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04 August 2006 @ 11:55 pm
One for everybody in the audience!*  
*Unfortunately those lucky people who were brought up without the influence of Gay Byrne in their lives will not get this reference.

I wrote like a mofo for the last three days to bring you these. I had a ball. I apologise for the discrepancy in word counts; sometimes the muse bites harder than at others. (Can't write on a full stomach, yo.) It's not intended to reflect on either the person or the prompt.

I hope I adequately fulfilled the requests. My usual idea of a short story is ten thousand words, so this was certainly a liberating experience -- like taking one's corsets off.

For wildegirl_05:


Draco brushed an imaginary speck of dirt off his white shorts. He had five pairs like it in his summer wardrobe, each impeccably tailored to fit his exact dimensions. His white polo shirt was embroidered with the Malfoy family crest. It had taken twenty shops, a detour to the Continent and five almost-Unforgivable Curses to find a shirt of the precise shade that matched his shorts. His racquet was one of a collection from Osaka, where an ancient artisan crafted one perfect racquet every year. Draco had booked him up for three.

In short, Draco felt prepared.

When Weasley ambled on to the court wearing what looked like a couple of grey dish rags, Draco couldn't help but wrinkle his nose. Weasley earned the exact same salary as Draco -- even a bit more, although Draco was loath to admit it -- yet his sartorial savvy was as non-existent as ever.

Still, it didn't matter. Weasley obviously didn't understand what preparation meant, or how it focused the mind on the challenge ahead. Draco was going to trounce Weasley and wipe the court with his stupid grey tennis kit, and that would be the end of the whole ridiculous affair.

Draco approached the net. "Give me your racquet."

"Why? You've got one in your hand."

Draco sighed with impatience. "We have to determine who serves first by spinning the racquet. So give me your racquet."

Weasley made an expression that was frighteningly close to Draco's own patented sneer. "And I say again: you've got one in your hand. Use that."

"Fine." Draco bit back the heated retort that was brimming on his lips. He didn't want to confess that he hated the thought of dirtying his racquet on the ground. It would only give Weasley yet another excuse to tease him, and he had quite enough of those already. "Rough or smooth?"

"Oh, definitely rough." And Weasley smirked.

Draco spun the racquet rather more forcefully than he'd intended. As luck would have it, the smooth side landed face up. "Excellent. I serve first."

Weasley just turned around and stalked to the baseline. Draco sniffed. Weasley was a sore loser -- and he hadn't even tasted real defeat yet.

Draco bounced the ball a few times, considering his strategy. It didn't need to be complex. A few straight lobs would finish Weasley.

Draco had chosen tennis to settle the bet because he knew perfectly well that Weasley had never played tennis like proper purebloods played tennis -- every week of every summer, journeying from mansion to manor house and back again. Weasley's family couldn't afford a cricket strip, never mind an entire rolled and gravelled tennis court with hand-woven silk nets.

Draco tossed the ball into the air and served. He didn't hit it very hard, as he'd decided to be gracious and go easy on Weasley at first.

Weasley smiled in that incredibly alarming way he had. All of a sudden he was running, leaping into the air. Draco watched in confusion, racquet limp in his hands. Weasley swung so hard that Draco could hear the air whistle, and Dunk Smashed the ball right into the corner opposite Draco.

"What?" exclaimed Draco, unable to restrain himself.

Weasley plucked at the strings of his racquet, affecting a wholly unconvincing air of innocence. "What's that, again?" His smile suddenly became feral. "Fifteen-love?"

The next six matches passed in a blur. A fast, horrible, terrifying blur. Suddenly, Draco was lying on his back in centre court. His whites were no longer white. One of his hand-crafted racquets bore a gaping hole in the gut, and another's frame was bent beyond repair. At some point the Charm on Draco's hair had run out of energy and it now flopped in wet stringy strands all over his face.

Weasley loomed over him, holding out a hand. Draco gasped.

"You … bastard," he panted.

"Don't tell me you weren't trying to cheat on this bet too," said Weasley unrepentantly. He wasn't even breathing hard. "Come on, get up."

"I can't move my legs," moaned Draco.

"Oh, brother," sighed Weasley.

He pointed his wand at Draco's legs. Even after all this time, Draco was surprised when they didn't immediately shrivel and drop off. He sat up, scowling.

"That's better," said Weasley. He leaned down and pressed his damp lips to Draco's. They tasted of sweat. It was disgusting and Draco was certainly going to push him away in a minute.

