NSFW ALPHABET - SEVERUS
A – Aftercare
Awkward, stilted silence. He is not a man built for gentleness. He will cast a cleaning charm with a sharp flick of his wand, then immediately pull his robes around himself like a shield. He won’t ask if you are alright; he will stand with his back to you, gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles turn white, waiting for the trembling in his hands to stop. But if you stay quiet, he will eventually turn, and with a stiff, muttered “Don’t read into it,” he will drape his heavy, ink-scented cloak over you before vanishing into his private stores to brew a headache remedy.
B – Body Part (Favorite)
Yours? Your hands. He is obsessed with the contrast—your clean, soft fingers against his stained, calloused ones. He watches them when you touch him, mesmerized by the way you don’t recoil from his grease or his scars.
His? His hands. He hates them for their ugliness, their stained fingertips, yet he is transfixed by the way they look gripping your hips, splayed across your stomach, or wrapped around your throat. He sees them as instruments of control, the only part of him that can truly hold something without breaking it.
C – Cum
Quiet, shuddering releases. He doesn’t spill with the wild abandon of a younger man; he unspools. He prefers to finish deep inside you, burying his face in your neck to muffle the sound. It’s intense and heavy, followed immediately by a crushing wave of vulnerability that he tries to hide behind a sneer.
He has a secret, shameful fixation on seeing it on you—on your skin, your stomach—but he would never admit it. He’d stare for a heartbeat, then clean it away with a rough swipe of his wand, scolding himself for the impulse.
D – Dirty Talk
Sparse. Low. Biting.
He doesn’t talk to fill the silence; he talks to shatter your composure. His voice is a monotone drone that vibrates against your skin, terrifyingly calm.
“Don’t whimper. I despise weakness.”
“Look at me. No, look at me. Tell me who is doing this to you.”
Occasionally, when the mask slips: “You have no idea… what you do to me. Insufferable brat.”
E – Experience
Virtually none, in the way that matters. He has known touch, but rarely affection. He knows the mechanics of sex from books and the furtive, shameful encounters of his youth, but he is unfamiliar with being wanted for himself. He expects transaction, detachment, or pity. When you touch him with genuine desire, he freezes like a startled deer, terrified that he is misinterpreting the data, convinced it is a mistake he will pay for later.
F – Favorite Position
From behind. It allows him to hide his face. He can press his forehead against your spine, bury his nose in your hair, and let his expressions twist in pleasure or pain without you witnessing it. It grants him the illusion of anonymity—he can pretend he is just a body, just a function, and not Severus Snape, the man who loves too much and hates himself for it.
G – Groaning
Suppressed. He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. He exhales sharply through his nose. When he loses control, it’s a low, hitching sound in the back of his throat—like a sob that he refuses to let out.
He doesn’t cry out names. He hisses. He swears softly in a language that isn’t English, guttural and harsh, barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing.
H – Hair
Greasy, black curtains that he uses as a barrier. He hates having it touched. It’s too intimate. If you push it back to see his face, he will flinch and glare. He keeps his body hair trimmed or vanished entirely out of a sense of fastidiousness and hygiene—he considers excess hair animalistic. But there is a fine, dark trail leading from his navel downward that he cannot bring himself to charm away, and he shudders when your fingers follow it.
I – Intimacy
His greatest terror. To be known is to be destroyed. He treats intimacy like a dangerous Dark curse—something to be contained, controlled, and never fully unleashed. If you look at him with too much softness, he will sneer and try to drive you away. He builds walls of sarcasm and cruelty, but if you are patient enough to stand in the fire, he will eventually let his guard down. The moments of silence where he rests his head on your chest are louder than any shouting match.
J – Jacking Off
Reluctantly. It’s a humiliating necessity. He does it quickly in the shower, scalding water running over him, trying to finish before the memories of your face or the ghost of your voice make it hurt too much. He washes away the evidence with aggressive efficiency, hating himself for the weakness of his own flesh. Afterwards, he scrubs his hands raw, as if he can wash off the desperation.
K – Kinks
- Obedience — Not blind submission, but the yielding of control. He needs to direct. He needs you to trust him enough to let go.
- Silence — Being forced to be quiet, or forcing you to be quiet. It heightens the other senses.
- Authority — The dynamic of Professor and student (assuming appropriate age/context/roleplay) or Commander and subordinate. The uniform, the hierarchy.
- Possession — Marking you. Not hickeys, which are juvenile, but the lingering scent of his potions, the phantom weight of his gaze.
- Legilimency — Ethically grey, but the temptation to see exactly what he’s doing to your mind is overwhelming.
L – Location
- The Dungeons — The cold, damp privacy of his office. The door locked and warded with spells that would melt a burglar.
- His Desk — Sweeping papers and jars of newt eyes onto the floor in a moment of madness.
- The Potions Classroom — Late at night, surrounded by simmering cauldrons. The smell of smoke and herbs masking the scent of sex.
M – Marking
He prefers marks that don’t show. Fingerprints shaped into bruises on your hips where your robes will cover them. The soreness in your muscles the next morning that reminds you of his grip. He is too private to leave a visible lovebite; that would invite questions, and Severus Snape does not explain himself to anyone.
