Crossposting from Ao3. Adult SSHG. Fat kink / weight gain elements. Glorification of gluttony. Adult themes including suicidal ideation (no attempts), alcoholism, and super-size Fat with a capital F characters. Striving to be more realistic and nuanced than other fics of its ilk, but still intended to be a Kink Fic. You have been warned. Not intended for readers under age 18.

~toxic~

The clock said one o'clock. It was a familiar sight, as Severus was no stranger to insomnia. He jerked awake and gazed about the darkened room.

Everything felt very still. As his groggy mind began to alight, of a sudden he came to consciousness of a deeper kind. It was as if he'd been walking through life with a plate of smudged glass in front of him, and now someone had removed it.

It was an instantaneous feeling of vulnerability, and he felt like he was walking on a tightrope across a canyon.

Hermione Granger was snuggled in his armpit, upon his bed, and snoring like the world would never end.

Last time this had happened, at least she had been dressed. Today, she wasn't wearing anything.

Moments of the night past flashed through Severus' mind, terrifying him. She'd thrown off the negligee, claiming she was too warm. This was September in Scotland; it wasn't exactly Rio de Janerio in July. And then she'd invited him to touch her - tenderly, urgently, passionately.

He was immensely glad to see that he was still wearing clothing, but as his fingers grazed against her skin, he felt a roughness upon their tips. A thin film began to peel off, and it reminded him of dried snail mucin.

Apparently, he'd done a good job of touching.

With some horror, he rushed to the loo and poured soap into his hands like he'd touched a dead body. Memories flooded back into his mind as he stared at his sore fingers, and he wondered how on earth she'd convinced him to abuse them so.

The night settled upon him heavily as he looked himself over - his hair was a proper mess, his under-eye circles emerged in dark half-moons, and he wasn't wearing a belt so his trousers were slipping. He did his part to put himself to rights, as he'd done earlier in the evening, and he stared at the bleak picture he made in the mirror.

He looked worse than before, if that were possible: his stomach was distended and bloated with food, his cheeks were reddish and puffy like a chipmunk with an allergic reaction, and the unmistakeable downward curl of his lips was unable to perk upwards no matter how he tried.

Her bar must be very low indeed, to stoop to his level. Sooner or later, she'd wake up and gag on the thought that she'd ever called him dearheart.

Feeling a bit nauseous, he stumbled out of the loo to open a window. He settled into a sturdy chair that he kept nearby and propped his feet on the footstool, breathing heavily and closing his eyes. The crisp air came in spurts of breeze, cool and a bit damp with early morning dew.

He wondered why this girl was here, and what she must be thinking.

She looked deceptively innocent, swathed in his delicate bedlinens. The bit of moonlight that shone through the window illuminated her face, rendering it simultaneously childlike and aged. Timeless, that was the right word.

He wanted to go back to bed and knot his fingers in her tight-kinked curls. The way she snuggled so prettily among the pillows made him woozy with adoration and lust.

Unbidden, he suffered remembrances of how it had felt to thrust his fingers inside her. She was so slick and squishy inside, and the fluids just seemed to keep coming and coming and coming…

She'd smiled at him and told him, sleepily, that he'd been brilliant. As she lay her head upon his soft over-grown pectoral flab, letting herself drift away upon it like it was the finest of pillows, he'd felt a warm treacle-like glow burst inside his chest.

It was a terrifying thought, to think that she might want this for more than tonight. It had only been a few days, really, less than a month. But it was enough time for him to feel some kind of hope lurking in the shadows of his heart.

All the evidence was suggesting that she was interested, and actually keen on him. Instead, he was beginning to see that the trouble in accepting and enjoying his present reality? It came from his stubborn, skeptical, heart.

Realizing this was like dropping a coin into a metal barrel: it clanged so loudly and resonated so deeply. His chest felt so empty and gaping in a way he couldn't remember feeling, except for when confronted with the magic of Lily Evans.

Beyond a doubt, he wanted the young professor, to a degree he found personally troubling. And at least at this point, he saw the disconnect between his mind and his heart. The question was, was it possible she might want him for longer than a passing fancy?

