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)
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.