He was as surprised as anyone when Weasley pulled away first. "Enough now. Close your mouth, you look like a baby bird."

"But --" Draco pouted. He knew he was doing it because Weasley reached out and pushed his lower lip back in with the pad of his thumb. Like he always did.

"But nothing. You owe me. Big time." Weasley hauled Draco to his feet, practically yanking his arm out of its socket because he was nothing but a big ugly brute. God only knew what depraved and licentious things Draco would be forced to do this time.

"Draco." There was a clear warning in Weasley's voice. His big fingers tightened on Draco's as he pulled him along.


"I can hear you panting like a dirty firecaller. Stop it, or I'll use the gag again."

Draco hid a smile behind Weasley's shoulder, and panted harder.


For wildestranger:


John stared at himself in the mirror and ran a hand through his bristly hair. "Damn, I'm pretty," he told his reflection. "I'm the epitome of squared-jawed and stoic. And so very American, too. Like James Bond the Second."

Rodney looked up from where he was shaving his legs in the bath. On Atlantis they'd found nifty little machines that ran up and down your legs and ate the hair off. However, the three female members of the team hand-picked to spread America's dominion to other planets claimed that the machines felt tickly and unpleasant.

In the interests of science, Rodney had appropriated one and used it on himself. Rodney was naturally designed to like tickly and unpleasant things, as otherwise he wouldn't have let John's stubble next to or near his face. After a week Rodney had stolen the remaining machines and wouldn't let anyone else use them, not even John. Thus John was forced to endure having manly two millimetre stubble at all times.

"Are you talking to yourself in the mirror again?" shouted Rodney over the sound of the buzzing. For all that the Atlanteans had been a master race who built Stargates to other galaxies, they still hadn't managed to put a mute button on their electric razors. "I told you to stop that. I told you that was freaky. Why don't you listen to me?"

John strode into the bathroom, smoothing down the hand-towel that preserved his modesty -- although not very well. "Did you say something?"

"I asked you if you were doing that freaky talking to yourself in the mirror thing again, you shmuck! I knew you weren't listening!"

"Gosh, I never realised you were Jewish," said John. "Is that why you're circumcised?"

"I'm not circumcised," replied Rodney in a strangled voice.

"Really? It must be that Ronon guy then," mused John.

"I'm going to kill you," Rodney informed him, as he never failed to do at least five times a day.

John perched on the toilet seat and leaned chummily on his elbows. "Is this what you English people call having a bicker before bed to liven things up?"

"First I'm Jewish, now I'm English?" shrieked Rodney. "Aren't you a bit ethnically confused?"

"I don't know, am I?

"That wasn't a question!"

"Yes, it was. You raised your voice at the end. That denotes a query."

"Don't pull that 'I'm really so intelligent underneath it all' crap with me," warned Rodney. He shook one sudsy fist at John. "You tell me what you said to the damn mirror."

John shrugged. "You know, the usual. How pretty I am, how American I am, how I'm like James Bond the Second."

"James Bond was English," hissed Rodney.

"Oh, like you?"

"I am going to drown myself now," said Rodney. "Goodbye."

"Hey, are we finished the bickering part now?" complained John. "You look so cute with all those soap bubbles in your hair and your … eyes. Here." He passed his hand towel across to Rodney.

Rodney dabbed his eyes and plucked the razors off his legs. He'd designed a little hamster-like treadmill for them, to keep them amused when his legs were already smooth and hair-free. John liked them like that.

"I have something else too," said John. He opened his hands and waggled his eyebrows.

"You have got to be kidding me." Rodney's voice was as flat as a base lining ECG.

"Wha-at?" John petted his lemon. He'd gone to great lengths to procure one. "We fitted a banana up there."

Rodney made a face that was curiously like that of an attacking king python. "Thank you for reminding me of that. I never wanted to be reminded of that ever again in my entire life. As usual, I have you to thank for this special moment."

"Good." John held out the lemon to Rodney. "Because it's actually your turn."


For inell:

Ron/Draco (take two)

Ron opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. This wasn't due to any special circumstance of his awakening. He just wasn't a morning person.

That was why living with a morning person really sucked.

Ron groaned and tried to muffle the sounds coming from the kitchen with his pillow. This had never worked in the past, but Ron was nothing if not an optimist. The sounds included, but were not limited to: humming, the radio, eggs cracking against a bowl, articles of food sizzling on the hob, a kettle whistling, a timer going off with a ping every four seconds, and a cat purring.

