DEAR READER
occasionally subtle
h
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Mike Driver
wallacepolsom

Xuebing Du
$LAYYYTER

cherry valley forever

JBB: An Artblog!

titsay
Show & Tell
Peter Solarz
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
todays bird

Janaina Medeiros

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@hp-ditto

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Me because Im scrolling FOREVER just to fine new fics 😔
Tumblr should have a shuffle option when your on a tag
Me because Im scrolling FOREVER just to fine new fics 😔
Tumblr should have a shuffle option when your on a tag
𝕯𝖎𝖑𝖋! 𝕵𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘 𝕻𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗
Might be your best friend's dad or some guy you met in a coffee shop downtown, but for sure, this is something that stays between you two.
❦︎❦︎❦︎❦︎❦︎
𝕯𝖎𝖑𝖋! 𝕵𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘 𝕻𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗
Might be your best friend's dad or some guy you met in a coffee shop downtown, but for sure, this is something that stays between you two.
❦︎❦︎❦︎❦︎❦︎

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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May I request Tom Riddle with a reader who’s a snake animagus? I feel like it could be pretty interesting, Since he can speak parseltongue and I feel like since the reader can turn into a snake they can also understand it, at least in their snake form.
Also with the fact that Peter is described to have some rat features that are tied to his animagus form, I feel like it would be possible for the reader to have some snake-like features too, maybe their eyes are similar to a snake? You can decide if you want to add that or not!
Snake Eyes
💌 Tom Riddle x Snake Animagus!Reader
💭Mostly SFW: No smut but heated makeout session at the end, lots of tension, Tom being a subtle stalker.
A/N: This request was super creative! Loved writing it. I’ll also be updating my master list tomorrow with the new fics bc i haven’t done that yet… Oops.
—
He notices your eyes first.
Not in the way the others do—swooning over some imagined depth, conjuring metaphors that don’t exist. No, Tom Riddle does not romanticize. He analyzes. And your eyes are wrong.
Slitted pupils.
Barely. Subtle. Most would chalk it up to a trick of the light, or a curious charm gone awry. But Tom knows better. He watches too closely to be fooled. There’s no spellwork at play here. No illusion. Just something innate—inhuman, almost. Reptilian.
He thinks, at first, that you might be a vampire.
You’re pale enough. Cold in a way that isn’t unkind, but distant. You don’t speak unless there’s a reason, and you smile like it costs you something. And then there are the teeth—fangs, if he’s being honest. You hide them well, but he’s seen them. Once, when you laughed at something Slughorn said—an unguarded moment. They flashed.
Definitely fangs.
But you don’t avoid sunlight. You walk the grounds in the early morning with ink stains on your cuffs and parchment under your arm. You lean into the sun, even. A vampire would hiss, recoil. You simply close your eyes and tilt your head back like you’re listening to something the rest of them can’t hear.
—
He sees you again in the library.
Not unusual. You spend more time among shelves than people. But tonight, you’re in the restricted section—which is where things start to interest him.
You’re not reading anything dark. Not yet. Not quite. It’s not blood magic or soul binding or anything else that would set off alarms in the average prefect. No—you’re reading about transfiguration theory. Ancient, obscure, exhaustively complicated. Things even most seventh years wouldn’t touch, and here you are—sixth year, alone, copying equations in a notebook already overflowing with ink.
He watches from the shadow of a shelf, silent. Not because he’s hiding—he doesn’t hide—but because he doesn’t want to interrupt.
You don’t notice him at first. Or maybe you do, and choose not to react. He can’t tell. That unsettles him.
Eventually, he steps into your line of sight.
“That book is typically reserved for Mastery candidates.”
You don’t look up immediately. When you do, your expression is neutral. Not startled. Not shy. Just… mildly curious.
“Is that a warning, Riddle?”
His name from your mouth doesn’t sound cautious or impressed. Just stated. Like a fact.
“It’s an observation,” he says smoothly.
“Noted.” You return to your notes, as if that’s the end of it.
“Most wouldn’t understand half of what’s in there.”
“Most don’t try.”
“And you?”
“I try.”
That smile again. The polite one. The one that seems genuine—but just barely.
You never ask what he’s doing in the restricted section. You already know.
—
He catches you on patrol.
Late. Past curfew. The castle is asleep, but he isn’t. He doesn’t sleep much these days.
His footsteps are silent against the stone as he rounds a corner near the library’s hidden entrance—and stops. There you are. Walking calmly, deliberately, the hem of your robes brushing the floor. You don’t flinch when you see him. You just look up, eyes gleaming faintly in the torchlight.
