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why_me_why_not) wrote2008-07-23 12:24 am
why_me_why_not) wrote2008-07-23 12:24 am
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Some of the ficbits that I wrote this weekend from the awesome prompts some of yall gave me:
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reallythateasy asked me for Tom/Ryan: make up, photos, kisses. Because I didn't know which Ryan Crystal meant, she ended up with two things. I actually know nothing about Ryan-from-Empires, though, other than he exists.
300 words, Tom/Ryan Ross
There was no sound of a shutter, no flash of light, no detectable movement behind him, but Ryan knew even before he glanced up from the elaborate make up design he was creating that Tom -- Tom's camera -- was there. He still wasn't quite sure why Tom was there. Not on tour with them; that part he understood. He was Jon's best friend and he'd been kicked out of his band and Ryan had no problem with him tagging along. But he didn't get why Tom was always there, in Ryan's shadow, when he could be drinking beers with Jon or talking music with Spencer or arguing something pointless with Brendon. Ryan wasn't completely comfortable with all the attention, didn't know how to react to all that focus directed at him. And for all the photos Tom appeared to take, Ryan hadn't seen a single one.
Ryan was still floating on a post-show high when he ran into Tom backstage. Tom was watching him with that cautious, guarded look Ryan had come to expect from him. Ryan didn't think twice about crowding him up against the wall and kissing him. Tom was perfectly still for a long moment and Ryan started to pull away, ready to laugh it off, but Tom grabbed him and pulled him back, opening his mouth beneath Ryan's, fisting his hands in the front of Ryan's shirt. Ryan let himself have this, have Tom, for a few sweet stolen minutes, but he didn't forget where they were -- couldn't forget, what with the noise and chaos of post-show goings-on and Brendon snickering behind him. They had rules about things like this. Ryan pulled away with a small smile. "Hi, Tom Conrad. Why don't you meet me in my room later and take some real photographs?"
*****
200 words, Tom/Ryan-from-his-band (in which I actually completely ignore the prompt words, sorry)
Tom knows a million reasons he should avoid inter-band relationships. He's had to deal first hand with how everything can fall all to hell when things go sour. Still, he can't help but wish things were different. He tries not to watch Ryan, tries to look the other way when he comes off stage all sweaty and smiley (and fucking sexy) but it's hard sometimes, especially when Ryan throws his arm over Tom's shoulder, kisses his cheek, and every part of him is screaming that Ryan isn't William, isn't anything like William.
He tries to talk to Jon about it, but Jon is really not much help. He doesn't see anything wrong with being cuddly and touchy-feely with bandmates. Of course, he doesn't want to fuck any of his bandmates either.
But Jon was the one that had to be there – "I didn't have to do shit, Tom; you're my best friend and I love you and I wanted to be there – after the fallout with William and it wasn't a good situation for either of them, so he warns Tom to be careful. And Tom means to be, really, but he forgets why every time Ryan smiles at him.
*****
gelsey asked for Narnia: Edmund & Caspian, gen, warning Caspian about hurting Susan. 100 words.
Caspian was surprised to see Edmund waiting for him, sword in hand.
"Edmund," Caspian greeted cautiously.
"If you hurt Susan, I'll kill you." It wasn't a threat; it was merely a statement of plain fact.
Caspian had seen Susan in action, had heard the stories about her throughout his entire childhood. There was no doubt in his mind that Susan could take care of herself.
"Shouldn't Peter be the one issuing threats?"
"Peter doesn't like you. He'd just kill you."
Caspian appreciated the gesture, but he didn't see the necessity. He planned on treating Susan like the Queen she was.
*****
wook77 asked for Latter Days: scars. 200 words.
Christian had a habit of running his thumb over the bottom of the scar on Aaron's arm. It seemed to be an unconscious effort, just the brush of his thumb when his fingers were wrapped around Aaron's wrist, but Aaron felt it every time. The marks from the razor were faded, but they were still there, and Aaron wore long sleeves whenever he could to avoid drawing attention to them, answering questions he didn't feel comfortable hearing. And Christian knew this, never brought it up in words, never tried to make Aaron talk about it, but the way he would sometimes take Aaron's hand, push his sleeves up, and press his lips to the scars – what Aaron felt when that happened was more powerful than any words. The scars were no longer a symbol of weakness, not just a reminder of what Aaron had been willing to give up. Instead, they stood for strength, for Aaron finding it within himself to take a chance and fight for what he wanted. If he had it to do all over again, he wouldn't do it the same way, but he ended up with Christian, so it all worked out in the end.
