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Things I love:

rooonil-waazlib:

  • clean sheets
  • kissing
  • laughing so hard you think you might puke
  • cool showers on a hot night
  • teeth so clean they actually squeak as you brush them

  • the feeling of accomplishment after getting a bunch of work done (bonus if it’s something you didn’t want to do)

  • sun dresses

  • music that makes you want to explode from its beauty
  • coming up out of a stretch
  • going to bed after a really hard workout
  • making people laugh
  • recognition for doing something well

  • really good food
  • getting into bed on cold nights
  • knowing someone is attracted to you

  • the moment after finishing something you were afraid to do
  • holding hands

  • waking up and still having several hours before you have to get up
  • the ocean
  • the mountains
  • freckles

  • watching the sun rise/set

Also:

  • really good hugs
  • movies that suck so bad that they’re funny (but not ones that suck so bad that they move past being funny)
  • things that are still funny several days later
  • spending hours with friends just talking about shit
Christmas at the Manor

Rated PG

Word Count ~820

Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter; HP/DM

Summary:

Draco loves Christmas. Christmas at the Manor? Maybe a little less…

Visible here at my LiveJournal.

Any reviews are welcome, and should be directed either to my ask box or posted on my LJ.

Excerpt:

Andromeda ran a hand through her grandson’s hair, red as it always was when Laela was around.  They had a few minutes of peace before Lucius wandered into the portrait of Draco and his mother—the current Lord and Lady Malfoy—hanging over the mantle.  He snorted.  “Half-bloods,” he sneered.

Stole My Heart

Rated PG

Word Count ~2700

Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter; HP/DM

Summary:

By the will of some higher power that Draco doesn’t believe in, he’d been blessed to have almost a year with Harry. But then Harry disappears, leaving nothing but the scent of him on Draco’s pillow.

Visible here at my LiveJournal.

Any reviews are welcome, and should be directed either to my ask box or posted on my LJ.

Excerpt:

Rubbing the back of his neck, Draco backs away from the window and lets himself fall into his favourite armchair by the fireplace, legs thrown over one arm, head resting against the other.  How many times had he thought about Harry—how many times had he wondered where he’d gone?

Maybe once a second.

Sixty seconds in a minute; sixty minutes in an hour.  Twenty-four hours in a day.  Seven days a week.  Three and a half months made fourteen weeks.  So—eight and a half million times.  Give or take.

That sounds about right.

Rated G

Word Count ~440

Visible also at my LJ. Comments/constructive criticism can be directed there or to my askbox.

In high school, she’s one of those insanely popular girls that everyone likes, and not just because she’s pretty.  Some people hate her, but even they’ll admit that they’re just bitter, because she’s so sweet and beautiful and smart and perfect.  She’s that girl who gets along with her teachers and her parents and charms adults and children and teenagers alike.

When she graduates valedictorian, she goes to one of those small colleges with a great name in the middle of nowhere, and studies mechanical engineering and kinesiology, a joint degree with which she plans to go on into medical school and eventually amputee rehabilitation.  People go all soft-eyed when she tells them, so she doesn’t usually say it.

Then one night, when she’s doing a terrible karaoke version of ‘Hound Dog’ with a friend, he’s there, laughing like everyone else, only unlike everyone else, he doesn’t take his eyes off her smile.  He approaches her once she’s come off the stage, and before she knows it, it’s three months later and she’s slow-dancing with him at her sister’s wedding.

Her mother is frightened of him and his tattoos and the black stretchers in his ears, but he treats her nice and she thinks she might love him.  So when he whispers a proposal in her ear while they shower her sister with rice, with her next handful goes her caution, and she says yes.

They don’t announce it, but he buys her a pretty little grey diamond set in titanium, and it isn’t her mother who first notices, but her father.  He shakes her fiancé’s hand while her mother fans herself and tries not to faint.

The wedding is small, six months after their first meeting, and she falls pregnant before the year is out.  She and her sister give birth within days of one another, and before anyone really realizes, she’s having their second and third children at the same time, twins who take the names of their fathers.

