Up To Thirteen Inches, If You're Curious.
Today, my father came into the room and proudly handed me a printout listing all the different dimensions he's seen attributed to Harry Potter's penis in fanfiction. I just thought you should know.
Anyway! thebaconfat did this meme a couple of weeks ago and said she wanted everyone else to do it, and I've just about managed to work up the courage to go hunting for my fics.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Let's go! (The only ones of these that really have a chance of being finished are the Alex/Jess/Paul and Jack/Fran/Balthier ones, I should warn you. Also, these are by no means all the unfinished fics I have lying around.)
The Real Hustle, Alex/Jess/Paul:
Jess turns and sees him. "Alex! I was just talking to Paul about, well..."
She trails off, and grins sheepishly, and twirls a strand of hair around her fingers. Alex looks to Paul, in the hope that he will be slightly more enlightening.
"She's hustled my heart," Paul says, solemnly, and then they both burst out laughing at the look of abject horror on Alex's face.
"Nobody should be allowed to say that," he says. "And, er, what do you mean?"
Doctor Who/Scrubs, Martha/JD, set in the year between 'The Sound of Drums' and 'Last of the Time Lords'. Idea courtesy of lakester.
She found herself working on cauterising Toclafane-inflicted wounds with a young man, pale and exhausted-looking but still apparently with enough optimism in reserve to give her a friendly grin and speak to her quite cheerfully. She appreciated it; it had been difficult to find anyone capable of mustering a smile over the past few months.
He listened to her story with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment she would have expected of someone a third of his age.
"You've been into space?" he asked, failing to suppress his enormous grin and so causing the patient he had just informed would be losing her arm to give him a rather put-out look. "Really?"
"Really," she said, smiling despite the situation; his enthusiasm was infectious.
"I've always wanted to be an astronaut," he said, gazing wistfully into the distance. "You just know the only reason they say the moon isn't made of cheese is because none of them have ever tried tasting it."
Martha was rather perplexed by this, but decided that it would probably be better not to ask about it.
Time-Travelling Sky Pirates of Ivalice: Final Fantasy XII/Doctor Who, Balthier/Fran/Captain Jack Harkness:
“You’ve never used any bladed weapons?” Balthier repeats, sceptically.
“Look,” Jack protests, “I’ve never exactly urgently needed to learn. I’ve always had my sonic blaster.” He pauses, then says, rather wistfully, “Wish the guards hadn’t taken it off me.”
“Had they left it with you,” Balthier observes, “they would have been more than foolish enough for you to escape on your own, and we would never have met the invaluable third member of our little team. And we couldn’t have that, could we? Now: to swordsmanship.”
“Couldn’t I use a gun instead?” Jack asks, looking at the holster on Balthier’s hip.
Balthier looks at him in incredulity. “You want me to lend you my weapon?” he asks, in the sort of disbelieving tone he might have used if Jack had asked to borrow one of his legs for a couple of days.
“Maybe not yours,” Jack says, hastily, “but I could buy one for myself, couldn’t I?”
Balthier considers him for a moment. “Even if you’re planning to use a gun, you should probably at least know how to wield a sword,” he says, eventually. “Good guns are difficult to come by, and you’ll often find that the bladed weapons on sale are more effective.”
“Swords are more powerful than guns here?” Jack asks, half-laughing. “What kind of place is this?”
“A place in which, if you do carry a gun, your foes are like to sorely underestimate you,” Balthier says, smirking, and he brushes his fingers fondly over the holster. “Shall we begin your lessons?”
Scrubs, JD/Cox. The idea was that this would be a Cox-perspective follow-up to My Demands. I wrote this, ooh, at least a year ago.
"Dr. Cox!"
I look up and groan. Kelly is walking this way with a slightly alarming spring in her step, grinning like an idiot. I don't know what she's so happy about, but I'm pretty sure that it can't mean anything good.
"I saw you talking to the Janitor," she says, practically skipping on the spot. "Ha! I knew you cared about me!"
...dammit.
