Happy Christmas! Stocking stuffers!
Well, it's well and truly Christmas Eve here, and since I am unlikely to get online tomorrow, Santa has come a bit early for my flist. I've one or two things for specific people, as well as some goodies for anyone who wants them. Individual gifts reflect where my muse happened to strike rather than the relative degree of my love for you all :p There are one or two things which will probably appear after Christmas, too, as I ended up with rather less time than I expected. DF is ill, and the time I had earmarked for writing ended up being eaten by me doing the chores I had earmarked for him.
So... A very happy Christmas to all my flist! I hope those who celebrate Christmas have a wonderful day, and those who don't have an equally wonderful but less hectic day!
I've been trying out making various different icons recently. I'm still a bit of a novice, to put it kindly, so they are possibly not the most amazing icons you have ever seen. Still, I think I managed to make some pretty ones, so these are my gift to my entire flist :D Anyone who wants one can take one - it would be nice if you'd credit me if you use them, and also nice if you'd comment to let me know which ones you took. One or two are more bases, really, and feel free to use any of them as such.
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Partly in response to my lack of time, and partly because I'd like to work on a more concise, elegant writing style, I've been experimenting with drabbles. Some of these are my prompts from aaaages ago.
Happy Christmas to all the Browncoats on my flist! This is not a true drabble - it overran a bit - but hopefully you will enjoy this little snippet anyway. Based on the prompt 'Zoe/Wash, food' from parenthetical, which has also bunnied me for a larger fic.
Pó po*
'...never see eye to eye on that.' Zoe stormed down off the bridge, head held high and angry.
'I know it's unreasonable.' Wash hurried to overtake her, hands spread wide in appeal. 'It's just that she thinks festivals are all about the food -'
'And your mother thinks I can't cook.' Zoe slammed a pan vengefully on the stove. 'I can cook.'
'Zoe can cook?' Jayne helped himself to a protein bar, oblivious of the atmosphere in the room. 'Never seen that.'
'Zoe can cook,' Wash confirmed hastily. 'She cooks, uh...'
'Soup.' Zoe caught Wash's eye and smiled suddenly. 'I cook soup.'
Wash stifled a snort of laughter. 'That you do, wife. That you do.'
Jayne stared at them, hand arrested on the way to his mouth. 'What's so funny about soup?'
* Pó po is Mandarin for 'mother-in-law', how awesome is that?
For parenthetical, for the prompt 'blue, stitches'. I had two ideas which I liked, not sure I really pulled either of them off quite as I would have liked, but I hope you will enjoy them anyway, my darling! Also, these appear to be gen, although I totally thought they were Wincest when I was writing them. So it goes.
Tapestry is an art
'Wow, that's... wow. I didn't know you could do that.'
Jess flushes a little. 'This doesn't mean I'll darn your socks.' She smoothes out the half-finished tapestry, blue butterflies and silver threads which suggest light on water.
'No, I can sew. I just never knew it could be beautiful.'
'Tapestry's an art,' Jess says, pleased, and tips her face up for him to kiss.
Three years later, Sam surveys the neat line of stitches across Dean's shoulder blade. They're tiny and even, holding torn flesh together. Holding Dean together.
Tapestry is an art, Sam thinks, but this is beautiful.
'Say "Little House on the Prairie" and I'll shoot you'
'Dude, really?' Sam looks at Dean incredulously. 'Patchwork?'
Dean scowls, refusing to meet his eye. 'It's warm, Sam, that's what counts. Anyway, I think it looks kinda nice.'
Sam looks down at the folded quilt. It does look nice, and the abstract blue and grey squares aren't exactly girly. He likes that it's handmade, too, one or two of the careful stitches a little uneven. Jess had a patchwork quilt, he remembers, handed down from her great-grandma.
'We'll take it,' Sam tells the stall owner.
After all, warm is practical. Winchesters pride themselves on being practical.
