To Find My Soul
Because I've kind of been neglecting LJ lately. And because I've been writing, but not finishing anything.
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Also, I don't think I understand the concept of 'excerpts.' Be warned.
Harry Potter, Ron/Ginny
Set during DH when Ron leaves Harry and Hermione. I used some of this for my 1sentence Ron/Ginny prompt, and never finished the actual fic.
And silence settles over the Burrow like a cancer, Ginny suffocating inside its walls. No noise comes from the house like it used to, and she walks down the hallways like a ghost, interrupted by no one. Molly and Arthur are out somewhere and the ghoul in the attic bangs a pipe now and then, but the clashing is discordant in the silence and when nothing responds he eventually stops.
Ginny spends most of her time outside, avoiding the empty Burrow and the uneasiness it now gives her. She knows she's the last one, and she knows that she's alone now like her brothers never were.
Her skin crawls as she enters the kitchen and begins the ascent to her room, because even though she could have had Charlie's room on the second floor she opted to keep hers, a vain attempt at normalcy that just spells more bluntly that things aren't the same. She wants to cry out in frustration and anger at what her home-her house-has become, but she instead lies restlessly in her bed, trying to sleep knowing that she can't.
When the silence clings inside of her veins so tightly she can't breathe she leaves her room and pads down the empty staircase with every intention of standing outside under the stars until her mind clears or sleep overtakes her. She passed by the living room and was surprised to see a flash of red hair, like fire in the moonlight-her only warning of Ron's presence in the Burrow like another of many ghosts.
Harry Potter, implied one-sided Harry/Draco
I started this when I first got to college, during a very weird emotional state--this is reflected in this fic. It's suppose to be...off, I guess, and it's mostly just abstract crack, if there's such a thing. Harry is exhausted all of the time and sleeps, slowly becoming Malfoy, and Ron and Hermione are distant, different, and the castle is falling apart. I don't even know.
The one place Harry has not been in the abandoned castle of Hogwarts is Gryffindor Tower. He has been nearly everywhere else-aided by the Marauder's Map-including the other house's common rooms, since the magic that held the passwords has faded along with everything else. The castle is dead now, and the staircases do not move and the suits of armor do not sing. The castle is crumbling and the brick sweats in the corridors and the walls leak in the Slytherin dorms with stagnant water from the lake.
Harry sleeps in Draco's bed but the sheets feel like starch and Harry cannot speak to the snakes on the duvet.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione are at the castle for seven months before the lake begins to flood onto the grounds. The brown and pockmarked water on the edges of the new banks is coated with slime and emits the scent of rotting fish. It is not long before the Giant Squid breaks the surface, dead.
AND
He talks to the portraits now, even though many of the frames are empty and the ones that remain do so out of a sense of loyalty to what the castle used to be. Their magic will not leave-is not bound to the life force of the castle, and thus will stay even when the castle is in ruins.
Harry talks to them with a solemn voice and talks about nothing, speaking lightly of war and death and eternity. He spends most of his time with Sir Cadogan, whose verdant fields have turned brown and grey and whose sky is saturated with smog. His armor is rusted and his horse is suddenly dead, and Harry wonders why the knight killed it until he sees a fire and catches the faint sound of someone eating ravenously. Harry holds back his vomit and returns through the shortcuts from the North Tower.
He rarely sees Ron and Hermione but hears them whisper and sees them watch him when he does, and he welcomes these talks with pictures and his time alone in the dungeons where Ron will not go.
Harry drags his feet through the Slytherin common room and when he falls into Draco's bed the sheets are moist from the condensation of lake water. He mutters an enchantment but does not have his wand and falls into sleep, his eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord.
He dreams that he's living in the lighthouse with the Dursleys, but when he turns eleven his parents come into the room with his acceptance letter to Smeltings, and Sirius stands behind them, a bent shotgun in his hands, laughing hysterically.
Harry wakes slowly the following night and creeps out of the dungeons, finding his way back to the Hufflepuff's section and the portrait of the fruit bowl. He tickles the core of the rotted pear and it shrieks in agony before the door of the kitchens creaks open. Harry scavenges around the cupboards and empty cabinets and finds some scraps of food that he eats ravenously.
He turns to leave and in the portrait of the first clan of house elves to work in the castle is Sir Codagan, his lips and teeth stained red and blood leaking onto his chin. His eyes glitter ferally and he proffers Harry a chunk of red meat, smiling manically. Harry vomits until his stomach is empty but the knight follows him through the portraits, yelling in pursuit.
Supernatural, Sam/Dean
These two are excerpts (the first and the last, chronologically) from my attempted Big Bang, written during s3. I'd like to finish it, but it's so behind canon and so not canon-compliant anymore that I don't really think it's worth it.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean muttered.
"What?" Sam smiled at him, eyes bright, his fingers lightly tapping on Dean's chest.
"You're gonna kill me one of these days," Dean said as he chuckled, low in his throat.
Sam's fingers stopped as he lifted his eyes to Dean and said, "I thought I already did."