N – Nudes
He would rather die.
He is acutely aware of his gaunt, unappealing physique. The idea of you seeing him naked in broad daylight is enough to make him nauseous. He keeps his robes on even when the situation calls for less, using the fabric as a shield. If you ask to see him, he will blow out the candles first.
“There is nothing here to admire,” he will snap, turning his face away.
O – Oral
Giving? An act of penance and worship. He is meticulous. agonizingly slow. He uses his tongue to unravel you, his dark eyes fixed on your face, reading every twitch of expression like a textbook. He needs to see you lose control because he never can.
Receiving? He is terrified. He feels exposed, vulnerable. He will grip the arms of his chair, his head thrown back, his breath coming in short gasps. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to push you away and pull you closer simultaneously. When he finishes, he covers his face with his hand, unable to look you in the eye.
P – Pace
Calculated. Rhythmic.
He doesn’t thrust wildly; he grinds. He angles his hips to hit the deepest part of you with surgical precision. He watches your reactions, storing the data, adjusting the speed and pressure to keep you on the edge. He treats it like brewing a complex potion—one wrong move, one second of impatience, and the whole thing is ruined.
Q – Quickies
He hates them.
He finds them undignified and messy.
He prefers to take his time, to prepare, to ensure every variable is controlled. However, the sheer desperation of his repressed desire sometimes overrides his logic. A frantic encounter in a hidden alcove, robes barely hitched up, hand clamped over your mouth to stifle the sounds—he will afterward spend an hour berating himself for the lack of discipline.
R – Risk
He avoids risk in his personal life at all costs. He has survived too long by being paranoid. He will not have sex in the corridors; he will not risk Filch catching him. The only risk he tolerates is the emotional risk—letting you in, letting you close enough to see the cracks in his armor. That is the greatest gamble of his life.
S – Stamina
Surprising. His endurance is born of stubbornness. He won’t stop until he is satisfied that you have been thoroughly conquered. He can hold back his own release for an agonizingly long time, drawing the act out until you are begging. When he finally lets go, it’s with a shudder that racks his entire frame, leaving him exhausted and hollowed out.
T – Toys
Potions. Philters. Potions to heighten sensitivity, to prolong endurance, to ensure you cannot forget him. He views sex through the lens of a brewer—chemical reactions and physiological responses. He might use a wand to hold you in place (Locomotor Mortis), or cast a sensory deprivation spell to sharpen your focus on his touch. He doesn’t need leather or silk; magic is his rope and chain.
U – Unfair
He uses Legilimency, though he knows he shouldn’t.
He peeks into your mind during the act to know exactly what you need, what you fear, what you crave. It’s an invasion, a theft of privacy, but he is a spy by nature. He also has a cruel streak when he feels vulnerable; if he feels himself falling too deeply, he will withdraw emotionally and use your body roughly, trying to distance himself by turning you into an object of need rather than affection.
V – Volume
Quiet. A man of the dungeons. The stones absorb his voice. He grunts, he sighs heavily. The loudest thing about him is his breathing—the harsh, ragged intake of air that he cannot silence. He will whisper in your ear, his voice low and silky, “Take it,” but he will never scream your name. He saves his shouting for duels and classroom tantrums.
W – Wildest Fantasy
A world where he is invisible. A fantasy where he can strip away the title of Death Eater, of Spy, of Professor, and just be with you. You, in a warm, sunlit room that smells nothing of dungeons or rot. You, touching his face and seeing only a man, not a monster. It is a fantasy of domesticity so bland and simple that it breaks his heart.
X – X-Ray
Pale, thin, and aristocratic.
Like the rest of him.
He is long and lean, not overly thick, but proportional to his height.
He is circumcised (Wizarding hygiene charms), curving slightly to the left. It is an angry, flushed red when erect, contrasting sharply with the pallor of his thighs and stomach. He is self-conscious of its appearance, viewing his nudity as a medical oddity rather than a source of pleasure.
Y – Yearning
A constant, dull ache. He has spent a lifetime yearning for things he cannot have—Lily, redemption, peace. You are just the latest entry on a list of unattainable desires. He looks at you when your back is turned. He memorizes the cadence of your voice. He loves you with a desperate, suffocating intensity that he believes will destroy you both, so he keeps it locked behind a wall of Occlumency. But it leaks out—in the way he protects you, in the way his eyes linger.
Z – ZZZ (Sleep)
He doesn’t sleep well. Nightmares. Insomnia. When he does sleep beside you, it is light and fitful. He curls inward, protecting his vital organs, his back to the room. If you touch him, he jerks awake instantly, wand in hand, before realizing where he is. On the rare occasions he sleeps deeply, he clings to you, his face buried in your neck, breathing in your scent like a lifeline. It is the only time he looks peaceful.
Severus Snape.
Spy. Potions Master. Survivor.
But in your bed? He is just a man—starving for touch, terrified of love, and learning, finally, that he does not have to be alone.