For oxoniensis. The SPN double-drabble is in response to the prompt 'Sam/Dean; huddling, wings, ice'. I have actually written a full length fic in response to this prompt, but it needs serious work so is not ready for posting yet. This is not Sam/Dean, but it is the fic which my brain really wanted me to write when I saw the prompt. The Gilmore Girls drabble was spontaneous, but as oxoniensis deserves all the credit for getting me into Gilmore Girls, so it is for her. I hope you enjoy, darling! (I should add that I have only watched up until mid-season 4 of GG, so this doesn't take into account anything that happens after that.)
Keep Dancing
'I hope we'll see you at this year's Dance Marathon,' Taylor says, cheerfully officious as usual.
'I'm not sure...' Rory begins, feeling herself flush red. She hasn't been for years, not since that one disastrous night, and she'd rather not be reminded of that now.
'Rory, I thought we could rely on you to uphold the town's traditions.' Taylor draws himself up, ready to deliver a lecture.
Dean cuts him off. 'Of course we'll be there. We're gonna win, right, Rory?'
'Right,' she agrees, and slips her hand into his.
After all, he's already outlasted everyone else.
Days are cold but the nights are colder
'When's Dad gonna come?' Sam whines. It's the third time he's asked in ten minutes.
'Soon,' Dean promises, squashing down the tiny voice that reminds him Dad's never late, especially when he knows they're not safe indoors someplace.
'I'm cold.' Sam sticks his fingers under Dean's nose. 'Feel my hands, they're like ice.'
'So run up and down,' Dean says. 'C'mon, I'll race you.'
They lap the block a few times, but the wind's freezing and it's late: they can't keep going long. When Sam slows to a halt, Dean lets him, draws him into the shelter of the trees. They sit on the low wall there, huddled into their jackets to preserve the heat they've built up.
'Remember that bird show we saw at Pastor Jim's?' Sam says after a while. 'Where the big bird kept the chick warm under its wing?'
'Nope,' Dean lies. He's thirteen, for crissake, too old for that shit.
Sam gives him a wounded look and shivers, but says nothing.
Crap.
'C'mere.' Dean shuffles closer and wraps his arm around Sam's shoulder. 'Guess this means you're a chick.'
Sam leans in, warm against him. 'Thanks, Big Bird.'
Finally, I really wanted to write something for aynslee, but everything I was working on took ages. So in the end I wrote a really self-indulgent flashfic. Betaed in record time by parenthetical - any remaining weirdnesses are very much me. Hope you enjoy it, darling!
For your life
It's hard enough to get Dean onto the plane for a half-hour flight, so Sam is profoundly grateful that his brother is too busy pretending not to panic and humming Metallica to notice that the flight they've checked into is to London, England, not London, Ohio.
When the pilot makes his announcements and Dean does realise just how long he's going to be on the plane, Sam only just escapes receiving an injury to a part of his anatomy they'd both really rather stayed in working order. He waves the tickets under Dean's nose desperately.
'...the hell you think you're - Led Zeppelin...?' Dean's brought up short from his rant.
'Exclusive, one-off reunion concert,' Sam says smugly. 'Chance of a lifetime.'
Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times, helplessly.
'I'll still have to kill you for this,' he says finally. His hand settles heavy and warm on Sam's thigh. 'After the show.'
Sam just keeps grinning.
~*~*~
Dean doesn't stop grinning the whole way through the show, even when an extremely fat and sweaty guy presses up against him and spills beer down his leather jacket. He's still flying high when the last song's been played and the crowd is spilling out on the street.
'When they played Nobody's Fault, oh dude. I can die happy, now.' Dean's happy glow diminishes for a second when he realises what he's said, because they've had a moratorium on those kind of comments for a while now.
Sam doesn't stop smiling. 'Yeah, about that. You might want to hold off for a while.'
Dean stares at him. 'Sam, if I try to break the deal -'
'If you try to break the deal, yeah.' Sam pulls out a little wooden carving, recognisably Dean except for how it has a big shiny patch smack bang in the middle of its chest. 'You really think I'd bring you all the way to England just to see a bunch of granddads? That guy who spilled his drink on you is the foremost expert in soul magic in the Western hemisphere. He just had to baptise you in the flesh to make the spell stick.'
'Then this...' Dean gestures at the Dean doll. 'You got my soul back?'
Sam just smiles, the kind of smile that says if he tries to say anything he'll end up crying like a girl.