Dean's face sobered in seconds, lines of worry appearing, eyes darkened. He framed one side of Sam's face with his hand and looked at Sam fiercely, but couldn't find anything to say; so he pulled Sam's face up to his and kissed him, reassuring and desperate.
Sam broke off first, turned his face away and rested his temple against Dean's forehead, breathing heavily. His fingers threaded lightly through the hair at the nape of Dean's neck, and Dean's name slipped through Sam's lips with every breath he took.
AND
Dean is still yelling, driving a good thirty-five over the speed limit, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "What the fuck, Sam?" he yells. "What the fuck is going on?"
He's still shaken from the incident on the freeway, and his eyes flick to his rearview mirror every couple of seconds, even though the road behind them has been empty for miles.
Sam is fidgety in his seat, as well, and shakes his head. "I don't know, Dean. But you saw that as well as I did."
"Yeah, believe me. Shit."
Sam thinks that 'shit' just about sums it up, and doesn't respond.
Dean is taking them a little back east and then further south, with the hopes of getting west and working their way up to South Carolina. Sam thinks that there's a slim chance they'll get back north, and he figures that Dean knows that, too, but there's nothing else for them to do. Except go back East, which by unspoken agreement they won't do, not yet. They need to get in touch with Bobby first.
Besides, they figure that getting back East won't be the problem.
Supernatural, implied Sam/Dean.
Self-indulgent, a cut scene from the above attempted Big Bang.
The next town they stop in has its nearest motel thirty two miles away, and so Dean pulls into a cheaper hotel (the only one in the town) while Sam tries to stop his grumbling about how he's the one who's gonna have to hustle more people to make the money so Sam can just shut up about it.
As it turns out, there's a baby grand in the lobby and Sam spares it only a glance as they make their way to the elevators and their room. The next day, however, when Sam is back first from research, he sits at the piano timidly and traces his fingers over the keys, positions them one of the only ways he knows how, and plays an albeit technically lacking rendition of Chopin’s Nocturne in C# Minor. His fingers grind to a halt several measures before the end when his fingers slip and his memory fails him to restart. He looks up, thinking to wait outside in the failing sunlight for Dean, when he spots him standing in the doorway to the lounge. Sam's too far away to read his expression, but when Dean speaks his voice is low, soft. "I didn’t know you could play," is all he says, and Sam answers him even though it wasn't a question.
"Jess taught me at Stanford. I only know this song and a couple others, though. And I can’t read music, or anything." (He doesn’t know why he feels the need to defend it, or to disclaim it).
Dean looks at him for a moment longer, studying him like he's never seen him before, before saying, "Oh," as Sam stands up from the bench awkwardly, shrugging off the situation.
Supernatural. Gen.
The next two are some of my Dean-in-Hells, obviously written during s3. There's really no point to the first one, so I never went anywhere else with it, and the second one is just a hallucination of Dean's, that ended with some fucked up Mary/Dean non-con, and I just never got around to finishing it.
I decided not to post the Mary/Dean bit because I'm still kind of disturbed by it, and I didn't post any excerpts from my other Dean-in-Hell, the premise of which was Dean gets castrated and has to deal after Sam saves him. That one also disturbed me and after some preliminary research I also never actually finished it.
When Dean comes to he finds himself in a dark room. He's lying flat on his back on a raised dais in the middle of the room, naked.
He processes things slowly, as if struggling to the surface of an impossibly deep pool. He first feels the cold stone of the dais pressing into his back, its flat surface unforgiving against the contours of his body. Next, he feels the moisture in his lungs, in the back of his throat-the need to gag on every breath, the drowning of his sinuses. Self-awareness slots back into place, jigsaw puzzle of memory and instinct, as he struggles to calm himself and breathe. He inhales once, deep, chokes as he exhales and the darkness of the room weighs down on his chest. The darkness claws behind his eyelids and he tries to open them, to stop his eyeballs from being crushed back into his skull, as he's sure will happen if it doesn't stop it, and at that thought, at that first attempt of movement, the pain begins to trickle into his consciousness. The darkness gives way to licks of jagged cold light as the pain distends, and he feels his body through the pain as it spreads, lancing over every inch of his skin.
Dean tries to separate himself from it, think of something else. All he can think about is how he didn't think you were supposed to have a body in Hell.
It was supposed to be restless, tortured souls, whisper of life, lost and no place to go. No need for limbs, for legs or arms or fingers. But then again, he thinks, you always hear screaming from Hell, and you need a mouth to be able to scream.
Later, his jaw is wired shut and his slashed tongue is so swollen that he can't open his mouth, but an agonized howl still manages to escape him, and he thinks the sound must simply leak out of the holes of his body, must come from his very being, his very soul.
But now his eyes are open to the suffocating darkness of the wet, cold room and every pore on his body, every strand of hair, every nerve ending, every cell, is in pain.
He thinks back to Sam's words (Meg's words, not Sam's): "a prison of flesh and bone and blood and fear"-and while this isn't what he imagined at the time, he thinks this should have been what he expected.
