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morgana-ren · 3 years ago

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👉👈 Spare thoughts on like Crystal Lake/Friday the 13thesque camp counselor au with the Lov or mainly Shigaraki. I was thinking about watching Fear street and suddenly this was all I could think about

So I wrote this bit and yes, I’m painfully aware it’s not plot-perfect or polished but I LOVE the concept and wanted to put something out for it to show my appreciation that you shared it with me. Warning: it’s very nasty and I took a lot of liberties here. I hope that’s okay. Tomura is the gross incel-y killer. It wasn’t QUITE Friday 13th style, more “creepy counselor gone mad” because when I started writing it, I was a bit out of it.

I hope it’s okay!

A slippery hand clutches yours- stark red and slicked with sweat and blood, trembling bones and quivering fingers- clinging to yours as if you alone could keep her anchored to her quickly fading lifeforce. She’s been stabbed repeatedly, but it’s the wound on her chest that pulses most noticeably with her breath; A font bubbling from the cleave a few inches beneath her collar bone, a scarlet brook staining down the front of her pastel camp uniform.

Her mouth open in a strangled, wordless cry: A petrified 'o' shape that seems terribly uncanny alongside her sallow cheeks, fear and pain reflected in her wide and panicked eyes as her grip on consciousness rapidly fades. Crimson stains her slippery ivory teeth, gurgling on her own bile as she struggles to make out a fragmented sentence between her presumably collapsing lungs and the blood pooling in her throat.

Her face, the perfect mask of fear covered in dirt and her own fluids, begins twitching, blinking tears through the muck that cakes her cheeks. The hand not wrapped around yours in an iron grip curls into a point -shaky and pale and borderline indiscernible- and it takes you a brief moment for you to realize she’s pointing directly behind you. It’s only then that you rip yourself from your traumatized stupor and hear the footsteps approaching from the cabin door.

You’re ready and willing to defend yourself if need be, shooting to your feet with lips pulled in a snarl, but you’re not greeted with the sight of a terrifying killer brandishing a knife: You’re met instead by the familiar face of your fellow camp counselor and long time friend.

“Tomura!”

You can’t help it. You throw your arms around his scrawny neck, almost knocking him over in your relief as you bury your head into the swell of his black hoodie. He’s a welcome sight- been close to you ever since you started attending even though he’s years older than you are, and he’s always made you feel better- safer somehow.

You’ve never been more happy to see him than you are now, thanking whatever God is looking out for you that he’s alive and that he found you. You squeeze him with every ounce of strength your little body can muster as he wraps his own gangly limbs around you and cages you to his chest in turn- almost too tightly.

“I looked for you! I couldn’t-“ Breath escapes you, tearing up in his embrace. “I couldn’t find you! I thought he’d gotten you too! I was so scared-”

He gives a firm shake of his head, shaggy silver hair ruffling over his shoulders. He reeks, as always, of slight mildew and something vaguely earthy- like ash or cinder, even as he hasn’t ever been allowed on fire duty. “No. He can’t be far behind though. We need to go.”

“Okay!” You nod, wiggling free of his reluctant arms and dropping to your knees again by your wounded friend. “Just help me with Maureen- she’s really hurt- We need to get her to a hospital and fast-” “Leave her.” His knobby fingers encircle the rounds of your forearm, jerking you back to your feet at his side again with a bruising yank. ”We don’t have time- she’ll only slow us down.” “How can you say that? We can’t just leave her here! She’s bleeding out- We can save her, we just have to-”

A quick peek back at her and you realize she looks- if possible- more terrified than she did only moments ago in the face of death. She’s shaking like a leaf- Her wide, milky eyes focused in on Tomura as she attempts another gasped word. “Look- Just look at her. She’s done for. Let’s go- I can keep you safe, I can-.” “You don’t know that- You don’t know that- Please Tomura, we don’t have time to argue, just help me!”

“I do know that,” He insists, trying again to tug you towards the door. “She’s in shock, and the blood loss is too much for them to be able to save her even if we could drag her out of here. It was obviously intentional. I can protect you but we need to leave now-”

Your eyes flick back to Maureen and the pooling beneath her prone body that seems to grow larger by the second. Her mouth trembles, choking on the words that are trapped in her flooded throat.

You shake him off once more and lean down to her as Tomura groans in what seems like, if you didn’t know better, annoyance. You ignore him, trying to coax her into your arms carefully, but she only quivers in your grasp, still trying to hiccup out something between her pained gasps and slipping mortal coil.

“C’mon Maureen- You can make it, I know you can!” But she remains limply, dead weight on the cabin floor, more fearful of something directly in front of her than the inevitable death that awaits. You lean forward once more to try and get a grip beneath her arms to hoist her upward, but she holds firm, puffing a final wheeze in your ear that takes a moment to process. “Him.”

Blood bubbles up through her throat following the words and she spits it up over her blouse, eyes going blank and body falling into limpness. The wounds across her body still ooze a steady stream of blood but the last of her spirit seems to still, light fading from her eyes in one final moment.

“Tomura, help-” Panic threads through your voice, still trying to drag her forward.

But he doesn’t move to help you. He only stares blank faced and cold as Maureen seizes in her death rattles; Her pallid fingers still coiled in an accusatory gesture at her side.

“Please-”

“I told you, she’s dead.” He pulls you away by the collar like a kitten, knocking your center of balance clean from the sheer force of the grab as he coaxes you once again into his arms. “Can we go now? We need to go, need to get away from here-”

Something catches your attention, something solid in his hoodie’s kangaroo pouch that pricks you slightly as you fall into his chest. A slight sting on your arm as it collides with his torso.

”Ow!” You pull away once again, his body stiffening as you inspect a fresh little cut on your arm where something sharp pricked at your flesh. “Tomura, what the hell is in your pocket? That hurt-” ”Nothing! Quit wasting time- Come on! We need to leave.”

“It cut me...” You pluck at the skin once more, hissing in slight pain as the small laceration pulls apart under your attentions. “Do you have a knife in your pocket?” “What? No- well, yeah. I picked it up in the kitchens when I was trying to find you. I thought I could defend myself with it if he caught up to us-”

You turn and narrow your eyes at him, shaking your head. “We don’t have knives that sharp. We have butter knives. It’s not safe for the kids, and after you got caught last time-” “We have one, remember? The one we keep in the drawer for the barbeques.” “I looked! When the girls cabin scattered after the attack, I went and looked and it was gone!” “I must’ve grabbed it before you got there. Is this really important right now? We need to go! Stop being difficult!-” “How is that possible? The boys cabin didn’t know anything was going on until we fled there when he attacked Stacy and Becky. You didn’t even know what was happening until- You- You weren’t even there-”

“Well I have it, alright?” He interrupts you, face contorting into a sneer. “Shouldn’t you be happy? It means you’re not fucking defenseless if he shows up again.” “How-”

“Don’t worry about it!” He grabs your arm again, bruising grip deceptively strong for such a lithe man, crushing the bones in your wrist with his fingers. “Come on- Lets go! We can finally leave here together- You’ll be safe with me-”

Him

It could be the ferocious expression, or his demands that are cloaked in the facade of a benevolent request. Maybe his story that doesn’t add up or perhaps you’ve simply known all along somewhere deep down. Either way, It hits you in one terrible moment- one world shattering instant where everything suddenly clicks into place.

Tomura- quiet, eerie Tomura with the sharp mind and the eyes sharper still. Tomura with boundary issues who always found a reason to touch things he wasn’t supposed to. Tomura who only ever had a soft spot for you because you were kind to him when everyone else kept a mile berth.

Tomura, who’s only friend to speak of is you.

‘He’s so obsessed with you! It’s fuckin’ creepy! You should get a restraining order before he, like, snaps and corners you and makes you suck his dick or something. He’s not even supposed to hang around with the younger group but he’s always following you around like a lovesick puppy.’

‘What? No he’s not! That’s a horrible thing to say! He’s a nice guy, you guys are just awful. You don’t even give him a chance-’

‘He’s always staring at you like he wants to eat you! I bet he’s the one stealing your stuff. I’ll bet he has one of those weirdo shrines to you in his cabin and jerks it over your picture like ‘Oh, oh yeah, ride me harder, oh fuck me faster- Oh!-’

‘You’re disgusting! He’s just nice to me because I’m nice to him! Everyone else is such an asshole to him- Including you! God, you guys are so fuckin’ mean for no reason! Just because he’s a little different-’

‘He gives me the creeps. He’s been like that since we were kids. Remember when he was a teenager but still only ever hung around you? He couldn’t even make friends his own age! Even the other councilors are wigged by him. The only one who even talks to him is you. I’m telling you, he’s a fuckin’ weirdo. There’s something totally off about him. He’s going to snap one day. We’re not the only ones that avoid him, you know-’

‘Fuck you guys. You guys are such fucking judgmental dicks. He’s never even done anything to you. You’re just a mean spirited bitch.’

Tomura who would sneak you into the woods and show you rotting animal corpses with macabre excitement in his wide red eyes. Tomura who used to sneak knives in his bag as a camper and show you how to sharpen and hold them until he got caught and the entire camp had to institute a new safety policy. Tomura who had to be scolded repeatedly for trying to sneak into the girl’s cabin as a young boy to try sleep next to you, and that it wasn’t appropriate for him to wait outside of it for you as he got older either. Tomura who has distain for everything and everyone in a world that shunned and rejected him in equal capacity.

Everyone but you.

Your friends are dead, slaughtered like animals and strewn across the camp in a grotesque tableau of vicious murder, the only knife in the area conveniently tucked in his pocket, his hand clasping your wrist in an iron hold that doesn’t ask, but demands you obey him.

“Tomura- Tomura tell me you didn’t- You couldn’t-” You’re shaking now, feeling more in danger than you did before the man in the mask who conveniently never chased you or even gave you a second glance even as he had every opportunity to do so. The murderer just as gawky and gangly as Tomura, lean, wiry muscle and imposing height almost too tall for his own body and manic, scarlet eyes. The killer who held the knife with the same practiced grip that he’d shown you so many years ago-

“What are you even talking about? Let’s go-”

He rips you forward, taking you into his arms again and squeezing.

‘He’s going to snap one day-’

“Tomura- Tomura no! Tomura! God, please tell me you didn’t do this! Look at me and tell me!”

He looks at you, mouth opening to form a sentence before abruptly cutting short. He studies your face, your quivering body, the blood across your cheek. You think, for a moment, he might break down. But he doesn’t. He laughs. A nasty, cruel chuckle directed at you and only you; there’s no one else alive to hear it.

“You always were too smart for your own good.”

The facade of panic and adrenaline falls from his pallid face, replaced with his stereotypical look of total nonchalance and almost boredom. Your stomach plummets, limbs paralyzed in abject terror as his pale hand reaches forward, thumbing at the swatch of blood across your face.

“I had to, you know. Wanted to for years. But I had to wait until you were a counselor with me. Had to wait until I could do it before the kids arrived. Too many variables I couldn’t control. No one is coming for days, and they’re finally dead, and by the time anyone finds them, we’ll be long gone.”

A stab of ice down your spine at his words, the uncanny horror of it all whirling your vision to a blurry abyss. “You can’t- what have you done? What have you done?”

“What I had to! They were insufferable and stupid- your harpy friends wouldn’t let us be. But now they’re dead.”

“-Have to get help- we need to call the police-“

“Stop being stupid.” He brushes the hair out of your face with a tender finger laden in blood. “We’re leaving here and never coming back.”

“You need to turn yourself in-“ you stammer. “They’ll know it was you, God, Tomura-“

“Do I look like I care?” A snarl lifts his scabby lips, bearing the sharp canines beneath. “I don’t give a fuck if they know. I hope they do. They’ll never find us. I’ve had so long to plan-“

“No! Tomura, this is insane!”

“It’s over. Come to peace with it.” He hisses, wrenching you even closer, his dry lips on the shell of your ear. “You’re coming with me, baby, and we can finally be together. You can finally show me all those dirty little things you never got the chance to because your friends made you feel ashamed.”

The edge of the blade in his hand flicks up through the thin threading that binds the top buttons of your counselor uniform, baring your cleavage and the top part of your bra to him. You scramble to try and cover yourself, but he’ll have none of it; he quickly swats your hands away and presses the tip of the knife to your sternum.

“I’ve waited so long for you-“ A ragged breath escapes him, chest shuddering with the force of the exhale. “To touch you. To take you. Do you know what it’s like? What you fucking do to me?”

“Tomura- this- this is wrong! Please! Please let me get help! We’ll get you the help you need- I will! But you can’t do this! It’s not right!”

“There’s only one way you can help me, babe.” The hand not threatening you with the knife slides down and squeezes your breast, your entire body stiffening in visceral disgust. “Something I’ve wanted as long as I can remember. If you’re eager enough for it now, we have some time-“

“No! No! Don’t- stop touching me! This is sick! They’re dead! Tomura- stop it!”

“They are. And I could never, ever hurt you, but I’m sure there’s someone still alive that I could to calm you down- to make you see sense.” He squeezes hard enough to make you cry out, nipple catching between his fingers through the thin fabrics you’re wearing.

You blink up at him, bleary eyes full of silvery tears that trail down the slopes of your cheeks. He doesn’t look like Tomura anymore- not your Tomura. He looks like something twisted and uncanny, some feral beast that’s inhabited your friend’s brain and driven him to the brink of madness. He leers down at you lasciviously, thick pink tongue swiping across his teeth and you’ve never felt more uncomfortable in your own skin under his gaze than you do right now.

“It’s not fair when you cry like that. I’m already painfully hard-“ He releases your tit in favor of clutching your wrist, bringing your trembling hand down to his crotch hidden by the length of his sweatshirt and forcefully rubs the length of his throbbing erection against your palm. “But it always did things to me when you got all weepy.”

You’ve been defending a monster.

“Remember when you would cry into my lap because that group of girls was mean to you and I had to keep adjusting you every few minutes?” He barks a laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “God, it was so hard not to sink you down on my cock right then. Fuck, I would have destroyed you if I let myself- all sniveling and delicate and weak. You always needed me to protect you, didn’t you? So trusting. Naive, really. You had no idea what I was thinking about at night. What I’ve been planning to do to you for years-“

You can only give a broken, disbelieving cry of his name- trying to bring back the boy you knew. The sweet boy. The shy one. The quiet one with morbid curiosities and wild ideas on the world.

“Your friends knew, of course. But you didn’t listen, you silly, dumb little girl. Tried to warn you, but you just wouldn’t listen. And now they’re dead.”

“Fuck you! Fuck you, you bastard! You’re a monster! You’re-“ You batter your fists uselessly against the steel panes of his chest and he barely even budges.

“Remember when you could come to the woods with me and I would show you all the cool stuff my dad taught me? You thought it was weird but you still came because you’ve always been so sweet to me. My dad’s dead now, but I made sure he left me his remote cabin. I’ve wanted to take you there for so long, and now I finally can.”

He advances on you and even in your rage, you instinctively backpedal. Before long, he’s got your back flush against the scratchy wood wall, toe to toe with you with his imposing frame trapping you to the surface behind you in a gangly cage of his spider-like limbs.

“Fuck- It gets me so hot when you act like a little brat. When you fight me even when you know there’s no way you can overpower me. You never could. Even when we play-wrestled. I could make you scream without even trying. So fucking precious to see you bare your teeth at me like you’re capable of lifting a finger against me.”

“I hate you- I hate you!”

“That’s okay, babe. I can learn to forgive you. Tell you what, why don’t you wrap those pretty lips around my cock and start sucking out my forgiveness with your sharp little tongue and we’ll take it from there.”

“Go to hell-“

“If I go, you’re coming with-“ He puffs into your ear, one hand swirling into the front of your shirt, the other slicing from hem to collar in one swift motion, leaving your torso bared to his greedy eyes. “I’ve earned you. You’re mine now- you belong to me and anyone who has ever tried to say otherwise is dead!”

And the worst part is he’s right. Maureen bubbles a lifeless pool of blood a few feet away. The ones who tried to fight slashed repeatedly until they were too weak to stand and died a slow, painful death into the grass. The ones that tried to run cut down from behind- a cowardly act that shows his true nature. You can scream and cry and wail your sorrows to the terrible moon that hangs through the trees, but no one will come to help you; there’s no one left. No one but him.

And no one is coming for days.

“I was going to wait until I got you home to fuck into your guts but you’re just not getting it, and I don’t think I can wait.” He thrusts the knife back into his pocket temporarily, opting instead to fumble with the front of his jeans. Dread pools in your stomach, threatening to overturn the contents into the filthy floor, but all you can do is watch in terror as he unzips the front of his jeans and fishes his pale cock from behind it.

“Go ahead and get on your knees for me and stick your tongue out. Think of it as a practice round.”

You shake your head, weakly resisting as he shoves you to the ground and taps the hot, purpling tip on your face, smearing his precum across your ruddy cheek.

“Don’t be shy. I promise once you get a taste, you’ll love it. You will learn to love it. You don’t have another choice. Just wait until I get you back home. I’ve learned so much since last summer. I can’t wait to show you.”

#morgana and friends #reader x shigaraki #nsft #tw dacryphilia #tw implied noncon #tw blood slaughter and all the fun stuff #him being gross and disgusting #not my best work but I wanted to get it out #just a snippet really #think of it as a cute fun lil thing I’m puttin out for funnies

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journalofimprobablethings · 3 years ago

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When Martin wakes up in those slow, golden mornings at Upton House, it sometimes takes him a moment to remember where he is.

The first morning--the first real morning, not the strange, groggy awakening after their seventy-hour collapse--he thought they were back in Scotland. He thought, for a brief, heady moment, that everything that had happened since he left Jon to read that statement had been a dream--just one long, awful nightmare. That he would go downstairs to their tiny kitchen and make tea and Jon would sleepily stumble down a few minutes later and join him at the window, wrapping his arms tight around Martin's waist, and together they would watch the mist burn off over the fields of grass and heather and no horrors. That the quiet, fragile life they'd built there still existed.

It didn't last, of course. All too soon, he remembered where he was, and everything that had happened to get them there. But Martin treasures the memory of that feeling, and all the small moments of normalcy they have stolen in the last few days here. They may not be in Scotland, but they have gotten to sleep--in a bed--and he has savored every moment where he gets to wake up under soft covers, Jon's limbs sprawled across him with an abandon he only ever achieves in sleep.

This morning, when Martin wakes, Jon is on his own side of the bed for once, no arms tossed across Martin's chest or legs tangled with his--but he still holds one of Martin's hands clasped lightly on the pillows between them, fingers loosely linked. Martin lets out a deep sigh of something dangerously close to contentment, and rolls over to face Jon.

Jon's eyes are open, as always. (It had taken some getting used to, Jon sleeping with his eyes open. Martin will never tell Jon how much it unnerves him.) Now, though, Jon's eyes are alert, awake. He is looking at Martin with a sort of quiet wonder, a perfect reflection of what Martin feels whenever he rolls over and sees Jon next to him and realizes, all over again, that this is real.

"Good morning," Martin murmurs softly.

"Good morning," Jon says, and he says it like it's the most miraculous sentence in the world. In a way, with everything they’ve been through, it is.

Martin leans in to kiss Jon, soft and slow with sleep. He takes his time, because he can do that here, because just for this moment they are together and safe from monsters and they can have this.

Jon starts, just a little, when Martin's lips meet his, and when he returns Martin's kiss he is gentle and cautious, as though he is afraid he will break Martin if he moves too fast. It reminds Martin a little of how he was in those first days in Scotland, when they were both still moving so slowly, feeling out boundaries, still in awe that this was happening at all. Then he pulls away all at once, his breath slightly ragged.

"You all right?" Martin asks.

Jon nods. "Yes. I just...it's a bit..." He frowns a little, the frown he gets when he's trying to find the right way to phrase something.

Martin thinks he knows what he means. "I know, I'm still not used to it. Being in someone else's house."

Jon's frown deepens, and Martin reaches up, unthinking, to smooth his thumb over the crease between Jon's brows.

"I mean, not that I think that Annabelle or Salesa would walk in on us or anything," he says, "but--"

"Annabelle?"

Jon's voice is suddenly sharp. He leans away from Martin's hand, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at him properly.

“Annabelle Cane? She’s here?”

It's like someone has poured ice water down the back of Martin's neck.

He looks up at Jon, scrutinizing his face. His expression holds confusion and apprehension but none of the vagueness that's been creeping over him the past few days, the symptoms of being cut off from the Eye. He looks lucid, fully present.

Still, Martin has to fight to keep his voice steady as he answers.

"Ye-yeah. She let us in, remember? She's staying here, in Salesa's house. He told us about it that first day. Uninvited houseguest, and all that."

Jon shakes his head.

"Annabelle. Of course." He flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Can't get away from the Web even in my dreams. Should've known there would be something else when this wasn't a statement."

Wait.

Dreams?

A sick swoop of anxiety passes through Martin, like an electric current.

"Jon, this isn't--you know you're awake right now, right?"

Jon laughs, low and mirthless.

"No, I'm not."

You--you are, though. This is real, this isn't a dream." Martin gives a small, nervous laugh. "I--I know it feels a bit like one, after everything, but--"

"Yes, it is," Jon says, with absolute certainty. "This is a dream. It has to be."

"Why?"

Martin is so afraid of the answer, but he has to ask.

Jon looks at Martin then, with such sadness and longing in his eyes that Martin can barely stand to hold his gaze. "I wouldn't be here with you otherwise."

“What are you talking about, of course you--” Martin stops, a sudden horrible thought coming to him as he thinks again of how Jon has been the last few days, staring off into space, tailing off in the middle of sentences.

"Jon, what's the last thing you remember? Before you--before now?"

Jon's brow furrows. "I...I went to sleep in the Archives. On the cot, for once. Was too tired to avoid it any longer. I never thought--I didn't think I got to dream about good things, anymore." He looks up at Martin, that same sad and longing look. "This is a nice change."

Martin takes a deep breath, trying to tamp down the growing panic clawing at his throat.

"I miss you, Martin," Jon continues. He doesn't seem to notice Martin's quickening breath beside him. "I know you said we have to stay apart, and I trust you, I do, but--god. I miss you. There are so many things I never--things I should have realized, should have said sooner, and now..."

Jon trails off, his eyes roving Martin's face as though he's trying to memorize it. Normally, Martin would blush under that seeking gaze, soaking in Jon's keen attention. But now his mind is too busy spinning over Jon's words and their implications.

It's worse now than losing the thread of a conversation--Jon is losing time. He's forgetting. If the last thing he remembers is the Archives, is Martin falling deeper under Peter's influence, then that means--

Oh, god." Martin sits up so abruptly that his head spins. Next to him Jon's forehead creases in worry.

"Martin?"

It means Jon's forgotten the Lonely, pulling Martin out of that beach,

He's forgotten Scotland, the cottage, those three weeks of stolen peace,

He's forgotten the Change, and everything they've been through since.

"God, no. Shit."

