The fic I've resumed poking at still isn't writing itself fast enough

I’m torn between gleeful squee at how glorious the Real Ghostbusters fic I unearthed from the internet graveyard yesterday is (when I can convince my brain that RGB Peter Venkmen isn’t Bill Murray, because when my brain reverts to the standard movie-visuals I internalized in childhood, some very, very Wrong mental images result), and irritation at my octopus James Bond fic, which is now over 5,000 words long and should be well into the hot threesome sex or, y’know, finished. I blame this on Felix, who has started to manifest deep angsty issues of his own, in addition to not seeming all that sexually interested in anything other than his hotrod. You have James Bond in your bedroom, Leiter. Why is he not naked yet? It’s not like he isn’t incredibly easy. Stop mixing drinks and being awkward and start ripping clothing off! You can snark about James’s massive issues after you and Honey Ryder have had your wicked ways with him.

For fun, I’ve also been wasting time running various fictional characters through the Mary Sue-ometer. ( cut to spare readers my babbling )