WIP meme

Jan. 28th, 2017 10:35 am
nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Harriet)
I am taking the keywords in this to be 'in progress'. An idea in my head or notes jotted down, or even several pages of scenes, does not count for the purpose; this is basically the top of the pile that are most likely to be finished/actively worked on any time soon.

Corsica This is the untitled Wimsey/Harry Potter crossover fic about to have the mpreg ruthlessly cut, currently standing at c.85,000 words. It is not in fact going to be finished any time soon because there is still a lot to go, but I really, really want to finish this, and I really, really ought to make a push to finish this. I know where it's going, who the murderer is (because it is Wimsey/HP crossover crack-turned-casefic), I even know the final scene. I just have to write it all... I have no idea how much longer it will be, but I think it is unlikely to come in at less than another 20,000 words of plot, plus going back and taking out the mpreg and dealing with the narrative ramifications of that.

The Whispering Grass Non-crack, non-crossover, a take on a familiar fic scenario for Tanz der Vampire, i.e. how the Count came to accidentally murder his wife in a scenario that is basically Fields of Gold: the sick version. So classic angst-fic, really. I've got notes for pretty much the whole thing, I just have to write it up... This might be a recurring theme.

In the Studio. Yuri on Ice as observed by figure skating commentators. Three chapters posted, just one to go. I'm going to attempt to finish it this weekend; it shouldn't take long, just needs discipline and to re-watch episodes 11 and 12.

Round and Golden. Yakov-centric account of the unfortunate incident in Turin when Victor and Chris were teenagers. Another one for which I rapidly jotted down notes of the whole thing, but haven't moved on to doing the complete version. But it shouldn't take too long to finish.

Rostelecom hotel room. Untitled fic as to how Victor manoeuvres Yuuri into sharing a hotel room in Moscow and what happens when they get there. Half-written, know what's happening in the second half, just haven't bloody written it.

The Immovable Object In which Miles Vorkosigan meets the only power that might be able to stop him: the Vorkosiverse equivalent of the UKBA. The fact that the Vorkosiverse equivalent of the UKBA are the good guys in this story might give you indication as to how I feel about the narrative attitude some facets of Miles' character in the later books. And now all together - lots of notes, know where it's going, need to write up the remaining 80%...
And now time to get on with the day so I can do some of it!
nineveh_uk: Screenshot of Wimsey and Bunter from the 1987 television production. (wimsey and bunter)
I have already made the mistake of taking a crackfic premise and thinking that it would be fun to explore it properly, it won’t really take too long... Having learned from this, I therefore give you as much as “Bunter and Lord Saint-George unexpectedly find themselves taking care of a mysterious baby” as there is ever likely to be.

We are orphans and fatherless, our mothers are as widows.

‘I’m telling you, it isn’t mine!’

Bunter looked from the naked infant currently occupying the Chesterfield to his employer’s eldest nephew and raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Honestly,’ protested Lord Saint-George. ‘I know it’s not completely implausible, and its hair is the right sort, but I have got a sense of self-preservation. Besides, I’m no expert, but this one looks pretty new to me. It’s very small, and what is that?’

‘I believe it is the cord stump, my lord.’

‘Well, nine months ago – and ten months ago and eight months ago - I was in America. It can’t possibly be mine. Come to that where were you nine months ago?’

‘In France,’ said Bunter chillingly, ‘with his lordship and her ladyship.’

‘Hmm. So that rules him out, too. Good thing really, it’d be a bit tough on Aunt Harriet, all things considered. Spare me the affronted look, it’s not like he hasn’t been around a bit in his time though I wouldn’t expect him to be careless. Let’s have a look at the letter again.’

Bunter produced a neatly folded letter and envelope.

Dear sir, Please take care of my baby. Her name is Margaret. I know that I have not been a good girl and deserve my shame, but your lordship was not to know, and I leave her with you knowing as how a gentleman like you will think of your obligations and not hold the poor mite’s mother against her, and will raise her decent and not put her in one of them horrible homes. May God bless your kindness.

‘Was that all that was with it?’

‘Yes, my lord. It was on tucked into the blanket containing the infant when I made the discovery.’

