Anyways, y’all better start saving your fave fanfics and fanart under the Disney labels cause it looks like they’re trying to curb fair use/fanworks and I’m sure there’s going to be mass panicked deletions even though it’s probably unnecessary cause AO3′s legal team will fight for us.
You know that 400K yall were so fucking mad about OTW raising?
Yeah, its gonna pay for the travel expenses and court costs that the legal team at AO3/OTW when they protect your shit from getting C&Ded.
DO NOT DELETE YOUR STUFF! IF YOU GET CONTACTED BY DISNEY - GO TO THE ORGANIZATION OF TRANSFORMATIVE WORKS , CONTACT THEIR LEGAL ADVOCACY DEPARTMENT! ASK FOR HELP!!
THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE IS *WHY* *THEY* *EXIST*
Note that Disney would have one Hell of a time serving C&Ds to authors at AO3 - because there is no “contact author” option other than leaving a comment.
They’d have to contact the SITE, which is to say, the Organization for Transformative Works, to deliver a C&D order or a DMCA takedown order.
And the OTW is not going to remove fics because someone sent a letter that says “actually those characters belong to me and you can’t use them that way.” The OTW was created to FIGHT that kind of claim. They are ready.
Don’t delete your fics out of fear. WE OWN THE SERVERS. They can’t threaten the hosts into deleting anything.
And if Disney thought they had a strong legal case against fanfic, they’d’ve shut down the archive a decade ago, when it was penniless and unknown, instead of waiting until it had won several battles in Congress and got worldwide acclaim for a Hugo Award.
Reblogging it for that last point. We can do this because it’s free. Don’t be an asshole and have the fact that you are charging people to write about another organization’s intellectual property out in the open because you can ruin it for everybody.
This is also why AO3 has no ads and no app. They can’t use the backdoor of pressuring advertisers or app stores to take away revenue in order to get them to comply.
Tell us about your current project(s) – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?
Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project
What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)
Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)
What character that you’re writing do you most identify with?
What character do you have the most fun writing?
What do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? Would others agree?
Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read?
Are you more of a drabble or a longfic kind of writer? Pantser or plotter? Do you wish you were the other?
How would you describe your writing process?
What do you envy in other writers?
Do you want your writing to be famous?
Do you share your writing online? (Drop a link!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?
At what point in writing do you come up with a title?
Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?
Tried anything new with your writing lately? (style, POV, genre, fandom?)
Do you think readers perceive your work - or you - differently to you? What do you think would surprise your readers about your writing or your motivations?
Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations?) Tell us about them.
Is there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?)
Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)
What other medium do you think your story would work well as? (film, webcomic, animated series?)
Do you reread your old works? How do you feel about them?
What’s the story idea you’ve had in your head for the longest?
Rated: T
Gender Neutral Reader, power outage, banter, light angst and fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, Raph can cook
<5k words
*
Snow falls gently upon the city outside your window, and it should be calm. You should want to listen to soft jazz or something. You should be sipping tea and enjoying the sight. But instead you're stifling a laugh at the sound of Raphael swearing behind you as he stubs his toe in the dark.
"Shit. Why the hell is that in the middle of the floor?"
"It's a coffee table, Raph. It's in front of the couch same as always." You haven't redecorated the apartment in months, but it's only Raph's second visit. You can't really blame him for not knowing the layout of the place by heart. But he's a ninja, isn't he? Shouldn't he be better at finding his way through the shadows?
The table scrapes against the hardwood floor as he drags it back into place and you snicker into the sleeve of your long-sleeve tee. The building only lost power ten minutes ago but your hands are already getting cold.
The crinkle of the last bag of potato chips gets louder as Raphael comes up behind you. "Don woulda neva let this happen."
"Really?" You huff. "Donatello wouldn't have let the blizzard get so bad that it took down the power lines?"
"Well, he woulda made sure the generator was workin', but no. That's not what I'm talkin' about." He crunched and munched in your ear.
As payback for the purposefully annoying chew, you snagged a chip out of his hand and gnashed your teeth over it hard. Crumbs fell to the ground and he snarled, shaking his head.
"You heathen. This is the last of the food! Your cupboards are bare."
"My cupboards? Ok, grandma..." You don't hide your snicker this time. "There's canned soup and, like, other stuff in the pantry, dude. Don't get your panties in a twist."
"We can't turn on the stove if there's no power, genius."
"It's a gas oven, genius."
"I don't know what difference that makes, Einstein."
"It means all I need is a lighter and I can ignite the gas, Einstein."
"Well, you don't smoke, Edison."
"Valid. But I do have a lighter. It's in a drawer somewhere."
It does take another ten minutes to actually find the lighter, in your nightstand, having been tossed there after you used it to light some candles in your room forever ago. And even after you find it, you set a pot of water to boil only to have Raphael complain that he can't find the pasta you were sure was in the pantry.
"Well, what is in there?" you ask as you light a few more candles around the kitchen.
Raphael places a jar of tomato sauce on the counter, but his tone remains unimpressed. "Flour and shit."
"That's fucking gross."
"You know what I mean." Raphael opened the cabinet door wide. "Flour, sugar, salt... I don't know. Like, a thousand different jars of seasonings you've probably never used ever."
"How do you know I've never used them?"
"Probably because they've all got their plastic seals on?"
"Right. I don't really cook that much."
Raphael gestures to the otherwise empty shelves. "I'm shocked."
"Well..." You pass the jar of tomato sauce you were going to use for the pasta you actually don't have from one hand to the other as you think. "There's gotta be something. Grab the cereal, at least."
The Honey Nut Cheerios barely have a bowl left. It's hard to ignore it when Raphael's stomach growls.
"Ok, ok. Maybe we should order take out?" But as you form the question, you notice something more than hunger and frustration in the way Raphael wraps his arms around himself. "You feeling alright?"
"Sure." Raphael shrugs, and though you have to squint in the evening's fading light, you think he looks a little paler than usual.
"Raph?"
He's the master of compartmentalizing and hiding his feelings -- until they bubble over into a fiery mess -- but he's utter crap at suppressing the shiver that runs through his arms while you're staring.
"Dude… you're sick or something."
"I'm not," Raph says, relaxing his arms from around his body to his sides, but his shoulders remain tense. His arms stay tucked tight against his sides. "I'm fine. There's nothin' to say. We're stuck here. Right?"
"Call Donnie."
"He can't… he can't come out in this weather."
"The weather?" The winds had died down. And yeah, the drifts were pretty high in some parts of the city, but it was dark enough that- "Are you too cold?"
Raphael shrugs.
You move closer to him, reaching out, and his arm under your hand feels cold to the touch. "Raph…"
He leans into your touch a second longer than he wants to, chasing the heat as you pull your hand away. You're close friends, but you don't go around holding onto each other or anything. The way he chases the warmth of your hand, the small needy sound in his throat, breaks you inside.
"It’s why we got generators at the lair. They mostly run on street power Donnie got hooked up, but… don't do so well in the cold, y'know?"
"Shit. I'm sorry." You turn on another burner and fill another pot of water. "Can you, uh, get in touch with D? I know there's a way to get the oven going but I, er, don't wanna blow up the apartment in the process."
Raph nods and you notice another shiver. He hunches in on himself as he thumbs out a text to his brother.
