4 Last Author Standing Fics
Look at me, actually posting things! I've recently joined several "Last Author Standing" communities, elimination-style fanfiction contests for different fandoms. The voting for the first challenges just wrapped up this Sunday (I wasn't eliminated, btw), so now I'm allowed to post my fics! The fandoms I joined were: Harry Potter (harrypotter_las), Jossverse (jossverse_las), Supernatural (spn_las), and The Vampire Diaries (tvd_las). I also plan on doing Whoverse as soon as round 1 is complete and Stargate if they decide to do it.
Anyway, so this means I'll be posting around four new fics every two weeks (until I get eliminated, in any case), which is really good for me. Please go by the communities and vote! Anyone on LJ can cast one. The fics are posted up anonymously so it doesn't turn into a popularity contest, but it's the thought that counts. I'll post a reminder when voting is about to start and end. Anyway, here be my fics:
Title: Red on Redheads and the Difference Between Mauve and Lavender
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings/Characters: Ron, Fred and George, Harry, Hermione
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 943
Summary: Fred and George are feeling rather fabulous today. Ron suffers the consequences.
Author's Notes: Written for harrypotter_las for challenge 1: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy comes to Hogwarts (or ... Make someone over).
“No, no, no! Absolutely not! Put it down, back away. Slowly.”
Ron froze. A bright red sweater was pulled halfway over his head, appropriately adorned with a rearing golden lion. Unlike most of Molly Weasely’s knitting projects, this particular sweater didn’t cause the wearer to wince every time he glanced in the mirror.
“Oh come on,” Ron complained, yanking the sweater off. “What did I do now?”
Fred and George leered threateningly; Ron shrank away. “Put. It. Down,” Fred repeated. Meekly, Ron dropped the sweater. George woefully shook his head; Hermione smothered a giggle. Whipping his head around, Ron scowled.
For half an hour, Harry and Hermione found themselves holed up in the boy’s dormitory, watching Fred and George… well, play dress-up with Ron, for lack of a better description. Eagerly dashing from one side of the room to the other, the twins snatched this shirt or that pair of pants and held them up to their distressed brother: “Try this one, Ron,” “That one’s horrid, Ron,” “What do you think Ron-mauve or lavender?” Harry (or Hermione, for that matter) shouldn’t enjoy Ron’s torment so much, but Ron really brought this upon himself.
“I can’t believe we’re related,” George moaned. The Gryffindor sweater sailed across the room into the “rejected” heap. “Are you blind?”
Ron huffed. “I liked it.”
George gave an exaggerated sigh. “It was red, Ron,” he said slowly. “Red.”
Ron stared blankly. “And...?”
“You’re ginger,” Fred explained. From Ron’s expression, it didn’t explain much.
“So?”
“So?” The twins threw their hands in the air. “You’re a ginger! The sweater is red! Under no circumstances should a redhead ever wear red.”
“Well, that’s true,” Hermione whispered to Harry from behind her book.
Ron sputtered. “What? I’m a Gryffindor, I have to wear red!”
“And you always look terrible,” George replied primly.
“You two wear red all the time!”
“Not the point,” said Fred promptly. “We’re here for you, dear Ronald, not us. You need to learn these rules for when we’re not around.”
“Rules?” Ron demanded. “What rules?”
“Rules. Like no red on redheads,” George answered.
“Or no white after Labor Day,” continued Fred.
“Labor Day?” Harry mouthed. Hermione shrugged.
“The point is, you need all the help you can get.” Ron’s mouth opened but George swiftly cut him off. “Nuh-uh. Two words: Yule. Ball.”
Ron’s face flushed. “You know that was mum,” he muttered.
“Excuses, Ronnie-kins,” George said airily. “Now, you desperately need more casual outfits. You always look so... drab.”
“Try these on,” Fred commanded. A pair of trousers hit Ron in the face. “George, old boy, is our dearest Ronald a winter or a summer?” The twins resumed scouring for clothes.
Ron eyed Hermione. She obediently turned away, eyes covered. Ron tore off his jeans and hopped into the slacks. “I hate you both,” Ron hissed, struggling with the zipper.
“Your own fault, Ron,” Harry said, grin wide.
“The stupid potion was your idea!”
“I didn’t think you’d actually try it.”
“Well, if Hermione had helped me like I asked…”
“And I told you it wouldn’t work,” Hermione chimed. “Is it safe?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The zipper finally gave and Hermione uncovered her face.
When Lee Jordon begged him to speak to his brothers about their messy room, Ron could’ve just talked to them. Instead, Harry mentioned potions homework, one thing led to another…
“It was just supposed to give them cleaner habits,” Ron defended.
“You shouldn’t experiment with poorly written potions,” Hermione shot back.
“Ron, try this!”
Ron dragged himself away from the bed, throwing one last glare over his shoulder.
“It sort of worked,” Harry pointed out. Fred forced a green shirt over Ron’s head.
“Mmm-hmm,” Hermione answered vaguely.
“Shouldn’t it have worn off by now?”
Over the top of her book, Hermione glimpsed the twins spinning Ron in circle to examine him from different angles. A smiled quirked at her lips. “By my calculations, it wore off about thirty minutes ago, after we rearranged the common room.”
