#brain-dead lowlife trailer trash

[ylizam]

3 sentence ficathon: LTiH, Gillian/Caroline, rainy springtime

She’d left her wellies inside Gillian’s last time she visited, so now she’s being sucked into the mud heels first as she squelches toward the door, juggling Flora and bags and herself. “Told you not to leave ‘em,” Gillian says, offering not one bit of assistance as she leans just inside, warm in the dry. “Fuck off,” Caroline mouths; she’s very, very careful to enunciate as clearly as the two-finger salute she flips through the bag handles.

[three sentence ficathon]

[haleselenagomez]

"You're thinking brain-dead, lowlife trailer-trash aren't you? #gilliangrewood #carolinedawson #lasttangoinhalifax #nicolawalker #sarahlancashire https://www.instagram.com/p/CMIX070hwG5/?igshid=1rme3604yn7l3

[ylizam]

what is 'they move in together!'?

oh, that’s a Last Tango in Halifax fic, set post-whenever (because what is time, really), in which—”for reasons,” according to the very much still in the mostly notes with a few sentences of actual writing phase draft—Caroline moves in with Gillian, they both end up finally getting the therapy they both need, and they realize the totally physical, no really we’re just friends with benefits, setup they’ve settled into is actually more than that? and that maybe they’re allowed to be happy? and are, in fact, happy?

also Celia disappears. possibly Caroline’s house swallows her up and she’s trapped in there forever (this could also be why Caroline leaves)? this started out life as a meme response (found here) that I liked too much and started trying to actually write.

[ylizam]

fake wip meme:

@darkbloomiana prompted: LTIH, Caz/Gillian, stranded at a ski lodge.

Caroline wakes up on the floor: head pounding, hip aching, shoulders twisted awkwardly, and back pulsing in rhythm with her head. There's some sort of fur rug monstrosity tickling her cheek and blankets and duvets twisted around her legs where she clearly tried to kick them away. And Gillian, drooling and naked, all impossible heat and sprawling everywhere. She's snoring, and has somehow managed to claim every pillow in the vicinity for herself; there's one beneath her head, one under her knees, another on her chest, and she's cuddling up to one like she'd normally be clinging to Caroline. The bed looms cold and distant. The fire sparks and flickers away. Caroline looks from one to the other, looks at Gillian and the closed door of the en suite and the bed again, before creaking and grunting her way to her feet. Toilet first, then teeth, and then she's breaking into the bottled water (no matter how Gillian will bitch and nag about the cost) and crawling into the bed to sleep for at least another day.

[ylizam]

do they really believe we have the ability to just generate fic titles on command? i, good sirs, do not have this ability! so to introduce some realism about this process, what i’m gonna need you to do, tumblr user mazily, is put your music app of choice on shuffle, take the second line of the second verse of the second song it plays and write a summary for a fic of that title on whatsoever topic should seem to you appropriate

This happiness was always inside me

Last Tango in Halifax, Caroline/Gillian

Caroline always imagined—or, rather, she never imagined, but had she imagined such a situation, she would've imagined that it would be Gillian moving in with her: the roof at hers acting up again or the sheep deciding to live indoors and kicking the human interlopers out. But here she is, pulling up to Gillian's with her belongings stacked up on every surface of the car not otherwise carrying a person (herself, and Flora in her car seat, oblivious to Caroline's ridiculous musings), her (soon to be former) house full up with interfering mothers and ex-husbands and other assorted pests. She parks. Hands on the steering wheel, steady and not at all shaking, as she breathes in, out, like that new app her assistant installed on her phone—because it's this or we drop you in some retreat somewhere, and then where will the school be?—claims will help with anxiety or nerves or some bullshit. Visualizes her (soon to be former) house burning, herself Angela Bassett strutting away while it goes up in flames behind her. Flora calls out for Gillian, and Caroline feels her face go up in flames too. Opens her eyes, and who do you think is standing in her open doorway, laughing like she does sometimes at the sight of Caroline sat in her car?

