liv2post

[liv2post]

Me and Alan Rickman's Severus Snape (I go by actor height. Alan is 6'1, I’m 5’10)

I found this amazing website for comparing heights, and I think it’s such a fun way to get a better idea of the height differences between characters

[liv2post]

A very specific plot, but it's one I've had in my head for years from a book I wanted to write. I know you can take it and make it better than I ever could, so here it is:

Y/N is a secretary at a recording studio when AR comes in to dub lines for a movie, but is distraught despite trying to keep her mind on her work due to a call from her soon-to-be ex husband about their divorce being finalised. AR walks in, sees Y/N, is awestruck, love at fiest sight, and immediately concerned when he sees the divorce papers signed and lying on the desk beside Y/N and her having been crying. The next day when Y/N walks in, there's a fresh bouquet of flowers waiting on the desk for her, and when AR comes in that afternoon to work on recording lines, he admits to being the one who sent the flowers and offers to walk Y/N home as he's still there finishing up at closing. Fast forward to him asking Y/N out for dinner and then Y/N is dealing with deep seated feelings because of the divorce and she needs the touch of a man, and then comes the smut.

Please have fun.

Title: Retakes

Summary: Alan lied—about the takes, about the timing, about how long he could keep his hands off her. But when truth comes wrapped in lingerie and vulnerability, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Pairing: Alan Rickman × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Also read on Ao3

Alan stepped out of the black town car with a quiet breath, smoothing his coat with a practiced hand. The morning air was crisp, filtered through faint city smog and the anticipation that always accompanied new work. He squinted up at the recording studio, tall glass and steel, unremarkable to anyone but him. To him, it was Wonderland.

He smiled faintly at the thought. Absolem. He’d been looking forward to this. The cadence. The detachment. The wit hidden behind smoke and riddles. It suited him. Perhaps too well.

“Alan!” came a familiar voice.

Tim Burton, clad in a mismatched coat and chaos-colored scarf, ambled toward him with the enthusiasm of a man whose imagination had not yet found the bounds of age. Alan smiled.

“Tim,” he drawled warmly, shaking the director’s hand. “I was beginning to suspect you were a figment of my imagination.”

Tim chuckled. “Oh, I am. But one with a schedule.”

Alan followed him into the studio, his coat draped over one arm, the other tucked in his trouser pocket as they made their way through the sleek corridors. He nodded politely at every technician, every assistant that passed them. It was reflex by now—politeness with just enough detachment to feel charming, without inviting unnecessary conversation.

And then he saw you.

You were standing just outside the sound booth, a tablet in hand, listening intently as Tim updated you on the schedule. You weren’t looking at Alan. Which was why, of course, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

Something hitched in his chest. The smallest, most inexplicable pause.

Not stunning. Not in the overly deliberate way he was used to on film sets. But beautiful, yes. And poised. Your features soft but sharp where it mattered. There was a knowing in your eyes. A grace in your stillness. A curve to your mouth that hinted at quiet sarcasm and hidden affection in equal measure.

He blinked.

Control yourself, Rickman.

He'd seen beautiful women before. He’d kissed half of them on set, sometimes more than once. Most of the time in front of an entire crew and a boom mic. He could recite the lines, hit his mark, flirt with a tilt of his brow and a flick of his voice.

But this was different.

You were different.

He didn’t know why—only that he felt the difference like a chord struck in his chest.

Tim gestured vaguely in his direction and you finally turned to him, offering a polite, professional smile.

“Mr. Rickman,” you said. Your voice was warm. Calm. Not flustered. Simply kind. “Welcome.”

He extended his hand before he could think better of it. “Please,” he murmured, voice dropping to that rich baritone, the one he sometimes forgot could still make people turn. “Alan will do."

You reached out. Your hand met his.

And there it was.

The cool band of metal against his fingers. A wedding ring. Slim. Silver. No diamonds. Worn on instinct.

His expression didn’t change. His smile remained steady. But inwardly, something in him tightened. Just slightly. Not regret. Not exactly.

Disappointment.

Of course, he thought. Of course she's married. Someone saw her first.

He pulled back his hand with practiced grace, tucked both into his pockets now, as if they’d never reached for anything.

“Well,” he said lightly, lips twitching into something dry and self-deprecating. “If I butcher the caterpillar, you’ll know who to report me to.”

You laughed—a real laugh. And it startled him, how much he liked the sound.

“I think you’ll be brilliant,” you said, glancing down at your tablet, already back to business. “You’ve got the perfect voice for riddles and passive aggression.”

Alan blinked, then barked a soft laugh of his own. “High praise. Especially from someone who hasn’t heard me scold a young actor in rehearsal.”

You smiled again, and Alan followed Tim into the booth, casting one final glance over his shoulder.

Careful, he told himself. She’s married. And she’s kind. And beautiful. And your type. And none of that means a thing.

But as the studio door shut behind him and the mic lit up, he couldn’t help but wonder—just once—if you wore that ring because you were happy…

…or because you were loyal.

Alan spent hours in the studio, chasing the exact tone he wanted—slippery, elusive, like smoke curling through a locked door. He tried rasping the lines. He tried slouching into the mic, tried closing his eyes, tried letting his voice slide like a snake across each syllable. Still, it wasn’t right.

“Again,” he said, after take fourteen. “It needs to feel like the listener is being watched. Judged. By something ancient. And mildly annoyed.”

The voice assistant, a young man with tired eyes and a Starbucks addiction, let out a polite cough. “Maybe we take five, Mr. Rickman?”

Alan blinked. Not at the suggestion, but at the “we.”

He nodded, slowly unwinding his long frame from the stool. “Five, then,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or forever, if I can’t find this bloody voice.”

Outside the booth, the hallway felt overly bright, artificial light humming above him. His stomach grumbled. Loudly.

Tim, of course, had vanished hours ago—“Back soon!” he’d said cheerfully, disappearing in a flurry of scarf and ambition. Alan suspected he’d wandered off to consult a costume rack or possibly a shrub.

But before he'd left, Tim had tossed over a distracted suggestion. "If you need anything—lunch, help, translation of Gen Z slang—go to [Your Name]. She runs the schedule and the galaxy."

Alan had smiled politely. He remembered the way your eyes hadn’t lingered on him too long. He liked that. You didn’t seem to orbit him like others did. You had your own gravity.

And so, with measured steps and some invisible inward groaning, Alan made his way through the corridors, hoping—innocently, of course—that you might recommend a nearby restaurant. Perhaps even… join him. As two people. Eating food. Conversing.

Married, Rickman, he reminded himself again. That ring didn’t just appear on her finger by accident. You’re not twenty-five. You don’t do this.

But then he turned the corner and stopped.

You were alone, seated at the far end of a desk, tablet dark in front of you, your shoulders curled ever so slightly inward. Your hand moved slowly, wiping beneath one eye. Then the other.

Tears.

Alan's heart paused mid-beat. He stood there for a moment, caught between instinct and restraint, but something about the soft, almost embarrassed tilt of your head made the choice for him.

He stepped forward gently, voice low and warm. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was hoping to beg a restaurant recommendation off you. But I seem to have chosen the worst possible moment.”

You startled slightly, blinking up at him with flushed cheeks and watery lashes. “Mr. Rickman—oh, I’m—God, I’m so sorry. It’s nothing. Really. Just… tired.”

Alan didn’t sit, not quite, but he lowered himself enough to meet your eyes without looming. “Actors lie for a living,” he said gently. “That doesn’t mean I enjoy being lied to.”

Your smile was brief. Fragile. “I promise I’m not usually this much of a mess.”

“I don’t believe that,” Alan said softly. “You strike me as the kind who only melts down when the building is already on fire.”

You laughed once, dry and short—and that’s when he saw it. The manila envelope. Half-tucked beneath your tablet. Its top curled open just enough for him to glimpse the header.

Superior Court – Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

Ah.

And yet, the ring was still there.

Alan’s throat tightened. He shouldn’t be… glad. Not like this. Not at the quiet wreckage of someone else's love unraveling. But still—someone saw her first. And now, it seemed, someone let her go.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, meaning it.

You sniffed, brushing the tears away with your sleeve, embarrassment creeping in again. “It’s mutual. It’s civil. It’s overdue.”

Alan watched you a moment longer, then finally sat on the edge of the desk across from you, folding his long fingers together. “And the ring?” he asked gently, with just enough wryness to soften it. “Habit? Sentiment? Legal requirement?”

Your fingers curled over the band. Your smile was faint. Tired. “I’m not sure. Maybe all three.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. And it did. People held onto things. Not because they wanted to go back. But because letting go took more time than signing a name.

You looked at him. Really looked. “Were you always this intuitive, or is it part of the actor training?”

Alan’s lips twitched. “I was born a nosy bastard, I’m afraid.”

That made you laugh. A real one this time. He watched it lift some of the weight off your shoulders, just slightly.

“I do know a quiet place, if you’re still hungry,” you offered after a moment, voice steadier now.

Alan’s brow lifted. “And would this place object to a woman crying into her sandwich and a cranky Brit muttering about vocal cords?”

You smiled—weakly, apologetically—as you reached for the tissue tucked into your sleeve.

“I won’t be joining you,” you said, voice low, careful. “Not today. I just… I’d rather be alone, you know?”

Alan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. There was no visible disappointment, no performative understanding, just a soft nod—measured, respectful.

“I understand,” he said simply.

You managed another smile, grateful and small, then turned to the desk, rifling through a drawer. “There’s a place two blocks down,” you said, tugging out a notepad and pen. “No frills. Good bread. Owner sings badly in French.”

Alan chuckled softly, watching as you scribbled the address in looping script.

“I’ll tell him to prepare for a cranky Brit,” you added, tearing off the page and handing it to him.

He accepted it with a little nod of thanks, folding it neatly.

“And if you change your mind,” Alan said gently, “or if… you need someone to talk to—someone who doesn't offer advice or interrupt—I’m around.”

You smiled again, this time politely, as if to say that’s kind, but you didn’t take it seriously. He was being courteous. British. Warm, but distant. You nodded anyway, and with a faint incline of his head, Alan rose from the edge of your desk and walked away.

You sat for a while afterward, fingers brushing the edge of the note you’d written, the silence around you somehow louder now that he’d gone.

The next morning, you were back at your post, tablet charged, hair hastily tied, coffee in one hand and stress in the other. It was quiet, for the moment—no Tim yet, no studio hum. Just you and the comfort of solitude.

Then the door opened.

A man in a brown jacket stepped in, holding a bouquet large enough to obscure most of his torso. Reds. Oranges. Deep purples. Not cheap. Not generic.

“Delivery,” he muttered, peeking over the top.

You blinked. “For who?”

He glanced at the name on the tag. “[Your Name]”

You frowned. “There must be a mistake.”

“Office 302. That’s this, right?”

You nodded slowly, standing. The bouquet was absurdly lovely—wild but somehow elegant, the kind of thing someone chose intentionally, not at the last minute.

“Is there… a card?”

The man shook his head. “Didn’t see one.” He set the bouquet down on the corner of your desk. “I just do the drop-offs.” And with that, he was gone, whistling faintly as he vanished down the hall.

You stared at the flowers.

Your first thought, illogically, was Robert.

But no. That didn’t make sense. He hadn’t sent flowers when you got the job. Or when you got the promotion. Or when you spent a night in the ER with the flu. Flowers weren’t… Robert.

Still, a compulsion took over. You found yourself picking up your phone, pressing the number you knew too well. It rang twice.

“Yeah?” came Robert’s voice, distracted, as always.

“Did you send me flowers?”

A pause. “What?”

“Did you—never mind. Of course not.”

He let out a sigh. “Did someone die?”

“No,” you said softly. “Not today.”

You hung up before he could ask what you meant.

The rest of the day passed in strange anticipation. You kept glancing at the flowers, rearranging them slightly in their vase, brushing one petal with your fingertip like it might tell you something.

And then, just past four, the studio door opened again. Alan Rickman stepped in, scarf loose, coat unbuttoned, eyes warm as he offered a faint smile to the receptionist before making his way down the corridor. You felt the shift in the air before you saw him.

He stopped just short of your desk.

And when his hazel eyes flicked to the bouquet and then back to your face, you saw the flicker of something—relief, embarrassment, amusement—all fighting for dominance behind his expression.

“I take it,” he said carefully, voice low and smooth, “that the flowers arrived.”

You blinked, a little stunned. “That… was you?”

Alan cleared his throat. “I spent all morning berating myself,” he said, a touch too quickly, “convinced I’d overstepped. Too forward. Too familiar. Possibly even unprofessional.”

You looked at the bouquet, then back at him. “I thought it might be my ex-husband,” you admitted.

Alan’s brows lifted faintly. “That would’ve been… unfortunate.”

You laughed—quiet, surprised, soft. “He never sent me flowers. Not once. I think he considered them cliché.”

Alan tilted his head, and his mouth curved ever so slightly. “Then I suppose I’ve just committed a beautifully executed cliché.”

You studied him a moment. The subtle lines around his eyes. The slight pink in his cheeks. He looked pleased—but sheepishly so, like a schoolboy who wasn’t sure if he’d passed the exam or destroyed the classroom.

“They’re beautiful,” you said quietly.

His smile grew, just a little. “Good.”

A pause.

“Thank you,” you added. “For the flowers. And… for yesterday.”

Alan dipped his head slightly, as if acknowledging something unspoken between you.

“You’re very welcome.”

And with that, he walked past your desk toward the recording booth—but not before his hand brushed lightly, briefly, over your shoulder.

Warm. Gentle. No pressure. Just presence.

Just enough.

And this time, you didn’t let yourself wonder why he did it.

You only smiled.

In the days that followed, Alan became a fixture in the studio. You tried not to read into it—tried to convince yourself that he was simply being thorough. Professional. That his drawn-out sessions behind the mic were the result of artistic perfectionism and not, as your wildly uncooperative heart insisted, a thinly veiled excuse to linger near you.

But then he’d step out of the recording booth, raking one elegant hand through his silver-threaded hair, lock eyes with you, and say—

“Well. That was dreadful. I suppose I’ll need another go tomorrow.”

And your stomach would flutter like it was nineteen and at the stage door again.

You spoke every day. Little things at first—lines, scripts, jokes about Tim’s newest scarf (which looked suspiciously like it had been knit by a colorblind octopus). But gradually, the conversations deepened. He asked about your day. Your dreams. Whether you'd ever wanted to act. You told him about the stage plays you’d done in college—nothing professional—and how, despite the thrill of it, you’d somehow ended up here, behind a desk instead of a spotlight.

“And do you regret that?” he asked once, his hazel eyes sharp but not unkind.

You shrugged. “Not really. I like watching other people create. There’s something… intimate about it.”

Alan’s brow twitched slightly, and his voice dropped a note lower. “Yes,” he said, almost to himself. “There is.”

Somewhere between his quips and your awkward coffee offers, you exchanged numbers. It was casual. Almost accidental. He asked for a recommendation for a bookstore. You texted him three. He replied with a thank-you and an emoji you were fairly certain he’d used ironically, but still.

You had Alan Rickman’s phone number.

Alan bloody Rickman.

You didn’t freak out.

Not outwardly.

Inwardly? You binged Truly, Madly, Deeply and Sense and Sensibility and then rewatched Die Hard at 2 a.m., because you suddenly needed to remind yourself that he was, in fact, also terrifying. Which didn’t help. Because even when he was terrifying, he was hot.

You got a little hysterical during Galaxy Quest.

It was fine.

Mostly.

Meanwhile, Alan was making questionable professional decisions.

He’d finished nearly all of Absolem’s lines by the end of the third day. There weren’t many—Absolem wasn’t that chatty—and yet somehow, here he was on Day Eight, sitting in the booth with a cup of Earl Grey and murmuring, “I think I need to try that last one again. It sounded too... conclusive.”

Tim Burton, to his credit, had said nothing.

Until Day Nine.

Alan had just emerged from the booth, hair slightly askew, scarf slung rakishly over one shoulder, when he was ambushed.

Tim appeared like a gothic jack-in-the-box from behind a sound panel, arms crossed, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Oh good,” he said. “You’re here. Still. Again.”

Alan blinked innocently. “Is there a problem?”

“You’ve finished the damn lines.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, Alan. Twice. I even stitched the takes together in post just to be sure. You’ve done the voice, the inflection, the bloody smoke effect. The caterpillar is complete. He's in chrysalis now. Let him go.”

Alan exhaled slowly, adjusting his scarf with theatrical patience. “I simply want to ensure the emotional arc of the—”

“Oh, stuff it,” Tim cut in, eyes narrowing. “You’re dragging this out so you can keep seeing her.”

Alan froze. Just briefly.

Then he blinked, tone dry. “That’s a rather bold assumption.”

Tim leaned closer. “Alan. My friend. I’ve known you since you wore velvet unironically. And I know when you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That brooding, long-game, broody thing. The one where you pretend it’s all just art and creative rigor while you’re actually falling in love and being British about it.”

Alan didn’t respond. Just raised one brow. Tim barreled on.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to invite her to dinner. Tonight. Somewhere nice. Not pretentious. With actual lighting. You’re going to say something charming—actually charming, not sarcastic and emotionally vague—and you’re going to finish the damn lines.”

Alan stared at him.

“If you don’t,” Tim added sweetly, “I’ll tell her myself. I’ll say, ‘Did you know Alan’s been faking retakes for five days just to loiter near your desk?’ And then I’ll show her the footage.”

Alan blinked again. “Footage?”

Tim smiled. “Studio security. You gaze at her like a man watching the last crêpe at brunch. It’s tragic.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I hate you,” Alan murmured.

“Dinner, Alan. Or I will narrate your romantic failure to Danny Elfman in sonata form.”

Alan sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “God help me.”

Later that afternoon, you were sorting the latest revisions when a soft knock came at your office door.

You looked up.

Alan leaned in, that crooked half-smile on his lips, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets.

“Hello,” he said, a little too casually.

You blinked. “Hi.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“I was wondering,” Alan began slowly, “if you might join me for dinner this evening. There’s a place I know. Decent food. Poor lighting. And I promise not to monologue about Shakespeare unless provoked.”

You stared.

He looked… nervous. Not visibly. But you knew what to look for now. The slight tension in his jaw. The faint crease in his brow.

You smiled.

“I’d love to.”

Alan’s shoulders dropped just enough for you to notice.

He smiled back.

And behind a wall two rooms over, Tim Burton quietly pumped his fist and whispered, “Victory.”

The last thing you expected to do at dinner with Alan Rickman was to get sentimental. And yet there you were—elbows on the edge of the candlelit table, eyes slightly too bright, voice too loud, talking about your divorce like you were on a therapy podcast instead of sitting across from a man you’d fantasized about for the last week straight.

God. You were being annoying. You knew it.

It wasn’t even a good restaurant for this kind of conversation. It was intimate—yes—but designed for soft laughter, lingering glances, the clink of wine glasses. The bread was warm, the lighting golden, and Alan, ever the gentleman, had pulled out your chair without comment and asked if he could order the wine.

You had smiled and nodded and adjusted your dress three times before the waiter even brought the menu. And now… now you were halfway through a monologue about how your ex had once labeled your career ambitions as “hobbies” and how, on more than one occasion, he’d sighed at the idea of “emotional maintenance.”

“God,” you muttered, pushing your fork aside and sinking back in the chair, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m talking about him. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

Across the table, Alan—gracious, composed, maddeningly kind—simply tilted his head slightly and said, “I did ask how your week had been. Technically, this counts.”

You let out a short, guilty laugh and shook your head. “I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

Alan’s lips curved into that barely-there smirk you were beginning to recognize as his version of teasing. “Trauma dumping over carpaccio? You hide it well.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Please don’t be nice to me about this. It’s so much worse when you’re nice.”

He raised one brow, eyes warm. “Would you prefer I be cruel?”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “Be a complete bastard. Mock my emotional baggage. Call me tragic.”

Alan paused thoughtfully, then reached for his wine glass. “You’re tragic,” he said, deadpan. “Worse than a soggy Shakespeare adaptation.”

You laughed—genuinely this time. The knot in your chest loosened slightly. And then, because the universe had no sense of timing, your thoughts circled back to the one thing you absolutely could not admit: that you’d spent twenty minutes in front of your mirror debating whether to wear the red lingerie. That you’d chosen it, just in case. That your hands had trembled a little as you fastened the clasp, wondering if Alan would notice, if the night would even go there, if you could handle it if it didn’t.

Now, though, you were certain it wouldn’t. Not after this. Not after you’d emotionally backed into a corner of vulnerability and opened your mouth like a faucet. You were lucky he hadn’t excused himself to the bathroom and climbed out a window.

“I really am sorry,” you murmured, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “It’s just… this is the first time I’ve gone out with anyone who isn’t him. And I guess I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

Alan studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, softly: “What does it feel like?”

You met his gaze, and for once, didn’t look away.

“Like I’m cheating,” you said. “Even though I’m not. Even though he didn’t even fight for me. It’s stupid, I know.”

Alan’s fingers idly traced the stem of his glass. He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t offer a quick retort or brush it off with a joke.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, baritone soft. “It’s not stupid.”

You blinked.

“It’s honest,” he said. “And if you weren’t feeling something—loss, guilt, confusion—then I’d be concerned. The people we loved… even badly… don’t leave us cleanly. They leave fingerprints.”

You swallowed. The words struck something deep, unexpected. He didn’t pity you. He just understood.

“Alan,” you said quietly, “you really don’t have to sit here and listen to this. I wouldn’t blame you if you ran.”

He smiled, just barely. “Darling,” he said, voice velvet-smooth, “if I were going to run, I wouldn’t have ordered dessert.”

You stared at him. Then you saw the corners of his eyes crinkle, ever so slightly.

“You ordered dessert?”

“I did. Chocolate tart with sea salt. I’ve been told it pairs well with oversharing.”

You let out a shaky breath and smiled. A real smile. The kind that reached your eyes.

“I wore red lingerie,” you blurted before your brain could catch up.

Alan blinked.

You stared down at the table in horror. “Oh my God. I—forget I said that.”

He tilted his head. “Too late.”

You covered your face again, burning alive. “I’m going to crawl under the table now.”

He reached out and gently touched your wrist—warm, careful. Not pushing.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Please.”

You looked at him.

And this time, the look he gave you wasn’t polite. It wasn’t detached or charmingly aloof. It was slow. Intentional. His hazel eyes darkened slightly, lingering on your lips, then drifting just enough to make your breath catch.

“Red, was it?” he murmured.

You swallowed. Nodded, barely.

His fingers left your wrist—but not your mind.

“Good,” he said, sipping his wine with maddening calm. “Then we’ll make sure the evening doesn’t go to waste.”

And just like that, your heart dropped to your heels. Not because you were afraid, but because you suddenly, desperately wanted to see what Alan Rickman would do about red lingerie.

And this time, you were done apologizing for it.

You gasped against Alan’s mouth as your back hit the edge of a narrow console table in the hallway of his home, the polished wood cold against your spine, his body warm and solid against the front of you. The kiss was deep, hungry—none of the genteel pacing you’d expected, no carefully laid seduction. Just need. Pent-up, deliberate need, finally given permission to unravel.

Something clattered to the floor beside your feet—metal or glass, maybe—and you started to look, your head tilting in reflex. But Alan growled low against your lips, one hand sliding around to cup the back of your head and keep you still.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his breath hot against your mouth. “Ignore it.”

You obeyed.

The kiss deepened again. His other hand was on your ass now, large and warm and possessive, squeezing once—firm, greedy. It pulled a sound from your throat you didn’t recognize, but Alan did. His lips twitched faintly against yours, satisfied. Encouraged.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he broke the kiss. He didn’t move far—just pulled back enough to speak, his voice rough and low, lips brushing yours with every word.

“These are your options,” he said, his hand still gripping your waist, fingers spread across the curve of your hip. “Same ones I gave you in the car.”

You swallowed, breathless, chest rising and falling against his.

“One,” he continued, baritone steady, eyes locked to yours, “I take you home. We stop this. I drive you to your door, and we never talk about the fact that you wore red lingerie under that gorgeous little dress.”

Your breath caught, mouth parting, but he wasn’t finished.

“Or two,” he said, his voice even lower now, almost a whisper. “You let me take you upstairs. And I peel that dress off you inch by inch. And I finally—finally—get to see what you’ve been teasing me with all evening.”

Your fingers clenched in the fabric of his coat, your pulse a deafening drum in your ears.

“Your call,” he murmured, his hooked nose brushing yours, hazel eyes unreadable but burning. “But I need you to say it. I won’t assume.”

He waited. Still. Solid. Barely breathing.

And you knew, somehow, that if you told him to take you home, he would. No protest. No regret. Just a soft nod and the quiet crumpling of a man swallowing his own hunger.

But if you didn’t—

You lifted your gaze to his.

“Take me upstairs,” you whispered.

Alan exhaled—one long, low breath—like he’d been holding it for years.

“Thank God,” he said.

And then he kissed you again—deeper, slower, but no less urgent—as his hand slid down to hook behind your knee, lifting your leg just enough to press you harder against the table, his thigh firm between yours, the heat of him making you dizzy.

This was not going to be gentle.

Not tonight.

He kissed you a little more. Caressed you a little more. Slow, thoughtful strokes of his hands over your hips, your back, the nape of your neck—like he was memorizing you, not claiming you. He murmured something against your jaw—soft, unintelligible, but warm. Then he drew back just enough to take your hand in his, threading your fingers together without hesitation.

“Come with me,” he said, voice low, velvet-smoke, utterly calm.

You followed.

He led you up the stairs, the creak of the steps underfoot oddly intimate. Everything in his home was elegant but lived-in—books piled on the steps, a half-finished cup of tea on a hallway table, dim lighting that felt more like candlelight than electricity. You wanted to pause and examine everything, but your heart had begun to thud wildly in your chest.

Then you saw the bed.

Large. Impossibly so. Dark wood frame, thick mattress, soft-looking sheets in deep charcoal grey. The kind of bed you only saw in movies. Or in the homes of actors. Or, apparently, when you let Alan Rickman take you upstairs.

And for some reason, that’s when it hit you.

Oh God.

Your steps faltered. You blinked. The red lingerie suddenly felt too deliberate. Too hopeful. Your heart dropped, thudding hard.

He’s an actor.

A famous one. A rich one. A man who could quote Shakespeare and own a mattress that probably cost more than your last three paychecks combined. And you… You were a glorified secretary. A scheduling assistant with a student loan, a broken sink, and a newly finalized divorce. You weren’t glamorous. You weren’t his type.

Oh my God. What if this was a one-night stand?

You hadn’t stopped to think about that. Hadn’t let your brain catch up to your body. Idiot. Idiot. Of course it was a one-night stand. Look at him. Look at you. He dated actresses. Models. Women with power, or clout, or at least an assistant of their own. Not someone who spent her days chasing down production notes and keeping Tim Burton from getting lost in the parking garage.

You took a step back.

And bumped right into him.

Alan had been behind you, mid-motion, hands at his belt buckle, and your sudden movement startled you both. You turned quickly, wide-eyed, face burning, and he blinked in confusion, fingers pausing at the silver clasp.

He immediately dropped his hands from his belt. His expression shifted—softened, alert, but not demanding.

“Are you—” his baritone was careful now, almost quiet. “Are you regretful?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shame crawled up the back of your throat, hot and sharp. “No,” you murmured, eyes on the floor. “No regrets. Just…"

His eyes searched your face, waiting.

“…I need to ask something.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pressure. Just nodded once.

“Is this…” You took a breath, fingers curling into your palm. “Is this a one-night stand?”

Alan stilled.

Completely.

No immediate reassurance. No flirty denial. Just silence, the kind that sat heavy in the space between you. You swallowed. The quiet stretched. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up.

Then, softly:

“Do you want it to be a one-night stand?”

You lifted your head. His hazel eyes were unreadable. Not cold. Not closed off. Just… waiting.

“I—” you bit your lip, heart racing, unsure how much to admit.

Alan exhaled slowly and stepped forward, just enough to be near you again—but not to touch. His voice was quiet, steady, utterly sincere.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t spend nine days coming into that studio, pretending to still be recording, just to get you into bed for one night.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He gave a soft, almost rueful smile. “I finished Absolem on Day Three. You know it. I know it. Tim knows it. And he’s been threatening to blackmail me with security footage for days.”

Your mouth parted in shock. “You were pretending?”

Alan nodded, only slightly self-deprecating. “Pretending to need more takes. More nuance. More smoke.” He raised a brow. “When in truth, I just… wanted to see you. Talk to you. Linger.”

You stared at him, stunned. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You did all that for me?”

He looked at you then—really looked. The smile faded from his lips, but something warmer stayed behind.

“I liked you,” he said, simply. “I like you. Not for one night. Not for the lingerie, though that’s… rather excellent, if I may say so.” His voice dipped, just enough to make your pulse jump. “I like your mind. Your sarcasm. The way you look when you’re pretending not to be tired. The way you don’t look at me like I’m some character I once played.”

Your breath hitched.

“And if I’ve misread this,” he added quietly, “if you do want it to be one night—I’ll take you home. No pressure. No bitterness.”

You hesitated. Your lip trembled, just a little. Then you stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“You didn’t misread anything,” you whispered.

Alan’s breath left him in a soft exhale. His shoulders relaxed. His hand came up to gently cover yours.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d rather not pretend anymore.”

Then he leaned in, slow and certain, and kissed you—less hunger this time, more promise.

And this time, it was you who reached for his belt.

Alan stilled against your mouth, breath catching the moment your fingers brushed the leather—deliberate, confident, far from shy now. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t move. He just kissed you slower, deeper, until he felt the metal buckle shift beneath your hands.

Then he pulled back—barely—but just enough to watch you.

Hazel eyes dark with something molten, his baritone soft and rough around the edges as he murmured, “Taking initiative, are we?”

You smiled. Almost smug. “I thought you liked that.”

