take advantage of me!

[fahye]

Holy crap, everyone, I appear to be experiencing a momentary LULL IN UNI WORK.

Let's all take a moment to appreciate this, shall we?










Okay.

In celebration, I am running a drabbles-for-icons festival. Because I would like some new icons, and I'm in the mood to write drabbles. There are many shows that I love and yet have a bizarre dearth of icons for - Arrested Development, Buffy, Scrubs, Grey's Anatomy and House all fall in this category. And movies! Movie icons! And yes, of course that was a blatant hint.

Post a request and I'll drabble while you icon. If the drabble sucks, you can maliciously sabotage the icon. Bien? Bien!

ETA: If you consider yourself to be extirely lacking in icon skillz, then I am also amenable to a simple drabble exchange :)

Comments

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

I want.....

Oh! House! On Grey's Anatomy! He has been called in for a special case and Christina is just DYING to be the intern working the case with him. Snark, LOADS of Snark.

The Ducklings can come along if you want.

And, as incentive, for every 300 words you write, I will make you can icon.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

PSA: CALEB IS A MANIPULATIVE BEAST. SADLY, I LOVE HIS ICONS AND THIS PROMPT TOO MUCH TO REFUSE.

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

CALEB FTW! \o/

*flees into the night*

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

If there were ever, hypothetically, a really good House/Wire in the Blood crossover, I might, hypothetically . . .

Well, I have no caps from any shows on your list, but I uh. Could resume my BSG icon vendetta.

This might, hypothetically, be something I have thought about a lot.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

...I will never sleep again. You KNOW how crossovers devour my brain.

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

I have considered this myself, and I feel the WitB kids would be better transported into House than vice versa, because that way no one has to die.

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

Oh, and I have caps of these movies:

2046
A Very Long Engagement
Angels in America (not...in fact...a movie...UMMM)
Camille Claudel
Design for Living
Dreams
French Cancan
House of Sand & Fog
King Lear
The Grand Illusion
L'Auberge Espagnole
L'Homme du Train
Maria Full of Grace
Moulin Rouge
Mulholland Drive
Rear Window
Sunset Boulevard
Tae Guk Gi
The Motion Picture Boys in the Great War
The Saddest Music in the World
Velvet Goldmine
Yossi & Jagger

GOSH, DOES IT SHOW THAT I USE MY OWN CAPS? MAYBE A TINY BIT? I'm going to go . . . pretend I am a sane human being.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

...you have finally seen Moulin Rouge?

I would adore forever any icons from MR or Angels in America.

[sophistry]

Oh! Write me... write me Raguel-Camiel. I am suddenly curious about what I think is, so far, the one completely untouched dynamic amongst the ethereals.

(Camiel helped out on Plants. Nobody: *is surprised*)

Any particular icon request?

[fahye.livejournal.com]

And suddenly I'm curious too!

Your icons are unfailingly lovely. Um. Maybe something nicely symbolic for the upcoming plot? Plot-generic or Lucifer-specific, I don't mind.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

The hall of creation has every colour that could be imagined; every colour that has been imagined, by every angel, since Colour itself came into being. But in the end and from the beginning all colours (as with everything) stem and have stemmed from the Name. All of Creation is to the glory, for the glory, of the glory.

Camiel hums to himself and remembers something that Taphael was commended for a little while ago. That gorgeous arc of refracted light, like a sampler for the shades of the universe.

I've been told to put it away, Taphael told him. It's for later. It will be a symbol of something very important.

Everything is a symbol.

The hall of creation has every colour and yet none, Camiel thinks, is as lovely as the green that stains his fingertips.

"If I could interrupt for a moment..."

He looks up to find an unfamiliar angel studying him with a piercing, sharp gaze that makes him uncomfortable for a moment.

"Yes?"

"Are you Camiel? I was told I might find you here." The newcomer's voice has power behind it, rippling out into the eternity of the hall, and Camiel bows his head more or less on instinct.

"I am."

"I am Raguel, the Vengeance of the Lord," the angel says, absently picking up a discarded leaf. Camiel's eyes widen. "A problem has arisen and I am looking for...a clue. A message. I have been told that you have a gift with such things."