While he's occupied, you rush over to the living room and grab a blanket from the couch. You're not sure he wants to admit just how cold he is, so you don't wrap it around his shoulders yourself, but you place it on the counter with purpose and head into the bedroom to find a heavier sweater for yourself. And some socks. You definitely need to double up your socks. And shit, maybe you should offer Raph some socks too.
But what the hell socks do you have that'll fit him?
You grab the comforter from your bed and hug a pair of pillows to your chest. The way to the livingroom causes you to stumble and you know you're not looking the cutest you've ever looked when you crash into the couch with your load, but you manage to grunt like a buffoon when you bounce off the couch cushions and land hard on the floor.
"Graceful." Raphael says from the kitchen counter. He saunters over, wrapped up in the blanket, wearing it like a shawl and looking ever so much like a reptilian version of the big bad wolf pretending to be grandma.
"My, what big eyes you have." You kid, and you smirk, but color blooms high on Raphs cheeks and you watch him duck his head just a bit as he tries not to break your gaze.
"They um… they're the same as always , y'know?"
From there on the floor, you look up at him and wonder when he became so shy. He's been your best friend for ages. He's muscles and bravado. He's a ninja skill set and a heart of gold. He's fire and sugar and the kind of spicy that'll catch you on fire if you stay too close, but you always want to be close to him and you know one day you're going to get burned. It's why you don't touch. It's why you point to the blankets and pillows on the couch and you back away from the pile so he can get them himself.
You know if you get too close. If you let yourself linger near him, you'll stay too long. You'll get burned. What's between you simmers when you keep your distance. That's good. That's better. You don't want him to push you away, so it's better to keep some distance. He hasn't pulled you closer, so you think you're doing the right thing. If you were reading this wrong, there would have been some clue. Someone would have said something. Raph would have said something. He's not one to mince words about what he wants.
He's very much the guy who tells you what he wants when he wants it.
"Don says we can light the pilot and have the gas oven heat the room, but you're gonna have to do it because my hands are too big."
"Know what they say about a man with big hands?"
Raphael crosses his arms over his chest, unamused. "Woulda lit the damn thing myself if my hands were smaller so it don't really matter what people say about big hands. At the moment these big hands are useless."
"Geez, Raph," you scoot around him to get at the oven. "You're not useless. Chrissake."
The oven lights and you crank it up to 500°F. "We can leave the door open a crack and let it warm the room."
"Or we can make pizza."
"Sure. Yeah." You say, dripping with sarcasm. "We could totally learn how to make pizza in the dark with no electricity or ingredients."
"We don't got no ingredients." Exasperated, Raphael throws off the blanket and gestures toward the pantry. "You got spices. Sauce. Flour."
"What about cheese?" Your hands are on your hips and your toe is tapping because you just know he's going to come after your snacks.
"I saw like 7000 Polly-O string cheese things in your crisper drawer-"
"Don't touch my string cheese!" He wouldn't dare.
"We can grate it down for-"
"You monster!"
Raphael is more snarl than laugh when he crows, "You're being ridiculous! I'm making pizza. Are you in?" His gaze narrows and you think he may be serious about tossing you out of the kitchen. "Or are you just in my way?"
As it's the only warm room in the apartment, you're ready to make all the sacrifices necessary to keep your ass in the kitchen.
Raphael and his big hands leave you at a loss as he uses his thick fingers to ever so delicately arrange his phone against the tomato sauce jar. “Sit still ya lil fucker.” With each adjustment he makes, the phone slides down the counter, unwilling to stand in place so that he can read the recipe without getting his phone dirty with sticky doughy hands.
You shouldn’t just stand there watching with a grin, but you really can’t help it. It’s adorable. You really think you may be falling in love with him just watching the way he shifts the phone inch by inch. Then when he finally has the phone in place, he throws his hands up in the air, victory writ large upon his features. His smile is open and wide and it’s such a stark contrast to see him now, his body flooded with joy and warmth as opposed to when he was near frozen, that you can’t help but smile back. You’re a little thrown by just how charming that smile can be. You lock eyes and get stuck. He’s so handsome. He’s so true to himself. He’s just real and raw and he doesn’t care that this is only a tiny victory of some phone vs man vs counter slip ridiculousness. He’s excited and he lets you join him in this celebration because it’s fun and it doesn’t have to mean anything more than fun.
You shake your head as you grab the flour from the pantry and place it on the counter. “One small step for a man, one giant leap toward making a pizza. We actually need to get some ingredients in a bowl, methinks.”
Raphael takes the flour and tears the never opened bag open from the top. He’s obviously never done it before. Flour ends up everywhere and you don’t even bother to tell him that he could have easily unfolded the flour bag and made far less mess.
As you watch his flour dusted face reemerge from the plume of flour, you’re actually glad you didn’t mention it. Or else you wouldn’t have had the chance to see him look so surprised. To surprise a ninja, now that had to be some kind of feat.
Raphael’s green eyes blink at you, stark contrast green from the white floured face around them. His mask is caked in the stuff. You laugh as you reach forward. “May I?”
He hasn’t really said yes, but he’s spoken no objection either, so you slide the mask over his head and dust it off before laying it on the counter.
Seeing him without his mask is always a pleasure. One of the small pleasures you don’t mention out loud. Like standing too close, it runs the risk of being burned. Something Raphael could take away if you make too big a deal of it. So, you try not to stare, while simultaneously trying to memorize every bump and slope of his features.
“You’re a real mess,” you say, wiping Raph’s cheek with a clean hand. “How much of this flour are we gonna lose before you whip up dinner, huh?”
Raphael has been staring at you. He hasn’t even been paying attention to your words. In fact, he’s not sure you’re speaking. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion because your hands are reaching toward him for the second and third time today and that never happens. That never happens and Raph knows for sure because he pays attention to that sort of thing. He notices when you come close because he waits for it. He wishes for it. He clocks each step you take toward him and bites back a pout each time you pull away.
When your hands reach for his mask, he doesn’t know what to say, so he stays still. And you unmask him. And the world doesn’t stop turning, but it sure feels like all of the air has been sucked from the room. But you’re smiling, so he knows nothing bad has happened.
You’re smiling so the world is still spinning.
His mask is in your hands and flour is falling to the floor like weightless raindrops and he can almost make out your laughter past the sound of his own thoughts. There’s nothing Raphael loves more than his time with you. The sound of your voice. The curve of your smile. The barely visible sunburst of silver under the pigment of your iris.
He shouldn’t know about that design. He shouldn’t pay such close attention to your eyes that it would be plastered in his memory. But he has. He does. He watches you when you’re not paying attention. When you’re playing around with his brothers or working at your computer. He watches the light reflect off your eyes. He could map the lines of your irises. And that’s probably weird. He’s no artist. He knows that. He can’t do flowery words or paint a picture. But he has a mind like a steel trap. He remembers everything about you.
So, when you tease him about making dinner, he knows you’re probably thinking about your own lack of culinary experience. You’re worried about screwing things up and probably relieved that Raphael is a little clumsy himself.
Raph uses this to his advantage, to make things a little easier for you. With a kind smile, he points to the cabinets. “I need a mixing bowl and some measuring cups. Oil, salt, and sugar. And yeast. We need yeast.”
“Yeah. OK. Like I have fucking yeast up in this bitch.”
