DRABBLE: What He Needs (Harry Potter, Harry/Snape, PG)

His hands roam over my back, restless, unsure, desperate. Crushed to me, bitter with blood and grief, he clings like a drowning man clings to driftwood, searching hopelessly for the familiar, for the warmth he has lost that I have never given him. I ache to have him, to take possession of that fragile frame. I know that I can.

He mumbles against my mouth, tasting of tears and helplessness.

Protect me. Save me.

I force myself to breathe, and I do the best, worst thing I could do. I do what he asked me to.

I lick the salt-sweetness of him from my lips, and I tell him ‘No.’

DRABBLE: Marks (Harry Potter, Harry, PG-13)

NOTE: Mild BDSM content.

~

It’s funny that my most prized possession once belonged to a woman I hated. She was in no condition to miss it when she finally left. Don’t feel sorry for her – she got what she deserved. I can still see the lines I traced into my hand.

All it took was a little modification, though, and it became a thing of beauty.

Binns is droning at the front of the class; the sun is beaming down outside. We swelter quietly, stripped to our shirtsleeves, pretending to write notes while our minds wander far from here. I flourish my quill a little.

Seamus shifts in his seat. His shirt is clinging to his back, damp with sweat. Here and there, unobtrusively, it is flecked with blood. He’ll cover it with his robe when he leaves, and no-one will know, except me. Tonight, with fingers and tongue, I’ll rediscover every tiny mark. Maybe I’ll heal him. Maybe I’ll make him bleed for me again. Whichever I choose, I guarantee he will beg me for it.

I glance around the room, idly wondering how many of the pupils in it I’ve signed my name onto, somewhere where it can be felt but not seen. I tend to lose track a little.

Don’t feel sorry for them either. They love it.

DRABBLE: Changing (Harry Potter, Remus, PG-13)

WARNINGS: Some dark content.

~

another useless tug at the chains

please, don’t do this

the change is coming faster though he tries to hold it off, tries to think with something other than his teeth

don’t do this

warm, human blood, close enough to taste
a scrabbling of limbs no longer entirely human

don’t do this to me

as his eyesight fades to a muted black and white, all he can see is a beatific smile
then scent takes over, sweat, adrenaline, anticipation; for the first time he can remember, he doesn’t smell fear

don’t make me do this to you

pants it out, struggles to keep his jaw human long enough to be understood

Harry does not move.

I’m sorry, he says, but I need to stop feeling

And Remus bites him.