Ah. He should have known. Camiel nods and turns to the huge worktable, his hands dancing over the fronds and petals and leaves, his eyes falling closed as he lets the meanings seep into him. An emotion for every green finger and a message for every whorl on the pads of his thumbs.

He opens his eyes and picks up a long stem. Holds it out to the Vengeance.

"It is called yellow hyacinth," he says, tasting the words for the first time and knowing them to be true. It means -

(everything is a symbol)

- jealousy. Does that help you?"

Raguel's eyes are clear and yet unreadable, his fingers sure and gentle on the stem of the flower. "Thank you," he says. "I think it does."

Camiel has words on the edge of his lips, questions, a wild burning wish to know more, but there is an urgency and a forbidding feel to the power in Raguel's voice. He remains silent; watching, wishing. The Vengeance of the Lord soars upwards, leaving a single charred leaf that makes trembling zigzags in the air as it falls.

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

If you're willing to wait until later for a return drabble, since I'll be booted off the computer soon and made to shift furniture more, I request Martin Blank with a contract on a) the Easter Bunny or b) Santa.

*grins*

[fahye.livejournal.com]

It was a very good thing, Martin thought, that he had his psychiatrist on speed-dial.

"Hello?"

"Hello! Hi. It's Martin -"

The man groaned. "Martin. It's Christmas Eve. I am having dinner with my family. Whatever breakdown you're having, can't you just postpone it until Boxing Day?"

"This won't take long, I promise, please, please, come on..."

A heavy sigh. "What is it?"

"Okay." Martin tucked his phone under his chin and adjusted the sights of his rifle. "If a person was to kill a very important symbolic figure from his or her childhood, maybe, um, someone that represented parental love through the medium of mercenary gain, would that person suffer any sort of trauma?"

"Kill..." Incredulity and wine-infused disapproval hung behind the doctor's voice. "Martin, are you calling me from a job? Again? Because you know I told you -"

"Come on, I'm serious! D'you think there could be lasting emotional damage?"

"I...I don't know, Martin, and quite frankly I'm not quite sure that you could give yourself any more issues if you tried." His voice was gaining that faintly hysterical tone that tended to emerge only at the end of two-hour sessions. And he hardly ever got riled up enough to make snitty remarks. Very unprofessional, Martin thought disapprovingly, clicking his silencer into place.

"Well, forget it then."

"Right. Merry Christmas, Martin. Goodbye, Martin."

"One more thing..."

"What?"

"Do you think Santa, um, knows if there are no children actually in a house, or is putting out traditional foodstuffs enough of a bait? Um, hypothetically. Because if -"

Click.

Martin sighed, shoved his phone back into his pocket, and wished he'd kept the leftover ginger cookies and brandy close to hand. It was going to be a long night.

[shati.livejournal.com]

Buffy drabble! What sort of Buffy icon would you like?

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I am in favour of: Spike, Faith, Buffy, any combination of the above. Or Giles. Or Willow with hot hair. MAN, I AM SO DECISIVE. You choose. *waves hands*

Prompt for drabble?

[pathstotread.livejournal.com]

I'm going to bed right now, so any iconage I will have to owe you. But write me, um....pilots. (Predictably, she says.) Their first time flying together in S3.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Somewhere between extrapolation and AU and sheer invention. Who cares, right? PILOTS!

~

She calls him Apollo five times before his audio comm system shorts out, and his heart leaps every time. Despite the terseness of her voice. Despite the strictly official and by-the-book nature of her communications. Apollo isn't a name he's heard in a very long time, and the sound of it surges down and tingles in his hands where they grip the controls. He's flying.

They're flying.

He calls her Starbuck, but it doesn't really feel like Starbuck is on the other end of that vacuum. The Viper off his starboard wing is a careful, dull machine right up until the moment they engage a sneak patrol of Raiders; then and only then does he see Starbuck in the effortless whistle and jab of her, in the patterns described by her guns.

And then he takes a hit, which shakes him up but doesn't slow him down. It's only when he sees the flashing message on his control panel - Apollo. Are you frakking deaf? - that he realises that his comm system is gone.

Text comms are frakking difficult when one is in a firefight. He manages, somehow: Comms dead. Two more behind you.

I'm not blind.

Really, Starbuck?

- and they're off, relentless and close, as though the years in between have closed up and they've just flown out of a wormhole. Without the voices of Kara Thrace and Lee Adama to hinder them they are simply Starbuck and Apollo. The silence is the best thing Lee's heard in months, but he doesn't have long to revel in it before the fight's furosity increases and all other thoughts are gone from his head. Things are exploding all around him, and it takes him almost a minute to see the message - back to Galactica NOW, basestar just jumped here.

He's flying on pure adrenalin and instinct, ducking and dodging, throwing the throttle open to get a better angle. He tears up the deck worse than he's done since his Academy days, and he's never felt better. Time enough to revise landing procedure later. He's laughing into his helmet when he realises that there are no more messages and no Viper beside his and - still - an awful lot of explosions taking place out beyond the landing bay. The Cylon basestar is a looming monster on the edge of his vision.

"Starbuck!" he yells, furious, forgetting entirely that nobody can hear him. Hating her for ripping open the Commander's cool decisiveness, for forcing Apollo back into his head.

More explosions. His Viper is being towed to the hangar bay, and the stars are blotted out by fire, and nothing has clarity. His heart beats overtime into the silence.

She makes it, of course, because Starbuck is indestructible and Starbuck always pulls a grand ending out of her ass. Or so everyone is saying. But if commanding a Battlestar has taught Lee anything, it's that nothing is indestructible. Nothing except perhaps the human heart, which can be battered and shattered and still keep one alive.

She's standing in front of him.

His heart beats out a muffled code from somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

She opens her mouth and the wormhole bursts open, the years come flooding back; he waits for the insults, the accusations, but nothing happens. Her mouth closes. Starbuck and Apollo's glorious silence seems to have stipped her of words.

He says: "I thought you were dead."

Kara chews on her bottom lip and just looks at him, her eyes very wide.

He says: "It's good to be wrong."

Her face blurs into something that's almost a laugh and "Oh, frak," she says miserably, just before she buries her face in his shoulder. Her fingers press painfully into his back, even through the tough fabric of his flight suit, and he's so very very glad in this moment that she is Starbuck because Starbuck doesn't cry. And if she started crying, he's not sure he wouldn't follow suit. The last thing the fleet needs right now is for the Commander of the Battlestar Pegasus to be seen weeping on the flight deck.

"Lee," Kara says on the exhale, an apology in three letters, and this time it's him who can't find the words.

So he puts his arms around her waist.

So he laughs (shakily) when she does, and when she hits him (gently) he hits her right back.

[lone-lilly.livejournal.com]

Ooooh. Grey's Anatomy drabble! Bailey's perspective on the Interns.


Um. But I need to know what sorts of things you want icons from? Addison? Cristina? Any particular pairing?

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Bailey is HARD TO WRITE. Ummm. I really like Burke/Cristina and I have this enormous fondness for the terrible (and hot) mess that is Addison-Derek-Meredith. Or just anything Addison, really :)

[girl-wonder.livejournal.com]

*cries* I need coffee, but am trying to stay off of it!

Also: if you give me a House/Wilson drabble (prompt: ummmm. wilson is sad?) or a GA drabble (prompt: GEORGE!!!!! and, um, kids!) you can make up a prompt and I'll do it.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

"We have a case!" House declared, entering the office with that eager bounce in his uneven stride that bespoke a new challenge. Cameron's back straightened immediately, and even Foreman put down the pen he was using to do the daily crossword.

"Symptoms?" Cameron stood up to get the whiteboard, but House herded her back into her seat with his cane.

"No need. I've already solved it."

Chase rolled his eyes. "So what are we here for?"

"You three," House told them, bouncing over to pour himself a mug of coffee, "are going to treat the patient. I expect it to tax even your admirable initiative skills."

"Diagnosis?" Foreman asked.