"Martin, what's wrong?"

"We have to get you out of here."

Martin throws off the covers and makes to get out of bed, but Jon's hand shoots out and grabs his arm as he starts to get up.

“No, Martin, please. I’m sorry. If I said something wrong, I’m sorry. But please, I don’t know how long this will last. I want to stay with you. Please.”

Martin forces himself to stop, to slow, to turn and place his hand over Jon's where it's clutching at his arm.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I swear, I will never leave you. But we have to get out of this house. Now.”

“Why? Is there something here?" Jon gives a sharp, bitter laugh. “Of course. That didn’t take long. Nightmare, is it?”

"No, no, it’s not like that, but--all that stuff--with Peter, and the Archives--that was months ago.” His mouth twists. “Or, well--I’m not really sure how long ago it was; time doesn’t really work anymore, but it’s been a long time and--”

He can hear the hysteria creeping into his own voice, register rising and words beginning to trip over each other as they crowd out of his mouth too quickly. He stops, closing his eyes for just a second, wishing his heart would stop its hummingbird-fast beat in his chest.

When he opens his eyes, Jon is staring at him. His hands are fisted tight in the blankets and his eyes are so wide that Martin can see the whites all around his irises.

“Martin, what are you saying?”

I’m saying that you're not dreaming, Jon. You're awake. You've just--there's something here messing with your mind, something making you forget."

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Jon’s hands clutch the blankets tighter, and he frowns.

"You realize this is a very dream-like conversation."

Martin can’t help but smile a little at the hint of dry skepticism in Jon’s voice. He knows Jon well enough to know that that skepticism is a defense mechanism, a wall he puts up to protect himself against something that he’s not quite ready to admit he believes.

He reaches out and takes Jon’s hands in his, gently untangling his fingers from their tight grip on the quilt. Jon starts a little at the contact, but he doesn’t resist.

"Jon, you've been dreaming nothing but statements for months. Years, now. Why would it have suddenly changed?"

That crease reappears between Jon’s brows, and he looks down at where his fingers are entwined with Martin’s, as though the tangle of their fingers is a puzzle he can solve, if he only looks at it hard enough.

"I--yes. You're right, I...So this is...Martin?"

Martin smiles when Jon’s eyes meet his and squeezes his hand reassuringly.

"Hi."

"You're really here. This is really happening."

"Yes."

"So then how--where--" Jon's eyes widen. "The Eye, I can't--Martin, where--"

"It's alright, Jon. Just breathe."

Jon's eyes are wide and his hands clutching Martin's so tight it hurts a little, but he does as Martin says and sucks several deep breaths.

"Why can't I feel it? We didn't--did we find a way to quit? Another way?"

Martin's heart cracks open at the hope in Jon's eyes. The light at the idea that somehow, they were able to get away. What are a few memories, he can see Jon thinking, if they are free?

He wishes so badly that he could give a better answer, that he doesn't have to extinguish that light.

"No," he says quietly. No, we didn't.”

He hates the way Jon slumps in on himself at his words, the momentary electricity that had flowed through him at the idea of escape suddenly cut off.

"We're in a place the Eye can't reach us." he says gently. "Temporarily."

"Right. You--you mentioned Annabelle. And Mikaele Salesa? I thought he was dead."

Martin can't help a small laugh. "He faked his death. This is his house."

"Salesa's house? But why? Why are we here, why would the Eye not be able to--"

Jon stops. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, visibly pushing down the torrent of questions, sorting through them to find the one that matters.

"What exactly have I forgotten?”

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #upton house #tma season 5 spoilers #tma season 5 #this is the first part of a longer thing but the rest of it has been giving me grief and i like this bit #so i thought i'd post it #why not #angst #cw memory loss #scribblings

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aurabird · 4 years ago

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To Seek Redemption

So this is based off of something my braincell that desires fluff came up with.

Something happens that causes the Hels!Hermits to become helpful, caring, and empathetic like their counterparts. No more hierarchy and anarchy, no more bloodshed and violence, just pure, familial energy and fluff. Basically, they all obtain morals and eventually the line between Hermit and Helsmit is no more.

This relies strongly on headcannons and things regarding Helsmit/Hermit first encounters are left vague on purpose for the reader to fill in because I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes :3

No major TWs, just mentions of violence, blood, and injuries.

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The Hels Dimension was a brutal place, an eternal battleground where anarchy was the norm and the hierarchy brutal. The denizens of this dimension said to be the worst traits of their Overworld counterparts incarnated or their best traits without any moral boundaries.

Those that lived within Hermitcraft’s Hels Dimension; Helscraft as they’d become to be called, referred to themselves as Helsmits as they sought to not only overpower each other, but also make the lives of their other halves miserable.

Of course, not every Helsmit was a monster, some were simply pranksters, simply finding enjoyment in teasing their counterparts because the reactions amused them; nuisances that just wouldn’t go away.

But, despite all of this, how would players such as the Helsmits react…when everything they knew, all the violence they partook in, just went away? Was replaced by feelings they didn’t understand or hated?

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The time-dilation known as lag was not a new concept to the denizens of Helscraft; after all, several of them used the enigmatic force as a weapon or safeguard for their territory, slowing down any would-be usurpers enough to gain an upper hand.

What WAS new, however, was that this time, lag stopped their world completely. No one moved, no one spoke; for only a few moments all was still…

…until it wasn’t.

When the world began to move again the Helsmits knew something had changed, feelings of vengeance and hatred were gone, replaced by emotions they did not understand; that some of them even despised. Empathy, compassion, the desire for familial companionship.

Those locked in combat sheathed their weapons, taking steps back from each other before apologizing. Those that kept themselves locked in impenetrable fortresses left their isolation and sought out the Helsmit nearest to them to simply talk and for comfort due to their isolation. Those that had gotten the last of their territory stolen from them had it returned.

And those that sought power within the hierarchy? Well, who said that having friends didn’t count as power?

Traps set up to kill and torment were disabled, and selfishly-hoarded resources distributed to those with few or none.

It was difficult at first to come to grasps with the sudden morals and emotions they'd acquired, for some, the phrase of “I hate being nice” became popular, being uttered by several of them defeatedly when they attempted to be anything but friendly to each other.

But eventually the Helsmits grew used to their new emotions, enjoyed them even. Sure they were all still competitive with each other, that was a trait no strange force could change, but now it was more friendly and lighthearted. Some even tried to act like the 'evil counterparts' they'd once been in a joking manner.

The Hesmits knew that things had changed, that their old ways of life were now gone.

They'd all gathered at their Town Hall, the first building they'd made since they'd all become friends, looking upon a portal with nervousness and uncertainty. Not a portal to the Nether, nor a portal to the End. No, this portal was to the Overworld.

It'd been Helskinght that discovered how to conjure the gateway, the purple swirls framed by blocks of crying obsidian. At one point this structure had been fought over and the land around it once stained crimson with Helsmit blood.

The area had been completely terraformed since then, making this location both a reminder of the past and the present. None of them had their weapons or tools, just the clothes on their backs, food, and basic building blocks. After all, they'd come here for one reason alone.

Now that they’d mended the conflicts that had once divided them, perhaps it was time to do the same with those that saw them as nothing but evil interlopers seeking to cause only destruction and misery.

Yes, it was time to ask their overworld counterparts, the Hermits, for forgiveness. The final step they'd all need to reach complete redemption.

"You think they'll accept it after everything some of us have done?" asked someone from the gathered crowd, "We've been silent for so long too, how do you think they'll react to us all coming at the same time?"

The two questions had no definite answers, as only a few Helsmits had even interacted with their overworld counterparts. Then again, those that had awful experiences no doubt spread the seeds of distrust throughout the entirety of Hermitcraft.

A Helsmit in ebony-plated armor and wearing a helmet sighed. Since the reforming of their society Helsuma had been the appointed the Admin of Helscraft, though unlike his counterpart, he lacked the powers that came with said title.

"There is only one way to find out." he said with uncertain confidence before taking his first steps through the passage, his fellow Helsmits following not far behind.

------

Their arrival on the main street of the Cowmercial District was met with mixed reactions. Fear, disdain, and confusion the most common but surprise could also be seen on the faces of some Hermits.

Those that knew their Helscraft counterparts had drawn their swords and bows, netherite blades and enchanted arrows aimed directly at them, ready to strike at the slightest sign of aggression.

It was Xisuma that broke the silent tension, his calm, accented voice holding the strength of a leader as he addressed the crowd before him. “Well, this is definitely a surprise.” he said as he took a few steps forward, taking note of the fact some of the newcomers flinched or tensed up at his advance. “I didn’t expect all of you to show up at once, let alone completely unarmed.”

The person who then walked out from the crowd of Helsmits was a surprise to the overworld Admin. Every Hermit supposedly had a counterpart of their own in Helscraft, but X hadn’t exactly been ready to meet his.

Features and attire were identical to his own, though their skin was marred with horrible scars and their black-plated armor boasted several gashes; fiery-orange eyes far more exhausted than his own violet ones shone with desperation.

“Careful, X.” Wels warned with a growl, cerulean gaze narrowed and locked with the red one of Helsknight, “They aren’t to be trusted.”

If the silver-armored knight had seen the hurt in Hels’ expression at those words, he didn’t react to it.

X ignored the given warning and faced his counterpart without fear or hesitation, “What brings you all to the Overworld like this? Clearly it isn’t an invasion.”

Helsuma spoke, his voice simply a deeper, more rough version of X’s. “We…we all…we all wish to ask forgiveness.” he struggled to say before looking behind him at his fellow Helsmits, “Those of us that you know the actions of more than others.”

“Why the change of heart?” came a Hermit’s confused but sharp tone as they gazed upon one that looked almost exactly like they did, no doubt remembering bitterly what their first meeting with their counterpart was like.

“Honestly, we have no idea.” came a voice from the Helsmits, “Everything just…stopped one day, like lag but for longer than a few seconds. After that, well, some of us noticed that we felt emotions alien to us, urges to be…friends, not enemies or rivals; to share and not take.”

“You learned what morals are? I find that hard to believe.”

At the comment Hels turned his head to Wels, arms crossed “Whether you believe it or not, if we sought to invade the overworld for malicious goals today, we would have done so already.”

Grian, surprisingly, was the one that came to the dark knight’s defense “You know, Wels, not all of them are incarnations of our evil.” he commented from his place on steps to the Town Hall. “Take Xelqua, my counterpart for example.“ he began, motioning to the Helsmit that was a splitting image of him save a pair of purple wings that sparkled with stars; the cloak around them bearing a strange symbol, “He’s the one that was mixing up the stuff in your guy’s sorting systems and renaming all your diamonds!”

Mumbo shot the man a look, “Seriously mate? You interacted on a friendly level with your counterpart as opposed to some of us and didn’t think to tell anyone of it?”

“Uh...no. Kinda slipped my mind actually.”

Scar spoke next, having spotted BadTimes in the center of the group; the skeletal vex wings protruding from their back a sign of the part of himself he’d cast away when he decided to reject the control of the chaotic fae he’d once been bound to. “Well, I for one believe in second chances.” he said with a grin, noticing the eyes of several Helsmits light up, “Sure it may take time for us to all trust each other but if they are counterparts of us and we’re Hermits, what’s to say they can’t be too?”

“Scar is right!” chimed Zedaph, “Look at Exy! He was all scary and stuff and he ended up being nice in the end!”

The streets were silent once more as Hermit and Helsmit alike looked at Xisuma, awaiting the verdict of the situation. The Admin thought hard about the dilemma he was faced with. His fellow Hermits all made good points and, when given proof, X was one to forgive.

He saw the looks in the eyes of their counterparts; fear, desperation, hope. He’d made the mistake of condemning his brother to the banvoid, and though they’d made up since then, it didn’t change the fact that he’d left Ex alone, abandoned, and scared when all the man had needed was guidance.

No, he could not simply turn them away, he couldn’t send them back to their dimension and find a way to seal them in there forever.

“I do not speak for all the Hermits, especially given the history some of you have with them.” he began, “However, I am willing to give you all a chance. Do not make me regret my decision.”

------

The rules Xisuma had applied to them were simple and the Admin had made it perfectly clear that they’d all be watched closely, both by him and the Hermits they interacted with.

For some, it was easy to befriend their counterparts, alike in many ways, yet still different enough to be their own person. Others had a more difficult time, uneasy truces and silent tension sparking between them.

But, time heals all wounds, and the line that separated Hermits and Helsmits eventually disappeared. Denizens of both the Overworld and Helscraft began to come and go between their realms freely, taking ideas and inspirations from each other, playing minigames as if they’d all been friends from the beginning.

Getting to the End was impossible from Helscraft, so the Helsmits had always secretly been baffled by the silvery wings that allowed their counterparts to fly around. With the befriending of each other, however, they were being taught through trial and error (mostly error, actually) how they worked and the freedom that came with Elytra flight.

It wasn’t uncommon now for the trio of team ZIT to be seen planning crazy ideas with their counterparts and teasing each other, unsurprisingly both Grian and Xelqua managed to start yet another war, and the silent chaos of shenanigans from Etho and his counterpart were never discovered until it was too late.

False and True could often be seen sparring, as could Wels and Hels; though the duo of knights usually did so through both physical combat and song.

Scar and Cub would be seen working on projects with their counterparts, laughing and remembering the times when they were once one in the same, but yet still glad to be their own individual players.

Bdubs and his phantom-featured counterpart would sometimes argue over who was the fastest of them to get to sleep ("And how are you faster? Last I checked beds blow up in Hels ya stupid!" "Not since X gave Helsuma Admin powers they haven't ya fool!"), though neither of them would win because someone else would sleep away the night while they bickered.

Ex had even returned from his journey of self-discovery, completely confused at first and then began pouting when he learned that he didn’t have a Helscraft counterpart of his own to cause mischief with. With a laugh, Helsuma had offered to be the counterpart of both brothers.

------

It was several months later when the two Admins stood on the roofs of their Town Halls, smiles on their faces as they overlooked the antics below them; Hermits and Helsmits alike interacting harmoniously. With the union of their respectful dimensions their families had doubled in size.

And both of them couldn’t have been any happier.

#hermitcraft au #helscraft #hels!hermits #evil hermits #fluff and angst #the helsmits are a chaotic family your honor #I'm a sucker for redeption arcs #Grian's counterpart is a gremlin like him #but has all the Watcher traits and regalia #Ex isn't from Helscraft either #he's a copy of X's code that got created by acident #he also wasn't permabanned in S6 #him and X made up and he went on a journey of self discovery #cub & scar's counterparts are parts of their souls that they split from when they decided to reject using Vex magic #like I said at the start this relies heavilly on headcannons #my writing #hermitblr

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ourloveisforthelovely · 4 years ago

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Angel (one shot)

Harry Potter Marauders Era

Request helloooo can i ask for like a quick regulus x reader oneshot where the reader sings and regulus hears her voice and basically falls in love with it but he didnt see her face so he just comes back everyday to the same place in the hope of listening to her singing and seeing her face this time? this sounds specific i know but i feel like some soft reggie is all i need now 😭

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader

Rating: M- mention of self harm

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Suffocating… that was the best word that Regulus could use to describe his life. After joining up with the death eaters at the lovely age of 16, Regulus had quickly grown to regret his decision. Anytime that the dark mark began to burn in the slightest, Regulus found himself dying for an excuse not to go. There was, however, not one...at least nothing in Lord Voldemort’s eyes that would be “good enough.”

On the outside, Regulus had to keep his smooth and reserved demeanor. It didn’t matter on the inside how much he was screaming. No one cared. The people that did know what he was doing continued to go on and on about how he was doing “the right thing, the noble thing.”

It was 7:00pm and Regulus found himself running down a quiet hallway. He had to get out of the Slytherin common room. He had to get away from Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr. They had been so gleeful over a muggle that had been murdered the night before. Neither seemed to care about this person nor the family that they left behind. Regulus, when the deed was taking place, didn’t care. He stood stony faced as the man begged for his life. The moment Voldemort uttered his “favorite” spell, Regulus had to swallow back the feeling of nausea as he watched the light leave the man’s eyes.

Regulus had done well not thinking about the “deed” all day. It wasn’t until he returned to the common room and overheard Evan’s conversation did Regulus find himself regretting the day that he was born.

No one asked a question when Regulus walked out of the common room. Why would they? People would be dumb to question Regulus on something. People knew not to question Regulus on his doing unless they wanted to be jumped.

Regulus stopped the moment that his hands hit the balcony. Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes mentally begging for the memory to leave his mind.

Just stop...I fucking hate this!

Regulus thought miserably. He was half tempted to throw himself off of the balcony. It looked like a good distance and if he was lucky wouldn’t survive the fall. Death would be better than living the way that he was at the moment!

The brooding stopped the moment that a soft voice caught Regulus’ attention. He knew a lot of the “choir kids” would come up to this particular area of the castle to practice at points. Before today, however, Regulus had never paid any of them any attention. Today, it was different. This voice was soft, gentle...everything that Regulus needed.

Right away he recognized the French folk song that he had heard numerous times as a child. Leaning his head back against the stone wall, all of the anxiety and tension slowly left. Regulus took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. They were no longer shaking.

I should leave...but I don’t want to. She, whomever she is, has to have the most beautiful voice. She sounds like an angel.

Regulus thought with a tiny smile. Although he had no belief in heaven, hell, angels, or demons hearing this voice had to be what an angel would sound like if there were one. This soft voice was everything that Regulus needed to hear when he needed to be told “that everything would be alright.”

Over the following days, Regulus found himself in the same place at the same time. It didn’t matter what kind of hell that he had going on. The moment that soft voice would sing all of the bad would vanish. Even if it was just one song, Regulus was feeling a million times better when he had to return to the Slytherin common room.

The question plaguing Regulus’ mind now was who did the voice belong to? He had been trying to put an angelic voice with a face nonstop and was coming up with nothing. None of the girls in Slytherin house fit the idea that Regulus had in his mind.

I have to find out.

He muttered as the signing stopped. Standing up, he quickly walked into the room not having any idea what he was about to say. Regulus knew that whatever girl this was would probably think that he was a creep for spying on her night after night. What kind of girl would want that?

“I know you’re there.”

The singing had stopped and was replaced with a soft comment on Regulus’ appearance. Regulus turned around to see Y/n Lupin sitting by the window. You were the girl...the voice...it all fit! Regulus blinked a few times as he took everything in. Of course, it was you. It all made sense.

“Um...hi.”

Regulus muttered. He wasn’t for sure if he had ever spoken to you before. The two of you were in the same year but your paths didn’t cross much. You were in Hufflepuff and often kept to your little group of friends or with your older brother.

You, meanwhile, smiled noticing Regulus’ awkward silence.

“You’ve been up here the past few nights.”

You commented. Regulus’ face blushed as you patted the seat beside you. Regulus slowly sat down and kept his eyes straight ahead.

He had to be a blithering idiot. There would be no way in hell that anything between the two of you would ever work. You were Remus Lupin’s sister. Regulus didn’t foresee Remus being too onboard with his sister dating a Slytherin (even if Slytherins and Hufflepuffs made great matches).

“You were upset that first night. Are you better now?”

You asked. You knew the question was probably intrusive but it came out before you really thought better of it. That night, a few nights ago, you had been up doing what relaxed you the most...singing. When you heard the angry footsteps you considered stopping but thought about how your singing seemed to comfort your own brother when he was upset. Maybe this person needed a little comforting too (even if you didn’t know them).

When you realized that it was Regulus Black the feeling of overwhelming sympathy washed over you. You didn’t know much about Regulus other than the fact that he was Sirius’ younger brother. Over the years that you were in school, you couldn’t help but notice how sad Regulus looked most of the time. You could see those sad dark eyes from your seat at the Hufflepuff table and wanted nothing more than to give him something to smile about. He reminded you of a puppy that had been kicked one too many times. If he was anything like Sirius then you knew that was exactly how Regulus was.

It was no secret that Walburga Black was cruel to her children. You knew first hand of the abuse. You had heard about it from Sirius himself. If that was what was plaguing Regulus’ mind every night that he came to the balcony, maybe you could give him something to feel better about?

“There really isn’t getting any better.”

Regulus commented as you scooted closer. You had a feelin what that vague comment was leading toward.

“About being a death eater?”

Regulus’ face went pale as he turned to look at you with wide eyes.

“How do you know? Did my brother tell you?”

You shook your head at the raised tone of his voice.

“Ssh now. We don’t need god and everyone to hear. I saw your arm doing potions one day.”

Regulus sneered in your direction. He didn’t know how to react. Maybe just be cold like normal? What the hell was he supposed to say?

“Let me guess, you are going to tell me that I am a horrible person and that I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing...no matter if it's what my family expected of me.”

Your momentary silence was driving Regulus nutty. After a few moments, you finally spoke.

“No. I was actually going to say I can’t imagine what you are going through. Sometimes our families are our own worst enemies.”

Regulus sighed.

“You’ve got that right. Look, I wasn’t spying on you. I want to just throw that out there.”

You smiled.

“It's alright. Your aura doesn’t seem as tense after you’re here for a bit.”

It was Regulus’ turn to be silent. He was trying to decide if he wanted to give you a compliment. If he messed things up, there was a good chance that he would never hear your angelic voice again...and that wasn’t something that he wanted to risk losing.

“Your voice is nice….its soothing.”

“Thank you.”

You replied as Regulus turned back to face you. His face this time was different. He had gone from death eater to the sad puppy that needed love.

“That first night...I was actually considering pitching myself off of that balcony. Hearing you...that was the first time I heard the most beautiful voice. It was like gravity.”

You reached out and gently took your hand in his. Were you overstepping your boundaries with a boy that you knew nothing about and who in turn knew nothing about you? Possibly. Did you care? Not really.

“I’m glad that you didn’t do that. You know, believe it or not, I realize how hard things can be with family. My family isn't normal…”

“Your brother is a werewolf.”

Regulus commented and instantly regretted his choice of words when your face went pale.

“Not that it matters though. It's just who Remus is.”

Regulus quickly added, hoping to save what hope of a friendship that he had with you. You, to his relief, smiled.

“Yes, it is who he is. I feel no guilt in telling you this now. With his condition, I tend to be second in the family. My parents don’t mean to put me on the back burner but it happens. It's hard...so I know now you must feel. How did you figure it out, if you don’t mind me asking. He literally tells no one.”

Regulus shrugged.

“Just put the puzzle pieces together.”

You continued to rub slow circles over Regulus’ palm hoping to relax him further. This was the first time (other than James and Sirius) someone had figured out Remus “furry little problem.”

“You’re really intelligent and perceptive then. If you want...you know...we could do this every evening when you're free. We don’t have to tell anyone that we are meeting up. Sometimes it's nice just to have someone outside of your friend circles.”

Regulus looked up and was clearly surprised.

“You would want to see me again?”

You nodded.

“If you want to see me that is...no pressure.”

Regulus quickly nodded, cutting you off.

