Over to you, folks!

[sirona_fics]

OKAY. OKAY. LAST POST TODAY, I PROMISE -- or should I say first post today, since it's after midnight here? GAH, I AM RAMBLING ALREADY. THIS WILL WORK JUST FINE, THEN.

I find myself in the strange position of having three--no, four--huge stories in the works. When I say huge, I'm thinking at least upwards of 10K, probably nudging closer to 20K and over. And I'm stumped. Just thinking about ALLLL THE WORDS I'm going to write for them makes me leery of sitting my arse down and getting to it; moreover, I can't seem to decide which one to focus on right now.

So. After much pondering, and deft enabling by delicatale, to get my writing juices flowing I propose the following: PROMPT ME. I will write drabbles for as many prompts as I get ideas for, and that's a promise. I can't guarantee that every prompt will get filled, BUT I will do my absolute best for as long as I need this exercise. Now, it's half past midnight here right now, so this will happen tomorrow most likely, but. GO ON, YOU GUYS. I WANT TO WAKE UP TO A VERITABLE DELUGE OF PROMPTS! :D

Fandoms: Inception (Arthur/Eames), Sherlock (Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade (oh god)), H50 (Steve/Danny), XMFC (Charles/Erik), HP (Harry/Draco -- this one is for you, altri_uccelli, if you fancy it! :))

I did this last year for Christmas, when anyone who wanted a Christmas drabble from me got one. I will very likely do that again this year, so think of this as a wee taster! :D

Comments

Burning Bright, 2/3

[sirona-gs.livejournal.com]

Draco slips gracefully around the edge of the booth, taking care to cant his hips invitingly. Oh yes, this is just what he needs, thank Circe.

And then the man looks up, and Draco nearly chokes on his own spit, because it can't be. It fucking can't be, Merlin, how is this fair? Surely his eyes are making a fool of him. Must be the smoke.

But no. No, because when has Draco's life been easy, ever?

"Draco," the man--Potter--says cheerfully, voice ever so slightly slurred. "Is that really you? What the hell are you doing here, mate? Ah, never mind, pull up a chair, take a load off. Buy you a drink? Hey, everyone," he says loudly, not waiting for Draco to answer (probably a good thing, he'd be waiting a while. Draco's not sure he remembers how words are supposed to work), "this is my mate Draco, from the UK. Went to school together. Bloke's a fucking genius."

Mate? Genius? What is Potter smoking--oh, never mind. Of-fucking-course it would be just his luck to run into Potter hundreds of miles away from home, in a--wait.

Potter smiles happily up at him, eyes nearly dark with how dilated his pupils are. He's high. He's fucking high, the Saviour of the Wizarding World is high and probably drunk, too, it's the only explanation. Draco holds himself stiffly, all the looseness gone from his muscles until he feels like he's going to break if anyone touches him. Potter's grin doesn't fade, but it gains an edge that Draco recognises from years and years of watching him every spare moment he got.

"I can hear you thinking from over here. I truly hope you're not about to say any of that out loud."

Draco wants to splutter, wrestles his control back with an effort that shouldn't be so draining. You're the sodding Saviour, should you be doing this? he wants to say, and Is that any kind of example to set, Potter?, and How come I never knew you had it in you? In the end, though, he keeps quiet, catalogues the changes in Potter from the boy--the man--he last saw at the Malfoy hearing in front of the Wizengamot, standing up for a family that has brought him nothing but pain. The Potter before him doesn't seem to remember--or care about--any of that. His hair has grown out into even more of a bird's nest, glasses different, more suited to his grown-up face. And what a face it is, Draco thinks wistfully, taking another long drink from his bottle. Potter's eyes flick to his mouth, and when Draco would have expected him to look back up, Potter doesn't. Bucking every single belief Draco has ever held about him, that's the bastard's way. No, Potter's eyes linger over his lips, eyelids drooping when Draco slips his tongue out to lick off the stray drop he can feel try to trail down his chin.

Fucking hell. Potter looks like sex personified. Which brings him back to the original question.

"You do know what kind of club this is, don't you, Potter?"

The words, meant to be scathing and snide, come out more curious than anything. Fifth-year Draco would have been mortified. Post-war Draco is tired enough of the old feud that he doesn't even blink.

Potter is quet for a moment, gaze still focused on Draco's lips before slowly rising to look Draco in the eye. The challenge in Potter's eyes is unmistakable. The silence draws taut between them before Potter breaks it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, were you expecting an answer? I rather thought that was a rhetorical question." His voice, Merlin, Draco can feel it even with the growling thump of the music, low and slightly husky, languid, faintly mocking, not enough to get Draco's hackles rising. Draco finds himself smirking back.

"You may have a point," he allows. "You too, huh? Never would have pegged you for one, what with the Weaslette hanging on your arm like it's going out of fashion. Possessive, that one. How'd she take it?"

Potter's eyes glint for a moment; danger skitters down Draco's back. It's... exilarating; he feels alive for the first time since a sooth-filled room, flames licking the soles of his boots.