I always have a bazillion WIPs cluttering up the hard drive. Back when I used a typewriter I had bunches of little stacks of paper clipped and cross-piled on whatever horizontal surface was near to hand. I'm posting bits which might sound interesting, but keep in mind that this is no guarantee that I've worked on anything recently, nor that I will in the future. I'll note what is or isn't likely to be worked on in the next year or so, but that's still not a promise. [wry smile] And yes, I suck at titles and they almost always come last, usually in a fit of panic when I want to post and have to have something. [laugh/flail]
Untitled Eric/Orlando story This is one I've worked on in the last month or so. I'll probably get back to it soon, although it's going to be sort of longish so no clue when it'll be done.
Dom collapsed in a fit of drunken giggles, hit the back of the sofa and flopped over it onto the cushions. Elijah, who been snickering just as hard but hadn't drunk quite as much yet -- although he was working on that and if Orlando and Bill would hurry up with the rum and the blender and whatever all else they were futzing around with in the kitchen he'd be able to get it in gear and catch up -- laughed some more and pointed at Dom's sprawled body. Dom flipped him off and stuck his tongue out at him, both at once, then scooted up toward the end of the sofa and snuggled down onto one of the throw pillows.
Except he sat right back up again, an annoyed scowl on his face -- and Elijah thought that was funny too -- and tossed the pillow onto the floor.
"Hah!" He smacked his hand down on something that made a hard slapping sound, harder than anything belonging to a sofa should. Elijah leaned over and said, "What? The sofa attacking? It'd probably win, too!"
"Nah," Dom said, his grin turning wicked. "This!" He slapped the whatever again and Elijah leaned over to see what it was, then shrugged.
"Orlando's laptop. So? He's been leaving it around all weekend."
"Yeah, but it's on!" Dom wiggled his eyebrows and said, "Let's send some e-mail!"
Viggo/Orlando story, working title "Hawaii" This one's from that memething back in... '05? Something like that. Which makes this the second snippet from it I've posted, but anyway. I'd be shocked if this one was finished any time in the next year, although I did add a few scenes to it a couple of months ago.
One of them stepped right up to him, nose-to-nose practically, and glared down at him from a height of at least six-two. "What we want is our bag back, Mr. Bloom."
"What bag?" Orlando asked. He blinked and looked around in confusion. "Wait, did we grab the wrong bag at check-out? What store--?" He bent down to hunt through the bags piled around their feet but the guy grabbed his arm and hauled him back up.
"Don't be cute," he snapped. "Hardside case, black, airport."
Viggo stepped up next to Orlando, grabbed the man's wrist and squeezed. "How 'bout if you let go and we talk about this calmly?"
The man's friend grabbed Viggo's arm and with a quick jerk and twist, sent him staggering backwards toward the car. Orlando snarled in shock and anger, whipping his head around to see Viggo nearly fall into the still-open trunk. He only got a glimpse, though, because the first man yanked him back around to face him.
"You pay attention to what's going on right here," he snapped. "We want our bag back. Where is it?"
Untitled Sean/Orlando story Another memething story, and again the second snippet that's been posted. I added a few scenes about... five or six months ago, something like that, but this is another one that's way on the back burner.
The day was hot with a breeze. The wind brought mingled scents of the rubberized surface of the main track baking in the sun, and the lush plantings of jasmine and honeysuckle. Everything utilitarian was sturdy and of professional quality, but there were signs of luxury everywhere; Piper liked his comforts and fancied himself a well-bred gentleman. Carved hardwood benches and formal gardens stood in for his lack of actual pedigree, at least from Sean's British point of view.
Sean sauntered forward and leaned against a wooden railing which surrounded the packed-sand practice track. A starter's gun had just gone off as he approached and two ponies were racing on the inner lanes while another three trotted more slowly in the outer, well spaced and watched carefully by trainers with long-handled whips.
Sean watched, concentrating on keeping his expression blandly interested. He'd seen a horse race or two in his day but never anything like this.
