previews
So I keep saying over and over that I'm working on a bunch of fics, but I am SO SLOW sometimes, so I thought I'd put together a preview post. As always, feedback is highly appreciated!
- - -
1. "After the End"A/N: These two are going to be a part of a group of one-shots completely inspired by the fact that I ship a LOT of sunken ships. Each one-shot will be 100% canon compliant, but are my effort to reconcile canon endgame with my own preferances. The only ship I'm not including will be Sawyer/Kate and Bella/Jacob, as I am in the midst of writing a 100% canon compliant Sawyer/Kate fic, and I already wrote a one-shot of Bella/Jacob ages ago. Eventually will include Jackie/Hyde, Cook/Effy, House/Cameron, Jack/Elizabeth, Kara/Lee, Rory/Jess, Brooke/Lucas, Peyton/Jake, Tim/Lyla, Eleven/Amy, Rogue/Wolverine, and more if I (or you) can think of more.
Spike/Buffy
(Mini-A/N: It's not established in this snippet, but this scene is a dream Buffy has every night post-Chosen)
She was sitting cross-legged on an old antique rug -- one she recognized well, though from an entirely different angle and state of mind. Something in the back of her mind tingled, trying to distract her, but she had never felt so in the moment before.
“It’s your turn, love,” his low voice echoed through her, bouncing of the walls of the underground dwelling.
“My turn?” she answered. Looking up, she saw him sitting across from her, his cross-legged and hunched position mirroring hers. He quirked an eyebrow at her question, and she looked at the two foot space separating them that was occupied by the Game of Life. “Oh, right,” she said, though she couldn’t remember when it had been his turn. The thought would have normally troubled her, but she brushed it aside with little effort and rolled the dice. Six, and she moved her car along, leaving light clicks of sound in it’s wake. She handed him the dice.
“How have you been?” she asked. Simple would suffice, though she couldn’t remember how long it had been since they had seen each other. It must have been a while if that was the first question to pop into her head.
Eleven.
“You know, dead. You?” he answered, his warm hand brushing hers as he passed her the dice.
Three.
“I...I don’t remember.”
Four.
Their hands brushed as he passed her the dice.
Six.
Their hands brushed as she passed him the dice.
Nine.
She looked up from the board, watching the flicker of warm orange light across his face. She could see everything -- the scar on his brow and the subtle brush of his tongue against his lips. His eyes were burning back at her and the room was on fire. Somehow it didn’t bother either of them.
Two.
“I love you,” she said, their gazes locked. She could feel the blood pumping throughout her entire body, her skin thrumming in a pulse. As desolate and chaotic as the environment was, she smiled.
No you don’t, but thanks for saying it.
“I love you too,” and he smiled back.
I save you every night.
Draco/Hermione
(Mini-A/N: Takes place about seven years after the final battle.)
“Malfoy,” she said, her voice cracking the silence like a whip, though barely a decibel over a whisper. His hand stilled and grey eyes met hers. The office was quite small, and only then did Hermione gather that they really weren’t that far apart at all.
She watched the expressions flit over his face, and felt that secret rush of adrenaline race through her veins as he moved from confusion to understanding. The furrow in his brow stayed in place, though he looked decidedly more melancholy than concentrated now. He took a deep breath in and out, rubbing a hand over his face and breaking her gaze to let his head fall back with a low thud. The book and parchment had fallen off his lap and he balanced his forearms on his bent knees, fingers lacing together.
His eyes were closed, and Hermione desperately wanted them to open.
Before a thought to stop had even crossed her mind, she was shuffling on her knees to his side of the room. She stopped in front of him and sat with her knees bent under her, watching the pulse drum at the base of his throat. It was only when she ran a finger over the back of one of his clasped hands did his eyes reopen.
For a moment she wondered what this would look like to a stranger. Too close for colleagues, but Hermione would be surprised if someone thought something more. They were both much too somber to assume that. She ventured a guess that they must look like mourners -- and maybe that’s exactly what they were.
As soon as the thought entered her mind, tears sprung to her eyes and her mouth opened to release a watery sigh. For they had nothing to mourn. Nothing in the world to base this crushing feeling on. Because there was nothing tangible. No betrayals, no kisses, no guilty memories of sweaty flesh. Nothing but words, and talking, and all the nothings that somehow added up into something. And somehow the end had gone from being a far off time, to tomorrow, to today.
The end of nothing.
So he watched her as she traced the veins and grooves of his hands, nothing but the sound of their breathing to accompany the silence.
- - -
2. "Untitled"
A/N: A Damon/Elena superlong one-shot. Separate sections inspired by a weird word and it's definition. Timeline ranges to directly after Stefan leaves, to after he comes back (in this universe, almost a year later).
biarchy (n.) ruled by two persons
“Do you think Stefan's...” but how to finish that thought, she wasn't sure.
thump thump
thump thump
How curious it must be to live in a world that was never silent.