'Dude.'
And maybe Sam could have gone with the crying thing after all, because Dean kisses him right there in the street, big Hollywood smacker, and maybe that even tops seeing Led Zeppelin play live.
That is Santa's delivery finished for now!
Happy Christmas, one and all!
So... A very happy Christmas to all my flist! I hope those who celebrate Christmas have a wonderful day, and those who don't have an equally wonderful but less hectic day!
I've been trying out making various different icons recently. I'm still a bit of a novice, to put it kindly, so they are possibly not the most amazing icons you have ever seen. Still, I think I managed to make some pretty ones, so these are my gift to my entire flist :D Anyone who wants one can take one - it would be nice if you'd credit me if you use them, and also nice if you'd comment to let me know which ones you took. One or two are more bases, really, and feel free to use any of them as such.
Teaser images
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Partly in response to my lack of time, and partly because I'd like to work on a more concise, elegant writing style, I've been experimenting with drabbles. Some of these are my prompts from aaaages ago.
Happy Christmas to all the Browncoats on my flist! This is not a true drabble - it overran a bit - but hopefully you will enjoy this little snippet anyway. Based on the prompt 'Zoe/Wash, food' from parenthetical, which has also bunnied me for a larger fic.
Pó po*
'...never see eye to eye on that.' Zoe stormed down off the bridge, head held high and angry.
'I know it's unreasonable.' Wash hurried to overtake her, hands spread wide in appeal. 'It's just that she thinks festivals are all about the food -'
'And your mother thinks I can't cook.' Zoe slammed a pan vengefully on the stove. 'I can cook.'
'Zoe can cook?' Jayne helped himself to a protein bar, oblivious of the atmosphere in the room. 'Never seen that.'
'Zoe can cook,' Wash confirmed hastily. 'She cooks, uh...'
'Soup.' Zoe caught Wash's eye and smiled suddenly. 'I cook soup.'
Wash stifled a snort of laughter. 'That you do, wife. That you do.'
Jayne stared at them, hand arrested on the way to his mouth. 'What's so funny about soup?'
* Pó po is Mandarin for 'mother-in-law', how awesome is that?
For parenthetical, for the prompt 'blue, stitches'. I had two ideas which I liked, not sure I really pulled either of them off quite as I would have liked, but I hope you will enjoy them anyway, my darling! Also, these appear to be gen, although I totally thought they were Wincest when I was writing them. So it goes.
Tapestry is an art
'Wow, that's... wow. I didn't know you could do that.'
Jess flushes a little. 'This doesn't mean I'll darn your socks.' She smoothes out the half-finished tapestry, blue butterflies and silver threads which suggest light on water.
'No, I can sew. I just never knew it could be beautiful.'
'Tapestry's an art,' Jess says, pleased, and tips her face up for him to kiss.
Three years later, Sam surveys the neat line of stitches across Dean's shoulder blade. They're tiny and even, holding torn flesh together. Holding Dean together.
Tapestry is an art, Sam thinks, but this is beautiful.
'Say "Little House on the Prairie" and I'll shoot you'
'Dude, really?' Sam looks at Dean incredulously. 'Patchwork?'
Dean scowls, refusing to meet his eye. 'It's warm, Sam, that's what counts. Anyway, I think it looks kinda nice.'
Sam looks down at the folded quilt. It does look nice, and the abstract blue and grey squares aren't exactly girly. He likes that it's handmade, too, one or two of the careful stitches a little uneven. Jess had a patchwork quilt, he remembers, handed down from her great-grandma.
'We'll take it,' Sam tells the stall owner.
After all, warm is practical. Winchesters pride themselves on being practical.
For oxoniensis. The SPN double-drabble is in response to the prompt 'Sam/Dean; huddling, wings, ice'. I have actually written a full length fic in response to this prompt, but it needs serious work so is not ready for posting yet. This is not Sam/Dean, but it is the fic which my brain really wanted me to write when I saw the prompt. The Gilmore Girls drabble was spontaneous, but as oxoniensis deserves all the credit for getting me into Gilmore Girls, so it is for her. I hope you enjoy, darling! (I should add that I have only watched up until mid-season 4 of GG, so this doesn't take into account anything that happens after that.)
