"Dare to Disturb the Universe"

her_rebeccaness @ 2006-09-06T20:57:00

2006-09-07T01:03:16Z

Well, I know it's been one day, two days, three...a VERY FUCKING LONG TIME since I've last posted. Life has been throwing some pretty goddamn big bullets at me, but I think the worst is over now.

I just watched Stage Beauty on one of the few movie channels we have, and I have to say that I LOVED IT. Loved it.

1. Billy Crudup is HOT. HOT, as in, like the sun.
2. He almost reminds me of Sirius. I don't really know why.
3. It's 17th century, and they use fuck, which is HILARIOUS to me.

Anyway. How have you all been doing? Is everything good?

God, I can't believe I stayed away this long!

Friends only

2006-07-27T17:03:51Z

This journal is now officially friends only. I'm been debating this for a while, but I've decided this is for the best. I'm totally paranoid about RL people finding this anyway, and plus, this way, people who don't want to hear about all of my silly mess don't have to. If you're hear for my fics, I'll still post them here, but all the other mess is now friends only.

If you want to be added to my friends list, just comment here. There's a really good chance I'll add you ~~because I'm a total friends whore~~. I usually never say no to new friends. :D

♥♥♥

her_rebeccaness @ 2006-07-20T22:52:00

2006-07-21T02:52:15Z

I've spent the better part of an hour writing angsty Sirius/Remus, and it just really sucks I can't ever seem to give them a happy ending. If it's any consolation, this is on it's way:

The True and Untarnished Story of How Exactly A Scruffy Bloke Like James Potter Got A Bird Like Lily Evans
By Remus Lupin
Edited By Sirius Black (because Moony won’t do the Story justice)
(You’ll be able to distinguish between Sirius and myself because Sirius will be capitalizing things that have absolutely no business being capitalized and generally abusing the English language.)
(And Moony will probably be Very Grammatically Correct and generally make you want to hit him in the head with one of the enormous books he’s always reading)

Titile: And Look At Where It Leads Us
Rating: R
Warning: angst, and cursewords, and a little bit of fucking
Summary: All that Gryffindor courage, and look at where it leads us.

10.

Sirius is falling and Harry is straining in your arms, and as you hold him back all you can think is, I’m sorry.

Maybe you should have told him so, before, but you always thought there would be more time, another day, another hour.

“He’s gone,” you say, and the sick feeling in your stomach is the same one you had fifteen years ago when you were standing in rubble and ashes, and you thought Sirius had betrayed you all.

That’s how you know it’s true.

If you’d known this would be the last time you’d see him full and whole and young, maybe you would have paid more attention. Maybe you would have noticed the flush in his cheeks and the errant curl behind his right ear, the way the leather of his jacket was soft and worn in your fingers as you gripped his shoulder. Maybe you would have kissed him, just because he wanted you to.

Instead you let him walk away, and all you remember is wondering, doubting, thinking, Could it be you? and seeing in the line of his shoulders that he is wondering the exact same thing about you.

You come in late, again, and your clothes smell like blood, and you feel sick; your knees feel weak, like they are about to cave in, and you are just so tired.

“Where have you been, Moony? You look terrible, are you ok? I’ve got some tea on the stove, hold on,” Sirius is chattering, seating you on the couch and shoving a mug into your hands and forcing you to drink, and you wonder if you’ll keep it down.

“Do you—“

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh, ok,” he says.

You’re not sure where the fire came from but you’re glad for it anyway; the full moon is coming and the cold is seeping into your bones already, a week and a half too early.

You’re almost asleep when you feel Sirius looking at you, and you open your eyes, and Oh, no, Sirius. You can’t mistake the lovesick look in his eyes, but you pretend that you can and say, “I’m just going to sleep here if that’s alright.”

“If you want, you can—”

“No thank you, Sirius,” you say, and you smile, even though it stretches the corners of you mouth too tight. “I really can’t be arsed to move.”

“Goodnight, then, I guess,” he says a minute too late, but you pretend to be asleep. And when he brushes the hair off your forehead, you roll over, hoping he doesn’t make things difficult.

You don’t want to hurt him, but if he keeps on, you’re going to have to.

“I don’t need your charity, Sirius,” you say, just because of your pride, even though you’re only putting up a fight for show. You have nowhere else to go.

“Let me, please?” he says, and if you had a sickle for every time he’d told you and you let him, you’d be able to afford somewhere to stay. You’d probably be able to buy a house somewhere out in the country, you think, but the war is there too, even in your wishful thinking.

