So, these are things I have in my notebook! Arranged in fandom order for convenience, but there's not actually much overlap between them. Also, most of these are hurt/comfort. I'd take a poll of who's surprised, but a) that would be a waste of effort, and b) I haven't worked out yet how to add polls and this sentence is getting more ridiculous the longer I keep typing it.
And I took "the first sentence (or three)" and basically replaced that with first paragraph or three, because I tend to start my fics with very short generic sentences, or someone saying something quick and generic, which is something I always mean to vary but don't. And then above each fic snippit I've rambled for ages about it, because apparently today I don't shut up. So.
In response to Joe Flanigan's idea that instead of EATG he wanted John and Ronon to basically abandon Atlantis and fly off on their own to hunt Wraith, taking Rodney in the back for tech support. I thought that was a little dickish, tbh, so started writing Teyla having to deal with the aftermath of this. (I had a plan and everything, but I trailed off after a couple of thousand words. Sadness. Also, it was going to end up Teyla/Jennifer.)
It was in the early hours of the morning when Teyla's radio chirped and John told her to get down to the Jumper-bay.
She dressed quickly, strode through the corridors of Atlantis, but didn't run. John had sounded urgent, but hadn't stated that it was an emergency. She met no one. The night shift were all at their posts, and everyone else was still asleep.
"Teyla!" Rodney barked as soon as she entered the bay. "They've both gone mad, do something!"
This is titled in my notebook as "Prompt: Geeks with guns". It's possibly from rodneymckaygen, but I can't actually remember.
Rodney felt that the situation was entirely unfair. He was the one who was supposed to be incompetant with all the military stuff; he was pretty sure that it was written into his contract by now. For him to suddenly have to be in charge was frankly terrifying.
That said, Radek could definitely be making more of an effort not to show how much he also was terrified by that prospect. "We are going to die," he grumbled.
"Of course we aren't," Rodney snapped. "Why are you being so pessimistic?"
Tag for Revalations! These seem to be pretty much mandatory to write at some point, and I doubt I'll ever finish it. I just thought it was a pretty safe place to start practicing the characters.
Reid is shaking.
He can feel it, but he can't stop. He tries to, but he's had so little control over his body these past endless hours (how much time has actually passed?) that he's hardly surprised when he fails. Anyway, it doesn't really seem like something that should matter very much. Not in comparison with everything else.
I started dating things here! I spent October writing Criminal Minds apocafics. Well, I started off with a global-nuclear-war one, and then stopped and started a zombie one instead. At some point I mean to go back to the zombie one, I have it all planned out and really want to write it. Also, I was jumping around and writing scenes that I wanted to, so I don't really have a "start" as such for either, so here are the start of a scene/chapter/whatever from each.
It was the lack which Garcia felt, possibly more than any of the others did. The lack of a world, a wealth of knowledge at her fingertips, data which streamed through her eyes and brain. Except that now it wasn't there and even after days to get used to it she still had moments of feeling that one of her senses was missing and she was stumbling about blind.
She was also going numb. She had always prided herself on her empathy with victims, however painful, but now she looked down at the dead man on a campbed in the town hall and felt absolutely nothing. Just one more death from radiation sickness, the symptoms of which she could recite in her sleep -- and often did. They had only been three days in Grey River, and she had already lost count of the dead.
A zombie was lurching down the street. Reid gritted his teeth and shot her -- it -- in the head. "Clear now," he called, once he was certain no others had followed. Loud noises attracted them, but once a shot had been fired there wasn't anything to gain by staying quiet.
"Nearly done," Emily called back from inside the store.
Reid remained vigilant, his eyes flicking from one end of the main street to the other. It was an established routine by now. You cleared the building and the ones either side and then one of you remained outside on watch while the other gathered supplies. Tiny towns like this were relatively safe by now, if you were still alive.
There are also a couple of starts of random Reid h/c fics, but the openings aren't terribly interesting and at least one of them I already gutted the plot and used in in White Collar, so. XD
Most of these fics are in response to prompts, but I don't think this one was. I wrote it on the train going home for Christmas. Also it's technically finished but I'm rather meh about it, not least because it switches tracks halfway through from Peter!hurt to Neal!angst, and I felt that was a bit unfair to Peter or something. I don't know. In my head, that makes sense.Also this is a really weird premise and why I shouldn't incoporate my learnings from biology lectures into fic, although this example is still beaten by the fic with the psychoactive-drug-secreting beetle hatching under Rodney's skin.
"Peter," Neal said helplessly. "Peter, Peter."