Raphael hums and turns. He’s pretty sure he saw something that looked suspiciously like yeast in the cabinet. And there, on the row with all of the other unused herbs and spices, was a jar of the stuff. “You really suck at this.”
You raise an eyebrow in surprise. “Don’t I know it.” There’s no way to argue around it.
Taking orders from Raphael isn’t a turn on or anything. You’re not getting goosebumps from his praise or hanging on his every word like it’s the air that you breathe. But he’s standing close and the way his breath is warmer than the air around you makes your blood feel like it’s thrumming through your veins a little more quickly tonight than it was just minutes ago.
Standing in front of the open oven is hot work. You don’t know much about dough, but you’ve watched enough Great British Bake Off to know this rise is going to happen fast in the hot kitchen.
“We should close the oven door,” you suggest. “Get the inside temperature right and let the dough do it’s thing before we shape it and sauce it up and stuff.”
“Wow, that’s a lotta we talk. You sure you’re up to the task? Thought you were taking more of a supervisory role, here.”
“I grated the cheese, didn’t I?”
“You made more wine than cheese, sweetheart.”
“Yes, well, it was my favorite snack.”
“It’s sacrifice will be worth it.”
The pizzas only took about ten minutes in the oven before the dough was crispy, the cheese not quite burned, and the sauce was bubbly hot. Raphael moved them onto the bare countertop to cool. “So, we keepin’ the oven on or?”
“Of course we can.” You glance at the oven and then at the pile of blankets and pillows in the living room. “Can’t we?”
“I could ask Don? Seems like the power could be out all night. Not sure we should leave the oven on indefinitely.”
“Well… we’ll figure that out after we eat, I guess.”
Eating was weird. You sat close, sharing the light of a candle to make sure you weren’t dripping sauce all over yourselves. Your elbows nudged each other as you moved and you had to stop yourself from shifting further away each time. It would look suspicious. You weren’t close because you wanted to be, because you desired to be as close to Raphael as physically possible without fear of your feelings being known… you were sitting elbow to elbow with him now because you needed to. He wasn’t going to read anything into it.
“You have sauce on your chin.”
“I what?”
“Sauce,” Raphael said, quieter than you expect from him. Perhaps he worries about shouting in your face. Things do seem louder in the dark. So then why does he sound like he’s whispering?
“Oh. Yeah. The sauce is good, Raph. You, uh, know your way around that spice rack.”
“Nah, I mean…” Raphael shakes his head good naturedly and sighs before lifting his thumb to your chin. He takes your face in his hand as he drags his thumb over your chin, wiping your skin clean with a smooth drag of his thumb.
“Raph?” You suck in a breath and you catch his gaze. He’s squinting at you as you struggle to make sense of his sudden closeness.
When he pulls away, you watch as he wipes his hand on his shorts. “You had sauce. Ya know? It was uh, just there.”
“Oh!” You wipe at the spot Raph has already cleaned, your cheeks and ears growing hot. “I… thanks.”
“Yeah, no prob.” Raphael clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. He’s still not wearing his mask, so each twitch of his eyes is out in the open. But you wonder if it’s a trick of the light, him looking embarrassed and unsure.
“The blankets and stuff. I was gonna say we should tuck under them. I don’t know about you, but that oven’s been off for a minute and I’m already feeling like-”
“The blankets are good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Raph says, swallowing hard. “The cold makes me a little tired, you know?”
You shrug. You suppose it makes sense. You feel a little tired yourself. “You could sleep. Do you mind if I share the couch with you? That’s my stuff from my room.”
“No. I mean, yeah. I mean. I don’t mind sharin’. Donatello says humans run hot?”
“Compared to you?” You know you probably shouldn’t joke about something like this when Raphael was vulnerable, but you always joke about everything. To not joke about this feels like it would make things worse, make them mean more, give the vulnerability more weight than if you treat it the same as everything else. “Yeah. I guess. We’re warm-blooded.” It feels weird to refer to humans as we and the turtles as they. You rarely think of yourself as different from them. You haven’t thought of them as other than the guys for so long. “It’s um…”
“Yeah, so, like sharing would be fine. It’s cool.”
“You wanna use my body, Raph? That what this is about? You tryin’ to steal my heat? My human fire?”
“Are you kidding?”
“About mi fuego humano?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Baby you can light my fire.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“You wanna sleep with a stranger! For shame!”
“Don’t slut shame me. I never slut shame you.”
“Yeah ok, sure, dude.”
“What? I don’t.”
“Uh, you crap on every guy I’ve ever been out with.”
“No, I don’t. No I haven’t.”
Suddenly all the joking isn’t fun. Because if Raphael can’t see how hard you’ve tried to get over him. How hard you’ve tried to move past your feelings for him, feelings that he so very clearly does not reciprocate, then you really don’t want to play this game anymore.
You stand up and move to the couch. You won’t deny him your body heat if that’s what he needs, but you don’t think you can carry on this conversation. By the time he gets to the blankets, they’ll be warm, you think. Then maybe you can have a minute to yourself.
Raphael follows you to the living room in quiet contemplation. “I hate the guys you date.”
“Great. They were real winners anyway so, thanks for running them off. Never did stand a chance with them.”
“They weren’t good enough for you.”
“Pfft.” He doesn’t get it. None of them were good enough, yeah. Because every guy you’ve ever talked to, ever listened to talk about their hobbies and dreams and hopes and family, every guy who has ever taken an interest in you, you’ve compared to Raphael. And every one of them has come up short.
“You know how good you are? Like, a good person. Not like 'tries to be good' or 'does the right thing' kinda good…”
“Gee thanks, big guy. I’m blushing.”
Raphael turns to face you on the couch, his back braced against the arm rest and honest to god shoves you with his bare foot. You can’t help but notice his toes are ice cold. “What I’m saying is you’re the 'real' good. A good heart. You do the wrong shit for the right reasons kinda good. You hurt because you care, yet you still care.”
You let Raph ramble because you don’t know what you’d say if you stopped him, if you acknowledge the things that he says. You let Raph ramble and you pull his ice cold foot into your lap under the blankets. You warm it in your hands. Maybe it should be gross. He’s been walking around the apartment since early this afternoon barefoot. But it’s just feet. Just skin. Just flesh and bone and it’s all so cold between your palms.
Raphael scoots down against the armrest, just a little so that his foot is resting comfortably in your lap. He turns away from you to look at an alert on his phone, all the while still talking about how good you were when you tried to help Leo with his attempt to try every flavor of Pringles that you could find at the gas station mini mart. It was a valiant attempt and Leo didn’t want to do it alone. You both ended up with pretty bad indigestion, but it was fun and Raphael had seemed extra happy to see Leo making a friend and being a total idiot with you.
“Donatello says the power should be up and running again sometime tonight. There was an update on the website or something.”
“They give updates on this shit?”
“I guess?”
Your hands move to Raphael’s other foot as you nod. “I don’t really like the guys I date either,” you admit aloud. “It’s not that I set out ready to dump them, it’s just that they don’t interest me. I try to get to know them, I try to let them get to know me. But it goes nowhere. I don’t get that feeling, you know?”
Raphael’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t answer.
You think maybe he doesn’t know that feeling. Maybe he doesn’t feel romantic attraction the way you do. “Raph, have you ever-”
“I don’t like it.”
