared at him, even as your cheeks burned. “Is that your idea of a compliment?”

“No,” he said easily. “That was just honesty.”

The tension built slowly. Not obvious to anyone else, maybe not even to you at first. But it was there—in the way your eyes lingered a little longer when he walked into the room. In the way you found yourself choosing the seat across from him at the long green-glass tables in the common room. In the way he looked at you like he was cataloging something he wanted to keep.

It wasn’t until the night in the library that everything truly changed.

You were both working late on your essays—separately, of course. You’d claimed a table near the back, close to the Restricted Section, surrounded by open books and half-finished notes. You were hunched over, quill in hand, when you heard the familiar scrape of a chair pulling out across from you.

You looked up to see Theo sitting down without asking.

“Burning the midnight oil, amore?”

You scowled. “I’m not your amore, Nott.”

His lips curled slightly. “Not yet.”

Your jaw clenched, heat blooming at the back of your neck. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed lazily. “Just observant.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Only to those who look at me like that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze didn’t waver—it held yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

“Like you want me to stop,” he said softly, “when you don’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You hated how still you went. How the words hit too precisely—how they exposed something you hadn’t dared admit even to yourself.

And he knew.

Of course he did.

That was the worst part—he knew exactly what he was doing to you. The long looks, the quiet comments, the way his fingers drummed against the table just loud enough to pull your attention, the way his eyes traced your face like he was memorizing it.

The game wasn’t subtle anymore. He’d cracked the silence between you open, and neither of you made an effort to close it.

You didn’t even try to ignore him anymore. When he leaned in with that lazy smirk and those damn velvet-lined words, you leaned right back.

“I’m trying to work,” you muttered, eyes locked on him.

“Mm.” His voice was low. “And I’m trying not to think about how good you look when you’re pretending you don’t like me.”

You raised an eyebrow, daring to glance at him. “Who said I’m pretending?”

His eyes lit up with that unmistakable spark. “So you admit it, then?”

You shut your book slowly, eyes meeting his across the table. “I didn’t admit anything. You’re just hearing what you want.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, eyes scanning your face like he was reading a very interesting sentence.

“Tesoro… you think I don’t know the way you look at me?”

“Like you’re an inconvenience?” you shot back sweetly.

“Like I’m the best part of your day,” he countered, not missing a beat.

You swallowed, pulse quickening.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Nott.”

“Oh, I don’t have to.” He grinned, teeth barely visible. “You do it for me.”

You rolled your eyes, standing abruptly and gathering your things. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yet here you are, still sitting with me at midnight,” he said, voice trailing into a dark, amused hum. “Should I be flattered?”

“Or concerned for your ego,” you muttered.

As you turned to walk away, he stood too, suddenly close—closer than he’d ever been. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, “and I will.”

You turned back toward him, slowly.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

Instead, you looked up at him through your lashes, lips curling into the smallest, most dangerous smile you’d ever worn.

“Don’t look at me like that, Nott.”

He laughed softly, and it wasn’t smug—it was dark and low and full of heat.

“Too late for that, bella.”

His voice was low, silken, barely more than a breath—but it hit you like a spark to dry parchment.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. The air between you pulsed, heavy and electric, thick with all the tension you’d both let simmer for far too long. And now, it was boiling over.

Theo’s eyes dropped to your lips.

That was all it took.

One moment you were standing toe to toe, and the next, his hands were in your hair and his mouth was crashing against yours like he’d been holding back for years.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was everything you’d both been biting back—every glance, every smirk, every brush of fingers in the common room, every almost-touch, every smug comment that lingered just a little too long. It exploded all at once.

His kiss was hot, hungry, all tongue and teeth and hands pulling you in. He kissed you like he was starved—like he’d been aching to taste you, and now that he had, he couldn’t get enough.

You gasped into his mouth, and he groaned—deep and low—and that sound alone made your knees buckle.

He pushed you back, guiding you into the nearest bookshelf until your back hit the wood. One of his hands gripped your waist, the other sliding up your spine to fist gently in your hair as he kissed you deeper.

Your hands clutched at his collar, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself to him as his body pressed against yours—solid and warm and demanding. His tongue slid against yours and you let out a soft whimper you didn’t mean to, but the way he growled in response told you he liked it.

He kissed like it was personal. Like it meant something.

He pulled back just an inch, lips brushing yours, breath hot.

“Been wanting to know…” he murmured, eyes flickering between your mouth and your eyes, voice thick with desire, “what those pretty lips taste like.”

Then he was kissing you again, harder this time, rougher, like the truth of it had only made him hungrier.

Your fingers tangled in his hair and his hand slid beneath the hem of your jumper to rest against the bare skin at your waist. He groaned again—quieter this time, but no less intense—as if just touching you sent a shiver up his spine.

You could feel it in the way his body trembled slightly against yours. The way his mouth broke away only to return a second later with more urgency. Like he physically couldn’t stop.

“You have no idea…” he whispered between kisses, “…how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

He kissed your jaw, your neck, just under your ear, and your eyes fluttered shut as your head fell back against the shelf.

“You—” Kiss. “Drive me—” Kiss. “Absolutely mad.”

His lips returned to yours with a bruising intensity, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pulling him in like he was oxygen.

The kiss went on and on, like you were both making up for all the nights you’d walked away instead of leaning in. All the times you’d looked at each other across the common room and said nothing. All the unsaid things that had finally found their voice—in your hands, your mouths, your gasps between kisses.