I try to salvage the situation. "Look, Jeanette, I don't know what relationships are like in the Land of Puppydogs and Unicorns, but here in reality you should know that, just because a guy doesn't particularly want you to be assaulted by Hell's Janitor, it doesn't mean he gives a damn."
There is a long, confused pause, during which I mentally re-evaluate what I just said and resolve to slam my head into a wall as soon as possible.
"I mean, you know, if you're always being handcuffed to - handcuffed to - " right, this is not a good direction to go and it'd be best not to continue it - "if the janitor's always holding you up, how are you supposed to answer my summons on time?"
"So..." it's all about the patients, Newbie, it's about the patients, shut up about it and walk away now - "you want the Janitor to torment me less because you want to spend more time with me?"
Oh, for God's sake.
She looks at me with her eyes all a-sparkle, and she's just so damn cute and hopeful and puppy-eyed that it almost makes me feel bad - or at least a little less gleeful - that I'm just about to crush all of her dreams.
You see, Sarah Jane - and I don't say this very often, so listen closely or you'll miss it - Sarah Jane, although she certainly has the heart and soul of a teenage girl, bless her, is actually male; physically, at least. And I don't go for the males. I do not. Maybe she'd have had a better chance if she'd been born the gender God intended - although she'd still be a giggling idiot of a lapdog, and in any case this train of thought is just a li-hi-hittle bit creepy and I'm going to be derailing it right about now - but as it is...
"No," I say, firmly. "No," and then I say it about twenty times more at ever-increasing speed and volume, just to make a-habsolutely sure that she's completely clear on what my feelings on the matter are. Now, you might think that nobody could need anything to be drilled into their mind that much, but if you do I have only this to say to you: you've obviously never met Newbie.
Doctor Who, Master/Doctor:
"The two renegade Time Lords, all alone in time and space," the Master murmurs into his ear. "And now we have each other. Or, more accurately, I have you."
Finally, a fic idea I found scribbled in one of my notebooks and don't remember thinking of at all:
Balthier and Fran are thrown into 1973. Balthier proposes stealing an airship; there are, of course, no airships. Then they meet Gene Hunt. Awesomeness ensues.
Yes.
Anyway! thebaconfat did this meme a couple of weeks ago and said she wanted everyone else to do it, and I've just about managed to work up the courage to go hunting for my fics.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Let's go! (The only ones of these that really have a chance of being finished are the Alex/Jess/Paul and Jack/Fran/Balthier ones, I should warn you. Also, these are by no means all the unfinished fics I have lying around.)
The Real Hustle, Alex/Jess/Paul:
Jess turns and sees him. "Alex! I was just talking to Paul about, well..."
She trails off, and grins sheepishly, and twirls a strand of hair around her fingers. Alex looks to Paul, in the hope that he will be slightly more enlightening.
"She's hustled my heart," Paul says, solemnly, and then they both burst out laughing at the look of abject horror on Alex's face.
"Nobody should be allowed to say that," he says. "And, er, what do you mean?"
Doctor Who/Scrubs, Martha/JD, set in the year between 'The Sound of Drums' and 'Last of the Time Lords'. Idea courtesy of lakester.
She found herself working on cauterising Toclafane-inflicted wounds with a young man, pale and exhausted-looking but still apparently with enough optimism in reserve to give her a friendly grin and speak to her quite cheerfully. She appreciated it; it had been difficult to find anyone capable of mustering a smile over the past few months.
He listened to her story with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment she would have expected of someone a third of his age.
"You've been into space?" he asked, failing to suppress his enormous grin and so causing the patient he had just informed would be losing her arm to give him a rather put-out look. "Really?"
"Really," she said, smiling despite the situation; his enthusiasm was infectious.
"I've always wanted to be an astronaut," he said, gazing wistfully into the distance. "You just know the only reason they say the moon isn't made of cheese is because none of them have ever tried tasting it."
Martha was rather perplexed by this, but decided that it would probably be better not to ask about it.
Time-Travelling Sky Pirates of Ivalice: Final Fantasy XII/Doctor Who, Balthier/Fran/Captain Jack Harkness:
“You’ve never used any bladed weapons?” Balthier repeats, sceptically.