You nod, thinking you’ll get more out of him if you stay silent. But when he doesn’t elaborate, you realize you have to say something. “You don’t like…”
“All those guys goin’ out with ya. They don’t know ya. They don’t treat ya the way ya should be treated.”
“Really? How do they treat me?”
“Like… like… They don’t let ya let go. I see ya going off with them and you go quiet or you laugh too loud.”
“I’m too quiet. I’m too loud. Which is it, Raph?”
“You deserve somebody who lets ya have fun. You make jokes and goof off and sometimes yeah it’s cause you’re nervous but mostly it’s cause ya have funny shit goin’ on in ya head and ya wanna let me in on the joke.”
You nod. You really do think you’re the most hilarious person on the fucking planet. It’d be a shame to keep all the good stuff to yourself. Even so, you don’t share your thoughts with just anybody. Raphael is right, it’s him who you want to let in.
“If I took ya out, it’d be like tonight.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah.” You say thoughtfully, sarcastically, poking fun and rubbing at your chin not caring a whit that you just had Raphael’s feet in your hands. “Like tonight. You’d cut the power to the city so we could freeze our asses off, then set up a super romantic dinner where we eat by candlelight.”
“We’d be laughing. Teasin. I’d make you dinner and if you want fucking candles I’ll light you a fucking candle.”
“And I’d rub your feet to thank you for making me such a delicious dinner.”
“Yeah. I deserve some pampering.”
“What about me? I don’t deserve to be pampered?”
“I just made you a romantic dinner with candles and all that shit.”
“Hypothetically. Yet here I am, literally rubbing your feet.”
“So what do you want, you want a foot rub for you too? Huh? You want a little shoulder rub cause you worked so hard watching me work my ass off in the kitchen?”
You pinch his ankle surprised he can feel anything when it all feels like rock solid muscle. Instead of answering with words, you give him a wry grin and move around a bit under the blankets. You relax into his chest, lying your head over his heart and settling your body between his and the pillows. “You’re a real smartass.”
Beneath you, Raphael lies still.
“This OK?”
Raph shifts a bit, you feel his hands rise and fall. “I don’t really know what to do with my hands.”
You hum and nod your head against Raphael’s chest. You reach blindly for Raph’s arms, one by one, and wrap them over your back. “Don’t have to do anything.”
Raphael relaxes a little at the news. He ducks his head low and you think you can feel him breathe you in. He rests his cheek on the top of your head before asking, “This that body heat thing?”
You nuzzle his chest, allowing yourself to slip under his arm a bit. Better position for falling asleep. “Yeah,” you say. “Sure.”
Raphael squeezes his arms around you, but he doesn’t say anything. You have to ask or you won’t be sure. Even if it means getting burned. Even if it means you’ve put too much meaning into things and you’re going to be pushed away, you have to know.
“This is more than a body heat thing. For me.” You bury your face in his chest as you wait for his response. At least, for a few seconds longer, you can pretend his heart is beating for you.
“When I take you on a proper date, there’s gonna be tables and napkins. And maybe something fancy to drink...”
What does "dead dove don't eat" mean? I'd Google it but I'm afraid of getting graphic images of deceased birds in the results.
It’s a meme from an old episode of Arrested Development. You’ve seen it here on tumblr, but not always with the original context.
The character sees a paper bag in the fridge labelled “Dead Dove Do Not Eat.” He takes the bag out of the fridge, opens it up, makes a disgusted face, and then the famous “I don’t know what I expected.”
There really was a dead dove in the bag.
When you see a fic tagged with “dead dove do not eat” it basically means, “this fic is clearly labelled (tagged) indicating content that some people will not want to read. If you read it anyway, it’s your own fault. I warned you.”
It can also be interpreted as “See those tags and warnings? I’m not joking around. Pay attention to them.”
I call upon the fan fic writing gods to bless you with the perseverance to finish one of your unfinished drafts.
May your fingers dance along the letters upon your device with ease, may the devil of distraction stay far from you, and may your work not need much editing.
I pass this blessing upon every fan fic writer out there.
She Knew Your Devils and Your Deeds (Vera x Hamish)
Fandom: The Order (Netflix TV) Pairing: Vera Stone/Hamish Duke
Rated: T
Dominant Vera, submissive Hamish, gentle dom, light Dom/sub, hurt/comfort, bathing/washing, recovered memories, werewolf transformation, angst and feels, sexual tension, pining, mild blood (~2k words)
Vera can't go on lying to Hamish any longer. She restores his lost memories, understanding she may lose him, may be unleashing a deadly adversary. But when he returns to her, it's not for revenge.
⁂
There's no sound but their footsteps along the forest floor, the wind through the trees under the moon. There should be animals scurrying about. But there are none.
Hamish looks up through the canopy of spring leaves. "Shouldn't we have waited for a full moon?" He wears a wry smile to mask his nerves. Vera sees right through it.
She tried to prepare him. He knows magic is real, how far of a leap is it really, for him to believe in werewolves?
"It won't matter," she says pushing them further. His transformation isn't ruled by the phases of the moon.
"What's in the bag?"
Vera's hand goes to her side, instinctively clutching the purse of enchantments, hoping she'll not need to use the dagger on him. Wondering if, this time, the chain would be enough.
Her home isn't far. She has protection spells and glamours at the ready, to distract and evade. To escape. To try.
Part of her thinks it won't matter. Once he knows the truth, he'll hate her. Or he'll kill her. Either way, she'll lose him.
When Vera stops walking, Hamish stops with her.
They stand face to face, and as the light of the moon touches his features, his mask of bravado falls away. What’s left is a lost man eagerly awaiting a promised map.
“You’ll hate me,” Vera says, not to be pitied, but so he’ll know she knows.
His response is silence.
Hamish looks down at her as she prepares the spell, his head cocked to the side like a loyal dog confused as to why his master would cast him aside. Like there is nothing he could learn that would change his opinion of her.
But Vera knows that at his core he's scared to learn the truth. Just as she knows he doesn't understand her fears.
There’s a puff of smoke from the ritual bowl and the blue potion is poured into a chalice. Vera stands.
She meets his eyes and knows she's never seen a pair so blue. Want surges within her. The desire to keep him in the dark, to keep him safe, to keep him…
Her hand caresses his cheek.
To keep him.
But he's not hers. And he can't be. Not while he's ignorant to all he is, all she's done.
His hand comes up to hold hers in place as it rests upon his cheek. She grants him her touch, selfishly steals the warmth of his blush just a moment longer.
He takes the chalice when she presses it into his hands. He meets her gaze with innocence one last time.
"It would be your right," she insists, "to hate me."
He looks into the chalice, brow furrowed, as if just looking into the potion will give him the answers he needs. Then he brings the cup to his lips.
He stumbles back against the thick trunk of an ancient red cedar, and his memories return to him in a rush.
Vera watches. She should go. She should run. She should cast something before he learns enough to turn on her, but she remains rooted in place.
His steely blue eyes lock on hers as they change, and his teeth grow long.
Vera sucks in a breath as Hamish's body breaks, twists, and turns. Tundra surfaces and Vera can no longer breathe.
The werewolf reaches her in two long strides. He towers over her, leaning into her neck. He breathes her in.
His muzzle presses against her skin. Each exhale hot and wet. He growls deep in his chest and Vera holds herself stock still.
Her hand stays at her side, itching to reach out to him. A dangerous curiosity firing like sparks through her veins.