Severus was a bit too all-or-nothing to enjoy the concept of a minor flirtation. But as he reflected upon old, well-worn thoughts and feelings, he remembered a conclusion he'd come to long ago. He shook the cobwebs off and looked at it again, feeling dismay but also resignation.

He remembered that knowledge from his younger days, so painful and deep that it could only emerge from grief: if only he'd had the chance to connect with Lily again, he'd have settled for friendship.

He'd have accepted her desire to pursue romantic endeavors other than him. He'd have permitted himself to love her both closely and from afar at the same time. Bathing in her simple companionship was a blessing he never understood until he didn't have it anymore. It didn't matter if he was the love of her life, because she was the love of his.

Now, he had a chance to act on these feelings. The connection between these thoughts was somewhat loose initially, but it tightened up as he reviewed his logic. The connection was that: it was better to have loved and lost than not loved at all.

He had a chance, this moment, to embrace Hermione Granger without reservations. To ignore those paranoid thoughts that reminded him of how much it would hurt if she left. To throw caution to the wind in the hopes of something blossoming. He couldn't get a guarantee of permanence from her, no. But it was better to try and fail at this… better than to hold back and almost certainly push her away.

Keeping her at arm's length to avoid getting hurt would also prevent him from developing the closeness he craved. This was what his wiser self recognized, despite the emotions of fear and traumatic re-activation he was experiencing.

His stomach turned over inside his belly, and he realized that he was feeling of a mood for a midnight snack. So he called his favorite elf and quietly ordered some things, then sat back and relaxed in his chair.

….

Soon enough, he had a tray in front of him, with a single candle to light his way. A cake with chocolate ganache and bourbon cherries towered over the assortment of mostly sweet things, which also included: a half-dozen cinnamon rolls with plump raisins and dusted with confectioner's sugar; sweet Tahitian vanilla ice cream with specks of ground bean throughout; candied and crystallized fruit of a unique assortment; another mincemeat pie since he hadn't had his fill from earlier.

It was a grotesque amount of food, even for him, but he dutifully began to pick at the best bits of each thing. He hated to waste food, even though it was his fault. He knew he'd ordered far too many things to make good use of in one sitting. But there was some part of him that loved the challenge of ordering far too much, and struggling through as much as he could.

The cake was rich and flavorful, and diverse enough in textures and flavors that he got a substantial amount down before he began to feel sick from the richness of it. Ice cream was perfect to cleanse the palette, refreshing and cool, and easy to suck down. Intersperse this with bites of cinnamon roll and bits of fruit. And then, once he was feeling really full, he nibbled at the mincemeat pie, digging into one corner and munching through to the center with practiced precision.

He was just at this point when he saw Hermione turn over, struggle for a moment in the bed, and then turn over once more. Then, she sat up, and gazed forlornly at the sight of Severus with his mess of food. He could only imagine what he looked like - he hurriedly grasped a napkin and dabbed at his face. A secondary transfer of chocolate smeared onto his fingers.

Hermione smiled sleepily at him, then slipped off the bed and padded over to him. Her bare feet landed with satisfying heavy thumps on the hard wooden floor. She had slipped into a kimono that loosely tied around her waist, but her beautiful cleavage was exposed in a sensually evocative way.

"You planning to share?" she asked, her tone delightfully tricky and playful.

Severus just grunted, still holding a napkin and rubbing at the wayward chocolate on his fingertips, but he gestured across the table to offer her the invitation.

"Don't mind if I do," she said, and took a fork to attack the cake with gusto.

Unlike Severus with his iron constitution, she only could manage around ten bites before she had to rest her fork. "I don't know how you do it," she muttered appreciatively, looking him up and down. "You seem to have a limitless appetite."

"Years of practice," Severus grumbled, and added with a snort, "And the severe disapproval of Madam Pomfrey."

So saying, he sipped a bit of whiskey to cut the edge of all the sweetness on his tongue.

"I can only imagine," Hermione tutted sympathetically, and she began to taste her way around the table as well. "You would think she'd be pleased, not having to see you so malnourished anymore."

"You would think," Severus drawled in agreement. There was a feeling of immense happiness settling around him like warm snowflakes, and he cast a rare smile at her. It must not have come off right, because Hermione looked surprised and mildly horrified at the sight. "What?" he asked, and she gave a sharp bark of a laugh.

