Bits & pieces of fic!
from
missaliceblue: The Work-in-Progress Meme! 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.
I was drawn to this meme, because I've got a *lot* of abandoned fic littering my stories folder. I have a few favorites to share. Here's some snippets for y'alls' enjoyment, with the disclaimer that some of these are *very* dead. Enjoy!
From my current "Five Years Gone" Sylaire AU WIP (omg!!! con!!!):
It’s not so hard to find her; she smells like life.
She’s dancing in a seedy club in the Meatpacking District, whiling away the long hours of the night with other kids who are trying to not give a fuck that the world’s ending. There’s no bouncer outside the door of the abandoned factory, just the deafening beat of a roaring baseline to announce the party. For him, it’s so loud that it’s an invading rhythm in his body, a vibration that drowns his heartbeat when he crosses the threshold.
From a Clach WIP that I *may* pick up again:
The whole, let’s-do-something-we’ve-never-done-before-ness of it all is really what gets her. Because, having burned, and died, and broken, and seen men explode, she’s rapidly running out of novel experiences.
Claire's skinned in sand, wearing it like a coat, and she can feel it crunch between her teeth. At the shore, the waves break over them, like that corny old movie, warm and wet. And Zach is kissing her, just kissing, and there’s sand on her lips, on his lips, and they’re sharing it, together.
From my crack-ass Sylaire-go-to-Disney World fic, that was inspired by a comment on "perfect just like me":
He purchases two adult tickets, and slides them back and forth between his fingers as they wait in the squiggly queue at the gate to enter the Magic Kingdom. He is almost wriggling with anticipation, and he smiles big at the costumed attendant who ushers them through the turnstile.
Behind her oversized Chanel aviators, she takes in the rampant shininess of Main Street, and purses her lips.
Sylar squeezes her hand. Hard.
“Mustn’t frown, beloved,” he reprimands her, sotto voce. “Today is a happy day.”
From my all-but-abandoned post-finale Paire fic, part of which was cannibalized in "Waiting for The Hint of a Spark":
Before she leaves, she turns off every light in the room. In the sudden dark, her hair is almost phosphorescent.
“Now you’ll be able to sleep,” she tells him gravely.
Peter wonders if she did it on purpose. Leaving him in the dark, where all the secrets blur together. Makes them harder to pull apart. So, when she has left and taken luminescence with him, he staggers through the shadows of the room to the bathroom. He leans against the tile wall and undoes his pants quickly, gracelessly. His hand on his cock burns, and he jerks himself to a fast, hard climax, bending to come in the toilet, imagining her mouth, wondering if it is Nathan’s.
He will go into the shower and scrub her scent off him, rubbing harder than necessary, and imagining her touch washing away with the suds down the drain.
From my *other* post-finale WIP, this one an AU Sylaire in which the Company rehabilitates Sylar:
ii.
His room is directly across the hall from hers. If you opened both the doors and looked from one to the other, it would be like seeing a mirror image. Except that one side has a lot more personality.
It’s surreal sometimes. She’ll wake up in the morning, shrug on her robe, and pad to the bathroom, expecting Lyle to burst from his room at any moment, iPod blasting and shoving her out of the way to brush his teeth first. But it doesn’t happen. Just like it hasn’t happened in two-and-a-half years.
Gabriel (she almost has worked out the habit of calling him the other name mentally, even just referring to it that way, the other name) uses the bathroom downstairs. It wasn’t a question, he just does. Sometimes she finds herself staring at the too-clean sink area and fluffy pink towels, looking for some signs of guy. Stubble in the sink, or wet footprints on the bathmat, you know. Something.
But it’s just her girly towels and good-smelling shower products and one head for the electric toothbrush and not having to worry about leaving her curling iron plugged in while it heats up, because it’s all hers, now. She doesn’t have a brother anymore, kind of like she doesn’t have a dorky best friend or a hero/uncle or a bio dad or a cheerleader identity anymore, because her life has, you know, changed at lot.
She wonders if he keeps his bathroom clean. His room is really neat, but that’s also because he has practically no stuff. Her room, in contrast, is painted, with curtains and pictures and thing everywhere to make it look nice. Nice stuff makes your space look homey and lived-in, but it also accumulates dust and tends to clutter. He doesn’t have that problem.
missaliceblue: The Work-in-Progress Meme! 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.