Devour me . The thought comes unbidden. And how easy it would be for him to reach into her chest and tear out her heart. She wonders if he already knows he holds it in the palm of his hand.
The far off snap of a twig draws his attention to the woods. With a huff, Tundra turns from her. His ears perked, hackles raised. He disappears into the forest at a bound.
Shaking, Vera gathers her supplies.
She doesn’t remember the walk home, only that the moon seemed to hang lower than it should.
At home she finds her armchair by the fire. And a bourbon waiting for her. One she hadn't poured for herself. Her finger circles the rim of the glass and she looks around the room as if Hamish would be there, waiting for her as well.
Vera sits. She ignites the fire and stares into the flames. Without Hamish, her home feels empty and cold. She takes a sip from her glass and tells herself the burn is supposed to feel good.
When her hand would have gone to Hamish's head resting upon her lap, Vera bunches her skirt in her fist and closes her eyes. She brings her drink to her lips again. And when the glass is empty, she pours herself another.
*
With his memories returned, Tundra rages through the forest. All at once, everything is too clear.
He makes it to the House where he’d lived for decades. It's empty, of course. The Champions living on campus. Living lies. But they're safe. Safer than they would have been out in the open.
The pain of the truth echoes hollow in his chest: Vera protected his pack in a way he couldn't have.
Another memory surfaces, one more closely guarded, better hidden than the others. Lilith-and-Timber . They're not here. Hamish-and-Tundra's heart twists in agony as they recall news of her loss. But there's another memory sidled with it, a promise from Vera, an oath to help get them back.
Still, Tundra has been trapped and drugged on and off for months. He needs to let loose. When an old buck dares to cross the field, he thrills at the chase.
*
The warding on Vera's property alerts her to Hamish's arrival before he reaches her door. She meets him unarmed and swallows hard at the sight.
There’s a wide smear of blood across his jaw, down his chest. She won't allow her gaze to travel lower. She knows she'll find more of the same. There's no doubt from the state of him, he's been hunting. She bites her tongue to keep from asking what - or who.
She faces him in the doorway, ready to take his judgement upon herself.
His gaze is sharp. His expression is hard. He breathes heavily, but the longer he stands at her door - watching her, smelling her, listening to the beating of her heart - the more his resolve threatens to break.
He presses his lips together to stop his chin from trembling. His eyes burn with angry, unshed tears. But he isn’t lashing out at her. He won't. Not ehen she's the reason he's alive. His fists uncurl at his sides and Vera moves aside.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, keeping her voice steady even as her heart thunders in her chest. She knows he can hear it.
Hamish follows her to the bathroom and takes a seat on the lip of the tub. His hands hang loose between his thighs as Vera leans forward for the shower knob. Now that he’s seated, Vera notices just how much his knees are trembling. How short and uneven his breaths.
She switches to run the bath.
As it fills, she takes a wet cloth to his skin. Hamish looks up at her with an exhaustion that runs deep. Deeper than the physical toll transformation took on his body.
She tips up his face and brings the damp cloth to his mouth. He holds her gaze as she wipes blood from his chin and neck. She wishes she could read his thoughts.
“The Council wanted you executed. I didn't see another way.”
Hamish can feel the truth of her words. Her sincerity rings clear as crystal in his ear. He can taste it, crisp and sweet on his tongue. He wonders if he always could.
Vera drags the cloth over his shoulders, angles his head to the side with a hand on his cheek. He can feel her pulse in her fingertips, can feel the way it quickens when he leans into her touch.
“You want me to apologize,” she says. But he knows she only did what she thought was best for the Order, for the Knights, and magic. He knows her, knows that if circumstances were the same, she’d make the choice to hide the truth from him all over again.
He says nothing.
She sniffs and holds herself taller. Rolls her lips and rinses the cloth at the sink to continue her work. His hands are just as filthy as his mouth. They ache with the memory of the things they've done.
When the cloth is stained a deep pink and all that's left of his hunt is the bit of wild still lingering in the edges of his gaze, Vera steps in front of him.
Hamish loops his arms around her waist and pulls her in, pressing his face against her until he's surrounded by her scent.
His bare skin makes his connection to her more complete. Her hand on the back of his neck, her thumb kneading the muscle, grounds him better than his bare feet on the tile.
His hands slide up her back, clawing at her shoulder blades to bring her impossibly closer. And her mind goes to the blood she'd just scrubbed from under his nails.
She cups his face and tilts his head so he has to look at her. Her heart flutters when his eyes look straight into hers. Her gaze travels down to his mouth and her lips tingle.
She has to distract herself with something else. The bath is waiting. "In you get."
First one foot, then the other. He sinks into the tub, letting the scalding water soak him shoulder-deep. The aches of transformation seep out from his bones as Vera adds a spoon of herbs to the water.
He hasn't said a word since he returned from the forest, but when Vera stands to leave, a whine escapes his throat.
His eyes open and he drops his hand from the edge of the tub to make room for her to sit.
Vera takes her time washing his hair, picking little twigs and needles out and running her nails over his scalp. He listens obediently when she instructs him to duck under. And she doesn't mind the way he drips soapy water onto her dress.
She hums a soft tune as her wash becomes a massage. He leans his head against her to feel the low melody rumble through her chest. It's deep and comfortable and calm.
He looks up at her as her hand lingers in his hair. He slides a hot, wet hand up her side, steading himself as he sits up. He turns to press his lips against her wrist.
Vera's soft song cracks as Hamish's large hand curls around her waist. As he rises to bring his face her neck. So much like Tundra it thrills her in the same and different ways.
"How much do you remember?" she asks, her voice broken by the way she shivers under his touch. He nuzzles her throat again, pausing at the pulse point, and she knows he's clocking her racing heart.
She grabs him by the hair, gently pulls him back to look him in the eye, and asks again.
"How much do you-"
"Everything," Hamish answers gravelly, the shine of angry tears returning to his eyes. But he swallows hard and his gaze drops to Vera's lips. He whispers- "Everything" -again and rises up to make his desire known.
Vera draws him up by the fist in his hair and her lips tingle in the pause. She brings him close enough to share his breath. And then they're closer than even that.
Hamish's lips are hot, from the bath or maybe werewolves always run warm. When Vera feels the press of his tongue asking permission to deepen the kiss, she parts her lips. The sharp taste of copper lingers on his teeth. A reminder of what he is, what he’s capable of.
She freezes against his kiss and pulls him back. “Not like this.”
Hamish recoils, but with no where to go his movements slosh bathwater up the sides of the tub. “I’m sorry, I-”
Vera stands, makes sure toiletries are displayed on the vanity, and heads for the door. She takes care not to look at him, avoiding the pain reflected in his eyes.
“Vera,” he says, and her name from his lips is like her sky falling.
“Yes,” she whispers, because she doesn't trust herself to say more.
“I forgive you.”
Vera clenches her jaw, and for a second Hamish thinks she'll turn around. He thinks it'll be like it was, but more. That she'll accept him for the monster he is now that he knows. Because Tundra is part of him until death and he wouldn't change that if he could. And surely she, of all people, could understand.
Instead, she straightens up and gives a small shake of her head. “I didn’t ask you to."
The door closes behind her, trapping the steam and his questions in the room.