There it is again.
That serpentine glint in your gaze. And the faintest curve of fang when your lips part in greeting.
“Riddle.”
Your tone is polite. Respectful. It infuriates him.
“Out late, aren’t you?”
“So are you.”
You both pause. It’s quiet in the corridor—too quiet. He glances at the bulge in your bag, where the spine of a thick book presses against the fabric.
“Studying?”
“Of course.”
He steps closer. You don’t move.
“From the restricted section, I assume.”
“Assume what you like.”
There’s no fear in your voice. No shame. You meet his stare, unblinking. You’re taller than most of the girls in your year. Not by much—but enough to stand level with him when he draws near.
His head tilts slightly. “You’ve got a strange look about you.”
You raise an eyebrow, a sly smile on your face, not offended in the slightest. “Do I now?”
Tom continues, “Eyes like a serpent. Skin like ice. Fangs, if I’m not mistaken.”
A beat.
“Makes one wonder…”
He leans in, just a fraction, “…are you out here because you’re thirsty? Hunting for a midnight snack?”
You don’t react right away. Just blink—slow. Then you smile. That same quiet, self-assured curve that always makes something tighten low in his chest.
You lean in until your mouth nearly brushes the shell of his ear.
“It sounds like,” you murmur, breath cool against his skin, “you’re just looking for an excuse to get bitten.”
He doesn’t move. Can’t. Every muscle in his body coils, frozen somewhere between rage and fascination.
You pull back, still smiling. Then, with a graceful step back, you nod once.
“Goodnight, Riddle.”
And you walk away.
Calm. Unbothered.
Like you didn’t just set his veins on fire.
—
He follows you into the forest next.
It’s late. The kind of late where even the portraits sleep, and the wind outside the castle howls like something sentient.
Tom’s known for days that you’ve been sneaking out. He doesn’t report it. Doesn’t confront you. Just… waits. Watches. Shadows your steps like a predator stalking another.
Tonight, you leave earlier. You think the castle’s still awake enough to mask your footsteps. But he notices. Of course he does.
He follows you past the greenhouse. Past the edge of the Black Lake. Into the woods.
And he wonders, again, if he’s about to catch you feeding.
That would explain so much, wouldn’t it? The eyes. The fangs. The stillness. Some quiet little half-vampire secret you’ve kept tucked behind polite smiles and ink-stained sleeves. Maybe you’ve glamoured the truth away. Maybe you slip out here to find some poor creature and drink it dry.
But what he sees is something else entirely. Something he hadn’t accounted for.
You pause in a clearing. Look around, silent. Then—gracefully, effortlessly—you slip your wand into your robe and kneel in the grass. Your fingers move with purpose. A whispered incantation under your breath. Magic hums in the air—thick, ancient, alive.
And then—
You change.
It’s not violent. Not grotesque. It’s quiet. Elegant. Your limbs melt into scales. Your body coils, lengthens, smooths out into the form of a sleek, silver serpent—long, iridescent, hypnotic. A creature of venom and beauty. You glint like moonlight on polished steel. Your tongue flicks once. Twice.
And you bask in it. Like it’s natural. Like it’s freedom.
Tom doesn’t breathe.
He takes one silent step forward, eyes fixed on you.
He whispers, in Parseltongue:
“You’re not a monster.”
You freeze.
Your head lifts. Your tongue flicks toward him, tasting the air.
He speaks again.
“You’re magnificent.”
You slither toward him—slow, deliberate. Not threatening. Just… watching. Measuring. You circle him once, twice, brushing his robes with cold scales. He can feel your magic humming beneath your skin, ancient and wild and precise.
Then you stop.
And shift back.
It’s over in seconds. You rise from the forest floor, grass clinging to your cloak, moonlight catching the edges of your cheekbones. Your expression is unreadable—but your eyes? They burn.
He steps closer.
“You’ve been hiding this.”
You say nothing.
“Why?”
Your voice is quiet, steady:
“Because it’s mine.”
He should feel insulted. But instead, all he feels is the quick, shallow sting of awe—of envy. Because he’s never seen anyone else do something like that. Not at your age. Not without help.
You’re powerful.
And worse—you’re not flaunting it.
You turn to go. He catches your wrist.
“You understand me, don’t you? In Parseltongue?”
You nod once.
He releases you.
“We’ll talk again,” he says.
And you smile—quiet, cool.
“We always do.”
—
He returns to his dorm late one night.
Prefect rounds had run long. Some poor fifth-year sobbing over a misplaced love potion. Utterly beneath him. He’s still irritated when he steps into his room, already rehearsing the moment he’ll collapse into bed—
And stops short.
There’s a snake curled on his sheets.
Not just any snake. You.
Coiled lazily in the center of his bedspread like a crown jewel on velvet. Your scales catch the firelight—silver threaded with darker markings now, beautiful and unmistakably you.
