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Point the First: I'm working on the Never Have I Ever challenge at [livejournal.com profile] kinkme_merlin, the goal of which is to fill prompts with pairings or kinks, or in media, which we have not done before. So at some point after the challenge is over and I de-anon there will be a sudden influx of Merlin-related content for you lovelies, most of it probably of a NSFW nature.

Point the Second: currently I am very bored. Also, unproductive.

[eta] Point the Third: I am also trying to unofficially do the [community profile] ladiesbigbang, because it sounds awesome, with a fic in the Ruby 1.1 'verse. So far I haven't even started; the deadline is September 1 if I want to hope for a complement (art, fanmix, etc.) and October 1 if I don't. Um.

Point the Third Fourth: while poking through my entries I noticed I have a meme tag, so I wandered over to [personal profile] argylepiratewd's journal and stole another meme from her.

WIP MEME: post a little bit of each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations.

(Note: some of these, especially the SGA ones, are, um, possibly abandoned. Do keep an eye out for the last-edited dates. I've introduced each snippet with the file name and the aforementioned date, and these are not actually all of my WsIP, just the ones that have quotable bits.)

Chatelaine | last edited: 27 October 2010
“It’ll have to be Carson,” she said, knowing he’d hate it, but knowing he’d get it done, that if—God forbid—something happened to him there was always Dr. Biro who could take over. The fierce pang of regret that struck her, looking at Dr. Zelenka surrounded by glittering crystals and still without the gene, his head bowed, was surprising in its intensity: she hadn’t quite realized until just now how much she expected him to be able to do things that she needed done.

“I’m not sure he’ll do it,” Sgt. Wolfe said.

“It needs to be done,” Elizabeth said, not sure how else to explain it. Sgt. Wolfe still looked confused, but Dr. Zelenka nodded. She fiddled with her radio, seeking. “Carson? This is Elizabeth. I need you in the jumper bay right now. You’re going to have to fly Jumper Two with Sgt. Bates.”

“What?”

Now, Carson.” She had talked down world leaders, pushy generals, the former Vice-President of the United States hell-bent on destroying the planet to prove he was right and General O’Neill was wrong. She was going to get Carson Beckett into one of those jumpers.

“Elizabeth, I’m a doctor, not a—”

“Carson, you’re not McCoy, either.”

becauseSGAneedsmorefemslash | last edited: 16 September 2010
When Woolsey calls a meeting almost right after the scheduled databurst from Earth, Katie’s first thought—a reaction ingrained by years of survival in the Pegasus galaxy, as well as years of working with Rodney McKay—is that something has gone horribly wrong and they’re all going to die.

Her second thought is that the IOA changed their mind and wants Atlantis back after all. This one is actually believable—it’s been less than two months; anything could have happened since then, and they’re back to being a new thing, without the weight of tradition. Promotions and medals all around, sure, but in the end they’re still fragile.

Then she reminds herself that if she’s turned into a pessimist at last, it’s a crying shame that it’s success that did it to her instead of the war zone, the constant life-or-death peril, the many things that almost made her leave a year and a half ago.



different ot4s | last edited: 9 August 2010
“I will give Albion to you,” she promised him when he told her, “and everyone in it. I’ll do it, Uther, I will. I’ll make you the greatest king there ever was.”

“If anyone can, my dear,” Uther said, smiling, as Ygraine looped her arm around Nimueh’s shoulders, “it would be you.”

She probably would have died for any of them, but Uther was the only one who might have ever asked it of her. Gaius couldn’t help but be jealous, sometimes, that she didn’t even care about that. Uther’s praise and affection, his challenges, all of those brought a blade-bright reflection up in Nimueh.

They were both truly remarkable people, and Gaius trailed them both in helpless orbit: Nimueh with her lush enchanting beauty, radiant with ancient magic and arcane knowledge; Uther like a noble statue cast in bronze, cloaked in regality and crowned with dominion. It was no wonder that they would recognize these things in each other, no wonder that they would want them.

the heart's-ease that the poets knew | last edited: 31 August 2010
“…Well, maybe not.” Morgana sighs. “Still. Arthur gets to stay, and you can’t say Arthur is more mature than I am.”

She props herself on one elbow to watch Gwen’s face—it is alight with amusement as Gwen swings caught between honest agreement and reluctance to criticize her prince. “No,” Gwen admits at last, and the smile she has been fighting for the past moments finally breaks through, warming Morgana like the sun from top to toe.

The heart’s-ease Morgana gathers during their picnic lunch fills her hands like time, morning and evening. She adds the violet globes of amaranth to spin like tiny stars through these skies, and twists a slim stem of cedar to hold them steady, rich and lush with spice-scent.

