January 11th, 2007
|03:35 pm - Ficlet offer/request: deathfics|
I have a feeling that NO ONE is going to take me up on this, but I am bored out of my skull right now, so I might as well ask. :-)
Give me a character, and a cause-of-death (anything from dagger to poison to illnes to old age to another character), and I will write you a little ficlet. Yes, I am in a slightly odd mood.
No promises made as to the seriousness (or hilarity) of said death. I like to switch things up.
Allowable fandoms include anything on my interests (except LotR). I'll make a stab at others, if you know I've seen some episodes (for instance, Law&Order:CI, or Supernatural).
Current Location: work, where else?
Current Mood: bored
|Date:||January 11th, 2007 11:42 pm (UTC)|| |
Just cause you said we wouldn't...
Chris Turk(elton) and a towel whipping accident with J.D.
|Date:||January 12th, 2007 12:32 am (UTC)|| |
Re: Just cause you said we wouldn't...
Wow. I knew I was risking my sanity with that question, but...heh. Let me see what I can do.
Ooh, I'll take you up on it; I'm in a vicious mood at the moment. Hmmm. Kill off one of the following women for me: Kaylee Frye, Samantha Carter, Leia Organa-Solo, or Dawn Summers. Something sudden, shocking, and violent, and emotionally scarring for loved ones left behind; details and victim are entirely up to you.
|Date:||January 12th, 2007 02:07 am (UTC)|| |
Fire & Water, redux
note: okay, you asked for it.
The wave of heat and the scream hit him both at once. Between running steps, Jack trips as the rocks beneath him shift--he’s turned one-eighty before he hits the ground, ready to bound back to his feet and give Carter a hand up.
The damn heat is fire, a sheet of searing yellow-white leaping from a chasm in the path they just crossed.
The scream is Carter’s, desperate, inhuman, all her words dissolved in pain.
Her clothes and hair have already caught, but he’s close enough to see the flames sweep her pale skin into darkness.
She’s nothing but a shadow swarming with light, and she’s still screaming.
His eyes are stinging, tearing from the heat. He doesn’t think about that, just lunges forward, for the one hand that might be within reach.
A grip on his upper arm pulls him back. “O’Neill!”
An attempt to wrench his arm away doesn’t work, and another set of hands grabs his other arm, tugging him up the tunnel. “Jack.” Daniel’s voice is rough, breaking. “We have to go.”
He’s crying, Jack can tell, but that’s only because Danny’s never been on this side of it before. Jack has, and he’s not going through this again. “We are not leaving her behind." The air catches in his throat, wheezing. "You got that?” He plants his feet, though trying to resist Teal’c is like trying reign in a lion.
“It is too late.” Teal’c keeps moving, dragging Jack with him.
Jack turns in his grip, seeing the light reflected against Teal’c sweat-polished skin. “It’s a trick. Like with Daniel. We can’t leave her here!”
Teal’c seems to hesitate. Jack finds himself listening, straining to hear the screams. They've stopped. That doesn’t mean anything, though, because that’s what happened last time, when they didn’t figure this out till fucking days later.
“It is not a trick.” Teal’c hauls him up the tunnel, Daniel stumbling alongside.
If he doesn’t move, he’ll fall, so he goes with them. Go back, go back, go back, is the rhythm of his feet against the stone. The heat roars at his back. The air scorches his lungs, his skin, and all he can see ahead of them is shadows fleeing from the blinding light.
No matter how he blinks, he still sees Carter’s face haloed in flame. He’ll be seeing it for a while, he knows.
Till they realize he's right, dammit.
Till he comes back here, and finds her whole.
Daniel Jackson- an artifact kills him in some silly maner
|Date:||January 12th, 2007 09:41 pm (UTC)|| |
Shiny Daniel trap
note: hope this counts, *g*
Jack checked the corridor, then turned back to the spacious chamber just in time to see his far-too-inquisitive teammate crouch down in the center of the room.
Right under the opening in the roof, right next to the pillar of icy . . . stuff . . . that glittered in the light spilling down.
“Daniel.” Jack headed back into the room. “Don’t.”
The archaeologist turned glanced over his shoulder, using one hand to push his glassed further up the bridge of his nose. “What? I’m not going to—“
His other hand brushed the surface of the pillar.
“Whoa,” Daniel said, staring at his hand. A tiny white butterfly (butterfly?) sat on the tip of one finger, its wings opening and closing. “Sam?”
Carter, who had been more interested in what looked like power lines along the chamber wall, was also staring. “Is that real?” she asked. “Not a, a projection? An illusion?”
“It’s definitely real. Um.” Daniel had gone ghost-white, eyes wide behind his glasses. There wasn’t just one butterfly, now, but three. No, five. No--by the time Jack had sprinted five steps, Daniel’s arm was crawling with the things.
Carter intercepted Jack, stopping him before he reached his goal. “Don’t touch him, sir.” She kept her gaze on Daniel’s hand. Which there seemed to be less of, somehow, then when the first alien bug had shown up.
“Daniel!” If Jack made it sound like an order, the kid might even answer. “Are they eating you?”
The white wings fluttered frantically over Daniel’s shoulders now; down his chest, across his back, and up into his hair. “No,” he managed to say. “I think--ah--not exactly.” He breathed out, as if against pain, and a butterfly took flight from between his lips. “Sorry, Jack. . . .”
Jack and Sam watched in horror as everything-that-was-Daniel expanded into a cloud of white butterflies. Barely two minutes after he’d touched the damn rock, there was nothing left except a mass of wings. As if they were all of one mind, the butterflies streamed up and out, vanishing into the alien sunlight, leaving only a pair of glasses glinting on the dusty floor.