After two minutes Ron ripped back the bedclothes with a heartfelt curse. It was always like this. Once, just once, he'd like to force some Sleeping Potion down Draco's throat and force him to stay in bed until the shockingly late hour of ten am. Granted, the benefits of such an occurrence would not be Ron's alone. But he was willing to hand out sexual favours from here until Judgement Day if it meant he could sleep in occasionally.

Draco slept in handmade Italian silk pyjamas, Ron in prehistoric boxers. Nowadays they rarely got up the energy for clothes-ripping sex, and Ron was no longer so immune to Draco's complaints about how much his clothes cost in the first place. Yet, somehow or another, every night Draco's pyjama shirt wound up crumpled under his armpits. And every night, Ron's boxers crept down from sitting above his navel to barely skimming his hips. Neither admitted to instigating the cuddling and night time exploration. It was one of the many things they had learned to take for granted with each other.

Ron stumbled into the kitchen, tugging up his boxers. "Bastard," he ground out. He collapsed at the table, almost flattening one of Draco's scones.

"Good morning, light of my life and king of my heart," chirped Draco.

He certainly had the upper hand on Ron in that department. Insults carried very little weight with Draco, whereas Draco's original and never-ending stream of affectionate epithets made Ron lose the will to live on a regular basis.

"I hate you," said Ron. He scratched his stomach, not failing to notice how Draco's eyes followed the movement.

"I know, dearheart, I know." Draco winced sympathetically. "Guess what today is?"

"Shit, it's not our anniversary or something, is it?" Ron eyed him in horror.

"No, honeybun. It's May the first -- the first day of summer!"

Ron glanced through the window at the grey, lowering sky. "Yeah, looks it and all." When he turned back Draco was right in front of him, his knees brushing Ron's outer thighs.

"I have a crazy idea."

"You'll take some Sleeping Potion?" Ron suggested hopefully.

"Never." Draco braced his hands on Ron's shoulders, each cold digit clawing into his skin. He leaned forward to nip at Ron's earlobe. "Come with me."

"I haven't even had any coffee yet," declared Ron. "I'm not going anywhere."

Draco smirked, and put a hand to the collar of his robes. In one swift movement they slid to the floor, leaving nothing but Draco behind. "Come with me. In both senses of the verb."

"Okay," said Ron, far too swiftly for dignity. Draco chuckled in a very patronising way, so Ron had to push him against the wall with his mouth to remind him who was boss.

Far too soon Draco slid away, circling his grasp around Ron's wrist. He darted out through the sliding doors into the garden. It was undisturbed, each cobweb glistening with dew, and freezing. Ron tried to wrap his boxers around himself, to no avail.

"This had better be good," he warned Draco, who just laughed.

"Come on, you big wuss." Draco yanked him closer, lips clinging to his mouth. With Ron's brain sufficiently diverted, Draco magicked away Ron's boxers. Ron yelped in dismay.

"I get it," he said through chattering teeth. "You've waited all these years and got me to trust you and fall in love with you only to reveal your cunning plan … death by hypothermia!"

"Yeah, it was a pretty cunning plan." Draco ran a finger from Ron's forehead in a vertical line, over his nose and chin, clavicles, chest and navel, and finally came to rest just at the edge of the forest of red hairs. "I love you too … idiot."

"You're getting soft in your old age," panted Ron. "That wasn't even mildly insulting."

"Hey!" Draco looked down. "Who're you calling soft?"

"So why did you bring me out here?"

"For this." Smirking, Draco lay down on the grass and opened his legs. "Just so we can say we did it with the neighbours watching. You know I'm charitable, so I'd hate to deprive them of such a fabulous sight."

Ron gaped at him, but he wasn't even tempted to refuse. How long it had been since they'd managed more than half-hearted rubbing as sleep claimed them? Probably not as long as it felt, but still. Too damn long.

He gasped as the wet grass shocked his knees. Draco idly poked his nipple, and Ron knew he was revelling in the fact that he'd been lying on that same wet grass for over a minute without complaining.

Ron sighed. It was as if Draco didn't know who was in charge around here. He'd have to be shown. Again. And again.

At that very moment, a wet splat hit Ron's shoulder. "Don't tell me …"

"Yup. It's raining."

