![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asimplechordThe last 10 days of work have been unbelievably craptacular. My stash of TGFb must have gone through too many freeze-thaw cycles (b/c someone who shall remain nameless keeps leaving the freezer door hanging open), b/c it didn't actually activate the receptor, and all of last week's experiments were useless. This week, one sort of worked, and one sort of didn't, and the fucking luminometer, which we let stupid fucking clinicians from Internal Medicine use, was clogged with old reagent because said idjit clinicians don't know to clean up after themfuckingselves, and I spent hours last night and most of today getting it working again.
It's just this one last series of experiments, meant to hook the biochemistry with the cell biology with the physiological *point* of the proteins we study, that's being a pain in my ass.
So.
I need a happy list like you would not believe.
Right now, what's making you guys happy?
Me?
♥ Left Hand Milk Stout for supper
♥ Dante purring on my lap
♥ the possibility that we might move into shiny new lab space that will have windows (our current lab space was built in that era when architects apparently thought it was a good idea to have profs' offices at the perimeter and laboratories in the center of the building, with no access to sunlight)
♥ The Story, Brandi Carlile live. (courtesy of the random chick at the Brandi Carlile/Indigo Girls gig back in June; thanks for the signed CD)
♥ Robert Fisk's The Age of the Warrior.
*
Meme: When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Oh, god. Do you know how many WIPs I have on my laptop and desktop?
Brendon/Shane/Regan fluffnsmut (yeah, totally breaks my rule about non-public figure GFs, I know):
Brendon loves his apartment, okay? He likes being in a band, on the road, singing and playing, and the bus is pretty comfortable for, you know, a bus, but Brendon loves his king-sized bed, his normal-sized refrigerator (which holds more beer and Red Bull than the bus fridge) with the list of pizza places that deliver stuck to its side with the brilliantly tacky magnets he and Shane picked up while they were on the road. He loves the sofa, with its squishy cushions and the fact that he can sit on it naked and Shane won't object, and he even loves the coffee table. Not like people on the internet seem to think (that was an accident, okay?) but because he can prop his feet on it and not block his view of the TV and it's no problem to set his beer bottle on it without a coaster because he doesn't have to worry about condensation leaving rings or it spilling when the bus takes a sharp curve. The only thing that's different about his apartment now is that Regan is around. A lot. When she and Shane are home, there's a fair amount of whispering and touching, and Brendon, he's glad they're happy and he has nothing against PDAs, but seriously, he feels like a voyeur sometimes. Shane's quick to include him when they go out and when they stay in, but it gets to the point that Brendon has to force himself to give them alone-time.
Vampire!Jon/Brendon:
Brendon fucking loved it, having Jon's mouth on him, the sting of pain and the brush of beard and Jon's hands, holding him there, framing his hips, and he's jerked off so many times in the last few days just thinking about it, he's not sure how he can even get hard again, but he always does.
But he feels guilty about it because it's Jon, and he's a guy, and Brendon's not sure he's ready to be a gay icon (he knows he's not subtle, and there's no way he could hide this for long, there just isn't), okay, and what if it messes up the band? It's already messing stuff up because Spencer Talked to Jon, and Jon's moping and sad, and Brendon hates that. So he's maybe not slouching against Jon like he usually does in the morning when they're eating Froot Loops and having coffee, or at night when they watch episodes of The O. C..
Jensen/Steve (I can't even tell you how long this has been sitting, untouched):
The third time he talked to Jensen, it was all Chris. Chris dragged him over to the booth after a gig at (random bar in LA), but Steve didn't pay him much mind after an absent, half-drunk greeting. He had a blonde of his own to be working that night, so he didn't give their quiet, increasingly intense talk a second thought.
Missy-Mandy-Marcia turned out to be worth every second of effort and every bit of charm. When Steve called Chris to pick him up the next morning, he was expecting to hear the usual bitching about not being his chauffeur and how out of his way this was, but Chris's truck pulled up only shortly after Steve hung up. When he climbed into the cab he saw that Chris had last night's t-shirt and jeans on, and he was sipping coffee from a travel mug instead of his normal Styrofoam go-cup.
"That was fast. What're you doing up already? And on this side of town?"
"Jenny and I were already awake."
