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ninety6tearsPost a bunch of snippets from all the WIPs on your hard drive.
I have a lot of unfinished crap, so it's not everything. These are somewhat in the order of priority/the likelihood of them ever being finished. Also, since one or two of these is kinda spoilery (I mean more for the fics than the fandoms) and it's also quite a mix of fandoms, I'm specifying what they are.
And I guess I could "answer questions" about them but I left that part out too X |
In Our Nature: Book II (Star Trek. I still occasionally get emails about the status of this fic. This surprises me, because if I were not me, I would assume this was never going to get finished. But I'm me so I know how extremely weird it's going to feel when I actually get to the end of this beast.)
"Not to undermine the value of your support," Spock said, "but how can you be 'on my side' if you do not believe that what I'm doing is advisable?"
One side of Christine Chapel's lips quirked up as she looked from side to side for a seat to pull up. He quickly pushed the smaller desk chair out from behind the table and she took it, settling across from him. "You're hiding in here eating dinner all by yourself and you want to act like you're not aware that a lot of the crew is pissed off at you?"
He set his eyes on hers briefly, then said to his soup, "I am not hiding."
"Mm-hmm."
He attempted to give her a more warning glance, but it lasted briefly before he obligingly offered her one of his oranges.
"Thanks." Only when she was starting to peel off the skin did she look at him seriously again. "How many transfer requests have you gotten since you brought Kirk on board?"
He could have told her that information wasn't open to anyone who simply asked, given the occasionally delicate nature of transfers. He admitted, "Nine."
Her movements paused. "Woah."
"Indeed."
Thieves (Tiger & Bunny. Kotetsu/Barnaby, natch. I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing as I'm working on this but it is happening.)
"It's about...a very personal matter." Petrov dusted the statement out slowly, clearly enjoying the sharp curiosity Barnaby wasn't quite hiding. "Who are you to say for certain that he isn't willing to come? Is he not the grateful type? I did save his life once."
"There's a difference between being grateful and thinking he somehow owes you."
"And what propelled you to pay me a visit, if you think you owe me nothing for the same thing?" he said slyly, before taking on a more quiet look. "But you see, I want Mr. Kaburagi to know that in a way I'm the one who owes him."
After a couple seconds of Barnaby blinking in agitation, he said, "What are you talking about?"
"If in fact he refuses to speak with me," Petrov said while checking the length of a fingernail on his free hand, "I want you to give him a message that I am sorry. Will you do that?"
Barnaby gave a snooty look of consideration before barely bothering to give it a shrug. "Probably not."
"And why not?"
Because he had no idea what Petrov was talking about. Because he didn't like the sound of it and probably wouldn't want to think about it later. Because he wasn't planning on telling Kotetsu about this visit unless he had to. Barnaby sat there with a defensive pout and told him none of this.
The Trail's End (working title) (Battlestar Galactica. Yeah, so. This is a Bonnie & Clyde AU.)
Sam thinks it's just his imagination when a powerful but subtle grumble starts up as a feeling in his body, something coming from the guts of the vehicle. He feels the car veer into a groove of a slight curve of the path, then less slight; Thrace slams into reckless, impossible speed and just when Sam swears they're going to swim off a drop and end up wrapping a couple tons of metal around a tree trunk, something feels a little like the air being punched out of him, only backwards, his body lurching and senses flailing.
The feeling dissipates just as fast as it came. The car is in an empty parking lot and idling to a polite, graceful stop. Thrace throws the car into park. Adama gets out of the car to fume, leaving the passenger door open.
Sam sits up, slow and dazed. "Uh."
Thrace is resting an arm up on the back of the passenger seat, not quite checking a look back at him.
Finally he gulps out, "You have an FTL drive in your car?"
That gets him an emphatic, angry gesture from Adama. "What the frak, Kara? Are we just going to kill him now?"
Sam considers for a second that he should be comforted that the question implies that wasn't the general idea from the start. But he's a little more focused on stammering, "That's cylon technology. How the frak do you have one?"
"That's the thing about being a robber. You steal a lot of shit," she says with the cock of a brow, then to Adama: "Could you just breathe for a second?"
"That's how you always get away," Sam realizes. Then he says, "Oh, you really are going to kill me."
Untitled Rob/Cassie stuff? (Dublin Murder Squad...A lot of what I've written for these books are a bunch of scraps which may or may not all work together in the same fic, or two fics, or something. I DON'T KNOW.)
