WIP VENTING POST

[fahye]

In my experience, there's nothing like a) sharing your frustrations and b) showing off your tiny successes to get you motivated to finish a fic. So: this post is for everyone who is currently in the middle of a fic. (Or even many fics!) I know there are a lot of you out there.

Don't care which fandom, don't care how long or how silly or how unpolished it is, don't care if you've just started or are almost done: this is a post for you to tell me what you love about it so far, or the stupid block that you've hit, or why the premise is hopelessly on crack, or how your characters are misbehaving little twerps who just won't stop talking.

Post a snippet! Post the bit you're most proud of, or an illustration of your complaints, or the bit that makes you giggle whenever you scroll past it.


(1)

Somehow the space in her office is bent all out of shape; something about the way Sweets leans his elbow on the arm of the chair and tilts his head to the side makes it seem as though she is on the wrong side of the desk. She itches to stand up and do something: flick through one of her books, perhaps, or adjust the angle of a lamp, though she has no idea why she should want to do this.

I love this fic's premise A LOT but it has no plot, and unfortunately all the gaps that have been left in between the therapy sessions and the kissing and Brennan's awesomely retarded emotional processing...are gaps where plot needs to be. THIS IS AN OBSTACLE.

(2)

Even in a chronic state of alert and surrounded by devastation, Sasuke gives off the impression that he'd rather be breathing the air on a higher plane.

"But you're walking in the dirt," Naruto says aloud. "Just like the rest of us."

There is a very small break in the rhythm of Sasuke's steps, barely noticeable, and Naruto chuckles to himself.

I like this fic a lot more than I expected to -- no, that is a lie, I always knew that I would love writing anything apocalyptic -- maybe I like the character portrayals more than I expected to. Current major obstacles include the dastardly proliferation of semicolons (it's, like, breeding season or something for the little buggers) and the fact that I find myself suddenly unable to get a hold on two of my major POV characters, DESPITE THE FACT that I have already written half an epic in the voice of one, and a shorter fic in the voice of the other.

~

Your turn! Share. It's good for the soul. And feel free to give each other tips on managing unruly characters or gathering the nerve to delete unnecessary scenes, or just leap on someone's snippet and exclaim I LOVE IT OMG WRITE MORE!!!!1 in the worst ff.net way, because in the right context (read: not ff.net) that can be enormously helpful :D

Comments

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

In no particular order ...


(1)

The first Christmas after he leaves the service, Tom Quinn sits in the flat that he leased in his own name and watches the lights latticed up the sides of his only window flash: blue, red, yellow, green. The primary colors plus one.

(2)

As soon as she considered it possible, Alice's mother returned to work, and she was left five times a week in the capable hands of her grandmother. Her grandmother, who lived in a corner of the city, near the park, did not speak English very well. She cradled Alice in strange syllables: round, discrete, little bubbles of sound. Alice stretched her mouth up at her grandmother's fallen face; she tasted salt on the fog that crawled in at the window. For long weeks her eyes were a delicate robin's egg blue, as if rolled by a cuckoo from the nest into foreign sockets. Each gave sometimes the appearance of movement independent of the other. As with most disturbing traits in infants, this was considered normal; she pulled at the empty sky with fingers like earthworms, and waited, anxious, for the world to fall down into her reach.

(3)

Thom experiments. He casts a bodydouble -- or triple? -- into Court, cloaked in an invisibility spell that will appear hasty, and watches it from his rooms, in a glass. After some hours a mage undoes the cover and says, "Dear me. Has the Lord Thom condescended to spy on lesser mortals?"

The mage's face is ugly with triumph. The bodydouble looks at him calmly. In Thom's voice, it says, "Well, for a fee, of course."

It bows to the mage, to the small crowd around them, and leaves. Thom watches it proceed through the corridors and opens the last door by hand, lets the thing in. He lets go the illusion of substance and touches what's left with idle curiosity. His fingers puncture the image: no resistance.

(4)

The only common fantasy between them being British, they call the flat Cair Paravel in the end. Ada smuggles home a bottle of reasonable claret and -- reasonably -- they smash a glass of it against the boarded-up window before drinking the rest. It's been long enough since they had alcohol that this is sufficient to make them tipsy.

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

Method of choosing: these are excerpts I am not humiliated unto death to let other people see.

(1) I was going to write this while listening to "Sister Winter" on repeat as we had agreed, on the plane home for winter break, but then I realized that it would be very very depressing. I thought I would be all right with this. However I had a vision of anonymous someones shrieking at me and suppressed Tom Quinn's total neurosis. I don't know much beyond these lines except he is absolutely alone and a little insane.

(2) Fahye knows what this is already.

(3) I once promised to write the definitive story of Roger/Thom, according to me. If I ever finish, it will be a surprise. This is one of the newest bits. It is from January. That should give you some idea.

(4) I have no comments ... Fahye?

[ariastar.livejournal.com]

Basically everything in your definitive Thom/Roger has so far filled me with joy, which is obviously less than helpful; on the other hand, I can tell you that a bodydouble -- or triple? was clever in the best possible way and if that small parenthetical question ever vanishes my heart will be forever broken.

PRESS GANGED.

[liminalliz.livejournal.com]

(1) SCC

The man circles them, his eyes wild. “I’m insane? You people are insane. You’re the great leaders of the human race and you’re fucked in the head. It’s not just that you keep sending people back, dividing families and decreasing our numbers. It’s not just that you run our lives, telling us when to breathe, when to eat, what to do. You’re infatuated with the enemy. It’s sick, Connor. You keep infiltrating our ranks with your science projects, your beloved pets – reprogrammed metal that mess with your head. They look like us, Connor, but they’re not us. And so many of them, so many of them have gone wrong. You ask us to believe in what you’re doing and we follow you blindly because you’re both so damn good at convincing people to follow you blindly. You’re worse than the machine. You deserve to die.”