I was drawn to this meme, because I've got a *lot* of abandoned fic littering my stories folder. I have a few favorites to share. Here's some snippets for y'alls' enjoyment, with the disclaimer that some of these are *very* dead. Enjoy!
From my current "Five Years Gone" Sylaire AU WIP (omg!!! con!!!):
It’s not so hard to find her; she smells like life.
She’s dancing in a seedy club in the Meatpacking District, whiling away the long hours of the night with other kids who are trying to not give a fuck that the world’s ending. There’s no bouncer outside the door of the abandoned factory, just the deafening beat of a roaring baseline to announce the party. For him, it’s so loud that it’s an invading rhythm in his body, a vibration that drowns his heartbeat when he crosses the threshold.
From a Clach WIP that I *may* pick up again:
The whole, let’s-do-something-we’ve-never-done-before-ness of it all is really what gets her. Because, having burned, and died, and broken, and seen men explode, she’s rapidly running out of novel experiences.
Claire's skinned in sand, wearing it like a coat, and she can feel it crunch between her teeth. At the shore, the waves break over them, like that corny old movie, warm and wet. And Zach is kissing her, just kissing, and there’s sand on her lips, on his lips, and they’re sharing it, together.
From my crack-ass Sylaire-go-to-Disney World fic, that was inspired by a comment on "perfect just like me":
He purchases two adult tickets, and slides them back and forth between his fingers as they wait in the squiggly queue at the gate to enter the Magic Kingdom. He is almost wriggling with anticipation, and he smiles big at the costumed attendant who ushers them through the turnstile.
Behind her oversized Chanel aviators, she takes in the rampant shininess of Main Street, and purses her lips.
Sylar squeezes her hand. Hard.
“Mustn’t frown, beloved,” he reprimands her, sotto voce. “Today is a happy day.”
From my all-but-abandoned post-finale Paire fic, part of which was cannibalized in "Waiting for The Hint of a Spark":
Before she leaves, she turns off every light in the room. In the sudden dark, her hair is almost phosphorescent.
“Now you’ll be able to sleep,” she tells him gravely.
Peter wonders if she did it on purpose. Leaving him in the dark, where all the secrets blur together. Makes them harder to pull apart. So, when she has left and taken luminescence with him, he staggers through the shadows of the room to the bathroom. He leans against the tile wall and undoes his pants quickly, gracelessly. His hand on his cock burns, and he jerks himself to a fast, hard climax, bending to come in the toilet, imagining her mouth, wondering if it is Nathan’s.
He will go into the shower and scrub her scent off him, rubbing harder than necessary, and imagining her touch washing away with the suds down the drain.
From my *other* post-finale WIP, this one an AU Sylaire in which the Company rehabilitates Sylar:
ii.
His room is directly across the hall from hers. If you opened both the doors and looked from one to the other, it would be like seeing a mirror image. Except that one side has a lot more personality.
It’s surreal sometimes. She’ll wake up in the morning, shrug on her robe, and pad to the bathroom, expecting Lyle to burst from his room at any moment, iPod blasting and shoving her out of the way to brush his teeth first. But it doesn’t happen. Just like it hasn’t happened in two-and-a-half years.
Gabriel (she almost has worked out the habit of calling him the other name mentally, even just referring to it that way, the other name) uses the bathroom downstairs. It wasn’t a question, he just does. Sometimes she finds herself staring at the too-clean sink area and fluffy pink towels, looking for some signs of guy. Stubble in the sink, or wet footprints on the bathmat, you know. Something.
But it’s just her girly towels and good-smelling shower products and one head for the electric toothbrush and not having to worry about leaving her curling iron plugged in while it heats up, because it’s all hers, now. She doesn’t have a brother anymore, kind of like she doesn’t have a dorky best friend or a hero/uncle or a bio dad or a cheerleader identity anymore, because her life has, you know, changed at lot.
She wonders if he keeps his bathroom clean. His room is really neat, but that’s also because he has practically no stuff. Her room, in contrast, is painted, with curtains and pictures and thing everywhere to make it look nice. Nice stuff makes your space look homey and lived-in, but it also accumulates dust and tends to clutter. He doesn’t have that problem.