(no subject)

[sanura]

The first 10 people to comment on this post get to request a drabble on a subject/character of their choosing from me. In return, they have to post this in their journal.

Since about... um, one person who reads here has any idea of the severity of actual fandom, I'll keep the option of original writing open. Basically this is a five-word exercise, except with however many words you want. I doubt I'll get ten comments, but I haven't written anything in quite awhile, and I really wanted a Wilson-centric drabble from Sam, so out of honor I must participate. Plus, it could be fun.

I just woke up on Stephan's floor. Hopefully it won't give me a bad cold again. The Ben's-Recital Party was very silly and drunk. And fun. And now I need a shower, so I'm going home for a bit before we attempt to steal Andrew.

Comments

[music-dissident.livejournal.com]

Draco Malphoy

And thank you for stealing me.

[sanura.livejournal.com]

Everyone missed him next year. Boys floundered about, wits on a knife's edge, trying to be properly insulted by the second-rate archenemies Draco had left behind. Causeless fights broke out, with no one to keep the tension at a steady hum. Girls of all houses missed him, too, but for more conscious reasons.

In fact, he was a more conspicuous absence than Harry. There was no personal rivalry to represent the eternal House rivalry, and the lack confused everyone. Harry was a hero, but you don't need heroes every day. They keep to themselves when they're not needed. Enemies don't.

[ohtori-akio.livejournal.com]

Leo McGarry.

This is cheating, because I already had it, but it's about him, so here:

[sanura.livejournal.com]

All men are angels. Angels of literature, who make mistakes. Did Lucifer have a map of his fall on his face? They carry lines of regret, laughter, sadism, marks of their descent. Their hands have scars or calluses from swinging the blade of justice and retribution, or raising a caustic grey shield of wit against those who see in black and white. The feathers of their wings have sloughed off and left scales on the scabs. They are soft stone all the way through, canyons carved over the surface in the paths of their tears. Old angels are involuntarily honest.