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So this writing thing. So not happening.
I was digging through my WiP folders and finding all my abandoned fics, little snippets (some utter shite) and various odds and ends. This is what I found (and it ain't no gold):
PotC RPS
Johnny had a way about him. The drunken swagger was the trademark, they’d decided, of Captain Jack Sparrow. The puppy eyes, as Johnny had affectionately said, were Will’s. Orlando had hid in his trailer in costume, practicing it for hours on end. The mirror image of his self stared back in mock wide-eyed innocence, and bright vanity lights exploited the façade.
There were a million different things to do in one day, hours upon hours of shooting one particular scene from any and all possible angles, until they had it just right. They were soaked through at the end of the day, every day, but Orlando enjoyed the experience. When they shot the scene of Will trapped under deck with water rushing up to his neck, Johnny had stood by with a blanket and a robe for Orlando when the scene was finished. He would place the blanket on Orlando’s thin shoulders before helping him slip on the robe. Minutes later, the scene was to be shot again, the director not entirely satisfied, and Johnny would fetch a clean, dry blanket and another robe for him. Things were friendly and simple then.
It was during the in-between breaks when things became complicated.
Orlando would hurt in all the important places when Johnny brushed by him during lunch.
BDS, Murphy/Connor
He was tired of all the stolen kisses and chaste gestures of affection. They never lingered long. Sometimes Murphy thought it was two steps back for every one-step forward that they took.
He wanted to feel Connor’s body under his, and he wanted to taste him so much it became an addiction. Such thoughts were no longer foreign or unsettling; they were beginning to be all that Murph could think about every time Connor looked at him for too long (gazed, really) or kissed him like it would be their last. It wasn’t sacrilegious, not in a way that was blasphemous. Love could not be blasphemous when it was such a pure, strong feeling. Murphy believed that, even if Connor might’ve not.
“I won’t push things…” Murphy trailed off with a hand massaging the back of Connor’s neck.
Connor looked at him squarely, the only sign of distress a crease between his eyebrows.
“Nowhere to push. You know we can’t,” he said, trying to reason. Except Murphy wasn’t going to listen to reason.
He scooted over on the ratty couch, hooked his legs over Connor’s that were resting on the coffee table, and tried to get comfortable. Connor’s sweater was something Murphy had given him for his twenty-ninth birthday. Connor had complained numerous times that it itched in all the wrong places, but he’d worn it anyway, and when Murphy would smile, he always smiled back, shrugged, and stood a little straighter, as if his subconscious took pride in wearing it.
Pleasantly, Murphy hooked one arm across the back of the couch and around Connor’s neck. He petted Connor’s shoulder, rubbing in slow circles, enjoying the closeness and the quiet. Some days, all they wanted was a little peace.
Smallville
inspired at the time by the lyric “She wears my love like a see-through dress”
Fast on the clicking heels of a pair of stiletto pumps, Clark walks briskly to catch up. His long legs still can’t match her fast stride, and he is always a step behind, a fraction too late.
“I’m sorry, Lois.” He’s been begging for her to understand since morning, and she has yet to bat an eye at him for his trouble. “She’s an old friend, you’ve got to understand. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Ages.” Finally, Lois turns, flipping her hair over her shoulder with an agitated flick of her hand. Her eyes seem to blaze in her scrutiny of him. “Would you care to explain to me why you only brought this to my attention at the last possible moment, and not say, oh, a few days in advance at least?”
Clark sighs, eyebrows drawn up in apology. “I am so sorry, it just slipped my mind.”
Lois narrows her eyes. “Ever heard of common courtesy?”
“Next time – ”
“There won’t be a next time.” Clear and final end to the conversation in her tone, and her eyes are completely unforgiving. “It’s obvious you’d rather spend time with Mrs. Lana Lang than cover a story with me.”
Jealousy is a lousy color on Lois, but Clark can’t figure a way out of his predicament. He had promised Lana the next time she was free to drop by and that he’d take her out for dinner. Then Lois had sprung this on him, and he’d agreed, not knowing that Lana would be dropping in on the same night.
He has never had this much trouble with women before, since he’d been rather limited in the dating department in the first place. He’s not sure if he should feel blessed or cursed.
“Lois – ”
Lois raises her hand, stopping him short of another pathetic attempt at groveling. Taking a deep breath, she seems to collect herself, but the cold look is still firmly in place. “All right, apology accepted. Just know I’ll be expecting flowers on my desk tomorrow morning, and don’t forget my coffee.”
Clark smiles in relief. He is always amazed by how quickly Lois can bounce back from any one of her mood swings, especially when he’s the perpetrator, and he frequently is.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Clark reaches out his arms as if to hug her, but Lois steps away, panic in her face. “Um, I promise.” He looks her in the eye to make sure she knows he’s serious.