Hamish remains in the bath until the water is cold. He finds clothes waiting for him, but Vera is gone.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: The Order (Netflix TV)
Pairing: Vera Stone/Hamish Duke
Rated: T
Dominant Vera, submissive Hamish, gentle dom, light Dom/sub, hurt/comfort, hand feeding, kneeling, memory magic/memory loss, angst and feels, sexual tension (~1.7k words)
To save herself and Hamish from his sudden transformation, Vera over-casts her sleeping spells. He wakes at her home disoriented and overwhelmed.
Fandom: The Order (Netflix TV)
Pairing: Vera Stone/Hamish Duke
Rated: T
Dominant Vera, submissive Hamish, gentle dom, light Dom/sub, hurt/comfort, hand feeding, kneeling, memory magic/memory loss, angst and feels, sexual tension (~1.7k words)
To save herself and Hamish from his sudden transformation, Vera over-casts her sleeping spells. He wakes at her home disoriented and overwhelmed.
⁂
Magic coils the chain around his neck and Vera pulls. It’s pure luck that she'd been at her desk, that she'd had the enchanted chain at arms length, when Hamish cried out.
Covering his ears, he falls to his knees. Vera holds her breath as his eyes turn to ice.
They had been strategizing in her office. Arguing about some silly thing. Hamish at the disadvantage, always. He never has enough information to put up a real fight.
It all seems trivial now.
The alarm of dark magic calls to him, urges his body to transform, and he writhes against the restraints. Vera adjusts her grip and the links tighten. It doesn’t escape her how much he looks like a man on a leash.
But he’s so much more than a man. And a leash won't tame one such as him.
Hamish's wild blue eyes look up at her as he claws the floor. His nails drag uselessly over the stone. He gnashes his teeth. But he hasn't reached for the chain.
Vera doesn't have more than a second to wonder why. He’s moving toward her.
“Dormitum Dimittatur,” Vera casts, and sleep takes him in an instant.
The chain pulls as Hamish collapses in a heap. Vera releases it quickly, letting the shackles clatter to her feet. And then she's at his side. Her hands pass delicately over his throat. The caress, an apology.
Moving him isn’t difficult, having finely honed her telekinesis over the years, but finding a place to hide a grown man is a challenge. The others will return soon to give report on their werewolf charges. She has to move fast.
Vera increases the potency of her sleep spell- “Sopite” -and tucks Hamish out of sight.
He folds neatly under the oak desk, curled in on himself. His face has gone slack, but Vera remembers the way his lip curled in its snarl.
Hamish’s hidden strength enticed her from their first meeting. But seeing him like this - in the illusion he’s some small, fragile thing, after coming so close to his raw power made flesh - has her ensnared.
Her eyes catalogue the angles of his face. Even knowing the beast under the surface, affection expands warm in her chest.
Vera moves the chains to his wrists and pillows his head upon them. Adjusts the angle of his neck just so. She scoffs at what little comfort she can provide.
The sound of her Magistratus's impatient knock comes sooner than she expects. Vera pauses over Hamish, moves a stray hair off his face, and caresses his cheek before she stands.
With a gesture Vera opens the doors and Selena rushes in with Gabrielle and Austin on her heels.
“It happened again." Gabrielle announces, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks more annoyed than contrite. "But Randall and Jack ran off before anyone saw them."
Vera turns to Selena for her excuse, knowing full well she's clueless as to Hamish's whereabouts.
“Professor Kean needed coverage for her night class.” Selena holds herself upright even under Vera’s scrutiny. “I can’t watch him every moment…” She goes on, but her attempt to justify her ignorance wavers. “I don’t… I don’t know where he is. Probably with the others."
Vera plants her hands on her desk, shielding Hamish’s body with her own. “Must I do everything myself?”
“Yes, Magus,” Selena repents in a rush. “I mean, no, Magus.”
Vera’s glare would burn the Magistratus in her spot if it could. “Grand Magus,” Vera snaps.
Selena takes a step back and the three young practitioners bow their heads. “I’m sorry, Grand Magus.”
“Get out,” Vera says, her tone grave. “Leave Hamish Duke to me.”
Selena looks up in shock.
“Be grateful that’s the only responsibility I’m stripping from you, Selena. You’re not so hard to replace.”
Selena nods and Vera raises her voice again. “Get out!”
The doors close behind the young practitioners and Vera breathes deeply, both relief and frustration. Beneath the desk, Hamish stirs.
His hand brushes Vera's heeled shoe and she crouches to check on him. “What am I going to do with you?”
The red marks on his neck turn white at the barest touch of her hand.
Hamish moans as if in response, and his fingers curl possessively around her ankle.
Unwilling to risk him waking up like this, Vera cups her palm over his fluttering eyelids and casts sleep on him again.
⁂
Hamish wakes slowly. First, a crick in his back begging him to stretch. Next, a burst of pain behind his eyes stirring him fully to consciousness. He doesn't remember drinking. Then again, he doesn't really feel hungover.
Hamish rolls onto his side and bites back a hiss. His shirt scratches like burlap against his skin.
He wrinkles his nose against the sharp smells of the home. Fabric softener. Charred meat and herbs. The scents fill the room and his stomach roils. He gingerly brings his feet to the floor to sit up.
The change in position doesn't agree with him either. Pressure builds behind his eyes. There's a pounding in his skull. And as the thin blanket falls from his shoulders, he notices the chill that’s settled in him, bone deep.
Hamish squints as his eyes adjust and he finds he's grateful for the dimly lit room, even though finding himself in a strange place ignites his anxiety.
Sound rushes toward him, and while he knows it’s coming from far away, the scrape of metal on metal echoes like it's directly at his ear.
He breathes through it. Struggles to focus on something else.
Anything else.
There’s a light crackle from the fireplace. A gentle roar as the flames lick dry logs.
Hamish lets the natural sounds fill his awareness and the rest begins to fall away.
He's drawn across the room, and before he realizes, he’s on his knees, pressing his hands against hot stone.
He lowers his head to the hearth, as if bowing in thanks for the soothing heat, for the earthy sounds and smells.
Hamish doesn’t stray far. He finds an armchair, but doesn’t trust himself to climb into it. The floor feels safer. The carpet is lush. He curls his toes into the fibers and draws his knees to his chest.
His fingers rub circles over his temples as his heart thunders against his ribs.
There's magic in the air. Incantations dimming the glow of the fire, spells radiating a heat that brings to mind much larger flames.
Hamish lets the fire warm his back as he turns more fully toward the chair.
He's woken in strange places before. Even felt the remnants of magic on him while his memories were in hazy disarray. For a reason he can’t place, his mind reaches for evidence of Selena.
But with his face against the cushion, he recognizes Vera's perfume. The scent of safety and strength. He inhales deeply and relief floods his veins, pacifies his racing heart.
He's wrung out, exhausted. But knowing Vera is nearby is a balm to his distress.
⁂
Vera finds Hamish curled up beside her chair. The blanket long since abandoned on the couch; he's shivering.
A little influence on the fire increases the temperature in the room and she takes a seat. She’s not imagining it when Hamish shifts toward her and not away.
Vera places a plate and a glass on the end table, and Hamish lifts his nose in interest. A growl rolls in his chest in tandem with one his stomach gives in hunger.
He watches the approach of her hand as she tentatively, cautiously, lowers it to his head. His hair falls like silk through her fingers.
