Ficlets (DW, HP, PotC, SPN/BtVS/AtS)
Some of the ficlets turned out longer than I thought they would, so I might make separate posts. For now, here's the first batch of fandoms, including Doctor Who, Harry Potter, Pirates of the Caribbean, and a SPN/BtVS/AtS crossover.
For whisperwords: Siren's Call
Norrington/Elizabeth, angst (PG-13)
AU! AU is FUN. Spoilers for the PotC 3: AWE coda.
He doesn’t die, there, and he wakes up, on the deck, gasping for air.
It’s a rough and tumble days and weeks after, somehow manages to get to shore, somehow manages to retain his post-leaves, soon enough-and he sees her.
Her, months later, the barest glimpse as she moved through the market, conversing with one or two rough looking types. Pirates. She’s walking with pirates, smiling, this grin and glow, and that’s when he gets another look. Sees her belly, swollen with child, and there’s not a mention of William Turner around for months.
He doesn’t think twice about the time aboard with her, because it all blurs in his head, touch and taste that doesn’t exist, that’s running, seeping through his thoughts like the blood from his wound.
A few people pass by and she looks up, in his direction. Another person goes by and she’s gone from view, and so is he, like he was never really there.
For bethynyc: Swapping Stories
Crossover (SPN/BtVS/AtS or DW/TW) (PG-13)
SPN/AtS. For it gives me joy.
It’d be obvious here, the way she stretches over the hood of the Impala, stake in the pocket of her jacket-not jeans, he’s too busy for distractions, Dean, bends over her as she grins, tells him to “come on already.”
Faith’s good, Sam’ll give her that.
But it happens like this, with Sam and Connor, with a night spent in a graveyard, digging up god knows what, but that sure isn’t Sam’s brand of demon. If he, you know, had a brand. The type. The type he’s used to, he explains to Connor.
Connor flips a swiss knife in his hands, pokes his fingertips gently, suddenly grins and says he knows where they can find a nest of vampires, that his dad might even be there already.
“Oh.”
“Or we could, uh, do something else-” Connor’s fumbling for words, scratches the back of his neck as Sam adjusts the collar of his t-shirt, wipes the dirt off his forehead. He’s almost done digging it up, a salt and burn that’ll have them gone in twenty minutes, tops. “So. You went to Stanford. Faith told me.”
Sam nods, leans a hand on the shovel handle. “Yeah.”
A smile spreads on Connor’s face, and he moves closer to the grave edge, rests on his heels. “Tell me about it.”
They end up talking for the rest of the night, fingers brush wrists, hands, jacket cuffs. By morning, Dean’s crawling in, hair mussed, smells of sex and whiskey, and Sam’s out for pancakes, reads the note. Dean can’t help but grin.
For liveline: Misunderstanding
Ten/Master, misunderstanding (PG)
I think I’ve written Ten like once, back in S2, so excuse the lameness for my brain is still set on JOHN SIMM EEE beyond things like character voice. ;)
It’s always a misunderstanding, between them, running long for years and decades, and centuries, shifting bodies and a livewire current that escalates, dips, always the wrong action for the right meaning.
You know, threatening to kill or stop each other, that kind of thing.
The Master says as much, this time, now, managed to get out, to live once again, struggling with the Doctor over his sonic screwdriver of all things.
But he’s got thin wrists, the Master reasons, or he’s a pushover in this incarnation with his pinstripes and his hair. Gets the upper hand, the Doctor lying on his back, one knee up, screwdriver pointed directly at his, well, you know.
“You call that a greeting,” the Master says, scratches his head with the tip of the screwdriver, aims it again. “Getting old, are we?”
“Oh, let’s not start with that,” the Doctor answers, grins, the lunatic, and later on, when they’re at each other’s throats, barely getting away, slip of a witty comment or snappy retort, the cycle begins again.
It’s a misunderstanding that has them circling, never quite finishing this dance, and the Master reasons there’s enough time to continue this folly, the ultimate conquest, even if said ultimate conquest is a bit thick.
For bubl: Fall
Harry/Draco, autumn, tennis (G)
I haven’t written H/D in forever, so I apologize.
They’re supposed to be at a tennis match.
Only they aren’t, and Draco wouldn’t have anyway, contrary to Harry-always arguing, never can get a good word in, until he does, twist in the gut. A leaf in Harry’s hair that Draco grabs, crumbles in his fingers, quick movement. He kisses Harry, hard, on the mouth, leaving a bruise.
Harry doesn’t protest.
They’re outside the court, actually, waiting for the crowds to leave, contrast of green walls against orange and red of trees. Harry tightens his scarf, fingertips brushing Draco’s. This little murmur, right near his ear, and soon enough he’s moving past Draco.
Draco doesn’t walk faster. He takes his time walking after Harry and twirls the brown stem of one leaf between his fingers, this flush on his cheeks that goes away as soon as it arrives.
