The UST WIP Meme
Oct. 25th, 2008 05:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luzulaI loved this meme the last time it went around, but then I hardly had any WIP:s. But this time I do! I usually have a pretty constant number of WIP:s--about five at any given time, give or take a few snippets. I also usually have a few ideas percolating that I haven't written anything of. So, here are my WIP:s:
Title: I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my husband
Pairings: Maggie/Frannie, with a side of Fraser/Kowalski. And a lot of brother-sister interaction.
Rating: PG-13
Length: Right now about 9.000 words
Notes: This story is almost done, really. All it's lacking is
1) An ending sentence
2) The conclusion of an action scene
3) A little more motivation, plot-wise, for one of the scenes.
"Which hotel are you staying at?" Benton said.
"Well, I didn't get a reservation, I figured it wasn't exactly high season. Perhaps you could help me find a room?"
"Of course. I'd offer to let you stay with me, but my office isn't a particularly comfortable place."
"Oh, you can stay in my room. Can't have my daughter stay at a hotel when I have a cot to offer her." I turn quickly at the gruff voice, to see a third Mountie walking behind us.
"Dad, hello." Benton nods at him.
"Well, if you're sure..." I trail off, unsure what to say in the absurdity of the situation. I've gotten somewhat used to the idea of Bob Fraser being my father, but to have him suddenly materialize behind me startles me.
"Of course I'm sure. I don't need the cot, I'm dead after all."
"Then why did you get it, Dad?"
"Comes in useful now, doesn't it? Always keep an extra cot on hand, son." Bob Fraser shakes a finger in the air and continues in what is apparently his lecturing mode. "Did I ever tell you about the time when Late Bill Hatter and his wife came past our cabin like the devil was after their sled? There was a storm, so they had to stay the night."
"And the cot?"
"Well, his wife was pregnant. Caroline delivered the baby in it."
"Ah."
Bob adds: "You could have offered Maggie your room, you know. It's not like you sleep there most nights."
"Dad!" Benton's head is turned down, and the brim of his hat makes it hard to see, but I think he's blushing. Perhaps he's seeing someone. Yes, that would explain Bob Fraser's self-satisfied tone--I remember with some amusement how he tried to play the match-maker between Benton and me last time I was here. Ha, that would never have worked, even if I weren't his sister. We're far too similar.
Title: The Best Team the North Has Ever Seen
Pairing: F/K
Rating: NC-17
Length: Right now, not so long.
Notes: So, this is a post-CotW story where Ray goes to Depot and becomes a Mountie (hey, it would be possible). I kind of wanted to write a cheerful post-CotW story to balance up The Passage of Time. It'll have two alternating timelines: one case-fic part set in the present of the story, and one series of flashbacks about how Ray became a Mountie. Also, an important ingredient in the story is Ray getting a brown RCMP uniform. Because that would be hot. *is shallow* Here's the beginning:
"Yeah, Constable Kowalski here. What can I do for you?"
Ray is leaning back in his chair when he answers the phone, feet on the desk. But he quickly straightens, grabbing a pen and tapping it against the desk as he listens.
"So, when did you last see him?" Ray scribbles something on a piece of paper. I try to listen to the other side of the conversation, but can't make it out--the dulled senses of middle age, I suppose.
"Right. And what did Mick say? Did he know where he went?"
More nodding and writing. I don't even pretend to be interested in the report on my desk anymore.
"Huh. We'll be right with you. In the meantime, I want you to try to remember everything Brian said or did over the last few days. Anything that might help us find out where he's gone. Okay?"
Ray hangs up and turns to me. "That was Lynn Rivet. Her son, Brian, you remember him?" I nod. "He's gone, and apparently he has been since yesterday evening. He'd told his mom he was staying over with his friend Mick, but he isn't there, and Mick doesn't know where he is."
Title: In Your Boots
Pairing: Fraser/Thatcher, kind of.