AND
Dean looks up and sees Sam enter the room. Sam smiles at him, a full, happy smile that Dean doesn't think he's seen since Sam was twelve years old and still happy with them, and he walks to Dean's side with a measured grace that Dean didn't think existed anymore without cruelty. Sam looks at him, at his skin eaten away by fire and steel, at his face gaunt and pale and cut, and Sam traces his finger along Dean's cheekbone, moves his hand over Dean's shoulder, down his arm, his chest. His fingers are cool and Dean's muscles relax under the touch, his skin breaks out in goose bumps at how good it feels. Sam looks back up to Dean's face, and Dean realizes that Sam's crying.
"Sammy," he cries out in a whisper, rattles the chains as he tries to touch Sam, comfort him. Sam shushes him and reaches up to undo the binding at Dean's wrists, releasing them with a mere touch. Dean sits up for the first time in months, his broken body protesting the movement, and Sam breaks down after a moan of pain escapes Dean's mouth and Dean pulls Sam to him, wrapping his arms around Sam's neck.
Sam clings to Dean, whispering in his ear, "God, oh God Dean, I've missed you so much, I was so worried, thought I was too late...Dean, Dean, God I love you, I need you back, I can't do this without you, Dean, I love you, I love you," and Dean just cradles Sam's head against his shoulder, his fingers running gently through Sam's overgrown hair.
Supernatural. Dub-con Sam/Dean.
Another one written during s3, mostly just for the sake of angsty smut.
Dean pushes Sam's head back to face him, and he leans in and kisses the side of Sam's mouth. Sam seems to melt beneath him, to give in to Dean's touch, his mouth following Dean's retreating one. Dean breathes in deep, steadying himself-bracing himself-and kisses Sam again, full on the lips this time. His hand finds the back of Sam's neck and he pushes Sam closer; Sam goes willingly, all too readily, and he doesn't feel Dean's hands shake in something completely different from what Sam's feeling. Sam closes his eyes so he doesn't see Dean's open ones, takes Dean's instinctual shy away from Sam's body pressing warm and alien into his own as a move for the bed, as taking Sam with him, and Sam breaks the kiss to moan Dean's name into the line of his jawbone. Dean tilts his head back, a shiver running violently through his body, a tense, apprehensive bundle of raw nerves that makes him almost sick to his stomach, and offers it up to Sam.
Sam takes it, too, devours every inch of Dean's skin, and Dean closes his eyes, hard, as Sam leads him to the bed and lies him down, straddling his hips, protest festering on his tongue; his back is pressing into the bed instead of arching into Sam's body above him but Sam just pushes down against him, need colouring his voice, making it harsh, low, so low Dean can barely make out his words.
Dean knows that Sam needs this, that this is what will help his brother deal with Dean's fate, with his future (or lack thereof) and Dean's always been willing-been wanting-to do anything for Sam, anything at all, and this is no exception. He knows, intrinsically, somehow, that the memories of these last nights together will torture him like an open wound in Hell, will linger in his mind like a jagged dark shape, morphing into something grotesque and hated, tarnishing his memories of Sam forever.
Narnia, implied Lucy/Edmund
This is one of the first ideas I ever had for the Narnia fandom, and I've never gotten it right. This is another lame attempt.
"Ed," she says again, more force behind it this time, but with such empathy that Edmund looks up at her. She gasps as she sees his face. There's such sadness there, such despair, that Lucy thinks she might die just from looking at it. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest and she wants so much to comfort him, to tell him that she understands, that it's okay. Instead, she takes his hands in hers, and they look at each other for a long moment, both taking control of their breathing.
Eventually Edmund breaks the silence. His voice comes out in a low mumble, almost a sob.
"Was it real?"
Lucy feels the bottom of her stomach drop out. She's asked herself the same question so many times, had to tell herself over and over again that yes, it was real, that yes, it did really happen. To hear the question from Edmund is more than she can handle, and she pulls Edmund to her. He cries into her shoulder and she holds him to her, her fingers running through his hair and across his back.
His voice is muffled as he asks again, "God Lu, was any of it real?" almost to himself. Lucy pulls away and looks at him.
"Yes, Ed," she says, with all the sincerity she can muster. She cups his chin and lifts his face up to look back at her. "It was real. All of it."
Narnia, Peter/Edmund
I wasn't sure I was going to post an excerpt from this, because it's actually my still-in-progess fic for a prompt at likecharity's Kink Meme, and the thing I'm most focused on writing right now. But I figured, what the hell.
It was harder, being back. On top of everything they normally dealt with, there was the second loss of Narnia. There were the second readjustments, harder this time-harder to accept, to understand, to live with. They saw the truth of it in each other's eyes, saw it scrawled haphazardly across each other's faces. They felt it in the coldness of each other's skin, tasted it in the imagined bitterness of each other's kiss.
Peter wasn't going back.
That fact weighed upon them constantly, dragged them down when it was all they could do to get up in the morning, all they could do to keep living their lives like they were all they had ever had. Peter wasn't going back, which meant that their chances were over, that they'd have to fight this for the rest of their lives, or give in.
