hello, fellow readers/writers! this happens to be my first attempt at iCarly fanfiction. not that this is my first story--I've actually been writing for about 8 years now. so, while I'm new to the fandom, I'm definitely an old pro when it comes to fanfic. hopefully this is a lot better than I personally feel it is, but then again, I'm my own worst critic. besides, it's still hard enough to admit that I'm watching (and writing about) a kids show. :)
this is a sam/spencer series of drabble-y pieces, because I ship them so hard that it hurts. however, I ship legal!sam/spencer--not because I'm stringent about the whole 'of age' thing, but as an adult myself, I just can't fathom a healthy relationship between the two of them if sam is 15 or 16... and we all know we want them to have a healthy relationship. so in all of these, sam will be written as a legal adult.
this is going to be a series of about 100 or so drabbles (if I ever get the time, lucky classes end in 2 days) and I'll try to post them in increments of 10. the drabble themes came from some random 100 topics that I filched somewhere from the internet, plus I added some of my own.
so... read on! tell me what you think! you have no idea how much I'd appreciate the feedback!
It was an accident, the way his fingers grazed hers. The very touch sent a spark of something (energy, fire, electricity) up the length of his arm and across his frame and he drew away; wounded, fearful, his very being charged with… something.
He was waiting for it; the day she realized exactly how… lovely she really was. He was dreading it too—her beauty had always been a secret he felt lucky enough to be privy to. And he knew, knew deep down that everyone one else would start to see it as well. Because as soon as Sam Puckett stopped breaking fingers, she'd start breaking hearts.
"She's all right, she just needs some space. She reasons better when she can see the sky." Carly assures him as the two of them watch the blonde sit on the roof with her back to them. He frowns; irritated that he can't reach her like he wants to. He watches as she lifts her upturned face to the clouds, and her shoulders fall as she relaxes, and he thinks he loves her even more.
She leaves him letters in places he least expects them—pockets of coats he hardly wears, the crack in wall next to the elevator, dimly lit corners of kitchen cupboards. Usually the notes are silly and perhaps a little pointless, but sometimes they're charming enough to make his heart thrum. He keeps them all.
Nobody spoke. Carly's eyes were impossibly wide. Freddie kept looking back and forth between the two of them as if staring would ease the surprise. Spencer sighed, lowering his gaze to Sam as he shook his head. "Didn't I tell you not to open with, 'I'm sleeping with your brother, Carls'?"
He didn't like playing games with her because to be honest, she was a sore loser, and if Sam was a sore loser, she made sure everyone else was sore as well. But somehow he couldn't resist the excitement on her face as she clutched the board game box to her chest. "Dibs on Park Place and Broadway!" He opened his mouth to remind her there were no 'dibs' in Monopoly, but the dark bruise on his shoulder prompted him to keep quiet.
Carly and Freddie joke that he'll never settle down, never find a girl who'll put up with his antics (Spencer, you make sculptures out of butter, for crying out loud!), but there's a ring burning a hole in his pocket and a laughing blonde to his sister's right whose fourth finger looks temptingly bare and whose bright grin promises a yes.
She never believed in that crap about butterflies and rainbows and magical hand-holding. Because when she fell in love; real, true love, it felt less like butterflies and more like a sucker punch. Which was okay—a sucker punch was something Sam knew how to handle.
He didn't mean to stare, lord knows it wasn't something he had anticipated doing, but she was wearing those jeans and that smile and he was pretty much a goner.
"Those things will kill you, you know." He chided, watching as she took a long drag on her cigarette. Debating on blowing smoke in his face—merely because she could—she instead smashed the lit end of her cigarette against the brick façade of the building. She gave him a pointed look, biting back a smirk, "And what a way to go, too."
thoughts? ideas? complaints? drop me a line and share the love (or something).
I'll try to have some more done for you all soon!