"Have you ever heard any of those stories about people seeing doubles as these mythical signs of bad luck?" Cassie asks Frank one time when they're still studying Lexie, one of their late nights at her flat. "There was this man who was seen at a party his wife was having, when he was actually out at sea, and his boat crashed and he died that same night."
"Spooky," Frank says in wry fascination at the unspoken comparison. He's idly looking at her bookshelf and his finger rubs along the thick spine of her old copy of Wuthering Heights; it's the most beautiful thing on the shelf and the first thing anyone might notice. Sam knows Rob gave it to her, and briefly she remembers a month back how he noticeably avoided touching it when he helped her rearrange her furniture.
"But nothing's gonna happen to me," Cassie says, smiling a little crookedly. "I'm just the harbinger."
It's only a joke then, but later it creeps up on her like a cold breath at the back of her neck, whether Lexie could have seen Cassie in person at some point. It's a thought to make her tea go cold as she forgets the cup between her hands: that vision of death as a monster looming at her back, smirking through all the mileage she put in at Whitethorn House. For some reason the picture makes her feel even more like Lexie was some baby snatched from a cradle far too soon, and she thinks of the souls of children wrung out of their own bodies in fairy legends, and she won't think of Rob, but sometimes, just sometimes she does still think of Adam.
Trapdoors (Inception/Star Trek crossover. I can't even remember when I came up with this idea, but I'm sure I was thinking "Ooh, this will be a fun little thing!" before I realized Inception is a son of a bitch to plot. At least for me it is.)
Arthur doesn't openly groan about this thing being miles beneath his pay grade but Ariadne greets in the cab him with an "I'm sorry, really, I just—"
"—don't know anyone else. I know," he interrupts, nods at Eames on Ariadne's left and brushes off his hat. By the time they've only driven a couple blocks, he complains, "This is really the biggest joke, though, considering how remote the possibility is that we'll even be needed. If this guy gets caught with his pants down and if the roommate catches them, the chance that this will have to be solved by going under rather than just shaking them up is pretty much obsolete."
Ariadne gives Eames a sidelong look as if to say she was about done with all the apologizing, and he raises his brows and says in mock-empathy, "He's just saying. Listen, Arthur, it'll be a field day if we actually do get in. Ariadne implied he's something of a projectionist."
"What are you on about? There's no such thing," Arthur protests, possibly missing that Eames is being a bit tongue-in-cheek.
"I think you're just a touch offended at the possibility that there could be one and it would end up being some lower-class snore whore."
"It's simply a fact that it's extremely improbable, Mr. Eames," Arthur replies. "...And I find dream-enabled escort services interesting."
Eames smirks. "I'm sure you do."
The Gates of Rock & Roll (Supernatural. This is just a whole pile of Dean's Guilt Issues among a couple other things that don't feel relevant/fresh in people's minds anymore because canon swerved out of it long ago. I have a weird stupid jealousy over the fact that there was a time when Dean was the living Winchester who had been to hell and that was his angst and guilt and insomnia, etc., but now Sam's been to worse hell and I gotta deal with that and I gotta like compare that to Dean but I don't feel like doing that. The point is, this fic feels too old for me to feel that fandom would connect to it the right way anymore. Am I making any sense?)
Ten years later and he looked up and there she was with a blade in hand that swiveled a slight reflection even though there wasn't a light source, and even though she was unrecognizable, he recognized her. Nothing made sense in hell, like whatever bureaucratic demon favors must have been called in to get one piece of the inventory off one hook and over to this one, just to pair up Dean Winchester with the only other person he knew in hell.
His head fell back tiredly. "I don't suppose you'd take me up on that angry sex now, huh?"
It wasn't until then Bela recognized him, wasn't until then she figured it out. He could see her face now and some twist in his gut made him instinctively want to feel sorry for her, pity her, but he could only want to. He squinted at her coldly.
"So how long did you last without getting off the rack? A day?"
Maybe everyone she tore up she imagined having her father's or someone else's face, maybe sooner or later everyone had somebody they wanted to hurt that badly. He would have loved to know, but she never said a single word.
He had a grinding thought that he should make some crack about how she's supposed to have the best comebacks, but he'd been screaming for years and it had already been half of the time since being a smartass seemed to help at all. Alastair showed up again, all slithering sibilance as he combed a hand somewhere gently atop Bela's bowed head, then he was in Dean's ear again, one word, the same word every day that was a question and also a promise. Tomorrow.
