Thursday's "Take it off!"
Sep. 2nd, 2010 10:40 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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comment_ficIt's my last day of hosting. :O Thanks everyone for a terrific week and for making this place so awesome to hang out. Special thanks to our amazing codemonkeys volunteer and work tirelessly for this kickass comm.
Today's theme is called "Take it off!" which you can interpret as you like. ;)
A reminder of the rules:
+ No more than three prompts per fandom
+ No more than five prompts in a row
+ If one or more of your prompts is filled, you can then prompt again
+ No spoilers within prompts until a week after the airdate/release
+ Warn for spoilers in bold and leave at least three spaces before the text
Also, for the sake of our amazing coders, please remember to use the proper format for prompts.
Examples:
Nothing here strike your fancy? Take a look at the archive of Lonely Prompts.
tag="takeitoff"
Today's theme is called "Take it off!" which you can interpret as you like. ;)
A reminder of the rules:
+ No more than three prompts per fandom
+ No more than five prompts in a row
+ If one or more of your prompts is filled, you can then prompt again
+ No spoilers within prompts until a week after the airdate/release
+ Warn for spoilers in bold and leave at least three spaces before the text
Also, for the sake of our amazing coders, please remember to use the proper format for prompts.
Examples:
For a single fandom:
- Criminal Minds, Hotch & any, S/he's never seen Hotch without a tie
- The Mentalist, Cho/Jane, "Do you even own casual clothes?"
For multiple fandoms / crossovers:
- CSI New York/Without a Trace, Any, Striptease
Nothing here strike your fancy? Take a look at the archive of Lonely Prompts.
tag="takeitoff"
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no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-10 01:30 am (UTC)"Are you really so uncertain?" Illya replied.
It was a good point: while the last of their pursuers was distracted by Illya's nimble dodging of his knife-thrusts, Napoleon had dealt him a solid blow to the head and sent him tumbling down a ravine. They could probably count on having put him off the trail for a little while. Napoleon chuckled at his friend's usual dry humor, but stopped abruptly when he noticed that Illya had one hand pressed to his side, and it wasn't a stitch from running--the white shirt underneath showed crimson in the glaring sunlight.
Napoleon's heart sank. "He got you?"
"I need to work on my reflexes," said Illya ruefully. "It's only a scratch."
And that was when Napoleon really started to worry. This was bad. He'd heard that phrase before, and he'd been in this business long enough to know that it was never, ever true. Machismo was one of the occupational hazards of being a spy, and that meant downplaying and trying to walk off even the gravest of on-the-job injuries. He'd read a report once that had concluded that It's only a scratch was ranked in the top twenty for reported last words of U.N.C.L.E. agents. And he was sure that when it came to playing it tough, Illya was no better. The guy would gripe at you all afternoon if you dared to put ketchup on his sandwich, but put a knife through his gut and he probably would tell you it was just a scratch, damn him.
Napoleon could see it all now: the wounded Illya struggling, then maybe collapsing out here, far from home, far from help; maybe bleeding to death before an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter could find them...
He shook away the vision and turned his attention to the present situation. "Let me see," he said, reaching in his bag for the bandages. He could at least do basic first aid now, and then call for whatever help they needed.
But Illya was already trying to stand up. "It can wait," he said abruptly. "We had better keep going."
"Oh, no you don't." Napoleon caught his shoulders and pushed him down again. "Sit down and let me take a look." Kneeling, he leaned forward and quickly lowered his hands to Illya's chest to tear off his shirt.
"Buttons, Napoleon!" Illya insisted testily, as if the shirt wasn't already ruined. His hands stickily brushed Napoleon's as they fumbled with the buttons together, and then Napoleon yanked the shirt off before he had time to be finicky about cuffs.
He held Illya's arm out of the way and pressed the other hand flat against his bare chest as a command to be still. Illya kept quiet and stared back at him curiously for several breaths. The amount of blood made it hard to see the wound clearly at first, but soon Napoleon was able to make a diagnosis.
"Why, it's only a scratch!" he exclaimed.
