~~ Reena's personal WIP Amnesty Day
May. 27th, 2005 11:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reenkaI've been coming out of my writerly slump, and am fairly buzzing with energy, so naturally instead of working on one project, I find myself worrying over virtually every WIP I've had in the past two years, if not more. It's odd to realize which of them are now relics and which still mean enough to me to work on... it's uncomfortable to think 'maybe it's better unseen', because I'd been so proud of them at one point, merely because I rarely put -effort- into anything. Then again, I always think that the things I put more effort into will be better received, and almost the opposite is true-- the ficlets I scribble while half-asleep and barely conscious tend to be the best liked, probably because my subconscious is actually more efficient than my conscious mind.
So... I was thinking of making a journal for people who might want to see the snippets of fics I never finish... but then it seems like too much bother, and, well... it always takes me too long to come out of denial and realize I'll never finish certain fics. It's sad, really, 'cause I'm quite attached to some of them, but I look at them now, and as fond as I am, I have to shake my head at some of the things I thought were worth doing. I mean, really now. And I'm sure a year from now I'll be like this with my current endeavors; well, if nothing else, it shows I've grown as a writer? Maybe.
Basically, I decided to have my own WIP Amnesty Day, so I'll post bits of fics I'm pretty sure aren't going to get done, and good riddance. Consider it a late spring cleaning of my 'To Finish Upon Pain of Death' folder.
1) Baggage - This was based on a pic by Makofu of lonely-looking Draco sitting on a suitcase, and it wound up having a silly plot of Draco kidnapping Harry. I ran up against the fact that I totally didn't know what real significance that would have for either of them, and when it came time to write the 'real action', I balked. Predictably, I have all the relationshippy stuff down pat.
The tall young man glanced down at his wrist occasionally, as if he expected something he never found. He shook his head slightly, the rain-drops flying in all directions from his soggy mop of black hair. The moisture didn't show on it much, and neither was it visible on his austerely black trench-coat, trousers and boots.
He was used to the rain by now. Still, he held his umbrella stiffly by his side, and the ground was dry in a small circle around him as he stood motionlessly with his eyes fixed steadily on the horizon.
The train was due in twenty-two minutes according to the large station clock above him. The time didn't matter for his purpose, but it was good to know when he had to start getting ready to leave.
They had agreed to meet four years ago at dusk, and here he was, waiting once again. The wind was rising, whipping his trench-coat around his ankles and tugging insistently at the umbrella in his chilled fingers.
There was no one else at the station, and most likely there wasn't going to be, at least no one that mattered. Not today. He should just head back and have that tea he kept promising Albus. There was even a new brand of candy Albus wanted him to try, apparently. From all reports, the first-years were enraptured. He knew he had work to do: the year had a way of ending before he'd quite realized it began, every time. He should be getting back.
Thirteen minutes to six, the clock told him.
He should've known better than to expect a Malfoy to keep a promise. In fact, if you'd asked him, he wouldn't have been able to say what kept him coming back. It certainly wasn't that he believed in miracles. It definitely wasn't that he trusted the one who'd made the promise, all those seasons ago. Perhaps it was sheer stubbornness that kept him coming back. He certainly seemed to have accrued enough of it long ago.
::
Their careers in Hogwarts had been almost over, and Harry, for his part, was well aware that Malfoy had yet to make his mark, so to speak. He had yet to really get the best of Harry Potter in anything, if one discounted that one incident in the Room of Requirement, which neither of them had brought up afterwards by an unspoken agreement.
They had been vying for position on the floor, growling and biting and almost laughing breathlessly, when they bumped into a rather conspicuous bed. Malfoy had gone very still, and his rosy flush had reverted to some semblance of his usual pallor. They had stared at one another for a few moments, speechless, until Malfoy flinched suddenly and exploded into a flurry of movement, shoving Harry off him and scrambling backwards on his hands and feet. He'd hit the door once again soon enough, and wasted no time in bolting through it.
Harry had sat quite still for a while, leaning weakly against a corner of the huge bed. Nothing coherent crossed his mind, though he did find himself visualizing Malfoy's painful death as he tumbled down a set of mobile stairs in his rush.
It took several weeks for their mutual avoidance tactic to fail, right on the train platform. Harry had managed to get separated from his friends somehow, and there he was, once again. That pale sneering boy with an outstretched hand.
"So what'll it be this time, Potter?" he'd drawled.
Harry's mouth thinned in annoyance, his hand at his side. "What's the point of this, Malfoy?"
Malfoy shook his head, smirking. "There is no point. That's the point. Bygones, eh?"
"You're a bloody awful liar, Malfoy," Harry snapped, making the other boy laugh, looking slightly startled.
"Maybe," he said. "You would know."
There was a protracted silence. They'd both known they wouldn't board together, so this little interlude was timed quite precisely, though neither of them seemed willing to be the first to move away. Malfoy chewed on his bottom lip restlessly and Harry watched him.
Finally, Malfoy fished an old-looking handful of lemon-drops out of his pocket, staring at them almost in surprise. Harry laughed. It was just so surreal, seeing Dumbledore's sweets in Draco Malfoy's hand-- and in such number.
Malfoy snapped out of it, glancing up at Harry with a strange light in his eyes. "So. You want some?"
~~
2) Untitled Grimmauld H/D fic - So Draco shows up at Grimmauld Place after Hogwarts, and Harry has to figure out what to do with him. Um. Again, this really didn't have any point except for the eventual first-time sex, but I got too into their snark and ran out of steam by then. I really like their snark, though. Um.
Whenever they had breakfast in Draco's 'study', Harry felt almost like a visitor at Grimmauld Place. He wondered if this is what Draco would have acted like if he'd still had his home to return to, of it he just liked to hole away as far from Harry as possible. It wasn't like Harry was overly keen on visiting Draco when he did little more than grunt at anything Harry did, while periodically wetting his finger and turning another page.
Draco insisted on having a study because... well, Harry didn't know why, exactly, except Draco brought loads of suitcases from the Manor filled to the brink with books. Harry looked through them, had Hermione look through them, even had Remus rifle through them, but they weren't all that dangerous after all. Malfoy claimed he was an intellectual. Harry told Hermione, who snickered but said he should encourage that sort of thing.
There was a small worktable in the corner where Harry brought the tray, sighing. Malfoy hadn't come down to breakfast in several days, and he'd-- well, he'd missed him, not that he'd admit it. He hadn't realized how much he'd become used to seeing Malfoy in constant company while in school, until he'd come to stay and hadn't left more than a few times, and those were on trips to the Ministry.
He balanced orange juice and a muffin with some light salad and a small pitcher of milk carefully, forgetting he could levitate them or could have simply conjured the items here. Something about bringing Draco things pleased him; probably that not-quite-hidden look of startlement and the hint of a blush. Draco always looked so prim and proper in dressy trousers and a silk shirt, even though he didn't exactly have droves of visitors. Harry liked to see him startled.
"Are you hungry?" he said, shutting the door awkwardly with his hip. The orange juice had only spilled a little.
Draco looked up, mouth quirking into the tiniest smile at the sight of Harry's flustered balancing act. He'd placed the tray on the little round table with some relief, leaning against the wall to look closer. Draco looked tired and worn, and all Harry's efforts to be... nice hadn't seemed to make much of a dent. He didn't know why he was trying, exactly, except that he couldn't not.
"No, but that's never stopped you before, has it, Potter?"
"You should eat," Harry said firmly. "I don't like to see you like this."
"Like what?" Draco raised a whitish thin brow, but he didn't do sardonic well, Harry thought.
"You look like some half-starved albino rat," Harry said. "Charming as always, but your cheeks have gotten so hollow you could scare young children."
"How charming. Good thing there aren't any children about then, isn't it?"
"You know what I mean, Draco!"
"And what do you mean, Potter? Are you calling me pallid and horrid looking so you could feel better about casting me off? I always knew you'd--"
"That's not it at all!" Harry half-shouted, striding forward to grab at the opposite edge of Draco's desk with some vehemence. "I'm just worried that--"
"You don't think I'll -die- from lack of sunlight, do you?"
"Why must you be so difficult! I just want to see you-- I just want you to-- Oh I just wish you'd be happy. I don't know what's wrong, and I can't stand seeing you act like everything is fine when it's not, and--"
"Everything -is- fine. I am at leisure, and if I haven't decided what I want to do in the near future, that's no one's business but mine." He sneered, but weakly, and pushed a strand of hair from his eyes. "You haven't brought me orange juice again, have you?"
