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Entry tags:
WIP meme
Please note that I actually have at least three times this many fics in the murky pit of despair that is my 'Fannish WIP' folder (and we won't even get STARTED on my original pieces), but these are the ones I actively intend to finish.
The one I started writing after 'Small Worlds' aired and which is now AU in at least five different ways:
“Jack, Rose, Jack, Rose,” the man addressed as Ricky muttered. “Christ, it’s the bleeding Titanic. Next thing you know he’ll be drawing her naked.”
“I don’t know that drawing is the first activity I’d have thought of,” Gwen said, eyeing them.
He snorted. “Yeah, I s’pose not.”
“Gwen Cooper,” Gwen said, holding out her hand. “Ricky, was it?”
“Well actually, it’s Mickey, but I pretty much answer to both by now.” He gave a rueful smile and shook her hand. “I think Jack was just saying that to, uh, well, take the mickey.”
Gwen laughed before she could stop herself, and then put the back of her hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”
Jack and Rose pulled apart and, as Gwen watched, adopted identical expressions that made Gwen’s chest tighten without her really knowing why. It was a hungry expression; hungry and sudden.
“Is he with – ?” they said in perfect, hurried unison.
Jack was the first to break the awkward silence that resulted. He laughed. It didn’t sound a lot like Jack’s laugh. “I guess not,” he said.
The one whose premise I love more than anything else in the entire world, but which will end up having an appreciative audience of maybe two people:
“Is it the age thing?” Shyanne demands. “It’s the age thing, isn’t it?” She slumps back in her chair and looks, ironically, even more like a sullen teenager. “Nobody wants to believe that Steve and I will work. That we’re in love.”
Carol sighs and looks down at her notes, improbably aware that Tony is making urgent hand motions at her from behind the one-way glass.
The one which was meant to be Brynn's birthday present and which is currently in an excruciating plotless limbo:
Ray groaned and tried very hard to bury his head under his own arms. "It's too early," he moaned. "Of course I don't make any sense. Vecchio, coffee. Stat."
"Sure, Kowalski," and he could just hear the fucking grin in the guy's voice, all chirpy and drawling. Vecchios were morning people. Ray remembered staying with the screaming hordes last Christmas: a hellish experiment in being awoken at some ungodly hour by Italian curses being hollered good-naturedly across the hallway and children shrieking with excitement, never mind the fact that the whole damn lot of them had gotten back from the midnight Mass in the tiny morning hours. "I'll just take my hands off the wheel and fiddle with this little cappuccino machine that's built into the dashboard –"
"Wiseass," Ray muttered into the inside of his elbow, attempting to find a comfortable medium between his own shoulder bones trying to shish-kebab him and a reclining position that he suspected was actually illegal while the car was moving. Fraser would know. "Hey, Frase –"
"Espresso, Ray?"
Hallelujah, hallelujah, they were at a drivethrough something-or-other. Big signs. Green? Starbucks. "Yes," Ray said fervently, unwinding himself from his seatbelt. "Yes, yes, coffee, yes."
The ridiculously overambitious Good Omens prequel that is actually mostly done, just in need of DRASTIC chronological reshuffling and the insertion of a few key scenes:
The sun's progress through the sky was uneven and jerky, bespeaking a few cosmological kinks still in need of ironing out; sometimes it would be high noon for hours at a time, and sometimes the shadows it cast could be seen to visibly creep across the ground. To Crawly's great disgust, it had recently managed to find the only cloud in the sky and was now lingering stubbornly behind it.
"Good grief," came a voice from somewhere above him, although that wasn't saying much. The only things that now weren't 'somewhere above him' were, for the most part, rodents and bugs. Crawly lifted his head and blinked the angel into focus; he was scowling at the dust that streaked his robe with an irritation that exactly matched that of the demon's own.
"Tell me about it," Crawly said.
Aziraphale looked down sharply, eyes narrowing, but Crawly watched in near-amusement as the angel's ingrained concern for all other beings pushed the words "What's the matter?" out of his mouth before his brain could catch up.
"I'm cold," Crawly said miserably, wishing that his disguise had been one with a slightly better internal heating system. "Ssstupid cloud."
"You're...from Down Below, aren't you?" He had, Crawly saw now, quite an impressive amount of fire licking up and down his sword. The demon was struck with the conflicting urges to crawl out of chopping range and to curl himself into a blissfully warm knot in close proximity to the flames.