“Look,” Jack protests, “I’ve never exactly urgently needed to learn. I’ve always had my sonic blaster.” He pauses, then says, rather wistfully, “Wish the guards hadn’t taken it off me.”
“Had they left it with you,” Balthier observes, “they would have been more than foolish enough for you to escape on your own, and we would never have met the invaluable third member of our little team. And we couldn’t have that, could we? Now: to swordsmanship.”
“Couldn’t I use a gun instead?” Jack asks, looking at the holster on Balthier’s hip.
Balthier looks at him in incredulity. “You want me to lend you my weapon?” he asks, in the sort of disbelieving tone he might have used if Jack had asked to borrow one of his legs for a couple of days.
“Maybe not yours,” Jack says, hastily, “but I could buy one for myself, couldn’t I?”
Balthier considers him for a moment. “Even if you’re planning to use a gun, you should probably at least know how to wield a sword,” he says, eventually. “Good guns are difficult to come by, and you’ll often find that the bladed weapons on sale are more effective.”
“Swords are more powerful than guns here?” Jack asks, half-laughing. “What kind of place is this?”
“A place in which, if you do carry a gun, your foes are like to sorely underestimate you,” Balthier says, smirking, and he brushes his fingers fondly over the holster. “Shall we begin your lessons?”
Scrubs, JD/Cox. The idea was that this would be a Cox-perspective follow-up to My Demands. I wrote this, ooh, at least a year ago.
"Dr. Cox!"
I look up and groan. Kelly is walking this way with a slightly alarming spring in her step, grinning like an idiot. I don't know what she's so happy about, but I'm pretty sure that it can't mean anything good.
"I saw you talking to the Janitor," she says, practically skipping on the spot. "Ha! I knew you cared about me!"
...dammit.
I try to salvage the situation. "Look, Jeanette, I don't know what relationships are like in the Land of Puppydogs and Unicorns, but here in reality you should know that, just because a guy doesn't particularly want you to be assaulted by Hell's Janitor, it doesn't mean he gives a damn."
There is a long, confused pause, during which I mentally re-evaluate what I just said and resolve to slam my head into a wall as soon as possible.
"I mean, you know, if you're always being handcuffed to - handcuffed to - " right, this is not a good direction to go and it'd be best not to continue it - "if the janitor's always holding you up, how are you supposed to answer my summons on time?"
"So..." it's all about the patients, Newbie, it's about the patients, shut up about it and walk away now - "you want the Janitor to torment me less because you want to spend more time with me?"
Oh, for God's sake.
She looks at me with her eyes all a-sparkle, and she's just so damn cute and hopeful and puppy-eyed that it almost makes me feel bad - or at least a little less gleeful - that I'm just about to crush all of her dreams.
You see, Sarah Jane - and I don't say this very often, so listen closely or you'll miss it - Sarah Jane, although she certainly has the heart and soul of a teenage girl, bless her, is actually male; physically, at least. And I don't go for the males. I do not. Maybe she'd have had a better chance if she'd been born the gender God intended - although she'd still be a giggling idiot of a lapdog, and in any case this train of thought is just a li-hi-hittle bit creepy and I'm going to be derailing it right about now - but as it is...
"No," I say, firmly. "No," and then I say it about twenty times more at ever-increasing speed and volume, just to make a-habsolutely sure that she's completely clear on what my feelings on the matter are. Now, you might think that nobody could need anything to be drilled into their mind that much, but if you do I have only this to say to you: you've obviously never met Newbie.
Doctor Who, Master/Doctor:
"The two renegade Time Lords, all alone in time and space," the Master murmurs into his ear. "And now we have each other. Or, more accurately, I have you."
Finally, a fic idea I found scribbled in one of my notebooks and don't remember thinking of at all:
Balthier and Fran are thrown into 1973. Balthier proposes stealing an airship; there are, of course, no airships. Then they meet Gene Hunt. Awesomeness ensues.
Yes.