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reenkaso i was pondering doing the "what do your icons mean" meme, except mine are so obvious. *laughs* of course, i always think things are obvious, except well, they -are-. if it's anything that makes sense (to me), obviously it's obvious. yah.
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thessamunga's h/d drabble that really, i think too much. ahahaha, okay, that was obvious, but still. i always get surprised by the obvious (i mean, there it -is-, isn't it weird that-- well-- some things aren't all complex and subtle? or am i just being flippant?). is that just me? but in this case, it seems that with harry/draco, the more i think about it and analyze it and pick it apart, the less power it has. maybe that's just the deal with things dealing with emotion, or maybe that's the deal with things that are "impossible", that would take a lot of pre-conditions to work on some sort of rational level.
i mean, i've been kinda on a down-swing with h/d and potterfic in general, last few days. maybe i'm burnt out, or maybe i'm just thinking too much and trying to make it too meaningful. not that meaning is bad, but the original reason things -work- or -don't- work is simply a sort of visceral "yes" or "no" i can feel, in my gut, really. if you're going to analyze things, they have to be set up and proven and well-dressed, but if you let go of that, you could just be touched by the naked emotional impact of it. so while i could get disillusioned and bored with concepts for awhile, my passion remains.
i find that when i read something i really enjoy, my primary response is simply, yes. yes, this is what i want, yes, yes, yes. i'm just -there-, and i don't even need a reason, because it all works and clicks in my head, and there are a million tiny reasons i can't pin down, i could never articulate them all. that's the error in saying "but that's never going to happen". because all that matters is whether it happens in your head, as you read. that's where any characters/stories really -happen-, anyway. and sometimes they're distant apparitions, and sometimes you can sort of fleetingly touch them, and sometimes they're like screaming and breathing and stomping around your head like they -own- the place. and when they kiss or fuck or scream you -feel- it, right there in your spine and in your -toes-, and that's when it's real and it doesn't -matter-, it doesn't matter if it makes sense or not, rationally. maybe that's just me though.
~~
anyway. i like the wip meme that's going around. i have plenty, and i thought maybe i could ask people's opinions on which i should prioritize or continue at all. because, as i said, there are a -lot-, and i pretend i'll finish them all one day (deluded, i am). all hp, mostly h/d, some original fic but i won't burden you with that.
1. fic for the latest armchair challenge based on this picture by alice.
He'd never wanted it to be him. He'd never wanted it to be -them-, not after he realized that odd, scruffy boy from Madame Malkin's was actually -him-. He didn't quite know how to feel about that. Mostly, he stuck to what he did know, even though it didn't seem to be doing him any favors. At first, he thought they could win together, but that was before he realized that this was a whole new game, and almost everyone was playing for the other side. He just wanted to win, and he never did, and after a while nothing else even mattered. And then his father wasn't around to tell him anything at all, and everyone was dropping like flies on either side, and he woke up in a cold sweat, unable to believe he was still breathing yet another morning. Something had to change, he knew, but it couldn't possibly be -him-, because one thing was abundantly clear ever since he became conscious of anything-- Malfoys could pretend, and lie, and walk the fence if need be, but Malfoys never changed.
2. evil!hermione/draco fic, for kassie, because i want to know i can do it and because she wants me to.
"Are you frightened of me, Draco?" she asked after several weeks of this, and he only shook his head, finding himself unable to speak. She called him Draco, now, and he knew it wasn't because she felt the ease of familiarity. She had taken away his voice, and he was slowly suffocating, but he knew she wouldn't. She wouldn't, she was a Gryffindor, and while he hated them, he knew what to expect. She would give it back in a couple of minutes. There was nothing to be afraid of.
This had gone too far before it even began, he knew. And then she started reading about simulacrums and he began to think.
It wasn't that he hadn't thought before. Perhaps this was different. Seeing her so determined was making him want to step back, even though he couldn't allow himself to look again or reconsider. This had been too easy. She had played him like a flute, and now he knew too much again, just like when his father had told him exactly what Potter's fate was going to be, and he had to face him without flinching at breakfast, after Christmas break. The same old taunts, the same old jokes, except they seemed inexplicably bitter, with only this slight shift of perspective. It was just a lie, of course. Just a test. He was never trusted and rightly so. He was a Malfoy. He was a Slytherin. There was always a way out of every promise, a way to break every confidence.
3. handfic for regret, wherein draco is more obsessive than usual, embarrassing things happen in bathrooms, and mishaps with super-sensitivity potions occur.
He wasn't innocent even then. His mother didn't love him, and her hands were cold and brisk on his chest, pulling up his covers. He pretended to be asleep, and he didn't flinch when she kissed him. She wished she would stop trying to assuage her guilt. He wished she would open the window and let the cold air rush in, whipping the covers off him, letting his pale, skinny limbs be caressed by starlight.
He was still pale, still skinny, still pretending he didn't notice the things he wasn't supposed to, unless he had something to gain. He had nothing at all to gain from noticing the drift of the dark blue clouds over his favorite constellation, and so he didn't. He didn't look for it, and he didn't find it. He hadn't looked for the barely-noticeable fuzz on Potter's cheeks that one morning in Potions, and he didn't find it. Potter, who was leaning across the table, reaching for the monk's-root, his brows furrowed in concentration and his mouth moving in silence. And then he heard them-- the names of the ingredients, softly repeated again and again. He sounded so fervent, so oblivious, as if he was hoping the repetition alone would grant him a working potion. If he was praying, he must have a forgetful god.
Potter sucked on his lip, mixing and stirring and adding, and ignoring Draco entirely for once. There was something different about him, but Draco couldn't put a finger on what it was. He seemed the same, completely the same no matter how closely Draco watched. And yet different. This wasn't something that should matter, and yet, somehow, it did. Something was different, because Draco suddenly wanted to smooth the line creasing his forehead, and dip the line that marked the edge where skin met smudged, splattered linen. He wanted to feel the cloth bunched up in his fist, starched and stiff, grip it and then pull until there was a loud, satisfying rip.
