![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_again...have a meme gacked from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scoobydumblonde.
Post a sentence/paragraph/snippet from every wip of your own that you can find. No explanations allowed, just the excerpt.
1 - A Town Called Eureka
Three hours and eleven rabbits in he'd been cautiously optimistic that the last one couldn't have made it to GD, no matter that the place had to glow like a gigantic Christmas tree to EM-seeking rabbits (he wasn't even starting on what Taggert was thinking with that little quirk because he'd really rather not know; he still twitches from passing geese) but with perfect Eureka-timing his phone went a second after the thought crossed his mind. Allison hadn't even been apologetic, just panicked because the thing had already munched its way through a Section Two prototype for navigating subzero-temperature airships and apparently there were some bigwig scientists from Europe due to visit today so could Carter just get his ass up to Global and catch the damn rabbit before Stark saw it eating anything too expensive?
He's not even paraphrasing. She must be having a bad day too.
2 - DAAS RPS
“In,” Tim says firmly. The possibility of turning back to the street, maybe with a fumbled kiss goodnight that they'll never speak of again – fades into the night. In, for whatever that entails and Tim tightens his grip on the well-washed cotton over Paul's hip, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing they're so close. Feels more than hears the growl of a curse as it takes Paul three attempts to get the key in the door and then they're tripping through into darkness deeper than outside. The hallway's not wide enough for them to stand side-by-side which Tim learns by bashing his shoulder against the wall; he hangs back to let Paul lead the way, ache of missing warmth all down his side but he keeps his grip on Paul's t-shirt out of reluctance to relinquish the connection as much as to let Paul lead him, stumbling, down the unseen hall.
3 - Tennis - Datta
Marat knows that if he were to undo the white shirt, button by button with fingertips lingering on the warmth of skin, he could follow the hair across Roger's chest and count the ribs beneath with tongue and teeth because the Swiss was always slender but there's sharp angles to his face now that were never there before. The close-cropped hair only emphasises the change and Marat wonders what happened to the curls he used to ruffle, press his face against to smell the sweetness of fruit shampoo and Roger himself when they hugged; wonders if Roger cut his own hair or someone else held him down and sawed it off with a blunt knife. With nothing to soften the marks of hunger and worry lines Roger should look older, like the startling stranger who sometimes looks back at Marat from mirrors but on Roger the harshness looks childlike, vulnerable. Marat has the strange feeling that if he were to lift the Swiss, he'd be feather-light in his arms.
Which is when he realises his eyes have drifted from the wall to Roger's body, tracing the curve of his hip beneath the shirt and he flicks his stare guiltily back to dark eyes and a quirked smile. “Sorry.”.
4 - RPS - Tim Minchin/Jamie Cullum
“I don't know. I haven't asked him out for a drink yet.”
Across from him, Jamie's expression snaps to startled again; he looks like something small and furry caught in approaching headlights, wide-eyed and Tim silently berates himself for the flippancy. Not usually this forward, hedging around a proposition with hopeful smiles until someone else takes the lead but adrenaline's still buzzing through him and the duet had been so fun, he'd thought... The regret must show on his face because Jamie smiles in a way that's not entirely forced and nods. Tim's so busy grinning at him – no doubt looking like a loony – that he misses Sarah's reply. “Sorry, what was that?”
5 - Tennis RPS Super, Thanks For Asking
“No,” a mournful voice says and Roger looks to his left, into the shower cubicle where Rafa's sitting in a wet, steaming huddle on the tiles beneath the cascade of water, shoulders bare but thankfully still wearing now-sodden sweatpants. He peers up at Roger through dripping strands of hair. “Tell Novak I hate him.”
Roger blinks, partly from surprise and partly because the steam is making his eyes water. “Okay. Um. Why?”
“He couldn't cool down,” Djokovic says from behind him, all innocence. “I suggested a cold shower might help.”
Roger looks at Rafa and the steam billowing up, water hissing on the tiles. “That's cold?” He takes a step closer, sparing a rueful thought for his hair that's been soaked once today, and now he can see the drops of water bubbling bubbling across Rafa's bare skin, evaporating almost as soon as they've touched although the spray hitting his face is freezing. Only the Spaniard's hair and sweatpants seem immune and normally-wet.
“Very.” Rafa looks miserable and bedraggled, but not at all cold. He's not even shivering. “Is unfair. I would like to trade for wings, no?”
If it was possible, Juan Martin would probably be happy to Roger thinks but instead of a comment asks “Is it working at all?”, meaning the shower. Rafa shakes his head and more wet strands of hair fall into his eyes.
“I hate Novak,” he mumbles.
“Many people hate Novak. I think there should be some sort of club by now.” Ignoring Djokovic's almost-plaintive “But it was a good idea!” Roger reaches through the spray of water – which is freezing; on a normal day Rafa would be turning blue beneath his tan – to flick the dial to off. Into the sudden silence broken only by the faint hiss of water drops still on Rafa's skin, he says “Clearly we need to try something else.”
Some of these might even get finished. One day.
scoobydumblonde.1 - A Town Called Eureka
Three hours and eleven rabbits in he'd been cautiously optimistic that the last one couldn't have made it to GD, no matter that the place had to glow like a gigantic Christmas tree to EM-seeking rabbits (he wasn't even starting on what Taggert was thinking with that little quirk because he'd really rather not know; he still twitches from passing geese) but with perfect Eureka-timing his phone went a second after the thought crossed his mind. Allison hadn't even been apologetic, just panicked because the thing had already munched its way through a Section Two prototype for navigating subzero-temperature airships and apparently there were some bigwig scientists from Europe due to visit today so could Carter just get his ass up to Global and catch the damn rabbit before Stark saw it eating anything too expensive?
He's not even paraphrasing. She must be having a bad day too.
2 - DAAS RPS
“In,” Tim says firmly. The possibility of turning back to the street, maybe with a fumbled kiss goodnight that they'll never speak of again – fades into the night. In, for whatever that entails and Tim tightens his grip on the well-washed cotton over Paul's hip, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing they're so close. Feels more than hears the growl of a curse as it takes Paul three attempts to get the key in the door and then they're tripping through into darkness deeper than outside. The hallway's not wide enough for them to stand side-by-side which Tim learns by bashing his shoulder against the wall; he hangs back to let Paul lead the way, ache of missing warmth all down his side but he keeps his grip on Paul's t-shirt out of reluctance to relinquish the connection as much as to let Paul lead him, stumbling, down the unseen hall.
3 - Tennis - Datta
Marat knows that if he were to undo the white shirt, button by button with fingertips lingering on the warmth of skin, he could follow the hair across Roger's chest and count the ribs beneath with tongue and teeth because the Swiss was always slender but there's sharp angles to his face now that were never there before. The close-cropped hair only emphasises the change and Marat wonders what happened to the curls he used to ruffle, press his face against to smell the sweetness of fruit shampoo and Roger himself when they hugged; wonders if Roger cut his own hair or someone else held him down and sawed it off with a blunt knife. With nothing to soften the marks of hunger and worry lines Roger should look older, like the startling stranger who sometimes looks back at Marat from mirrors but on Roger the harshness looks childlike, vulnerable. Marat has the strange feeling that if he were to lift the Swiss, he'd be feather-light in his arms.
Which is when he realises his eyes have drifted from the wall to Roger's body, tracing the curve of his hip beneath the shirt and he flicks his stare guiltily back to dark eyes and a quirked smile. “Sorry.”.
4 - RPS - Tim Minchin/Jamie Cullum
“I don't know. I haven't asked him out for a drink yet.”
Across from him, Jamie's expression snaps to startled again; he looks like something small and furry caught in approaching headlights, wide-eyed and Tim silently berates himself for the flippancy. Not usually this forward, hedging around a proposition with hopeful smiles until someone else takes the lead but adrenaline's still buzzing through him and the duet had been so fun, he'd thought... The regret must show on his face because Jamie smiles in a way that's not entirely forced and nods. Tim's so busy grinning at him – no doubt looking like a loony – that he misses Sarah's reply. “Sorry, what was that?”
5 - Tennis RPS Super, Thanks For Asking
“No,” a mournful voice says and Roger looks to his left, into the shower cubicle where Rafa's sitting in a wet, steaming huddle on the tiles beneath the cascade of water, shoulders bare but thankfully still wearing now-sodden sweatpants. He peers up at Roger through dripping strands of hair. “Tell Novak I hate him.”
Roger blinks, partly from surprise and partly because the steam is making his eyes water. “Okay. Um. Why?”
“He couldn't cool down,” Djokovic says from behind him, all innocence. “I suggested a cold shower might help.”
Roger looks at Rafa and the steam billowing up, water hissing on the tiles. “That's cold?” He takes a step closer, sparing a rueful thought for his hair that's been soaked once today, and now he can see the drops of water bubbling bubbling across Rafa's bare skin, evaporating almost as soon as they've touched although the spray hitting his face is freezing. Only the Spaniard's hair and sweatpants seem immune and normally-wet.
“Very.” Rafa looks miserable and bedraggled, but not at all cold. He's not even shivering. “Is unfair. I would like to trade for wings, no?”
If it was possible, Juan Martin would probably be happy to Roger thinks but instead of a comment asks “Is it working at all?”, meaning the shower. Rafa shakes his head and more wet strands of hair fall into his eyes.
“I hate Novak,” he mumbles.
“Many people hate Novak. I think there should be some sort of club by now.” Ignoring Djokovic's almost-plaintive “But it was a good idea!” Roger reaches through the spray of water – which is freezing; on a normal day Rafa would be turning blue beneath his tan – to flick the dial to off. Into the sudden silence broken only by the faint hiss of water drops still on Rafa's skin, he says “Clearly we need to try something else.”
Some of these might even get finished. One day.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-12-13 10:47 pm (UTC)More, more!
*flails*
I'm such a hypocrite...I haven't done this meme myself because I have SO many WIPs that aren't ever going to get finished. Yet I demand that you finish these. Yes.
no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 01:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-15 02:31 am (UTC)MINCHIN FIC!!!
\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/
no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 01:07 am (UTC)I want to finish the Minchin fic because I have't found any other slash for that ep of Wossy yet and it was *so asking for it*, but... it's been sitting there a bit too long. Might've missed the window maybe. But there should be slash for that duet. *wistful*
Glad you liked! :D
no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 11:45 am (UTC)