“I do,” he said, voice lower now, eyes dropping to your fingers. “God help me, I do.”

You slipped the belt open with ease, letting the weight of it fall apart, the soft clink of metal grounding the moment. His trousers loosened under your touch, and you let your hand linger—pressing the heel of your palm against the thick outline beneath his boxers. He twitched under the contact.

Alan’s lips parted. A quiet breath. Barely audible, but felt.

You rubbed slowly, deliberately. Not teasing. Not tentative. You meant it.

“Will you let me?” you whispered, your voice warm velvet against the silence. “Will you let me suck you?”

Alan’s eyes snapped to yours. Whatever restraint he had left slipped, just slightly. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching. His hands—previously resting lightly on your waist—curled with sudden tension, like he wasn’t sure whether to drag you up for another kiss or drop to his knees in gratitude.

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “You say that like I’m in any position to deny you.”

You grinned, fingers dipping beneath the waistband, tugging down until his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, and twitching with want.

Alan groaned, head falling back for a breath, and when he looked at you again, he looked wrecked.

“Christ,” he rasped. “You’ve barely touched me and I already want to thank you.”

You sank to your knees in front of him with a smile that wasn’t entirely innocent. He’d seen this coming. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he thought this was still a seduction you needed to be eased into. But now your eyes were fixed on him like a promise.

And Alan Rickman was about to learn exactly what you meant by initiative.

You wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, firm but careful, and leaned in—eyes locked to his as your tongue flicked once over the head. Just enough to taste.

Alan swore under his breath. One hand flew to your shoulder, not to stop you—God, never that—but to ground himself.

And when you took him into your mouth, slow, inch by thick inch, the groan he let out could’ve cracked the walls.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his accent rougher now, swallowed by lust. “That’s—God, your mouth.”

You hummed around him, and his hips bucked just slightly, involuntary. His cock throbbed in your mouth, hot and heavy, and the way he looked at you—like you were art and sin and salvation all at once—nearly made you moan.

“You look perfect like that,” he muttered, fingers brushing your cheek. “On your knees for me. So eager.”

You bobbed your head slowly, letting your tongue trace the sensitive underside, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t take. You glanced up at him, watching him fall apart—his head tilted back, throat exposed, the soft grays at his temple catching the light, his baritone unraveling into broken praise.

“Christ—if you keep that up, I won’t last,” he warned, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch you again. “And I’m not done with you, sweetheart. Not even close.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, smiling wickedly. “Then fuck me, Alan,” you whispered. “Hard.”

He growled—growled—and pulled you to your feet, mouth crashing into yours with filthy promise. He helped you take off your dress with deliberate care, not rushing, not fumbling—just steady, sure hands sliding the zipper down your spine. The fabric peeled away with a soft rustle, slipping from your shoulders like silk water, pooling at your feet in a whisper.

And then he saw it. The red lingerie.

His breath caught. “Oh,” Alan said softly, blinking. “Well. That’s… spectacular.”

You flushed immediately, your arms twitching like you might cover yourself, suddenly shy. You’d sucked his cock—wet, open, moaning around him like a woman possessed—and yet now, standing in his bedroom in matching red lace, you felt awkward and exposed.

Alan’s brow furrowed slightly at your expression. “Are you—embarrassed?”

You looked down, cheeks burning. “A little.”

He smiled—slow and bewildered, like he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “Darling,” he murmured, stepping closer, his hazel eyes sweeping over you, warm and intense, “you dropped to your knees and made me see stars… and now you’re blushing over a compliment?”

You huffed a laugh, covering your face with your hands. “I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” Alan said gently. “I like it. It’s… lovely. Unexpected.”

He kissed you then—slow, reverent—his hands grazing your waist, thumbs brushing the lace at your hips.

“Red,” he murmured against your lips, voice curling into that low baritone. “Definitely my new favorite color.”

You shivered.

He nudged you back slowly, guiding you to the bed, his hands warm on your waist as you sank down into the sheets. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, soft and cool against your skin, and you watched as Alan straightened, his long fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with quiet purpose after he helped you remove your heels.

You didn’t look away. You wanted to see all of him. He shed the shirt, then the undershirt, and you took in the plane of his chest—soft but broad, lined with age and strength, not perfect, not sculpted, but real. His belly was rounder than it once was, his chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair, and the sight of him—so human, so his—made something in you ache.

You reached out instinctively as he climbed onto the bed beside you, your hands sliding up his arms, your fingers curling into his shoulders as if anchoring yourself there. His skin was warm. Solid. Alive.

Alan settled above you, his weight gentle, his gaze unreadable for a moment. Then you whispered it, quiet and unthinking:

“Do you… bring a lot of women here?”

There was a pause.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He just answered honestly.

“A few,” he said. “Not as many as you probably think.”

You nodded, swallowing. “Okay.”

His brow furrowed faintly. “Is that all right?”

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled him closer, arms wrapping around his neck, lips brushing his cheek.

Alan exhaled, his head bowing slightly.

Then he kissed your collarbone.

Soft. Thoughtful. His mouth trailing down, brushing the delicate skin, your sternum, the curve just above your bra.

His voice was barely a breath. “God, you smell good.”

You arched slightly, needing more, and Alan’s hands slid beneath your back, fumbling just a little.

He grunted. “Christ—these clasps are a bloody puzzle box.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Do you need help?”

“No,” he said stubbornly, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m a trained actor. I’ve unfastened corsets on stage. I will conquer this bra.”

It popped open a second later, and you both grinned as he peeled the red lace away, revealing your breasts.

Alan paused. His eyes darkened.

And when he spoke again, his voice was rough velvet.

“Beautiful,” he said.

You got shy again. It crept up on you like a cold draft—uninvited, unannounced. One moment you were arching under Alan’s mouth, dizzy from the slow heat of his kisses, the next you were staring down at your bare chest, exposed in the soft light of his bedroom, your arms twitching toward yourself in reflex.

“Well,” you mumbled, eyes darting away. “It’s not as pretty as a model’s, for example—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Alan Rickman, with all the grace and timing of a seasoned stage actor, interrupted you by taking one nipple into his mouth.

Your gasp caught in your throat. A sharp, unfiltered sound—half-moan, half-shock—as your back arched into the sudden heat of him. His lips were soft, reverent, but his tongue—Christ—his tongue circled your nipple with a purpose that stole your breath. Not hesitant. Not hesitant at all.

His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the nipple there, slow and rhythmic, as if reminding you to feel. To stay.

You whimpered—helplessly, without thinking—and Alan hummed against your skin, the low baritone of it vibrating straight through your chest.

When he finally released your nipple with a wet sound, he looked up at you, hair mussed, mouth glistening, hazel eyes burning with something tender and fierce all at once.

“Don’t,” he said softly. Firmly. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked down at him, still dazed. He kissed your sternum, then your breastbone, then the soft slope of your other breast—each press of his lips deliberate, grounding.

“You are not a photograph,” Alan murmured, voice low, lips brushing your skin with every syllable. “Not a painting. Not a standard to compare against.”

He kissed the valley between your breasts. “You are breath.” He kissed the other nipple, his tongue flicking once, making you shudder. “Warmth.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours. “You are real. And I find you…” His voice dipped, laced with sincerity that made your throat close. “…utterly devastating.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your lips parted, but the only thing that escaped was another soft moan as his mouth found your breast again, this time sucking gently, his hand still teasing the other nipple with slow, aching strokes.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping lightly as you tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

His kisses descended slowly.

Each one deliberate, warm, unhurried—like punctuation marks tracing a sentence he hadn’t finished writing. His mouth lingered between your breasts, down your ribs, over the soft curve of your belly. Your breathing was shallow now, fingers tangled in the sheets, your hips lifting ever so slightly in anticipation with each inch he traveled lower.

Alan noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Easy,” he murmured, the words pressed into your skin just above your navel. His baritone curled around the syllables like a silk ribbon. “You’ll get what you want.”

His hands skimmed along your thighs, thumbs dragging slow lines inward, coaxing your legs farther apart. And then—

He kissed your pussy over the panties.

You gasped, hips jerking slightly off the bed, but he held you down with those long, steady hands, palms flat against your hipbones like anchors.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Let me do this.”

You whimpered as he kissed you again—mouth pressing firmly over the lace, his breath hot, tongue flicking in slow, maddening motions against the damp fabric. He groaned softly when he felt how soaked you already were, his nose brushing the soft elastic, his voice muffled but amused.

“Fucking beautiful lingerie,” he murmured, lips dragging across the lace. “Red lace. Perfect bloody color. Where did you buy it, hmm? La Perla? Agent Provocateur?”

You stiffened. There was a beat of silence.

Alan glanced up, a brow arching just slightly. “Go on. Indulge me.”

“…Walmart.”

He froze.

Actually froze.

His mouth paused mid-kiss, his body gone utterly still, as if someone had hit the mute button on reality. His hazel eyes blinked once, then again, brows lifting slowly in what you could only describe as theatrical disbelief.

And then—

He laughed.

A real laugh. Loud, rich, startled. The kind of unrestrained, belly-deep laugh that tore through the air like warm thunder. His whole body shook with it, head bowing slightly, forehead resting against your thigh as the sound tumbled out of him like a damn breaking.

You stared, horrified. “Oh my God—Alan—stop—it was on sale—!”

That only made him laugh harder. His hands were still holding your hips, but now he was gasping for breath, his baritone cracking slightly as he wheezed, “Christ—I was—about to praise the stitching—like it was bloody bespoke—”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m taking it off. Right now.”

Alan’s laughter gentled then, tapering into chuckles as he raised his head, still breathless, still smiling, his hazel eyes gleaming. “Don’t you dare,” he said, voice low and fond. “That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You peeked at him from behind your fingers, mortified. “Walmart?”

“Precisely,” he said, still grinning as he leaned over you, brushing a kiss to your inner thigh. “Darling, any woman who can make Walmart lingerie look like Parisian seduction incarnate deserves to be absolutely worshipped.”

You giggled helplessly, shoulders shaking, your embarrassment melting into affection and arousal all over again. “I was trying to be sexy,” you whispered, breath hitching as his hands slid down your thighs again.

“And you are,” Alan murmured, nuzzling against your center once more. “Incredibly. Devastatingly. Sexy.”

He pressed another kiss to your clit through the lace, humming softly as he tasted you again.

“And now,” he added, voice low and dark, “I’m going to make you come in this cheap red lace, and you’re going to remember it every single time you pass a clearance rack.”

Your mouth fell open.

And then his tongue slipped beneath the edge of the panties—

—and you stopped remembering anything at all.

He ate you like a starving man. No restraint. No patience left. Just raw, reverent hunger—buried between your thighs, his mouth working your sex like it was salvation, his breath hot against your slick skin as he groaned low in his throat, as if your taste alone could wreck him.

And it did. God help him—it did.

Alan had gone down on women before. Of course he had. He was British, not barbaric. But never like this. Never with this desperate, shaking need that made his fingers dig into your thighs, made him groan with every flick of his tongue, made him want to stay down here forever.

Walmart.

The word echoed in the back of his head and he nearly laughed again, mouth wet against your cunt, tongue dragging firm and steady against your clit. Walmart. He still couldn’t believe it. The lingerie that had haunted his thoughts all dinner, clinging to your hips like a lover, had cost less than his lunch.

And yet you looked divine in it.

Better than divine. A fucking revelation.

A wonderful, wicked woman—real and soft and sharp-tongued—wearing red lace and moaning under his tongue like it was the only prayer you knew.

He groaned again, arms locked around your thighs, mouth pressed to you like a man drowning. Your hips bucked, desperate, your fingers tugging at his hair, your breath hitching in tiny, wrecked whimpers.

He wasn’t gentle. Not now.

He licked you with purpose—broad, firm strokes from slit to clit, then slow circles around the swollen bud, teasing and pressing until you were gasping his name like it hurt to say anything else. When your thighs trembled and your cunt pulsed around nothing, aching, needing, he sucked your clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue, fast and focused, until your cry caught in your throat.

He could feel you coming undone. Could hear it. Smell it. You were so close, your hands clawing at the sheets, your body arched off the bed, every breath a plea.

And then—

He stopped.

Pulled back.

You whimpered—high, frantic, a sound of sheer betrayal—and Alan’s mouth hovered just above your cunt, lips wet, chin slick, his hazel eyes dark with something you didn’t understand yet.

But you would.

He looked up at you, brow lifted, voice wrecked and rasping but still smooth. “How many times,” he murmured, low and dangerous, “did your ex-husband make you come in a night?”

You blinked, dazed, the edge of your orgasm still buzzing in your spine. “Wh—what?”

Alan tilted his head slightly, breathing hard, his mouth so close to your cunt you could feel the ghost of his words on your skin. “Robert. How many times did he do this to you?”

Your eyes fluttered. “I… I don’t know. Three? Maybe two?”

He watched your face closely, waiting.

You swallowed hard, your hips twitching in frustration. “It’s been a while,” you admitted. “A long while. I don’t—he didn’t always—” You bit your lip. “Sometimes I faked it.”

Alan blinked once.

Then he exhaled slowly, a soft, deep sound of pure disbelief and growing fury. You whimpered again, your hands flying to your own thighs, trying to chase that pleasure back, to find it again before it faded completely—but his hands stopped you. Firm. Gentle. Final.

“No, darling,” he said, his baritone curling around the syllables like smoke. “That’s mine to give you.”

And then he buried his mouth in your cunt again.

Like he meant it. Like it was his job.

Like he had something to prove.

You screamed—helpless, broken, as his tongue found your clit again, faster this time, relentless and skilled, each flick calculated, devastating. His lips wrapped around the swollen bud and sucked hard enough to make your hips lift off the bed, your entire body tensing as that orgasm ripped through you like a snapped wire.

“Fuck—Alan—”

But he didn’t stop.

Not when you came. Not after.

He kept licking, kept sucking, kept teasing your clit until your legs shook uncontrollably and your fingers clawed at his hair, babbling, begging, gasping.

“I can’t—oh my God—I can’t—”

“Yes,” he growled, the vibration of it sending another shockwave through you. “You can. You will.”

Your second orgasm tore through you like fire. Wet. Violent. Shaking. And Alan only groaned, sucking you through it, one hand moving to press gently on your lower belly as he licked you like he was trying to commit you to memory.

Wonderful woman, he thought wildly, half-delirious with the taste of you. Where the hell have you been all this time?

Married. Of course.

His tongue dragged through your slick folds, slow now, reverent, as your body twitched with aftershocks.

But he wasn’t done.

Not nearly.

Alan kissed the inside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, then slid two fingers into you—slow, careful—and pressed upward until he found that spot. That aching, hidden place. You gasped, fresh and wrecked and already unraveling.

He kissed your stomach.

Then your sternum.

Then your lips.

You tasted yourself on his mouth, hot and slick, and he whispered against you, “That’s two.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

Alan smiled—a soft, wicked thing—and began again.

You’d forget Robert by sunrise.

But you’d never forget Alan Rickman’s mouth.

He made you come a third time with just his thick fingers and his voice in your ear. No tongue. No thrusts. Just that steady, curling pressure inside you—two fingers stroking exactly where you needed them, coaxing another orgasm out of your trembling body while his voice spun low and dangerous spells against your throat.

“Good girl,” Alan murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re doing so well for me. That’s it. Give it to me, darling. Let me feel you come.”

You shattered like silk torn at the seams.

Your whole body clenched around him, your thighs trembling, hips lifting, mouth open in a silent cry as the third climax crashed through you. Alan groaned against your shoulder as your cunt pulsed around his fingers, wet and desperate, your slick dripping down his knuckles.

He slowed only when your breath stuttered and your legs began to twitch.

Then, carefully, reverently, he eased his fingers from you, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder as you collapsed back against the bed, boneless and ruined and gloriously limp.

You barely registered the words he whispered next.

“Catch your breath, sweetheart. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

He slid from the bed like a gentleman fleeing temptation, long limbs moving with catlike grace. His cock was still painfully hard—thick and flushed, bobbing between his thighs—and you were distantly proud that you’d wrecked him too, even if only a little.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he disappeared into the en suite bathroom, muttering something about a condom and bloody drawer organization. But not before he paused at the doorway and, with a casual flick of the wrist, turned on the ceiling fan for you.

Air stirred overhead—cool, clean, grounding.

You exhaled slowly, letting your body melt into the bed, your limbs splayed like a woman freshly exorcised.

Three orgasms.

Three.

You laughed softly to yourself, still winded. “Jesus Christ.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fan and the distant sound of Alan rummaging through drawers.

You let your gaze wander around the room.

You hadn’t really looked earlier—too distracted, too flustered, too busy being undressed (physically and emotionally). But now, in the afterglow, your curiosity stirred. Slowly, your eyes adjusted to the golden lamplight, drinking in the space.

It was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it all at once. Elegant. Understated. Warm woods and dark tones, with subtle splashes of color—burnt orange, navy, moss green. A bookshelf took up one entire wall, every shelf full, some books stacked horizontally in chaotic rebellion. Plays, scripts, worn hardbacks with crinkled spines. Shakespeare, of course. But also poetry. Physics. A biography of Galileo. A thin, crooked copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar nestled between Nietzsche and The Tempest.

You stared.

“Oh my god,” you whispered aloud.

Professor Snape’s bedroom.

You were lying in Professor Snape’s actual bed. Or—technically—Alan Rickman’s bed. But that distinction was hard to hold when you were naked in soft sheets, covered in your own slick, surrounded by warm lighting and very expensive furniture.

Your gaze slid to the coat rack in the corner, where an old, heavy wool overcoat hung like a ghost. Black. Familiar. Possibly the same one from Love Actually?

You didn’t know whether to swoon or scream.

Hans Gruber’s room, your brain reminded you unhelpfully.

Oh Christ.

You rolled your head the other way, trying not to cackle. Rasputin’s room. Colonel Brandon’s room. Absolem’s room, your mind added, helpfully and cruelly.

You covered your face with both hands and groaned.

You were naked in Absolem’s bed. A talking caterpillar’s bed. A smoking caterpillar’s bed. You burst out laughing, a low, delighted noise muffled by your palms.

Alan’s voice drifted from the bathroom. “What on earth is so funny?”

You wheezed. “I’m having a mild existential crisis.”

There was a pause. Then, in that slow baritone laced with dry amusement: “I do hope it’s not the decor.”

You peeked toward the bathroom door. “Do you keep a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar next to Nietzsche on purpose?”

A soft chuckle. “Of course. Balance is everything.”

You let out another laugh, breathless and warm, still basking in the scent of his cologne on the sheets. He emerged a moment later—barefoot, bare-chested, condom in hand, silver hair mussed and damp from where he'd splashed water on his face.

And when his hazel eyes landed on you, legs still spread, body flushed and pliant in the soft lamplight, his smirk faded into something quieter.

Something reverent.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt on the bed beside you, one hand brushing your thigh, the other cupping your face as he leaned down to kiss you.

Not hungry. Not greedy.

Just… there.

Present. Gentle. Bare.

“Ready?” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours.

You nodded.

But your voice was steadier than you expected. “Yes,” you whispered. “But only if you promise to read me Nietzsche after.”

Alan grinned against your mouth, low and wicked. “You’ll be lucky if I let you walk tomorrow.”

He rolled the condom down his length with careful fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. The sound of the foil tearing still echoed in your ears, faint and final, a little sad. You wanted him bare. Wanted him deep. Wanted that primal, overwhelming closeness—but not tonight. Not yet.

Alan shifted his weight and settled between your thighs, the mattress dipping beneath his knees. He was careful with your hips, his large hands firm but reverent as he slid them under your thighs and pushed your legs up—up, until your knees were bent toward your chest and your ankles rested on his shoulders. The position opened you completely, baring you to him, stretching you wide and vulnerable under his hungry gaze.

You blinked, breath catching. “Oh.”

Alan raised a brow, voice low and amused. “Not what you expected?”

“I thought you were going to be… traditional,” you murmured, flushed.

He smirked—slow and devastating. “I am. This is the oldest position in the book.”

And then he thrust.

Slow. Measured. Thick.

Your mouth fell open, a breathless gasp escaping as the head of his cock breached your entrance, the condom slick but distant, the drag of it foreign and maddening. Your cunt stretched around him, the walls fluttering with the ache of taking him—God, he was thick—and you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as the pressure bloomed deep.

“Jesus,” you choked, back arching off the mattress.

Alan stilled—halfway in—his hands curling around the backs of your thighs, holding you in place.

“Too much?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, rough with restraint.

You shook your head wildly. “No—God, no. Just—keep going.”

He nodded, a single slow movement, and sank deeper. He filled you inch by inch, pushing past the tight heat of your entrance, stretching you until your legs trembled on his shoulders. The condom dulled the sensation for him—he couldn’t feel the slick suction of your cunt the way he wanted to—but still, he groaned low in his throat as your body accepted him, slow and snug, wrapping around his cock like a vice.

“You feel… incredible,” he rasped, head bowing toward your shoulder, sweat already beading at his temple. “Fucking perfect.”

You whimpered again, the burn fading into something sweeter, deeper. Your fingers gripped the sheets, your mouth falling open as he bottomed out—fully sheathed inside you, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against a place you hadn’t known was there.

Alan stilled, watching you carefully, his hazel eyes dark. “There?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

He grinned—wicked, pleased—and drew his hips back, slow and deliberate, until just the tip of him remained, teasing your entrance.

And then he thrust forward—sharp, precise.

You screamed.

Stars. Real ones. Your vision dotted with white as he struck that sweet, perfect spot again, his hips grinding forward just enough to keep the pressure there, to push you toward the edge with ruthless skill.

“Fuck,” Alan hissed, his jaw tight, his voice a broken rasp. “You take me so fucking well.”

He rocked into you again—harder this time—and the bed creaked beneath you, the slap of skin against skin joined by your choked cries, the heat of your slick wrapping around the condom and dragging every groan from his throat.

Your legs slipped from his shoulders, trembling, and he let them, bracing one thigh with a hand while the other arm slid under your back, lifting your hips just enough to change the angle—and oh god—

“Alan—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Not planning to,” he growled.

He kept hitting that spot, again and again, his hips snapping into yours with filthy precision, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. You sobbed his name, fingernails scraping down his back, your thighs quivering with every impact. You could feel your orgasm building again—your fourth—rising fast, wild, unstoppable.

“I’m gonna—Alan, I’m—”

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice low and firm, a director calling action on your climax. “Let go. Now.”

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, your cunt pulsing wildly around his cock, your vision white, your cry sharp and unrestrained. Your whole body convulsed, your arms flying around his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

Alan groaned—deep, pained—his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him. “Fuck—you’re—Christ—”

He thrust once more, hard and deep, and came with a grunt, his body shuddering as he filled the condom. His hips stilled, his breath ragged against your neck, one arm still locked around your back as if he couldn’t let go.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just breath. Heartbeats. The trembling afterglow of something holy. Then he slowly withdrew, groaning low at the sensitivity, and collapsed beside you, chest heaving.

You stared at the ceiling, still shaking, limbs splayed like a crime scene.

Alan turned his head slowly, blinking. “Four?”

You nodded faintly, eyes wide. “Four.”

He smirked. “Well,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “I suppose I am a traditionalist after all. One for each season.”

You turned to look at him, dazed and gleaming with sweat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he said, brushing your hair back, “are magnificent.”

You rolled into his chest, breath still catching.

He held you close.

And for the first time in what felt like years—you slept without dreaming of someone else.

[liv2post]

Hiii so just wanna start off of how i am so in love w ur fics, and uhm a request here lol, so if we got jealous reader- can we get more jealous severus? Like, to the point hes thinking of going harder (👀) that night just so in the morning, when resder is absent or limping, full of hickeys, wrong tie/something with serverus would wear daily (can be placed in their students era w reader same year as him or as professors), anyway- yapping again, hope you feel better! *not forcing on this ask lol*

I have to say I nearly had a mental break down writing and adding the finishing touches.

But well Here it is.

Jealous Severus and a huge dash of Possessive claiming. (It's filthy and I feel ashamed...👀)

Hope you like it and it actually makes sense!❤️

18+ Content ahead.

(contains: Bondage, overstimulation, overuse of 'mine', multiple orgasms, hard unprotected sex and excessive marking.)

Marked

You came to Hogwarts quietly, without fanfare. Madam Pomfrey had requested a qualified healer to assist her with the increasing number of magical injuries and long-term spell damage cases. You accepted eagerly. Working in the Hospital Wing seemed like a dream job—peaceful, stable, tucked inside ancient stone walls full of magic and history.

You met Severus Snape your second day on the job. He was... terse. Condescending. And painfully observant. At first, he only visited when students turned up in his class with cauldron burns or potion poisoning, muttering curses under his breath about dunderheads and incompetence. He never stayed long, and he barely acknowledged you.

But over time, something shifted.

He started lingering. Offering dry commentary while you worked. Leaving tea on your desk and pretending he hadn’t. Watching you from the doorway longer than necessary.

He grew irritated whenever other professors spent too much time speaking with you. Whenever a visiting Auror complimented your potions work. Whenever a student dared to flirt. You saw it in the way his jaw would clench, how his voice would drop into a lethal calm, how he'd slide between you and the offender with just enough presence to make them shrink back.

Still, the two of you tiptoed around each other.

He never said anything. Neither did you.

You built something tentative—quiet cups of tea after long shifts, shared books, shoulder brushes that lingered. The feelings between you became impossible to ignore, but neither of you dared speak them aloud. It was too uncertain. Too fragile.

Then one night, you laughed at a joke in the staff lounge. A visiting Curse Breaker had said something charming, and you laughed without thinking.

You didn’t notice Severus approaching until his hand closed around your wrist and he pulled you into the nearest corridor.

You barely had time to ask what was wrong before he kissed you.

Now, years later, you live together in a tucked-away corner of the dungeons. Mornings begin with the scent of tea, the rustle of parchment, and Severus muttering darkly about dunderheads. You patch up his hands when he slices them during potion prep.

You bicker.

You laugh.

Your evenings end with his head on your shoulder as he reads in bed, your legs tangled beneath a thick wool blanket. There is comfort in the rhythm. In the quiet domesticity you’ve built.

And through it all, Severus remains the same man: brilliant, brooding—and unmistakably, undeniably possessive.

Then Gilderoy Lockhart arrived.

He bursts into the Great Hall like he owns it, dressed in layered cerulean robes and a smile so white it looks enchanted. The man sparkles. Literally. His cuffs are dusted in shimmer, and his teeth catch the light like glass.

Your first interaction comes during breakfast. You’re seated beside Poppy when he saunters over, balancing a plate of fruit and cheese.

"Ah, you must be the radiant healer everyone’s been talking about," he says, voice syrupy smooth. He takes your hand in both of his. "And just as enchanting as I imagined."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

"I’m Gilderoy Lockhart. Order of Merlin, Third Class, honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile."

You gently tug your hand free. „And I’m trying to eat my toast."

Undeterred, he laughs. "Witty, too! Marvelous."

From across the room, you feel Severus’s stare—sharp, unwavering, and heavy enough to press heat into your skin. You glance his way just in time to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. And as Lockhart continues his syrupy routine beside you, you and Severus share a glance so loaded with mutual what the actual fuck that it nearly makes you laugh.

But you don’t. Because Severus isn’t amused.

His jaw tightens, and you can see it: the silent calculus of which hex would leave a lasting enough impression on Lockhart without landing himself in front of the Headmaster.

You raise a brow, as if to say Don't do anything dramatic.

He raises one right back, eyes narrowing as if to say:

I promise nothing.

—

Over the next week, Lockhart makes a sport of haunting the Hospital Wing. 

The first time, Lockhart stumbles into the Hospital Wing dramatically clutching his wrist.

“Broom mishap,” he explains with a wounded wince. “Such a shame, really. Happened right as I was landing—a rather daring flip to impress a couple of second-years.”

You roll your eyes and gesture for him to sit. “You’ll live.”

As you wrap his wrist with precise, efficient movements, he leans in, placing a hand on your thigh and murmurs, “You have the hands of an artist, did you know that?”

“If you touch my thigh again, you’ll be dealing with broken fingers.” You reply dryly while tightening the bandage.

He winces dramatically removing his hand. “Ah—delicate and commanding. You’re an enchantress.”

You step away and snap your gloves off. “You're bandaged. Don't sprain the other one fishing for compliments.”

He chuckles. “You’re delightfully fierce. It’s very flattering.”

—

The second time, he arrives cradling his side and groaning.

“Cursed quill,” he announces. “Exploded mid-sentence while I was autographing a fan letter. Nasty thing. You wouldn’t believe the magical backlash.”

“Sounds harrowing,” you mutter, inspecting the small burn that easily could have healed on its own.

You turn before getting the burn salve.

“I think your touch alone could heal me.” He winks.

You grit your teeth trying not to smack the grin off his face. “I am trying to do my work here.”

“No one’s ever looked at me like that while applying burn salve,” he says, tone heavy with faux intimacy.

“Get. out.”

—

The third time, you hear him before you see him.

“Slipped on a stair,” Lockhart exclaims, limping dramatically into the Hospital Wing. “Right foot caught the edge, spun me around—nearly cracked my spine!”

You glance up from your logbook. “You walked in here just fine.”

“I have a high tolerance for pain,” he says with a wink. “Wouldn’t want to cause a fuss, especially not when it means I get to see you.”

You sigh and rise. “Let me check your back.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and, with unnecessary flair, peels his outer robes off his shoulders. “Right here,” he says, tapping between his shoulder blades. “Might need a healing salve... or a massage.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you pull out your wand, cast a diagnostic charm, and mutter, “Nothing’s bruised. Not even strained.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Your presence alone must be curing me.”

You deadpan, “I’m giving you five seconds to get off this bed before I summon Peeves and tell him you’re hiding lemon drops in your pockets.”