Draco wanted to crush, to shred, to pierce, to stab. What -didn't- he want?
4. `finger foods', for the armchair flirtatious foods challenge, which is going nowhere but was fun to write and i -want- to read it myself, kinda.
He would've thought Potter had no taste, but this was going a bit far, he figured. Lately, everyone's favorite scarred delinquent had taken to tasting everything quite thoroughly-- with his fingers. Granted, there has been a strange preponderance of finger-foods (he suspected a house-elf gone mad, or perhaps a little too inspired by the huge hit Sushi Night had been among the uncultured Gryffindors several nights back). He kept licking and nipping and sucking on his fingers with every possible excuse. Clam sauce, gravy, vegetable dip, preserves, mustard. He even tipped a finger into the small bowl of cream when he thought no one was looking. Draco had to cringe, but he couldn't tear his eyes away, seemingly riveted by the disgusting display of boorishness. It was like watching a train wreck, he told himself. Worse.
And now this. Chocolate. Someone important somewhere must really hate Draco, but then, he always knew that. That boy shouldn't allowed within an arm's reach of liquid chocolate in a million years, how could that not be blindingly obvious? It was beyond him.
5. fic i want to finish involving lots of flower imagery across harry/draco 50 years in the future, ron/hermione in the "present" and some sort of ginny bit.
Sometimes he still dreams of the lake, except he's not drowning. There are weeds and dark shapes and he never does see anything, not even fish, though he knows they're there. He has to get there in time, and he has no more time left. If he doesn't... it doesn't bear thinking of. All he'd have to do is open his mouth and he'd know what it felt like. All he'd have to do is open his eyes, and he always sees the same thing. Silver hair, drifting, softly glowing like so many seasnakes. Wide open eyes, grey and glazed over. Clammy skin, white and softly glowing like the moon. Too white in the underwater darkness. He reaches out, touches dry skin, waits for the eyes to clear. Waits, and waits, and waits for his task to be complete.
And then he feels it again, the fire, the sweaty chest pushed up against his back, the bone-white fingers skidding against his nipple, the tickling of the other's laughter as he breathes words that Harry could never make out against his neck. He can't hear anything over the hissing in his head, a sound like that which flame makes when you lean too close. The palm is so hot, scorchingly so, and he feels the grip of it like a brand, like something one could see in the daylight, dark and twisted and beautiful. A perfect little dragon on the inside of his right thigh, teeth bared, breathing fire where he was already burning.
His skin and hair have all bleached now, with age, turning white just like the other's had been. The only spots of color on his whole body were his eyes, still brilliant, acidic green, and the dragon, which was the exact same color.
The colors in his garden are simple and they're all he knows, even know. Green and white and gold and red. The passion flowers always bloom, and there's no risk of anyone's footsteps disturbing their rampant growth. There are lilies, lilies of the valley, mint, toothwort, milkweed, bloodroot, starflower, goldenseal, sandwort. And that's just the white.
6. wow, i forgot this entirely, but, apparently i began a ginny/pansy. who'd have thunk it? i like it, though.
And it wasn't really that she loved him, because she was taught not to believe in love, and she thought she was a good student, of the things that mattered anyway. It was something like feeling that she depended on him to know who she was. She looked at him and she knew she had to be like him, to be worthy of him someday. It's not that she was a reflection, or an imitation, but somehow, it just felt like pieces of him were tangled up inside her, and she couldn't dislodge them, so any of his bad moods became her bad moods, and any of his hatreds became her hatreds, and she couldn't imagine the day that could ever end.
"Leave me, I'm busy," he would say, and she would leave, and not look back.
"I have homework to do," he would say, and she would believe him, because he lied of course, but he didn't lie to her, even though he did. It didn't matter, because he didn't, and that was that.
7. slytherin black-leather couch!smut for sara.
Harry frowned.
Malfoy smirked, unbearably smug.
Harry tried to go over their detention today in his mind for the hundredth time, looking for clues as to what could've inspired this particular bit of lunacy on Malfoy's part. Oh, the bastard was enjoying it, all right. For all Harry knew, things were going exactly according to plan. Maybe the big idea was simply to confuse the hell out of him. If so, it was alarmingly effective.
They sat glaring at each other, and the silence stretched out.
Harry felt more uncontrollably irritable with every heavy, itchy minute scratching roughly past him, feeling it in the tightness of his knuckles, in the tautness of his skin, in the tension knotting densely at the back of his shoulders.
Malfoy seemed perfectly at ease, relaxed as can be, completely at home, reclining on what looked to be his favored couch in his House common room. Harry sat on the very edge of the couch facing him, feeling the somewhat rare urge to bolt, to get as far away from Malfoy as possible.
Harry tried to stifle a sigh, mostly successful, aiming another baleful look at Malfoy, which seemed to bounce right off the git's shiny forehead, just like all the others had done. Malfoy seemed to think grinning openly was in bad taste, so he kept pretending to stifle yawns delicately, obviously grinning behind his slender hand. Obviously.
8. hermione/pansy for bad first-time sex challenge. oh yah (w00t, two femmeslash fics, can you believe it?).
Pansy didn't like pretty girls, or loud girls, or blonde girls, or Slytherin girls, or aggressive girls. Love was not enough. Love was nothing. What Pansy wanted was power, was her teeth biting down on someone's soft, rounded flesh, leaving marks and bruises and evidence. What she wanted was to hear small, quiet whimpers of submission, of something breaking in them. Or at least that's what she thought she wanted.