Fifteen years later, when their oldest has packed up and left to tour the world with her band, she goes back to school, finishes her masters’ degree and eventually, two weeks after the twins have gone to colleges two thousand miles from one another, she starts her first day at work, rehabilitating soldiers who’ve suffered amputations.

And suddenly, she’s smiling again, like before the children.  Twenty years into their marriage, they feel again like newlyweds, and it’s one such of these days that he watches her awake with the widest smile he’s ever seen her wear that he falls in love with her all over again.

More of my different posts

Here’s more of what I posted yesterday…I do particularly love feedback if you would be so kind. And I welcome constructive criticism.

There was something about her, and it wasn’t her long legs.  Nor was it the curve of her hips and chest.  Not the bow of her lips or the cornsilk of her blonde hair or even the angle of her eyebrow.

It wasn’t even the way her body fit against his, or the way she said his name.

It was the way he could always read the smile in her eyes, the silent words that walked between them and told him how happy he made her.  It was the way she bit her lip when she looked at him, like there were always things she wanted to tell him but knew that he already knew.  It was the way her eyes snapped to him every time he entered the room.

It was the way her palm felt against his.  The way her rings made his fingers cold in the wintertime, because she refused to wear gloves if they were going to hold hands.  The way her thumb pressed against the back of his hand to make sure he didn’t pull away.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when he found the gun hidden in the trick drawer in her closet.  He’d just been searching for his Christmas present when the back of the drawer had sprung out, leaving him with a block of wood and a Beretta and a panic that was so fierce that he dropped the semi-automatic and screeched like a little girl.

She came running, looking between him and the pistol until he pointed at it from his new vantage point in the corner behind her dresses.  “Christmas present,” was all he managed to stammer, and she cocked her head at him in utter bewilderment.

“That’s not your Christmas present,” she said, picking up the gun and putting it back into the drawer and replaced the false back.  Pushing the drawer in with her hip, she reached out to him, but he didn’t reach back.  “What?”

Gun,” he said.

“Oh.”  She stepped back and shrugged one shoulder.  “Just because I mostly do deskwork with Interpol doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to carry weapons.”  But he just stared at her in horror.  She fidgeted.  “Look, it’s really not a big deal.”

“But you—you just keep that in the drawer.”  Keeping his back to the wall, he edged around her and backed out of the closet.  “What if—I mean—what if…Why don’t you keep it in the safe?”

She followed him, flipping off the closet light and shutting the door behind her.  “Why?  It’s not loaded—I keep the bullets in the next drawer down.  Besides, there aren’t any kids around to find it.”

He waved one hand around.  “Irrelevant!  What if—I mean I could have…”

“Christ, I already told you—it’s not loaded,” she said, slowing her words down as if she was talking to a five-year-old.

His fists clenched and unclenched, and clenched once more.  He licked his lips.  “Are there any more?” he asked, pushing a stray sock across the carpet with his toe.

“No,” she said, then hedged, head cocking as her eyes slid sideways.  “Well—I have one at the office.  I keep it in my desk, just in case one of our leads pans out.”  As his eyes narrowed, she took three steps forward and reached for his hand.  This time he didn’t pull away, and her thumb rubbed across his knuckles.  “But I never bring that one home.  It stays at the office.”

He sighed, eyes on her hand in his.  “Why do you need two?”

“Just in case,” she said, shrugging one shoulder.  “You know I take my badge home.  I have the gun so that if I get called in for something, I’ll be prepared.”

When he continued to look unconvinced, she took his other hand and laced her fingers through his.  “”Look, I’m sorry.  Okay?  I should have told you.  Let’s just—let’s just forget about it.  The gun won’t come out of the drawer again.”

He hesitated another few moments, but then she shook he one hand so their arms swung between them.  Nodding, he pulled her closer and leaned down to kiss her cheek.  “Okay.”  He nodded again as if reassuring himself.  “Okay.  Let’s have dinner.”

asks:
I never knew you could write like this! I'd love to read more of your work. It's f* amazing. :)

Oh thanks! That’s sweet. <3 There’s some posted on my Facebook.

This post is different

I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t know if I’m going to continue, but I guess it should go up because I’d love some feedback on it.