“I don’t know how,” a slight smile turns her face from dour to radiant, and Clark silently gloats in triumph, “but you always seem to pull through. I’m holding you to your word.”
“Of course,” grinning, Clark turns to his desk and begins shoveling papers into neat piles, readying for the workday ahead. He waits for the clicks of her heels to sound, but there is a slightly longer-than-usual pause before they do, and then he can breathe normally again.
Ron/Draco
warning: Ron doesn't actually make an appearance, but...Draco is still found wanting!
Something Out of the Ordinary
Sometimes, it was like the heart was such a waste of body space. Draco didn’t need it, had no use for it, and by no means wanted it.
All it did was make him think about Ron.
He didn’t need to be constantly reminded about red hair, freckles that would no doubt be scattered elsewhere in rather…charming places, or the rosy color of Ron’s cheeks when Draco pointedly made a jab at his gullible nature.
So really, Draco didn’t need that damned heart. All things considered, he could probably function fine without one. Misguided sap, his heart. Lusting after a Weasel. Draco shook his head in dismay and sighed, slouching even further in the recliner in a secluded little corner of the library.
Sunday, and one would think there would be at least a handful of people studying for their potions exams come Monday, but there was hardly anyone there at all. In fact, if Draco hadn’t been hiding from everyone, he would’ve been ashamed to have been there all by his lonesome.
Which, as he glanced up from a book that he wasn’t reading, was about to change.
Harry Potter’s glasses glared like squares of silver when he crossed the window, the late afternoon sun streaming in, casting long bars of light on the maroon carpet. Hermione followed close behind, a thick book under one arm, and her nose scrunched up in distaste as she spotted Draco in the corner.
She nodded slightly in his direction, murmering something under her breath to Harry, and seemed to latch onto his arm, dragging him to the other end of the room. Harry swatted her hand away and made a shushing gesture, and proceeded to come towards Draco.
Amused, Draco raised an eyebrow, gracing Harry with his usual smug smirk.
“I see the Mudblood’s trying to dig her claws into you once again, Potter.”
“Actually,” Harry quipped, sitting down opposite Draco, “I was getting the slight impression that you were brooding.”
“Hunh. I wonder why? Now, why don’t you run along before she claws out your eyes for even speaking to me, and I am brooding so a little privacy would be nice.”
Harry frowned but stood quickly, obviously relieved that he didn’t have to extend good deeds toward Draco any further than that. “Well, at least we’re being civil.”
Draco gave his nastiest grin, “Give me time, it’s a Sunday.”
Harry ground his jaw, but, as it were, he wasn’t feeling up to the usual verbal threats and insults, and merely shook his head and turned to go.
“Oh wait,” Harry spun around, real concern slightly showing on his face, “Have you seen Ron? We haven’t been able to find him all day.”
Draco snorted, “What makes you think I’ve seen him? For all you know,” Draco glanced at the carpet, slowly sliding his eyes up with a devilish smile, “I could’ve stuffed him full of garlic and stored him in the broom closet.”
Harry’s face contorted with horror. “You better not have done anything, Malfoy.”
Draco merely shrugged, the cool face of indifference settling once again as he stared at Harry. Unnerved, Harry made his way quickly back to Hermione.
He watched as Harry whispered to Hermione, catching the words ‘garlic’ and ‘broom-closet,’ and Hermione quickly swept up her books. The two of them hurried out of the room.
Draco smirked and glanced outside at the snow dappled trees, the silent white blanket of snow flurries dropping more heavily now than that morning. Christmas almost, and most likely, a blizzard would arrive that night.
And Ron was…absent. Missing. For the whole day Draco hadn’t caught sight of him. Granted, it wasn’t usually guaranteed that he would see him, but something about the snow and the fact that it was a somber Sunday and that Draco wasn’t really feeling in the mood for anything, at all, just made Ron’s absence more glaring.
Some part of him, a tiny, mostly-ignored part, was curious as to where Ron could be. He might’ve left early from Hogwarts for Christmas, but that was highly doubtable. Where would he possibly go so early? He wouldn’t dare to leave Harry and Hermione on such short notice.
His heart missed that little rat.
Draco silently fumed the more he thought about something so pitiful, so completely wrong and shameful, and he kicked over the chair his feet were resting on in a burst of outrage. He wasn’t supposed to be in the library thinking about Weasley on a Sunday! It wasn’t even feasible. Had he gone mad?