‘It sounds to me like she’s been reading too many cheap novels. Does anyone really talk like that these days – all Thomas Hardy shame and mites and things? I’ve never heard it.’

Bunter looked thoughtfully at the note.

‘Nor I, my lord. Moreover, I venture that any young person whose literary inclinations did lie in such a direction would not be likely to write them on paper costing 10 shillings for a dozen sheets.’

‘She might be a servant and have pinched it.’

‘It would have required some forethought. A servant would have been dismissed some months ago.’

‘True enough. But look here, isn’t that the sort of dent left by a cuff-link? It looks like my letters to Mother when I’ve had to stop and think about a tactful bit in the middle.’

‘It is indeed my lord.’

‘A compliment about detective genius running in the family wouldn’t go amiss, you know. So in sum we have a baby of unknown origin and a bloke – possibly – trying to get rid of it. Maybe it’s an embarrassment to him, or perhaps it was available and he thought he could use it to embarrass Uncle Peter. I don’t think Aunt Harriet would refuse to believe him if he denied responsibility even if he hadn’t been in France, but the bloke isn’t to know that.’

‘It is an intriguing hypothesis, my lord.’

‘Isn’t it? We’ve got six hours before Uncle Peter gets back. It’s not quite how I’d planned to spend them, but it would be a coup to solve his case for him. He might even forgive that last solicitor’s letter.’
nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Harriet)
At last! The bodyswap fic is complete, and so with no further ado...

On A03. And below! (LJ post link only, because it is too long!)

Harriet Vane and Lord Peter Wimsey have triumphantly solved the Wilvercombe murder, and only want to return to London. But first they must solve a new mystery: why they have woken up in one another's bodies, and what on earth are they going to do about it?

My True Love Has My Heart )
nineveh_uk: Cover illustration for "Strong Poison" in pulp fiction style with vampish Harriet. (Strong Poison)
There was a one (to five) sentence Halloween horror thread on [community profile] fail_fandomanon, so I had a go.


Bunter stopped on the threshold and saw that his lordship was not alone in his bedroom after all, but kneeling pyjama-clad at the feet of a woman, a woman with the stench of the grave on her, a prisoner's uniform, and a noose around her neck. Beside him one of his collection of incunabula lay open in a circle of what looked like blood.

'Harriet, it worked! Will you marry me?'

His voice was filled with joy.
nineveh_uk: Cover illustration for "Strong Poison" in pulp fiction style with vampish Harriet. (Strong Poison)
The bodyswap fic remains 500 words or so short of an ending. That's what weekends will have to be for (and mowing the lawn). In the meantime have a fragment of early Busman's Honeymoon off-stage action in the Dowager Duchess's house.

Breaking news

The Duchess of Denver's chauffeur, having delivered his mistress to her mother-in-law's house, drew the car round to the mews and went in search of refreshment. Her grace the Dowager Duchess had recently purchased a large and luxurious saloon car, no doubt on the recommendation of her younger son, and he was eager to hear about it and should opportunity arise, drive it. Unfortunately his counterpart in the Dowager's house, while forthcoming with the tea and cake, appeared to have other things than motor vehicles occupying his mind.

'You'll never guess who's 'ere,' said Collins, resisting all suggestions that a trip to the garage was in order.

'You tell me. The Queen of Egypt?'

'Rarer. 'arriet Vane. You know, 'is lordship's bit of stuff.'

'She never is! And her grace calling. There'll be fireworks at home tonight, just you wait. The air'll be blue over Mayfair.'

Collins nodded sagely.

'She is. Wednesday, too. Came to call, stayed for tea and dinner and I drove her home after ten with a portrait of his lordship in a silver frame.'

'That mean it's official, then? Notice in the Times and all?'

'Tomorrow, according to Franklin. She had to place it for her grace, on account of his lordship being in Rome.'

'Poor bugger, you'd think they'd let him enjoy it. What's she like? Her picture's nothing to write home about.'

'She's not bad looking. Dresses decently, and a good arse. No tits, though.'

'Ah,' said Smith, 'his brother's like that, too. Leastways,' he conceded, 'when it comes to marriage.'