Viggo/Orlando, working title "Vermin" This one's ancient; I haven't done anything but diddle with commas and typos since some time in late '04. It's very AU, obviously, sort of a fantasy without the magic, kinda. I still like the basic story idea -- no clue why the bunny's been AWOL for so long.
"Stop, you little rat!" The guard’s shout seemed a bit fainter than it had been a moment ago. Although that might just be imagination. Or wishful thinking. Orlando ducked into a narrow space between two buildings and forced himself not to slow down as he dodged and hurdled old crates, broken jars, tattered baskets and the stripped carcass of what had probably been a sheep. Another corner and he leapt over a flight of steps, landing down at the basement level, still running.
"Stop in the name of the king!"
Orlando rolled his eyes. We don't have a king right now, stupid. A dead man can’t give commands and you can't give them for him. It sounded like a good argument to him, but something told him the guard wouldn’t agree with his reasoning.
The pounding of boots on pavement behind him definitely sounded louder. He zipped around the back of a leatherworks and ducked under an arch, heading for the tanner's at the end of the alley.
"There he is! Stop!"
Right, thought Orlando, as he shifted a lumpy sack from one hand to the other. I’ll just stop so you can grab me, bugger me, beat me up and chop my foot off without having to exert yourself any more than necessary. No problem, happy to oblige.
untitled Viggo/Orlando fantasy AU This one hasn't been worked on since early '04. When I read through it looking for a good snippet, I had to stop and think what the pairing was, even, and I'm figuring V/O just because that's pretty much all I was writing back then. Orlando hasn't even shown up in the story yet, though. Only two pages, more than three years old -- don't hold your breath on this one. [wry smile]
Viggo swung his leg over the saddle and slid off his horse. His eyes still closed, he strode to the center of the destruction and began to hum. The gentle melody wafted through the air and over the ground, soothing, relaxing, coaxing. The last angry whips and sparks slowed, calmed, and finally dissipated in to the ether.
He took in a long breath, then let it out. He opened his eyes and nodded to the troop captain, signalling that it was safe for them to approach. At a command from the captain, half the troops spread out to search the clearing and the wood around it while the rest began the slow circles of patrol.
The burly captain approached Viggo, scowling over his shoulder while picking his way through the camp. His lord met him halfway, moving out of the path of the searchers and prowlers.
"I don't like this," the soldier murmured, keeping his voice low to prevent his troops from overhearing. "That one there," he glanced at the nearest corpse, "I can see from here he was wearing a silver bracer. The puddle is big enough to reflect the moonlight even with so much ash around. This wasn't just a road robbery."
Untitled Dresden Files fic, Harry/Morgan This'll be my first Dresen Files story. There's a fairly reasonable chance it'll probably be finished some time this year, she said very cautiously.
The three demons scattered in pieces around the wreckage of his office had deposited a hell of a lot of ichor on his hardwood floor and he knew he was going to have to mix up at least one new batch of dungeon-scrub before the place was fit to be seen by the general public again.
Not that Ancient Mai or the Wardens cared about that. The messy details were beneath the Council and its leg-breakers.
As though on cue, Morgan said to Mai, "I'll stay here and make sure everything is disposed of properly." He glanced at Harry and added, "We wouldn't want any contraband demon parts to 'accidentally' end up in spells or potions. Or slip onto the black market just because Dresden can't make his rent."
Well, all right -- some details aren't beneath the Wardens. Any details having to do with Harry possibly thinking about doing something that someone with an ass so tight it couldn't pass a strand of spaghetti just might think was wrong was subject to intense scrutiny at the highest levels. Harry gave Morgan a look combining "Who, me?" and a healthy glob of sarcasm, with a raised eyebrow just for seasoning.
With any luck, Mai'd swallow it.