“Alright,” you say, and as you reach for you suitcase, your shirt bunches up and he sees the gash on your forearm, looks up and sees the rings under your eyes, and you smile, trying to ease his worry away.

He shakes his head. “You should have let me come, Moony,” he says.

“I know.”

Sirius hates this house, hates what it stands for, what memories he’s left behind in a dark dank cell he never deserved, what he’s lost to a curse and a traitor and time. You can see it in his eyes, in the sharp angle of his chin and the fine lines in his face that are etched with loss. You can see it every time you look at him, every time he looks at you, everywhere.

You pass him on the stairs and your hands brush, and it’s like everything has sped up and slowed down at the same time, but you are too old for this awkward boyish fumbling you thought you had long since gotten over. It was never about that anyway.

“Remus,” he says, and it’s like a declaration. This is what I want, this is what I want you to want. I want you, I want what we could have had. I want a second chance, a first chance.

“Sirius,” you say, and you nod.

It’s like a punctuation: here is an end to what we never had, Sirius. This is where it stops. This is where we stop, where everything stops. Let it go, Sirius, turn a new page, start a new sentence.

You avoid his eyes, afraid there might be hurt and betrayal written there in a language you thought you had deciphered, once.

You don’t know if he’d reject pity anymore.

The next morning dawns grey and bleak, and you’re wrapped up in Sirius’s arms on the couch. You wait for him to wake up and when he does, you untangle yourself and try not to look at him or you’ll lose your nerve.

“Sirius—I,” but he already knows.

“Don’t fucking patronize me, ok?” he says, and when he slams the door to his bedroom shut, you sit at the kitchen table and think, All that Gryffindor courage and nobility, and look at where it leads us.

It’s smells like ashes and death, and they have already taken Harry away when you get there. At least he’s alive, you think but it isn’t enough because you can see Lily and James’s bodies in all the rubble. They are dead and their eyes are blank and it hurts, twists down deep in your gut. No one will look you in the eyes, and all the apologies fall from your ears as if they’d never been spoken.

You are dead too, you think, without them.

“I should probably get a job,” you say, because you hate feeling useless and sitting in Sirius’s apartment all day doing nothing but waiting.

“Nonsense,” Sirius says, and he grins. “This is my apartment, and if I wanted to charge you rent, well, I bloody well would.”

“I don’t like staying in your apartment and not contributing, Sirius,” you say. You’ve always hated pity and charity and the like, always wanted to make your own way, and it’s a harsh reality to face when you realize that you can’t.

“Stop acting like you haven’t done my a thousand favors, Moony,” he says. “Hell, I’ll probably owe you for my entire life, anyway.”

“It’s not about that, Sirius,” you say, and you hate that you’re getting angry but you can’t help it. “Please stop being so fucking nonchalant about it, ok, like it doesn’t matter to be when you know it does!”

“You want to talk about being nonchalant, eh, Moony?” And there it is, the rise in his voice, and he’s about to drop it and you going to have to shove it back at him. “You know that I’ve been fucking pining for you for MONTHS now, and you’ve been acting like you don’t, and it’s not fair and I want, Goddammit, Moony, I want—”

He’s kissing you now, demanding entrance and you let him kiss you, you let him pull you up and shove you against a door frame and you let him fuck you with your clothes half on, and when he comes, he whispers, “I love you, Moony,” into you’re neck, and you hate that you can’t love him back.

You hate that you bite his shoulder to keep from telling him you’re sorry.

Sirius is endlessly messy, scattering things from one end of his apartment to other, and you tell him you’re earning your keep when really the clutter irritates you to no end and you don’t want him to know. The table in the corner has clusters of balled up paper, letters Sirius attempted to write, letters that have been written to him.

Dear Remus, one of them says. Hope you’re doing well.

Watch out for Remus, another one says. I don’t like to say it but, you never know, Pads. He could be it.

You throw it into the trash can, and when he comes home and the flat is clean, you can tell he wants to ask if you saw it, if you know that James thinks it's you, but you say nothing.

*

You are alone, and the lone coffee mug on the table and the books by your bed are proof, little reminders everywhere you step that your friends have died or betrayed you, and the rest will only look at you with sad eyes and say, I understand what you’re going through, but.

There is a box of Sirius’s things in the corner of your bedroom, photographs and a school tie and who knows what else. One day you’ll burn it all, you say. One day you’ll go through it and burn each piece, one by one, until all that is left of Sirius are ashes and things you would like to forget.

