Bite Sized Bits of Fic

LOTR, Merry/Pippin, deep green

From:

with-rainfall.livejournal.com

It’s shameless fluff and PG-rated. Hope that’s okay. :) Also, the green eyes thing… idek.

The last bit about the bath is based on Book 1, in the chapter “A Conspiracy Unmasked”, where they’re at Crickhollow for one night and Merry is arranging the baths. It disturbs the hell out of me that there are three baths in one room – even if Tolkien thought nothing of it - so in my headcanon there are most definitely partitions set up. XD

-------

They’re sprawled in a patch of shade at the outskirts of the forest a mile from the Ent-house, smoking the pipe-weed. He can’t remember if Pippin’s eyes have ever looked so deep green before. They’re reflecting the forest, he tells himself, but still he can’t stop glancing at them, fixed so dreamily on the clouds of smoke. It’s nice, to have Pippin so quiet and relaxed for once. He’s always been the adventurous one, dragging Merry off to explore the furthest corners of the Shire, provoke Farmer Maggot’s great dogs by throwing apples at them, dance the Springle-Ring on the tabletop at Bilbo’s party, or (once, terrifyingly) sail a boat along the Brandywine. But this new, peaceful Pippin reminds Merry of lazy childhood picnics, when they’d go up to a little stream near Hobbiton, stuff themselves with sandwiches and ginger ale and his mum’s cream scones, and then lie there gazing at the clouds, talking and laughing and not leaving before sunset.

He wonders if it would be quite… proper to tell Pippin how nice his eyes look today. No, probably… probably not, on second thoughts. And definitely not about how he keeps imagining kissing the little mole at the corner of his cheek. Or his collarbone… No, that wouldn’t be right either – no, stop it, Merry orders himself. This is Pippin you’re thinking about. But he can’t stop, hasn’t been able to since he’d heard Pippin singing that ludicrous bath-song of Bilbo’s back at Crickhollow, and felt such a furious irrational jealousy that he hadn’t been in that bathroom (even if they were behind partitions) instead of the other two. Sometimes he’s scared of where his imagination goes when he lets himself imagine that. But after Gandalf and Moria nothing seems to matter anymore except that they’re still alive and in one piece. He’s learned to enjoy it while he can.

Edited Date: 2012-03-26 03:05 am (UTC)

Re: Fill!

From:

mahmfic.livejournal.com - Date: 2012-04-01 02:26 am (UTC) - Expand

From:

Criminal Minds/White Collar, Reid/Hotch + Neal, Neal's idea that he and Spencer pose as lovers makes Hotch green with envy

From:

Any, any, snow white smile

From:

loveinadoorway.livejournal.com

It had been the first thing he had really noticed back then.
A smile brighter than the sun and a green sucker being held aloft. The startling white of teeth in the harsh New York sun as Neal Caffrey conned Peter Burke for the first and sadly not the last time.

Ever since, he had wondered about that moment. Should the snow white smile have warned him? Should he have snapped cuffs around that elegant wrist as it presented him with that sucker?

Should he have known he’d fall and fall hard the precise moment his eyes had met Neal’s?

From:

Merlin BCC, Mordred/Any, redwood

From:

Any, any, a whiter shade of pale

From:

tigriswolf

(I have seen the painting mentioned herein. In person. It is amazing. I want it for my own wall.

Also, I hope all the names/personas make sense.

And, um, this started out as something different, with a more obvious use of your prompt. But this is what it wanted to be, so.)

Methos has skill as a painter. Of course he does. He has eternity to master anything, so he has mastered everything. But the truly crafty always keep something back.

Adam Pierson was not an artist. A doodler, certainly, but nothing impressive. And Ben Matheson is nothing to write home about, either, but he's loved the arts all his life. So when his sponsor Duncan MacLeod calls him early one morning to invite him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, well. He could refuse, of course. But a good little boy wouldn’t, and Ben is so very young, and desirous of an adult’s praise and approval.

"Ben!" MacLeod calls. "Come see this one."

"And whose clever idea was it to take the children to the museum today?" Ben murmurs to Mr. Dawson, hurrying to MacLeod’s side with an exuberant smile.

Mr. Dawson’s guffaw follows him, to a huge painting of horses. “Gorgeous,” Ben breathes. MacLeod claps him on the shoulder, and Ben would say something more, but his eyes are following the lines of the horses. He wouldn’t be surprised if they thundered right off the wall.