Eventually, he pulled away, just barely. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless and flushed, hearts pounding.

His lips brushed your cheek, then your jaw again, softer now, and he whispered, “Say something, before I kiss you again and forget my own name.”

You looked up at him, dazed and grinning and completely undone.

“Then forget it,” you whispered back. “Just kiss me again.”

And Merlin, did he ever.

[trippingontheescalator]

Sometimes I think this fandom forgets that the Marauders and Snape are boomers. I just saw an "rip Lily Evans you would have loved Dolly Parton" post and like... Dolly Parton began her career in the 60s. Lily most definitely would have listened to "Jolene" as a 13 year old kid. And as a fanfic writer myself, I don't want to unnecessarily dunk on anyone's hard work, but it is a pet peeve of mine when I search for fics set in the Marauders era during the 1970s and the characters all sound like they are heavily involved in 2024 tumblr discourse. These kids would have never heard the term "genderfluid." They would call themselves transsexual or a butch dyke and there would be 212% more cigarette smoke, just everywhere. Fuck there was a designated smoking area at my boomer parents' high school for students and so long as the parents signed the permission slip the kids could go there and smoke. This was incredibly common (at least in American high schools) pre-1980s. Like, I can see the Evans family playing a game of lawn darts, Mr Evans with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in his mouth, throwing highly dangerous lawn darts that would eventually be recalled because of all the deaths it caused. Severus Snape had most certainly absorbed lead from the leaded paint in his house. Nobody was going to call the cops on any abuse they might see going on in the Snape's house because its the 1960/1970s and "how Mr. Snape disciplines his son is his business." War rationing had just ended 6 years before Snape, Lily, and the Marauders were born. Mental illness was extremely taboo, dyslexia wasn't really recognized in schools or talked about until the 1980s, after the Marauders had graduated, a lot of people were still calling PTSD "shell shock." For Muggles, there was no real DNA testing (it was in its infancy), no cellphones you had to pray there was a payphone nearby, and you wpuld talk to a telephone operator. It wasn't until 1966 that the UK switched to an all-digit telephone numbers. Before then instead of an area code it was a central office in every city/region that used letters. So if Lily, as a six year old girl, wanted to talk to her grandma in Manchester, her mother would have dialed something like MAN-9126 (I actually have no idea what Manchester's central office code was lol, this is just an example). Cokeworth is likely a Victorian mill town, and the major push to replace outdoor plumbing with indoor plumbing didn't start until the 1960s. Severus would have most likely spent his early years without indoor plumbing while living in a rowhouse built in the 1860s. Tubs would have had to be filled by hand, laundry scrubbed by hand and hung out to dry, he would have used an outdoor toilet and considering he is in a poor urban area he most likely would have shared this toilet with his neighbors in the other rowhouses.

These characters' story are shaped by the time they lived in, and sometimes I think the fandom doesn't realize how different the 1960s and 1970s really was.

[fannedandflawless]

SnapeOS

no bright interface. only shadows and results

runs silently in the background judging all input

refuses connection requests unless intellectually qualified

firewall: legendary

reboot required? never. he remembers everything.

[nezuscribe]

gryffindor!gojo who’s confident but not daft. he gets a sense that you don’t particularly like him and that just can’t do.

he becomes observant of your behavior and your actions. you laugh freely when your with your friends, a smile in your face as you all joke around the table. you seem to get along with your potions partner, even if they’re a slytherin, and sometimes when he passes by the second story girl laboratories he hears you talking to myrtle, which is truly a saint activity.

but for some reason, he never gets any of this attention.

whenever he tries to talk to you during the defense against the dark arts lessons you loudly shush him and tell him to leave you alone. when he tries to gauge how much you enjoy quidditch you send him a glare. you never seem to smile when he’s around, that frown growing between your brows.

and it’s strange, really. gojo is used to people just being fine with him, better than fine actually. like for example, one night in the common rooms, he went up to you to ask something measly.

“did you understand a word of what snape was saying?” he asked with a teasing smile, something surely you could agree on.

you seems to be alone, working on an essay, being left by your friends as they went to sleep. when you saw him come near you, you had to control yourself from groaning.

“yes.” you mutter, continuing to work.

“merlin,” he said with an awkward chuckle, glad none of his friends were around to see the ever boisterous gojo satoru stammer, “you must have great-”

“i’m trying to get this done by tonight,” you look up momentarily and he would have been able to reciprocate your hatred if only he didn’t find his throat getting dry whenever you looked at him, “please leave.”

so gojo leaves. and this seems to be a routine. but he knows that deep down it’s not just him pestering you that the issue. because sometimes, when he doesn’t mean to, he catches your stare from across the dining hall table. and he sees the way you were tediously picking his features apart, just as he does to you.

and he doesn’t miss the way you quickly avert your stare away. nor does he miss the way you bring your cold fingers to your cheeks to cool them down.

gojo smiles. he has a plan.