"Nothing," she answered, grimacing as she stifled a belch. "You just are… very you, Snape."

And as if to avoid having to explain herself, she snatched his nearly-empty whiskey glass and poured it half full. She downed it all with a fierce recklessness that made him worried.

"So," she asked, before he could probe further. "When are you going to let me take care of you?"

A few startled moments passed as Severus groggily tried to think of what she might mean. Once he realized this was a non sequitur and a reference to sex, he shrank into himself like a snail.

"Like, I know it needs to be more romantic than this," Hermione went on, staring at him with level eyes and a keen, predatory grin. "But I'm not sure when I should make my move."

"Mmph," Severus offered noncommittally, and he carefully swallowed another bite of mincemeat pie. "Perhaps in October."

"I like it," Hermione answered, clearly pleased at the idea though also somewhat let-down that the answer was not here and now is fine. "I can see it now. The first month of term is over. We go out for a cool autumn walk to watch the leaves fly off the trees. We chuckle at squirrels and ignore students clamoring for revisions of their grades. And somehow we escape it all, only to collapse breathlessly into your bed. And there, I tempt you into sweet, gentle lovemaking more wholesome and tender than you have ever known."

"You paint quite the picture," Severus answered, though he sighed. The largest part of what sexual pleasure he got, these days, came from gustatory sources - leaving this out of the story was frankly a disappointment.

Then again, he had not precisely told Hermione the extent to which he needed that pleasurable pain of an overstuffed belly to sexually unfurl.

Trying his best to be communicative, he added, "As long as your persuasions involve… ample opportunity to recover my strength… I am your willing servant."

"Oh, yes." Hermione's eyes lit up in recognition, thank heaven. She was a bright girl; she didn't need it spelled out. "You can eat two suppers for me again, dearhreart."

He flinched slightly at the term of endearment, but forced a small smile to his face nonetheless. "I appreciate the consideration for my waistline."

"Hm, your waistline will scarcely notice it," Hermione shot back, her grin infectious. "It's got rather a lot to worry about."

He quirked an eyebrow in askance.

"For example," Hermione added with a furious blush, "where will it find room for all the lovely layers of this fine confection?"

So saying, she picked up the fork from the cake and brought it to his lips. Severus, at the intimate gesture, felt a rush of blood to his nethers and also to his face.

"Please," he begged, though he felt nowhere near able to swallow the morsel. His mouth was too dry. Dutifully, he accepted the bite as it was placed in his mouth. His eyes closed and he felt as relieved and buoyant as a balloon bobbing on the ocean waves.

"A bit of tea, with that?" Hermione offered, refilling his cup and stirring with a spoon. There was a knowing twinkle in her eye that made him feel incredibly shy. He nodded and took a sip; she'd sweetened it a little more than he liked, but he didn't mind.

The liquid helped stimulate his appetite again, and the rest of the cake went down smoothly. He felt sated and replete, but her eyes were on him and he couldn't fully enjoy the sensation of fullness. So instead of getting lost in the feeling, he picked at some of the cinnamon rolls with his fork.

Severus was at the point in his fullness where he was able to graze but not glut himself. A drizzle of honey danced across his tongue with simple grace, and he relished the flavor with gratitude. A hint of nutmeg and almond, pasty and earthy. His mouth heated with the flavor of spice, and it made him shiver up and down his spine in deep appreciation.

"Kiss me," he rasped over the capsaicin, and Hermione greedily obliged. Her soft lips met his and she tore apart his mouth with a fervor that made him bashful. The way she probed with her aching tongue, the way she relaxed into his softness, and the way she took his lazy responses in stride… he knew he had met his perfect match.

"I'm wondering what you're going to do, now," he asked after she disengaged from him at last. She was panting and stressed, but bright and eager of face. It made him feel so goddamn young to see her level of want.

For a moment, it almost made him believe that he might actually be desirable in some sick way.

Hermione stared back at him, beaming and silent, smug and self-assured.

"We could do whatever you like, Snape," she stated in measured tones. "I can take you or leave you, as you please."

