WIP meme
Gacked from 
resonant :
Post a random sentence (or three whole paragraphs) from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIP. With any luck, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
Yeah, this is probably a substitute for writing, but sure, here. And now off to ballet, then I'd better start writing. Yow!
Accounts (HL/Marvel movieverse):
"Nick'll do." Fury pulled out a cigar but not a lighter, rolled the cigar under his nose. "I love the smell of good tobacco." He watched Marcus, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, you're pissed as hell, Marc. You know, I haven't had anyone send me threats through a museum before."
"No, I imagine not," Marcus said.
"And you're not denying it was a threat." Fury shrugged. "Come on. We'll walk outside. You weren't that fond of cigars back when."
Auld Lang Syne (Buffy/Aidanverse):
Xander dropped stiffly to one knee beside Buffy and Willow, hand coming out to check Willow's pulse under hair now scorched short. "Wills is… out. How far did she send us?"
Oz kept wrapping what was left of his shirt around Buffy's leg, worried by a long, shallow slash that hadn't had time to close up. "Warmer here than London. English-speaking, too from the bookshelves." He pulled a blanket off the couch and knelt to wrap it over Willow, then went still. Barely moving, he waved Xander into the shadows, freezing himself.
"So we are," a deep, annoyed voice said from behind them. "Although we could manage a few other languages if absolutely necessary."
Depth of Field (Southern Comfort pt. 4):
The Italian spinach was definitely up to Duncan's standards. The puttanesca tasted different from the last batch Duncan had cooked for him in Paris, less traditional and much spicier. A very pleasant change. It needed the beer to cut it, and left Methos wishing he had some garlic bread to sop up the last of the sauce. The final swallow of beer had vanished and he was debating coffee -- which would require getting up, finding the grinder, and a few other steps -- when he felt another immortal and then heard steps in the hallway.
Methos looked up, already starting to tease Duncan into doing the hard work on the coffee. "The pasta's up to--"
He cut the sentence off while he hastily reconsidered the situation. That wasn't Duncan, and the pistol aimed at him meant he'd probably have to get the coffee himself. Damn.
Joe Dawson, B.A.M.F. (HL/SG-1):
Problem was, I was in a maze of straight tunnels, all alike. I reopened a cut on my hand from that air duct (I'd worry about tetanus boosters later) and started marking corners just at eye height, hauling ass while my brain ran at ninety to nothing. I found a water fountain; the water was kinda warm and stale, but it tasted amazing… and jarred one memory loose.
A tall, thin guy, mixed Arabic and Asian from the look of him, maybe mid-40s, maybe older (he had a well-preserved look to him), with sharp, considering eyes was looking at me and wondering why I was awake. He'd said something about me being 'mostly within parameters,' whatever the parameters were, and then the memory turned into a lot of bright light and screaming -- mine.
Right. If I got a chance, I was hitting him harder than I'd hit his guards.
Some Party (White Collar/Highlander):
It wasn't just good beer, it was amazingly good beer. El usually preferred wine, but she'd taken a glass to see what her would-be customer was drinking. "My husband would love this." So would several of her clients. "What's the brand?"
Dawson grinned at her. "Nick Charles, which explains the juniper flavoring. It's from Noir Brewery, over in Queens."
"Ah!" El scribbled a note in her planner. "The same people who make Drink It Again, Sam. Peter says that's an amazing porter."
Through Different Eyes (Forever Knight/HL, Aidan-verse):
The night tasted the same when he managed to force his fangs to retract, but his mouth tasted of blood and ashes. It would be a long time before he began to forgive himself these impulses.
Carefully, reverently, Nick picked Tracy's body up and settled her in the trunk of his '67 Cadillac, arranging his emergency blankets around her every bit as protectively before easing the lid closed.
Then he went to deal to deal with the idiots who had set the whole thing off.
Untitled (Miss Marple/Highlander):
"Inspector Slack does tend to think everyone should be able to answer him, but only on the questions he wants to ask, I'm afraid," Miss Marple said. Her cheeks pinked a little as she asked, "If it would help, Major, I could have teacakes or crumpets ready by this afternoon? Sergeant Lake is quite fond of my mother's cherry brandy."
McCormick's smile widened when she said that, although his voice was almost pious. "Is he indeed, Miss Marple? It would be a shame to deprive a man who's surely been working extra hours since the war broke out. What time should I try to have us there?"
"Whenever you are ready, Major. Fresh cakes will be ready by two o'clock, but tea is quickly made and I have some gingerbread that would be easily sliced if you should have to arrive sooner. Youngsters do like their sweets, and I've four in the house." She smiled back and Arthur Bantry frowned, wondering where he'd gotten the idea that they were holding a second discussion he couldn't hear. Dolly's eyes were laughing at something, but that could just mean she'd sorted out some problem with her garden.
The Veneer Job (HL/Leverage/Undercover Blues):
Matthew threw the plastic bin of flour at the door. Without looking to see what it had hit, he lunged for the living room, intent on getting out the front door rather than heading for the knife block.