"Severe depression." House looked around. "Where's the sugar gone? Ah."

"Depression?" Cameron leapt up and snatched the sugar before he could reach it, holding it hostage. "We're a diagnostics department. In a hospital. How are we supposed to treat..."

"So glad you asked!" He rapped his cane on the ground. "Unless Dr. Cameron hands me the sugar, she will be spending the day double-checking my patient discharge papers from the last six months."

Cameron handed him the sugar with a sheepish smile and sat down again.

"Right." House nodded at her. "Dr. Cameron not being entirely devoid of common sense, and also possessing a good eye for fashion, she will instead break into Dr. Wilson's house and choose an outfit suitable for dinner at a fancy restaurant. Relax, I have a key." He tossed it to her. "The address is in my planner."

Cameron caught the key deftly and began to say something, then thought better of it.

"Dr. Chase will be doing research!" He kicked open a cupboard, pulled something out, and then hopped over to dump the Yellow Pages onto the table in front of Chase, sloshing the man's coffee. Chase glared. "I want you to find the most exclusive, expensive Chinese restaurant in this city. One of those places that has a waiting list the length of your arm. No, my arm. And then you're going to get me a booking for two, for tonight."

"That's absurd," Chase said, mopping up his coffee. "It's a Friday night."

"Initiative, Dr. Chase! Use your accent. Use your inheritance. Use your boyish good looks. I'm sure you'll come up with something." He picked up the red mug and headed for the door. "Meanwhile, I will be bullying the admin nurses into rescheduling all of Wilson's late consultations, and then I have an afternoon appointment with eBay." He made a face and swished his cane. "Urgent bidding deadline. You know how it is. There could be bloodshed."

"What about me?" Foreman demanded.

"You?" House paused, his cane suspended in midair. "You get to see my Clinic patients and keep Cuddy distracted. Think of it like dodgeball. No cases! No cases!" He made shooing motions with his hands. "If all else fails, claim an epidemic of Munchausen's and turf them all to Psych."

Foreman raised his eyebrows. House gave him a huge, fake grin and fled the room.

"Great." Foreman looked at the others for sympathy.

"Oh, what? You'd rather have Chinese restaurants?" Chase yanked the Yellow Pages irritably onto his lap and lifted his feet up onto the desk. Cameron just shrugged and picked up her jacket.

Foreman sighed and headed down to the Clinic.

~

"You had them doing what?" Wilson paused with a glass of very expensive Riesling near his mouth.

"I know." House prodded a half-eaten egg roll and snickered. "I know. Oh, Cameron's face."

"You'd better be careful," Wilson said reprovingly. "They're smart. Treat them too badly and they'll run away to the sheltering arms of another fellowship position."

"Nah. They all love me. I'm a lovable guy." House winked at him. "Besides, Dr. Wilson, are you saying you don't appreciate all of the efforts I went to?"

"All of the efforts -"

" - they went to, yeah yeah." House waved it away. "Come on. I prescribed, I want some visible results. Give me that last dumpling."

Wilson hit his hand with the chopsticks, barely glancing at it.

"Ow."

"Wimp."

"Adulterer."

"Cripple."

House smiled; Wilson smiled back. It might not have been much, but it was visible.

[http://users.livejournal.com/wisteria_/]

Oooh. Last night's icon for leda13 met my one-per-month quota, but the drabble exchange is an excellent one. I do believe I shall borrow it for my own LJ, so you must go over and request one of your own. :)

[leda13.livejournal.com]

*swoons in concert with all*

BTW, this drabble? is too amazing to be called a drabble. It's glorious short!fic!pilots and omg more please?

[leda13.livejournal.com]

this was about the flight post s3 fic, gah. It's oh-dark-hundred here and I am brainless / braindead / writing contraventions crap and procrastinating so I hope nobody will notice.

*goes back to rewriting crappy chapters*

Kayla

[(Anonymous)]

I could read 100 more pages of this delicious dose of playful pilots. Wonderful and fun, loved the wrestling between Kara and Lee and his frantic cries of rape, snickers... You so Rock. 99 more pages please?