amand_r: (vanilla ice/check out the HOOK!)
Post a sentence (or paragraph) or two from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached.


  • "If I took a holiday anywhere in the world," Tosh mused, staring off into space. "I'd go to Amsterdam. Get caned." When they all stared at her, somewhat in shock, she shrugged, and it looked a great deal like Owen. "What? It's legal there."


  • "Methos is dead," Richie told him later in a blissed-out state. Jack had to admit that he hadn't intended on getting the man so drunk, but there had been a bottle of Patu and Richie had smelled like road and leather and Jesus, cock, and he just had to lay on the charm. Richie had taken him in hand, too, all protests about being straight aside. Immortality was too long not to try to stick your cock into everything you could, not that Jack had ever needed that excuse.


  • 'Mmm.' Jack pulls off Ianto's shirt and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Ianto's jeans, glancing down when he realises that the button is gone and Ianto has safety pinned them together.

    Ianto blushes. 'Look, they're my scrotty jeans—'

    'No no,' Jack tells him, pushing him down on the sofa and crawling up his legs so that his face is level with Ianto's hardening denim covered cock. 'No, that makes it.' He winks. 'You know what I like.'


  • It's late and he's tired as fuck, mostly because that group of alien smugglers had made him run from one place to another, fetching bits and bobs or they'd blow Tosh's brains out. He likes Tosh's brains where they are, so he and Gwen and Ianto had been playing with GPS all day, trying to track down "a bucket of chyme" and "three burnt fishsticks" while Owen had traced Tosh's mobile and shot all three of the aliens in the head.


  • Dierdre groaned as she pushed the trolley, trying not to hit Lois in the arse as they made their way though the ASDA. "I don't see why we have to do this. Don't we have a requisition team?"

    Lois waved the list written on a scrap of hotel stationary paper. "You are looking at it."


  • Naota is twenty-five when Sawajima Mamimi comes back to him, a paper crane, a balloon released by a gradeschool child and shoved into a return envelope, a message from a desert island, scraped out on paper and coiled in a bottle.


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