Narnia, eventually Eustace/Jill/Lucy
I got this idea while writing the above Peter/Edmund and wondering what exactly happened to Lucy after Susan left. I don't know if I'm going to go anywhere with it, though, or if I even take it that seriously.
So three weeks later, at the end of her semester, Lucy arrives at the train station in London closest to Experiment House, and see Jill and Eustace on the platform, smiling and waving her over. She grabs her bags and hurries over to them, and Eustace meets her halfway and pulls her into a hug, and Lucy drops her bags and nearly jumps into his arms. She hadn't realized how much she missed him, how much she needed to see familiar faces that recognize something in her she's been doubting and hoping for for years.
After a moment they break apart, and Lucy realizes that Jill has made her way over, and is standing slightly behind Eustace, an unsure smile on her lips. Eustace turns to introduce them, but before he can begin to say, "Lucy, this is-"
"Jill," Lucy interrupts him with a smile, and pulls Jill into a hug, as well. Jill hugs her back, and when they break apart they hold each other's gaze for a second, and their smiles break into a laugh.
Eustace raises his eyebrows in question, but smiles all the same, recognizing what's happened between them.
They leave the station lost in conversation, as if the three had been friends for years.
Narnia RPF, one-sided Will/Skandar (fic will be various pairings)
This is an actual WIP that I plan on continuing. It's basically going to be a set of missed opportunities for everybody in different situations. Basically, an angst-fest.
There was such hesitation in Will's whispered words, like he knew whatever answer he received would change things between him and Skandar forever, and that he wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. He asked anyway, tentatively, but with hope placed carefully behind his words, "Skandar, do you-?"
Skandar cut him off before he could finish; the response was immediate.
"No, Will. I don’t."
Lord of the Flies, Jack/Ralph future!fic
I fell in love with the idea of this fandom years ago, but unfortunately there isn't much fic out there. I focus mostly on the future of the boys, and mostly on Jack and Ralph. This is part of their conversation during their first meeting after the island. Both are 19.
Ralph had grown up alone, any vestiges of the person he was before the island having dissipated long ago.
He nodded at Jack, and at this unspoken understanding, Jack continued.
"Their son looked at me like I was an animal, and I was so mad at him for so long, because he had no idea. He couldn't possibly have understood, couldn't possibly have imagined....
"He began to ask me questions, after a time, but I think his parents told him not to because he had this gleam in his eyes as he asked and his voice shook with guilt and fear. I never told him anything, even though I still remembered everything.
"I was polite enough to my relatives, of course, but I spoke rarely, and they knew I slept lightly and ate little."
Ralph remained motionless, eyes fixed on Jack's hard face. Jack didn't seem to notice; he made no indication that he even knew Ralph was there.
"They started to worry about me, and I sincerely believe that they were genuinely concerned for my health. Of course, they were well aware that I wasn't exactly mentally well, but they didn't send me away for just that."
Ralph flicked his eyes away from Jack's face as Jack laughed harshly, then continued, serious again, his eyes sad.
"They started with just meetings, two or three times a week. I despised going, not because I liked what was happening to me-the nightmares, the isolation, you know-"
Ralph knew.
"-but because I was afraid. And angry. I didn't want anyone to know what I had done. I knew that it was a crime, that was seemed like survival and justice was punishable by law. Nothing had happened yet, of course, but I wasn't sure how much the government or any of the adults knew, and I'd have been dammed if I was going to tell them.
"Besides, what could that shrink possibly have done? Like my cousin, he had no idea and nothing I could've said to him would have given him one."
The Looking Glass Wars, Alyss/Dodge
This trilogy has such awesome potential for fanfic, but unfortunately (like Lotf) the fandom is pretty much non-existent. This is one of the first things I ever wrote, and it's pretty much completed, I just never finished it.
She looks at Dodge now, silent, and watches him-has been watching him-since his battle with the Cat; she sees now how he closes his eyes as he looks down at the Pool of Tears, how he clenches his fist and bites his lip so hard that blood shines on his teeth when he finally stops. She sees how he looks pained, and how he turns his face away from her, hiding the parallel scars on his cheek.
She still loves him-indeed, she never stopped-but since her arrival back in Wonderland her love for him has only grown, grown into this thing inside her veins that she can hardly recognize, let alone control. She knows intrinsically that she never felt anything close to this for Leopold, and that Dodge was the reason why. She still thinks about Leopold, still thinks about the Liddells and her life as Alice. There're nights when she wakes up still believing she's in London, and there are nights when, in that obscure time between sleep and consciousness, she feels the needs to forget Wonderland because she's still in London and Leopold will never be that man with the scars on his face.
During these nights, she wakes in a panic but slowly calms as reality catches up to her imagination. She's felt this way only a few times waking, mostly during the time directly after her return to Wonderland and then after her defeat of Redd.
Wonderland is too much for her sometimes, and she feels Alice come back to her, wanting to deny the existence of this world and of the man who isn't Leopold because he doesn't actually exist.