"Er--"
"You know I can't stand orange juice before noonish. It makes my stomach quite unsettled."
"You could have some milk-- er-- with the tea." Harry glanced at the door, looking a ever more determined. "It'll only be a minute to summon, and I heard that drinking fluids is supposed to help. And then we could-- we could go for a walk by the Thames and you could read on one of those benches while I nap for a bit. How does that sound?"
Draco dropped his head in his hands. "You've planned all this out already, haven't you," he said flatly, voice slightly muffled.
"Righty-o," Harry said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Don't you miss the sunshine? I miss the sunshine. And you-- I mean, you're dressed already. We can grab some coffee and those roasted nuts you like by the pier. I'm sure Babar would love to see you, you know."
"Babar is a barmy old coot. Can't sell a bloody crumpet without telling me his life story. Who does he think he is?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "It'd be good for you to practice your sneer, then."
Draco sniffed in the vague direction of the cooling muffins. "I need no practice, Potter."
~~
3) Let It Burn - Basically, this all started out because I wanted to write a fic where Harry spits rather than swallows (y'know, the more grungy the sex the better!! YEAY GRUNGY SEX AND INSENSITIVE HARRY!! I mean. Who doesn't love that?) And then I saw a vid of Fujimi Orchestra set to `Fire' by Paulina Rubio, and naturally I thought of H/D, 'cause of the whole semi-con and uh, obsession and... sex.... You know. I got a really good plot-idea of having something to do with Harry and Draco's wands attracting each other (phoenix feather & unicorn hair) and the alchemical properties of wand-cores resonating, and Harry's powers as they relate to the phoenix (life) and his grief over Sirius and destiny (of death)... etc. I had all this symbolism and dirty H/D hatesex and nowhere to go. I couldn't decide why any of it... meshed. Alas.
The very same week, when Malfoy had promised he'd kill him, Harry had also laughed.
It was just a chance encounter on the Quidditch pitch. It had been dark already and Harry was distracted; he hadn't heard Malfoy come up behind him as he dismounted his broom, so he'd jumped when Malfoy spoke without any preamble. His words were of no surprise to him however.
He knew there were a number of responses he could've made. There was "best of luck, then" or "get in line, Malfoy" or even "how about now? might not get another chance". There was even the tried-and-true "you and what army?" but Harry was all too aware what-- or rather, whose-- army that would be. Although Harry supposed there was something to be said for the fact that if Malfoy ever did manage to kill him, that would mean Dumbledore had been wrong all along, and most likely Voldemort and Malfoy's dear old dad too. Harry could've had an even better laugh then, if he were alive for it.
In the end, Harry laughed even harder when he got a glimpse of Malfoy's expression. Completely dumbfounded. Priceless.
Malfoy probably thought he'd cracked, and he might not even have been wrong, but that didn't matter. "You've got to come up with better lines, Malfoy," Harry said, shaking his head. He vaguely remembered when sparring with Malfoy used to be... interesting. It seemed so long ago.
Harry's would-be assassin drew himself up to his full, rather unimpressive height, bristling. "For your information, I'm not playing bloody games here, Potter. You'd do well to heed my warning. You might die quicker that way." This sent Harry into a fresh round of giggles. Malfoy looked and sounded so very deathly serious. It was almost comforting, having at least one enemy whose greatest danger to him was to send Harry to an untimely demise from an overload of mirth. Somehow, he couldn't picture Voldemort going around threatening him with high color on his cheeks and a visible tremble, though he couldn't say he regretted it. Some things... he just couldn't laugh at.
"And who the hell speaks like that, anyway? Do you get these things out of old Dark Arts textbooks or what?" Harry chuckled. "Thanks, by the way. Haven't laughed that hard in ages."
"You won't be laughing when I'm through with you," Malfoy snarled, twirling his robes in a typically melodramatic attempt at a grand exit. Harry wondered distantly where his goons were, but he supposed even a Malfoy didn't go around making death threats in mixed company.
"Don't be so sure," Harry called after him, still snickering. "What is there to laugh at, if not your own death?"
Malfoy turned around, wearing an incredulous expression. "You think your own death is-- funny?"
Something in Malfoy's tone sobered Harry up all of a sudden, and he sighed. "It's a long story, Malfoy, and you don't want to hear it. Let's just say... I think death is my 'gift'." Harry smirked humorlessly.
Grey eyes blinked at him, startled into a strange, liquid clarity. Harry would've expected him to be disturbed, or even maliciously amused at Harry's apparent loss of a grip on reality. Instead, Malfoy looked closer, almost as if he was considering Harry's statement, which couldn't actually be true; his eyes were narrowed in suspicion.
"You're scared, Potter," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You can't hide it from me."
"Of you? Not bloody likely."
"No," Malfoy told him quietly. "Of dying."
"Aren't you?" Harry felt a sort of perfunctory curiosity as he said it; not that it mattered what Malfoy felt, of course. "Still think you're invincible?"
"You think I know nothing, but you're wrong, you know," Malfoy sneered. "You're as good as dead already."
Now it was Harry's turn to stare, struck speechless. In the midst of his incredulity at Malfoy's gall, somehow he forgot to flinch at the reference to the stupid prophecy, if that's what it was. "If you think I'll fall down and play dead in fright of your awful master, you've got another thing coming," he said flatly.
Malfoy grimaced, as if tasting something unpleasantly sour. "Shut the hell up about things you know nothing about, Potter," he snapped. "Make no mistake. This is between you and me. Always has been."
Harry snorted in startlement. "Didn't know your self-delusions went quite that far, Malfoy."
Malfoy's responding glare was hard to look away from, for some reason. He was so much easier to deal with when he was attempting to intimidate him through some ill-chosen taunt or pathetic comeback. Harry didn't approve of Malfoy's new practice of merely witholding comment. It was surprisingly effective.
"You should probably do something about that unhealthy obsession with me of yours before you try to beat me at my own game, Malfoy," Harry said, shouldering his broom and not sticking around for Malfoy's response.
Harry could feel those eyes still glaring holes in him all the way back, but he swallowed down his own anger like firewhisky.
He wasn't afraid of anything, he thought fiercely, refusing to wonder why Malfoy's words had affected him so much. It wasn't even a very good taunt. Harry hadn't fallen for it back in second year, and nothing had changed, except he'd gotten stronger. Better.
The flame appeared without his even having to think about it; it was just there, waving restlessly at the tip of one finger. He hadn't even touched his wand. Harry looked around quickly, but thankfully no one was looking: he was safe.
Holding his arm close against his chest, Harry stared down at his finger, and a small smile curved his lips.
~~
4) Untitled H/D Wedding fic - Uh, well, just as it sounds. I don't know why it's in the 'to finish' folder, except that, um... I think Aja wanted this (that actually applies to several fics, heheh). It's um, cute, but. Seriously, I can't write an H/D wedding fic, the irony slays me too quickly.
Because he was well-aware of the Nature of Things, Draco knew that everyone wanted him-- everyone with taste, of course. Everyone else was beneath him. Just like Potter. It was just a question of bringing Potter up to date. Yes, one day Potter would get down on his knees and beg-- beg for mercy which never came.
Draco told himself this before bed, right before his nightly wank session involving people best left unthought-of for too long lest unmentionable atrocities occur.
He lounged carelessly in the Slytherin Common Room, Parkinson looking at him coyly from underneath her lashes. He hadn't shagged her in weeks, and she was probably getting ready to owl her mum asking for advice on what to wear to please her man. Oh well-- Draco couldn't concern himself with female troubles.
Potter burst in, ragged fringe falling into his eyes as his spectacles flashed. Ahh, Draco thought to himself. Potter means business. He folded his hands primly on his lap and sat up straighter, so as to sneer more effectively.
"So what may I do for you, Potkin?" Goyle snickered, and a muscle twitched in Draco's temple. He really ought to get better minions one of these days.
"Nothing!" Potter growled, stalking towards him. "We can talk about it outside!"
"How in the world did you get in? And you still haven't told me what you wanted. Bad form, Potter. You'll never get ahead this way." Draco examined his fingernails languidly. "And what makes you think I'd go anywhere with you?"
Potter looked around the room, all but snarling at the couple remaining Slytherins, who did the sensible thing and cleared out. Draco felt a little breeze, which was just ridiculous because there were never any breezes in the dungeons-- his father had made sure years ago. "I guess we can do this here," he said with slightly less force. "Doesn't matter all that much."
"Do -what-, Potter? Speak up, now! I haven't got all day." Draco crossed his legs in front of him, watching the soft black fabric of his trousers bunch up a bit around his thighs.
