(no subject)
Title - Impasse
Author - Joely
Prompt - #19, the photograph of the scar, #13, first person, present tense
Format and Word Count - Ficlet, 1, 365 words.
Rating - PG-13 for a bit of snogging!
Summary - The dangers of being in love with a wolf confront Tonks…
Author’s Notes - I apologise for the content of this, but it’s something I’ve always wondered about.
We’re walking at sunset down a forested track, somewhere on the south side of Hogsmeade. I don’t really know where we are, just that it’s away from the eyes and the talk and the pointing fingers. The sun is still hot, and my feet are scuffing in the dust of the road, worn dry by weeks without rain and the sort of blaring summer days that send everyone scurrying inside.
For the first time in days, there’s a slight breeze and it lifts Remus’ hair and swirls the long grass on either side of us. The horizon is tinted orange and the sun bleeds red into a shimmering, hazy sky. Taking my hand, he leads me over a stile and onto the moor, where the ground is spongy beneath my feet and pockmarked with clumps of heather. He turns us towards the sunset and sinks to the ground and I mirror his movements.
We sit perfectly still for what feels like forever, staring at the sky and the clouds twisting and turning through a hundred different shapes before they settle down for the night. I breathe in deeply, trying to stop the sigh that is building instinctively in my throat, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s distrust I can smell in the air.
Remus leans back onto his hands and turns to look at me, “Are you all right, now?”
I nod my head. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’m fine.” The three-inch long wound below my eye still aches slightly and I reach up to touch it and feel the harsh scab growing over it.
“Stop picking at it,” he tells me, in a voice slightly sharp and professor-like, reaching to still my hand, then takes hold of my chin so he can angle my face and has another assessing look at the damage. “It’s fine,” he assures me, “and it’s healing well.”
I nod and let my hand fall to my side, my eyes unconvinced.
He holds my gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says again. The words have become something of a mantra for him in the last few days, and I get the impression that he is trying to ease himself as much as he is me.
“It’s okay, Remus,” I reply, trying to express some measure of reassurance in my voice, though I can tell by the look in his eyes that I’m not at all successful. “I don’t blame you.”
His fingers run along my jawline and I clench my teeth in reaction to his touch. A shiver skids along my spine like an assassin and I close my eyes, searching for some inner place of calm. There are no more tears left to cry and part of me feels as if I have become as emotionless and impassive as a robot. I blink at him, then glance away, doing my level best to avoid opening up the wound again.
I hear him sigh as my eyes break his gaze and he eases his position around so his shoulder is pressing up against mine. One hand scoots around my back and I lean into him.
I feel numb and as if that part of me that is identifiably me has been drained away as I sink against his arm and try not to think that really, this isn’t going to help at all. He lets the weight of his head rest on mine and I swallow, desperately trying not to let the hardness that burns within me rage to the point where it becomes uncontrollable.
Before us, the clouds are layering up, like cotton-wool blankets along the horizon, forming shapes like dragons and ink monsters. “I’ve never seen a sunset like this before,” I murmur distantly, watching as one of the dragons rises up to meet another and they clash in the sky, merging into one. He doesn’t reply and not for the first time in the last few days, I feel that he’s as unreadable as rock.
I glance back at him and see him cast in amber by the sun’s last rays, motionless and tinted. His eyes are fixed somewhere into the middle distance, perhaps watching the same clouds I have just observed.
I bring my hand up to my face again, and trace the pattern of the scab like a line of Braille. My head is suddenly filled once again with visions of a dirty great scar rippling its way across my cheek, a thing that will be stared at forever.
“Leave it.” His hand catches mine and he tugs it firmly downwards. A little angered by his parental tone, I snatch my hand out of his grasp and instead thread my own fingers through his in a pincer-like clasp, pressing down on his knuckles, then running along the backs of his fingers. I want to subdue him, to impress upon him the kind of power a woman has over a man no matter what. It’s a violent kind of courtship, I think, as I entwine our hands together.
He seems tense, but he doesn’t stop me; nor does he move, despite the fact that I know his heart will be beating that little bit faster and his blood pumping just a little harder.