"Oh, that's it. Let's go inside." Ron reached for Draco's arm and froze.

Draco had his mouth wide open and was catching raindrops on his tongue.

"On second thoughts --" Ron lay back down and reached for Draco, ignoring what felt suspiciously like arthritis in his joints "-- a little rain never hurt anyone."

"Especially the one on the bottom," murmured Draco, but Ron was absorbed in licking his neck and didn't hear.

Shouts could be heard from the houses backing theirs. "It's lashing! Better close the … windows …"


For secretsolitaire:


"Community service?" shouted Draco. "This is what you call community service? What kind of community is this, a sadomasochistic one?"

Charlie Weasley just chuckled. Draco had never imagined that he'd ever meet someone more obnoxious than Harry Potter. That was before he'd gone on trial for conspiracy to commit murder, had his sentence commuted due to extreme age, and been assigned two years of community service.

In Romania. With dragons.

To be precise, in big piles of dragon shit.

Where he'd met Charlie Weasley, who was holding a shovel with Draco's name on it.

"This is an essential part of dragon handlers' training," Charlie was raving on. "If you can't stomach this, than you won't be able to deal with the weightier aspects of --"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Let us get one thing straight, Charles. I'm not here to train as a dragon handler. I'm here to serve my time and somehow become a useful member of society. What part of that suggested that I stand up to my eyeballs in excrement every day I'm not entirely certain, so perhaps you could enlighten me?"

"You're a grunt, Draco. That's what it said on your form. For every other newbie, it's a state they can rise above in a few months to become a junior handler. For you, it's different, because you'll be a grunt until you leave. And guess what?" Charlie leaned in so close that Draco could smell leather oil from his skin. "I decide when that happens. Two years of grunt time is not the same as two years of real time. If you don't jump when I say jump -- if you don't shovel shit when I say shovel -- you'll be spending the next decade under my service, and the service of the man who comes after me."

Draco gasped in affront. "Who said you could use my first name, you enormous red-haired commoner!"

"Snap." Charlie ran an idle hand through his hair. "That's an extra month on your sentence. Congratulations."

Draco's mouth worked, excellent and varied insults battling to gain entrance to his mouth. But there were flecks of slate in Charlie's blue eyes, so Draco squashed his lips together until all that made it through was a muted "Damn."

Charlie used his unfair height advantage to stare Draco down. "Good. Here is your shovel, and here is your shit. Shovel shit into pit. Got it?"

"Yes," replied Draco. He waited until Charlie was out of earshot to add, "Charles."

After fifteen minutes, Draco was muckier than he'd ever been in his life. After half an hour, he realised how totally wrong that was. Now he was muckier than he'd ever been in his life. By the end of the day he'd stopped revising his estimations and accepted the fact that he was a walking playground for flies.

Fortunately, even convicted criminals weren't denied the basic human right of bathing. In fact, as Draco slid into the sauna, he almost thought that being a dragon handler might be something. Then he remembered the steaming piles of dung, and realised that it was something: awful.

He tossed and turned for an hour in his one-man tent. Then inspiration struck, so he pulled on the standard-issue boots and made his way to Charlie's princely quarters in the main pavilion.

"Charles," he whispered loudly. "It's Draco. May I come in?"

"If you must," came Charlie's ghostly reply. It struck Draco as a bit ungracious, but that was commoners for you.

Charlie was lying shirtless on a pile of animal skin rugs, toasting his feet before a small flame-pot. The strong smell kept away flies and midges, and Draco found himself eyeing it longingly. He'd been issued with a wand that only functioned with basic and emergency spells. Specific insect-banishing charms were out of the question. Draco already sported several unsightly weals from where they'd feasted on his flesh.

"Out with it, then." Charlie tossed aside his book and stretched languidly. The play of light on his skin almost made what Draco was about to do palatable.

"I'll blow you," he stated baldly. "In return for privileges and so on."

"Sorry, I must have heard wrong." Charlie sat up straight. "You'll what me?"

"Blow you," repeated Draco, beginning to get irritated. "I'm supposed to be quite proficient at it, if that's what you're worried about."

"Draco, go to bed!" said Charlie firmly. "It's a five am start."

"But --" began Draco. Charlie threw a shoe at him.

Draco returned to his tent, feeling absurdly snubbed. Of course, Charlie might be straight, but that had never stopped anyone Draco knew before. What normal person would turn down a free blowjob?