Keep Dancing
'I hope we'll see you at this year's Dance Marathon,' Taylor says, cheerfully officious as usual.
'I'm not sure...' Rory begins, feeling herself flush red. She hasn't been for years, not since that one disastrous night, and she'd rather not be reminded of that now.
'Rory, I thought we could rely on you to uphold the town's traditions.' Taylor draws himself up, ready to deliver a lecture.
Dean cuts him off. 'Of course we'll be there. We're gonna win, right, Rory?'
'Right,' she agrees, and slips her hand into his.
After all, he's already outlasted everyone else.
Days are cold but the nights are colder
'When's Dad gonna come?' Sam whines. It's the third time he's asked in ten minutes.
'Soon,' Dean promises, squashing down the tiny voice that reminds him Dad's never late, especially when he knows they're not safe indoors someplace.
'I'm cold.' Sam sticks his fingers under Dean's nose. 'Feel my hands, they're like ice.'
'So run up and down,' Dean says. 'C'mon, I'll race you.'
They lap the block a few times, but the wind's freezing and it's late: they can't keep going long. When Sam slows to a halt, Dean lets him, draws him into the shelter of the trees. They sit on the low wall there, huddled into their jackets to preserve the heat they've built up.
'Remember that bird show we saw at Pastor Jim's?' Sam says after a while. 'Where the big bird kept the chick warm under its wing?'
'Nope,' Dean lies. He's thirteen, for crissake, too old for that shit.
Sam gives him a wounded look and shivers, but says nothing.
Crap.
'C'mere.' Dean shuffles closer and wraps his arm around Sam's shoulder. 'Guess this means you're a chick.'
Sam leans in, warm against him. 'Thanks, Big Bird.'
Finally, I really wanted to write something for aynslee, but everything I was working on took ages. So in the end I wrote a really self-indulgent flashfic. Betaed in record time by parenthetical - any remaining weirdnesses are very much me. Hope you enjoy it, darling!
For your life
It's hard enough to get Dean onto the plane for a half-hour flight, so Sam is profoundly grateful that his brother is too busy pretending not to panic and humming Metallica to notice that the flight they've checked into is to London, England, not London, Ohio.
When the pilot makes his announcements and Dean does realise just how long he's going to be on the plane, Sam only just escapes receiving an injury to a part of his anatomy they'd both really rather stayed in working order. He waves the tickets under Dean's nose desperately.
'...the hell you think you're - Led Zeppelin...?' Dean's brought up short from his rant.
'Exclusive, one-off reunion concert,' Sam says smugly. 'Chance of a lifetime.'
Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times, helplessly.
'I'll still have to kill you for this,' he says finally. His hand settles heavy and warm on Sam's thigh. 'After the show.'
Sam just keeps grinning.
~*~*~
Dean doesn't stop grinning the whole way through the show, even when an extremely fat and sweaty guy presses up against him and spills beer down his leather jacket. He's still flying high when the last song's been played and the crowd is spilling out on the street.
'When they played Nobody's Fault, oh dude. I can die happy, now.' Dean's happy glow diminishes for a second when he realises what he's said, because they've had a moratorium on those kind of comments for a while now.
Sam doesn't stop smiling. 'Yeah, about that. You might want to hold off for a while.'
Dean stares at him. 'Sam, if I try to break the deal -'
'If you try to break the deal, yeah.' Sam pulls out a little wooden carving, recognisably Dean except for how it has a big shiny patch smack bang in the middle of its chest. 'You really think I'd bring you all the way to England just to see a bunch of granddads? That guy who spilled his drink on you is the foremost expert in soul magic in the Western hemisphere. He just had to baptise you in the flesh to make the spell stick.'
'Then this...' Dean gestures at the Dean doll. 'You got my soul back?'
Sam just smiles, the kind of smile that says if he tries to say anything he'll end up crying like a girl.
'Dude.'
And maybe Sam could have gone with the crying thing after all, because Dean kisses him right there in the street, big Hollywood smacker, and maybe that even tops seeing Led Zeppelin play live.
That is Santa's delivery finished for now!
Happy Christmas, one and all!