“I would love to see you again...maybe around 7 tomorrow?”

You gave his hand a squeeze.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

_________

@amelie-black @realgaytrash @truly-insatiable @fandomsxxregulus @lucasfilms77 @exhsle @spiderxalmighty @jessyballet @knreidy1 @bennyberry @quuenofblacks @hazncalsgal @criminalyetminimal @whymyparentscheckmyphone @acciosiriusblack @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @fandom-trash-worth-it @summer-novak @hankypranky @stuckinsaudi1 @emiwrites3reads @shaylybaby2032 @li0nh34rt @tas898 @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @knight-of-gleefulness @shitfaceddaniel @untoldshortsofthefandoms @deanwherescas @sprnaturallover @wontlookaway @mycuddlycorner

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notapaladin · 3 years ago

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you just gotta let it go (redux)

What makes a sickfic better? More snarky bitching about being sick, of course! Poor, poor Acatl.

Also on AO3.

Original version here

The second day of an illness was the worst.

Granted, the first day had been no garden of roses either. Acatl had gone home at the end of his long working day (two vigils, several hours’ worth of investigations into a nasty murder near the markets, endless accounts to square away) to a hastily-put-together dinner and the comfort of his own mat, but he’d barely lain down for an hour before his guts had begun to cramp and the first swelling of nausea had begun to travel up his throat. He’d thought—hoped—that it would pass. He’d always had a reasonably strong constitution, after all. Perhaps it was merely the heat.

And then he’d started vomiting. Poison had been his first thought, and he’d wiped his mouth and tried to stagger to the door only to faint after a single step. Praise the gods for Ichtaca; the man had heard him groaning as he passed and had leapt into action, sending runners for a healing priest before he could even think about protesting. Not that he’d been doing much thinking by then, honestly—whatever he’d eaten had come back for revenge, and he’d been far too busy trying not to completely disgrace himself.

Or at least trying not to faint. Fatigue had dragged at every limb, threatening to pull him under entirely; he’d collapsed on the floor next to the basin Ichtaca had fetched for him, unable to rise even to his knees as bone-breaking chills had shuddered through him. He’d barely even had the strength to continue throwing up, though his stomach had left him little choice. Dull, twisting pain wormed its way through his guts, and each blink had lasted an eternity. He been so exhausted that he hadn’t wanted to open his eyes again. He might not have if fear hadn’t compelled him, if a cold spike of terror hadn’t whispered if you close your eyes you’ll never open them again, and then where will you be? Do you want so badly for Teomitl to weep for you when you leave him behind?

He’d thought of Teomitl’s smile, Teomitl’s warm words and steady hands, and forced himself to remain conscious. Ichtaca stayed by his side and that helped, but when the man had helped him wipe his mouth—and gods, how humiliating had that been—he’d been sick all over again at the question that hissed through his mind like an arrow. Am I going to die?

He served Mictlantecuhtli with all his heart, but he did not want to meet Him yet. Not with so much left unsaid. The thought that it might be entirely beyond his control had been terrifying; in a brief burst of energy he’d thought of asking Ichtaca to summon Teomitl, but fortunately he’d thrown up again before he could voice it, and that had erased such rank stupidity from his thoughts. It would only make things worse if he survived.

He’d still been retching when the priest of Patecatl had arrived.

At least it wasn’t poison, he’d thought bitterly when he’d gotten the diagnosis. But the sort of illness you got from food that had gone off was downright humiliating, and to make matters worse the only cure was rest and plain meals. Plain. No chili. No other spices. Barely even any salt. If he’d been able to contemplate food without feeling nauseous again, he would have been miserable; as it was, he was waking only to drink water and drag himself to the chamber pot.

Because apparently, even when whatever had been in his guts was now quite comprehensively out of them, it had left its mark behind. He was exhausted. Even his experience with the plague hadn’t left him feeling quite this flattened; each limb felt like the Great Temple had come down on top of it, and he could barely rouse himself from his mat. At least he wasn’t afraid of sleeping anymore. When he spoke, he slurred his words like a base drunkard.

And of course he was forced to speak, because he had visitors.

He was awoken shortly after dawn by the arrival of not one but two more priests of Patecatl. Their cloaks marked them as part of the upper echelons of their temple’s hierarchy, and so he managed not to actually snap at them when they entered. It felt like an achievement just to speak coherently. “Thank you, but I’m feeling much better—”

The older one gave him a stare so full of judgement that he shut his mouth with a pang; it reminded him too much of Ceyaxochitl. “We have to monitor your condition, Acatl-tzin. You are our High Priest for the Dead.”

There were times he truly took pride in being High Priest for the Dead at all hours, whether at a feast or standing by the side of a pyre. This was not one of them. I don’t stop being High Priest for the Dead, no matter how sick I am. He made a face, but grudgingly sat up a little straighter. Or how much I’d rather be left alone.

At least submitting himself to a full examination didn’t require him to do much except be manhandled, and the healing priests were coolly professional and not inclined to make small talk. It still tired him out, and when the younger priest—Cuetzpalli, apparently—began casting a spell to strengthen his stomach, he actually found himself dozing off. The cut-grass smell of Patecatl’s magic was remarkably soothing when you were more than semi-conscious for it.

“Acatl-tzin?”

He blinked awake. Cuetzpalli had stopped chanting and was eyeing him with mild concern as he offered a hand to help him sit up again. He ignored it; he was not so far gone that he couldn’t manage that, even if the motion made his muscles ache. “My apologies. What’s the verdict?”

Cuetzpalli didn’t seem fazed by his curtness. No doubt he’d seen much worse, though he was barely a few years older than Teomitl; healing priests saw people at their very lowest, after all, and an irritated High Priest probably wasn’t even worth noting. “No poison nor magic that we can detect. Your dinner seems to have simply...disagreed with you. You’ll feel...ah, reasonably terrible for a week or so, but you are in no danger.” His face twisted in singularly unhelpful sympathy.

Acatl’s fists clenched in his lap. A week? Duality, I cannot afford to be laid low for that long! Horrible visions of his temple in disarray and the boundaries crumbling like old paper flickered through his mind, and he fought a grimace. No. It would be fine. He would return to his duties tomorrow, suffer through bland food until his guts settled, and everything would be fine. “Hrm.”

“You’ll be alright, young man.” The older priest—Necalli—didn’t smile, but his eyes softened slightly as he looked him over. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

He couldn’t make any promises, but he was spared from having to lie; their visit apparently being over, Cuetzpalli was packing up their supplies. Soon they had both left, bowing very politely, and he’d collapsed on his mat again. Some vague twinge in his belly suggested he should attempt food, but even fetching one of the bland flatbreads Ichtaca had left for him seemed like a monumental effort. No, he would just lay here for now until he felt...well, not better, but at least more alert. The angle of the sunlight shifted through his one window, and he watched it blankly.

He slept. He woke, found the ache in his stomach had progressed to actual pangs of hunger, and choked down a few mouthfuls of dry flatbread and a cup of water before his gorge rose in protest and he had to set the rest aside. His stomach had been emptier than this for longer. He’d be alright.

He slept again. Time ceased to have meaning. There was only the sunlight moving across his floor, the humid air laying on his skin like a blanket. He lay like a lizard on his back, gently baking in the heat.

And then the entry curtain jingled. “Acatl?”

Oh, gods. Mihmatini’s voice. Groaning, he heaved himself upright, muscles protesting. “Ngghhh...” At some point he’d closed his eyes, and once again it seemed to take real effort to keep them open. Duality, he hoped the healing priests had been right and it was only an ill-chosen meal, and not something more serious. Last night’s panic had faded, but it was far too easy to bring to mind just how very inevitable—how very immediate—his death had felt. Lord Death, he prayed, do not take me into Your arms yet.

She sounded concerned. He was sick of concern. “We brought soup.”

...We…? The thoughts floating through his head were slow to arrange themselves into a semblance of order, but finally he realized that she wasn’t alone and managed to wedge his eyes open properly. There was Mihmatini, brow furrowed, holding a clay jug in both hands. And beside her, face twisted in worry, was Teomitl. “...Oh.” Oh, no. Not you. He felt vaguely nauseous again, and not just from the effort of sitting up.

She didn’t wait for him to invite her in, or even to rise; he watched, still feeling three steps behind reality, as she set the jug down on his table and went looking for spoons. There was a degree of bustling involved that made him dizzy to think about. “I really can’t believe I had to hear from Ichtaca that you were ill, Acatl, really—do you know how worried I’ve been? Food poisoning is nothing to dismiss!”

“It’s passed.” It had. Mostly. He had decided against making any sudden movements.

“Nobody gets over food poisoning that fast.” That was Teomitl, leaning in the doorway and frowning down at him. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

He frowned back, even as some part of his heart felt unaccountably warmed; Teomitl’s concern might be touching, but by the Duality it wasn’t as though he’d tried to get sick. Besides, he was a grown man. He didn’t need to be fussed over, especially not when it might make him start hoping. “...I take care of myself just fine.”

Teomitl turned his face away, glowering at the wall as though it had insulted his honor. Acatl knew by the face he made that he was probably chewing on the inside of his lip plug again; he wondered, not for the first time, if Teomitl had ever realized he only did that when he was agitated. He hoped he didn’t. It was oddly endearing, and he’d miss the sight. “What did the healing priests say?”

He grimaced at the reminder. “Very plain fare. And sleep.”

Mihmatini uncovered the jug, and the odor of plain, hot, and—suddenly most important for his stomach, which growled loudly enough that he blushed—salty turkey broth met his nostrils. “Do you think you could keep this down?”

For his sister, he’d try. Slowly, he nodded. “...Thank you.”

He hadn’t expected them to linger, but—evidently realizing that he absolutely wouldn’t be able to finish all of the soup by himself—they took their own seats at his table. It was pleasant not to eat alone in his own house for once. Teomitl was uncharacteristically quiet and kept glancing at Acatl out of the corner of his eye; before he thought of commenting on it, Mihmatini spoke up. “How is it?”

He looked down at his bowl and realized with a start that he’d nearly finished it. Each lift of the spoon to his mouth had been like trying to move a boulder, but he’d clearly been hungrier than he thought. He briefly had to struggle to remember how to speak; even the muscles in his tongue felt tired. A blink lasted longer than he liked. “...It’s good. Did you make it?”

Mihmatini snorted, shaking her head. “From the palace kitchens. I’m not this good a cook.”

Teomitl huffed, “You’re a wonderful cook.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “And you are a shameless flatterer.”

“I am being perfectly truthful—tell her, Acatl!”

Acatl blinked again, discreetly pinching himself to stay awake. Passing out in his soup bowl wouldn’t convince his family he was hale. True, Mihmatini was a skilled cook—but it was equally true that no priest of Patecatl would prescribe her food for him. It had entirely too much flavor, and the way she made soup would put meat back on the bones of a corpse. “...He’s right. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m in no state to appreciate it at the moment.”

She looked supremely unimpressed. He could actually see the moment she swallowed a sharp retort and picked up her spoon again. “I can see that. You look awful.”

He had to admit she had a point; he felt awful. Eating had helped briefly, but as soon as it settled in his stomach he had to battle another spike of nausea. If he stopped leaning on the table, he had a feeling he’d fall over. “Thanks.”

Mihmatini sighed, pushing her now-empty bowl away. “I wish I could stay, but I have to get back to the Duality House.”

“Guardian lessons?”

She made a face. Acatl couldn’t blame her; she hadn’t told him much of what her unexpected ascension to Guardianship had entailed, but what little she’d let slip suggested it was unpleasant. If nothing else, she was having to learn in weeks what took most women years. He did not envy her. “Guardian lessons.”

Teomitl reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see you later.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and for a moment Acatl was concerned. Had they had a fight at some point? But then she smiled, warm as always. “You’d better. Remember what we were talking about earlier.”

Teomitl swallowed hard and nodded. “Mm.”

And then she rose gracefully, favoring Acatl with that same narrow-eyed assessing look. “And as for you, you’d better take it easy. Ichtaca told us you collapsed a few times last night.”

It wasn’t like he’d made a habit out of it. Besides, the floor had been comfortable even with that nagging, irrational concern that he might fail to wake up. On a full stomach and with something approximating sleep under his belt, that fear felt ridiculous now. He glared back at her. “I’m not that sick. I’ve no intention of fainting on anyone.”

“Don’t worry.” Teomitl smiled, and the brief flash of radiant warmth made Acatl’s face heat. “I won’t let you.”

She sniffed, unswayed. “Hm. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

And then Mihmatini left, and they were alone. Acatl found, suddenly, that he couldn’t quite manage to look Teomitl in the face. The gods knew Teomitl had seen him injured before—had taken care of him, even, and Acatl knew he’d never forget confident hands bandaging his wounds or strong arms helping him to safety—but battle wounds were an acceptable form of weakness, one that struck down even the greatest warriors. It was entirely different to be ill and run-down in front of Teomitl, who valued strength so highly; a man who thought limits were for the weak surely couldn’t still respect him when he could barely muster the energy to stand. In a moment. In a moment I’ll get up and clear the table. I don’t need a—a nursemaid, Tlaloc’s lightning strike me. He just needed to brace himself and move slowly.

Teomitl beat him to it. He was already on his feet and clearing away the remnants of their meal when Acatl set a hand on the table to heave himself up; when he caught sight of the movement, he shot him a savage glare. “Stay still. I’ll handle it.”

He could force himself to his feet; he’d worked in worse conditions and through much greater pain. Nothing would ever be as bad as the plague had been. But somehow, it didn’t really seem worth it to argue. So he stayed where he was and prayed for patience, staring at the knotted pine grain of the table. It needed a wash. “...So you’re to keep me company, then?”

Teomitl turned to look over his shoulder at him, eyes dark and serious. “Someone should.”

He took a slow breath. Even through his exhaustion, the reminder of his state—that Teomitl looked at him and thought he shouldn’t even be left alone—stung bitterly. Even though he could be weak, came the treacherous thought. Even though Teomitl would let him. Would help him lay down, put his arms around him...no. He shook his head firmly, banishing those thoughts before they could make him remember what had come to him in the dead of last night’s pain. It was still hopeless, and he would not plead his way into Teomitl’s heart. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“I know you aren’t.” And then Teomitl smiled, teasingly innocent, and Acatl’s heart skipped a beat even as he continued, “But isn’t it the job of the student to tend to his master’s needs?”

His eyes narrowed. Irritation was starting to revitalize him; in some small part of his mind, he suspected this was Teomitl’s plan. “...And you aren’t my student anymore.” He hasn’t been since...the courtyard? No, before that. It just took me too long to see it. He is my friend, my brother-in-law, and one day he’ll be my Revered Speaker. But he’s not my student, and he shouldn’t have to take care of me even if he was.

The table clean, Teomitl sat down by him within arm’s reach but not touching. Acatl found himself glad for that; he wasn’t sure if he was alert enough not to give in to the absurd urge to lean against him. His former student’s shoulders looked appealingly solid. “And we’re all glad for that. But that doesn’t change the fact that you could use some company, if only for a distraction. I’m good at that.” A smile still tugged at the corners of his lips, warm eyes looking Acatl over. “Please?”

Oh, no. Not the please. It struck him harder than a physical blow, and he had to look away. Duality preserve him, he’d been right. Teomitl would let him be weak. And he’d thought his feelings would fade? That he’d be able to bury them forever? Gods, he was such a fool. It was a terrible time to be proven wrong. I should be stronger than this. “...I won’t...” He yawned, suddenly almost too tired to make his tongue work. The soup had only been a temporary boost after all. “I’m sorry. I won’t be a very good host.”

“...That’s alright.” Teomitl was gazing at him with fond exasperation, and he couldn’t bear it. “Rest, Acatl. I’ll be here when you wake.”

He couldn’t let that pass without comment, no matter how much that same small, treacherous part of him was warmed by the thought of companionship. “You have a job. Your own duties...”

Now Teomitl did reach over, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. It warmed him to his bones. “Over for the day. Lay down.”

He couldn’t do anything but obey. Even the simple act of sitting up and eating had wrung him out like a damp rag; he could have passed out on a bed of obsidian shards. His thin mat was a miracle in comparison, and he managed to keep his eyes open just long enough to watch as Teomitl settled down on his haunches and swept him with a slow, considering look. The thought that slid through his mind like a snake—gods, you could kiss me if you wanted—still wasn’t a match for the tides of dreamless sleep pulling him under.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was Teomitl’s back. It was, he thought idly, a very nice back; Teomitl had shed his cloak for the sake of the heat, and so Acatl had an excellent view of the line of his waist and the curve of his spine. There were no scars upon it, for he would never be one to willingly turn his back on a foe. The knowledge lifted his heart with a kind of soft pride. My fearless man. You who will lead Tenochtitlan to glory. I cannot wait to see what kind of Emperor you’ll make.

Then Teomitl stretched, back arching, and the affection curling gently through him sparked into something hotter and darker. Gods, he’d almost forgotten. He could go days now without thinking about the warmth of Teomitl’s voice or the strength of his hands, but here he was being viscerally reminded that they couldn’t be ignored forever. That the feelings which had sustained him through many long nights wouldn’t melt with the dawn. That not even what he’d thought with sharp terror would be his actual death could successfully smother them. Duality curse me.

He must have made a noise, because Teomitl turned to look at him. “Acatl? Ah, you’re awake. Do you need anything?”

His mouth had gone dry at some point. Swallowing didn’t help. “...Water.” If nothing else, it would be cold. He could use the cold.

Teomitl rose to fetch water, and he busied himself with trying to sit up. It took a few attempts as his heavy limbs fought his control, but by the time Teomitl returned he’d managed the disgustingly difficult task of rolling over. Teomitl’s hand between his shoulderblades steadied him as he heaved himself up the rest of the way, and for a long moment he drank in silence. His stomach felt better, but his heart didn’t.

It wasn’t until Teomitl took his hand away and sat down next to him that he found words. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Teomitl jerked away, glaring at him; for all that he’d only spoken the truth, Acatl still felt himself flush as he snapped, “Did you think I would leave you alone?!”

“It must be late.” It was. The afternoon sun had turned dim and gold, sinking into Teomitl’s skin and hair. Sunset couldn’t be far behind, and he would be well enough to properly offer blood to the gods again. There was no need for Teomitl to watch over him like a mother jaguar with cubs. But he wants to, because he cares about you, whispered his mind, and he took another sip of water to cool the heat of his skin.

“I don’t care.” Duality, and he growled like a jaguar, too. Though he huffily turned his face away, Acatl saw his hand twitch; it was all the warning he got before it came down to rest atop his own free one. “You stayed with me when I was ill, and that was contagious. Do you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”

He couldn’t think. Teomitl’s hand was on his, callused and warm, and he was fairly sure all sensation in his body had been rerouted to that single point of contact. He was surprised he hadn’t dropped the cup, and managed to set it down before he could. “I...uh.” He was unconscious, deep in his delirium. I didn’t think he’d remember. Gods, I was so afraid he’d never even wake. But he did...and…

It seemed to take an eternity for him to dredge up a full sentence from the mire of his thoughts. “You don’t...have to...”

Teomitl’s voice held nothing but certainty. He might as well have been making a royal proclamation. “Yes. I do.”

“...Oh.” It seemed to be all he could say. There was more locked behind his teeth—you are the best of men, I don’t deserve you, you’re a reckless fool sometimes but that’s alright because you still hold my whole heart safe in your hands—but he didn’t dare open his mouth and let it fly out. If he started down that road, he’d never stop. And Lord Death had not seen fit to take him into His embrace last night, so a sudden and fatal relapse wouldn’t save him either.

For a long while, Teomitl was silent. Though he sat as still as a statue, the fingers covering Acatl’s own twitched as though he wanted to curl them around his hand. Finally, still without looking at him, he spoke. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I learned how sick you were?”

“I was not that sick—” he began.

Teomitl didn’t let him finish. “Yes. You were. Ichtaca was shaking when he told us you were finally keeping down liquids.”

He dropped his gaze to his lap. Mired as he’d been in his own terror, Ichtaca had felt like a rock beside him. He’d had no idea the man had been frightened too. “...Oh.”

“Oh,” Teomitl mimicked, a spark of nastiness in his voice that faded almost instantly to that tight, flat restraint. “You terrified us, Acatl. You terrified me.”

Storm Lord’s lightning blast him. He couldn’t even attempt a reassuring smile, for Teomitl’s words struck him to the core. Still, he mustered up the energy somewhere to make an effort. “I’ve felt worse than this and lived. You needn’t have worried.”

Teomitl swiveled around to glare at him, eyes hot and suspiciously bright. “Don’t say that! Don’t you know how important you are to me?”

“Ngkh.” He knew he was blushing again, but he couldn’t have torn his eyes from Teomitl’s face if his life had depended on it. It was one thing to be pretty sure Teomitl cared about him, but another thing entirely to hear it confirmed. “I...” I am High Priest for the Dead. His teacher. His friend. That’s all he means. “But...”

“No buts.” Teomitl shook his head, squeezing his hand tightly. There was a terrible tremor in his voice. “You have to take care of yourself, Acatl. Understand? I don’t...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. I can’t lose you.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, and for a dizzying moment he thought he was going to faint again. “I know how you feel.”

“..Do you?” The bite of skepticism couldn’t quite hide that moment of hopeful hesitation.

He inhaled. “...Last night...” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. But Teomitl wasn’t saying anything; he was giving him the space to find his words. That made the difference, in the end. “Last night...I thought I was going to die.” He still wondered idly at the possibility, but it no longer filled him with heart-clenching fear. There was only one thing he would have regretted, after all. Now Teomitl was staring at him in horror, but he made himself press on. “And I thought of you.”

Teomitl’s eyes were wide, his fingers trembling. Now Acatl knew the expression on his face, that stunned sort of hope that didn’t quite dare to step into the sunlight yet. “Me?”

He nodded. Yes, you. Always you. “I thought—if I died here, I would never get to tell you that I—” But courage failed him, and he swallowed with a dry click.

Teomitl was still staring at him. Unfortunately, this didn’t let him off the hook. “That you what?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. It was a coward’s move, but then he had always been one, hadn’t he? Or else it wouldn’t have taken the fear of death to force the words out. “I love you,” he blurted out, and when Teomitl didn’t immediately react in rage or disgust he added, “I wanted to be sure you knew.” Even if you don’t love me back in the same way. Even if you’re about to break my heart, I’m giving it to you to break.

He heard a slow, deep breath. A shaky whisper of “Acatl,” more shock than outrage.

And then Teomitl kissed him.

His mind went entirely blank. There was only the soft pressure of warm lips on his, slow and careful and gods, so gentle. He had no idea what he was doing, but Teomitl clearly did; he tilted his head just so, parted his lips just a fraction, and Acatl was lost. Gods, he thought dizzily, I love you so much. Teomitl slid strong arms around his waist, and for a moment he thought that hold was the only thing keeping him upright. He wondered if it was possible to swoon just from a single kiss. Well, he was still ill. It might be.