"Are you mocking me, Malfoy? You're mocking me, aren't you!"
Draco smirked (and of course, it was the usual one for Tuesday evenings after Quidditch practice). "You catch on fast, champion. Now either spill it or get the hell out before I ring that little silver bell." Draco nodded towards the single bookshelf with several blank-spined books, an interesting old clock and the silver object in reference.
~~
5) Untitled Harry/Neville fic - I really wanted to write more of this pairing, for some reason, mostly because it lends itself to Harry gen, and I always want to write Harry genfic, it's just that it's difficult to generate a concise enough theme/plot that I can make it a short fic and not some rambling monster I never get done. I'm pretty fascinated by the question of what role Neville will play in the end, and I think it's pretty revealing of both their characters, how they'll react to each other in those last few days, if Neville was as close to the Trio as say, Ginny is. Alas, lack of plot slayed me.
At the end, Neville stood in front of Harry as he prepared to leave-- alone, of course."You can't go," he said.
Harry didn't smile, shaking off a brief pang of deja-vu. "No?"
Neville didn't smile either. He wasn't so pudgy anymore, though Harry didn't like him like this: lean and trained so that you'd almost think this was good enough when it wasn't. He still had the slightly curly fringe and the soft eyes to go with the hard line of his mouth. It wasn't that Harry would've looked, but Neville had a way of being there at all the wrong-- right-- times, unobtrusive but hard to get rid of.
"I won't let you go like this." Neville had a wand pointed at him with steady fingers, too, and Harry thought it was really kind of sweet.
"What are you going to do?" Harry said, curious.
"Whatever I have to," Neville said softly. "You know that."
"Do you think you could beat me?"
"I think I can help you, Harry."
Harry laughed. "Is that so?"
"Don't laugh at me!" He barely raised his voice, but Harry paused mid-stride. Only his head was visibile now under the cover of his Invisibility cloak. "I've gotten better, you know I have."
He sighed. "Yeah, I know, but this really isn't the time to--"
"It's the only time!" Harry's eyes widened, because Neville wasn't in the habit of exhibiting all this emotion, and it was more than a little disconcerting.
"Right," Harry said. This is more trouble than it's worth, he thought, flipping the cloak over all the way and moving quickly to the exit of the Common Room. Who knew what they'd done to Ron by now, but Harry was carefully not thinking of -that-. "Follow if you must."
None of it was going to help and Harry knew it, but he didn't bother telling Neville, because he never listened. He could hear his shuffling footsteps all the way to the clearing with the bloody thestrals, but there was nothing else said until they reached their destination. Distantly, Harry spared a part of his mind to hope that Neville wasn't going to say something stupid to the effect that he wouldn't disappoint him, but Neville only asked Harry to point him in the right direction.
Harry refrained from asking Neville if he knew what he was doing, because all things considered, that was quite beside the point.
He was startled to feel Neville clamber on awkwardly behind him, winding his arms solidly around Harry's middle, but he was even more startled at Neville's breathy laugh next to his ear. "Told you I'd be right behind you, didn't I."Harry didn't laugh, but he nodded. "If we get split up, go back," he said instead. "Tell the others."Neville made a non-committal sound, and Harry wondered when Neville Longbottom had turned into such a mule.
"That wasn't a request, Neville. As your leader, I am giving you an order to send for back-up if you find yourself alone."
"You're the one that has to live, Harry."
"I'm not having this argument again," Harry said in a low voice.
"Oh, I'm not arguing. They'd never forgive me if I left you, though."
"When did you get so bloody single-minded?" Harry muttered, casting his eyes to the pitch-black, rolling sky. The stars were all around them, and there wasn't a single cloud. Harry could see the lights of London starting to creep up below, and he swore silently that this time it would be different. This wasn't fifth year and he wasn't a naive little prat anymore.
"Sorry," Neville whispered, but he didn't sound sorry at all.
~~
6) Works of Mercy - This is your basic Azkaban!Draco fic, written for Aja because she wanted gunsex, and I love the visual of Harry thrusting a dirty gun into Draco's mouth (who doesn't? I don't understand you people, I mean really). I even had a bit of plot, but... um. Well. I had absolutely no clue where it was going, and the sex was just not enough 'cause I didn't want Harry to be (literally) wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. This is so sad. I'm sad even now.
Draco just blinked at him, but Potter's hand didn't waver. He didn't know what that thing was for -sure-, but he would guess, from the maddened gleam in Potter's eyes, that it must be dangerous. It was true that if he were fifteen and Potter had looked at him like that while pointing a long cylindrical object at him with what looked for all the world like extreme prejudice, he might've.... He might've done more than blink. He might've wet his pants, even.
But this Potter was a ragamuffin; the only thing missing from the complete portrait of a Wizarding World Hero Gone Terribly Wrong was the maniacal laugh and the compulsive eye-tick.
Meanwhile, Draco had his wand tucked securely up his sleeve. He might still be slower than Potter, but he'd learned a few tricks.
Potter licked his lips, pressing the cold metal object into Draco's cheek, almost hurting him. Draco would have to get back at him for that, probably -triple-.
"You know what this -is-, don't you, Malfoy?" Potter sing-songed, pressing harder. Draco's heart sped up a little, but the it was awfully hot in these cells lately. Potter's eyes were glittering like those enchanted Egyptian scarabs, trained on him more lethally than the supposed weapon.
"You don't have any bullets in that thing, do you," Draco said flatly, coughing a little. He really needed to adjust himself, but he knew he shouldn't be making any sudden moves.
Potter laughed, loud and raucous, making Draco wonder when he'd last had a decent drink of water. This flushed, unwashed look really didn't suit him.
"FUCK YOU!" Potter screamed. "WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!"
His mouth twisted harshly, and the next thing Draco knew, the business end of Potter's weapon was being thrust into his mouth.
Draco sputtered, choking on the awful dirty metal, crusted with too many disgusting tinges to even consider. He was actually rather mad now.
You'll fucking -pay- for that, he thought furiously, flicking his wrist so that his wand fell easily into his palm. Potter didn't even look down, just said "Expelliarmus," in the same tone one would imagine he'd say thank you or see you later to a stranger.
"How stupid do you think I -am-, Malfoy?" he hissed in that broken voice of his, and Draco shivered. He would still bet anything that there was no actual ammunition in that thing, but the look in Potter's eyes was making him reconsider.
That, and the rather blatant bulge in Potter's trousers.
His mouth stretched almost too wide, Draco forgot about the awful taste for a moment, and altered strategies. Potter had obviously lost it, possibly quite a while ago, but this could be just what Draco needed. His ace in the hole, so to speak.
He didn't even bother to smirk or make a smart comment: nothing would be as effective as simply starting to suck.
Draco cringed even harder at the enforced mingling and liquefying of the filth covering Potter's weapon, but it was worth it to see Potter's hand begin to shake and to watch him actually stumble -forward- as if -drunk-. Potter just kept swallowing and swallowing, swaying slightly on his feet as he watched Draco watch him, not even blinking.
Fellating the disgusting metal thing in his mouth was getting old fast, especially since Draco hadn't had anything to eat or drink in what felt like forever and his saliva was running out. It was scraping the sides of his cheeks now, but he just let it go as deep as it would, allowing his hands to make their inevitable way to his crotch. Still meeting Potter's feverish stare, Draco slowly began to rub himself through his itchy, formerly intolerable prison-issue coveralls, making sure to moan, though it wasn't that difficult. He was hard as a rock, and Potter's jerking hip movements were really adding to his enthusiasm.
It wouldn't be long before Potter realized that Draco's mouth would be much better utilized elsewhere. Draco could -smell- it, Potter's arousal thick and pungent along with their combined unwashed stench, which Draco had pretty much gotten used to by now. He wished these things were easier to get -into-; his cock was definitely beginning to feel the effects of a vigorous rub-down through thick, scratchy wool.
Saliva was actually dribbling down the corner of Potter's mouth by now, and Draco could -see- the other's cock twitching in time to his throaty moans around the stupid filthy thing. This was the most thorough cleaning it had ever gotten, probably. Draco was beginning to feel a bit dizzy; this position really wasn't the best, but he had to keep going. Potter was about to crack. He could just -tell-.
There he was, making choked-off fuck-me noises, moving the weapon in an out of Draco's mouth without regard to whether Draco was even sucking it anymore, and it -hurt- and Draco didn't bother to keep up the painful attempt at wanking, just allowing things to progress naturally. Potter's eyes were closed and he was standing with his crotch nearly in Draco's -face-, rocking his hips quite obviously in rhythm until he just about -screamed-, jerking the awful object away from Draco's mouth and pulling his trousers down in a single furious movement.