Or: the one in which Caroline and Flora move in with Gillian, everyone gets some therapy, and Caroline learns that she knows how to be happy after all. 

[send me a fake title, and I’ll eventually write a fake summary!]

[ylizam]

4, 10, 20 for the meta asks

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

Caz's mouth is a bloody miracle, once she finally stops talking.

10. How would you describe your writing process?

Slow, laborious, plodding, with rare flashes of stay-up-all-night-oh-shit-this-is-working.

(I mean, it took me how long to answer these questions? And let’s not get into the prompts I have lurking in my inbox, partially responded to but still unfinished.)

In the before times, the roommate and I went out to a coffee shop to write 1-2x a week (Tuesdays and Sundays, when practicable), which lent an air of something to the entire process. It was generally hard and slow to write then (with the odd exception; the Serena Campbell not-an-epic-but-kind-of-to-me sort of just happened, sudden and desperate and wonderful, and I can procrasti-write an exchange fic on the fly), and it's harder and slower now. We're going to try to go out for walks/sitting outside with some degree of regularity, so maybe I'll lug a notebook with me and try to use that sitting outside time as scheduled writing time? Or maybe I'll just sit and try to remember to breathe. Who can say. (Anyway I'm someone who without a set schedule or routine loses time with alarming frequency, so. It is not surprising I lose time when it comes to: writing, responding to comments, reading, doing.) 

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

So a thing about me is I don't? Necessarily tend to ramble about my writing and what it all means and this symbolism here and that callback there? (I tend to write short, so fewer opportunities for callbacks and clues and whatnot.) I write something and get it out there and then I forget what's in it five minutes later; that's part of my process, I guess, the putting it out of mind after I'm done so it doesn't linger in there for me to worry about. (Because I will worry. And fret. And want to dig in and try to edit more, fix more, do more. And sometimes a thing needs to be done already.) 

And then I ramble below anyway! Which got long and also slightly-but-not-very-don’t-get-your-hopes-up dirty, so I’m cutting for those for whom such things actually work.

So in the same story quoted above (since I had it open* and can therefore remember it exists, object permanence what now, and oops there’s another typo), Caz is often and repeatedly too impatient and pushy, see:

Caz reaches back and undoes the clasp herself; impatient and fucking annoying about it, too fucking sure Gillian will be too distracted by her tits to complain (which, fair: they're stupidly magnificent, and Gillian leans forward to lick a stripe just to the side of one glorious nipple).

and later:

Caz hums. "That good?" she says, all smug satisfaction meets why aren't you reciprocating right the fuck now: a particular tone aught but Caz can manage. She shifts, sucks at Gillian's hipbone, hums again against Gillian's skin. Gillian lifts her head to try to watch her fuck herself on her own fingers--she's so bloody impatient, it makes Gillian squirm--but her stomach muscles protest. Her head drops back to the pillow, and she closes her eyes. Listens to Caz's moans and grunts, the wet slide of her fingers. Rides the sharp pain when Caz bites down as she comes.

There isn't really a theme or whatever to that fic, though, other than they're both pretty terrible (they first hooked up while with other people, getting caught in flagrante by one of them) (see also: Caroline/Kate wasn't a good relationship because Caroline was a terrible girlfriend, no matter how wonderful they looked when they snogged), they're both in love, they're in the "fucking all the time" stage of their relationship (basically everyone they know has walked in on them at some point because a) they’re in the fucking all the time stage but also b) the sense of bad-wrong (step-sisters! not straight! over 50 and fucking and loving it! take that, world!) is a feature not a bug, see e.g., season 1 Gillian), and they get each other in a way no one will ever understand (some of their family members will eventually give up and accept it, but understand? ha). There’s an entire universe of them behind this short snippet, which is what I tend to do: I have a whole world and relationship and character moments and thoughts all swirling around that I will never actually write. I set out to write that bigger story 9 times out of 10, but often what I want to tell is just this moment. And then my brain shuts down when I try to draw out more of it, which is the sign I take to mean: nope, this is enough, this is what all of that other stuff was about in the first place. The rest of it was just meant to inform the characters, the relationship, and I pepper in hints from the greater universe instead of writing it (in a way I assume would be plodding and would drag terribly because it’s just not meant to be).