Ben has never ridden a horse. He’s been poor all his life, and lived on the streets for three months, and was caught by the police, turned over to CPS, and fostered by a couple determined to see him excel. And then he was chosen by MacLeod, and sent to one of the best schools in the country, and here he is, staring at the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen, in utter awe.

Ben can only marvel at the horses. They look so strong. He wonders what it’d be like to ride them, and if he had an audience beyond Mr. Dawson, he’d ask MacLeod, and hang onto every word.

Methos, though. Methos knows. He misses riding across a plain, his brothers abreast of him, out of the sun and into the horizon, the world theirs for the taking. Ben will go back to his dorm and dream of horses. He’ll check out horse books from the library, watch videos online, and fall head-over-heels in love.

But Methos. Methos will go to the place where home is tonight, pull out a well-hidden sketchbook, and breathe life into his favorite pale mare again.

“Isn’t it something?” MacLeod asks.

Ben nods enthusiastically. He’s never seen a more amazing sight in his short, pain-filled life.

Methos… Methos is a master of horses. In his next life, he’ll return to them and ride out of the sun, into the horizon.

Edited Date: 2011-11-03 03:09 am (UTC)

Re: Highlander, future!fic, gen

From:

nevcolleil.livejournal.com - Date: 2011-11-03 12:49 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: Highlander, future!fic, gen

From:

tigriswolf - Date: 2011-11-03 03:04 pm (UTC) - Expand

From:

Doctor Who, Any, origin of coining it TARDIS Blue

From:

inkvoices

“It’s a police box.”

She leaned back against the control panel, accidentally shifting the Purple Lever – colours after all being an important identifier – three spec degrees South.

“So?”

The Doctor frowned at her, decided ignoring the Purple Lever for now would be easier that getting his latest Companion to move, and went back to adjusting the Automated Pan-dimensional Rear View (which admittedly went more often by the moniker of ‘The Squiggly Bit’).

“So it’s Police Blue. Or Royal Blue, or what ever it is that they call it.”

“It most certainly is not! It’s the bluest blue ever. Incomparable, because you can’t compare anything else to a TARDIS, not at all, and especially not to my TARDIS, thank you very much.”

Finished with The Squiggly Bit, he glanced again at the Purple Lever, but moved on instead to the Zebra Handle.

“You lot might run around defining yourselves by comparisons,” he continued, “but the TARDIS is unique. Uniquely herself, aren’t you old girl? Besides, I’m sure it’s not polite. Is it polite to say you look like someone else? I’m sure it can’t be.”

The Zebra Handle didn’t really need any encouragement to be honest, but he loosened and tightened a bolt so that it didn’t feel left out.

“So what is it then?”

The Doctor turned to look at her, exasperated. What was it with humans, who always had to ask even when – especially when – they wouldn’t be able to understand the answers?

“She is a TARDIS. A blue TARDIS, TARDIS Blue.”

He stepped closer and waved his screwdriver under her nosey nose. (Not that it wasn’t a nice nose.)

“Now, please move. I have to fix the positioning of the Purple Lever.”

Re: Bluest Blue Ever (Gen, U)

From:

mithrel.livejournal.com - Date: 2011-10-19 10:16 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: Bluest Blue Ever (Gen, U)

From:

inkvoices - Date: 2011-10-23 01:09 pm (UTC) - Expand

From:

Torchwood, Rhys/Gwen + Anwen, baby pink

From:

Any, Any, There are no shades of black.

From:

Any, any, Bleach me in the light 'till I'm white-on-white stone // glistening like a diamond, tonight // ever proud // to shine alone (Corbet Dean)

From:

Chuck(/White Collar), Chuck/Bryce (and Chuck/Neal), at first just ghostly, now a whiter shade of pale

From:

rattyjol.livejournal.com

Supernatural, any angel, why angels tend to prefer the drab colors

From:

rattyjol.livejournal.com

Supernatural, Titanicverse!Dean, suddenly, the orange stripes on his car feel like they shouldn't be there

From:

rattyjol.livejournal.com

Doctor Who, any Doctor, bright colors and ridiculous patterns only serve to distract the universe from the man beneath them

From:

The Dead Zone, Bruce +or/ Johnny, ("Black and Blue" Counting Crows)
Fading everything to black and blue
You look a lot like you'd shatter in the blink of an eye

From:

The Mentalist, Cho +or/ Jane, ("Black and Blue" Counting Crows)
You just look a lot like me
Pale under the blistering sky
White and red
Black and blue

From:

Supernatural, Gabriel/Sam OR Cas/Sam (or 3some), He doesn't think there's enough colors named to describe angel's wings (yay wing!fic!)