Rating: PG-13
Length: Right now 3.000 words
Notes: This is Fraser genderfuck, set in S2. And at first, it was supposed to have hot femslash sex, but then it didn't want to, and instead, it turned into a story about their professional relationship, with some UST. Which is probably for the best. The title refers to Fraser literally borrowing Thatcher's uniform. I have no idea when this'll be done--it's mostly lacking a plot, and as it's partly a casefic, that is kind of a drawback. *g*
I roll onto my side, half awake, and pull my arms up to my chest. My hands encounter something soft and yielding; curving flesh warm with body heat. I startle, fully awake at the inexplicably terrifying thought that there is a woman in my bed.
No, there isn't. Or rather, there is. But I'm alone, and those are my breasts.
I lie down on my back, breathing slowly to calm my racing pulse. Tentatively, I move a hand down to my groin, and feel not a penis under my long johns, but only a thatch of hair. I take a deep breath, and rational thought returns. I can deal with this.
After all, stranger things have happened to me.
I glance at the clock, which stands at 05:56. Since I'm awake, I might as well get up. I stand, looking down at myself. The long johns don't fit me very well--they are too long, hanging loose on my arms and legs, and too tight in other places. Diefenbaker raises his head from his mat over by the window, then whuffs in confusion. He pads over to me.
"Diefenbaker. It's still me." My voice is higher than before, and the pitch drops as I try to adjust. He whines, then sticks his nose between my legs. "Dief! Stop that! Honestly, you have no sense of propriety."
I kneel down and take his head between my hands, making sure he can see my mouth. "Dief. I'm still me. I'm the same person you met in the bear trap, and the same person you saved from drowning."
He seems to accept it then, although he lowers his tail in confusion. I don't blame him. "No, I don't know what happened, either. We'll find out, though." My voice has found its proper range now. If I were to sing, I would probably be a mezzo-soprano.
Well. One thing at a time. I fetch my towel and head for the bathroom to take a shower. I strip down, looking more closely at myself. I am shorter, of course, and more...curvaceous. I tentatively cup one of my breasts. It feels heavy and warm in my hand. They seem a bit impractical, and I wish they weren't quite so ample. My muscle mass is reduced, of course, although I still seem to be reasonably fit. My layer of subcutaneous fat is still there, although distributed somewhat differently.
In the bathroom mirror, the face looking back at me is recognizably my own, although the features are more delicate, my jaw and chin less wide, my cheeks smooth. My hair is still short, messy and a little curly after sleep. I smooth it down reflexively.
Title: Unnamed Martha WIP
Pairing: Martha/George
Rating: probably PG-13
Length: Right now, not long
Notes: This is the story of how Martha ran away from home to study. I love the idea of it, but the reason I haven't written much on it is because I'm too lazy to do the research. As just one example, note that Martha lights a candle in the excerpt below. Is that realistic? Or would there have been an actual lamp?
The narrow stairs creaked under Martha's feet as she climbed up to her attic room. They were steep and she held one hand on the stairs in front of her, stepping carefully. There was a letter on the top step, addressed to her. Mrs Andersen must have left it there for her. She picked it up, opening the door.
The room was dim, and the only light was from the remains of the sunset seeping in through the small window. Lighting a candle, she sat down on her cot and kicked her shoes off. She quickly pulled her feet up from the cold floor and tucked them under her, curling up along the chimney.
She looked at the letter. It seemed like months had passed since she had come here, though it had only been a week, and she felt unexpectedly close to tears holding the envelope. The adress
Martha (insert last name)
care of Mrs. Andersen
(insert address)
was written in Miss Edward's flowing handwriting, so familiar from the classroom. Martha could almost see her tidy bun of hair and her straight back as she stood turned toward the blackboard, writing.
No. She couldn't afford to be homesick. Martha decisively opened the envelope and unfolded the thin paper. She tilted it toward the light.
Dear Martha,
I hope you are well, and that you are settling down in the city. How did your interview at the school go? I sent them a letter of recommendation, as I promised, but of course that is no guarantee that you will be admitted.
I'm afraid Billy Martin's parents still are not speaking to yours, even though the failure of his suit was not their doing. Billy himself seems to have recovered with amazing resilience.
Martha smothered a grin. She always knew Billy wasn't really sweet on her. His parents just wanted him to marry and get out of trouble. His face when she's turned him down flat, though, that had been a sight. The thought that there was any girl who didn't want him was apparently one that had never struck him.