Jenny? Steve was wondering if Chris had picked up some chick after he'd left the bar when he continued, "He had an early call this morning."
Oh. Jenny.
Steve thought that might be a one-night thing – Chris was always doing that sort of shit; he didn't care if his pick-ups were men or women as long as they were hot and willing – and figured he'd probably never see Jensen again. But two days later, he arrived at Chris's apartment to find Jensen sprawled on the floor, his head resting against Chris's knee, his back against the ratty old sofa, strumming on one of Chris's guitars. He looked and sounded perfectly at home, humming the lyrics to a song Steve knew Chris had only just written.
So. Not a one nighter. Jensen and Chris had a thing going.
And that was just the next in a long line of misunderstandings, large and small, on Steve's part.
Harry/Tweasley porn (meant to be written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
twindowlicker over a year ago, but I suck and have lost inspiration for HP fanfic):
"That looks foul, and smells worse than a thousand dungbombs. What are you two brewing?"
"Potions version of the Daydream Charms," George explained as he carried a jar of pickled newt livers back to the ingredients cupboard. "We're trying to find a way to make it last longer than thirty minutes. We had a base started using jobberknoll feathers, but instead of daydreams, it caused nightmares. Your Prince's book had a suggestion about using dried hinkypunk droppings, but their rarer than phoenix tears, so we've been exploring other options."
Harry was torn between entrepreneurial glee -- the Daydream Charms were one of thei most popular products -- and jealous possessiveness over his Potions textbook. Which was stupid, really, since he'd been the one to suggest the twins use it. They were good enough at brewing to really appreciate Snape's skill. Harry, although he could follow directions competently when the Git wasn't hovering or sneering over his shoulder, was not adept enough to be helpful in the creative process. He'd arranged to spend the afternoon with Bill, going over an extended financial plan for the Wheezes and initiating a full inventory of the Potter and Black vaults.
Fred gave the cauldron on the benchtop a stir and set down the ladle, the bustled around, gathering used tools and levitating them to the sink and setting them to wash.
"We're almost done here -- it'll just need to simmer for a few hours."
Taking that as permission, Harry abandoned his spot near the door and wandered into the room, eyeing the slabs of what looked like putty cooling on the other table. He knew, because he'd helped prepare the ingredients the night before, that when fairy tears and violet extract were sprinkled onto the surface, the colorless bars would be ready to be cut into bite-sized Puking Pastilles. He held his hand above the surface. No, not cool enough yet for the last step.
He turned to Fred's cauldron and peered in dubiously.
"Is it supposed to be bubbling so hard?"
"What--no, I thought I lowered the flame on that!" Fred reached for his wand, but it was too late.
George pulled his head from the potions closet in time to see the cauldron burp its contents onto Harry and Fred.
Fred/George, part of a sequel to Testing:
As soon as he swallowed the viscous stuff, Fred knew it would work. He felt his skin crawl and watched as the flesh on his hand and arm... well, the best description he could think of was that it rippled. In the wake of the motion, freckled disappeared and skin darkened. He conjured a mirror, and was both satisfied and slightly surprised to see a completely unrecognizable face looking back at him. It must be him -- he watched it quirk and eyebrow and grin just as he felt himself doing. The Glamour Potion he and George had been working on had changed more than the eye and hair color a traditional glamour altered: in addition to the blue eyes and light brown hair, his lips were thinner and his cheekbones higher; the collar of his shirt was loose at his neck, and the fingers holding his wander longer, narrower, and uncallused.
He was making faces, fascinated by the difference in expression when he moved his muscles in what should be familiar configurations, when the floo sputtered and Lee's voice interrupted.
"Oi, George! Fred? Oh, hey, you the new clerk?" Was Fred imagining it, or was Lee's glance up and down his body assessing?
Taking his silence for agreement, Lee continued, "George around?"
"N-no. He went to fetch a shipment from teh apothecary." Fred tried to sound natural, not stilted and surprised by the sound of a stranger's voice comingfrom his throat.
"Fred?"
"He's--out."
Lee heaved a put-upon sigh. "Do me a favor? Tell George I can't meet him at Dorian's tonight. Higgs finally returned my owl. I'll see him next week, though."
