the kaalee - wook drabbling pub, part deux
This is the second (and last) part of the timed writing that wook77 & I did last week. We each wrote down four prompts, folded them up, then pulled them out of a hat and wrote for 5-10 minutes. The first four prompts are here.
Enjoy! ♥
Neville/Seamus ~ First Taste of Alcohol
pg13, 293 words
"Is it supposed to smell like that?"
"Of course."
"But it smells awful."
"You get used to it."
"How do you know?"
"I... er, I guess you kind of have to, right?"
"Have you then?"
"... ehm..."
"Well?"
"No. But I reckon I will. One day."
Neville grinned at him, then Seamus grinned back. They were still the only two in the Room of Requirement and Seamus had just figured out how to conjure fire so they could keep warm. When Seamus had arrived twenty-two hours prior, it had been on the run from one of the Carrows who'd caught him with a glass bottle and a Quibbler in hand -- both currently grounds for severe punishment. Seamus had taken off at a run, darting and weaving through dimly lit corridors until he spied an intricate ivy carving and thought immediately of Neville and the Room he was rumoured to be holed up in. Seamus had veered toward the statue of Barnabas the Barmy, making the third pass in record time and disappearing through the rapidly closing door to the sound of Carrow's groan of frustration.
They continued to grin at each other; Neville's eyes glittered in the firelight in ways Seamus had never seen him look before. Finally, Neville grabbed the bottle, took a long draught, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the bottle down.
"That was nasty," he said.
Seamus took a swig, then laughed aloud. He put the bottle down with a clunk and shook his head.
"Well. That ought to hold us until we can figure out how to get some food."
Neville grinned again, looking happier and more confident than Seamus had ever seen him.
"Yeah. That or until we pass out."
::
Dean/Luna ~ finding a very strange photograph
pg13, 310 words
When Luna first pulls it out, Dean sees it from a very awkward angle and it looks like a landscape. She flushes lightly, then hands it to him upside down.
"If you turn it to the left, it looks rather like an inside out Metorphal stinger."
Dean nods absently; he's looking intently at the photograph. What looked like a landscape appears to be breathing and it takes some pretty serious detectivery until he finally works out that it's the stomach of a very nude woman. The lines of the photograph hug the slope between her breasts and the gentle swell of her stomach. The shadows beyond are wholly erotic in what they bring to his mind.
He looks up when she says, "It's better upside down."
"When it's upside down, I can't tell what it is."
"But imagination makes reality so much better," she says, rising from the floor and twirling around with her arms outstretched. "Don't you think?"
Dean rises as well, watching her twirl. He smiles at the abandon on her face; he can almost read her thoughts: she's a child, in the middle of a valley of flowers, or with her father, finally catching a glimpse of the elusive Snorkack. Walking over, he catches her hand and twirls her against him. He continues spinning them around and around, around and around. Dean throws his head back, laughing when she laughs and losing footing and falling to the side when they're too dizzy to stand.
They laugh again when she lands on top of him and it's several moments before they catch their breath. Dean brushes a lock of hair off her eyebrow and says quietly, "It's you, isn't it? In the photograph."
Luna waits a beat, then nods.
"It is," she says, "but I didn't mean for you to see it."
"Why not?"
"Because it's so much better in person."
::
Seamus/Dean ~ rainstorm snog
pg13, 294 words
It had never been like this. Never.
Then again, they'd never before had such a knockdown, shouting, throat-drying row before. Who knew what started it exactly, but Seamus left his wand, and Dean lost his satchel and neither could remember the password to get back in. So, they'd stood there, each getting louder and angrier until Dean could barely see through the drops on his eyelashes, and Seamus's hair dripped splashes onto his cheeks every time he gestured with his hand.
The first crack of lightning lit Seamus's face like sunlight and Dean's heart stopped for more than a second. By the time the thunder sounded, they were both silent -- as though the noise had muted all others. They stared unflinchingly and far too long until Dean realized they might be in trouble if reality ever came back.
