The ubiquitous WIP 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.
Most of these are probably non-starters but, hey! It can't hurt. All excerpts are worksafe, regardless of the story's general content.
Kink Meme leftovers!
The third voice was quiet, thin and slithery. “She needs to eat them. For her hurts.”
“How will they help? They're only little things!” Fluting, shocked disbelief.
“Her hurts are inside. They need to be inside to fix them. Bigger things would not fit,” the thin voice rejoined soothingly.
“That's stupid. You're stupid if you believe it.” The deep voice practically vibrated with outrage.
“This would not be an issue if we used the materia--”
“Not on vermin! Never!”
“--and since you have asked me for another solution you should accept the one I have provided.” A shivery rattle of noise; pills shaken in a bottle. “Unless either of you have another idea.”
Silence, taut and pregnant. Finally: “Loz, give them to her.”
“Why me?”
“Because you brought her!”
--
She wasn't certain what it was, not at first: pressure so intense she felt certain she must burst from it, swollen and gravid, yet so specifically located, compressed between the delta of her hips, it seemed at the same time a mere curiosity, strange rebellion of her sense of touch. It was not entirely unlike her pregnancy, but there was none of the same sense of taut, stretched expectancy, none of the impending excitement her burgeoning midsection had carried with it to soothe away the associated discomforts; she was merely alone, in the dark, stuffed full of mystery.
Her sinuses ached, dry and sharp, the stabbing ache in her forehead whispering of dehydration, but her throat burned, as if she'd swallowed lye. She tried to lick her lips, and... couldn't, some how. Her mouth felt as if it were full with cotton balls and, indeed, as if her thought had summoned it, she could smell it now, light and somehow fuzzy... makeup sponges, pillow stuffing, bandages, dressings, the tattered guts of Aeris's favorite stuffed chocobo spilling out in the hallway as it fell and fell and fell, unable to rise to its knees, even to lift its head to...
...but that hadn't happened, had it? Aeris had torn the doll on a loose nail in the door frame of the villa, yes, but she'd mended it that very night while she read over the next manuscript, had pricked her thumb quite miserably when Faremis had startled her, massaging her neck as she bent over... bent over to...
She let the thought go, felt it swim away into darkness; it didn't matter now, not this moment. She flexed her fingers, and found them still attached; she worked them across the starchy textured coverlet like crippled spiders until they came up short. She tried again, wanting so badly to reach up and touch her face, but found that it was not merely her own weakness that prevented her; she cracked an eye open and realized that she was attached to the metal sides of the bed by short tethers.
--
“Aeris,” she said succinctly, and downed the rest of the shot in one go.
“I don't mean to pry... and I don't envy you.”
“You're not, you're not... and don't feel too bad for me, either. She's... she really is nice, and I wish 'em well. She'll be good for him... probably better than me. Just... you know. A lot of history.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked up at him hopefully. “Does that... ever get better? I know it takes time, and it's important to take a break, but I... does... do you ever really get over it?”
“No.” Abrupt, unadorned finality. He raised his glass and sipped judiciously. “It eases, after a while,” he continued more gently. “You get to the point where you don't feel like you're dying anymore, where you can't look at anything without thinking of them, missing them just as badly as that first time you woke up and realized they really weren't there anymore... but no. You never really get over it.”
“But... I mean, nothing is ever going to be like that first true love, no, but can't... it can be good in different ways, can't it?”
“I can't even think about another woman like that. It's not that I feel guilty, or like I'm being disloyal-though I do, and I am--it's just that I can't. No matter how attractive she is, no matter how nice... I can appreciate a beautiful woman like I can a painting, but she'll never be Lu, and I honestly cannot even imagine being with her the way I was with Lu.” He finished his drink and set it upside down on
the table, where he folded his arms and leaned forward.
--
And other stuff:
The slim figure knelt before a table that had once been beautifully lacquered, but now bore the scars and gouges of heavy use in its black surface. The room was otherwise bare, lacking so much as a cushion to shield his knees from the cement floor, as if it had been meant solely to showcase him. Long, silver hair obscured his features, but his absorption in his work was evident in every line of his body; a thin calligraphy brush was held delicately, just so, as he slowly but steadily moved it across the sheet spread out before him. He paused only briefly to stroke it against the block of ink and consider his piece before resuming his methodical, inexorable pace.
"That's supposed to be a boy, is it?"
The thick, soundproof glass kept the words from their subject, but the revulsion in them was a caustic lash on the ears of their recipient. Dr. Hojo permitted himself the luxury of a scowl at his raffish companion. "Perhaps you are an even poorer choice for this project than I thought, if such a simple matter as gender confuses you so, Lieutenant."