Harry nodded. Just as he suspected. “Should we rescue him?”
Hermione looked up. “No good,” said George. “He looks like a Christmas tree.” She smiled again and shook her head.
“Maybe in time for lunch,” she suggested. “A lesson needs to be learned, after all.”
“Don’t borrow potion books from Lavender Brown?”
“Ron shouldn’t mix potions alone.”
“Ah.”
A green shirt landed on Harry’s head. “Nice shot,” Fred stage whispered.
“Harry, dear--” George sounded just like Mrs. Weasely “--you really should keep that one.”
“It brings out your eyes,” Fred added kindly.
Ron smirked as Harry and Hermione exchanged panicked glances. Harry really didn’t like how thoughtful the twins looked...
Hermione snapped her book shut. “I can’t read here,” she announced. “It’s too chaotic. I’m going to the common room.”
“Me too,” Harry seconded hastily. “I’ve a potions essay to finish.”
Ron’s expression turned murderous. “You--” But Harry and Hermione were already out the door, Fred and George still chatting away as they dashed down the stairs:
“Ah, the common room--some of our finest work. Fabulous.”
“Too bad Harry left, though. Great cheekbones.”
“You know who has great cheekbones? That Malfoy kid.”
“If we appealed to his fashion sense, think he’d stop hating us long enough to model some outfits?”
“Nah. But he does have great taste. I guess we’ll have to settle with Ronnie-kins here. So, Ronald: mauve or lavender?”
“There’s no bloody difference!”
“Ronald! I’m shocked you would say such a thing.”
“Appalled.”
“Next you’ll be saying royal blue and navy blue are the same.”
“Or lime and yellow-green.”
“Or eggshell and off-white!”
“Argh!”
“Don’t wave your hands around like that Ron--you’re stretching your vest.”
Title: Pom-Poms and Side Kicks
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Buffyverse (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
Pairings/Characters: Buffy, Giles, Willow, Xander, Angel
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 978
Summary: Buffy's past comes back to haunt her... much to the Scooby Gang's amusement.
Author's Notes: Written for jossverse_las for challenge 1: Habits. This fic got first place for challenge 1!
Buffy executed the next move in the kata with perfect precision, silently spinning to face her invisible opponent. Oh yeah. She was in the zone. In. The. Zone. She glanced at Giles. Much to her annoyance, he only half-watched her, more interested in a book than her awesomeness.
She shifted into a new stance. Whatever. The faster he got bored, the faster she could get home and enjoy the Ben & Jerry’s in the fridge. Mmm... double chocolate rocky road. Snapping out two punches and a side kick, Buffy gracefully completed the rest of the kata, ending with a bow. Casually, she edged toward her backpack.
“Again.”
Buffy scowled; he hadn’t even looked up. “You weren’t even watching. That was perfect.”
Giles flipped a page. “Hardly. Again, please.”
Buffy ended up repeating the kata five more times, her frustration growing each time. Nothing was wrong! She mentally ran through her checklist of reminders, examined each hand and foot placement, and made sure she wasn’t somehow skipping movements, but still nothing jumped out at her. Finishing her fifth run-through, Buffy all-out glared at Giles, daring him to find anything wrong with her form.
“Agai--”
“Oh, come on!” Buffy complained loudly. Giles eyed her over the top of his book. “Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so,” he confirmed. “We keep going until you get this right. Get set.” Buffy stubbornly crossed her arms and didn’t move. After a long moment Giles sighed and set his book aside. “You are doing it incorrectly, Buffy.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“Are so.”
“Am not.”
“Are--oh, no. You’re not drawing me into one of your games. Now reset.”
Buffy pouted a minute more, but Giles’ Disapproving-British-Glare-of-Doom forced her to submit. Reluctantly, she returned to the starting position.
Somehow it was worse knowing he was actually watching, knowing he saw something she couldn’t--did he really need to leer like that?--but by now Buffy could do this kata in her sleep. She was confident. Block, block, half turn, punch, punch, side kick--
“Stop,” Giles ordered suddenly. Startled, Buffy lost her balance, but she quickly righted herself and glowered at Giles.
“What now?” she demanded.
“Here,” Giles said, standing beside her, “do those last two sets again--slowly.” Rolling her eyes, Buffy repeated the motions. Punch, punch, side kick--
“Your form is awful,” Giles informed her helpfully. Buffy scowled. “Do it again.” She did, Giles guiding her movements with his hands. “Punch somebody like that, you’re liable to break your wrist,” he said, adjusting her punch. “Correct your posture and bend your knees more. And don’t point your toes when you kick.”
“It doesn't feel wrong,” Buffy muttered, fixing herself. How did she not notice all this? “And it’s not like I do that when I actually fight.”
“You should be able to get it right all the time,” Giles lectured. “You’re doing it again, by the way.”
“I can’t help it!” she whined, flexing her foot. “It feels...” Buffy trailed off. It felt more than right--it felt familiar. Suddenly the pieces clicked into place and her face turned pink. “I can’t help it,” Buffy mumbled. “Habit.”
“It’s a bad one, and you better unlearn it. Soon.” Giles frowned. “What I can’t understand is why it’s just this part you can’t do correctly.”
“I can do it,” Buffy broke in, then quietly murmured something.