Working For the Man (Supernatural. Good old pre-series family angst.)
"Cassie." His voice was low, tired. It just wasn't working, the bullshitting, he couldn't not be Dean with her. "Aw, Jesus. You know I'm not actually a mechanic, right?" As if there was any good reason she should know that.
She blinked, not angry but emanating some kind of contractual patience. "You lied to me about your job?"
"Not..." He put out some disclaiming hand gesture. "Not for the reason most people lie about their jobs, babe, I'm not—like—"
He looked straight at her, right into her eyes for the first time since he hung up the phone, and it was something he saw there that made him think, Fuck me, but I deserve this. And he said, "I think you should sit down for a minute."
It all came out in the wash, and an hour later he was back on the highway with not enough gas and his chest feeling like it was caving in. He finally took it out on the faulty soda machine at the Luxe Inn at approximately 2 AM, wanting to kick it over at the grudging curiosity that suddenly appeared in his mind over whether Sam would have got himself a girlfriend by now. And he should be around to be mocking and congratulating about it in equal measures, "Aww, wittle Sammy's got a steady." Except that neither of them were ever supposed to have that kind of life.
.
I have a lot of unfinished crap, so it's not everything. These are somewhat in the order of priority/the likelihood of them ever being finished. Also, since one or two of these is kinda spoilery (I mean more for the fics than the fandoms) and it's also quite a mix of fandoms, I'm specifying what they are.
And I guess I could "answer questions" about them but I left that part out too X |
In Our Nature: Book II (Star Trek. I still occasionally get emails about the status of this fic. This surprises me, because if I were not me, I would assume this was never going to get finished. But I'm me so I know how extremely weird it's going to feel when I actually get to the end of this beast.)
"Not to undermine the value of your support," Spock said, "but how can you be 'on my side' if you do not believe that what I'm doing is advisable?"
One side of Christine Chapel's lips quirked up as she looked from side to side for a seat to pull up. He quickly pushed the smaller desk chair out from behind the table and she took it, settling across from him. "You're hiding in here eating dinner all by yourself and you want to act like you're not aware that a lot of the crew is pissed off at you?"
He set his eyes on hers briefly, then said to his soup, "I am not hiding."
"Mm-hmm."
He attempted to give her a more warning glance, but it lasted briefly before he obligingly offered her one of his oranges.
"Thanks." Only when she was starting to peel off the skin did she look at him seriously again. "How many transfer requests have you gotten since you brought Kirk on board?"
He could have told her that information wasn't open to anyone who simply asked, given the occasionally delicate nature of transfers. He admitted, "Nine."
Her movements paused. "Woah."
"Indeed."
Thieves (Tiger & Bunny. Kotetsu/Barnaby, natch. I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing as I'm working on this but it is happening.)
"It's about...a very personal matter." Petrov dusted the statement out slowly, clearly enjoying the sharp curiosity Barnaby wasn't quite hiding. "Who are you to say for certain that he isn't willing to come? Is he not the grateful type? I did save his life once."
"There's a difference between being grateful and thinking he somehow owes you."
"And what propelled you to pay me a visit, if you think you owe me nothing for the same thing?" he said slyly, before taking on a more quiet look. "But you see, I want Mr. Kaburagi to know that in a way I'm the one who owes him."
After a couple seconds of Barnaby blinking in agitation, he said, "What are you talking about?"
"If in fact he refuses to speak with me," Petrov said while checking the length of a fingernail on his free hand, "I want you to give him a message that I am sorry. Will you do that?"
Barnaby gave a snooty look of consideration before barely bothering to give it a shrug. "Probably not."
"And why not?"
Because he had no idea what Petrov was talking about. Because he didn't like the sound of it and probably wouldn't want to think about it later. Because he wasn't planning on telling Kotetsu about this visit unless he had to. Barnaby sat there with a defensive pout and told him none of this.
The Trail's End (working title) (Battlestar Galactica. Yeah, so. This is a Bonnie & Clyde AU.)
Sam thinks it's just his imagination when a powerful but subtle grumble starts up as a feeling in his body, something coming from the guts of the vehicle. He feels the car veer into a groove of a slight curve of the path, then less slight; Thrace slams into reckless, impossible speed and just when Sam swears they're going to swim off a drop and end up wrapping a couple tons of metal around a tree trunk, something feels a little like the air being punched out of him, only backwards, his body lurching and senses flailing.