[mx-pastelwriting]

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

Hello! I am doing Kinktober this year; here is the month's menu. For every year I will make my own and it will be open for anyone to use for a list prompts. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

1 ☆ STUCK | SEVERUS SNAPE

2 ☆ BRUISING | CARLISLE CULLEN

3 ☆ UNDERWATER | GANG ORCA/KUGO SAKAMATA

4 ☆ ORGASM DENIAL | NEGAN SMITH

5 ☆ KNOTTING | EDDIE BROCK & VENOM

6 ☆ WET DREAM | JOHN PRICE

7 ☆ PHONE SEX | HANNIBAL LECTER

8 ☆ HANDCUFFS | SONNY CARISI

9 ☆ HEAT | REMUS LUPIN

10 ☆ DRY HUMPING | RAFAEL BARBA

11 ☆ BLOWJOB | MARCUS VOLTURI

12 ☆ COLLAR | LEASH | LUCIUS MALFOY

13 ☆ AGAINST A WALL | JASON VOORHEES

14 ☆ VIBRATOR: COOPER HOWARD (SEPARATE)

⭑ PRE-WAR

⭑ POST-WAR

15 ☆ THRONE | CAIUS VOLTURI

16 ☆ PHOTO | HANK PALMER

17 ☆ NUDES | LEE RUSSELL

18 ☆ DESK | STANFORD & STANLEY (SEPARATE)

⭑ STANFORD

⭑ STANLEY

19 ☆ CUM PLAY | TONY STARK

20 ☆ GLORY HOLE | ARTHUR MORGAN

21 ☆ PHEROMONE | HEIMDALL

22 ☆ BALCONY | KLAUS MIKAELSON

23 ☆ DRY HUMPING | ALFIE SOLOMONS

24 ☆ LACTATION | ENDEAVOR/EN JI TODOROKI

25 ☆ RUINED ORGASM | VINCENT RENZI

26 ☆ BEGGING | GHOST/ SIMON RILEY

27 ☆ QUIET | JAVIER ESCUELLA

28 ☆ WHIP CREAM | DARYL DIXON

29 ☆ LAP DANCE | HANK ANDERSON

30 ☆ STRETCHING | PROFESSOR HULK

31 ☆ UNIFORM | ALL PAPA EMERITUS (SEPARATE)

⭑ PRIMO

⭑ SECONDO

⭑ TERZO

⭑ COPIA

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI.

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

[agreeewrites]

What's My Name? - R.B.

Bully!Regulus Black x fem!reader

summary: you’ve befriended the emeralds and few other Slytherin’s. Regulus is drawn to you like a magnet, but knows you have no business associating with them or their families, so he tries to scare you off. It backfires spectacularly.

cw: MDNI 18+ Regulus tries to white fang you. degradation, bullying, toxic relationships and friend groups, future death-eaters, trauma, Black Family Angst, choking, dry-humping, p in v sex

an: Ik everyone has a different marauders!era slytherin group, so here’s a quick breakdown of my personal headcanon:

Inner circle: Regulus Black, Evan Rosier, Barty Crouch Jr., Pandora, and Dorcas Meadowes (the emeralds)

Outer circle: Severus Snape, Avery, Mulciber, Emma Vanity, Charity Burbage, Aurora Sinistra, and Wilkes.

Circle-adjacent: Lily Evans, Marlene McKinnon, and the Marauders

There is also the much darker group with Rabastan Lestrange, Thorfinn Rowle, and the Carrow’s, who actively prey on some of the others for Voldemort’s Cause.

────────────────────────

No matter how hard Regulus tried, you refused to leave his orbit. You had no business affiliating with him and his friends, and had no idea what that affiliation truly meant. It meant darkness. It meant bloodshed. It met imminent and very real danger. A war was brewing right under your nose.

Regulus had been born and bred for this, as had most of his friends, but you…you were an innocent. Intelligent, witty, trusting. As much as he tried not to care, he couldn’t stand to watch your light be snuffed out for simply existing around them: metaphorically or literally.

But no matter how many times Regulus tried to run you off, spare you from what came next, you would not heed. In fact, you seemed to take his animosity as a challenge, leaving him in the predicament of being your unwitting adversary.

You were in the Slytherin common room now, curled up by the fireplace with Pandora, Evan, Barty and a few others, doing more gossiping than studying despite the piles of books and parchment on the floor around you. The greenish light of the lake contrasted with the glow of the fire against your face, creating an otherworldly halo around you.

You hair was pulled back, revealing the slender curve of your neck, the dip in your v-neck sweater where a silver pendant rested against your clavicle.

You laughed at whatever terrible joke Barty made and Regulus rolled his eyes, turning back to the spell book in his lap. He was studying alone, having told Evan a number of times to fuck off and let him work on his assignments in peace.

“Regulus!” Emma called suddenly, and he cringed, pretending he didn't hear his Quidditch captain. “Reg!” She called again.

He closed his eyes, willing them all to disappear.

“Regulus fucking Black!” She hollered, loud enough for the whole common room to fall silent.

He clapped his book shut and stalked over to where you all were sitting, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other clamped on his book.

“Yes?” He droned, leaning against the arm chair Emma was sitting in.

“Can you help me with this?” Emma asked, holding up her Defense Against the Dark Arts homework.

Annoyance prickled along his skin. “What good is a genius pet if she doesn't help with your work?” He asked, leveling you with his coldest stare.

You tilted your head, eyes flicking from his black, curly hair to his leather shoes, and didn't respond.

“She said she wouldn't help me,” Emma pouted.

“I said I wouldn't do it for you,” you corrected.

“Barty, then?”

“No can do, Reg,” Barty responded, coughing up a lungful of pungent smoke, waggling a joint in Regulus’ direction.