“Pardon?” Giles asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It reminds me of something, okay?” Giles gestured for her to continue; Buffy made an irritated noise in the back of her throat. “A routine! A stupid cheerleading routine,” she said flatly.
A smile twitched in the corner of Giles’ mouth, but he just managed not to laugh. “Oh, well, that’s, um. Nice.”
Ready to snap back a reply, Buffy was cut off by Xander and Willow bursting through the library doors.
“What’s nice?” asked Willow, sliding into a chair.
“What is this I hear about Buffy and cheerleading?” Xander inquired with a devious grin.
Willow and Xander exchanged matching smirks.
“Oh no,” said Buffy threateningly. “Don’t even think about it.”
*~*
Five minutes later, Buffy faced away from her friends, arms straight by her sides, counting beats under her breath.
“C’mon, Buffy!” Willow urged.
Buffy sighed--darn Willow and her puppy-dog eyes--before plastering the largest smile she could on her face. In. The. Zone. She rapidly turned on her heel, hands on her hips. They stared at her like she’d grown an extra head.
“READY?” she shouted, all smiles and enthusiasm.
“That’s kind of creepy,” Xander whispered to Willow, who elbowed him in the side.
“OKAY!” Buffy clapped her hands together and began the routine.
The cheer came back to her with embarrassing clarity, words and all. Buffy tossed her head and shook her imaginary pom-poms like her life depended on it. Her friends’ cheering was probably more teasing than anything, but the grin on her face slowly became real anyway.
“We’ll never stop, we’ll never rest! Razorbacks, we are the best!” Buffy ended holding her right leg above her head, free hand in raised in a fist creating a “V” shape.
Xander and Willow burst into applause.
“Wow,” Willow gushed. “Cordelia has nothing on you.”
“I liked the part with the back flip,” added Xander. “And the splits.” He sighed wistfully.
“I must admit, cheerleading might have... some athletic merit,” Giles confessed.
Buffy smiled in embarrassment. “It was noth--”
“Buffy?” asked a voice from the doorway. “What are you doing?”
Buffy somehow managed to spin in place, right foot still poised above her head. “Angel!” she squeaked and promptly fell over.
The group forward rushed to help the fallen Slayer. Dazed, Buffy didn’t resist the hands pulling her up.
“Do you always have to sneak in here so quiet?” Buffy asked, rubbing the side of her head as Angel fussed over her. “You’re like a ninja.”
“Sorry, can’t help it,” Angel apologized. “Habit.”
---
Post-Story Note: Amusing note about this one - it's actually inspired by real life. I've never been a cheerleader, but I was in colorguard. When I started learning kobudo (a weapons martial arts), I always kicked with pointed toes. Unlike Buffy, however, my colorguard experience actually helped me learn how to use a bo staff, rather than hurt.
Title: Romance and Sam Winchester
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Jess, Sam/Madison, Sam/Ruby
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: general series spoilers up to the end of season four
Word Count: 906
Summary: Sam has had many kinds of romances.
Author's Notes: Written for spn_las for challenge 1: Write a fic based on your feelings, vibes, etc of this song (Lady Gaga - Bad Romance).
A Good Romance.
Sam saw Jessica before he met her, shaking her hips and moving to some nameless techno beat pounding out over the loud speakers. She didn’t stick out exactly, or do anything in particular to catch his eye, but Sam liked her hair and the way she moved like she was actually trying to dance instead of flirting or grinding or drawing attention to herself. Sam liked her, but forgot all about her until Brady introduced them in study group a week later. Suddenly he could recall the appealing way light reflected off her hair with perfect clarity.
Sam learned a lot of things about Jessica in that first day, like her love of physics, hatred of Shakespeare, the insane amount of pop trivia in her head, and that it’s Jess, not Jessica. Within a month they were having not-dates over mochas and lattes. In three months they had study dates that were really date-dates.
Jess gave secrets to Sam; secrets hidden twenty minute study breaks and homemade cookies, late-night movie marathons and worry-wart parents. Taught him mathematical shortcuts and silly songs for equations, how five more minutes always means ten more minutes and a kiss, that tears can mean you’re happy, not just sad or hurt, and can be a good thing sometimes.
Sam gave Jess lies and half-truths, stories instead of memories. He gave out scraps of information, carefully examined beforehand for discrepancies, holes, and opportunities for uncomfortable questions. It was unfair; it was all Sam knew how to do: cut up and handover bits of himself at a time and avoid the black pit of secrets at his root.
But somehow Jess reorganized the mangled pieces in to a picture frighteningly close to the real Sam Winchester. She found secrets inside not dirtied by monsters or guns and brought them to life in the Palo Alto sun and made Sam feel whole.
In a year, Sam fell in love.
In six months, he was ready to propose.
By November, Jess was dead.
Sam was greedy and selfish, and it cost him everything. He spoiled their good love with coincidence, destiny, and his own rotten luck.
Sam dragged regret behind him with every step. He didn’t bother to reclaim the puzzle pieces making up Jess’s Sam, instead burying them in her empty grave. He wouldn’t need them.
*~*
A Sad Romance.
Madison came out of nowhere, a surprise left for him in the crossroads of America and Sam’s twisted life; a beauty hidden behind a case number. He almost missed her completely, but found her wedged between guard duty and soap operas.