John takes this in, his worst fears realized.

Kate replies, “So in the future, we suck, I get it.”


(2) SGA

"I have news," Michael says, sitting cross from her and pouring the tea. "Of another member of your team."

"Dead?" Teyla asks.

He hands her a cup. "Yes."

He's impressed with her as she makes no obvious reaction, not even a blink. (He remembers her tears, sobs and curses at the death of John Sheppard, but that was years ago and so shortly after the birth of his son.)

"Who was it, Michael?" she asks, showing mild interest.

"Colonel Samantha Carter. She died very bravely, I hear. TOok out three of my ships in the process."

"Ah."

He enters her mind now, curious for a reaction. She stares at him innocently. And he realizes: She already knew.


(3) Moonlight

Three weeks later, she escapes into the night and smells something, someone AO negative nearby. She aches for it, a gnawing sensation in her belly and a quickening in her slow beating heart. Mick told her the hunger would be severe, something she would have to learn to control. Her tongue slides along her lower lip and she decides to ignore her lessons, intoxicated by the scent.

Beth finds him, a child of twelve on a bench outside of a library, waiting patiently with his arms around his knees.

He smiles at her when she approaches (she is so very pretty after all), and she smiles back.

*

She's never felt so full, so alive, so satisfied.

Re: PRESS GANGED.

[liminalliz.livejournal.com]

(4) Tin Man

"You're a woman, alright," Glitch says, bumping her shoulder with his own. His tone is low so that their companions can't hear. "And you've fallen for the oldest trick in the book: unabashed, unrestrained masculinity. I'm ashamed of you." He laughs and presses his finger against her nose.

"Quiet," she says sharply, and then more kindly: "Please."

"Be patient with him," he says quieter. "There's not much left in that heart of his, just a rusted old ticker that refuses to keep time."

She leans against him, enjoying that strange sensation of familiarity about him. "He's a good man," she says.

"A good man, and true," he replies.


(4b) Tin Man

Days become weeks and she finds her captivity very tiresome. They keep her in darkness, letting her out only at night. The drugs keep her sedate and too unfocused to use magic, but she has wits enough to make conversation with Zero, testing the tenuous hold he has on his sanity.

(She always had wondered how the tin suit would work on a weaker man than Cain, and now she knows.)

"I miss the sunlight," she tells him, plaintively. "I'm so cold."

He watches her with hungry eyes. “You are the master of escape, princess. Don’t think I don’t know you." His fingers caress the curve of the silver locket around his neck.

The nepenthe flowing through her veins slow her speech but she concentrates on each word: "What would my sister say if she knew her general betrayed her?" she whispers, gesturing to locket, knowing it to be hers. "What would you have done to the man who betrayed Azakadellia?"

He shudders at the name, the memory, and looks away.


(5) Tin Man

His cage rattles from the outside and the iron door holding him in noisily moves. A sudden draft of cool, night air whispers across his skin and he can smell a wooded forest.

Something, someone, touches his cheek – soft fingers sliding along the dirty stubble and dried tears mingled with sweat. He can barely see who it is, but with an intake of fresh air, he knows her and feels overwhelmed with shame.

"I failed you, sorceress,” he says – voice hoarse from the screaming, and then days of saying nothing at all. He does not expect clemency.



(6) Foyle's War

Sam led with her leg – (she had mentioned in the car that all the low class dames in Hollywood films lead with the leg) – and followed through with a shake of her hip, a sly smile and the curl of her hair. He could only follow her, helplessly sucked into the role of the aloof sugar daddy.

With his hand at the small of her back, he surveyed the rough crowd, looking for any familiar ruffian face.

"Oy, no ladies allowed in here!" said a gruff voice from the center of the group.

With eyes all madness and too much drink, Sam laughed and seemed to draw the attention of every man in the room. "I'd leave him outside if you like, sir, but he happens to be carrying my money." A pout grew on her lips and he felt the room get ten degrees warmer. "I just have a devilish wish for a gamble or two tonight."


(7) Angel

There are creatures in this place, Wesley finds, put there by the great god-king who enjoyed petty torments and mass destruction. They avoid him. And call him marked.

He enjoys the vague semblance of persecution in this holy place, it comforts him in the familiarity.

Re: PRESS GANGED.

[sainfoin-fields.livejournal.com]

FINISH THAT SCC FIC THIS INSTANT, YOUNG LADY.

[liminalliz.livejournal.com]

OY. I WANT YOUR BONES FICS LIKE CRAZY. I AM A FAHYE-FIC JUNKIE AND I WANT I WANT I WANT!!!!!!!!!!!11

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I WANT YOUR TEYLA/MICHAEL BECAUSE IT IS SO CRAZILY PERFECTLY EVIL.

& once again I wish I watched both SCC and Tin Man.

[girl-wonder.livejournal.com]

1:

It was a tragic house, and the real estate said that she was required by law to say, but really it wasn't a big deal, and it was such a lovely house, but once upon a time someone died in the sitting room and once upon a time, their daughter killed themselves in the bathroom upstairs.

"Bathroom?" Jo asked.

"Well, bathtub," the real estate agent said.

2:

It was a bright day, the type of day that made Dean wish their hotel had a pool, even though he hated swimming. Pulling sunglasses out of his pocket, Dean looked over at Sam.

"Little harsh on Marc," he said.

"He's a Satanist, Dean," Sam said, frowning a little.

Dean shrugged, "Nobody's perfect."

The Impala gleamed and Den ran his fingers over her hood before settling into the driver's seat. Sam tossed his bag in the back before sitting next to Dean. Something in the set of his shoulders reminded Dean that he hadn't taken his gun out of his jacket.

"The Colt's a little much for some guy that might have been a Satanist," Dean commented. "A little bit of overkill."