"SUCK," he barked, but he didn't really have to -ask-. Draco was on it.
It wasn't the first time someone demanded that very thing from Draco; in fact, he could see an almost endless procession of dicks arrayed before him in memory, just as hard and swollen and flushed nearly purple.
But this wasn't just -anyone's-. This was Potter's.
Draco's mouth twitched even as he brought his head forward the infinitismal amount necessary to lick the precome off the head of Potter's painful-looking hard-on, slowly circling with his tongue.
~~
6) Untitled Snape/Draco fic - I really wanted to finish this for Slytherlynx, and to prove I -could-, and.... Yeah, to prove I could sexualize Snape -and- put him with Draco. When I started writing them, I actually got interested in their dynamic, and I think this pushed me to write Snape into my Draco-centric fics more. But I didn't know how to make Snape actually accept Draco's overtures without making him a person I could not respect in any way.
Finally in his longed-for bed, and he couldn't keep still. Snape's fingers had a life of their own, searching and winding and making their inevitable way inside his night-robes nearly without volition.
He'd won anyway, he told himself. He'd won, and that was the thing he should be focusing on right now. Even as his spidery fingers crept slowly across his hipbone, he felt assured of his victory. At the first gentle brush of skin against skin, Snape remained unmoved, just like every other time he'd laid there, allowing the natural urges to overtake him. When he'd felt the gentle ridge that began at the base of cock quicken with a rush of heedless blood moments after contact, he had barely hissed through his teeth.
After the first tentative stroke of his own uncomfortably dry palm, he'd known he was lost.
Snape's eyes stayed open for long hours after his fist had closed unforgivingly around his painfully rigid cock. It took just a few shallow pumps of his hips to shoot harder than he could remember doing in years and years, but it had taken a lot longer to get his breath back under control. He never screamed. A number of talented individuals had all tried rather hard to get him to utter a simple scream at some point, and he'd never given any of them the satisfaction.
When his cock would start to twitch in that unmistakable manner right before the onset of orgasm, Snape would close his eyes and count to ten, and the lower half of his body wouldn't be a part of him anymore. He'd started that particular exercise when he'd been around fourteen, and it had proved quite useful a number of times in his life so far. He'd made a hobby out of being able to control it, and he was good at it the way he was good at anything he'd set his mind to, and that was just a fact.
Snape realized had bodily urges just like everyone else, but no matter what, his mind was his own. He'd never thought of much of anything during those times, not even an anonymous hand or chest or thigh. He'd certainly never thought of another person unless he'd been very drunk indeed, and the whole point of drinking had always been to forget why these things had mattered in the first place. Later, he was certain that he'd thought of nothing in particular; only flashes of dark hollows and the strange pull of a large, dilated pupil.
Lying motionlessly on the damp sheets, his fingers still splayed on his lower stomach, he felt a strange stifling heat race up his bloodstream, hitting his brain with all the force of years-denied vengeance. If he stayed very still, he wouldn't notice his own trembling. If he made himself take deep breaths, one after the other, his chest would soon cease heaving. It was that simple.
~~
7) 365 sunsets and a sunrise - This is no great loss to anyone, probably-- basically, Draco runs away to Hawaii after Hogwarts and becomes a surfer (dude). It's my fic and I can write it if I wanna! (etc) Harry's this Auror who comes after him and stays in the same motel (for no good reason), and they shag and Harry learns to surf. Couldn't think of a good ending/climax, and now have no inspiration whatsoever and feel no sense of loss at its ignominious demise.
Life has always laughed at you, Draco Malfoy, and this is its best joke: you end up in the same bloody Pacific island as stupid Potter, in the same Muggle resort hotel, by the same poolside table waiting for refills.
You'd known it was too good to last: the golden tan you'd had to fight for, the seemingly endless daylight, the sound of the waves crashing against the fine sandy beach. Your mother had first brought you to Hawaii when you'd barely been old enough to appreciate it, and your first thought for escape hadn't been the south of France or some cozy retreat in one of the islands offshore... that was too predictable, and besides, you didn't mind a little adventure.
It only took you five days to find a suitable native wizard to teach you everything you needed to know: body-surfing, snorkeling, and how to make the essential couple of cocktails, starting with the Blue Hawaii. Within a month, you'd been pretty sure you could win the North Shore competition with your eyes closed, but you didn't need to, at least not yet. You were having too much fun anticipating, your future suddenly stretching out like the ocean-- out of control and for the first time in your life, you'd been loving it.
After a week of staring into the huge reddish sun as it sunk behind the blue, you'd nearly forgotten your own name, and it felt ridiculously good. With your new board had come the breathless exhilaration of walking the thin line between control and the constant threat of losing it with the next wave. The sea loved you better than the air; you'd given up your full attention just to ride it, and in return it gave you freedom without that constant ragged edge of defeat that came from Quidditch, courtesy of Potter.
Almost every night, you'd laughed and run out into the surf, drowning in the knowledge that there was no one to watch you, no one to notice, no one to look on in disbelief as you finally caught your perfect wave.
~~
8) Untitled Lucius deathfic H/D - This is my latest H/D failure to generate any steam, and as I've decided to focus on my novella(s) now, I doubt greatly I'll ever return to it. Besides the fact that most things would stem from Lucius' death and Draco's subsequent disillusionment (yes, there -are- H/D cliches I've never touched, how 'bout that?) it has no real driving force, besides the idea that you always love what you once hated. I think I'm put off by the creeping knowledge that this feels like it would take a longfic to really do well. Sigh.
They hadn't bothered to give his father a proper wizard's burial, so Draco stands with his mother in the walled East garden under the pouring rain that spring, staring anywhere but at the patch of ground with black and red roses at the center. It's pouring rain, though of course he'd used an Imperturbable charm.
His mother doesn't look good in white-- doesn't really suit her colors, Draco thinks. Her mouth is thin and unyielding, the only firm thing in this world where his insides shake and the earth crumbles under his feet.
Draco thinks he has to be strong, he simply has to be. His father would have wanted him to make him proud. But there is thunder off in the distance and Draco flinches, the slick fabric of his trousers bunched up between numb fingers. It seems like it's been forever since the beginning of the school year, and things have only gotten worse.
No one's around to tell him he's being a disgrace, but Draco knows it well enough; because he doesn't want to lay blame nearly so much as he wants it all to stop.
There's only Mother and him attending; there's been no ceremony, since no one has been willing to risk their necks for this sort of sentimentality. Draco clenches his fist, and when the next clap of thunder comes, he looks up.
--
"I hate him," Draco says, and everyone groans. It's old news.
"We know, Draco," they say, sipping their smuggled whiskey. "Of course."
"I mean, I hate the Dark Lord," Draco says quickly, and there's a pause, and nervous laughter. It's true, though. He hates him too.
Pansy says you can only hate what you once loved, but it's a lie. Pansy's got some kind of twisted agenda. Draco sniffs. "I've never loved anyone," he says, crossing his arms; well, except his... nevermind. Pansy tickles him, and Goyle snores in the corner. Draco wonders when things had gone to shit, and remembers: Potter. It all started with Potter, and it all ended with the Dark Lord.
"Are you serious?" Potter said that without incredulity or much curiosity, but Draco told him. "Of course I'm serious. I've always been serious"-- and then they both laughed.
Mental alarms, because that wasn't supposed to happen, because you don't laugh with your enemies and you don't betray your friends, except, Draco thinks, when you have to.
"So you want to be one of us?" Potter seemed to have difficulties closing his mouth all the way. Draco assumed the flies had already nested, let alone flown in.
"Dream on," he said, looking with distaste somewhere to the side of Potter's ear. Potter polluted the air, somehow.
"What then? You're saying want to help?"
"Of course not," he snapped. Potter didn't deserve him, Draco knows that. "Everyone's got their reasons," Draco said waspishly, "and mine are private."
Except that now Potter didn't fight him, only nodded. "You want to be stronger, don't you," he said.
No one rejects Draco Malfoy, he thinks. He'll show them. He'll be the best and then no one could have him.
So... I was thinking of making a journal for people who might want to see the snippets of fics I never finish... but then it seems like too much bother, and, well... it always takes me too long to come out of denial and realize I'll never finish certain fics. It's sad, really, 'cause I'm quite attached to some of them, but I look at them now, and as fond as I am, I have to shake my head at some of the things I thought were worth doing. I mean, really now. And I'm sure a year from now I'll be like this with my current endeavors; well, if nothing else, it shows I've grown as a writer? Maybe.