The SOLDIER snorted derisively. "No argument here." He ducked his graying head and peered into the room, shaking his head at what he saw. "That hair is unbelievable. And calligraphy? Why on the Planet...? You going to teach him flower arranging too?"
"You were not asked here to issue your opinions on his grooming, Lieutenant, nor on the more formal aspects of his education--"
"The hell I wasn't. That mop'll get his throat slit before he knows what happened to him, assuming he can manage to turn around in the first place, and unless you're expecting him to write his own fancy dinner invitations to treaty signings--"
--
It wasn’t the first time she’d done this; but by all the Guardians that ever were, it was going to be the last.
Tifa eased her way through the thick undergrowth, the need for silence straining the litheness her years of studies had granted her almost to the breaking point. The ruined scrublands of Corel had stubbornly given way to the close, deciduous forests she remembered well from her youth. The years she’d spent skittering through them as adeptly as a goat were long behind her, but it would be many more before her woodcraft entirely deserted her.
She wondered, sometimes, if it was really all true-really necessary. Left to its own devices, the land healed; healed well and strong, with an implacable, overwhelming finality that she quite frankly envied. But those were thoughts only for dark, lonely moments such as these; times when she was as uncertain of her own path as she was of the reasons she had been forced to set out upon it. Times when she wondered why no one had fought as ardently to give her the time she needed as she and her friends did for the world at large. Silly thoughts, selfish and fleeting, as insubstantial and pernicious as stinging gnats, and of no more consequence.
She picked her way through the choking undergrowth as doggedly as ever, enduring gouged calves and tangled hair with silent equanimity. The juice of a particular berry, a certain kind of leaf chewed and applied as a poultice would render the scratches harmless. Vanity was a luxury she’d given up long ago; if she hadn’t been pretty enough then, she certainly wasn’t going to be now-
--
Though his world had long since been reduced to hazy gray smudges of pain, it was the pricking that finally roused him.
He cracked an eyelid, and quickly thought better of it; the bright overhead lights were completely out of the question. He was laying on something relatively soft, so that was alright, but he'd be damned if he could figure out where he might have ended up; everything after leaving the squad room last night had gone a bit fuzzy. Fighting, sure, yeah, but...
He ran his dry, cracked tongue around the inside of his mouth, and groaned in dismay when he found his two tricky molars even more loose; those probably weren't going to make it. His mouth was so swollen and painful he undoubtedly had a fat lip, and had probably had the upper one torn to ribbons on his own teeth, but he didn't quite have the nerve to reach up and find out yet.
He was debating opening his eyes again when the freezing, shivering malaise hit him, his left arm rendered scorchingly cold in half a heartbeat; the shock of it sent him half upright as he tried to scramble away from it. “Ifrit's burning balls, what is this?” he bellowed hoarsely.
“Saline, mostly,” a toneless voice informed him. “Some B vitamins, and a touch of adrenaline to get you moving. It works better when you leave it alone.”
Vincent grinned painfully, eyes still squeezed shut, and sagged back in relief. “Aww, Lu,” he wheezed, “you're so good to me.”
“Better than you deserve.” That was no good. She wasn't one for jabs or cheap shots; if she was deigning to snap at him, she had to be furious. He sighed mournfully, resolutely suppressing the urge to scratch his arm; this wasn't how he'd hoped their next meeting might go, but he didn't even have the consolation of being able to berate himself for his stupidity, as he still couldn't work out quite how this had happened. Typical. So typical.
--
It took a bit of adjusting, but it turned out that there was enough room in the bedroll for both of them, and for a long time they simply lay together, her back against his belly. Vincent smelled of sweat and musk, a little rank from the day's efforts, but she doubted she was in much better shape... and even so, it wasn't unpleasant. The scents, the warmth, the weight of him curled around her, even the cold, rigid edge of his prosthesis digging into her ribs as she lay upon it: these were real; they mattered, too, and were, for the moment at least, immutable. It wasn't enough-there would never be enough; nothing in all the world would ever put things back the way they had been-but perhaps it would do for now. It was good to snuggle against his bulk, squeezed so tightly together they could scarcely do otherwise; it was good not to be alone.
Vincent's breathing was deep and even, soft puffs against the top of her head; though his arms remained wrapped around her, she suspected he had drifted to sleep. Good for him; she only wished it would come to her as easily. She hadn't wanted to talk anymore, not really; there wasn't much left to say, and more crying would only make them both feel worse. With a small sigh, she readjusted her posture slightly, rested her cheek on her forearm, and closed her eyes.