"What if it'd been Lillith playing a trick?" Sam asked, and took out the gun, put it into the glove.

"She doesn't seem like the type to pull this sort of thing," Dean commented.

Starting the Impala, listening to her catch, he snorted, "I mean, you remember the motel in Butte-"

"She razed it to the ground, Dean," Sam said. "I think that I have a right to take fucking precautions."


3:
"Hey," Sheppard said. He nodded at Ronon, a familiar greeting. "Sorry you got stuck."

Ronon shrugged, it wasn't Sheppard's fault. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and smiled at Teyla, her grin wider than Sheppard's but no less honest.

"Ronon," Teyla said. "I am relieved you are home safely."

For the past few days, he'd been comparing how Jones interacted with the survivors, the way she talked to them all as though she knew what was best. In the evenings, when she allowed herself a few moments to sleep she reminded Ronon of Teyla, weighted down with leadership.

"How did you get home?" Rodney asked, finally coming down from the control center, a scanner in hand. "This couldn't fit that many people."

Sheppard coughed pointedly.

"Yes, yes, good to see you," Rodney said. "Did it feel like a wormhole?"

"He was concerned while you were trapped on the planet," Teyla assured Ronon. "Were you alright?"

[girl-wonder.livejournal.com]

1: This is about Jo being... upset after nearly being raped by Sam. Because I think that's she really independent now, but she's also really human and really young - a lot younger than the Winchesters. So, she buys a house and it's haunted.

2: Um. Big Bang. That's all I got. It's going to be about what it means to kill evil and how you live with the very gray definitions of it.

3: I decided to try switching some of the viewpoint on the Martha in Atlantis sequel and it's working out. Except that I have to work hard to keep Ronon's voice. Martha and Ten are still doing their awesome buddy thing and breaking Rodney's worldview.

SIGH

[sainfoin-fields.livejournal.com]

Pushing Daisies (I was feeling this story had no real idea behind it, which is why I stopped, and after talking it out with Rawles the other day I feel better on that score, but it's currently on pause because I feel kind of terrible about the way Olive is treated by the story and I'm sick enough about women in other fiction that mistreating one in my own story isn't really palatable.)

It was Olive, sneaking into Chuck’s bed with her. Chuck emitted a tiny giggle. “Don’t wake Ned,” she warned, soft and conspiratorial, and Ned felt his entire body stiffen. He couldn’t let them know he was watching. He let his eyelids droop, tried to simulate the heavy breathing of deep slumber. Through the tiny slit that framed his field of vision, he thought he saw Olive turning her head and scrutinize him, and he wondered what she could see of him in the relative dark, but it mustn’t have been much.

“Dead to the world,” she reassured Chuck. “Hey - hey. What’s that?”

The next several minutes were lost to his comprehension, just susurrant breaths and soft-spoken strings of words he could never make out, curls of brief laughter pealing out before one or the other shushed her partner to near-silence. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Chuck and Olive, so distracted, seemed to dismiss his possibly waking up as a threat. He no longer existed as far as they were concerned, and when Olive sat up on the far side of Chuck from Ned, leaned over, and kissed her lingeringly, he knew she had no idea that he was watching her do it.


SCC (doubting my time-travel mechanics, worrying that somebody else has already written it better)

It comes to him on the 405, on a ten-lane loop in the system of concrete veins that ties Los Angeles in retrofitted arterial knots. That is, it comes to everyone at the same time - the apocalypse is gentle in this way - but there is a mushroom cloud rising above the exhaust, below the smog, and in his car John feels an unsurprising thermonuclear invitation. Hello, it says, come with me, it says. I’ve waited so long to meet you.



The Office (this isn't really a WIP, and has no story attached, it's just an example of the random snippets I write when I'm trying to get my motor running. I haven't even fixed the wonky tenses!)

The phone would have rung at three, maybe four in the morning, and startled Jim into wakefulness he didn't realize he'd lost. Here he thought he'd never sleep again and already he was napping his heartbreak away.

How embarrassing it would be.

"I'm in love with you too," she'd gurgle, sounding choked and anything but loving. "Me too."

He wanted to say, "What?" He wanted to cry. (More.) He wanted to hold her again and kiss her again but here it was, this unimaginable moment plucked straight out of his dream life, but he was still half-asleep and so confused and he could hear Pam snuffling miserably, and he just lay back and shook at his head at the ceiling, the phone curling by his jaw until either is ready to speak again.

Re: SIGH

[fahye.livejournal.com]

the apocalypse is gentle in this way

!!!! Okay, that's it, SCC is being downloaded as soon as I get home.

[areyoumymemmy.livejournal.com]

So I started writing this because of a single joke I wanted to make, and I have two pages written if unbeta'd, and then I stalled out in a combination of lack of time and paralyzing self-doubt about whether Yet Another SGA AU was necessary:

1) “This is an insult. It’s a massive, monumental insult to my massive and monumental intelligence,” Rodney snapped, stomping out of the assignment meeting.

“It is cover story, Rodney,” Zelenka said in a soothing tone.

“Which, by the way, only makes it more insulting because no self-respecting journalist would ever decide that a male model was worthy of a cover story. This is ridiculous! No one has ever won a Pulitizer Prize writing about a man who ‘does his little turn on the catwalk.’ I can’t believe my investigative skills and mastery of the English language are being wasted on some idiot who’s probably only marginally smarter than his hair gel.”

“Perhaps you are jealous that he still has hair to gel?” Zelenka suggested, abandoning the soothing tone as they reached their desks.

Rodney glared, tossing the story file down disdainfully. A few glossy headshots spilled out. He picked one up, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Please, I’d rather have a manly cropped cut than completely vertical hair.”

At second glance, Rodney was forced to admit that the eyes weren’t bad, but he wasn’t saying that to Zelenka.

