Current mood:

weird

WIPs!
It's WIP Amnesty Something-or-Other, so I dusted off some old crap on the hard drive to if there was anything worth posting. This is only the stuff I'm (probably) not actually going to finish; the stuff I INTEND to finish is a much, much longer list. I'm nothing if not perverse.

(I will add, sulkily, that if I knew where my stupid Hey Arnold files were, there would be more stuff posted here. Like Helga and Arnold kissing on the stoop of the Sunset Arms in the snow. And bits of the next chapters of Home For Christmas and Always and The Queen's Treasure and, like, every single chapter of Before Woman. And Cinderhelga! Alas, the folder is all disappeared. And now to change the subject so as not to get too depressed...)

I have absolutely NO idea why I started writing this. I think it was in some way related to the Crackathon (which I really should get going again), but...yeah. I don't know. It's incredibly stupid, and I have no idea where I was going with it (although I think it was a rather PWP-y place), and...it's stupid. But I do like the opening line!

Well, the barn was painted.

David rubbed a hand vigorously through his curly hair and made a face as flakes of red paint powdered the front of his shirt like demonic dandruff. “Bleargh,” he announced eloquently.

Jack sighed and leaned dramatically against the wall. “You said it, brother,” he groaned. “If I never hear “Surrey With the Fringe on Top” again, it’ll be too soon.”

David wrinkled his nose mischievously. “I’d’ve thought you’d never get sick of Oklahoma, ‘Cowboy.’”

Jack laughed wryly at the old nickname. “All right, enough. I don’t call you “Mouth,” do I?”

“Nah.” David let out a frustrated breath of air. “Remind me not to volunteer for tech again just because Mush makes that stupid puppy face.” He yanked his paint-spattered tee shirt off and tugged at his undershirt. “I feel like I was mauled by Jesus.”

There was a funny sort of silence, and David felt rather than saw Jack’s eyes on him. He looked up from his paint-covered hands and arched an eyebrow questioningly.

Jack looked oddly flustered and his cheeks were pinker than usual, although that might’ve been the paint. “You’ve got paint on your nose,” he said, and his voice was a little raspy too.

It was a warm day, so David wasn’t quite sure why he was shivering.

Something in Jack’s gaze was a little too much to take in, so David changed the subject. “I’ve got paint everywhere,” he pointed out. “And I don’t really feel like walking back to my dorm looking like an extra in a slasher flick.”


"Slasher"! Demonic dandruff! Futurama quoting! Then I think they were gonna go have sex in a shower. Yeah, it had all the makings of a good fic without actually BEING good.






One paragraph of a Migulio fic that was gonna be all artsy and deep and shit before I got sick of it.

Tulio lives his life in gold. Rings and goblets and plates and crowns and endless piles of doubloons; battered and bent and caked with dirt, but gold all the same. He likes the way the sun glints off it; he likes the heavy hard coolness in his hands; he likes the things it gets him, like food and wine and women and men. But he’s no fool, and he knows gold is no kind of answer for emptiness, even as he’s scooping coins into his hand and singing his favorite song, while Miguel strums a cheery counterpoint.







Batfandom. Um. I pull this out and poke at it whenever I get depressed, along with various pieces of artwork expressing the same idea. It's supposed to be deliberately vague, but the fact that the thing is saved as "dead robins" on my computer ought to give you a clue.

“Hey.”

Damn. She should’ve known he’d be here. “Uh…hi.”

“Nice skirt.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ooh. First time I’ve heard that one. No, really.”

“Ouch.” But he’s laughing, at least as far as she can tell from the narrowing of the lenses and the way his stomach moves. He’s taller than Tim. “Snarky. And we haven’t even been properly introduced.”

“I know you, bird boy.” She sits down next to him, rubs her shoulder. An afterthought. It’s a ghost wound, anyway. “I’ve seen you before.”

A leer. “In your dreams, I suppose.”

She pauses. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. You’re around a lot more than you think.” Sidelong glance at him beneath her lashes, and she wishes he’d take off the mask and in the next breath wonders if he can. If she can.

He shakes his head and leans forward to let the dark heavy hair fall over his forehead. She can see the fairer roots and is confused, if not terribly surprised. It’s more surprising that she was allowed to remain blonde. “I know,” he says, and he sounds terribly young. “I can hear him talking to me.”

“You got me fired, you know.”

There’s still lavender bruises on his cheekbones, faint in this unwavering light. “You got you fired.”

“I reminded him of you.”

“Stupid of you, wasn’t it?”

“I was trying to save his life.”

“We all were.” He’s angry. “Are. Did. What do you think your boyfriend got into this game for?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my…” Widower? Is there a word for it?



Yeah, I have NO idea where that one was going.


Anyway, that's the last of the WIPs I'm actually willing to unveil to the public eye. Gaze upon their unfinishedness, ye friendslist, and despair. Or something.