WsIP: Bandom, Discworld, SGA
There's nothing like ridiculous amounts of stress to get those creative juices flowing. So, here are snippets from the five (five!) stories I'm distracting myself by working on:
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The penny did not so much drop for Ryan as strike him with some force in the back of the head.
"Are you two--" He stopped, staring at Spencer and Brendon in fear. Morporkian was a language rich with words for what they were doing, a few even fit to print, but none captured the full horror of the situation. "Are you two together?" he ventured. It was like trying to describe the river Ankh; even if your brain didn't shut down in self-defence before the third synonym for putrid, it still had to be smelled to be believed.
Brendon made a snuffling noise into Spencer's neck. From somewhere in the pile of limbs, Spencer shot Ryan a pained look. "Brendon is courting us. All of us."
Ryan had grown up in the Shades. He knew a threat when he heard one.
--- Working title: Panic! at the Discworld sequel
Now with added plot! (Plot kindly donated by a friend.)
(Crossover: Bandslash / Discworld; OT4; current wordcount 1692)
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"Hey, asshole!" Patrick yelled after the retreating figure.
Sure enough, Gabe turned round. "Who are you calling an asshole, asshole?"
"Yeah, who answered?" Patrick pointed out, not bothering to hide his grin. "Man, Pete said you wanted--" He tailed off, my sweet ass dying on his lips. This was, as he kept trying to tell Pete, not a topic for shouting across the streets of Chicago.
"Yeah, hey, I've been leaving messages on your cell all week." Gabe strode towards him, arms outstretched. "Why so cold, Stump?" he said, pulling Patrick into a tight hug. "Why don't you return my calls?"
"Dude, that was you with the heavy breathing?" Patrick slapped Gabe's back. "I thought it was your mom."
Gabe just squeezed harder. Stupid skinny fuckers and their stupid upper body strength.
-- Working title: You Can't Escape Now
Because jamjar fluttered her eyelashes.
(Bandslash; Gabe/Patrick; current wordcount 257)
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"You need to put him with some godawful bands," said Frank, leaning forward. "Doesn't he?" He elbowed Gerard.
"What? Yeah." Gerard nodded earnestly.
There was a meaningful silence.
"Okay," said Mikey, "hands up who knows what Frank's talking about."
Frank raised a hand, then groaned in disgust as no one joined him. "Bob. Ray needs to set Bob up with some godawful bands, and then Bob will fall in love with him and we'll have a drummer."
"Okay," said Mikey again, "and hands up who doesn't want to know what Frank's talking about."
Frank grabbed the mustard from the side of the table. "The mustard is Bob, because Bob's hot, right?"
Ray found himself nodding. "Look, Frankie, it's not that I--"
"And the salt's, like, Joe Crazy and the Bad Saxophonists." Frank held the salt in his other hand. "And Bob and the salt play some gigs--" He pressed the pots together. "--and then--" He stopped. "Hey, pass me that knife!"
There was another pause.
"Or," Mikey said, "we could just pretend you have a sharp object."
Frank stuck out his tongue. "Dumbass. So, the salt's all creepy and tuneless and the mustard sees the light and runs into--" Frank grabbed the napkin. "-- into Ray's waiting arms and he, so, he casually mentions he has a band, too, and they fall in love and we all make beautiful music together."
Ray considered this for a moment. "Or I could do my job."
-- Working title: Parachuted In
Where Ray works for a record label. *handwave, handwave*
(Bandslash; Bob/Ray; current wordcount 1193)
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"What?" Rodney tries to keep his voice down, but not very hard. "He could be a serial killer! He could--"
John isn't sure if he's serious.
"Okay, fine, you know sixty different ways to kill a man with your shoe. I'm not saying we're not safe, I'm saying I'm not safe. What if you're off seducing some poor, innocent roadside waif and he--"
John lifts his eyebrows. "I'll guard your virtue, McKay," he says, just for the look on Rodney's face while he tries to work out if he's been insulted or not.
Rodney comes down on not, at least for the moment. "Yes, well," he huffs. He looks pleased, like maybe he hadn't known John would protect him from aging serial killers with broken down Toyotas. John figures their casual life-saving must be another thing they left behind, if here in the Milky Way it's a surprise he'd throw his life down for Rodney's.
-- Working title: Further On Up The Road
After Atlantis, John indulges in some high-quality denial.
(SGA; McKay/Sheppard; current wordcount 3349)
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At McMurdo, Rodney had spent a lot of time being quietly competent while everyone else was blindingly, jaw-droppingly stupid. He had to stop being surprised by that.
At least once he'd actually been allocated to the Atlantis expedition, it had been easier to persuade people to let him work near -- though, unreasonably, not on -- the alien technology.
"Bomb disposal expert," he'd pointed out. Then, glaring at whichever scientist was standing between him and something to do with his time, he'd add, "I have years of hands-on experience with things that might blow up and kill us all at a moment's notice, just like you do. Oh, no, wait."
-- Working title SGAU
Major McKay and Dr Sheppard go to Atlantis.
(SGA; McKay/Sheppard; current wordcount ~16 000 ahaha)
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(And if you wanted to pop over to my non-fic journal and leave advice on moving to a whole nother country next week (omg!) then that would not go unappreciated. Um.)