“And what kind of a name is John Sheppardlander anyway?”

[fahye.livejournal.com]

HAHAHAHA OH EMMY <3333 NEVER CHANGE.

[littledust.livejournal.com]

(SPN, Jo-centric)

You go out when you can and practice with your daddy's knives. You can't go as often as you like because Mommy keeps an eye on you, keeps buying you school supplies with unicorns on them. You repeat a hunter's story about a unicorn in France goring five people before somebody put the thing out of its misery. Secretly you think you could do that. Maybe not kill a unicorn, but go around putting people out of their misery, hunting just like your daddy. It's something to keep you going when you miss your target nine times out of ten, something to keep you going until it drops to eight, then seven, then four.

Mommy catches you, of course, but she doesn't say anything at first, just goes sad and quiet like she's been more and more lately. "Joanna Beth, you better be careful with those. I don't want any dead squirrels on my conscience."


(HP, Ginny/Tom)

She counts her freckles each as a point of pressure which may cause her to fly to pieces when tapped in the correct way. These little orange circles of seeming innocence are thick on her shoulders, her nose, her cheeks, her left knee but not her right. But counting these, counting out the rest of her remaining days in the patterns on her body--these prevent her from seeing the shadow in the mirror, the handsome danger whose smile knifes out in the darkness when it is late and her gaze falls inevitably upon the mirror hanging on the wall.


(Heroes, Elle-centric)

Unlike the doctors, who practice some sort of living, you practice death. You practice it upon insects at first, acting as a glorified bug zapper. (If that's what they're called; you have trouble remembering the outside world. You have trouble remembering a lot of things--but no more of that.) You love making your father and the doctors happy. You love the delicate unfolding of lightning from the palm of your hand, right where the scar is. You grow to love the destruction for its own sake, to beam at the way things jerk for a few moments after they die.

"Daddy, when do I get to practice on people?"

The question catches him off-guard, deep in conference with Mr. Bennet. He stammers and looks strange before he starts looking like Daddy-at-work again, all reasonable tones and important decisions. "You're not going to practice hurting anyone, Elle. You might have to use your powers on missions in the future, but we don't hurt people on purpose unless they need it." He taps your nose. "Understand?"

You scrunch your face in disdain, trying to find words to say that everyone needs pain to know who they are. And if the pain of knowing who you are is too much, well, better to die.

[liminalliz.livejournal.com]

GINNY/TOM OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 <333333333

[nuit-belle.livejournal.com]

Fahye, I think this is the best idea ever. I love seeing what other people are working on.

1. Alias AU S3

“Fuck you,” Weiss said. “Things always came so easily for you. You never understood what it was like for the rest of us, to have to work hard. To sweat for it. I always thought you were lucky. But now that I know, the thing I should have been asking myself was why. Why you were the top of the class, why languages were always a breeze for you. Don’t you agree, Andre?”


2. The Pretender/Prison Break

Approximately one hour after the Fox River Eight escape, Jarod steals six million dollars from the Centre. Miss Parker gets called in to the Centre at a ridiculously early time – the sun only set a few hours ago – and she curses Jarod as she drives through the gates. Curses Lyle and Mr. Raines as well.

Once inside, she considers giving Lyle a piece of her mind for making her get up in the middle of the night when there hasn’t been a confirmed Jarod sighting. But it’s far more enjoyable for her to see just how panicked Lyle looks.

Mr. Raines has a better poker face, but even he can’t hide the fact that he’s worried.

Something big is going on, something more than just money.


3. Alias AU S5

Sydney knew that Isabelle was in no danger of growing up without father figures, but Tom was the only one who didn’t spoil her.

* * *

Isabelle had stopped crying. Sydney’s spider sense tingled, apparently at the same time that Tom’s did, and they both ran towards the nursery.

Tom had been on the couch and he got there quicker. Sydney turned around the corner and stopped in the doorway of the nursery: Tom had pulled out his gun and was pointing it at her mother, who was cradling Isabelle in her arms.


4. Outlander

For all that she has a glass face, there are times when Frank looks at Claire and he has no idea what is passing through her brain; he can’t read her.


5. Doctor Who/Torchwood

“There was a time,” Jack said, lifting his champagne glass, “when everyone left on Earth knew Martha Jones’s name. And she used that to save the world. To Martha Jones.”

“To Martha,” Tish and Toshiko echoed, as they all clinked their glasses together over the centre of the table.

[pathstotread.livejournal.com]

Oooh, Outlander fic!

[tammaiya.livejournal.com]

Um, okay, this is kind of hard since I have a HEAP of WiPs and it's hard to decide which ones are actually in PROGRESS, because at the moment I'm only actually writing the first two of these, but I went with the ones which I've recently devoted thought to the plot of. (That have anything written on them, at least.)

1. Final Fantasy IV, it's saved on my computer as "badtouch fic"

“I want you to talk to me,” Cecil retorts, and his voice is low and level but there’s a hint of an edge there, the slow smoulder that lets Kain hear how frustrated his best friend is getting with him. “I need you to talk to me. Please.”

“Talk?” Kain echoes, and scoffs, wrapping his standoffish attitude around himself like a protective cloak. “About what, precisely?”

“Rosa said that Nii-san… that Golbez… that he…” Cecil trails off, the composure he’d been maintaining scattering to pieces as he trips and falls over the awkward ugliness hovering conspicuously between them, and Kain’s mouth twists with a contempt aimed mostly inwards. Cecil’s discomfort is almost palpable, and something inside of Kain boils over, guilt and shame and frustration and utter helplessness to remove himself from this situation twisting up inside him in a roiling contradiction of defensiveness and self-loathing. He knows that rationally speaking any censure he reads from Cecil is likely nothing more than projection, but rationality has very little to do with this mess.

