meme
so... I decided to do that WIP meme I've seen going around, where you post a single line from a fic with no context. uh. this is gonna be long. I have a lot of WIPs. LOL I'm just gonna do the ones that are actual fics, though, not the ones that are random bits and pieces that have no actual plot, or the ones that are just outlines. Glam fics first, then MCR. random order, otherwise. wow, there's a lot here.
Post 1 line from your WIPs, no context, just one sentence:
GLAM (16 fics)
Adam locks eyes with Brad, even as he leans down to kiss Tommy again.
He just remembers being with Tommy at the park, buying them both rocket pops from the ice cream truck, and turning around to see a man pulling Tommy into the parking lot.
“Don’t break my toys, Brad,” Adam says.
He won’t paint Adam as someone he’s not, some violent, abusive boyfriend.
It’s probably not fair to Adam to keep running to him for comfort, but Tommy just feels better when he’s with Adam, and these days, he takes any chance he can get for feeling better.
He shakes his sweaty hair around and closes his eyes and feels the beat of the drums and the thrum of his bass through his bones and--and then he's spinning and spinning and he forces himself to stop moving but the stage tilts and he stumbles, and it tilts again and he staggers forward, and he realizes he's stopped playing so he looks down and the ground sways under his feet and Tommy lets go of his bass and grabs at his head, gasping and gasping and gasping and he can't breathe right and he can't see right and it hurts when his knees hit the floor and his chest is aching and his instrument makes an awful noise and the music crashes down around him but it's still so loud.
It’s mostly the feeling of being completely owned, body and soul, that gets him off.
They were sitting behind the bleachers, and it occurred to Tommy then that the chaperones were only a few feet away and that they should probably take their contraband out to the empty soccer field, but he didn’t mention it.
“You may kiss her,” he says, and Tommy can hear the smile in his voice, “but not on the mouth.”
He pushes a clump of tangled hair behind his ear, revealing dark eyes rimmed in darker eyeshadow. It’s almost enough to draw attention away from the bruise on his cheekbone.
He knows he’s not the type to intimidate people with just a stance-he’s too small and thin-but he can work a mean glare even when he’s looking up at his prey.
Tommy squirms partway out of Adam’s grip and gets up in the guy’s face. “Didn’t think I’d fight back, did ya? Didn’t think a fairy like me could fucking take you down, motherfucker.”
If Tommy knew Adam’s fantasies, he’d run, and that scares Adam more than the fantasies themselves.
“What’d you expect me to be wearing, silk panties?” Tommy grumbles.
It drives Brad crazy sometimes, but it’s Adam’s apartment and Adam’s routine (non-routine), and Brad respects him enough not to try and change him.
“Baby,” he says, “are you forgetting that you’re allowed to sleep with anyone you want?”
MCR (31 fics, omg)
Frank knows he likes being bound, from all the times the Marquis held his wrists and forced him into stillness; he wants to like the pain, if only to help him escape from it now.
Gerard’s smiles are rare these days, fleeting and small, and Frank wants to catch them and hold them every time he can.
Gerard found himself watching Frank as they prepared for bed each night, remembering the feel of the calluses on his fingertips and the taste of his tongue, and wondering if Frank was thinking about the same things, or if he was thinking about his girlfriend.
The doctor unstrapped Frank’s arms and sat him up; he was too weak from the drugs and the pain to fight.
So when Frank stutters on “Jesus,” and it comes out as “Gee,” I understand, because I do the exact same thing.
Gerard drags a microphone stand into his bedroom and sets it up in front of his full-length mirror.
“Yes,” Brian broke in, “but Frank’s the most likely to set himself on fire now that Lindsey’s learned not to, so we’re taking preemptive measures.”
Frank passes off the candle to his left hand and lets it hover for a few achingly long seconds, and then he tips it and lets the wax fall.
They’re in a disgusting back alley; Frank doesn’t even want to know what kind of shit he’s going to be lying in.
The first thing he notices, before he even opens his eyes, is that somebody is snuggled tight against his chest, practically burrowing into him.
He didn’t know why they were lying, because Gerard really was an artist, and Michael really did sell his paintings and drawings at exorbitant prices, but they must have had a reason, and Frank liked them too much to draw attention to whatever they were hiding.
Frank opens his eyes and lets go, and the bird balances on its feet, no longer struggling to stay upright.
“Yeah. Holding hands. I’ve never just held hands with someone.”
“Dude, I’m getting a lecture about cleanliness from Gerard fucking Way,” Frank says, and Gerard hears more laughter in the background.
When Gerard asked Jamia how they met-no doubt having already heard Frank’s version of events-Jamia answered, “He told me my tits were fantastic.”