Her inner thigh rubbing frenziedly against the other's hipbone, her legs locked around a slender waist, hearing that hitched, quiet breathing, she thought maybe she couldn't bear to think about what she wanted anymore. This was supposed to be about getting and not giving, about fucking without losing. There she was, Pansy Parkinson, still not pretty or slender or even well-bred enough to be first choice, but she will squeeze through, because he needed her, and she needed him, and he was a creature of habit, she could depend on that.
"I'm a virgin, my dear, be gentle," she'd say, and she'd mean, fuck me harder than she did, can you do that? Will I feel you deeper, will you sink further inside, will you fill me up and make me love the feeling of my flesh ripping, blood staining the sheets like a signature?
9. harry/draco parody fic for dear ishuca's birthday~:)
"Go'way," Malfoy mumbled, looking at him askance, his eyes all puffy and blood-shot. Crying did not become him. Neither did drooling slightly into the crook of his elbow, which Harry was certainly noticing even if Malfoy wasn't.
"Er. Are you sure?" Harry said, more out of politeness than anything else. He really wanted to leave. He had a feeling that Malfoy's drool was going to be haunting his dreams. Or, nightmares, rather.
"No," Malfoy snapped. Or maybe it was more of a whine. It was hard to tell. "Can't you tell I'm in a bit of a crisis, here? I need moral support. I need kindness and a show of noble Gryffindor restraint. Come here and comfort me, dammit!" Malfoy was sniffling impatiently. Harry felt trapped and rather conspicuously without accompaniment. He promised himself sternly that he'll never leave the dorms without Ron or Hermione present ever again. Ever. Not even to go masturbate in peace in the Prefect's bathroom. Ever.
"Er. Now I'm -sure- you have problems, Malfoy. Did you hit your head or something? Because if so, you should really be talking to Madame Pomfrey rather than me...," Harry hedged. Whatever Malfoy's problem was, it clearly had a lot to do with being an insufferable git. Secondly, it had to do with being an insufferable git who drooled. That probably covered most of it, he'd guess.
10. mass-kissing fic that hopefully involves some form of co-writing with ish, involving a sleeping beauty spell, and a -lot- of random people kissing harry.
The fourth was hard and unyielding, quickly bumping teeth and gums and fleshy lips together, sliding quickly against his slickened mouth, a wide swath of tongue against his upper lip. This one gave him tongue, thrusting in unceremoniously and making him sputter, feeling like he was about to choke. He thought maybe he just didn't like tongues. This one was just thick and slimy, tasting of a million things he couldn't identify and didn't want to. It was just wrong, and his own mouth was slack and completely unresponsive in shock. Thankfully, it was over soon.
The fifth was just a puckered rosebud, scattering a couple small, cautious kisses almost above the border of his lip, near his nose. It was ticklish, and he laughed. He heard a shocked-sounding gasp, and the lips were quickly withdrawn. He felt bad, but it really was kind of ticklish there, and he couldn't help it. The lips tasted strongly of vanilla and watermelon lip balm, and he thought it wouldn't be that hard to know who the kisser was. He could simply follow the overpowering scent of greasy watermelon.
11. this is draco-centric, and he kinda goes insane and it's dark and it has lucius(!) and magical rings of binding and um... i'm actually interested in where this could go.
Your father looked at you like he's surprised you're really there. No one pays visits to anyone in Azkaban. But you're bright, and you're creative with spells on the very edge of Dark Magic. Your mother has stopped even knowing which name to call you. She has many names, many of which she mumbles in her sleep. And she sleeps a lot, these days, thanks to your potions and the instructions to the house-elves. You have freedom now, like you've never had before, and you have no earthly idea what to do with it. The air feels thick in your lungs, and you choke, especially when you look at him.
He hasn't changed. Nothing has changed, even though you are now hollow and your legs fold under you when you're not supposed to be sitting, especially on the floor. You are cold often, and feverish during the endless nights when your link with your father starts to drive you insane. You envy your mother and her dreams. You want him to hurt you, you want him to hate you again. He doesn't. The war is in full force and he will never consider petty insults worth his time again, and you finally realize what a prat you've been, how stupid this is. It's not that you regret it, but you regret not doing it right.
12. h/d smutfic for aja and all the legions who want me to write smut (yah, right). no, just because i can't stop myself. except it's also not finished.
He just can't get his mind off it. It seems to hound him, to pursue him, as if the whole scene was a ghostly presence whispering in his ear, because sure enough, it made him shiver, flushing with heat and cold and something else. Did it really happen? He seems to remember it. It's clear as day, really. He could still feel Malfoy's mouth around his cock, wet and gentle and rhythmical, slick and heavy and sweet, so sweet. His eyes roll back as he sits still in Transfiguration, and his mouth moves, and his tongue could almost feel the presence of another.
Looking at him covertly, watching for signs. Would Malfoy walk differently if they had done it? Would he smell differently? Harry inhales, sitting next to him in Potions, and his knees would've buckled, were he standing. He couldn't put a finger on it. What's that scent? Vanilla and mint and pumpkin spice and rain and who knows, he doesn't. Maybe it's just wine, because Harry is feeling drunk, and Snape comes up to him and,
"Mr. Potter. Daydreams may be tolerated in Professor Trelawney's class, but here we deal with the waking world, so unless you're dreaming up of a way to successfully brew the Clear-heart potion, I suggest you pay attention to your cauldron, as it seems to be mere seconds from bubbling over." Snape's voice raises the hair's on the back of Harry's neck, and he flushes, this time unpleasantly, his eyes snapping to the sickly-green liquid in said cauldron.
13. for some reason i like the idea of harry being animagus (even though jkr said it won't happen), through some sort of different means, like a spell, and his form being a raven.
He thought love must feel like flying. No fear, and all exhilaration, all heedless joy and everything being easy and the feeling of coming home, finally being where you belong. It was the time he could remember smiling most often. It was the time when he felt truly himself, without needing to care about expectations or the fact that he was supposed to win this time, too. It didn't matter that they expected it, it only mattered that he wanted it.