The sky is stained now. Like the inside of a blood orange, or the bruised flesh of an overripe peach. He tightens his fingers around mine and his thumb strokes a pattern across my skin. Unmoving, I think about the tenuous position we now lie in, about the doubt and the uncertainty and the guilt. It could be just too much emotion to contain.
Inside me, that hard kernel of resolve begins to melt.
Darkness starts to fall and the watercolour sky becomes the only colourful thing next to the grey land. It’s almost hypnotic.
I draw in a breath and turn around to face him. His eyes fix on me and then on my cut, and then, finally, on my lips. Resistance drains from me and I lean forward and press my mouth against his. He seems surprised, but does not turn me away. He shifts toward me, one hand still locked in mine while the other creeps up to my face, to caress my cheek with the back of his fingers. Inevitably, they meet the scab and for a second he pauses.
The thought crosses my mind that he’s going to stop and withdraw and I realise that despite all the feelings that are tying knots in my stomach, I do not want him to. Behind my eyes, a werewolf prowls in shadows and I stand shaking and bleeding and wishing for morning to come. In defiant response, I press my mouth harder against his. His tongue meets mine and clashes, like the cloud dragons in the sky.
I draw back for breath and hear my pulse pounding in my ears. I can feel his breath rushing next to my cheek and I open my eyes. For a moment, everything seems dark and invisible and I reach out, unseeing, to cradle his face. We stare at each other, and as if we are blind, each of us traces the contours of the other with swiftly-moving, urgent hands.
Our teeth bash and we kiss again. It seems to go on forever, until my blood courses round my body so fast I wonder whether it is actually spilling as freely as it did three nights ago. He runs his hands over my shoulders then pushes me gently to the ground. He kisses me again. The wolf is leaving me, fading into the blackness, but I still can’t quite see him. I bite his lip in revenge for all of this, and he groans, flinging his eyes open wide.
He pulls back and hovers above me, like a shadow with substance but not quite form. His forefinger traces the line of my scab. “There’ll be a scar, won’t there?” I ask him and my voice is quiet, wanting confirmation or comfort or both.
He shakes his head, “You’ll forget all about it soon,” he says, and I smile and nod and take the assurance from his lips like the lie we both know it is.
The End.
Author - Joely
Prompt - #19, the photograph of the scar, #13, first person, present tense
Format and Word Count - Ficlet, 1, 365 words.
Rating - PG-13 for a bit of snogging!
Summary - The dangers of being in love with a wolf confront Tonks…
Author’s Notes - I apologise for the content of this, but it’s something I’ve always wondered about.
We’re walking at sunset down a forested track, somewhere on the south side of Hogsmeade. I don’t really know where we are, just that it’s away from the eyes and the talk and the pointing fingers. The sun is still hot, and my feet are scuffing in the dust of the road, worn dry by weeks without rain and the sort of blaring summer days that send everyone scurrying inside.
For the first time in days, there’s a slight breeze and it lifts Remus’ hair and swirls the long grass on either side of us. The horizon is tinted orange and the sun bleeds red into a shimmering, hazy sky. Taking my hand, he leads me over a stile and onto the moor, where the ground is spongy beneath my feet and pockmarked with clumps of heather. He turns us towards the sunset and sinks to the ground and I mirror his movements.
We sit perfectly still for what feels like forever, staring at the sky and the clouds twisting and turning through a hundred different shapes before they settle down for the night. I breathe in deeply, trying to stop the sigh that is building instinctively in my throat, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s distrust I can smell in the air.
Remus leans back onto his hands and turns to look at me, “Are you all right, now?”
I nod my head. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’m fine.” The three-inch long wound below my eye still aches slightly and I reach up to touch it and feel the harsh scab growing over it.
“Stop picking at it,” he tells me, in a voice slightly sharp and professor-like, reaching to still my hand, then takes hold of my chin so he can angle my face and has another assessing look at the damage. “It’s fine,” he assures me, “and it’s healing well.”
I nod and let my hand fall to my side, my eyes unconvinced.
He holds my gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says again. The words have become something of a mantra for him in the last few days, and I get the impression that he is trying to ease himself as much as he is me.
“It’s okay, Remus,” I reply, trying to express some measure of reassurance in my voice, though I can tell by the look in his eyes that I’m not at all successful. “I don’t blame you.”
