Rules: go to page 7 of your WIP, go down to the 7th line, copy the next 7 sentences, then tag 7 people to do the same.
Tagged by @royal-loki thank you 😘 I think most people have done this already so only tagging @shes-gone-rogue
Here is a little snippet of a Hiddlesworth fic based on the IW cast promo when Tom didn’t say that Chris was his favourite Avenger. This is RPF so if that’s not your thing , now is the time to scroll past it.
“ Oh no brother ! not until you say it. Who …is your favourite Avenger ? “
Chris lowers his head and continues to ruin Tom with his mouth and his hands. He’s been doing this for an hour or so , giving Tom just enough to take him to the very edge, never enough to send him over it.
Ooooh! How fun! Thank you, @lokilovesthorki ❤️❤️❤️
“What are you doing?” Timmy rubs his face against the pillow and turns his head to blink sleepily at Armie.
Armie smiles down at him, his fingers continuing to trace lines of constellations over the pale skin of Tim’s exposed back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you…” he bends forward and kisses his shoulder tenderly, “…go back to sleep.”
“Mm, no.” Timmy inches a little closer and stuffs the pillow under his chest, hugging it beneath him.
Thanks for the tag @shes-gone-rogue
I never do these things but I do actually have a WIP so why not. These are random sentences from a random bunch of paragraphs that are 100% likely to change:
He couldn’t hear it but he felt the vibration, followed by a soft tremble at the tops of his thighs. Armie was giggling. God, he wanted to see him smile. He wanted to watch the way Armie watched him- always hunting out the meaning behind every expression and like a skilled translator, interpreting them perfectly and crafting things for Tim that he didn’t even know he wanted.
The silence was infuriating. He could live with not being able to see, but Armie’s mouth, the things that came from it when he handled Tim’s body- he needed them. The man could make poetry of obscenities, of demands that Tim followed without question- trusting him implicitly and understanding that no matter what, Armie put him first. Everything that was ever asked of him was a path to his own gratifying end.
Here’s a bit of Another Life.
“It doesn’t mean you’ve
failed and it doesn’t mean you love her any less, but,” Armie could
hear his smirk, “we’re not made for one instrument alone.”
Timmy kicked off his
shoes and sat down. Armie smiled at him over his shoulder. “The
night we met you called me a closet case.”
“What a dick.”
“I thought so.”
“Then I saw yours,
and I thought so too.”
He pushes himself up enough to let his thumb trace slowly over my cheekbone, smooth my forehead, and play with the hair near my temple as if to check that I’m really here. When he seems convinced enough, he rests his chin on my chest and smiles up at me.
”Just wanted to make sure this isn’t a dream.”
”Thanks for not pinching me this time.” I run my hand through his hair, pushing stray strands away from his eyes.
”It’ll take time to get used to this. I mean, actually getting to wake up next to you.”
Tagged by the lovely @angel-in-new-york-city:
The seventh sentence on the seventh page was already posted as a Sunday Six so I’ll post this instead, the seventh sentence on the fourteenth page of chapter three of IV. Finale and will make zero sense out of context BUT SO BE IT:
He blows on his handiwork. This time, after capping the pen, he puts it in his pocket and touches each corresponding number as he explains.
“One: I admired you before I even met you. Two: You acknowledged me at breakfast with the Leopardi—I know that now but didn’t know it then. Three: I hoped when we kissed in the grass. Four: I delighted in you ever and ever again.”
The words smudge a little on your skin, the ink bleeding around each letter.
I was tagged by the brilliant, @ghostcat3000, and it feels like a decade since I’ve actually completed something I’ve been tagged in (as opposed to leaving it all in my drafts folder).
I don’t actually have a 7th page of anything, as my scenes are split between OneNote documents, so this starts at the 7th line of the 1st page.
Veronica has commandeered a black vinyl booth in the back corner, papers strewn across the table’s surface, laptop open, and a pen hanging loosely between her lips. Logan recognizes the turquoise tee-shirt, but the haircut is new. Jaw-length, it falls in loose waves around her face, making her appear softer, almost romantic, and summoning that old familiar ache behind his rib cage.
She glances up at his approach, smiles warmly. “Hey, you.”