Cecil says he wants to talk about it, but he can’t even say the words, and that feels a lot like condemnation from where Kain is standing.

2. Ace Attorney: Apollo Justice

“HEY, POLLY,” Trucy yelled over the music, “are you okay? You shouldn’t drink so much, you know! What will daddy say if he sees you like this?”

“He’ll be fine,” Klavier told her smoothly, laying on the charm and somehow managing to make himself heard over the noise without sounding like he was yelling. “But you should be getting home to your daddy, ja? I’ll pay for your taxi. Leave Herr Forehead to me, I’ll look after him.”

“Ob,” Apollo slurred loudly, wobbling when he made a flailing arm movement that was not so much the strident gesture he was looking for, “objeeeeeeeeeeshon!”

He could feel Klavier’s chest rumble against his back as the other man laughed and Trucy rolled her eyes, apparently not appreciating the complete sincerity of his objection. “Don’t be silly, Polly, Mr Klavier will take perfectly good care of you! I’m going now so daddy doesn’t worry— see you when the hangover wears off!”

3. due South, post-CotW fic

“… You mean you and Stella didn’t talk?” he hazarded after a moment.

“No, Ray.”

“Because Fraser, Stella is the only one I told. I didn’t tell nobody else and Stella ain’t the kinda girl to go blabbin’ that news to just anyone, so who the hell’ve you been talking to?” Ray demanded, giving him a weird look, and then, before Fraser could open his mouth, clapped once and snapped his fingers. “Vecchio! Vecchio, right, the real deal, he talk to you?”

“Ah, no, Ray, I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to tell Ray yet,” Fraser admitted. “As a matter of fact, I was led to believe that our relationship was now common knowledge—”

“Common what?! Where are you getting this from?” Ray demanded, feeling the stirrings of something that may have been a little like panic. “Did someone say something to you, Frase?”

“— although I do have to say, I was somewhat surprised that you would choose to inform Constable Turnbull and the Inspector of your own volition,” Fraser continued, perhaps a little bit frazzled, given the way he completely ignored Ray’s interruption. “It would have been rather uncharacteristic of you, given your dislike of Inspector Thatcher, but as I couldn’t see any other way in which they could have found out, I simply assumed…”

[tammaiya.livejournal.com]

4. X, or rather, boyband!X, my godzilla sized baby.

“Connection between Garden of Eden and Angels of the Sepulchre revealed!”, the headline announced, with quotes from the interview with Kotori below.

“Fuck,” Fuuma said, not feeling quite so sanguine about the revelation of his past as Seishirou apparently had, and Kotori winced.

“Sorry, Nii-chan,” she said meekly. “Should I have told them something else?”

Fuuma sighed. “No, fuck it. They asked you directly, it wasn’t like you could lie. Besides, they were going to find out sooner or later, it wasn’t exactly a state secret. Frankly I’m surprised it took this long, that’s pretty shitty investigative journalism skills, considering.”

5. Ouran/Torchwood, Jack flirting with Tamaki-- this is actually your miscellaneous-gift-fic-formerly-known-as-a-Christmas-present.

Jack Harkness was, apparently, an American here representing the Welsh branch of a European institution originally based in England, and he was speaking to Tamaki in French. From the way Tamaki was laughing and hanging on his every word like an overenthusiastic puppy, the effort was appreciated.

Jack was charming, flirtatious, handsome and funny, and it appeared from his warm, open grin that, whatever other ulterior motives he may have been harbouring, his interest in Tamaki was just as genuine as Tamaki’s in him.

Kyouya found that he rather loathed the man, in a subtle, understated kind of way.

6. WWII!TB/X -- another formerly-Christmas-fic.

“Only a fool would die for something they don’t believe in.”

“You don’t believe in the war?”

Seishirou smiled coolly. “I don’t believe in anything,” he said.

[tropes.livejournal.com]

I wrote one today!

From my au which uses Austen's Persuasion:

They nearly fall into the rickety elevator, and Rodney only just has enough presence of mind to close the gate and press his floor number, because he's got John draped all over him, snorting and giggling and whiskey-soaked, and he's not sure he's going to have the presence of mind to do much of anything if this continues. The elevator begins its ascent, and somehow Rodney finds himself mashed into a corner, John's head on his shoulder.

"Don' think it'd be a good idea to go back to base t'night," John mumbles, his breath tickling Rodney's collarbone. He's got one arm around Rodney's neck -- a remnant of Rodney being forced to literally haul John the eight or so blocks back to his place near Central Square from The Miracle of Science -- and the other arm snakes its way around Rodney's hips, John's fingertips curling at the small of his back. He shivers, and lets himself rest his head against John's for a second.

"Um," he creaks, only realizing that his eyes have shut when they fly open as the elevator dings them past the third floor. "I'm not giving up my futon, and considering your level of intoxication I think the best place for you to sleep is the bathtub."

"Rooooooodneeeeeeeeeey," John whines, and shifts against him. The elevator rumbles and dings past another floor. "Wasn' gonna make you sleep on the floor, smartypants." Rodney feels tendrils of want unfurl in his belly, the kind of want that's been a long time coming, months of movies and dinners and trips to museums that weren't really dates, but were something other than two guys hanging out.

He takes a shaky breath, says, "John." John, as loaded as he is, stills in his arms (in his arms) and turns his head the bare millimeter it takes for his nose to graze the tendon in Rodneys neck.

"Yes?" John asks, and he's not just responding to being called by name.

Somehow, Rodney's hand comes up to graze John's cheek, fingertips catching on the stubble of his jaw. "I-- just. Am I reading this wrong? I don't want to be reading this wrong, but if I am, I am gonna be so screwed in the morning, so screwed forever because you're the best friend I ever had, and if you are some kind of two beer queer who's going to wake up tomorrow and hate me for even this much, then I think you ought to just--" He breaks off, panting, because John's hand slipped under his button down and long-sleeved t-shirt to smooth up his side, and John lifted his face from Rodney's shoulder to look him in the eye, a little blearily, but steady.