Hamish melts under her attention. He releases a shaky breath and what could be a whimper. His stomach growls again.
Her hands leave him for a moment but when they return, there's a fork and food. Vera brings a piece of steak to his lips.
It’s seared and spiced and Hamish turns his face at the offer.
“You should eat,” she says, and he presses his forehead against the armrest in protest. He waves her hand away and the fork falls to the floor.
Hamish tenses, brings his clumsy hands behind his back, and stares guiltily at the stain on the carpet. But Vera merely sighs.
She cuts a fresh cube of meat, picks it up between her fingers and holds it out for inspection. The rare, unseasoned cut glistens, pulling Hamish's gaze.
His mouth waters and she brings the meat closer. She gives his bottom lip a gentle nudge.
With his eyes locked on hers, Hamish takes the offering from Vera's hand. His teeth graze her fingertips and a shiver dances up her arm.
Hamish chews and swallows, closing his eyes in relief. He hasn’t eaten properly in days. He parts his lips for more.
Vera watches his throat work as he swallows another bite, and her heart twists at the sight of dark bruises blooming under his skin. To think she caused him this pain.
She lays a hand upon his neck and runs the other over his jaw. Feels his muscles tense and release. He draws in a sharp breath.
“Sanetur,” she whispers, heals.
He exhales.
Vera feeds him carefully. Holding each piece of meat to his mouth. When Hamish's lips part, she holds steady, letting him rise up and take at his own pace.
He quietly accepts each morsel with the slide of his tongue. He sucks the juices from her fingers when they linger on his mouth.
When his stomach is heavy, he leans into her legs, lays his head on her thigh, and sinks into her care.
Vera offers silent comfort by the fire, never leaving him long without her touch, until his eyes find hers again.
"Did you do this to me?" Hamish asks, his voice hoarse from disuse. Confusion is written in his expression. A question about tonight and so much more. Even still, there's devotion. There's trust.
Vera pets his head, stalling. She drags her thumb over the corner of his mouth, wipes drying blood from his lip.
The truth will hurt.
But Hamish's eyes go soft as he turns into her touch, nuzzling her palm, and she can no longer abide the lies.
"Oh, pet," she purrs as he takes her thumb between his teeth.
Vera cradles his face and watches the flames flicker and spark in his eyes. She holds Hamish firm as she promises - to him, to herself - "I'll make it right."
Guarded Hearts and Safe Houses (Leonardo x Reader) Chapter 9/9
Rated: T
Gender Neutral Reader, canon typical violence/injury, light angst, strangers to lovers, supportive family
for @melodiousmelodrama
Months later, the world is still shaken by the attack but recovering. The guys are mysterious heroes - more myth and rumor than reality to most. But even their injuries have healed, their way of life has been restored.
You and Leo are trying to work out a rhythm. He still struggles to open up to his brothers, not wanting to burden them with his thoughts, his anxieties. But he speaks to you. You help him work through his concerns and help him recognize when he’s becoming overwhelmed. And he gives you security. He acts as a sounding board when life gets confusing. When decisions seem too big, he helps you put it all into perspective. And he’s supportive of you in every way.
Living in close contact with vigilantes, you considered medical school to learn how to better take care of the guys. But that had never been your forte or your passion. When Leonardo learned about your interest and knowledge of computer science, however, he lovingly and teasingly re-introduced you to Donatello whose excitement blew his pupils wide.
⁂
You’re sitting at your desk, a place Donatello cleared for you along his workstation. A place where you can study and ask him questions. Where together you spitball new ways to think and new paths to take as you all wrap your minds around living in a Multidimensional reality.
Donatello is explaining this theory of existence in terms of Quantum Mechanics and String Theory when Leo and Mikey return from a short patrol.
“We got pad thai!” Mikey announces, and a quick glance over your shoulder shows him swinging take out bags by the armful.
It’s not long before Leo’s standing behind your chair, sliding his hands down your arms and planting a kiss on your cheek. “How is it going?” he asks, and while you know he cares, you really don’t want to exhaust him with talk of theories when he’s just come home.
You turn to catch his lips for a little peck and smile. “It’s goin’. Did you grab me a-”
“Vegetarian, nut-free. Yes. Picky, picky.” His kiss to your cheek lingers as he gives your shoulders a light squeeze, and you sigh under his attentive hands.
“Mmhm.” You wish you could stay here forever, let yourself float into the bliss of his fingers working the tension from your neck. But your stomach rumbles at the promise of food. “I like what I like,” you say with a growing smile.
Leo laughs as his thumbs rub circles into your shoulders one last time. “Guess I should be honored that you like me, then.”
“Guess so, Honor Boy.” You swivel out of the chair, give him a wink, and hurry toward where Mikey’s setting out dinner. “You gonna join us, or what?”
“In a minute.” Leo heads over to debrief Donnie on the situation above ground before the two of them find seats around the table.
The food is warm and conversation is mostly light until Raphael clears his throat.
“So, I, uh, I met someone,” Raph starts, poking around in his noodles with his plastic fork and spoon.
The room quiets as eyes turn to Leo. Even Raph, though his chin remains ducked to his chest, lifts his gaze, waiting for a response.
Leo’s brow furrows. “We have to be careful,” he says, and it sounds like the start of a conversation you’ve all heard before. “There are more rumors about us now. Photos. The wider we expand our group, the more dangerous it becomes for everyone. We put ourselves-” he reaches for your hand “-and the humans we come in contact with at risk.”
Accepting the squeeze of his fingers as they entwined with yours feels unfair. You’ve talked to Leo about this, the double-standard, and you thought he’d moved past this way of thinking.
But his younger brothers expected to hear Leo speak this way. They turn back to their food with resigned murmurs of understanding.
“What I mean is…” Leo goes on, and you hold your breath, “be careful out there, Raphael. Make sure they’re worth it. That they’re worthy of you.”
The heads of his brothers rise with varying swiftness, disbelief writ large across their features.
“I can run a background check,” Donatello offers, finger raised for attention.
“And my father can dig around, too.”
“Raph’s horoscope did say ‘opportunity for new love will strike when least expected’.”
Raphael grumbles, “Never said nothin’ bout love.” But he seems to consider everyone’s offers. At the least, he appreciates their support. Before he agrees to anything, however, he watches his oldest brother for approval.
“You did the right thing telling us.” Leo says, but immediately realizes the tone is wrong. “I’m glad you told us. That you told me,” he adds softly. “I hope it all works out.”
Raphael shrugs, but he starts eating again and it signals to the others that he’s in a good place.
You lay your hand upon Leo’s shell, rubbing up and down with pride. You smile at the small group, the band of brothers who have become your dearest friends, and you wonder how many people they’ll bring into the fold.
“Do we all get a human?” Mikey asks curiously. “I think I want a crocodile.”
Leo’s smile pulls tight, but he’s smiling nonetheless. “OK. Or, y’know, maybe start with something small.”
“Hmm,” Mikey looks thoughtful as he strokes his chin. “Like a cat?”
The alternative soothes Leo’s nerves. “Sure.”
Hands flapping and smile beaming, Mikey hops up to his feet.
“That was easy. Why was that easy?” Leo’s gaze follows Mikey as the youngest turtle disappears into his train car. When Mikey returns, he has a ball of fur cuddled to his chest. “Oh.”