—

The fourth time, he walked in the Hospital wing.

You were with Severus. He had come to restock the Potions cabinet that was tucked in the corner of the Hospital Wing. You had just finished when he pulled you close and kissed you.

Slow. Lovingly.

That's when the door slammed open. 

Gilderoy’s voice boomed, carrying cheerfully through the space. "I’ve been meaning to stop by all morning, I’ve had the strangest cramp in my shoulder after breakfast—could be a sign of magical strain, perhaps even a touch of curse residue. Thought I’d get it looked at by Hogwarts’ finest."

You and Severus froze mid-kiss, mouths still close, breath mingling. Together, you turn your heads and fix him with identical, unimpressed stares.

Gilderoy was stepping into the ward, grinning like a fool, a stack of autographed portraits tucked under one arm and his wand waving vaguely in the other.

You and Severus exchanged a slow, deadly glance.

Yours said: Is this man serious?

His said: I will kill him.

Severus’s hand flexed where it rested on your hip.

You exhaled sharply. “Unless that shoulder pain is fatal, turn around and leave.” 

He stepped into the corner and hesitated when he saw Severus. "Oh, apologies, was I interrupting a... discussion?"

"A discussion," Severus said flatly, not moving, one hand still on your waist, the other clenched behind your back. His voice was taut silk—the kind you could strangle someone with. "Is that what it looks like?"

Lockhart blinked, glancing between you both. Finally, recognition flickered in his eyes. 

For a moment, he looked at Severus. Then at you. Then back again. His grin faltered slightly. 

“Of course. Right. Message received.”

He gave a theatrical bow and backed toward the door, nearly bumping into a supply trolley as he turned. 

The door clicked shut behind him a moment later.

He didn’t get the message.

One afternoon in the staff lounge a few days later, Lockhart corners you with tea and pastries.

"You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—have you ever considered modeling for a book cover? The way you carry yourself—it’s spellbinding. We could use a healer heroine. You’d be perfect."

"Absolutely not," you say.

"You mean now, of course," he smiles. "You just haven’t seen the right concept yet."

You’re saved only when Severus enters, eyes flicking between you and Lockhart with lethal calm before making his way over to you with slow, calculated steps.

"Ah, Professor Snape!" Gilderoy beams. "I was just telling your charming Woman about how she would be perfect modeling for a book. I do believe she’s intrigued."

Severus stares. "I am certain she isn't."

You try not to laugh leaning against Severus. He looks down at you his gaze softening slightly before pressing a kiss to your head.

Gilderoy watches the interaction an almost sly grin appearing on his face.

„Severus I was meant to ask," Lockhart says. "You and I. We could perhaps do a duel demonstration for the students? of course if you dare to take it up against me.“

You sent Severus a warning look but he ignores it and gives Gilderoy a pointed glare.

"When and Where."

The dueling demonstration is announced two days later. The Great Hall is transformed: long tables replaced with open space, a raised platform, students gathered at every corner.

Lockhart appears on the dueling platform in absurdly shiny periwinkle robes embroidered with gold runes and rhinestones. His cape flares dramatically as he turns, soaking in the applause like a rock star on tour. He bows once—twice—thrice, flashing a grin so bright it has to be charmed.

Across from him, Severus stands stone still. Cloaked in his usual severe black.

You stand just off to the side of the dueling platform, flanked by Minerva, Pomona, Poppy, and Filius. The student body buzzes with excitement around you, but the staff area is noticeably more tense.

Minerva’s arms are crossed, her eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like I’m about to witness a homicide?” she mutters under her breath.

“Because you might,” Poppy says flatly, glancing toward Severus, who stands utterly still—arms crossed, wand already in hand, gaze locked on Lockhart like a predator waiting for the excuse to pounce.

“He looks... extra broody today,” Pomona offers carefully, sipping her tea with both hands. “More than usual.”

“He didn’t speak once in the lounge this morning,” Filius adds quietly, peering over his spectacles. “Just glared at Lockhart like he was calculating how to vanish a body without leaving magical residue.”

Minerva snorts. “He probably was.”

You cross your arms, staring toward Severus—shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“I’m worried he won’t hold back,” you say.

Minerva hums. “I’m worried he’ll hold back too little.”

Filius sighs. “At least we’ve got four trained magical adults here in case something explodes.”

“Or in case we need to restrain Severus,” Pomona adds brightly.

You all go silent as Lockhart calls out, voice booming across the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen! Today, you will witness an elegant display of defensive magic. A Duel in style, precision, and power! Of course, I’ve agreed to duel our own Professor Snape—though he insists on no applause until after he gets up.”

You exhale slowly. “Merlin help him.”

Minerva mutters, “He’s going to need more than Merlin.”

Severus doesn’t react to Lockhart's taunt.

He simply raises his wand—slow, controlled, deliberate. His dark gaze locks onto Lockhart with the kind of intensity that makes the hair on your neck rise.

Lockhart grins wider, clearly mistaking Severus’s restraint for hesitation. “Now, students, observe closely. This is what a seasoned professional looks like in a duel. Grace under pressure. Style with strength—”

A sharp flick of Severus’s wrist sends a shimmering blue arc of magic whipping across the space. It hits Lockhart square in the chest.

He stumbles back, robes flaring, nearly tripping over his own feet. The charm doesn’t harm—it’s designed not to—but it’s enough to rattle him. He straightens, laugh loud and forced.

“Ah! A bold opening move from Professor Snape! Very clever. I let him have that one, of course. All part of the show!”

Severus's eyes narrow. His wand twitches again.

This time the jinx is faster. Tighter. It whistles through the air, forcing Lockhart into a desperate duck and roll. He hits the platform hard with a theatrical “oof”.

Still, he tries to play it off, scrambling upright with a lopsided grin. “Ah, testing my agility! That’s right. Stay limber, students!”

Severus says nothing. His movements are surgical. Controlled. He steps forward once, casts a nonverbal binding charm that winds toward Lockhart like a silver ribbon.

Lockhart jerks back, barely blocking it with a flamboyant pirouette and a muttered counterspell that shouldn’t have worked.

Your brow furrows.

That spell should’ve locked him down.

You glance at Severus.

He’s already clocked it.

A heartbeat later, Lockhart pulls something small and glittering from the cuff of his robe—quick, subtle, but not subtle enough. A charm crystal, preloaded with a burst spell.

He mutters an incantation under his breath and slams it to the ground at Severus’s feet.

The explosion of light blinds the front row of students.

Gasps erupt. Several stumble back.

Severus staggers back shielding his eyes. When the glow fades, he’s still standing, unharmed—but his expression has shifted.

Cold. Flat. Lethal.

“Cheating,” Minerva mutters under her breath from beside you. “Dear Merlin, he actually tried to cheat.”

The next spell from Severus is not theatrical. It’s not for show.

It’s fast. It’s sharp. It knocks Lockhart backward with enough force to drop him to one knee.

Lockhart wheezes, trying to mask his panic with another grin. “Aha! Professor Snape keeping me on my toes! Just—testing reflexes! No need to worry!”

But his eyes flick toward you.

And winks at you before blowing a kiss.

An actual kiss.

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, taking deep breaths and shaking your head in disbelief.

“Oh dear,” Minerva mutters softly beside you.

“That was stupid even for him,” Pomona says into her hand.

Filius doesn’t speak. He just shakes his head once with a sigh like he’s mentally preparing for a funeral.

Poppy, seated just behind you, whispers, “Is he suicidal?”

Severus hasn’t cast again. Not yet. But the shift in his posture is clear: his stance tighter, one foot forward, jaw locked. His grip on his wand has gone white-knuckled.

You know what it means.

That’s the moment right before he stops pretending to care about consequences.

You barely have time to process before Severus casts again.

This one slices the hem of Lockhart’s cloak and splits the air with a snap loud enough to make the students flinch.

You step forward just as he is about to cast again.

His eyes snap to yours. The fury in his gaze wavers—not gone, but caged. For now.

You don’t break eye contact with him as you give him a shake of your head and you keep holding it until you see his shoulders drop by half an inch.

His next spell is slower. Measured. A soft, almost lazy disarming charm.

Lockhart’s wand flies from his hand and clatters across the platform.

He stares at it, red-faced and panting. There’s a long, stretching silence.

Then Gilderoy forces a chuckle and turns to the crowd of wide-eyed students.

“And that, children, is why you must always stay alert in a duel! Quick reflexes, good posture—never underestimate your opponent!” He laughs as if he hadn’t tried to cheat mid duel and lost anyway.

You glance at Severus. He lowers his wand, but his shoulders are still tense. His eyes—when they flick toward you—are burning.

There’s a beat of silence before cheering erupts from the students.

You exhale, watching how Severus descends from the dueling platform in measured strides, cloak billowing behind him, expression cold enough to freeze stone. His eyes are fixed on you—not in anger, but in singular, furious purpose.

You don't hesitate and move instinctively toward him.

Lockhart hops down from the platform, dusting off his robes as if he'd done more than stumble through the duel. He cuts across the floor with a speed that doesn’t match his usual saunter, clearly determined to reach you first.

„That was quite the Duel wasn’t it?“ he says breathlessly, inserting himself between you and Severus like he’s the hero of this story.

He flashes that ridiculous smile, eyes still glimmering with self-congratulation. “You looked a little anxious back there. But I assure you, I had a dozen counters lined up—just didn’t want to overshadow Severus too badly.”

You arch a brow. „You barley stayed on your feet at all.“

“I had everything under control, of course. Just a few... strategic slips.” He steps closer to you.

You stare at him, expression flat. “You cheated.”

He laughs, waving it off. “Misdirection! Classic dueling technique. Very advanced. Don’t worry, I’m absolutely fine. No need to fuss over me—though I wouldn’t say no to a quick evaluation later, if your hands aren’t too full.”

Then—like he hasn’t just lost a duel, cheated, and nearly earned himself a coffin—he reaches for your hand.

Minerva, standing nearby with her arms crossed, mutters, "Don’t do it, Gilderoy."

But he does it anyway.

Before you can pull away, he is bowing theatrically to kiss your knuckles.

Severus moves instantly. He’s beside you in two steps, hand shooting out to grab Lockhart’s wrist. Hard.

The entire Hall goes quiet.

Severus leans in, voice low and lethal. “Touch her again and you won’t have a hand left to sign your fan mail.”

Lockhart swallows.

You can feel the tension pulsing off Severus’s body like magic ready to snap free.

You gently lay your hand on Severus’s arm—not to stop him, just to remind him you’re still here. You don’t pull him back. You just anchor him with touch, not command.

He releases Lockhart’s wrist and storms out of the Hall, cloak snapping like a thunderclap behind him.

The silence he leaves in his wake is heavier than any spell.

Minerva exhales quietly, glancing toward you. “Well,” she says dryly, “that’ll be a storm in the dungeons.”

The other Professors just nod in agreement as you make your way to follow Severus.

—

The last straw came on a late afternoon in the staff lounge. Sunlight slants through the tall windows, casting warm gold across the old rugs and worn armchairs. 

Minerva is knitting with sharp precision in one of the armchairs, Filius reading the Daily Prophet at the table, while Pomona sipping tea with a warm biscuit in hand. You’re flipping through a medical journal in relative peace when the door bursts open.

Lockhart enters with his usual flourish, arms full of what appear to be newly printed photographs of himself mid-duel.

"Ah! There you are," he says, striding toward you, ignoring the eyes that flick his way with mild disdain. "I’ve wanted to come back to you about a proposal I made not long ago. You’d be perfect for one of my upcoming book covers."

"No," you reply without even looking up.

"Come now, don’t be so quick to dismiss it again," he insists, dropping into the seat beside you. "It’s a series on famous magical duels—what better face for the healing heroine than yours? Poised, intelligent, alluring. Readers will fall in love with you by the end of the introduction."

You exhale slowly and close the journal. 

"Lockhart, I am not interested in being on any of your books. Or being near you. and if you truly believe that I would then you are more delusional than your Fanclub."

He winks. "You’re funny when you’re flustered. Very photogenic, too. I’ll have to talk to my publisher—"

"Don’t," you cut in, voice like steel. „Just leave. I was trying to enjoy the quiet afternoon."

Flitwick doesn’t look up from the Daily Prophet. "And we were enjoying the quiet too, before you arrived."

Gilderoy grins, undeterred, and sits far too close, leaning in. "Just five minutes of your time. I thought perhaps we could schedule a photoshoot? We could try a few poses—maybe something by the lake? Windswept hair, dramatic expression, healer robes slightly open—"

„I said I’m not interested."

"Oh, come now. You’re far too stunning not to be on a cover. I thought perhaps we could chat about it over tea? Or dinner? I simply meant to say I admire you—and I’d love to get to know you better. Properly, I mean."

From the corner of the lounge, Minerva speaks up her tone a warning, "Gilderoy. You know she’s with Severus.“

"Yes, yes, of course. But can’t blame me for trying. If he truly cared, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?"

"He is," comes a voice low and venomous from the doorway.

The room stills.

He crosses the lounge in slow, lethal strides. Before Lockhart can retreat, Severus grabs him by the collar and yanks him away from you.

"Don't you know to keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you?" Severus snarls, each word laced with fury.

Lockhart stammers, cheeks pale. "S-Severus, it was just a bit of harmless fun—"

"You will not touch her. You will not look at her. You will not speak her name. She is mine."

No one in the lounge moves. Minerva lowers her knitting slightly, watching but not interfering. Flitwick raises an eyebrow slowly folding the newspaper. Pomona sips her tea completely unbothered.

Severus releases Lockhart with a shove and turns to you, expression still thunderous. He takes your hand and, with that same silent authority, he pulls you up from your chair and out of the lounge, fingers laced tightly with yours, cloak billowing as you disappear down the corridor together.

Severus doesn’t speak a word as he leads you into your quarters. His grip is ironclad—unyielding, uncompromising. You watch him closely knowing that whatever is going to come from him, he needs it.

The door clicks shut behind you, and something in Severus breaks.

No words. No warning.

He grabs your face and kisses you like he’s drowning—like the only way to breathe is through your mouth. His hands are bruising on your jaw, his tongue insistent, almost violent. It’s need—sharp, feral, possessive.

You moan into the kiss, dizzy from the force of it, from the way he moves like he’s starved. Your fingers knot in his robes as he backs you into the wall with relentless purpose. His hands are everywhere at once—gripping your waist, sliding up under your blouse. 

His mouth trails to your throat, the bite he sinks into your skin is sharp, punishing. You gasp—and then his tongue follows, softening the sting, marking you with care wrapped in cruelty.

“Mine,” he snarls, voice wrecked and dangerous against your neck. “He looks at you like he has a right. Like you’re something he can claim.”

Your breath stutters, but your answer is instant, sure. “I don’t want him. I want you. Only you.”

He lifts you into his arms and carries you to the bed like a man who can't bear a second of space between you. 

Clothes are ripped, not removed. His fingers tear through fabric with a purpose that borders on cruel. You’re bare in seconds, and he doesn’t give you time to shiver. He mutters a spell and with a flick of his wand, silken ropes snake from under the bed, coiling around your wrists and ankles, binding you spread wide to the four corners of the mattress.

And then he stares. Drinks you in like you’re the last thing keeping him sane.

“Fucking perfect,” he rasps, crawling onto the bed between your legs. “Tied open for me. Nothing you can hide. Nowhere to run.”

He leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“Everything I’m about to do to you—he’ll see it on you tomorrow.”

You shiver at the sight of him above you—his eyes black with hunger, the furious flush in his cheekbones, the way his chest rises like he’s trying not to tear you apart too fast.

“You’re mine,” he growls, crawling over you like a predator. “Say it.”

“I’m yours, Severus. Only yours. Body, soul—everything.” you whisper, your voice shaking with need.

His mouth crashes into your neck and he bites—hard enough to bruise. You cry out, but it turns into a moan as his tongue follows, licking and sucking, leaving hot, dark hickeys blooming across your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach.  

His mouth works you like he’s stamping every inch of you with his claim. And you’re panting for him, back arching, tugging helplessly at the restraints as heat coils hard in your belly.

His hand moves between your thighs sliding two fingers through your slick folds.

“Already dripping,” he growls, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “And I’ve barely started. All this because you know you’re mine.”

He circles your clit—slow and tight—never breaking eye contact as he watches you squirm, moan, beg. He builds you up with cruel precision, rubbing you faster, harder, until your hips are bucking, legs trembling. 

“Don’t even think about holding back,” he says. “You’ll come when I say. And you’ll keep coming until I say stop.”

You gasp, thighs trembling. “Please—”

“Now.”

It hits like fire.

Your back arches off the bed, wrists yanking against silk that doesn’t give. You scream his name as your orgasm tears through you, long and sharp and blinding.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause.

He leans down, mouth sealing around your clit, tongue flicking with devastating force while his fingers plunge into you—fucking your soaking cunt through the aftershocks, dragging them higher.

He fucks you on his fingers until you come again—louder this time, hoarse and wrecked and trembling uncontrollably.

“Like a Goddess,” he croons, voice gone dark with lust. “So greedy. So desperate. Taking everything I give you.”

He pulls back. Your body limp and completely undone. Standing above you, he strips—piece by piece. His outer robe hits the floor, followed by his frock, then his shirt—each movement slow, calculated, deliberate. He’s peeling away the layers, the armor, everything that’s ever separated you from the storm of him.

And then you see him—stripped bare, cock in hand, already thick and leaking. The hunger in his eyes is savage.

“Beg for it. Beg for me.”

“Please, Severus, I—I need it—need you—make me yours.”

He groans like he’s breaking.

“Good girl.”

He climbs back between your thighs, presses the head of his cock to your entrance—and slams into you with one brutal thrust.

You cry out and your back arches hard off the bed, wrists pulling helplessly against the silk restraints. You’re wide open and trembling beneath him, every inch of you laid bare.

He hears the sound of your bindings stretching—your desperate, futile attempts to escape the unbearable pleasure—and it only spurs him on. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You feel like heaven. So tight. So perfect. You were made for me.”

Severus watches your face twist in pleasure, in helplessness, in surrender. And it breaks something in him. He braces himself above you, elbows on either side of your head, nose brushing yours, his cock driving deeper. Every muscle in his body screams to be closer, to bury himself inside you so thoroughly that you forget anyone else ever existed.

The only thing you can do is take it. You’re nothing but sound and sensation—bound, open, filled again and again until your thoughts scatter like ash and you’ve never felt more wanted.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” he growls into your ear. “How much I want you. How much I need you. My sweet treasure... all tied up, helpless, aching for me.”

Another thrust, brutal and precise, leaves you sobbing into the sheets.

“Mine.”

“Yours!” you cry, barely coherent. “I’m yours, I’m yours—”

He kisses you then—rough and possessive, swallowing your words as he pounds into you harder, the bed rocking beneath you with the force of it. 

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning down to bite at your breast, sucking hard until another hickey darkens your skin.  “Give yourself to me. You want this—every thrust, every inch. You want what my body’s doing to you.”

You sob his name, already feeling how yet another orgasm builds. Severus watches every reaction. Every twitch, every sob, every gasp fuels the heat surging through him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls against your neck. “You love this. Love the way I make you feel. You’re so needy. So vulnerable. Only for me. I own you. Every fucking part.”

You can’t answer. All you can do is cry out as he slams into you, over and over. Your head turns to the side, mouth slack, eyes glassy. Every thrust punches a sound from your lips. Your wrists pull at the ropes again, but you’re not trying to escape—you’re trying to survive the pleasure.

“You’re taking it so well,” he breathes, almost reverently. “So fucking well.”

He leans down and grabs your chin, turning your face toward him. “Look at me.”

You do—barely—and he kisses you again before thrusting harder, deeper, rougher. One hand slides between your thighs and finds your clit.

You cry out, shaking.

“Yes. That's it,” he murmurs. “You’re so close. Let me feel it. Come for me. Again.”

Your third orgasm hits like a lightning strike—your legs shake violently, hips jerking as you sob his name. Your body clenches around him, back arching off the mattress so hard the ropes creak. 

But there’s no relief. No mercy. Severus doesn’t stop—doesn’t slow. He fucks you through it, harder than before, every thrust deep and punishing, pulling gasps and sobs from your throat.

“That’s three,” he groans. “Still not done my love. You’ll be too sore to walk tomorrow. He’ll see what I’ve done to you. You’ll wear me like a damn medal all over your skin.” 

He licks a stripe up your neck, sucks just below your jaw until the bruise blooms like a signature.

You can’t speak. You’re shaking, every nerve lit up, too sensitive and too needy all at once.

He shifts just enough to get closer, to press more of himself onto you—his forearms bracketing your head, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. His hips never stop, cock slamming into you with feral rhythm, thick and hot and insistent.

His voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “Look at you. You’re shaking for me. Writhing. Crying. And you’re still taking me.”

You moan—a broken, pleading sound—as his hand slides back down your stomach, between your thighs.

“Too—much—can’t,” you whimper, your body twisting against the ropes.

“Yes,” he hisses. “You can. You will.”

His fingers return to your clit—merciless. The contact makes your whole body jerk, overwhelmed, desperate, breath stuttering in your throat. You can’t pull away. Can’t run. Can’t do anything but take it.

“You’ll give me every drop of yourself,” he growls. “Until you can’t think. Until all you know is me. Until your body forgets anything but the way I own it.”

You scream. The pressure is building again—impossibly fast, impossibly much. You thrash your head against the pillow, tears streaking your cheeks, your hands white-knuckling the ropes.

Severus leans down, mouth at your ear, voice low and cruel.

“I want you ruined. Fucked so deep into this bed you forget what it’s like to walk. I want my cock to be the only thing you remember. You can take it. You’re my good girl. You’ll give it to me.”

“I—I can’t—” you sob.

“Yes,” he snarls. “You fucking can.”

His thrusts turn brutal, his cock slamming deep over and over. The rhythm is punishing, his grip on your hips bruising, grounding you as he takes every inch of you.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his mouth dragging down your neck. “This cunt is mine. Your cries are mine. Your fucking soul—mine.”

Your fourth orgasm rips through you like a goddamn detonation—violent, unbearable, unholy. You scream, full-throated and raw. Your vision whites out, your back bows off the bed, ropes straining with the force of your body’s helpless reaction.

Severus groans loudly as you clench around him, his own body starting to unravel.

“Fuck—yes, that’s it, that’s it—” His voice is hoarse, falling apart. “You’re so fucking perfect—so tight—taking me so well—mine—fucking mine!”

He slams in one last time, deep and rough and final, with a growl so raw it sounds like a roar.

His cock pulses deep inside you, spilling heat in long, desperate bursts. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just presses deep and stays there, shaking with the force of it, his hands gripping your thighs like anchors.

You’re shaking violently, tears streaking your cheeks, body twitching from the aftershocks. Sweat slicks your body, and your skin is painted with his marks. 

You feel owned. You feel loved. You feel his.

Severus doesn’t move right away. He slumps over you, panting hard, his body shielding yours like a second skin and his forehead pressed to yours.

His voice is hoarse, ruined. “Mine,” he whispers. “My good girl. My perfect, ruined girl.”

You’re trembling, boneless beneath him. With a whispered word from him, the ropes loosen.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your swollen lips.

“He will never dare touching you again,” he breathes and holds you tighter. “You own my heart and life."

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose. His hands cradle your face.

You try to say his name, but your throat catches—raw from moaning, from screaming, from sobbing out every piece of yourself for him.

His hand cups your cheek instantly. “Shh.” he whispers, voice wrecked but warm. “Don’t move. Let me take care of you.“

He slowly eases himself from your body with care that borders on reverence. You whimper at the loss, at the sensitivity, at the way your body clenches instinctively in protest.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. My love I got you.”

Severus slips from the bed, and for a moment you feel cold—empty—but then he’s back, cradling you in his arms. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, holding you close and carries you to the bathroom.

He murmurs soft spells as the tub fills with warm, jasmine-scented water. Candlelight flickers to life around the room, casting everything in gold. Eventually sinking into the tub with you in his lap, your back against his chest, arms around your middle.

You can barely keep your eyes open, but you feel him everywhere.

He reaches for a soft cloth and begins to gently wash you—between your legs, down your thighs, over every bruise he’s left behind. Each touch is careful, like he’s trying to kiss the soreness from your skin through his hands.

“My gorgeous love,” he whispers, cloth gliding over your stomach. “I love you. I love you like I’ve never loved anything in this world.”

He tilts your head back against his shoulder and kisses your temple. „I’m yours, You own me, love. Completely. You’re my everything. You’re my peace.“

When he’s rinsed you off, he lifts you again—drying you with the fluffiest towel you’ve ever felt, dabbing between your legs with exaggerated gentleness. He doesn't miss a mark. Not one. He kisses your rope-burned wrists, your bruised thighs, your shoulder.

Then he whispers a warming charm into the fabric of one of his old and worn shirts and slips it over your head. His hands glide down your arms, smoothing the material like he’s wrapping a gift.

You’re almost asleep when he carries you back to bed, tucks you under the sheets, and climbs in beside you. He curls himself around you, chest to your back, arms tight around your waist.

“I meant it,” he says, voice low, full of weight. “You are my peace.”

You murmur his name, voice slurred from exhaustion.

He nuzzles into your neck. “You gave me everything. Now rest my love I will watch over you.”

He kisses your shoulder one more time.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek.

Then your lips.

Over. And over. And over.

Until your breath slows. Until your eyes finally close. Until sleep takes you again in the safest place you know.

His arms.

—

You are very late the next morning.

The staff room door creaks open and you step inside—slowly, carefully, like every step sends another jolt of soreness through your thighs. Severus is right beside you, his stride perfectly composed, while you walk with a limp that’s impossible to disguise. Your face is unreadable, but your eyes flick sideways, shooting him a glare that he pointedly ignores.

He looks smug—obscenely so.

You, however, are doing your best to maintain dignity, clutching a book against your chest and pretending your body isn’t on fire. You’re dressed in one of Severus’s black button-downs, oversized on you, falling just to mid-thigh, and hangs off one shoulder as if even fabric knows it shouldn’t try to contain you today. The collar is wide, stretched, slipping low to reveal your throat and collarbone.

Your neck is an unapologetic canvas of possession. The hickeys are bold and brutal—angry red and dark violet, the kind of bruises left by a man who needed the world to know you were his. Some are sharp, singular bites of color just beneath your jawline; others are sprawling, almost violent in their spread, traveling in a map of passion from your throat to your collarbone and disappearing beneath the parted buttons of Severus’s shirt. They’re layered—some overlapping—proof that he returned to the same spots again and again. There’s no mistaking what they are. And there’s absolutely no effort to hide them.

Every head in the room turns. There’s a ripple of quiet laughter. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just amused. A little impressed. And entirely unsurprised.

Your voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t. Just... don’t ask."

Severus peels off and moves toward the corner, his robes sweeping behind him. With casual precision, he starts preparing tea with an unmistakably smug gleam in his eyes.

Minerva hums, her eyes meeting yours, and one finely arched brow rises in dry, wicked amusement. "Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, dear. We all know Severus."

Poppy looks you up and down with practiced healer eyes, noting every limp and mark with a knowing smirk. "Honestly, darling," she says, half amused, half teasing, "you should take the day off. Merlin knows you've earned some bed rest."

Pomona chuckles warmly behind her teacup. "Well, that explains the noise ward I noticed around the dungeons last night."

Filius nearly chokes on his own tea, coughing into his sleeve with suspiciously twinkling eyes.

Then the door opens.

Gilderoy Lockhart strolls in, humming as if he owns the place and sees you from behind.

"Ah, there you are! I was looking for you last night—wanted to clear up that little misunderstanding. Surely we can start fresh—"

You turn around to face him.

He stops mid-step and eyes widen at the sight of you.

Before you can speak, Severus does.

"She was busy," he says simply, not even looking up from preparing tea.

You shoot Severus another glare as you limp toward your usual seat. You lower yourself into your chair with a soft hiss. He meets it like a man wholly satisfied and just calmly pours another cup of tea, adding a potion from his robes and sets it down on the table in front of you. He stays standing right beside you.

Gilderoy blinks. "Right. Yes. Of course.“

His eyes flick from your neck to Severus’s face—and linger. There’s a beat of tension. A challenge unspoken.

Severus meets his stare, cold and unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. His gaze alone says it clearly: 

Try, and see what happens.

For a second, Gilderoy almost looks like he might. His mouth opens, the glimmer of a smirk starting to form—as if he thinks this is a game.

You cut him off with a hoarse voice sharp enough to slice.

"If you try to flirt with me again after everything that’s painfully obvious right now, you’re even dumber than your smile suggests."

The smirk dies. Gilderoy’s mouth snaps shut.

"I’m with Severus, and I don’t want anyone else so whatever fantasy you’re clinging to—kill it. Publicly, if possible."

Minerva lets out a quiet, impressed hum, the corners of her mouth twitching despite her best effort to appear composed. Filius hides a cough behind his hand that sounds suspiciously like a poorly suppressed laugh, his shoulders shaking with barely-contained mirth. 

Pomona lifts her teacup in a silent toast of amusement, while even Poppy lets out a snort.

Severus lifts his teacup to his lips, slow and deliberate, smug eyes still locked on Lockhart.

Gilderoy backs away with a forced smile and a muttered, "Quite right. Understood. Perfectly clear.“

He turns sharply and leaves without looking back.

Laughter bubbles again around the room—quiet but no more hidden.

You sip your tea letting the potion in your tea soothe your raw throat, and allow yourself one small, smug smile as you lean your head against Severus’s side.

He leans down pressing a gentle kiss to your head.

[liv2post]

Hello, I am a huge fan of your writing. Your words are so beautifully written. I am a wheelchair user and I am also deaf and there aren't any stories about severus snape and a reader with these disabilities so I was really hoping that you could write a love story where the reader is afraid that her crush on severus is unrequited and will only ever experience love though books she reads but severus feels exactly the same about her. The reader gose to the library in hogwarts but can't reach a book so severus helps her and somehow they end up telling each other they love one another. Thank you so much. I really hope you can write this. i am wishing on stars in hopes that you are able to 🌠✨️💫🌟

Hey!

