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Kiss by Swanky
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Author's Notes:

Written for the livejournal communty Smut_69 "Big Table of Smut": prompt #21 Kiss. AU because of a complete disregard for the sixth book, but that's all. Please Review! Con-Crit always welcome, but if you want to flame, please, go find a fire to jump on and leave me alone.

Diclaimer: The boys are not mine, they belong to JkR. I make no money off of this, and I promise that once I am done playing I will return them relatively unharmed...


We have always hated each other. For seven years he despised me, and I him. For seven years he excelled in nothing if not making my life hell. For seven years I tormented him, filled his mind with suspicion and doubt. For seven years we looked at each other with nothing less than revulsion. For seven years he was nothing more than an insufferable brat to me, and I a greasy git to him. For seven years he invaded my life, brought to mind humiliation I had long since forgotten, revived nightmares I thought I would never have to endure again.

And for seven years I saved him.

And for seven short minutes I watched as he saved us all. His fingers curled tight around his wand, shoulders sagging from the weight of the world’s eyes upon him, waiting for him to sacrifice himself to save them all. I watched as his resolve began to falter, as his will to become a murder for a world that has shown him so little kindness began to fail. I watched as his eyes desperately searched for something to fight for, something to die for, something to live for. Then, as if he was being pulled taut by strings like a puppet, I watched as his slight shoulders squared, as he brought his wand to the ready, preparing to become The Boy Who Lived Again.

A flash of green, and his sweet, innocent voice reverberating those two words in my mind over and over as pain beyond any I have ever known seared through my body.

I awoke to hear that same voice, though not so sweet and innocent as I had last heard it, reciting names. One after the other, faceless names that tear at my very soul with each guilt-laden syllable. The names of the lost, both friend and foe. I can hear it in his voice, and I know what he his telling me; I should have died instead. We should have died instead.

I peel open my eyes to find the room shrouded in darkness. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t know what day it is, and I don’t care, because that voice is still washing over me. I turn my head slightly to get a better look at the boy- no, man sitting in the shadows by my bed side, involuntarily giving a groan of pain at the movement. He stands and steps closer and still I cannot see him through the darkness. He is nothing but a shadow, slightly darker than the surrounding night, and two glistening orbs of green, the color of death.

He will be the death of me, I have always known that.

Another step and the never ending list of death is given form. I watch as his soft pink lips tell of more guilt and pain and grief than any memorial speech could ever encompass. I am struck with the need to save him once again, to save him from himself yet again. Only this time there is more. This time I do not wish to merely continue his existence. This time I want to bring pleasure to him. I need to show him some of the happiness, the tenderness, the kindness that this world has been too greedy with in his short life. There are so many things I want to tell this man, who was forced to sacrifice his childhood for the greater good long before he had the choice. I want to tell him to go off, to live his life and forget. To play Quidditch, to break curses, to catch Death Eaters, to bake cookies for Merlin’s sake, to do anything, anything at all that will let him forget, that will give him back his life, and his happiness.

I open my mouth, ready to give him the freedom that no one else has ever allotted him, but only one word falls from my lips.


And I know I have damned myself with that one word. I know that I will never be rid of Harry Potter even as he takes the remaining step to my bed. I know that I have failed him, that I am not strong enough to send him away and save him once more, this time from myself. As he slowly brings his face within mere inches of my own for the first time I truly see him, his cheeks stained with tears for all that he has lost, his lips pink and swollen from hours of worry and thousands of names, his eyes shining under more unshed tears, green, the color of death. With that one word I have condemned him to a life of sarcasm, nightmares, potion stained fingers, and dungeons, and in doing so I have damned myself. I feel his breath light against my cheek, mingled with my own, and I know that he will not leave unless I speak up now.

I open my mouth, ready to send him away with more caustic remarks, but my words drift away as he presses his warm soft lips to mine. Every ounce of resistance that I have melts away in that one moment, and I find myself returning the affection. It is gentle and calm, and not at all like me. I bring my hand up to cup the back of his head, my fingers tangling in his unruly hair, longer than usual, trying to gain some semblance of control over the situation. He moans at the contact and I take the opportunity to slide my tongue in to meet his. And then it is all smooth, slick, thrusting and rubbing and nibbling. I want to taste him, all of him, and it seems he wants to do the same to me. Each time the smooth muscle flutters across my palate I moan and tighten my grip on his head, eliciting a similar sound of need from him. We seem to kiss for an eternity, and yet not nearly long enough when we finally break for much needed air.

We stay there, me lying in my bed, him leaning over me, eyes closed foreheads pressed together, until our breathing calms and my heart begins to beat again. I swear it must have stopped at some point. I open my eyes to find him staring down at me. Without a word he pulls his legs up on my bed and snuggles down against my side. I do not cuddle, I do not snuggle, and yet I can not seem to push him away. He fits there, curled up along side me, his head resting just so on my shoulder, his stray hairs tickling my neck. All I can do is let him penetrate my life again, disrupt my world, force me to save him again.

“Good night, Severus.”

Or perhaps, he’s saved me this time.


Skin Design by Amie of

This is a Harry Potter and Severus Snape Slash archive, and is not intended for those who are either not of age, or uncomfortable with homosexual situations. There may also be some situations where a minor has sex with an adult, you have been warned.
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