"Isn't that what I--" Illya began, and then flinched as Napoleon, filled with relief and embarrassment and righteous indignation, applied iodine to the cut with deliberate malice.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:42 pm (UTC)The Mask
Date: 2010-09-02 07:35 pm (UTC)The question seemed to take Castiel by surprise. He looked down at himself. "My vessel was wearing it when I--"
"That's not what I asked. Do you have to wear that coat?"
"No, I don't have to."
"Can you wear anything else other than what he had on when you ...." Dean still couldn't really say the words.
"Would you like me to?"
Dean tilted his head slightly. "Be better than lookin' like Columbo every single day."
"Columbo?"
"Never mind. Just an observation, feel free to ignore it."
Castiel nodded.
But the next time he came by, and it was just to bring a message or say hi and not in any dangerous situation, he was in jeans, cowboy boots and a red t-shirt.
And Dean couldn't speak for a full five minutes for just staring.
Re: The Mask
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From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:44 pm (UTC)you want a man with a slow hand
you want a lover with an easy touch
you want somebody who will spend some time
Not come and go in a heated rush
you want somebody who will understand
When it comes to love, you want a slow hand
no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:45 pm (UTC)the longer the waiting, the sweeter the kiss
it's better, my darling, I promise you this
the next time I hold you, I'm not letting go
no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:46 pm (UTC)What's a little fun between friends, anyway?
Date: 2010-09-03 06:44 am (UTC)Sirius' face collapsed into an easy smile that reminded James infinitely of a dog lolling its tongue and rolled his eyes. "What?"
James sighed. “You promised. We’re in Little Whinging, for God’s sake.”
Sirius shrugged and dusted an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder. “Lily likes this jacket” he looked up at his friend and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Come to think of it, I seem to recall that you like this jacket” He shot his friend a lecherous grin before turning on his heel and starting off down the alley.
James groaned again. He may have known very little about Muggle parents and Muggle fashions, but he was nonetheless absolutely certain that Mr. Evans was not going to let Sirius into the house in that leather jacket as long as he was wearing that grin.
“Padfoot!” He called a little desperately as he hurried after his friend.
“Prongs” Sirius returned warmly, slinging an arm around the other boy’s shoulders and ruffling his hair playfully.
James looked down at his own collared shirt and schoolboy’s sweater and shook his head in resignation. “Just...try and act respectable, alright?”
Sirius snorted. “Try?!” he glared at his friend in mock offence. “Must I remind you that I am Sirius Black, Mr Potter? Of the House of Black? I am respectability itself!” He winked. “Besides, mate, you’re the one their daughter’s marrying. I doubt they care a whit about me.” He thrust a hand into his pocket, retrieving a cigarette and pushing it lazily between his lips before James removed it and tossed it into the gutter.
“You’re going to be best man...I’m pretty sure they care.”
“Besides, didn’t you say Lily has a sister?”
James stopped in his tracks. “Sirius...” He started warningly.
The other boy burst out laughing. “The look on your face” he guffawed, slapping his legs.
James frowned and started walking up the street again. “Not funny.”
“It was hilarious.” Sirius informed him. “Don’t worry, I’m quite aware Petunia Evans is a total muggle.”
“Good.” James turned up the pathway to Lily’s house. “Now, behave yourself.”
Sirius wiggled his eyebrows once again. “For now” he grinned.
James thought about replying, but decided against it. ‘For now’ was about all he would ever be able to get out of a creature like Sirius anyway. Instead, he reached out and rang the doorbell.
Predictably, Mr. Evans answered. “James” he nodded in greeting. He turned to Sirius, evidently with the intention of introducing himself, but instead his mouth turned to a soft ‘o’ as he took in Sirius’ appearance.
James’ heart moved from his throat into the pit of his stomach and he sighed audibly. Never again, he thought to himself dismally. Never again would he let Sirius out of the house wearing anything he hadn’t gotten preapproved by Lily.
