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Seriously, if I let myself do this meme more than once a year, my journal would be ... just like IM.
The WIP meme! Which I totally saw... somewhere... and am not just resurrecting because it's my favorite and I'm in denial about it being possibly time to do the year-in-review meme. Ahem.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
The Spencer/Bob story set in September 2004. Um. Yeah, go ahead and do the math. /o\
It wasn't until My Chemical Romance actually came out that Spencer really wanted to look for Ryan, and he caught a glimpse of him after craning around, eight feet down the barricade. Spencer was more or less right in front of Frank, while Ryan was down near Gerard. Ryan was looking away, so Spencer turned his attention back to the stage. The drummer was definitely the same big blond guy from the new video (Spencer and Ryan had been practically on top of each other, watching it on MySpace when it premiered at midnight, and Spencer had spent half of it just trying to make out the guy behind the kit), and he really wasn't bad, no matter what Ryan said people on the internet said.
By the second song, Spencer had decided that, actually, fuck stupid people on the internet who didn't know a drum kit from their asshole, he was really kind of fantastic. Spencer pulled himself up a little on the rail, craning his head to try to see past the writhing mass of guitarist in front of him, up to the drum kit. They'd been listening to My Chem all the way here, which had given Spencer plenty of time to realize he did not know how he'd play half those drum lines. He was ready to watch and learn.
Except between the third song and the fourth, the drummer lit a cigarette, yelling to someone offstage and laughing as he did, and Spencer might have fallen over if there had been any way he could. The new drummer was hot.
Oh look more Castiel gen! Set during "Yellow Fever."
It wasn't merely that Castiel was attuned to Dean Winchester, though he was. Dean's prayer was powerful if inarticulate, a cry of sheer desperation powered by an absolute certainty that someone would hear and heed him.
Charlie/Dani with handcuffs and yet without porn. I don't understand it myself.
Dani was reaching behind her back and Charlie was sliding his hands up the curve of her ribcage. Dani didn't unfasten her bra, though; her hand reappeared holding the silver curves of handcuffs, and she tapped them against Charlie's chest, looking thoughtfully at the cuffs rather than at him.
"Hey, Crews..."
Charlie's hands pulled back without him thinking about it, and he pushed up on his elbows as his heart started to race. "Safe word."
A long overdue exchange story (shhh, totally sekrit) in which Jack (and Ianto) are in jail for some reason.
Ianto kept pacing the cell, and Jack sat perfectly still on a bench and watched him, waiting for him to wind down. Ianto was wearing a black pullover and jeans, which showed dishevelment less obviously than his usual suit would have, but he made up for it with the livid scratches on the side of his throat, the split lip, blackening eye, and still-intermittently-bleeding nose. Also there was a shock of hair standing straight up from the back of his head which Jack hadn't pointed out to him yet. Jack was a little worried that it was held in place by dried blood, but Ianto didn't seem concussed. Mostly Jack was thinking about how to get a copy of Ianto's mug shot and where he could hang it once he'd had it framed.
"I'm really sorry," Jack repeated, when Ianto had done eight lengths of the cell without looking at him.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
The Spencer/Bob story set in September 2004. Um. Yeah, go ahead and do the math. /o\
It wasn't until My Chemical Romance actually came out that Spencer really wanted to look for Ryan, and he caught a glimpse of him after craning around, eight feet down the barricade. Spencer was more or less right in front of Frank, while Ryan was down near Gerard. Ryan was looking away, so Spencer turned his attention back to the stage. The drummer was definitely the same big blond guy from the new video (Spencer and Ryan had been practically on top of each other, watching it on MySpace when it premiered at midnight, and Spencer had spent half of it just trying to make out the guy behind the kit), and he really wasn't bad, no matter what Ryan said people on the internet said.
By the second song, Spencer had decided that, actually, fuck stupid people on the internet who didn't know a drum kit from their asshole, he was really kind of fantastic. Spencer pulled himself up a little on the rail, craning his head to try to see past the writhing mass of guitarist in front of him, up to the drum kit. They'd been listening to My Chem all the way here, which had given Spencer plenty of time to realize he did not know how he'd play half those drum lines. He was ready to watch and learn.
Except between the third song and the fourth, the drummer lit a cigarette, yelling to someone offstage and laughing as he did, and Spencer might have fallen over if there had been any way he could. The new drummer was hot.
Oh look more Castiel gen! Set during "Yellow Fever."
It wasn't merely that Castiel was attuned to Dean Winchester, though he was. Dean's prayer was powerful if inarticulate, a cry of sheer desperation powered by an absolute certainty that someone would hear and heed him.
Charlie/Dani with handcuffs and yet without porn. I don't understand it myself.
Dani was reaching behind her back and Charlie was sliding his hands up the curve of her ribcage. Dani didn't unfasten her bra, though; her hand reappeared holding the silver curves of handcuffs, and she tapped them against Charlie's chest, looking thoughtfully at the cuffs rather than at him.
"Hey, Crews..."
Charlie's hands pulled back without him thinking about it, and he pushed up on his elbows as his heart started to race. "Safe word."
A long overdue exchange story (shhh, totally sekrit) in which Jack (and Ianto) are in jail for some reason.
Ianto kept pacing the cell, and Jack sat perfectly still on a bench and watched him, waiting for him to wind down. Ianto was wearing a black pullover and jeans, which showed dishevelment less obviously than his usual suit would have, but he made up for it with the livid scratches on the side of his throat, the split lip, blackening eye, and still-intermittently-bleeding nose. Also there was a shock of hair standing straight up from the back of his head which Jack hadn't pointed out to him yet. Jack was a little worried that it was held in place by dried blood, but Ianto didn't seem concussed. Mostly Jack was thinking about how to get a copy of Ianto's mug shot and where he could hang it once he'd had it framed.
"I'm really sorry," Jack repeated, when Ianto had done eight lengths of the cell without looking at him.