"No Dorian's. Next week. Right."
Lee nodded. He was gone in a sputter of green flame before Fred could wrap his vocal chords around a farewell.
There's probably more, but some is almost finished, some is collaborative, and one is an exchange fic. So. Tell me what should get worked on, where you think they should go.
It's just this one last series of experiments, meant to hook the biochemistry with the cell biology with the physiological *point* of the proteins we study, that's being a pain in my ass.
So.
I need a happy list like you would not believe.
Right now, what's making you guys happy?
Me?
♥ Left Hand Milk Stout for supper
♥ Dante purring on my lap
♥ the possibility that we might move into shiny new lab space that will have windows (our current lab space was built in that era when architects apparently thought it was a good idea to have profs' offices at the perimeter and laboratories in the center of the building, with no access to sunlight)
♥ The Story, Brandi Carlile live. (courtesy of the random chick at the Brandi Carlile/Indigo Girls gig back in June; thanks for the signed CD)
♥ Robert Fisk's The Age of the Warrior.
Meme: When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Oh, god. Do you know how many WIPs I have on my laptop and desktop?
Brendon/Shane/Regan fluffnsmut (yeah, totally breaks my rule about non-public figure GFs, I know):
Brendon loves his apartment, okay? He likes being in a band, on the road, singing and playing, and the bus is pretty comfortable for, you know, a bus, but Brendon loves his king-sized bed, his normal-sized refrigerator (which holds more beer and Red Bull than the bus fridge) with the list of pizza places that deliver stuck to its side with the brilliantly tacky magnets he and Shane picked up while they were on the road. He loves the sofa, with its squishy cushions and the fact that he can sit on it naked and Shane won't object, and he even loves the coffee table. Not like people on the internet seem to think (that was an accident, okay?) but because he can prop his feet on it and not block his view of the TV and it's no problem to set his beer bottle on it without a coaster because he doesn't have to worry about condensation leaving rings or it spilling when the bus takes a sharp curve. The only thing that's different about his apartment now is that Regan is around. A lot. When she and Shane are home, there's a fair amount of whispering and touching, and Brendon, he's glad they're happy and he has nothing against PDAs, but seriously, he feels like a voyeur sometimes. Shane's quick to include him when they go out and when they stay in, but it gets to the point that Brendon has to force himself to give them alone-time.
Vampire!Jon/Brendon:
Brendon fucking loved it, having Jon's mouth on him, the sting of pain and the brush of beard and Jon's hands, holding him there, framing his hips, and he's jerked off so many times in the last few days just thinking about it, he's not sure how he can even get hard again, but he always does.
But he feels guilty about it because it's Jon, and he's a guy, and Brendon's not sure he's ready to be a gay icon (he knows he's not subtle, and there's no way he could hide this for long, there just isn't), okay, and what if it messes up the band? It's already messing stuff up because Spencer Talked to Jon, and Jon's moping and sad, and Brendon hates that. So he's maybe not slouching against Jon like he usually does in the morning when they're eating Froot Loops and having coffee, or at night when they watch episodes of The O. C..
Jensen/Steve (I can't even tell you how long this has been sitting, untouched):
The third time he talked to Jensen, it was all Chris. Chris dragged him over to the booth after a gig at (random bar in LA), but Steve didn't pay him much mind after an absent, half-drunk greeting. He had a blonde of his own to be working that night, so he didn't give their quiet, increasingly intense talk a second thought.
Missy-Mandy-Marcia turned out to be worth every second of effort and every bit of charm. When Steve called Chris to pick him up the next morning, he was expecting to hear the usual bitching about not being his chauffeur and how out of his way this was, but Chris's truck pulled up only shortly after Steve hung up. When he climbed into the cab he saw that Chris had last night's t-shirt and jeans on, and he was sipping coffee from a travel mug instead of his normal Styrofoam go-cup.
"That was fast. What're you doing up already? And on this side of town?"
"Jenny and I were already awake."
Jenny? Steve was wondering if Chris had picked up some chick after he'd left the bar when he continued, "He had an early call this morning."
Oh. Jenny.