'Funny to think of it going by families.'

'I don't know. The old Duke wasn't like that. Her grace were a looker in her day.'

'Maybe it's Freudian,' said Smith, who read a good deal. 'A reaction against the mother. Still, I daresay his lordship knows what he's getting.'

'That's likely enough. I wonder what his nibs thinks of it? His nose'll be well out of joint if his lordship gives up the flat and he has a butler over him.'

'I wouldn't take that job for a thousand a year. Not that Bunter isn't a decent sort off-duty, and he always stands his round, but he's a devil on it.'

Collins nodded vehemently. 'I heard him once when the garage scratched his lordship's car. You'd get more sympathy and understanding out of Genghis Khan. You've got to hope for the girl's sake that he approves of her.'
nineveh_uk: Screenshot of Wimsey and Bunter from the 1987 television production. (wimsey and bunter)
As opposed to Thing to do in Denver when you're Dead*.

As prompted by recent sad events.

Death in Denver

The golden dust swimming in the light of a warm March morning suddenly parted, as a presence entered the library and coughed.


‘Oh,’ said the Duke, laying the Caxton he held gently upon the table. ‘Death, as the psalmist says, is certain to all, but I was hoping to have a bit longer. That is,’ he added, turning white as if suddenly frightened by something inside his own head, an impressive feat for a man confronted by a seven foot skeleton, ‘it is me you’ve come for?’


‘Well, that’s something. It’s not been a bad innings. A lot longer than I thought it might be, at times. That spot near Caudry was dashed tight.’


‘I suppose that you would.’ The Duke straightened. ‘Have I time to say goodbye? Or doesn’t it work like that?’


‘That might be – ’


‘No. No, I’ve never fancied being a ghost, not even for seeing Harriet. I rather thought I’d make it the outward voyage only.’

I THINK, said Death, looking as embarrassed as an expressionless skull can manage, THERE IS SOME MISUNDERSTANDING, YOU HAVE A GOOD DEAL OF TIME LEFT. THAT IS – a spectral hourglass materialised in a skeletal hand – AS LONG AS YOU KEEP TO THE SPEED LIMIT.

‘I shall certainly do so in future. But if I’m not to die, and you’re not here for anyone else, what is, if you don’t mind my asking, your business in my library?’


*Gosh, that fic is old. I really need to do an index.
nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Harriet)
In comments to my previous post, [personal profile] antisoppist raised the question of whether the dons and college servants know about Harriet's encounters with Mr Pomfret (concluding that the servants surely do). Which thought found itself blending with previous thoughts I had had on the identity of the unknown third person mentioned in Gaudy Night as probably a "suspicious scout" who knew or suspected the identity of the Shrewsbury College poltergeist. Which produced the following...

In the kitchen

'You'll never guess what I heard,' said Susan, rapidly distributing cutlery into its drawers. 'Mary Shepherd who's scout at Jesus, said that Mr Jenkyns, what's Proctor, caught Miss Vane in the arms of an undergraduate by the Lamb and Flag the other night.'

The other servants digested this information with various exclamations, summed up by Clarrie's, 'Well, I never! And the papers say she's that Lord Peter Wimsey's lady friend. His lordship won’t like hearing that.'

'That's as may be,' said Annie. 'I don't like to speak ill of a lady, but Miss Vane's manners are a bit free for my taste. I shouldn't wonder if a young man had been lead a bit further than was good for him.'

'I think you should watch what you're saying, Annie,' said Evelyn, sharply. 'Miss Vane is a respectable lady, and a guest in the college. It isn't for us to say what happened. It isn’t Mr Jenkyns' job to gossip, neither. I say it’s far more likely that the student was making a nuisance of himself. God knows, they do that often enough. My sister Millie’s youngest was positively menaced by a gang of them on the High.’

At which invitation, the conversation drifted into the fruitful subject of the wrongdoings of students. Annie had little to say, and soon disappeared to tend to the Hall, but Evelyn caught the Head Scout before the woman left the kitchen.

