carmilla: (Default)
The street is deserted, but you can feel the prickle of eyes on the back of your neck. It’s past three in the morning; you breathe dew instead of air. A slight breeze stirs the velvet drapes that serve as doors as you pass them. Darkness drips from the eves of buildings like moisture from the roof of a cave, leaving long stalagtites of shadow in its wake. The tramp of your boots echoes on the worn cobblestones, rude and out of place, and the fog rushes out and swirls around your feet to muffle them into quietness.

You must be quiet.

The breeze tugs at your sleeve impatiently, motioning you forward. You are at the door; the door you passed without seeing yesterday and many days before. Until a stranger met you at your club, and bought you drinks, and trickled red-tinged dreams of glory into your ear. Lastly, he whispered the name of this place. Where to come, when.

The door opens at your touch. A pale, featureless mask floats in the darkness behind it.

“Ah, you’re right on time.” The masked voice smiles. “Come in.”

The night reaches out a tendril, and pulls you into its heart.
carmilla: A close up of Brian Molko's face.  Caption reads 'Lipstick trace' (Glam rock)
SUMMARY: The Maurauders go to see the Death of Glitter and meet some very interesting Muggles.
PAIRINGS: Various, principally Sirius/Remus, Ripper/Ethan.
NOTE: This story, like many others, owes a great debt to the very wonderful ‘Fairy Boys’ series by Auburn Crimson.

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carmilla: (Default)
"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.
carmilla: (Snape/Harry)
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.
carmilla: (Default)
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.
carmilla: (Default)
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.
carmilla: (Snape/Harry)
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.’