Normal service is resuming

[geoviki]

I'm so behind on a zillion posts that I'll probably earn the title of spam queen before the New Year.

I'll start with last night's hpshortfics. I managed two of the challenges and sputtered to a stop to discuss the much more interesting topic of penis size in art throughout history. Go check out everyone else's posts at that comm, too, because there are some awesome writers participating.


Dean was 100 percent certain his mind had wandered off for good this time. That had to be the smell of coffee. Not much else mimicked that strong pungent scent, nor triggered that moment when your nose hesitated for just a split second wondering if a skunk had dallied nearby before homing in on the correct – and much more welcome – source.

But there was no way that he could be waking up to the smell of coffee. Not this early on a Monday morning, with the false dawn just beginning to be replaced by the real thing, and especially not here, tucked up in what had proved to be a wholly inadequate sleeping bag on the shingle of Delmar Beach.

Skunk, then. Damn, but coffee would have been a godsend. Dean was sure he'd woken every half-hour through the night, shivering helplessly from the cold, before lapsing into what was closer to delusion than sleep. He pulled his legs closer to his chest but only managed to tangle himself further in the chill material.

"Hey," he heard somewhere near his left ear.

He fully expected his camping partner to be wrestling with his own too-small sleeping bag, so he was taken aback to find Malfoy fully dressed and sitting cross-legged facing him.

"Aurrrfff," he answered politely. Well, as politely as called for at the arse-crack of dawn.

"Think it's almost morning yet?"

"Nnnggghh."

"You're the one with the wristwatch, Dean," Malfoy said, and Dean struggled to free his arm from the confines of his bag and fling it towards the nagging voice. Warm fingers grasped his wrist, turned his arm outward, and tucked it back into what little warmth he'd managed to hoard.

"Five-thirty ack emma. Wakey, wakey, Dean."

He managed several more syllables, the clearest of which were sod off.

"Now, now. A little more cooperation, I think. Or you won't be enjoying the treat I brought you."

He pried his eyes open to deliver a baleful glare. "You're a morning person, aren't you, Malfoy? I knew there was some reason I hated you."

But Malfoy was waving something that steamed in the chilly morning air, and Dean again smelled that delicious tang of coffee.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Depends on what you think it is."

Dean sat up fully now, not bothering to grab the sleeping bag which had slipped off his shoulders with his movement.

"Where in a thousand hells did you find coffee?"

Malfoy shared a teasing smile. "Starbucks."

"The fuck?" Dean asked, making a halfhearted grab for the cup, but Malfoy was too fast for him. "Starbucks?"

"Of course. Just a quick Apparation, and then—"

"You have no concept of 'roughing it', do you?"

"I take it that you don't want any of this, then?"

"I didn't say, that, now did I? C'mon, give it here. Please. Don't make me beg. Because I will."

It tasted wonderful after the cold night. It tasted even better on Malfoy's lips.
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Ten Years After

Snape couldn't take his eyes off the complicated piece of machinery taking pride of place in the middle of Charlie Weasley's flat. He barely heard Charlie's excited patter over the wailing voice and cacophonous noise that Weasley had assured him was some sort of music. He'd heard kneazles mating with more harmony than this.

"— and they called it Woodstock, and it was in America, in 1969. Ten Years After. Listen to that— Did you hear? Wait, I'll play it again."

Snape watched Weasley fuss with something on the face of the metallic demon. There was a brief moment of – blessed – silence, then the screeching caterwaul began once more.

"Writhing blue," Weasley said, a beatific smile on his face.

"Why writhing?" he asked, as politely as he could under the noisy assault. Charlie was one of the few Weasleys he could tolerate, and he still owed him a favor after the last skirmish in Bristow when the Dark Lord's attack had caught him unaware.

Weasley laughed. "Not writhing. Rhythm. Rhythm and blues," he repeated with deliberate enunciation.

Snape didn't think that made any more sense than 'writhing', but he kept quiet.

Weasley's fingers were twitching madly in the air in some semblance of imitating the frantic performance. "Like that? I love it. Anally."

Snape felt himself growing warm at Weasley's unexpected suggestion. "And why does it have to be performed anally?"

This time, Weasley laughed for a full two minutes. "No, Snape, not anally. Alvin. Lee. The name of the bloke playing the guitar."

"Oh," Snape mumbled, but he knew it was too low to be heard over the din.

"I can see you've got a lot to learn. Thing is, with everything you keep bringing up, I'm not sure if the lesson should be musical or sexual."

"Whichever's quieter," Snape retorted, unable to hide his irritation at being misunderstood in such an embarrassing way.

But Weasley merely smirked, then followed it with a wholly unexpected finger tracing from Snape's knee to points further north.

""If only you knew me better, you'd know that'd be a toss up."


Listen to the song yourself: I'm Goin' Home - Ten Years After
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