He thought maybe in the air, wishes came true, and he could be granted his heart's desire, whenever such a thing came to be revealed to him. All he'd have to do is set it in his sights, and follow. In the end, there was nothing too fast, too small, too unpredictable, too dangerous, not when he was flying. Oh, he knew he could get hurt, and he certainly didn't think he was immortal, but it was just that sense, that nothing could extinguish. That sense of magic, and finally feeling like he actually -had- it, like he could actually -touch- it instead of just learn about how he was supposed to use it and control it all the time, and all the things that he wasn't allowed to do with it.
14. this is my harry/draco friendship-turns-to-love fic that i'm ambitious about-- ie, could be epic-- but dunno if i have actual -plans- for.
Malfoy blinked several times, apparently digesting this. He smiled again, slowly, and Harry hoped he wasn't the one blushing now. It was really unnerving. What was he supposed to -do-? How was he supposed to react? He couldn't deal with a grinning Malfoy. Impossible, annoying, disgusting, horrid, stupid, mean, any number of things, really. But nowhere did it say he was allowed to be almost... normal. Human, kind of. And that was really what the smile did to him-- it made Malfoy seem like someone Harry could know. Maybe even someone Harry could like. It was completely impossible and what's more, disturbing. "Well, well. So the Gryffindor Golden Boy doesn't even -have- a girlfriend, does he. Tsk, tsk. You're sixteen now, Potter. Isn't it about time you lost your virginity?"
Harry could feel himself inevitably turning a lovely shade of puce, his mouth gaping a little until he clicked it audibly shut. "I-- What?!" He was beginning to become quite certain that Malfoy was not only a mean, untrustworthy, slimy bastard, but also quite possibly insane. "That's-- that's-- argh!"
"Well put, Potter, well put. I imagine if that's your response to a pick-up, it explains quite a lot, now doesn't it," Malfoy said, looking quite delighted.
15. um. yah,thamiris' frottage smut challenge is over, but i still want to finish it. um. because... because... er... yah.
"It doesn't matter, Potter. Don't you get it? None of it fucking -matters- anymore. The rules are blown. You think you've won, but you have no idea what I can do. No. Fucking. Idea, Potter." He'd growled his name, and Harry felt it like a blow to his stomach. Something wasn't right. It was all wrong, the balance, the knowledge of his moral right, his superiority. And Malfoy wasn't the one who'd changed, and neither was he. It was nothing, really, and yet it was everything. Everything had changed in the space of a month. Or maybe it's been changing since before he was born, and he just lived in happy ignorance all this time, but he didn't want to consider that possbility overmuch.
And slumped as he was against the wall, Malfoy was upright and in Harry's face in seconds, his grip already tightening around Harry's tie, his pupils so dilated that his eyes were glittering pitch black, the silver a distant memory Harry didn't know he had.
16. i -will- continue my pretty `waking wishes', i will, with the Carnival and the tinkling bells and the wishing for the thing that you desire most.
In his dreams, Harry heard it. The strange, haunting tinkling sound, a melody always on the very edge of memory, sending shivers up his spine. He would always be disturbed, but not quite sure by what, by the time he woke up. In the dreams, which he had every time he slept, he associated it with the sound of a tall man with waist-long black hair and a top-hat, approaching, leading a veritable caravan of carriages and horses and strange, never-before-seen contraptions, all garishly painted, all jingling and tinkling and vibrating with tiny bells. Bells were everywhere-- the women wore them on their skirts, the elephants wore them, the small, screeching monkeys continuously tried to get them off, thus making even more noise than everyone else. Harry remembered the same sort of tinkling from his childhood. It meant the ice-cream truck was approaching their house, and soon Dudley (who seemed to be able to hear it even in the depths of sleep) will be pounding down the stairs, causing a horrible ruckus, in his all-out rush to get to the truck before it got too far away. It was a sure-fire way to get him to actually exercise-- having him chase an ice-cream truck. Harry would've found it amusing-- and he did, the first dozen times, he was pretty sure. Then, the sight of all that bouncing flesh, all that noise shaking the roof of his closet, and the realization that the truck never came for -him-, dampened his appreciation considerably. The tinkling was never for him, he knew that much, and he was okay with it, mostly. Being ignored was usually the best of all possible options, in Harry's experience.
17. finally(!!) we have the veela line challenge (from last fall), which is insane and if i -got- to it, i know exactly what will happen so i may as well finish it. and after that, i have a lucius/narcissa which is all long-hand, but i doubt anyone wants to see it(?) so i won't type it up right now.
"Yes? Oh, and, about that spell Malfoy used... is there such a thing as a minion-making tradition, do you think?"
"Well. That certainly wasn't in Hogwarts: A History. Though it's easy enough to check, elsewhere." Hermione tried to keep smiling reassuringly, but it was an increasingly uphill struggle. She pondered, glad to have her mind back in more familiar waters once more. "Perhaps in the anecdotal appendix edition," she said soothingly.
"Oh. Right," Harry said, sighing. "I just-- don't know how I'll ever live this down, you know. Me? And Malfoy? It's just impossible-- and wrong-- and evil-- I can't even spend two seconds thinking about him without wanting to do something-- illegal and painful to his person." There was just the slightest hint of a pout on his usually stoic lips. " And no one even -understands- because it never -happened- to anyone but me," he finished pitifully.
~~
whew!!