But you don’t, because somewhere, in the back of you mind, you like to believe he is innocent. If you burn his things, it’s putting an end to that hope, stamping it out.

In your head you know he is guilty, of course, but your heart has never been as easy to persuade. If it was, you would have loved him, really loved him, a long, long time ago.

her_rebeccaness @ 2006-03-31T00:15:00

2006-03-31T05:36:32Z

Summary: They say that when you die, you meet five people in heaven.
Note: unfinished, dude. First bit here.

1

When Caro opens her eyes, she is in New York City, and she thinks, I am not dead. I am alive. I am here. I am not dead. She sighs in relief, because is it Monday—(the droopy eyed brush artists with half-hearted sale pitches, hurried walk of businessman, the smell of chicken noodle soup cooking at the Homeless Shelter: these things tell her, for Caro has learned to read New York like a book, sniff and see and sense its changes without a calendar, without the news)—and there is energy thrumming under her skin. Life, she thinks, and she smiles, buying a doughnut from the man on the corner.

She drops the doughnut on the ground, curses (“Fuck!”, and if wasn’t a dream, this wouldn’t be the first in the last few hours, but that is foolish, ridiculous, horrifying), and when she looks up, the world has changed (literally) and she is in Georgia again, in her backyard, seeing her [parent’s] house as it was in 2001 (it burned down in July of that year, kitchen fire they said, smoke inhalation, that’s what killed her, they said, and perhaps this is a dream, perhaps—but—she can’t be dead—she isn’t). Her mother is sitting on the front porch, but this is not the woman she remembers: this woman’s hair is long and smooth and in straight carrot-colored sheets, and she can’t be more than twenty. This woman is not haggard and tired and sad and full of regrets, but laughing, smiling, happy, and it is hard to believe it hasn’t always been like this, that she hasn’t always been like this.

“Mama?” Caro asks, the familiar word rolling off her tongue like it was only yesterday when it has been years, five, in fact, and she had never expected to miss her mother—her mama, (hold on to your Southern roots in that big Yankee city, gal)—so much.

“Oh, Caroline,” she says, rolling her eyes and waving a hand in the air and laughing—genuine, beautiful, like water whispering in a creek—and then rocking in the rocking chair again. “We’re in heaven. You might as well call me by my name.”

“But Mama—Rose—I’m not—“

“Yeah, honey, you are. You died at 1:48, plus seventeen seconds, but who’s counting?” She smiles, but it falls from her face (but not from her eyes; her eyes still glitter with a laugh that seems to come from her very soul, her very heart; laughter echoes, vibrates, pulsates in the air around her) and Caro could cry, but she won’t because this is heaven (has to be, has to be, because hell doesn’t smell like daises and daylilies, doesn’t shine green and yellow and gold) and no one cries in heaven. “Caro, this is heaven. Be happy.”

“But I’m so young, you know? I mean, I wanted to have kids, and...and I wanted to get married someday, and I had a boyfriend and I was this close, this close to getting a gallery opening. This close,” she says, but these words are useless because she will never do anything of things.

Caro looks to the ground, and when she looks up again, her mother is still smiling as she says, “You can stay here if you want, you know. But this isn’t all there is.”

Caro looks around. This place smells like a combination of summer and spring, warm humidity and fresh new life all at once, and the air is bordering on being too hot but it isn’t; the colors are a bit overbright, a bit overwhelming, really. This place is her mother’s heaven, her father’s heaven when he gets here; Caro does not belong here.

“That’s ok, Rose,” she says, and she tries to smile and it almost works, but it feels a bit strained, a bit too tight at the corners of her mouth. As she is about to leave, she says one more thing.

“Is Dad...?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Rose says, and she laughs. “Well, he’s heartbroken, of course, at losing you after losing me first, but, he’s doing fine, all things considered. It’s Jonathan you should be worried about, Caro. He always did look up to you.”

Caro looks up at her mother. “But he always said I was stupid to be a painter.”

“He loved your spirit, dear,” her mother says, shaking her head. “Your vitality, your strength, your independence. He loved your freedom; Jonathan...Jonathan has always been more guarded, patient. He always wanted to be more like you.”

Caro smiles, and this time, it is real and genuine, and perhaps being dead—perhaps being in heaven—won’t be so very bad after all.

“Thanks, Mama.”

“Rose,” she corrects her, and the last sound Caro hears is her mother’s laughter, and she thinks, I never knew this woman.