So yeah. I did mention that these were unfinished, which means I've not actually looked at them for mistakes or whatever. Ignore glaring spelling errors or untidy grammar ;)
I was digging through my WiP folders and finding all my abandoned fics, little snippets (some utter shite) and various odds and ends. This is what I found (and it ain't no gold):
PotC RPS
Johnny had a way about him. The drunken swagger was the trademark, they’d decided, of Captain Jack Sparrow. The puppy eyes, as Johnny had affectionately said, were Will’s. Orlando had hid in his trailer in costume, practicing it for hours on end. The mirror image of his self stared back in mock wide-eyed innocence, and bright vanity lights exploited the façade.
There were a million different things to do in one day, hours upon hours of shooting one particular scene from any and all possible angles, until they had it just right. They were soaked through at the end of the day, every day, but Orlando enjoyed the experience. When they shot the scene of Will trapped under deck with water rushing up to his neck, Johnny had stood by with a blanket and a robe for Orlando when the scene was finished. He would place the blanket on Orlando’s thin shoulders before helping him slip on the robe. Minutes later, the scene was to be shot again, the director not entirely satisfied, and Johnny would fetch a clean, dry blanket and another robe for him. Things were friendly and simple then.
It was during the in-between breaks when things became complicated.
Orlando would hurt in all the important places when Johnny brushed by him during lunch.
BDS, Murphy/Connor
He was tired of all the stolen kisses and chaste gestures of affection. They never lingered long. Sometimes Murphy thought it was two steps back for every one-step forward that they took.
He wanted to feel Connor’s body under his, and he wanted to taste him so much it became an addiction. Such thoughts were no longer foreign or unsettling; they were beginning to be all that Murph could think about every time Connor looked at him for too long (gazed, really) or kissed him like it would be their last. It wasn’t sacrilegious, not in a way that was blasphemous. Love could not be blasphemous when it was such a pure, strong feeling. Murphy believed that, even if Connor might’ve not.
“I won’t push things…” Murphy trailed off with a hand massaging the back of Connor’s neck.
Connor looked at him squarely, the only sign of distress a crease between his eyebrows.
“Nowhere to push. You know we can’t,” he said, trying to reason. Except Murphy wasn’t going to listen to reason.
He scooted over on the ratty couch, hooked his legs over Connor’s that were resting on the coffee table, and tried to get comfortable. Connor’s sweater was something Murphy had given him for his twenty-ninth birthday. Connor had complained numerous times that it itched in all the wrong places, but he’d worn it anyway, and when Murphy would smile, he always smiled back, shrugged, and stood a little straighter, as if his subconscious took pride in wearing it.
Pleasantly, Murphy hooked one arm across the back of the couch and around Connor’s neck. He petted Connor’s shoulder, rubbing in slow circles, enjoying the closeness and the quiet. Some days, all they wanted was a little peace.
Smallville
inspired at the time by the lyric “She wears my love like a see-through dress”
Fast on the clicking heels of a pair of stiletto pumps, Clark walks briskly to catch up. His long legs still can’t match her fast stride, and he is always a step behind, a fraction too late.
“I’m sorry, Lois.” He’s been begging for her to understand since morning, and she has yet to bat an eye at him for his trouble. “She’s an old friend, you’ve got to understand. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Ages.” Finally, Lois turns, flipping her hair over her shoulder with an agitated flick of her hand. Her eyes seem to blaze in her scrutiny of him. “Would you care to explain to me why you only brought this to my attention at the last possible moment, and not say, oh, a few days in advance at least?”
Clark sighs, eyebrows drawn up in apology. “I am so sorry, it just slipped my mind.”
Lois narrows her eyes. “Ever heard of common courtesy?”
“Next time – ”
“There won’t be a next time.” Clear and final end to the conversation in her tone, and her eyes are completely unforgiving. “It’s obvious you’d rather spend time with Mrs. Lana Lang than cover a story with me.”
Jealousy is a lousy color on Lois, but Clark can’t figure a way out of his predicament. He had promised Lana the next time she was free to drop by and that he’d take her out for dinner. Then Lois had sprung this on him, and he’d agreed, not knowing that Lana would be dropping in on the same night.
He has never had this much trouble with women before, since he’d been rather limited in the dating department in the first place. He’s not sure if he should feel blessed or cursed.
“Lois – ”
Lois raises her hand, stopping him short of another pathetic attempt at groveling. Taking a deep breath, she seems to collect herself, but the cold look is still firmly in place. “All right, apology accepted. Just know I’ll be expecting flowers on my desk tomorrow morning, and don’t forget my coffee.”
Clark smiles in relief. He is always amazed by how quickly Lois can bounce back from any one of her mood swings, especially when he’s the perpetrator, and he frequently is.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Clark reaches out his arms as if to hug her, but Lois steps away, panic in her face. “Um, I promise.” He looks her in the eye to make sure she knows he’s serious.