Steve thought that might be a one-night thing – Chris was always doing that sort of shit; he didn't care if his pick-ups were men or women as long as they were hot and willing – and figured he'd probably never see Jensen again. But two days later, he arrived at Chris's apartment to find Jensen sprawled on the floor, his head resting against Chris's knee, his back against the ratty old sofa, strumming on one of Chris's guitars. He looked and sounded perfectly at home, humming the lyrics to a song Steve knew Chris had only just written.
So. Not a one nighter. Jensen and Chris had a thing going.
And that was just the next in a long line of misunderstandings, large and small, on Steve's part.
Harry/Tweasley porn (meant to be written for
twindowlicker over a year ago, but I suck and have lost inspiration for HP fanfic):"That looks foul, and smells worse than a thousand dungbombs. What are you two brewing?"
"Potions version of the Daydream Charms," George explained as he carried a jar of pickled newt livers back to the ingredients cupboard. "We're trying to find a way to make it last longer than thirty minutes. We had a base started using jobberknoll feathers, but instead of daydreams, it caused nightmares. Your Prince's book had a suggestion about using dried hinkypunk droppings, but their rarer than phoenix tears, so we've been exploring other options."
Harry was torn between entrepreneurial glee -- the Daydream Charms were one of thei most popular products -- and jealous possessiveness over his Potions textbook. Which was stupid, really, since he'd been the one to suggest the twins use it. They were good enough at brewing to really appreciate Snape's skill. Harry, although he could follow directions competently when the Git wasn't hovering or sneering over his shoulder, was not adept enough to be helpful in the creative process. He'd arranged to spend the afternoon with Bill, going over an extended financial plan for the Wheezes and initiating a full inventory of the Potter and Black vaults.
Fred gave the cauldron on the benchtop a stir and set down the ladle, the bustled around, gathering used tools and levitating them to the sink and setting them to wash.
"We're almost done here -- it'll just need to simmer for a few hours."
Taking that as permission, Harry abandoned his spot near the door and wandered into the room, eyeing the slabs of what looked like putty cooling on the other table. He knew, because he'd helped prepare the ingredients the night before, that when fairy tears and violet extract were sprinkled onto the surface, the colorless bars would be ready to be cut into bite-sized Puking Pastilles. He held his hand above the surface. No, not cool enough yet for the last step.
He turned to Fred's cauldron and peered in dubiously.
"Is it supposed to be bubbling so hard?"
"What--no, I thought I lowered the flame on that!" Fred reached for his wand, but it was too late.
George pulled his head from the potions closet in time to see the cauldron burp its contents onto Harry and Fred.
Fred/George, part of a sequel to Testing:
As soon as he swallowed the viscous stuff, Fred knew it would work. He felt his skin crawl and watched as the flesh on his hand and arm... well, the best description he could think of was that it rippled. In the wake of the motion, freckled disappeared and skin darkened. He conjured a mirror, and was both satisfied and slightly surprised to see a completely unrecognizable face looking back at him. It must be him -- he watched it quirk and eyebrow and grin just as he felt himself doing. The Glamour Potion he and George had been working on had changed more than the eye and hair color a traditional glamour altered: in addition to the blue eyes and light brown hair, his lips were thinner and his cheekbones higher; the collar of his shirt was loose at his neck, and the fingers holding his wander longer, narrower, and uncallused.
He was making faces, fascinated by the difference in expression when he moved his muscles in what should be familiar configurations, when the floo sputtered and Lee's voice interrupted.
"Oi, George! Fred? Oh, hey, you the new clerk?" Was Fred imagining it, or was Lee's glance up and down his body assessing?
Taking his silence for agreement, Lee continued, "George around?"
"N-no. He went to fetch a shipment from teh apothecary." Fred tried to sound natural, not stilted and surprised by the sound of a stranger's voice comingfrom his throat.
"Fred?"
"He's--out."
Lee heaved a put-upon sigh. "Do me a favor? Tell George I can't meet him at Dorian's tonight. Higgs finally returned my owl. I'll see him next week, though."
"No Dorian's. Next week. Right."
Lee nodded. He was gone in a sputter of green flame before Fred could wrap his vocal chords around a farewell.
There's probably more, but some is almost finished, some is collaborative, and one is an exchange fic. So. Tell me what should get worked on, where you think they should go.