But as she looks back at her mother humming and smiling, she thinks, This isn’t my mother. This is my mother before she became herself; this my mother before heartache and reality. This is my mother before the hardships of the world caught up with her.

*

Fuck!

2006-02-04T04:21:43Z

God-fucking-dammit. I hate it when people are in my FUCKING room without FUCKING asking me if they can fucking come in, and burning fucking CD's with my fucking music!

If they'd asked, it wouldn't be such a fucking big deal. And maybe if they hadn't gone and pissed me off already, it would've been alright, but fuck it all to goddamn hell!

This, paired with the fact that Mama's appendix ruptured the other day (it's ok--she's fine; came back home today, is laid up in bed, and should pretty much stay there for two weeks or so) and I will be doing fucking everything while my fucking brother sits in his room and plays his fucking video games.

God. If there is one reason to go to college, it's to get away from this fucking hell-hole. I've got to go. If I stay here for any longer, I swear I'll fucking scream. Will post later, maybe tomorrow.

her_rebeccaness @ 2006-01-05T20:59:00

2006-01-06T02:06:57Z

I want to make a community that will be called siriusly and is, as you might have guessed, for all ships and threesomes and orgies and gen that have Sirius as a big part of it. But I don't want to be alone.

Imagine me with a halo and an angel's smile. Whatever your mental picture of me is, just see that and then--halo, smile.

her_rebeccaness @ 2006-01-05T16:08:00

2006-01-05T21:21:59Z

I would like to ask decor_noctis what she wants me to call her, as she has called me Ray, which makes me ridiculously giddy. Also: your fic is in the process of me thinking about it very deeply. Switching POV's won't bother you, will it? I am thinking of heavy angst, but with funny! The Marauders are not the Marauders without funny, you see. *nodnod* But you know this already, of course.

A little snippet running rampant in my brain, you say? Why, I never thought of it, but I suppose....

"But this hurts like betrayl and knives in his back, hurts to the point where Remus can barely breathe, and there is a nagging little voice in his brain that tells him he should have known all along (but Sirius was so convincing when he would whisper all along Remus's skin)."

Ok. So that's just a sentence. B-b-but! It is a longish sentence. Which sort of makes a difference.

...I am shit at keeping my own secrets.

Just so she knows: formerlydf, I miss you!

I love these cats. I really, really do.

her_rebeccaness @ 2006-01-02T15:49:00

2006-01-02T21:23:11Z

I freaked myself out today by looking at colleges on the net. Seriously, remind me not to do that again any time in the near future.

I think I need to branch out a bit more with my characters. So far I seem to have done only Gryffidors, and mostly Marauders at that, and while there is absolutely nothing wrong with an abundance of Marauder!fic, I just don't want to be stuck with it? However, the numbering thing I asked you about, decor_noctis? That will be mostly Marauder-ish. I'm already sparking on that one. Can you say...oh, but I mustn't give it away! ;)

Oh yes. I know. I'm tantalizingly evil.

Also: I really need to clear out my section that has all the little tidbits of ideas and stuff. I mean, I have like four pages. Being a procrastinator and also having the habit of having ideas and never finishing them, yeah, you can see how it would add up.

P.S. I have some Sirius/James dialouge! Please, someone take these boys off my hands!

"James, mate, that's about as funny as McGonagoll in her skivies."

"Well, Pads, judging by that jokes, you wouldn't know funny if you fucked it."

"Ah, but James! Funny is so much more than a three Galleon whore!"

There's more, but, this is enough. Really. Steal it! Take it from me before new fic develops!

P.P.S. This. is. the. best. fucking. icon. ever! *giggle* It makes me feel better already. And the scared cat! No, the irony hasn't escaped me.

More Sirius/James

2005-12-31T06:55:48Z

I don't know what it is with all this Sirius/James shit (and no, not the porn! Alas, it has fallen to the wayside), but I have another one posted at _whompingwillow and it should be showing up on padfootnprongs sometime soon.

Here it is! When it shows up on padfootnprongs, I'll post the link there, but you don't have to reply at both places. :D

I hope you all had a great holiday and shit like that. Now, however, there is sleep to get and dreams to dream and I don't want to miss out on all that fun.

ETA: Here's the one over at padfootnprongs. :D Happy New Year's Eve! I'm heading off to a party right now, and should come home a little tipsy at the least. Totally wasted at the most, I think.

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-24T10:44:00

2005-12-24T15:50:11Z

decor_noctis, I didn't steal your colors, honest! After I used these I checked your page and then I was like, "Shit! They're the same!"