EDIT - lasair recced julad's highlander fic to me, and yes. yes. i adore it, yes. gah!! not a new fandom, dammit!!! *pouts*
EDIT #2 - er. revised my snippets. longer. bigger. harder. more insecure ><;;
and, lasair's misogynistic!hermione ficlet is a brilliant direction to go, if you want her darker, i think. wah. *enlightened*
realized reading
thessamunga's h/d drabble that really, i think too much. ahahaha, okay, that was obvious, but still. i always get surprised by the obvious (i mean, there it -is-, isn't it weird that-- well-- some things aren't all complex and subtle? or am i just being flippant?). is that just me? but in this case, it seems that with harry/draco, the more i think about it and analyze it and pick it apart, the less power it has. maybe that's just the deal with things dealing with emotion, or maybe that's the deal with things that are "impossible", that would take a lot of pre-conditions to work on some sort of rational level.i mean, i've been kinda on a down-swing with h/d and potterfic in general, last few days. maybe i'm burnt out, or maybe i'm just thinking too much and trying to make it too meaningful. not that meaning is bad, but the original reason things -work- or -don't- work is simply a sort of visceral "yes" or "no" i can feel, in my gut, really. if you're going to analyze things, they have to be set up and proven and well-dressed, but if you let go of that, you could just be touched by the naked emotional impact of it. so while i could get disillusioned and bored with concepts for awhile, my passion remains.
i find that when i read something i really enjoy, my primary response is simply, yes. yes, this is what i want, yes, yes, yes. i'm just -there-, and i don't even need a reason, because it all works and clicks in my head, and there are a million tiny reasons i can't pin down, i could never articulate them all. that's the error in saying "but that's never going to happen". because all that matters is whether it happens in your head, as you read. that's where any characters/stories really -happen-, anyway. and sometimes they're distant apparitions, and sometimes you can sort of fleetingly touch them, and sometimes they're like screaming and breathing and stomping around your head like they -own- the place. and when they kiss or fuck or scream you -feel- it, right there in your spine and in your -toes-, and that's when it's real and it doesn't -matter-, it doesn't matter if it makes sense or not, rationally. maybe that's just me though.
~~
anyway. i like the wip meme that's going around. i have plenty, and i thought maybe i could ask people's opinions on which i should prioritize or continue at all. because, as i said, there are a -lot-, and i pretend i'll finish them all one day (deluded, i am). all hp, mostly h/d, some original fic but i won't burden you with that.
1. fic for the latest armchair challenge based on this picture by alice.
He'd never wanted it to be him. He'd never wanted it to be -them-, not after he realized that odd, scruffy boy from Madame Malkin's was actually -him-. He didn't quite know how to feel about that. Mostly, he stuck to what he did know, even though it didn't seem to be doing him any favors. At first, he thought they could win together, but that was before he realized that this was a whole new game, and almost everyone was playing for the other side. He just wanted to win, and he never did, and after a while nothing else even mattered. And then his father wasn't around to tell him anything at all, and everyone was dropping like flies on either side, and he woke up in a cold sweat, unable to believe he was still breathing yet another morning. Something had to change, he knew, but it couldn't possibly be -him-, because one thing was abundantly clear ever since he became conscious of anything-- Malfoys could pretend, and lie, and walk the fence if need be, but Malfoys never changed.
2. evil!hermione/draco fic, for kassie, because i want to know i can do it and because she wants me to.
"Are you frightened of me, Draco?" she asked after several weeks of this, and he only shook his head, finding himself unable to speak. She called him Draco, now, and he knew it wasn't because she felt the ease of familiarity. She had taken away his voice, and he was slowly suffocating, but he knew she wouldn't. She wouldn't, she was a Gryffindor, and while he hated them, he knew what to expect. She would give it back in a couple of minutes. There was nothing to be afraid of.
This had gone too far before it even began, he knew. And then she started reading about simulacrums and he began to think.
It wasn't that he hadn't thought before. Perhaps this was different. Seeing her so determined was making him want to step back, even though he couldn't allow himself to look again or reconsider. This had been too easy. She had played him like a flute, and now he knew too much again, just like when his father had told him exactly what Potter's fate was going to be, and he had to face him without flinching at breakfast, after Christmas break. The same old taunts, the same old jokes, except they seemed inexplicably bitter, with only this slight shift of perspective. It was just a lie, of course. Just a test. He was never trusted and rightly so. He was a Malfoy. He was a Slytherin. There was always a way out of every promise, a way to break every confidence.
3. handfic for regret, wherein draco is more obsessive than usual, embarrassing things happen in bathrooms, and mishaps with super-sensitivity potions occur.
He wasn't innocent even then. His mother didn't love him, and her hands were cold and brisk on his chest, pulling up his covers. He pretended to be asleep, and he didn't flinch when she kissed him. She wished she would stop trying to assuage her guilt. He wished she would open the window and let the cold air rush in, whipping the covers off him, letting his pale, skinny limbs be caressed by starlight.
He was still pale, still skinny, still pretending he didn't notice the things he wasn't supposed to, unless he had something to gain. He had nothing at all to gain from noticing the drift of the dark blue clouds over his favorite constellation, and so he didn't. He didn't look for it, and he didn't find it. He hadn't looked for the barely-noticeable fuzz on Potter's cheeks that one morning in Potions, and he didn't find it. Potter, who was leaning across the table, reaching for the monk's-root, his brows furrowed in concentration and his mouth moving in silence. And then he heard them-- the names of the ingredients, softly repeated again and again. He sounded so fervent, so oblivious, as if he was hoping the repetition alone would grant him a working potion. If he was praying, he must have a forgetful god.
Potter sucked on his lip, mixing and stirring and adding, and ignoring Draco entirely for once. There was something different about him, but Draco couldn't put a finger on what it was. He seemed the same, completely the same no matter how closely Draco watched. And yet different. This wasn't something that should matter, and yet, somehow, it did. Something was different, because Draco suddenly wanted to smooth the line creasing his forehead, and dip the line that marked the edge where skin met smudged, splattered linen. He wanted to feel the cloth bunched up in his fist, starched and stiff, grip it and then pull until there was a loud, satisfying rip.