‘I think you ought to have a word with Annie,’ she said. ‘She oughtn’t to talk about Miss Vane like that, nor any of the ladies in the college. Miss Vane is very respectable, and has had a hard time. It isn’t right to gossip.’

‘Oh, Annie don’t mean anything by it, protested Clarrie. ‘She has high standards, that’s all. A woman in her position has to, a widow with two little girls to bring up.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Evelyn, ‘but I don’t call it high standards to talk like that about a college guest. We can’t help what outsiders say, but we should stick up for our ladies. A bit of fun’s all very well, I don’t blame Susan for saying it, but we needn’t leap to the worst conclusions.’

‘And neither should you,’ said Clarrie heatedly. ‘Annie’s a good woman who’s had a hard life. I won’t thank you to teach me my job, neither. Now I must be about my work, and I’m sure you’ve enough to be doing yourself.’

‘Yes, Clarrie,’ said Evelyn meekly. The Head Scout departed, leaving Evelyn to finish her work in the kitchen. She looked about her at the gleaming array of glass and silverware; there were such things as fingerprints. But she’d said herself about conclusions, and perhaps Clarrie was right. Annie, she thought, had no love for the college or its ladies - she ought to work in a men’s hall, except that she was pretty for her age so they probably wouldn’t have her - but it wasn’t right to draw overmuch on that. Still, it did no harm to keep a look out. Miss Vane was a nice lady, and very clever; Evelyn had had one of her books from the library, and had only guessed the murderer half-way through.
nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Harriet)
With thanks to [profile] sonetka for raising the question as to what might occur "if an 80 mph triumph song happens to go off course for a moment". Otherwise, this is almost entirely plotless.

The triumph song

The nurse departed with a final admonishment not to tire the patient, leaving Peter to stare appalled at the collection of bandages, sling, and plaster of Paris enveloping the figure in the hospital bed.

‘My dear,’ he began, ‘I am most unutterably sorry, and there is nothing I can possibly say to excuse myself. How are you feeling? They told me everything will mend, but you do look – well, as if someone turned a car over on top of you.’

The black eyes blinked. ‘It’s not too bad,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s rather uncomfortable at the moment, and a frightful nuisance, but I’m not permanently maimed or anything.’

‘Thank God for that,’ he said seriously. ‘No thanks to me. I was showing off – ’

‘I realised that.’

‘And to think you defended my driving to Jerry!’

‘There is a certain irony to it,’ agreed Harriet, ‘and to the fact that having taught me to defend myself you immediately proceeded to come close to breaking my neck. You don’t think it was some sort of subconscious male protective instinct at work to prevent my going back to Shrewsbury?’

‘On the whole, I think not. My subconscious may have its unruly side, but it is vain about its driving. But I’m afraid that without you on the spot it may be difficult to prove the identity of our culprit. I must see the Warden this afternoon.’

At which nurse appeared to warn the visitor he had another ten minutes, and he lead the conversation determinedly onto lighter subjects.

It was as Peter was gathering his things to depart that Harriet remarked suddenly,

‘You know, I ought to be a great deal angrier with you.’

‘I do know, and I’m very grateful.’

‘But that’s just it: I almost feel it might wipe out gratitude for good.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Next time I try to berate you for saving my life, you’ll only have to point out that you’ve tried to kill me since.’

‘If that is to be my only punishment I shall count myself the child of good fortune. Oh! I almost forgot.’ He drew a small tissue-wrapped package from his coat pocket and set it by the water jug. ‘You can open it after I’ve gone. I’ll call again tomorrow, if I may. Good bye.’

As Peter made his way towards the gates that gave out onto Woodstock Road, it struck him rather belatedly that perhaps it would not be easy to open the cunningly-wrapped parcel containing the red queen with only one hand. It was discretion as the lesser part of valour, but her extraordinary request for the chessmen being the proximate cause of his folly, expecting the purchase to be met with unalloyed delight had seemed rather impertinent, and he had elected to funk it. As it was, Harriet had been extraordinarily generous for someone with a dislocated shoulder and a bust ankle. One might almost think – at any rate, he seemed to have done his cause no harm. Perhaps there was something to this subconscious business after all.
nineveh_uk: Cover illustration for "Strong Poison" in pulp fiction style with vampish Harriet. (Strong Poison)
Would you like to sin
With Elinor Glyn
On a tiger skin?
Or would you prefer
To err with her
On some other fur?

You can’t say I didn’t promise something appalling. There’s no point trying to build up to this one, it is what it is. And what it is, is Peter/Harriet furry sex-tape fic.

Let me explain. The condemned are allowed a last word.

So, there was this story in the Daily Mail (so as we know, it’s absolutely true), and subsequently in the Independent. In summary, a man was charged with the possession of extreme pornography and was on bail for six months – with the prosecution only realizing that the tiger having sex with the woman in the rather fuzzy video was not a tiger (hence the extreme pornography bit), but was in fact a man in a tiger costume, complete with Kellogg’s Frosties cereal strapline. The prosecution was dropped.

And then someone on FFA posted this comment: 'Fellow Dorothy Sayers fans, please tell me that you, too, are thinking of Busman's Honeymoon and laughing uncontrollably.'

There are two things in life I cannot resist: the common cold, and a cracky Wimseyfic premise. So here it is. You will be relieved to hear that I do at least maintain my inability to write anything explicit, so PG rating, albeit the parents in question are insane.

No shabby tigers )
nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Harriet)
I am sorry that Part II has taken ages. I didn’t actually have a huge amount left to write when I posted Part I, but unfortunately the bug struck. I am now back at work, but still disgusting to be around and thoroughly bored of the whole thing. I would like a good night's sleep and to be able to move 5 yards from a box of tissues. Anyway, I have recovered so far as to manage a bit of writing rather than just watching Olympic cross-country skiing in the evening so I can delete it from the DVR, and here is the second part.

NB Spoilers for the murdered and murderer in Miss Pym Disposes

Miss Vane Disposes

Part 2 )
nineveh_uk: Cover illustration for "Strong Poison" in pulp fiction style with vampish Harriet. (Strong Poison)
In my last post I mentioned that Josephine Tey's Miss Pym Disposes was leading me to commit fic. This is the fic. It is not the fic I am supposed to be writing, nor the fic I am writing instead of the fic I am supposed to be writing, but it is fic and I have written it.

As is obvious from the title, a debt is owed to [personal profile] ankaret's Lois Sanger Disposes.

This is Part (1). It doesn't contain major spoilers (an important non-murderous plot event is referred to, but unfolds differently than in canon), but Part (2) will do so.

Miss Vane Disposes

Part 1 )
nineveh_uk: Screenshot of Wimsey and Bunter from the 1987 television production. (wimsey and bunter)
The splendid [personal profile] lilliburlero has liveblogged* The Healing Fountain, my fic in which Hilary Thorpe writes a romance novel with Bunter as the hero. I am now adopting the word "quotesex", which indeed describes 95% of all sex within Wimseyfandom.

I am supposed to be working from home writing the report on the Meeting of Doom. It is proving very heavy going. Now I am refreshed, I had better get back to it. Onwards!

*Ed. Now with the link.... Take it as a testimony to how deep in concentration I am on my report.
nineveh_uk: Cover illustration for "Strong Poison" in pulp fiction style with vampish Harriet. (Strong Poison)
Wimseyfic! I originally intended to write this to coincide with the Olympics, which just goes to show what my productivity has been this year. But here it is at last!

Summary: When Lord Peter Wimsey accompanies his wife to a Swiss ski resort in order to research the setting for her next detective novel, it isn't long before he finds himself investigating a mystery of his own. How has a British tourist vanished from a gondola ski lift - and why are the young woman's parents reluctant to involve the police?

The Elevated Investigation of the Empty Gondola )
nineveh_uk: Screenshot of Wimsey and Bunter from the 1987 television production. (wimsey and bunter)
The mind works in mysterious – or simply dreadful – ways. The mole in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is code-named Gerald. Present me with a spy called Gerald, a plausible time-period, and the madness that comes at the end of term, and the result is inevitable.

In my defence, I kept it to exactly 100 words, so it is a proper drabble.