He supposed that was the nub of the problem. Charlie was a Weasley, and therefore normality was a state he would never achieve.

The days fell into a strange, boring pattern. Shovelling became easier after a few weeks, as Draco's muscles built up strength and endurance. He was moved to digging pits and trenches and building fences. Then back to shovelling. By then, he didn't even care.

After six months, Charlie called Draco to his tent. Draco had purposely avoided him as much as possible, even refraining from going to the mess or baths when he knew Charlie would be there. He didn't know the proper etiquette for dealing with someone who'd refused to let you go down on them, and it made him antsy.

"Your reports have been good," said Charlie, "and you've kept your nose clean, which is more than I can say for any of the other grunts. It says here the Ministry is allowing you one day to go home, so when would you like to take that?"

"I wouldn't." At Charlie's palpable surprise, Draco elucidated, "I don’t really fancy a day trip to Azkaban, thanks all the same. The idea of being spat on in Diagon Alley equally does not appeal. Is that all?"

"Well, if you really don't want to go back --"

"I really don't want to go back, Charles." Draco flashed him a grin that was more toothy than necessary, given that he wasn't a shark.

"-- then you can come with me to Lugoj for some supplies."

Draco stood stock still. "Outside the camp?"

"Yup. Be ready at six next Tuesday morning. If you're a second late, I'll leave you behind."

"I won't be late."

Charlie quirked his lips. "I know you won't."

And he wasn't, but Charlie was.

In a quiver of excitement, Draco paced the streets behind Charlie. He marvelled at scenery that was systematically lacking in mutated lizards and their retarded handlers. His eyes never stopped moving, and he didn't even object when Charlie piled his arms with packages.

"Do you like it here?" asked Charlie, when they were sipping tea in a café.

"It's all right." Draco was busy savouring the taste of real milk, instead of the skimmed mucous from an anorexic calf that passed for milk in the camp mess.

"If you ever want to read after work, you can come to my tent -- I have plenty of books," offered Charlie.

"I think not."

Charlie sighed. "Suit yourself."

"I will, so long as you keep your shoes to yourself."

Charlie barked with laughter. Draco found himself smiling along to the sound, and mentally slapped himself.

He wondered if Charlie was surprised when Draco turned up the next night and walked straight to his bookshelf. For himself, he knew he wasn't -- not really.

Draco had been brought up in the lap of luxury. Yet he'd never experienced anything quite so delicious as lying stretched out on a soft rug, with a mosquito lamp casting flickering flames over the pages of a real, honest-to-goodness book.

Charlie left the tent flap open for him for an hour or two every night, and sometimes he wasn't there himself. Draco liked those times the best, because he got to sit atop Charlie's pile of skins and doff his boots. As summer approached the nights became close and sultry, so whenever Charlie wasn't there Draco peeled off his canvas shirt and trousers as well. The touch of fur against his bare skin was the closest thing he'd come to erotic since he arrived in Romania.

That was, until Charlie returned unexpectedly one night and caught him.

"Are you trying to seduce me again?" Charlie crossed his arms.

"What do you mean, again?" snapped Draco, hauling on his clothes. "There wasn't a first time."

"Oh? So you didn't proposition me on your first night and offer to blow me?" Charlie raised his eyebrows.

"That was a business arrangement, you prat," hissed Draco. He hopped on one leg as he pushed his foot into his trousers, and ended up in a tangle on the floor.

"What a pity," said Charlie, "that I never mix business with pleasure."

"Good for you," grunted Draco. The second leg of his trousers seemed to mysteriously have disappeared.

"You are such an idiot." Charlie strode forward and grabbed the cloth twined around Draco's ankles. He gave two sharp pulls and it came right off.

"Hey! I'm trying to put them back on."

"Really? I'm not." Charlie tossed the trousers away and tugged the shirt over Draco's head before he had time to react. He sat naked and blinking his hair out of his eyes, trying to figure out how this had happened.

"What now?" asked Draco.

The flame-light was blinding him. It was making the curve of Charlie's lips and the rapidly appearing skin between his waistband and neck seem … attractive. Edible, perhaps. Charlie dropped his trousers. Yes, definitely edible.

"I say jump, you jump." Charlie's voice was husky, his fingers rough where they rubbed Draco's jaw and tilted it upwards. "I say shovel, you shovel." He pushed Draco back against the furs, his skin sliding lengthways across Draco's. "I say --"

"I get it, I get it." Draco dropped his hands to Charlie's waist, urging him closer. "But let me fill in the verbs." He slid one hand lower, and Charlie gasped.

