you never really wanted me
Every so often ariastar does that WIP meme, and then I always do it too, because I already spend twice as much time talking about my WIPs as working on them and I am basically a giant showoff. Plus in the last month I have actually accumulated a decent variety of them, which is kind of cool and hasn't happened to me in years.
I will be a bit more precise than Aria, even, and divide these into categories.
Night Shift at the Ortega Diner (6496 words)
Vanessa's hands are working between them, and from the way Zac groans and his hand fumbles on its way up her thigh, it isn't difficult to figure out what she's doing. Ashley watches them a minute longer, open-mouthed and mesmerized, and then realizes just what she's doing and beats a hasty retreat back to the kitchen door. She barely even has the presence of mind not to slam the door behind her.
In another few minutes Vanessa reappears behind the counter; her dress is maybe a tiny bit more wrinkled than it was before, her face a tiny bit more flushed, but she looks pretty much as composed as ever. Ashley is dealing with a customer by then, which is good, because it takes a little while for her to go talk to Vanessa without feeling guilty about it. "Feeling better?"
"Mmhmm." Vanessa bites her lip, adding up a thick stack of receipts, and doesn't bat an eyelash. "I took a walk around the block. Nice and quiet."
In which it is 1957 and a diner waitress named Ashley meets a couple of freewheeling greasers named Zac and Vanessa. I love this fic, I really do, and what I have written of it was a load of fun, but the research involved would be overwhelming and I had just no idea what kind of storyline to give it so it would have the length it felt like it deserved. Someday! >B|
That Thing I Promised Aria Forever Ago (1010 words)
"I thought it was trying to eat you," Danny protested, frowning in clear confusion as he looked back and forth between Nick and what, as far as he knew, was a Japanese peace lily sitting on Nick's dining room table with its smashed pot half glued together and soil spilling out everywhere. "Like Audrey, you know, in Little Shop of Horrors?" He gave Nick a sudden suspicious look. "You have seen Little Shop of Horrors, right?"
"Japanese peace lilies aren't carnivorous, Danny." Nick tried to edge ever-so-subtly between his friend and the dining room table while Danny was busy being horrified at his continued lack of film literacy. "You're thinking of Venus flytraps, and one far larger than this." He hadn't seen Little Shop of Horrors, in point of fact, but Earth popular culture tended to be horribly infectious in some ways.
Danny continued trying to peer over Nick's shoulder, as though he were expecting the peace lily to suddenly open its slavering maw and lunge at Nick from behind. "You were in it up to the bloody waist, you were. What were you doing?"
In which Nick Angel is a Time Lord, with a sonic notebook and a peace-lily-shaped TARDIS. Be . . . cause why not. The problem is that I thought up exactly how to write this fic awesomely once as I was falling asleep, and forgot again in the morning like you do, and never even figured out an adequate substitute. Worst excuse ever, I know :(
Counting Time (31072 words)
Violet vanished inside the machine for a few more minutes, while Link waited and fidgeted, unsure whether he was supposed to be providing a distraction just yet. Shortly she reappeared, though, sticking her head out of the cockpit and giving him what he hoped was a meaningful glance.
Link winked back at her and she smiled; good enough. "Um." He cleared his throat, which sorely needed it anyway.
"What now?" Olaf rounded on him irritably.
If this had been an actual audition, Link would've been sunk feeling like this much shit; as it was, all he had to do was save both their lives. Like a walk in the park, really, so he opened his mouth and went with the first thing that popped into his head. "A little less conversation, a little more action, please! All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me!"
Olaf stared at him with an expression that slid swiftly from astonishment into outright hatred.
In which a brilliant inventor from Some Vaguely Historical Looking Time crashes her time machine in a Broadway chorus singer's basement in 1972, and complications ensue. I really should finish this fic-- it would take some work but really not be that hard and I ship Violet/Link really stupidly hard-- but NaNo happened and then Yuletide happened and then um well shut up about my attention span, okay.
A Jolly Kind of Detective Game (28613 words)
"Buck up, would you?" said St. George, entirely unconvincingly, and twisted round a bit further. "What's that you found on the ground, before? That looked promising enough."
Hilary picked the card back up and had a look at it, then passed it over to him. It was a plain elegant business card, and had been trampled by a dozen people before she'd found it, but underneath the footmarks it seemed clean and brand new apart from a splatter of blood which she was carefully avoiding touching. It read HARRISON INDUSTRIES, with an address in smaller type below that, and that was all.
St. George examined it; Hilary noticed that he, too, did his best not to touch it any more than absolutely necessary. "It isn't much," he admitted, after a minute. "Uncle Peter would probably know who the killer was by now. From the blood patterns, or something."
"Blast Uncle Peter," said Hilary, not very charitably, and St. George looked up in startlement at her language. She didn't care; she felt exhausted and sick and completely lost, and tomorrow they were going to have to go talk to Dr. Fitzmorris and God knew what else, and the thought of it made her feel even more tired. "He isn't at our beck and call-- and why should he be?"
