THE WILL TO TAKE

every minute, every decision, every action is historic. and i feel separate.

[accesspath]

@envisas.

          when you hit a dog enough it starts to flinch whenever you lift a hand, even if you just want to wave. i feel like the dog. untenable violence is everywhere, but for a really long time, i never had to deal with any of it, not for myself; and then in a very short span of time he had to deal with all of it, face-on-rocks fists-on-ribs and resounding gunshots. you don’t realise how warm blood is until there’s a lot of it. elliot is having another nightmare. his breath sounds like a death rattle when he wakes up. he has to lie there in an unequally untenable quiet until his breathing is under control, until i’m not crying - again - anymore, and then i’m almost comfortable. comfortable enough to reach out to the warmth next to him.

          “ tyrell? ”

[envisas-blog]

     he’s not a heavy sleeper but it took him a few seconds longer than he’d have liked to slip back into awareness.  rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand, he sits up a little, falling back when the cold hits his back and sends a thread of goosebumps rolling over his skin.  “ mm? ”  he swallows and it sticks in his throat.  his eyes are used to the dark, now, and he can see the turn to elliot’s face.  his brow furrows, concern twisting into worry in his gut.  “ what’s wrong? ”

[accesspath]

@envisas.

           i’m paranoid. he’s always known; there’s just a distinct awareness that comes with it this time. his heart is strained and sore and i don’t like the creeping feeling that comes with it. anxiety is a balled fist; paranoia is in the oesophagus, crawling up his throat. he’s taken a week to have this conversation because a week was how long it took for me to mentally exhaust every outcome, rational and irrational.  ‘ kennedy left me. ’

[envisas-blog]

          ‘ left you where? ’

          the second it comes out of his mouth he knows it was the wrong thing to say, but it was a genuine mistake. he’d been reading an article in swedish on his phone: it always takes him a second or two to push through the mud of one language to get to another, but the understanding that he’d misinterpreted those three words comes whippet-quick and brings with it a self-conscious flush and a pang of guilt.

          ( he doesn’t want to let himself think about it because he doesn’t know how to parse it other than through the sickening, euphoric refrain of finally finally finally finally finally finally and he cannot let that show on his face. for elliot’s sake. )

          he swallows. he locks his phone.

          ‘ sorry. i’m sorry. that came out wrong. ’  his phone ends up on the couch, discarded. he watches elliot warily, gives himself a moment to think, as clearly as he can. finally finally finally finally finally finally finally finally.  ‘ -- how are you doing? ’

[wnq-writers]

People say I am stone cold. They don’t realize my coldness is just a thin sheet of ice. One push from you and I will crack. All my emotions will bubble up to the surface. And to be honest, you won’t be able to handle this flood.

Oxymoronic soul.

[lifeinpoetry]

God I want you in some primal, wild way animals want each other. Untamed and full of teeth. God I want you in some chaste, Victorian way. A glimpse of your ankle just kills me.

Clementine von Radics, “Desire,” Mouthful of Forevers

[pulviscoloatmosferico]

borderline personality disaster

[skintheft-blog]

@envisas.

          legs twisted with tyrell’s legs,  its front pressed to his back,  its nails making little grooves in his shirt against his chest,  its chin pressed against his shoulder.  the limpet behaviour is only unique because there’s no consistent umms and ahhs of smug happiness.  it’s very smug with tyrell.  ‘ i’m hungry. ’

[envisas-blog]

          his head is lolling on his shoulder.  he breathes evenly.  ‘ do you want me to make you something? ’  maybe a sandwich.  he doesn’t want to get up.

[snivelling-blog1]

          “That is just as well,  Potter,  because you are neither special nor important,  and it is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is saying to his Death Eaters.”           “No  —  that’s your job, isn’t it?”  Harry shot at Snape.           He had not meant to say it;  it had burst out of him in temper.  For a long moment they stared at each other,  Harry convinced he had gone too far.  But there was a curious,  almost satisfied expression on Snape’s face when he answered.           “Yes, Potter,”  he said,  his eyes glinting.  “That is my job.”             ❪ ind severus snape, written by eli. book based & canon divergent. ❫

[envisas-blog]

snivelling:

           THE SOUND HE MAKES IS ONE OF OPEN DISGUST.  ‘ fifteen points from slytherin. ’  he’ll be sure to let tyrell’s fellow housemates know exactly who has managed to get their own head of house to deduct points from them  -  there’s a limit to even snape’s favouritism.  ( perhaps largely because it happens to be that he dislikes his students the least,  rather than liking them best.  )