Madison felt like good intentions and second chances. In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Sam daydreamed up happily ever afters and white picket fences. She was good, smart, funny, and worth ending all this madness. And best part of all? She knew; knew about the dark things Sam secreted away from sight and sun. Madison was grateful for Sam’s secrets because they were her secrets too. She could take them without looking away in disgust.
Sam fell in love in less than a day.
Madison was dead in less than a week.
Sam looked her straight in the eye when he killed her, blurred as she was through tears. With a single shot he killed a girl and a monster; another shot could have killed a boy and a freak. He walked away though, because his brother was standing outside, and other things waited out there to die, even more monsters to kill before they consumed even more girls.
How many more woman would he get killed trying to hunt the monsters down?
*~*
A Bad Romance.
To Jess he gave stories. To Madison he gave his secrets.
Ruby somehow got everything.
Ruby snuck into Sam’s life with smirks and promises and knowledge. She was danger disguised as hope. Sam wanted to hate her--should have hated her--but the parts of Sam that knew better had already been given away to other, better girls.
Ruby ate up all his loathing and self-doubt and gave him blood, sex, and confidence. She rearranged his insides so the empty spaces shaped like Jess and Madison looked just like her. Sam violently shoved everything over to her, dared her to look into the deep, dark well of Sam Winchester.
She looked in the well, and understood. Then she made it deeper.
For the first time, Sam gave over everything. Mourning and the drive for revenge made it easy. Ruby not only knew his secrets, understood his secrets--she became a secret herself. They had a private world where nothing hurt and doubt couldn’t touch him.
It took three months for Ruby to find out everything about him.
A year later, Sam freed the Devil.
A few minutes after that, Ruby was dead.
The knife slammed into Ruby’s chest as he held her still, and all Sam could feel at her betrayal was acceptance. Could he really be surprised at laying another girl’s body to rest, or that he caused her death? Nothing new, Sam Winchester, get over it Sam Winchester.
Sam didn’t cry for Ruby, but that was mostly because he couldn’t--she’d taken his sympathy.
*~*
No Romance.
Sam met a girl a few months into the Apocalypse.
She smiled and gave her name. Sam gave nothing and she left.
Nothing much was left for Sam Winchester to give. He was all out of romance.
Title: Conquest in a Waltz
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Pairings/Characters: Damon/Elena, past Damon/Katherine
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: episode tag for 1x19 "Miss Mystic Falls"
Word Count: 577
Summary: Elena’s eyes are on him, and Damon knows he’s doomed.
Author's Notes: Written for tvd_las for challenge 1: The weapons we wield. This is actually my favorite one I wrote.
Elena’s eyes are on him, and Damon knows he’s doomed.
They’re dancing. Pressed so tightly together, he can feel the heat of her, smell her--practically taste her blood. A hundred other people are watching, but he can only feel her stare: sharp and confused, but not timid, and certainly not scared. She’s sizing him up, dressing him down, and figuring him out all at once. Damon calmly watches as his world shrinks down to a single focus.
They keep in time perfectly. Damon learned to dance back in the days when such a skill was required of young, upper class men, and he’s confident in his steps. But Elena’s not half bad either, never surprised by a sudden change in direction and keeping watch for the careless missteps of other dancers without turning her head even once. She’s... graceful. More graceful than a young, unschooled, mortal girl should be. It’s in not the accuracy of her steps, but in the way she holds herself, a self-assured, but humble princess. It’s entrancing.
Elena is dangerous.
Damon remembers Katherine. Remembers watching her hunt, her careless abandon, stemming not from overconfidence, but from the absolute certainty she could never be caught, could never lose; the games she played because of it. Her strength was intoxicating, the power in her every move unmistakable. He used to wonder how anyone could mistake her for some delicate flower, but she was a master of deception as well. Want to play hide and seek, Damon? We’ll hide in plain sight.
Damon remembers fearing her. The awe mixed with terror. Katherine was a beautiful, deadly thing, a bloody goddess he worshiped, so in love with her, with her violence, wielded so precisely behind a dainty mask of powder and silk.
Katherine was lethal, born to relish in physicality and blood. Damon understands the tools she brandished to gain control; recognizes them, because he uses them too, conquering through pain and ferocity and death. Two wolves in a world full of sheep.
Elena is different.
Even now, dressed so much like Katherine that the lines between the two blur, there’s nothing vicious about Elena; could never be. Elena’s frail, small--her body’s only human, after all, and Damon could break her so, so easily. He could kill her right now, if he wanted to. It wouldn’t take much: twisting her head with a flick of his wrists would kill her pretty much instantly. But he can’t even fantasize about it, much less do it.
Her gaze has yet to leave him. Trapped, all he can do is smirk and carry on with the waltz.
If Elena tried to lead, Damon thinks he’d let her.
Elena is not vicious--but she’s not weak. And she’s not helpless. Elena conquers with different instruments than Katherine, unaware of her own cunning. She sliced her way into Damon’s life with wit and gentility and beauty; drew him in with unintended and horribly appealing acts of kindness. Even now, charming him in the way she relaxes fractionally in his arms with uncertainty in her eyes, the finely sharpened blade that is Elena Gilbert sinks into chest, twisting.