Thank you so much for liking my stories.

You are right there aren't really any stories of that kind that's why I am happy to take on that request.

So here it is and I hope it makes sense and that you like it.

Between The Pages

You’ve heard people say that Hogwarts is alive.

Not just magical. Alive.

That the staircases have moods. That the paintings gossip. That the castle remembers things.

You used to wonder what that meant. Now, you understand.

Because from the moment you arrived, the castle adjusted—not with fanfare or pity, but with a quiet kind of reverence. A respect you didn’t expect. You were eleven joining with all the other new first years.

You had been scared how you were going to adjust to the castle and it's many stairs it was known for. You trailed behind the others slowly pushing your chair forward watching how all the other ran up the stairs excited. You could see them laugh and talk but all you heard was silence surrounding you.

You could feel your stomach drop knowing you had to get some help to get up but as you finally reached the stair, it simply changed into a ramp. No crackle of spellwork. The steps just melted seamlessly, stone reshaping like water, as if it had always meant to do so, and had simply been waiting for you.

Other things followed.

Tapestries that once hung too low now lifted just enough to clear your path. When the halls are crowded, certain torches flicker blue—gentle warning lights, just for you. And in moments of chaos—duels, accidents, fire drills—they flicker red, a silent alarm, just for you.

Doors opened without needing a push, ramps extend from thresholds just before your wheels meet them and Classroom floors smoothed under your wheels like hands offering a gentle path.

The castle saw you.

And it adjusted for you.

In class, Professors began using an enchantment that transcribes their words into glowing script across the desk in front of you—a charm invented by Flitwick, tested by McGonagall, and refined until the spell matched the rhythm of human speech nearly perfectly. You can follow lessons without having to read lips or depend on notes.

Your housemates adapted, too. Some even started to learn sign language over the years to communicate with you better. No one ever made a show of it.

They'd wait for you before meals and make room at the table without needing to be asked, or push your chair through muddy paths in Hogsmeade, or offer a steadying arm when doing transfer between the bed and wheelchair.

They don’t treat you like glass.

They treat you like you.

You laugh. You grumble about homework. You roll your eyes at Peeves. You duel in practice like anyone else—your wand hand sure and steady.

You are an ordinary Hogwarts student.

It’s not always perfect. Nothing is.

There are still days when Professors speak too fast for the transcription charm to catch. Or when someone stares a little too long at your chair. Or when you’re tired—just bone-deep tired—of having to think two steps ahead of the world around you.

But even then… the castle holds you.

Warm sunlight in your study corner.

A torch that burns brighter when you read, so you see the words better.

The library at Hogwarts has always been your sanctuary.

Here, you are home.

Not just because of the books—though the books are everything to you. They’re how you travel, how you learn, how you feel. Each page is a voice you don’t have to hear to understand. Each story, a world that welcomes you without question.

But more than that, it’s the stillness that comforts you.

The way the high, arched windows let in honeyed afternoon light that drapes across the tables like a promise. The scent of parchment, ink, and time itself. The soft hush that settles over the rows of shelves—not silence exactly, but something better. Something alive.

You don’t need to hear the creak of floorboards or the rustle of pages. You feel them—the gentle vibrations in the wood beneath your palms, the shifting warmth of another presence passing by. The castle speaks to you in ways no one else can. And here, in this room, its voice is always calm. Gentle. Kind.

You move through the library with ease. The floor rolls smooth beneath your chair. Your fingers trail the spines of books you’ve read a dozen times before, greeting them like old friends. Most students are still at dinner, so the aisles are yours. Peaceful. Familiar.

Sometimes, you watch the others who drift through—Ravenclaws with arms full of notes, a pair of Hufflepuffs curled up in the corner, reading aloud with shared smiles.

And… him.

Severus Snape.

He rarely comes during the rush of the day.

But in the long amber hush of late afternoons, he appears. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. His hair close to always hiding his face like he doesn't want to be seen.

He moves like he’s afraid of being heard—shoulders drawn in, footsteps careful. But his silence isn’t meek. It hums with tension, coiled like a wire stretched too thin. There’s a heaviness to him, not in body but in presence. Like he’s carrying things no one else can see.

He moves like he’s part of the castle itself, like he belongs to the old stones and the hush between words.

You don’t remember when you started watching him.

Or when watching turned into something more.

It began with admiration—his mind, his stillness, the way he moves in potions class with a grace when he brew potions, like a polished blade. And then there’s the way he touches glass vials—delicate, precise.

But over time, something gentler crept in. A curiosity. A softness. A feeling you don’t name, not even to yourself.

You see things in him others miss.

You see the way his brow furrows when he reads. The way he presses his lips together when someone gets too close while he’s lost in thought, like the world is an intrusion he’s learned to brace for. The way he lingers by windows just a little too long, like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

The way he seems like someone who, maybe, just maybe—knows what it means to live at a distance.

You shake the thought away.

You aren’t foolish enough to think a boy like Severus Snape could fall in love with you.

But you let yourself imagine it anyway.

You’ve never spoken.

He may not even know your name.

To him, perhaps, you're just the deaf girl in the wheelchair who lives in books. The quiet one in the corner. The one who watches, but doesn’t ask.

But oh, how many stories you’ve read of boys like him.

Distant. Damaged. Brilliant. The ones who never say what they mean—but show it in a hundred quiet ways. The ones who hide their tenderness beneath walls so thick only love can reach through them.

And girls like you—girls with stories tucked behind their ribs and silence written into their bones—they are never left behind.

They are loved.

But this isn’t a story.

This is the real world, where your voice is too often lost in a room and your body too often mistaken for something fragile.

Love is something for the pages in your lap.

Not the life you live.

And you’ve made your peace with that

So you let the longing sit quietly beside you.

And return to your book.

—

He notices you more often than he means to.

It began, he tells himself, with curiosity. An awareness. A cataloging of presence, as he does with most things. You're often in the library when he arrives. Always at the same table, sunlight touching your shoulders, a book open before you and that thoughtful crease between your brows.

At first, he noticed your quiet.

Not silence—quiet.

Intentional. Rooted. Not born of absence, but presence so complete it needed no sound to declare itself.

He envied that.

And then—he noticed the way the castle behaved around you.

He’d never seen it before, not really. But once he looked, he couldn’t unsee it. The way the flagstones seemed to smooth beneath your wheels. The way the lights dimmed gently as you passed, or flared softly when someone came too close. The way the books you reached for always seemed just within reach… unless they weren’t.

That’s when he noticed something else.

The way you tried not to ask for help.

The way your hand would hover, just barely, near a book too high, and then retreat. The way your gaze flicked toward Madam Pince but never stayed long enough to draw attention. The way your shoulders held still under disappointment—composed, resigned, practiced.

It made something sharp twist in his chest.

You don’t lash out. You don’t ask for understanding. You just exist, quietly, with your hands resting on the arms of your chair and your gaze always turned slightly upward—at windows, at spines, at stories.

He wonders what your voice sounds like inside your head.

He wonders what you would say if the world was still enough to hear you.

He wonders, sometimes, what you’d say to him.

Not that he expects you to. He’s not the sort of boy people fall in love with. He’s not warm. He’s not easy. He’s not made of soft, likable things.

But you see books the way he sees potions. You look at the world like it holds meanings beyond the obvious. You listen without hearing, and he speaks without speaking, and sometimes he wonders if maybe… maybe there's something unspoken between the two of you that could be heard—if only he dared.

He tells himself it’s foolish.

That it’s nothing.

But still, every afternoon, he finds his way to the library.

And still, every afternoon, you’re there.

And still—when you look up and catch him glancing your way—he looks down too fast. Pretends it wasn’t anything. That it never was.

But something has settled beneath his skin.

A stillness. A noticing.

And when he sees you today—reaching for a book you can’t quite reach, your fingers straining, shoulders tensing—something inside him moves.

He tells himself this is the moment.

A book on a high shelf.

A moment of courtesy.

Casually rehearsed conversations in his head. How he would help you and you’d smile.

But the plan doesn’t sit well—not when his hands won’t stop twitching at his sides, not when his heartbeat drums louder than the hush of the library around him.

He saw you stretch for it. Watched your fingers graze the spine. Saw the way you paused when it didn’t come.

Something in him stirs.

A quiet urgency, almost unfamiliar.

He watches you for a moment longer, then exhales.

Now.

He straightens his shoulders. Steps out from the shadow of the bookshelf. His boots make no sound on the carpeted aisle, but each step feels too loud in his own mind. Too deliberate. Too exposed.

You haven’t noticed him yet.

You’re still sitting in the sunlit corner of the aisle, one hand resting on the book’s spine like you’re willing it closer through sheer thought.

He can feel the words forming behind his teeth—nothing elaborate. Just a simple, “Here, let me.” Just enough to bridge the silence.

But something catches in his throat.

You look peaceful there. Self-contained. Like you belong in this space more than he ever has.

He stops halfway down the aisle.

Stands frozen, fists curling and uncurling at his sides.

He could still do it. Could still take the last few steps. Could still offer a moment of connection.

Just then your head turns and you look over at him.

But panic flares sharp and fast through his chest.

What if you don’t want his help?

What if you think he is weird?

He’s already been told—too many times, in too many ways—that he doesn’t belong where warmth exists. That his presence is an intrusion. That kindness, when it comes from him, is suspect at best.

And you…

You are not someone he can bear to make uncomfortable.

So he turns.

He doesn’t look back as he quickly walks out the Library. Away from you.

But he feels it in the air between you—that moment that almost was.

—

You feel him before you see him.

Not in a magical sense. Just… something in the air. A change in pressure. A flicker at the corner of your eye. You’ve grown so used to reading the world in sensation rather than sound that shifts like this rarely go unnoticed.

But this one is different.

This one is him.

You don’t turn immediately.

There’s something comforting about pretending you haven’t noticed. Like giving the moment time to find its shape before you look too closely and scare it off.

Still—your heart lifts, just a little.

He’s walking toward you.

Severus Snape.

Not just passing through the library. Not just vanishing between shelves like smoke and robes and long shadows.

He’s walking toward you.

You hold still. Not frozen. Just… careful. There’s a balance to this moment, and you don’t want to tip it too soon.

He doesn’t look angry. Or annoyed. He looks—focused. Intent. Like this was a choice.

You feel something in your chest open up, small and stunned.

And then—

He stops.

Just halfway down the aisle.

Stands there for a moment too long.

You turn your head towards him. You watch his hands move at his sides—clenching, releasing. You wait for his mouth to move, for a gesture, a word, anything. But nothing comes.

And then… he turns.

You sit there, unmoving, the moment still hanging around you like a dream someone forgot to finish.

He didn’t look at you as he walked away.

You’re used to silence—but not this kind.

Not the kind that arrives heavy with confusion.

Not the kind that settles in your chest like something you should apologize for, even though you don't know what you did wrong.

You glance up at the shelf again, where the book still waits—too high, still just out of reach.

It doesn’t feel like a story anymore.

It feels like a pause.

Like the kind that lasts too long and leaves you wondering if the other person ever meant to speak at all.

You reach for another book—not the one you came for, but something easier. Something where the girl in the pages is never left unsure.

But your eyes keep drifting back to the aisle.

To where he could have stood.

To what could have been said.

And you wonder—quietly, painfully—if maybe, he actually doesn't like you.

—

Severus doesn’t make it past the hallway before the shame sets in.

It starts in his chest—tight and clenching, like something vital’s been turned to stone—and works its way up, into his throat, where it lodges like a swallowed mistake.

Coward.

He’d gotten so far.

You turned and looked right at him.

And he ran.

Turned on his heel like a frightened boy and vanished between the stacks.

And gods, he hates himself for it.

The look on your face when your eyes caught his. Not angry. Not scared. Just... open. Curious.

And what did he do?

Turned and walked away.

He stalks down the corridor with his fists clenched in his robe pockets, heart thudding like it wants to break something open inside his chest. His thoughts race too fast to grab. He doesn’t even realize where he’s going until he’s pushing the doors open into the courtyard, cold air biting at his face.

Stupid, he thinks. Coward.

You were right there.

You had looked at him.

And he had nothing to give you. No words. No sign. Not even the courage to hand you a book.

The ache sits just behind his ribs, dull and sharp all at once. He’s been holding onto this impossible thing for weeks now—this feeling that blooms every time you glance up from your book, every time your fingers dance midair in conversation, every time you smile to yourself like the world is gentler in your corner of it.

He sits on a stone bench near the edge of the gardens, breathing hard.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets his head fall into his hands.

He should have helped. He wanted to help.

He wanted—finally—to speak to you.

That night, Severus doesn’t sleep.

He lies awake, eyes on the ceiling of the dormitory, trying to imagine what it would’ve felt like to finally talk to you, to sit beside you. To see you smile.

The next morning, he walks the long way to breakfast—through the gardens. The air is crisp, the sky just beginning to pale with light. His boots crunch softly over gravel and dirt.

He stops when he sees it.

A small, crooked patch of wildflowers pushing their way up through the stone edge of the path.

Not perfect. Not orderly.

But beautiful.

Soft.

Gentle.

He kneels and picks one.

Just one.

He doesn’t even know what it's called. But he likes the color. The way the stems bend in his fingers. The way they feel like a gesture he can make without words.

That afternoon, he sneaks back into the library early—before you usually arrive.

It takes him a moment to find the right book. The one you’d been reaching for yesterday. He’s never read it, but he doesn’t need to. He knows you wanted it. That’s enough.

He finds your usual table. Places the book down first. Then the flower.

He hesitates, fingers resting on the edge of the cover, and swallows hard.

It's not a conversation.

But it’s a beginning.

The next day, he does it again.

Another book you’ve lingered near. Another flower.

If he can’t speak to you yet… if he can’t hold steady in front of you…

Then he’ll try. Quietly. Consistently. Like spells cast without incantation.

Not for attention. Not for praise.

But for you.

Later that night, in the quiet back corner of the library, Severus pulls three books off the shelf.

Not Potions. Not Transfiguration.

Sign Language: A Wizard’s Guide to Inclusive Spellcasting

The Fundamentals of British Sign Language

Conversations Beyond Sound

He reads until Madam Pince ushers him out.

The next evening, he doesn’t return to the Slytherin common room. He stays tucked into the same library alcove where you always sit and opens the first page again.

He starts slow.

Fingerspelling. Basics. Greetings.

Nothing feels natural. His hands are stiff, clumsy.

But he tries.

Every night.

At first, the signs blur in his mind like miscast runes. One wrong flick, one twist of the wrist, and the meaning shifts entirely. He practices under the table during class, scribbling rough diagrams in the margins of his notes.

He finds books that no one else checks out. Heavy volumes with detailed diagrams and slow, looping sketches of handshapes. Dictionaries of meaning. Charm-assisted instruction scrolls with moving signs that repeat themselves over and over again.

But no matter what he they don't express exactly what he would like to say to you.

He doesn’t know when it happened—only that it’s grown steadily inside him, from the first moment he saw your hands move like poetry, to the quiet way you notice everything, even the things others think you miss.

Then he finds the signs.

Three movements.

He stares at the page until the ink blurs.

Then he practices.

Over and over.

In private corners, in the dark reflection of the castle’s windows. His fingers are stiff. His arms start to ache. Sometimes he gets it backwards. Once he nearly drops his wand trying to mirror the handshape while holding too many books.

He draws it on a small note:

→ point to chest → crossed fists over heart → open hand out toward other

Beneath it, in smaller ink: Say it only when you're ready. When the words are hers too.

He keeps the note tucked into his pocket always there.

Ready when needed.

—

You hesitate at the library door.

It’s not the space that unsettles you. The library is still your sanctuary, still the place where your thoughts feel less heavy and the silence feels like your own. But memory clings to places, and today, the memory sits like dust on your skin.

You weren’t planning to go back to that aisle. Not today. Not after the way he’d turned—so sudden, so sharp, like he couldn’t bear to speak to you after all.

You told yourself you wouldn’t hope again.

But your wheels turn toward your usual table anyway, the one beneath the western window where the light comes in low and golden in the late afternoons.

And then you see it.

The book.

The one from the shelf.

The one you couldn’t reach.

It’s there now—waiting for you. Resting perfectly in the center of the table, as if placed with quiet intention.

Next to it, barely noticeable at first, is a small wildflower. Slightly crumpled, delicate, pale purple. No note. No signature. Just there.

Your chest tightens.

You blink once, then again, as if your eyes might be playing tricks. But no—it’s real. It’s here. Your fingers hover over the cover, not quite touching.

You glance around the library.

No one nearby. Just the usual stillness. Madam Pince, head bowed over a stack of returns. A few Ravenclaws in the far corner, lost in their own worlds.

Could it be…?

The thought rises uninvited, soft and sharp all at once.

You want it more than you’re willing to admit.

But wanting doesn’t make it true.

You rest your hands on the arms of your chair, steadying yourself.

It could’ve been anyone. Maybe someone saw you reaching yesterday. Maybe a kind soul simply thought to help. Maybe it’s nothing.

And yet—

Your eyes return to the flower.

It’s slightly imperfect. Slightly awkward. Not like something chosen for beauty, but for meaning. For the gesture itself.

It doesn’t answer anything.

It doesn’t solve the ache that still lives under your ribs.

But you sit at the table anyway.

You open the book.

And you let the wildflower stay exactly where it is—pressed gently against the spine like a heartbeat waiting to be heard.

The wildflowers continue.

Always tucked beside the book you would’ve reached for—whether a favorite reread or something you mentioned in class once, a title you lingered over too long on the shelf.

Always in the same spot.

And every time you arrive—every time you wheel through the quiet hush of the library, unsure if today will be like the last—you finds it

No two are the same.

Some are bright and unruly. Some delicate, pale, barely holding their shape. Once, it was nothing more than a sprig of green with tiny yellow petals curling upward like shy smiles. Another time, three tangled stems braided together like someone had tried to make sense of something wordless.

You never find out who leaves them.

But you keep them all.

Folded gently into the pages of a small leather-bound notebook, their flattened petals safe between spells and sketches, beside half-finished lines of poetry and the names of books you loved too much to return.

You don’t let yourself hope.

And then—

One afternoon, late in the term, the light softer than usual and the castle air tinged with the scent of distant firewood, it happens again.

You see the book before you feel the ache.

High again. Out of reach.

You’ve been good lately—good at pretending it doesn’t bother you. Good at not letting your gaze linger too long on shelves you know better than to challenge. But today, for whatever reason, you forget.

You didn't take notice of Severus stopping on his way and just watching you.

He knows this scene. Has lived it from the corners—always standing just far enough away to stay unseen.

You reach.

Not quite fully. Not with expectation. Just enough to brush the spine, to feel the textured edge of a book you want too much to admit it.

It doesn’t give.

You breathe out slowly, steadying the tightness in your chest. Already preparing to turn away.

And then—you feel it.

A shift behind you.

Not sound, but presence. The kind of awareness that stirs the air. That makes the fine hairs on your arms lift. You glance sideways, barely, and your heart stumbles.

Severus.

You freeze.

His arm lifts beside you, long fingers reaching past your shoulder, moving with quiet ease. You don’t look at the book—only at his hand, the way it doesn’t hesitate, the way it seems to know exactly what you’d been trying to reach.

He plucks it from the shelf in one motion then turns slightly and holds the book out to you.

No words.

No flourish.

Just the book—and him.

You take the book from his hand.

His fingers linger a half-second longer than expected—just long enough to notice. Just long enough to feel.

You glance up at him again. His gaze flickers from the book to your face, then away. He shifts his weight slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his robe, like he doesn't know what to do with them.

You realize… he’s nervous.

That thought alone is enough to make your heart flutter.

"Thank you." you say quietly your fingers gentle in the air between you, as you sign along with your words.

He nods. Just once. Then his eyes dart toward the table you usually stay at, then back to you. He clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing here—hovering like a boy who hadn’t planned to stay but isn’t ready to walk away.

But you don’t want him to leave.

“Would you…” you start, then catch yourself, tone softening, unsure. “Do you want to sit with me?”

For a moment, you think he’ll say no.

But instead, he blinks. Swallows. Nods.

Just once.

You lead the way to a small alcove tucked in the back of the library—half-shadowed, quiet, hidden from most eyes. One of your favorite corners. The seat by the window where the light is soft, where your books feel safe and the world forgets how loud it can be.

He follows, silent but close.

The silence between you is thick at first—awkward, maybe, but not uncomfortable. Not like it used to be.

He rests his hands in his lap, knuckles tight. You place your book on the table but don’t open it. You keep glancing at him. At the way he keeps his gaze downward. The way he seems… filled with something he hasn’t figured out how to say.

There’s a kind of energy in him you’ve never seen before.

You glance at him, about to speak—but then he shifts.

From the inside of his school robe, he carefully pulls something small and places it on the table beside your book.

Wildflowers.

Soft, imperfect. Fresh.

Just like the others.

Your heart stalls and your breath falters.

Your eyes move from the flowers… to him.

He’s not watching you. Not yet. His eyes are on his hands, on the shape of the petals. But you see the way his jaw is tight. The way his fingers twitch against the edge of the table.

He brought them.

It was him. All this time.

You open your mouth. Close it.

Then, voice quiet, half a breath: “Why?”

His gaze flicks up to meet yours.

He looks like you just asked something dangerous.

“I…” he begins, then stops.

He reaches into his pocket. A slow movement. As if any sudden shift might break this spell. Then he pulls out a small note. He looks at it before carefully putting it on his lap.

Your lips part, but no words come.

He straightens his shoulders—still tense, still unsure, but brave in the way that matters—and raises his hands.

And signs, slowly:

A point to the chest. Both hands cross over his heart, fists closed, pulled in like a held breath. A reach outward. A gesture toward you.

You see every hesitation in his movement, every ounce of courage it took him to learn your language. The movements are stiff and not quite perfect, but it’s real. It’s his. And it means everything.

You don’t know how long you sit there staring at his hands.

At the words he just signed.

You feel something unfold in your chest—slow, delicate, like the unfurling of a petal. Like breath you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of you at last.

And then you look up at him.

Severus is staring down at the table now, jaw tight, shoulders tense like he’s waiting to be hurt. Like he doesn’t quite believe what he did, or what might come next.

Your heart aches for how carefully he’s trying to protect himself.

You reach out.

Carefully. Slowly.

And take his hands in yours.

They’re warm. Tense. Your fingertips brushing the back of his hand. He flinches, not away, but in surprise. You trace your fingers lightly along his knuckles until he dares to lift his gaze again.

You don’t let go.

You shift—turning his hand slightly, adjusting them, guiding the motion with a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Then, with your hands over his, you help him sign it again.

I. Love. You.

You look up at him as you do it, letting your gaze soften, letting him see that your chest is aching in the same way his is.

And then you say it. Quietly. Soft enough that only he can hear.

“I love you too.” Your voice soft and your hands moving in tandem to your words.

You both sit there, suspended in the hush of the library, and for once, the silence doesn’t feel empty.

It feels full.

His eyes search yours, and you see it—that same question you’ve had for so long.

A breath, a shift.

And then, almost without thinking, he leans in.

Slowly. Carefully.

Like he’s afraid to shatter the moment.

You meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Tentative. Not polished or perfect, but true. It lingers—not because of urgency, but because neither of you wants to pull away too soon.

When you part, your foreheads nearly touch. You both laugh—quiet, stunned.

“You really learned that just for me?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, fingers signing alongside your words.

He gives a small shrug, like it’s nothing. But the faint pink in his ears tells you it’s not nothing at all.

“I did some research,” he murmurs, sheepish. “I tried to speak to you. Walked up. Got nervous. Turned around like a coward. You saw, didn’t you?”

You nod, a little too quickly.

“I thought you didn't like me,” you admit, smiling a little at the irony.

His brow lifts, faintly. “You thought I spent weeks picking wildflowers for someone I hated?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” you laugh.

He exhales—something between relief and exasperation—and then goes quiet for a moment, picking at the edge of a page from your notebook.

“I didn’t want to just… appear and expect you to do the hard work,” he says quietly. “I read that lip reading takes a lot of energy, It’s not always accurate. Especially in long conversations or if people mumble.”

“You do mumble,” you tease.

He gives you a look, but it’s warm this time. Soft around the edges.

“I didn’t want to make things harder for you,” he says. “I wanted… if I ever did speak to you... I thought if I could learn just enough to speak sign language, maybe you’d believe what I feel for you.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

You sign it too. Your hands moving slow and clear.

You see something flicker in Severus’s eyes as he watches you.

Recognition.

And then, shyly—like it costs him something to admit it—he says, “I… understood that.”

You blink.

“You did?”

He nods, a little stiffly. “I’ve been practicing. On my own. Just a few things.”

You smile.

He clears his throat. “I… I think I can sign ‘Please.’ And… maybe ‘read.’ Or I’m completely wrong, in which case I expect you to laugh at me now.”

You do laugh, but it’s light and warm, not mocking.

“Go on, then,” you say, tilting your head with a grin. “Show me.”

He shifts, just a little—lifting his hands, hesitating—and then signs.

Not perfect.

Not fluid.

But recognizable.

You light up.

“That was really close,” you say, signing alongside the praise. “Not bad at all.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for a week.

You watch him carefully, something tender unfurling inside your chest.

“Do you want to learn more?” you say, tilting your head slightly toward him.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes trace the shapes your hands make—slow and thoughtful.

And then, he nods.

So you ease into it.

No structure. No pressure. Just small words. Easy ones. Things he might want to say.

Each sign, you show slowly, demonstrating it clearly—repeating them as many times as he wants to see. He mirrors you cautiously, sometimes getting them right on the first try, sometimes not.

But he keeps trying.

And when his fingers stumble, you gently take his hands in yours, correcting him with the softest touches. Your palms meet. Your fingertips guide his. You show him how to curve a knuckle, how to flick a wrist just so.

He watches you like the entire world is in your hands.

You don’t speak for a while after that—not because you can’t, but because the silence between you feels full of meaning. He signs again—slow, careful.

You nod.

When he signs cat out of nowhere, completely incorrectly and with far too much enthusiasm, you dissolve into laughter, covering your mouth with your hand.

“I don’t even own a cat,” you tease, signing no cat with exaggerated clarity.

“I panicked,” he mutters, flustered. “It was either that or ‘banana’ and that didn’t feel right.”

He throws in a few wildly incorrect gestures on purpose after that, his mouth twitching like he’s daring you not to laugh again. You play along, correcting him with mock sternness, your fingers dancing through the air like the words were meant to be shared this way all along.

You can’t stop laughing.

And neither can he—not fully, not out loud, but you see it in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. In the way his shoulders finally relax. In the way his hand lingers near yours on the tabletop without needing an excuse to stay there.

In the way his eyes soften right before he leans in again to kiss you again.

You sit like that for a long while.

The light slants golden through the high windows.

The pages of your unopened book whisper in the stillness.

Just this little corner of the library.

Just this boy.

This moment.

This feeling.

It doesn’t feel like a story.

It feels better.

Because this time, It's not the girl in the book that gets to be loved.

You are.

[liv2post]

Ate as always

Summary:

After the war, Severus Snape expects nothing but silence and solitude—until you. Gentle, unafraid, and quietly unwavering, you don’t try to fix him… you simply stay.   (Inspired by the song Ordinary by Alex warren.)

Ordinary

They say, 'The holy water's watered down  And this town's lost its faith   Our colors will fade eventually  

The castle was quieter now. Not in the absence-of-students sort of way, but in the way a place becomes after too much grief has soaked into the stone. Even the portraits had fallen into a gentler hush, as if they too were mourning something long gone.

Severus Snape walked the corridors like a man suspended between realities—alive, yet not truly living. His robes trailed behind him in silence, his gaze fixed just above the heads of anyone who passed. He rarely spoke unless forced to. Rarely ate. He wasn’t so much present as tolerated—by the castle, by the staff, by himself.

They had let him come back, astonishingly. Perhaps because he had survived. Perhaps because no one else knew what to do with him. Perhaps because Albus would’ve wanted it.

In the dim light of the staffroom, he poured himself tea without tasting it. The clink of his spoon was the loudest sound in the room. That was, until you entered.

You didn’t announce yourself. Didn’t even seem to notice the way every space you stepped into subtly shifted. You simply moved quietly, confidently, like someone who didn’t need to fill the silence to be seen.

He didn't speak. He never did. But you smiled at him anyway.

Not out of politeness. Not in pity. Just… a smile. Like the kind someone might give a bird perched on a snowy windowsill. Quiet recognition. A softness untouched by expectation.

He held your gaze for a moment too long—and then returned to his tea.

You sat across the room, a book in your hands and a blanket draped over your knees. You said nothing. Made no effort to engage him.

Yet somehow, Severus felt less alone than he had in months.

The book in your hands was old—he could tell by the fraying spine, the way you thumbed its edge like it was an old friend. Not many people handled books like that anymore. He wondered briefly what you were reading, but the question never made it to his lips.

Instead, he watched you out of the corner of his eye. Observed the ease with which you breathed in the silence, unbothered by it. You didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around in search of company or conversation. You simply… were.

It made something restless in his chest still for the first time in days.

A small group of students passed the doorway, laughter trailing in like the last breeze of summer. He tensed instinctively, but they didn’t notice him. Of course they didn’t. Most of them had stopped seeing him the way people stop noticing the cobwebs in a forgotten corner—there, but untouched.

“Professor Snape,” one younger student murmured respectfully as he passed. No sneer. No fear. Just a name.

He gave a barely perceptible nod in return.

You looked up briefly, your eyes following the boy’s retreating steps before shifting back to your book. Still, you said nothing.

But Severus felt your attention linger like a brush of warmth across cold skin.