Seamus kissed first -- which was so like him, the unthinking prat -- so Dean kissed second. That was notable only because he was sort of copying. But Dean kissed third and fourth, and they both kept going, lipping wet desire over slicked mouths until passwords didn't matter anymore. Every time Dean opened his mouth for a breath, he drank in Seamus-rain and swallowed it down as though he were parched.
It was only his lips, but enveloped far more of Dean's body than he ever thought possible. He had one hand clutching Seamus's sodden t-shirt, but he would have clung to him if he'd had any mind power available to think.
If Dean had to paint this with words, they'd probably be romantic, soppy, half-declarations that made no sense if they weren't read under the cover of night and with previously arranged suspension of disbelief.
But, as for now? It was bloody rain-soaked splendour.
::
James/Sirius ~ "Come on, Ireland!"
pg13, 260 words
It's only the second time this century that Ireland's made it to the World Cup. As England hasn't in some three hundred years, they've all turned their attention and support to their mates across the sea.
Sirius claims some obscure Irish lineage, but James has seen the Black Family Tree. There is no Irish on it. So, he claims Ireland. Sirius gets Spain and pretends he's wanted them all this time. Which is actually a gigantic crock.
By the time they've made it to their campsite, Sirius has convinced all their friends and half the strangers they've met that Spain is going to win it all. Pretty soon, the red and yellow drowns James's lonely green.
The match, though, does not such thing. Both teams match each other almost goal for goal until they've traded the lead more times than Sirius has snogged some bird under the Shaded Juniper.
James gets more and more into the game; he's long since abandoned his seat, and Sirius is right there with him.
Sirius's low yell: "Come on, Ireland!" surprises him, though, and James looks at him quizzically.
"It was always Ireland, Prongs," Sirius says, throwing his arm around James's shoulder and kissing him full on the mouth. "Just, if I got more people betting on Spain, then our windfall will be that much bigger."
"You clever prat," James says, grinning as the Irish Seeker catches the snitch and the stands erupt into a sea of green.
"As if you had any doubt," Sirius says, pulling out his bet slip with glittering eyes.
::
Enjoy! ♥
Neville/Seamus ~ First Taste of Alcohol
pg13, 293 words
"Is it supposed to smell like that?"
"Of course."
"But it smells awful."
"You get used to it."
"How do you know?"
"I... er, I guess you kind of have to, right?"
"Have you then?"
"... ehm..."
"Well?"
"No. But I reckon I will. One day."
Neville grinned at him, then Seamus grinned back. They were still the only two in the Room of Requirement and Seamus had just figured out how to conjure fire so they could keep warm. When Seamus had arrived twenty-two hours prior, it had been on the run from one of the Carrows who'd caught him with a glass bottle and a Quibbler in hand -- both currently grounds for severe punishment. Seamus had taken off at a run, darting and weaving through dimly lit corridors until he spied an intricate ivy carving and thought immediately of Neville and the Room he was rumoured to be holed up in. Seamus had veered toward the statue of Barnabas the Barmy, making the third pass in record time and disappearing through the rapidly closing door to the sound of Carrow's groan of frustration.
They continued to grin at each other; Neville's eyes glittered in the firelight in ways Seamus had never seen him look before. Finally, Neville grabbed the bottle, took a long draught, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the bottle down.
"That was nasty," he said.
Seamus took a swig, then laughed aloud. He put the bottle down with a clunk and shook his head.
"Well. That ought to hold us until we can figure out how to get some food."
Neville grinned again, looking happier and more confident than Seamus had ever seen him.
"Yeah. That or until we pass out."
::
Dean/Luna ~ finding a very strange photograph
pg13, 310 words
When Luna first pulls it out, Dean sees it from a very awkward angle and it looks like a landscape. She flushes lightly, then hands it to him upside down.
"If you turn it to the left, it looks rather like an inside out Metorphal stinger."