Elena draws away from him--the dance is over. She dips into a curtsy without lowering her eyes and Damon inclines his head.
Katherine could have torn him apart with teeth and hands, true. But Damon has the feeling Elena could utterly destroy him with a glance... and he would watch her do it with a smile.
Anyway, so this means I'll be posting around four new fics every two weeks (until I get eliminated, in any case), which is really good for me. Please go by the communities and vote! Anyone on LJ can cast one. The fics are posted up anonymously so it doesn't turn into a popularity contest, but it's the thought that counts. I'll post a reminder when voting is about to start and end. Anyway, here be my fics:
Title: Red on Redheads and the Difference Between Mauve and Lavender
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings/Characters: Ron, Fred and George, Harry, Hermione
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 943
Summary: Fred and George are feeling rather fabulous today. Ron suffers the consequences.
Author's Notes: Written for harrypotter_las for challenge 1: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy comes to Hogwarts (or ... Make someone over).
“No, no, no! Absolutely not! Put it down, back away. Slowly.”
Ron froze. A bright red sweater was pulled halfway over his head, appropriately adorned with a rearing golden lion. Unlike most of Molly Weasely’s knitting projects, this particular sweater didn’t cause the wearer to wince every time he glanced in the mirror.
“Oh come on,” Ron complained, yanking the sweater off. “What did I do now?”
Fred and George leered threateningly; Ron shrank away. “Put. It. Down,” Fred repeated. Meekly, Ron dropped the sweater. George woefully shook his head; Hermione smothered a giggle. Whipping his head around, Ron scowled.
For half an hour, Harry and Hermione found themselves holed up in the boy’s dormitory, watching Fred and George… well, play dress-up with Ron, for lack of a better description. Eagerly dashing from one side of the room to the other, the twins snatched this shirt or that pair of pants and held them up to their distressed brother: “Try this one, Ron,” “That one’s horrid, Ron,” “What do you think Ron-mauve or lavender?” Harry (or Hermione, for that matter) shouldn’t enjoy Ron’s torment so much, but Ron really brought this upon himself.
“I can’t believe we’re related,” George moaned. The Gryffindor sweater sailed across the room into the “rejected” heap. “Are you blind?”
Ron huffed. “I liked it.”
George gave an exaggerated sigh. “It was red, Ron,” he said slowly. “Red.”
Ron stared blankly. “And...?”
“You’re ginger,” Fred explained. From Ron’s expression, it didn’t explain much.
“So?”
“So?” The twins threw their hands in the air. “You’re a ginger! The sweater is red! Under no circumstances should a redhead ever wear red.”
“Well, that’s true,” Hermione whispered to Harry from behind her book.
Ron sputtered. “What? I’m a Gryffindor, I have to wear red!”
“And you always look terrible,” George replied primly.
“You two wear red all the time!”
“Not the point,” said Fred promptly. “We’re here for you, dear Ronald, not us. You need to learn these rules for when we’re not around.”
“Rules?” Ron demanded. “What rules?”
“Rules. Like no red on redheads,” George answered.
“Or no white after Labor Day,” continued Fred.
“Labor Day?” Harry mouthed. Hermione shrugged.
“The point is, you need all the help you can get.” Ron’s mouth opened but George swiftly cut him off. “Nuh-uh. Two words: Yule. Ball.”
Ron’s face flushed. “You know that was mum,” he muttered.
“Excuses, Ronnie-kins,” George said airily. “Now, you desperately need more casual outfits. You always look so... drab.”
“Try these on,” Fred commanded. A pair of trousers hit Ron in the face. “George, old boy, is our dearest Ronald a winter or a summer?” The twins resumed scouring for clothes.
Ron eyed Hermione. She obediently turned away, eyes covered. Ron tore off his jeans and hopped into the slacks. “I hate you both,” Ron hissed, struggling with the zipper.
“Your own fault, Ron,” Harry said, grin wide.
“The stupid potion was your idea!”
“I didn’t think you’d actually try it.”
“Well, if Hermione had helped me like I asked…”
“And I told you it wouldn’t work,” Hermione chimed. “Is it safe?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The zipper finally gave and Hermione uncovered her face.
When Lee Jordon begged him to speak to his brothers about their messy room, Ron could’ve just talked to them. Instead, Harry mentioned potions homework, one thing led to another…
“It was just supposed to give them cleaner habits,” Ron defended.
“You shouldn’t experiment with poorly written potions,” Hermione shot back.
“Ron, try this!”
Ron dragged himself away from the bed, throwing one last glare over his shoulder.
“It sort of worked,” Harry pointed out. Fred forced a green shirt over Ron’s head.
“Mmm-hmm,” Hermione answered vaguely.
“Shouldn’t it have worn off by now?”
Over the top of her book, Hermione glimpsed the twins spinning Ron in circle to examine him from different angles. A smiled quirked at her lips. “By my calculations, it wore off about thirty minutes ago, after we rearranged the common room.”
Harry nodded. Just as he suspected. “Should we rescue him?”
Hermione looked up. “No good,” said George. “He looks like a Christmas tree.” She smiled again and shook her head.
“Maybe in time for lunch,” she suggested. “A lesson needs to be learned, after all.”