She could count the pores on his face, the harsh crease in his brow, and couldn't help but dwell on the unnaturalness of it. His lips parted in a sigh - an unnatural sigh. She couldn't help but feel grateful to hear him breathing. She couldn't help but feel relief at not having the memory of him dying in her arms. She couldn't help it.
“I don't know,” he said finally.
I don't know.
I don't know.
“What do you miss about being human?”
thump thump
thump thump
“I can hear your heartbeat.”
How curious it must be to live in a world that was never silent.
cacoethes (n.) a bad habit or insatiable urge
“C'mon,” he slurred, his eyes doing that eye thing they did. She couldn't help but giggle at the sight.
“Your eyes are funny,” as her body stumbled into his.
Her mouth landed in the crook of his neck and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Her head was swimming - from him. Probably from the eight shots of tequila too. Warm.
“You're eyes are funny,” his chest rumbled against hers.
Hmmm. Hmmm?
“Hmmm?”
“You said that.”
“I said what?”
“That.”
“What?”
“Never mind, Elena,” and she thought she heard him smiling.
She must have moved because her vision had cleared and was full of his face. They must have been only inches apart, breath mingling in stuttered bursts. She felt like crying. She watched her hands trace the sides of his face and felt his eyes on her lips. Inches, then millimeters, and suddenly feet.
She fell forward, landing with a cry and a thud on her knees.
She looked up to see him across the room, his back towards her, and suddenly her head wasn't swimming anymore. She could see him and she could see her; like this scene was staged, she saw her crumpled form and his sagging shoulders. She watched the invisible weight bear down.
She watched herself and she watched him and she saw Stefan in the corner of their minds. He would always be unmoving and omnipresent - that is until he wasn't. He would always be imagined standing there - that is until he was really standing there. And then he would truly be unmoving and omnipresent.
They would never be alone.
She felt like crying.
joi de vivre (n.) the joy of living
“It's been eight months today,” she said. She stared unfocused at the manger scene in front of her, her foot dragging a line back and forth in the snow. The twinkle lights glowed pleasantly in the background.
“Elena,” he said. She turned towards him.
“Hmm?”
“It's Christmas,” he said, a hand covering her mouth playfully and a gentle tap of him forehead against hers. “Shut up.”
- - -
3. "Normal" - Chapter Five
A/N: I feel SO bad about the fact that I've been so slow to update this story, so I'm trying very very VERY hard to finish this next chapter. Soon!
When he was younger, before the letters came and their entire lives changed course, she had never given any thought to where Harry would end up as an adult. Back then she had assumed that if they just ignored the wizarding world, it would ignore them right back. Even now she thought that if Harry hadn't been so important (it pained her mildly to realize she still barely knew why he was so vital), they probably would have let them be.
And where would that leave him? Where would he have ended up?
She honestly didn't know.
Petunia guessed, after witnessing first hand how much he was cared for by this strange family, he would have become quite lost. She had offered her house to him, but never her home. She hated being wrong, and still couldn't bring herself to fully admit to her actions, but the thoughts were still there - the thoughts of failure. She'd failed him, she'd failed Lily. She was a failure.
And that feeling - the trepidation, and the fear - that overpowered the small bit of excitement. Because she knew that he had every right to hate her, to yell at her, to ask her to leave and never come back. She had left him before, but now she didn't want to leave. She was scared to see him again.
Which is precisely why she hadn't put up a fight when Mrs. Weasley had seated her out of Harry's sight, with a hundred people between them. She knew the meeting was inevitable, but she would still always want a few more minutes.
So she sat in the back, getting only glimpses of Fleur, some brunette girl, and finally Ginny walking down the aisle. She could barely here the words the priest (Did wizards have priests?) spoke, but could see some kind of light emanating from where she assumed Harry and Ginny were standing. Then, quite suddenly everyone was standing and clapping and she heard a faint cry of “Oi mate, she still our sister!”.
She stayed sitting, but did feel a small smile make it's way across her face, and the faint hint of tears in her eyes. She may not have seen it, and she may still be undeniably nervous, but for the first time since she'd arrived here, she was happy that she came.
She had gone to church every Sunday as a child, and she and Vernon still managed to drag themselves to Christmas and Easter services, but she'd never really believed in God or the idea of an afterlife. She hadn't given much thought to what she did believe in, but in this moment she had never felt more sure that there was something after death. She knew , however impossible it was, that Lily was here. She knew that her sister would never miss an occasion like this, and it only made her more thankful that she had mustered up the courage to make an appearance.
Lily would be happy about that.
So for the moment, she pushed back her selfish worries of rejection, and smiled.
