The WIP meme...
Monday, 2 March 2009 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
byslantedlight... gacked from everyone... *g* Ha - I'd forgotten about some of these, and I'm also happily surprised that there aren't more lurking on this harddrive...
Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations. No more than one sentence!
o0o I remembered that smile as I sliced through his skin, and I watched his lips tight-pursed to stop himself shouting, and I could feel something loosening up inside me; I felt lighter, and I knew it was all worth it.
"Get your mind out of the twentieth century, Bodie, you lost that war a long time ago, and we're everywhere now. Get used to it..."
If he could just see enough to make out where the drop itself was… but not even the orange glow of Manchester was making it through the mass of trees and undergrowth around them.
Doyle fiddled with the dial, and suddenly the room was filled with music: a woman singing, swaying somewhere to a band, to the sound of a thousand notes as they slid from the stage into the crowd, mingling with the smoke and the clinking glasses, the murmurs and lulls of a carefree audience.
He knew what he was capable of, and sometimes he chose it.
“I used to watch the boat going over all the time,” he said, “From by the Liver Building. Used to think there was something a bit magic about the Island, for all our mam said it was full of louts and eejits.”
"Ray," he whispered into Doyle's ear as he came, "Ray..."
Dark and dirt and dark and dirt and dark and...
He fudged his free shot on purpose, watched as Doyle prowled around the table, hand on hip, looking for a good ball, and then leaned low, all angular shoulders and controlled muscle.
The breeze blew perilously at his edges, he swayed but held firm.
He wanted Bodie, and there was nothing he could do about it.
They parked the Capri on the prom, and stood looking up at the three-storey building, seagulls screeching a raucous chorus.
He remembered the grit under his cheek as he lay on the floor and saw it all in slow motion, saw the bomb go off, the white glare-flare of it, felt the shock through his body.
The next time the world twisted around them he ended up on top, Doyle’s wrists held firmly to the floor on either side of his head, the two of them plastered together from chest down, his legs spread just slightly over Doyle’s, all the better to hold him still.
Bodie let him down gently, having had his fill of exotic lands many years ago, wanting now the green, wet, warmth and chill of an English summer.
There’d been frost that morning, and his breath puffed out in front of him now, a thin grey steaming, insubstantial and wishing to nothingness almost before it had warmed the night air.
Within seconds what had been a smart jacket hung miserably around Bodie’s frame, and Doyle did not have to look to see that the pale trousers were now indecently slicked to his body.
o0o
Still, there's enough to be getting on with, I reckon... *g*
Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations. No more than one sentence!
"Get your mind out of the twentieth century, Bodie, you lost that war a long time ago, and we're everywhere now. Get used to it..."
If he could just see enough to make out where the drop itself was… but not even the orange glow of Manchester was making it through the mass of trees and undergrowth around them.
Doyle fiddled with the dial, and suddenly the room was filled with music: a woman singing, swaying somewhere to a band, to the sound of a thousand notes as they slid from the stage into the crowd, mingling with the smoke and the clinking glasses, the murmurs and lulls of a carefree audience.
He knew what he was capable of, and sometimes he chose it.
“I used to watch the boat going over all the time,” he said, “From by the Liver Building. Used to think there was something a bit magic about the Island, for all our mam said it was full of louts and eejits.”
"Ray," he whispered into Doyle's ear as he came, "Ray..."
Dark and dirt and dark and dirt and dark and...
He fudged his free shot on purpose, watched as Doyle prowled around the table, hand on hip, looking for a good ball, and then leaned low, all angular shoulders and controlled muscle.
The breeze blew perilously at his edges, he swayed but held firm.
He wanted Bodie, and there was nothing he could do about it.
They parked the Capri on the prom, and stood looking up at the three-storey building, seagulls screeching a raucous chorus.
He remembered the grit under his cheek as he lay on the floor and saw it all in slow motion, saw the bomb go off, the white glare-flare of it, felt the shock through his body.
The next time the world twisted around them he ended up on top, Doyle’s wrists held firmly to the floor on either side of his head, the two of them plastered together from chest down, his legs spread just slightly over Doyle’s, all the better to hold him still.
Bodie let him down gently, having had his fill of exotic lands many years ago, wanting now the green, wet, warmth and chill of an English summer.
There’d been frost that morning, and his breath puffed out in front of him now, a thin grey steaming, insubstantial and wishing to nothingness almost before it had warmed the night air.
Within seconds what had been a smart jacket hung miserably around Bodie’s frame, and Doyle did not have to look to see that the pale trousers were now indecently slicked to his body.
Still, there's enough to be getting on with, I reckon... *g*