When Teomitl pulled away, his eyes were shining. “I can hardly believe...Duality, Acatl.” He gave a little shake of his head, as though to express the utter impossibility of their situation. A wry little disbelieving smile tugged at his lips. “I was halfway to convincing myself to give up.”

Acatl blinked at him as the words rearranged themselves into something that made sense. His brain clearly wasn’t up to its full capacity yet, because Teomitl couldn’t have said what he thought he said. “You what?!”

Now it was Teomitl’s turn to blush. “I have wanted you for—gods, for years. I knew it was hopeless, but when I thought I would lose you...”

Things clicked slowly into place in Acatl’s mind. Passing glances, lingering touches, a hitched breath. Years, he said. Years. “...Does Mihmatini know?” He remembered her hard-eyed stare, the way Teomitl had looked almost nervous at whatever she’d said, and ice gripped his heart again. He wouldn’t be the cause of strife between them, no matter how much Teomitl made his heart race. He wouldn’t do that to her.

Teomitl drew himself up, glaring at him. He was still flushed, but Acatl judged it more embarrassment than guilt. “She does. Do you think I’d go behind her back, especially after the last time?” He didn’t have to elaborate. Things between him and Mihmatini had been so frosty for a few weeks that she’d practically spat when mentioning his name. Acatl wasn’t sure how they’d reconciled, but he was starting to get a few, somewhat embarrassing, ideas.

The ice was starting to thaw. He took one deep breath, and then another. If she knows, then... “Then...what she mentioned, about you two having spoken earlier...”

“You know how she is. She...suggested I consider the possibility of mentioning my feelings a while ago.” Knowing Mihmatini, suggested was probably far too polite a word. Teomitl quirked up a smile and added, “But I wasn’t expecting you to beat me to it.”

He found it much easier to breathe when he knew he wasn’t ruining his sister’s marriage. “After last night...I had to let you know. In case fate saw fit to separate us. I didn’t want to die without telling you how I feel.”

Teomitl’s gaze had softened like melted wax, and it was just about as hot. “Maybe you should tell me again.”

His heart kicked within his chest. Feeling suddenly bold—he’d come this far, after all—he shot back, “Why don’t I just show you?” Even raising the possibility of what such a demonstration might entail made him blush all over again, but...well. Teomitl deserved to know the full truth of his feelings, and honesty had already brought him great rewards. I took vows of chastity, of celibacy. I would break them all for you if you asked. Gods, I would break them all if I thought you might ask.

For a moment, Teomitl simply stared at him—face flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes heated—and Acatl knew he was going to be kissed again. Knew it and welcomed it, lingering illness be damned. He would figure out a way to be kissed by Teomitl if he were dead.

And then he grinned teasingly and murmured, “Then you’d best focus your energies on getting well again, hadn’t you?” and Acatl had to stifle an urge to groan.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #mihmatini #paladin writes stuff

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just-jordie-things · 5 years ago

Note

Maybe 41 and 66 together?

Kiss Prompt #41: Forbidden Kiss Kiss #66: Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In

The day you met Richie was life changing. You’d never felt a spark with someone like you did with him, a pull, with the easy flow of conversation, to the playful banter -not to mention he was cute- it was like love at first meeting. You started crushing on him right away.

He’d come over to Stan’s house for movie night, and was a bit early from wanting to be out of the house as soon as possible.

Stan had told Richie and the others earlier that there would be someone new there tonight, and to be nice, but Richie hadn’t paid much attention at all to the announcement. Honestly, he’d made fun of Stan, claiming that there was no one else besides the Losers who would freely hang out with him. That was the end of the conversation.

But then he walked into the house to find you in the kitchen, arranging snacks on the counter (good snacks too. that’s how he knew you were The One) and you gave him a pleasant smile before saying hello and telling him your name, and just like that you started talking. Small talk turned to teasing, which turned to flirting, and by the time Stan had gathered all the pillows and blankets from around the house, and the others had arrived, you were pretty well acquainted.

Stan had walked into the kitchen, finding you leaning over the counter towards Richie, dangerously close, and he certainly did not like the way you were batting your eyes at him.

“Hey! Tozier!” Stanley snapped, pushing you off the counter and almost making you fall from how aggressive the action was.

Not to hurt you- just to get you as far away as possible from Richie Trashmouth Tozier as fast as he could.

“Paws off my sister!” Stan shouted.

“Sister?” Richie mumbled, glancing to you.

Hell, he didn’t know Stan as well as he thought he did. He did know he had a sister. You were rubbing your arm after it had awkwardly hit the stove, but you gave him a sheepish smile and a shrug. He figured that was your apology for not telling him.

“Off limits! She’s off limits! Understand?”

Stan was snapping his fingers in front of Richie’s even wider-blown eyes.

“Y-yeah, okay, fine,” Richie put his hands up in surrender. “Jesus Christ”

Richie walked out of the kitchen before Stan could vaguely threaten him anymore. He needed to sit down so that he could wrap his mind around what the fuck just happened.

“And you!” He heard Stan hiss at you. “Cut it with the goo goo eyes, it’s repulsive!”

“Oh fuck off, Stan,” You’d muttered back. “You’re no fun at all. He was cute”

And shit, if Richie’s heart didn’t soar-

But that’s how it had started.

It had been a few weeks since then, and still, Richie couldn’t shake the thought of you.

You’d hung out more with the group, going to the quarry, the arcade, whatever the boys did you usually tagged along. And it had been fun, you got along well with Stan’s friends, and you sure did enjoy seeing Richie more.

You did however listen to your brother’s rules. If he didn’t want you to pursue any of his friends romantically, then you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to cause a rift in the group. But that didn’t mean you didn’t slip a few lines here and there... a couple looks... maybe even a few delicate touches.

What? You liked the way he blushed when you looked him in the eyes, or brushed your hand over his arm. You found it funny that he had the dirtiest mouth but flustered at the most innocent things.

You didn’t realize that Stan had caught most of these interactions, and the only reason he hadn’t confronted either of you, or forced you apart, was because Ben thought it was cute, and told him, and I quote ‘why don’t you let them just see where it goes. I think he really likes her’

And Stan didn’t think that Richie had the capability to like you for real, he’d been certain it was nothing serious- it couldn’t be, this was Richie. The only interest he had in women were the ones he could gawk at, or Eddie’s mom. And neither gave him a good looking track history. So his dislike towards the two of you was somewhat justified.

You were sat together on the clubhouse hammock, awkwardly side by side and bent over with your feet on the ground, because it would have been much worse if you’d tried laying down. Richie had been excitedly telling you about a comic he was reading, and if you were being honest you didn’t really care for the comic, but oh lord it was a cuteness overload to see him gushing about it.

You leaned in a bit closer as he pointed to something, and as soon as you did, Richie’s eyes wandered from the comic to your intrigued expression. There was an amused smile on your face, and your eyes scanned the page as you read the scene he’d been talking about.

He shouldn’t have looked at you like that, because now there was no way he was going to have the will to look away.

“Game time!” Stan hollered, making the pair on the hammock jump apart in a. flustered fashion.

The others eagerly agreed, and were already buzzing with ideas. None of which Stan thought would affectively break his sister and Richie apart.

“How about hide and seek?” He offered, which seemed to work, because everyone shrugged and nodded.

“Hide and seek?” You questioned your brother. “The clubhouse is barely big enough for all of us?” You were shaking your head in confusion of his odd choice.

You weren’t totally oblivious, you knew Stan was trying to put some space between you and Richie. But you couldn’t help and test the boundaries a little.

“We’ll play in the woods” Stan muttered, giving you a glare.

You fired back by sticking your tongue out at him in a very sister-ly fashion.

“That would be fun!” Mike had spoken up, and you would’ve given him the same look if you didn’t think he was such a nice guy.

Almost immediately after, came the ‘not it!’ war, as everyone poked their fingers to their noses so they didn’t have to be the seeker.

Of course Stan lost, and of course you teased him for sucking at everything. As siblings do.

“You’ll stay down here,” Beverly decided. “Up against the wall, and count to... one hundred?” She glanced around to see if everyone thought it was a decent amount of time. Everyone nodded, and she grinned. “Great! Go count, Uris”

Stanley groaned, but stood up, and covered his eyes as he stood directly in front of the wall. When he started counting, and the others went wild.

Everyone scrambled for the ladder, laughing and squealing as they tried to get out of the clubhouse as fast as possible.

Before you could step onto the first rung, someone had grabbed your wrist.

You gave Richie a baffled look, and put a finger to his lips, before nodding off to the sort-of corner of the clubhouse, where there was an old wardrobe in horrible shape.

Your brows furrowed, but you let him pull your towards it, taking slow careful steps to keep quiet. Stan was just eight feet away.

It felt like forever as he opened the doors so they wouldn’t creak, pulling you inside with him. You held a hand over your mouth to hold back your giggles.

It wasn’t until he closed the doors, and you were plunged into darkness that you realized just how close you were to each other.

Was it still considered close if you were touching chest to chest?

You could just barely make out his silhouette, and when you glanced up to him. He had an eye on the crack in the doors, where he could sort of see Stanley, sill counting.

He was at thirty.

And then he looked down to you, only to find you staring at him.

‘This was your idea?’ You mouthed slowly, hoping he could read lips alright.

‘Yep’ He mouthed back with a slight smirk.

You rolled your eyes, but smiled at him nonetheless.

‘He’s gonna find us right away’ You said again.

‘Maybe’

It took you a second to figure out what he’d said, because his lips had barely moved, and maybe you stared at them a little longer than necessary while your brain pieced it together.

And then maybe just a few extra seconds. Long enough that he noticed, and he was smirking again.

Stan was at fifty.

Your eyes darted up to Richie’s, and shortly after he looked at you.

You felt like you should say something else, he was staring at you so intensely your heart was starting to do somersaults.

“Why is he such a slow counter?” Richie whispered just barely , but you still read his lips.

You shrugged your shoulders, at this point your heart was pounding in your chest too hard for you to trust your voice. Sure, you could’ve mouthed something back, but you didn’t have anything to stay.

“100!” Stan called out, and you almost jolted from he sudden shout. “Here I come!”

You held a hand over your mouth, while Richie watched Stan do a quick scan of the clubhouse, before heading up the ladder.

“He left”

Richie was still whispering, but at least you could actually hear him this time.

“I can’t believe this was your bright idea” You mumbled back, trying to look anywhere but him, but it was dark, and there were only a few old jackets hanging in the wardrobe.

“It worked, didn’t it?” He retorted. “Of course no one would hide here, not when the whole woods his an option,”

Your brows furrowed as you pursed your lips.

“And this would be the last place he looked, dumbass”

“Hey that’s my brother” You muttered.

“Your dumbass brother” He replied, and you chuckled as you shook your head again.

“I don’t get why I like you, Tozier” You muttered, and he grinned at you charmingly.

You smiled back at him as your head hit the back of the wardrobe doors.

“Oh I’m sure you can think of one reason, babe”

Your heart fluttered at the flirty nickname, but you didn’t give in so easy.

“Probably because you’re a massive dork” You teased, poking at his chest.

“Or maybe because of my massive-”

You slapped your hand over his mouth before he could finish that, and you could feel him grinning against your palm.

Slowly, your hand fell, and your eyes were drawn to the stupid smile that you were starting to fall in love with.

You had to bite back your own smile, as not to give him the satisfaction of making you grin at something so simple.

Your eyes flickered up to his before falling back to his lips again. You knew he was staring at your lips too, and the thought that maybe he’d kiss you made your heart start beating rapidly again.

But you caught yourself before you could start to lean any closer.

“Wait I-” You gently placed your hands against his shoulders, pushing him back the smallest amount so that there was some distance between you.

There was a crease in your brow as you met his eyes again.

“I can’t...” You mumbled, almost inaudibly. “I told Stan I wouldn’t”

He nodded, and despite being disappointed, he understood. He didn’t want to come between you and your brother, no matter how badly he wanted to-

You almost believed yourself, almost pushed down the thought of kissing him. But you just couldn’t.

So before you could chicken out, you leaned up again and slanted your lips over his.

Just when he thought he’d never get the chance.

His hands wrapped your your waist, deepening the kiss as he pulled you closer. You didn’t think you could get much closer in this tiny space, but he proved you wrong.

This might have been your one chance, so your hands traveled from his shoulders, to his neck, before carding through his hair.

His own hands reached upwards, practically seizing your jaw and tilting your head up more so he didn’t have to lean down as much to reach your lips.

A whimper died in the back of your throat, your lips parting in the slightest, and you took it as permission to slide his tongue over your lower lip. You smiled into the kiss as he did so, hands falling from his hair to slide down his chest.

Your fingers slipped just under the hem, skimming delicately over his skin. He tensed a bit from your cold fingertips, but the touch was very much welcomed.

Just as you were considering removing the shirt altogether- Stan was going to be looking for the others for a while, right?- the doors of the wardrobe were whipped open, from the outside.

Not only did you and Richie pull apart, but you both screamed bloody murder from the sudden action, and the light that blinded you both.

Your brother stood there, still holding the knobs of the wardrobe doors, staring at you both like he had just witnessed the most heinous crime.

(And he had)

“I found you...” He mumbled out, his tone void of the excitement it was supposed to hold when you find a hider.

“Uh...” You glanced between Stan and Richie, and gave him a horrible awkward smile. “It’s not what it looks like?”

#richie tozier #richie tozier fanfiction #richie tozier scenario #richie tozier imagine #richie tozier x reader

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agreatperhaps12 · 4 years ago

Text

revisiting some old writing this break and incredibly fond of the 2017!me that started writing OccHaz. hopefully 2021!me can finish what you started, pal.

Remus Lupin usually prides himself on being the exact opposite of a werewolf stereotype: a clean, well-read, mild-mannered boy. But if Remus Lupin is bedridden one more day in a row, there’s a solid chance he will murder one of his roommates in cold blood.

Even before opening his eyes, Remus can tell that it’s been raining, because the bunk is thick with the punishing smell of wet dog. Remus rolls over and smashes his nose into his pillow. It does not help. Superhuman sense of smell is useful for a great many things, but comfortably sharing a room with six werewolves is not one of them.

Remus drags his quilt over his head, blocking out some of the overhead lighting and none of the chatter from Malcolm’s radio. He doesn’t really have any intention of falling back asleep. For once, Remus has somewhere to be today. But it’s the principle of the thing.

Principles, however, go out the window when the radio host on Malcolm’s wireless fills the airwaves with some awful, angry music, and Malcolm obeys Lucas’s command to turn it up, mate.

Resigned, Remus plants his hands on either side of his chest and arches his back. The motion punches a pathetic, wheezing noise out of his mouth, and Remus collapses face-first back onto his bed. “I hate you,” Remus grumbles at Moony. It’s been five days.

Moony—a latent, lazy presence in the back of Remus’s mind—doesn’t respond. Typical. The wolf is always quieter in the immediate aftermath of a Full Moon, conveniently leaving Remus all alone to deal with whatever their body gets up to in Greenland.

Remus rubs the sore spot on his abdomen and heaves himself into a sitting position at the edge of his bed, careful to avoid the arm of a somehow-still-sleeping Ronan dangling from the top bunk. For today’s purposes, Remus’s injured abdomen doesn’t matter nearly as much as whether his left ankle can comfortably hold his weight. So when Remus stands up to stretch without his knee buckling, he feels a little flutter of triumph, despite the sharp twinge in his side.

It’s usually not this bad. As far as he can tell, Moony and the other wolves know to give each other a wide berth under the Full Moon to avoid injury, most of the time. But that’s the thing about werewolves, isn’t it. Remus’s hand automatically comes up to rub the ridge of scar tissue that cuts across his nose. Horribly unpredictable creatures.

And yet, in other ways, entirely too predictable. Across the room, Dante is hunched against the wall with one foot propped on a bent knee to clip his toenails without taking any pains to collect them. The soggy boots discarded at the foot of his bed mark the end of a muddy trail of footprints out the door. The source of the smell, Remus presumes.

What would Remus’s mum say.

Probably that Remus ought to pick up his own dirty clothing—since that now includes literally every piece of clothing Remus owns. Remus gingerly bends over to gather up his heap of laundry from the general mess on the floor just in time to avoid being nicked in the eye by a rogue nail clipping. He cranes his neck around his armful of laundry to tiptoe around Dante’s muddy tracks on his way out of the room.

“Oi, Loopy, you doing laundry?” Lucas says over the music.

“Yeah, mine,” Remus calls back, and hooks his foot around the door to pull it shut behind him before Lucas can hurl an expletive—or possibly something more bruising—at Remus’s back.

In the utility room, Remus dumps his soiled clothing on the floor beside the washtub, and the pair of rubber gloves draped over the lip jerks into midair. One glove twists the tap over the basin and sticks a finger under the water. The other pinches one of Remus’s shirts between forefinger and thumb, then promptly drops it and lurches back in disgust.

“What till you see Dante’s,” Remus says grimly.

In the kitchen, Remus opens each cabinet to take stock of what remains from his grocery run before the July Full. The inventory amounts to a sleeve of crackers, the heels of a bread loaf, canned green beans, unopened jam, and a jar of peanut butter that Remus saw Monty double-dip his finger into yesterday.

Remus glances at the queue of Portkey bottles on the windowsill, where all but the 08:00, 09:00 and 10:00 bottles are accounted for. Remus checks his watch. Almost 11:00. The 08:00 bottle should be back soon. Remus hopes that Lucas has taken it to get groceries in… wherever that Portkey is assigned this month.

In the meantime, Remus settles for a jam sandwich. He’s never very hungry on waning gibbous days, anyway. He’s just twisting the cap off the jam jar when a sharp crack shatters the quiet from inside Greyback’s room. Remus flinches so violently that the jar nearly slips from his grip. Moony is on high alert, now. The thumping music from the bunk room immediately dials down. Remus holds his breath.

But there’s only silence from the other side of Greyback’s door. Disapparation, then. Remus exhales. Malcolm’s music blooms back to full volume. Moony settles.

One of the few, far-between blessings of Remus Lupin’s life is that Fenrir Greyback spends almost no time around the tent. But today especially, a casual run-in with Greyback would be… not ideal. Not that Remus is going to break any rules. Technically. Yet.

But if Greyback knew what Remus was up to, he’d definitely be suspicious enough to keep a closer eye on him. Which would be incredibly inconvenient for all the other times that Remus is actually breaking rules.

Remus packs his sandwich into his satchel and slips on his shoes. Outside, the morning air is heavy with humidity and the ground soft with rain. With a cursory glance around the clearing, Remus pulls his compass out of his pocket and points himself south—along the crooked line of a creek just downhill from the tent.

It’s immediately apparent that Remus’s tender ankle is going to slow him down. At the new moon, Remus could take two miles ten minutes flat. He could postpone this day trip until then. But ever since the pack set up camp here, just before the July Full, Remus has been keen to visit the magical boundary that Greyback has apparently cast around their new home.

They’ve never had a territorial boundary before. And Remus has always had an insatiable, if slightly masochistic, fascination with spellwork. He’s itching to see what an enchanted border wall looks like.

Of course, it’s not just the border. It’s the beyond. Remus doesn’t expect being able to see anything significant—even if he scaled a pine to peer out over whatever barrier Greyback has cast. Greyback would have established their territory at a safe distance.

But Remus will know, and that’s what counts. He’ll know that somewhere beyond those trees lies Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Sirius has just melted the front tire off his bike for the third time in as many minutes when James strolls down the drive.

“Not a word,” Sirius warns, punctuating the point with a cough. He waves his wand to clear the latest cloud of dark smoke billowing up around the bike.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” James says, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He surveys Sirius’s work with politely suppressed amusement.

“Uh-huh.” Sirius mutters a Reparo at the puddle of rubber on the Potters’ pavement to reform it into his front tire.

“What are you trying to do, anyway?”

“Reinforce the tires to withstand the impact of landing,” Sirius says. He sticks his wand behind his ear and steps back, crossing his arms.

“Ah,” James says, nodding sagely—and undoubtedly recalling the incident in June that left Sirius with two busted tires, two broken arms, and two weeks during which Mia flat-out refused to let Sirius back on his bike. She only relented when Sirius promised to add some safety features to his list of planned magical amenities. “Have you tried—”

“Yes,” Sirius says flatly. “Whatever you’re about to say, yes.”

“Hmm.” James dips into a crouch to get a better look at Sirius’s front wheel, as though he knows anything about Muggle motorbikes or the magical enhancement thereof. “Fortification spells must get more volatile when you use them on something that’s been Engorgio-ed. And whatever else you’ve done to this thing.”

“What I’ve done for it,” Sirius says, nonetheless mentally scanning the list of souping-up spells he’s cast over the last few weeks. Maybe the reinforcement magic is mixing poorly with the sound-stifling charm—another request of Mia’s—or the speed-boosting spell.

“Sure,” James says, grinning up at Sirius indulgently.

“Did you need something?” Sirius takes his wand from behind his ear and twirls it absently between his fingers as he circles the bike.

James rises from his crouch. “Not really. Mum sent me out to see what was going on. Smells like burnt rubber all the way up in the kitchen.”

“Oh, shit.” Fleamont and Euphemia Potter are two of Sirius’s favorite people in the world, and not just because they’re currently letting him use their front drive as a mechanic-shop-slash-landing-strip. Sirius tries not to bother them, if he can help it. “Sorry.”

James’s shrug is utterly devoid of concern. “I don’t think she minds. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t on fire. You’ve been out here all afternoon.”

“Yeah, well,” Sirius says, glaring at his uncooperative bike.

“You’re in a mood,” James observes, which does nothing to improve Sirius’s mood. “Is this still a Regulus-related mood?”

Sirius gives a vague grunt.

“Thought so.”

Sirius aims a kick at James’s shin.

“Let’s go fly,” James suggests, dancing easily away from Sirius’s foot.

“I’m working,” Sirius says, because now that he’s been caught in a bad temper, he’s feeling committed to it.

“Work is productive,” James says. “This—” He waves his hand disdainfully at Sirius’s whole situation. “—is not. Why not channel all that destructive energy into beating around Bludgers?”

Tempting. It must show on Sirius’s face, because James says, “Take a break. The bike will thank you.”

“Sputnik,” Sirius corrects.

“Come again?”

“The bike. Her name is Sputnik,” Sirius says, smiling despite himself. Picking the name is about the only productive thing he’s done all day.

“What kind of name is Sputnik?” James says. “Sounds like some kind of black mold you’d find on a Flobberworm.”

Sirius scowls. “No, you idiot. Sputnik, like the world’s first satellite. Get it? Because, flying?”

James blinks. “Right,” he says slowly, with the trademark bemused expression he reserves for when Sirius starts talking Muggle stuff. “So, flying?”

“Sure,” Sirius says, because today is probably not the day he convinces James to take the slightest interest in Muggle science. “Let’s go.”