The feeling dissipates just as fast as it came. The car is in an empty parking lot and idling to a polite, graceful stop. Thrace throws the car into park. Adama gets out of the car to fume, leaving the passenger door open.
Sam sits up, slow and dazed. "Uh."
Thrace is resting an arm up on the back of the passenger seat, not quite checking a look back at him.
Finally he gulps out, "You have an FTL drive in your car?"
That gets him an emphatic, angry gesture from Adama. "What the frak, Kara? Are we just going to kill him now?"
Sam considers for a second that he should be comforted that the question implies that wasn't the general idea from the start. But he's a little more focused on stammering, "That's cylon technology. How the frak do you have one?"
"That's the thing about being a robber. You steal a lot of shit," she says with the cock of a brow, then to Adama: "Could you just breathe for a second?"
"That's how you always get away," Sam realizes. Then he says, "Oh, you really are going to kill me."
Untitled Rob/Cassie stuff? (Dublin Murder Squad...A lot of what I've written for these books are a bunch of scraps which may or may not all work together in the same fic, or two fics, or something. I DON'T KNOW.)
"Have you ever heard any of those stories about people seeing doubles as these mythical signs of bad luck?" Cassie asks Frank one time when they're still studying Lexie, one of their late nights at her flat. "There was this man who was seen at a party his wife was having, when he was actually out at sea, and his boat crashed and he died that same night."
"Spooky," Frank says in wry fascination at the unspoken comparison. He's idly looking at her bookshelf and his finger rubs along the thick spine of her old copy of Wuthering Heights; it's the most beautiful thing on the shelf and the first thing anyone might notice. Sam knows Rob gave it to her, and briefly she remembers a month back how he noticeably avoided touching it when he helped her rearrange her furniture.
"But nothing's gonna happen to me," Cassie says, smiling a little crookedly. "I'm just the harbinger."
It's only a joke then, but later it creeps up on her like a cold breath at the back of her neck, whether Lexie could have seen Cassie in person at some point. It's a thought to make her tea go cold as she forgets the cup between her hands: that vision of death as a monster looming at her back, smirking through all the mileage she put in at Whitethorn House. For some reason the picture makes her feel even more like Lexie was some baby snatched from a cradle far too soon, and she thinks of the souls of children wrung out of their own bodies in fairy legends, and she won't think of Rob, but sometimes, just sometimes she does still think of Adam.
Trapdoors (Inception/Star Trek crossover. I can't even remember when I came up with this idea, but I'm sure I was thinking "Ooh, this will be a fun little thing!" before I realized Inception is a son of a bitch to plot. At least for me it is.)
Arthur doesn't openly groan about this thing being miles beneath his pay grade but Ariadne greets in the cab him with an "I'm sorry, really, I just—"
"—don't know anyone else. I know," he interrupts, nods at Eames on Ariadne's left and brushes off his hat. By the time they've only driven a couple blocks, he complains, "This is really the biggest joke, though, considering how remote the possibility is that we'll even be needed. If this guy gets caught with his pants down and if the roommate catches them, the chance that this will have to be solved by going under rather than just shaking them up is pretty much obsolete."
Ariadne gives Eames a sidelong look as if to say she was about done with all the apologizing, and he raises his brows and says in mock-empathy, "He's just saying. Listen, Arthur, it'll be a field day if we actually do get in. Ariadne implied he's something of a projectionist."
"What are you on about? There's no such thing," Arthur protests, possibly missing that Eames is being a bit tongue-in-cheek.
"I think you're just a touch offended at the possibility that there could be one and it would end up being some lower-class snore whore."
"It's simply a fact that it's extremely improbable, Mr. Eames," Arthur replies. "...And I find dream-enabled escort services interesting."
Eames smirks. "I'm sure you do."
The Gates of Rock & Roll (Supernatural. This is just a whole pile of Dean's Guilt Issues among a couple other things that don't feel relevant/fresh in people's minds anymore because canon swerved out of it long ago. I have a weird stupid jealousy over the fact that there was a time when Dean was the living Winchester who had been to hell and that was his angst and guilt and insomnia, etc., but now Sam's been to worse hell and I gotta deal with that and I gotta like compare that to Dean but I don't feel like doing that. The point is, this fic feels too old for me to feel that fandom would connect to it the right way anymore. Am I making any sense?)