Right as he’s about to stick a band-aid to his shoulder, the bathroom door bursts open and Frank jumps and crashes into the sink in alarm.
Frank takes a breath, and before Gerard can start in on whatever random babble he’s building up to, Frank says, “Gee, I want to go home.”
When he’s near enough, Frank reaches for him and clings tightly; Gerard’s arms come up around his back automatically, and it’s warm and familiar and Gerard just smells normal, and his clothes feel normal, and his hair gets stuck on Frank’s lips, and Frank can finally close his eyes and pretend, just for a minute, that they aren’t locked in a tiny room and that he doesn’t feel like complete shit.
“You’re lucky I didn’t break your fucking nose,” Frank growls. “Get the fuck away from me.”
Things like this just don’t happen to Bob, and he’s pretty damn glad of that fact.
Tired and sore after his show, Frank doesn’t wake until he feels a smooth, manicured hand cover the lower half of his face, fingernails digging into the skin beneath his jaw.
He follows her around, doing everything he can to try and make it up to her, and maybe Gerard explains to the other guys, because none of them give Frank any shit for it.
He’s pretty sure Frank could hold his own, but Gerard’s not nearly as skilled with punching real people, and he’d most likely get knocked out first thing, and they really don’t need to deal with injuries this close to a show.
He still hasn't told the others where he'd been all morning and most of the afternoon, but Gerard was the only one who'd asked, and he was easy enough to distract.
He left the computer where it was on his stomach; its warm weight was comforting, grounding, as if he’d float to the ceiling without something holding him down.
“I don’t know how to be alone,” Gerard said, and once it was out in the open, it seemed obvious.
He figures at least one wrist is broken, maybe both of them, and he can’t bring himself to touch them and try to set them right.
Bert and Gerard got on like a house on fire; they flared up quickly, burned bright for longer than everyone expected, and went out in a blaze of glory and messy destruction.
Frank sits up and Gerard takes hold of his collar, hooking one finger into the loop at the nape of his neck.
The shrill ring of the bell fades from Gerard’s mind as Frank presses Gerard back against the door, lifts up on his toes, and kisses him firmly on the lips.
His feet are firmly planted on the floor as well, knees raised and spread, and that's when Gerard finally notices that Frank's favorite pink belt is missing.
so what can we learn from these? I WRITE A LOT OF ANGST. Frank and Tommy get hurt a lot. LOL some of these fics will probably never be finished and/or posted, jsyk. a few aren't fit for the public, lol.
Post 1 line from your WIPs, no context, just one sentence:
GLAM (16 fics)
Adam locks eyes with Brad, even as he leans down to kiss Tommy again.
He just remembers being with Tommy at the park, buying them both rocket pops from the ice cream truck, and turning around to see a man pulling Tommy into the parking lot.
“Don’t break my toys, Brad,” Adam says.
He won’t paint Adam as someone he’s not, some violent, abusive boyfriend.
It’s probably not fair to Adam to keep running to him for comfort, but Tommy just feels better when he’s with Adam, and these days, he takes any chance he can get for feeling better.
He shakes his sweaty hair around and closes his eyes and feels the beat of the drums and the thrum of his bass through his bones and--and then he's spinning and spinning and he forces himself to stop moving but the stage tilts and he stumbles, and it tilts again and he staggers forward, and he realizes he's stopped playing so he looks down and the ground sways under his feet and Tommy lets go of his bass and grabs at his head, gasping and gasping and gasping and he can't breathe right and he can't see right and it hurts when his knees hit the floor and his chest is aching and his instrument makes an awful noise and the music crashes down around him but it's still so loud.
It’s mostly the feeling of being completely owned, body and soul, that gets him off.
They were sitting behind the bleachers, and it occurred to Tommy then that the chaperones were only a few feet away and that they should probably take their contraband out to the empty soccer field, but he didn’t mention it.
“You may kiss her,” he says, and Tommy can hear the smile in his voice, “but not on the mouth.”
He pushes a clump of tangled hair behind his ear, revealing dark eyes rimmed in darker eyeshadow. It’s almost enough to draw attention away from the bruise on his cheekbone.
He knows he’s not the type to intimidate people with just a stance-he’s too small and thin-but he can work a mean glare even when he’s looking up at his prey.
Tommy squirms partway out of Adam’s grip and gets up in the guy’s face. “Didn’t think I’d fight back, did ya? Didn’t think a fairy like me could fucking take you down, motherfucker.”
If Tommy knew Adam’s fantasies, he’d run, and that scares Adam more than the fantasies themselves.
“What’d you expect me to be wearing, silk panties?” Tommy grumbles.