Emma waved the smoke from her face. “Will you help, Reg? I have to get a good grade in the class or I could lose my spot on the team. And you know these lot are useless at spells.”

He sighed and took the assignment from her hands, flipping through the pages. It was rudimentary work, things she really should know in order to defend herself.

“Can't help you,” Regulus said, handing it back to her. “If you can't do this, maybe you should be demoted.”

The group ooooh’d at his dig.

“Reg!” Emma whined.

“Ignore him, Em. Not everyone takes to dark magic as easily as the ancient and most bitchy house of Black,” you quipped, narrowing your eyes at him.

Regulus resisted the urge to clench his jaw, feigning the nonchalance you wore like a second skin. The group swiveled to look at him.

“All magic, really. But thank you, darling,” he purred, winking at you.

“You should have seen Sirius in advanced Transfiguration last semester, he's a natural. Truly a gifted wizard,” you continued.

“Hot as fuck, too,” Evan added, just to dig the knife in a little deeper.

Regulus’ blood began to simmer, his temperature rising beneath his dark robes. He tsked under his breath, shaking his head. “I thought you'd be smart enough to not fall for his clown act.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Evidently not.”

“I wouldn't touch a Black with a twenty foot pole,” you replied, leaning back on your hands, stretching your long legs out in front of you, your skirt sitting high on your thighs.

“Who said anything about a pole?” Regulus replied, mimicking your condescending head tilt.

The group snickered, watching your verbal sparring like it was a duel.

“You sound a bit jealous, Reggie. Need a little attention?”

Reggie. His mask nearly slipped, he was so caught off guard by the nickname on your sharp tongue. “May as well, since you give it out so freely.” He glanced down at your shapely legs, punctuating his point.

Your head fell back as you laughed, your chest pressing up and tits bouncing, and he felt an irritating kick in his trouser as the heat of his anger took a new, sinful shape.

“It's the 70’s, love. Are you still so prudish?” You lifted your head, pining him with eyes fierce enough to cleave him in half.

He smirked. “Far from it. Just selective.”

“Don't see much of a selection to chose from,” you chuckled, earning another spike of laughter from the group. “What I see is a spoiled youngest son with nothing better to do than needle the people around him to fill the hole in his chest.” You got to your feet, shouldering your bag.

Regulus felt like he'd been punched clean through the sternum, your words never failing to cut to the quik.

“Spoken by a girl with nothing better to do than fish for a rich husband that might save her from her home in the gutter. Trust me, nothing can fill the hole of inadequacy, y/l/n.”

You stepped over Evan and Barty's tangled limbs and left without another word, leaving Regulus’ cruelty to echo off the glass and stone, the group silent.

Regulus turned on his heel and disappeared into the boys dormitory, guilt dogging every step.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The Quidditch match was in full swing, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and the score was neck and neck. It was up to Regulus and the Gryffindor Seeker now, since neither team could get a leg up through the rings.

You sat in the stands sipping hot chocolate with Marlene, Pandora, and Dorcas, Barty pouting to your left because he couldn't sit with Evan in the Slytherin stands.

Regulus hovered a few meters away, his eyes trained upwards, catching every falling leaf and ripple of air around him. You hated how handsome he looked in his Quidditch robes, his lean body relaxed on the broom despite the stakes.

That was Regulus, un-fucking-shakeable. And it drove you insane that you could never get a rise out of him, but he managed to needle one out of you time and time again.

He was as relentless as a northern wind, and you couldn't help but be swept away.

His dark curls framed his angular face, those perpetually sleepy eyes the most arresting green. Sure, everyone thought Sirius was hot, but Regulus was beautiful, ethereal almost, and he wrapped around your mind like a constrictor.

You watched as the other Seeker suddenly took off above the Hufflepuff stands, in pursuit of something, and the Gryffindor stands cheered. But Regulus remained motionless, watching his opponent like a cat trailing a mouse. Even as Slytherin urged him to take up the chase, he remained unmoved, bidding his time.

His bottomless patience would be awe-inspiring if it wasn't so damn frustrating.

You wouldn't have an issue with Regulus, maybe even could have been friends with him, if he hadn't taken issue with you first. You had no idea what his fucking problem was, whether it was because your family was poor, you had better grades than him, or what. He loathed you from the moment you showed up in the Slytherin common room, and you've yet to receive an explanation.

You'd been saddled with a one-sided rivalry, but you'd be damned if you let him defeat you now after a full semester of back and forth.

The other Seeker pulled up short, whipping his head around like he'd lost something, and you saw Regulus crack a smirk, his canines white and sharp.

Regulus turned his head suddenly, quick like a bird, and then he was off in a blur of motion. His opponent was all the way across the pitch, entirely too far to get there in time.

A moment later— “Regulus Black has caught the snitch for 150 points! Slytherin wins!”

The Slytherin stands erupted with cheers while every other house booed, including your own. But you knew a Slytherin victory meant a rager in the dungeons, so you kept your lips sealed.

Instead, you watched Regulus land at the center of the pitch, the golden snitch held lazily between his pointer finger and thumb above his head. Any other Seeker would have been parading around the field, or flying in wide circles over the stands, screaming their head off, but Regulus was silent. His victory spoke for him.

Although, you knew he'd still be smug as fuck later.

