Throwback forward thursday ♡
(Oh... I have just realised it isn't even Thursday. I'm an idiot… but at this point I'm committed, so we're all just have to pretend it is. 😄)
Thank you for tagging me @spectrallydistracted and @sakascal! 💖
Post the first lines from your current wips (or your favorite lines, whatever floats your boat! everything's made up and the points don't matter!!) and let your followers vote on which lines intrigue or excite them the most.
WIP 1: Yet another of my excessively researched queer historical angst-fests. This time it's 1950s Britain
The lecture hall at Trinity smelled of chalk dust and wet wool. Aziraphale had arrived early, claiming a seat in the third row – close enough to appear engaged, far enough back to avoid being called upon.
He arranged his notebook with precise care, fountain pen aligned parallel to the page's edge, and waited for Dr. Fell to begin his discourse on Plato's Symposium.
Someone dropped into the seat beside him with a graceless thump.
Aziraphale glanced sideways.
The young man now sitting next to him – if you could call that sitting – was all angles and lines. Sharp cheekbones, sharper grin, hair an impossible shade of red that seemed designed to offend the university's sense of decorum. His gown hung crooked off one shoulder. He was, Aziraphale noted with some alarm, wearing sunglasses. Indoors. In October.
WIP 2: A totally silly, completely unresearched version of the chessiest fanfic trope ever: Drunkenly married in Vegas
They kept talking, about everything and nothing. At some point, Az grabbed his arm, laughing at something Crowley said, and didn’t let go.
At some point, Crowley put his arm around Az's waist, steadying him over an uneven bit of pavement, and left it there.
At some point, they stopped walking and Az turned to him and said, "I really, really want to kiss you. Is that terribly forward?"
"It's Vegas," Crowley said. "Nothing's too forward in Vegas."
The kiss was nothing short of spectacular. Sweet and urgent and filthy and tasting of wine. They kissed with tourists streaming past them, and Crowley thought, distantly, that he might be in a bit of trouble here.
When they broke apart, Az said, breathless, "We should do something ridiculous."
"How ridiculous?"
"Terribly ridiculous. Magnificently stupid. The kind of thing we'll regret forever."
"I'm listening."
Az pointed down the street, where a wedding chapel stood between a tattoo parlour and a casino. The sign featured an enormous neon Elvis.
"We should get married."
WIP 3: A ridiculously complex experiment that keeps fighting me: A literary murder mystery written entirely as a BBC series screenplay
SCENE 1: LANGHAM HOTEL LOBBY, EARLY MORNING
The Langham lobby is hushed yet alive. Guests cluster in discreet knots, murmuring, clutching bags. Staff glide along polished floors, their movements precise but tense. Reporters are already there, gathering like crows.
A black police car eases to a stop outside the revolving doors. Detective Inspector Anthony J Crowley of the Metropolitan Police steps out, black suit sharp and immaculate, wearing sunglasses despite the muted morning. He’s in his mid-40s but looks younger. His perfectly styled short auburn hair glints in the morning light.
Every movement he makes says I own this scene, even before he reaches the lobby.
He pushes through the revolving doors. The lobby hums with quiet chaos: murmured questions, muffled clicks of cameras, the soft scrape of shoes on marble.
REPORTER #1
Detective Inspector Crowley! Any comment on the…
CROWLEY
Not if you want to keep your teeth.
He flashes a grin so sharp it’s practically a weapon. The reporter flinches; Crowley moves on.
So - what's your poison?
WIP 1 - the 50s historical angst-fest. The pining! The angst!
WIP 2 - the Vegas rom-com. Cheesy tropes are the best!
WIP 3 - the experimental screenplay. I want Shiny to suffer! 😉
Remaining time: 6 days 17 hours
No no pressure tags - this is for anyone else who wants to join in!