You don’t react immediately. Just lift your head slowly, tongue flicking once as if to say oh, you’re finally back.
Tom stares. Cold. Calculating. Silent.
Then, in Parseltongue:
“Comfortable?”
You shift, coils brushing the edge of his pillow.
“You didn’t lock the door,” you hiss back.
“You broke into my room,” Tom says plainly.
“Did I?” You respond, head tilted slightly. Tom can sense the coy tone in your voice even like this.
“Why are you here?”
A pause.
Then, a dry flick of your tongue.
“If I didn’t know better,” you murmur in that silky, serpentine rhythm, “I’d think you liked me more like this.”
He doesn’t respond. His expression doesn’t change. But his mind is racing.
You’re teasing him. Provoking him. And he’s not sure what’s worse—
That you’re right.
Or that you know you’re right.
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, stopping just at the edge of the bed.
“You think this is a game?”
You uncoil slightly. Slither forward. Lift your head until your eyes are level with his, glinting like starlight on obsidian.
“Only if you’re playing too.”
The air between you hums. Magic, tension, something older.
Finally, he speaks again.
“Change back.”
You tilt your head. A pause. And then—
Your body ripples. Lengthens. Shifts.
And there you are.
Kneeling on his bed, hair loose, eyes dark.
Looking up at him like you hadn’t just shattered whatever boundaries were left between you.
“Hello again, Riddle.”
He’s already undoing the top button of his collar.
“You’re a menace.”
Your smile is slow. Lethal.
“You like that about me.”
His collar is unbuttoned. His breath is shallow. Your knees press into the mattress, and he’s still standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he hasn’t quite decided whether to hex you or keep you.
You smile.
“What’s the matter, Riddle?” you murmur, voice low and full of smoke. “Snake got your tongue?”
That’s what does it.
He moves—sharp, precise, and then your mouth is on his, all tongue and heat and teeth.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.
It’s possession.
A warning.
A challenge.
He kisses like he brews poison—carefully, deliberately, with enough heat to scald. And you match it. Bite for bite. Breath for breath.
Your fingers curl into the front of his robes. His hands never touch you, not really—just hover near your jaw, as if gripping you would be surrender. But his lips part against yours, and that’s enough.
You pull back just enough to drag your tongue—slowly, deliberately—along the sharp line of his jaw. A single flick. A taste. Like a snake testing the air.
He shudders.
You feel the tremor in his body and smile against his skin.
“Sensitive,” you whisper.
Then, fangs.
Just a hint—you nip his bottom lip, the sharp edge of a fang catching him just enough to sting. Not to hurt. To tease. The kind of bite that says I could sink deeper if I wanted to.
His breath catches.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice rasping with restraint. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
You lick the faint trace of blood from his lip and smile again.
“I think I do.”
For a moment, all he can do is look at you.
Like he’s seeing something ancient. Something powerful. Something that slipped through the cracks in his armor and slithered straight into his spine.
And when he speaks again, it’s quiet. Dangerous.
“Get off my bed.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t stop you when you lean in and kiss him once more, slower this time, and then crawl backward off the bed like a queen giving back her stolen throne.
You disappear through the door without a word. Without a glance.
And Tom Riddle is left alone.
With the taste of you on his lip.
And a hunger in his chest he doesn’t know how to name.
stayed up all night reading a fanfic n it turned out to be incomplete and it hasn’t been updated in 3 years
"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"
sweater weather: drabble
bsf!remus x f!reader / fluffff / light teasing / oblivious!reader
summary: Remus Lupin is usually calm, composed—until he sees you wearing his sweater. Suddenly, his world tilts, his thoughts scramble, and his heart betrays him. Sirius and James pick up on it immediately, but you? Completely oblivious. And when you try to give it back? Not a chance.
wc: 700
Remus prided himself on being level-headed. He wasn’t the type to make a scene, wasn’t the type to get flustered easily. But when you strolled into the Great Hall that morning, wrapped up in his sweater like it had always belonged to you—well.
It hit him like a full-body hex.
His breath caught, fingers tightening around his fork. His brain, usually sharp and composed, went utterly blank. Because there you were—wearing his sweater. The one he’d worn through winter after winter, the one that had been stretched to fit his long limbs and softened over time into something impossibly comfortable. And now, it was on you—swallowing your frame, hanging off your shoulders like it had found its rightful home.
Masterlist