Draco wanted to crush, to shred, to pierce, to stab. What -didn't- he want?
4. `finger foods', for the armchair flirtatious foods challenge, which is going nowhere but was fun to write and i -want- to read it myself, kinda.
He would've thought Potter had no taste, but this was going a bit far, he figured. Lately, everyone's favorite scarred delinquent had taken to tasting everything quite thoroughly-- with his fingers. Granted, there has been a strange preponderance of finger-foods (he suspected a house-elf gone mad, or perhaps a little too inspired by the huge hit Sushi Night had been among the uncultured Gryffindors several nights back). He kept licking and nipping and sucking on his fingers with every possible excuse. Clam sauce, gravy, vegetable dip, preserves, mustard. He even tipped a finger into the small bowl of cream when he thought no one was looking. Draco had to cringe, but he couldn't tear his eyes away, seemingly riveted by the disgusting display of boorishness. It was like watching a train wreck, he told himself. Worse.
And now this. Chocolate. Someone important somewhere must really hate Draco, but then, he always knew that. That boy shouldn't allowed within an arm's reach of liquid chocolate in a million years, how could that not be blindingly obvious? It was beyond him.
5. fic i want to finish involving lots of flower imagery across harry/draco 50 years in the future, ron/hermione in the "present" and some sort of ginny bit.
Sometimes he still dreams of the lake, except he's not drowning. There are weeds and dark shapes and he never does see anything, not even fish, though he knows they're there. He has to get there in time, and he has no more time left. If he doesn't... it doesn't bear thinking of. All he'd have to do is open his mouth and he'd know what it felt like. All he'd have to do is open his eyes, and he always sees the same thing. Silver hair, drifting, softly glowing like so many seasnakes. Wide open eyes, grey and glazed over. Clammy skin, white and softly glowing like the moon. Too white in the underwater darkness. He reaches out, touches dry skin, waits for the eyes to clear. Waits, and waits, and waits for his task to be complete.
And then he feels it again, the fire, the sweaty chest pushed up against his back, the bone-white fingers skidding against his nipple, the tickling of the other's laughter as he breathes words that Harry could never make out against his neck. He can't hear anything over the hissing in his head, a sound like that which flame makes when you lean too close. The palm is so hot, scorchingly so, and he feels the grip of it like a brand, like something one could see in the daylight, dark and twisted and beautiful. A perfect little dragon on the inside of his right thigh, teeth bared, breathing fire where he was already burning.
His skin and hair have all bleached now, with age, turning white just like the other's had been. The only spots of color on his whole body were his eyes, still brilliant, acidic green, and the dragon, which was the exact same color.
The colors in his garden are simple and they're all he knows, even know. Green and white and gold and red. The passion flowers always bloom, and there's no risk of anyone's footsteps disturbing their rampant growth. There are lilies, lilies of the valley, mint, toothwort, milkweed, bloodroot, starflower, goldenseal, sandwort. And that's just the white.
6. wow, i forgot this entirely, but, apparently i began a ginny/pansy. who'd have thunk it? i like it, though.
And it wasn't really that she loved him, because she was taught not to believe in love, and she thought she was a good student, of the things that mattered anyway. It was something like feeling that she depended on him to know who she was. She looked at him and she knew she had to be like him, to be worthy of him someday. It's not that she was a reflection, or an imitation, but somehow, it just felt like pieces of him were tangled up inside her, and she couldn't dislodge them, so any of his bad moods became her bad moods, and any of his hatreds became her hatreds, and she couldn't imagine the day that could ever end.
"Leave me, I'm busy," he would say, and she would leave, and not look back.
"I have homework to do," he would say, and she would believe him, because he lied of course, but he didn't lie to her, even though he did. It didn't matter, because he didn't, and that was that.
7. slytherin black-leather couch!smut for sara.
Harry frowned.
Malfoy smirked, unbearably smug.
Harry tried to go over their detention today in his mind for the hundredth time, looking for clues as to what could've inspired this particular bit of lunacy on Malfoy's part. Oh, the bastard was enjoying it, all right. For all Harry knew, things were going exactly according to plan. Maybe the big idea was simply to confuse the hell out of him. If so, it was alarmingly effective.
They sat glaring at each other, and the silence stretched out.
Harry felt more uncontrollably irritable with every heavy, itchy minute scratching roughly past him, feeling it in the tightness of his knuckles, in the tautness of his skin, in the tension knotting densely at the back of his shoulders.
Malfoy seemed perfectly at ease, relaxed as can be, completely at home, reclining on what looked to be his favored couch in his House common room. Harry sat on the very edge of the couch facing him, feeling the somewhat rare urge to bolt, to get as far away from Malfoy as possible.
Harry tried to stifle a sigh, mostly successful, aiming another baleful look at Malfoy, which seemed to bounce right off the git's shiny forehead, just like all the others had done. Malfoy seemed to think grinning openly was in bad taste, so he kept pretending to stifle yawns delicately, obviously grinning behind his slender hand. Obviously.
8. hermione/pansy for bad first-time sex challenge. oh yah (w00t, two femmeslash fics, can you believe it?).
Pansy didn't like pretty girls, or loud girls, or blonde girls, or Slytherin girls, or aggressive girls. Love was not enough. Love was nothing. What Pansy wanted was power, was her teeth biting down on someone's soft, rounded flesh, leaving marks and bruises and evidence. What she wanted was to hear small, quiet whimpers of submission, of something breaking in them. Or at least that's what she thought she wanted.
Her inner thigh rubbing frenziedly against the other's hipbone, her legs locked around a slender waist, hearing that hitched, quiet breathing, she thought maybe she couldn't bear to think about what she wanted anymore. This was supposed to be about getting and not giving, about fucking without losing. There she was, Pansy Parkinson, still not pretty or slender or even well-bred enough to be first choice, but she will squeeze through, because he needed her, and she needed him, and he was a creature of habit, she could depend on that.