“I don’t know how,” a slight smile turns her face from dour to radiant, and Clark silently gloats in triumph, “but you always seem to pull through. I’m holding you to your word.”
“Of course,” grinning, Clark turns to his desk and begins shoveling papers into neat piles, readying for the workday ahead. He waits for the clicks of her heels to sound, but there is a slightly longer-than-usual pause before they do, and then he can breathe normally again.
Ron/Draco
warning: Ron doesn't actually make an appearance, but...Draco is still found wanting!
Something Out of the Ordinary
Sometimes, it was like the heart was such a waste of body space. Draco didn’t need it, had no use for it, and by no means wanted it.
All it did was make him think about Ron.
He didn’t need to be constantly reminded about red hair, freckles that would no doubt be scattered elsewhere in rather…charming places, or the rosy color of Ron’s cheeks when Draco pointedly made a jab at his gullible nature.
So really, Draco didn’t need that damned heart. All things considered, he could probably function fine without one. Misguided sap, his heart. Lusting after a Weasel. Draco shook his head in dismay and sighed, slouching even further in the recliner in a secluded little corner of the library.
Sunday, and one would think there would be at least a handful of people studying for their potions exams come Monday, but there was hardly anyone there at all. In fact, if Draco hadn’t been hiding from everyone, he would’ve been ashamed to have been there all by his lonesome.
Which, as he glanced up from a book that he wasn’t reading, was about to change.
Harry Potter’s glasses glared like squares of silver when he crossed the window, the late afternoon sun streaming in, casting long bars of light on the maroon carpet. Hermione followed close behind, a thick book under one arm, and her nose scrunched up in distaste as she spotted Draco in the corner.
She nodded slightly in his direction, murmering something under her breath to Harry, and seemed to latch onto his arm, dragging him to the other end of the room. Harry swatted her hand away and made a shushing gesture, and proceeded to come towards Draco.
Amused, Draco raised an eyebrow, gracing Harry with his usual smug smirk.
“I see the Mudblood’s trying to dig her claws into you once again, Potter.”
“Actually,” Harry quipped, sitting down opposite Draco, “I was getting the slight impression that you were brooding.”
“Hunh. I wonder why? Now, why don’t you run along before she claws out your eyes for even speaking to me, and I am brooding so a little privacy would be nice.”
Harry frowned but stood quickly, obviously relieved that he didn’t have to extend good deeds toward Draco any further than that. “Well, at least we’re being civil.”
Draco gave his nastiest grin, “Give me time, it’s a Sunday.”
Harry ground his jaw, but, as it were, he wasn’t feeling up to the usual verbal threats and insults, and merely shook his head and turned to go.
“Oh wait,” Harry spun around, real concern slightly showing on his face, “Have you seen Ron? We haven’t been able to find him all day.”
Draco snorted, “What makes you think I’ve seen him? For all you know,” Draco glanced at the carpet, slowly sliding his eyes up with a devilish smile, “I could’ve stuffed him full of garlic and stored him in the broom closet.”
Harry’s face contorted with horror. “You better not have done anything, Malfoy.”
Draco merely shrugged, the cool face of indifference settling once again as he stared at Harry. Unnerved, Harry made his way quickly back to Hermione.
He watched as Harry whispered to Hermione, catching the words ‘garlic’ and ‘broom-closet,’ and Hermione quickly swept up her books. The two of them hurried out of the room.
Draco smirked and glanced outside at the snow dappled trees, the silent white blanket of snow flurries dropping more heavily now than that morning. Christmas almost, and most likely, a blizzard would arrive that night.
And Ron was…absent. Missing. For the whole day Draco hadn’t caught sight of him. Granted, it wasn’t usually guaranteed that he would see him, but something about the snow and the fact that it was a somber Sunday and that Draco wasn’t really feeling in the mood for anything, at all, just made Ron’s absence more glaring.
Some part of him, a tiny, mostly-ignored part, was curious as to where Ron could be. He might’ve left early from Hogwarts for Christmas, but that was highly doubtable. Where would he possibly go so early? He wouldn’t dare to leave Harry and Hermione on such short notice.
His heart missed that little rat.
Draco silently fumed the more he thought about something so pitiful, so completely wrong and shameful, and he kicked over the chair his feet were resting on in a burst of outrage. He wasn’t supposed to be in the library thinking about Weasley on a Sunday! It wasn’t even feasible. Had he gone mad?
So yeah. I did mention that these were unfinished, which means I've not actually looked at them for mistakes or whatever. Ignore glaring spelling errors or untidy grammar ;)