Vincent shifted back, rearranging himself so that every inch of their bodies still touched; she smiled to herself to think that he would do such a thing in his sleep. Yet as he slowly drew back the arm she had started out pillowed on, she realized that he wasn't. He carefully raised himself on one elbow, barely possible in the tight confines of the sleeping bag, and she heard him draw breath as if to speak; but a heartbeat later his mouth was hot on the delicate flesh behind her ear.
She gasped in shock at the unexpected contact, and he drew back; but as she arched her back, exposing her neck, her buttocks digging into his groin, he was already leaning forward again. “I thought,” he murmured between kisses, “perhaps,” his tongue on her earlobe, teeth nibbling the curve, “if you wanted...”
--
Rebecca swallowed past the hot lump in her throat and redoubled her pace, as if she could leave behind her troublesome, treacherous thoughts as easily as she was departing the ghetto behind her. It wasn’t coincidence, couldn’t be; even her unswerving loyalty could not convince her of that, despite her weak protestations that violent crimes plagued any large city, that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. “And even if she did do it, she must have had a good reason!” she had cried, startling the three other occupants of the doctor’s office into silence.
“Beck…” Mel had responded slowly, rubbing his temples as if warding off a migraine. “Becky… what good reason could she have had to… to decapitate three people? In three different places, no less.”
“That’s what I want to know,” she had replied, mustering up every reserve of strength she had to keep her voice even. “She’s not a murderer, no matter what else she might be. We know they’re not all monsters,” she said with an abrupt gesture at the doctor, “but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more like… him.” She raked a hand through her close-cropped hair and sagged against the chair, her common sense and unfaltering belief in her little sister warring with shock, disgust, and horror. “What could be so important that she’d take off like this? Maybe she’s killing them, Mel; maybe making sure they can’t hurt anyone else is her way of… making up for what’s happened.” She sighed. “With all due respect, Dr. Nicolescu.”
The funereal figure had nodded his acquiescence, seemingly lost in thought for the next few moments. “It is not impossible,” he had said finally, “but if it is so, it changes the situation even more dramatically. A fledgling such as she is in no position to be taking such matters upon herself, no matter how good her heart may be; there will be consequences.”
“They’ll come looking for her.” Mel had learned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“Among other things, yes. This makes it even more so imperative that she be contacted, and that she be brought into the fold… you will have to take much greater steps to insure that this is accomplished as soon as may be possible…”
Most of these are probably non-starters but, hey! It can't hurt. All excerpts are worksafe, regardless of the story's general content.
Kink Meme leftovers!
The third voice was quiet, thin and slithery. “She needs to eat them. For her hurts.”
“How will they help? They're only little things!” Fluting, shocked disbelief.
“Her hurts are inside. They need to be inside to fix them. Bigger things would not fit,” the thin voice rejoined soothingly.
“That's stupid. You're stupid if you believe it.” The deep voice practically vibrated with outrage.
“This would not be an issue if we used the materia--”
“Not on vermin! Never!”
“--and since you have asked me for another solution you should accept the one I have provided.” A shivery rattle of noise; pills shaken in a bottle. “Unless either of you have another idea.”
Silence, taut and pregnant. Finally: “Loz, give them to her.”
“Why me?”
“Because you brought her!”
--
She wasn't certain what it was, not at first: pressure so intense she felt certain she must burst from it, swollen and gravid, yet so specifically located, compressed between the delta of her hips, it seemed at the same time a mere curiosity, strange rebellion of her sense of touch. It was not entirely unlike her pregnancy, but there was none of the same sense of taut, stretched expectancy, none of the impending excitement her burgeoning midsection had carried with it to soothe away the associated discomforts; she was merely alone, in the dark, stuffed full of mystery.
Her sinuses ached, dry and sharp, the stabbing ache in her forehead whispering of dehydration, but her throat burned, as if she'd swallowed lye. She tried to lick her lips, and... couldn't, some how. Her mouth felt as if it were full with cotton balls and, indeed, as if her thought had summoned it, she could smell it now, light and somehow fuzzy... makeup sponges, pillow stuffing, bandages, dressings, the tattered guts of Aeris's favorite stuffed chocobo spilling out in the hallway as it fell and fell and fell, unable to rise to its knees, even to lift its head to...
...but that hadn't happened, had it? Aeris had torn the doll on a loose nail in the door frame of the villa, yes, but she'd mended it that very night while she read over the next manuscript, had pricked her thumb quite miserably when Faremis had startled her, massaging her neck as she bent over... bent over to...