The invader tackled him in the entryway, rattling the pictures on the wall. Flour puffed up around both of them, and they both ignored it. Matthew got enough of a look at him for an identikit later but he was much too busy to try to remember if he'd seen this man before -- mortal, but a fine fighter, quick, strong, and grinning with adrenaline. The narrow hallway cramped both of them, left it a close-in battle of fists, elbows and knees, strikes and blocks and no maneuvering.
The man was far too good to take out in these confines.
Walking Shadows (X-Files/Highlander/Buffy):
The first email was a total bust.
The Watchers Council, i.e. Giles and Buffy, agreed that whatever this guy was, they didn't want him working in London. Unfortunately, they weren't a train ride down in Oxford. Giles was outside Cleveland, researching another prophecy for another impending apocalypse. ("It must be Thursday; do you think we shall ever get a proper Sunday lie-in again?" the email had ended.)
The other remaining Scoobies were in Tokyo with Willow, trying to deal with an infestation of demons who'd developed foodie pretensions and were trying to ruin cherry blossom viewing with them. (Willow's email had ended with "PS -- And now the idea of jasmine tea is giving me the eeps, and I *liked* jasmine tea! Isn't that terrible?")
Ways of Love (HL/Leverage, darkfic):
love is a strange thing
it depends on what one gives
and sometimes to give means
to give
something
away.
He shoved the image away, again, trying to ignore just what had held the edges of the paper in place beside the corpse, and turned the timer on. What had been a hunt for a spy who knew too much about him had just become, much as Eliot hated to admit it, a public service.
It was also a personal necessity.
The note had been addressed to him.
The Wild Hunt (X-Files/HL, sequel (last?) of the Doppelganger/Storm Crow series):
"You're in shadow shock, Sinclair."
"Shadow shock?" I almost missed my new identity's surname, so Alex might be right. He's also sounding downright stubborn and the drive is set up, so I take the damn mug. The tea tastes better going down than I'd expected, despite the sugar and powdered milk he's dumped in. Not a good sign.
Alex just shakes his head and drinks his own tea. It’s that black, solid caffeine brew he favors; he must think he's taking first watch. "A week ago, you thought I was a murderer and that you were the lawman hunting me down. Five days ago, you were still an FBI agent, even if you were on leave to look for me. Three days ago, you terrorized a man into giving me illegal drugs. You've gone from the light, however dim you may have let that light get at times, to the shadows. And my shadows are pretty fucking dark, Sinclair." He shrugs and says quietly, "Cognitive disassociation, ethical bends -- whatever. You've changed a damn sight more than just continents and time zones. And you think you're killing civilians."
Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
comments on DW
resonant :
Post a random sentence (or three whole paragraphs) from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIP. With any luck, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
Yeah, this is probably a substitute for writing, but sure, here. And now off to ballet, then I'd better start writing. Yow!
Accounts (HL/Marvel movieverse):
"Nick'll do." Fury pulled out a cigar but not a lighter, rolled the cigar under his nose. "I love the smell of good tobacco." He watched Marcus, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, you're pissed as hell, Marc. You know, I haven't had anyone send me threats through a museum before."
"No, I imagine not," Marcus said.
"And you're not denying it was a threat." Fury shrugged. "Come on. We'll walk outside. You weren't that fond of cigars back when."
Auld Lang Syne (Buffy/Aidanverse):
Xander dropped stiffly to one knee beside Buffy and Willow, hand coming out to check Willow's pulse under hair now scorched short. "Wills is… out. How far did she send us?"
Oz kept wrapping what was left of his shirt around Buffy's leg, worried by a long, shallow slash that hadn't had time to close up. "Warmer here than London. English-speaking, too from the bookshelves." He pulled a blanket off the couch and knelt to wrap it over Willow, then went still. Barely moving, he waved Xander into the shadows, freezing himself.
"So we are," a deep, annoyed voice said from behind them. "Although we could manage a few other languages if absolutely necessary."
Depth of Field (Southern Comfort pt. 4):
The Italian spinach was definitely up to Duncan's standards. The puttanesca tasted different from the last batch Duncan had cooked for him in Paris, less traditional and much spicier. A very pleasant change. It needed the beer to cut it, and left Methos wishing he had some garlic bread to sop up the last of the sauce. The final swallow of beer had vanished and he was debating coffee -- which would require getting up, finding the grinder, and a few other steps -- when he felt another immortal and then heard steps in the hallway.
Methos looked up, already starting to tease Duncan into doing the hard work on the coffee. "The pasta's up to--"
He cut the sentence off while he hastily reconsidered the situation. That wasn't Duncan, and the pistol aimed at him meant he'd probably have to get the coffee himself. Damn.
Joe Dawson, B.A.M.F. (HL/SG-1):
Problem was, I was in a maze of straight tunnels, all alike. I reopened a cut on my hand from that air duct (I'd worry about tetanus boosters later) and started marking corners just at eye height, hauling ass while my brain ran at ninety to nothing. I found a water fountain; the water was kinda warm and stale, but it tasted amazing… and jarred one memory loose.