===
===
The penny did not so much drop for Ryan as strike him with some force in the back of the head.
"Are you two--" He stopped, staring at Spencer and Brendon in fear. Morporkian was a language rich with words for what they were doing, a few even fit to print, but none captured the full horror of the situation. "Are you two together?" he ventured. It was like trying to describe the river Ankh; even if your brain didn't shut down in self-defence before the third synonym for putrid, it still had to be smelled to be believed.
Brendon made a snuffling noise into Spencer's neck. From somewhere in the pile of limbs, Spencer shot Ryan a pained look. "Brendon is courting us. All of us."
Ryan had grown up in the Shades. He knew a threat when he heard one.
--- Working title: Panic! at the Discworld sequel
Now with added plot! (Plot kindly donated by a friend.)
(Crossover: Bandslash / Discworld; OT4; current wordcount 1692)
===
===
"Hey, asshole!" Patrick yelled after the retreating figure.
Sure enough, Gabe turned round. "Who are you calling an asshole, asshole?"
"Yeah, who answered?" Patrick pointed out, not bothering to hide his grin. "Man, Pete said you wanted--" He tailed off, my sweet ass dying on his lips. This was, as he kept trying to tell Pete, not a topic for shouting across the streets of Chicago.
"Yeah, hey, I've been leaving messages on your cell all week." Gabe strode towards him, arms outstretched. "Why so cold, Stump?" he said, pulling Patrick into a tight hug. "Why don't you return my calls?"
"Dude, that was you with the heavy breathing?" Patrick slapped Gabe's back. "I thought it was your mom."
Gabe just squeezed harder. Stupid skinny fuckers and their stupid upper body strength.
-- Working title: You Can't Escape Now
Because jamjar fluttered her eyelashes.
(Bandslash; Gabe/Patrick; current wordcount 257)
===
===
"You need to put him with some godawful bands," said Frank, leaning forward. "Doesn't he?" He elbowed Gerard.
"What? Yeah." Gerard nodded earnestly.
There was a meaningful silence.
"Okay," said Mikey, "hands up who knows what Frank's talking about."
Frank raised a hand, then groaned in disgust as no one joined him. "Bob. Ray needs to set Bob up with some godawful bands, and then Bob will fall in love with him and we'll have a drummer."
"Okay," said Mikey again, "and hands up who doesn't want to know what Frank's talking about."
Frank grabbed the mustard from the side of the table. "The mustard is Bob, because Bob's hot, right?"
Ray found himself nodding. "Look, Frankie, it's not that I--"
"And the salt's, like, Joe Crazy and the Bad Saxophonists." Frank held the salt in his other hand. "And Bob and the salt play some gigs--" He pressed the pots together. "--and then--" He stopped. "Hey, pass me that knife!"
There was another pause.
"Or," Mikey said, "we could just pretend you have a sharp object."
Frank stuck out his tongue. "Dumbass. So, the salt's all creepy and tuneless and the mustard sees the light and runs into--" Frank grabbed the napkin. "-- into Ray's waiting arms and he, so, he casually mentions he has a band, too, and they fall in love and we all make beautiful music together."
Ray considered this for a moment. "Or I could do my job."
-- Working title: Parachuted In
Where Ray works for a record label. *handwave, handwave*
(Bandslash; Bob/Ray; current wordcount 1193)
===
===
"What?" Rodney tries to keep his voice down, but not very hard. "He could be a serial killer! He could--"
John isn't sure if he's serious.
"Okay, fine, you know sixty different ways to kill a man with your shoe. I'm not saying we're not safe, I'm saying I'm not safe. What if you're off seducing some poor, innocent roadside waif and he--"
John lifts his eyebrows. "I'll guard your virtue, McKay," he says, just for the look on Rodney's face while he tries to work out if he's been insulted or not.
Rodney comes down on not, at least for the moment. "Yes, well," he huffs. He looks pleased, like maybe he hadn't known John would protect him from aging serial killers with broken down Toyotas. John figures their casual life-saving must be another thing they left behind, if here in the Milky Way it's a surprise he'd throw his life down for Rodney's.
-- Working title: Further On Up The Road
After Atlantis, John indulges in some high-quality denial.
(SGA; McKay/Sheppard; current wordcount 3349)
===
===
At McMurdo, Rodney had spent a lot of time being quietly competent while everyone else was blindingly, jaw-droppingly stupid. He had to stop being surprised by that.
At least once he'd actually been allocated to the Atlantis expedition, it had been easier to persuade people to let him work near -- though, unreasonably, not on -- the alien technology.
"Bomb disposal expert," he'd pointed out. Then, glaring at whichever scientist was standing between him and something to do with his time, he'd add, "I have years of hands-on experience with things that might blow up and kill us all at a moment's notice, just like you do. Oh, no, wait."
-- Working title SGAU
Major McKay and Dr Sheppard go to Atlantis.
(SGA; McKay/Sheppard; current wordcount ~16 000 ahaha)
===
===
(And if you wanted to pop over to my non-fic journal and leave advice on moving to a whole nother country next week (omg!) then that would not go unappreciated. Um.)