           ‘ — and i’m afraid you’ll be unable to play in your next quidditch match. ’

tyrell pushes out a breath through his nose, teeth gritted. all of the teachers like him, irrespective of house. he’s charming, pleasant, smart, and he does his work. even mcgonagall doesn’t seem to have a problem with him. he’s never been especially good at transfiguration, but he tries, at least, and he’s predicted to get exceeds expectations when he finishes his N.E.W.T.s. but then there’s snape. tyrell can’t tell if he has a problem with elliot being hufflepuff or muggleborn or a boy, but whatever it is it’s becoming an inconvenience. (if he wasn’t so insistent on talking back, then slytherin would be fifteen points richer. que sera, sera.)

he glowers for a moment at snape and then turns his head back to the cauldron. missing out on quidditch is a problem. bole is going to have to replace him, and bole’s average at best. he resigns himself to sticking his head back in the cauldron and scrubbing, angrily. he could try to talk himself out of the ban, but he isn’t really in the mood to sink that low. the only thing getting him through this is that he said he’d meet elliot after they’re both done.

[envisas-blog]

snivelling:

           HE WATCHES TYRELL WITH HIS BLACK EYES,  presently immovable.  particularly un-moved by tyrell’s whining.  snape leans into his field of view,  very slowly,  very particularly,  head twisting to look tyrell directly in the eye.

           ‘ i don’t care. ’   a hand grasps the edge of the cauldron.  ‘ if you are ever caught fraternizing with that hufflepuff boy again,  you will be cleaning every inch of every dungeons with your tongue. ’  he leans away,  giving the cauldron a hard shunt towards tyrell.  it’s the boy’s responsibility to make sure it doesn’t fall off the surface and onto his foot.  ‘ understand,  wellick,  that it’s not what you do that concerns me  -  by and large.  it’s where you do it. ’

tyrell watches him leaning closer and he’s planning on holding his stare but there’s something about the proximity that makes him turn his head away. he only just manages to stop the cauldron from causing any real damage, but it’s a fumble to keep it on the desk. scowling, brow furrowed, he pushes it back into place. he’s going to fraternise with elliot as much as he wants, with or without snape’s permission.

          ‘ that doesn’t bother me so much. i’m good with my tongue. ’

[envisas-blog]

snivelling:

                ‘ SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. ’  he’s watching tyrell from his place stood behind his desk,  arms folded across his chest,  body enveloped in his black robes.  he looks more a shadow than a man.  ‘ you are  -  unfortunately  -  legally considered an adult, now.  you have the right to perform magic outside of school and,  off the school grounds with a license,  apparate. ’  his arms unfold.  he takes several ominous steps towards tyrell.

                he looms.  ‘ perhaps in future you would like to put more thought into your actions and where you take them  —  particularly as you are older, even if it is only a year.  if that had become a matter of concern, you would be considering scrubbing cauldrons to be escaping unscathed. ’  if it weren’t for his tone of voice,  which suggests that tyrell is an idiot,  this might be mistaken for a moment of teacherly advice.  neither pomona sprout nor snape had been present when the two boys were caught;  had they been,  they might have received lesser punishments,  slaps on the wrist rather than publicly notarised detentions.  at least - wellick would have.  snape has no interest in making the hufflepuff boy’s life any easier for him.  ‘ mr alderson is in detention with his own head of house,  in case you were wondering. ’

okay.

he could take the berating. he could just grit his teeth and shut up and keep scrubbing this stupid cauldron. for a few seconds he’s decided that’s exactly what he’s going to do. but it’s still grating on him that he’s stuck in here being treated like this. elliot’s probably repotting mandrakes or something. he’d rather be repotting mandrakes too. it smells like metal and mould and he chipped his fingernail trying to scrape a stubborn lump of crust away and snape is trying to make him feel bad. tyrell peers up at him.

          ‘ we weren’t even doing anything wrong. ’

[envisas-blog]

@sepiol

          ‘ i don’t think they’d find us if we hid in the shrieking shack. ’

     tyrell’s voice comes out muffled. he has his cheek on his upper arm, which is sprawled out over his side of the table to the opposite, the tips of his fingers brushing over the ends of the pages in elliot’s book. the library is virtually silent; he cast muffliato on the area so madam pince wouldn’t have a reason to come flying over and smack him on the back of the head for talking. still, he’s mumbling, mostly out of habit.

          he’s supposed to be doing an essay - he even got out a few books with the intent to make some notes - but all he’s done since he got here is stare at elliot and sigh intermittently.