“Hey.” Unsure where they stand – exes? friends? favor-traders? – he merely returns her smile and sweeps a hand toward the door. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Chariot?” She gives him a slow once-over – and shit, if she’s going to leer at him like that, shouldn’t she be wearing a wife-beater and suspenders with a cigar between her lips? “Looks more like a supped-up hot rod to me.”
So, flirtation it is.
“You should take a peek under the hood sometime, bet you’d love the newest upgrades.” Logan bobs his eyebrows.
Holding back a grin, Veronica closes her laptop and gathers her papers into a neat pile. “Have a seat. The least I can do is buy you dinner before we head back to Neptune.”
Also, @leuberpwnage, because I know you have some good shit you’re depriving us of. 🙂
“You say that like ladies and gentlemen are present.” He
puts the car in gear and gestures for her to buckle up. “And not just us, once
again planning petty crimes.”
Logan opts for room service, since he has limited patience
with strangers even when NOT laying low. Kicks back with the blue cheese
burger, about which Veronica doesn’t make a single cholesterol-related comment,
and reads his assigned People.
Ten minutes cements the impression that Supposedly-Ideal
Logan is a goody-two-shoes, who’s got a thriving-if-inattentive mother and an unfortunate
Hawaiian-shirt habit. The kid’s media presence is bizarrely wholesome—clearly
THIS version never alienated his fan club—and Logan broods a bit on the
injustice of fate before switching the TV to Point Break.
It’s an honor to be tagged by the wonderful @cheshirecatstrut. Here are 7 sentences from one of the only WIPs I have that has 7 pages. I’m hoping to have it done for Halloween this year (even though I started it for Halloween 2 years ago… 😬) I hope it’s up to snuff…
Veronica practically sees brain her eyes roll so far back in her head. She juts her lower jaw skyward, seething through gritted teeth, “As in Angie Daal-Thromopolous?”
The realization hits Wallace with such force he actually staggers back, “Shit.”
“Who’s free-ride-to-Stamford dreams I once ripped from her entitled, catty claws? Who got pretty touchy last month when Logan declined to snake her newly single, and may I just add, super slut-tastic pipes right in front of me?”
“I thought she looked kinda familiar.” There’s penance in Wallace’s voice and Veronica can only sigh, “The spawns of Beelzebub always do.”
I thought I’d keep in the spirit of all this lovely Veronica Mars fic with the Season 3 AU I started back in 2014 and still haven’t finished:
He doesn’t know why she suddenly wants to talk about Lilly, but he doesn’t want to go back to avoiding it… not when he’s finally getting the chance. It’s not like there are a lot of people he can do this with, not that knew her like Veronica did. Now that they are talking, actually talking, he realizes he has always wanted to talk with Veronica about Lilly, but instead he’s hid behind banter, just like with everything else.
“Tell you what.” Veronica interrupts the thought, “If I ever do decide I want you to talk me out of dating Logan, I’ll let you know which version of the speech I’m looking for.”
“Deal,” he agrees. He knows they will never have that conversation, or at least not that version of it.
Well, I’ve never written Veronica Mars, and I can’t really follow the page 7, line 7, 7 lines format, but here are the first two paragraphs of the next chapter of my Homefront Babyfic:
Her grandfather told stories about Vulcan High Command. About how stubborn they could be, and vindictive. He admired the Vulcan people, their culture, and was close to individual Vulcans, but he had a well developed resentment for the council, a holdover from his childhood and early command. It never interfered in his duties, his working relationships; he was known to be a shining example of Human-Vulcan relations. And it wasn’t a lie. But, as with most things in the upper echelon of the Federation, it wasn’t the whole truth.
Still, Katrina had never put much stock in his complaints, had filed them away as personal bias and cultural misunderstanding. And that was probably accurate. But she hadn’t fully appreciated her grandfather’s insights until she was locked in a room with twelve members of the High Council discussing the Klingon war. Well, they probably weren’t locked in – much of Vulcan architecture doesn’t even include doors – but they’d been in this room for over four hours and were no closer to a plan, or even a consensus, than when they started.
This chapter is a lot and I’ve been struggling to get it (and all my other WIPs) done, so I appreciate the patience of my audience and the tag to give me an opportunity to share a moment!