Rated G

Word Count 184

There was something about her, and it wasn’t her long legs.  Nor was it the curve of her hips and chest.  Not the bow of her lips or the cornsilk of her blonde hair or even the angle of her eyebrow.

It wasn’t even the way her body fit against his, or the way she said his name.

It was the way he could always read the smile in her eyes, the silent words that walked between them and told him how happy he made her.  It was the way she bit her lip when she looked at him, like there were always things she wanted to tell him but knew that he already knew.  It was the way her eyes snapped to him every time he entered the room.

It was the way her palm felt against his.  The way the rings on her fingers made his fingers cold in the wintertime, because she refused to wear gloves if they were going to hold hands.  The way her thumb pressed against the back of his hand to make sure he didn’t pull away.

White Tile Floor

Rated PG-13

Word Count ~1200

Summary:

She’s here. Also visible here at my LiveJournal.

Any reviews are welcome, and should be directed either to my ask box or posted on my LJ.

Excerpt:

  “This is you,” the nurse tells him, and lets go of him, shuffling off down this eerie half-lit hallway.  He breathes in and huffs out the air all at once, staring at the door.  There is a nasty green splotch underneath the door handle, and he shivers, trying not to think about what it might be made of.  He takes one more calming deep breath before pushing open the door.

A phone rings.  And rings, and rings.

                And rings.

                And rouses a man from sleep, barely.  He gets up, an automatic reaction to the sound of the telephone—Pavlov’s dog versus his bell.  He makes his way toward the kitchen.  The phone rings.  He trips over a pair of dirty jeans, an overturned chair, and a pan before he reaches the phone—which rings, again.

                The voice on the line is soft, barely controlled, as though the woman’s throat has closed up.  She’s here, she tells the man, she’s here, and why aren’t you?

                Now he is awake, and frantically trying to find those pants he almost fell over earlier.  He yanks them on.  They’re too big, probably his roommate’s, but it doesn’t matter—and he hopes his car keys are in his coat pocket as he pulls it on.

                He races out the front door, leaving it open behind him because it takes too long to close it.  The leaflet advertising for a new pizza parlour flaps off his windshield as he squeals out of the parking spot.

                The man is lucky that the city he lives in hasn’t yet put cameras at intersections as he speeds through one, two, three yellow lights and a red.

                He reaches his destination in record time.  He parks the piece-of-crap Ford that he can’t afford to turn in underneath a glowing orange streetlamp and sprints across the lot.

                Bluish-white fluorescent lights buzz over a white tile floor, and the short man blocks out old memories he doesn’t have time to deal with as he jogs to the desk.

                “I’m, err, looking for my girlfriend,” he says to the pretty young woman in pale yellow scrubs.  “Where would she be?”

                She smiles at him.  He ignores the sympathy in her eyes.  “What’s her name, sir?”

                Blushing, he mutters the name, looking around as though there will be neon signs directing him to where he needs to be.  He shuts his eyes and mouth against the sudden wave of bile threatening to release itself all over the registration book the nurse is looking at.  He hates hospitals.

                He watches the woman’s mouth as she tells him where to go, struggling to comprehend her words in his distracted state.  She asks him, please, to not run in the hallways, so he powerwalks to the elevator and joins an elderly woman with a cane.  He jabs the door close button until they start moving, and stares at the lit button for the fourth floor as the cab slowly dings its way to two.  He bounces on the balls of his feet impatiently.

                “Your first?” the woman asks, smiling knowingly at him.  He nods.  She laughs pleasantly, and pats his arm as she hobbles out onto the third floor.

                The fourth floor is dead silent; more than half of the lights are out and everyone walks as though attending a funeral.  He hears a baby’s cry and balks, backing into the elevator again and hugging himself.

                A passing nurse stops the hydraulic doors from closing, looking in at the man.  “Are you lost, sir?” she asks, “do you need help getting somewhere?”

                He shakes his head, but reaches out and takes her outstretched hand anyway.  “I’m supposed to be here,” he tells her, her thumb making slow soothing circles across his palm.  “Here, in maternity.  I just…don’t know.”  He shuffles after the tall woman as she leads him out onto the white tile floor.  “The nurse downstairs said to go to room four-fourteen.”