Suddenly, however, his pain turned to surprise as Mr. Evans burst out laughing and clapped Sirius heartily on the shoulder. “Wherever did you get hold of that jacket, lad?” he demanded merrily. “It looks just like one I used to have!” He guided the tall youth into the house.
Over his shoulder, Sirius winked at James and stuck out his tongue.
James grinned internally. He knew that look. He knew exactly what it meant.
Tonight was going to be an interesting night, that was for sure.
Whistling happily, he followed the other two into the house to greet his fiancée.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:49 pm (UTC)Dude, I don't even know...
Date: 2010-09-09 07:02 am (UTC)-
She's a pre-raphaelite maiden, Rossetti, blouse off one shoulder, skirt loose around her legs. She keeps her face serious and her gaze distant as she lets the shirt fall, inch by inch down her arm. She shifts slowly, lets the skirt drop, piles the shirt on top and drapes herself across the bed, Cezanne, perhaps. She reaches, stretches, and relaxes as Nate takes her hand, Degas in the movement, in the shape.
Nate is full of drama, quiet impatience. He throws down his tie like he's angry with it, his shirt falls at Eliot's feet like a challenge. His belt snaps its distrust and jangles to the ground. Interrupted, he hesitates a moment, corpsing when he can hold his own amusement at the overacting no longer. Sophie pulls him close and helps him out of his trousers, coaxing him down onto the bed beside him to close his scene.
Eliot is full of dance, never camp, never showy, but always in smooth flawless continuous motion. Contemporary, folding his body around his clothes like they were a maze to escape. There is a beat, a rhythm to it, as he unbuttoned his shirt, stretching through his shoulders, rolling his back. One arm, beat, another, beat, the shirt fell in a beat and a breath. He folds at the waist as he pulls his vest over his head, hiding in it, hesitating in the stretch for a breath and then pulling the vest the rest of the way off. His pants drop to the ground in symmetry with him standing again, and he reaches over his head as he kicks them away, lean and stretch, lean and stretch.
He rolled into bed with them, tangling them up in this new three-part-piece, canvas, stage and floor, they blend and collide and support. Just for them.
Rossetti (http://cltriplett.com/images/preraphaelite1_resize.jpg), Cezanne (http://rlv.zcache.com/paul_cezanne_leda_with_swan_postcard-p239616146946356052qibm_400.jpg), Degas (http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/upload/img/degas-after-bath-woman-drying-herself-NG6295-fm.jpg), DV8 (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7c9ToyDs3mY) (my favourite
obsesssion (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W86bH2pxPMs&feature=related)contemporary dance troupe). And yes, I have tried the choreography ;)Re: Dude, I don't even know...
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Date: 2010-09-02 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:52 pm (UTC)No fic, but
Date: 2010-09-02 04:36 pm (UTC)Re: No fic, but
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From:Flood
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Date: 2010-09-02 03:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:54 pm (UTC)FINAL THING
Date: 2010-09-02 07:41 pm (UTC)At the end, it was not Michael he faced -- but Gabriel. Lucifer had counted on his vessel's sheer size to overcome the puny vessel his brother possessed.
Only Gabriel wasn't in there anymore. The vessel fell fainted to the ground as Gabriel reared up and battled in his true form, forcing Lucifer to do the same.
The vessel -- a small but brave man named Ricky -- crawled over and screamed over the battle, "Don't look, Sam! For G-d's sake, don't look!"
But the beauty was too tempting.
The final thing Sam ever saw was the savage beauty of an angel and a fallen angel at war.
But as he told Dean when he found them -- and everyone else -- oh, it had so been worth it.
Re: FINAL THING
From:Re: FINAL THING
From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:55 pm (UTC)Don't shoot me, I could stare at him for hours...
Date: 2010-09-02 07:19 pm (UTC)But Jensen. Jensen. Man, pretty as fuck but his style? His style raises dust.
When they met and Jared googled his future co-star the poor bastard looked like the victim of a stylist with a very cruel sense of humor. Brick pants, is all Jared’s saying…
There were the other pictures, the ones with “fuck me, I’m a slutty little twink and need to be taken hard” written all over Jensen’s baby-smooth forehead. Then again, Jared doesn’t know a single heterosexual male stylist in that business either.