A tall, thin guy, mixed Arabic and Asian from the look of him, maybe mid-40s, maybe older (he had a well-preserved look to him), with sharp, considering eyes was looking at me and wondering why I was awake. He'd said something about me being 'mostly within parameters,' whatever the parameters were, and then the memory turned into a lot of bright light and screaming -- mine.
Right. If I got a chance, I was hitting him harder than I'd hit his guards.
Some Party (White Collar/Highlander):
It wasn't just good beer, it was amazingly good beer. El usually preferred wine, but she'd taken a glass to see what her would-be customer was drinking. "My husband would love this." So would several of her clients. "What's the brand?"
Dawson grinned at her. "Nick Charles, which explains the juniper flavoring. It's from Noir Brewery, over in Queens."
"Ah!" El scribbled a note in her planner. "The same people who make Drink It Again, Sam. Peter says that's an amazing porter."
Through Different Eyes (Forever Knight/HL, Aidan-verse):
The night tasted the same when he managed to force his fangs to retract, but his mouth tasted of blood and ashes. It would be a long time before he began to forgive himself these impulses.
Carefully, reverently, Nick picked Tracy's body up and settled her in the trunk of his '67 Cadillac, arranging his emergency blankets around her every bit as protectively before easing the lid closed.
Then he went to deal to deal with the idiots who had set the whole thing off.
Untitled (Miss Marple/Highlander):
"Inspector Slack does tend to think everyone should be able to answer him, but only on the questions he wants to ask, I'm afraid," Miss Marple said. Her cheeks pinked a little as she asked, "If it would help, Major, I could have teacakes or crumpets ready by this afternoon? Sergeant Lake is quite fond of my mother's cherry brandy."
McCormick's smile widened when she said that, although his voice was almost pious. "Is he indeed, Miss Marple? It would be a shame to deprive a man who's surely been working extra hours since the war broke out. What time should I try to have us there?"
"Whenever you are ready, Major. Fresh cakes will be ready by two o'clock, but tea is quickly made and I have some gingerbread that would be easily sliced if you should have to arrive sooner. Youngsters do like their sweets, and I've four in the house." She smiled back and Arthur Bantry frowned, wondering where he'd gotten the idea that they were holding a second discussion he couldn't hear. Dolly's eyes were laughing at something, but that could just mean she'd sorted out some problem with her garden.
The Veneer Job (HL/Leverage/Undercover Blues):
Matthew threw the plastic bin of flour at the door. Without looking to see what it had hit, he lunged for the living room, intent on getting out the front door rather than heading for the knife block.
The invader tackled him in the entryway, rattling the pictures on the wall. Flour puffed up around both of them, and they both ignored it. Matthew got enough of a look at him for an identikit later but he was much too busy to try to remember if he'd seen this man before -- mortal, but a fine fighter, quick, strong, and grinning with adrenaline. The narrow hallway cramped both of them, left it a close-in battle of fists, elbows and knees, strikes and blocks and no maneuvering.
The man was far too good to take out in these confines.
Walking Shadows (X-Files/Highlander/Buffy):
The first email was a total bust.
The Watchers Council, i.e. Giles and Buffy, agreed that whatever this guy was, they didn't want him working in London. Unfortunately, they weren't a train ride down in Oxford. Giles was outside Cleveland, researching another prophecy for another impending apocalypse. ("It must be Thursday; do you think we shall ever get a proper Sunday lie-in again?" the email had ended.)
The other remaining Scoobies were in Tokyo with Willow, trying to deal with an infestation of demons who'd developed foodie pretensions and were trying to ruin cherry blossom viewing with them. (Willow's email had ended with "PS -- And now the idea of jasmine tea is giving me the eeps, and I *liked* jasmine tea! Isn't that terrible?")
Ways of Love (HL/Leverage, darkfic):
love is a strange thing
it depends on what one gives
and sometimes to give means
to give
something
away.
He shoved the image away, again, trying to ignore just what had held the edges of the paper in place beside the corpse, and turned the timer on. What had been a hunt for a spy who knew too much about him had just become, much as Eliot hated to admit it, a public service.
It was also a personal necessity.
The note had been addressed to him.
The Wild Hunt (X-Files/HL, sequel (last?) of the Doppelganger/Storm Crow series):
"You're in shadow shock, Sinclair."
"Shadow shock?" I almost missed my new identity's surname, so Alex might be right. He's also sounding downright stubborn and the drive is set up, so I take the damn mug. The tea tastes better going down than I'd expected, despite the sugar and powdered milk he's dumped in. Not a good sign.
Alex just shakes his head and drinks his own tea. It’s that black, solid caffeine brew he favors; he must think he's taking first watch. "A week ago, you thought I was a murderer and that you were the lawman hunting me down. Five days ago, you were still an FBI agent, even if you were on leave to look for me. Three days ago, you terrorized a man into giving me illegal drugs. You've gone from the light, however dim you may have let that light get at times, to the shadows. And my shadows are pretty fucking dark, Sinclair." He shrugs and says quietly, "Cognitive disassociation, ethical bends -- whatever. You've changed a damn sight more than just continents and time zones. And you think you're killing civilians."
Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
comments on DW