“Dammit, Daniel!” Jack shouted after them. The silence was empty, and unnerving. “You can de-ascend any time now!”
OH MY GOSH. Kill Percy Weasley with a goldfish.
|Date:||January 12th, 2007 07:22 pm (UTC)|| |
Oh yes, that would be fitting, somehow. :)
Grissom, disease he got from a crime scene. Bonus if he talks to Death. 8-)
|Date:||January 16th, 2007 08:07 am (UTC)|| |
Because I Could Not Stop for Death
note: yikes. this one got longish, and if you like it, there's a possibility that i might expand this into a proper fic. Grissom and Death is like a weird OTP...
When Gil Grissom opened his eyes for the last time, he thought he was alone.
It was a relief, at first. Since the moment his blood tests had come back positive [for anthrax], he had barely had a moment to himself. If it wasn’t a nurse or doctor, it was a member of his team–bringing him news about the case, or music, or just chatting about how things were going at the lab.
He wondered if this feeling was what it might be like to be an insect under his own microscope. A specimen in a glass jar, on display.
An uncomfortable thought, but there was symmetry to it.
If “he who lives by the sword shall die by it,” then it was only fitting that he who lived to study others should die being studied.
Now, the room was empty. Grissom lay still and focused on his breathing, listening to the echoes of the monitor next to his bed. He wondered whether it meant that he still had hours to wait, hours of shortness of breath, of fever and constant pain; or whether time had run out, until there was simply nothing left that they could do. How much longer?
“Not much,” said a cheerful voice.
Grissom found her leaning against his bedrail on the opposite side from the visitor’s chair. At first blurred glance, she reminded him of Heather–who was, of course, still in jail, and could not possibly be here, even if someone had told her. The slender build, the loose, dark hair, the dark tank top....
He blinked, and she came into clearer focus: the hair looked shorter, the face more familiar. Sara. No–she’d been here, but had gone somewhere, to run an errand, or....
An icy knot settled in his stomach, pushing down the persistent nausea, and making him breathe as deeply as the oxygen mask would allow.
He couldn’t remember where Sara had said she was going.
“Your girlfriend needed the ladies’ room,” the voice said. “I thought I’d keep you company while she’s gone. That’s all.”
Grissom forced his free hand, the one not encumbered by the IV and the pulse-oxygen monitor, to wipe his eyes, and blinked again.
He’d had the general details right, but the silver ankh she wore belonged to neither woman. Though now that he got a good look at her face, he was sure he had met her before. She was pale, with laugh lines around her dark eyes, and perfectly applied black lipstick.
She smiled at him. “Hi.”
“Do I know you?” Grissom tried to make the words clear. Between the pain and the mask, he knew they would be muffled.
The girl seemed to understand him perfectly. “Of course!” she said. “You don’t remember where we met?”
Grissom frowned at her. He couldn’t remember Sara leaving the room, or where she had said she was going, but he did remember this young woman. With startling clarity, in fact, and in places where his common sense told him that she could not have been.
I notice you have 7 comments already, so this is more popular than you'd thought it'd be...
So, do as few or as many of these as you'd like, and feel free to combine them - I'm just throwing out ideas, here. :)
- Jack O'Neil to die of Rodney McKay
- Rodney McKay to die of his own heroism
- Illyria to die of Fred Burkle ;)
- Doloros Umbridge to die of drowning in a sewerMicky to die of Rose</li>
|Date:||January 12th, 2007 05:12 am (UTC)|| |
*points to first two suggestions*
I second liza's request.
|Date:||January 23rd, 2007 07:11 pm (UTC)|| |
note: above you will note i made no promises as to the tone of said ficlet. i tried to go for something dark-humored here, but wound up with just the dark bit. not even so dark...but i've never written wilson before, and he wouldn't be anything be in shock, so i hope you enjoy this anyway. *g*
“Come on.” House’s cane snagged at his arm.
For a moment, Wilson didn’t move, feeling the weight of his friend’s pull on him. The ridiculous weight and risk of the request. How dare he? Every ounce of several years’ frustration found vent in just one word. “No.”
“No means yes, right?” There was a scuffle as House limped closer. “Come on, let's go.”
“No means no, House.” If he kept looking away, if he didn’t turn, maybe this wouldn’t become the same old refrain.
The cane tugged sharply at the crook of his elbow. Wilson spun around, and his fist exploded with pain where it connected with House’s jaw. House staggered backward, dropping his cane to clatter on the floor, and his right leg buckled under his weight, toppling him backwards down Princeton-Plainsboro’s front flight of stairs.
House didn’t even cry out, just flailed a hand for the bannister--and missed. Wilson stared, breath caught somewhere inside his chest, as House slammed full-length onto the steps, then slid and tumbled in a twisted half-cartwheel before coming to rest in a tangle of white coat and dark slacks.
“House. House!” Wilson barely realized he was saying anything, as he clattered down the steps before anyone else had realized what the noise had been about. He knelt on the landing.
House’s body was still on the stairs above, his head canted down from the last step at an impossible angle. The half-open eyes told Wilson everything he needed to know, but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out his aching hand to press beneath the jaw.
Warm skin, and nothing else.
“Oh. God.” Wilson sat back against the wall, knees drawn up, and didn’t move as other doctors began crowding around. After a moment, he knotted his hands together in his lap, to stop himself from hiding his face. He had done this. He would bear witness.
House deserved at least that much from him.
Ooh, hey. Go ahead and write Aaron's death scene for SS.
You are teh evol. Why do you ask these things of me? ;-) Especially considering that you can't hold me to whatever I write now, since it may have to change later. I'll be back to this one after I finish killing Daniel and Percy and Grissom and House. Heh.
If you're still taking requests...
Charles Gunn and his pickup truck