Totally not Jensen’s fault.
So Jared thought.
But then, then there was the sweater vest. The Dean Wesson hairstyle. The golf pro clothes. And did Jared mention the sweater vest?
But the worst of all? The worst of all are the tucked in shirts. It’s so… 80ies maybe – but which century, Jared isn’t sure.
He’s patiently watched this strange habit for more than 5 years. One day in September, out of the blue, Jared has had enough.
He. Just. Can’t. Watch. It. Any. Longer.
Inside, he screams "untuck your damn shirt, Jensen!" on a daily basis but right now, that’s 5 words, several minutes and a fruitless discussion too far away from that damn charcoal shirt out of Jensen’s narrow waistband.
So he does it himself. In the middle of Jensen’s kitchen, with clumsy but determined fingers.
At first, Jensen’s too shocked to react. When he does, he kinda… misinterprets Jared’s intentions, if Jensen helping Jared, shedding the shirt completely with one, graceful, fluid movement and pressing Jared against the next wall means anything.
In between gentle bites and hungry kisses, Jensen groans a lot of “finally”s and “always hoped you felt it too”s and “want you to take me”s and Jared thinks “huh, who’d thought?”
He doesn’t complain. Not that he could, with Jensen all over him, but if he could? Nah, really not.
Cause this? Means he’ll have the most gorgeous new boyfriend with a horrendously old-fashioned sense of clothing.
Just one more reason to undress him again and again and again….
… and again
… and again.
shoot you? why would i want to shoot you?
From:Re: shoot you? why would i want to shoot you?
From:I felt like filling this also *shrug* Jensen/Misha
From:Re: I felt like filling this also *shrug* Jensen/Misha
From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:56 pm (UTC)Coming Home
Date: 2010-09-02 06:01 pm (UTC)Matt's grumbling could be heard reverberating up the stairwell, his deep voice grumpy and gritty. Instead of harsh stamps up the stairs to go along with the angry voice, there was an unpleasant squishing noise sometimes followed by a barely audible curse.
It was fortunate that the other tenants in the building were either so old they were deaf, slept deeply, or just didn't care if someone else was loud.
Surprisingly, the door didn't burst open the moment Matt reached their floor. He didn't scream with rage or throw things around. It was actually very anti-climatic after the dramatics coming up the stairs. Mohinder hid himself behind his book, thinking it probably had everything to do with the little girl currently sleeping yards away from the front door. When he found a good stopping place and finally looked up, Mohinder had to use every ounce of will he possessed to keep his jaw from dropping.
Droplets sprinkled along Matt's skin liberally, winking at him as they fell to the hardwood floors to create tiny puddles. His uniform, normally a stiff navy ordeal that practically repelled touch clung in places he hadn't allowed himself to think about. Mouth dry, Mohinder desperately thought of what to make Molly for lunch the next morning, pointedly not watching a line of water trail across Matt's jaw, down his neck, and eagerly make its way under his uniform.
"It's been a long day, Mohinder. Please tell me we have clean towels..."
An arm flung recklessly towards the bathroom, tone painfully casual as he replied, "Of course. Molly doesn't use that many, and I am not the girl you seem to think I am."
He glanced up to see Matt's tired smile and cocked eye brow. It took him another thirty seconds to realize that Matt had already unbuttoned most of his shirt right there in front of the closed door. When he thought he should look away, he found himself standing up and moving to lean on the couch.
When Matt had trouble peeling the shirt off of his broad shoulders, he moved without thinking, his fingers trailing lingeringly over the skin as he moved the shirt down chilled arms.
After Matt unbuttoned his pants, he leaned forward and whispered in Mohinder's ear, "I can deal with my pants on my own, but I don't know if I want to. What do you think?"
Wide-eyed and almost panting, Mohinder reached forward, his mouth seconds from touching Matt's, hisfingers curved around a solid waist...
Re: Coming Home
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From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 03:57 pm (UTC)