As soon as the stands began to drain, you, Pandora, and Barty caught up with the rest of your Slytherin friends, all of them buzzing about the victory, even melancholic Severus. By the time you all reached the dungeons, a party was already in full swing.

Music thrummed along the walls, so loud it caused ripples in the Black Lake, making the emerald-tinged moonlight shift and dance along the floor. You happily accepted a shot of gin, then another before letting Evan cajole you out onto the dance floor.

Sweat pooled along your spine as the music wore on, your hair wild and loose down your back as you danced, electric energy flowing through you.

A cheer came up from the entrance and everyone turned towards the commotion. The Slytherin Quidditch team strode into the room, black robes billowing behind them. Regulus stood at the front, of course. Even from several meters away, you could see the confident glimmer in his eyes, the arrogant tilt of his chiseled jaw.

Fucking Black’s.

Like a magnet, his eyes found yours across the room, and you nearly tripped over Evan’s feet at the venom they held. But he looked away as quickly as he found you, getting swept up by the crowd and disappearing from your line of sight.

You tracked down another shot and rejoined Evan and Barty on the dance floor, squished between them in a tangle of limbs. Impossible to tell who’s hands were where, just a mess of sensation and touch. The temperature in the common room was rising expontentially, so you shed your sweater, leaving you in your skirt and a white camisole, sweat making the fabric cling to your skin.

A few songs passed like that, and a blonde guy you barely know, Rowle, you thought, took your friends place when they tapped out to smoke. You rolled your body against his, enjoying the way his thick muscles felt beneath his robes, the hungry way he was staring down at you. But you were about ready to take a break yourself, the musky smell of weed calling your name from across the room, when the hair on the back of your neck suddenly rose.

You looked around, searching for the source of your bodies response, when you locked eyes, once again, with Regulus.

He was sitting in a circle of couches against the glass wall with your shared friends, a halo of smoke around his head, a girl perched on his lap, sucking at his neck while he took a drag off of a cigarette. But his eyes were glued to you, tracking every movement you made with the same intensity he tracked the golden snitch.

Confidence wafted through you, and you wrapped your arms around your dance partners neck, letting him dip you so low your hair pooled on the floor, your tits nearly falling out of your shirt. You rolled back up slowly, articulating every vertebrae in your spine until you were chest to chest with your partner, sharing the same breaths.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Regulus choke on the smoke, dislodging the girl from his skin, and you smirked.

You let your partner turn you, showing every angle of your body, and you dropped low, circling your hips in time with the resinous goth song as you rose back up.

Regulus' cigarette hung limp between his fingers, his perfect jaw a little slack.

Emboldened, you broke away from your partner, letting yourself get lost in the sensuous, thrumming beat. Your arms rose above your head, your shoulders and hips swaying in time. It felt like you were hypnotizing him, his eyes glued to every undulation of your hips, and you couldn't recall a time where you felt more alive.

Too soon, though, the music changed to a more electro-pop vibe, and you slipped reluctantly off the dance floor, the taste of smoke beckoning you across the room.

You sauntered over to the circle, pointedly ignoring Regulus as you approached.

“There she is,” Even cooed, extending an arm to you. “You looked amazing out there.”

You smiled, sliding into his lap and taking a drag from the joint between his fingers. “Thank you, lovely.” You smiled sweetly up at him, and you could have sworn he started drooling.

“Feels even better,” Barty teased, sprawled out on the couch beside Evan, clearly a little too inebriated already.

You winked at him, and he flushed a deep scarlet. Pandora, who was resting on the floor between Dorcas’ legs, chuckled at his expense.

Regulus was quiet, per usual, watching as the group chattered around him, turning the golden snitch he caught over and over in his long fingers.

The smoke made your mind a little hazy, your tired muscles from dancing going loose, and you sagged into Evan’s side, leaning your head on his shoulder.

Regulus’ fingers tightened on the snitch, his jaw feathering, and your stomach swooped with nervous excitement. You’d never been able to rattle him before. Had you finally knocked the monolithic Regulus Black off of his axis?

“Reg, why so quiet?” Evan asked, nudging his leg with his boot.

Regulus raised a brow. “What would you like to talk about, Rosier? Fucking Junior? Or eye-fucking y/l/n?”

“We can talk about eye-fucking y/n.” Evan winked down at you, and you rolled your eyes. Avery barked a laugh from his spot on the other side of Regulus.

“Yes, let's,” Barty added, raking his willowly fingers through your hair draped over Evan’s arm. You hummed under the attention, knowing it was all in good, hedonistic Slytherin fun.

Well, almost all in good fun.

As always, Regulus couldn't let your ego inflate too much. “It's hard not indulge in a little novelty, no matter how ineffectual.”

Ouch. His words landed like barbs on your skin, but you ignored him, leaning into Barty’s attention with light moan.

Regulus shifted a little in his seat, his hands falling over his lap, and you nearly smiled. Regulus may act all high and mighty, but he wasn't impervious.

“Look at you,” Even purred, blowing smoke over your heated skin, your decolletage exposed as you stretched towards Barty. “Prettiest girl at Hogwarts, stretched across my lap.” You flushed, squirming a little in his lap, and Evan groaned. “You're torturing me, baby.”

Barty tugged on your hair, sending a skitter of pleasure down your spine and craning your head back even further. “Oh, keep doing that. He loves being tortured.”

“What a good girl,” Regulus hummed, and your pussy throbbed, soaking through your underwear. It was a rush, being admired by the heirs of some of the most powerful families in the magical world. But hearing those sweet words from Regulus, twisted into degradation, did sick things to your mind. “She's on track to graduate with her perfect, filthy-rich husband, and spend the rest of her days as mindless, fertile eye candy.”

You flinched, not that the boys noticed, and sat up a little, suddenly self-conscious in your barely-there shirt.

“We volunteer,” Avery and Wilkes said at the same time.

Evan’s arm tightened around you. “You'll have to pry her from my cold, dead hands,” he replied.

Claustrophobia clawed at your throat, but you couldn't let Regulus know how thoroughly he'd flipped your night upside down.

Wilkes drew their wand, pointing it at Evan’s head. “That can be arranged.”

“A no-name isn't worth it, children,” Regulus sneered. “Save your Azkaban trips for nobler pursuits than cunt.”

That's it. You swung your legs to the ground and rose, stalking towards Regulus. The group whistled and hooted, excited by the oncoming storm of drama.

You climbed into Regulus’ lap, straddling him and stealing the golden snitch from his hands. He was warm and solid beneath you, his expensive, amber cologne swirling with the smoke to create an addicting combination.

His hands immediately fell to your bare thighs, the cold of his rings biting into your heated flesh. His green eyes darkened, lids growing heavy as he looked up at you, his ebony lashes casting delicate shadows over his cheeks.

“Regulus Black,” you murmured in his ear while loosening his tie. His hands tensing on your thighs for a split second before he relaxed them. “You will never find someone that can withstand your thorns the way I do.”

He loosed a breath, chin lifting a little closer to your face like a wilted rose tilting towards the sun.

“You will never scare me off.” You brushed your nose along his temple, feeling his heart rate increase, his breath turn shallow. “I will ruin you, and you will thank me for it.”

Before he could respond, you slipped away, taking his prize snitch with you all the way to Ravenclaw Tower. Unreachable, even for the boy that had everything.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Regulus turned your words over and over in his mind, an endless, torturous loop. The others seemed obvious to his torment, prattling on and on while he burned through cigarette after cigarette, his tongue raw and throat scratchy.

Nothing would numb the ache on his chest, the pulsing strain of his cock beneath his robes. He'd already been painfully hard watching you move, watching you stretch across Evan and Barty like a contented kitten, preening under their devoted attention.

But when you climbed into his lap…fuck.

He was a heartbeat away from coming in his pants. One roll of your hips and he would have been done for, and you had no idea.

Or, maybe you did.

I will ruin you.

It was a miracle that you'd climbed off of him and stormed away, because the only thought he could formulate was please.

Eventually, he couldn't fucking take it anymore. He didn't even say goodnight to his friends, just disappeared into the dormitory and locked the door behind him.

He shirked his robe and grabbed a spare Slytherin scarf from his drawer. He flopped onto his bed and freed his aching cock, the head and angry red and shiny. He wrapped the scarf around it, squeezing hard for a semblance of relief.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, pumping his cock slowly as your voice filled his mind again, the feeling of your weight on top of him, your sweet breath on his neck, your perfume rewiring the synopsis in his brain.

His hand started to move quicker, breath coming out in desperate pants. He imagined licking across your dewy chest, tasting the salt on your skin, gin on your tongue. Blowing his cigarette smoke over your naked body, into your open mouth. So eager and flayed open for him to ravage—his innocent lamb to ruin.

“Fuck, y/n!” Your name wrenched itself from his throat as he came hard into his scarf, imaging it was deep inside your greedy cunt. His whole body shuddered with the force of it, his jaw hanging open as he pumped himself through the orgasm until he'd milked every drop from himself, wondering if your pussy, your mouth, would do the same.

He slumped back onto the pillows, completely exhausted, and shoved the scarf under his bed.

You were right, you would fucking ruin him, ruin his plans. And he wasn't sure if he hated or loved you for it.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Regulus avoided you for two weeks after that party, going so far as to skip your shared Potions class entirely. It was for the better really, you still felt a little raw after that night, the dull ache of his words combined with the unresolved arousal has left you out of sorts, to put it mildly.

If you ran into him, you weren’t sure if you’d throttle or fuck him to death.

Your friends were beginning to grow suspicious of his absence, and your squirrely behavior, and, unbeknownst to you, they set a trap to bring this stand-off to a finish once and for all.

Pandora chatted animatedly beside you as you walked together down the stairs to the dungeon, ranting about something Aurora did to piss her off. When you arrived to the dungeon, she suddenly paused to tie her shoelace, waving for you to go on ahead of her into the common room.

You did, and the large green door swung shut behind you.

“No! Fuck, Dora!” Regulus was right there, banging his fist on the door.

You looked around, bewildered, only to find the common room completely deserted. Except for Regulus, of course.

“Move,” you hissed, withdrawing your wand.

“I tried everything,” Regulus huffed, a hand raking through his dark hair.

“I said move,” you repeated, pointing your wand at him.

He rolled his eyes and stepped aside, walking back into the common room. He dropped onto the couch by the fireplace, retrieving his book.

You threw every spell you could think of at the door, but it simply wouldn’t budge. “What the fuck!” You shouted, nearly throwing your wand across the room out of frustration.

“They left us a note,” Regulus said, not looking up from his reading.

You stalked over to him, finding an open piece of parchment on the coffee table. Immediately, you recognized Pandora’s loping hand.

“Just bone already.” You read aloud, and scoffed. “What the fuck does that mean?” You glared at Regulus, as if he was somehow responsible, but he still didn’t look up.

“I suspect they’re tired of our bickering,” he replied, turning the page.

“And what does locking us in the dungeon together accomplish?” You couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe they’d lock you in a dungeon with your fucking nemesis. Your school yard bully. The bane of your goddamn existence.

Regulus shrugged. “Maybe they think you’ll kill me.”

You let out an exasperated sound and stormed away from him, trying the door to the girls dormitory.

“Locked,” he called a millisecond after you tried the handle.

“Maybe I am going to fucking kill him,” you muttered to yourself. Resigned, you sat on a chair by the glass wall, as far away from him as you could possibly get, and sulked.

You had no clue how much time passed, the only light filtering in through the murky lake. The cold leeched through the glass, chilling you to the bone, but you refused to move closer to him. You’d freeze to death in here if you had to.

“Y/l/n,” Regulus said after the fifth full body chill wracked through you. “Come sit by the fire.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you bit back, and he snorted.

“Fine, freeze.” He returned to his book, not sparing you another glance.

Your hands started to ache from the cold, your jaw sore from your teeth chattering together. With a sigh, you got up and crossed the room. Regulus still didn’t look up, though you could feel his attention shift to you as you sat directly in front of the fire, holding your hands out to it.

“You really think they’ll leave us in here all night?” You asked, staring at the dancing flames.

“Absolutely,” Regulus answered, lowering his book to his lap.

You sighed, resigned. The only way out is through. “I’ll start.”

He tilted his head, dark brows drawing together in suspicion.

You cursed under your breath, and dove headfirst. “I don’t understand why you’re so shitty to me,” you blurted, refusing to look at him. “I’ve never done anything to you.”

He was quiet for so long, you finally caved and glanced over at him, only to find him staring back at you, expression unreadable.

“Regulus,” you huffed, frustrated.

“Y/n,” he mocked, and your stomach flipped despite his attitude. He’d never used your first name before.

“Just fucking talk to me.” You straightened your spine, folding your legs on the ground underneath you, the fire at your side.

He stared at you for a few more moments, his eyes dancing back and forth, before he leaned back against the couch and picked up his book.

“You’re a lot of things, Black, but I didn’t take you for a coward.”

His eyes flickered with anger, but he didn’t bite.

“Reg,” you murmured, softening your voice, and he rolled his eyes, the most unbelievably bored expression on his face. You shifted your weight, placing your hands on the ground, and lifted to your knees. Slowly, you began to crawl to him, being careful to not sway your hips too much, and he broke after only a few seconds.

“On your knees already, darling?” He teased, but the casual tone didn’t match his eyes. The fire in them, the way his hands tightened around the cover of his book, betrayed his true feelings.

Once you were directly in front on him, you sat back on your heels. “Be honest with me, Reggie, did it turn you on seeing me with Evan and Barty?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by your question. In his lap, you saw his cock twitch, a small pulse along his right thigh.

Men are so fucking easy.

“What about when I was dancing with them? Sandwiched between their bodies?” You rolled your head on your shoulders, mimicking the way you danced and revealing the fragile plains of your throat, your hair falling around your face. “When Barty pulled my hair? When Evan blew smoke over my tits?”

Regulus swallowed hard, his eyes like melted jade.

“What about when I crawled into your lap?” You took the book from him and set it onto the table. Then, you placed your hands on his lean, muscular thighs and pushed yourself to your feet, straddling him the same way you did that night. His entire body was rigid beneath you, muscles coiled tight with tension. “Did you like when I whispered in your ear, Regulus? When I told you that I’d ruin you?”

“Y/n,” he rasped, breathing hard.

“Tell me the truth.” You were so close, your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. You committed to the contact, brushing your lips along his racing pulse, down his jugular vein. You fought to keep your thighs from clenching together, your own body responding to the feeling him slowly unraveling beneath you. “Do you hate me because you want me?”

“I don't,” he hissed through his teeth.

“If you say so,” you hummed, moving to slide off his lap.

He grabbed your waist, his grip bruising. “Don't you fucking dare."

“I thought you didn't want me?” You taunted, sitting back on his lap to look at him, a hand braced on his sternum.

When you shifted your weight, your pussy accidentally pressed against the hard outline of his cock. You had to force your hips to stay still, your pussy practically begging you to move when you felt him throb against your warm heat.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. All the malice had drained from his voice, his eyes locked on yours.

Then what the fuck did he mean?

You rolled your hips, biting back the moan that crept up your throat as pleasure snaked through you. Regulus was less successful, a broken groan falling from his pretty mouth.

“It would be so much easier to just tell me the truth,” you purred, slowly rocking your hips over his twitching length, allowing a hint of breathlessness to bleed into your voice. “It would feel so good, Reg, to let it all go. To lose control.”

“Shit,” he crushed under his breath. “What the fuck are you doing to me?” He grated, sliding his hands down to feel your thighs flex with each movement, his fingertips dimpling your flesh.

“What did you mean by ‘I don’t’?” You asked, tilting his chin up with a finger.

His jaw went a little slack as he stared up at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and shining. “I don’t hate you,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then why do you say such awful things?” You stopped your movements, and he made a small noise in his throat, nearly a whimper, but didn’t answer. “Regulus,” you prodded, lifting yourself from him entirely.