“Don’t borrow potion books from Lavender Brown?”
“Ron shouldn’t mix potions alone.”
“Ah.”
A green shirt landed on Harry’s head. “Nice shot,” Fred stage whispered.
“Harry, dear--” George sounded just like Mrs. Weasely “--you really should keep that one.”
“It brings out your eyes,” Fred added kindly.
Ron smirked as Harry and Hermione exchanged panicked glances. Harry really didn’t like how thoughtful the twins looked...
Hermione snapped her book shut. “I can’t read here,” she announced. “It’s too chaotic. I’m going to the common room.”
“Me too,” Harry seconded hastily. “I’ve a potions essay to finish.”
Ron’s expression turned murderous. “You--” But Harry and Hermione were already out the door, Fred and George still chatting away as they dashed down the stairs:
“Ah, the common room--some of our finest work. Fabulous.”
“Too bad Harry left, though. Great cheekbones.”
“You know who has great cheekbones? That Malfoy kid.”
“If we appealed to his fashion sense, think he’d stop hating us long enough to model some outfits?”
“Nah. But he does have great taste. I guess we’ll have to settle with Ronnie-kins here. So, Ronald: mauve or lavender?”
“There’s no bloody difference!”
“Ronald! I’m shocked you would say such a thing.”
“Appalled.”
“Next you’ll be saying royal blue and navy blue are the same.”
“Or lime and yellow-green.”
“Or eggshell and off-white!”
“Argh!”
“Don’t wave your hands around like that Ron--you’re stretching your vest.”
Title: Pom-Poms and Side Kicks
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Buffyverse (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
Pairings/Characters: Buffy, Giles, Willow, Xander, Angel
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 978
Summary: Buffy's past comes back to haunt her... much to the Scooby Gang's amusement.
Author's Notes: Written for jossverse_las for challenge 1: Habits. This fic got first place for challenge 1!
Buffy executed the next move in the kata with perfect precision, silently spinning to face her invisible opponent. Oh yeah. She was in the zone. In. The. Zone. She glanced at Giles. Much to her annoyance, he only half-watched her, more interested in a book than her awesomeness.
She shifted into a new stance. Whatever. The faster he got bored, the faster she could get home and enjoy the Ben & Jerry’s in the fridge. Mmm... double chocolate rocky road. Snapping out two punches and a side kick, Buffy gracefully completed the rest of the kata, ending with a bow. Casually, she edged toward her backpack.
“Again.”
Buffy scowled; he hadn’t even looked up. “You weren’t even watching. That was perfect.”
Giles flipped a page. “Hardly. Again, please.”
Buffy ended up repeating the kata five more times, her frustration growing each time. Nothing was wrong! She mentally ran through her checklist of reminders, examined each hand and foot placement, and made sure she wasn’t somehow skipping movements, but still nothing jumped out at her. Finishing her fifth run-through, Buffy all-out glared at Giles, daring him to find anything wrong with her form.
“Agai--”
“Oh, come on!” Buffy complained loudly. Giles eyed her over the top of his book. “Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so,” he confirmed. “We keep going until you get this right. Get set.” Buffy stubbornly crossed her arms and didn’t move. After a long moment Giles sighed and set his book aside. “You are doing it incorrectly, Buffy.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“Are so.”
“Am not.”
“Are--oh, no. You’re not drawing me into one of your games. Now reset.”
Buffy pouted a minute more, but Giles’ Disapproving-British-Glare-of-Doom forced her to submit. Reluctantly, she returned to the starting position.
Somehow it was worse knowing he was actually watching, knowing he saw something she couldn’t--did he really need to leer like that?--but by now Buffy could do this kata in her sleep. She was confident. Block, block, half turn, punch, punch, side kick--
“Stop,” Giles ordered suddenly. Startled, Buffy lost her balance, but she quickly righted herself and glowered at Giles.
“What now?” she demanded.
“Here,” Giles said, standing beside her, “do those last two sets again--slowly.” Rolling her eyes, Buffy repeated the motions. Punch, punch, side kick--
“Your form is awful,” Giles informed her helpfully. Buffy scowled. “Do it again.” She did, Giles guiding her movements with his hands. “Punch somebody like that, you’re liable to break your wrist,” he said, adjusting her punch. “Correct your posture and bend your knees more. And don’t point your toes when you kick.”
“It doesn't feel wrong,” Buffy muttered, fixing herself. How did she not notice all this? “And it’s not like I do that when I actually fight.”
“You should be able to get it right all the time,” Giles lectured. “You’re doing it again, by the way.”
“I can’t help it!” she whined, flexing her foot. “It feels...” Buffy trailed off. It felt more than right--it felt familiar. Suddenly the pieces clicked into place and her face turned pink. “I can’t help it,” Buffy mumbled. “Habit.”
“It’s a bad one, and you better unlearn it. Soon.” Giles frowned. “What I can’t understand is why it’s just this part you can’t do correctly.”
“I can do it,” Buffy broke in, then quietly murmured something.
“Pardon?” Giles asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It reminds me of something, okay?” Giles gestured for her to continue; Buffy made an irritated noise in the back of her throat. “A routine! A stupid cheerleading routine,” she said flatly.
A smile twitched in the corner of Giles’ mouth, but he just managed not to laugh. “Oh, well, that’s, um. Nice.”