It unsettled him.

He stood abruptly and moved to the window, the steam from his teacup rising in thin curls. The sky was heavy with clouds. Somewhere, far away, he thought he heard thunder. Or maybe it was just the wind pressing against the old glass.

Behind him, the chair creaked as you shifted—stretching, maybe, or curling deeper into your seat.

“I didn’t expect to love the quiet this much,” you said softly, voice low, not meant to intrude.

He didn’t respond.

You didn’t expect him to.

There was something strange about it. Your presence. It wasn’t light exactly—you didn’t sparkle or glow or fill a room with false cheer. But you made the silence feel like something you could rest in. Something alive, instead of empty.

And that… bothered him. Because for the first time in a very long while, Severus Snape wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone.

 

So if our time is runnin' out Day after day  We'll make the mundane our masterpiece

 

it started with tea, a week later.

Not conversation, not glances—just tea.

Every morning, the staff room held the same quiet ritual. Steam rising from mismatched cups, the faint rustle of the Daily Prophet, the soft clink of spoons stirring sugar. And every morning, you were there. Not in his space. Not demanding. Just present.

Sometimes you brought a biscuit or a slice of spiced bread, always set neatly beside your own tea without offering. You never asked if he wanted one, never forced politeness. But once, when he arrived earlier than usual, there were two biscuits on your napkin.

He took one.

You didn’t look up from your book.

That was how it began.

Over the next few days, you passed like ships in a fog—soft glances, occasional nods. Nothing direct. Nothing verbal.

But you sat near him now, not across the room. Close enough that he could hear the page turns of your book, the tiny hum in your throat when you were deep in thought. Some days you would knit or write with your legs curled under you, like you had always belonged in that chair.

You never asked him questions.

You never filled the air with noise.

You just sat. With him. Like he wasn’t a monster. Like his silence wasn’t something to be solved.

It wasn’t until one particularly dreary Thursday that he realized how much he had come to expect your presence.

He entered the room, slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and felt something strange tighten in his chest when your chair was empty.

No blanket. No book. No quiet smile.

He stood there, teacup in hand, unsure why the room suddenly felt colder.

He was halfway through steeping his tea when the door creaked open and you slipped in, cheeks flushed from wind, hair damp with mist.

“Morning,” you said softly, already moving to your usual chair.

He didn’t answer.

But when he sat beside you, he placed a second biscuit on your napkin.

You blinked down at it in surprise, then looked at him with something unreadable in your expression—warm, perhaps. Or maybe… grateful.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

But the silence between you no longer felt empty.

It felt like a masterpiece in the making.

 

Oh my, my  Oh my, my love  I take one look at you

 

it was a few weeks later when he saw it.

Severus didn’t mean to look.

It wasn’t an intentional thing—just a glance as he walked past an open classroom door. But what he saw made him pause in the corridor, just beyond the line of sight.

You were kneeling beside a small first-year, your voice low, hands still. Not touching, not pushing—just present. The boy’s lip trembled, wand clutched too tightly in his grip. Whatever had happened, he looked on the verge of tears. But you didn’t crowd him. You waited. Let him breathe.

And then you smiled.

Not the polite smile you offered the staff. Not the knowing one you sometimes gave Severus when your eyes met across the staff room. This was something different—bright and warm and completely unguarded. Like sunlight through a frosted window.

The boy let out a shaky breath and nodded. You whispered something Severus couldn’t hear, and the boy smiled back before scurrying off with a slightly steadier step.

You stood slowly, brushing off your robes, and looked toward the hallway.

He moved before you could see him.

Back into the shadows, away from the vulnerability curling in his chest like smoke.

Later, you joined him in the staff room. Tea. Blanket. Book.

As always.

You didn’t speak, but your presence wrapped around him like a memory he couldn’t quite chase away.

He glanced over without thinking.

Your hair was tucked behind one ear, fingers curled lightly around your teacup. Your lips moved silently as you read—soft, careful enunciations. You had a small ink smudge near your thumb, and the edge of your boot tapped absently against the chair leg.

You were… unremarkable. Ordinary.

And he couldn’t stop looking.

For the first time in so long, he noticed the way his heart felt in his chest. The way it pulled just slightly toward you, like gravity, like instinct. And he hated that it felt fragile. Exposed.

You looked up suddenly, and your eyes met.

You didn’t speak. Just smiled.

That same, quiet smile you’d always given him.

But this time, it felt different. Not like politeness. Not like recognition.

This time, it felt like invitation.

He looked away first.

But not before you saw it—the flicker of something he hadn't let show before.

And for the first time since the war, something bloomed in Severus’s chest that wasn’t sorrow.

 

You're takin' me out of the ordinary  I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried

 

Only after a few days he was starting to sit closer.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what he told himself. The staffroom was small, after all. Your usual seat was by the fire, and there weren’t many chairs near it. It only made sense to sit beside you.

That’s what he told himself the first day.

And the next.

And the day after that.

But he never sat anywhere else now.

You never commented on it. Never shifted away. If you noticed, you gave no sign. Only poured your tea, opened your book, and let him be.

But the distance between you had shrunk, and Severus could feel it.

He felt it in the brush of your sleeves when you reached for the teapot at the same time. In the way your knee nearly touched his when you crossed your legs in the chair. In the faint scent of lavender and parchment that clung to your robes.

It was maddening.

Not because it was loud or invasive. Quite the opposite.

It was quiet. Soft. Like a whisper he couldn't unhear.

In the library one evening, he found you sitting on the floor in a corner alcove—legs tucked under you, parchment spread out around your knees, ink smudged on your finger again. You looked up when you saw him. Smiled.

He said nothing, but paused.

You looked back down, returning to your notes. No invitation, no expectation.

Still, his feet moved before his mind gave permission.

He sat down beside you.

The stone was cold against his legs, the air sharp with winter’s early breath, but your presence warmed the space between you.

You didn’t speak, and neither did he. But when your hand reached out to pass him a spare roll of parchment, your fingers touched.

Just barely.

Barely—but it was enough to send a current down his spine.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

And when you went back to your scribbling, your shoulder nearly brushed his.

It should have been uncomfortable.

Instead, it felt like a quiet kind of gravity.

He left before you did. Didn’t say goodbye.

But that night, for the first time in years, Severus Snape lay in bed and imagined the sound of someone breathing beside him.

Not in lust. Not in fantasy.

In peace.

 

On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

 

It was raining.

The kind of steady, rhythmic drizzle that made the castle feel wrapped in cotton—soft, muffled, private. The fireplaces were glowing brighter now. The stone walls had a chill to them that clung to skin and sank into bones.

He found you in the courtyard.

Why you were out there in the cold, he didn’t know. Your cloak was drawn tight, your hair damp with mist, your fingers curled around a steaming mug. You were standing beneath the arched overhang, watching the drops fall into the stone basin at the center of the courtyard garden.

You didn’t flinch when he approached.

Didn’t speak. Just lifted your mug in greeting, then looked back toward the rain.

He stood beside you.

Close.

Closer than usual.

The silence stretched—comfortable, then weighted, then thick. The kind of quiet that rang with everything unsaid.

“You always find the still places,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

You looked at him. Not startled. Not surprised.

Just… seen.

“Maybe I just recognize stillness when I see it,” you said softly, voice warm as the mug in your hands.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You turned your gaze back to the water, and he allowed himself—just briefly—to look at you. Really look.

You weren’t beautiful in a way that demanded attention. You weren’t gilded or painted or wrapped in honeyed charm.

But there was something in your stillness that undid him.

Something sacred.

Something dangerous.

His fingers curled into his palm.

You turned again—slowly—and met his eyes.

The tension between you was delicate, fragile. Like the surface of a bubble catching sunlight. One wrong move and it would burst.

But you didn’t reach for him. Didn’t ask.

You just stood there.

Near enough for him to feel the heat radiating from your skin. Near enough to kiss you, if he wanted to.

And Merlin help him… he wanted to.

Instead, he stepped back.

Barely. Just enough for the cold to settle between you again.

You didn’t follow.

Didn’t flinch.

Just smiled. Softly. Almost sadly.

And he hated himself for the part of him that wanted you to reach for him anyway.

That night, he dreamt of you again.

Not in a way that left him breathless or shamed.

Just… quiet. Your fingers tangled with his. Your breath on his chest. The silence between you.

He woke with your name on the tip of his tongue and a yearning that felt like it might hollow him out.

 

Somethin' so out of the ordinary You got me kissin' the ground of your sanctuary

 

The castle was asleep.

Even the portraits had gone still, their snores muffled by thick stone and years of dust. Moonlight streamed through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the hallway floors.

He wasn’t sure what woke him.

A sound. A memory. A ghost.

The dreams had returned—fragments of screams, of blood, of choices he couldn’t take back. They clung to him like fog, cold and choking, and when he sat upright in bed, his chest ached with the weight of things unsaid.

He didn’t scream. He never did.

He just… broke, silently.

Like he always had.

You were awake when he found you.

In the tiny corner of the library you often claimed after curfew—wrapped in a blanket, knees drawn to your chest, a half-empty cup of tea forgotten at your side.

You didn’t look surprised to see him.

You didn’t ask why he was there.

Just shifted wordlessly, making room beside you on the bench.

Severus stood frozen for a moment, breath still uneven, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The part of him that wanted to walk away—the old voice, sharp and bitter and defensive—was screaming.

But you didn’t speak.

You just… waited.

Like you always had.

So he sat.

The bench was narrow, and your sides pressed together, shoulder to thigh. You didn’t pull away.

And when his hands began to tremble—just barely—you reached out and laced your fingers with his.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You didn’t say it’s okay or you’re safe. You didn’t ask questions or offer pity.

You simply leaned your head against his shoulder and held on.

As if he was worth holding.

As if you’d do it again.

And again.

And again.

His breath hitched once—just once—and then he exhaled. Slowly. Raggedly.

Then, hesitantly, he leaned into you.

Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

Enough that you could feel the way he clung—not with arms, but with need.

You stayed that way for a long time. Long enough for the nightmare to fade. Long enough for his pulse to settle.

Long enough for him to begin to believe—maybe—that this could be something holy.

That you were something holy.

And he had found sanctuary.

 

Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

 

The next days that followed were almost like a blur.

He didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The weight of your hand against his—gentle, calm, human—shouldn’t have left such a mark. But now he noticed everything. The shape of your presence. The way you moved, quiet and certain. The warmth of your body when you sat beside him, the scent of vanilla in your hair.

And the worst part—the best part—was that you never tried to force closeness. You never chased. You never asked.

You just waited.

Always near. Always open.

And somehow, that was what broke him.

It happened in the corridor.

A group of students had passed you, laughing too loudly, running to dinner. One brushed too close, bumping your shoulder and nearly knocking the books from your arms.

You stumbled slightly.

Before he even realized what he was doing, his hand was on your waist, steadying you.

You looked up.

And something in his chest cracked wide open.

Because your face was close—too close. And you were looking at him like you knew. Like you had always known. And you didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

His fingers lingered. Your breath hitched.

Then slowly, your hand came up, brushing against the back of his.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t grand.

But it was enough to make his heart slam against his ribs.

Enough to shatter him.

That night, he sat in his quarters with a half-full cup of tea growing cold in his hand.

He stared into the fire, but all he could see was you.

The look in your eyes. The way your fingers had brushed his, like a whisper meant only for him. Like your touch had been stitched together by every quiet moment you’d shared. Every time you hadn’t walked away.

He pressed his hand to his chest, as if he could hold the memory there—where it might be safe.

And maybe—just maybe—if you touched him again, he wouldn’t turn to dust.

He’d turn into something new.

 

Hopeless hallelujah  On this side of Heaven's gate  

He wasn’t sure what drew him to your office that night.

The door was open, as it often was in the late evenings. A soft candle glowed on your desk, casting long shadows over the walls. The fire flickered low, and the room smelled faintly of dried herbs and vanilla.

You were seated in your usual chair, legs tucked beneath you, a book resting on one thigh. You didn’t startle when he stepped in. You didn’t speak.

You simply lifted your eyes… and waited.

That was what undid him.

He stepped inside, slow and unsure, as if each step might break him. He didn’t know what he meant to say—not really. Only that something inside him ached, and it had nowhere else to go.

You closed the book without a sound and patted the armchair across from you.

He sat.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked. A clock ticked somewhere beyond the bookshelf.

Then quietly—like it cost him something—he said:

“I am the reason she is dead.”

The words fell like ash between you.

Still, you said nothing. Didn’t ask who. Didn’t press. You only looked at him—really looked—and waited.

“And when I became a spy I told myself it was for the greater good. That it was war. That I was playing a role.” He swallowed, jaw tight. “But I...After Dumbledore...”

His hands were clenched in his lap, pale and trembling.

“I’ve spent every moment since trying to earn back something I never had the right to claim.”

He didn’t cry. He never did.

But the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with breath, with the unsaid, with the ache of truth finally spoken.

And then—then—you moved.

Not with words. Not with platitudes.

Just quietly rose, stepped around the desk, and sat on the floor in front of him. You reached for his hands. Took them gently, as if you were holding something sacred.

He didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

“It's not about what you chose,” you whispered. “It's about what you carried. And how you kept walking despite believing you are not worthy of it. That's what I care about. Why I care so deeply about you.”

His breath caught.

You didn’t kiss him. Didn’t lean forward.

You just held his hands and let him breathe.

And in that quiet, something in him settled.

Not forgiven.

Not erased.

But… held.

Later, you would fall asleep in the armchair beside him, knees drawn up, your head tipped against the cushion.

He watched you in the firelight, and for the first time in years, Severus Snape looked at someone and thought:

Maybe I won’t be alone forever.

Oh, my life, how do ya Breathe and take my breath away?

 

You were laughing.

Not loud, not wild—just the quiet, breathless kind that slipped past your lips like wind through trees. It happened while you were walking with a group of third-years through the courtyard, one of them animatedly retelling a story that was clearly exaggerated, complete with wild hand gestures and dramatic sighs.

And you were laughing.

Severus hadn’t meant to watch. He’d only been walking past the upper hallway window, heading toward his classroom, tea cooling in his hand. But he stopped.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to see.

Your head was tilted back slightly, eyes warm, lips parted. Your hand was pressed gently over your chest, like you were trying to contain the feeling and couldn’t. The students around you smiled too—at you, not just with you.

And Severus Snape, who had spent years trying to quiet his own heartbeat, suddenly forgot how to breathe.

Later, in the staff room, he sat beside you as always. You didn’t speak much. He liked it that way. But this time, you noticed his eyes lingering.

He didn’t look away fast enough.

“What?” you asked, quiet and amused, setting your book aside.

His mouth opened—and then closed again. He shook his head.

You tilted yours slightly, a soft smile curving at the corner of your mouth.

“You look like someone who’s about to say something,” you teased gently.

“I don’t… often watch people,” he said, more honest than he meant to be. “But you—” He paused, throat tight. “You make it difficult not to.”

You blinked once.

Then twice.

And instead of laughing or brushing it off, you reached out and nudged the edge of his tea mug with your finger—lightly, almost absently.

“I like being watched by you. You have so much warmth in your eyes” you murmured, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it. “It makes me feel safe.”

And just like that—without moving, without touching, without anything but that one, quiet truth—

Severus forgot how to breathe again.

You returned to your book as if nothing had been said. But your foot bumped gently against his under the table, and when he didn’t pull away, you left it there.

And for the rest of the afternoon, the silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat.

At your altar, I will pray You're the sculptor, I'm the clay

 

It was nearly midnight.

The halls were empty, the world wrapped in stillness. Severus stood outside your office door, unmoving, hand poised to knock—and yet he didn’t.

The door was slightly ajar. The soft glow of candlelight spilled into the hallway like a silent invitation.

He didn’t knock.

He stepped inside.

You were curled on the couch, a blanket around your shoulders, bare feet tucked beneath you. A book lay closed on the cushion beside you, your gaze already lifted toward him.

You didn’t look startled.

Only expectant.

Only calm.

He closed the door behind him. The latch clicked, loud in the quiet.

You sat up slightly, your blanket slipping down to your elbows.

He didn’t know where to start.

So you waited. Of course you did.

“You’ve…” He paused, jaw clenching. “You’ve changed something in me.”

A soft hum in your throat. You didn’t interrupt.

He took a breath.

“I’ve spent most of my life… folding myself into corners. Into shadows. And even after the war, when the world stopped needing me to vanish—I still did. Until you.”

Your brows furrowed faintly.

“You don’t ask me to be anything,” he continued, voice low, rough. “You don’t expect… apologies. Confessions. Explanations.”

Your lips parted, but you still didn’t speak.

“You see me,” he said. “And for some reason… that doesn’t terrify me anymore.”

You moved then—slowly, carefully—as if not to startle him. Your hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve. A touch that asked permission, not possession.

He didn’t flinch.

“I see you,” you said softly, “because I want to. And I stay because you let me.”

His heart was pounding—too loud in his chest, in his ears, in the spaces between you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you replied, your thumb now brushing the inside of his wrist. “You just have to be.”

Silence.

A breath.

Then his hand lifted—tentative, trembling—and he cupped your cheek.

You leaned into it. Without hesitation. Without fear.

And when he bent his head toward you, when his lips met yours for the first time, it was not a claiming.

It was a prayer.

Soft. Trembling. Sacred.

The kind that didn’t ask for answers.

Only peace.

Only presence.

Only you.

And when you pulled apart, your forehead resting against his, he whispered:

“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted to worship.”

 

Oh my, my You're takin' me out of the ordinary I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried

 

The world didn’t shift.

There were no fireworks. No triumphant orchestral swell.

But when you opened your doorOnly two days later and found him standing there—wet from rain, hair clinging to his cheeks, eyes dark with something deeper than longing—you didn’t need anything else.

You stepped aside. Let him in. Closed the door behind you.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you. Like he was memorizing your face all over again.

Like this moment was the one he’d return to if everything else fell apart.

And then he moved—slowly, reverently—and kissed you again.

Not soft, not this time.

This kiss held weight. Want. Worship.

It was a promise sealed with breath.

You held onto him like you’d always meant to—fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, grounding him.

He touched you like you were something he wasn’t sure he deserved but refused to let go of now that he had you. His hands found your waist, your back, the curve of your neck. Everything sacred. Everything yours.

And when you moved to the bedroom—fingers trembling, hearts racing—there was no rush.

Just time.

Time to feel.

Time to stay.

Time to let himself be loved without fear of it slipping through his fingers.

Later, the rain still whispered against the windows, but inside… there was only quiet.

You lay beside him, one hand against his chest, your breath steady.

And Severus stared at the ceiling like he’d never seen it before.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispered, the words foreign on his tongue.

You shifted, kissed his jaw gently.

“It’s real,” you murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He turned then—propped on one elbow, eyes locked to yours.

“If this is what forever feels like,” he said, voice low and hoarse, “I want it. All of it. With you.”

No hesitation.

No fear.

Only you.

Only always.

 

On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

 

Severus had never known quiet like this.

Not the kind filled with solitude, or grief, or shadow—but a silence that wrapped itself around his bones like warmth. Like safety. Like belonging.

You lay across his chest, one hand drawing lazy patterns over his ribs, breath steady. The fire across the room crackled softly, casting gold over your skin. And he… watched.

He couldn’t help it.

There was something in the way you existed when you thought he wasn’t watching. The way your lips parted slightly when you were sleepy. The way you hummed when you were content. The way your fingers always sought out skin—even in sleep.

You were a thousand quiet moments that stitched themselves into his soul.

And he was utterly drunk on you.

You didn’t speak much that day.

You didn’t need to.

You moved through the castle together in perfect rhythm—his coat brushing yours as you walked, hands grazing but not always holding, glances shared like secrets.

You made tea. He reached around you to grab mugs. Your bodies touched in the smallest ways—in the kitchen, on the couch, beside the window—and every time it happened, it lit something in him that made it hard to breathe.

That night, you read by the fire. He sat beside you, his hand resting on your knee, fingers idle.

You looked up at him, catching him mid-thought.

“What?” you whispered, voice dipped in candlelight.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned forward—resting his forehead against yours.

“You’ve undone me,” he murmured.

You smiled gently. “Good.”

And then—so softly he almost missed it—you added:

“I want you like this. Always. Messy. Unfiltered. Yours.”

His breath caught.

And then he kissed you again. Slow. Deep.

Like a man starved for something only you could give.

And when he pulled back, eyes still closed, he whispered:

“Thank you.”

 

Somethin' so out (out) of the ordinary (ordinary) You got me kissin' the ground (ground) of your sanctuary (sanctuary)

 

It was a letter that came nearly a year later.

Severus had returned from a late afternoon class, shoulders tight with tension, robes damp from the rain that had rolled in out of nowhere. The castle was dim, lit only by wall sconces and the dusky blue-grey of early evening.

He didn’t expect to find you waiting in his quarters.

You were seated on the edge of the armchair, hands folded, face calm—but there was something about your stillness that made him pause in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

You looked up at him—steady, quiet.

“There’s been an inquiry,” you said softly. “About you.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. He stiffened. Cold.

“Who—?”

“I don’t know. An outside board. Political. It sounds like someone wants to dig up the past again.” Your voice was careful. Gentle. “But I took care of it.”

He blinked.

“What do you mean, you took care of it?”

You stood, walking slowly toward him. Not defensive. Not triumphant. Just… open.

“I gave a written statement,” you said. “Told them what you’ve done since the war. What you’ve been to this school. To the students. To me.”

He stared at you.

“You gave them your name?” he asked, breath caught between fury and fear.

“I gave them my truth, Severus,” you said, gently but firmly. “I told them you saved more than lives during the war. You’ve saved hearts after it.”

You reached for his hand. Took it. Pressed it between both of yours.

“I didn’t do it to protect you,” you said. “You don’t need protecting.”

His throat was tight. His pulse unsteady.

“I did it because I love you. And I’ll tell the whole bloody world if that’s what it takes.”

He didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

He just looked at you—at the softness of you, the strength, the choice you made so willingly.

And then, slowly, he dropped to his knees.

Not in shame.

Not in weakness.

But in reverence.

You gasped softly, reaching for him—but he just wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his head against your stomach. Holding on.

And for the first time, he let it show. All of it. The fear. The awe. The love.

Your arms wrapped around him.

Held him like he was something worth holding.

And in that moment, Severus Snape loved you not in silence. Not in shadow.

But in full, aching surrender.

His sanctuary.

His everything.

 

Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

 

The fire was low.

Not crackling—just glowing. Like a heart still beating after a long, aching day.

You reached for him first this time.

Your fingers brushing the side of his neck, tracing the line of his jaw, resting over the pulse that fluttered just beneath his skin.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because when he looked at you now, it wasn’t with hunger or hesitation.

It was with reverence.

And when he kissed you, it was slow. So slow.

Not because he was unsure—but because he wanted to remember everything. The taste of your breath. The tremble of your fingers. The way you exhaled like he was something holy.

You undressed him gently.

Not like you were removing armor.

Like you were freeing him.

And he let you.

Let you trace the scars. The old ones. The new ones. The ones no one else had ever dared to touch.

And when you kissed the curve of his shoulder, the hollow beneath his collarbone, the place just over his heart—

He broke.

No sound. No cry.

Just the slow, shattering realization that he had never, in all his years, been touched like this.

Like he was cherished.

Your bodies moved together in silence. No demands. No desperation.

Only a rhythm that felt like breath.

Like life.

Like home.

You held his face as he trembled above you. Whispered his name like a prayer.

And when he buried his face into your neck, gasping, lost, found—you wrapped your arms around him like a vow.

“I love you,” you whispered.

No question. No hesitation.

And for once… he believed it.

For once… he let it in.

Afterward, you lay tangled in sheets and each other, skin to skin, soul to soul.

He was quiet. But not the haunted quiet.

The kind that comes after a storm when the world is washed clean.

Your fingers ran through his hair, slow and steady.

And when he finally spoke, it was a whisper:

“Whatever is left of me… it’s yours. I love you”

 

Somethin' so heavenly, higher than ecstasy Whenever you're next to me, oh my, my

 

Sunlight filtered through the window, warm and golden and impossibly kind.

It bathed the room in soft light, catching on the folds of the blanket pulled halfway down your back, the way your hair spilled across the pillow, the curve of your shoulder beneath his arm.

Severus had never lingered like this before.

This was something else entirely.

He was still here.

And so were you.

You stirred slowly, as though waking up in a dream, and blinked up at him with sleepy eyes and the faintest smile.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice rough with sleep.

He could have sworn his heart ached at the sound.

“Is it?” he murmured.

You stretched, your foot brushing against his beneath the covers.

“It is now.”

You didn’t leave bed for hours.

You stole the blanket. He grumbled and stole it back. You laughed—really laughed—and he couldn't stop staring. Your laughter wasn’t loud or wild. It was soft, breathy, like honey and fresh air.

“You’re staring again,” you teased, cheeks pink, hair a perfect storm.

“I’m allowed,” he said. “You’re mine.”

You blinked at that—slow, stunned—and then reached for his hand under the sheets, lacing your fingers.

“I’ve been yours since the first time you screamed at me with silence.”

He huffed. “Romantic.”

“The most.”

Later, when you finally dragged yourselves into the kitchen, you made food while he leaned against the doorframe watching you. Hair messy. His shirt on still half-buttoned. Eyes filled with warmth.

You looked like forever.

And when you turned to ask him what tea he wanted, he caught your wrist and pulled you into him.

Kissed your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then your mouth—slow and warm and impossibly whole.

You smiled against his lips.

“Hi.”

He breathed out a laugh. “Hi.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Severus Snape wasn’t waiting for the moment to end.

Because this—this—was heaven.

 

World was in black and white until I saw your light I thought you had to die to find

 

He watched you from the window.

You were sitting in the courtyard, surrounded by late-blooming flowers and golden leaves. A stack of parchment was balanced on your knees, quill tapping absently at your chin. The sun caught in your hair, weaving through it like firelight.

And for the first time in his life, Severus Snape thought the world looked alive.

Not sharp. Not grey. Not something to survive.

Just… beautiful.

He remembered a time when everything had felt faded. Like the world had lost its magic and the silence in his chest was just the cost of breathing.

He had lived like that for years—ghost-walking through corridors, sipping bitter tea, speaking only when spoken to. Not quite dead, not quite living. A relic of a war no one wanted to talk about.

And then you came.

With your soft voice. Your presence. Your infuriating patience.

You never asked him to smile. Never asked him to speak. You just stayed.

And that was how you saved him.

Not with spells.

Not with speeches.

Just by being there.

He found you later in the staff room. Your chair by the fire, legs curled up, a blanket around your shoulders. A mug of tea sat untouched on the table beside you, steam long since faded.

You looked up when he entered.

Smiled.

And something inside him just… broke open.

He crossed the room slowly. Sat beside you. Took your hand in his without a word.

“You alright?” you asked softly, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.

He nodded once.

And then whispered, “The world used to be...cold.”

You looked at him, head tilted gently. Waiting.

“And then you came,” he said. “And everything… changed.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Slow. Lingering.

He closed his eyes.

And in that moment, he knew—

He hadn’t had to die to find peace.

He just had to find you.

 

Somethin' so out of the ordinary  I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried  On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine  The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

 

It was late.

The stars hung low in the sky, like someone had pulled them closer just for the two of you.

You were sitting on the Astronomy Tower—blankets beneath you, shoulders pressed close, a flask of tea passed back and forth. The castle below was quiet, breathing in the night like a lullaby.

You were tracing constellations in the sky, naming them lazily.

He wasn't really listening.

He was looking at you.

And thinking about how you’d made a home out of him.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked suddenly, voice barely more than breath.

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But I believe more in… choices.”

He nodded.

Then, slowly, reached into his pocket.

You didn’t notice at first—not until he gently took your hand and pressed something small and warm into your palm.

A ring.

Simple. Silver. Understated.

Just like him.

You looked down at it, then up at him—eyes wide, breath caught.

“No kneeling,” he said, quiet. “No speeches. Just this.”

He turned your hand over and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

“I want to grow old with you,” he whispered. “I want to share silences and storms and whatever else this life has left to give. I want you… until we’re dead and buried.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t need to.

You just leaned forward and kissed him.

Not urgently.

Not dramatically.

Just like someone saying yes with their whole heart.

And when you finally pulled apart, you slid the ring onto your own finger and whispered:

“Forever’s always been yours.”

He let out a breath like a man exhaling every weight he’d ever carried.

And the stars above you pulsed just a little brighter.

As if they were cheering.

 

Somethin' so out (out) of the ordinary (ordinary)  You got me kissin' the ground (ground) of your sanctuary (sanctuary)

 

The music was soft.

Vinyl cracked gently in the background, old jazz filling the cottage with warmth. The fire was low, casting amber flickers across the walls. Outside, snow kissed the garden, blanketing it in silence.

And inside, Severus held you in his arms.

You weren’t dancing the way you used to—no grand spins, no rhythm. Just slow steps. Rocking gently in the center of the living room. Your cheek resting against his chest, his hand warm against your back.

You sighed. Not tired. Just content.

He kissed your temple.

“You’re still my favorite silence,” he murmured.

You smiled against his chest.

“And you’re still my safest place.”

Your home was small, tucked into the woods beyond Hogsmeade. A little crooked. A little drafty.

But it was yours.

Photos lined the mantle—of you, of old students who still wrote letters, of gardens that had bloomed and quiet winters you’d weathered.

Severus never thought he’d see this version of his life.

He thought he’d burn out. Be forgotten. Fade like a ghost in some forgotten hall.

But here he was.

Older. Softer. Held.

And still—always—yours.

You looked up at him as the song slowed.

Lines around your eyes, silver in your hair, your ring catching the firelight.

And he thought—I have never loved anything this way. Not even once. Not even close.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

He smiled—really smiled.

“Of course I am. You're mine.”