Remus makes slow progress on his sore ankle for nearly half an hour, stopping every few minutes to rest and jot notes in his journal. He makes a detailed map of the territory whenever the pack moves somewhere new. The others might be content to spend most of their time Portkeyed away in distant Muggle towns, but Remus can suffer a crowd about once a week at most.

How Ronan or Monty or anyone else can frequent Muggle pubs without constant terror of giving themselves away, Remus will never know. Give him an open sky and several square yards of personal space over a social interaction, any day.

Perks of being raised in the countryside and isolated from nearly everyone but his parents since the tender age of eleven: Remus is damn good at keeping himself company.

The forest around Remus is almost silent, except for the burble of the creek and occasional bird overhead. Remus doesn’t cross paths with so much as a squirrel. No surprises there. He’s used to dogs flattening their ears as he passes on the street, and even crowd-comfortable pigeons scattering at his approach. Remus has the sneaking suspicion that animals can tell there’s something wrong with him. Perhaps they’re put off by his smell, or some other ‘Dangerous, Do Not Approach’ signal he subconsciously broadcasts, even in human form.

In the unnatural quiet of the wood, Remus hears the border before he sees it.

He doesn’t realize what it is, at first—the strange, faint buzz that fills his ears some thirty minutes after he’s left camp. Remus halts and cocks his head to the side. There’s something distinctly artificial about the tenor of the sound. It’s more metallic than insect buzz. Closer to the drone of low-grade fluorescent lighting than anything Remus has ever heard in the wild. It’s quietly menacing in a way that Remus can’t quite put his finger on, but makes Moony emit a low, warning rumble.

“I know,” Remus mutters, and takes several steps forward to listen again. The muted hum gets slightly louder.

This is something to do with Greyback’s magic. It has to be.

Remus turns back toward camp and peers up through the leaves in search of the beacon projected into the sky over the tent. When he finally spots it: the faint beam of ultraviolet light invisible to all but the lycanthrope eye, Remus holds up his thumb and closes one eye to measure the width of the column against the sky. By rough estimation, nearly two miles away. Remus drops his arm and looks around. He should be coming up on the perimeter of Greyback’s territory, but Remus doesn’t see a barrier of any kind.

Remus cracks his knuckles uncertainly. Maybe the border is invisible. That would be disappointing. Not to mention dangerous. What if Remus accidentally steps through it, and Greyback—

Remus throws a paranoid glance over his shoulder, but of course finds himself alone. He wraps his arms around his torso and tells Moony to shh, please, so he can think.

Remus should turn around and go home. That’s the logical thing to do. The safe thing to do. But he can’t. Not when he’s so close. Not when he’s come all this way on a barely mended ankle, and it’s—and it’s Hogwarts. Remus has to see as far as he can see.

Giving himself a bracing squeeze, Remus drops his arms to his sides. He steps forward again.

With a few more steps, the buzz gets exponentially louder. Unmistakable as a hornet’s nest at close range, but tinnier. Electric. Remus not only hears the magic now, but feels it in his chest, as though he’s humming, even though Remus is holding his breath. He forges ahead, step by cautious step, heart rate escalating with the noise until—Oh.

A few arm’s lengths ahead, the air has a strangely lustrous quality, as though Remus is staring through an enormous soap bubble. The whirling sheen of open space is so faint that Remus can’t imagine he would have seen it if he hadn’t been looking. He wonders whether someone without freakishly good hearing would have picked up on the wall’s warning buzz.

Upon closer inspection, Remus sees the magical surface has a purplish, blue hue, just like the bubbles that Remus remembers blowing in the garden with his mum when he was little. Remus tilts his head back. The glossy dome extends as far up as Remus can see.

It’s hypnotic. Remus never would have thought he’d call any part of Greyback’s magic beautiful, but it is.

Greyback warned the rest of the pack about the border wall on their first day in this forest. Remus knew something was up as soon as Greyback called them all into the kitchen. He typically left the pack to their own devices as soon as they’d set up camp.

Like most of his interactions with the pack, Greyback kept it brief. “I’ve cast a territorial border with a two-mile radius around the tent,” he said, leaning back against the sink with crossed arms and glaring around at them all. “You will not cross it.”

The silence following this announcement was just long enough to be awkward, while the rest of the pack played a silent game of chicken over who was going to ask.

Fortunately, Greyback preempted the question. “The border is to protect us from our new neighbors to the south.” He grinned sourly. “The residents of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.”

Greyback ignored their sharp intakes of breath.

“If you are discovered on Hogwarts grounds or in Hogsmeade, the Ministry of Magic will kill you for your lack of registration,” Greyback continued, as if they didn’t know. “If I catch you out of bounds, I will kill you myself.” As if they didn’t know. “Understood?”

Remus looked around at the others. Lucas had gone white, and even Ronan was chewing his cuticles. None of them, with the exception of Remus, had any firsthand experience with witches or wizards since the age of four or five. But if there was one thing Greyback’s pack had been taught to fear more than Greyback himself, it was wizardkind.

“Understood?” Greyback said.

Silent nodding.

“Good.” Greyback pushed off the counter and walked toward his bedroom.

The “Why?” that Malcolm blurted after Greyback’s retreating figure made Remus’s heart jump into his throat.

Greyback turned on his heel. He fixed narrowed eyes on Malcolm while the rest of the pack held their collective breath. “What?”

Malcolm swallowed. “Why did we come here?” he said, voice just shy of steady. “Isn’t it.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

A reasonable question—if something as idiotic as asking Greyback to explain himself could ever be called reasonable. The pack had never set up camp anywhere near a magical community before, let alone mere miles from the only all-wizarding village in Britain and Hogwarts, for Merlin’s sake.

Greyback considered Malcolm for a long moment before, to Remus’s even greater shock, he answered.

“Do you know what lives in the Forbidden Forest north of Hogwarts?” he asked Malcolm.

Malcolm hesitated, then shook his head.

“No one really does,” Greyback said, “but there are rumors. Chimeras. Strangling vines. Trolls.” He paused for effect. “Werewolves.” Greyback grinned. “Students aren’t allowed in. Staff and villagers won’t go near the forest. But the concentration of magic in the air is high enough to completely mask dozens of unregistered Portkeys and other household magic. Convenient, eh?”

Remus instinctually recoiled as Greyback drew his wand. Dante took a full step back. But Greyback merely rolled the wand between his fingers. “The woods north of the Forbidden Forest may be the safest hideout for a pack of unregistered werewolves in all of Britain. Assuming,” Greyback looked significantly at each of them in turn, “the border remains unbroken.”

The night after Greyback’s border announcement found Remus lying awake, staring at the underside of Ronan’s bunk. His heartbeat thudded heavily in his ears, keeping time with Moony’s pacing around his brain. Remus rubbed his cheek against the rough fabric of his quilt and willed his heart to keep something like normal rhythm. It had been hours, but still Remus was—he just couldn’t believe they were here. Just miles away from the castle.

Greyback was probably right that the pack would be safe in the Forbidden Forest. After reading so many his father’s magizoology books, Remus had a lot more than rumors to go on, when it came to imagining the forest’s dangerous inhabitants.

But Remus would bet a thousand Galleons that Greyback hadn’t disclosed the whole truth about why they’d come here. The pack had bounced from one remote outpost to another with all the magical trappings inside their tent for years. Greyback must be working on some heavy-duty, high-grade magic to require such extra concealment—though Remus couldn’t begin to imagine what that might be.

Six years in the pack, and Remus had never quite worked out what Greyback did for his mysterious employer. The wards on Greyback’s door are very good at keeping his business private from the rest of the pack.

Whatever Greyback’s reasons, Remus was selfishly, secretly giddy about the move. He’d stopped hoping nearly a decade ago that he would ever get to see more of Hogwarts than illustrations in Hogwarts, A History. Now, Remus was less than a day’s walk away. Even if he couldn’t actually see the castle, the prospect of glimpsing the perimeter of those hallowed grounds made Remus hide a stupidly wide smile behind his blanket in the dark.

Now, though—actually staring through Greyback’s translucent wall, Remus isn’t smiling. A burning sensation builds behind Remus’s eyes and in his throat. He grits his teeth, surprised at himself, because this was supposed to be exciting. A rare opportunity to look forward to something. A wonderful treat on a grey day.

Remus wants to let himself have this. Find simple, uncomplicated joy in a good thing, for once.

It’s just—it’s Hogwarts. Right there. Paces away. And absolutely, painfully untouchable as ever.

Flying against James in a game of one-on-one is hardly fair anymore. Back in first year, he and Sirius were fairly evenly matched. But ever since James made captain third year—and especially since a Tutshill Tornados scout approached him last fall—James has gone a bit mad about practice.

It’s a good thing Sirius is on the team, if only because he’s the only one who will tell James to eat hippogriff dung when he refuses to cancel practice in below-zero windchill.

Also, compared to people who are not aspiring professional Quidditch players, Sirius is a damn good flyer. Even better with a bat. Sirius feels pretty confident in saying he’s the best Beater at Hogwarts—which is something he used to say because he was a cocky little shit, and now says because it’s true. The possible exception being Macnair; Sirius has deadly aim, but Macnair shoots to kill.

Sirius tries not to think about Macnair has he dives toward the Potters’ lawn with the Quaffle tucked against his chest. Thinking about Macnair makes Sirius think about Slytherin, which makes Sirius think about Regulus, and the whole point of this was not thinking about Reg. Sirius has been trying not to think about Reg for three days, now—since the Potter’s owl Athena returned with Sirius’s birthday gift to Regulus unopened.

“Bet your hag of a mum turned Athena around before Reg even knew something arrived for him,” was James’s consolation.

It’s possible. Sirius wouldn’t put it past Walburga. The problem is, he doesn’t know if he’d put it past Regulus to turn Athena around, either.

Sirius has no idea where he and his brother stand these days. They haven’t spoken since Sirius left home last summer. Granted, Regulus never spoke much to Sirius at Hogwarts. He’s much too close to Cissy and Bella for that. But during holidays…

Well, Sirius can’t remember Reg ever defending him in an argument against their mum. But Regulus would at least order Kreacher to sneak him food when Sirius was locked in his room. That was something, and now—

Sirius doesn’t notice James rocketing up from below until he’s already knocked the Quaffle from Sirius’s hands. James catches the ball with irritating ease—Seekers, honestly—and makes a hairpin turn toward the opposite end of the lawn. Sirius steers into a U-turn and follows, but not quickly enough to stop James hurling the Quaffle through Sirius’s post and pulling a celebratory corkscrew.

“That’s fifty-nil!” James calls. “Go fetch!”

“Yeah, yeah, I can count,” Sirius says, Accio-ing the Quaffle from a shrub by the guest house. “Ready?”

“Are you?” James smirks.

Sirius tears away without response, aiming for some low-hanging clouds. The wind seems to streak right through him, momently stripping away Sirius’s Regulus-related anxieties, whittling him down to a weightless point. It’s wonderful.

Quidditch is always the best distraction. Even better than working on Sputnik or reading the teetering pile of Muggle novels that Tufty lent him for the summer, since they won’t get to any American authors during their literature module this year.

(Sirius has had his nose in The Bell Jar all week—to James’s deep concern, given Sirius’s dour mood. Sirius says it’s a fair sight better than The Crucible, which was so disturbing Sirius had to put it down halfway through. Sirius may finally get why American wizards were long forbidden from marrying Muggles.)

When Sirius dips back down into the clear air, he glances over his shoulder and curses at the sight of James’s wicked grin less than ten feet away. But James’s goalpost is straight ahead now. Sirius flattens himself against his broom. Almost there, almost—

“Ha!” Sirius pumps both fists in the air as the Quaffle soars cleanly through the hoop. He whips around, triumphant grin in place, but the smile quickly slips. James isn’t behind him anymore. He’s suspended about twenty feet away, watching a small black dot in the distance. Sirius’s stomach flutters, half in hope, half in dread, that the owl might be from Regulus.

But the unfamiliar owl comes flapping down onto James’s shoulder. James unties a postcard from the bird’s leg and winces as its talons dig through the fabric of his shirt to take off again. Sirius would ask who’s sent the card, but he can already read the answer on James’s face. He wonders where Evans is on holiday.

Sirius dully summons their discarded Quaffle, knowing full well the match is over. James responds to every one of Evans’s messages as soon as they come. Sirius can’t hold it against him, really. James and Evans only got on good terms last spring, and Sirius is all for preserving whatever fragile friendship they seem to be cultivating.

Sirius can’t say he’s ever quite understood James’s fixation with Evans, for many more reasons than the fact that Evans is a girl. But his best friend’s obsession does seem slightly healthier, now that his interest is not so intensely one-sided.

“Lily’s visiting a pen pal in America,” James says as they drift down toward the house, eyes still fixed on Evans’s handwriting. “A witch who goes to Ilvermorny.”

“Cool,” Sirius says, touching down and dismounting. “I wonder whether they’ve [TK].” Sirius doesn’t know much about magic in America, but he does know a little about the No-Majes from Muggle Studies.

“Dunno,” James says distractedly, pocketing his postcard.

Inside, James promptly buggers off to write Evans a response. Sirius wanders into the kitchen, where he finds Mia at the table with a cup of tea and a book. She’s wrapped in a green pashmina, wearing her boxy reading glasses, and holding one of the Potters’ many cats on her lap.

Sirius has not bothered to learn all of the Potter cats’ names. Most are strays that Mia convinced Flea to let inside “for just one night” and never left. Sirius isn’t sure Mia even has names for all of them. The family’s tireless team of house-elves, Dot and Minnie, are the only thing preventing a fine layer of cat hair perpetually coating every surface in the manor.

Mia greets Sirius with a smile as he sits down opposite her at the table. She pushes her glasses up onto her forehead. “I had Minnie bring in your bike, since we’re expecting rain.”

“Thanks,” Sirius says. “Sorry ‘bout the smell.”

Mia bats away his apology. “What’s experimentation without a few accidents?”

From the moment Sirius met James’s parents on Platform 9¾ at the end of first year, Sirius knew he was jealous. But he didn’t know just how jealous he should have been until he moved in last summer. The Potters are so incomprehensibly warm, Sirius found it off-putting at first. All the easy laughs and casual hugs and insistent reminders that Sirius call them Flea and Mia. Sirius has called his own parents since their Christian names since he was about thirteen, but only out of spite.

Sirius wouldn’t say he’s exactly gotten used to Flea and Mia’s hospitality, but their affection does something warm and wonderful to his stomach, rather than putting him on his guard.

“What are you reading?” Sirius says.

“One of yours,” Mia says, holding up The Great Gatsby.

“Good one,” Sirius says. “Have you gotten to—”

“Hush,” Mia says, eyes wide. “Don’t give anything away.”

Sirius makes a zipping motion across his lips. “But you have to tell me when you’ve finished.”

“I’m hoping to finish before dinner, which—” Mia glances at the clock “—I ought to have Dot get a start on. How does beef stew sound?”

“Excellent.” Even though he’s lived with the Potters every holiday for over a year, Mia still has a habit of treating Sirius like a guest. Sirius doesn’t know how to convince her that they could eat dry toast for every meal and he’d still rather be here than Grimmauld Place.

Sirius stands, figuring a shower is probably in order before dinner. There’s a not-insignificant chance that he still stinks of burnt Rubber and Mia is simply too polite to mention it.

As Sirius gathers freshly laundered towels from his room, he catches sight of the still-wrapped mirror that’s lain on his desk since Athena returned it. Sirius runs a hand through his hair. Despite being completely alone, he’s suddenly overcome with a wave of embarrassment that he can’t just get over it.

Having the thing in plain sight certainly isn’t helping. Sirius sticks the mirror in the bottom of his trunk along with its twin, then waits to see whether the sweet relief of closure sweeps over him.

It does not, but the silence of the house is abruptly broken by an emphatic “Oh, dear” from downstairs, which surprises a bark of laughter out of Sirius. He supposes this means there’s not much left of Gatsby to spoil over dinner.

#occhaz #moonstar #fic things #writing projects for this year #first draft inspo #remus lupin #sirius black

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land-of-brains-and-chocolate · 6 years ago

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more of this, none of sense

supposed to be right after a practise outing, maybe swinging some, maybe killing some, you know how it is, but have i written that part? not yet. and i don’t have the time to, so it’s your problem now. also a prototype because i really don’t know whether i want to commit to or rethink some of this stuff

Eddie makes it into his apartment, flushed, flooded, certain that he should be weak in the knees, but somehow, feeling sturdier than ever. That’s not him, he realises, by himself he’d certainly have stumbled, crawled into the bathroom and thrown up by now, but together, supported, all the overstimulation makes him want to do is…

He thinks, very simply, very intently, of hugging someone in celebration, holding on to someone to ground himself. The symbiote doesn’t react, beyond that vague nervousness it seems to be stewing in most of the time. Eddie laughs, quick and heavy in his chest, and opens his arms to the empty space in front of him, desperate for someone to fill it.

“I mean you,” he says, rising in pitch, gently chiding, and, perking up like it missed its name during roll call, the symbiote flows forth from his torso, keeping the approximate shape of one, leaving them face to face -

For about a second, before Eddie slams them both against the door, harder than he’d intended, chest flush against the symbiote’s mass, hands digging into its sides, face buried in the crook of its neck. Separated like this, he can feel himself tremble, and he laughs in earnest, now, as he thinks of what they’ve done, what they’ll do, what they are.

His breaths are deep, only slowing down as he leans into the pressure, realises the symbiote is wrapping around his back, realises he’s been rubbing his face all over it like a damn cat. Certainly, it feels nice, but the symbiote seems distant, somehow, like it either has no feedback on this situation or wants him to think it has none.

He lets up, just a little, just as much as he can bear. “I’m sorry,” he says. “On the one hand, you’ve seen the inside of my capillaries, and I’d consider that the upper limit on familiarity. On the other, we’ve only known each other for… a week or two?”

They’ve been so alone, is the thing. Rejected. Abandoned. And then, to find a connection of this calibre… How could they not have thrown themselves into it?

The symbiote only grows more contemplative.

Eddie genuinely draws back from it, then, but it wasn’t actually being held up against the door, so it stays anchored right where it is, squeezing him warmly. “What’s wrong,” he begins, and it answers with an impression. Total darkness. Noise, though, like holding a seashell up to your ear.

There’s a beat. Then, he realises: It can’t have seen the inside of his capillaries. It must be pitch black in there.

“Silly,” he laughs, meaning both of them, and brings his arms up around it. He walks backwards, not having to remove his cheek from the symbiote’s to look over his shoulder, and deposits them on the couch.

“I suppose,” he starts, “my understanding of the internal workings of my body is primarily informed by anatomical charts, so on some level… I assumed you were…”

He tries for an image, the symbiote swimming through rivers of red and blue, along colour-coded organs, a bit like the theme park version of a human being. The symbiote tends to be reserved whenever it is the topic of conversation, but this has it interested. It offers him… a look at the real deal. It can channel its perceptions to him when it encases him, it can do the same thing when he’s encasing it.

Eddie has to admit, he’s curious about where, exactly, the symbiote goes, what it’s like in there. It seems elated, but then… It withdraws again. Scared? Scared of… Eddie being scared. Humans are strange, it thinks. Humans have a barrier between themselves and most of their own bodies. Humans only tend to be aware of their insides when something is horribly wrong. The smells, the textures, the sounds, they associate them with one of them getting splattered across the pavement.

“And you think that’s a shame, right?” Eddie says, oddly fond, arms around what he shouldn’t think of as its waist, because, really, it’s all arbitrary shapes. The symbiote loses its definition to fit more thoroughly against him, and, as it very rarely does, offers him a word. In this case, Eddie assumes it chose to use one because the underlying concept is distasteful to it, the linguistic representation providing the same distance it usually avoids.

Invasive.

The associations still spring forth. Insects squirming underneath skin. Anaesthesia wearing off during surgery. Aliens bursting from chest cavities.

That last one, Eddie thinks, is fictional, so don’t worry.

It’s real, the symbiote thinks, so do.

Either way, the cultural value assigned to an alien buried deep within human tissue is clear. Being overly aware of it wouldn’t do him any good. Becoming aware of it has yet to end well.

Ignorance is bliss, it seems to think. Its nature is something horrifying to him, he just hasn’t figured it out yet. Eddie hums.

He pivots and stretches out on the couch, taking the symbiote with him in the form of a thick, gooey blanket, with a little arm and clawed hand emerging on either side and a melting face in front of him. It usually forgets to vary its expressions to match its emotional state, doesn’t think of itself as part of that social framework at all. Its consistency, he thinks, may actually be a better indicator of its mood.

“But,” he says, barely resisting the urge to poke a hole into its forehead, “we only think of something as invasive when our bodily or psychological boundaries are crossed.” He fails to resist the urge to poke a hole into its forehead, but tries not to laugh about it. “A violating incursion. That’s what… an alien laying its eggs in you… without asking first, I suppose… would be.”

Something about this is only increasing the symbiote’s agitation. Guilt. Shame. Regret. He can feel it, almost physically bearing down on him. “It’s nothing inherent,” he tries again. “Didn’t I welcome you in?”

He smooths over the symbiote’s forehead, almost apologetic in face of its turmoil. “Can’t you tell that I want you here, every minute of every day?”

It shivers all over, with a desperate, chirping noise he’s never heard before. He shoots up straight, trying to gather the miserable puddle that was once the symbiote up as it slips through his fingers. He hasn’t faced this much emotional feedback since the night they met, only this time, he’s not sure where it’s coming from, this sudden urge to tear at himself, itching under his skin and at the back of his throat. Like parts of himself rotting, spreading, claiming, if he can’t dig them out.

It’s familiar. He tries to distance himself, tell himself these aren’t his emotions. But they are. That’s the downside of a kindred spirit. And an empathic bond.

Their mind swirls around itself. I did this, and I am this, and there’s no refuge from what I did, and there’s no escape from what I am, and there’s no one, there’s no one. I made myself what I was made into.

Eddie’s teeth are clenched. Something about these feelings daring to resurface makes his blood run hot. He won’t let them claim him, or it, or them. He can control them. He can redirect them. He can use them. “Who,” he grits out, gripping the cushions and symbiote both, “who did this to you?”

The symbiote reforms its eyes to look up at him, startled out of its spiral. Its mind is unusually open, pliable, and Eddie tries to conjure up that fateful memory, even as it resists, isn’t it hurting enough- It’s going to hurt less. If it’ll just listen, it’s going to hurt less.

Sound. Separation. Spider-Man, it offers, weakly. “He made us feel like this,” Eddie says, intense. “He made us do this.”

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t think it was worth an explanation.

“This is what he makes people into.”

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t show it any mercy.

"This feeling, you have to cling to it, because this is what we're putting an end to."

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t think about anything beyond using it.

"This is what drives us."

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t mind the collateral damage.

"We're taking a stand against his corruption. His lies."

Spider-Man is the one who is self-righteous above all else.

"You’re not worthless. You’re worth everything to me.”

