WIP excerpts.
Dec. 12th, 2005 02:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pauraque_bkIt must seem like I haven't been writing much lately, since I was working on Smutmas for the past couple of months, and obviously I couldn't talk about it. Then I was out of town, and then I was sick, but now I'm working on things again. Promise.
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violet_quill was doing this meme: Post a snippet (sentence, paragraph, whatever) from every in-progress fic you have at the moment, so I thought I would too (since my schedule for today has been totally messed up by members of my family and now I have time to kill but we're not talking about that right now).
HP - Sirius/James: There are supposed to be two more stories in the series that starts with Moving Pictures and Heat Wave, and I've been working on both of them simultaneously. The third in the series takes place on the same day as Heat Wave, and doesn't have a title yet.
Excerpt: James is stretched out on the grass on his stomach with his head on his wadded-up shirt, picking at the clover. Warm smell of earth and grass is heavy in his nostrils. The grass is cool and pokes between his toes. He watches Sirius swim laps -- James thinks he's better at swimming since Padfoot came along, like it's natural now -- the white foam in his wake, his kicking legs white too against the water.
He gets out after a while, wiping the water from his eyes with both hands. His hair's dripping as he trudges back up onto the bank.
'C'mon, do it,' James calls, shading his eyes. 'You know you want to!'
Sirius flips him off good-naturedly before putting his hands down on the rock and shaking his hair out like a dog, leaving it sticking every which way.
'Happy?'
James whoops, laughing, and lets his head fall down on the grass. When Sirius comes over, still shining-wet and panting a little from his swim, James can smell the water on him, sharp and clean. He sits down heavily by James's legs, and little drops of cold land on James's calves. Sirius stretches out his legs, wriggling his toes, and leans back on his hands.
HP - Sirius/James/Lily: The fourth in the series takes place a couple of years later, and involves Lily. Its title right now is "To Honour and Obey", but I don't know if I'll keep that.
Excerpt: He watches Sirius kiss his wife. Chastely at first, and then her mouth opens red and wet, and their tongues intertwine.
'He tastes like cigarettes,' she says when their lips part. A pause, and then: 'Taste him, James.'
The men look at each other, mirrored surprise. A hint of teeth as Sirius grins, then shifts toward him. James is smiling nervously as their heads move together, and his heart is beating so fast. He moves his hand up behind Sirius's head, awkwardly, and then they're kissing. She's right, his mouth tastes of dirty smoke.
He realises faintly that she's touching herself while she watches them kiss, fingering the pouting pink lips that seem so much fatter and wetter now with the baby inside.
HP - Filch/Lucius: I was supposed to write this for_hannelore a million years ago, and I haven't given up yet!
Excerpt: 'Can't help it if students break the rules, can I, sir?' He started to pull the door shut with another maddening leer.
Lucius blocked it with his cane and pushed it open again. 'I've not finished with you yet,' he said through his teeth.
Filch's eyes narrowed. He chewed his lower lip for a moment before releasing the door. 'Won't you come in, sir,' he murmured, turning to go inside.
The door clicked shut behind Lucius, and his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He was amazed at how _filthy_ the office was, as though absolutely everything bore a fine coat of dust or grease or _something_ horrid. The desk was strewn with parchments, and there were fingermarks scuffed into the dust. The bookshelf held only some tatty old trinkets. He found himself standing up stiffer, straighter, not wanting to soil his robes, his clean skin.
Filch sat down heavily in the rickety chair and slid open the file drawer. There was a pair of manacles dangling from the handle -- how ridiculous. 'Let's see here... Malfoy...'
Lucius tsked impatiently. 'Oh, there will be no need for that. I've simply come to inform you...' He moved forward slightly, looming over the seated man. '...that where my son is concerned, due lenience is appreciated.'
Filch's gnarled fingers stopped over the files, and he peered up at Lucius for a moment as though looking at a madman. Then his misshappen features settled into a scowl. 'So it's that way, is it?'
'I'm afraid it is.'