His fingers run along my jawline and I clench my teeth in reaction to his touch. A shiver skids along my spine like an assassin and I close my eyes, searching for some inner place of calm. There are no more tears left to cry and part of me feels as if I have become as emotionless and impassive as a robot. I blink at him, then glance away, doing my level best to avoid opening up the wound again.
I hear him sigh as my eyes break his gaze and he eases his position around so his shoulder is pressing up against mine. One hand scoots around my back and I lean into him.
I feel numb and as if that part of me that is identifiably me has been drained away as I sink against his arm and try not to think that really, this isn’t going to help at all. He lets the weight of his head rest on mine and I swallow, desperately trying not to let the hardness that burns within me rage to the point where it becomes uncontrollable.
Before us, the clouds are layering up, like cotton-wool blankets along the horizon, forming shapes like dragons and ink monsters. “I’ve never seen a sunset like this before,” I murmur distantly, watching as one of the dragons rises up to meet another and they clash in the sky, merging into one. He doesn’t reply and not for the first time in the last few days, I feel that he’s as unreadable as rock.
I glance back at him and see him cast in amber by the sun’s last rays, motionless and tinted. His eyes are fixed somewhere into the middle distance, perhaps watching the same clouds I have just observed.
I bring my hand up to my face again, and trace the pattern of the scab like a line of Braille. My head is suddenly filled once again with visions of a dirty great scar rippling its way across my cheek, a thing that will be stared at forever.
“Leave it.” His hand catches mine and he tugs it firmly downwards. A little angered by his parental tone, I snatch my hand out of his grasp and instead thread my own fingers through his in a pincer-like clasp, pressing down on his knuckles, then running along the backs of his fingers. I want to subdue him, to impress upon him the kind of power a woman has over a man no matter what. It’s a violent kind of courtship, I think, as I entwine our hands together.
He seems tense, but he doesn’t stop me; nor does he move, despite the fact that I know his heart will be beating that little bit faster and his blood pumping just a little harder.
The sky is stained now. Like the inside of a blood orange, or the bruised flesh of an overripe peach. He tightens his fingers around mine and his thumb strokes a pattern across my skin. Unmoving, I think about the tenuous position we now lie in, about the doubt and the uncertainty and the guilt. It could be just too much emotion to contain.
Inside me, that hard kernel of resolve begins to melt.
Darkness starts to fall and the watercolour sky becomes the only colourful thing next to the grey land. It’s almost hypnotic.
I draw in a breath and turn around to face him. His eyes fix on me and then on my cut, and then, finally, on my lips. Resistance drains from me and I lean forward and press my mouth against his. He seems surprised, but does not turn me away. He shifts toward me, one hand still locked in mine while the other creeps up to my face, to caress my cheek with the back of his fingers. Inevitably, they meet the scab and for a second he pauses.
The thought crosses my mind that he’s going to stop and withdraw and I realise that despite all the feelings that are tying knots in my stomach, I do not want him to. Behind my eyes, a werewolf prowls in shadows and I stand shaking and bleeding and wishing for morning to come. In defiant response, I press my mouth harder against his. His tongue meets mine and clashes, like the cloud dragons in the sky.
I draw back for breath and hear my pulse pounding in my ears. I can feel his breath rushing next to my cheek and I open my eyes. For a moment, everything seems dark and invisible and I reach out, unseeing, to cradle his face. We stare at each other, and as if we are blind, each of us traces the contours of the other with swiftly-moving, urgent hands.
Our teeth bash and we kiss again. It seems to go on forever, until my blood courses round my body so fast I wonder whether it is actually spilling as freely as it did three nights ago. He runs his hands over my shoulders then pushes me gently to the ground. He kisses me again. The wolf is leaving me, fading into the blackness, but I still can’t quite see him. I bite his lip in revenge for all of this, and he groans, flinging his eyes open wide.
He pulls back and hovers above me, like a shadow with substance but not quite form. His forefinger traces the line of my scab. “There’ll be a scar, won’t there?” I ask him and my voice is quiet, wanting confirmation or comfort or both.
He shakes his head, “You’ll forget all about it soon,” he says, and I smile and nod and take the assurance from his lips like the lie we both know it is.
The End.