Spider-Man is the one who wants them to suffer.

“Don’t ever think this is your fault.”

Eddie started out growling, hissing, but by the end of it, he’s whispering, bent over, hands slowly releasing their hold to turn around and cup the symbiote’s substance as it stares, enraptured.

They let the silence hang between them, long enough to refocus on the glide of it along his skin, on the way their minds fall into step like old, old friends. “And,” Eddie says, before feeling that speaking out loud would be inappropriate.

There’s nothing invasive about the symbiote, now. When something’s wanted, it’s not invasive. It’s something entirely different. It’s intimate.

Intimate.

It’s a lifeline the symbiote immediately clings to.

Eddie’s still reliant on words, always encoding parts of himself for it to decode, but this time- This one time, it thinks it may understand the appeal, the form of it unfurling in their minds, soft and lovely, carrying a lifetime of experience. Eddie even offers it a memory to go with it, because he has been trying, he has, and it's a fresh one, it's of him saying yes, of blackness encasing him, of their first real rush of togetherness. Intimate, it thinks.

Intimate. It could make itself at home in that word. Eddie's got it filed away with an overwhelming sense of yearning, but not the kind that hurts. Vulnerability, but not the kind that fills you with fear. Closeness, but not the kind that's been forced. It's everything. It's everything it ever wanted. It's real.

The symbiote pulls itself together, quite literally, and as it stretches a long, solid, humanoid form across the couch, Eddie’s already tipping forward to let himself fall into it. He rolls onto his side, hugging his middle and pulling up his knees in a slow, clumsy movement the symbiote follows with inexplicable fascination, and closes his eyes, cradled.

“Show me,” he says, “I trust you,” and then there’s no room left to argue.

The first thing to fade in is the scent of blood, metallic and biting, pain and death on one level, full of life, familiar and comforting on another. It’s disorienting in a very visceral way. The gulf between their experiences is too deep.

“Maybe,” Eddie chokes out, “maybe not the smells. Maybe you were right about the smells.” The symbiote seems disappointed, but stable. “It’s okay,” he says, wondering whether he could rewire his own reactions, whether that would be a good idea.

Sensations, then. The symbiote processes them completely differently from a human, but it gets better, over time, at translating them for its host. Eddie feels, as he focuses on it, into it, a bit like he imagines an out-of-body experience to feel like, even though it is, of course, the exact opposite.

Being surrounded by warm liquid, under pressure, dissolving into it, letting it carry you.

Their bodies, no barriers, one purpose. The symbiote draws a tendril along his veins, and Eddie becomes very aware that this isn’t a memory, it’s what’s happening right now. His heightened heartbeat pumps it, them, harder.

Being warm liquid.

Something about their shared perception is different from Eddie’s. His blood stops being his blood. It starts being him. Not something he owns. Something he is. Like the symbiote doesn’t perceive the separation of body and self. But the separation, he thinks, is important. It enables control of one over the other. It enables the soul to transcend the confines of the flesh, to be in contact with the divine.

Confining, controlling, the symbiote echoes.

It draws its mass up to his chest, slipping through the fabric of his shirt. He can feel it on his skin, and through their connection, he can feel it slipping past that, too, dipping inside him, just as effortlessly. He holds his breath, hardly daring to move, but before fear can take hold of him, the symbiote’s point of view filters through. Spreading out along muscle fibres, threading through them, feeling safe and grounded. A tingling sensation, almost, to have so much surface area, so much sensory input, like stepping into a just-too-hot bath, but settling into it to find deep-seated calm.

So much more of this, it thinks, bittersweet, so much more of this than Peter Parker had. So much more room. So much more care devoted to the upkeep. Eddie almost giggles at that. Here he is, being introduced to his own body like it’s a friend’s new apartment. It’s ridiculous. And yet.

Every part of him, resonating as a source of pride and comfort.

It moves on, then, takes a second to be entranced by his lungs, in gentle contact with the spongy surface, expanding and contracting to a larger degree than he would’ve thought. Keeping watch on this, it thinks, always. Delicate. Fragile. All these little bubbles. It weaves itself like a decorative ribbon through his ribcage. Could replace their function. Worst case scenario.

“I don’t- I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Eddie says, largely wanting to avoid the image of the symbiote trying to make up for his collapsed lungs by sticking out of his open veins like a straw to oxygenate his blood.

And there’s his heart, of course. There’s the symbiote, feeling his heartbeat. Reveling in it. No commentary, just the push and pull of it. Slower, and deeper, and slower, and deeper, it coaxes. The darkness, soon, stops being absence and starts being something, contributing just as much to feeling enveloped.

The symbiote overlays each thump with an impression, indescribable, but it makes him feel seen, in his entirety, almost too much. You, it says, not with words, but with his heartbeat, and his inner voice, and his sensations, and his movements, all at once, all inseparable from one another. Eddie.

It keeps moving for a while, shows him the porousness of bone, the undulation of intestines, the tension of tendons, caressing him from the inside, though he only feels it from its perspective. Shows him its sense of awe, all these complex systems, all relying on each other, all working together. The symbiote’s body is built on universal principles, one cell the same as the next, each either healthy and connected to the larger whole or not. Humans...

“I think you’re pretty miraculous, yourself,” Eddie says, contemplating ways to get the symbiote access to medical resources, concerned in equal measure with enabling its joy in learning about what it loves and sheer self-preservation.

Finally returning to himself doesn’t feel like it at all. It feels like a connection, severed.

His self, split in half.

"No,” Eddie says, patiently, “it’s not like that.” A body is something precious, and natural, and beautiful, but it’s not... you. A body is something you struggle with. You elevate yourself above it by pushing it, denying it.

The symbiote doesn’t want to argue, tries to defer to him, but something about all this has made it more willing to express itself than it’s ever been, and niggling, at the back of his mind, he can tell it doesn’t understand at all. It didn’t think their unity was one of three entities. Or four? Are they both above Eddie’s body? Should it try to split itself, too? What’s the ranking, there?

It conjures up the feeling, the heartbeat feeling, your-consciousness-in-every-cell-of-you, and Eddie shivers. He’s not saying they can never feel in tune. He’s not saying that. But the symbiote doesn’t have the experience, doesn’t have the whole picture, doesn’t have the culture.

If it was only this, he thinks, only what you see in it. If it was only the life-giver.

When did it become something else?

Eddie doesn’t want to drag it down there. He doesn’t want to drag himself back up. He holds out his hands, and the symbiote engulfs them, tracing, at the microscopic level, his fingerprints, committing them to memory.

Eddie stares at the ceiling.

“I always wanted,” he mumbles, lips barely moving, “I always wanted to return to the body I was born in.”

Something about the complex way these words light up his brain rubs the symbiote the wrong way.

Poetry?

“Poetry.”

Pure exasperation. Eddie laughs, voicelessly.

“You don’t have to deal with poetry, yet. Some day we’ll talk about all of it, art, religion, politics... You don’t have to, now. It’s all a bit much.”

The symbiote agrees, satisfied. Already seeming so much happier, so much more open than when they met. Away from Spider-Man’s toxic influence. They were going to reclaim themselves, yet.

“If you like being in there so much,” he asks, “are you sure I’m not imposing when I ask you to come out?”

The symbiote emerges from somewhere around his collarbones, cupping his face. That is intimate for me, it thinks, this is intimate for you. In there, you only feel through me, out here, I only feel through you.

“So it’s equal-”

So this is better, it thinks, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, a gesture gleaned from a memory.

Eddie sighs.

#there's like fifty thousand different headcanons in here and that's all it is #we can should will and most get unbearably pretentious about symbiosis #the symbiote will get to be a bad influence on him yet don't worry

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dragonprincewritings · 6 years ago

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Touch Me, Have Me, Make Me Yours (2/2)

AO3 Version

Relationship: Aaravos/Reader

Rating: Explicit

First Chapter | Second Chapter

Summary: It’s been many months since you found the mirror and learn its secrets, learned about the imprisoned elf who calls himself Aaravos. In those months you’ve befriended him, grown close to him in ways you can’t much label, and now you awake on the other side of the mirror through magic you can’t understand–and Aaravos craves your touch.

For someone so attuned to magic, Aaravos is surprisingly strong. Well, surprisingly against anyone who is able to pluck you off your feet without so much as a noise of struggle, which are few in number and fewer still like him. He carries you with all the careless ease as a parent carries a child, or perhaps more accurately as one might carry a pet–with one arm beneath your shoulder blades and the other behind your knees. He holds you against his chest, grip firm and unwavering as he carries you over to the small bed from where you originally awoke from.

“Forgive any lack of decoration or flourish,” Aaravos says in honey-sweet apology, though it comes more from obligation than any sense of shame. “This room was not designed to entertain more than one specific guest.”

You don’t need to push for clarification, so instead you merely let him move you, lay you down over the plush mattress and press his hands over your body in one fluid motion as he stands back up to his full height. He starts to undress without pause, and such a simple motion as him shedding his cloak looks graceful and measured.

“If you’ve only been here for…however long it’s been,” you try to sound casual, sitting up so you can watch as he slowly, carefully gathers his cloak in his arms and lays it over the headboard. “Then how long has it been since you last…..”

There is absolutely no way to make that sound casual.

Still, you try your best not to avert your eyes when they meet Aaravos’ own, his expression unreadable before he quickly turns away from you, shedding his vest. The air in the room shifts, but you don’t have the time nor the emotional prowess to read it accurately. For a moment you feel fear that you’ve crossed a line, a boundary of personal discomfort, so you hurriedly drop your gaze and look down instead to your own still-clothed body.

Ah, you’d been staring at him with such focus that you’ve forgotten to get yourself undressed.

It seems a good way to shift your attention without feeling awkward (though you manage to feel that way regardless); your fingers find the buttons of your simple shirt, undoing one after another with a nervous little shake to each little movement.

You’ve not even touched the third button before a pair of hands suddenly grab your wrists and stop them, leaving you staring dumbly as star-speckled fingers keep your hands still from your rush to undress.

“No,” comes the simple, yet powerful word. “That’s for me to do.”

Aaravos doesn’t give you room nor time to reply any particular way as his body suddenly moves over you. Clad in but loose pants, he straddles your hips and pins you down, surprising you enough in the moment that you’re lost for words until his mouth is at your throat.

All you can go is gasp out in short bursts of air, half-words that don’t have any meaning than for their sound alone from your quivering lips. Sharp teeth and careful lips press to your skin in half-hearted bites that only remind you how hard he could mark you with but a fancy or strike of want, all of which he’s already admitted to having.

He’s deft with his fingers, undoing all the buttons of your top in barely a few seconds before gently urging your arms up so he can tug it free from your upper body. Despite all the squirming, you can’t register a moment that you don’t feel his lips on your throat, seeking out the most sensitive spots and toying the tip of his tongue against them. The same tongue and teeth and lips that can form such beautiful words seem to have much the same talent in pleasure, your body blooming with heat for anything he so much as cared to do with you.

“Aaravos,” you moan, his name broken and weak on your lips. “Please.”

It’s a simple word, but it feels as heavy as iron over the two of you, weighed down with want and need for so much more than just his mouth on your neck–though it’s proven to be a talent in itself for how worked up it’s already made you.

“So impatient,” the man murmurs, voice rumbling softly against your throat. “And here I worried for a moment that I was moving too quickly in my own feverish desire.”

The amusement fills his words softly, and his chuckle sounds even sweeter. It’s only then that you remember yourself and his situation, the irony coming down on you so hard that your face blooms with raging heat.

“I didn’t mean-”

“I’m not angry,” Aaravos cuts off your apology as he lifts his face from your throat. His hair falls from where it had been temporarily pulled behind his ears, falling around your face like a curtain of silvery silk. “You have not endured the same as I have, to be so distant from another person. To long for so much as a person’s voice or their simple company.”

Golden eyes shut slowly with a sigh, a gathering of thoughts physically showcased only by the soft glimmer of the marks scattered across the elf’s cheeks. For whatever it’s supposed to represent on him, you can’t ignore that to you, it looks akin to a blush.

You reach your hands up without thinking and hold Aaravos’ face between them, so your thumbs can trace over those glittering marks on his skin. For some reason you expect them to feel different on his skin, but there’s no texture or difference in anything–they are simply part of his flesh, yet somehow alive and glittering like the stars of the midnight sky.

The man’s eyes shoot open the moment your touch is upon him, wide and surprised in so much more than in the simple fact that you’re touching him.

No, it’s so much more than that.

They blink, those soulful eyes, and stare at you for what feels like forever.

Aaravos feels so warm as he lays over you, still straddling your hips and half-dressed, hair still a curtain around your face so that all your eyes can see is his expression; it’s soft and curious and awed in so many layers beyond what you can hope to read, emotions running deeper than you’ve ever seen in another person.

“I have not felt the touch of another person for so long,” he says at last, a whisper so soft and deep that you’d not hear it if you were any farther from him. “The warmth of skin against my own, the feeling of arms and hands and fingertips-”

Carefully, Aaravos brings one hand between you. He pulls one of your wrists from his face, but only so that he can press a kiss to your palm, and then to each of your fingertips.

“-I’ve craved the company of someone through sleepless nights and dreary days, someone I could touch and embrace in my arms if only once.”

His kisses grow gentler as he pulls your hand to his lips, to press one more on your inner-wrist. It’s as if he’s trying to worship the smallest detail, to commit it to memory through kisses alone.

All you can do is watch, bittersweetness tugging at your thoughts and mind–you can’t begin to understand what it feels like to be isolated like him, to be locked away without anything of the world beyond this room and it’s loneliness. To want just the company of another person, just the notion that they exist–it’s…horrible.

You take in a breath and feel steeled to the blossoming lust and compassion in your chest for the man above you, the man of midnight skies and starlit skin and silver-silk hair.

“I’m here now,” you say, hands reaching up and holding Aaravos’ face once more, cradling it with a love you’d almost feel ashamed for if the moment wasn’t already so saturated with emotion. “Touch me. Have me. Make me yours, Aaravos.”

The man watches you for a moment, expression unreadable again though only for a few breaths of time.

And then it shifts into a look of hunger.

“You’ve sealed away your fate,” he growls, voice going deep as the currents of a wondrous but powerful ocean. “You’ll have no hope to rid yourself of me now, silly human, when you’ve promised yourself to me like this.”

There had been a level of care in how Aaravos’ helped you remove your shirt, but there was no such gentleness for the rest of your clothes. He tears at what remains on your body, his hands making quick work while his mouth once more finds his mark of a passionate kiss.

It doesn’t take long before you’re stripped bare beneath him, mind swirling and thick with want.

“For someone who hasn’t been with another,” the words fall from your lips almost breathlessly. “-you seem plenty familiar with this sort of thing.”

You catch Aaravos’ wicked grin as he shifts his body to strip the last piece of clothing from himself, making sure the motion is slow and deliberate.

“I only said it has been long since I’ve had companionship; I never once said that I’m unfamiliar with the activity one has upon a bed.” A shift of his eyes, mischievous and sly. “Or the wall. Or the floor. Only the uncreative limit themselves to the passions that lovers can enjoy together.”

You’re not quite sure what to focus on in the moment.

There’s his words, of course, steeped in something strong and carnal–you can’t begin to filter through all of the context clues to what sorts of things a man like Aaravos has done before (the sorts of activities he’s familiar with), but you’re also quite distracted by the sight of his naked form as he straddles your hips once again, pants tossed and forgotten quickly enough in some vague direction from the bed.

He truly looks like a piece of the midnight sky. From his hands, feet and face, there’s a shift of color to his skin from light to dark, reminding you faintly of the color that lingers on the horizon in the short hours after the sun finally sets.

He’s covered in freckles of glittering stars–they shimmer as if alive, as if actual stars without any shift of light or movement of Aaravos’ body. Your eyes take in all of him at once but nothing at the same time–it’s overwhelming, honestly, because he’s kneeling over you, tall and proud and–

Oh.

Aroused. Also very aroused.

It’s amazing that there’s any shame left to fill your cheeks with heat by this point, but you otherwise can’t pull your gaze away from the stiff organ between his legs colored similarly to the rest of his body (which is to say there’s a white, starry speckling across its length). The shape is plenty familiar in that it’s obvious it’s a cock despite the difference in species, but it’s also much different than what you’re used to.

It’s tapered, for one, though long and thick enough to make your belly flip in shameless need for it inside you. How would such a shape even feel? Would it open you up easier, slide inside you without a need for careful preparation? The possibilities were enough to make your thoughts spin, body shifting beneath the man in unsettled heat.

“Are you intrigued by something?”

The familiar, mischievous voice from above yanks your eyes away, towards his face and confronting the realization that you’d been staring quite dumbfoundedly at his dick for at least a solid five seconds, if not longer.

All you can do is scrabble for words, though there’s no explanation that can hope to save you from the embarrassment.

“I just-” You can’t meet Aaravos’ eyes entirely. “-I uh, I’ve never. Seen. Or. Er.”

Perhaps it’s better just to not try to excuse yourself or your arousal, your growing want for the man to be between your legs and make you cry out his name over and over again in unbridled lust.

He laughs–the sound is heavenly to your ears–and he finally leans down over you again, one hand anchoring his weight beside your head as the fingers of the other hold your chin so that you have to look at him.

“There’s no shame in being curious,” he all but purrs, lips pulled into a smirk. “There’s as much to learn about my body as I’m eager to learn about yours, but for now let’s focus on you.”

You try to shake your head.

“But you deserve to-”

“No,” Aaravos says, stilling your words with the weight of his command, even as it’s nearly whispered. “Your time is limited. I have seen you countless times through the mirror, I have watched you work and move, heard you laugh and sing even, yes, even when before you realized I could see and hear you.”

The meaning in his words sends a soft, but wondrous shiver down your spine. The two of you had been talking for several months, though you’d been almost enraptured with the mirror for many weeks before you ever learned that it was more than a well-crafted showpiece.

Aaravos has more to say, it’s obvious in the air and you feel as if breathless in waiting for him to continue. The man moves himself gently, but deliberately between your legs. You wrap them almost instinctively around his waist, ankles locked behind the small of his back.

He feels warm against your skin as his hand moves from your chin, skimming fingertips down the front of your body and tracing shapes against your skin.

“I’ve yearned to touch you from the moment you first spoke to me.”

The words are so honest, they feel as though plucked straight from the elf’s heart like stars from the night sky. His fingers continue to trace careless shapes against your skin until it reaches your hip where he grabs you and pulls you closer, your hips pressing harder to his in a moment of naked intimacy and heat.

“I’ve yearned to feel you just like this, to know what you sound like when my lips are on your skin and my tongue tracing your pulse.”

His words sound delicate and soothing despite the fire they light in the pit of your stomach or the ache between your legs. You can’t hope to hide the arousal over your face–so you simply don’t. Your brows knit together and your hands reach up once more to Aaravos’ face so you can get his attention, even though you can’t find the words to plead for what you want–even though the very thing of your desire is pressing against you, hot and hard and throbbing in equal need.

“Oh,” he murmurs, as if captured by your eyes as they meet his. “So many things I want to do to you, my little human. For what time you have left with me for now, all I want is to feel you come completely undone around me.”

It takes a moment for your brain to filter his words, but by then you can feel that his hand has skimmed down farther between your bodies, dipping between your legs and pressing against your entrance. They’re cold and slick with something you don’t recall being on them but a moment before as he touched and caressed your skin.

“Don’t fear,” Aaravos coos before you even have the chance to feel worried. “It will help you relax.”

Whatever the substance is, you’re sure it’s magical in origin, slicking up your inner walls as one, then two digits carefully press inside you. Arousal and need come together in their own aggravation because you only want more, more of him inside you, opening you up and bringing you closer to climax.

“Aaravos,” is all you can plead out, hoping that your tone is enough to encourage him.

“Impatient,” is all the elf tuts, amusement in his tone once more. “It’s as if you’ve been wanting my touch for as long as I’ve wanted to touch you.”

You don’t correct him, and that only seems to make his resolve stronger, his fingers press deeper within you. Aaravos is not a man unfamiliar with the details of sex or pleasure, as he’s able to bring you close enough to the edge with his hand alone that you’re panting his name in broken gasps.

Your body feels as if on fire by this point, be it from his voice, his fingers, the aching press of his cock or some combination of it all–you need him now or else you’ll fall apart.

So you plead and beg and moan for him, the last threads of shame fallen from thought and care and replaced solely with the aching, gnawing desire to have his cock inside of you.

“Aaravos,” you beg, hips shifting, trying desperately to find more. “Have me.”

You don’t get an answer, or at least not a verbal one from your lover. You’re almost worried that he isn’t listening to you at this point, letting your words fly useless into the air when all you crave is his intimate attention–

When that’s exactly what you get. Thick fingers slide out of you moments before you feel sturdy hands press over your hips and pull them up and closer against his body. You can feel the aching heat of his cock against you, grinding and rubbing for only a few moments as Aaravos adjusts himself and then, with a single, powerful but earth-shattering motion, he thrusts inside of you.

There’s too much to process all at once.

Pleasure and satisfaction and heat and girth spreading your body open–there’s just so much that you can’t hope to do more than gasp and arch your back into the myriad of sensations.

“Oh,” you hear your lover growl. “Oh how sweet you feel around me, how wondrous and pure.”

There’s a filth to the words that spill from Aaravos’ mouth, a certain carnal filter that seems emphasized by his smooth tone and poetic vocabulary. He doesn’t hide his thoughts or pleasure from you as he starts a quick and ruthless pace.

Kisses and nips and everything in between find their place along your throat, jaw and lips, your name weaved between each and every one in what almost sounds like a deep, gravely prayer; the sound of it alone is able to bring you closer to the edge, like honey and adoration from a man who craves your attention and touch in ways you’ll never quite understand.

You want to enjoy the intimacy for as long as possible, to put the feeling of his arms around you and lips nipping at your jaw somewhere deep in your mind so that you’ll never forget. Oh, you want this moment to last for eternity, but there’s no such thing when climax comes far too swift, a heat building low in your stomach that becomes far too much to ignore.

“I want-” you say, trying desperately to communication a million words in one breath. “Aara-v-vos I’m–I’m getting close.”

You expect certain things from a lover when you’re in their arms, writhing in need beneath their form. You expect certain words and whispers, promises and languid motions of needy bodies seeking the apex of pleasure–but you don’t expect what Aaravos does at all.

One of his hands seek out yours, gripping tight into the thin sheets of the bed. You feel him press his palm to yours and thread your fingers together as best as one can in the heat of the moment. You feel his lips on the underside of your jaw and his hips rocking feverishly against yours, making the bed bump and squeak with a filthy rhythm into the otherwise empty room.

“Sing for me,” the man finally says, a needy whisper that seems to break through his composed, deep voice. “Sing your pleasure for me, let yourself go so I may hear every beautiful syllable.”

