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kat_lair***
So, I'm currently working with low hanging fruit type of goals and trying to advance both auction fics and other fics by just 200 words per day (so 2x200) and it seems to be working. Because I have also been strict about actually taking note of the hours I work and only doing the hours I'm paid for... Let's see how long that lasts!
Anyway, thought I'd do this WIP meme with snippets from all my nine current WIPs, four of which are auction fics. We shall not think about the WIPs I lost in the Great Laptop Crash of 2019, or the WIPs that are so ancient they are essentially collecting pension right now.
Anyway. Context is for the weak. Mix of fandoms and pairings.
1. The first thing Zhao Yunlan’s newly conscious thoughts registered was an overwhelming taste of blood. He coughed and spat, struggling to roll onto all fours with the vague hope of it being the first step toward standing up like a competent officer of the law, rather than something small and pathetic, curled up around himself on the ground. It was the scrape of his own sneakers against the asphalt that alerted him to just how eerily quiet everything was.
Zhao Yunlan frowned, cautiously raising up to sit on his haunches and looking around. The last thing he remembered was being in the middle of a fight – getting the shit beaten out of him if you wanted to get technical about it – and he couldn’t have lost consciousness for that long. A glance at his surroundings confirmed his estimation. The fight was still very much going on, except for some reason it seemed to be doing so entirely in silence and outside a solid five-meter radius of him.
2. She thinks about her a lot, more than she has for a long time. Maybe it was a coping mechanism, focusing on the bad times and disagreements and blaming Ramona for the car getting out of control, even though she’d climbed in willingly, knowingly, herself. Maybe it was easier that way, rather than remembering the way Ramona had hugged her, that last time outside the police station, how she’d wrenched herself away like it had hurt.
It had, the phantom pain of it lingering like the stains of Ramona’s mascara on the shoulder of Destiny’s jacket.
She’d thrown the jacket away. The fur coat though… The one Ramona got her because she knew Destiny wouldn’t let herself have that kind of luxury. That coat is in the closet of their apartment. She may never wear it again, but she couldn’t bring herself to sell it either.
3. “Uh,” he says and then spreads his arms like a circus director. “Happy birthday!”
Shane stares at him. “…My birthday was over three months ago,” he says slowly. “I know you know because you were there.”
“I was.”
“And you bought me Tequila shots.”
Ryan nods. He had. Several.
“Because it was my birthday.”
Another nod. Ryan lowers his arms but resists the urge to wrap them around his middle.
Shane runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it up even more. “Feel free to start making sense,” he says. “Any time now.”
4. “Do you want to hurt?” Gerard asks, pulling his hand back finally, reluctantly. He doesn’t think that’s why Mikey is here, not this early on the tour.
Mikey shakes his head, then confirms out loud before Gerard has to remind him about it. God, he’s good. “No,” Mikey says. His voice is low, his lips dry, cracked. “Not tonight.”
Gerard nods, smoothing Mikey’s hair off his face, fisting it just hard enough to keep him still. “Do you want to come?” Gerard asks.
“Yes,” Mikey says. “Don’t let me.”
5. Amos Burton is born a sub and for the first thirty something years of his life he makes everyone else pay for it. He is not gentle or agreeable as a boy, and he does not grow into a graceful or compassionate man.
At the Baltimore Institute for the Unclaimed, Amos bites that hand that strokes his hair and goes without food for it, rising from his knees as soon as the House Mother leaves the room. They can call him a 'good boy' all they want but he can smell the lie, nothing but rot and emptiness behind the words. It's a cheap trick to get him to comply with rules made by people who only want an easy life, who don't care for Amos or kids like him. He racks up enough punishments to earn a small 'm' and a question mark next to his intake records, which isn't exactly wrong per se, just not the motivation.
6. "What's going on?" he asked as soon as he was through the door, walking down the front steps and toward the car. "Do you got a body in there that you need help burying?" It was a moot question. Monroe would've been able to smell it if there was anything dead in the vicinity. As it was, all he could smell was Nick; sweat and stale coffee and faded cologne, and something metallic underneath that Monroe associated with Nick being a Grimm. Well, Nick and the usual scents of the evening. Plus… Something earthy and green that seemed out of place, coming as it was from Nick’s car.
"No body," Nick said, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. "Though I appreciate knowing that you're the kind of friend who I could ask for that kind of favour."
That was probably the least of it, Monroe thought. There was very little he wouldn't do if Nick asked it, but he could at least hope to keep him from knowing that.
7. “I’ll have a snifter of your finest sherry, young man!” a voice demanded over the bar. “And make it snappy.”