The Spy Who Came in from East Anglia

‘Credo quia impossibile be damned!’ said Peter. ‘I can’t believe that Jerry was a Russian spy. He could scarcely manage je ne parle pas francais, let alone Russian.’

‘I appreciate it’s quite a shock, your Grace’ said the Permanent Secretary, ‘but I’m afraid it’s true. Your brother wrote a lengthy confession.’

‘Bang goes my security clearance,’ muttered Peter. ‘Not that I’ve much time for the FO these days. Who was his contact? He can’t have been passing stuff to Moscow himself.’

‘We don’t know. British, well-travelled, access to sophisticated photographic equipment. Codename might be Greyfriars.’

Peter felt a dreadful qualm.
nineveh_uk: Screenshot of Wimsey and Bunter from the 1987 television production. (wimsey and bunter)
I posted, you were polled, this resulted.

Life is too short for the full version, but the edited version can be achieved while cooking dinner.

The 1950s Peter Wimsey Adventure That You Chose

‘Oh no,’ said Harriet, as the body came into view. It wore a familiar tweed suit. ‘It’s Hope.’


‘That doesn’t look right,’ said Peter, as the boat drew nearer. He shouted something at the diver, his words blown away on the wind, but the man seemed to hear. He bent over the corpse and seized the hair.

‘Peter, what is he – ’ It came away in his hand, a dark wig revealing a man’s closely-cropped head beneath it.

‘Who on earth,’ said Harriet, ‘has managed to get himself drowned while dressed up as Bunter’s wife?’


Read more... )
nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Harriet)
In the course of looking up references to guns in the Wimsey canon, I came across this line in Dragon’s Head,

‘Now run into my bedroom, and in the bottom of my wardrobe you will find a bundle of stout cord.’

Tell us, Lord Peter, are midnight burglars a regular occurrence in Piccadilly, or do you keep the rope for other purposes?

Since Wimsey’s nephew knows about this, and has a tendency to be indiscrete, I’m now imagining what he might have said to Harriet when he bumped into her in Gaudy Night...


‘Why should anybody object to Uncle Peter? He’s no beauty and he’d talk the hind leg off a donkey; but he’s dashed well-off and he’s got good manners and he’s in the stud-book.’ Lord Saint-George balanced himself on the edge of Mercury and peered into its tranquil waters. ‘Where’ve the carp taken themselves off to? They never resist meringues. Perhaps the fountain’s got hidden depths. So’s Uncle Peter, come to think of it. I stayed with him once when I was a kid – measles at school, parents away, uncle steps in – and we had an attack of burglars and Uncle Peter tied them up with this rope in the bottom of his wardrobe. The rope, that is, not the burglars – they were in the library. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but a chap grows up and the French novels get passed around and all that, and obviously one gets to wondering.’

‘Obviously,’ said Harriet, fascinated by this new light on the subject.

nineveh_uk: Cover illustration for "Strong Poison" in pulp fiction style with vampish Harriet. (Strong Poison)
I have freshers’ flu, and as a result am mostly lying on the sofa not doing much. I seem, nonetheless, to have found the energy to write Harriet Vane and Peter Wimsey aliens made them do it*. Blame [personal profile] marginaliana for prompting it. Actually, she prompted Peter and Bunter, but in working that out it was obvious that AMTDI had to be H/P for the angst factor. There may also have been past consideration of the Peter/Harriet dilemma. Clearly I should never let my brain rest, or terrible things will happen. Pre-GN.

*Not actual aliens.

The Revenge of Ali-Baba )
nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Harriet)
Finally, an AU version of the Busman's Honeymoon wedding night and after sequence in which everyone (or almost everyone) ends up fairly cheerful.

What hath night to do with sleep? )
nineveh_uk: Screenshot of Wimsey and Bunter from the 1987 television production. (wimsey and bunter)
It isn’t that I was contemplating Peter/Bunter ‘fuck or die’ fic during the meeting that’s so bad. It’s that I was chairing the meeting at the time.

Peter canonically prefers death to embarrassment. Bunter, on the other hand, is not hampered by being a gentleman.


nineveh_uk: Illustration that looks like Harriet Vane (Default)

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