Ready to snap back a reply, Buffy was cut off by Xander and Willow bursting through the library doors.
“What’s nice?” asked Willow, sliding into a chair.
“What is this I hear about Buffy and cheerleading?” Xander inquired with a devious grin.
Willow and Xander exchanged matching smirks.
“Oh no,” said Buffy threateningly. “Don’t even think about it.”
*~*
Five minutes later, Buffy faced away from her friends, arms straight by her sides, counting beats under her breath.
“C’mon, Buffy!” Willow urged.
Buffy sighed--darn Willow and her puppy-dog eyes--before plastering the largest smile she could on her face. In. The. Zone. She rapidly turned on her heel, hands on her hips. They stared at her like she’d grown an extra head.
“READY?” she shouted, all smiles and enthusiasm.
“That’s kind of creepy,” Xander whispered to Willow, who elbowed him in the side.
“OKAY!” Buffy clapped her hands together and began the routine.
The cheer came back to her with embarrassing clarity, words and all. Buffy tossed her head and shook her imaginary pom-poms like her life depended on it. Her friends’ cheering was probably more teasing than anything, but the grin on her face slowly became real anyway.
“We’ll never stop, we’ll never rest! Razorbacks, we are the best!” Buffy ended holding her right leg above her head, free hand in raised in a fist creating a “V” shape.
Xander and Willow burst into applause.
“Wow,” Willow gushed. “Cordelia has nothing on you.”
“I liked the part with the back flip,” added Xander. “And the splits.” He sighed wistfully.
“I must admit, cheerleading might have... some athletic merit,” Giles confessed.
Buffy smiled in embarrassment. “It was noth--”
“Buffy?” asked a voice from the doorway. “What are you doing?”
Buffy somehow managed to spin in place, right foot still poised above her head. “Angel!” she squeaked and promptly fell over.
The group forward rushed to help the fallen Slayer. Dazed, Buffy didn’t resist the hands pulling her up.
“Do you always have to sneak in here so quiet?” Buffy asked, rubbing the side of her head as Angel fussed over her. “You’re like a ninja.”
“Sorry, can’t help it,” Angel apologized. “Habit.”
---
Post-Story Note: Amusing note about this one - it's actually inspired by real life. I've never been a cheerleader, but I was in colorguard. When I started learning kobudo (a weapons martial arts), I always kicked with pointed toes. Unlike Buffy, however, my colorguard experience actually helped me learn how to use a bo staff, rather than hurt.
Title: Romance and Sam Winchester
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Jess, Sam/Madison, Sam/Ruby
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: general series spoilers up to the end of season four
Word Count: 906
Summary: Sam has had many kinds of romances.
Author's Notes: Written for spn_las for challenge 1: Write a fic based on your feelings, vibes, etc of this song (Lady Gaga - Bad Romance).
A Good Romance.
Sam saw Jessica before he met her, shaking her hips and moving to some nameless techno beat pounding out over the loud speakers. She didn’t stick out exactly, or do anything in particular to catch his eye, but Sam liked her hair and the way she moved like she was actually trying to dance instead of flirting or grinding or drawing attention to herself. Sam liked her, but forgot all about her until Brady introduced them in study group a week later. Suddenly he could recall the appealing way light reflected off her hair with perfect clarity.
Sam learned a lot of things about Jessica in that first day, like her love of physics, hatred of Shakespeare, the insane amount of pop trivia in her head, and that it’s Jess, not Jessica. Within a month they were having not-dates over mochas and lattes. In three months they had study dates that were really date-dates.
Jess gave secrets to Sam; secrets hidden twenty minute study breaks and homemade cookies, late-night movie marathons and worry-wart parents. Taught him mathematical shortcuts and silly songs for equations, how five more minutes always means ten more minutes and a kiss, that tears can mean you’re happy, not just sad or hurt, and can be a good thing sometimes.
Sam gave Jess lies and half-truths, stories instead of memories. He gave out scraps of information, carefully examined beforehand for discrepancies, holes, and opportunities for uncomfortable questions. It was unfair; it was all Sam knew how to do: cut up and handover bits of himself at a time and avoid the black pit of secrets at his root.
But somehow Jess reorganized the mangled pieces in to a picture frighteningly close to the real Sam Winchester. She found secrets inside not dirtied by monsters or guns and brought them to life in the Palo Alto sun and made Sam feel whole.
In a year, Sam fell in love.
In six months, he was ready to propose.
By November, Jess was dead.
Sam was greedy and selfish, and it cost him everything. He spoiled their good love with coincidence, destiny, and his own rotten luck.
Sam dragged regret behind him with every step. He didn’t bother to reclaim the puzzle pieces making up Jess’s Sam, instead burying them in her empty grave. He wouldn’t need them.
*~*
A Sad Romance.
Madison came out of nowhere, a surprise left for him in the crossroads of America and Sam’s twisted life; a beauty hidden behind a case number. He almost missed her completely, but found her wedged between guard duty and soap operas.
Madison felt like good intentions and second chances. In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Sam daydreamed up happily ever afters and white picket fences. She was good, smart, funny, and worth ending all this madness. And best part of all? She knew; knew about the dark things Sam secreted away from sight and sun. Madison was grateful for Sam’s secrets because they were her secrets too. She could take them without looking away in disgust.