Basically, I decided to have my own WIP Amnesty Day, so I'll post bits of fics I'm pretty sure aren't going to get done, and good riddance. Consider it a late spring cleaning of my 'To Finish Upon Pain of Death' folder.
1) Baggage - This was based on a pic by Makofu of lonely-looking Draco sitting on a suitcase, and it wound up having a silly plot of Draco kidnapping Harry. I ran up against the fact that I totally didn't know what real significance that would have for either of them, and when it came time to write the 'real action', I balked. Predictably, I have all the relationshippy stuff down pat.
The tall young man glanced down at his wrist occasionally, as if he expected something he never found. He shook his head slightly, the rain-drops flying in all directions from his soggy mop of black hair. The moisture didn't show on it much, and neither was it visible on his austerely black trench-coat, trousers and boots.
He was used to the rain by now. Still, he held his umbrella stiffly by his side, and the ground was dry in a small circle around him as he stood motionlessly with his eyes fixed steadily on the horizon.
The train was due in twenty-two minutes according to the large station clock above him. The time didn't matter for his purpose, but it was good to know when he had to start getting ready to leave.
They had agreed to meet four years ago at dusk, and here he was, waiting once again. The wind was rising, whipping his trench-coat around his ankles and tugging insistently at the umbrella in his chilled fingers.
There was no one else at the station, and most likely there wasn't going to be, at least no one that mattered. Not today. He should just head back and have that tea he kept promising Albus. There was even a new brand of candy Albus wanted him to try, apparently. From all reports, the first-years were enraptured. He knew he had work to do: the year had a way of ending before he'd quite realized it began, every time. He should be getting back.
Thirteen minutes to six, the clock told him.
He should've known better than to expect a Malfoy to keep a promise. In fact, if you'd asked him, he wouldn't have been able to say what kept him coming back. It certainly wasn't that he believed in miracles. It definitely wasn't that he trusted the one who'd made the promise, all those seasons ago. Perhaps it was sheer stubbornness that kept him coming back. He certainly seemed to have accrued enough of it long ago.
::
Their careers in Hogwarts had been almost over, and Harry, for his part, was well aware that Malfoy had yet to make his mark, so to speak. He had yet to really get the best of Harry Potter in anything, if one discounted that one incident in the Room of Requirement, which neither of them had brought up afterwards by an unspoken agreement.
They had been vying for position on the floor, growling and biting and almost laughing breathlessly, when they bumped into a rather conspicuous bed. Malfoy had gone very still, and his rosy flush had reverted to some semblance of his usual pallor. They had stared at one another for a few moments, speechless, until Malfoy flinched suddenly and exploded into a flurry of movement, shoving Harry off him and scrambling backwards on his hands and feet. He'd hit the door once again soon enough, and wasted no time in bolting through it.
Harry had sat quite still for a while, leaning weakly against a corner of the huge bed. Nothing coherent crossed his mind, though he did find himself visualizing Malfoy's painful death as he tumbled down a set of mobile stairs in his rush.
It took several weeks for their mutual avoidance tactic to fail, right on the train platform. Harry had managed to get separated from his friends somehow, and there he was, once again. That pale sneering boy with an outstretched hand.
"So what'll it be this time, Potter?" he'd drawled.
Harry's mouth thinned in annoyance, his hand at his side. "What's the point of this, Malfoy?"
Malfoy shook his head, smirking. "There is no point. That's the point. Bygones, eh?"
"You're a bloody awful liar, Malfoy," Harry snapped, making the other boy laugh, looking slightly startled.
"Maybe," he said. "You would know."
There was a protracted silence. They'd both known they wouldn't board together, so this little interlude was timed quite precisely, though neither of them seemed willing to be the first to move away. Malfoy chewed on his bottom lip restlessly and Harry watched him.
Finally, Malfoy fished an old-looking handful of lemon-drops out of his pocket, staring at them almost in surprise. Harry laughed. It was just so surreal, seeing Dumbledore's sweets in Draco Malfoy's hand-- and in such number.
Malfoy snapped out of it, glancing up at Harry with a strange light in his eyes. "So. You want some?"
~~
2) Untitled Grimmauld H/D fic - So Draco shows up at Grimmauld Place after Hogwarts, and Harry has to figure out what to do with him. Um. Again, this really didn't have any point except for the eventual first-time sex, but I got too into their snark and ran out of steam by then. I really like their snark, though. Um.
Whenever they had breakfast in Draco's 'study', Harry felt almost like a visitor at Grimmauld Place. He wondered if this is what Draco would have acted like if he'd still had his home to return to, of it he just liked to hole away as far from Harry as possible. It wasn't like Harry was overly keen on visiting Draco when he did little more than grunt at anything Harry did, while periodically wetting his finger and turning another page.
Draco insisted on having a study because... well, Harry didn't know why, exactly, except Draco brought loads of suitcases from the Manor filled to the brink with books. Harry looked through them, had Hermione look through them, even had Remus rifle through them, but they weren't all that dangerous after all. Malfoy claimed he was an intellectual. Harry told Hermione, who snickered but said he should encourage that sort of thing.
There was a small worktable in the corner where Harry brought the tray, sighing. Malfoy hadn't come down to breakfast in several days, and he'd-- well, he'd missed him, not that he'd admit it. He hadn't realized how much he'd become used to seeing Malfoy in constant company while in school, until he'd come to stay and hadn't left more than a few times, and those were on trips to the Ministry.
He balanced orange juice and a muffin with some light salad and a small pitcher of milk carefully, forgetting he could levitate them or could have simply conjured the items here. Something about bringing Draco things pleased him; probably that not-quite-hidden look of startlement and the hint of a blush. Draco always looked so prim and proper in dressy trousers and a silk shirt, even though he didn't exactly have droves of visitors. Harry liked to see him startled.
"Are you hungry?" he said, shutting the door awkwardly with his hip. The orange juice had only spilled a little.
Draco looked up, mouth quirking into the tiniest smile at the sight of Harry's flustered balancing act. He'd placed the tray on the little round table with some relief, leaning against the wall to look closer. Draco looked tired and worn, and all Harry's efforts to be... nice hadn't seemed to make much of a dent. He didn't know why he was trying, exactly, except that he couldn't not.
"No, but that's never stopped you before, has it, Potter?"
"You should eat," Harry said firmly. "I don't like to see you like this."
"Like what?" Draco raised a whitish thin brow, but he didn't do sardonic well, Harry thought.
"You look like some half-starved albino rat," Harry said. "Charming as always, but your cheeks have gotten so hollow you could scare young children."
"How charming. Good thing there aren't any children about then, isn't it?"
"You know what I mean, Draco!"
"And what do you mean, Potter? Are you calling me pallid and horrid looking so you could feel better about casting me off? I always knew you'd--"
"That's not it at all!" Harry half-shouted, striding forward to grab at the opposite edge of Draco's desk with some vehemence. "I'm just worried that--"
"You don't think I'll -die- from lack of sunlight, do you?"
"Why must you be so difficult! I just want to see you-- I just want you to-- Oh I just wish you'd be happy. I don't know what's wrong, and I can't stand seeing you act like everything is fine when it's not, and--"
"Everything -is- fine. I am at leisure, and if I haven't decided what I want to do in the near future, that's no one's business but mine." He sneered, but weakly, and pushed a strand of hair from his eyes. "You haven't brought me orange juice again, have you?"
"Er--"
"You know I can't stand orange juice before noonish. It makes my stomach quite unsettled."
"You could have some milk-- er-- with the tea." Harry glanced at the door, looking a ever more determined. "It'll only be a minute to summon, and I heard that drinking fluids is supposed to help. And then we could-- we could go for a walk by the Thames and you could read on one of those benches while I nap for a bit. How does that sound?"
Draco dropped his head in his hands. "You've planned all this out already, haven't you," he said flatly, voice slightly muffled.
"Righty-o," Harry said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Don't you miss the sunshine? I miss the sunshine. And you-- I mean, you're dressed already. We can grab some coffee and those roasted nuts you like by the pier. I'm sure Babar would love to see you, you know."
"Babar is a barmy old coot. Can't sell a bloody crumpet without telling me his life story. Who does he think he is?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "It'd be good for you to practice your sneer, then."
Draco sniffed in the vague direction of the cooling muffins. "I need no practice, Potter."