ETA: I was a lame-ass and totally read the dates/hours wrong for Sweet Charity so um, didn't get to sign up. Ooops. It looks interesting though, so go and bid on all the shiny people there! Go! GO! :)
For whisperwords: Siren's Call
Norrington/Elizabeth, angst (PG-13)
AU! AU is FUN. Spoilers for the PotC 3: AWE coda.
He doesn’t die, there, and he wakes up, on the deck, gasping for air.
It’s a rough and tumble days and weeks after, somehow manages to get to shore, somehow manages to retain his post-leaves, soon enough-and he sees her.
Her, months later, the barest glimpse as she moved through the market, conversing with one or two rough looking types. Pirates. She’s walking with pirates, smiling, this grin and glow, and that’s when he gets another look. Sees her belly, swollen with child, and there’s not a mention of William Turner around for months.
He doesn’t think twice about the time aboard with her, because it all blurs in his head, touch and taste that doesn’t exist, that’s running, seeping through his thoughts like the blood from his wound.
A few people pass by and she looks up, in his direction. Another person goes by and she’s gone from view, and so is he, like he was never really there.
For bethynyc: Swapping Stories
Crossover (SPN/BtVS/AtS or DW/TW) (PG-13)
SPN/AtS. For it gives me joy.
It’d be obvious here, the way she stretches over the hood of the Impala, stake in the pocket of her jacket-not jeans, he’s too busy for distractions, Dean, bends over her as she grins, tells him to “come on already.”
Faith’s good, Sam’ll give her that.
But it happens like this, with Sam and Connor, with a night spent in a graveyard, digging up god knows what, but that sure isn’t Sam’s brand of demon. If he, you know, had a brand. The type. The type he’s used to, he explains to Connor.
Connor flips a swiss knife in his hands, pokes his fingertips gently, suddenly grins and says he knows where they can find a nest of vampires, that his dad might even be there already.
“Oh.”
“Or we could, uh, do something else-” Connor’s fumbling for words, scratches the back of his neck as Sam adjusts the collar of his t-shirt, wipes the dirt off his forehead. He’s almost done digging it up, a salt and burn that’ll have them gone in twenty minutes, tops. “So. You went to Stanford. Faith told me.”
Sam nods, leans a hand on the shovel handle. “Yeah.”
A smile spreads on Connor’s face, and he moves closer to the grave edge, rests on his heels. “Tell me about it.”
They end up talking for the rest of the night, fingers brush wrists, hands, jacket cuffs. By morning, Dean’s crawling in, hair mussed, smells of sex and whiskey, and Sam’s out for pancakes, reads the note. Dean can’t help but grin.
For liveline: Misunderstanding
Ten/Master, misunderstanding (PG)
I think I’ve written Ten like once, back in S2, so excuse the lameness for my brain is still set on JOHN SIMM EEE beyond things like character voice. ;)
It’s always a misunderstanding, between them, running long for years and decades, and centuries, shifting bodies and a livewire current that escalates, dips, always the wrong action for the right meaning.
You know, threatening to kill or stop each other, that kind of thing.
The Master says as much, this time, now, managed to get out, to live once again, struggling with the Doctor over his sonic screwdriver of all things.
But he’s got thin wrists, the Master reasons, or he’s a pushover in this incarnation with his pinstripes and his hair. Gets the upper hand, the Doctor lying on his back, one knee up, screwdriver pointed directly at his, well, you know.
“You call that a greeting,” the Master says, scratches his head with the tip of the screwdriver, aims it again. “Getting old, are we?”
“Oh, let’s not start with that,” the Doctor answers, grins, the lunatic, and later on, when they’re at each other’s throats, barely getting away, slip of a witty comment or snappy retort, the cycle begins again.
It’s a misunderstanding that has them circling, never quite finishing this dance, and the Master reasons there’s enough time to continue this folly, the ultimate conquest, even if said ultimate conquest is a bit thick.
For bubl: Fall
Harry/Draco, autumn, tennis (G)
I haven’t written H/D in forever, so I apologize.
They’re supposed to be at a tennis match.
Only they aren’t, and Draco wouldn’t have anyway, contrary to Harry-always arguing, never can get a good word in, until he does, twist in the gut. A leaf in Harry’s hair that Draco grabs, crumbles in his fingers, quick movement. He kisses Harry, hard, on the mouth, leaving a bruise.
Harry doesn’t protest.
They’re outside the court, actually, waiting for the crowds to leave, contrast of green walls against orange and red of trees. Harry tightens his scarf, fingertips brushing Draco’s. This little murmur, right near his ear, and soon enough he’s moving past Draco.
Draco doesn’t walk faster. He takes his time walking after Harry and twirls the brown stem of one leaf between his fingers, this flush on his cheeks that goes away as soon as it arrives.
ETA: I was a lame-ass and totally read the dates/hours wrong for Sweet Charity so um, didn't get to sign up. Ooops. It looks interesting though, so go and bid on all the shiny people there! Go! GO! :)