You leaned up, kissed his jaw.

And you kept dancing.

Not toward an ending.

But into everything you'd built.

Everything you'd become.

Two ordinary souls.

With an extraordinary love.

 

Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

[liv2post]

Just saying, if you're a Snape blog and have AI pictures of Snape posted, you're either getting blocked or I will never click your blog. AI is not only horrifically brutal to the environment but using the image Alan Rickman - a deceased man - for softcore porn is nasty and disrespectful.

[liv2post]

Those of you who have been following me for a while know I’ve been struggling in the apartment where I live. Unfortunately, things have gotten worse. Today, my landlady came to my door and reminded me that rent is due tomorrow. She said she’ll kick me out if I don’t pay. I know these are empty threats we have a contract but her aggressive attitude and constant pressure are seriously affecting my health and throwing me into a state of panic.

So I’m setting a new goal on Ko-fi, and I really hope this will be the last time I need to ask for help. This time, it’s to move out. I know moving is expensive and I’ll need to pay an upfront amount, but my health won’t let me spend another month here suffering harassment.

As many of you know, my commissions are only $30. If you enjoy my work and would like to help either by donating or sharing I’d be incredibly grateful. Thank you so much to everyone who supports me, comments, and likes my art. I’m leaving all the links here again. Thank you, and I’m really sorry for having to post this.

my paypal : catitoart@outlook.com

I made a goal on Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/catiitoart

[liv2post]

Him in eyeshadow will be the absolute death of me

Rasputin 1996

[liv2post]

I hope you still take a request, because i have one. 😁

Severus x fem reader. They've been together for a while, Severus never undressed in front of her because he was embarrassed. One time she accidentally walked into his bathroom when he was undressed and saw all his scars. From his father, from the Death Eaters and she saw his dark mark. At that moment, she realized how he must have suffered everything and how much he deserve to be loved.

Hey!

I still do take requests.

I have been just putting them off a little since I started to work on my new story but now that I am taking a small break from it to clear my brain I am back to writing the Requests.

Here here it is I hope you all enjoy!

Underneath Your Skin

You arrived at Hogwarts with ink on your fingers and the scent of parchment clinging to your clothes. The library had always been a kind of home for you, and now it was—at least in the hours between breakfast and curfew. Madam Pince had finally retired or self-exiled to a remote, book-protected cottage, as one student whispered, and you were her replacement.

It wasn’t an easy post—not with students who treated books like tissue paper and a castle that sometimes shuffled its own shelves out of spite. But you handled it with grace. Quiet firmness. A gentle hand.

He noticed you almost immediately.

You weren’t loud. You didn’t try to be charming. But you spoke to the books like they were people, like you believed they had their own quiet magic, too. And when you smiled, it was soft, not showy. The kind of smile that lingered, like a page you didn’t want to turn just yet.

Severus Snape wasn’t known for his warmth. Or his curiosity about people. But he came into the library more often after your arrival. At first, he claimed to be looking for rare alchemical texts. Then for teaching reference. Eventually, he stopped pretending.

You always had a stack ready for him.

One afternoon, you found him standing in your usual reading nook near the restricted section, thumbing through a worn copy of Ars Poetria in Potion Theory. You approached quietly, holding out a mug of tea.

“I noticed you never finish yours at dinner,” you said.

He looked at it like it might bite him. Then looked at you.

“It’s always cold by the time I remember it,” he said.

“This one’s not,” you offered. “Not yet.”

That was the first time he smiled at you. Barely—a flicker. But it counted.

After that, things shifted.

You spent time together. Not planned, but frequent. Shared hours cataloging books that had magically duplicated themselves. Quiet chats in corners of the library, comparing passages from old texts and rolling your eyes over particularly pompous authors.

He was sharp, sarcastic, occasionally scathing—but never with you. With you, he was... careful.

And when your fingers brushed as you passed him a book, neither of you pulled away.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But it was something. Something soft and slow and growing between the pages.

He left things for you sometimes. A rare pressed flower between the pages of a herbology tome. A handwritten note correcting a detail in one of your catalogs—with an added "You're still more accurate than any of the students." 

And once, a copy of a novel you’d mentioned offhand as a childhood favorite. The inscription inside said nothing more than: Figured it belonged here.

He wasn’t subtle, but he was shy in his own way. Guarded. Careful not to cross lines he assumed were there.

And still, you found yourself watching him too long across the Great Hall. Lingering near his office under the excuse of delivering returned books. Smiling when he offered his arm to walk you back to your quarters after staff meetings, even if he said nothing on the way.

It was like courting without confession. A push-and-pull of two people terrified of naming something already alive.

Then, one evening—when spring had started to warm the halls—he lingered in the library after hours. You didn’t ask why. You were cataloging donations. He joined you. You didn’t speak much, but it was comfortable.

When you finally put down your quill, he cleared his throat. “May I ask you something... personal?”

You nodded, heart suddenly loud in your chest.

“I was wondering,” he said, smoothing the edge of his sleeve with practiced tension, “if you would... like to have dinner. With me. Outside the castle.”

You blinked, then smiled. “You mean a date?”

His jaw tensed. “Yes.”

“I’d love to.”

It was awkward, and lovely.

He picked a quiet place tucked into a wizarding neighborhood you'd never heard of. You both dressed a little too formally. He opened every door. Pulled out your chair. Looked almost painfully uncomfortable until you reached across the table and said, “You know you don’t have to perform, right?”

That made him exhale—like he'd been waiting for permission to relax.

The conversation just happened. Easy, natural. You told him about your childhood obsession with magical fairytales. He told you about an old Potions journal he’d written in as a student that had since vanished—probably devoured by the Room of Requirement. You both laughed more than you expected.

He walked you back through the quiet castle corridors, hand brushing against yours like he wanted to hold it but couldn’t quite bring himself to ask.

When you reached your chambers, you turned to him and waited. He didn’t rush.

“I don’t usually do this,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said.

He paused, then: “May I kiss you?”

You nodded.

And when he did—careful, reverent, like he thought you might vanish—it felt like the end of something old and the start of something you hadn’t dared to hope for.

The relationship didn’t burst into flame. It glowed.

Slowly. Steadily. Night after night, moment after moment, building something that felt... sacred. You spent your free time together—always in quiet spaces, always just the two of you.

He brought you rare books and careful compliments. You brought him tea and silence when he needed it. There was something unspoken between you, but never uncomfortable. Just... waiting.

When he touched you, it was gentle. When he kissed you, it felt like he was learning the shape of your mouth by heart. But there was always a line he wouldn’t cross.

He never undressed in front of you. Ever.

Not a shirt off in the dark. Not even a sleeve rolled past the elbow.

Not even when things got heated.

You didn’t question it at first. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he wanted to take his time. You respected that. You didn’t need him bare to feel how much he cared for you.

But as time went on, it stopped feeling like modesty and started feeling like an unspoken rule.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you—you felt it in the way his hands lingered at your waist, in the way his breath hitched when your lips ghosted over his neck.

But when things began to build—when your hands trying to slip under his shirt, if your hands lingered at buttons, he caught your wrist and he’d kiss you, distract you, pull you under until your mind was blank with want.

To make you forget the question you hadn’t asked out loud.

Weeks passed. Then months.

One night, you tried to push gently. Just a little.

You were in his quarters, tangled in bedsheets, half-dressed and breathing hard. He was kneeling over you, still fully clothed.

His mouth was on your skin, hands steady, touch familiar. You reached for his shirt and undid the first button.

and just like all the times before his hand caught your wrist—soft, but firm. Absolute.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him. “Why not?”

His eyes met yours, and in them was a flash of something that looked like panic—before he dropped his gaze and leaned in to kiss you before moving down your body, using his mouth for distraction instead of answering your question.

But it didn’t go away.

You started to notice the way he always made you feel seen, but never let himself be. The way he touched you with complete devotion, and yet never let you return it. There was love in it. But also a kind of shame.

You didn’t push again.

But a part of you started to ache—not from rejection, but from the sense that he couldn’t believe he was hiding from you.

And that hurt more than anything.

You’d thought about what to say. Rehearsed it, even—quietly, as you walked the familiar corridor toward his chambers. Not to confront, not to demand. Just to talk. To ask him to let you in, really let you in.

You knocked gently, as always, and let yourself in when the door opened with the usual charm keyed to your presence. His rooms were dim but warm, familiar in their quiet scent of herbs and aged parchment.

You stepped in further, brow furrowing. The main room was empty. His armchair, half-drunk tea still steaming faintly. The bedroom door cracked slightly open. Light spilled from under the bathroom door.

“Severus?” you called, voice soft.

Then—a crash.

Glass? Porcelain?

Followed by a sharp, muffled, “Bloody hell—!”

You moved quickly, heart leaping.

“Severus?” you said again, crossing the room. You knocked once on the bathroom door before opening it. “Are you—?”

He stood barefoot on the tile floor, wearing only a pair of dark trousers, torso bare, a shirt clutched in his hand like he’d been about to put it on. His eyes met yours instantly. Wide. Stunned. Terrified.

Scars covered his body like a map of violence—some sharp and surgical, others jagged and brutal, carved long ago and never healed right. Some faded, some angry. Some you couldn’t name. Across his left forearm, the Mark stood dark and unmistakable.

You’d known it was there—of course you had—but knowing was different than seeing.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but no sound came out. Slowly, almost without thinking, you reached out.

He flinches like your hand would burn him alive.

“Don’t—” he rasped, voice shredded. He turned away from you, curling inward slightly, shirt clenched against his chest like a shield. “Don’t look at me.”

You saw the tension in his shoulders. The way he braced for the sound of the door. For your retreat. For confirmation of every terrible thing he believed about himself.

“Severus…”

“Please.” His voice broke on the word. “Just leave.”

“How—No. I can't just leave,” you said, tears stinging your eyes now, voice shaking.

His back rose and fell with shallow, panicked breaths.

“You don’t understand I'm broken,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t have seen this. I didn’t want—you weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

You stepped forward, carefully. “But I would have never judged you. I want y—”

“Stop,” he said, almost begging. “Please, just… go. Don’t make this worse.”

The shame in his voice hit you harder than anything else could have.

“I’m not leaving you,” you said softly, stepping forward.

You reached out again, fingertips brushed the scar at the back of his shoulder, and again he flinched, hard.

“Please, just leave so we can forget this happened,” he said.

You stepped in again, close enough for him to feel your breath and leaned in.

Kissing the scar gently.

He went completely still.

You kiss another—one that ran across the curve of his upper back, just beneath his shoulder blade.

“I will not forget this. I don't want to. You are not broken, and you never need to hide yourself from me,” you whispered.

He let out a rough breath, like it hurt to hear.

“This body,” he muttered, voice low and bitter, “is a record of everything I failed at. Everything I am. My father. The Dark Lord. My choices. It's ugly and this—” He gestured at the Mark. “This is not something you should ever have to look at. Everything about me is unworthy of you.”

You reached down and slowly, gently, traced your hand along his arm. “Severus. I love you. Nothing can change what I see when I look at you.”

“And what is that?” he asked, almost mocking. “What do you see?”

You kissed the base of his neck. “I see someone who chose to protect others despite being treated badly by them.”

Another kiss, just above one of the deeper scars. “Someone who has never been granted kindness but still gives the kindest and most purest form of love in return”

Your hands slowly urged him to turn—he resisted for a moment, and then let you. Let you see all of him.

You kissed a jagged scar near his ribs. “You are not ugly.”

You kissed the Dark Mark. “You are not your past.”

You placed a kiss right over his heart. “And you will never, ever be unworthy of me. It's me who is not worthy of you.”

His breath hitched hard, and his hands hovered at your arms like he didn’t know whether to hold you or push you away.

“How could you say that,” he said, voice shaking.

Your fingers brushed one of the older scars on his side—a long, thin line that looked like it had been made by a curse he never dodged in time.

He tensed slightly, watching you.

You traced it gently. “These scars…aren't just yours.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You looked up at him. “Some of these weren’t from your own mistakes. They are what you took on for other people. For the ones you protected. The burdens you carried so they wouldn’t have to.”

He opened his mouth to object—but nothing came out.

“These marks,” you whispered, “aren’t just wounds. They’re proof of what you’ve endured. Of what you chose to endure. And when I see them, I don’t see failure, Severus. I see someone who stood in front of the fire, again and again, because no one else would. So how could you ever be unworthy?”

His eyes met yours then—wet, wide, full of fear and disbelief. But also something else.

Hope.

And then, finally, he dropped the shirt. Let it fall to the floor like something that didn’t own him anymore.

You stepped into him, wrapped your arms around his bare skin. He clung to you like he didn’t know how to stand otherwise.

He wasn’t crying, not exactly. But his breath trembled, uneven and frayed like fabric pulled too thin. He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stay in his own body. Like being seen was something he wasn’t built for.

You reached up and touched his face. Gently. Just your fingertips to his cheek.

“I'm here,” you whispered.

And he nodded—but just barely. Like even that much agreement cost something.

So you didn’t ask anything of him.

Instead, you stepped back, laced your fingers with his, and guided him—slowly—out of the bathroom. He followed. Silent. Shirtless. Barefoot. Stripped down in every way.

You brought him to the edge of the bed and sat, pulling him down with you. He hesitated. Looked at his own hands like they didn’t belong to him. But then he lowered himself beside you, stiff at first, unsure what to do.

You shifted. Pulling him gently back into your arms, letting his head press against your chest. Let him feel what it was to lean without being left.

Your arms came around him, steady and warm, and slowly—slowly—his body began to soften.

Your lips brushed his forehead.

“You’re safe.”

Another kiss, on his nose. “You’re wanted.”

You pushed him gently, slowly, so he was facing you more. So he could see your eyes, and you could see the way his were fighting to believe you.

You kissed the space over his heart.

“You’re loved.”

His arms came around you then—not hesitant this time, but full. Gripping. Not because he thought you would disappear, but because he finally believed you wouldn’t.

You stayed like that for a long while. No rush. No need to move beyond this. Just holding. Just being held. Letting your hands trace the lines of a body that had never been treated like something to be loved.

Eventually, he leaned his head against yours, breath slowing, fingers loosely tangled in yours.

“You really still want me?” he asked quietly. Not accusatory. Not sarcastic. Just… fragile.

You nodded. “More than ever.”

And for once, he let that truth settle. Let it fill the spaces that shame had hollowed out long ago.

[liv2post]

Does Snape like us? If not (because I have a feeling he is not) but what IF we give him coffee?

Nay. Deranged!

I started that first drawing to participate to this awesome Snapedom appreciation post (reading the reblogs made me so happy) but this ask gave me the kick I needed to finish it! I love ya'll guys~

[liv2post]

In His Own Way

| Pairing: Severus Snape x Prof!Reader

| Summary: Severus isn’t the most affectionate man — but with you, he tries, in his own quiet, awkward, and endearingly grumpy way.

———————————————————————————

You had long since accepted that Severus Snape would never be a hearts-and-flowers kind of man.

He didn’t gush, didn’t swoon, didn’t spout love poems by candlelight (unless you counted the occasional dramatic reading of a particularly scathing student essay — which, to be fair, was very on-brand for him).

But Severus showed his love in other ways.

Small things.

Everyday things.

Things that made your heart ache in the softest, sweetest way.

Like how he always set your mug out in the morning before you woke up — tea brewed perfectly, just the way you liked it, steam curling lazily in the air. He never mentioned it. Never looked for thanks. Just went back to his newspaper and sipped his own tea like it wasn’t the most tender thing you’d ever seen.

Or how he always put his hand on the small of your back when you walked into a room, like he needed to feel you near.

Or how he hexed every chair in the staff lounge to be just slightly less comfortable than the one you always sat in.

(“Coincidence,” he’d said with a straight face. “Poor craftsmanship.”)

But today… something was different.

Today, Severus Snape was trying to be affectionate.

Out loud.

And he was so bad at it.

⸻

It started in the morning when he very stiffly handed you a single chocolate frog.

You blinked. “What’s this for?”

He looked vaguely pained. “It’s… Tuesday.”

“…Okay?”

He cleared his throat, glaring at the fireplace like it had personally offended him.

“I thought you might want one.”

You smiled, trying not to giggle. “I do. Thank you, love.”

He nodded, still tense as a statue. “Good. That’s… settled, then.”

⸻

Then came the second attempt.

You were sitting on the couch, reading, when Severus entered the room, paced three times, then awkwardly hovered above you like a bat without a plan.

“…Yes?” you asked, peeking over your book.

He sniffed. “You look cold.”

“I’m actually—”

He dropped a blanket on your head.

“…thank you.”

⸻

Finally, that night, you were brushing your teeth when he appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, looking uncomfortable.

“…I’ve been trying to be more…” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “…open.”

You spat into the sink and looked at him, amused. “Affectionate?”

He grimaced. “Yes. That.”

You dried your hands and walked over to him, tilting your head. “And how’s that working for you?”

“I hate it.”

You laughed — and before you could say another word, he pulled you into a tight hug.

Not his usual, half-second, cautious kind of hug.

A full one.

Warm. Secure. Both arms wrapped around you, one hand cradling the back of your head.

You froze.

Then melted.

“…You’re getting good at this,” you whispered against his chest.

He hummed. “Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled. “Too late.”

⸻

That night, as you drifted off to sleep with his arm curled around your waist and his hand absentmindedly playing with your fingers, you realized something:

He might not say I love you every hour of the day.

But he showed it — in little things, quiet things, awkward and clumsy and so unmistakably him.

And somehow, that made it even better.

Because it was real.

Because it was his.

Because it was yours.

[liv2post]

A Moment to Breathe

| Pairing: Severus Snape x Prof!Reader

| Summary: Tears, blankets, and zero cuddles—until Severus storms in, scoops her up, and vows vengeance on busy schedules.

—————————————————————————

The castle had never felt so loud in its silence.

The echo of your heels down the corridor, the rustle of parchment on your desk, the dull clang of cutlery in the Great Hall—it all only reminded you of what wasn’t there.

Severus.

It wasn’t a fight. You hadn’t argued. There were no bitter words or stinging silences. Just… nothing. A quiet absence that had stretched out over the past week, slowly growing heavier with each passing day.

He was busy, of course. Between brewing for the Hospital Wing, supervising NEWT-level apprenticeships, and his usual, soul-draining pile of responsibilities, he barely had time to breathe. You understood. You always understood.

That’s why you hadn’t complained.

At first, you even told yourself you didn’t care. That it was normal. That you had papers to mark, students to manage, and faculty meetings to attend. You saw him in passing—a dark figure gliding down the hall or standing at the Head Table. He’d give you a nod. A glance. A fleeting smirk if he wasn’t too tired.

But no touch. No words. No warmth.

By the fifth day, you stopped trying to cross paths altogether.

And by the seventh, your walls began to crumble.

You sat curled on the sofa in your chambers, a thick blanket draped over your shoulders. A half-finished glass of tea sat on the coffee table, now cold. Your wand flickered idly, stirring the fire, but even the flames felt hollow tonight.

You hated this. The stupid ache in your chest, the stupid sting in your eyes. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just… life.

And yet.

The tears fell anyway.

You didn’t even sob—just silent, trembling drops that ran down your cheeks as you buried your face in your sleeves. You missed him. His scent. His dry humor. The way his fingers ghosted over your wrist just before he kissed it. The way he always noticed when something was wrong, even if you didn’t say a word.

You didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the soft, measured steps. Or the quiet intake of breath as a tall figure paused in your doorway, staring at the small, trembling shape on the couch.

“…Y/N.”

You froze.

Your heart skipped, and you turned your head slightly, your breath catching in your throat as you looked up into his face.

Severus stood there, in his black robes, hair damp from the misty night air. His expression flickered—shock, guilt, and something impossibly tender all at once.

“…Severus,” you whispered, blinking quickly and wiping your sleeve across your cheeks. “What are you doing here? I thought you— I mean, you were busy—”

He crossed the room in three long strides.

You didn’t even have time to sit up properly before his arms were around you, pulling you into his chest. He sank onto the couch beside you, cradling you like you were something breakable. Like he’d been afraid you might disappear.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough, low, shaking. “I didn’t realize how long it had been. I should’ve come sooner.”

You pressed your face against his shoulder, fingers gripping the folds of his robes. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered, though your voice cracked. “I just… I missed you, that’s all.”

His hand moved slowly up and down your back. “I missed you too. More than you know.”

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the fire flickering softly beside you. The silence now was a comfort, not a void.

Eventually, Severus shifted, just enough to lean back and pull you with him, so you were draped across his lap, your head resting on his chest.

“I should resign from half my duties,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Turn my classroom into a swamp, so Minerva bans me from teaching. Then I can stay here with you.”

You chuckled softly, your fingers playing with a strand of his hair. “You’d hate that in two days. Maybe three.”

“True,” he agreed. “But I could at least negotiate better hours.”

“You, negotiating? That sounds like another fight with Minerva.”

“I’ll take on three Gryffindors for every hour I get with you.”

Your heart gave a warm, painful squeeze at that.

“I don’t need all your time,” you said quietly. “I just need a moment. Just… one where we can breathe together.”

He looked down at you then, dark eyes filled with regret and something softer—something deeper.

“Then take all of mine tonight.”

You kissed him—just a soft press of lips against his collarbone—and curled deeper into his embrace. His arms tightened around you like a promise, like an apology, like every word he didn’t know how to say.

That night, the fire burned low and the castle was silent again—but it was different now. No longer empty.

Just peaceful.

[liv2post]

Title: Ashes and Violets

Setting: Post-war Hogwarts, years after Voldemort's fall

You: A Ravenclaw alumna, now the new professor of Magical Theory and Enchantment

Severus: Survived the war, now reluctantly returned to Hogwarts after being cleared and healed—still bitter, closed off, and emotionally guarded

---

Part 1: A Name on the Door

The soft echo of your heels against the stone corridor carried lightly through the empty hall. It felt surreal, this familiar chill in the air, the flickering torchlight, the scent of old parchment and cold stone—Hogwarts, unchanged by time.

Your fingers lingered over the plaque by the door:

Professor [Your Last Name] – Magical Theory and Enchantment

You allowed yourself a small, quiet smile. You’d left this castle as a girl with dreams buried beneath books and unspoken longings—and returned as a woman who had grown into her silence and strength.

As you stepped inside your office, there was a knock—sharp, impatient, and terribly familiar.

You opened the door.

And there he stood.

Severus Snape.

Older, yes. Pale, tired, gaunt. But still him. Still that sweeping black cloak, those storm-dark eyes that once searched the floor when he spoke to you—never quite meeting yours for too long.

“Professor,” he said flatly, the corners of his mouth tight.

Your breath caught, not from surprise—but from memory.

“…Severus.”

The silence between you stretched like a held breath. You studied him—his expression closed, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“I wasn’t aware you’d taken up a post,” you said softly.

“I wasn’t aware you’d returned,” he replied.

It was a strange moment—two people who once sat side by side in the library, quietly exchanging thoughts and tea, now standing as distant echoes of their former selves.

He gave a curt nod. “I’ll be overseeing Potions again.”

You swallowed. “I’m glad you’re well.”

“I’m… not,” he answered simply.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You exhaled, heart pounding, memories stirring like dust in the air. The boy you once loved still lived inside this bitter man—and maybe, just maybe, he remembered you too.

---

You hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone so soon.

But on the second morning of the term, there he was—across the staff table, eyes fixed forward, arms folded. He hadn’t touched his tea. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

You sipped yours slowly, pretending not to glance at him. Pretending your heartbeat wasn’t tapping a rhythm of old memories in your chest.

He used to drink his tea strong, no sugar. You always added two cubes and offered him one, even when he declined.

“Settling in, Professor [Your Last Name]?” McGonagall asked, her tone kind.

You nodded with a soft smile. “It’s strange how familiar everything feels.”

“Like we never left,” Flitwick chimed in.

“Some of us never did,” Snape muttered.

You stiffened slightly, but you didn’t look at him. Not yet.

Later, after classes, you found yourself wandering. The dungeons hadn’t changed—cold air and the scent of wet stone wrapped around you like a shiver.

You hadn’t meant to stop outside the Potions classroom, but your feet had taken you there.

The door was open just a crack.

You saw him hunched over a cauldron, sleeves rolled up, precise hands stirring. His expression was focused, but there was tension in his jaw—like he was battling something internal, always.

You used to sit beside him, long ago. He would whisper instructions, sharp but never cruel. And in the quiet, you’d steal glances at his hands.

You knocked softly. “Severus?”

He looked up, startled—but his face quickly returned to its unreadable mask.

“…Yes?”

“I just—” You hesitated, then stepped inside. “I wanted to see how your first day went.”

He stared at you like you'd just spoken in Parseltongue.

“You're here to ask how my day was?” His tone held no mockery, only disbelief.

“Yes,” you said gently. “We used to ask each other that all the time.”

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he turned back to the cauldron, stirring once more. Silence hung thick between you.

Finally, he spoke—quietly, almost grudgingly. “It was fine.”

You nodded and walked closer, peering into the bubbling potion. “Calming Draught?”

“Yes.”

“May I?” You picked up a nearby spoon.

He didn’t stop you.

You stirred it slowly, clockwise, the way he taught you years ago. “You always said I was a disaster at Potions.”

“You were,” he said, but something tugged at the corner of his lips. “You improved.”

You dared to glance at him.

He was watching you. Really watching you.

“I missed this,” you whispered. “Not just the castle. Us.”

Something shifted in his eyes—pain, maybe. Regret.

He looked away.

“Things change,” he said. “People change.”

You placed the spoon down gently. “Some feelings don’t.”

He froze.

And then, coldly: “Don’t romanticize the past, [Your Name]. You were always too sentimental.”

He turned his back to you, shoulders rigid.

You waited a beat. Your chest ached.

But you left without another word.

---

Days passed. Weeks. And though the castle buzzed with the laughter of students and the rhythm of routine, something inside you refused to settle.

You passed each other often—quiet nods, brief glances, the occasional accidental brush of shoulders in the corridor. Always formal. Always cold.

But beneath the surface… something stirred. Old things. Soft things. Things unsaid.

One evening, you sat by the fire in your quarters, grading parchments that blurred together in your vision. The quill slipped from your fingers. Your mind was not on assignments—it was on him.

Severus Snape.

Your dearest friend, once.

Your first love.

The boy with the weary soul and brilliant mind who never let you in—never fully—but who somehow always felt like home.

You remembered the way he used to sit with you beneath the elm tree by the lake, a book in hand, silence stretching comfortably between you.

You remembered how you almost told him—once.

It was after Lily’s final rejection. He was broken, trembling with shame and loss, and you had sat beside him, your hand brushing his. You wanted to tell him you were here, you saw him, you loved him.

But you didn’t.

You never did.

And now?

Now he was colder. Harder. Wounded in ways no spell could heal.

But you still saw the flickers—when he offered a rare, sarcastic comment in the staff room; when he handed you a forgotten book from the library with a mumbled “I remembered you liked this.”

You saw him.

And you wondered if, maybe, somewhere beneath the ashes, he still saw you too.

---

A storm broke over the castle one night—wild winds and flashing skies.

You were walking back from the Astronomy Tower when you slipped on the stairs. Pain shot through your ankle and you winced, clutching the railing.

“Brilliant,” you muttered.

“Are you incapable of not injuring yourself when it rains?”

You looked up sharply.

Severus stood there, cloak billowing slightly, eyes narrowed.

You blinked. “How—”

“You always walked this way after your Thursday stargazing.” He stepped closer. “I remembered.”

You stared at him, heart lurching.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he crouched and examined your ankle, his long fingers brushing lightly across the skin.

“It’s twisted,” he muttered. “You’ll need a stabilizing charm.”

He cast it quickly. His magic felt warm, steady, familiar.

He helped you up. You staggered slightly, and his arm caught your waist—firm, close.

Your breath hitched. He froze.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He said nothing. But he didn’t let go.

And for a moment, just a heartbeat—your eyes met.

All the years, the words unsaid, the aching tension between you—it crackled in the air.

But then, just as quickly, he stepped back.

“You should be more careful,” he said curtly. “Good night.”

And he vanished into the storm.

You stood alone on the stairs, heart racing.

The ghost of his touch lingered on your skin.

[liv2post]

Hello hello! I really really love your work and talent with all my being! You have helped me through these hectic weeks in my work and believe me you made me smile and laugh :) Could I ask for a request? If you like of course, don't worry if you cannot.

Reader has been in love with Professor Severus Snape since her 5th year (or any year you decide) , but of course because of their status and age (10 years of difference max) she never tells him so she writes a diary about him. Now, she teaches in Hogwarts (you can choose the subject) and has never stopped loving him (and the diary continues) but treats with respect and kindness...one day she forgets the diary and he finds it and, of course read it...fluff fluff please 🫣

(Could the reader be his first and only love please? Sorry I am being such a romantic 😥)

Thank you so much!❤️

I am glad that my writing has brought you joy and I hope that it will be less stressful for you.😘❤️

Of course I can do that for you!

I hope this will bring you just as much joy as all the other stories.

Ink Stained Secrets

The office was cold.

Not because of the dungeons, though they certainly didn’t help—but because it didn’t feel like his yet. The shelves were still too empty. The desk too polished. The walls too bare.

He had returned to Hogwarts not as a student this time, but as a professor.

The offer had come unexpectedly. A last-minute resignation. A quiet note from Dumbledore. An understanding that he was... available. And brilliant.

“Professor Snape,” the Headmaster had said with a smile. “It suits you.”

He wasn’t so sure.

The students didn’t fear him yet. That would come later.

Right now, they whispered when he walked past. Stared at him like they couldn’t decide if he was still one of them. Some still knew his name. They remembered the rumors.

He kept his tone clipped, his robes immaculate, his expression unreadable. It was armor he wore well. He put Students into their place with such an authority that even the seventh years shut up the second he walked into the room.

The fifth years were the worst. Old enough to question his authority but still young enough to not do it out loud.

Students would come to class silently and leave as fast as possible once it was over. They started to fear his strict teaching and his coldness he always brought with him.

But under all those students one wouldn't quite wrap his head around.

He noticed you early on. Not because you were loud or disobedient—but because you were precise, focused and strangely unafraid of him.

Severus would catch you watching him closely almost like you were trying to understand something no one else saw.

He wasn’t foolish. He knew what it looked like, knew what a too-long gaze or a soft-spoken compliment might be misread as, especially him still being young and closer to the students ages than the other Professors.

So he carried on like every other day.

--

The dungeons are quieter after hours.

Most students bolt the moment class ends, eager to escape the chill and the lingering smell of crushed root and scorched cauldron. But you’ve always stayed a little longer. You tell yourself it’s to perfect your technique. To clean your station just right. To ask one more question, even if you already know the answer.

Professor Snape never sends you away.

He never says much at all, really. Sometimes he’ll offer a curt nod when you hand him a particularly well-brewed vial. Other times, he lingers at his desk while you pack up, eyes flicking briefly in your direction—but never long enough to feel like permission.

Today, your potion was perfect. Even he said so.

“Efficient,” he muttered when he passed your table, barely glancing at the pale violet swirl in your vial. “Clean execution.”

It wasn’t much.

But from him? It was everything.

Now you’re curled into your usual corner of the library—a hidden spot behind the stacks, where a small stone window lets in just enough moonlight to see by. Your school bag sits beside you. In your lap: your diary.

The cover is worn from your hands, the spine already soft from nightly use. You open to a fresh page and press your quill to it.

October 19th Professor Snape said my potion was efficient today. He didn’t frown. He didn’t sigh. He just said it and walked away like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was… more than I expected. More than I probably deserved. I think I admire him. Not just for his knowledge—though he’s brilliant—but for the way he carries himself. How he never bends for anyone. How he sees everything, even if he pretends not to. I think there’s something lonely in him. Something he doesn’t show the students. I don’t know why I notice it. I just do. He’s not kind. Not gentle. But… I think there’s a softness in him anyway. Somewhere. I saw it today. Just for a moment.

You stop writing, suddenly self-conscious.

It’s just a diary. Just ink. No one will ever read it. It doesn’t matter.

But still, you press your palm to the page, as if to seal the words in place. As if naming them out loud would make them too real.

He’s your professor, you shouldn't think of him like that despite him being only older by 6 years but already, you know: this feeling won’t fade easily.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

Falling for him is slow—like water slipping between cracks in stone. Quiet. Patient. Unstoppable.

At first, you really just admire him. His knowledge. His precision. The way his lectures never waste a single word. You start staying after class—not because you need help, but because it means one more minute in his presence. One more question. One more chance to hear him speak directly to you.

Other students think he’s cold, cruel, detached.

But you start to see something else.

He doesn’t smile, but he remembers things. Your favorite base ingredients. That you prefer silver knives to pewter. That you always adjust your heat clockwise when reducing. He never praises you, but he stops correcting you. That, in his language, says more than enough.

You start watching him more than you should. In class. At meals. When he walks the halls, robes sweeping like a shadow you’d gladly step into.

You start writing about him every night.

Not just about what he says, or how he moves. But how you feel.

November 1st I caught myself staring at his hands again. The way he handles ingredients—so careful, so exact. He never fumbles. He always knows what comes next. I wonder if he’s like that with everything. If his touch is always that sure.

November 13th Today he leaned over my cauldron. His sleeve brushed mine. My brain stopped working for a full five seconds. I hope he didn’t notice. He noticed. I’m doomed.

December 2nd The poem I wrote tonight is awful. Melodramatic. Completely unrealistic. He’d mock it if he read it. But I can’t help it. I dreamt about him again.

It gets worse before it gets better.

You don’t mean to let it grow this big. But it’s hard not to. He’s there, every day. And he’s not cruel to you. Not distant. Not warm either, but… real. Constant.

You write him into metaphors.

Into dreams you wake up blushing from.

Into quiet fantasies you’d never speak aloud.

And your diary that once was filled with your days, It becomes his.

Page after page, filled with his name and your love.

January 18th If I said it—if I looked him in the eyes and told him what’s in this book—what would he do? Would he laugh? Would he be kind? Would he look at me like I’m just a silly child with a crush on someone she doesn’t understand? I understand him. I see him. Even if he’ll never see me the same way.

But you never tell him. Of course you don’t.

He’s your professor after all and you are just his students whose heart can't stop screaming out for him.

So you carry on into your sixth and seventh year, never stop writing and never once stop looking at him.

You carry on even as your trunk is packed for the last time.

The dormitory is half-empty, voices echoing down the corridor as students say rushed, cheerful goodbyes. You stand in front of the mirror with your robes fastened, hair smoothed down, pretending your heart doesn’t feel like it’s caught behind your ribs.

You haven’t seen him since your last Potions exam. He handed you your marks without comment, eyes skimming over you like you were nothing more than a formality.

You wanted to speak to him, to just say something, to make him remember you but you stayed silent.

instead you went to the corner of the library, hidden behind the shelves with your diary in your lap—just like you were the first time you ever wrote about him. Your quill hovers over the blank page.

You take a breath. And begin.

June 24th I leave in the morning. I don’t think I’ll see him again. Not really. I could have gone down to the dungeons. Said goodbye. Thanked him. But I didn’t. Because if he looks at me like I’m just another student again, I think I might break. So I’ll say it here instead. Goodbye, Severus Snape. Thank you for the way you saw me, even when you pretended not to. Thank you for every second you let me stay behind after class. For every moment you didn’t push me away. I know you never asked for this affection. I know I never told you the truth but it’s yours. Every word. Every page. It was always you.

You close the diary and press your hand to the cover.

You don’t cry.

But you don’t smile either.

You just hold it to your chest, and walk away without looking back.

--

It has been nearly nine years since you last walked these halls. You were different now, Older, more open.

And yet, when your boots touch the stone floor, it’s like nothing ever changed. The same chill in the dungeons. The same hum in the walls. The same faint, citrusy-clean scent that hangs in the air when Filch is on a warpath.

You told yourself you’d accepted the post for the opportunity. That the role—Professor of Magical Theory—was a step forward. A chance to teach, to explore the subject you fell in love with before you ever picked up a wand.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with the man who used to haunt your dreams and walks these halls like a shadow.

You were lying.

It’s all still here.

And so is he.

You don’t see him right away.

Your first day is a blur of meetings, scrolls, schedules, a tour you don’t need and polite, distant greetings from professors who once gave you homework. It’s strange, being one of them now. Stranger still to stand at the staff table instead of staring up at it.

Your classroom is near the library. Quiet, sunlit in the mornings. You arrange the shelves just the way you want them. You unpack your books in careful stacks, placing your old, worn diary in the desk drawer with trembling fingers.

You’re not sure why you brought it.

Habit, maybe. Hope. The words are still there. The old pages. The poems. The confessions. The longing.

You tell yourself you won’t write about him again. You know you’re lying this time too.

You see him that evening on your way back from dinner, lingering in the corridor just outside the staffroom, when the door opens and he steps out.

Time doesn’t stop.

But it does stutter.

He looks almost exactly the same. A little older. A little sharper around the eyes. But still in those same dark robes. Still walking like he owns the silence around him.

Your breath catches before you can help it. He stops when he sees you. For a moment, you’re fifteen again but then he says your name.

No title. No surname. Just… you and just like that, you’re not a student anymore.

You manage a smile. “Hello, Professor Snape.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Not anymore.”

You try not to beam.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to call you Severus?”

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. Warmer, just for a second.

“Long overdue,” he says, and walks past you.

Your heart doesn’t stop racing for a long, long time.

That night, you write again.

The first entry in nearly two months.

He said my name. Not like I was a student. Not like I was anyone he had to tolerate. Just my name. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. I missed him. Gods, I missed him.

It’s not awkward, the first time you sit beside him the next day.

You think it might be. You think maybe he’ll raise an eyebrow, make a comment, shift his chair ever so slightly away from yours.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything when you slide into the seat next to him at the staffroom table. Just nods once in quiet acknowledgment and pushes the sugar bowl a little closer to your side of the table.

The silence between you is companionable. The fire crackles gently. A few professors murmur nearby, caught in a conversation about House Cup logistics.

You sip your tea and glance at him over the rim of your cup. “Is it really tradition to bet on which first-year will cry first?”

His eyes flick toward you. “I wouldn’t know. Minerva usually handles the gambling pool.”

You grin. “But you do keep count, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his teacup to his lips, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You find yourself sitting beside him again the next day.

And the next.

It becomes a pattern before you realize it. Not something either of you speaks about, but something you both seem to expect.

The empty chair is always waiting. So is the second cup of tea.

One afternoon, you pass each other in the corridor outside the library. You nod politely. He pauses.

“You’ve started leaving your classroom door open,” he says, voice low.

You raise an eyebrow. “Observing my behavior now, Severus?”

“I hear less screaming when it’s open.”

You snort. “That’s because I bribe them with chocolate.”

“Unethical.”

“Effective.”

He hums. “You were always insufferably clever.”

You offer a bright smile. “Still am.”

He turns to go, but you catch the smallest flicker of amusement as he walks away.

You float through the rest of your afternoon.

He insulted me today. Or tried to. The way his voice softens when he teases—he doesn’t do that for anyone else. I shouldn’t read into it. But gods, it’s hard not to.

That night, you’re in the staffroom again, curled into your usual chair with a pile of scrolls and a quill that’s trying very hard to die. Severus walks in, his robes brushing the floor, and without looking, sets a steaming cup of tea beside you.

You smile up at him. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“Unlikely.”

Still, he sits beside you. Still, he stays.

And when you reach for your diary again that evening, fingers stained with ink and heart a little too full, you write:

He brings me tea like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it doesn’t make my chest ache every time he does it.

He doesn’t speak much in meetings. You’ve noticed.

He listens, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed, contributing only when something truly ridiculous is said. Most of the staff steer clear of him. Or, more accurately, speak around him.

You don’t.

You sit beside him. Pass him notes with sarcastic commentary when the new Muggle Studies professor rambles. He rarely responds—but once in a while, he writes something back in tight, elegant script that makes you bite back a laugh and elbow him under the table.

And he doesn’t move away.

That part still surprises you. It shouldn’t. But it does.

You start to learn his rhythms again. When he’s had a bad day, he walks faster. Sharper turns. Less patience.

When he’s distracted, he fiddles with the edge of his sleeve. When he’s focused, nothing else exists.

You pass him in the corridor between classes and offer a half-smile. He nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might return it. You file that moment away like treasure.

One evening, you find yourselves alone in the staffroom. There’s a pot of tea already brewed. The fire is low. You’ve both had long days, judging by the slump in your shoulders and the stiffness in his jaw.

He doesn’t speak as you walk in. Just nods, gestures vaguely at the armchair across from his, and fills your mug when you settle.

For a while, you both sit in silence.

The kind that feels earned.

Comfortable.

You watch him as he reads, eyes flicking over the page of a worn book, one hand turning pages, the other cradling his mug. He looks tired. Older. But not hard. Not now. Not like this.

“You never drink tea during staff meetings,” you murmur, voice low.

“I never had to stay awake for them before,” he replies.

You smile. “So I’m not the only one who finds Professor Binns’s voice... soothing in a near-lethal way?”

“He sounds like someone enchanted a foghorn.”

You laugh softly. “I didn’t know you were this funny back then.”

“I wasn’t,” he says simply. “You were a student.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Not harsh. Not regretful. Just true.

“But I’m not anymore,” you say.

You don’t mean for it to come out that way. So quiet. So certain.

He looks at you. Really looks.

“No,” he says after a long moment. “You’re not.”

Later that night, curled in your office chair, you pull out your diary again.

The pages know your truths better than anyone ever has.

We’re not student and teacher anymore. I know that. But sometimes I wonder if he’s noticed. If he hears it in my voice. If he sees it in the way I sit beside him now instead of behind him. Sometimes he looks at me like he’s remembering something. And sometimes I think he’s trying not to.

--

You’re in your office when he knocks—two short raps, followed by the familiar creak of your door swinging open before you’ve even answered.

Only one person ever enters like that.

You don’t look up right away. You’re in the middle of writing—lesson notes on one scroll, your diary open on the other side of the desk, its worn cover tucked against your elbow like a secret kept close.

“Afternoon, Severus,” you say, dipping your quill again. “Didn’t expect you.”

He steps inside, hands folded neatly behind his back. “I came to return this.”

He places a slim book—Magical Chaos: A Theoretical Study—on the corner of your desk. A loan from your personal shelves, one you’d half-forgotten he took.

You glance up and smile. “Did it bore you senseless or was there a grudging ounce of value?”

He raises an eyebrow. “It was Tolerable.”

You grin. “High praise.”

His gaze drops then—to your desk. To the open pages of parchment and the small, leather-bound diary tucked beside them.

You see it the moment his eyes flick there.

“That thing,” he mutters. “You’re always scribbling in it.I think you even had it when I started teaching.”

You casually slide a spare scroll over it. Not rushed. Not guilty. Just... protective.

“I like to write,” you say, carefully breezy. “Some habits never die.”

He doesn’t look away and watches your every move. "Writing cryptic little secrets are we?”

You glance at him, smile teasing. “Always.”

His tone turns dry. “Plotting against me?”

“Of course,” you reply. “It’s filled with plans to subtly replace all your potion ingredients with decaffeinated alternatives.”

He steps a little closer, brow raised. “I suspected treason.”

You shift the scroll a bit more. “You never be able to prove it in court.”

He watches you in silence for a second longer, then makes a low sound—not quite a chuckle—and turns away, the book you lent him now forgotten on the desk.

“You’ve always been insufferable,” he says.

“And yet, here you are,” you murmur.

He pauses at the door.

Then, over his shoulder, so quiet it’s almost lost:

“I suppose I don’t mind the insufferable ones anymore.”

And then he’s gone.

You stare at the door long after he leaves, the ghost of a grin tugging at your lips.

You open your diary.

He asked about this book today. Stared at it like he was trying to read it through the cover. I wonder what he’d do if he actually opened it. If he saw everything I never said. The poems. The dreams. The little notes about how he looks when he’s tired or how he sounds when he says my name. I think he’d laugh. Or worse—he leaves. I wish I could tell him the truth.

The staffroom is dim and quiet that night, lit by the soft flicker of the fireplace. Most of the others have gone off to bed. You linger, scrolls abandoned in your satchel, the smell of tea steeping in the air between you and him.

Severus is reading. As always. One leg crossed neatly over the other, a book balanced in one hand, his tea in the other. You’ve lost count of how many nights have ended like this.

You don’t talk constantly. You don’t have to.

There’s a peace in simply sharing space with him.

You cradle your mug, watching the firelight flicker in the curve of his jaw. He looks softer like this. Not unguarded. Just... human.

You want to memorize him.

Instead, you say, “If someone had told me in fifth year I’d be having tea with you after curfew like it’s the most normal thing in the world…”

He glances up. “You’d have reported them to Pomfrey?”

“I’d have laughed first” you say, smiling faintly.

His mouth twitches. “Of course.”

A comfortable silence stretches again.

Then he says it—offhanded, casual.

“You were always kind of the exception. Most students never stayed in my memory after they left.”

It’s not meant to hurt but it lands anyway.

You keep your smile in place, because you’ve practiced it for years.

“You remember me?” you say lightly, teasing. “And care to tell what you remember of me?”

He gives a slow, deliberate nod. “You were curious. Persistent. Unafraid.”

You hold your breath. Waiting for more but that’s it.

Just a compliment tucked neatly into the past tense.

Just a memory. Nothing more.

You sip your tea, letting it hide the ache in your throat. You sit a while longer. He doesn’t notice that you’ve stopped speaking.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why it still hurts after all these years.

He sees you but not in the way you see him.

He sees the girl who stayed behind after class and he taught but he doesn't see the woman who loves him in silence with everything she has.

An in the darkness this hurts more than the years you lived without seeing him.

Eventually, you get up and light your wand, just enough to open your diary.

He said I was the exception. I think he meant it kindly but it only reminded me that I’m still just a memory to him. A fond recollection. One of the good ones. He’ll never know I loved him then and that I stayed in love with him all this time. And I think I’d rather break than have him pity me for it.

You wake up twenty minutes late.

The clock is cruel. Your robes are wrinkled. Your notes are in a tragic half-stack on your desk, and the rain outside is doing a frankly unnecessary impression of a full-blown thunderstorm.

You curse as you grab your satchel—too full, too heavy—and sling it over your shoulder while stuffing a half-eaten piece of toast into your mouth. The strap twists. The toast falls. You mutter something unprintable.

Your students are expecting you in ten minutes.

You are, officially, in chaos.

You charge down the corridor, hair clinging to your damp face, satchel slipping down your arm—and then you round the corner just outside the library and crash directly into someone solid.

Everything goes flying.

Scrolls, books, your wand, a quill or two, and—somewhere—your diary.

You stumble backward, completely winded—except a firm hand catches your arm before you fall.

You blink.

It’s him.

Of course it’s him.

Severus is standing there in his usual dark robes, a slightly startled expression flickering across his face.

His hand lingers at your elbow for a moment longer than necessary.

“Merlin,” you breathe, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry—I'm late—I wasn’t watching—bloody hell, everything’s a mess—”

“I can see that,” he says calmly, already crouching to gather your fallen things.

You follow, scrambling to collect scattered parchment and your now-soggy notes. Your heart is racing—not from the fall, not really—but from the way his fingers brushed your arm. The way he steadied you without hesitation.

“I overslept,” you say breathlessly, reaching for a scroll. “Horribly. I haven’t done that since my seventh year. My toast burned and then fell down, my ink exploded, I think I left my wand cap in the butter dish, and now I’ve just bowled over you and your books are a mess too.”

“Well be glad it wasn't Binns otherwise you would be never getting to class,” he says dryly, handing you a book.

You blink at him. “Was that… a joke?”

He doesn’t answer. Just lifts another book and passes it to you. Your hands brush.

You don’t notice the diary isn’t among the books he hands you or that instead he is the one picking it up with his own Books.

You’re already gathering your scattered dignity and rushing off down the corridor, muttering thanks over your shoulder and trying to tame your hair with one hand while clutching your scrolls in the other.

You don’t look back.

You don’t see the way Severus turns the leather-bound book over in his hand.

You don’t see the way his brow furrows—just slightly—as he recognizes it.

--

It’s later—long after the corridors have emptied, after the last of the lamplight has been extinguished—that Severus finally returns to his chambers.

The rain has dulled to a whisper against the windows. The fire in the hearth crackles low, casting shadows along the stone walls. A single candle flickers on his desk, already near its base.

And beside it, resting in the soft pool of amber light—

Your diary.

He sits down in silence.

His hand moves to it almost of its own accord. The leather is warm from where he carried it earlier. Worn at the edges. A deep crease in the spine, from being opened too many times to count.

He remembers it now—more clearly than he expected. You used to keep it tucked beside your textbooks in class, fingers curling around it when you thought no one noticed. You never wrote in it during his lectures, but afterward… always afterward, when you lingered.

He never asked what you wrote.

But now, the answer is in his hands.

He opens it slowly.

The first page is harmless—doodles in the margins, a few lines about Potions theory in your looping, careful hand.

And then—

His name.

Written small at first. Barely noticeable.

Then again. And again.

Some entries are dated other are just scattered notes.

He said “efficient.” I know it was just a word. But it meant something. From him, it always does.

His voice when he’s lecturing—cold, precise. But when he says my name, it softens. Only slightly. I might be imagining it. But I hope I’m not.

Then come the poems. He hadn’t expected those.

You touch the edge of a vial like it might flinch. You speak like your words are spells— measured, exact, never wasted. I could write pages about your hands, but I think it’s your silence that undoes me.

My essays. My notes. My dreams. You’re in every metaphor. Every margin. I want to stop. I do. But loving you feels like breathing now. Unnoticed. Constant. Essential.

He reads one. Then another. Then five more.

Some are clumsy, full of schoolgirl longing and nervous adoration. Others are refined. Raw. Painfully adult.

I wonder what your voice sounds like when it breaks. Not in pain— but in pleasure. Low. Ragged. Caught somewhere between a growl and my name. I imagine it too often. It never leaves me whole.

You’ve never given me detention. But I’ve imagined it. Alone with you after hours. Your voice lower, sharper— the kind of tone that makes me want to misbehave again just to hear it. And if you leaned over my desk and told me to watch my mouth? Gods, I wouldn’t.

He turns the pages like they might burn.

There are passages that stop him entirely:

I dreamt of him again. Nothing inappropriate this time. Just tea. A fire. Silence between us. He looked at me like I was something good. I think that’s all I want. For him to look and see me.

He doesn't know he made me love books differently. I used to think they were just stories. But he makes words feel like weapons, like gifts, like truths. I think I love him because he speaks like everything matters.

And further in—entries written years after you left school:

It’s been three years. I should be over it. I’m not. I don’t want to be. Loving him is the one constant thing I’ve ever carried with me.

Saw him at the Ministry today. He didn’t see me. But I knew that voice before I turned around. I still would’ve found him blind.

And finally, the more recent ones. The ones written after you returned to Hogwarts.

I sit next to him now. Drink his tea. Hear his quiet jokes meant only for me. He has no idea I write about him still. But every moment I spend beside him feels like stealing fire. And still I keep my hand in the flame. But I stay silent because I know he doesn't. And I rather have him like this than not at all.

If he ever read this, I think I’d die of embarrassment. But part of me hopes—just a little—that if he did, he might understand how deeply I’ve always, always loved him.

By the time he reaches the end, the candle has burned nearly to nothing.

The fire in the hearth has gone low. The room is full of shadow and quiet.

He closes the book. His hand lingers on the cover, fingertips pressed against the leather like it might still be warm from your touch.

He doesn’t speak because he’s just read every secret you were too afraid to say.

Now he knows.

--

You don’t realize the diary is gone until well past dinner.

You’re in your office, reorganizing your desk, pulling scrolls from your satchel when your fingers brush an empty space that should never be empty.

Your heart skips.

You pause, check again.

Not in the drawer. Not beneath the folders. Not tucked into your notes or behind your lesson plans.

Gone.

Your diary is gone.

You tear through your office, frantic. Check your classroom. Your quarters. Your desk again. It doesn’t make sense. You had it this morning. You know you did. You always keep it close.

And then—

You remember the crash in the corridor. The scrolls. The books. The way he helped you pick them up. The way he handed you everything but that.

Severus.

You don’t think.

You just go.

The hall to his chambers is quiet. The castle feels too big, too echoing. You knock once, sharp and breathless. You can hear his voice saying to come in and so you do.

The candlelight spills gently into his chambers as you step inside, heart pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

Severus is seated in his armchair by the fire.

He’s calm. Still. Too still.

You don’t notice the diary at first. Not really. You’re too busy scanning the shelves, the table, the space around him.

“I—um—sorry to bother you,” you start, breathless, “but I think I might’ve left something behind earlier. A small book. Leather cover. Old. I didn’t notice it was missing until just now…”

Your voice trails off and your breath catches when you see it—your diary, resting closed on his lap. His hand lays lightly across the cover, fingers splayed as if he’s trying to absorb the words through touch alone. His face is unreadable, but not cold. Just… thoughtful.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he rises. His movements are quiet. Deliberate.

He steps toward you, crossing the room with slow certainty, and holds out the diary—fingers gripping the spine gently, like he’s handling something fragile.

You reach for it but he doesn’t let go. Your fingers pause against his, and that’s when your eyes lift to meet his. That’s when you see it.

The silence. The weight in his gaze. The way he’s not surprised. Not confused.

Your stomach twists.

“You read it,” you whisper.

Still, he says nothing and the panic crashes over you like a wave.

“Oh no—oh Merlin—okay, okay, I can explain—sort of, I think—I mean, not really, but I swear I wasn’t trying to be creepy or obsessive or anything weird like that, it’s just—I’ve had it for years and it’s stupid and sentimental and it was never meant to be read, not by you—not by anyone—and the poems? Those were a joke, a bad joke, and the dream stuff—well that was just me being overdramatic and half-asleep, and that thing about your voice? That was a metaphor that got wildly out of hand and not meant to sound like I was obsessed even though maybe it—okay, it did, but I was fifteen! And then I just kept writing, and I should have stopped, but I didn’t, because I couldn’t, because you were still—”

You don’t even see it coming. One second you’re mid-ramble, on the verge of hyperventilating—

The next, his hand is at your cheek and his mouth is on yours.

Your breath catches—a tiny, stunned sound escapes you, soft and startled against his lips.

And then your hands rise—unsure, trembling—and press lightly to his chest as you kiss him back.

It’s slow. Tender. Full of unspoken things. Not rushed, not hungry.

Just… true.

When he pulls away, his dark eyes meeting yours.

Your hands are still lightly pressed against his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart beneath your palms—calm, steady. Like yours is enough for both of you right now.

The room is quiet. The fire crackles in the hearth. You’re still holding your diary, but it doesn’t feel heavy anymore.

You try to speak. You open your mouth, something halfway between a gasp and a laugh rising in your chest, but—

Severus leans a fraction closer and murmurs, very softly, very fondly:

“You talk too much.”

Your breath catches and then you laugh. It’s shaky, bright, half-sob, half-joy.

“Do you blame me?” you whisper. “You read everything.”

“I did,” he says.

He tilts his head slightly, just enough to catch your eyes again. And you see it—the softness, finally uncovered. Not hidden. Not buried beneath sarcasm or shadow.

“I noticed you back then,” he says. “You were brilliant. Quiet. Stubborn. You never were scared of me and I really couldn't understand just what exactly what going on in your head when you looked at me.”

Your throat tightens.

“But when you came back,” he continues, voice gentler now, almost reverent, “you weren’t just the clever girl who stayed after class. You were this… calm, steady presence. Always lingering just long enough. Always close. And I—”

He pauses, then huffs a soft breath of a laugh.

“I thought I’d imagined it. That I was reading into your smiles. Your teasing. The way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You were paying attention.”

His hand lifts to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Always.”

You’re both quiet for a beat. The silence isn’t tense. It’s full. Safe.

Then his eyes flick down to the diary still tucked between you.

“I do have to say some of those entries are very...intresting,” he says, utterly deadpan. “Poetic. A little dramatic. Especially the ones about detention.”

Your entire face goes hot.

“Oh my god—”

“I was flattered,” he says smoothly.

“You’re awful.”

“‘I believe the phrasing was 'the kind of tone that makes you want to misbehave again just to hear it'?”

You let out a strangled groan and bury your face against his shoulder, laughing and dying all at once.

He’s smiling now—actually smiling—and it’s everything you ever hoped for.

You feel his arms come around you slowly, gently, holding you close like he’s still not quite sure you’re real. Like he’s afraid letting go will send you back into his imagination.

You don’t pull away.

You press your lips to his again—softer this time, slower. He kisses you back without hesitation, like he’s spent a decade imagining this exact moment.

Your nose brushes his when you pull back, just enough to catch your breath.

He doesn't let go. Doesn’t step away.

Instead, his hand slips from your cheek to your fingers, curling gently around them—warm, steady, a wordless invitation.

He gives the lightest tug.

And you follow.

He leads you across the room in silence, the flicker of firelight dancing in your peripheral vision, until you reach the settee near the hearth. He sits first, his fingers still entwined with yours, and when he looks up at you—it’s not a question.

It’s home.

You sink down beside him, legs brushing his, heart still racing. And when he exhales, it’s like he’s been holding that breath for years.

You lean into him without thinking.

And he holds you like he’s never going to stop.

The fire burns low, casting golden light across the walls, across his face, across the place where your legs are tangled gently with his on the settee.

You’re both quiet now. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because the silence feels like part of him. Like something sacred.

His hand moves slowly against your arm, tracing soft, aimless patterns into your sleeve, as if he’s still memorizing the fact that you’re here—that you chose to be.

You lean into him just slightly. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hold around you deepens, anchoring you to his side like you’ve always belonged there.

Outside the castle walls, you hear the wind shift.

“I should probably go, it's getting quite late.” you murmur, not moving.

It isn’t a real suggestion. Not yet.

His hand stills. For a moment, he says nothing. Just breathes in the space between you. Then, so quietly it barely reaches above the crackle of the fire:

“Don’t.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady. Not guarded. Not questioning. Just sure.

You feel the ache in your chest swell, full and warm and impossibly tender.

“You want me to stay?” you ask, small, unsure.

He nods once, as if the thought of saying it aloud again might unravel something in him.

“Yes,” he says. Just that. “Stay.”

And somehow, that simple word undoes you more than any kiss. So you lean into him. You let yourself rest. You let your fingers curl over the hand he’s still holding against your arm.

“I will,” you whisper.

--

The study is quiet.

Only the ticking of the old brass clock on the mantel breaks the hush, its rhythm steady, grounding. The faint rustle of your quill glides across parchment—slow, deliberate, like your hand knows it’s writing an ending you’ll never rewrite.

Morning light spills through the tall windows in soft, golden waves. It warms the wood beneath your hands. Illuminates the leather cover of the book open before you.

Your diary.

The same one you’ve carried since you were fifteen.

There’s only one page left.

You breathe in slowly, steadying your hand. The ink is rich, even, but your heart stumbles with every word—not from nerves. No, not today.

But because it’s the last thing you’ll ever need to write.

You smile softly, and let the words come.

A knock breaks the stillness.

You turn, smile already forming.

Minerva peeks in, her eyes warm with affection. “They’re ready for you, dear.”

You nod, putting your quill away with careful fingers, brushing the cover like you’re saying goodbye to an old friend who kept all your secrets.

You rise.

And as you step into the sunlit corridor, your hand gently resting on her arm, your gown trailing behind you like moonlight on stone—

The room falls quiet once more. Behind you, the diary lies open on the desk, ink drying on the final page.