'Well, in that case...' Filch stood up, pushing the chair back with a nasty squeak against the uneven floor. He met Lucius's gaze evenly; his eyes were jaundice-yellowed. 'I'll have to inform you -- in case it weren't clear -- that I work for Albus Dumbledore. And no man else.'
Lucius bristled. 'Why, you insolent little--'
'No need to get nasty,' Filch said with a smirk, moving even closer to him and crossing his arms -- nearly brushing the front of Lucius's robes. 'Perhaps you ought to be going, _sir_.'
Lucius didn't step back (though he wanted to -- lord but the man's breath stank). 'Don't think for a moment that I'll hesitate to have you removed from your position,' he hissed. 'My, one doesn't like to think what should happen then. Surely no wizard _but_ Albus Dumbledore would have you...'
'You can't threaten me,' Filch snarled, looking for all the world like a slavering mastiff. 'Just because you've got money and-- and a little hocus pocus!' A mocking flutter of his hands. 'If you have got any, that is. Your boy must be a pretty piss-poor wizard if he can't even keep the likes of me from finding out his mischief!'
Spider-man - Peter/Otto: There's some good stuff in this, and I really want to finish it. It's movieverse.
Excerpt: When they come back one night, Otto's favoring the one on the bottom-left, holding it cringed up slightly. He sits down on the bed and shakes it out, then pulls it up to examine the lens.
"You okay?"
Otto grimaces, shrugs -- *eh*. "It was never the same after-- Doesn't quite... close all the way..."
Peter sits down next to him, craning his neck with interest. Otto shows him how it doesn't move the way the others do, brows knitting as he strains to shut the petals. The wound is a couple of feet down the arm. Just like the day it happened, Peter guesses. One metal vertebra cracked. Peter glances up briefly for permission, and touches where the steel cable is frayed, feels the wires twitch beneath. "Does it hurt?" he asks hoarsely.
"They don't feel pain," Otto reminds him. "Only pressure."
He lets the hand relax down onto Peter's lap, open. Tired? (Does it get tired?) Peter remembers the time at the zoo when the keeper let him hold the giant millipede, waxy exoskeleton and a thousand legs like peeling velcro as it moved across his skin. He runs his palm slowly over the spine-like arm. It's heavy against his thigh, but not as solid as he'd thought it would be. Mostly cable and wire, and it gives a little against his grip. The room is quiet but for Otto's breathing, his close attention.
Peter lightly touches the edge of one of the petals -- perhaps not as razor-sharp as when it was new, but still thin-edged. He lets his fingertip touch inside, and the tip of the petal curls slightly. It's bumpy and oiled like a bicycle chain; he slides his fingertip further in, to the smooth rim of the camera eye--
And it snaps shut like a Venus flytrap, catching Peter's little finger before he can pull clear.
"Stop it," Otto snarls, and wrenches the petals tremblingly apart (it takes Peter a second to realize that he isn't using his hands).
When Peter pulls his hand free, he looks, and his finger is sliced cleanly on both sides of the knuckle, skin neatly parted. It doesn't hurt until he bends it, and then it's like the first hissing pain of a papercut. He knows without being told that if the hand still closed the way it was supposed to, it would've gone down to the bone, maybe further. Red trickles down into the small networked wrinkles of his skin; he brings it quickly to his mouth, sucking. "Sorry," he says reflexively around it.
"No, I'm sorry," Otto says, "I wasn't concentrating enough-- They don't like you."
Peter hesitates. He's never heard him talk about them like that before -- like they *like* things. "Why?"
"You tried to hurt them."
"You said they don't feel--"
Otto rolls his eyes slightly, caught in an imprecision. "You *injured* them."
Peter's gaze drops back down to the hand. It lies still and innocent in his lap, petals flexed. He brings his palm down slowly, cautiously to rest on the arm, over the peeling yellow lacquer. "They remember that?" he asks.
"They remember everything," Otto says.
"Is it too late to make friends?" Peter looks up as he says this, open and naive, and catches a second of the unguarded surprise on Otto's face before it twists into a smirk.
"What's the matter with you," Otto says with a sort-of laugh, and the actuator slips out from under his palm, gives Peter a light shove in the chest as Otto gets up and walks off into the kitchen.