~~
3) Let It Burn - Basically, this all started out because I wanted to write a fic where Harry spits rather than swallows (y'know, the more grungy the sex the better!! YEAY GRUNGY SEX AND INSENSITIVE HARRY!! I mean. Who doesn't love that?) And then I saw a vid of Fujimi Orchestra set to `Fire' by Paulina Rubio, and naturally I thought of H/D, 'cause of the whole semi-con and uh, obsession and... sex.... You know. I got a really good plot-idea of having something to do with Harry and Draco's wands attracting each other (phoenix feather & unicorn hair) and the alchemical properties of wand-cores resonating, and Harry's powers as they relate to the phoenix (life) and his grief over Sirius and destiny (of death)... etc. I had all this symbolism and dirty H/D hatesex and nowhere to go. I couldn't decide why any of it... meshed. Alas.
The very same week, when Malfoy had promised he'd kill him, Harry had also laughed.
It was just a chance encounter on the Quidditch pitch. It had been dark already and Harry was distracted; he hadn't heard Malfoy come up behind him as he dismounted his broom, so he'd jumped when Malfoy spoke without any preamble. His words were of no surprise to him however.
He knew there were a number of responses he could've made. There was "best of luck, then" or "get in line, Malfoy" or even "how about now? might not get another chance". There was even the tried-and-true "you and what army?" but Harry was all too aware what-- or rather, whose-- army that would be. Although Harry supposed there was something to be said for the fact that if Malfoy ever did manage to kill him, that would mean Dumbledore had been wrong all along, and most likely Voldemort and Malfoy's dear old dad too. Harry could've had an even better laugh then, if he were alive for it.
In the end, Harry laughed even harder when he got a glimpse of Malfoy's expression. Completely dumbfounded. Priceless.
Malfoy probably thought he'd cracked, and he might not even have been wrong, but that didn't matter. "You've got to come up with better lines, Malfoy," Harry said, shaking his head. He vaguely remembered when sparring with Malfoy used to be... interesting. It seemed so long ago.
Harry's would-be assassin drew himself up to his full, rather unimpressive height, bristling. "For your information, I'm not playing bloody games here, Potter. You'd do well to heed my warning. You might die quicker that way." This sent Harry into a fresh round of giggles. Malfoy looked and sounded so very deathly serious. It was almost comforting, having at least one enemy whose greatest danger to him was to send Harry to an untimely demise from an overload of mirth. Somehow, he couldn't picture Voldemort going around threatening him with high color on his cheeks and a visible tremble, though he couldn't say he regretted it. Some things... he just couldn't laugh at.
"And who the hell speaks like that, anyway? Do you get these things out of old Dark Arts textbooks or what?" Harry chuckled. "Thanks, by the way. Haven't laughed that hard in ages."
"You won't be laughing when I'm through with you," Malfoy snarled, twirling his robes in a typically melodramatic attempt at a grand exit. Harry wondered distantly where his goons were, but he supposed even a Malfoy didn't go around making death threats in mixed company.
"Don't be so sure," Harry called after him, still snickering. "What is there to laugh at, if not your own death?"
Malfoy turned around, wearing an incredulous expression. "You think your own death is-- funny?"
Something in Malfoy's tone sobered Harry up all of a sudden, and he sighed. "It's a long story, Malfoy, and you don't want to hear it. Let's just say... I think death is my 'gift'." Harry smirked humorlessly.
Grey eyes blinked at him, startled into a strange, liquid clarity. Harry would've expected him to be disturbed, or even maliciously amused at Harry's apparent loss of a grip on reality. Instead, Malfoy looked closer, almost as if he was considering Harry's statement, which couldn't actually be true; his eyes were narrowed in suspicion.
"You're scared, Potter," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You can't hide it from me."
"Of you? Not bloody likely."
"No," Malfoy told him quietly. "Of dying."
"Aren't you?" Harry felt a sort of perfunctory curiosity as he said it; not that it mattered what Malfoy felt, of course. "Still think you're invincible?"
"You think I know nothing, but you're wrong, you know," Malfoy sneered. "You're as good as dead already."
Now it was Harry's turn to stare, struck speechless. In the midst of his incredulity at Malfoy's gall, somehow he forgot to flinch at the reference to the stupid prophecy, if that's what it was. "If you think I'll fall down and play dead in fright of your awful master, you've got another thing coming," he said flatly.
Malfoy grimaced, as if tasting something unpleasantly sour. "Shut the hell up about things you know nothing about, Potter," he snapped. "Make no mistake. This is between you and me. Always has been."
Harry snorted in startlement. "Didn't know your self-delusions went quite that far, Malfoy."
Malfoy's responding glare was hard to look away from, for some reason. He was so much easier to deal with when he was attempting to intimidate him through some ill-chosen taunt or pathetic comeback. Harry didn't approve of Malfoy's new practice of merely witholding comment. It was surprisingly effective.
"You should probably do something about that unhealthy obsession with me of yours before you try to beat me at my own game, Malfoy," Harry said, shouldering his broom and not sticking around for Malfoy's response.
Harry could feel those eyes still glaring holes in him all the way back, but he swallowed down his own anger like firewhisky.
He wasn't afraid of anything, he thought fiercely, refusing to wonder why Malfoy's words had affected him so much. It wasn't even a very good taunt. Harry hadn't fallen for it back in second year, and nothing had changed, except he'd gotten stronger. Better.
The flame appeared without his even having to think about it; it was just there, waving restlessly at the tip of one finger. He hadn't even touched his wand. Harry looked around quickly, but thankfully no one was looking: he was safe.
Holding his arm close against his chest, Harry stared down at his finger, and a small smile curved his lips.
~~
4) Untitled H/D Wedding fic - Uh, well, just as it sounds. I don't know why it's in the 'to finish' folder, except that, um... I think Aja wanted this (that actually applies to several fics, heheh). It's um, cute, but. Seriously, I can't write an H/D wedding fic, the irony slays me too quickly.
Because he was well-aware of the Nature of Things, Draco knew that everyone wanted him-- everyone with taste, of course. Everyone else was beneath him. Just like Potter. It was just a question of bringing Potter up to date. Yes, one day Potter would get down on his knees and beg-- beg for mercy which never came.
Draco told himself this before bed, right before his nightly wank session involving people best left unthought-of for too long lest unmentionable atrocities occur.
He lounged carelessly in the Slytherin Common Room, Parkinson looking at him coyly from underneath her lashes. He hadn't shagged her in weeks, and she was probably getting ready to owl her mum asking for advice on what to wear to please her man. Oh well-- Draco couldn't concern himself with female troubles.
Potter burst in, ragged fringe falling into his eyes as his spectacles flashed. Ahh, Draco thought to himself. Potter means business. He folded his hands primly on his lap and sat up straighter, so as to sneer more effectively.
"So what may I do for you, Potkin?" Goyle snickered, and a muscle twitched in Draco's temple. He really ought to get better minions one of these days.
"Nothing!" Potter growled, stalking towards him. "We can talk about it outside!"
"How in the world did you get in? And you still haven't told me what you wanted. Bad form, Potter. You'll never get ahead this way." Draco examined his fingernails languidly. "And what makes you think I'd go anywhere with you?"
Potter looked around the room, all but snarling at the couple remaining Slytherins, who did the sensible thing and cleared out. Draco felt a little breeze, which was just ridiculous because there were never any breezes in the dungeons-- his father had made sure years ago. "I guess we can do this here," he said with slightly less force. "Doesn't matter all that much."
"Do -what-, Potter? Speak up, now! I haven't got all day." Draco crossed his legs in front of him, watching the soft black fabric of his trousers bunch up a bit around his thighs.
"Are you mocking me, Malfoy? You're mocking me, aren't you!"
Draco smirked (and of course, it was the usual one for Tuesday evenings after Quidditch practice). "You catch on fast, champion. Now either spill it or get the hell out before I ring that little silver bell." Draco nodded towards the single bookshelf with several blank-spined books, an interesting old clock and the silver object in reference.
~~
5) Untitled Harry/Neville fic - I really wanted to write more of this pairing, for some reason, mostly because it lends itself to Harry gen, and I always want to write Harry genfic, it's just that it's difficult to generate a concise enough theme/plot that I can make it a short fic and not some rambling monster I never get done. I'm pretty fascinated by the question of what role Neville will play in the end, and I think it's pretty revealing of both their characters, how they'll react to each other in those last few days, if Neville was as close to the Trio as say, Ginny is. Alas, lack of plot slayed me.
At the end, Neville stood in front of Harry as he prepared to leave-- alone, of course."You can't go," he said.