In which Miss Hilary Thorpe and Gerald Wimsey Viscount St. George, freshly released from Oxford upon an unsuspecting Britain, try to do one of Hilary's friends a simple favor and consequently fall into disfavor with a particularly large and touchy criminal organization; Lady Winifred Wimsey tries her hand at detective work; and Charles Peter Parker, aged five-and-a-quarter, single-handedly defeats the Germans. I've been whining a lot about writing fic with a mystery plot and how hard it is, because it is really hard, but that's starting to come along now! I just try not to think about how I wrote almost thirty thousand words of this before I even knew what the plot was.
Someday, when I'm awfully low (1075 words)
"Sir. Uh." Malarkey coughs uncomfortably, waits to be acknowledged. "You said Hilary, right? Hilary can be a man's name, right? Sir?" He sounds distinctly hopeful. Almost plaintive.
"It can be," Winters says placidly. He might be smiling a bit, but his face pretty much just looks like that all the time, and he's usually not the kind of guy who'd mock his men's imminent suffering. "In this case, no, it isn't."
This does not ease anyone's minds. Not even a little.
In which Easy Company is joined by a somewhat unusual war correspondent, and some of them wonder why. I was vaguely contemplating what Hilary and St. George would get up to post-that-other-fic, and also how Band of Brothers could have had a recurring female character, and it turned out both difficulties could conveniently be solved with the same story.
The Well-Written Life (1454 words)
The kind of jobs one woman can pull also tend to be the kind that involve a lot of fast talking, and the problem isn't so much that Bang Bang's English is shit as that she just doesn't like that kind of work. She's got a lot of marketable skills, and markets most of them, but she'll never be a really smooth talker in Japanese or English or any other language. Bang Bang would rather be the kind of girl who shuts up and gets shit done, so she's beginning to think she needs to find another partner. Someone who can talk fast and well; someone Bang Bang can trust.
Conveniently, she knows someone exactly like that.
In which not everyone gets what they want, but everyone gets what they need. This is a NYR fic for someone, because if ever there was a seriously awesome movie with an undeservedly crap ending it was this one.
In which: Sherlock Holmes calls on the Watsons to wheedle his not-precisely-ex-partner into helping him with a case and, finding that Dr. Watson is not at home but Mrs. Watson is, ends up consulting with her instead. Not Holmes/Mary or anything, I just think it'd be fun to let her in on the detecting for once.
In which: Sally Sparrow and Wendy Watson fend off an alien attack, fall in love, and live ass-kickingly ever after. That's still all I got, radioreverie :( But I'm trying really really hard, honest I am.
See! Variety! One dudeslash fic, one F/F/M, two femslash, three het, one gen, set in seven different decades. SOME OF THEM MAY EVEN HAVE FOUR-DIGIT WORD COUNTS. I am excited! You, flist, may be whatever you like.
I will be a bit more precise than Aria, even, and divide these into categories.
Night Shift at the Ortega Diner (6496 words)
Vanessa's hands are working between them, and from the way Zac groans and his hand fumbles on its way up her thigh, it isn't difficult to figure out what she's doing. Ashley watches them a minute longer, open-mouthed and mesmerized, and then realizes just what she's doing and beats a hasty retreat back to the kitchen door. She barely even has the presence of mind not to slam the door behind her.
In another few minutes Vanessa reappears behind the counter; her dress is maybe a tiny bit more wrinkled than it was before, her face a tiny bit more flushed, but she looks pretty much as composed as ever. Ashley is dealing with a customer by then, which is good, because it takes a little while for her to go talk to Vanessa without feeling guilty about it. "Feeling better?"
"Mmhmm." Vanessa bites her lip, adding up a thick stack of receipts, and doesn't bat an eyelash. "I took a walk around the block. Nice and quiet."
In which it is 1957 and a diner waitress named Ashley meets a couple of freewheeling greasers named Zac and Vanessa. I love this fic, I really do, and what I have written of it was a load of fun, but the research involved would be overwhelming and I had just no idea what kind of storyline to give it so it would have the length it felt like it deserved. Someday! >B|
That Thing I Promised Aria Forever Ago (1010 words)
"I thought it was trying to eat you," Danny protested, frowning in clear confusion as he looked back and forth between Nick and what, as far as he knew, was a Japanese peace lily sitting on Nick's dining room table with its smashed pot half glued together and soil spilling out everywhere. "Like Audrey, you know, in Little Shop of Horrors?" He gave Nick a sudden suspicious look. "You have seen Little Shop of Horrors, right?"
"Japanese peace lilies aren't carnivorous, Danny." Nick tried to edge ever-so-subtly between his friend and the dining room table while Danny was busy being horrified at his continued lack of film literacy. "You're thinking of Venus flytraps, and one far larger than this." He hadn't seen Little Shop of Horrors, in point of fact, but Earth popular culture tended to be horribly infectious in some ways.
Danny continued trying to peer over Nick's shoulder, as though he were expecting the peace lily to suddenly open its slavering maw and lunge at Nick from behind. "You were in it up to the bloody waist, you were. What were you doing?"