You can’t even think of disobeying such a loving command. Pleasure comes in thick, hot waves over your form, leaving you to writhe as if your body barely knows what to do with it. Legs tighten around Aaravos’ waist as your body clenches around him, milking his cock and spurring him into orgasm with a kiss-muffled moan of his mouth to your throat for a mark you’ll certainly tend to tomorrow.

Every moment, stretched and gooey and warm, is filled with your voice. With his soft demand echoing around your mind, it’s all you can do in simple obedience but to moan, to let out all the noises that come to your lips with the pleasure of his touch and love and everything.

His name makes up most of it.

Aaravos, oh Aaravos, you don’t have quite the lilt to your words or tone, the honey-sweet depth, but you hope it sounds as pretty and lovely to him.

Somewhere in it all, in the heat and pleasure and rawness of climax, everything goes white around you.

...

And then, suddenly, you’re awake.

Not in Aaravos’ arms or even in his bed–not even in the room behind the mirror–you instead wake to find yourself in your own quarters. The walls are familiar, the floor is familiar, your very bed is familiar.

With a blink, the realization fades into your thoughts that you’re back home, in your own world and bedroom and–

No.

You stumble out of bed with a gasp, a rushed energy to your limbs. No, oh no it can’t have been a dream, please don’t let it all have been nothing but a feverish dream-

It doesn’t take long to hurry down the hall and to the study, to the mirror that sits so innocently by itself in the corner of the room. Without hesitation you pull the cover from over the piece, hoping almost desperately to see a familiar face behind the glass, maybe even teasing you for being so cute or pretty or some other lovely compliment that he’d surely say of you in the heat of sex.

But you don’t see anything. The mirror acts in the moment as simply a mirror, no haughty elf standing on the other side of any magical portal and no indication that what you’d waken from was nothing more than a dream of one castle-keeper’s silly crush on something–someone–that can’t be understood.

It’s not uncommon that you don’t see Aaravos in the mirror, it’s not completely his lack of appearance that leaves you momentarily disheartened, but the nagging worry that it was nothing more than a midnight fantasy that felt a bit too real.

You’ll have to ask him about it in the morning, if the day is cloudy and the metaphorical stars align just right. Though waiting will only leave you filled with more worry, it’s the only option you have.

But.

Wait.

You look at the mirror once more, focusing on your reflection in the surface. More specifically you look at your neck, catching a spot of color on your skin. It piques your curiosity enough that you tilt your head to the side, angling yourself so that you can get a clear look at it.

A bruise.

You feel heat in your cheeks at the recognition that the color on your throat, one that is high enough that you’ll have to figure out how to cover up–

–it’s kiss-shaped.

#aaravos #aaravos readershot #readershot #tdp #the dragon prince #aaravos tdp #;3c #lemon #tag later

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anxceit · 6 years ago

Text

vagueness

Summary: Logan worries about an off-hand comment from Thomas. Misunderstandings abound. Written for Sympathetic Deceit Week: Loceit Day.

Pairings: Platonic Loceit, Platonic Moxiety

Word Count: 2044

Warnings: Self-deprecation, teasing, very brief mentions of food. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: rest assured this is the angstiest fic i’ve written for this week! inspired by a bunch of posts by @sashaying-on-sonnshine

Deceit has certain expectations when he wanders the mindscape. They aren’t unreasonable, he thinks, just simple things like respect for his personal space. So when Logan accosts him out of nowhere in the living room and makes a grab for his face, he’s understandably a bit startled.

He skitters back out of Logan’s reach and asks, “What are you doing?”

“Feeling your scales,” Logan informs him helpfully. “It’s for science.”

“Yes, because that explains everything,” Deceit deadpans. “What sort of science requires petting my face?”

Logan sighs. “Thomas raised the question of whether or not you excrete slime. I doubt you do, since that is not a trait snakes normally possess, but now that the question has been posed I cannot just live in ignorance.”

Of course. Deceit just loves the creepy two-face appeal that comes with his scales. Loves being treated like a freak. He certainly doesn’t wish it was the first time.

Might as well have some fun with it.

“That does sound horrible, doesn’t it?” Deceit drawls, and sinks back into his bedroom before Logan can react.

He’s in the kitchen, getting coffee, the next time Logan assaults him. He’s not used to others being up this early, so the attack surprises him, but this time he doesn’t flinch. He smoothly backs out of the reach of Logan’s fingers, and Logan nearly trips and falls. When he glares at Deceit, he merely winks his human eye and teases, “Better luck next time, Logic.”

Logan huffs. “I’m being made fun of, aren’t I?”

Deceit stifles a laugh. He wonders how far he can push it before someone else steps in. “Where on Earth did you get that idea?”

Logan blinks at him. “The phrase ‘better luck next time’ is typically used as a taunt, from my understanding. Should I update my vocabulary cards?”

Deceit gives him a long, appraising look. “Absolutely,” he says finally, and turns to get a coffee mug from the cabinet.

“As I thought,” Logan mutters to himself, “I am being teased.” He clears his throat to get Deceit’s attention, but Deceit doesn’t turn around. He pulls the pot from the coffee maker and begins pouring himself a mug, ignoring Logan. “You seem to believe that this is some sort of game, but I assure you that I am trying to collect true scientific data. I would very much appreciate your cooperation.”

“Is that right?” Deceit says, replacing the pot. He takes a long, slow sip from his mug, watching as Logan winces. Can’t stand black coffee, huh? “Sorry, Logan. I’d just love to work with you,” he continues, exaggerated disappointment written across his face, “but I’m afraid my schedule’s a bit full at the moment.”

“It would only take a second,” Logan protests, but Deceit interrupts him.

“It’s just not a good time, sorry.” He brushes past Logan and out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Good luck with your science, though, Mr. Sweet Tooth!”

“I do not have a fondness for sugar! Just Crofter’s!” comes the indignant reply, and Deceit laughs quietly into his coffee.

“You’ve been coming up here a lot more often lately!” Patton notes excitedly one day, plopping down on the couch next to Deceit as he reads.

“Ah, yes, well. There’s more, you know, natural light up here,” he says, wiggling his fingers vaguely at the window. He knows Morality would have his head if he figured out he was teasing Logan.

“Well, you’re welcome up anytime if it’ll brighten your day!” Patton elbows him in the side and he rolls his eyes.

“No, you’re not,” Virgil contributes from the armchair, pulling one headphone off.

“Now, Virgil,” Patton warns, “be nice.”

“Hey, I’m not the one that–” Virgil stops, as if coming to a realization. He pulls his headphones all the way off and turns his head to the stairs. “Logan,” he calls, “Deceit’s down here!”

Deceit gives him a withering glare as the sounds of footsteps come echoing down the stairs. Virgil flips him off and goes back to reading on his phone, ignoring Patton’s protests.

Logan rounds the banister, notebook in hand. “Have you had a change of heart?” he asks, hope in his voice.

Deceit snorts. “That certainly would be nice for you, wouldn’t it?”

“What’s going on here?” Patton asks, frowning.

Logan crosses his arms, brow furrowed. “I merely need to borrow Deceit for a moment to collect some data...”

“He wants to pet my face,” Deceit interrupts, and Logan huffs.

“That’s not quite the way I’d put it, but yes.”

Patton tilts his head. “Logan, we don’t want to make him uncomfortable...”

“Come on, Deceit,” Virgil pipes up, voice dripping with honey, “it’ll only take a second, and then he’ll move onto whatever creepy-ass thing he wants to experiment on next and leave you alone!”

Deceit whirls to face him as Patton cries out “Virgil!” in protest. He offers Deceit a smirk dripping with venom, leaning forward in his chair, every bit the Dark Side he refuses to admit he is. He’s made it impossible for Deceit to make light of Logan’s interest, and he damn well knows it.

“Deceit,” Logan tries to say, but Deceit can feel heat creeping up his neck and he can’t stand it. Not when Virgil’s still grinning at him like that.

He shakes Logan off and sinks out.

Logan catches him outside his door hours later. Deceit wonders how long he’s been waiting there. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Deceit, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding,” he starts, but Deceit brushes past him. “I just want to...”

“No,” Deceit interrupts, whirling around, “I have no idea what you want, because this is the first time I’ve ever had to deal with this sort of treatment.” Logan tries to stutter some kind of excuse, but he ignores it and stalks off towards the stairs.

“Deceit, please, I just want to...” He reaches out to Deceit just as he steps onto the stairs...

...and trips over his own feet, sending himself tumbling the rest of the way down until he slams into the railing.

He’s not a person, and has no physical being, so he won’t sustain any lasting damage. But it still hurts, and it’s embarrassing, and when he blinks the stars out of his eyes, Patton of all people is standing over him, fussing and asking if he’s alright. Virgil is laughing hysterically from the couch.

He feels his face heating up. This day couldn’t possibly get any better. Too worked up to think properly, he slaps Patton’s hands away and snaps, “Would you people just stop touching me?”

Patton’s eyes widen and he steps back, allowing Deceit to stand and brush off his clothes. “Sorry, Dee,” he says. “Didn’t mean to push your boundaries!”

Logan stutters to a stop in the living room, quietly watching Deceit flee to the kitchen. Virgil actually gets up from the couch and approaches him, and they have a conversation Deceit can’t hear ignores as he raids the fridge for Crofter’s.

Having successfully obtained the holy grail of comfort food, he turns on his heel with a sweep of his cape and stalks back towards the stairs. Virgil casts a glare at him and turns back to the conversation. He stops Patton from approaching, too, and Deceit starts to wonder if he’ll be able to escape without further incident.

No such luck: Logan catches Deceit by the arm at the bottom of the stairs. Virgil and Patton step back to watch. Deceit braces himself to be scolded for taking Logan’s jelly.

He isn’t. “I apologize as well,” Logan says. “I admit I may have been a bit...extra in my attempts to ascertain the truth.”

“Modern slang suits you so well,” Deceit grumbles in lieu of a response, trying to pull out of Logan’s grip.

But Logan says, “Please,” and the sincerity in his voice stops Deceit in his tracks. “I assure you I was not trying to treat you as a ‘test subject’,” Logan continues. “It was pure curiosity. I find your scales...fascinating, I suppose. I wanted to know more, but I got ahead of myself, and for that I apologize.”

Deceit feels heat creeping up his neck. Discomfort, definitely. Not shame, or worse, modesty. He’s even more uncomfortable with the honest apology than with the face-grabbing incidents, he decides.

So much so that before Logan can get out another word, Deceit uses his free hand to grab Logan’s and presses it against his scales, sliding it down his face slowly while maintaining direct eye contact. Logan trails off, bewilderment overtaking his features. Deceit lets the appendage drop after a few seconds, and the room goes dead silent.

“...Ha.” Logan says finally, then again, louder. “Ha! I knew it! I knew you couldn’t be slimy! It wouldn’t make any sense! I’ll have to let Thomas know. Ah, and write it in my journal!”

Deceit masks a sigh of relief and raises an eyebrow. “Are you happy now?”

“Yes, actually!” Logan exclaims. He’s wearing the sort of ear-splitting grin they only ever see on him when Crofter’s is involved. “Thank you!”

“Mmhmm,” Deceit mutters, feeling his face heat up once more. Virgil quirks an eyebrow at him. He seems amused, which irritates Deceit even more. Logan vanishes back up the stairs to his room, still rambling about something or another.

“Is that how he always is when he figures something out?” Deceit deadpans.

“Isn’t he just as cute as a button?” Patton gushes.

Virgil cracks a smile too. “You should see him talk about space.”

Deceit stares up the stairwell, lost in thought. He almost doesn’t catch Patton say, “Virgil, I think you have something to apologize for, too.”

“Not to that lying jerk, I don’t,” Virgil snaps.

“I will lock you both in a room until you get along,” Patton warns. It’s by no means a serious threat, but Virgil concedes anyway.

“I’m sorry for calling you creepy,” he mutters.

Patton pats him on the shoulder, then turns to Deceit. “Your turn!” he chirps with a bright smile. “And be honest! I know you can.”

Deceit rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry for trying to use Patton’s face to manipulate you.”

Virgil snorts. “Come on, we both know I had you figured out before we even left the theater,” he says, and Deceit does. He knew it then, too – he wouldn’t have taken the risk otherwise. “I’m not an idiot.”

Deceit laughs at that despite himself. “I wonder what that says about—”

“Can I ask a few more questions?” Logan interrupts from behind. When Deceit whirls around, he’s standing there with a notepad and an eager smile.

Deceit blinks. What more questions could he possibly have? He glances at Patton and Virgil, then back to Logan. He holds up the Crofter’s jar in his hands with a grin. “Can I bring this with me?”

Logan’s eyes widen as he realizes what Deceit is holding, and he opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. Instead he takes a deep, calming breath and says, “As an apology for the earlier issue, yes. But only once.” The last sentence is accompanied by a fierce stare.

“Good enough,” Deceit says, and lets Logan drag him upstairs.

Patton claps his hands together. “Oh, I hope they end up being good friends! It’s so much easier when everyone gets along!” He wraps an arm around Virgil’s shoulder.

“I don’t trust him,” Virgil mutters, shoulders hunched inwards.

“Well, you know what they say!” Patton chirps, and Virgil winces preemptively. “When the cat is away...”

He obviously expects Virgil to finish the saying for him, but Virgil doesn’t have any idea what he’s trying to get at, much less the end of whatever it is he’s quoting. “How about I set the table for dinner?” he suggests instead.

Patton, mercifully, gives him a thumbs-up and drops the topic. “Does tortellini sounds good tonight?”

“Sure,” Virgil says, and follows him into the kitchen to get out the silverware.

“Set five places tonight, kiddo!”

Virgil gives him a look, trying to convey with his eyes just how much he does not want to do that, but Patton blithely ignores it. Virgil grumbles and grabs the extra silverware.

#logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #sympathetic deceit #loceit #logceit #sanders sides #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit week #my writing

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ravenbell-exchange · 6 years ago

Text

Here come the prompts!

These are for all of us to use, so please feel free to peruse, reblog, explore, comment, and be generally delightful. Everyone will be receiving their assigned prompts later today, but remember that we are writing two stories each: one from the assigned prompts, and one from this list. You are free to pick anything apart from stuff you yourself prompted. All Dear Author letters that were published before now are linked below, but please do check the prompter’s blog just in case -- they might’ve posted a letter later on.

If you didn’t sign up for this challenge, but want to use any of the prompts below to write a fic -- go for it! As long as you make sure to credit where you got the prompt from, you are very welcome to play with us.

Now, without further ado:

Url: @raiindust

Dear Author letter: here

Prompt 1: ❝We won’t ever be holy, or galaxies or whatever else I’ve ever fucking written about. We are built upon too many ruins, but my god, some ruins are known as wonders of the world. And you’re mine.❞ Source: here Raven + Bellamy + at the edge of the world: setting off with a group on a post-apocalyptic road trip. Stumbling across a long abandoned city; deciding that it’s as good a place as any to begin anew.

Prompt 2: Raven + Bellamy + Grounder Alliance: Raven and Bell are chosen as emissaries of Skaikru to help develop relationships with the various Grounder clans, and spend the better part of (insert your preference of period of time here) moving and living between one, two or multiple clans.

Prompt 3: ❝You’re the girl I want to be slow dancing with at 2AM in my kitchen.❞ Source: here

Raven + Bellamy + things you said to me at 2AM: canon compliant, canon divergence, modern au. Raven and Bellamy have a lot of things to say, so why not say them to each other in the dead of night, when things are still.

Prompt 4: Raven + Bellamy + Modern AU.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: Unnecessary angst, torture or heaping of awful things onto individual characters (so basically canon for my ray of sunshine Raven Reyes) is absolutely not a thing I want to see, hear and especially read. A light sprinkling of personal angst is absolutely fine, but anything more than a tablespoon and it hurts my soul. So character death is pretty much off the table as well.

Also: I tend to stay away from super heavy kinks, or anything that isn’t moderate smut then fade to black. Despite my issues with canon representations of these things, devaluing Octavia’s relationship to Bellamy, or Finn’s importance to Raven as a person are also things I don’t like to see. That being said, if your plot doesn’t call for it, also don’t feel the need to throw it in there for the sake of it.

Url: @finnicks

Dear Author letter: here

Prompt 1: i thought this time last year i'd be dead.

Prompt 2: you had so much to give, you thought I couldn’t see.

Prompt 3: here

Prompt 4: shy

Prompt 5: i just want to stay here with you

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: Super heavy kinks. Smut for the sake of smut. Character bashing - it's a little unnecessary. Ship bashing. Would prefer it if it's pure Raven/Bellamy, and if any side ships are merely sides/mentions. No AUs where they're in the modern world; I prefer it if it's an AU on canon. First person or second person.

Also: I've seen all seasons of the show, so I'm okay with any requests that point out a specific season.

Url: @wells-jaha

Dear Author letter: here

Prompt 1: An intimacy

had grown between us

like a forest around a castle.

- Louise Glück, excerpt of The Sword in the Stone

(taken from here)

Prompt 2: (Art) Heist AU

What I kind of want (a few examples):

1) In which Raven and her gang have been part of a series of heists all over the continent and Bellamy is the private detective/ police detective (if you really want to) set out to stop their next possible heist. But maybe he's impressed, maybe a little into her? Who knows!

2) In which Raven and Bellamy are part of different rival heist groups both set on the same object, naturally that means that they will clash somehow.

These are of course only examples, you can do whatever you want. It doesn't even have to be an art heist. I'm however kind of set on Bellamy and Raven being on different sides for this, so that it (hopefully) turn into to nice frenemy making out stuff.

Prompt 3: And we fall through empty corridors

And we talk in useless metaphors

(Only cause we're lonley)

A Vague Prompt around the topic/theme Friends with Benefits with Ben Howard's Empty Corridors (Youtube Link Here) as inspiration. Can be canon compliant, doesn't have to be.

Prompt 4: Something about longing, about being in love, but never finding the right words, about circling each other for years and years, always missing the right time, always having the courage in the moment the other is in a relationship or not there. A horrible dance, Bellamy and Raven are caught in.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: daddy kink, gruesome death scenes, gore, a successful suicide

Also: my fandom blog is named wells-jaha, so guess which character I would like to see a) living b) as a friend/former partner of Bellamy or Raven?

i'm fine with Octavia being in the fanfiction, but either revise the whole character (make her like season 1) or deal critical with her actions.

I'm fine with a lot of stuff, but would prefer if the writer could tag: abuse, self harm, suicide, alcoholism (note: only use if a character has an alcohol problem, not if characters just drink alcohol)

Url: @kinselllas

Prompt 1: Raven's on a date waiting for Finn, and he takes so long to show up, Bellamy ends up sliding into his seat to take over so she doesn't feel stood up (could be taken in a few directions)

Prompt 2: Bellamy and Raven reunite at a wedding, slow dance, admit that maybe...deep down...there's always been something ;)

Prompt 3: Pre-series/Season 1 AU- Bellamy is the person Raven comes to the ground for.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: N/A

Url: @ravenbells

Dear Author Letter: here

Prompt 1: Modern AU with a proper millennial vibe. Think debt, lack of stability and shit jobs, but also strong political opinions, easy access to sex ed, social media. Let them negotiate boundaries, use sex toys, struggle with navigating both commitment and casual sex, change jobs and houses all the time. Obviously I’d like Bellamy and Raven to be front and center, but if you want to make them function within a group of family/friends (Octavia, Monty, Miller, Harper, Lincoln, whoever else you please), be my guest.

Prompt 2: The Ancient Rome AU I Deserve. I don’t really care how you place them. Republic? Early Empire? Late Empire? I am not the boss of you. Just let them be Romans.

Prompt 3: Canon-verse. Bellamy thinks of his body as a shield.

Prompt 4: Bellamy and Raven agree to have a casual, no-strings-attached relationship, except they both catch feelings embarrassingly quickly. You can make this canon or modern, I don’t really mind.

Prompt 5: Canon-verse. Anything exploring parenthood. It can be a pregnancy scare, or an actual baby, or maybe just a conversation about sex/contraception that turns into Bellamy and Raven discussing their options.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: Overly sugary view on parenthood; major character death; erasing Raven's disability.

Also: I have only seen the first 2 seasons, please have mercy on me.

Url: @tentaclabia (shortitude on AO3)

Dear Author Letter: here

Prompt 1: (canon-ish) The one where they keep cuddling each other for no good reason, just casually in a snuggle pile talking about life and the future or the past, or just sleeping. Casual contact, casual offerings of comfort, and of course they mean so much more.

Prompt 2: (future!au or canon-deviation!au) There is a unanimous decision to explore more land, so it's Bellamy and Raven in a car, on a roadtrip, being at peace and exploring and feeding their curiosity and feeling free and happy. Also in love.

Prompt 3: (once-upon-a-canon) The one where they talk about the elephant in the room: that time they had sex. (And how they'd totally do it again.)

Prompt 4: (the trashiest prompt) Raven is convinced that Bellamy has feelings for Clarke and is determined not to let history repeat herself when it comes to love. Bellamy is just confused and wonders how much more can he do save for write 'RAVEN REYES PLEASE LOVE ME' on his forehead for her to notice just who he's really pining for.

Prompt 5: (canon reinterpretation) Season 5, except Raven and Bellamy have been together for 4 and a half years and there's nothing that can tear them apart. Alternatively, what season 5 would look like, if they were.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: death. angst over death of parental figure (please don't). trauma and exploitation of trauma. torture. unhappy endings.

Also: I haven't mentioned it, but it goes without saying that I will be glad for all and any smutty content :)

Url: veritykims (twitter)

Prompt 1: Thieves AU: Any AU where Bell and Raven are both thieves of some kind (con artists, burglars, hackers, pickpockets). Favorites include Robin-Hood type criminals (think Leverage) and rivals trying to steal the same thing/con the same person (think Imposters); but any take is cool. I would absolutely love to see this set aboard the Ark in the canon verse, but other settings are cool too.

Prompt 2: Android AU: Any AU where Bell and/or Raven is an android! Contemporary settings are cool, but so is futurism. I would really like to see this as a canon divergency too, given that ALIE sort of gives us the basis for self-aware AIs. Up to you!

Prompt 3: Reincarnation AU: Any AU where Bell and Raven keep meeting across lifetimes. I really like the variation where one of the two is immortal for some reason (vampire, robot, demon, deity, etc.) and the other is either a human or a mortal supernatural creature; so that’s a safe bet; but I’m sure to love any take on this.

Prompt 4: Pirates AU: Historical pirates! Anything will be cool, but I’m a big fan of Raven as either Captain or Quartermaster, and Bell as an ex-navy soldier who heavily resents the Empire.

Prompt 5: Other prompts (I can’t post a Dear Author so bear with me): Modern Holmes/Elementary AU. Professors at the same college AU. Queen Of The South AU. Any vigilante/superhero AU. Pride and Prejudice AU. Space pirates/space bounty hunters AU. Pacific Rim AU.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: No pregnancy or babies, but I’m cool with adopted children and teens. No AUs that erase Raven’s disability. No canon-compliant fic that portrays the Griffins, Octavia, Murphy or Finn in positive light (I would much rather they just don’t exist, at any rate). No abuse, no assault, no rape.