Harry didn't smile, shaking off a brief pang of deja-vu. "No?"
Neville didn't smile either. He wasn't so pudgy anymore, though Harry didn't like him like this: lean and trained so that you'd almost think this was good enough when it wasn't. He still had the slightly curly fringe and the soft eyes to go with the hard line of his mouth. It wasn't that Harry would've looked, but Neville had a way of being there at all the wrong-- right-- times, unobtrusive but hard to get rid of.
"I won't let you go like this." Neville had a wand pointed at him with steady fingers, too, and Harry thought it was really kind of sweet.
"What are you going to do?" Harry said, curious.
"Whatever I have to," Neville said softly. "You know that."
"Do you think you could beat me?"
"I think I can help you, Harry."
Harry laughed. "Is that so?"
"Don't laugh at me!" He barely raised his voice, but Harry paused mid-stride. Only his head was visibile now under the cover of his Invisibility cloak. "I've gotten better, you know I have."
He sighed. "Yeah, I know, but this really isn't the time to--"
"It's the only time!" Harry's eyes widened, because Neville wasn't in the habit of exhibiting all this emotion, and it was more than a little disconcerting.
"Right," Harry said. This is more trouble than it's worth, he thought, flipping the cloak over all the way and moving quickly to the exit of the Common Room. Who knew what they'd done to Ron by now, but Harry was carefully not thinking of -that-. "Follow if you must."
None of it was going to help and Harry knew it, but he didn't bother telling Neville, because he never listened. He could hear his shuffling footsteps all the way to the clearing with the bloody thestrals, but there was nothing else said until they reached their destination. Distantly, Harry spared a part of his mind to hope that Neville wasn't going to say something stupid to the effect that he wouldn't disappoint him, but Neville only asked Harry to point him in the right direction.
Harry refrained from asking Neville if he knew what he was doing, because all things considered, that was quite beside the point.
He was startled to feel Neville clamber on awkwardly behind him, winding his arms solidly around Harry's middle, but he was even more startled at Neville's breathy laugh next to his ear. "Told you I'd be right behind you, didn't I."Harry didn't laugh, but he nodded. "If we get split up, go back," he said instead. "Tell the others."Neville made a non-committal sound, and Harry wondered when Neville Longbottom had turned into such a mule.
"That wasn't a request, Neville. As your leader, I am giving you an order to send for back-up if you find yourself alone."
"You're the one that has to live, Harry."
"I'm not having this argument again," Harry said in a low voice.
"Oh, I'm not arguing. They'd never forgive me if I left you, though."
"When did you get so bloody single-minded?" Harry muttered, casting his eyes to the pitch-black, rolling sky. The stars were all around them, and there wasn't a single cloud. Harry could see the lights of London starting to creep up below, and he swore silently that this time it would be different. This wasn't fifth year and he wasn't a naive little prat anymore.
"Sorry," Neville whispered, but he didn't sound sorry at all.
~~
6) Works of Mercy - This is your basic Azkaban!Draco fic, written for Aja because she wanted gunsex, and I love the visual of Harry thrusting a dirty gun into Draco's mouth (who doesn't? I don't understand you people, I mean really). I even had a bit of plot, but... um. Well. I had absolutely no clue where it was going, and the sex was just not enough 'cause I didn't want Harry to be (literally) wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. This is so sad. I'm sad even now.
Draco just blinked at him, but Potter's hand didn't waver. He didn't know what that thing was for -sure-, but he would guess, from the maddened gleam in Potter's eyes, that it must be dangerous. It was true that if he were fifteen and Potter had looked at him like that while pointing a long cylindrical object at him with what looked for all the world like extreme prejudice, he might've.... He might've done more than blink. He might've wet his pants, even.
But this Potter was a ragamuffin; the only thing missing from the complete portrait of a Wizarding World Hero Gone Terribly Wrong was the maniacal laugh and the compulsive eye-tick.
Meanwhile, Draco had his wand tucked securely up his sleeve. He might still be slower than Potter, but he'd learned a few tricks.
Potter licked his lips, pressing the cold metal object into Draco's cheek, almost hurting him. Draco would have to get back at him for that, probably -triple-.
"You know what this -is-, don't you, Malfoy?" Potter sing-songed, pressing harder. Draco's heart sped up a little, but the it was awfully hot in these cells lately. Potter's eyes were glittering like those enchanted Egyptian scarabs, trained on him more lethally than the supposed weapon.
"You don't have any bullets in that thing, do you," Draco said flatly, coughing a little. He really needed to adjust himself, but he knew he shouldn't be making any sudden moves.
Potter laughed, loud and raucous, making Draco wonder when he'd last had a decent drink of water. This flushed, unwashed look really didn't suit him.
"FUCK YOU!" Potter screamed. "WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!"
His mouth twisted harshly, and the next thing Draco knew, the business end of Potter's weapon was being thrust into his mouth.
Draco sputtered, choking on the awful dirty metal, crusted with too many disgusting tinges to even consider. He was actually rather mad now.
You'll fucking -pay- for that, he thought furiously, flicking his wrist so that his wand fell easily into his palm. Potter didn't even look down, just said "Expelliarmus," in the same tone one would imagine he'd say thank you or see you later to a stranger.
"How stupid do you think I -am-, Malfoy?" he hissed in that broken voice of his, and Draco shivered. He would still bet anything that there was no actual ammunition in that thing, but the look in Potter's eyes was making him reconsider.
That, and the rather blatant bulge in Potter's trousers.
His mouth stretched almost too wide, Draco forgot about the awful taste for a moment, and altered strategies. Potter had obviously lost it, possibly quite a while ago, but this could be just what Draco needed. His ace in the hole, so to speak.
He didn't even bother to smirk or make a smart comment: nothing would be as effective as simply starting to suck.
Draco cringed even harder at the enforced mingling and liquefying of the filth covering Potter's weapon, but it was worth it to see Potter's hand begin to shake and to watch him actually stumble -forward- as if -drunk-. Potter just kept swallowing and swallowing, swaying slightly on his feet as he watched Draco watch him, not even blinking.
Fellating the disgusting metal thing in his mouth was getting old fast, especially since Draco hadn't had anything to eat or drink in what felt like forever and his saliva was running out. It was scraping the sides of his cheeks now, but he just let it go as deep as it would, allowing his hands to make their inevitable way to his crotch. Still meeting Potter's feverish stare, Draco slowly began to rub himself through his itchy, formerly intolerable prison-issue coveralls, making sure to moan, though it wasn't that difficult. He was hard as a rock, and Potter's jerking hip movements were really adding to his enthusiasm.
It wouldn't be long before Potter realized that Draco's mouth would be much better utilized elsewhere. Draco could -smell- it, Potter's arousal thick and pungent along with their combined unwashed stench, which Draco had pretty much gotten used to by now. He wished these things were easier to get -into-; his cock was definitely beginning to feel the effects of a vigorous rub-down through thick, scratchy wool.
Saliva was actually dribbling down the corner of Potter's mouth by now, and Draco could -see- the other's cock twitching in time to his throaty moans around the stupid filthy thing. This was the most thorough cleaning it had ever gotten, probably. Draco was beginning to feel a bit dizzy; this position really wasn't the best, but he had to keep going. Potter was about to crack. He could just -tell-.
There he was, making choked-off fuck-me noises, moving the weapon in an out of Draco's mouth without regard to whether Draco was even sucking it anymore, and it -hurt- and Draco didn't bother to keep up the painful attempt at wanking, just allowing things to progress naturally. Potter's eyes were closed and he was standing with his crotch nearly in Draco's -face-, rocking his hips quite obviously in rhythm until he just about -screamed-, jerking the awful object away from Draco's mouth and pulling his trousers down in a single furious movement.
"SUCK," he barked, but he didn't really have to -ask-. Draco was on it.
It wasn't the first time someone demanded that very thing from Draco; in fact, he could see an almost endless procession of dicks arrayed before him in memory, just as hard and swollen and flushed nearly purple.
But this wasn't just -anyone's-. This was Potter's.
Draco's mouth twitched even as he brought his head forward the infinitismal amount necessary to lick the precome off the head of Potter's painful-looking hard-on, slowly circling with his tongue.
~~
6) Untitled Snape/Draco fic - I really wanted to finish this for Slytherlynx, and to prove I -could-, and.... Yeah, to prove I could sexualize Snape -and- put him with Draco. When I started writing them, I actually got interested in their dynamic, and I think this pushed me to write Snape into my Draco-centric fics more. But I didn't know how to make Snape actually accept Draco's overtures without making him a person I could not respect in any way.