And finally, I just want to mention the sequel to Leaving Home, because I will definitely tell the story of Benton at Depot. I have lots of ideas for it, they just haven't quite gelled yet.
Title: I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my husband
Pairings: Maggie/Frannie, with a side of Fraser/Kowalski. And a lot of brother-sister interaction.
Rating: PG-13
Length: Right now about 9.000 words
Notes: This story is almost done, really. All it's lacking is
1) An ending sentence
2) The conclusion of an action scene
3) A little more motivation, plot-wise, for one of the scenes.
"Which hotel are you staying at?" Benton said.
"Well, I didn't get a reservation, I figured it wasn't exactly high season. Perhaps you could help me find a room?"
"Of course. I'd offer to let you stay with me, but my office isn't a particularly comfortable place."
"Oh, you can stay in my room. Can't have my daughter stay at a hotel when I have a cot to offer her." I turn quickly at the gruff voice, to see a third Mountie walking behind us.
"Dad, hello." Benton nods at him.
"Well, if you're sure..." I trail off, unsure what to say in the absurdity of the situation. I've gotten somewhat used to the idea of Bob Fraser being my father, but to have him suddenly materialize behind me startles me.
"Of course I'm sure. I don't need the cot, I'm dead after all."
"Then why did you get it, Dad?"
"Comes in useful now, doesn't it? Always keep an extra cot on hand, son." Bob Fraser shakes a finger in the air and continues in what is apparently his lecturing mode. "Did I ever tell you about the time when Late Bill Hatter and his wife came past our cabin like the devil was after their sled? There was a storm, so they had to stay the night."
"And the cot?"
"Well, his wife was pregnant. Caroline delivered the baby in it."
"Ah."
Bob adds: "You could have offered Maggie your room, you know. It's not like you sleep there most nights."
"Dad!" Benton's head is turned down, and the brim of his hat makes it hard to see, but I think he's blushing. Perhaps he's seeing someone. Yes, that would explain Bob Fraser's self-satisfied tone--I remember with some amusement how he tried to play the match-maker between Benton and me last time I was here. Ha, that would never have worked, even if I weren't his sister. We're far too similar.
Title: The Best Team the North Has Ever Seen
Pairing: F/K
Rating: NC-17
Length: Right now, not so long.
Notes: So, this is a post-CotW story where Ray goes to Depot and becomes a Mountie (hey, it would be possible). I kind of wanted to write a cheerful post-CotW story to balance up The Passage of Time. It'll have two alternating timelines: one case-fic part set in the present of the story, and one series of flashbacks about how Ray became a Mountie. Also, an important ingredient in the story is Ray getting a brown RCMP uniform. Because that would be hot. *is shallow* Here's the beginning:
"Yeah, Constable Kowalski here. What can I do for you?"
Ray is leaning back in his chair when he answers the phone, feet on the desk. But he quickly straightens, grabbing a pen and tapping it against the desk as he listens.
"So, when did you last see him?" Ray scribbles something on a piece of paper. I try to listen to the other side of the conversation, but can't make it out--the dulled senses of middle age, I suppose.
"Right. And what did Mick say? Did he know where he went?"
More nodding and writing. I don't even pretend to be interested in the report on my desk anymore.
"Huh. We'll be right with you. In the meantime, I want you to try to remember everything Brian said or did over the last few days. Anything that might help us find out where he's gone. Okay?"
Ray hangs up and turns to me. "That was Lynn Rivet. Her son, Brian, you remember him?" I nod. "He's gone, and apparently he has been since yesterday evening. He'd told his mom he was staying over with his friend Mick, but he isn't there, and Mick doesn't know where he is."
Title: In Your Boots
Pairing: Fraser/Thatcher, kind of.
Rating: PG-13
Length: Right now 3.000 words
Notes: This is Fraser genderfuck, set in S2. And at first, it was supposed to have hot femslash sex, but then it didn't want to, and instead, it turned into a story about their professional relationship, with some UST. Which is probably for the best. The title refers to Fraser literally borrowing Thatcher's uniform. I have no idea when this'll be done--it's mostly lacking a plot, and as it's partly a casefic, that is kind of a drawback. *g*
I roll onto my side, half awake, and pull my arms up to my chest. My hands encounter something soft and yielding; curving flesh warm with body heat. I startle, fully awake at the inexplicably terrifying thought that there is a woman in my bed.