"I'm a virgin, my dear, be gentle," she'd say, and she'd mean, fuck me harder than she did, can you do that? Will I feel you deeper, will you sink further inside, will you fill me up and make me love the feeling of my flesh ripping, blood staining the sheets like a signature?
9. harry/draco parody fic for dear ishuca's birthday~:)
"Go'way," Malfoy mumbled, looking at him askance, his eyes all puffy and blood-shot. Crying did not become him. Neither did drooling slightly into the crook of his elbow, which Harry was certainly noticing even if Malfoy wasn't.
"Er. Are you sure?" Harry said, more out of politeness than anything else. He really wanted to leave. He had a feeling that Malfoy's drool was going to be haunting his dreams. Or, nightmares, rather.
"No," Malfoy snapped. Or maybe it was more of a whine. It was hard to tell. "Can't you tell I'm in a bit of a crisis, here? I need moral support. I need kindness and a show of noble Gryffindor restraint. Come here and comfort me, dammit!" Malfoy was sniffling impatiently. Harry felt trapped and rather conspicuously without accompaniment. He promised himself sternly that he'll never leave the dorms without Ron or Hermione present ever again. Ever. Not even to go masturbate in peace in the Prefect's bathroom. Ever.
"Er. Now I'm -sure- you have problems, Malfoy. Did you hit your head or something? Because if so, you should really be talking to Madame Pomfrey rather than me...," Harry hedged. Whatever Malfoy's problem was, it clearly had a lot to do with being an insufferable git. Secondly, it had to do with being an insufferable git who drooled. That probably covered most of it, he'd guess.
10. mass-kissing fic that hopefully involves some form of co-writing with ish, involving a sleeping beauty spell, and a -lot- of random people kissing harry.
The fourth was hard and unyielding, quickly bumping teeth and gums and fleshy lips together, sliding quickly against his slickened mouth, a wide swath of tongue against his upper lip. This one gave him tongue, thrusting in unceremoniously and making him sputter, feeling like he was about to choke. He thought maybe he just didn't like tongues. This one was just thick and slimy, tasting of a million things he couldn't identify and didn't want to. It was just wrong, and his own mouth was slack and completely unresponsive in shock. Thankfully, it was over soon.
The fifth was just a puckered rosebud, scattering a couple small, cautious kisses almost above the border of his lip, near his nose. It was ticklish, and he laughed. He heard a shocked-sounding gasp, and the lips were quickly withdrawn. He felt bad, but it really was kind of ticklish there, and he couldn't help it. The lips tasted strongly of vanilla and watermelon lip balm, and he thought it wouldn't be that hard to know who the kisser was. He could simply follow the overpowering scent of greasy watermelon.
11. this is draco-centric, and he kinda goes insane and it's dark and it has lucius(!) and magical rings of binding and um... i'm actually interested in where this could go.
Your father looked at you like he's surprised you're really there. No one pays visits to anyone in Azkaban. But you're bright, and you're creative with spells on the very edge of Dark Magic. Your mother has stopped even knowing which name to call you. She has many names, many of which she mumbles in her sleep. And she sleeps a lot, these days, thanks to your potions and the instructions to the house-elves. You have freedom now, like you've never had before, and you have no earthly idea what to do with it. The air feels thick in your lungs, and you choke, especially when you look at him.
He hasn't changed. Nothing has changed, even though you are now hollow and your legs fold under you when you're not supposed to be sitting, especially on the floor. You are cold often, and feverish during the endless nights when your link with your father starts to drive you insane. You envy your mother and her dreams. You want him to hurt you, you want him to hate you again. He doesn't. The war is in full force and he will never consider petty insults worth his time again, and you finally realize what a prat you've been, how stupid this is. It's not that you regret it, but you regret not doing it right.
12. h/d smutfic for aja and all the legions who want me to write smut (yah, right). no, just because i can't stop myself. except it's also not finished.
He just can't get his mind off it. It seems to hound him, to pursue him, as if the whole scene was a ghostly presence whispering in his ear, because sure enough, it made him shiver, flushing with heat and cold and something else. Did it really happen? He seems to remember it. It's clear as day, really. He could still feel Malfoy's mouth around his cock, wet and gentle and rhythmical, slick and heavy and sweet, so sweet. His eyes roll back as he sits still in Transfiguration, and his mouth moves, and his tongue could almost feel the presence of another.
Looking at him covertly, watching for signs. Would Malfoy walk differently if they had done it? Would he smell differently? Harry inhales, sitting next to him in Potions, and his knees would've buckled, were he standing. He couldn't put a finger on it. What's that scent? Vanilla and mint and pumpkin spice and rain and who knows, he doesn't. Maybe it's just wine, because Harry is feeling drunk, and Snape comes up to him and,
"Mr. Potter. Daydreams may be tolerated in Professor Trelawney's class, but here we deal with the waking world, so unless you're dreaming up of a way to successfully brew the Clear-heart potion, I suggest you pay attention to your cauldron, as it seems to be mere seconds from bubbling over." Snape's voice raises the hair's on the back of Harry's neck, and he flushes, this time unpleasantly, his eyes snapping to the sickly-green liquid in said cauldron.
13. for some reason i like the idea of harry being animagus (even though jkr said it won't happen), through some sort of different means, like a spell, and his form being a raven.
He thought love must feel like flying. No fear, and all exhilaration, all heedless joy and everything being easy and the feeling of coming home, finally being where you belong. It was the time he could remember smiling most often. It was the time when he felt truly himself, without needing to care about expectations or the fact that he was supposed to win this time, too. It didn't matter that they expected it, it only mattered that he wanted it.