Mikey pressed his lips against a smile that threatened to spill out. It wouldn’t do to give Frank the satisfaction. “That wasn’t funny the last, oh, fifteen times you’ve said that.”
Frank grinned at him. “Lies and slander!” he exclaimed, pressing a hand over his heart in indignation. “I’ve never asked for a sherry before!”
“No, but you’ve asked for ‘our oldest whiskey’ and ‘the most expensive champagne’ and a ‘blowjob’,” Mikey was sure to keep his voice absolute flat for that, refusing to remember the split second of flustered surprise Frank’s outrageous request had caused him the other week, “none of which you’d actually want.”
“Actually…” Frank’s smirk took on a filthy edge.
8. Ryan turns around with a groan, flopping to his back, gracelessly starfishing it on the towel. The sun hammers the backyard, relentless, the heat of it like a physical weight pushing him down, keeping him pinned and Ryan would be lying if didn’t admit – at least to himself – that that’s part of the appeal. It’s why he loves these long, lazy summer afternoons so much; the lethargy spreading throughout his body, the feeling of having no choice but lie there and let it have him. Probably it makes him the sun’s little slut or something but Ryan’s at peace with that, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his hairline.
9. “You coming, Mikes?” Frank asks, nodding toward the bathrooms. In his grip, Brendon vibrates with tension; wide-eyed but not protesting. There’s something wild and more than a little desperate in his eyes.
There’s a challenge in Frank’s, bright and sharp and hooking into Mikey’s chest like a harpoon.
“Dunno,” he lies. “Depends on how good a show you’ll put on, I guess.”
***
So, I'm currently working with low hanging fruit type of goals and trying to advance both auction fics and other fics by just 200 words per day (so 2x200) and it seems to be working. Because I have also been strict about actually taking note of the hours I work and only doing the hours I'm paid for... Let's see how long that lasts!
Anyway, thought I'd do this WIP meme with snippets from all my nine current WIPs, four of which are auction fics. We shall not think about the WIPs I lost in the Great Laptop Crash of 2019, or the WIPs that are so ancient they are essentially collecting pension right now.
Anyway. Context is for the weak. Mix of fandoms and pairings.
1. The first thing Zhao Yunlan’s newly conscious thoughts registered was an overwhelming taste of blood. He coughed and spat, struggling to roll onto all fours with the vague hope of it being the first step toward standing up like a competent officer of the law, rather than something small and pathetic, curled up around himself on the ground. It was the scrape of his own sneakers against the asphalt that alerted him to just how eerily quiet everything was.
Zhao Yunlan frowned, cautiously raising up to sit on his haunches and looking around. The last thing he remembered was being in the middle of a fight – getting the shit beaten out of him if you wanted to get technical about it – and he couldn’t have lost consciousness for that long. A glance at his surroundings confirmed his estimation. The fight was still very much going on, except for some reason it seemed to be doing so entirely in silence and outside a solid five-meter radius of him.
2. She thinks about her a lot, more than she has for a long time. Maybe it was a coping mechanism, focusing on the bad times and disagreements and blaming Ramona for the car getting out of control, even though she’d climbed in willingly, knowingly, herself. Maybe it was easier that way, rather than remembering the way Ramona had hugged her, that last time outside the police station, how she’d wrenched herself away like it had hurt.
It had, the phantom pain of it lingering like the stains of Ramona’s mascara on the shoulder of Destiny’s jacket.
She’d thrown the jacket away. The fur coat though… The one Ramona got her because she knew Destiny wouldn’t let herself have that kind of luxury. That coat is in the closet of their apartment. She may never wear it again, but she couldn’t bring herself to sell it either.
3. “Uh,” he says and then spreads his arms like a circus director. “Happy birthday!”
Shane stares at him. “…My birthday was over three months ago,” he says slowly. “I know you know because you were there.”
“I was.”
“And you bought me Tequila shots.”
Ryan nods. He had. Several.
“Because it was my birthday.”
Another nod. Ryan lowers his arms but resists the urge to wrap them around his middle.
Shane runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it up even more. “Feel free to start making sense,” he says. “Any time now.”
4. “Do you want to hurt?” Gerard asks, pulling his hand back finally, reluctantly. He doesn’t think that’s why Mikey is here, not this early on the tour.
Mikey shakes his head, then confirms out loud before Gerard has to remind him about it. God, he’s good. “No,” Mikey says. His voice is low, his lips dry, cracked. “Not tonight.”