The fic I'm writing for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hpmugglestudies, which is currently this tiny extract and a whole lot of semi-coherent dot points:
"Did you ever think about, you know."
She knows. She knows exactly where she could peel back the skin and puncture the arteries and bleed dry with maximum efficiency, no pain, just professionalism. It's not the wrists; besides, she hates affectation.
"Yes," she says, and then, with scrupulous Ravenclaw honesty, "but never seriously."
The sequel to No Sleepers Must Sleep, currently on hold until my ability to write Lucy returns:
"You could," he says. "You could be the hero who killed the Master" – but his thin mouth says exactly what he thinks of that kind of hero, and the redness of his eyes tells her that she wasn’t the only one who loved Harry. Just, a small voice inside her says, the only one whose love wasn't selfish.
She says, "Suicide. We...that should be the story. He was mad. It was suicide."
"Was it indeed?" the Doctor says softly, and she stands there and lets his impossible eyes probe her. Part of her wants to admit yes, yes, he would rather have died than let you change him, but part of her is just sick of people hurting, and she knows that he is only containing his pain by denying it to himself. Which is a technique that Lucy recognises.
So she stays silent, and eventually he sighs and touches her gently on the arm.
"You can start a new life," he says. "Nobody will know that you weren't just as fooled as the rest of the country."
"Except me," she says.
He nods: implacable, understanding, devoid of pity. "Except you."
The fic that Ji tricked me into writing by promising illustrations, currently a hugely messy document full of hasty reminders and lyrics by The National:
"Get rid of it," Crowley says, shaking. "All of it. Please."
Raguel gives half a smile and says, "That's not really a precedent I want to set."
The fact remains that Raguel is, sometimes, tempted to just wipe everything clean. All of their histories. All of their brief contacts and tempestuous resentments. But this is one barrel that he cannot fit into his own mouth; it would be left to him to carry the weight of every memory, and he is not prepared to shoulder that for their sakes.
The one I started writing after 'Small Worlds' aired and which is now AU in at least five different ways:
“Jack, Rose, Jack, Rose,” the man addressed as Ricky muttered. “Christ, it’s the bleeding Titanic. Next thing you know he’ll be drawing her naked.”
“I don’t know that drawing is the first activity I’d have thought of,” Gwen said, eyeing them.
He snorted. “Yeah, I s’pose not.”
“Gwen Cooper,” Gwen said, holding out her hand. “Ricky, was it?”
“Well actually, it’s Mickey, but I pretty much answer to both by now.” He gave a rueful smile and shook her hand. “I think Jack was just saying that to, uh, well, take the mickey.”
Gwen laughed before she could stop herself, and then put the back of her hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”
Jack and Rose pulled apart and, as Gwen watched, adopted identical expressions that made Gwen’s chest tighten without her really knowing why. It was a hungry expression; hungry and sudden.
“Is he with – ?” they said in perfect, hurried unison.
Jack was the first to break the awkward silence that resulted. He laughed. It didn’t sound a lot like Jack’s laugh. “I guess not,” he said.
The one whose premise I love more than anything else in the entire world, but which will end up having an appreciative audience of maybe two people:
“Is it the age thing?” Shyanne demands. “It’s the age thing, isn’t it?” She slumps back in her chair and looks, ironically, even more like a sullen teenager. “Nobody wants to believe that Steve and I will work. That we’re in love.”
Carol sighs and looks down at her notes, improbably aware that Tony is making urgent hand motions at her from behind the one-way glass.
The one which was meant to be Brynn's birthday present and which is currently in an excruciating plotless limbo:
Ray groaned and tried very hard to bury his head under his own arms. "It's too early," he moaned. "Of course I don't make any sense. Vecchio, coffee. Stat."
"Sure, Kowalski," and he could just hear the fucking grin in the guy's voice, all chirpy and drawling. Vecchios were morning people. Ray remembered staying with the screaming hordes last Christmas: a hellish experiment in being awoken at some ungodly hour by Italian curses being hollered good-naturedly across the hallway and children shrieking with excitement, never mind the fact that the whole damn lot of them had gotten back from the midnight Mass in the tiny morning hours. "I'll just take my hands off the wheel and fiddle with this little cappuccino machine that's built into the dashboard –"
"Wiseass," Ray muttered into the inside of his elbow, attempting to find a comfortable medium between his own shoulder bones trying to shish-kebab him and a reclining position that he suspected was actually illegal while the car was moving. Fraser would know. "Hey, Frase –"
"Espresso, Ray?"
