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last01standingSo if anyone would like a drabble, drop me a comment with a few words, a fandom, and a character.
[Fandoms of the moment: SGA, BtVS, LOM, SPN, Dark Angel, Grimm, Scrubs, (or any other you think I may be familiar with)]
[Fandoms of the moment: SGA, BtVS, LOM, SPN, Dark Angel, Grimm, Scrubs, (or any other you think I may be familiar with)]
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(no subject)
17/12/13 05:15 (UTC)(no subject)
17/12/13 16:32 (UTC)Or:
Grimm, friendship, witches, Renard.
(no subject)
18/12/13 20:03 (UTC)Ooooooooor another Alex and Mal snippet, possibly also holiday-themed because I wanna see how supervillians deal with Christmas cheer.
(no subject)
19/12/13 03:38 (UTC)"It's not me!" Mal cries.
It's a giant robotic Santa Claus throwing what look like Christmas ornament cherry bombs in the same garish green color as Mal’s current pair of trainers.
Of course it’s Mal.
“Name me one other crook in this town dealing in robots.” He opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can start. “One other not-a-corpse crook.”
“I’m Jewish,” Mal says petulantly.
“You’re an atheist and your foster mother was Baptist. You're full of shit.”
“I wouldn’t rip off an episode of Futurama!” he tries, which is marginally more believable. “I’ve got more class than that. Besides, I’m working on my droid. Or at least I was until someone zeroed out all my data.”
“I don’t even know what that means!”
He stomps on my good foot.
I elbow him in the face.
“See if you make my Christmas list after this,” Mal grumbles.
“I don’t want to be on your Christmas list. For my birthday last year you wrote, Stop hitting on Good Guy in the river with fire.” It was pretty impressive chemical work. Held it’s shape an everything. I was a little touched considering the mess with the succubi.
“And here I had a bottle of egg nog with your name on it.”
“I don’t even like egg nog!”
One of Robo Santa’s cherry bombs skitters to a halt at my feet. Mal could outrun the blast if he tries. Instead he his me like a running back and manages to have us twenty five yard away when it its. The fireball is disproportionate for the size of the payload.
And not actually putting out any heat.
Mal hauls me to my feet. “Worst Nightmare,” he says. “You owe me an apology.”
“You’re not getting one,” I reply, but I’m grinning and I don’t think he cares.
(no subject)
20/12/13 05:55 (UTC)(no subject)
27/12/13 19:42 (UTC)When Sherlock fakes his death after the Stanley Cup loss, there is a three month period where John’s fairly certain he’s going insane. Because he keeps seeing these pieces, these flashes of brilliance in the newspaper, in the kid on the street in oversized street hockey gear who has Sherlock’s technique down so perfectly he must have been coached. He receives two prank phone calls from fans all over the country claiming to have seen him and three different serial killers are uncovered in the United States.
He finally caves and calls Dean Winchester who answers after four rings sounding sleep weary despite the fact that it’s well past noon on the East Coast. “Watson?”
“I keep thinking I see Sherlock,” he says. “In the papers. In the news. And I know…I know you specialize in weird stuff. You’ve got to tell me if it’s possible.”
“That Sherlock Holmes is a ghost?” Dean says slowly and John wishes he’d tried to hit him just a little bit harder during the last series. “No. No I don’t think so.”
“But how do you know? Don’t you Lawrence people deal with these things all the time. And it’s not just me. There’s been sightings.”
“You have to be dead to be a ghost,” Dean says.
“Sherlock is dead.”
“Sherlock is a manipulative bastard who hates paparazzi and who got into a very public fight with Jim Moriarty before he went free agent and disappeared. He’s not dead, John. I think the ghost of Sherlock Holmes would have got my attention by now.”
The line goes silent which means either Watson has missed the dial tone or Dean has nodded off mid-sentence. The tremor in his hand is gone as he stares at the phone.
Just for a second, he lets himself hope.
(no subject)
27/12/13 19:43 (UTC)Blue
They lights start with the cascade of keys of his first scale, the melodies twisting into impossible shapes in front of his eyes, the patterns something he can bring back in the barracks, painted across his closed eyes with perfect recall, the subtle tug of a countermelody, the way it changes with the mood, with the key. It’s yellow when he meets Rachel but it changes, the blue strands of melancholy tugging at the melody and the subtle twists of red and gray that is his mission threading through the chords of his left hand (steady, ever present, unchanging).
Synesthesia is the diagnosis when he’s back in Manticore, hearing colors, tasting sights—Rachel salty on his tongue, the piano keys a smooth (addictive) whiskey. They repair him, take away the defect and a month after Manticore falls he finds himself in front of a out of tune piano again, hands stiff as he plucks out chords, waiting for the resurgence of the music, blue, blue, blue against his skin.
(no subject)
28/12/13 15:26 (UTC)