carmilla: (Nine: enigma)
SUMMARY: Rose copes as best she can.
NOTES: This is a post-ep for The Parting of the Ways, and ignores all subsequent canon.

Rose is kissing Jack again. )
carmilla: (Slash)
SUMMARY: Zaphod, Ford, alcohol, and table dancing.
NOTE FROM 2009: Ford in this fic is clearly (to me) played by Mos Def, which is interesting because when I wrote it I thought it was bookverse.

Read more... )
carmilla: (Generic slash icon)


"What the hell are you doing?" yelled Griffin, disentangling himself from Demian's arms.

The beginnings of Demian's apology for who knows what imagined offence were quickly cut off by Griffin's reassurances. He glared up at me, attempting to preserve what remained of his dignity by means of a bedsheet.

“Honestly! Surely you’ve learned by now that when we lock doors around here, it’s for a reason.”

“Griffin,” I drawled, happy to have the upper hand over the supercillious bastard for a change, “surely you’ve learned by this point that it takes more than a locked door to thwart the Master’s will.”

He drew his arms up, protectively.

“I have not disobeyed him.”

“Oh, but you have. I was entrusted with teaching this one about his new body. That means that what you were doing” - I crossed the floor to stand directly in front of him – “is my task.”

I captured Demian’s chin in my hand, looking deep into his wide-opened eyes.

“And I intend to see it through.”

I pressed those parted lips with a kiss, and Griffin could only watch me do it.
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.