Gerard nods, smoothing Mikey’s hair off his face, fisting it just hard enough to keep him still. “Do you want to come?” Gerard asks.
“Yes,” Mikey says. “Don’t let me.”
5. Amos Burton is born a sub and for the first thirty something years of his life he makes everyone else pay for it. He is not gentle or agreeable as a boy, and he does not grow into a graceful or compassionate man.
At the Baltimore Institute for the Unclaimed, Amos bites that hand that strokes his hair and goes without food for it, rising from his knees as soon as the House Mother leaves the room. They can call him a 'good boy' all they want but he can smell the lie, nothing but rot and emptiness behind the words. It's a cheap trick to get him to comply with rules made by people who only want an easy life, who don't care for Amos or kids like him. He racks up enough punishments to earn a small 'm' and a question mark next to his intake records, which isn't exactly wrong per se, just not the motivation.
6. "What's going on?" he asked as soon as he was through the door, walking down the front steps and toward the car. "Do you got a body in there that you need help burying?" It was a moot question. Monroe would've been able to smell it if there was anything dead in the vicinity. As it was, all he could smell was Nick; sweat and stale coffee and faded cologne, and something metallic underneath that Monroe associated with Nick being a Grimm. Well, Nick and the usual scents of the evening. Plus… Something earthy and green that seemed out of place, coming as it was from Nick’s car.
"No body," Nick said, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. "Though I appreciate knowing that you're the kind of friend who I could ask for that kind of favour."
That was probably the least of it, Monroe thought. There was very little he wouldn't do if Nick asked it, but he could at least hope to keep him from knowing that.
7. “I’ll have a snifter of your finest sherry, young man!” a voice demanded over the bar. “And make it snappy.”
Mikey pressed his lips against a smile that threatened to spill out. It wouldn’t do to give Frank the satisfaction. “That wasn’t funny the last, oh, fifteen times you’ve said that.”
Frank grinned at him. “Lies and slander!” he exclaimed, pressing a hand over his heart in indignation. “I’ve never asked for a sherry before!”
“No, but you’ve asked for ‘our oldest whiskey’ and ‘the most expensive champagne’ and a ‘blowjob’,” Mikey was sure to keep his voice absolute flat for that, refusing to remember the split second of flustered surprise Frank’s outrageous request had caused him the other week, “none of which you’d actually want.”
“Actually…” Frank’s smirk took on a filthy edge.
8. Ryan turns around with a groan, flopping to his back, gracelessly starfishing it on the towel. The sun hammers the backyard, relentless, the heat of it like a physical weight pushing him down, keeping him pinned and Ryan would be lying if didn’t admit – at least to himself – that that’s part of the appeal. It’s why he loves these long, lazy summer afternoons so much; the lethargy spreading throughout his body, the feeling of having no choice but lie there and let it have him. Probably it makes him the sun’s little slut or something but Ryan’s at peace with that, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his hairline.
9. “You coming, Mikes?” Frank asks, nodding toward the bathrooms. In his grip, Brendon vibrates with tension; wide-eyed but not protesting. There’s something wild and more than a little desperate in his eyes.
There’s a challenge in Frank’s, bright and sharp and hooking into Mikey’s chest like a harpoon.
“Dunno,” he lies. “Depends on how good a show you’ll put on, I guess.”
***
no subject
on 2020-09-03 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-03 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 07:55 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 03:52 am (UTC)Yay for strict work hours, keep it up!!
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on 2020-09-04 07:57 pm (UTC)Been pretty good this week with the hours!
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on 2020-09-04 03:23 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 07:58 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 05:32 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 07:59 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-04 09:49 pm (UTC)(Also #s 3, 4 & 7)
I love this meme. It's such a tantalising delight :)
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on 2020-09-07 05:46 pm (UTC)All all the others too. I hope! She says, inching auction fics forward...
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on 2020-09-08 12:42 pm (UTC)If it makes you feel better, I am inching things forward while also HATING WITH THE FIREY PASSION OF A THOUSANDS SUNS every word I'm committing to paper. So, that's a delight and a half. Motivation is not a good bedfellow with vitriolic despair!
no subject
on 2020-09-05 03:55 am (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-07 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2020-09-05 02:33 pm (UTC)I posted my second auction fic last night (why does AO3 mess up Word formatting??) so it's full steam ahead on the Discovery one - expect flailing.
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on 2020-09-07 05:41 pm (UTC)Well done on finishing the second auction fic! It goes to my 'to read' list which is depressingly long... Got your Discovery email and I have some thoughts, though may have to rewatch that particular episode first.