Mikey is too busy nuzzling his nose between the cat’s ears to pay much attention to the rest of the group.
Raph speaks up with a soft chuckle. “Heh heh. Leo, meet Klunk.”
Leo turns to you speechless as you join Raphael’s amusement. You bite your lip and shake your head to stifle your giggling, before leaning into Leo’s side. Mikey’s coos carry over his brother’s deep laugh.
With your head resting on Leo’s arm, your hands locked between you, Leo rounds on Donnie with a heavy sigh. “Any more surprises?”
Fandom: The Order (Netflix TV)
Pairing: Vera Stone/Hamish Duke
Rated: T
Dominant Vera, submissive Hamish, gentle dom, non-sexual submission, kneeling, memory magic/memory loss, angst and feels (~1k words)
He drinks more. Eats less. Doesn't sleep.
Without his memories, Hamish is lost. He doesn’t remember Jack or Randall, but he craves a belonging The Order can’t provide. Doesn’t remember Lilith, but feels the void of her absence. Doesn’t remember his werewolf bond, but suffers Tundra’s unrest.
Dark magic rings in his ears. He feels its sting. But he doesn’t understand. He needs to understand.
He studies. Everything. He devours knowledge. And each time he comes close to the truth, it’s all wiped away.
Vera sighs under the shuffle of Hamish's research. He pores over tomes of magic and history and she tries not to stare. His shoulders stoop and she rubs the small of her own back in sympathy. He's been at this for hours. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.
And it’s not the first time Hamish has come into Vera's office spouting warnings of dark magic only to get distracted by the grimoires.
Every evening is the same. The acolyte reasons his way up the chain of command and into her office. He looks at her with frantic, haunted eyes. He tells her about his piercing headaches, about the strange, sick feeling in his stomach. He insists something isn’t right with magic in the world. And she lets him comb the bookcase for answers. She grants him access to her library, because if he’s looking there, then he's not seeking answers in her.
Hamish whispers to himself as his fingers trail over weathered pages. He curses under his breath and moves on.
Vera leans back on her desk, watching him as pity curls like poison in her chest. He doesn’t know what he is, what he's capable of. She’s warned him that speaking spells aloud - even the incomplete mumbling of incantations - is dangerous. But she can’t blame him for not remembering. This version of Alyssa’s pulveris memoria is the strongest yet.
Vera sips her drink, a cocktail Hamish mixed after she pulled him away from a particularly dangerous spell, and lets him putter about some more. One more hour, she tells herself. She'll give him one more.
There are books lining the small tables, spilling over to the floor. Hamish has long since abandoned the empty glass beside him. Vera's unsure as to when something other than brandy last touched his lips.
His voice steadies as he begins to read the next passage and Vera’s head snaps to him.
“Stop!” Her tone is sharp, but the way Hamish quickly sits back - on his heels, back straight, eyes on the floor, hands in his lap - has her wondering if she let magic slip into her word.
“Not that one,” she says, and comes around to stand before him. She scoops the grimoire into her arms and casts him a stern look. “You’re not to touch those on the highest shelf.”
Hamish’s gaze turns to the stack of books to his left and his hands slip behind his back.
Vera glares at the pile as she sets down the grimoire. "Is that all of them?”
Hamish nods. “I thought…” His voice catches and though he pushes himself to continue, his words are strained. “Everything looks familiar, but new? It's all wrong and I thought maybe these would be different…” When he looks up, the muscles of his jaw pulse with the effort it takes to hold back his frustration.
Vera’s hand slides behind Hamish’s head, fingers curling in his hair, and he looks at her with bruised eyes and a small frown. Her heart aches seeing the poor state of him. The brokenness. The confusion. The desperation to find his pack, to understand what it all means.
And she desperately wants to give him that: to return his memories, to find the spell that will bring Lilith-and-Timber back from the demon realm. But The Order will never allow The Knights to stand against them.
Vera pets his head, and his eyes shine wetly. They flicker to her lips and he swallows. He rises up on his knees, chasing her touch as he's done so many nights before, and this time she bends to place a kiss upon his brow.
His eyes close as he leans into the contact - her hand in his hair, the counterpressure of her lips, the only things keeping him steady.
“Magus,” Hamish whispers, and it doesn’t feel like a demotion to her former station.
Devotion passes over his tongue as he breathes the word. It weighs the title with more power than she’s ever possessed.
Vera’s chest tightens and makes it hard to breathe. But she stands taller. She moves her hand around to hold Hamish by the throat.
“Again,” she says, looking down at him, giving his neck a firm squeeze, holding him tight enough he can feel it.
His pupils bloom and color floods his cheeks, but Hamish looks at her with trust, not fear.
He’s a werewolf, even if he doesn’t realize it. Barring the use of magic, there is little Vera could do to hurt him. And there is nothing within her that wishes to.
Hamish meets her eyes, calls for her - “Magus” - and the rumble of his voice warms her palm.
“Good boy,” she tells him, her voice like dark honey. Vera cards her free hand through his hair and pulls his head to her. Hamish nuzzles against the fabric of her dress.
She feels his shoulders twitch and she realizes his hands are still behind his back. “Such a good pet,” to obey her order not to touch. She runs her nails down his neck to his shoulders. “You can let go, if you-”
Hamish’s hands are on her thighs, sliding up to her hips, pulling at her waist before she finishes releasing the command. His large hands wrap around her, his face pressed against her belly, and she is fully engulfed by him. He shivers and shakes as she holds him in place. He whimpers and she thinks she can feel the heat of his tears.
Vera looks up at the stained glass and reminds herself to breathe.
“Shh,” she says without any real strength behind it. She lets him have this moment, this release.
She thinks of the satchel of pulveris memoria in her desk and presses her lips together in a hard line. She smooths Hamish’s hair and he holds her more tightly. She closes her eyes, calls the powder to her palm, tells him, “Shh,” again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: The Order (Netflix TV)
Pairing: Vera Stone/Hamish Duke
Rated: T
Dominant Vera, submissive Hamish, gentle dom, non-sexual submission, kneeling, memory magic/memory loss, angst and feels
Every evening is the same. The acolyte reasons his way up the chain of command and into her office. Hamish looks at Vera with frantic, haunted eyes. He tells her about his piercing headaches, about the strange, sick feeling in his stomach. He insists something isn’t right with magic in the world. And she lets him comb the bookcase for answers. She grants him access to her library, because if he’s looking there, then he's not seeking answers in her.
sometimes i really love my fics. i wrote that because i wanted to read it. i love it. nobody visits my fics more than me. they remind me that i’m a hard worker, that i created something. it’s mine and i cherish it and love it because it’s exactly what i wanted so i made it.
and other days i’m crippled by self criticism and hate everything and can’t bear to look at my own work because i know it’ll never compare to the greats
but i live for the days i love my work. because it’s mine, and i made it. i didn’t wait for somebody else to make what i dream about. i went and did it myself.
so don’t feel like your work is awful
it’s the stuff you dreamed about. it’s the stuff you decided to make a reality. it’s not about quality, or poetry, or how perfectly your sculpt your words or keep it so deeply in character; because it’s what you dreamed and it’s what you wanted to see, so you made it.
keep writing; it’s yours, and you made it. and if you want to continue to sharpen and improve yourself? then do it. it’s all yours and you can make it whatever you want.