He thought maybe in the air, wishes came true, and he could be granted his heart's desire, whenever such a thing came to be revealed to him. All he'd have to do is set it in his sights, and follow. In the end, there was nothing too fast, too small, too unpredictable, too dangerous, not when he was flying. Oh, he knew he could get hurt, and he certainly didn't think he was immortal, but it was just that sense, that nothing could extinguish. That sense of magic, and finally feeling like he actually -had- it, like he could actually -touch- it instead of just learn about how he was supposed to use it and control it all the time, and all the things that he wasn't allowed to do with it.
14. this is my harry/draco friendship-turns-to-love fic that i'm ambitious about-- ie, could be epic-- but dunno if i have actual -plans- for.
Malfoy blinked several times, apparently digesting this. He smiled again, slowly, and Harry hoped he wasn't the one blushing now. It was really unnerving. What was he supposed to -do-? How was he supposed to react? He couldn't deal with a grinning Malfoy. Impossible, annoying, disgusting, horrid, stupid, mean, any number of things, really. But nowhere did it say he was allowed to be almost... normal. Human, kind of. And that was really what the smile did to him-- it made Malfoy seem like someone Harry could know. Maybe even someone Harry could like. It was completely impossible and what's more, disturbing. "Well, well. So the Gryffindor Golden Boy doesn't even -have- a girlfriend, does he. Tsk, tsk. You're sixteen now, Potter. Isn't it about time you lost your virginity?"
Harry could feel himself inevitably turning a lovely shade of puce, his mouth gaping a little until he clicked it audibly shut. "I-- What?!" He was beginning to become quite certain that Malfoy was not only a mean, untrustworthy, slimy bastard, but also quite possibly insane. "That's-- that's-- argh!"
"Well put, Potter, well put. I imagine if that's your response to a pick-up, it explains quite a lot, now doesn't it," Malfoy said, looking quite delighted.
15. um. yah,
thamiris' frottage smut challenge is over, but i still want to finish it. um. because... because... er... yah."It doesn't matter, Potter. Don't you get it? None of it fucking -matters- anymore. The rules are blown. You think you've won, but you have no idea what I can do. No. Fucking. Idea, Potter." He'd growled his name, and Harry felt it like a blow to his stomach. Something wasn't right. It was all wrong, the balance, the knowledge of his moral right, his superiority. And Malfoy wasn't the one who'd changed, and neither was he. It was nothing, really, and yet it was everything. Everything had changed in the space of a month. Or maybe it's been changing since before he was born, and he just lived in happy ignorance all this time, but he didn't want to consider that possbility overmuch.
And slumped as he was against the wall, Malfoy was upright and in Harry's face in seconds, his grip already tightening around Harry's tie, his pupils so dilated that his eyes were glittering pitch black, the silver a distant memory Harry didn't know he had.
16. i -will- continue my pretty `waking wishes', i will, with the Carnival and the tinkling bells and the wishing for the thing that you desire most.
In his dreams, Harry heard it. The strange, haunting tinkling sound, a melody always on the very edge of memory, sending shivers up his spine. He would always be disturbed, but not quite sure by what, by the time he woke up. In the dreams, which he had every time he slept, he associated it with the sound of a tall man with waist-long black hair and a top-hat, approaching, leading a veritable caravan of carriages and horses and strange, never-before-seen contraptions, all garishly painted, all jingling and tinkling and vibrating with tiny bells. Bells were everywhere-- the women wore them on their skirts, the elephants wore them, the small, screeching monkeys continuously tried to get them off, thus making even more noise than everyone else. Harry remembered the same sort of tinkling from his childhood. It meant the ice-cream truck was approaching their house, and soon Dudley (who seemed to be able to hear it even in the depths of sleep) will be pounding down the stairs, causing a horrible ruckus, in his all-out rush to get to the truck before it got too far away. It was a sure-fire way to get him to actually exercise-- having him chase an ice-cream truck. Harry would've found it amusing-- and he did, the first dozen times, he was pretty sure. Then, the sight of all that bouncing flesh, all that noise shaking the roof of his closet, and the realization that the truck never came for -him-, dampened his appreciation considerably. The tinkling was never for him, he knew that much, and he was okay with it, mostly. Being ignored was usually the best of all possible options, in Harry's experience.
17. finally(!!) we have the veela line challenge (from last fall), which is insane and if i -got- to it, i know exactly what will happen so i may as well finish it. and after that, i have a lucius/narcissa which is all long-hand, but i doubt anyone wants to see it(?) so i won't type it up right now.
"Yes? Oh, and, about that spell Malfoy used... is there such a thing as a minion-making tradition, do you think?"
"Well. That certainly wasn't in Hogwarts: A History. Though it's easy enough to check, elsewhere." Hermione tried to keep smiling reassuringly, but it was an increasingly uphill struggle. She pondered, glad to have her mind back in more familiar waters once more. "Perhaps in the anecdotal appendix edition," she said soothingly.
"Oh. Right," Harry said, sighing. "I just-- don't know how I'll ever live this down, you know. Me? And Malfoy? It's just impossible-- and wrong-- and evil-- I can't even spend two seconds thinking about him without wanting to do something-- illegal and painful to his person." There was just the slightest hint of a pout on his usually stoic lips. " And no one even -understands- because it never -happened- to anyone but me," he finished pitifully.
~~
whew!!
EDIT - lasair recced julad's highlander fic to me, and yes. yes. i adore it, yes. gah!! not a new fandom, dammit!!! *pouts*
EDIT #2 - er. revised my snippets. longer. bigger. harder. more insecure ><;;
and, lasair's misogynistic!hermione ficlet is a brilliant direction to go, if you want her darker, i think. wah. *enlightened*
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Date: 2003-03-11 03:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-03-11 04:07 pm (UTC)and number 1, i -have- to finish, promised (damn guilt!!). so yah. encouragement, good. thanks :D