She let the thought go, felt it swim away into darkness; it didn't matter now, not this moment. She flexed her fingers, and found them still attached; she worked them across the starchy textured coverlet like crippled spiders until they came up short. She tried again, wanting so badly to reach up and touch her face, but found that it was not merely her own weakness that prevented her; she cracked an eye open and realized that she was attached to the metal sides of the bed by short tethers.
--
“Aeris,” she said succinctly, and downed the rest of the shot in one go.
“I don't mean to pry... and I don't envy you.”
“You're not, you're not... and don't feel too bad for me, either. She's... she really is nice, and I wish 'em well. She'll be good for him... probably better than me. Just... you know. A lot of history.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked up at him hopefully. “Does that... ever get better? I know it takes time, and it's important to take a break, but I... does... do you ever really get over it?”
“No.” Abrupt, unadorned finality. He raised his glass and sipped judiciously. “It eases, after a while,” he continued more gently. “You get to the point where you don't feel like you're dying anymore, where you can't look at anything without thinking of them, missing them just as badly as that first time you woke up and realized they really weren't there anymore... but no. You never really get over it.”
“But... I mean, nothing is ever going to be like that first true love, no, but can't... it can be good in different ways, can't it?”
“I can't even think about another woman like that. It's not that I feel guilty, or like I'm being disloyal-though I do, and I am--it's just that I can't. No matter how attractive she is, no matter how nice... I can appreciate a beautiful woman like I can a painting, but she'll never be Lu, and I honestly cannot even imagine being with her the way I was with Lu.” He finished his drink and set it upside down on
the table, where he folded his arms and leaned forward.
--
And other stuff:
The slim figure knelt before a table that had once been beautifully lacquered, but now bore the scars and gouges of heavy use in its black surface. The room was otherwise bare, lacking so much as a cushion to shield his knees from the cement floor, as if it had been meant solely to showcase him. Long, silver hair obscured his features, but his absorption in his work was evident in every line of his body; a thin calligraphy brush was held delicately, just so, as he slowly but steadily moved it across the sheet spread out before him. He paused only briefly to stroke it against the block of ink and consider his piece before resuming his methodical, inexorable pace.
"That's supposed to be a boy, is it?"
The thick, soundproof glass kept the words from their subject, but the revulsion in them was a caustic lash on the ears of their recipient. Dr. Hojo permitted himself the luxury of a scowl at his raffish companion. "Perhaps you are an even poorer choice for this project than I thought, if such a simple matter as gender confuses you so, Lieutenant."
The SOLDIER snorted derisively. "No argument here." He ducked his graying head and peered into the room, shaking his head at what he saw. "That hair is unbelievable. And calligraphy? Why on the Planet...? You going to teach him flower arranging too?"
"You were not asked here to issue your opinions on his grooming, Lieutenant, nor on the more formal aspects of his education--"
"The hell I wasn't. That mop'll get his throat slit before he knows what happened to him, assuming he can manage to turn around in the first place, and unless you're expecting him to write his own fancy dinner invitations to treaty signings--"
--
It wasn’t the first time she’d done this; but by all the Guardians that ever were, it was going to be the last.
Tifa eased her way through the thick undergrowth, the need for silence straining the litheness her years of studies had granted her almost to the breaking point. The ruined scrublands of Corel had stubbornly given way to the close, deciduous forests she remembered well from her youth. The years she’d spent skittering through them as adeptly as a goat were long behind her, but it would be many more before her woodcraft entirely deserted her.
She wondered, sometimes, if it was really all true-really necessary. Left to its own devices, the land healed; healed well and strong, with an implacable, overwhelming finality that she quite frankly envied. But those were thoughts only for dark, lonely moments such as these; times when she was as uncertain of her own path as she was of the reasons she had been forced to set out upon it. Times when she wondered why no one had fought as ardently to give her the time she needed as she and her friends did for the world at large. Silly thoughts, selfish and fleeting, as insubstantial and pernicious as stinging gnats, and of no more consequence.
She picked her way through the choking undergrowth as doggedly as ever, enduring gouged calves and tangled hair with silent equanimity. The juice of a particular berry, a certain kind of leaf chewed and applied as a poultice would render the scratches harmless. Vanity was a luxury she’d given up long ago; if she hadn’t been pretty enough then, she certainly wasn’t going to be now-
--
Though his world had long since been reduced to hazy gray smudges of pain, it was the pricking that finally roused him.
He cracked an eyelid, and quickly thought better of it; the bright overhead lights were completely out of the question. He was laying on something relatively soft, so that was alright, but he'd be damned if he could figure out where he might have ended up; everything after leaving the squad room last night had gone a bit fuzzy. Fighting, sure, yeah, but...
