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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"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.

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 )

SUMMARY: The Gryffindor Trio cope with unexpectedly becoming slaveowners. Mostly humourous, with a sting in the tail. Based on the prompt: In their 7th year, House Slytherin has to be in servitude to House Gryffindor. That would take a slightly different contrivance, wouldn't it? (Amanuensis)
WARNINGS: Implied noncon.
NOTES: Originally posted under the penname Kohl.

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WARNINGS: Incest, some dark content.

~

It was always hard to tell where one of us left off and the other one started. We weren't just similar, we were in synch. We were each other's continuation - often, making some grand scheme, we didn't need to speak; I'd do one thing, and he'd do the next, following the natural progression. We could always finish each other's sentences; each other's actions, even. I knew him so well, could predict him so easily, that when I watched his gestures and it felt like moving my own hands. And maybe the greatest gift to me was laughter - to tell a joke and see my own smile growing on his lips.

Maybe that's why I can lie in bed and touch myself -

natural progression; I'd touch him here, he'd touch me there, inevitable and obvious and right

- and it doesn't feel like he's gone. It feels like continuity.

The hand on the back of his neck flared hot as the long incantation came to an end. There was a moment of stillness, and then the pressure on his nape eased.

"You can open your eyes now, Sev."

Harry's voice, soft and low and rough, seemed to have a new quality to it he hadn't heard before, although he couldn't tell exactly what it was. He obeyed, looking cautiously around the room. There didn't seem to be anything different there. Then Harry came from behind him, cradling something in his arms that looked as if it was moving.

"Say hello to her."

It was a snake; a large and beautiful one, although Snape wasn't quite sure of its species. Feeling a little foolish, he said, "Hello."

"Niccce to meet you," the snake replied.

Snape stared.

He kept on staring as Harry said something to her, quietly, and put her back in her tank. Then he pulled him into a long, lingering kiss.

"Ssso," Harry hissed in his ear when they finally broke apart, "do you like your birthday pressent?"

There was only one reply to that.

"It's jussst what I alwayss wanted."

WARNINGS: (Technically) underage, potentially squicky.

~

In his sixth year, Harry Potter became an Animagus. Unlike his father, he had the help and consent of Dumbledore when he did it. Like his father, he used his shape at night, when he shouldn't, for reasons he shouldn't.

He had wondered if maybe he would become a stag. No. Nothing like it. He was glad of it. His shape was a large cat, coal black, with wide green eyes. Perfect. Better than an Invisibility Cloak, in some ways. The Cloak just made him unseen. This made him unnoticed.

He knew, really, he shouldn't use it to slink round the school, keeping an eye on the Slytherins, exploring the corners he'd never had access to before. But it was too exciting, this new world of darkness he could see through and smells he could taste and feel, far too exciting to give up. Besides, there was Her.

It had only been a couple of weeks after his first transformation when he met Her for the first time, stalking through the corridors as if she owned them. She'd fixed him with imperious amber eyes, wide and black-ringed. There was a challenge there, and he didn't know whether to fight or retreat. Then he smelt the musk rising off her.

Their matings were brief, frantic, wild. He would yowl to the echoing corridors and bury himself inside her, and claw at her tawny back, and she would give him back bite for scratch, or knock him on his back and run away. But never too fast.

The more desperate the battles on the outside became, the more he needed this world. The darkness, and the scent, and the tight heat of her around him, the branding claw marks, the chance, just once, to take the pain and deal it out and not worry about control.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to look McGonnagal in the eye in class. But it was worth it.

WARNINGS: Some dark content.

~

Harry woke to warm lips on his mouth; startled, he gasped and nearly choked. Immediately, hands were around him, soothing, apologising silently... there were words he would never say aloud. One of them was sorry. The others were -

"I love you."

What? He could barely believe that he's heard it. He was given no chance to respond as those lips closed over him, demanding, hot.... a contrast to the freezing fingertips that were burrowing under his shirt, scrabbling, ripping, getting to his skin in any way they could. His mouth tasted strange, a tang of something sharp he couldn't quite place; probably some obscure potion he'd been working on. Every sensation was magnified by the complete absence of light. He wondered if Severus had used some sort of charm on him, as he had once before, to act as a blindfold, but he wasn't touching him as if he was playing games. Those hands were the most earnest he had ever felt them. So as his eyes were no use, he closed them, and surrendered to the sensation and the lips and tongue which seemed to have lost all their reserve.

It was only when the touches slackened and stopped, and he conjured a light to find out why, that he recognised the taste in his mouth as blood.