__
I hope this kind of makes up for my ridiculous lack of anything, lately. :/
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Also, I don't think I understand the concept of 'excerpts.' Be warned.
Harry Potter, Ron/Ginny
Set during DH when Ron leaves Harry and Hermione. I used some of this for my 1sentence Ron/Ginny prompt, and never finished the actual fic.
And silence settles over the Burrow like a cancer, Ginny suffocating inside its walls. No noise comes from the house like it used to, and she walks down the hallways like a ghost, interrupted by no one. Molly and Arthur are out somewhere and the ghoul in the attic bangs a pipe now and then, but the clashing is discordant in the silence and when nothing responds he eventually stops.
Ginny spends most of her time outside, avoiding the empty Burrow and the uneasiness it now gives her. She knows she's the last one, and she knows that she's alone now like her brothers never were.
Her skin crawls as she enters the kitchen and begins the ascent to her room, because even though she could have had Charlie's room on the second floor she opted to keep hers, a vain attempt at normalcy that just spells more bluntly that things aren't the same. She wants to cry out in frustration and anger at what her home-her house-has become, but she instead lies restlessly in her bed, trying to sleep knowing that she can't.
When the silence clings inside of her veins so tightly she can't breathe she leaves her room and pads down the empty staircase with every intention of standing outside under the stars until her mind clears or sleep overtakes her. She passed by the living room and was surprised to see a flash of red hair, like fire in the moonlight-her only warning of Ron's presence in the Burrow like another of many ghosts.
Harry Potter, implied one-sided Harry/Draco
I started this when I first got to college, during a very weird emotional state--this is reflected in this fic. It's suppose to be...off, I guess, and it's mostly just abstract crack, if there's such a thing. Harry is exhausted all of the time and sleeps, slowly becoming Malfoy, and Ron and Hermione are distant, different, and the castle is falling apart. I don't even know.
The one place Harry has not been in the abandoned castle of Hogwarts is Gryffindor Tower. He has been nearly everywhere else-aided by the Marauder's Map-including the other house's common rooms, since the magic that held the passwords has faded along with everything else. The castle is dead now, and the staircases do not move and the suits of armor do not sing. The castle is crumbling and the brick sweats in the corridors and the walls leak in the Slytherin dorms with stagnant water from the lake.
Harry sleeps in Draco's bed but the sheets feel like starch and Harry cannot speak to the snakes on the duvet.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione are at the castle for seven months before the lake begins to flood onto the grounds. The brown and pockmarked water on the edges of the new banks is coated with slime and emits the scent of rotting fish. It is not long before the Giant Squid breaks the surface, dead.
AND
He talks to the portraits now, even though many of the frames are empty and the ones that remain do so out of a sense of loyalty to what the castle used to be. Their magic will not leave-is not bound to the life force of the castle, and thus will stay even when the castle is in ruins.
Harry talks to them with a solemn voice and talks about nothing, speaking lightly of war and death and eternity. He spends most of his time with Sir Cadogan, whose verdant fields have turned brown and grey and whose sky is saturated with smog. His armor is rusted and his horse is suddenly dead, and Harry wonders why the knight killed it until he sees a fire and catches the faint sound of someone eating ravenously. Harry holds back his vomit and returns through the shortcuts from the North Tower.
He rarely sees Ron and Hermione but hears them whisper and sees them watch him when he does, and he welcomes these talks with pictures and his time alone in the dungeons where Ron will not go.
Harry drags his feet through the Slytherin common room and when he falls into Draco's bed the sheets are moist from the condensation of lake water. He mutters an enchantment but does not have his wand and falls into sleep, his eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord.
He dreams that he's living in the lighthouse with the Dursleys, but when he turns eleven his parents come into the room with his acceptance letter to Smeltings, and Sirius stands behind them, a bent shotgun in his hands, laughing hysterically.
Harry wakes slowly the following night and creeps out of the dungeons, finding his way back to the Hufflepuff's section and the portrait of the fruit bowl. He tickles the core of the rotted pear and it shrieks in agony before the door of the kitchens creaks open. Harry scavenges around the cupboards and empty cabinets and finds some scraps of food that he eats ravenously.
He turns to leave and in the portrait of the first clan of house elves to work in the castle is Sir Codagan, his lips and teeth stained red and blood leaking onto his chin. His eyes glitter ferally and he proffers Harry a chunk of red meat, smiling manically. Harry vomits until his stomach is empty but the knight follows him through the portraits, yelling in pursuit.
Supernatural, Sam/Dean
These two are excerpts (the first and the last, chronologically) from my attempted Big Bang, written during s3. I'd like to finish it, but it's so behind canon and so not canon-compliant anymore that I don't really think it's worth it.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean muttered.
"What?" Sam smiled at him, eyes bright, his fingers lightly tapping on Dean's chest.
"You're gonna kill me one of these days," Dean said as he chuckled, low in his throat.
Sam's fingers stopped as he lifted his eyes to Dean and said, "I thought I already did."