"More like a no beer queer," John murmurs, a flush painting his face in shades of pink.

Rodney makes a noise he's never made before, somewhere between a moan and a growl, and bends to close the distance between their mouths.

DING goes the elevator, and "Jesus Christ," shudders to a stop, jolting the two together so that Rodney gets a mouthful of stubble and John gets an eyeful of nose. John starts to laugh, honking and snorting, and manhandles the gate open, grabbing Rodney's hand like it's the easiest thing in the world, like it's nothing, and somehow they're in Rodney's shitty studio and the futon isn't even made properly and there are papers and books and spare parts everywhere and if Rodney thought he was a lucky bastard in the elevator it was obviously because he's brain damaged from alcohol because no one has ever walked inside this space and wanted to stay--

And that's when John hauls him up against the closet door and takes his mouth in a messy, too-hard, drunken, glorious kiss that seems to go on for hours until Rodney's a twitching, shivering heap of nerve endings. When John pulls back to breathe, his hazel eyes are wide, shaken; when he lifts a hand to ghost over Rodney's jaw, Rodney can feel the answering tremors in John's fingers. And when Rodney slides his hands under John's plain black t-shirt to reveal miles of skin he's only dreamed of touching, he can see that every fiber of John's being is straining towards him, and suddenly everything seems to slot into place, to make sense.

Oh, yeah. Rodney is so screwed.

[tropes.livejournal.com]

I am bitching because I am SO BLOCKED this is the first thing I've written in like FIVE MONTHS. BLAH.

[pathstotread.livejournal.com]

The idea that I will ever finish any of these is laughable, but here we go.

1. DW/Torchwood

"What was your Doctor like?" she'd asked him once, after the rest of the team had left the hub for the evening. "Your first Doctor, I mean."

"Taller than yours, stockier, with ears that would have looked at home on an elephant." Jack chuckled, as if lost in a pleasant memory. "Close-cropped hair, beat-up leather jacket, Northern accent-"

"But-"

Jack held up a hand as if to ward off her next question. "Hey. Lots of planets have a North."

2. Prison Break

They round the corner near the decrepit ice machine and she nearly stumbles over a huddled mass on the ground, which she identifies as a man - unconscious or dead, she isn't given time to tell.

"Lincoln," she says waringly. A question, though she thinks she already knows the answer. The Lincoln she knows isn't capable of murder.

Lincoln shrugs. "He was following you. Come on." He reaches out, and she allows her hand to be encased in his. A glance back, and though she doesn't know the details, she knows - nothing about this is right.

3. One Tree Hill (I KNOW. WTF.)

It's when she's roaring down the highway in her car, the sky a brilliant display of stars overhead and the music from the speakers dueling with the roar of the wind, that she misses him the most.

Peyton doesn't pretend to understand it. This car should make her think of Lucas, who's fixed it too many times to count. And it does, when it breaks down and she's left on the side of the road, cursing the fact that both Scott brothers live on the other side of the country. When thunder starts to rumble, she smiles as she pulls the top up, thinking of Ellie, her blonde hair plastered to her face as she steered them through the driving rain. Brooke is the Spice Girls song on the radio that never fails to result in car dancing at stoplights. Haley is the jumble of CDs from singer/songwriter hopefuls strewn across the backseat. She's had this car for going on ten years, despite her dad's urging to buy something less resembling a death trap. There are memories here that can't be traded for a BMW.

But whether she's rounding the curve that leads into Tree Hill or cruising along the Pacific Coast Highway, it isn't long before Peyton starts wondering how long it would take to drive to Savannah if she started right now. Six hours from Tree Hill, she knows, but the distance from California to Georgia is too monumental to calculate in her head. Still, she lets her left hand hang over the edge of the car, flying it up and down on the wind, and figures if she just keeps driving, she'll get there sooner or later.

--

What frustrates me the most about these is that I love the IDEA of all of them. In my head, the first one is this Martha Jones character opus with Dr. Tom and Torchwood and Nine and Rose and...yeah. It's something I really want someone else to write, because I don't think I'm able to do it justice. And then the second is something I've been adding bits and pieces to for well over a year. It's a pretty cliched idea wherein Michael dies and Lincoln and Sara bond over their grief and eventually hook up, but I love what I have of it. I just don't know if I'll ever be able to finish it, and if I do finish it, if I even want to post it, because the Michael/Sara fandom would probably eat me alive.

[liminalliz.livejournal.com]

YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY TO THE FIRST ONE! *bounces*

[nextian.livejournal.com]

My personal favorite... In which Rodney is not entirely Rodney. XD

~

"The Master," the Doctor breathes. "My old enemy."

"No, you self-obsessed twat!" Rodney yells, throwing an Ancient device at his head that turns green and squawks on contact. "Not everything is about your battles through time with the man who dumped you!"

"Oh," says the Doctor, weakly. He frowns and looks around at the technology. "Agent of the Cybermen?"

Rodney gapes.

"No, sorry," the Doctor says, hurriedly, "'course not, how about the Daleks? Slitheen? You'll have to help me narrow it down--"

"Doctor," Rodney says, his face a beautiful shade of purple, "I think we're going to skip the maniacal rants this time. I think I'm just going to shoot you in the face."

[fahye.livejournal.com]

TURNS GREEN AND SQUAWKS. OH EMMA. THERE ARE TOO MANY THINGS I LOVE ABOUT THIS TO EVEN COUNT.

[agonistes]

Supernatural/Twin Peaks

Cooper has the thin, hollow look and the too-sharp glance of somebody who's seen more than anybody ought to, and the 'more' generally tends to constitute the kinds of things that constitute the raison d'être for John Q. Hunter. That implies that Cooper's a civilian, an average guy who got mixed up in something he shouldn't have.