In which Nick Angel is a Time Lord, with a sonic notebook and a peace-lily-shaped TARDIS. Be . . . cause why not. The problem is that I thought up exactly how to write this fic awesomely once as I was falling asleep, and forgot again in the morning like you do, and never even figured out an adequate substitute. Worst excuse ever, I know :(
Counting Time (31072 words)
Violet vanished inside the machine for a few more minutes, while Link waited and fidgeted, unsure whether he was supposed to be providing a distraction just yet. Shortly she reappeared, though, sticking her head out of the cockpit and giving him what he hoped was a meaningful glance.
Link winked back at her and she smiled; good enough. "Um." He cleared his throat, which sorely needed it anyway.
"What now?" Olaf rounded on him irritably.
If this had been an actual audition, Link would've been sunk feeling like this much shit; as it was, all he had to do was save both their lives. Like a walk in the park, really, so he opened his mouth and went with the first thing that popped into his head. "A little less conversation, a little more action, please! All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me!"
Olaf stared at him with an expression that slid swiftly from astonishment into outright hatred.
In which a brilliant inventor from Some Vaguely Historical Looking Time crashes her time machine in a Broadway chorus singer's basement in 1972, and complications ensue. I really should finish this fic-- it would take some work but really not be that hard and I ship Violet/Link really stupidly hard-- but NaNo happened and then Yuletide happened and then um well shut up about my attention span, okay.
A Jolly Kind of Detective Game (28613 words)
"Buck up, would you?" said St. George, entirely unconvincingly, and twisted round a bit further. "What's that you found on the ground, before? That looked promising enough."
Hilary picked the card back up and had a look at it, then passed it over to him. It was a plain elegant business card, and had been trampled by a dozen people before she'd found it, but underneath the footmarks it seemed clean and brand new apart from a splatter of blood which she was carefully avoiding touching. It read HARRISON INDUSTRIES, with an address in smaller type below that, and that was all.
St. George examined it; Hilary noticed that he, too, did his best not to touch it any more than absolutely necessary. "It isn't much," he admitted, after a minute. "Uncle Peter would probably know who the killer was by now. From the blood patterns, or something."
"Blast Uncle Peter," said Hilary, not very charitably, and St. George looked up in startlement at her language. She didn't care; she felt exhausted and sick and completely lost, and tomorrow they were going to have to go talk to Dr. Fitzmorris and God knew what else, and the thought of it made her feel even more tired. "He isn't at our beck and call-- and why should he be?"
In which Miss Hilary Thorpe and Gerald Wimsey Viscount St. George, freshly released from Oxford upon an unsuspecting Britain, try to do one of Hilary's friends a simple favor and consequently fall into disfavor with a particularly large and touchy criminal organization; Lady Winifred Wimsey tries her hand at detective work; and Charles Peter Parker, aged five-and-a-quarter, single-handedly defeats the Germans. I've been whining a lot about writing fic with a mystery plot and how hard it is, because it is really hard, but that's starting to come along now! I just try not to think about how I wrote almost thirty thousand words of this before I even knew what the plot was.
Someday, when I'm awfully low (1075 words)
"Sir. Uh." Malarkey coughs uncomfortably, waits to be acknowledged. "You said Hilary, right? Hilary can be a man's name, right? Sir?" He sounds distinctly hopeful. Almost plaintive.
"It can be," Winters says placidly. He might be smiling a bit, but his face pretty much just looks like that all the time, and he's usually not the kind of guy who'd mock his men's imminent suffering. "In this case, no, it isn't."
This does not ease anyone's minds. Not even a little.
In which Easy Company is joined by a somewhat unusual war correspondent, and some of them wonder why. I was vaguely contemplating what Hilary and St. George would get up to post-that-other-fic, and also how Band of Brothers could have had a recurring female character, and it turned out both difficulties could conveniently be solved with the same story.
The Well-Written Life (1454 words)
The kind of jobs one woman can pull also tend to be the kind that involve a lot of fast talking, and the problem isn't so much that Bang Bang's English is shit as that she just doesn't like that kind of work. She's got a lot of marketable skills, and markets most of them, but she'll never be a really smooth talker in Japanese or English or any other language. Bang Bang would rather be the kind of girl who shuts up and gets shit done, so she's beginning to think she needs to find another partner. Someone who can talk fast and well; someone Bang Bang can trust.
Conveniently, she knows someone exactly like that.
In which not everyone gets what they want, but everyone gets what they need. This is a NYR fic for someone, because if ever there was a seriously awesome movie with an undeservedly crap ending it was this one.
In which: Sherlock Holmes calls on the Watsons to wheedle his not-precisely-ex-partner into helping him with a case and, finding that Dr. Watson is not at home but Mrs. Watson is, ends up consulting with her instead. Not Holmes/Mary or anything, I just think it'd be fun to let her in on the detecting for once.
In which: Sally Sparrow and Wendy Watson fend off an alien attack, fall in love, and live ass-kickingly ever after. That's still all I got, radioreverie :( But I'm trying really really hard, honest I am.
See! Variety! One dudeslash fic, one F/F/M, two femslash, three het, one gen, set in seven different decades. SOME OF THEM MAY EVEN HAVE FOUR-DIGIT WORD COUNTS. I am excited! You, flist, may be whatever you like.