She gives the bouquet to Gwen carelessly, as if it is something other than a collection of hopes.

make your own destiny | last edited: 20 December 2010
The visions, when they come, are more real than reality itself.

They are jumbled pieces, at first; scraps and scatters of cloth and gems and bright needles. Arthur paces, crowned and splendid, and Gwen sits in the throne that had been Ygraine's; Lancelot pulls off his helmet, shakes his hair back from his face, and raises his sword in a salute; Merlin rests a hand on Gwen's stomach and shakes his head. A boy with hair like sunlight walks through a ruined castle with a chalice in his hands; Arthur and Lancelot, threads of silver frosting their hair, look at each other with love and heartbreak; a young man with druid markings stretches his hand out to Morgana, and she follows.

There is a woman weeping, somewhere, soft and quiet as if she has no strength left in her body for anything more vigorous. Her voice is not one Morgana knows, but she feels it sink into her body and twine around her bones: this woman she will know, if she ever meets her, however briefly. She opens herself to the sound of the woman's sobs and takes them in, like bitter victories, like holy wine, before curling her heart around them in protectiveness.



breaking point | last edited: 3 February 2011
The walls pulsed again—she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that they were inside a blood vessel—and this time one of them brushed against the ship itself. Her station burst in a shower of sparks that sent her flying, landing in the central section of the bridge with a bone-shaking jolt that brought tears to her eyes.

“Lieutenant,” Kirk said, voice sharp with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, sir,” she said, accepting the hand Chekov offered her and wincing as she got to her feet. The bridge was in chaos; two of the other stations had gone as well, and [name] wasn’t moving. Spock bent over [othername], who was whimpering from what was pretty obviously a broken arm.

Sulu hadn’t looked away from the controls, or if he had it’d been so quickly she hadn’t noticed. A small cold voice somewhere deep in her mind whispered, we’re in trouble, from below the knowledge that they were trapped in an energy maze that could destroy the ship. She felt it now, she didn’t just know it, felt it as a knot of ice and acid below her breastbone that tightened with every second of their helmsman’s perfect professional concentration. Look at me so I know it’s not bad enough that you can’t—but of course it was, it was, that was the problem.



sacrament | last edited: 9 April 2011
She is going to die because she wanted this, laughter and compassion and risk, wanted to know what it was to want. She is going to die for the taste of chocolate and the heart-piercing flourish that begins Bach’s Toccata Con Fuga and the way the colors of a sunrise in only four dimensions have come to mean hope. She is going to die because of every choice she’s made that led her here, because she fell, because she trusted the Winchesters, because she had messy corporal human sex with a man who’d already sold his own soul to save his brother’s life—how could she mean more to him than that?

And here she is. And she doesn’t want to die.

you're my favorite work of art | last edited: 22 June 2011
“Oh my God, I’m living in a romance novel,” Becky says, distracted from her indignation—because, really, she is not sweet, how dare people think she’s sweet just because she tries to take care of her boyfriend who is a prophet and has very traumatic visions—by how massively weird her life is.

“…What?”

Becky puts her sandwich down so she can count off her points on her fingers. “I lost my job and was rescued by a mysterious stranger I admired, who hired me to be his personal assistant, and then I started dating him—you’re not really the mysterious stranger type in person, but you’re a reclusive author so that sort of counts even if you—” She stops just before she can say would have been gorgeous and really rich if this were a novel because Chuck would probably take it personally even though she doesn’t mean it that way. “But anyway, I am not sweet.”

Chuck gives her the Keep Saying That, It Won’t Change Anything look, which he usually only pulls out when she starts talking about how the boys need to pay more attention to each other when they get out of the shower or huddle for warmth or just in general touch each other more.

“I write gay porn!” she protests, probably a little too loudly since the guy walking his dog nearby turns to look at them and then quickly looks away. Crap.

then shall the fall further the flight in me | last edited: 30 May 2011
“The apocalypse is the will of our Father,” Raphael says firmly, “and must be resumed.”

“When Castiel and I both fought to prevent it, and have both been restored?” Anael demands.

He hesitates.

In the space of that hesitation Anael feels a high fine song reverberating through Heaven, like the vast stretch of the ocean the first time Anna saw it, immense and glittering and beautiful. She turns toward its source, Raphael forgotten, her own Grace-deep fear forgotten and replaced by joy burning through her.

“Three for three,” says the Messenger of God, grinning wicked-bright at all of them. “Angels Against the Apocalypse. Sounds to me like Dad had some sort of plan.”
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