                She smiles in recognition.  “I just came from there!  Your family is doing fine.”  She hooks her arm into his as they walk, seeming to feel his hesitation.  “Your baby’s very healthy.  What are you going to name her?”

                Her?  The man stops short, turning to look at the nurse in shock.  “It’s a girl?”  She nods, her smile fading rapidly.

                “Oh, I thought you knew!” she cries, one hand coming to cover her mouth.

                Now it’s his turn to comfort, and he awkwardly pats the hand resting on his arm.  “They told us it would be a boy, is all,” he reassures her, “I just didn’t pick any girls’ names.”

                “Oh.”  She gives a short, relieved sigh and turns him back to face the corridor, pulling him into a quick walk as though she is embarrassed and doesn’t want to spend any more time with him.

                The pair comes to a door, plain white with a push bar across the middle.  A little plaque to the left of it tells him that this is room four-fourteen.  That on the other side of this door is a room, and inside the room there is a bed and a mother.  A crib and a baby.

                “This is you,” the nurse tells him, and lets go of him, shuffling off down this eerie half-lit hallway.  He breathes in and huffs out the air all at once, staring at the door.  There is a nasty green splotch underneath the door handle, and he shivers, trying not to think about what it might be made of.  He takes one more calming deep breath before pushing open the door.

                A scream that sounds vaguely like “help me!” rips itself from his throat, and he can hear it echoing down the corridor momentarily before the heavy metal door slams behind him and he is across the room.

                He will swear later that he heard the quick snap of breaking bones as he yanks the pillow from the grip of his baby’s mother, but for now he is too busy trying to get her away from his child to acknowledge the noise.  The doctors will tell him later that he broke her wrist while relieving her of the pillow.  They will tell him that the mother sustained a concussion against the white tile floor when they toppled.

                They will tell him that, if he hadn’t entered at just that moment, his baby would probably have died.  They will throw around big words like ‘post-partum’ and ‘manic depressive.’  They will tell him that the mother has been committed to the psychiatric ward.  They will tell him many things that he won’t care about because now he only cares about his baby.

                He takes the unregistered child home the very next day with instructions to bring her back when he’s chosen a name, so that a birth certificate can be printed.

                He agonizes over the little girl for three days, flipping through the baby name book that he had checked out from the library what feels like aeons ago.  On the fourth day, his roommate enters the kitchen to find the father bundling his daughter up tightly in the blanket his mother had knitted for her, unaware that he is being watched.  The child gurgles and he gurgles back, unable to look away from the tiny person.

                “Have you decided?” the godfather asks, and the shorter man jumps and glances at him.

                “Yes.  Her name is Mia.”

                “Russian?”

                The young dad shakes his head as he lifts the child into her baby seat and carefully buckles her in.  “Spanish.”

                “I’ve never heard of anyone Spanish named Mia.”

                “It’s not a name—it’s an adjective.”  The man hoists the basket-like seat up to his body and turns toward the door.

                “I don’t get it,” his friend says plainly.

                The father pauses in the doorway.  “In Spanish,” he explains patiently, “mia means mine.”

Catalyst

Rated PG-13

Word Count ~900

Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter; HP/DM

Summary:

Harry drinks. Also visible here at my LiveJournal.

Any reviews are welcome, and should be directed either to my ask box or posted on my LJ.

Excerpt:

Pansy Parkinson is a Slytherin.  Not one of those demi-Slytherins, the kind that shy away from the dirty jobs, turn their noses up out of some misplaced sense of pride.

No, she is a real Slytherin.  The kind that will stop at nothing to get what she wants.  And what she wants, right now, is to get her best friend out of Hogwarts and into the arms of some welcoming—preferably hunky—man.

Harry Potter—king of Gryffindor and Saviour of the Wizarding World—is drunk.  Again.  As usual.  He likes being drunk these days, the legend and expectations of the Man Who Lived Twice sitting heavy on his shoulders like an enormous sodding snake.  He hates snakes, has ever since Nagini had attacked him in Godric’s Hollow, almost four years ago now.