It drives Brad crazy sometimes, but it’s Adam’s apartment and Adam’s routine (non-routine), and Brad respects him enough not to try and change him.
“Baby,” he says, “are you forgetting that you’re allowed to sleep with anyone you want?”
MCR (31 fics, omg)
Frank knows he likes being bound, from all the times the Marquis held his wrists and forced him into stillness; he wants to like the pain, if only to help him escape from it now.
Gerard’s smiles are rare these days, fleeting and small, and Frank wants to catch them and hold them every time he can.
Gerard found himself watching Frank as they prepared for bed each night, remembering the feel of the calluses on his fingertips and the taste of his tongue, and wondering if Frank was thinking about the same things, or if he was thinking about his girlfriend.
The doctor unstrapped Frank’s arms and sat him up; he was too weak from the drugs and the pain to fight.
So when Frank stutters on “Jesus,” and it comes out as “Gee,” I understand, because I do the exact same thing.
Gerard drags a microphone stand into his bedroom and sets it up in front of his full-length mirror.
“Yes,” Brian broke in, “but Frank’s the most likely to set himself on fire now that Lindsey’s learned not to, so we’re taking preemptive measures.”
Frank passes off the candle to his left hand and lets it hover for a few achingly long seconds, and then he tips it and lets the wax fall.
They’re in a disgusting back alley; Frank doesn’t even want to know what kind of shit he’s going to be lying in.
The first thing he notices, before he even opens his eyes, is that somebody is snuggled tight against his chest, practically burrowing into him.
He didn’t know why they were lying, because Gerard really was an artist, and Michael really did sell his paintings and drawings at exorbitant prices, but they must have had a reason, and Frank liked them too much to draw attention to whatever they were hiding.
Frank opens his eyes and lets go, and the bird balances on its feet, no longer struggling to stay upright.
“Yeah. Holding hands. I’ve never just held hands with someone.”
“Dude, I’m getting a lecture about cleanliness from Gerard fucking Way,” Frank says, and Gerard hears more laughter in the background.
When Gerard asked Jamia how they met-no doubt having already heard Frank’s version of events-Jamia answered, “He told me my tits were fantastic.”
Right as he’s about to stick a band-aid to his shoulder, the bathroom door bursts open and Frank jumps and crashes into the sink in alarm.
Frank takes a breath, and before Gerard can start in on whatever random babble he’s building up to, Frank says, “Gee, I want to go home.”
When he’s near enough, Frank reaches for him and clings tightly; Gerard’s arms come up around his back automatically, and it’s warm and familiar and Gerard just smells normal, and his clothes feel normal, and his hair gets stuck on Frank’s lips, and Frank can finally close his eyes and pretend, just for a minute, that they aren’t locked in a tiny room and that he doesn’t feel like complete shit.
“You’re lucky I didn’t break your fucking nose,” Frank growls. “Get the fuck away from me.”
Things like this just don’t happen to Bob, and he’s pretty damn glad of that fact.
Tired and sore after his show, Frank doesn’t wake until he feels a smooth, manicured hand cover the lower half of his face, fingernails digging into the skin beneath his jaw.
He follows her around, doing everything he can to try and make it up to her, and maybe Gerard explains to the other guys, because none of them give Frank any shit for it.
He’s pretty sure Frank could hold his own, but Gerard’s not nearly as skilled with punching real people, and he’d most likely get knocked out first thing, and they really don’t need to deal with injuries this close to a show.
He still hasn't told the others where he'd been all morning and most of the afternoon, but Gerard was the only one who'd asked, and he was easy enough to distract.
He left the computer where it was on his stomach; its warm weight was comforting, grounding, as if he’d float to the ceiling without something holding him down.
“I don’t know how to be alone,” Gerard said, and once it was out in the open, it seemed obvious.
He figures at least one wrist is broken, maybe both of them, and he can’t bring himself to touch them and try to set them right.
Bert and Gerard got on like a house on fire; they flared up quickly, burned bright for longer than everyone expected, and went out in a blaze of glory and messy destruction.
Frank sits up and Gerard takes hold of his collar, hooking one finger into the loop at the nape of his neck.
The shrill ring of the bell fades from Gerard’s mind as Frank presses Gerard back against the door, lifts up on his toes, and kisses him firmly on the lips.
His feet are firmly planted on the floor as well, knees raised and spread, and that's when Gerard finally notices that Frank's favorite pink belt is missing.
so what can we learn from these? I WRITE A LOT OF ANGST. Frank and Tommy get hurt a lot. LOL some of these fics will probably never be finished and/or posted, jsyk. a few aren't fit for the public, lol.