"Do that again, and you can use all the verbs you like."

Draco laughed. "I love it when you talk dirty."

He gave it two weeks before he got to leave the shovels behind for good.


For 4_rightchords:


To deal with the fact that he wanted to kiss his best friend, Harry bought a parrot.

He thought that calling the parrot 'Ron' would be a little obvious, so he chose the name Rainbow instead. It was quite appropriate, given the bird's brilliant hues and Harry's current state of mind.

Ron and Rainbow got along famously -- far better than Rainbow and Harry, who burned with jealousy every time Ron stroked that bullet head and cooed into those vapid beady eyes. It was worse than if Ron had finally found a girlfriend. Harry was being trumped by someone who wasn't even the same species as him.

And then Ron got the damn thing to talk. Harry couldn’t sleep for the alarm-like regularity of 'Who's a pretty boy then?' and 'Give us a kiss!' ringing through the house.

After demonstrating his stunning educational abilities, Ron had the temerity to go away and leave Harry alone with his pet for a whole week. Harry hadn't particularly wanted to experience insomnia, but he wasn't given a choice in the matter.

Ron came over as soon as he got home, to find Harry slumped on the sofa in a daze. He'd lacked the energy to do more than stumble out of bed and entertain thoughts of strangling Rainbow with his bare hands. His hair was so greasy that it was actually laying flat, his boxer shorts were crumpled beyond belief and he stunk to high heaven. This was not how he wanted Ron to see him, when Ron was shining. Literally. Exhaustion had ringed Harry's vision with golden auras.

"You look bushed, Harry." Ron sat down beside him and stroked his shoulder in a very friendly, manly way. "Tell me, did it work?"

"Wha'?" mumbled Harry. Ron glowed like an angel. Harry's vision crossed, and there were two angels, rapidly approaching from on high.

"There was a bunch of stuff I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't say it to your face." Ron's two mouths smiled, making Harry's knees doubly weak. "So I taught Rainbow to say them instead. Pretty cool, huh?"

Fortunately he stuck his tongue in Harry's mouth before Harry had a chance to reply.

Continued in next post!
Current Mood: jubilantjubilant
Current Music: Serious (Gwen Stefani)
Loyaulte Me Lieshocolate on August 4th, 2006 11:22 pm (UTC)
To deal with the fact that he wanted to kiss his best friend, Harry bought a parrot.

Best first line ever!

And the rest was smooshy, in the extreme!
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Art thou a witch?scoradh on August 4th, 2006 11:28 pm (UTC)
I think I wrote that one after an extra-big lunch (crisps and cookies and a Milky Way and toast), which is why it's crap and short. :(
secretsolitaire: lovesecretsolitaire on August 4th, 2006 11:55 pm (UTC)
Oh my God, no one's ever written me a story before. Thank you so much! :-D :-D And a lovely story it is.

Draco gasped in affront. "Who said you could use my first name, you enormous red-haired commoner!"

Draco is such a little brat. But Charlie seems up to the challenge. ;-)

Don't have time to read the rest of these (off to the beach for a week), but I will catch up when I get back. Thanks again!
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Back Golden Pairscoradh on August 4th, 2006 11:59 pm (UTC)
Re: !!!!!!!!!!!!
It doesn't happen to me all that often either, trust moi.

Glad you liked it! Enjoy the beach, you lucky thing.
Nicole: red dwarf slashterkey on August 5th, 2006 12:22 am (UTC)
I am still sad and pouty cause I was too late to get a drabble/ficlet/whatever of my own.

But oh, these are so cute! I can't wait to read the rest. You know, in about ten seconds.
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on August 5th, 2006 12:25 am (UTC)
Oh, pfft. What do you want? I'll write you something.

