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severuwus · 28 days ago

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Hello! a question..

Can I request an adult student x Severus Snape? But the student is about 20 or 19?

Sex Pollen Extraction

Severus Snape x Fem!Apprentice!reader

Summary: He entrusted you with a delicate task. You failed. Now, two bodies out of balance—he weakens trying to resist the effects, and you’re drowning in an overpowering ecstasy.

A/N: I got a laptoop and discovered gradents. Am I overusing them? Possibly. Let me livee, okaaay? lmao

Special thanks to my lovely polyglot @acupnoodle for being my beta on this ocassion and helped polish this piece.

Warnings: Smut, Age Gap, Desperation, Loss of Control, Moral Conflict, Eat Out, First Time, Possessiveness, Rough.

2,6k words

You’re handling a lunar snail. It’s slippery, warm, and covered in a shiny secretion that smells faintly of fresh grass and copper. You hold it delicately between your fingers, gripping it by the shell while your other hand moves with precision to peel away the layer of slime covering its back.

The movement is slow, controlled. Your thumb circles lightly over the surface, cleaning the excess with your fingertip, the slime stretches between your fingers like an elastic thread before breaking in silence.

And you feel it. The same as always. The stare. Snape watching your hands.

It’s not the first time he’s done it, you’ve noticed it more than once, always in moments like this: when your fingers move meticulously over sensitive ingredients. When they close around a stone mortar, the way you press a cork stopper to open a vial without spilling a single drop.

At first, you thought it was your imagination, but he’s done it too many times.

Now you’re starting to consider, with a hint of discomfort and another of curiosity, that it might be a kind of fixation, a strange fascination with the way your hands move.

Of course, you don’t say it, you don’t ask, you wouldn’t dare to voice it out loud, the idea is ridiculous, of course. He’s thirty-eight, you’re nineteen, he’s twice your age.

Besides being your tutor now, he was your professor for years. He never treated you with condescension or warmth, much less any closeness, and it’s not as if you ever imagined anything else, there’s no room for that kind of thought, there shouldn’t be.

You’re here on merit. By the end of your final year, you earned distinction in three advanced subjects. And so you were granted the privilege of private tutelage, there’s only one spot each year, and this time, it’s yours. Dumbledore himself assigned you to Professor Snape, in the underground laboratory, three afternoons a week. Independent study. Applied experimentation. Personal guidance.

You didn’t ask for it, and judging by Snape’s expression when he first saw you walk into the classroom that afternoon, it was clear he hadn’t asked for it either. He didn’t hide his displeasure, he said little, kept his tone cold, as if your presence were just another nuisance in his day.

But you adapted quickly, to his tone, his style, to the way he expected you to work precisely, no praise, no mistakes, no unnecessary questions.

Either way, today, he seemed even more irritable than usual. His face was more tense, his responses sharper, you weren’t sure what had put him in such a foul mood (perhaps something in the Potions Wing, maybe a disagreement with Slughorn, or maybe it was simply Tuesday) but you weren’t going to provoke him by asking pointless questions.

Snape entrusted you with a second task: extracting pollen from a rare magical flower to add to the storage inventory. You’d seen it in books and had performed similar procedures on other varieties, though never on this particular one. You knew the technique, it was all about precision and a steady hand.

You didn’t ask if it had any special properties, with his mood, it wasn’t the moment, but you noticed the way he handed it to you, as if he trusted you enough for that task.

Snape was already at the back of the classroom, his back to you, organizing some jars. You set yourself up without saying a word, you prepared your instruments, took a few steps toward the flower, you were supposed to wear protective gloves, but you chose to use your bare hand to extract it more easily.

The work was meticulous. You removed the golden fibers one by one, placing them carefully in a small collection vial, you were focused, your movements steady, your breathing controlled, keeping the necessary distance.

Then, in an instant, a speck of pollen fell onto your thumb, you paused for a moment. The pollen was light, and when touched, it clung to your skin like warm, sugary dust, the texture soft, almost silky. You vaguely remembered reading somewhere that some flowers had a sweet, slightly metallic taste, almost pleasant. Without thinking much, you brought your thumb to your mouth and slowly ran it across your tongue, It tasted like thick honey, like something warm and sweet melting on your palate. You didn’t think about rules, or consequences, It was an automatic gesture, a simple reflex of concentration.

And that’s when you turned, instinctively, to look at him. Snape was staring at you, his eyes locked onto yours, in the exact same second your thumb was still between your lips. A clash of gazes that had no place, no escape, it was uncomfortable.

He frowned violently, and before you could react, he strode toward you with firm, controlled steps, he said nothing at first, he didn’t raise his voice.

He grabbed your wrist tightly, as if he wanted to erase the gesture you had just made.

"I told you to avoid direct contact with the pollen" he snapped. His voice was deep, between his teeth, charged with something more than anger, It was tension, Irritation.

After that sudden tug, your body recoiled slightly in an defensive reaction, your heart immediately started pounding, and in that fraction of a second, your elbow brushed against the vial you had been filling so carefully. The impact was dull, immediate. The container toppled and shattered against the stone floor.

A yellow cloud rose instantly, bright and dense like golden smoke, light as hot air, expanding around you both in seconds.

You took a step back, coughing. So did he.

Snape raised his wand with trained reflexes. He flung open every ventilation hatch, broke the upper seal to force more airflow, but it wasn’t enough. You could still feel it in the air.

"Get out of the room. Now" he ordered, his voice much rougher, almost breaking.

The second wave of pollen entered your lungs.

You coughed again, feeling your throat burn, and a new heat started to spread through your body, not in your face or hands, but lower, in your belly, your chest, your thighs. A sudden tingling that spread like a sweet fever beneath your skin.

"Professor, I can help to—" you started to say, alarmed, ignoring the sensation, but Snape didn’t let you finish.

"I said get out!" he growled, more forceful now. His breathing was already uneven.

You both had inhaled too much already, and unlike him, you had tasted it directly, pure, concentrated pollen.

You froze, you didn’t obey, you weren’t thinking clearly. All you wanted was to help, to stabilize the atmosphere, even if some part of you knew it was useless. You were starting to feel dizzy, and the sensation in your body intensified. It wasn’t just heat anymore, It was pressure, arousal, a sudden clarity in every touch, every sound, the feel of your clothes against your skin.

Snape leaned against the table, his fingers digging into the edge, his face tight, eyes closed, breathing heavily. He was trying to stay upright, fighting the effect.

“Professor...? Are you alright?” you asked in a low voice. The uncontrollable heat running through your body mingled with a flicker of shame, but in your eyes, there was genuine concern.

“I should never have trusted you with a task of that magnitude” he rasped. His voice was barely a thread, rough, strained.

“I’m sorry... I really am. I wasn’t enough. I...” The words lodged in your throat. You could barely articulate them. Euphoria surged through your blood, tightening your chest. There was a knot in your throat, your breath hitching, your eyes filled with an overwhelming urge to cry. Unlike him, you couldn’t suppress it. It was too much.

And then, you saw him sway.

His legs gave out beneath him. He dropped to his knees. His whole body trembled. Suddenly, he looked exhausted, defeated.

You moved toward him without thinking, stunned. You didn’t know if it was concern... or the sheer intensity of the moment that propelled you. All you knew was that you had to hold him.

“Professor,” you whispered, but the word came out frail.

“Stay back. You’re not... understanding what...” He spoke with forced clarity, but his thoughts didn’t seem able to keep up.

“I can’t leave you like this...” you said, voice quivering.

Snape fought to stay upright, tried to pull away, but his arms gave in. He slumped.

The fall wasn’t hard, but seeing him there, sprawled, his chest heaving, broke something inside you. A sharp sensation of desire and fear began to rise.

You lunged toward him, your hands, those damned hands that had obsessed him since the second session, now pressed against his chest, spread out, warm. One resting unintentionally, the other groping for a way to help. The contact was light, but he felt it like a shock.

You leaned in closer. His forehead was damp, his lips parted, his hands trembling. His body, usually braced by years of restraint, was beginning to falter. His eyes fluttered open, wide, dark, confused, as if trying to recognize you through a thick fog.

His breath began to shift into quiet gasps.

“What can I do?” you asked in a broken whisper. You felt your pulse in your ears, your eyes burning from the tears you fought back. You leaned in slightly, as though your body could no longer carry its own weight. “Is there anything that can counter this?” you pressed, with the desperation of someone clinging to their last thread of hope. Your throat felt raw, chest tight, each word costing you what little composure you had left.

“Shelf... three...” he murmured. His eyelids were heavy. He didn’t finish. He looked dazed.

“Professor, Professor” you called, urgently. You gave him two light taps on the arm. You’d never touched him before—not like this. Every inch of cloth beneath your fingers was warm. You liked the feel of it. Too much. And you shouldn’t. Not now. Not like this.

But you needed him to wake up. You needed... him to stop you.

And then you saw the shape in his pants. The living proof of the pollen’s effects. Impossible to ignore.

You hesitated. But your hands moved before your mind could catch up. Gently, you slid them from his abdomen down to the opening of his trousers. You paused for a second.

Snape stirred. A faint surge of adrenaline allowed him to lift his head, just barely. His gaze was a mix of fury... and something else. Something that looked like desperation.

“What... what are you doing?” he growled, his voice taut with a fear he couldn’t hide.

You lowered the zipper. Your fingers trembled.

“I don’t know, Professor... I...” You didn’t finish the sentence. You freed him. For just a second, you looked—tense, hard, impossibly perfect in a way you’d never dared to imagine.

Your breath came out hot, you wrapped your hand around him, feeling the pulsing heat against your palm, the firmness trembling down to your core. You lowered your head, lips shaking, and took him into your mouth slowly.

This wasn’t you. You’d already lost. Your judgment was clouded, warped by the effects of that strange flower. Suddenly, it wasn’t just that you wanted him. You needed him. Desperately. Only him.

At first, your movements were soft, almost unsure. Your small, wet mouth molded around him with a delicious warmth, your tongue slid cautiously, testing each ridge, each pulse, both curious and hungry.

Snape let out a rough groan, low, desperate. His back arched against the floor, his hand searched for something to grip.

You took him deeper, your saliva mixing with his heat, your tongue moving. He couldn’t resist; the tension in his body betrayed him, broken gasps, his head falling back, a man always contained, now completely exposed.

For a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at you from below, there was something fierce in his gaze, something that begged and threatened at the same time. But he didn’t move, he didn’t push you away, and you couldn’t stop, feeling him throb inside your mouth.

Then, a sudden, harsh yank at your hair. Snape’s hand grabbed you without warning, forcing you to look at him. His breathing was ragged fire, his forehead covered in sweat, his gaze fixed on yours, a rage born from desire, from the pollen’s poison, from years of sick repression.

"Stop..." he murmured, a flicker of sanity in his voice, though the pulse in his throat screamed otherwise.

You didn’t stop, you kept going, and he didn’t resist anymore, his hand moved to your nape, guiding you with violent control, forcing you to take him deeper. His other hand clutched your shoulder with sudden, inhuman strength, you felt the violent tremor in his muscles, the tension hoarded for years, now released in a brutal spasm. Then he came in your mouth: hot, thick, an avalanche flooding your throat as he tensed over you, his groan rough... deep.

But instead of breaking, that release seemed to ignite him, a ferocious wave of energy surged through his body, his hands squeezing you with renewed strength. He pulled you toward him in a sudden, rough jerk; your body trembled, and before you could inhale, he flipped you forcefully, your cheek crashing against the cold floor. You felt the icy stone against your skin, your robe bunched at your waist, air slicing across your exposed thighs.

He lunged on top of you, his weight overwhelming, his burning chest pressed against your back, his hips grinding against your ass with an eager thrust. The sound of his ragged breath hissed against your ear, his large, methodical hands clutched your hips with frenzied urgency.

Your body felt tiny in his hands, the contrast with his size, his weight, his sheer force hit you like a punch to the stomach, but the pollen was boiling in your veins. Your mind floated in a feverish haze, a bright delirium where pain and desire merged into one indistinguishable fog. You felt your heart hammering in your ears.

Snape aligned your hips with his, his swollen, wet tip sliding along your entrance over the thin fabric, a crude contact that tore a strangled moan from your throat. The fabric was so soaked you felt every detail of him, hot and hard, rubbing against you. The wetness made it easier, but also unbearable, as if your whole body screamed to be opened.

Without warning, he yanked the fabric aside in one brutal motion, the cold air barely grazed you before he pushed in all at once.

He entered you in one deep, direct thrust, breaking through any resistance. A cry caught in your throat, pain mixed with the searing heat of feeling him so fully for the first time.

Your back arched, your hands scrambled against the floor, your legs shook. The difference in size felt brutal, almost impossible to take.

He growled above you, his breathing heavy, pushing even deeper, gripping your hips so you couldn’t move. Each new thrust was hard and relentless.

There was no sweetness, no pause. Only his body filling you, taking up space, forcing you to feel every pulse, every impact.

His hand slid up your back, grabbed your nape, pressing it against the stone with absolute control. His movements were rhythmic yet frantic, almost desperate. The other hand slid down to your lower belly, gripping you from underneath. Your breath turned into a silent sob, mixing with the sound of his hips slamming into you, wet noises dissolving against the cold stone.

Each deep thrust seemed to tear away a piece of your consciousness; the wet heat, the slap of skin, his lips twisted in a grimace of pain and ecstasy, all wrapped in a guttural sound of pleasure. Your legs trembled, your body shook, trying to adjust to an invasion that felt impossibly large.

You felt small, trapped, and at the same time, a burning wave climbed your spine, mixing pain with a raw pleasure so intense it blurred your vision.

A moment later, he drove in hard one final time, so deep it ripped a long moan from you. You felt him tense, his entire body rigid against yours, and then he came. Heat spilled into you, a wet, molten flood filling you in waves. He panted against your neck, each breath a tremor, as he kept thrusting, branding his dominance into you with every final shudder.

You were left trembling, legs weak, mind blank. You felt the rapid pulse in your chest, his breath mixing with yours, the crushing weight of his body completely covering you.

Nothing else existed. Only the sound of your heartbeat, the throbbing wet ache between your legs, and that dense heat of the pollen coursing through you, refusing to fade.

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