*****
chaeldub asked for HP: Seamus/Dean - Year 8, Absinthe, socks. 200 words
Seamus tried to be quiet as he stumbled in the dark through the Gryffindor common room. Normally he didn't mind the rules that had been set for Year Eight, needed to be treated like a kid again even though he had seen battle, but he really, really didn't want to get caught tonight.
He barely managed to hold back a curse when he ran into yet another chair – just how many were there? He really didn't think there had been this many chairs in the common room earlier. Maybe they multiplied at night. Or maybe they were having a furniture party, invited the furniture from the other House common rooms.
"Seamus!"
At Dean's harsh whisper, Seamus realized he was standing in the middle of the floor giggling. No, not giggling. Men didn't giggle. He was chuckling.
"Dean, I can't feel my feet," he said mournfully. "First my toes and now my whole feet, I think maybe my socks ate them. Maybe they're… what do you call them? Carnival socks? You know, things that eat meat?"
Dean rolled his eyes, but Seamus recognized the fondness in the gesture. "C'mon," Dean said, taking Seamus' hand. "Bedtime. And no more absinthe for you."
*****
HP: Harry/Draco, 200 words (to preface the h/d I actually wrote for a prompt)
Draco and Pansy were the only two Eighth Year Slytherins, mostly because they had nowhere else to go. They never fully believed their parents beliefs; they were just making it work until they had their trusts and could run away together. Not like that. Even if Draco was into girls, Pansy was like a sister to him. He would sometimes wonder how it would've been if they had been brave enough (or reckless enough) to defy their parents, but they weren't Gryffindors.
Draco couldn't sleep a lot of nights -- nightmares, too much quiet, too many thoughts -- but it was easier to try when Pansy would sneak in to share his bed. He suspected Headmistress McGonagall knew, but she wouldn't say anything. She was one of the three people who actually looked at Draco, though it was usually with a mix of pity and regret and disappointment, so Draco avoided her. Pansy, of course, was a given. The third person, though… Draco wasn't sure why he kept catching Potter looking at him, as if he were a puzzle Potter needed to work out. It made him nervous. He didn't want any attention, but especially not from Harry fucking Potter.
*****
chaeldub also asked for HP: Harry/Draco - wand, dare, bite. 500 words
Truth or dare with a shared bottle of firewhisky among the Eighth Years was always risky business, but the stakes were even higher when the former Slytherins got involved. It wasn't that Malfoy and Parkinson were a threat, or that they even got involved unless someone else called them out, but everyone knew there was something strange going on between Harry and Malfoy, a strange prickling tension in the air whenever the two of them were in the same room. For the most part, everyone tried to avoid putting them together in dares. Actually, Malfoy was pretty much ignored after that memorable night when Seamus had asked Malfoy who he shagged to avoid Azkaban. Malfoy had got up and walked out, and Parkinson had hit Seamus with a pretty nasty curse before following. The next week, Parkinson had dragged Malfoy back in, but no one had said anything to him since. They had instituted a new rule, though: No wands during the game.
Harry was watching Malfoy from across the circle. He was sitting silently, staring down at his hands, only looking up occasionally and never meeting anyone's eyes except for Parkinson's. Harry wondered if he'd ever again see the arrogant, pain-in-the-arse Malfoy he had spent years competing with. It seemed wrong, somehow, that even this was so different. He had depended on Malfoy to be a cowardly, annoying little shite, and Malfoy had let him down.
"I dare Harry to kiss Malfoy."
Harry was startled from his thoughts and looked up to find Seamus smirking at him. Normally any dare that involved kissing was greeted with snickers and giggles, but this time the room was silent.
Malfoy was staring at Harry, wide-eyed and frightened, looking like he was about to bolt. That, more than anything else, was what prompted Harry's decision. He kneeled up and made his way across the circle, laughing a little when Malfoy tried to back away.
"Relax, Malfoy, I don't bite."
If Harry was going to do this, he was going to do it right. He brought one of his hands up to press against Malfoy's cheek, tilting his face a little before leaning in the rest of the way and pressing his lips to Malfoy's. Malfoy was still and unyielding under his lips, his hand, and Harry could feel a corresponding tension vibrating through himself as he shifted his weight so he could bring his other hand up to curl around the back of Malfoy's neck, sliding through his soft, too-long hair. He slid his tongue along the seam of Malfoy's tightly pressed lips, humming in encouragement when Malfoy finally opened his mouth in response, kissed back tentatively.
Harry pulled back when one of the girls behind him started giggling awkwardly. He took in Malfoy's still-scared look and the way he was gripping Parkinson's hand so tightly that there were white pressure points where their fingers were threaded together. He tried for a smirk and failed, scowling instead. "Game over. I'm going to bed."