Anyway. It's Christmas Eve here, and my mama's family is coming over at two or something. I wonder if my cousin's cut his hair...last time I saw him at Thanksgiving, he looked like a red-headed Jesus, with the beard and everything. He has a tongue ring and a lip ring, so that kind of distracts from a vision of holiness (as does the lingering smell of pot smoke), but still. My littest cousin calls him Red Beard, like he's a viking!

So, in case I don't get on tomorrow, which I probably won't, MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Ok, now I have to go clean, but I'll talk to all of you later!

I bring you Original!Fic

2005-12-22T05:07:11Z

I have some original fiction here that I don't like that much, but--I will post it. Just because I love the sound of formerlydf squees (my lovely ~~fandom-wife~~ fangirl you). And, possibly, decor_noctis, because she is a very, very nice girl who thinks she loves me (or does,.

Her name is Penelope, and she bursts into your life like sunlight after rain and chemistry experiments gone wrong. She makes you dizzy, a combination of that just-woke-up feeling and your mouth being dry because you don’t ever know what to say. Penelope is all the things your small, ordinary town isn’t, all the things you aren’t, and you wonder if the angels brought her here on the clouds of the dawn (but no, she came from California, which is enough, is close).

Penelope’s hair is long and blonde and shines perfectly in the right light, and her eyes are deep brown, like hot chocolate and the insides of sunflowers. Sometimes you think you’ve drowned in them, but then you breathe again and you know you’re still alive. Every step she takes and every breath that whispers past her lips seems to be poetry in motion, a step away from the end of the verse, and you wonder if it will ever be over (but no, she is leaving in May).

She’s in your French class in the desk right in front of you. You hope she’ll ask you for a pencil but she never does, or what day it is but she always remembers. I’m so stupid, you think, because Penelope is wonderful and beautiful and perfect, and you are nothing but an everyday average seventeen year old boy who doesn’t know where he’s going. She smiles at you her first day, and every day until it ceases to mean anything (but no, it really never did).

You take pictures of her. Penelope doing her homework during lunch. A flower. Penelope sitting outside in the grass. Penelope smiling but not at you. The clouds. Penelope laughing. Penelope breathing. An empty bus stop. Penelope kissing a boy—a senior, you think, but you don’t know his name. Penelope in the rain. A thousand Penelopes is a thousand places, but it’s all pointless because she never notices you. A glance, maybe, if you’re lucky, but you never are and you never have been (but no—nothing).

Her name rolls off your tongue like a liquid obscenity, all lips and a flick tongue against your upper teeth. It sounds so much better than Carries and Lisas and an occasional Mary, so much more beautiful than anything else. Penelope—exotic in the best way possible, familiar in a way you can’t explain. I know everything about you, you think as she sits down in front of you in a whiff of perfume and a swish of blonde hair (but no, you don’t know anything about her at all).

And you think I love you when the year is over and she is leaving, and when she waves goodbye, you pretend she’s looking at you (but no, it’s really someone behind you and to the left.

Drowning, drowning in the summer blue sky and the memory of Penelope’s eyes, and you know you are already dying (but no, your heart beats on)

--------.

Anyway. I changed my layout back because the other one didn't look AT ALL like expected. AKA--I expected Not Horrifyingly Ugly, which is what I got. So--wallah! I did keep the dragons though, because they are very cute.

Back to purple it is, mateys!

(And no. I don't know when I became a pirate.)

EDIT: OMG. Who the hell is draco_lover? *headdesk* I am an idiot. But a very, very apologetic one.

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-18T23:23:00

2005-12-19T04:29:27Z

HEADACHE! OMG, the biggest fucking headache ever. Remind me to stay away from the bourbon cake from NOW ON. Screw bourbon cake and it's mother.

Bed. Beeeeed. I will write sometime, maybe soon, but not now.

P.S.--The Killers ROCK SO FUCKING HARD. And why do I keep typing The Kileers?

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-13T18:28:00

2005-12-13T23:40:46Z

I have another SIrius/James fic idea, except this one will be a)more porny, b)more straightfoward, and c)much more lighthearted and a happier ending. Snippedy-do-das for all!

“Oh, fuck, James,” and Sirius turns over to face him. “It’s like—I dunno. I don’t think I’m gay or anything, or you either, I still like birds and all, I just. I...I think I am, I mean, I’m not but—fuck! It’s just it’s you, James, and—”

AND

“What do you think about when you, you know...wank?”