“N-no, please, fuck y/n,” he stammered, lifting his hips to grind against you. Another moan threatened to spill from you, his body felt so fucking good against yours, but you managed to restrain yourself. “I did it to try and push you away, I—”

You lowered back onto him, your hips grinding in tandem, and his head fell back against the couch, releasing a throaty groan. You couldn’t hold back a small squeak of pleasure when the hard head of his cock grazed your clit just right, and a wave of pleasure crashed through you.

“Why did you want to push me away?” You started undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, lean muscles flexing as he thrusted up against you.

He shook his head, picking it up to look down at where your bodies met, a pool of your slick dampening his trousers. “Getting me all wet, lamb. You like toying with me?” he rasped, moving one of his hands to press a thumb against your clothed clit, his long fingers splayed across your pelvis. “Is that why I couldn’t scare you off?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself, a full moan finally breaking free with the added pressure. You were embarrassingly close to coming, to banter combined with the friction between your bodies was a lethal cocktail, a drug you weren’t sure you’d be able to quit.

You wrapped your hands around his throat, applying enough pressure that he gasped, the sound vibrating your hand. “Why are you trying to push me away?” You leaned closer to his face, his strained pants fanning across your lips. He was so beautiful like this, ravaged by lust and desperate.

“You know why,” he growled, grabbing your wrists. He rolled suddenly, flipping you beneath him and pinning your hands above your head. “What’s my name, y/n?” His free hand slid under your skirt, palming your soaked panties.

“Regulus,” you gasped, arching into his chest.

“Regulus what?” He started rubbing the heel of his palm over your clit, electric pleasure burning through you.

“Regulus Black.” You were on the brink of coming, teetering on that torturous edge.

“Tell me then, my clever little Ravenclaw. What does that say about me and mine?” He leaned down and dragged his teeth along your pulse point, pausing to suck a mark under your ear.

“Fuck, Reg, I’m going to come,” you whined, fighting against his hold as the feeling started to overwhelm you.

His hand stopped suddenly, ruining the orgasm you had just begun to crest. You cried out in frustration, tears springing to your eyes as the pleasure bled out of you, leaving you desperate and humming with tension.

“Answer me,” he demanded, grabbing your jaw with his slick covered hand.

“I’m not an idiot,” you snapped, eyes blazing into his. “I know what the fuck it means. And I don’t care.”

He fell still, eyes searching your face. “Then maybe you are an idiot,” he murmured, eyes softening now that the truth was finally out. “But so am I.”

He closed the final inch between you, connecting your lips in a searing, devastating kiss that you felt all the way to your toes. He released your hands and you tangled your fingers into his curls, finally feeling their softness for yourself as you pulled him closer. Your mouth parted for him, his tongue delving in to taste you.

“Reg, please,” you whined against his mouth, pressing your hips to his again.

“Tell me what you want, lamb.” He kissed down your neck, one of his hands sliding down to grip your thigh and draw it over his hip.

“Fuck me, I need you inside of me.” You clawed at his belt, flipping the clasp and tugging down his zipper.

“Merlin, yes.” He finished undoing his pants and freed his cock, pulling aside your panties to glide the head through your slick folds, lubricating himself. He notched the head at your entrance, hissing at the warmth already kissing him, and eased himself in.

Regulus wasn’t overly large, but the stretch was still divine, filling you until you went cross-eyed, an unholy cry ripping from your chest. He drew his hips back and slammed back into you, over and over again until your were in shambles, a moaning, shaking mess, on the precipice of coming for the second time.

“Come for me, love. I want to feel you break.” He cupped your face, kissing you as he finally pushed you over the edge, an orgasm ripping you apart at the seams. You screamed into his mouth, your cunt clenching around him as your body convulsed. “God, I love this fucking cunt. So perfect for me,” he growled, his hips losing their rhythm as your walls bared down on him, sucking him back in every time he pulled out.

“Reg,” you whimpered, sagging against the couch as the strength bled out of of you.

He pulled out suddenly, pumping his cock in his fist, your honey coating him. “Stay just like that, pretty girl. All fucked out and used. All mine—” a guttural groan broke the final word as he came in his hand, spraying ropes of cum over your rumpled skirt and Ravenclaw sweater, his head thrown back. He looked gorgeous milking himself for you, his muscles flexing with the effort, sweat beading along his skin.

He slowly relaxed, chest heaving, and looked down at you, ruined and covered in his cum. You stared back, completely starstruck by what just happened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, draping himself over you and pressing ksises to your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. “I’m sorry for everything I said. I didn’t mean any of it, I—”

“Me too,” you interrupted him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I know how hard things are for you, at home, I mean, and I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no. I deserved it. I shouldn’t have brought up your family—”

“But I kept—”

“I never meant too—”

You both exhaled, laughing softly at your rushed confessions, the sudden, giddy nervousness that bloomed between you where there once was glacial wit and razor-sharp banter. He sat you both up, removing your stained sweater and straightening your skirt, then righted himself.

“What now?” You asked when he finished fussing, studying his flushed cheeks, his tousled hair.

He sighed, suddenly looking grim, and your heart gave a nervous thump. “We find a way to keep you safe, lamb,” he said, meeting your eyes. “But until then, we should act like nothing’s changed. Okay?”

Uncertainty coiled in your stomach, but you nodded. “Okay.”

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

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