Argh!
So I'm trying to write my fic for sg_fignewton's Daniel Alphabet Soup. (Which, by the way, you SG-1 writers should all go and sign up for. It's only 200 words, minimum! Go!)
This wouldn't be a problem, except that Dean Winchester keeps flicking paper projectiles at the side of my head.
ME: Cut it out.
DEAN: Make me. *flick*
ME: I don't need you right now. I'm working with Daniel. Go away.
DEAN: Hmm...*elaborate show of considering the request* No. *flick*
ME: Sam, make him leave me alone.
SAM: *lounging nearby with laptop* I don't know why you think I can make him leave you alone when I've been unsuccessfully trying to make him leave me alone for years.
DEAN: You're both just scared of how much you love me. *flick*
ME: Whatever. Stop being distracting.
DEAN: Hey, I can't help that I'm the hottest thing in this room.
ME: *grudging smile* Dude, get over yourself.
DEAN: *flick*
ME: And stop that.
DEAN: *flick*
ME: I'm going to lose it soon.
DEAN: Dude, your subconscious put me in a wheelchair! If that's not worth a few pot shots with paper darts, I don't know what is.
ME: I can't be held responsible for what my brain does when I'm asleep. Besides which, Sam was either dead or missing under very bad circumstances in that dream, and he's not throwing anything at me.
DEAN: Yeah, well Sammy's a tool. *flick*
ME: *turns back to computer*
DEAN: *flick*
ME: *studiously ignores*
DEAN: *flick*
ME: Hey! That one went down my shirt!
DEAN: I was aiming for your head. *blameless smile* These things aren't exactly match grade.
ME: *zen breath* What will it take to make you go away.
DEAN: Write me instead of this Daniel punk.
ME: I did not sign up to write a fic corresponding to the letter "C" about you.
DEAN: You could do it anyway. I have several suggestions for me-related keywords that start with C. *extremely inappropriate eyebrow*
ME: *covers face with hands* Oh my goodness, you are such a perv, get out!
DEAN: *grin* What, I was going to say "coconuts"! *stern face* Get your mind out of the gutter. *flick*
ME: Get out, get out, get out! Sam!
SAM: Mm?
ME: Help.
SAM: Again, I'm not really sure what you want me to do, here.
ME: Anything, tell me what to do to make him go away!
SAM: All I can say is that the stick is obviously not working.
ME: *sigh* Clearly. Carrot?
SAM: Carrot.
DEAN: *frown* What? Stick? Carrot? What carrot?
ME: Dean. I love you. But I need to work with Daniel right now. So here's the deal: If you leave me alone to work on this, I will write you something you'll really enjoy.
DEAN: Like what?
ME: Well, I've been talking a lot with my bellydancing teacher about Zar exorcism rituals and how the steps from them have been assimilated into modern bellydamce. *shrug* Maybe I could work a fic around that, somehow.
DEAN: Exorcism and...bellydancing.
ME: Yup.
DEAN: That sounds...promising. *flick* I like it.
ME: I thought you might. So. Deal?
DEAN: *thoughtful pause* Okay, deal.
ME: Thank you.
DEAN: *gets up and wanders off to bother someone else*
SAM: *looks up from laptop* Well, at least you can write now, I guess. Although you've now set a precedent for caving to terrorist demands. *grin*
ME: Hey, he's gone, isn't he? And it was your idea. Anyway, what he doesn't know is that at least seventy percent of bellydancers are in their forties and weigh upwards of 180.
SAM: *laughs* Nice.
ME: Thanks, I try.
This wouldn't be a problem, except that Dean Winchester keeps flicking paper projectiles at the side of my head.
ME: Cut it out.
DEAN: Make me. *flick*
ME: I don't need you right now. I'm working with Daniel. Go away.
DEAN: Hmm...*elaborate show of considering the request* No. *flick*
ME: Sam, make him leave me alone.
SAM: *lounging nearby with laptop* I don't know why you think I can make him leave you alone when I've been unsuccessfully trying to make him leave me alone for years.
DEAN: You're both just scared of how much you love me. *flick*
ME: Whatever. Stop being distracting.
DEAN: Hey, I can't help that I'm the hottest thing in this room.
ME: *grudging smile* Dude, get over yourself.
DEAN: *flick*
ME: And stop that.
DEAN: *flick*
ME: I'm going to lose it soon.
DEAN: Dude, your subconscious put me in a wheelchair! If that's not worth a few pot shots with paper darts, I don't know what is.
ME: I can't be held responsible for what my brain does when I'm asleep. Besides which, Sam was either dead or missing under very bad circumstances in that dream, and he's not throwing anything at me.
DEAN: Yeah, well Sammy's a tool. *flick*
ME: *turns back to computer*
DEAN: *flick*
ME: *studiously ignores*
DEAN: *flick*
ME: Hey! That one went down my shirt!
DEAN: I was aiming for your head. *blameless smile* These things aren't exactly match grade.
ME: *zen breath* What will it take to make you go away.
DEAN: Write me instead of this Daniel punk.
ME: I did not sign up to write a fic corresponding to the letter "C" about you.
DEAN: You could do it anyway. I have several suggestions for me-related keywords that start with C. *extremely inappropriate eyebrow*
ME: *covers face with hands* Oh my goodness, you are such a perv, get out!
DEAN: *grin* What, I was going to say "coconuts"! *stern face* Get your mind out of the gutter. *flick*
ME: Get out, get out, get out! Sam!
SAM: Mm?
ME: Help.
SAM: Again, I'm not really sure what you want me to do, here.
ME: Anything, tell me what to do to make him go away!
SAM: All I can say is that the stick is obviously not working.
ME: *sigh* Clearly. Carrot?
SAM: Carrot.
DEAN: *frown* What? Stick? Carrot? What carrot?
ME: Dean. I love you. But I need to work with Daniel right now. So here's the deal: If you leave me alone to work on this, I will write you something you'll really enjoy.
DEAN: Like what?
ME: Well, I've been talking a lot with my bellydancing teacher about Zar exorcism rituals and how the steps from them have been assimilated into modern bellydamce. *shrug* Maybe I could work a fic around that, somehow.
DEAN: Exorcism and...bellydancing.
ME: Yup.
DEAN: That sounds...promising. *flick* I like it.
ME: I thought you might. So. Deal?
DEAN: *thoughtful pause* Okay, deal.
ME: Thank you.
DEAN: *gets up and wanders off to bother someone else*
SAM: *looks up from laptop* Well, at least you can write now, I guess. Although you've now set a precedent for caving to terrorist demands. *grin*
ME: Hey, he's gone, isn't he? And it was your idea. Anyway, what he doesn't know is that at least seventy percent of bellydancers are in their forties and weigh upwards of 180.
SAM: *laughs* Nice.
ME: Thanks, I try.