James looks incredulously at Sirius. He’s sure this time that Sirius must have gone starking mad because he just asked James that which is not something you ever say out loud. It's an unspoken rule of manhood that you never, ever talk about wanking with other men. It's not on, and Sirius should know that. Unless he really is a girl just like James secretly thought in first year.

"What?"

“You heard me, James. Stop being such a skirt and answer the question.”

Weee! Porn! (Hopefully; I doubt I can write porn, but I will try. If it's too crappy, I'll put it in the Recycle Bin and we will not ever talk about it)

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-12T21:27:00

2005-12-13T03:00:05Z

EEEK! I have posted it, wallah! It is here, my beautiful baby is here!

I shall repeat myself: EEEEEK!

All of you must go review it--excuse me; all of you must go PLEASE review it. Or I might die of a burst blood vessel or something.

In other news, Mondays can bite me.

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-10T22:58:00

2005-12-11T04:04:44Z

Ahhhh! I think I am done with the Neville/Harry. True, it is only two pages long, but there are paragraphs, you see, long ones most of them, and, well. I have no excuse but laziness, and it will have to do.

DF...I will post this here for you to read, and constructive criticism and whatever else you wish. Gramatical mistakes and such, since I have neither patience or your email address!

Sometimes Neville wonders if he was sorted into Gryffindor by mistake. He’s always just been an awkward ball of arms and legs he never knew what to do with, accidents and spells gone wrong and Potions exploding. He has never had Harry’s casual beauty or Ron’s temper-tinted smile; Seamus’s sense of humor or Dean’s artistic hand. He has always been neither here or there, somewhere in between normalcy and nowhere.

When Neville hears the whispers of skin against skin and the slide of cloth and pants and moans, he pretends he doesn’t, and when they come from Harry’s bed, he pretends he doesn’t think about it when he wanks into his own hand. He pretends that it’s Harry’s hand, but then in the purple-pink-gold glow of morning, he pretends that didn’t happen either. Sometimes his whole life seems like a series of make-believes he strings together to fill the empty spaces, and then sometimes the truth is just too much and he’s glad he has something to hide behind.

Sometimes this is enough for Neville, this wanting and watching and listening, but sometimes he wants an infinite more, and his wants just hangs there in his stomach, heavy and guilty and afraid to take it. He tries to say something like, Hey, Harry, have you done your Transfiguration homework? but the words get tangled up in emotions before they work their way up his throat and end up in a garbled mess of syllables and stutters.

I want you, he wants to say, but those aren't words, just feelings he doesn't quite understand.

Sometimes Neville can't even think of the simplest words, and what he says doesn't translate into what it should mean or what he wants it to mean. When Harry smiles at him, all his thoughts turn into a melted mess and burn all the way down to his heart.

One day Neville thinks he will have what he wants, when he knows what it is, but sometimes he thinks that he'll be too afraid to find out what it is, and even then he won't take it.

*

Sometimes, it almost makes sense, like it’s a spell that he can’t remember how to pronounce, and then sometimes he isn’t sure at all. Neville wants to know—but, he doesn’t really, and he wonders if one way would be easier than the other. Somehow, sometimes, he doubts that, doubts everything he’s even beginning to think, and I don’t know drifts all around him.

Sometimes when he looks at Harry, he thinks about what it would be like to kiss him. He thinks it’d probably be a little different than kissing Luna Lovegood under the mistletoe; Harry’s lips are a little thinner, a little more chapped, a little more everything, and Neville tries not to follow than train of thought. It’s dangerously close to what could or couldn’t be the truth, toeing the line of what Neville doesn’t have the nerve to believe.

It’s just practice, Neville wants to say when Ron kisses him, tasting like firewhiskey and the gift of drunken forgetfullness. Neville winds his fingers lightly, almost-not-quite in Ron’s hair, then holds on tighter and tries to forget like he knows Ron will, but then again, he wants to remember. He wants to know what to do when—if, if only—it ever happens again.

Neville sleeps with the memory of Ron’s lips pressed all tight against his own, of angles and being a little bit too short, and clicking teeth. He dreams in black and white and green, and he wakes up knowing what he wants, knowing exactly what it is that ties his stomach into knots that he can’t ever undo.

It’s a little bit scary, and Neville can’t meet Harry’s eyes, but he thinks in soon and maybe tomorrow as the weeks pass in some joke of time.

Nothing ever happens, but sometimes, Neville wonders if he’d feel better with the weight of wanting off his chest, and mostly he wishes that for something, anything to let him know it would be ok after.