She was happy for him.
- - -
So there you go, folks :)
- - -
1. "After the End"A/N: These two are going to be a part of a group of one-shots completely inspired by the fact that I ship a LOT of sunken ships. Each one-shot will be 100% canon compliant, but are my effort to reconcile canon endgame with my own preferances. The only ship I'm not including will be Sawyer/Kate and Bella/Jacob, as I am in the midst of writing a 100% canon compliant Sawyer/Kate fic, and I already wrote a one-shot of Bella/Jacob ages ago. Eventually will include Jackie/Hyde, Cook/Effy, House/Cameron, Jack/Elizabeth, Kara/Lee, Rory/Jess, Brooke/Lucas, Peyton/Jake, Tim/Lyla, Eleven/Amy, Rogue/Wolverine, and more if I (or you) can think of more.
Spike/Buffy
(Mini-A/N: It's not established in this snippet, but this scene is a dream Buffy has every night post-Chosen)
She was sitting cross-legged on an old antique rug -- one she recognized well, though from an entirely different angle and state of mind. Something in the back of her mind tingled, trying to distract her, but she had never felt so in the moment before.
“It’s your turn, love,” his low voice echoed through her, bouncing of the walls of the underground dwelling.
“My turn?” she answered. Looking up, she saw him sitting across from her, his cross-legged and hunched position mirroring hers. He quirked an eyebrow at her question, and she looked at the two foot space separating them that was occupied by the Game of Life. “Oh, right,” she said, though she couldn’t remember when it had been his turn. The thought would have normally troubled her, but she brushed it aside with little effort and rolled the dice. Six, and she moved her car along, leaving light clicks of sound in it’s wake. She handed him the dice.
“How have you been?” she asked. Simple would suffice, though she couldn’t remember how long it had been since they had seen each other. It must have been a while if that was the first question to pop into her head.
Eleven.
“You know, dead. You?” he answered, his warm hand brushing hers as he passed her the dice.
Three.
“I...I don’t remember.”
Four.
Their hands brushed as he passed her the dice.
Six.
Their hands brushed as she passed him the dice.
Nine.
She looked up from the board, watching the flicker of warm orange light across his face. She could see everything -- the scar on his brow and the subtle brush of his tongue against his lips. His eyes were burning back at her and the room was on fire. Somehow it didn’t bother either of them.
Two.
“I love you,” she said, their gazes locked. She could feel the blood pumping throughout her entire body, her skin thrumming in a pulse. As desolate and chaotic as the environment was, she smiled.
No you don’t, but thanks for saying it.
“I love you too,” and he smiled back.
I save you every night.
Draco/Hermione
(Mini-A/N: Takes place about seven years after the final battle.)
“Malfoy,” she said, her voice cracking the silence like a whip, though barely a decibel over a whisper. His hand stilled and grey eyes met hers. The office was quite small, and only then did Hermione gather that they really weren’t that far apart at all.
She watched the expressions flit over his face, and felt that secret rush of adrenaline race through her veins as he moved from confusion to understanding. The furrow in his brow stayed in place, though he looked decidedly more melancholy than concentrated now. He took a deep breath in and out, rubbing a hand over his face and breaking her gaze to let his head fall back with a low thud. The book and parchment had fallen off his lap and he balanced his forearms on his bent knees, fingers lacing together.
His eyes were closed, and Hermione desperately wanted them to open.
Before a thought to stop had even crossed her mind, she was shuffling on her knees to his side of the room. She stopped in front of him and sat with her knees bent under her, watching the pulse drum at the base of his throat. It was only when she ran a finger over the back of one of his clasped hands did his eyes reopen.
For a moment she wondered what this would look like to a stranger. Too close for colleagues, but Hermione would be surprised if someone thought something more. They were both much too somber to assume that. She ventured a guess that they must look like mourners -- and maybe that’s exactly what they were.
As soon as the thought entered her mind, tears sprung to her eyes and her mouth opened to release a watery sigh. For they had nothing to mourn. Nothing in the world to base this crushing feeling on. Because there was nothing tangible. No betrayals, no kisses, no guilty memories of sweaty flesh. Nothing but words, and talking, and all the nothings that somehow added up into something. And somehow the end had gone from being a far off time, to tomorrow, to today.
The end of nothing.
So he watched her as she traced the veins and grooves of his hands, nothing but the sound of their breathing to accompany the silence.
- - -
2. "Untitled"
A/N: A Damon/Elena superlong one-shot. Separate sections inspired by a weird word and it's definition. Timeline ranges to directly after Stefan leaves, to after he comes back (in this universe, almost a year later).
biarchy (n.) ruled by two persons
“Do you think Stefan's...” but how to finish that thought, she wasn't sure.
thump thump
thump thump
How curious it must be to live in a world that was never silent.
She could count the pores on his face, the harsh crease in his brow, and couldn't help but dwell on the unnaturalness of it. His lips parted in a sigh - an unnatural sigh. She couldn't help but feel grateful to hear him breathing. She couldn't help but feel relief at not having the memory of him dying in her arms. She couldn't help it.
“I don't know,” he said finally.
I don't know.
I don't know.
“What do you miss about being human?”
thump thump
thump thump
“I can hear your heartbeat.”
How curious it must be to live in a world that was never silent.
cacoethes (n.) a bad habit or insatiable urge
“C'mon,” he slurred, his eyes doing that eye thing they did. She couldn't help but giggle at the sight.
“Your eyes are funny,” as her body stumbled into his.
Her mouth landed in the crook of his neck and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Her head was swimming - from him. Probably from the eight shots of tequila too. Warm.
“You're eyes are funny,” his chest rumbled against hers.
Hmmm. Hmmm?
“Hmmm?”
“You said that.”
“I said what?”
“That.”
“What?”
“Never mind, Elena,” and she thought she heard him smiling.
She must have moved because her vision had cleared and was full of his face. They must have been only inches apart, breath mingling in stuttered bursts. She felt like crying. She watched her hands trace the sides of his face and felt his eyes on her lips. Inches, then millimeters, and suddenly feet.
She fell forward, landing with a cry and a thud on her knees.
She looked up to see him across the room, his back towards her, and suddenly her head wasn't swimming anymore. She could see him and she could see her; like this scene was staged, she saw her crumpled form and his sagging shoulders. She watched the invisible weight bear down.
She watched herself and she watched him and she saw Stefan in the corner of their minds. He would always be unmoving and omnipresent - that is until he wasn't. He would always be imagined standing there - that is until he was really standing there. And then he would truly be unmoving and omnipresent.
They would never be alone.
She felt like crying.
joi de vivre (n.) the joy of living
“It's been eight months today,” she said. She stared unfocused at the manger scene in front of her, her foot dragging a line back and forth in the snow. The twinkle lights glowed pleasantly in the background.
“Elena,” he said. She turned towards him.
“Hmm?”
“It's Christmas,” he said, a hand covering her mouth playfully and a gentle tap of him forehead against hers. “Shut up.”
- - -
3. "Normal" - Chapter Five
A/N: I feel SO bad about the fact that I've been so slow to update this story, so I'm trying very very VERY hard to finish this next chapter. Soon!
When he was younger, before the letters came and their entire lives changed course, she had never given any thought to where Harry would end up as an adult. Back then she had assumed that if they just ignored the wizarding world, it would ignore them right back. Even now she thought that if Harry hadn't been so important (it pained her mildly to realize she still barely knew why he was so vital), they probably would have let them be.
And where would that leave him? Where would he have ended up?
She honestly didn't know.
Petunia guessed, after witnessing first hand how much he was cared for by this strange family, he would have become quite lost. She had offered her house to him, but never her home. She hated being wrong, and still couldn't bring herself to fully admit to her actions, but the thoughts were still there - the thoughts of failure. She'd failed him, she'd failed Lily. She was a failure.
And that feeling - the trepidation, and the fear - that overpowered the small bit of excitement. Because she knew that he had every right to hate her, to yell at her, to ask her to leave and never come back. She had left him before, but now she didn't want to leave. She was scared to see him again.
Which is precisely why she hadn't put up a fight when Mrs. Weasley had seated her out of Harry's sight, with a hundred people between them. She knew the meeting was inevitable, but she would still always want a few more minutes.
So she sat in the back, getting only glimpses of Fleur, some brunette girl, and finally Ginny walking down the aisle. She could barely here the words the priest (Did wizards have priests?) spoke, but could see some kind of light emanating from where she assumed Harry and Ginny were standing. Then, quite suddenly everyone was standing and clapping and she heard a faint cry of “Oi mate, she still our sister!”.
She stayed sitting, but did feel a small smile make it's way across her face, and the faint hint of tears in her eyes. She may not have seen it, and she may still be undeniably nervous, but for the first time since she'd arrived here, she was happy that she came.
She had gone to church every Sunday as a child, and she and Vernon still managed to drag themselves to Christmas and Easter services, but she'd never really believed in God or the idea of an afterlife. She hadn't given much thought to what she did believe in, but in this moment she had never felt more sure that there was something after death. She knew , however impossible it was, that Lily was here. She knew that her sister would never miss an occasion like this, and it only made her more thankful that she had mustered up the courage to make an appearance.
Lily would be happy about that.
So for the moment, she pushed back her selfish worries of rejection, and smiled.
She was happy for him.
- - -
So there you go, folks :)