Being drunk is so easy, for Harry, now.  When Harry is drunk, he can laugh and sing and dance and fuck, and no one will care.  He won’t, at least.

In reality, he is drunk quite a lot.  Sometimes, he’s drunk before noon.  Sometimes, he’s still drunk from the night before when he gets up.  Sometimes, he loses entire days because he’s drunk.

But that’s only because when he’s drunk, he doesn’t have to listen to everyone telling him how wonderful he is.  Or how much they’d like to be him.

Or how much they’d like to blow him.

When Harry is drunk, nothing else matters.  When he is sober, people have so many expectations; there are so many limits on how he can act, speak, dress, live.  When he is drunk, people turn away from him, lose interest or hope or whatever the fuck they try and pin on him.  So, drunk, he is free.

When Harry is sober, the weight of his friends’ disappointment is palpable in his belly.  When he is sober, his mind strays, wonders how his parents would feel if they could see him now.  Or Dumbledore.  Or Snape.  He wonders if they’d feel like it had all gone to waste; all their efforts to keep him alive, down the hatch like his favourite Scotch.

When Harry is sober, he knows Kingsley and the other Order members hate what he is doing, joining up with Puddlemere United practically the moment he finished his NEWTs rather than applying for Aurorship.

But when Harry is drunk, none of that matters.

So Harry is drunk often.

Draco Malfoy, Ice Prince of Slytherin, ex-Death Eater extraordinaire, is constantly plagued with guilt.  It dogs every step he takes, itches under his skin and is marked by the heavy black ink on his forearm.  He feels guilty for the choices he made, the actions he took, his father and himself.

Unable to think of anything else to do with himself—God knows he doesn’t need money; even if they left him with nothing else, he has money—he teaches at Hogwarts School, taking over Charms from the now-wizened Professor Flitwick.

He doesn’t have a real reason to teach; he doesn’t particularly like teenagers—never has, really—and he could give two shits about people’s expectations.  All he knows is a powerful void of his own person, one that he thinks stems from a deep-seated insecurity over the love of his father.

He thinks that if he could just save one student from feeling the way he did, from making choices he made, then it could all be better.  Maybe that space would fill.  Maybe not.  Maybe he will stop needing it to be filled.

And maybe, he thinks, he will get some peace from his nightmares.

Pansy Parkinson is a Slytherin.  Not one of those demi-Slytherins, the kind that shy away from the dirty jobs, turn their noses up out of some misplaced sense of pride.

No, she is a real Slytherin.  The kind that will stop at nothing to get what she wants.  And what she wants, right now, is to get her best friend out of Hogwarts and into the arms of some welcoming—preferably hunky—man.

And she knows just the man she wants to set up with Draco.  For all anybody knows, though, that man is straight.  According to all the gossip mags.  There is never a whit of a mention of anything else.

She knows.  She’s read the mags.  All of them.

Of course, being an especially clever Slytherin with a well-padded wallet, she knows that a lack of information about any homosexual encounters does not mean that there are none.  She knows that it just means her adversary is also clever, also has plenty of money and knows how to use it.

These days, the only thing to be found in the papers is information related to his Quidditch successes.

The problem is, Pansy doesn’t exactly have a plan to get Draco into Potter’s bed.  She also doesn’t really have a plan to get Potter into Draco’s bed, and therein lies the issue:

They still think they hate each other.

Not that she talks to Potter, meaning she’s not entirely sure that this is the case, but from the look of the shambles of his life, he doesn’t hate anyone except himself at the moment.

Draco, of course, spends all of his free time poring over magazines, scoffing at Potter’s hair and Potter’s glasses and Potter’s fashion choices.  He points out how he could fix Potter.  Fix him, as if he were a faulty broomstick or a mildly-wronged potion.

So all Pansy has to do is think of a plan.

It comes to her as she is lying in bed, tossing her puffskein, Jonathon, into the air as he squealed with glee.  In reality, they have enough sexual tension between them that—in theory, at least—all that is needed is a spark.  A simple catalyst would set off the flames.

As for the spark—well.  Alcohol is very flammable.