He scrabbled for more snow, because the blood was melting it. Turning it dark and sticky. He hated that he was doing this, hated that all he could do was try and pack more snow around Peter while pressing with one hand and his bunched-up coat against the bloody hole in Peter's chest. Because he had no way to call for help other than with his voice and if he moved away then Peter would bleed out. He could only press snow around Peter's body, because if he was cold then his heartbeat would be slowed, and that would slow the rate at which blood was being pumped out of him, out, out.
It was, quite simply, the only thing he could do.
And it was still snowing, white and white piling down on the two of them. It was dark, and snowing, and they were firmly within Neal's radius, and no one was coming.
I said in the comments to "Lights" that I was going to follow up on it, and I actually did for a couple of thousand words! Then I, um, ran out of plot. *pokes it with a stick*
The shrill ring of his cell drags Peter out of a sleep which hardly feels entered. He reaches for it clumsily, presses it to his ear. "Burke."
Even through his fog of exhaustion Peter can tell that Diana's tone means bad news. "What is it?"
"Look, Jones is trying to get through to the marshalls right now, but we thought you'd want to be told immediately." He senses her hesitation. "Someone called the Bureau. Claims Caffrey's dead, and that they killed him."
This was definitely written for a prompt (I know because it says "for prompt" at the top of the page). Unfortunately I lost all the many, many prompts I had open in tabs when I wiped my session history last week, so I have no idea where it is or even what the prompt actually said. Um, if this sounds like yours, feel free to tell me? :P This is actually mostly finished, but doesn't have a proper ending yet. I really fail at writing endings.
Neal's white fingers clench the side of the door. "Peter, this is suicidal," he says, the forced calm of his voice at odds with his fear-dilated eyes. "No, wait, homicidal, because I'm going to die too."
Peter twists the steering wheel. The old Ford — and doesn't he just wish he had his Taurus, this car feels like it should have been melted for scrap years ago — spins around another of the unending bends. Neal makes a noise which sounds like a strangled gulp. "You have a better plan?" Peter asks tightly.
"We're going to die."
Prompt: bioterrism threat. Which has stalled because I got hung up on scientific accuracy and the science doesn't quite fit what I wanted to happen in the story, blah.
Diana felt remarkably cheerful as she entered the conference room, favourite brand of coffee in her hand.
That should really have been her first warning.
This is another prompt which I can't remember. Something about a badly hurt Neal possibly having killed someone but no one can be sure, I think. I'm pretty sure that it was for kriadydragon. (I have 3000 words of this, I should know what it's about!)
Peter's cell buzzes.
He sighs slightly as he rises to grab it from the table. He's home on time for once, and with El in Boston he'd been looking forward to a restful evening with a game on TV and a pile of case files to work through.
Neal, reads the caller ID. Peter suspects his evening might be about to get a bit less restful. "What is it?" he asks.
"Peter, I need help." Neal's voice is hurried, his breathing fast. There's an odd noise in the background.
I like this fic! I should write more of it. It involves Neal having been missing for several days, but not remembering it. For, you know, plot reasons. And then there should be plot at some point, but I never got further than the h/c.
Neal pushed through the glass door into the bullpen, and dead silence spread outwards from him in ripples.
It was unexpected, to say the least. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to check that someone more important hadn't just stepped out of the elevator behind him, but there was no one there.
"What did I do?" he asked. He couldn't think of anything which would merit this type of reaction.
"Are you serious?" Jones demanded. He had been holding a telephone reciever to his ear; he put it back into its cradle.
"What?" Neal asked.
"What?" Jones asked right back.
I know this prompt, even if I've lost the link to it! It's for sholio, about a bank hostage situation. I got a bit over 3000 words in and realised that it was kind of boring to read, didn't have much of El, and was getting really angsty. So I started again, and now it's 5000 words and even more angsty. And El's in it even less, so, um, yeah. Also I've actually written all the actual plot now and have to wrap it up and resolve stuff, which is a bit difficult due to all the angst. Seriously.
Neal pressed his face against the cold marble floor and tried very hard to look like an innocent member of the public. Beside him, Peter was doing the same, but probably with less complicated motives.
So far the bank robbery appeared to be progressing rather smoothly. At least the men weren't doing anything stupid like shooting hostages — especially as he was one of the hostages. He appreciated that.
"Is El okay?" Peter whispered.
Neal turned his head over very slowly. El was on the floor to the other side of him. "Peter says, you okay?" he whispered, as quietly as he could.
Things I have learned from this meme
- I write a lot of hurt/comfort
- I need to give things better headings in my notebook
- I am really bad at wrapping stories up
- I have just spent over an hour on this. Productive use of my time, I think.
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