A shooting pain of unfulfilled desire raced through his veins.

"Leave me?" he asked, trying not to allow her the pleasure of seeing how much this idea scared him.

She laid down her spoon and gazed at him, eyes wide and a bit owlish behind her glasses.

"Well, maybe not," she softened, her own vulnerability coming to the forefront unexpectedly. As if she was just pretending at this strong, fickle, goddesslike demeanor, and she couldn't fully commit to the role.

Her eyes darted away from his, and he observed her whole demeanor stiffen. "I need a drink," she offered, brusque and abrupt, and she whirled away from the table towards the decanter of firewhiskey.

It was jarring to see how quickly she disassembled. Severus, having reclined oh so briefly in the position of prostrate, felt pulled back to reality. Of course her need overshadowed his - that was the way it always was. His need to not be in control, to not be so bloody responsible, to be cradled and coddled like a love-starved infant… it didn't really matter. Not in the greater scheme of things.

He was doomed always to be the nurturer, the comforter, the protector.

It wouldn't hurt so fucking bad if he didn't get such promising glimpses of what it might be like to have the shoe on the other foot.

So it was with somewhat disappointed, harsh eyes that Severus watched Hermione knock back a full glass. It wasn't a look that he meant to be intentionally offensive, but Hermione couldn't know that. Instead, she reacted just as sharply.

"What?" She snarled at him, her lip curling under in a horrifying and uncomfortable grimace. "Do you judge me, Snape?"

"No, I do not," Severus floundered, feeling off-kilter. He hadn't realized that his feelings were so close to the surface.

"Don't lie to me!" Hermione's eyes were full of rage, and suddenly her hair was standing all on end with intense, fierce involuntary magic. "I'm not interested in your excuses! I don't care!"

"Your anger suggests otherwise," Severus drawled despite himself, the consummate smart-mouth.

"Leave me!" Hermione demanded, sounding like a petulant five year old.

Severus' face remained neutral. He knew a fit when he saw one, and he knew the best way to counter one was to maintain a solid, immovable presence. She could throw herself at him like a toddler tantruming in a Tesco's until she was blue in the face. Eventually she would get through it, as long as he didn't feed into the power play.

Of course, it made her more angry to see him so unresponsive.

"I said," she insisted, "leave me!"

Severus simply shrugged and remained seated. His stomach was churning in discomfort, overtaxed and settling into an even more bloated mass than it had been before. (This was simultaneously disgusting and satisfying.) He put both hands atop it and watched her, fingers steepled and eyes piercingly interested.

"It's my living room," he offered, no judgment in his voice.

Ah, yes. The observation made her frown and shudder, and she poured herself another drink with obvious shame.

"Come to lay down." Severus wasn't entirely convinced she would be interested, since the spell of their romantic moment had been so messily broken. But he was gratified to see that after another hearty swallow, she grumpily tramped back to the bedroom.

Licking his fingers for the last bits of chocolate, he slowly rose and followed her.

…

"I'm going to join you, if you don't mind."

She didn't respond, but also didn't argue. Severus settled down next to her in the bed, turning his gaze upon her with concern. He watched as her breaths heaved in and out, exhausted and sad.

"I didn't mean to be so rude," Hermione mumbled, halfway into the pillow. "I just… I don't want people thinking I'm a lush."

Saying 'why would they say that?' would be disingenuous. She was smart enough to see through it. So instead he said, "I don't judge you." He lay his head upon his pillow, pushing back his long graying hair.

She glared, but she also took off her glasses and put them on the side table.

"Since you brought it up, I am concerned, though," Severus went on, treading very lightly. He turned upon his side so he could stare at her down his nose. "I worry that you drink more than is good for you."

The snort of laughter was unexpected, and loud to the point of being startling.

"Do you really want to go there?" Hermione asked, as bitter as stinging nettle. "Because there are things I could worry about with you, too."

"I know," Severus replied with a low, sad voice. "Though if we're splitting straws - my vice does not have the same element of immediate impairment."

She hit her pillow with another annoyed snort. "You should have seen your face after eating that whole goddamn cake."

Knowing she was somewhat right, he didn't answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and sighed.