From:

cynassa.livejournal.com

Spoilers: This happens somewhere between 7.1 and 7.09 (How to Win Friends..) so if you haven't seen that, this might not make sense.

It's been ages since he's slept through the night. Lucifer, wearing Nick's body, appears in his dreams. He's forgiven Cas, without being asked for it even (he even prays that he not be dead), but he still curses him at those points in the night when he sees Dean's broken body, and Jess' black eyes and can't, cannot be sure, that this time it isn't real.

Maybe he imagined saving the world. Maybe it's Lucifer in his body, destroying the world and there's no Burger King anymore, and no apple pie. Maybe he's at the back of Lucifer's mind and this is his desperate way of pretending he didn't damn the world.

"You scream too loud," Gabriel then, this time. But not bloody and broken.
"You're dead," Sam says, and imagines a doctor saying, 'You often talk to yourself, Mr. Winchester?' gently, (don't spook the crazies) with concerned eyes. He watches Gabriel weaving something, with thin silver thread.

"And I am talking to myself," Sam says, and adds, "Again."

"You wish you were such a clever conversationalist," Gabriel replies promptly, and the thread changes color. Sam looks closely and realizes that the thread was constantly changing color, each tiny inch or half-inch was a different shade from the parts before. Interested despite himself, he peers closer, and thinks- however small a division he uses, the colors change in even smaller divisions. Almost continuously, in fact.

"That's a dreamcatcher."

"Huh, so you mud monkeys can be taught," Gabriel says, but when Sam glances up, his lips are twisted mischievously.

"On occasion. What about you flying monkeys?" Sam asks, curious.

Gabriel is silent, Sam looks down, and the first of the pictures are appearing- it's his mother dying, then Jess dying, then Max, and his father's body climbing out of Hell, and Dean (a car running him over, electrocuted, by an axe, by a piano falling, by an arrow, Hellhounds feasting on his body) and Sam flinches back and makes a noise he doesn't hear, because his head is buzzing so loudly.

"Sam, breathe," Gabriel says sharply.

Sam looks at him and wants to break his nose, do anything really, to see him bleed.

Gabriel looks furious for a moment, then one corner of those thin lips pulls down, making him look bitter. "I thought I could make you understand," he says, and he sounds very tired. "I thought..." he tries to fling out one hand, but the gesture is aborted by the dreamcatcher he is still weaving. 'I thought I could trust you."

Sam flinches again, he's got a speech prepared for this. Dean's version, Bobby's version, the version for the rest of the people who have had to deal with his failure. Those don't fit Gabriel.

Gabriel goes back to weaving, "It's easier for me," he says uncertainly, "to blame everyone else, but even the flying monkeys learn sometimes."

"After dying," Sam asks, he's too tired, too ashamed, to be skeptical; but where does his subconscious come up with these things?

"After dying, we become a part of the cosmos we were built from. You can imagine it might be a little," Gabriel rolls his eyes, "humbling."
"Think of it," he continues, "As being grounded for, how long has it been?"

Sam shrugs, "A couple of years?" he's still not sure on the time he spent without a soul.

"Really? Fun times," Gabriel looks surprised. He's sweating a little, Sam thinks, then dismisses the thought. Even in his hallucinations, there's no reason an Archangel should be sweating.

Sam rests against the wall at the head of the bed. Watching Gabriel work is hypnotic, and the dazzling array of colored threads that seem to come out of nowhere and never end. He jerks up suddenly when he realizes that Gabriel is definitely breathing, and breathing fast and so after all this is one of Lucifer's tortures (or it's his own subconscious, dammit all to hell - he can't be sure).

"It's ok, kiddo." Gabriel breathes out, gasping on the last word, "Just gimme," he breathes in again, with difficulty, "Gimme a moment."

Edited Date: 2012-03-29 07:23 am (UTC)

Re: Fill(2/2), Gabriel/Sam

From:

cynassa.livejournal.com - Date: 2012-03-29 07:24 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill(2/2), Gabriel/Sam

From:

enmuse.livejournal.com - Date: 2012-03-29 03:53 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill(2/2), Gabriel/Sam

From:

cynassa.livejournal.com - Date: 2012-03-29 04:39 pm (UTC) - Expand

From:

Supernatural, Sam + any 1983 kid, ("The Red" Chevelle)
They say freak,
When you're singled out,
The red, well it filters through.

From: