![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielFrom ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mithrel.
When you see this, post an 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.
Because I have so many (at least 28) WIPs, I decided I'd just do a selection.
Dean/Castiel, Project Runway/Supernatural AU. This is my baby. I love this fic like you would not believe.
Mood is crazy the next day. Dean has never seen so much fabric in his life.
Granted, he’s kind of had to make do with what was close by or on hand in a small town.
They’ve got $150 and instructions to create a look that embodies who they are as a designer. Tim gave them thirty minutes to sketch back at Parsons, and now?
Dean feels giddy, like a kid in a candy store.
But he’s got a vision, and he’s sticking to it. Let the other designers get distracted by zebra print and red pleather—Dean almost backpedals to see who exactly is getting that particular combination—he’s a man on a mission.
Or he is until he has trouble getting the denim he spotted down from over his head. Almost on his toes, arms stretched above him, Dean’s got his hands full and is about to call for help when another pair of hands joins his and helps him pull and lever the fabric down.
“Thanks,” Dean says, breathless and turning to his savior.
It’s Castiel, looking completely calm and collected except for the way his cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright. His mouth quirks at Dean. “You’re welcome,” he says, and then he’s picking up the bolts of fabric he’d leaned against the shelf—pale blues and grays and whites—and brushing past Dean as he heads down the aisle toward the commotion at the cutting station.
Dean blinks after him. At least Castiel isn’t the one with questionable taste.
*
Arthur/Eames, ink!fic. This will get finished, though it may very well change complete direction.
He starts just above the waistband of Eames' boxers where the skin is hot and pale, stretched tight across Eames' hip. Eames shivers as soon as the pen touches down, body practically vibrating as Arthur draws the first curving line, dark and glittering wetly against Eames' skin.
Unable to resist, Arthur shifts the pen in his grip, presses his thumb against the drying mark, a bond of ink to ink where they’ve already bled and sweat and cried together. Come together. Lived and breathed, dreamed and died.
Arthur contemplates the half-moon curve on his thumb, on Eames' hip, and breathes deep once, twice before setting pen to skin again.
*
DiNozzo/McGee, inspired by The Shop Around the Corner. One of my favorite films.
Tony stands outside the café early Saturday evening, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other nervously fingering the red carnation he’d purchased a block over. He would have suggested another form of identification, but there’s something cinematic about the flower that appeals to Tony.
However, he’s a bit stuck. He’d been doing fine until he glanced through the window and caught a glimpse of McGee actually sitting at one of the tables waiting for him, carnation laying innocuously at the edge of the table.
Well. Not waiting for Tony. Waiting for Claire. Computer-programming, level-five-sorceress Claire.
Tony’s not jealous. Really. He’s not. Claire doesn’t exist. He made Claire up. He’s standing there, in Claire’s place, with Claire’s carnation, waiting to go on Claire’s, well, date because, he is finally willing to admit he is Claire.
Only without the computer programming skills or the level five sorceress or the usual female parts. He has no idea if that will be a problem or not. He hopes it won’t; he and McGee—Tim—have always sort of had a…a thing. Not a conventional romantic thing, but a thing that’s unique to them. A them thing.
*
Cooper/Sherman, Southland. I have no idea why I stopped writing this. Except that writing Cooper kinda scares me.
“What a pleasant surprise.”
Rolling his eyes, Ben crosses the threshold, arm brushing against John’s chest. He wraps his fingers around the bottle and pulls it from John’s loose grasp, takes a deep swallow as John shuts the door behind him.
When Ben turns, John’s leaning against the front door, blue eyes sharp and focused, hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. Ben raises the bottle back to his lips and takes another sip, watches John’s eyes follow the movement. He swallows and lowers the bottle, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip to catch any errant alcohol.
John watches him, posture casual, but Ben can see the tension bleeding out around the edges. He holds the beer out between them.
Stepping forward, John ignores the bottle in favor of crowding Ben, stepping into his space unblinkingly, close enough Ben has to tilt his head to keep eye contact. He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t let John get him up against a wall, not yet. When he can feel the heat of John’s skin through their clothes and John’s breath on his cheeks, when his vision almost doubles John’s leaning so close, Ben holds his ground, skin thrumming expectantly.
Closing the distance between them even further, John holds there a minute and Ben thinks yes, now, eyes sliding shut involuntarily.
Except John doesn’t follow through. Ben feels a puff of amused air against his mouth and then John’s stepping back, beer back in hand, looking pleased and smug and a little punchable as he pushes past Ben to his kitchen. “You want anything?” he calls over his shoulder, and Ben has to remind himself that shooting a superior officer—any officer—is frowned upon.
Besides, he has better things planned for his evening than a trip to the emergency room or ending up in handcuffs.
*
Merlin/Arthur, Heat Wave. This is much older, but occasionally I look at it and think, yeah, I wish I could finish that.
The heat’s hard on all of them, but Arthur seems particularly affected. Merlin’s been with him long enough to know how much he hates confinement and inactivity. And in this case, the only thing that’s keeping Arthur from living life as usual is the oppressive heat. There’s not even the pain of a healing wound to distract him from the tedium. Merlin’s even more at his beck and call than usual, Arthur demanding distraction.
Which Merlin doesn’t actually mind much in general. If he’s going to be hot and miserable, he might as well be hot and miserable near Arthur.
Arthur, who is a sight to behold in all of this heat, skin flushed and sweaty, all pink and gold with lax limbs.
Merlin enters Arthur’s chambers to find Arthur spread out on the floor in tunic and breeches, his feet bare. His eyes are closed, face relaxed as though asleep. He’s still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Merlin is mesmerized by the movement, by fall of fabric across Arthur’s chest, the shadow of a nipple.
Merlin lets his eyes linger; he likes to look, and if Arthur’s asleep, that means—
“Merlin.”
Arthur’s voice startles him and he jumps, blushing when he finds Arthur’s eyes intent upon him.
mithrel.When you see this, post an 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.
Because I have so many (at least 28) WIPs, I decided I'd just do a selection.
Dean/Castiel, Project Runway/Supernatural AU. This is my baby. I love this fic like you would not believe.
Mood is crazy the next day. Dean has never seen so much fabric in his life.
Granted, he’s kind of had to make do with what was close by or on hand in a small town.
They’ve got $150 and instructions to create a look that embodies who they are as a designer. Tim gave them thirty minutes to sketch back at Parsons, and now?
Dean feels giddy, like a kid in a candy store.
But he’s got a vision, and he’s sticking to it. Let the other designers get distracted by zebra print and red pleather—Dean almost backpedals to see who exactly is getting that particular combination—he’s a man on a mission.
Or he is until he has trouble getting the denim he spotted down from over his head. Almost on his toes, arms stretched above him, Dean’s got his hands full and is about to call for help when another pair of hands joins his and helps him pull and lever the fabric down.
“Thanks,” Dean says, breathless and turning to his savior.
It’s Castiel, looking completely calm and collected except for the way his cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright. His mouth quirks at Dean. “You’re welcome,” he says, and then he’s picking up the bolts of fabric he’d leaned against the shelf—pale blues and grays and whites—and brushing past Dean as he heads down the aisle toward the commotion at the cutting station.
Dean blinks after him. At least Castiel isn’t the one with questionable taste.
*
Arthur/Eames, ink!fic. This will get finished, though it may very well change complete direction.
He starts just above the waistband of Eames' boxers where the skin is hot and pale, stretched tight across Eames' hip. Eames shivers as soon as the pen touches down, body practically vibrating as Arthur draws the first curving line, dark and glittering wetly against Eames' skin.
Unable to resist, Arthur shifts the pen in his grip, presses his thumb against the drying mark, a bond of ink to ink where they’ve already bled and sweat and cried together. Come together. Lived and breathed, dreamed and died.
Arthur contemplates the half-moon curve on his thumb, on Eames' hip, and breathes deep once, twice before setting pen to skin again.
*
DiNozzo/McGee, inspired by The Shop Around the Corner. One of my favorite films.
Tony stands outside the café early Saturday evening, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other nervously fingering the red carnation he’d purchased a block over. He would have suggested another form of identification, but there’s something cinematic about the flower that appeals to Tony.
However, he’s a bit stuck. He’d been doing fine until he glanced through the window and caught a glimpse of McGee actually sitting at one of the tables waiting for him, carnation laying innocuously at the edge of the table.
Well. Not waiting for Tony. Waiting for Claire. Computer-programming, level-five-sorceress Claire.
Tony’s not jealous. Really. He’s not. Claire doesn’t exist. He made Claire up. He’s standing there, in Claire’s place, with Claire’s carnation, waiting to go on Claire’s, well, date because, he is finally willing to admit he is Claire.
Only without the computer programming skills or the level five sorceress or the usual female parts. He has no idea if that will be a problem or not. He hopes it won’t; he and McGee—Tim—have always sort of had a…a thing. Not a conventional romantic thing, but a thing that’s unique to them. A them thing.
*
Cooper/Sherman, Southland. I have no idea why I stopped writing this. Except that writing Cooper kinda scares me.
“What a pleasant surprise.”
Rolling his eyes, Ben crosses the threshold, arm brushing against John’s chest. He wraps his fingers around the bottle and pulls it from John’s loose grasp, takes a deep swallow as John shuts the door behind him.
When Ben turns, John’s leaning against the front door, blue eyes sharp and focused, hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. Ben raises the bottle back to his lips and takes another sip, watches John’s eyes follow the movement. He swallows and lowers the bottle, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip to catch any errant alcohol.
John watches him, posture casual, but Ben can see the tension bleeding out around the edges. He holds the beer out between them.
Stepping forward, John ignores the bottle in favor of crowding Ben, stepping into his space unblinkingly, close enough Ben has to tilt his head to keep eye contact. He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t let John get him up against a wall, not yet. When he can feel the heat of John’s skin through their clothes and John’s breath on his cheeks, when his vision almost doubles John’s leaning so close, Ben holds his ground, skin thrumming expectantly.
Closing the distance between them even further, John holds there a minute and Ben thinks yes, now, eyes sliding shut involuntarily.
Except John doesn’t follow through. Ben feels a puff of amused air against his mouth and then John’s stepping back, beer back in hand, looking pleased and smug and a little punchable as he pushes past Ben to his kitchen. “You want anything?” he calls over his shoulder, and Ben has to remind himself that shooting a superior officer—any officer—is frowned upon.
Besides, he has better things planned for his evening than a trip to the emergency room or ending up in handcuffs.
*
Merlin/Arthur, Heat Wave. This is much older, but occasionally I look at it and think, yeah, I wish I could finish that.
The heat’s hard on all of them, but Arthur seems particularly affected. Merlin’s been with him long enough to know how much he hates confinement and inactivity. And in this case, the only thing that’s keeping Arthur from living life as usual is the oppressive heat. There’s not even the pain of a healing wound to distract him from the tedium. Merlin’s even more at his beck and call than usual, Arthur demanding distraction.
Which Merlin doesn’t actually mind much in general. If he’s going to be hot and miserable, he might as well be hot and miserable near Arthur.
Arthur, who is a sight to behold in all of this heat, skin flushed and sweaty, all pink and gold with lax limbs.
Merlin enters Arthur’s chambers to find Arthur spread out on the floor in tunic and breeches, his feet bare. His eyes are closed, face relaxed as though asleep. He’s still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Merlin is mesmerized by the movement, by fall of fabric across Arthur’s chest, the shadow of a nipple.
Merlin lets his eyes linger; he likes to look, and if Arthur’s asleep, that means—
“Merlin.”
Arthur’s voice startles him and he jumps, blushing when he finds Arthur’s eyes intent upon him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-11-05 09:07 am (UTC)The Project Runway AU...oh god. I could talk about that thing for hours. I've got over 5000 words written, and I have such plans (some of them decently clever, imo) for it. Now if only I would finish it.