*

Neville thinks he is nothing if not a fool, and maybe he will wake up any second now for even thinking it could be happening. Harry says he wants to kiss him, but Neville doesn’t let himself believe it’s true. He doesn’t miss the whiskey-bright light in Harry’s eyes, but he does miss the tightly wound note of sincerity.

He wants this; he has always wanted this, but Neville is afraid that the moment he grabs at the chance, it will slip through his fingers like running water, and in the end he will be left with nothing. So he just pretends he doesn’t hear and tells Harry goodnight, only it sounds a lot more like ifyouwantto, but it doesn’t matter what he said because now Harry is kissing him, lips nothing like what Neville could have ever imagined.

It is over all too soon, and there is a concrete second that Neville fears will shatter, but Harry’s catches it just in time as he kisses Neville again, and then—then there are hands and there are words that he doesn’t hear, but they hardly matter. This, this, is what Neville wants, and it feels heavy and real and genuine in the pit of his stomach.

He wants to say you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this and what if somebody sees us and why don’t we go somewhere private all at once but they fade into kisses and moans and not-quite sounds that seem to escape his lips without him thinking at all. Neville likes the way we and us sound coming from his lips, likes the way Harry says fuck and damn and ohyeahlikethat, and he loves how they melt together in a blaze of scarlet kisses and golden words like it was always meant to be.

I believe I have a Gryffindor fettish. And something reminds me that I have another Luna drabble I want to be posting. But, since I have two which are both very similar, I will let you pick: Luna/Ronnishness or Luna mostly-gen with Harry in it. I may wind up posting both because I'm such an awful review whore.

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-07T22:32:00

2005-12-08T04:02:10Z

Oh, and the Neville is going to page deuce! I am ecstatic. I am fabulously happy. I feel like I've just chugged a Vault!

Also: Veronica Mars kicks some serious ass. Just to say.

~~I should have some drabbles up on padfootnprongs sometime soon, so I'll post a link then.~~

ETA: The drabbles are here

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-06T21:06:00

2005-12-07T02:33:26Z

Today was pretty much shit, but I feel better now that I'm home.

I am thinking I should get a paid account. Yay or nay?

This is for formerlydf, who is the awesomest ever.

*

Sirius once told Remus that if he kept drinking so much tea, his blood would turn into the stuff. Remus wasn’t paying much attention then (the firelight played all over Sirius’s skin and he had been lying on the couch obscenely, really), but now, when he alone, it seems like something he should have paid more attention to.

But then, Sirius told Remus a lot of things, like I’ll be here for you forever and I’d never go to his side, and Remus should have known better to believe him. He should have known better to have ever trusted Sirius with delicate things like love and secrets. James should know better, but he won’t listen to Remus’s word against Sirius’s; he never has.

Remus should know better than to hold onto Sirius like he does. He should know better than to wait for him to come home. He should know better than to keep his doubts to himself. He should know a lot of things, but there is a part of him (maybe it’s his heart) that doesn’t ever want to know if Sirius is guilty.

*

Also, I have more on my Harry/Neville!

Sometimes Neville wonders if he was sorted into Gryffindor by mistake. He’s always just been an awkward ball of arms and legs he never knew what to do with, accidents and spells gone wrong and Potions exploding. He has never had Harry’s casual beauty or Ron’s temper-tinted smile; Seamus’s sense of humor or Dean’s artistic hand. He has always been neither here or there, somewhere in between normalcy and nowhere.

When Neville hears the whispers of skin against skin and the slide of cloth and pants and moans, he pretends he doesn’t, and when they come from Harry’s bed, he pretends he doesn’t think about it when he wanks into his own hand. He pretends that it’s Harry’s hand, but then in the purple-pink-gold glow of morning, he pretends that didn’t happen either. Sometimes his whole life seems like a series of make-believes he strings together to fill the empty spaces, and sometimes the truth is just too much and he’s glad he has something to hide behind.

Sometimes this is enough for Neville, this wanting and watching and listening, but sometimes he wants an infinite more, and his wants just hangs there in his stomach, heavy and guilty and afraid to take it. He tries to say something like, Hey, Harry, have you done your Transfiguration homework? but the words get tangled up in emotions before they work their way up his throat and end up in a garbled mess of syllables and stutters.

I want you, he wants to say, but those aren't words, just feelings he doesn't quite understand.

Sometimes Neville can't even think of the simplest words, and what he says doesn't translate into what it should mean or what he wants it to mean. When Harry smiles at him, all his thoughts turn into a melted mess and burn all the way down to his heart.