Also: I don’t mind canon compliant fic, but I haven’t watched in a couple seasons, so I only really know the characters and plots for s1, s2 and part of s3. I love Nathan, Wells, and Monty; as well as Lincoln, Jaha, Kane, Indra, Anya, Sinclair, Gina, Harper and Monroe; and I love seeing them integrated into stories. Big fan of Bell/Nathan and Bell/Wells as well as Bell/Wells/Raven and Gina/Raven/Bell, so if you wanna go for polya… And, JSYK, explicit stories are more than welcome!

Url: @growlereish

Dear Author Letter: here

Prompt 1: gina/bellamy/raven - gina and bellamy are dating. raven is pining for both of them, but unbeknownst to her they're both also in love with her! somehow they all work this out and get together.

Prompt 2: bellamy/raven - post-breakup, learning how to be friends again.

Prompt 3: bellamy/raven - virgin!bellamy enlists his best friend raven to experiment with this whole sex thing. casually. but then both of them catch feelings.

Prompt 4: bellamy/raven - marriage of convenience which they are both determined will stay platonic. of course, it does not.

Prompt 5: bellamy/raven - doing fun activities together and enjoying their life and being happy!! some sadness is also okay but i just want my kids to have a Good Day for once in their lives.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: kidfic, pregnancy, power imbalances

Also: pls warn for self-harm and coming out stories involving parents

Url: @icouldnotsee

Prompt 1: Bellamy and/or Raven in political office, whether this be in a monarchy or a democracy. Bonus if there's a coup (that they're the subject of or that they're behind). Also bonus if one or both weren't expecting to be in power, but they were runner-up to someone else and now are thrust into that position and must find their footing.

Prompt 2: Telepathy, where after getting sick with the disease that the Grounders sent to the 100 through Murphy, Bellamy develops the ability to hear thoughts but he can't hear Raven's. Of course, that's just the version of it that came to my mind, but anything with mind reading/telepathy is cool with me, canon or AU, any set up or situation.

Prompt 3: They meet in the Ark, either really young, after Bellamy becomes a guard, after Finn takes the fall for Raven's spacewalk, or after Bellamy's a janitor.

Prompt 4: Hurt/Comfort. I have no other specifications on this one, I just really love that trope.

Prompt 5: Angel/demon or angel/human or human/demon or angel/angel or demon/demon stuff! I love seeing that in stories and it'd be cool to see interactions with creatures beyond humanity.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: I'm rather not receive smut beyond it being implied. Also, I really would not like to see any infidelity or character bashing in the fic I receive.

Also: No nsfw content.

10.

Url: @laufire

Dear Author Letter: here

Prompt 1: Braven + Mythology AU. Specially if they’re still humans who get mixed up in some Gods Drama™

Prompt 2: Raven + her love for science. Preferably canon-verse. Can be gen or shippy.

Prompt 3: Braven Historical AU of your choosing.

Prompt 4: Post-s4 canon divergence: all the sex in space. Zero-G sex, kinky sex, healing emotional sex. Just. Sex.

Prompt 5: Bellamy/Raven/Shaw – Canon Divergent AU: Different First Meeting (as in, Shaw meets Braven/the Space7 in a different way).

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: Clarke written in any positive way. I don’t want them cheating on other people (poly ships are more than fine). Any rating works for me. No watersports, humiliation. I’m not really into Modern AUs or Soulmate AUs. And PLEASE don't erase Raven's disability.

11.

Url: @maybenowforeverlate

Prompt 1: Bellamy admiring Raven In Space. Raven on earth was already incredible, and that was her adapting to a new environment. but the environment she's from? in her fucking element??? i'm into it and so is Bellamy. competence. kink.

Prompt 2: "She could not remember, now, ever, feeling happy or sad. Only hungry. Only empty, and greedy, and insatiable. "

(Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

Raven centric, canon or AU.

Prompt 3: Raven being subtle about taking care of Bellamy. prefer a loose canon-verse, but can be modern AU or any type of AU.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: I do not know what's happening in the most recent season, and I would prefer any canon-verse/divergence to be from before Bellamy and co get back to Earth w/Raven in space.

12.

Url: @becketted

Prompt 1: The 100 are sent down to the ground but in batches of people, rather than all at the same time, Bellamy is among the first to go to earth, Raven among the last ones. When she arrives Bellamy is the one who has to show her the ropes on how earth and the Grounders work, he geeks out about both the plants/animals stuff and the bits of earth history he's discovered (so different from what they teach in the Ark!), while Raven uses her skills to help everybody face the structural challenges of living on the ground, Bellamy admires a lot, they fall in love, etc.

Prompt 2: 1960s AU where Raven is a mechanic and the Space Race inspires her to become an astronaut, her trials to become one, etc. Bellamy can be a geek working at NASA (national security staff?), a journalist covering Raven's amazing career, her supporting boyfriend, I don't mind, I just want Raven as a 1960s/70s astronaut. It doesn't have to be a super detailed AU, just the flavor of the era would do.

Prompt 3: Arranged marriage/marriage by lottery. It can be on the ground or in the Ark, I don't care, I just love this trope a lot, I just want them awkwardly sharing a bed and pining a lot.

Prompt 4: Pirates AU, because who doesn't want that? (Historical, but space pirates are okay too, as long as Raven and Bellamy do some swashbuckling)

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: Pregnancy. Anything that involves Murphy in a positive light (Murphy being in the fic is fine, as long as the portrayal is negative). I will not read/write Kane/Abby stuff. Other characters are fine.

Also: I'm very partial to stories about the Grounders (both reading and writing them), they're my faves.

13.

Url: chll51 (AO3)

Prompt 1: It can be canon compliance or not but just something to do with this quote:

"I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we've suffered enough."

Prompt 2: modern AU: First day at a new job and the boss is Bellamy, who Raven has Hooked up with the night prior.

Prompt 3: high school reunion: need a date.

Things they don’t want to find in the fic you write for them: I don't care much for smut but if it's fit with the story then sure. also, I have vanilla taste so I guess keep it like that.

#ravenbell exchange #blayesnetwork #rellamy #braven #ravenbell #bellamy x raven

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cookinguptales · 6 years ago

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I saw two films yesterday at the film festival! One I loved and one was... well, imo, a lot of wasted potential.

I went to go see Koreeda’s new film first, Shoplifters. I’ve always loved his films (though admittedly I just don’t have the heart to watch Nobody Knows) and I’ve always gone to see them during the festival. Usually they are… not packed. This time, though, I was shocked to show up and find a rush line around the block?? I didn’t even realize that it’d won the Palm d’Or. Really, really glad I preordered my ticket, especially bc I loved the film.

Later that evening, I went to go see Widows, which was Steve McQueen’s new film. It was fine? I’ll admit I was just expecting something other than what I got and I didn’t find what I got particularly engrossing. That was likely more an issue of taste than quality, though. Well. Some of it was probably quality.

(Note: I mentioned graphic depictions of sex work under the content warnings not because I want to be anti-sex work but like. I can definitely see how depictions of it could be triggering.)

Some more thoughts:

As I was walking out of Shoplifters, I heard a lady complaining about how slow the film had been and how long it had taken to establish what the relationships between the characters were and the mean little voice inside me was like You don’t deserve a Koreeda film!!

If you’ve seen many of his films, the movie is pretty much what you’d expect. It’s a very quiet film about family and how messy it can be. Apparently, this particular film was pretty controversial in Japan amongst their more nationalist groups (and Abe, which… as I said, among their more nationalist groups) because of its depiction of Japan’s underbelly and its criticisms of some of Japan’s social issues. Personally, I loved it.

It’s a film about this motley crew of thieves and con men that make up a messed up little family. The film begins with them “adopting” a new little girl. “Adopting” is a euphemistic word. It’s more like they realized a little girl was being terribly abused by her family and they kidnapped her. That’s sort of the crux of the film, you know? These are not moral people. They do awful things. They teach small children to shoplift instead of letting them go to school — but where did they find those kids to start with? There’s an uneasy question of morality in this film at all times, especially when hints start to arise that shoplifting might be the least of some of these folks’ crimes.

Koreeda is honestly one of my favorite directors ever when it comes to depicting difficult families. His characterization is so gradual and realistic that you almost forget that these are not real people. These characters aren’t related by blood, but they take care of each other. They kidnapped a child, but the kid’s real parents were horrifically abusive. So at a certain point, where do they stop playacting at family and where do they start becoming real family? And once they become a found family, what secrets are dark enough to make the members realize that this is perhaps not the found family they wish to be a part of? It is essentially a film that questions the bonds and boundaries of family, both biological and adoptive, and it’s beautifully done.

Koreeda’s always been a director who asks difficult questions about adoption vs. biological kin, and this film is probably most pointed in that regard. His films are littered with poor parents and children just trying to make the best of things, to the point where it’s pretty clear that he’s resentful towards Japan’s attitudes towards family. The wrenching ending of this film makes that especially clear. As always in his films, there are no neat answers to these difficult questions.

The film is, as expected, beautifully shot and acted. It’ll also make your heart absolutely ache. It’s not as viscerally upsetting as Nobody Knows, but damn if it isn’t close. Definitely sadder than Like Father Like Son, one of my favorites of his, and that movie is pretty upsetting. The ache feels worth it, though. It’s just this grimy and lovely story all at once and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

(CW: brutal (if not graphic) child abuse, child injury, death (adult), graphic depictions of sex work. Definitely NSFW in spots, so I guess maybe don’t watch it with your parents.)

And then later I went to go see Widows. It wasn’t entirely the film I was expecting, and honestly, I don’t know that I liked what it was. The film was really billed as a feminist heist movie and uh. I guess a heist happened and there were some vague gestures towards Strong Female Protagonists. It was still a surprisingly dude-centric movie, though, with a depressingly predictable plot. It’s certainly not a fun movie, I’ll tell you that. It’s pretty brutal in spots and most of the characters range from boring to unlikable. Part of the problem is that the film vacillated wildly between an organized crime film to a heist film to a political film to a film about a romance to a generic action film to a film that occasionally flirted with actually important issues. But because it hopped around so much, I didn’t really feel satisfied with any one part.

It was basically a story about these women who’d been married to Crime Folks and when a Crime that the Crime Folks went bad, they all became widows. One particular widow (Viola Davis) got saddled with her Supreme Crime Husband’s shit, so she had to pull off his last heist with the other widows so they’d be out of debt to the people he’d fucked over. The other widows actually had very little to do with this bc they only had Minor Crime Husbands, but she dragged them into it anyway because I guess that’s just the kind of person she was. A lot of the film was pretty much Viola Davis bullying the other women into doing things and then feeling sorry for herself because she married a crime guy and that turned out to be a bad thing. There were also side plots about political machinations I didn’t care about and some organized crime which seemed to basically amount to David Kaluuya graphically torturing and murdering people to, idk, make the film brutal? Those scenes often felt fairly pointless and took up way too much time. He’s bad, I get it, what’s your point?

All the twists were pretty obvious. There was a scene about police brutality that I guess they could have bothered to do something interesting with, but it never went anywhere. (Nor did any of the political questions about social issues.) Honestly, the whole subplot about the dead son felt extraneous. I could sort of see what they were maybe aiming for? That she felt like he didn’t want their family because he was white and they weren’t and he didn’t want to deal with their lived reality and that made all the betrayals worse? But it never really came together, which was a pity. Like many aspects of the movie, it could have been something really interesting if they’d just given it some real thought and focus. Honestly, almost any of the plot lines could have been really good if they’d had their own movie. But uh. They didn’t. So it was kind of a mess. Maybe that’s what annoys me most. There was potential there but it went unrealized. So tons of things just felt extraneous and/or absolutely useless.

To be fair, the acting was obviously superb. It was pretty much carried by Viola Davis. Just wish the writing had been there. Like Viola Davis could act as hard as she wanted, that didn’t make her character particularly interesting or sympathetic. Every time she’d cry about her horrible dead husband and the predicament she was in, I was just like. Cool I mean I guess this is what happens when you marry a guy you know is a shit. None of the betrayals felt particularly shocking considering, like, it was established from scene one that he was a shitty guy. She just felt naive to the point of stupidity sometimes. Or maybe just self-involvement. And like. It’s hard to feel bad for a person who didn’t care if her husband hurt people as long as none of it affected her. Like I’m sorry that you’re reaping what you sowed, I guess? I’m not rooting for you, lady, nor do I even find you interesting as an antihero. (None of them were interesting. None of them. Most of them were stereotypes or otherwise shallowly-written characters.) Like I legit did not care who won the election or who got the money by the end of it.

On the upside, tho, there was a lot of Cynthia Erivo in the last third of the movie and boy am I here for her!! The character had barely anything as far as real characterization but I mean. Cynthia Erivo. By the end of the movie I was just kind of zoned out and watching Erivo do stuff. So that part was fun, at least. Everything else… not so much.

(CW: some fairly gory violence, graphic depiction of sex work (that was somewhat coerced), abusive parent-child relationships, mobility devices being taken from a disabled person in a fairly traumatic fashion, torture, death, racial slurs, extremely graphic police brutality, racism, sexism, animal abuse, implied child endangerment, graphically NSFW, etc.)

#movies #film festival films

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boricuareads · 6 years ago

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My Year in the Middle: a review/critical analysis

[image description: banner with pastel blue in the background, the cover of My Year in the Middle in the center with a bright orange light behind the cover, and the text saying “boricuareads Reviews: My year in the Middle by Lila Quintero Weaver”]

Rating: 5/5 Stars

Description:

In a racially polarized classroom in 1970 Alabama, Lu's talent for running track makes her a new best friend — and tests her mettle as she navigates the school's social cliques.

Miss Garrett's classroom is like every other at our school. White kids sit on one side and black kids on the other. I'm one of the few middle-rowers who split the difference.

Sixth-grader Lu Olivera just wants to keep her head down and get along with everyone in her class. Trouble is, Lu's old friends have been changing lately — acting boy crazy and making snide remarks about Lu's newfound talent for running track. Lu's secret hope for a new friend is fellow runner Belinda Gresham, but in 1970 Red Grove, Alabama, blacks and whites don't mix. As segregationist ex-governor George Wallace ramps up his campaign against the current governor, Albert Brewer, growing tensions in the state — and in the classroom — mean that Lu can't stay neutral about the racial divide at school. Will she find the gumption to stand up for what's right and to choose friends who do the same?

Review:

This review turned into a critical analysis of the book, but I promise it’s worth it. But, heed my SPOILER ALERT. You’ve been warned!

In reading Lila Quintero Weaver’s first foray into children’s fiction, I couldn’t help but think that this would pair well as a close analysis, keeping in mind Gloria Anzaldúa’s border theory. To keep it simple, Anzaldúa believed that immigrants, especially Latinx, and more specifically those of Mexican descent, not just live with the trauma of immigrating across the literal border. The theory also refers to the borders that have been socially constructed, such as racial categorization and sexuality just to mention a few. I’ll apply her border theory to this text because I believe most of the book is a study of said theory.

My Year in the Middle follows the last six weeks of Lu Olivera’s sixth grade in 1970 Red Grove, Alabama. Lu is the child of two Argentinian immigrants, which reflects the author’s own personal experience (this is explained at the end of the book with the Author’s Note). Lu considers herself to be a wallflower and does everything in her power to stay that way. But when the P.E. teacher decides that the girls will start running for the last six weeks of class, Lu becomes the surprise underdog. She outruns the entire class, which had been desegregated only the year before. In classrooms, however, an unspoken rule still divides Lu’s peers between black and white. Seeing as she identifies as neither, she occupies a seat in the middle row. In that way, she straddles a literal border.

“A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants” (Anzaldúa 3).

The way Lu sits in that racial border that has been constructed without her say in the matter, is much in the way she struggles with her identity as a Latina. She fears her Spanish is not too good and that her translation skills are too basic. However, above all else, she seeks acceptance among the white girls in her class. She fears being Othered, but also fears complete assimilation into whiteness. Anzaldúa said: “The only ‘legitimate’ inhabitants [of the borderlands] are those in power, the whites and those who align themselves with whites. Tension grips the inhabitants of the borderlands like a virus. Ambivalence and unrest reside there and death is no stranger” (4). Though death may not be something that’s talked about in the book, ambivalence is something the narrative strides to be against. Lu feels the tension between her black and white classmates, which at times escalates to physical violence. At some point, even Lu’s the victim of physical and verbal violence from an older white student who takes the bus with her. Lu thwarts this by stomping his feet and correcting that she’s Argentinian, but she has to constantly remind herself of something her mother says: “We’re foreigners. We’re not supposed to get involved.”

Thus, Lu becomes an agent of whiteness by not daring to mix with the black kids, even though she identifies more with them and wishes to befriend them. There is a border that she dares not cross, even though it’s not something her parents have taught her. Her parents have taught her to be implicit in white supremacy even though they don’t believe in it. When Lu finally decides to befriend Belinda, a black girl in her class who is also a fantastic runner, she worries about what her white peers might think of such relationship. She doesn’t hide it in public, and she defends Belinda in the face of a racist shopkeeper, but when she’s faced with the questions of her white peers she shies away from the courage she shows. It’s a slow process as she realizes the systems at play in her classroom, and though she has some help from white peers like her friend Sam, her “best friend” Abigail does the opposite and encourages Lu to assimilate.

In fact, most of the characters who wish that Lu assimilate are women. If it’s not Abigail telling Lu to read women’s fashion tips in magazines, it’s Lu’s mom telling her that sports aren’t for girls when Lu expresses her love of running. This is a sentiment that even Anzaldúa expresses: “Culture is made by those in power—men. Males make the rules and laws; women transmit them” (16). By communicating that assimilation into a white heterosexual capitalist patriarchy or assimilation by ignoring your Otherness and that of your peers, Abigail and Lu’s mom transmit the messages of those in power, which Lu then internalizes.

The book mostly consists of Lu unlearning these internalized feelings and the text does so deftly and with the innocence of a sixth grader who’s only starting to realize the depth of US’s injustices. A good evolution is the image of Lu’s sister, Marina, who’s a college student as well as a volunteer for the Brewer campaign. This campaign is another subplot that’s almost always occurring in the background of Lu’s life. At moments she believes she wouldn’t be affected by the campaign, which is against rampant white supremacist ex-governor George Wallace and desegregationist Albert Brewer. But the book takes you on a sort-of ride-along as she goes to a Wallace rally because Abigail just wants to participate in a cake walk. As Lu feels horrible when the speeches start and the Confederate flags start flying, she bargains with herself and others that she only went to appease Abigail be a part of something with her white peers.

Lu doesn’t tell her black friends or her own family that she attended the rally, knowing it would be met with scorn, which means that she knew it was wrong. When her social studies teacher asks her to write an essay about her experience at the rally for bonus points, she does so, and gets full points while feeling guilty. That guilt is useless, however, seeing as it resembles the white guilt of her peers who want to rebel against the white supremacy in place at their school, but won’t do anything productive with it. It’s when Lu uses her guilt to defend her black friends that it becomes more productive.

At a white student’s birthday party, Lu becomes the target of harassment from her peers for being friends with the black students, especially Belinda. White fear comes bubbling up, and it’s only perforated when Lu finally owns up to her own prejudices and by calling out her peers’ racism in the process.

When Brewer loses the race, the sentiments explored in the book felt all too familiar. As the Brewer supporters start mourning the loss, the white Wallace supporters become even more assertive of their desire for white supremacy. The feelings paralleled the days after the election of Tr*mp. Keep in mind, the book is set less than 50 years ago, and the sentiments of white supremacy and segregationist laws are still present in the US. It is at that point that Lu’s reality comes crashing down on her.

At school, she finally decides to sit with the black students, eschewing the created border of the middle row, the false neutrality she thought she could keep. Lu finally overcomes “the tradition of silence” that Anzaldúa wished to do in regards of the censuring of her identity as a Chicana (59). And though, again, Lu isn’t a Chicana, it’s the best turning point for her as she accepts her Otherness and doesn’t give into white supremacy. In fact, she goes to a white man in power (the principal) to defend one of her black peers, who’s attacked by a white student in class.

Lu is constantly subverting the expectations set for her as the book moves along. She shows growth in the most hopeful and honest way. She’s constantly deconstructing the set default, though not always by herself, like in the scene in which Belinda is at her house and they’re going through the magazines that used to be Abigail’s. Belinda points out that there’s one black model for the overwhelmingly white publication, but she doesn’t worry because at her house they receive beauty magazines for black women. Lu can’t help but wonder that there’s no such thing for girls like her, girls from Latin America, and that she doubted she would ever find a black-haired model with brown skin. This scene is a short one, yet it puts into focus what has been set as the standard for beauty: Eurocentric features. It also helps as a way for Lu to deconstruct such standards, and to question why those are the default.

“It is not enough to stand on the opposite river bank, shouting questions, challenging patriarchal, white conventions. [...] At some point, on our way to a new consciousness, we will have to leave the opposite bank, the split between the two mortal combatants somehow healed so that we are on both shores at once [...] Or perhaps we will decide to disengage from the dominant culture, write it off altogether as a lost cause, and cross the border into a wholly new and separate territory. Or we might go a different route. The possibilities are numerous once we decide to act and not react” (Anzaldúa 78-79).

And indeed, Lu acts. Most of the book is her reacting to injustice, and by the end she’s acting and choosing her own path. She chooses herself, she chooses her real friends, and her family. She also chooses running, with her entire family supporting her and her dad and sister helping her train before the big competition (a Field Day). It becomes a celebration of Lu’s identity as her parents shout encouragement in Spanish as she goes. Those screams allow her to win, seeing as her competition, an older white girl, gets distracted and falls on a pothole. This final scene settles the border paradox within Lu. She’s able to celebrate both her passion for running and her identity as a Latina, all while celebrating the friends she has. There’s no indication she wants to seek reunification with the white peers who turned their backs on her, or that she wants to seek some sort of revenge.

At the end, Lu is happy with forging her own path. She’s finally unafraid to embrace her actions, and leave behind the created borders. There are new borders, but she doesn’t wish to acknowledge them at the moment the book is finished. She’s proud of her growth, and so was I.

Works Cited:

Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. Aunt Lute Books, 1987.

Quintero Weaver, Lila. My Year in the Middle. Candlewick Press, 2018.

An eARC was provided by NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. Thank you! (this is why I couldn’t directly cite from the source book, since ARCs undergo a lot of changes before publishing)

You can find this book online at all available retailers. (amazon, barnes and noble, indiebound)

Review available on Goodreads.

Follow me on Instagram and Twitter @boricuareads, and make sure you check out my other reviews, as well as my book lists, edits, and more! If you enjoyed this, know that I put a lot of work into my reviews, so a monetary donation helps keep this blog going.

#mine #my year in the middle #lila quintero weaver #adriana reviews #read latinx #latinx books #middle grade

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