No, there isn't. Or rather, there is. But I'm alone, and those are my breasts.
I lie down on my back, breathing slowly to calm my racing pulse. Tentatively, I move a hand down to my groin, and feel not a penis under my long johns, but only a thatch of hair. I take a deep breath, and rational thought returns. I can deal with this.
After all, stranger things have happened to me.
I glance at the clock, which stands at 05:56. Since I'm awake, I might as well get up. I stand, looking down at myself. The long johns don't fit me very well--they are too long, hanging loose on my arms and legs, and too tight in other places. Diefenbaker raises his head from his mat over by the window, then whuffs in confusion. He pads over to me.
"Diefenbaker. It's still me." My voice is higher than before, and the pitch drops as I try to adjust. He whines, then sticks his nose between my legs. "Dief! Stop that! Honestly, you have no sense of propriety."
I kneel down and take his head between my hands, making sure he can see my mouth. "Dief. I'm still me. I'm the same person you met in the bear trap, and the same person you saved from drowning."
He seems to accept it then, although he lowers his tail in confusion. I don't blame him. "No, I don't know what happened, either. We'll find out, though." My voice has found its proper range now. If I were to sing, I would probably be a mezzo-soprano.
Well. One thing at a time. I fetch my towel and head for the bathroom to take a shower. I strip down, looking more closely at myself. I am shorter, of course, and more...curvaceous. I tentatively cup one of my breasts. It feels heavy and warm in my hand. They seem a bit impractical, and I wish they weren't quite so ample. My muscle mass is reduced, of course, although I still seem to be reasonably fit. My layer of subcutaneous fat is still there, although distributed somewhat differently.
In the bathroom mirror, the face looking back at me is recognizably my own, although the features are more delicate, my jaw and chin less wide, my cheeks smooth. My hair is still short, messy and a little curly after sleep. I smooth it down reflexively.
Title: Unnamed Martha WIP
Pairing: Martha/George
Rating: probably PG-13
Length: Right now, not long
Notes: This is the story of how Martha ran away from home to study. I love the idea of it, but the reason I haven't written much on it is because I'm too lazy to do the research. As just one example, note that Martha lights a candle in the excerpt below. Is that realistic? Or would there have been an actual lamp?
The narrow stairs creaked under Martha's feet as she climbed up to her attic room. They were steep and she held one hand on the stairs in front of her, stepping carefully. There was a letter on the top step, addressed to her. Mrs Andersen must have left it there for her. She picked it up, opening the door.
The room was dim, and the only light was from the remains of the sunset seeping in through the small window. Lighting a candle, she sat down on her cot and kicked her shoes off. She quickly pulled her feet up from the cold floor and tucked them under her, curling up along the chimney.
She looked at the letter. It seemed like months had passed since she had come here, though it had only been a week, and she felt unexpectedly close to tears holding the envelope. The adress
Martha (insert last name)
care of Mrs. Andersen
(insert address)
was written in Miss Edward's flowing handwriting, so familiar from the classroom. Martha could almost see her tidy bun of hair and her straight back as she stood turned toward the blackboard, writing.
No. She couldn't afford to be homesick. Martha decisively opened the envelope and unfolded the thin paper. She tilted it toward the light.
Dear Martha,
I hope you are well, and that you are settling down in the city. How did your interview at the school go? I sent them a letter of recommendation, as I promised, but of course that is no guarantee that you will be admitted.
I'm afraid Billy Martin's parents still are not speaking to yours, even though the failure of his suit was not their doing. Billy himself seems to have recovered with amazing resilience.
Martha smothered a grin. She always knew Billy wasn't really sweet on her. His parents just wanted him to marry and get out of trouble. His face when she's turned him down flat, though, that had been a sight. The thought that there was any girl who didn't want him was apparently one that had never struck him.
And finally, I just want to mention the sequel to Leaving Home, because I will definitely tell the story of Benton at Depot. I have lots of ideas for it, they just haven't quite gelled yet.