Dean's face sobered in seconds, lines of worry appearing, eyes darkened. He framed one side of Sam's face with his hand and looked at Sam fiercely, but couldn't find anything to say; so he pulled Sam's face up to his and kissed him, reassuring and desperate.
Sam broke off first, turned his face away and rested his temple against Dean's forehead, breathing heavily. His fingers threaded lightly through the hair at the nape of Dean's neck, and Dean's name slipped through Sam's lips with every breath he took.
AND
Dean is still yelling, driving a good thirty-five over the speed limit, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "What the fuck, Sam?" he yells. "What the fuck is going on?"
He's still shaken from the incident on the freeway, and his eyes flick to his rearview mirror every couple of seconds, even though the road behind them has been empty for miles.
Sam is fidgety in his seat, as well, and shakes his head. "I don't know, Dean. But you saw that as well as I did."
"Yeah, believe me. Shit."
Sam thinks that 'shit' just about sums it up, and doesn't respond.
Dean is taking them a little back east and then further south, with the hopes of getting west and working their way up to South Carolina. Sam thinks that there's a slim chance they'll get back north, and he figures that Dean knows that, too, but there's nothing else for them to do. Except go back East, which by unspoken agreement they won't do, not yet. They need to get in touch with Bobby first.
Besides, they figure that getting back East won't be the problem.
Supernatural, implied Sam/Dean.
Self-indulgent, a cut scene from the above attempted Big Bang.
The next town they stop in has its nearest motel thirty two miles away, and so Dean pulls into a cheaper hotel (the only one in the town) while Sam tries to stop his grumbling about how he's the one who's gonna have to hustle more people to make the money so Sam can just shut up about it.
As it turns out, there's a baby grand in the lobby and Sam spares it only a glance as they make their way to the elevators and their room. The next day, however, when Sam is back first from research, he sits at the piano timidly and traces his fingers over the keys, positions them one of the only ways he knows how, and plays an albeit technically lacking rendition of Chopin’s Nocturne in C# Minor. His fingers grind to a halt several measures before the end when his fingers slip and his memory fails him to restart. He looks up, thinking to wait outside in the failing sunlight for Dean, when he spots him standing in the doorway to the lounge. Sam's too far away to read his expression, but when Dean speaks his voice is low, soft. "I didn’t know you could play," is all he says, and Sam answers him even though it wasn't a question.
"Jess taught me at Stanford. I only know this song and a couple others, though. And I can’t read music, or anything." (He doesn’t know why he feels the need to defend it, or to disclaim it).
Dean looks at him for a moment longer, studying him like he's never seen him before, before saying, "Oh," as Sam stands up from the bench awkwardly, shrugging off the situation.
Supernatural. Gen.
The next two are some of my Dean-in-Hells, obviously written during s3. There's really no point to the first one, so I never went anywhere else with it, and the second one is just a hallucination of Dean's, that ended with some fucked up Mary/Dean non-con, and I just never got around to finishing it.
I decided not to post the Mary/Dean bit because I'm still kind of disturbed by it, and I didn't post any excerpts from my other Dean-in-Hell, the premise of which was Dean gets castrated and has to deal after Sam saves him. That one also disturbed me and after some preliminary research I also never actually finished it.
When Dean comes to he finds himself in a dark room. He's lying flat on his back on a raised dais in the middle of the room, naked.
He processes things slowly, as if struggling to the surface of an impossibly deep pool. He first feels the cold stone of the dais pressing into his back, its flat surface unforgiving against the contours of his body. Next, he feels the moisture in his lungs, in the back of his throat-the need to gag on every breath, the drowning of his sinuses. Self-awareness slots back into place, jigsaw puzzle of memory and instinct, as he struggles to calm himself and breathe. He inhales once, deep, chokes as he exhales and the darkness of the room weighs down on his chest. The darkness claws behind his eyelids and he tries to open them, to stop his eyeballs from being crushed back into his skull, as he's sure will happen if it doesn't stop it, and at that thought, at that first attempt of movement, the pain begins to trickle into his consciousness. The darkness gives way to licks of jagged cold light as the pain distends, and he feels his body through the pain as it spreads, lancing over every inch of his skin.
Dean tries to separate himself from it, think of something else. All he can think about is how he didn't think you were supposed to have a body in Hell.
It was supposed to be restless, tortured souls, whisper of life, lost and no place to go. No need for limbs, for legs or arms or fingers. But then again, he thinks, you always hear screaming from Hell, and you need a mouth to be able to scream.
Later, his jaw is wired shut and his slashed tongue is so swollen that he can't open his mouth, but an agonized howl still manages to escape him, and he thinks the sound must simply leak out of the holes of his body, must come from his very being, his very soul.
But now his eyes are open to the suffocating darkness of the wet, cold room and every pore on his body, every strand of hair, every nerve ending, every cell, is in pain.
He thinks back to Sam's words (Meg's words, not Sam's): "a prison of flesh and bone and blood and fear"-and while this isn't what he imagined at the time, he thinks this should have been what he expected.