"I knew your father," Cooper says, after a long, leisurely sip of coffee and a moment's silence. Roy Orbison is on the juke singing about stalking somebody in their dreams. "1991. He got me out of a tight spot."

"Yeah, we got that impression," Dean says. "Not too many places marked as demonic research corridors."

Cooper's gaze sharpens. "Those aren't your words."

Dean gives him a get-out-of-here look.

"Your brother's. Right?"

Sam's got the piece of paper with the number scrawled in Bobby Singer's hand. They're not Sam's words. "Let's say they are."

Cooper polishes off his coffee. "FBI. Counterintelligence for a number of years. Violent Crimes for more. Consulting with a group of former law enforcement officials, after that. And when that went south -- it coincided with the death of the former sheriff. His successor offered me this job." He rests his hands on the table, one on top of the other. "Most of us never see what's right on top of us, or all around us. Don't expect the Twin Peaks Sheriff's Department to be the same way. We owe too much to John Winchester not to try to help you. But people outside of Twin Peaks -- " He's shaking his head slowly. "They don't see this place for what it is."

Dean hates speeches.

He shifts on the vinyl seat. "So I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to ask what it is."

Cooper's glance sharpens, and he gets the kind of expression that the teachers he hated most got -- the one that says I'm smarter than you, and you're smarter than this. "It's a demonic research corridor. And it's not a secret."

--

Supernatural

God said to Abraham, Kill me a son.

-Bob Dylan

They're headed south out of Dubuque when Sam says that maybe they should call Bobby. Dean doesn't look away from the road as he inquires why they'd want to call him in, and Sam mentions the part where it's demons and it's stupid not to call Bobby when Bobby has the library, and Dean barks back that maybe it's not such a brilliant fucking move when Bobby's just going to trot out the same line about how all of these new demons can do the kind of shit people don't even have nightmares about because they can't imagine it (and by the way he, Dean Winchester, is getting sick of that line getting trotted left right and center) and until they have something real to go on that isn't headlines from FARK.com Bobby will sermonize until their cell phone batteries run out and then when Dean tosses Sam out of the car at sixty miles an hour for being a dumbass Sam won't be able to call Bobby for help as he seems so hell-bent on doing.

"Nice choice of words," Sam says, and says nothing else as Iowa streams by.

I only had one thing I wanted to post and I couldn't decide which one...

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

Original Fiction (piece 1)

Of all the photographs I take, I hate the ones of Thom the most. I can almost never capture him in them: he's too elusive, has too many colours that a camera can not capture. He moves too quickly and leaves only a blur. The camera only picks up a ghost of a trace of a pale imitation of him. I often find myself ripping up the photos, or when I feel this is not enough, burning them. I have to eradicate this thing that is not Thom. Other times though, other times I feel it captures him too well and I want to cry because of how naked and exposed he is. I feel as if I can see the muscles and organs working beneath his skin, showing me how he ticks and operates and how parts of him are broken and I can never fix them.

I try to capture him when he's sleeping, peaceful photos of a slumbering boy dreaming of something better than the life he has. The other photos are taken when he's painting, they are of him in his own world, moving among the endless colours and strokes and spills and inside it, beneath all the paint, there is a man that I don't know. A brilliant man much older than Thom who uses Thom's body as his own to create masterful works of art. Sometimes I think this is Thom's soul, captured in the lens of my camera and transported to paper.

Lately, I see this man less and less in my photos. Same with the slumbering boy. He's been replaced with nothing: an empty vacuum of space taking the form of man I sleep with and think I love.

Original Fiction (piece 2)

Every day Thom grows more distant, more hostile. I cant figure out what's wrong with him, why his mood keeps changing so drastically from day to day. One day he's fine and painting, the next he's angry and violent, collapsing on the floor and crying for what feels like hours as I just stand and watch helplessly.

When I came home today I thought something terrible had happened. The wall next to the door was splattered with what looked like blood but was in fact paint from the canister Thom had thrown in a fit of anger over god knows what. I stared at it for a moment and thought 'Did he finally do it? Am I free?' What kind of person am I to have these sorts of thoughts? I love Thom, I know I do, but some days I feel like I am suffocating. Like I'm being pulled under water by a heavy current and my lungs are filling with water and threatening to burst. Sometimes I want them to. I want them to explode and release me from this life I've some how come to live in. Sometimes I love him so much I don't know what I would do without him. Sometimes I know he doesn't feel the same way.

I found him in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest, covered in red paint. I sat down next to him. "Are you alright?" I asked. He doesn't respond; I ask again. Still no answer. The paint is in his hair and when I reach out to touch it he says, "Don't sit so close to me."

[miraielle.livejournal.com]

When Caspian sees three heads bobbing in the ocean, he allows himself to hope for just a moment, but he quickly realises that none of the hair is Peter’s. The first is too dark, the next too long, and the last too tightly curled.

It is that night, listening to Edmund’s even breathing and Eustace’s miserable moans, before he wonders at the fact that he knows what Peter’s hair should look like, even soaking wet and only half glimpsed through the ocean foam.

He comes to resent Eustace not because he’s a whinging, insufferable git, but because he feels, irrational though it may be, that Eustace has taken Peter’s place.

---

I know it's been two years since the first part went up, but... this is still bouncing madly around in my head. I just need to buckle down on it.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

My heart just did this embarrassing leap. I LOVE THAT FIC. The fact that you're still working on it makes me so, so happy.

*eggs on shamelessly*

[myrafur.livejournal.com]

*snort* But what about the artists who can't seem to finish a piece? ^_~

(God knows I've got those.)