Untitled Harry Potter fic, Snape/OFC (and she's not a Mary Sue, dammit!) This is the first fanfic I started writing, the first thing I started writing, after the depakote wore off and I could write again for the first time in years, back in very early '04 or maybe even late '03. At the time I started it I was unaware of how virulently anti-OC fanfic fandom had become, but I soon became aware that continuing this story would be essentially pointless, especially as a newbie whose name was completely unknown. I'm still unknown in HP fandom, my two little short pieces having vanished without a trace into an ocean half a million fics deep. [wry smile] If I were even as well known in HP as I am in LOTRiPS I might consider finishing this, but as things are now no one would read it. Which sucks, 'cause I was having a blast writing Severus. :)
On Monday both Snape and Forrester were back in the classroom -- Forrester with her left hand thickly wrapped in bandages, Snape walking with a stick. He’d had no intention of making the student body aware of his injury, but Pomfrey’d insisted that she couldn’t completely mend and reattach two tendons and four muscles, and reconstruct a joint cap, all in one day, or even a day and a half. Snape had snarled at her, then sunk back against the pillow and gracelessly surrendered to the inevitable.
Transfiguration had never been his strongest skill, but he was sufficiently competent to transform a pewter candlestick into a plain ebony cane with a polished steel head before limping down to his quarters. He discovered in class on Monday -- third year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws -- that it made a most satisfying WHACK! when he slammed it down on a desktop. Toby Almsley, who’d been about to drop four ounces of pecan shells into his cauldron while the poppyfluff petals he should have added first were still clearly lying on his desk, produced a respectable shriek. The pecan shells had bounced off the ceiling.
Snape took five points from Hufflepuff and pondered keeping the stick.
Untitled Stargate SG-1 story, Jack/Daniel I banged out about what's here -- this is all of it -- back in mid-'05 and then wandered off. I had to stop and think to even remember where I was going with this. Chances of finishing any time soon are infinitismally small. Although now that I've reminded myself, it could be a fun idea.... [ponder]
"Oh, yeah, Jack! Right there! Yes, perfect! Uuuuhhhhhhhhh!" Daniel's ability to verbalize vanished along with his muscle coordination and he collapsed face-down into the pillow, his whole body twitching in ecstacy.
"Good, great, glad this is working for you," grumbled Jack. "This wasn't quite what I had in mind, though, when you said you were in dire need of my hands."
"Sh'tp 'n scsh," Daniel slurred.
Jack rolled his eyes but kept scratching. Daniel'd been wriggling and wincing all afternoon, ever since he'd triggered the big, glowy whatever-it-was back at the abandoned temple. When Daniel had started scratching his back on pillars and trees, grizzly-fashion, Jack had dragged him back to camp.
Daniel had sworn it was nothing, that it just itched like crazy, and it was true that he didn't have a fever or a rash or any actual pain. Jack figured with Daniel's luck it was some kind of a joke, like Gou'ald itching powder.
Untitled Phantom Menace story, Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan Another ancient fic, although this one I actually pull out and dink with every now and then. Liam Neeson is just teh sex, but unfortunately I got into fanfic fandom too late to catch the TPM wave. I'll probably finish this some day, but it's going to be long and it'll probably be done long after anyone but me is interested in TPM fic.
Jinn sent his apprentice a silent acknowledgement, then kicked in the door.
The fight was surprisingly long. Obi-Wan had come crashing through the window as planned and his main duty was to protect the slave their sources said was inside, leaving Qui-Gon to deal with the slaver himself, a Tal Mostigan. Mostigan was quick and canny, not only sensitive to the Force himself but clearly trained. Despite this, and a chaotic, anything-goes fighting style, Jinn almost had him until a small pottery lamp came flying from over Obi-Wan's shoulder and shattered against the back of the master's head. Jinn's shocked apprentice hurled himself into the fight in defence of his master and between the two of them they soon had Mostigan laid out on the floor.
The slave, a young human female, cried her distress and threw herself over his prone body.
Obi-Wan tried to remove her, but her screaming and flailing had him stymied. He was trying not to hurt her, but she obviously had no such compunction regarding him.
"Umm, Master? What should I...? I mean... oww!"
Tagging anyone who feels like playing. :)