Guildenstern’s face was buried in the crook of Rosencrantz’s neck, his arm flung heavily across his chest. Rosencrantz stirred, rolled over until they were lying nose to nose.

“It’s morning,” he observed, sleepily, “assuming, naturally, that when we went to bed it was night.”

“I don’t remember,” said Guildenstern, unconcerned, and his hand twisted in Rosencrantz’s hair as he leaned forward and kissed him.

For one moment, in the sunlight and the rumpled bed and the unruly tangle of limbs, there was perfection. Then the peace was broken.

Somebody was banging on the window. Someone who was calling their names.

Medically speaking, it was advantageous for a man of Jack’s weight and height to have his upper back routinely massaged. That was the excuse the first time; they scarcely needed one anymore. Stephen swept his long, slim fingers across the bared skin, stroking gently over the shoulders and applying expert pressure to the bulky muscles of the upper arm. Jack’s breath came in spurts; the noises he made in the back of his throat were highly gratifying.

Stephen smiled as he worked. He knew well the power and the gentleness of Jack’s overlarge hands. And it was his turn next.

"Hey, Little Red Riding Hood!"

Remus ran down the dormitary stairs to catch up with Sirius. He caught him by the arm and spun him around, the better to admire his bright red dress robes.

He himself was dressed in faded cloth-of-gold, so that between them, they would make up the Gryffindor house colours. Sirius noted with a smile that, in his hurry, he’d buttoned it up wrong, making the whole thing look lopsided. Quickly (because if he stopped to think about the fact that he was undoing Remus’ buttons, they were going to be even later) he sorted them out. Then together, they raced through the corridors towards the Great Hall.

Right outside, Remus stopped him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Sirius pressed their foreheads together with a wicked smile.

“Quite sure, Moony dear.”

And arm in arm, they went in to the Valentine’s ball.

"Bald men are sexy," Clark said to Chloe, blushing when he realised that Lex was standing right behind him.

Lex quirked an eyebrow, laying a casually possesive hand on Clark’s shoulder.

“Really?” he said, in a tone of innocent inquiry. “Do enlighten us.”

“Well, there’s – there’s – Captain Picard from Star Trek. He was sexy, wasn’t he?”

“I suppose so. And?”

Chloe was getting the distinct feeling that she was no longer a part of this conversation.

“And… um… the lead singer of Right Said Fred.”

“Clark! I’m impressed by your knowledge of music trivia. Anyone else?”

Clark turned his sweetest smile on him.

“Hmm… I’m not sure. No-one springs to mind.”

Lex’s answering smile swayed dangerously close to Clark’s lips. Clark’s breathing quickened.

If Chloe hadn’t been sure what was going on before, she knew now. She blurted an excuse and left as soon as possible.

Lex grinned, dropping a kiss on Clark’s shoulder.

“Whatever happened to breaking it to her subtly?”

NOTE: BDSM content.

~

I don’t know if it’s guilt that makes him do it. He shouldn’t be guilty; it’s me that comes to him, after all. My little indulgence; an hour a week, less, when I’m not in control. No matter how hard I fight to take it back.

Maybe this is his little indulgence. The couple of minutes when he takes the shackles off, heals the bruises on my wrists, restores the raw, scraped skin.

The couple of minutes when, weakened by the release of tension, his hands make me sigh instead of scream. That fleeting time when I can be soothed, rather than sickened, by his touch.

He kisses me sometimes, in those breathless moments. It’s the only time I’ll let him.

I’d never tell him, but it’s no good. The iron and copper of my blood still lingers on his lips. Even his mouth tastes of chains.

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.

WARNINGS: Some dark content.

( Occlumency, Snape/Harry, PG-13 )


( Being There For Him, Tonks/Remus, R )


( Beautiful, Umbridge, G )

It was the end of the beginning. An unnatural silence fell in the Swamp. It wasn't as if they had never fought before, but this fight was - harder. Symbolic of something bigger.

Hawkeye felt Trapper's words straining with the weight of representation. Heard him rant about his damned risk taking, how he was stupid to risk his reputation, their safety, knew what he was actually saying.

The rift would be healed, with soft words, soft touches, caution. An end to those first heady days, their feeling of invulnerability.

They would continue. But they both knew the honeymoon was over.