He ran his dry, cracked tongue around the inside of his mouth, and groaned in dismay when he found his two tricky molars even more loose; those probably weren't going to make it. His mouth was so swollen and painful he undoubtedly had a fat lip, and had probably had the upper one torn to ribbons on his own teeth, but he didn't quite have the nerve to reach up and find out yet.
He was debating opening his eyes again when the freezing, shivering malaise hit him, his left arm rendered scorchingly cold in half a heartbeat; the shock of it sent him half upright as he tried to scramble away from it. “Ifrit's burning balls, what is this?” he bellowed hoarsely.
“Saline, mostly,” a toneless voice informed him. “Some B vitamins, and a touch of adrenaline to get you moving. It works better when you leave it alone.”
Vincent grinned painfully, eyes still squeezed shut, and sagged back in relief. “Aww, Lu,” he wheezed, “you're so good to me.”
“Better than you deserve.” That was no good. She wasn't one for jabs or cheap shots; if she was deigning to snap at him, she had to be furious. He sighed mournfully, resolutely suppressing the urge to scratch his arm; this wasn't how he'd hoped their next meeting might go, but he didn't even have the consolation of being able to berate himself for his stupidity, as he still couldn't work out quite how this had happened. Typical. So typical.
--
It took a bit of adjusting, but it turned out that there was enough room in the bedroll for both of them, and for a long time they simply lay together, her back against his belly. Vincent smelled of sweat and musk, a little rank from the day's efforts, but she doubted she was in much better shape... and even so, it wasn't unpleasant. The scents, the warmth, the weight of him curled around her, even the cold, rigid edge of his prosthesis digging into her ribs as she lay upon it: these were real; they mattered, too, and were, for the moment at least, immutable. It wasn't enough-there would never be enough; nothing in all the world would ever put things back the way they had been-but perhaps it would do for now. It was good to snuggle against his bulk, squeezed so tightly together they could scarcely do otherwise; it was good not to be alone.
Vincent's breathing was deep and even, soft puffs against the top of her head; though his arms remained wrapped around her, she suspected he had drifted to sleep. Good for him; she only wished it would come to her as easily. She hadn't wanted to talk anymore, not really; there wasn't much left to say, and more crying would only make them both feel worse. With a small sigh, she readjusted her posture slightly, rested her cheek on her forearm, and closed her eyes.
Vincent shifted back, rearranging himself so that every inch of their bodies still touched; she smiled to herself to think that he would do such a thing in his sleep. Yet as he slowly drew back the arm she had started out pillowed on, she realized that he wasn't. He carefully raised himself on one elbow, barely possible in the tight confines of the sleeping bag, and she heard him draw breath as if to speak; but a heartbeat later his mouth was hot on the delicate flesh behind her ear.
She gasped in shock at the unexpected contact, and he drew back; but as she arched her back, exposing her neck, her buttocks digging into his groin, he was already leaning forward again. “I thought,” he murmured between kisses, “perhaps,” his tongue on her earlobe, teeth nibbling the curve, “if you wanted...”
--
Rebecca swallowed past the hot lump in her throat and redoubled her pace, as if she could leave behind her troublesome, treacherous thoughts as easily as she was departing the ghetto behind her. It wasn’t coincidence, couldn’t be; even her unswerving loyalty could not convince her of that, despite her weak protestations that violent crimes plagued any large city, that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. “And even if she did do it, she must have had a good reason!” she had cried, startling the three other occupants of the doctor’s office into silence.
“Beck…” Mel had responded slowly, rubbing his temples as if warding off a migraine. “Becky… what good reason could she have had to… to decapitate three people? In three different places, no less.”
“That’s what I want to know,” she had replied, mustering up every reserve of strength she had to keep her voice even. “She’s not a murderer, no matter what else she might be. We know they’re not all monsters,” she said with an abrupt gesture at the doctor, “but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more like… him.” She raked a hand through her close-cropped hair and sagged against the chair, her common sense and unfaltering belief in her little sister warring with shock, disgust, and horror. “What could be so important that she’d take off like this? Maybe she’s killing them, Mel; maybe making sure they can’t hurt anyone else is her way of… making up for what’s happened.” She sighed. “With all due respect, Dr. Nicolescu.”
The funereal figure had nodded his acquiescence, seemingly lost in thought for the next few moments. “It is not impossible,” he had said finally, “but if it is so, it changes the situation even more dramatically. A fledgling such as she is in no position to be taking such matters upon herself, no matter how good her heart may be; there will be consequences.”
“They’ll come looking for her.” Mel had learned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“Among other things, yes. This makes it even more so imperative that she be contacted, and that she be brought into the fold… you will have to take much greater steps to insure that this is accomplished as soon as may be possible…”