[snivelling-blog1]

@envisas.

           SNAPE KNOWS EXACTLY HOW OLD TYRELL WELLICK IS.  he’s a seventh year.  he’s a beater on the quidditch team.  overall,  he’s neither impressive or disappointing as a member of slytherin house  —  but that doesn’t mean he can’t be brought down a peg or three,  like every other arrogant brat he’s trying to keep under his heel.

            so with a voice cold and silky:  ‘ how old are you again,  wellick ? ’

[envisas-blog]

tyrell doesn’t look up from scrubbing at the inside of the cauldron. his arm is aching. he has two essays to write and he hates being down here in snape’s classroom when he doesn’t have to be. he wonders what elliot’s been saddled with, and there’s a pang of annoyance that they weren’t just stuck together writing lines. the pang extends to a general sort of bitterness: that snape won’t let him off easy (he’s his head of house, after all, and isn’t he supposed to prefer slytherins?), that of all the punishments he could have had he’s been saddled with scrubbing cauldrons with a pathetically small brush, that they even got caught in the first place.

          ‘ seventeen, sir. ’  he knows that. he has to know. tyrell scowls at a stubborn piece of grime.

[franzkafkas]

I need all the time and a thousand times more than all the time and if possible all the time that exists, for you, to think of you, to breathe in you.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

[envisas-blog]

sepiol:

Keep reading

he can’t help watching elliot moving around the apartment, tracking him with his eyes. he’s keenly aware of the thud of his pulse, how tight his jeans feel. he shifts a little and his breath hitches. while elliot’s turned away he shuts his eyes, just for a few seconds. he doesn’t want to think about other things to distract himself - he’s never seen the sense in that, and it seems like something utterly joyless. he’s hard and he wants elliot and elliot wants him to wait, so he’ll wait.

elliot’s rubbing up against him and tyrell’s trying not to make the grip on his thighs too tight. he’s thankful that elliot starts talking, that he has something to listen to, instead of just the silence, the breathing, the little rustling noises. he’s looking at the hollow of elliot’s throat. elliot says nobody else. tyrell gasps out a breath, vocal, and his head tips back and his fingertips are white with pressure where he’s digging into elliot’s thighs. it’s a combination of all the time he’s been waiting for this and that it’s different and that he can still hear himself being told to go sit down ricocheting in his ears and that elliot’s above him and he looks so good like that and that he’s saying what he’s saying with barely even a streak of shame - it’s a combination of all of those things that makes him feel dull, stupid, unable to string a sentence together. he’d be embarrassed by how quickly that had happened if it didn’t feel so good to just let elliot do whatever he wanted. whatever he wants.

he should say something. about how it feels (too trite), about how hard he is (too obvious), about - something. he’ll find it later. he lifts his head back up again so he can look at elliot and opens his mouth and presses out a hitched breath. tacked on the end of it:  ‘ kiss me please? ’  he’s said exactly the same thing a thousand times, but the upward tilt at the end of his voice was never there before.

[envisas-blog]

sepiol:

Keep reading

‘ no. ’  flat, clear. his hand slows, almost to a stop, to give elliot a little respite. he can ignore himself, his own needs, his own arousal, when elliot is the focus, but elliot asked and now he wants to touch himself too. but his hands are busy. his wrist is aching a little but he presses on, tongue on elliot’s clit again, free hand gently steering elliot’s hand away from his stomach. he’s done talking for a little while, distracting himself, head very firmly between elliot’s legs until he needs to pull back for air.

[envisas-blog]

sepiol:

Keep reading

for an entire ten seconds he stands perfectly still and just stares at elliot, mouth open, eyes wide, breaths still heavy. a chunk of hair swings down over his forehead. there’d been a moment, elliot pushing out stop it against his mouth, where he’d worried, stomach flipping uncomfortably. was it too much? had he made a mistake? but -- go sit down.

tyrell shuts his mouth and decides he’s going to stop standing still and gaping. his eyes track over elliot’s face. he thinks about how much he wants to fuck him. saying no to elliot has never been a realistic option. elliot could have him sit down and then just leave, and tyrell would wait for him until he came back.

he’s caught his breath a little.  ‘ alright. ’  slowly, his hands pull back from under elliot’s shirt. he takes a step back, then turns, heads over to the sofa and sits down. elliot wants to try being in control; who is tyrell to deny him obedience?

[gentlekirk]

Bryan Cranston’s Super Sweet 60