Dean nods absently; he's looking intently at the photograph. What looked like a landscape appears to be breathing and it takes some pretty serious detectivery until he finally works out that it's the stomach of a very nude woman. The lines of the photograph hug the slope between her breasts and the gentle swell of her stomach. The shadows beyond are wholly erotic in what they bring to his mind.
He looks up when she says, "It's better upside down."
"When it's upside down, I can't tell what it is."
"But imagination makes reality so much better," she says, rising from the floor and twirling around with her arms outstretched. "Don't you think?"
Dean rises as well, watching her twirl. He smiles at the abandon on her face; he can almost read her thoughts: she's a child, in the middle of a valley of flowers, or with her father, finally catching a glimpse of the elusive Snorkack. Walking over, he catches her hand and twirls her against him. He continues spinning them around and around, around and around. Dean throws his head back, laughing when she laughs and losing footing and falling to the side when they're too dizzy to stand.
They laugh again when she lands on top of him and it's several moments before they catch their breath. Dean brushes a lock of hair off her eyebrow and says quietly, "It's you, isn't it? In the photograph."
Luna waits a beat, then nods.
"It is," she says, "but I didn't mean for you to see it."
"Why not?"
"Because it's so much better in person."
::
Seamus/Dean ~ rainstorm snog
pg13, 294 words
It had never been like this. Never.
Then again, they'd never before had such a knockdown, shouting, throat-drying row before. Who knew what started it exactly, but Seamus left his wand, and Dean lost his satchel and neither could remember the password to get back in. So, they'd stood there, each getting louder and angrier until Dean could barely see through the drops on his eyelashes, and Seamus's hair dripped splashes onto his cheeks every time he gestured with his hand.
The first crack of lightning lit Seamus's face like sunlight and Dean's heart stopped for more than a second. By the time the thunder sounded, they were both silent -- as though the noise had muted all others. They stared unflinchingly and far too long until Dean realized they might be in trouble if reality ever came back.
Seamus kissed first -- which was so like him, the unthinking prat -- so Dean kissed second. That was notable only because he was sort of copying. But Dean kissed third and fourth, and they both kept going, lipping wet desire over slicked mouths until passwords didn't matter anymore. Every time Dean opened his mouth for a breath, he drank in Seamus-rain and swallowed it down as though he were parched.
It was only his lips, but enveloped far more of Dean's body than he ever thought possible. He had one hand clutching Seamus's sodden t-shirt, but he would have clung to him if he'd had any mind power available to think.
If Dean had to paint this with words, they'd probably be romantic, soppy, half-declarations that made no sense if they weren't read under the cover of night and with previously arranged suspension of disbelief.
But, as for now? It was bloody rain-soaked splendour.
::
James/Sirius ~ "Come on, Ireland!"
pg13, 260 words
It's only the second time this century that Ireland's made it to the World Cup. As England hasn't in some three hundred years, they've all turned their attention and support to their mates across the sea.
Sirius claims some obscure Irish lineage, but James has seen the Black Family Tree. There is no Irish on it. So, he claims Ireland. Sirius gets Spain and pretends he's wanted them all this time. Which is actually a gigantic crock.
By the time they've made it to their campsite, Sirius has convinced all their friends and half the strangers they've met that Spain is going to win it all. Pretty soon, the red and yellow drowns James's lonely green.
The match, though, does not such thing. Both teams match each other almost goal for goal until they've traded the lead more times than Sirius has snogged some bird under the Shaded Juniper.
James gets more and more into the game; he's long since abandoned his seat, and Sirius is right there with him.
Sirius's low yell: "Come on, Ireland!" surprises him, though, and James looks at him quizzically.
"It was always Ireland, Prongs," Sirius says, throwing his arm around James's shoulder and kissing him full on the mouth. "Just, if I got more people betting on Spain, then our windfall will be that much bigger."
"You clever prat," James says, grinning as the Irish Seeker catches the snitch and the stands erupt into a sea of green.
"As if you had any doubt," Sirius says, pulling out his bet slip with glittering eyes.
::