*****
More to come tomorrow...
reallythateasy asked me for Tom/Ryan: make up, photos, kisses. Because I didn't know which Ryan Crystal meant, she ended up with two things. I actually know nothing about Ryan-from-Empires, though, other than he exists.300 words, Tom/Ryan Ross
There was no sound of a shutter, no flash of light, no detectable movement behind him, but Ryan knew even before he glanced up from the elaborate make up design he was creating that Tom -- Tom's camera -- was there. He still wasn't quite sure why Tom was there. Not on tour with them; that part he understood. He was Jon's best friend and he'd been kicked out of his band and Ryan had no problem with him tagging along. But he didn't get why Tom was always there, in Ryan's shadow, when he could be drinking beers with Jon or talking music with Spencer or arguing something pointless with Brendon. Ryan wasn't completely comfortable with all the attention, didn't know how to react to all that focus directed at him. And for all the photos Tom appeared to take, Ryan hadn't seen a single one.
Ryan was still floating on a post-show high when he ran into Tom backstage. Tom was watching him with that cautious, guarded look Ryan had come to expect from him. Ryan didn't think twice about crowding him up against the wall and kissing him. Tom was perfectly still for a long moment and Ryan started to pull away, ready to laugh it off, but Tom grabbed him and pulled him back, opening his mouth beneath Ryan's, fisting his hands in the front of Ryan's shirt. Ryan let himself have this, have Tom, for a few sweet stolen minutes, but he didn't forget where they were -- couldn't forget, what with the noise and chaos of post-show goings-on and Brendon snickering behind him. They had rules about things like this. Ryan pulled away with a small smile. "Hi, Tom Conrad. Why don't you meet me in my room later and take some real photographs?"
*****
200 words, Tom/Ryan-from-his-band (in which I actually completely ignore the prompt words, sorry)
Tom knows a million reasons he should avoid inter-band relationships. He's had to deal first hand with how everything can fall all to hell when things go sour. Still, he can't help but wish things were different. He tries not to watch Ryan, tries to look the other way when he comes off stage all sweaty and smiley (and fucking sexy) but it's hard sometimes, especially when Ryan throws his arm over Tom's shoulder, kisses his cheek, and every part of him is screaming that Ryan isn't William, isn't anything like William.
He tries to talk to Jon about it, but Jon is really not much help. He doesn't see anything wrong with being cuddly and touchy-feely with bandmates. Of course, he doesn't want to fuck any of his bandmates either.
But Jon was the one that had to be there – "I didn't have to do shit, Tom; you're my best friend and I love you and I wanted to be there – after the fallout with William and it wasn't a good situation for either of them, so he warns Tom to be careful. And Tom means to be, really, but he forgets why every time Ryan smiles at him.
*****
gelsey asked for Narnia: Edmund & Caspian, gen, warning Caspian about hurting Susan. 100 words.Caspian was surprised to see Edmund waiting for him, sword in hand.
"Edmund," Caspian greeted cautiously.
"If you hurt Susan, I'll kill you." It wasn't a threat; it was merely a statement of plain fact.
Caspian had seen Susan in action, had heard the stories about her throughout his entire childhood. There was no doubt in his mind that Susan could take care of herself.
"Shouldn't Peter be the one issuing threats?"
"Peter doesn't like you. He'd just kill you."
Caspian appreciated the gesture, but he didn't see the necessity. He planned on treating Susan like the Queen she was.
*****
wook77 asked for Latter Days: scars. 200 words.Christian had a habit of running his thumb over the bottom of the scar on Aaron's arm. It seemed to be an unconscious effort, just the brush of his thumb when his fingers were wrapped around Aaron's wrist, but Aaron felt it every time. The marks from the razor were faded, but they were still there, and Aaron wore long sleeves whenever he could to avoid drawing attention to them, answering questions he didn't feel comfortable hearing. And Christian knew this, never brought it up in words, never tried to make Aaron talk about it, but the way he would sometimes take Aaron's hand, push his sleeves up, and press his lips to the scars – what Aaron felt when that happened was more powerful than any words. The scars were no longer a symbol of weakness, not just a reminder of what Aaron had been willing to give up. Instead, they stood for strength, for Aaron finding it within himself to take a chance and fight for what he wanted. If he had it to do all over again, he wouldn't do it the same way, but he ended up with Christian, so it all worked out in the end.