*because I keep thinking about them, unexpected and ridiculous. and thinking about writing them, which is in itself ridiculous because again what are words these days and how do they work.

[ask me more fun meta asks, and I will answer within 2-10 business days!]

[ylizam]

notes from this morning’s writing-slash-plotting session include:

Celia convinced Caz has a drinking problem bc she's clearly not "like that," leaves pamphlets everywhere, joins al-anon type fb group

Alan is Disappointed

Kate realizes Caz is messy af

Alan's heart?

light from torch through car window, Caz's shirt is off

and then I wrote a few more sentences of the Berena thing I started ten years ago that I wanted to finish for the Berena Countdown “family” prompt and sure that was a few days ago but I can totally post it by the time Serena peaces out of there right (it’s not even long! I’m just so! ugh!). 

[ylizam]

UM because of who i am as a person my prompt is: caroline and gillian and olga, 2: hugs.

In which you said "hugs," and my brain went "wine and CUDDLES." so apologies for failing at the actual prompt, but I was completely inspired by it anyway and after the million years it took me to write this much, well, yeah.

Wine and wine and and more wine still, and Gillian trips over one of Caz's hideous whatever-those-things-are-called, the fancy posh pillows tossed all over the place, falling sprawled and giggly against Olga's side on the sofa.

She's still not sure how they ended up here, perched three aside on the pillowed monstrosity. Another AmDram performance survived, concession wine bleeding into the good stuff now it's finally over, Caz and Olga's relationship apparently set to "on" again (not that anyone'd bother to tell Gillian before she caught Olga with her hand up Caz's shirt in the church-slash-theatre loo). The wine's good: posh crap she'd never buy herself, but which she appreciates the hell out of when it's provided gratis by Caz. Or Olga. By Olga-and-Caz.

"I know she's your mother n'all," Olga says, "But Celia looks like she's sucking a lemon during that whole romantic scene of hers, oh how I love thee, Rodrigo, my darling--," and Gillian snorts at her impression, pursed lips and her voice pitched to Celia's brand of posh, tries to swallow wine and her laughter and ends up half-choking on both. Caz doesn't half look like she's sucking on a lemon herself, come to think, not that Gillian will say as much. She laughs harder, coughs harder, her face no doubt as red as their (frankly amazing) wine.

Olga laughs too--"sorry, it's not funny, shit, put your hands up"--and pulls at Gillian's arm until she's half-heartedly waving it above her head.

"You knob," Caz says, but Gillian's convinced she means it in a fond way. And then Caz pats at her back: hard thumps followed by gentle circles, until Gillian catches her breath. Finds herself leaning into the rubbing, warm and decidedly cat-like. [cat people movie] Gillian blinks. Wonders how much wine she's had tonight; decides it's definitely not enough.

Olga climbs over Gillian, all legs and youth and hair in Gillian's mouth, to curl up on Caz's lap. Her socks don't match. She kisses Caz's cheek, her mouth, settles in for a snog and a cuddle.

"Still here," Gillian mutters. She pours the last of the open bottle into her glass. Sips at it with her feet up in front of her, trying to look put out instead of slightly--or more than, if she's honest even if only to herself--turned on by the look of the two of them. She's feel guilty about it were she a touch more sober, but mostly she just feels warm. Nice. Buzzy and ready to overflow with it. She'll let the guilt come with the hangover, deal with all the negativity all at once.

"Aw," Olga says, reaching out blindly toward Gillian. "Come on then."

"Yes," Caz repeats, a touch of the sardonic in her tone, "Come on then." But she shifts just enough, twists with Olga still sat half on top of her, feet tickling at Gillian's thigh, so Gillian can budge closer. Can sit, pressed close, with Caz's hand at Gillian's neck. Her fingers playing with Gillian's hair, and Gillian's head tilting to rest on Caz's shoulder.