Hallelujah, hallelujah, they were at a drivethrough something-or-other. Big signs. Green? Starbucks. "Yes," Ray said fervently, unwinding himself from his seatbelt. "Yes, yes, coffee, yes."
The ridiculously overambitious Good Omens prequel that is actually mostly done, just in need of DRASTIC chronological reshuffling and the insertion of a few key scenes:
The sun's progress through the sky was uneven and jerky, bespeaking a few cosmological kinks still in need of ironing out; sometimes it would be high noon for hours at a time, and sometimes the shadows it cast could be seen to visibly creep across the ground. To Crawly's great disgust, it had recently managed to find the only cloud in the sky and was now lingering stubbornly behind it.
"Good grief," came a voice from somewhere above him, although that wasn't saying much. The only things that now weren't 'somewhere above him' were, for the most part, rodents and bugs. Crawly lifted his head and blinked the angel into focus; he was scowling at the dust that streaked his robe with an irritation that exactly matched that of the demon's own.
"Tell me about it," Crawly said.
Aziraphale looked down sharply, eyes narrowing, but Crawly watched in near-amusement as the angel's ingrained concern for all other beings pushed the words "What's the matter?" out of his mouth before his brain could catch up.
"I'm cold," Crawly said miserably, wishing that his disguise had been one with a slightly better internal heating system. "Ssstupid cloud."
"You're...from Down Below, aren't you?" He had, Crawly saw now, quite an impressive amount of fire licking up and down his sword. The demon was struck with the conflicting urges to crawl out of chopping range and to curl himself into a blissfully warm knot in close proximity to the flames.
The fic I'm writing for
hpmugglestudies, which is currently this tiny extract and a whole lot of semi-coherent dot points:"Did you ever think about, you know."
She knows. She knows exactly where she could peel back the skin and puncture the arteries and bleed dry with maximum efficiency, no pain, just professionalism. It's not the wrists; besides, she hates affectation.
"Yes," she says, and then, with scrupulous Ravenclaw honesty, "but never seriously."
The sequel to No Sleepers Must Sleep, currently on hold until my ability to write Lucy returns:
"You could," he says. "You could be the hero who killed the Master" – but his thin mouth says exactly what he thinks of that kind of hero, and the redness of his eyes tells her that she wasn’t the only one who loved Harry. Just, a small voice inside her says, the only one whose love wasn't selfish.
She says, "Suicide. We...that should be the story. He was mad. It was suicide."
"Was it indeed?" the Doctor says softly, and she stands there and lets his impossible eyes probe her. Part of her wants to admit yes, yes, he would rather have died than let you change him, but part of her is just sick of people hurting, and she knows that he is only containing his pain by denying it to himself. Which is a technique that Lucy recognises.
So she stays silent, and eventually he sighs and touches her gently on the arm.
"You can start a new life," he says. "Nobody will know that you weren't just as fooled as the rest of the country."
"Except me," she says.
He nods: implacable, understanding, devoid of pity. "Except you."
The fic that Ji tricked me into writing by promising illustrations, currently a hugely messy document full of hasty reminders and lyrics by The National:
"Get rid of it," Crowley says, shaking. "All of it. Please."
Raguel gives half a smile and says, "That's not really a precedent I want to set."
The fact remains that Raguel is, sometimes, tempted to just wipe everything clean. All of their histories. All of their brief contacts and tempestuous resentments. But this is one barrel that he cannot fit into his own mouth; it would be left to him to carry the weight of every memory, and he is not prepared to shoulder that for their sakes.
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You should both watch it. Everyone in the world should watch it. Preferably more than once. There's also some travesty of an American version coming out soon, which I am fully planning to badmouth to the heavens because it has somebody from DAYS OF OUR LIVES playing David Tennant's role and so it is probably irredeemable.
*grumps*
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Especially, I will admit, the ones in the fandoms I know. *grin* Which is everything there except Blackpool and dS, I think, and Due South I know at least something of by fandom osmosis.