AND
Dean looks up and sees Sam enter the room. Sam smiles at him, a full, happy smile that Dean doesn't think he's seen since Sam was twelve years old and still happy with them, and he walks to Dean's side with a measured grace that Dean didn't think existed anymore without cruelty. Sam looks at him, at his skin eaten away by fire and steel, at his face gaunt and pale and cut, and Sam traces his finger along Dean's cheekbone, moves his hand over Dean's shoulder, down his arm, his chest. His fingers are cool and Dean's muscles relax under the touch, his skin breaks out in goose bumps at how good it feels. Sam looks back up to Dean's face, and Dean realizes that Sam's crying.
"Sammy," he cries out in a whisper, rattles the chains as he tries to touch Sam, comfort him. Sam shushes him and reaches up to undo the binding at Dean's wrists, releasing them with a mere touch. Dean sits up for the first time in months, his broken body protesting the movement, and Sam breaks down after a moan of pain escapes Dean's mouth and Dean pulls Sam to him, wrapping his arms around Sam's neck.
Sam clings to Dean, whispering in his ear, "God, oh God Dean, I've missed you so much, I was so worried, thought I was too late...Dean, Dean, God I love you, I need you back, I can't do this without you, Dean, I love you, I love you," and Dean just cradles Sam's head against his shoulder, his fingers running gently through Sam's overgrown hair.
Supernatural. Dub-con Sam/Dean.
Another one written during s3, mostly just for the sake of angsty smut.
Dean pushes Sam's head back to face him, and he leans in and kisses the side of Sam's mouth. Sam seems to melt beneath him, to give in to Dean's touch, his mouth following Dean's retreating one. Dean breathes in deep, steadying himself-bracing himself-and kisses Sam again, full on the lips this time. His hand finds the back of Sam's neck and he pushes Sam closer; Sam goes willingly, all too readily, and he doesn't feel Dean's hands shake in something completely different from what Sam's feeling. Sam closes his eyes so he doesn't see Dean's open ones, takes Dean's instinctual shy away from Sam's body pressing warm and alien into his own as a move for the bed, as taking Sam with him, and Sam breaks the kiss to moan Dean's name into the line of his jawbone. Dean tilts his head back, a shiver running violently through his body, a tense, apprehensive bundle of raw nerves that makes him almost sick to his stomach, and offers it up to Sam.
Sam takes it, too, devours every inch of Dean's skin, and Dean closes his eyes, hard, as Sam leads him to the bed and lies him down, straddling his hips, protest festering on his tongue; his back is pressing into the bed instead of arching into Sam's body above him but Sam just pushes down against him, need colouring his voice, making it harsh, low, so low Dean can barely make out his words.
Dean knows that Sam needs this, that this is what will help his brother deal with Dean's fate, with his future (or lack thereof) and Dean's always been willing-been wanting-to do anything for Sam, anything at all, and this is no exception. He knows, intrinsically, somehow, that the memories of these last nights together will torture him like an open wound in Hell, will linger in his mind like a jagged dark shape, morphing into something grotesque and hated, tarnishing his memories of Sam forever.
Narnia, implied Lucy/Edmund
This is one of the first ideas I ever had for the Narnia fandom, and I've never gotten it right. This is another lame attempt.
"Ed," she says again, more force behind it this time, but with such empathy that Edmund looks up at her. She gasps as she sees his face. There's such sadness there, such despair, that Lucy thinks she might die just from looking at it. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest and she wants so much to comfort him, to tell him that she understands, that it's okay. Instead, she takes his hands in hers, and they look at each other for a long moment, both taking control of their breathing.
Eventually Edmund breaks the silence. His voice comes out in a low mumble, almost a sob.
"Was it real?"
Lucy feels the bottom of her stomach drop out. She's asked herself the same question so many times, had to tell herself over and over again that yes, it was real, that yes, it did really happen. To hear the question from Edmund is more than she can handle, and she pulls Edmund to her. He cries into her shoulder and she holds him to her, her fingers running through his hair and across his back.
His voice is muffled as he asks again, "God Lu, was any of it real?" almost to himself. Lucy pulls away and looks at him.
"Yes, Ed," she says, with all the sincerity she can muster. She cups his chin and lifts his face up to look back at her. "It was real. All of it."
Narnia, Peter/Edmund
I wasn't sure I was going to post an excerpt from this, because it's actually my still-in-progess fic for a prompt at likecharity's Kink Meme, and the thing I'm most focused on writing right now. But I figured, what the hell.
It was harder, being back. On top of everything they normally dealt with, there was the second loss of Narnia. There were the second readjustments, harder this time-harder to accept, to understand, to live with. They saw the truth of it in each other's eyes, saw it scrawled haphazardly across each other's faces. They felt it in the coldness of each other's skin, tasted it in the imagined bitterness of each other's kiss.
Peter wasn't going back.
That fact weighed upon them constantly, dragged them down when it was all they could do to get up in the morning, all they could do to keep living their lives like they were all they had ever had. Peter wasn't going back, which meant that their chances were over, that they'd have to fight this for the rest of their lives, or give in.