Ten years later and he looked up and there she was with a blade in hand that swiveled a slight reflection even though there wasn't a light source, and even though she was unrecognizable, he recognized her. Nothing made sense in hell, like whatever bureaucratic demon favors must have been called in to get one piece of the inventory off one hook and over to this one, just to pair up Dean Winchester with the only other person he knew in hell.
His head fell back tiredly. "I don't suppose you'd take me up on that angry sex now, huh?"
It wasn't until then Bela recognized him, wasn't until then she figured it out. He could see her face now and some twist in his gut made him instinctively want to feel sorry for her, pity her, but he could only want to. He squinted at her coldly.
"So how long did you last without getting off the rack? A day?"
Maybe everyone she tore up she imagined having her father's or someone else's face, maybe sooner or later everyone had somebody they wanted to hurt that badly. He would have loved to know, but she never said a single word.
He had a grinding thought that he should make some crack about how she's supposed to have the best comebacks, but he'd been screaming for years and it had already been half of the time since being a smartass seemed to help at all. Alastair showed up again, all slithering sibilance as he combed a hand somewhere gently atop Bela's bowed head, then he was in Dean's ear again, one word, the same word every day that was a question and also a promise. Tomorrow.
Working For the Man (Supernatural. Good old pre-series family angst.)
"Cassie." His voice was low, tired. It just wasn't working, the bullshitting, he couldn't not be Dean with her. "Aw, Jesus. You know I'm not actually a mechanic, right?" As if there was any good reason she should know that.
She blinked, not angry but emanating some kind of contractual patience. "You lied to me about your job?"
"Not..." He put out some disclaiming hand gesture. "Not for the reason most people lie about their jobs, babe, I'm not—like—"
He looked straight at her, right into her eyes for the first time since he hung up the phone, and it was something he saw there that made him think, Fuck me, but I deserve this. And he said, "I think you should sit down for a minute."
It all came out in the wash, and an hour later he was back on the highway with not enough gas and his chest feeling like it was caving in. He finally took it out on the faulty soda machine at the Luxe Inn at approximately 2 AM, wanting to kick it over at the grudging curiosity that suddenly appeared in his mind over whether Sam would have got himself a girlfriend by now. And he should be around to be mocking and congratulating about it in equal measures, "Aww, wittle Sammy's got a steady." Except that neither of them were ever supposed to have that kind of life.
.
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no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 06:00 pm (UTC)I haven't even read them yet but BONNIE & CLYDE AU WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS LAYLA OMG WHY IS IT ONLY A COOKIE
no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 06:08 pm (UTC)THAT'S A NICE ICON, YO.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 11:13 pm (UTC)*sigh* I still think about Rob and Cassie an insane amount, so hopefully something will come of it :)
no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 10:22 pm (UTC)Dude it's SPOCK AND CHAPEL *heavy breathing* IT'S ACTUALLY HAPPENING, THERE WILL BE A PART II??!!!??
No I've still never seen Bonnie & Clyde, how sad is that?
I'm hating you so much right now because the SPN ones are so beautiful and they're just little...bits. Like your Dean voice is gonna be awesome and fuck you, do these. Also SPN fans love writing in an old school state of mind and dealing with Dean's Hell angst in ways Show never dealt with it (though unpopular opinion: in some ways it's stronger that it didn't because you can't actually deal with that kind of shit, it's H-E-L-L literal Hell for crying out loud).
Ugh should I do this meme, idk. It would be a mess to put together if I did it. A mess.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 11:25 pm (UTC)Warren Beatty was a total stud when they made Bonnie & Clyde. I'm just trying to tell you to watch it.
I almost had a bit from the Samantha Winchester fic too but it would have just been a little paragraph. Also, I guess you might be my go-to What Do SPN Fans Still Give a Shit About person. Not that I care that much, but when I'm trying to narrow it down. I'm kind of assuming people will always read pre-series though, just because.
Do the damn meme. I want to see your mess.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-10 07:55 pm (UTC)god. I haven't even seen the show in awhile (I know. BAD. Unlike me. I NEVER fall off wagons, I am a bitter-end-er and I still love these people so I WILL catch up but yeah, I'm not nuts about the way the show kinda swerved away from what I was into about it as well. STILL) I AM STILL VERY INTERESTED IN EXACTLY THE KIND OF FIC YOU STILL SEEM TO WANNA WRITE ABOUT IT. STILL AND ALWAYS. Even if it's just me =)