RL: not really a rec., but if you're looking for Willow/Drusilla try here. I don't know if you'll like it or not, I can't judge how well people write Willow, but it might be worth trying.

Hey, Am -- insent to you.

Thanks, SA. You're most kind.

Nah, just pretty. t g

Dan and Casey do not have sex. Sports Night slash is just wrong.

Dan and Casey are hobbits?

Dan and Casey do not have sex. Sports Night slash is just wrong.

Dan and Casey have a beautiful love.

I watched their courtship and wept long before I was sucked into fanfic. Mostly, though, I just want to write them talking to each other.

Bless them.

Talking ok. But even snuggling is wrong.

La la la! New AJ Hall fiction up at ShoesForIndustry: Queer as Scent ,

which deals with a heavily-pregnant Narcissa Malfoy, a fox hunt, an enamoured and rather endearing Lucius, and Lord Voldemort.

Narcissa stretched out in the little parlour, overcome by exhaustion. Her need was for nothing so much as a stiff drink. Which was, of course, impossible. At the present time. She looked severely down at her abdomen. “Trust me on this one, Muppet,” she said aloud, “When I don't have to worry about your welfare, I've got only two ambitions. The first is, I'm going to go to New York. And when I get there, I'm going shopping. What for, you might well ask. Anything they didn't nail down first, ok? Understood? Following which, I'm travelling on to Reims. Which I'm planning to drink. Dry. Got that, Muppet?”

Her child's relative quiescence she decided to take as consent.

“I'm glad we understand each other,” she murmured, patting the bulge gently.

Mrs P. poked her head round the door, “Ma'am?”

She nodded wearily.

“I've put a trayful of herbal tea in your study, Ma'am. And I've made up the day-bed. I thought you might want to spend the rest of the day there, ma'am. Before the dinner.”

She nodded. And found herself stumbling along the corridor to the study almost without realizing she had done so.

She had been sitting unintelligently in front of the typewriter for some minutes before it occurred to her to turn her head round to the still-open window.

Perched on the cill was the one member of the Hunt everyone - it seemed - had by now forgotten.

Open-mouthed, she watched while the red-brown creature - her awkward bulginess betraying precisely why Sir Rufus had had his doubts about the sport she might afford him and his hounds at that particular time of the year - hopped through the window and into the study. Once there, she sat down on the day-bed regarding Narcissa with intelligent wariness. Narcissa spun slowly round on her chair, and looked back in turn at her unexpected visitor. It occurred to her that the vixen must have only managed to evade the Hunt by clinging by tooth and claw onto the Dark Lord's underwear when he Disapparated back to the Manor. Narcissa's lips quirked up unstoppably.

“I must say, I admire your style, girl," she said solemnly to the fox.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas, Fay dearie! How are you?