One day Neville thinks he will have what he wants, when he knows what it is, but sometimes he thinks that he'll be too afraid to find out what it is, and even then he won't take it.

And now I am taking another break. Anyway, I hope you liked your drabble! :D

--P.S. My mood kitty is one bad-ass motherfucker.

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-12-03T20:38:00

2005-12-04T03:01:20Z

Oh, I am so stuck with the ficcage. Somebody get a tractor and some alcohol. I will definately be needing them, especially the alcohol.

On a seperate note, look at this AWESOME icon that formerlydf made me! I am a lucky, lucky bitch.

Why is that when you want to write something else, you get all this beginnings of lines and endings and dialouge to other plotbunnies in your head, but when you try to write the thing you wanted to, it all goes to shit? Because that really, really sucks hard.

I'm debating whether I should continue with the Luna mostly-gen (which is what I'm so stuck with), the Neville/Harry R-ishness, some Sirius/James, Sirius/Remus, or James/Remus first. I think I'll do whichever, really. (As you can see, I have a bit of a Gryffindor obsession. Also Marauders--at least the hot ones.)

I have the ending all set for the Luna one, a line from the Neville/Harry, dialouge from Sirius/James, a paragraph or so on the Sirius/Remus, and a couple of unsequenced sentances for the James/Remus. Which is probably more than anybody really cares about knowing, but there you go. If you (mostly YOU, formerlydf as you are the only one who reads this journal :D) have a preferance, I'll try to get to cracking on it. Oh, and I was serious about the drabble thing.

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-11-30T22:08:00

2005-12-01T04:09:36Z

I have never been more ready for Christmas holidays, ever. I'm thinking that I should write something Christmas based (and mayhaps involving some naughty mistletoe?), but I'm too arsed to much of anything at the moment.

Also: I haven't seen GoF yet! What is wrong with me? What kind of fan am I? How can I stand to show my face? Honestly, my homework has just been piling up like a fucking mountain, and I have a ton of stuff due Friday and next Tuesday, so I really have to get crack-a-lackin.

Look! I just found a drabble I wrote a while back, maybe like a year ago or so.

She kisses you with candy cane lips and whispers sugarplum lies into your hair, and she smells like nutmeg and the firewhiskey she's taken to drinking. The Christmas tree lights are dim (and a little lopsided, but that doesn't matter), and a fire is trickling down into smoke and embers in the hearth. This isn't a Weasley Christmas like Ginny has always come home to, but you have never known anything more, so it is easier to settle for less.

There are no blankets that you haven't sent to the war, but you both pretend to be warm, pretend to be full and whole and alright. The lights and the dying fire seems to twist everything into shadows and curved lines, blurring reality into a softened blow, and that makes it easier to believe what Ginny tells you. Harry is going to be just fine; Ron and Hermione will get married when all this is over; Molly isn't dead; Albus is alive; and everything will be (is) fine. Ginnys wants to believe it, and you want to believe it, so maybe it's true (but it isn't).

Tomorrow is Christmas so you humor her. You nod and say, yes, of course they (he, she) will, and that tomorrow the two of you will check the mistletoe for Nargles.

You already know there won't be any (Nargles thrive on Christmas, and Christmas is nowhere to be found), but Ginny smiles just a little bit, and it's not so important now.

In other, less pressing news, I have discovered the following:

winter + no lotion = ugly feet

And damn I want a underwear icon! (But I suck at all things icons).

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-11-30T07:15:00

2005-11-30T12:17:27Z

It is my personal opinion that school sucks hard, and that hell is going to be a too-heated room in a moldy classroom and worksheets to do. Certainly that's enough torture, really.

her_rebeccaness @ 2005-11-27T15:58:00

2005-11-27T21:07:30Z

This is mostly just a test for my layout, but I see no point in wasting a post just for that. So, my name is Rebecca, and I am a Harry Potter <s>porn</s> fic writer/reader. I dabble in the NC-17 variety, but most of my stuff is R. Right now I'm setting up my LJ account straight,but later I'll be checking out places to post my things (namely my curreny baby, an eight-page Sirius/James R/NC-17-ish fic) and reviewing others.

And now that I've made myself seem totally boring, I say eat all the cookies you can and stuff some in your pockets for later!

Also, my Thanksgiving was probably better than yours on the account of the fact that I didn't have to celebrate it with my relatives that suck (A.K.A. my dad's side of the family), but the ones that rock. And the ones that cook the best.