Atalanta Pendragonne (atalantapendrag) wrote in halfdone_hp,
Atalanta Pendragonne
atalantapendrag
halfdone_hp

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Need characterization advice... please?

Ok, so randomsalad and I started the Dyslexic Heart series. Remus/Percy, she mainly wrote Remus and I mainly wrote Percy. I am very, very fond of this series. pd_darragh and I wrote a story in the series that was Oliver/Percy. randomsalad and I have the Dyslexic Heart arc roughly mapped out, and we'd talked over what we wanted to go on in the next story... but right now randomsalad is busy with other things, so I'm trying to work on the series alone. I'm fairly confident writing Percy, but I've never really written Remus before, so I'm posting the beginning of the next Dyslexic Heart story in hopes that some of you can tell me if I'm being true to the character, and consistent with randomsalad's portrayal.

Here are the first Dyslexic Heart stories, if anyone feels the need for the full background... all are NC-17:
Dyslexic Heart One: The First
Dyslexic Heart Two: A Long Way To Go
Dyslexic Heart 2.5: Better Marks

And here's the snippet I'd like feedback on (maybe a PG-13, the completed story will be NC-17):




Percy had the last patrol of the night again. The calm solitude and familiar routine were very much needed after the day he'd had. Slipping up to the dorm like that had been meant to release his tension and help him concentrate. If he hadn't run into Oliver it might have worked. As it was, he hadn't even had time to shower before class.

DADA class.

As long as Professor Lupin was actually talking, it was fine. He could concentrate and take notes just as if he hadn't raced to class after a bout of rather athletic sex.

It had been the times when they were told to read a section in the text that he had to fight off the problematic matter of what, or rather who, had been on his mind during said athletic sex.

It certainly hadn't been Oliver.

Which was unsettling in and of itself. He'd, well... he hadn't done that with Oliver before, but just about everything else, and all that had ever been on his mind was getting off, or waiting for Oliver to hurry up and get off already.


So now he was trying not to think about how that afternoon during class he'd been trying not to think about how he'd been thinking about Professor Lupin... Remus... while Oliver had been shagging him with such enthusiasm and vigour.


He lost the internal struggle utterly when he turned the corner and saw a light shining from under the door of the DADA classroom.


It would be unthinkable not to investigate, of course. Even though he knew it was most likely Professor Lupin grading papers again, the possibility of it being students out after curfew was quite simply his duty to investigate.

He wasn't entirely sure which he was hoping for when he knocked tentatively on the heavy wooden door.





Remus Lupin was in A Mood. He'd forgotten what it was like, right before the full moon, surrounded by randy teenagers. He'd never expected it to make him feel like a randy teenager himself three or four days a month. As the moon waxed, he found himself sleeping less and less. The final night or two beforehand, he'd spent most of the night in the classroom, going over lesson plans, and look what that had lead to! It made him increasingly certain that taking this position had been a bad idea. Sleeping with a student... what had he been thinking?

Not that the student in question seemed bothered by it.

Not that the student in question hadn't strolled into class reeking of sex.

Well. Not reeking in any normal sense of the world. But to Remus' nose, keener than ever with the moon so near the full, it had hovered around him like a miasma. Not that Percy had behaved at all differently. Scrupulously, painstakingly attentive. Taking copious notes. But the smell of recent sex had hovered around him.

Sex, and persistent desire.

And that Quidditch player had kept looking at Percy. Smug little... even if the red-head's scent hadn't been all over him, Remus was sure he'd have known something had happened. Not that there was any rational reason he should care.

Work. There was work to be done. Tomorrow he would be teaching the fifth-years how to recognize and deal with slumberfern, or as it was more ominously (and honestly) known in Gaelic, saileach bháis... death-willow. He'd had a deceptively quiet and civilly-worded argument with Professor Sprout over who ought to be covering the damned things, but her firm insistence that her focus was on caring for plants rather than avoiding them, with a healthy side of 'it's always been done this way', had defeated his protests. So the desks had been scrunched together, clearing a space for the potted slumberfern (which resembled neither a fern nor a willow so much as a palm tree with a canopy of whippy, flowering fronds dense enough to resemble an umbrella). The young plant wouldn't be brought in until morning, but he was already laying out mattresses, to simulate the soft mossy earth found around them in the wild. No one ever seemed to believe they'd be affected by the sedating-euphoric blossoms until they experienced it first-hand.

He heard the rustling in the hall, and before the knock came on the door, he knew by the smell who it was.

Thanks for your help!
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