I never thought I’d reach the end of this book. I was fifteen when I started it. I wrote my heart into these pages—my secrets, my fears, my impossible hopes. All of it was him. And now, as I write this, Severus is downstairs—probably pacing, pretending he isn’t nervous. He’ll never admit it. But I know him too well by now. He kissed my shoulder this morning while pretending to look for his cufflinks. I think he just needed to touch me. I still can’t believe it’s real. That he read every word I ever wrote, and chose to stay. Today, he’ll choose me again and I’ll choose him, as I always have. I’m not writing this for closure. I’m writing it to say thank you. To the girl who never gave up. To the man who found his way to her. To the pages that held us until we were ready to hold each other. This is my last entry. The last words you will ever need to keep. I’m going to marry Severus Snape today. And I’ve never felt more certain of anything in my life.

[liv2post]

oh my GOOOOODDDUUUHH

he's so

He's So

HE'S SO—

Love doing silly collages for fun...

[liv2post]

Hi!! I was wondering if you could write a Snape x reader where they are secretly dating and they go on a date having a fire in the woods?

A Date by the Fire

Pairing: Severus Snape x reader

Note: This is such a cute request! I hope you like.

∴.·:*¨¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

You sat at the edge of Severus’s worn, dark green armchair, watching him intently. He, as usual, was at his desk, hunched over a stack of essays, his quill scratching away with meticulous precision.

You let out an exaggerated sigh. Nothing. Not even a glance.

Another sigh, this time louder.

Severus let out a slow exhale through his nose but didn’t look up.

You narrowed your eyes. “You do realize it’s been forever since we’ve anything romantic, right?”

That got his attention. He set his quill down, lacing his fingers together as he finally regarded you with his usual unreadable expression. “…What?”

“You heard me,” you said, folding your arms. “We never go on dates. We never do anything cute. No one in this entire castle would ever suspect that you and I are together because we don’t do anything.”

His brow furrowed. “We are together. Why does it matter what other people suspect?”

“That’s not the point,” you huffed. “I don’t need some grand public declaration, but would it kill you to do something romantic? Take me somewhere, surprise me, try something new?”

Severus exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And what, precisely, would you consider romantic?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said, throwing your hands in the air. “A picnic, stargazing, something with candles—literally anything besides sitting in your chambers while you mark third-year essays.”

His dark eyes flicked to the parchment in front of him, and he sighed. “Very well,” he muttered. “I will… consider it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You say that, but will you actually do it?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose again, the closest thing to admitting defeat that he was willing to show. “I will come up with something,” he muttered.

You didn’t quite believe him, but at least you’d planted the seed.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Severus regretted his decision almost immediately.

He had no idea what people did on dates. His understanding of romance was entirely theoretical, and while he had no doubt that you would find something simple meaningful, he did not want to make a fool of himself in the process.

Which is what brought him to the absolutely idiotic decision to ask his students.

It had started as an offhanded thought, but when his seventh-year class lingered after a lesson, he found himself, against his better judgment, clearing his throat and speaking.

“Out of curiosity,” he said, tone as neutral as he could manage, “what would one consider a suitable location for… a date?”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Three students had been halfway to the door and froze. One girl dropped her quill. A Slytherin boy sitting in the front row blinked at him, eyes wide in shock.

No one spoke.

“…What?” said a Ravenclaw girl near the back.

Severus resisted the urge to sigh. “I believe my question was clear.”

“Are—are you serious?” stammered a Gryffindor boy.

“Do I appear to be joking?”

The students exchanged bewildered glances.

“Uh—” one of the students hesitated. “Are you… asking for yourself?”

Severus’ expression darkened. “That is irrelevant.”

A Gryffindor girl coughed into her fist. “Well… I suppose it depends on the person. Some people like going out to dinner, others like stargazing, or—”

“Going to Hogsmeade?” one student suggested weakly.

“Taking a walk somewhere romantic?” another added.

“Bonfires can be fun,” the Ravenclaw girl said quickly, as if trying to hurry the conversation along. “You know, somewhere private—just the two of you, maybe in the woods. Warm, cozy, good atmosphere…”

Severus gave her a sharp look. “A fire… in the woods?”

“Yeah,” she said, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. “Just a small one, of course. It’s quiet, intimate. No distractions.”

Severus considered this. A fire. In the woods. Simple, quiet, private. He could manage that.

The students, meanwhile, were still frozen in a mix of disbelief and fascination.

“Professor,” the Slytherin boy finally asked, “…Are you dating someone?”

“That,” Severus said curtly, gathering his papers, “is none of your concern.”

He swept out of the room before they could ask anything else, leaving them in stunned, confused silence.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Later that evening, you were once again in Severus’ chambers, flipping through a book on his couch while he stood near his desk, appearing deep in thought.

“You’ve been quiet,” you observed, raising an eyebrow. “Plotting something?”

He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “I have decided on something.”

“Oh?” You perked up, intrigued. “Do tell.”

“I will be taking you… on a date,” he said, the word foreign on his tongue. “Tomorrow evening.”

Your eyes widened slightly. You hadn’t actually expected him to act so quickly. “Really?”

He gave a small nod. “Yes. You asked for romance. I believe I have found an appropriate option.”

A slow smile spread across your face. “And what exactly are we doing?”

“You will find out soon enough,” he said smoothly. “Wear something warm.”

You studied him for a long moment, the smallest flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Severus, did you actually put effort into this?”

His lip twitched. “Do not test my patience.”

You grinned. “Alright, alright. I won’t push my luck. But I am looking forward to this.”

Severus merely hummed, watching you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

For once, he had done something right. And tomorrow, he would prove it.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The woods beyond Hogwarts were quiet at night, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. The air was crisp but not uncomfortably cold, and above, the sky stretched dark and endless, speckled with stars. It was the perfect setting—secluded, peaceful, and, most importantly, romantic.

And you knew damn well Severus had not come up with it on his own.

Still, you weren’t about to complain. The fact that he had taken any initiative was a miracle in itself. So, as you sat cross-legged on a soft plaid blanket, watching the firelight flicker against his sharp features, you couldn’t help but smile.

The fire crackled softly, its golden glow casting flickering shadows against the surrounding trees. The woods were quiet, save for the occasional whisper of wind through the branches. The air was crisp but pleasant, and for once, Severus didn’t seem entirely out of his element.

You sat cross-legged on a soft blanket, your hands stretched toward the warmth of the fire. Across from you, Severus was seated with his usual composed posture, his dark cloak wrapped around him, making him look even more like a shadow among the trees. His face was unreadable, but the fact that he had brought you out here at all was proof enough of his effort.

“This is nice,” you said, smiling as you glanced at him.

Severus gave a slow nod. “I suppose it is.”

“You suppose?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Come on, admit it. This was a good idea.”

His lips twitched, but he did not dignify you with a response.

Instead, he watched with mild suspicion as you pulled a small paper bag from your satchel and began rummaging through it. His brow furrowed when you withdrew a package of graham crackers, a bar of chocolate, and a bag of marshmallows.

“…What is that?” he asked warily.

You grinned. “S’mores.”

Severus blinked, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

“It’s a Muggle thing,” you explained, already unwrapping the chocolate. “You roast the marshmallow, then sandwich it between chocolate and graham crackers. It’s sweet, sticky, and ridiculously messy, so you’ll probably hate it.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, watching as you skewered a marshmallow onto a thin stick. “And yet you fully intend to make me partake in this… experience.”

“Obviously.” You shot him a cheeky grin. “I went through the trouble of sneaking all of this out here. The least you can do is humor me.”

He gave you a long, exasperated look before reluctantly taking the stick you held out to him. “This is utterly ridiculous.”

“You say that now,” you mused, turning your marshmallow slowly over the flames. “But just wait until you taste it.”

Severus followed your lead, albeit with far more caution, holding his marshmallow at a calculated distance from the fire. He watched with sharp focus as the edges began to brown, turning a perfect golden hue.

Meanwhile, yours had already caught fire.

“Shit—!” You yelped, waving the stick wildly in an attempt to put out the flames.

Severus huffed out what might have been a laugh as he watched you frantically blow on your charred marshmallow. “Your technique is abysmal.”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, carefully sliding the burnt marshmallow onto a piece of chocolate and sandwiching it between two graham crackers. “It still tastes good.”

He eyed the sticky, melted mess with mild skepticism. “Highly debatable.”

Rolling your eyes, you held out the assembled s’more. “Here. Try it.”

Severus hesitated but, after a moment, accepted it with the air of a man bracing for disaster. He took a small, careful bite, chewing slowly as if analyzing the flavors.

You watched expectantly. “…Well?”

He swallowed, dabbing a stray bit of chocolate from his lip with a handkerchief he had apparently produced from thin air.

“…It is tolerable.”

You gasped in mock offense. “Tolerable? That’s all?”

Severus lifted a single brow. “It is excessively sweet.”

“That’s the point,” you laughed. “It’s supposed to be indulgent and fun.”

He regarded the half-eaten s’more in his hand before sighing and taking another bite. “I fail to see the necessity of combining this many ingredients.”

“You mean flavor?” you teased.

He shot you a dry look. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet you love me,” you said sweetly, nudging him with your shoulder.

Severus said nothing, but the faintest smirk played at the corner of his lips as he took another bite of his s’more.

The fire crackled, the stars above shimmered, and in that quiet, intimate moment, you knew—despite all his grumbling—that Severus had, in his own way, enjoyed this ridiculous little date.

And that was more than enough.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, the warmth still lingering in the crisp night air. You sighed contentedly, stretching your legs out as you leaned back on your hands, stealing a glance at Severus. He was watching the fire, his sharp features softened by the dim glow.

“This was nice,” you murmured.

He hummed in agreement. “Surprisingly tolerable.”

You grinned. “I knew you’d like it.”

He turned to you, arching a brow. “I would not go that far.”

“Yet you ate two s’mores,” you teased.

Severus huffed, shaking his head as he stood, brushing off his robes. “Come. We should return before—”

A noise.

A rustling in the trees.

You both froze.

Severus’ hand instinctively moved toward his wand, his entire posture going rigid as he turned sharply toward the sound. You held your breath, heart pounding, as voices—student voices—drifted through the trees.

You barely had time to react before the figures emerged into the clearing.

Three students—seventh years—stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide with shock.

“Professor Snape?” one of them blurted out, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

Severus’ expression remained carefully blank, but you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Mr. Whitmore,” he said smoothly, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “Miss Patel. Mr. Wright.”

The students exchanged uncertain glances. Their eyes flickered between the dying fire, the half-eaten s’mores on a napkin, and, of course, you.

You kept your face neutral, resisting the urge to shift closer to Severus. They didn’t know anything. Not yet.

“…Are you camping?” Patel asked hesitantly.

You had to bite back a laugh. Camping. Yes, that was exactly what the ever-dignified Severus Snape did in his free time.

Severus, to his credit, remained composed. “No,” he said flatly. “I was merely ensuring that no students were out breaking curfew.”

Patel’s brow furrowed. “We’re not breaking curfew—”

“You are wandering the grounds past hours,” Severus cut in smoothly, his voice laced with the kind of authority that made students shrink in their robes. “Which is suspicious at best.”

Wright’s eyes flickered toward you again. “And… Professor Y/L/N?”

You opened your mouth, grasping for an excuse, when Severus—of all people—saved you.

“Professor Y/L/N had similar concerns,” he said crisply. “Given the recent rule-breaking around the castle, it was wise to have more than one set of eyes ensuring student safety. However—” He narrowed his eyes. “I would ask why you are here, loitering in the woods at this hour.”

The students hesitated.

“…We were just taking a walk,” Whitmore mumbled.

Severus let out a slow, unimpressed breath. “A walk.”

Patel quickly nodded. “Yes, sir. Nothing more.”

He stared them down for a long, agonizing moment before flicking his wand toward the fire, extinguishing the embers instantly. The students flinched.

“Then I suggest you walk yourselves back to the castle,” he said icily. “Before I begin assigning detentions.”

That did it. The three scrambled back into the trees, muttering hasty goodnights before disappearing into the darkness.

You waited until their footsteps faded before exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Well,” you murmured, glancing at Severus. “That was close.”

He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Too close.”

You bit your lip, considering. “I don’t think they suspect anything.”

His jaw tightened. “For their sake, I hope not.”

You rolled your eyes, barely suppressing a laugh.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣

As you both made your way back toward the castle, the night air crisp and quiet around you, one question lingered in your mind, itching to be asked. You glanced up at Severus, watching his usually unruffled composure.

“So, Severus…” you started casually, keeping your tone light. “How exactly did you come up with the idea for a fire in the woods? Was that your idea, or…?”

Severus glanced at you, his expression unreadable. For a brief moment, he didn’t answer, the muscles in his jaw tightening as though debating how much to reveal.

Finally, he sighed, his voice barely above a murmur. “It was a suggestion.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A suggestion? From who?”

He hesitated just long enough to make you realize this was something he didn’t want to share. “Students,” he muttered, almost sounding embarrassed.

Your lips curled into an amused smile. “You asked your students for date ideas?”

Severus shot you a look that was equal parts irritation and disbelief. “I was gathering suggestions, not… asking for them.”

You laughed, the sound light and teasing as you bumped your shoulder against his. “That’s adorable. I can just picture it—‘Hey, any ideas for an intimate date for me and my secret girlfriend?’”

Severus made a disgruntled noise but didn’t bother to respond, clearly wishing he could sink into the floor.

You grinned. “Well, whatever it was, it worked. I’m glad you listened to your students’ advice.”

He gave a tight-lipped smile but didn’t argue. “Let’s just get back to the castle, Y/N.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The rest of the walk back to the castle was unusually silent. You glanced at Severus every so often, noting the stiff way he carried himself, you knew exactly why he was upset.

You rolled your eyes. “Severus, we’re fine. No one saw anything. No one knows anything.”

He said nothing, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

You huffed, brushing some hair from your face. “Look, I get it. You’re careful. You’re private. You think no one can know. But I don’t really care

That got his attention. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to you with a look so sharp it almost made you step back. “You don’t care?”

You shrugged, completely unbothered. “Not really. If people find out, they find out. Let them.”

His eyes narrowed like you had just suggested something absolutely ridiculous. “You don’t care about the consequences?”

You crossed your arms, biting back a smirk. “Severus, what’s the worst that could happen? People find out we’re together? Oh no, whatever shall we do?” You gasped dramatically.

He did not look amused. “It is not a joke, Y/N.”

“To you it’s not. To me, it’s hilarious that you think we’re some sort of forbidden romance.”

“We are a forbidden romance,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Oh, please. It’s not like you’re my professor or I’m some reckless student sneaking around behind the clock tower.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “You are infuriating.”

“I know,” you said cheerfully.

He resumed walking, and you easily caught up, slipping your arm through his despite his continued grumbling.

“For the record,” you added, tilting your head at him, “I don’t plan on shouting it from the rooftops. But I’m also not going to act like I don’t know you when we’re around other people. If someone figures it out, I’m not going to hide under a desk.”

Severus made a noise of clear disapproval. “You should hide under a desk. You should deny everything.”

You laughed, tightening your hold on his arm. “You’re the one who asked your students for date ideas, Severus. Pretty sure you blew your own cover there.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew I should have gone with the library.”

You gasped. “Wait, that was an option? You had a list?”

“Go inside,” he muttered, ushering you toward the entrance of the castle.

You cackled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before darting away into the corridor. “I knew it!”

Severus sighed heavily, rubbing his temple as he followed you inside. Perhaps, he thought, dating you was going to be more trouble than it was worth.

But as you turned back to flash him a mischievous grin, something warm stirred in his chest.

Trouble, maybe. But trouble worth having.

[liv2post]

𝐀𝐧 𝐄𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Raymond Reddington x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | none.

𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺—𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦. 𝘈𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦-𝘵𝘰-𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬. 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘙𝘢𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘙𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘰𝘯, 𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘉𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘹.

Ugh, you hated Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t the holiday itself that you despised, but rather the ridiculous fuss surrounding it. As if couples needed a specific day to remind each other how much they loved one another. And what irritated you the most was that all this sappy nonsense only served as a glaring reminder of how alone you were.

With a job like yours—an FBI agent assigned to special missions—there was little room for romance, let alone the time to build a meaningful relationship. Between stakeouts, high-risk operations, and endless hours at the office, your personal life had taken a backseat long ago.

You had barely been at the Post Office for three hours, and you were already sick of it. Everywhere you turned, people were chatting about dinner reservations, expensive gifts, and over-the-top gestures. The entire building seemed infected with Valentine’s fever.

Then, to top it all off, Aram plopped down beside you, oblivious to your already foul mood. His next words were the last straw.

“Hey, Y/N! Got anything special planned for Valentine’s Day?”

You shot him a glare so sharp it could have cut steel. He blinked, clearly confused. “What? What did I say?”

“I have nothing planned,” you muttered, your tone bordering on a growl. “And I’d really appreciate it if people stopped asking me. It’s a stupid holiday invented for businesses to make money.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Dembe standing silently in the room. You turned to him, seeking some form of agreement, some validation. “Right? I mean, it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t understand why everyone makes such a big deal over overpriced roses and cheap chocolates.”

Aram frowned, still not quite understanding your frustration. “But… it’s Valentine’s Day. It’s a celebration of love,” he reasoned.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “No. When you love someone, you show them all year round. Not just on one damn day.”

Dembe remained quiet, his expression unreadable. But whether he agreed with you or not, it didn’t really matter. You had already made up your mind—Valentine’s Day was just another ordinary day, and you had no intention of pretending otherwise.

Before you could refocus on your work, a voice rang out across the office.

"That sounds like something a single person would say."

You turned sharply, your eyes narrowing as you fixed Ressler with an icy glare.

"Oh, and I suppose you have big plans?" you shot back, crossing your arms.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he admitted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Before you could fire off another retort, you noticed Liz and Reddington trailing behind him as they stepped into the room. Red had gradually earned more trust within the team, which had granted him a little more freedom around the Post Office. Over time, through countless missions, you and Red had grown closer as well. Despite your initial skepticism, you had learned to trust him in ways you never expected.

"I must admit, I find myself agreeing with Y/N," Reddington announced casually.

Liz turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You? No way. You love grand gestures. I’d bet anything that Valentine’s Day is your favorite holiday," she teased.

Red let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head in amusement. "Yes, it’s true. I am, after all, a gentleman, and I do enjoy the idea of something extravagant and memorable on Valentine’s evening," he admitted, pausing for dramatic effect. "But I also happen to agree with Y/N—love shouldn’t be confined to one single day of celebration. It should be cherished every day. In the end, the small moments, the quiet gestures, often hold far more meaning than any grand display of affection."

"Thank you, Red," you exhaled, relieved to finally hear someone who shared your perspective. But despite the small moment of validation, it did nothing to lift your mood.

"Alright, now if we could all stop talking about this cursed holiday and actually focus on our work, that would be great."

Liz nodded, shifting the team's attention back to the case at hand as she introduced the latest name on the list. The room settled into its usual rhythm, agents reviewing intel, Red supplying his invaluable insights. But even as he spoke, his gaze kept drifting toward you.

He didn’t like seeing you like this—restless, frustrated, simmering with irritation just beneath the surface. It was rare to see you so visibly affected, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Red wasn’t someone who formed attachments easily. His past had made him wary, his life filled with too many betrayals, too many losses to risk letting people in. And yet, with you, it had been instantaneous. From the very moment you met, he knew you were different.

You had been cautious, guarded, always one step ahead—sharp, intuitive, impossibly clever. He admired that about you. Your quick wit, your dry sarcasm, the way you saw through his theatrics without hesitation. Over time, he had watched, almost delighted, as your skepticism gave way to something resembling trust.

Now, you were close. Not in a way that could be easily defined, but close enough that conversation sometimes stretched beyond work, that you spoke to him in moments where you didn't have to.

And yet, Red knew he was only fooling himself. He wasn’t just fond of you—he had a weakness for you. A glaring, undeniable, and frankly, inconvenient weakness.

It was something he had no business acting on. He knew better. But watching you now, stewing in irritation over a holiday that clearly struck a nerve, made something ache deep in his chest.

No, he couldn’t leave it like this. He would fix it. Or at the very least, he would make sure that this Valentine’s Day wasn’t entirely miserable for you.

Quietly. Subtly. In his own way.

Barely an hour had passed since Liz and Ressler had left with Red and Dembe when your focus was interrupted once again.

An agent approached your desk and placed a cup of coffee in front of you.

"This was dropped off for you at the entrance," he explained.

You frowned, eyeing the plastic cup with confusion. "By who?"

"No idea. It was a private courier. He didn’t say who sent it."

"Uh." You glanced at the cup again before nodding in thanks. The agent walked away, leaving you alone with the mystery drink.

You turned the cup in your hands, inspecting it carefully, searching for a name, a note—anything that might indicate where it came from. But there was nothing. Just an unmarked cup, perfectly ordinary, yet strangely intriguing.

Your instincts as an agent urged caution, but curiosity won out. Bringing the cup to your lips, you took a tentative sip.

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.

It was your favorite coffee. Not just the right brand, but made exactly the way you liked it—flavored just right, with the perfect amount of sugar, at the ideal temperature for drinking.

A flicker of suspicion ran through you. No one—not here, at least—knew how you took your coffee with such precise detail. You glanced around the room, scanning for anyone watching, anyone who might have been responsible. But everyone seemed absorbed in their work, unconcerned with you or the unexpected delivery.

You took another sip, savoring the warmth. The gesture, while puzzling, softened your mood ever so slightly. Yet, the confusion lingered.

Who would know? And more importantly, why keep it a secret?

Much later in the day, you had stepped away from your desk for just a minute to use the photocopier. When you returned, something unexpected awaited you—a book, carefully placed right where you had been sitting.

Your brows furrowed in suspicion as you glanced around the room, searching for any sign of the person responsible. But no one was looking your way. The office buzzed with the usual activity, everyone absorbed in their work, as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Does anyone know who left this?" you asked, addressing no one in particular.

Silence.

With a sigh, you sank back into your chair and reached for the book. The moment your fingers brushed against the cover, your breath hitched.

No… It couldn’t be.

Your eyes widened, your pulse quickening as you read the title again, just to be sure.

It was possible. And yet, it wasn’t.

Gently, you ran your fingertips over the smooth cover, tracing the embossed lettering, your mind struggling to process what you were holding. It was the book—your book. The one you had once mentioned in passing to Liz, saying how impossible it was to find. A rare, first-edition copy, in pristine condition.

Your jaw practically hit the floor.

This wasn’t just some book. It was a collector���s dream, the kind of thing that only showed up in auction houses with a price tag high enough to make you wince. You had long accepted that owning it was nothing more than a distant fantasy.

And yet, here it was. Sitting on your desk.

You glanced around again, more urgently this time, searching for a clue, a sign, anything that would reveal who had done this.

Across the room, Cooper watched you over the rim of his coffee cup, one eyebrow raised in quiet curiosity. As Aram walked past him, Cooper stopped him with a small nod.

“What’s going on with Agent Y/L/N?” he asked, his voice casual but laced with intrigue.

Aram followed his gaze to your desk, where you sat frozen, staring at the book as if it might disappear at any moment.

"I... I don't know."

Cooper gave him a knowing look, one that made Aram clear his throat uncomfortably before finally giving in with a small, sheepish smile.

"Y/N seems to be receiving gifts… from an unknown sender."

"But you have an idea who it might be?" Cooper pressed.

Aram hesitated for only a second before grinning.

"I have a pretty good guess."

The day was getting stranger by the hour.

You had spent a good portion of your time trying to figure out where these mysterious gifts were coming from, but no matter how much you searched for clues, you found nothing. No notes, no hints, no obvious suspects. Just an unsettling sense that someone—someone—was paying very close attention to you.

When Red returned to the Post Office with Liz and Ressler, it didn’t take him long to notice the book sitting on your desk. He picked it up, running a hand over the pristine cover with mild fascination.

“My, my,” he mused, turning it slightly in the light. “This edition is worth a fortune.”

Liz, catching a glimpse of the book, frowned in recognition. A second later, realization dawned.

“Wait… is that—? No way. That’s the book you told me about! The one you said was impossible to find!” she exclaimed, staring at you in disbelief.

You nodded, still trying to process it yourself. “Yeah. It just… appeared on my desk while I was away.”

Liz’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, appeared?”

You sighed, relaying the strange events of the day—first the coffee, now the book. As you spoke, you couldn’t help but notice Red listening intently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t quite place.

By the time you finished, Liz folded her arms and smirked. “Sounds like you’ve got a secret admirer.”

“What?” You scoffed. “No, don’t be ridiculous.” You waved off the idea, but deep down, the thought had definitelycrossed your mind.

“Who cares who it is?” Liz continued, shrugging. “The real question is… do you like it?”

You blinked at her, as if the answer should be obvious. “Are you kidding? This book—” You gestured at it like it was a piece of treasure. “This is the best gift I could have ever gotten. I’m beyond happy.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the slightest flicker of movement—Red, struggling to suppress a satisfied smile.

Mission accomplished.

But he wasn’t done yet.

That evening, the strangeness didn’t stop.

The persistent leak in your bathroom that your landlord had been ignoring for weeks? Magically fixed.

The annoying neighbor who always dumped his garbage in front of your door? Suddenly, he was all smiles, politely keeping his distance—and even apologized to you.

The dry cleaner who had lost your one and only formal dress months ago? Not only had they miraculously found it, but they had sent it back to you—cleaned, pressed, and accompanied by a note of apology and a discount for the inconvenience.

One by one, the small, everyday inconveniences in your life were disappearing.

And you had no idea how or why.

No—wait. That wasn’t true.

You were starting to have an idea.

Liz was the only person who knew about the coffee and the book. And Liz spent a lot of time with Raymond Reddington.

Your mind raced, piecing things together. He had been hovering around you more than usual lately. You vividly remembered the night he had waited outside your building—just when your neighbor had dumped his garbage in front of your door. You also recalled telling him about the dry-cleaning fiasco when he had invited you to a high-end restaurant to talk. You could still hear his amused remark about your apparent lack of evening wear.

It all made perfect sense now.

And then, the final clue. His words from earlier that day echoed in your mind:

"In the end, the small moments, the quiet gestures, often hold far more meaning than any grand display of affection."

Your heart pounded in your chest, your emotions a tangled mess. Were you… happy? Angry? Confused? The answer eluded you, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch up.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed your keys and stormed out the door.

A few minutes later, you pushed through the doors of an absurdly luxurious hotel restaurant.

The space was empty—privately reserved, of course. At the far end of the dimly lit room, seated at a pristine table, was him.

Reddington.

Casually sipping a glass of Bordeaux, completely at ease, as if he had expected you to burst in like this.

You didn’t hesitate. You stormed across the room, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, stopping just short of his table.

"You did all this," you accused, breathless from frustration, confusion… and something else you weren’t ready to name.

Reddington, completely unbothered, lifted his gaze to you and smiled—just enough to be infuriating.

"You’ll have to be a bit more specific, my dear," he mused, swirling the wine in his glass. "I’m a very busy man."

"All of it!" you snapped. "The coffee, the book, my neighbor—"

He tilted his head slightly, that signature Reddington gesture that had a maddening effect on you. Your pulse quickened. He was so infuriatingly charming.

"And why," he asked smoothly, "would I do such a thing?"

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know. Maybe just to toy with me? Maybe because you knewhow much I hated Valentine’s Day and wanted to prove me wrong."

Your voice softened as realization fully hit you.

"You did all this… to make me celebrate Valentine’s Day, didn’t you?"

Reddington’s lips curled slightly, his expression unreadable.

"Did I? My dear, I would never be so gauche as to celebrate something as predictable as Valentine’s Day. This is simply… an elaborate coincidence."

You scoffed, torn between amusement and frustration. He was so infuriatingly adorable when he did this.

Before you could throw another retort at him, Reddington stood, stepping toward you with deliberate ease. He was close now—too close. His voice dipped into something softer, teasing but laced with something real.

"But… you do seem to be enjoying yourself," he murmured. "Perhaps you’re a romantic after all."

Your breath hitched.

For the first time tonight, all the irritation, the confusion, the frustration faded away. In their place was something raw, something vulnerable.

You met his eyes, the teasing amusement in them dimming ever so slightly, replaced by something else.

"Why?" you asked, your voice quieter than before.

Reddington held your gaze, his usual flippant demeanor shifting into something more genuine.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "because I am not as heartless as you’d like to believe… and because you have, quite thoroughly, stolen mine."

The air between you stilled.

Reddington, for once, seemed to hesitate—waiting, watching, almost bracing himself for rejection.

But it never came.

Because in that moment, everything clicked.

You reached out, gripping the lapels of his jacket, and without another thought, pulled him toward you.

Your lips met his in a fierce, passionate kiss, one that spoke of all the emotions you hadn’t been ready to acknowledge until now.

And as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, you knew one thing for certain.

Raymond Reddington had won this game.

And for once, you didn’t mind losing.

When the kiss finally broke, you both lingered close, foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling in the quiet space between you. And then, without meaning to, you both smiled—wide, stupid, lovesick grins that neither of you could fight off.

Happy.

In love.

Red was the first to break the silence, his smirk playful, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Next year, I’m getting you a teddy bear and a heart-shaped balloon. See how you like it."

You let out an exaggerated groan and lightly smacked his shoulder, barely able to hold back your laugh.

"Don’t you dare."

He chuckled, tilting his head as if considering it. "Oh, I absolutely will. Maybe even one of those giant, ridiculous teddy bears that take up an entire couch. And chocolates in the shape of little hearts. It’ll be delightful."

You rolled your eyes, biting your lip to keep from grinning too much. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

"And yet," he said, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you just a little closer, "you seem to be quite taken with me anyway."

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head."

Red chuckled again, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to your forehead. "Too late."

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