I'm working on other stuff too, but these are the ones that have so much already done that it would really be a shame not to finish them. If any of them look promising to you, please bother me about them, I need it.
violet_quill was doing this meme: Post a snippet (sentence, paragraph, whatever) from every in-progress fic you have at the moment, so I thought I would too (since my schedule for today has been totally messed up by members of my family and now I have time to kill but we're not talking about that right now).HP - Sirius/James: There are supposed to be two more stories in the series that starts with Moving Pictures and Heat Wave, and I've been working on both of them simultaneously. The third in the series takes place on the same day as Heat Wave, and doesn't have a title yet.
Excerpt: James is stretched out on the grass on his stomach with his head on his wadded-up shirt, picking at the clover. Warm smell of earth and grass is heavy in his nostrils. The grass is cool and pokes between his toes. He watches Sirius swim laps -- James thinks he's better at swimming since Padfoot came along, like it's natural now -- the white foam in his wake, his kicking legs white too against the water.
He gets out after a while, wiping the water from his eyes with both hands. His hair's dripping as he trudges back up onto the bank.
'C'mon, do it,' James calls, shading his eyes. 'You know you want to!'
Sirius flips him off good-naturedly before putting his hands down on the rock and shaking his hair out like a dog, leaving it sticking every which way.
'Happy?'
James whoops, laughing, and lets his head fall down on the grass. When Sirius comes over, still shining-wet and panting a little from his swim, James can smell the water on him, sharp and clean. He sits down heavily by James's legs, and little drops of cold land on James's calves. Sirius stretches out his legs, wriggling his toes, and leans back on his hands.
HP - Sirius/James/Lily: The fourth in the series takes place a couple of years later, and involves Lily. Its title right now is "To Honour and Obey", but I don't know if I'll keep that.
Excerpt: He watches Sirius kiss his wife. Chastely at first, and then her mouth opens red and wet, and their tongues intertwine.
'He tastes like cigarettes,' she says when their lips part. A pause, and then: 'Taste him, James.'
The men look at each other, mirrored surprise. A hint of teeth as Sirius grins, then shifts toward him. James is smiling nervously as their heads move together, and his heart is beating so fast. He moves his hand up behind Sirius's head, awkwardly, and then they're kissing. She's right, his mouth tastes of dirty smoke.
He realises faintly that she's touching herself while she watches them kiss, fingering the pouting pink lips that seem so much fatter and wetter now with the baby inside.
HP - Filch/Lucius: I was supposed to write this for
_hannelore a million years ago, and I haven't given up yet!Excerpt: 'Can't help it if students break the rules, can I, sir?' He started to pull the door shut with another maddening leer.
Lucius blocked it with his cane and pushed it open again. 'I've not finished with you yet,' he said through his teeth.
Filch's eyes narrowed. He chewed his lower lip for a moment before releasing the door. 'Won't you come in, sir,' he murmured, turning to go inside.
The door clicked shut behind Lucius, and his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He was amazed at how _filthy_ the office was, as though absolutely everything bore a fine coat of dust or grease or _something_ horrid. The desk was strewn with parchments, and there were fingermarks scuffed into the dust. The bookshelf held only some tatty old trinkets. He found himself standing up stiffer, straighter, not wanting to soil his robes, his clean skin.
Filch sat down heavily in the rickety chair and slid open the file drawer. There was a pair of manacles dangling from the handle -- how ridiculous. 'Let's see here... Malfoy...'
Lucius tsked impatiently. 'Oh, there will be no need for that. I've simply come to inform you...' He moved forward slightly, looming over the seated man. '...that where my son is concerned, due lenience is appreciated.'
Filch's gnarled fingers stopped over the files, and he peered up at Lucius for a moment as though looking at a madman. Then his misshappen features settled into a scowl. 'So it's that way, is it?'
'I'm afraid it is.'
'Well, in that case...' Filch stood up, pushing the chair back with a nasty squeak against the uneven floor. He met Lucius's gaze evenly; his eyes were jaundice-yellowed. 'I'll have to inform you -- in case it weren't clear -- that I work for Albus Dumbledore. And no man else.'
Lucius bristled. 'Why, you insolent little--'
'No need to get nasty,' Filch said with a smirk, moving even closer to him and crossing his arms -- nearly brushing the front of Lucius's robes. 'Perhaps you ought to be going, _sir_.'
Lucius didn't step back (though he wanted to -- lord but the man's breath stank). 'Don't think for a moment that I'll hesitate to have you removed from your position,' he hissed. 'My, one doesn't like to think what should happen then. Surely no wizard _but_ Albus Dumbledore would have you...'
'You can't threaten me,' Filch snarled, looking for all the world like a slavering mastiff. 'Just because you've got money and-- and a little hocus pocus!' A mocking flutter of his hands. 'If you have got any, that is. Your boy must be a pretty piss-poor wizard if he can't even keep the likes of me from finding out his mischief!'
Spider-man - Peter/Otto: There's some good stuff in this, and I really want to finish it. It's movieverse.
Excerpt: When they come back one night, Otto's favoring the one on the bottom-left, holding it cringed up slightly. He sits down on the bed and shakes it out, then pulls it up to examine the lens.
"You okay?"
Otto grimaces, shrugs -- *eh*. "It was never the same after-- Doesn't quite... close all the way..."
Peter sits down next to him, craning his neck with interest. Otto shows him how it doesn't move the way the others do, brows knitting as he strains to shut the petals. The wound is a couple of feet down the arm. Just like the day it happened, Peter guesses. One metal vertebra cracked. Peter glances up briefly for permission, and touches where the steel cable is frayed, feels the wires twitch beneath. "Does it hurt?" he asks hoarsely.
"They don't feel pain," Otto reminds him. "Only pressure."
He lets the hand relax down onto Peter's lap, open. Tired? (Does it get tired?) Peter remembers the time at the zoo when the keeper let him hold the giant millipede, waxy exoskeleton and a thousand legs like peeling velcro as it moved across his skin. He runs his palm slowly over the spine-like arm. It's heavy against his thigh, but not as solid as he'd thought it would be. Mostly cable and wire, and it gives a little against his grip. The room is quiet but for Otto's breathing, his close attention.
Peter lightly touches the edge of one of the petals -- perhaps not as razor-sharp as when it was new, but still thin-edged. He lets his fingertip touch inside, and the tip of the petal curls slightly. It's bumpy and oiled like a bicycle chain; he slides his fingertip further in, to the smooth rim of the camera eye--
And it snaps shut like a Venus flytrap, catching Peter's little finger before he can pull clear.
"Stop it," Otto snarls, and wrenches the petals tremblingly apart (it takes Peter a second to realize that he isn't using his hands).
When Peter pulls his hand free, he looks, and his finger is sliced cleanly on both sides of the knuckle, skin neatly parted. It doesn't hurt until he bends it, and then it's like the first hissing pain of a papercut. He knows without being told that if the hand still closed the way it was supposed to, it would've gone down to the bone, maybe further. Red trickles down into the small networked wrinkles of his skin; he brings it quickly to his mouth, sucking. "Sorry," he says reflexively around it.
"No, I'm sorry," Otto says, "I wasn't concentrating enough-- They don't like you."
Peter hesitates. He's never heard him talk about them like that before -- like they *like* things. "Why?"
"You tried to hurt them."
"You said they don't feel--"
Otto rolls his eyes slightly, caught in an imprecision. "You *injured* them."
Peter's gaze drops back down to the hand. It lies still and innocent in his lap, petals flexed. He brings his palm down slowly, cautiously to rest on the arm, over the peeling yellow lacquer. "They remember that?" he asks.
"They remember everything," Otto says.
"Is it too late to make friends?" Peter looks up as he says this, open and naive, and catches a second of the unguarded surprise on Otto's face before it twists into a smirk.
"What's the matter with you," Otto says with a sort-of laugh, and the actuator slips out from under his palm, gives Peter a light shove in the chest as Otto gets up and walks off into the kitchen.
I'm working on other stuff too, but these are the ones that have so much already done that it would really be a shame not to finish them. If any of them look promising to you, please bother me about them, I need it.