Finally in his longed-for bed, and he couldn't keep still. Snape's fingers had a life of their own, searching and winding and making their inevitable way inside his night-robes nearly without volition.
He'd won anyway, he told himself. He'd won, and that was the thing he should be focusing on right now. Even as his spidery fingers crept slowly across his hipbone, he felt assured of his victory. At the first gentle brush of skin against skin, Snape remained unmoved, just like every other time he'd laid there, allowing the natural urges to overtake him. When he'd felt the gentle ridge that began at the base of cock quicken with a rush of heedless blood moments after contact, he had barely hissed through his teeth.
After the first tentative stroke of his own uncomfortably dry palm, he'd known he was lost.
Snape's eyes stayed open for long hours after his fist had closed unforgivingly around his painfully rigid cock. It took just a few shallow pumps of his hips to shoot harder than he could remember doing in years and years, but it had taken a lot longer to get his breath back under control. He never screamed. A number of talented individuals had all tried rather hard to get him to utter a simple scream at some point, and he'd never given any of them the satisfaction.
When his cock would start to twitch in that unmistakable manner right before the onset of orgasm, Snape would close his eyes and count to ten, and the lower half of his body wouldn't be a part of him anymore. He'd started that particular exercise when he'd been around fourteen, and it had proved quite useful a number of times in his life so far. He'd made a hobby out of being able to control it, and he was good at it the way he was good at anything he'd set his mind to, and that was just a fact.
Snape realized had bodily urges just like everyone else, but no matter what, his mind was his own. He'd never thought of much of anything during those times, not even an anonymous hand or chest or thigh. He'd certainly never thought of another person unless he'd been very drunk indeed, and the whole point of drinking had always been to forget why these things had mattered in the first place. Later, he was certain that he'd thought of nothing in particular; only flashes of dark hollows and the strange pull of a large, dilated pupil.
Lying motionlessly on the damp sheets, his fingers still splayed on his lower stomach, he felt a strange stifling heat race up his bloodstream, hitting his brain with all the force of years-denied vengeance. If he stayed very still, he wouldn't notice his own trembling. If he made himself take deep breaths, one after the other, his chest would soon cease heaving. It was that simple.
~~
7) 365 sunsets and a sunrise - This is no great loss to anyone, probably-- basically, Draco runs away to Hawaii after Hogwarts and becomes a surfer (dude). It's my fic and I can write it if I wanna! (etc) Harry's this Auror who comes after him and stays in the same motel (for no good reason), and they shag and Harry learns to surf. Couldn't think of a good ending/climax, and now have no inspiration whatsoever and feel no sense of loss at its ignominious demise.
Life has always laughed at you, Draco Malfoy, and this is its best joke: you end up in the same bloody Pacific island as stupid Potter, in the same Muggle resort hotel, by the same poolside table waiting for refills.
You'd known it was too good to last: the golden tan you'd had to fight for, the seemingly endless daylight, the sound of the waves crashing against the fine sandy beach. Your mother had first brought you to Hawaii when you'd barely been old enough to appreciate it, and your first thought for escape hadn't been the south of France or some cozy retreat in one of the islands offshore... that was too predictable, and besides, you didn't mind a little adventure.
It only took you five days to find a suitable native wizard to teach you everything you needed to know: body-surfing, snorkeling, and how to make the essential couple of cocktails, starting with the Blue Hawaii. Within a month, you'd been pretty sure you could win the North Shore competition with your eyes closed, but you didn't need to, at least not yet. You were having too much fun anticipating, your future suddenly stretching out like the ocean-- out of control and for the first time in your life, you'd been loving it.
After a week of staring into the huge reddish sun as it sunk behind the blue, you'd nearly forgotten your own name, and it felt ridiculously good. With your new board had come the breathless exhilaration of walking the thin line between control and the constant threat of losing it with the next wave. The sea loved you better than the air; you'd given up your full attention just to ride it, and in return it gave you freedom without that constant ragged edge of defeat that came from Quidditch, courtesy of Potter.
Almost every night, you'd laughed and run out into the surf, drowning in the knowledge that there was no one to watch you, no one to notice, no one to look on in disbelief as you finally caught your perfect wave.
~~
8) Untitled Lucius deathfic H/D - This is my latest H/D failure to generate any steam, and as I've decided to focus on my novella(s) now, I doubt greatly I'll ever return to it. Besides the fact that most things would stem from Lucius' death and Draco's subsequent disillusionment (yes, there -are- H/D cliches I've never touched, how 'bout that?) it has no real driving force, besides the idea that you always love what you once hated. I think I'm put off by the creeping knowledge that this feels like it would take a longfic to really do well. Sigh.
They hadn't bothered to give his father a proper wizard's burial, so Draco stands with his mother in the walled East garden under the pouring rain that spring, staring anywhere but at the patch of ground with black and red roses at the center. It's pouring rain, though of course he'd used an Imperturbable charm.
His mother doesn't look good in white-- doesn't really suit her colors, Draco thinks. Her mouth is thin and unyielding, the only firm thing in this world where his insides shake and the earth crumbles under his feet.
Draco thinks he has to be strong, he simply has to be. His father would have wanted him to make him proud. But there is thunder off in the distance and Draco flinches, the slick fabric of his trousers bunched up between numb fingers. It seems like it's been forever since the beginning of the school year, and things have only gotten worse.
No one's around to tell him he's being a disgrace, but Draco knows it well enough; because he doesn't want to lay blame nearly so much as he wants it all to stop.
There's only Mother and him attending; there's been no ceremony, since no one has been willing to risk their necks for this sort of sentimentality. Draco clenches his fist, and when the next clap of thunder comes, he looks up.
--
"I hate him," Draco says, and everyone groans. It's old news.
"We know, Draco," they say, sipping their smuggled whiskey. "Of course."
"I mean, I hate the Dark Lord," Draco says quickly, and there's a pause, and nervous laughter. It's true, though. He hates him too.
Pansy says you can only hate what you once loved, but it's a lie. Pansy's got some kind of twisted agenda. Draco sniffs. "I've never loved anyone," he says, crossing his arms; well, except his... nevermind. Pansy tickles him, and Goyle snores in the corner. Draco wonders when things had gone to shit, and remembers: Potter. It all started with Potter, and it all ended with the Dark Lord.
"Are you serious?" Potter said that without incredulity or much curiosity, but Draco told him. "Of course I'm serious. I've always been serious"-- and then they both laughed.
Mental alarms, because that wasn't supposed to happen, because you don't laugh with your enemies and you don't betray your friends, except, Draco thinks, when you have to.
"So you want to be one of us?" Potter seemed to have difficulties closing his mouth all the way. Draco assumed the flies had already nested, let alone flown in.
"Dream on," he said, looking with distaste somewhere to the side of Potter's ear. Potter polluted the air, somehow.
"What then? You're saying want to help?"
"Of course not," he snapped. Potter didn't deserve him, Draco knows that. "Everyone's got their reasons," Draco said waspishly, "and mine are private."
Except that now Potter didn't fight him, only nodded. "You want to be stronger, don't you," he said.
No one rejects Draco Malfoy, he thinks. He'll show them. He'll be the best and then no one could have him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-05-27 08:54 pm (UTC)and Do the Surfer Boy fic!
Tanned Draco, yay.
:D
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Date: 2005-05-27 09:03 pm (UTC)I honestly have so many WIPs to finish, it's like picking among wildflowers ><;;
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Date: 2005-05-27 09:08 pm (UTC)hee...
Just glad you're doing fic again. Makes me so happy.
:D
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Date: 2005-05-27 11:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-27 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-28 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-28 01:57 am (UTC)I WOULD GIVE YOU MY BRAIN ANYTIME, I MEAN, DOES THAT MEAN I GET YOURS??!
*tries to restrain evil laughter*I mean, no, that's a great dealfor me especially, I mean really :D :Dno subject
Date: 2005-05-28 02:04 am (UTC)YES! DO WHAT YOU WILL WITH IT...!!
Man, now I want to do a WIP amnesty post. It would be like, cakeandmilk: the remix...
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Date: 2005-05-28 02:10 am (UTC)*runs off with yours, cackling*
*hands you hers in airproof jar* :D :D Note: 'for Cassie, with <3' :D :D Keep it moist, in dark, self-eclosed areas, and make sure not to jiggle it too much, and it might make a good pet! :>
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Date: 2005-05-28 02:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-28 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-28 02:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-28 10:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-28 07:31 pm (UTC)