(no subject) - terkey on August 5th, 2006 12:30 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on August 5th, 2006 12:32 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - terkey on August 5th, 2006 12:33 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on August 5th, 2006 12:35 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - terkey on August 5th, 2006 12:40 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on August 5th, 2006 12:43 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - terkey on August 5th, 2006 12:46 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on August 5th, 2006 12:48 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - terkey on August 5th, 2006 12:52 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on August 5th, 2006 12:55 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - terkey on August 5th, 2006 12:59 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on August 5th, 2006 01:01 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - terkey on August 5th, 2006 01:06 am (UTC) (Expand)
jehnt: narnia - lamppostjehnt on August 5th, 2006 12:59 am (UTC)
I love these, especially the Draco/Charlie one. ♥
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on August 5th, 2006 01:02 am (UTC)
Fanks, love. ♥
Inell: Ron: Blue Backgroundinell on August 5th, 2006 01:29 am (UTC)
Thank you! That was so lovely and perfect! ♥ The Charlie/Draco was good, too!
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Tangled Golden Pairscoradh on August 5th, 2006 09:23 pm (UTC)
Thank you! I'm glad you liked them.
BOFbest_of_five on August 5th, 2006 02:21 am (UTC)
-cue incoherent gushing-

you squished my tennis and harry potter loves and gave me this GEM. SQUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEE!!!! DANKE!!!

the details, omg the details. from their clothes to the racquets (did draco get a wooden racquet?? i am SOOOOOO picturing bjorg :D ) and the hand-woven silk nets.

and the match itself was AWESOME. ron reminded me of andy roddick with his presumably spectacular forehand and the dunk smashing of d00m.

GAH. lovely. thanks again!! ♥♥
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Atobe surgeonscoradh on August 5th, 2006 09:42 pm (UTC)
Ha, it's a good thing I got into Prince of Tennis. I knew sweet FA about tennis before that!

I based Ron's style of play on Momoshiro from PoT, but I'm sure that's based on Andy anyway, so s'all good.

I'm glad you liked it! ♥
JR: escribas másevalangui on August 5th, 2006 11:45 pm (UTC)
:D God, I loved the Rainbow the parrot, should nominate him to best OCC.

The older Ron/Draco dynamics were very nice too, this "not so much sex lately and renewing the passion" thing might even redeem grown up(meaning past forty) for me.

To show you the extent of my fangirlism, i even read this Galactica drabble and I only have ever heard the *name* of the series(if the name is even that and not Stargate or something).

I adored adored the Harry/George, arigato gozai mazu! *bows*, nobody had ever written me anything and this is so pritty, the whole Fred vs George and Harry's final line... "Hope I'm not being too forward" XDDDDDDDD

I'm curious, maybe you said something but I don't remember, do you write original fic too?

*is off to read the rest of the drabbles*

every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Chibi Ryomascoradh on August 5th, 2006 11:52 pm (UTC)
Please no -- not the one I spent all of five seconds making up! At least give Palatine a look-in. She's my favourite of my OCs.

Me, I can't wait till I'm sixty or so and don't have to work and can just let it all hang loose, man.

Battlestar Galactica? No, this is Stargate Atlantis. I've never seen the first and only three eps of the second -- I hated it. That's why the drabble was on crack. Although I don't think I could possibly have spoiled you for anything, if ever you do end up watching it.

I must hold these drabble parties more often, then! I'm glad you liked it, very glad. I think I liked my line about Harry's legs best out of all of them. The description reminds me of an ice-cream sundae.

I do indeed. Nothing spectacular, although I wrote two gay short stories this summer that I'm rather proud of. Or one and a half, I started writing these before I finished the second one. Oops.

(no subject) - evalangui on August 6th, 2006 06:07 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - scoradh on August 11th, 2006 09:29 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - evalangui on August 11th, 2006 11:14 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Sarah Rees Brennansarahtales on August 13th, 2006 11:37 pm (UTC)
Draco/Charlie for the win! I love it when he calls him Charles.
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Nitrous oxidescoradh on August 13th, 2006 11:40 pm (UTC)
:P If the story were a bit longer I'd have worked it in more often, until Charlie killed him with sticks or something. ♥
Charlie Tames My Dragon: BillShidobloodyrose82 on September 1st, 2009 07:35 pm (UTC)
Soooo...I know you wrote these a zillion years ago, but do you realise how little Charlie/Draco there is out there? I mean, okay, there is a bit, but it's mostly not very good. And then I come to your LJ and read your long-ish H/D, and swoon a bit, and then come back and find this. Do you have any more? Because really, this is like leaving a love bite.


Edited at 2009-09-01 07:37 pm (UTC)
every Starbucks should have a polar bearscoradh on September 1st, 2009 08:50 pm (UTC)
Like love bites, I'm afraid, your hope must fade. I'm pretty sure this is all I ever wrote! :D: