WIP guessing game

via zmediaoutlet/deadlybride:
Send me a word, if it’s in my wip document I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in.
I currently have WIPs for SGA, SPN, and original odds and ends--feel free to specify which you're interested in. (Here's hoping this gets me in gear to finish some of them!)

Posts from This Journal by “meme/poll” Tag

Well, I really want to read another SPN story from you...I thought about being obnoxious and choosing the word "the"...because what if I picked a word that wasn't in a current WIP? So I considered what words would have the best chance of being in an SPN fic and, to better the odds, decided to give you 2 choices.

So my words picks are "beer" or "gun." Will be waiting to see what I get...
It’s a short road, though—just as Sam’s about to ask where the heck they are, they’re rolling to a stop in shaggy grass, boxed in by the lake on two sides and a steep hill on the other. Stairs lead up to an old wood-clapboard house, with a garage door set into the side of the hill below. “This kind of looks like private property,” Sam points out, but it’s a pro forma protest—he’s already halfway into the backseat, fishing out a couple of beers and the bag from the smokehouse.
Okay, now you HAVE to finish this and post it!!! You have a gift for writing descriptive passages that flow, not bog down, and then that little bit of Sam--the "pro forma protest" clause telling the reader so much succinctly. I am starving for more good Sam and Dean stories!!!
I'm probably around 80% on that fic--just a matter of getting my act together and finishing it off. ;)
The interior of the landing bay is dark, the only illumination that of the brilliant sunshine spilling in through the hole behind them and the puddlejumper’s much dimmer spotlights—both quickly swallowed by the empty space. It reminds John of the one time he’d gone spelunking, the utter black of somewhere that’s never seen sunlight—so different from the black of the desert sky with its sweep of stars.
I can't find anything for that, but here's something thematically similar:

"Perhaps," the fox admitted, and thrust his nose against the nightingale's bleeding breast, purely to see what the bird would do. And then he sneezed and leapt away, for the nightingale smelled nothing of feathers and everything of earth and sunlight and hard-forged will. "Is not the same true of you, lord?" he asked, once he'd scrubbed his nose clear again.
For deadlybride, pain and swallow:

"If you can make them last to daylight," the voice said, casual as a raging sea or mounting storm. "Now, quickly. Don't dawdle." Clutching at the pig, Riku swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry and head empty--a lifetime of tales gone like dew in fierce sunshine.

Finally, strength of spirit finally gone as of body, but unwilling to speak, to cause any doubt of her commitment to the task, she pressed her face to the forest god's implacable shoulder and wept. Growing up with a brother and many boy-cousins had taught her how to do it silent and still as a stone, but the dampness of of her tears must have given her away, for the forest god stopped, shifting her weight so that he could cradle her head against his shoulder with one hand. "Why do you weep, Evangeline?" he asked. "Are you in pain?"
"Guess so," Dean says, wishing he'd thought to bring a sharpening stone with him. Her knives aren't exactly *dull*, but they could definitely use a bit of attention.
Sorry for the late response - I save my email notifications of your posts (yes, I still use email notifications, like an old persons) on busy days, so I remember to go back and look later.

My word? Music (or something similar, since I'm not sure how tuneful space operas or demon hunters are) :D
Somewhere a bird whistles, just off-key, like Ford when he belts out Happy Birthday: deliberate in its awfulness. If John could see it, he’d throw a rock at it. But he can’t, so he grits his teeth and hums Johnny Cash songs, rough but perfectly pitched, and refuses to let himself be spooked when the bird begins echoing him. Just starts singing out loud instead.
Okay, I see two options with this: 1) It's a space-mockingbird, which, while unsettling and annoying, is not a harbinger of bird-related doom. 2)It's a Space Bird Of Evil, either more intelligent than earth-counterparts and maybe carnivorous, or a robot minion of the local baddie-of-the-week. In either case, it is creeeeeepy in a very horror-movie ominous way. And so of course John takes whistling past the graveyard to a whole new level.

I'm excited to see where this goes, despite the lack of context. ;D
This is one of those fics I really want to finish--I have the beginning and the end, pretty much, the middle just won't quite gel.

(Your letter is staring at me reproachfully, btw; I will try to get myself to sit down with it this week and write a proper response.)
Meh, don't feel bad, get to it when you feel inspired. No matter what, it will be a lovely surprise for me.