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𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞
word count: 6.5k
summary: On September 1st, 1971 you were sorted into Slytherin, putting you on the map as the first Potter to do so, and the first time James Potter turned his back on someone he claimed he loved dearly. You’re slowly drifting away, turning the Potter twins into a sad tale, but after one deadly incident close to Christmas break, James decides to put an end to the distance he unknowingly created.
How can you say that you love someone you can’t tell is dying?
cw: suicidal ideation, but hinted. scars and blood mention, nosebleed. angst, very heavy on the angst. potter!reader, fem!reader. platonic marauders and rosier twins. background jily.
a/n: sorry if this too much… just had this idea for a while and i needed an outlet. likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. enjoy! xx
···
You sighed, the bandage around your shoulder suffocating you to the point of tears. As much as you tried, you wanted to keep your compartment warm and toasty with the blanket over your seat and legs, but your efforts were in vain at the mere lack of human heat. The fogged window seemed an acceptable distraction as you dragged your finger around, drawing meaningless doodles as the train passed by beautiful landscapes you barely registered.
Something shifted on your other side, and you turned to find people walking past your compartment, pointing and whispering about you and your sad state. None of them dared to open the door, making the lump in your throat grow with each breath you took. You looked down at the cassette player in your lap, hands too shaky to change the cassette into something more cheerful.
when the period cramps start hitting so bad you have to pretend that you're on a barricade in 19th century france bleeding out from a wound dying in the hands of an unrequited lover
trained
Remus and Sirius train you to cum just from gagging on their cocks
Remus Lupin x Sirius Black x Fem!Reader. Blowjobs, heavy d/s, training, gagging, fingers down throat, penetrative sex, conditioning, some clit slapping, threesome, poly relationship, slight bimbofication, some light subspace/mentions of subspace. Lmk if i missed anything!
word count: 2.3k
Bro I just found out my favourite writer deactivated 💔💔💔💔😭😭😭😭😭😭

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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A girl with red converse and a Bowie shirt just complimented my necklace. The necklace was a guitar and a star.
I know what you are.
almost immediately after regulus and james move in together, regulus starts hiding toys for cats all over the house. then it's cat food. then it's a cat tree. then it's a little bed. one day, he comes home with a kitten and doesn't say a word to james. then he brings home another, and another until they have three cats roaming around the house, using their names and everything. he notices james bringing home cat food one day and decides he's going to ask why james has never brought up the fact that three random cats just showed up in their house and james just looks at him and says, 'i thought they just always lived here??'
that's when regulus learns, james thought they bought a house that just came with cats.