Olga yawns. "Mm," she says, "This is nice." Her toes wiggle on Gillian's lap--"could be nicer, though," she hints--and she sighs when Gillian presses a thumb to her arch. Kicks when Gillian laughs, smacks her ankle, grabs at Olga's legs to keep them still. Keep her from doing Gillian--or Caz, or all three of them--an injury. She giggles at the image that pops up in her head: the three of them with black eyes and bruises, hobbling into hospital, the look on Celia's face when she and Gillian's father come to take them home.

"Stop wiggling," Caz says. Her voice is soft and sleepy, dipped lower than normal, and it does things to Gillian's insides. The way Olga shifts, it must do it for her too. Her eyes slip closed, her hand slows, stops, playing with Gillian's hair.

"You think she knows what her voice does when she's half-asleep?" Gillian whispers.

Olga grins, dirty and knowing, and Gillian promises herself she'll deal with the guilt when the hangover kicks in, chase out all the toxins with one of them green juice antioxidant bee pollen things Caz is suddenly all over making.

"Shut it," Caz says, nowhere near sharp. She sounds pleased, more like, and Gillian refuses to poke at that particular thought. Her eyes slit open for a second before closing again, her head tilting back at an angle that is definitely going to make her bitch about why the hell didn't either of you wake me, make me go upstairs to bed in the morning.  

"Shut it," Olga repeats.

"Yeah, shut it," Gillian says, shifting until she's an arm wrapped around Caz's middle, fingers just touching the buttons on Olga's shirt, warm and suddenly tired enough to risk the aches and pains of morning. She closes her eyes. Tries to mimic Caz's stupidly sexy sleepy voice, but fears she mostly sounds pissed when she adds, "Some of us are trying to sleep here."

She drifts in silence for a while, lets her thoughts float around her. Lets her body take in as much warmth, as much comfort, as she can; tries not to let herself get any ideas about this being anything more than a drunken cuddle. Time loses meaning as she drifts. As her fingernails tap against Olga's buttons, as her body slows and settles.

Caz snorts, sudden and loud, twitches and begins to snore. Gillian startles, blinks her vision into focus. She lifts her head from Caz's shoulder; she and Olga stare at each other across Caz's body, both of them shaking, hysterical all over again, laughing loud enough to wake the dead. But not Caz, it turns out: she just keeps snoring, eyes closed, warm and twitchy and stilling only when Gillian and Olga press closer again.

Gillian giggles, listens as Olga giggles with her. Lets time slow down again--interrupted by the odd fit of laughter, like they're teenagers after a few too many cans--until she hears Olga's breath slow, steady, squeak in counterpoint to Caz's snoring.

She opens her eyes. She'll never fall asleep surrounded by the racket of the two of them, but she can't bring herself to disentangle herself, to retire to the comfort of Caz's empty bed (no matter how longingly she thinks about that mattress; one night passed out on enough to make her ask how much that thing cost, make her balk at the number of zeros at the end of Caz's answer). She watches as Caz and Olga sleep. Thinks about how utterly fucked she is.

[ylizam]

you know I gotta ask about number 3.

last waltz in halifax! is the Last Tango in Halifax AU wherein Alan and Celia reconnect not through the magic of terrible social media platforms, but rather because their respective daughters are caught shagging in a jeep (by Robbie, of course, who could let them off with a warning but instead brings them in because it’s Gillian, so of course he does) and they have to go claim them from the station. (This story also has the consequence of freeing Kate from Caroline–who can really be kind of shitty (look, it’s kind of the appeal for me)–and from tragic lesbian death. Although there’s really not much Kate in it as currently imagined, just a bit of snogging during the initial period of awkward “oh shit, our parents are getting what now, let me go hook up with someone else stat.”) Anyway, everyone is terrible, Caroline and Gillian try not to have sex again but fail miserably at not having sex again because of course they do, and it all comes out no matter how much no one wants it to come out because it’s never happening again, now pass me my bra. some things from canon still happen but some don’t and there’s no magic fix for Celia’s terrible homophobia because no one dies a lesbian death of tragedy and sweeping Celia’s terrible homophobia under a rug where it peeks out as needed but also isn’t quite so unforgivable. Also there are sheep.