I do have a bit of abandoned stuff from my Jiraiya introspective? This is from Fold, Part II: Tsunade (Oh god, this is why I don't write, and I just met you, today, and I'm already showing you total shite, wtflol!!!)

(stuff happens XD)

The sky is paling as he slips from the bed

As he clicks the door closed, he reminds himself, 'Ninja aren't allowed happy endings'. He tells himself that this is for the best; that, if he leaves, now, that this will spare their friendship, and give her proper time to grieve; that there won't be that uncomfortable silence; that she won't regret and resent him; that his heart won't crack in two.

None of it's true, but it's enough to steel his nerves and let him take the first steps towards home, and, when he gets there, he requests the longest undercover mission they've got.

Setting out, immediately, he's still exhausted, bruised, his eyes burn, his chest is tight, and there's a pretty nasty cut on his left shoulder from the crystal, but he doesn't care. He won't even treat it. Instead, he worries it with his fingernails, picking the scab.

He hopes it leaves a scar.



..>_>

[fahye.livejournal.com]

I have SO FEW fanartists on my flist (you can tell I haven't been in an anime fandom for a long, long time) that I didn't think to include them! I WILL KNOW BETTER NEXT TIME. But you should feel free to spam me with half-done sketches or failed projects or whatever because I cannot draw for SHIT so I will make admiring noises over anything that manages to look like a person and not, say, a mutant snail wrapped in a cloud. This seems to be the great thing about Naruto fandom: AWESOME ARTISTS. Although half the art I just stare at bemusedly because it's illustrations for cracked-out dreadful AUs.

I am a horrible horrible person (or maybe a masochist) because one of the things I am most looking forward to is Naruto finding out about Jiraiya ;_;

[minkhollow]

My latest fic bunnies are (a) for Massive Fics of Massive and (b) striking at precisely the wrong time, in light of taking a class for the working on of original fic. I also don't have time to dig up excerpts just now, so consider this a rain check for tomorrow, when I'll have time to come up with something.

Excerpts will possibly include:
*Sneakers/Harry Potter crossover (This REALLY SHOULD NOT WORK and gehayi should not be allowed to enable me. But it is fun!)
*Disc fic for lgbtfest (This is... sort of working out to be a more grown-up version of discworld_rpg hijinks and related musings over the years, since the prompt was about Imp.)
*And maybe one of those original things. (Fae plumbers. And a mechanic. Once again, gehayi should not be allowed to enable me.)

Now with bits of writing!

[minkhollow]

The Sneakers/Potterverse thing, working title Welsh Holly Data (I heart the anagram server):

Everybody just stands there and listens to him spout stuff off for a while, and then the kid with the bruises actually speaks up. And that outrages Darth Vader enough to put a hat on the kid's head and set the hat on fire.

...That's the guy people have been so terrified of the last couple decades? Carl can't help feeling like he's missed something. In any case, the kid's somehow ended up with the sword Harry and his friends were carrying around all spring, and he actually takes advantage of having a weapon and decapitates the snake. Finally, someone in the building's showing a little initiative.

A lot of this is me taking out my frustration with Book 7 by adding people with a good eye for strategy to the mix. It's going to be Epic when I get it done (hopefully not as epic as the Neverwhere crossover, but Epic all the same)... but first, I have to figure out what connects the disjointed bits I've got now.
------
The Disc fic, tentatively titled After the flood, all the colors came out:

Imp considered the matter throughout the rest of the meal, and finally decided the chance of learning something useful probably outweighed the risks, especially since the most senior wizards would not be involved.*

*Having heard stories from Adrian about Ridcully's love of firing crossbow bolts at anything that held still long enough (and a few things that didn't) and the Dean's unequaled ability to make a fool of himself, among many others, Imp was far more prepared to trust the students with his safety. At least Ponder would make sure they calculated the exact probability of mayhem before they did anything.

The plot's shaping up to be a mishmash of what happened in the Disc RP and Milliways/outsideinn musings; the prompt I took is basically 'why did Imp disappear from Disc canon, just as he and Susan were about to start a relationship?', and I've only been musing that over for dear GOD five years now. I could - and have been, somewhat - write it in my sleep. But I've reached a point where the Music gets a cameo, and The Weird Stuff is almost always something that trips me up.
(On the bright side, I've almost certainly got enough for the fest's word count requirement, and will just have to get it typed up and beated by the end of April.)
------
And finally, the fae-plumbers story:

You briefly consider finding Chris, the better to let two of you consider the missive at once. But Chris is likely in the garage, trying to get that Chevy back into presentable shape - just to prove the owner's insurance company wrong about it being totaled, for all you know - and it's not worth Infringing on the Work Space just to present something that might be nothing.

Of course, the fact that it might be something leads you to examine the envelope, after you get the last of the groceries put away. It's from Shannon's parents, as far as you can tell from the handwriting and return address, and that's got you of half a mind to let it be until Shannon comes home. But doing that leaves you feeling like you're sharing an apartment with high explosives - and further investigation reveals it's also addressed to you and Chris, so it probably doesn't matter who opens it. Given that, taking the initiative shouldn't make too much of a difference.

This is from the Stealth Fantasy Edition, as I took a prompt for my novel-writing class as a good excuse to work on this story. (And I might be doing so for the next assignment, though it'd be the peripheral narrator if it's the same world.) I really do love the concept, and the characters I've come up with for it.
First major thing: Adding the fantasy element. Second major thing: GENDER-NEUTRAL PRONOUNS AND HONORIFIC. (Avoiding that was part of the reason I took up the second-person POV.) Third thing, that mostly applies if it's the same world as what I have in mind for the next assignment: Keeping the story well clear of New York or Los Angeles. Fourth major thing: Figuring out just what the heart of the plot is.

Re: Now with bits of writing!

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Tell me more about what you're going to cover in the Imp story/supporting characters/what you're changing from the RP! I'm all nostalgic now.