Sam fell in love in less than a day.
Madison was dead in less than a week.
Sam looked her straight in the eye when he killed her, blurred as she was through tears. With a single shot he killed a girl and a monster; another shot could have killed a boy and a freak. He walked away though, because his brother was standing outside, and other things waited out there to die, even more monsters to kill before they consumed even more girls.
How many more woman would he get killed trying to hunt the monsters down?
*~*
A Bad Romance.
To Jess he gave stories. To Madison he gave his secrets.
Ruby somehow got everything.
Ruby snuck into Sam’s life with smirks and promises and knowledge. She was danger disguised as hope. Sam wanted to hate her--should have hated her--but the parts of Sam that knew better had already been given away to other, better girls.
Ruby ate up all his loathing and self-doubt and gave him blood, sex, and confidence. She rearranged his insides so the empty spaces shaped like Jess and Madison looked just like her. Sam violently shoved everything over to her, dared her to look into the deep, dark well of Sam Winchester.
She looked in the well, and understood. Then she made it deeper.
For the first time, Sam gave over everything. Mourning and the drive for revenge made it easy. Ruby not only knew his secrets, understood his secrets--she became a secret herself. They had a private world where nothing hurt and doubt couldn’t touch him.
It took three months for Ruby to find out everything about him.
A year later, Sam freed the Devil.
A few minutes after that, Ruby was dead.
The knife slammed into Ruby’s chest as he held her still, and all Sam could feel at her betrayal was acceptance. Could he really be surprised at laying another girl’s body to rest, or that he caused her death? Nothing new, Sam Winchester, get over it Sam Winchester.
Sam didn’t cry for Ruby, but that was mostly because he couldn’t--she’d taken his sympathy.
*~*
No Romance.
Sam met a girl a few months into the Apocalypse.
She smiled and gave her name. Sam gave nothing and she left.
Nothing much was left for Sam Winchester to give. He was all out of romance.
Title: Conquest in a Waltz
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Pairings/Characters: Damon/Elena, past Damon/Katherine
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: episode tag for 1x19 "Miss Mystic Falls"
Word Count: 577
Summary: Elena’s eyes are on him, and Damon knows he’s doomed.
Author's Notes: Written for tvd_las for challenge 1: The weapons we wield. This is actually my favorite one I wrote.
Elena’s eyes are on him, and Damon knows he’s doomed.
They’re dancing. Pressed so tightly together, he can feel the heat of her, smell her--practically taste her blood. A hundred other people are watching, but he can only feel her stare: sharp and confused, but not timid, and certainly not scared. She’s sizing him up, dressing him down, and figuring him out all at once. Damon calmly watches as his world shrinks down to a single focus.
They keep in time perfectly. Damon learned to dance back in the days when such a skill was required of young, upper class men, and he’s confident in his steps. But Elena’s not half bad either, never surprised by a sudden change in direction and keeping watch for the careless missteps of other dancers without turning her head even once. She’s... graceful. More graceful than a young, unschooled, mortal girl should be. It’s in not the accuracy of her steps, but in the way she holds herself, a self-assured, but humble princess. It’s entrancing.
Elena is dangerous.
Damon remembers Katherine. Remembers watching her hunt, her careless abandon, stemming not from overconfidence, but from the absolute certainty she could never be caught, could never lose; the games she played because of it. Her strength was intoxicating, the power in her every move unmistakable. He used to wonder how anyone could mistake her for some delicate flower, but she was a master of deception as well. Want to play hide and seek, Damon? We’ll hide in plain sight.
Damon remembers fearing her. The awe mixed with terror. Katherine was a beautiful, deadly thing, a bloody goddess he worshiped, so in love with her, with her violence, wielded so precisely behind a dainty mask of powder and silk.
Katherine was lethal, born to relish in physicality and blood. Damon understands the tools she brandished to gain control; recognizes them, because he uses them too, conquering through pain and ferocity and death. Two wolves in a world full of sheep.
Elena is different.
Even now, dressed so much like Katherine that the lines between the two blur, there’s nothing vicious about Elena; could never be. Elena’s frail, small--her body’s only human, after all, and Damon could break her so, so easily. He could kill her right now, if he wanted to. It wouldn’t take much: twisting her head with a flick of his wrists would kill her pretty much instantly. But he can’t even fantasize about it, much less do it.
Her gaze has yet to leave him. Trapped, all he can do is smirk and carry on with the waltz.
If Elena tried to lead, Damon thinks he’d let her.
Elena is not vicious--but she’s not weak. And she’s not helpless. Elena conquers with different instruments than Katherine, unaware of her own cunning. She sliced her way into Damon’s life with wit and gentility and beauty; drew him in with unintended and horribly appealing acts of kindness. Even now, charming him in the way she relaxes fractionally in his arms with uncertainty in her eyes, the finely sharpened blade that is Elena Gilbert sinks into chest, twisting.
Elena draws away from him--the dance is over. She dips into a curtsy without lowering her eyes and Damon inclines his head.
Katherine could have torn him apart with teeth and hands, true. But Damon has the feeling Elena could utterly destroy him with a glance... and he would watch her do it with a smile.