this is what is going on right before Robbie shows up:

“Fuck,” Caroline says, back twinging as she tries to contort herself into the backseat. She bangs her head against the door frame. Flips off–shit, what’s her name again? She’s a farmer, Caroline’s pretty sure, and pretty if you go for that trashy sort of thing, which apparently Caroline does now. She flips off Julie or Janice or whatever her name is and hates that it does something for her when Jodie–no, Gillian, bloody gorgeous Gillian–just laughs delightedly.

“Just budge over,” Gillian says, and she climbs in after Caroline. Crawls over her. Mouths meeting, clashing, and Caroline pulls Gillian closer. Fingers tightening, grabbing, pulling Gillian’s hideous tartan flannel from her jeans. Gives thanks she changed out of her work clothes before going out: her pencil skirt would be twisted around her legs, trapping her. Holding her in place.

She moans. She wants to bite. Gillian keeps talking, yes and posh bint and total nonsense pouring out of her, and Caroline’s teeth want to snap. Mouth open, tongue licking into Gillian’s, trying to stop her saying another word.

“Like that, is it,” Gillian says.

“Shut. Up.” Fingers tackling Gillian’s buttons, trying to get her top off and hidden out of view.

[ask me about my wip folder!]

[ylizam]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Last Tango In Halifax Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gillian Greenwood/Caroline McKenzie-Dawson Summary:

So Caroline can kiss.

Or: five times Gillian and Caroline are caught out and one time Gillian catches herself.

[ylizam]

For the trope mashup meme: Criminal AU + Proposal Fic.

"Right," Gillian says, nose wrinkled and squinting up into the sun. Caroline waits. Waits some more. They're freshly arrived in Spain, the latest stop on their--"just like Thelma and Louise!" (Gillian) "no! Don't call the--look, it was an accident, I just need to, could you please just put Alan back on--no, please don't cry" (Caroline)--vacation. There's a scratch down the middle of the right lens of her sunglasses, and she makes a mental note to pick up a new pair. To pick up more sun cream, summer weight clothes, maybe some strappy shoes, new scarves, a hat: a dramatic new wardrobe for this dramatic new life.

"So I've been thinking," Gillian says. Her trainers are scuffed. There's a hole in the thigh of her jeans.

Caroline wonders if Gillian would be willing to undergo a makeover. If she'd let Caroline buy her new clothes, let Caroline book her into a real salon, dress her up like the heroine of one of those films she loves so much. "I think," Caroline starts, "That maybe we should change the way we look, the way we dress--"

"Right," Gillian continues, spitting out the words like they're running away from her, like they're the ones who killed John and Robbie and ran out of town before anyone could put two and two together, "If we're married they can't make us testify against each other, so we should, f-fuck, now that we're both. Let's get married."

[trope mash-up meme] [prompt me!]

[ylizam]

3 sentence fic: Gillian/Caroline, roller derby

“You f-, fucking bitch,” Gillian screams, full-voiced and hoarse with anger, her teammates barely holding her back between them; her nose is bloody and red, and Caroline can see the bruise that’s going to bloom black and blue across half her face.

Caroline flinches, forces herself to take a step toward Gillian, to keep her head high and proud and expression blank; she didn’t mean to bloody Gillian’s face, possibly break her nose, just felt unsteady on her skates and couldn’t stop thinking about Gillian whispering, “you do like it rough, don’t you,” with her hand up Caroline’s skirt in the ladies before the bout.

Another step, and Gillian grins, all teeth and danger, and Caroline flushes as she tells Gillian’s teammates to let her go–“I can handle whatever she tries,” half dare and half promise.

[three sentence AU meme]

[ylizam]

hold this thread as I walk away, LTiH, Caroline McKenzie-Dawson/Gillian Greenwood, 2564 words, inspired by this post. Gillian doesn't trust the look on Caz's face. Not a bit.