*****
chaeldub asked for HP: Seamus/Dean - Year 8, Absinthe, socks. 200 wordsSeamus tried to be quiet as he stumbled in the dark through the Gryffindor common room. Normally he didn't mind the rules that had been set for Year Eight, needed to be treated like a kid again even though he had seen battle, but he really, really didn't want to get caught tonight.
He barely managed to hold back a curse when he ran into yet another chair – just how many were there? He really didn't think there had been this many chairs in the common room earlier. Maybe they multiplied at night. Or maybe they were having a furniture party, invited the furniture from the other House common rooms.
"Seamus!"
At Dean's harsh whisper, Seamus realized he was standing in the middle of the floor giggling. No, not giggling. Men didn't giggle. He was chuckling.
"Dean, I can't feel my feet," he said mournfully. "First my toes and now my whole feet, I think maybe my socks ate them. Maybe they're… what do you call them? Carnival socks? You know, things that eat meat?"
Dean rolled his eyes, but Seamus recognized the fondness in the gesture. "C'mon," Dean said, taking Seamus' hand. "Bedtime. And no more absinthe for you."
*****
HP: Harry/Draco, 200 words (to preface the h/d I actually wrote for a prompt)
Draco and Pansy were the only two Eighth Year Slytherins, mostly because they had nowhere else to go. They never fully believed their parents beliefs; they were just making it work until they had their trusts and could run away together. Not like that. Even if Draco was into girls, Pansy was like a sister to him. He would sometimes wonder how it would've been if they had been brave enough (or reckless enough) to defy their parents, but they weren't Gryffindors.
Draco couldn't sleep a lot of nights -- nightmares, too much quiet, too many thoughts -- but it was easier to try when Pansy would sneak in to share his bed. He suspected Headmistress McGonagall knew, but she wouldn't say anything. She was one of the three people who actually looked at Draco, though it was usually with a mix of pity and regret and disappointment, so Draco avoided her. Pansy, of course, was a given. The third person, though… Draco wasn't sure why he kept catching Potter looking at him, as if he were a puzzle Potter needed to work out. It made him nervous. He didn't want any attention, but especially not from Harry fucking Potter.
*****
chaeldub also asked for HP: Harry/Draco - wand, dare, bite. 500 wordsTruth or dare with a shared bottle of firewhisky among the Eighth Years was always risky business, but the stakes were even higher when the former Slytherins got involved. It wasn't that Malfoy and Parkinson were a threat, or that they even got involved unless someone else called them out, but everyone knew there was something strange going on between Harry and Malfoy, a strange prickling tension in the air whenever the two of them were in the same room. For the most part, everyone tried to avoid putting them together in dares. Actually, Malfoy was pretty much ignored after that memorable night when Seamus had asked Malfoy who he shagged to avoid Azkaban. Malfoy had got up and walked out, and Parkinson had hit Seamus with a pretty nasty curse before following. The next week, Parkinson had dragged Malfoy back in, but no one had said anything to him since. They had instituted a new rule, though: No wands during the game.
Harry was watching Malfoy from across the circle. He was sitting silently, staring down at his hands, only looking up occasionally and never meeting anyone's eyes except for Parkinson's. Harry wondered if he'd ever again see the arrogant, pain-in-the-arse Malfoy he had spent years competing with. It seemed wrong, somehow, that even this was so different. He had depended on Malfoy to be a cowardly, annoying little shite, and Malfoy had let him down.
"I dare Harry to kiss Malfoy."
Harry was startled from his thoughts and looked up to find Seamus smirking at him. Normally any dare that involved kissing was greeted with snickers and giggles, but this time the room was silent.
Malfoy was staring at Harry, wide-eyed and frightened, looking like he was about to bolt. That, more than anything else, was what prompted Harry's decision. He kneeled up and made his way across the circle, laughing a little when Malfoy tried to back away.
"Relax, Malfoy, I don't bite."
If Harry was going to do this, he was going to do it right. He brought one of his hands up to press against Malfoy's cheek, tilting his face a little before leaning in the rest of the way and pressing his lips to Malfoy's. Malfoy was still and unyielding under his lips, his hand, and Harry could feel a corresponding tension vibrating through himself as he shifted his weight so he could bring his other hand up to curl around the back of Malfoy's neck, sliding through his soft, too-long hair. He slid his tongue along the seam of Malfoy's tightly pressed lips, humming in encouragement when Malfoy finally opened his mouth in response, kissed back tentatively.
Harry pulled back when one of the girls behind him started giggling awkwardly. He took in Malfoy's still-scared look and the way he was gripping Parkinson's hand so tightly that there were white pressure points where their fingers were threaded together. He tried for a smirk and failed, scowling instead. "Game over. I'm going to bed."
*****
More to come tomorrow...