Narnia, eventually Eustace/Jill/Lucy
I got this idea while writing the above Peter/Edmund and wondering what exactly happened to Lucy after Susan left. I don't know if I'm going to go anywhere with it, though, or if I even take it that seriously.
So three weeks later, at the end of her semester, Lucy arrives at the train station in London closest to Experiment House, and see Jill and Eustace on the platform, smiling and waving her over. She grabs her bags and hurries over to them, and Eustace meets her halfway and pulls her into a hug, and Lucy drops her bags and nearly jumps into his arms. She hadn't realized how much she missed him, how much she needed to see familiar faces that recognize something in her she's been doubting and hoping for for years.
After a moment they break apart, and Lucy realizes that Jill has made her way over, and is standing slightly behind Eustace, an unsure smile on her lips. Eustace turns to introduce them, but before he can begin to say, "Lucy, this is-"
"Jill," Lucy interrupts him with a smile, and pulls Jill into a hug, as well. Jill hugs her back, and when they break apart they hold each other's gaze for a second, and their smiles break into a laugh.
Eustace raises his eyebrows in question, but smiles all the same, recognizing what's happened between them.
They leave the station lost in conversation, as if the three had been friends for years.
Narnia RPF, one-sided Will/Skandar (fic will be various pairings)
This is an actual WIP that I plan on continuing. It's basically going to be a set of missed opportunities for everybody in different situations. Basically, an angst-fest.
There was such hesitation in Will's whispered words, like he knew whatever answer he received would change things between him and Skandar forever, and that he wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. He asked anyway, tentatively, but with hope placed carefully behind his words, "Skandar, do you-?"
Skandar cut him off before he could finish; the response was immediate.
"No, Will. I don’t."
Lord of the Flies, Jack/Ralph future!fic
I fell in love with the idea of this fandom years ago, but unfortunately there isn't much fic out there. I focus mostly on the future of the boys, and mostly on Jack and Ralph. This is part of their conversation during their first meeting after the island. Both are 19.
Ralph had grown up alone, any vestiges of the person he was before the island having dissipated long ago.
He nodded at Jack, and at this unspoken understanding, Jack continued.
"Their son looked at me like I was an animal, and I was so mad at him for so long, because he had no idea. He couldn't possibly have understood, couldn't possibly have imagined....
"He began to ask me questions, after a time, but I think his parents told him not to because he had this gleam in his eyes as he asked and his voice shook with guilt and fear. I never told him anything, even though I still remembered everything.
"I was polite enough to my relatives, of course, but I spoke rarely, and they knew I slept lightly and ate little."
Ralph remained motionless, eyes fixed on Jack's hard face. Jack didn't seem to notice; he made no indication that he even knew Ralph was there.
"They started to worry about me, and I sincerely believe that they were genuinely concerned for my health. Of course, they were well aware that I wasn't exactly mentally well, but they didn't send me away for just that."
Ralph flicked his eyes away from Jack's face as Jack laughed harshly, then continued, serious again, his eyes sad.
"They started with just meetings, two or three times a week. I despised going, not because I liked what was happening to me-the nightmares, the isolation, you know-"
Ralph knew.
"-but because I was afraid. And angry. I didn't want anyone to know what I had done. I knew that it was a crime, that was seemed like survival and justice was punishable by law. Nothing had happened yet, of course, but I wasn't sure how much the government or any of the adults knew, and I'd have been dammed if I was going to tell them.
"Besides, what could that shrink possibly have done? Like my cousin, he had no idea and nothing I could've said to him would have given him one."
The Looking Glass Wars, Alyss/Dodge
This trilogy has such awesome potential for fanfic, but unfortunately (like Lotf) the fandom is pretty much non-existent. This is one of the first things I ever wrote, and it's pretty much completed, I just never finished it.
She looks at Dodge now, silent, and watches him-has been watching him-since his battle with the Cat; she sees now how he closes his eyes as he looks down at the Pool of Tears, how he clenches his fist and bites his lip so hard that blood shines on his teeth when he finally stops. She sees how he looks pained, and how he turns his face away from her, hiding the parallel scars on his cheek.
She still loves him-indeed, she never stopped-but since her arrival back in Wonderland her love for him has only grown, grown into this thing inside her veins that she can hardly recognize, let alone control. She knows intrinsically that she never felt anything close to this for Leopold, and that Dodge was the reason why. She still thinks about Leopold, still thinks about the Liddells and her life as Alice. There're nights when she wakes up still believing she's in London, and there are nights when, in that obscure time between sleep and consciousness, she feels the needs to forget Wonderland because she's still in London and Leopold will never be that man with the scars on his face.
During these nights, she wakes in a panic but slowly calms as reality catches up to her imagination. She's felt this way only a few times waking, mostly during the time directly after her return to Wonderland and then after her defeat of Redd.
Wonderland is too much for her sometimes, and she feels Alice come back to her, wanting to deny the existence of this world and of the man who isn't Leopold because he doesn't actually exist.
__
I hope this kind of makes up for my ridiculous lack of anything, lately. :/