"I'm sorry. That isn't fair," she went on, though she still sounded angry. "I know whiskey is a mite different than cake."

"Not to say that you've been irresponsible," Severus said, trying to ignore the jab that made him feel sick to his stomach. He turned to rest on his back again, staring bleakly at the ceiling. "I just worry that your sense of boundaries might be clouded."

"What do you mean by that?"

She was so direct, it honestly was refreshing. In his dealings with women over the years, he was used to maneuvering subtleties. It was difficult because it was new and unusual, but he liked it.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "I worry about the combination of alcohol and sexual relations." He tried to impart the proper somberness of tone. "The last thing I would ever want to do would be to have relations with someone who would regret the choice in the morning."

"You can't control other people's regrets, Snape," Hermione grumbled, rolling her eyes. "All you can do is offer yourself in good faith, and hope that the other person understands that."

"Yes…" Severus said, feeling unheard. He relaxed his neck muscles and took a deep diaphragmatic breath. "But that's what I'm trying to do with you. I want to make sure you have informed consent, to put it crudely. If I am to be with someone, I want to make my best efforts to ensure that it's an experience that is enjoyed by both parties."

She didn't seem convinced. "In other words, Snape, you are afraid of being vulnerable."

"Can you blame me?" He felt the corner of his eyes stinging. "As a lover? I know I'm…not a prize. I've done… horrible, ghastly, inhumane things in my life. And I've done shit-all to atone for them."

Hermione sat straight up in bed and looked at him. "Are you talking about the war?"

"Wars."

"Right." She seemed hesitant to agree with him, but she nodded with the same solemnity he imparted. "So you think I can't make rational choices because of my drinking, is that right?"

He knew the question was loaded. He just wasn't sure if he was about to set it off. "I just want to be certain that you know what you're doing. Most people would never allow someone like me admittance into intimacy with them. I consider most people wise in this regard. And thus it begs the question of why you think otherwise, despite your obvious brilliance."

She quirked an eyebrow at him, though she also was beginning to blink like a sleepy puppy.

"So, you think I'm brilliant," she echoed, still sounding surprised at this concept - same as that first eventful evening as they walked back to the castle from Hogsmeade. "And you are as bloody toxic as coal, is that it?"

He couldn't disagree. His heart ached, and all he could do was groan in response.

"But Snape," Hermione stated, yawning widely. "Compressed coal produces diamonds, don't you know?"

He chuckled, sad that she should try so hard for something so worthless. "I won't argue with you, Granger," he said, turning over to face his back towards her.

It had started raining, he could see the splatter on the bedroom windows. He remembered the parlor windows remained open, and waved his hand to close them with a wandless spell. They clattered shut and he sighed. He noticed that his face was wet, and he did his best not to sniffle. Tears did not become him.

"So I'm deluded, is that it?" Hermione asked the darkness around them. Her own voice sounded tight, as if he'd hurt her feelings.

"I don't mean that," he explained. "It's just that I… know my own…worth."

This last word eeked out of his mouth in a near-whisper.

"What was that?" Hermione asked in clarification.

But he couldn't get farther because of the lump in his throat. He was surprised to feel a soft, welcoming arm wrap around his waist. Two sumptuous breasts, released from their hiding place within the kimono, pressed into the flesh of his back.

"I guess I know how that feels," she offered. "I don't know if it matters, but I care. And I think you're rather brilliant yourself, Snape."

He couldn't say anything aloud lest he lose his composure, so he sighed and nestled his face deeper into his pillow.

"I'm sorry I keep pushing," Hermione offered. "I suppose I'm feeling insecure about myself. It's hard not to hear repulsion from you. I just need to remember you direct it mostly at yourself."

"Fuck." Severus couldn't bear it. He was crying outright now, and that's all the words he could utter. His thoughts sped a million miles an hour - somewhat accusatory of her, largely self-flagellating, and entirely too hopeful. He didn't like feeling like this, simultaneously optimistic that perhaps maybe he had found someone, and also brutally pessimistic that it can't be this easy.

Fortunately for him, she didn't demand further conversation from him the remainder of the night. Soon she was peacefully snoring, while he battled his demons alone.