![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
sure, why not
Euuhhh that meme is too complicated. Upshot is:
FIRST FIVE PEOPLE TO COMMENT GET DRABBLES
Pick your poison. Though I'd prefer a little more guidance than just a fandom or pairing -- 'Booth/Brennan, earrings' will make my life easier than 'Bones'.
Something for me to do when I finish typing up my lecture notes :)
FIRST FIVE PEOPLE TO COMMENT GET DRABBLES
Pick your poison. Though I'd prefer a little more guidance than just a fandom or pairing -- 'Booth/Brennan, earrings' will make my life easier than 'Bones'.
Something for me to do when I finish typing up my lecture notes :)
no subject
eyai, revolutionary zeal
no subject
no subject
*excited*
no subject
~
Tee intercepts a glance from Pru that contains no apology at all, not that he expected any. She isn't the sort to act rashly; she's made a judgement call.
Apprentices. Bloody hell.
He rubs his temple. "And if I told you to scaddle on home?"
The girl -- Agatha -- manages not to look as though she's been slapped, but it's a close call, Tee can tell. Her chin magically locates a new angle even more prissy than the last; her voice, icy, follows its lead. "That would certainly present a considerable problem," she says, "as we have already left word to the effect that we will not be returning there."
"Run away to join the circus," Tee mutters. His circus. "Fierce."
"You don't understand." The boy clutches his bag -- leather, looks like it costs twice as much as Tee's entire outfit -- tighter to his chest and tries to look earnest; he hasn't the face for it. "We have recognised our pampered existence and chosen to move against it. We have renounced the Pipe. We wish to make a stand against the terrible polarisation of wealth and the social inequality that defines our country in such an unfortunate way!"
"Jesus fuck," says Tee, after a considerable pause.
The Verey twins are seventeen years old and talented little shits of coders, smack bang in the middle of their own personal rebellion; their righteousness dies down fast under the weight of Steph's crushing silences, leaving a layer of semi-educated socialism over some muddy depths of family problems that Tee wouldn't touch even if he didn't believe in everyone's right to keep their particular brand of fucked-up to themselves.
They're surprisingly alike for fraternal twins, so much so that it's certainly easy to think that they were designed that way; they look like eyai, like a matched set. And there's something about Agatha's guarded, not-quite-sincere smile and the way Julian's face goes blank in response to anger that adds to the effect, as though their facial .apps are buggy. But there are no locks in their shoulders and not a scrap of silicon in their makeup: just history. Just the human fucking experience.
no subject
no subject
"How are you?" he asks.
"Unsurprised." Morgana gives a soft laugh. "It seems that in Camelot, as ever, being immune is the same thing as being responsible."
"We know you didn't --"
"I know. Thank you." Morgana sets her hands against the bars; Merlin sees them as molten metal, but he forces himself to do likewise. It's normal. It's normal. It's fine. "I should be asking how you are."
"Fine. Well." He smiles, rueful. "Not really fine."
She surprises him with a laugh. "If only there were some way to capture a sound and release it again. I would dearly love to show you exactly how high your voice can go when you scream, Merlin."
Merlin feels himself going a bit red; he doesn't tell her that he's been trying out a spell to do just that, capture sound in strings. So far all he's managed to make is a bootlace that, when plucked, produces a quiet rendition of Arthur saying I don't know why you're messing about with your boots, Merlin, when mine are still covered in mud -- hardly a worthwhile application of his magic. Merlin doesn't need a simulcrum of Arthur's voice to scold him when Arthur himself is more than happy to do it.
"How's Gwen?" Morgana says then.
"Worse. I think she keeps seeing her father."
Morgana's mouth winces, briefly, and then anger lights up her lovely eyes. "I'll kill them. Whoever they are. Whoever did this."
"You'll be standing in line," Merlin says grimly, trying not to think about Uther's disintegrating grasp on his authority. About Arthur, cold and frantic, spinning his sword at ghosts, seeing danger everywhere but never able to strike it down. "Anyway. I'm here because I can stop it, I think, but I need -- you -- look, Gaius thinks --" Gaius thinks there are plants growing out of his hands "-- he thinks you're immune because of your gift. Because you're a Seer."
Morgana's silence is sharp enough to cut. Merlin closes his eyes again, because of the roaring fire consuming her dress, and speaks quickly.
"I won't tell anyone. I swear. And I don't care, I don't care at all, because I'm a sorcerer and I can fix this if I can just see properly. But I need your help for that."
Merlin strokes his hand over the writhing sparks that are, he's fairly sure, where the lock is supposed to be. The door goes back to being a door just long enough for Morgana to step out, her eyes narrowed but free of fear.
"I see," she says. "Merlin. We're going to have a long conversation -- later," she finishes, just as Merlin is about to interrupt. "What do you need me to do?"
"Think about -- a fork in a river. One stream sending water in two directions. Your eyes and mine." Merlin holds out his hand. "Sorry, that sounds a bit odd, but it's the best I can do."
Morgana reaches out and takes his hand, and Merlin feels silly but he concentrates with all his mind on opening up some kind of connection, some thin stream, to join their visions. Like all the abstract spells he's tried, it gives him a headache within three seconds.
Morgana gives a soft gasp and looks at the floor, which is crumbling into blue sand.
"Goodness, Merlin, is that --"
"Focus!" Merlin says desperately. "Morgana, please! Use your eyes, not mine."
"Yes. All right."
Her hand tightens around his own and Merlin forces himself to watch as the surreal devastation of the world wobbles away, slowly, until it's just the two of them in a dark damp room: tense, and alone, but seeing true.
no subject
No pressure.
no subject
no subject
Mental and emotional pressure. First person POV. Female character. A pen.
no subject
no subject
no subject
~
"I'd like to begin," the man says, voice creating a fortepiano as he leans in and then back from the microphone, "with an acknowledgement of country. We gather on the lands of --"
Alois hears a sharp burst of clapping off to his left and turns, as do a few other people, to see Myfanwy looking anxious. She stops clapping as soon as their eyes meet. He frowns and lifts a hand to wave, raises his eyebrows in a question. Strange how the sight of her freezes his lips; a comfortable paralysis.
"Sorry," Myf says to the last person she had to push aside to reach his line of vision, eliciting an odd look at her accent. She holds her palms upwards and wobbles her hands, then twirls a fist near her temple like a dizzy salute. His memory is scrambling but her mouth is moving too: Where's Mallory? The American M and the twirl for the girl's curly hair; he's hardly ever seen her give her daughter's sign name, as it's solely referential.
Alois shrugs and stands up, edges his way to the side of the marquee, apologising in dull whispers as he goes. When he reaches Myfanwy he digs in his pocket for his notepad, and has flipped to a new page before remembering that his pen's out of ink.
My pen's dead, he says, improvising vocab like mad, but he regrets the finger pulled across his own throat as soon as he does it. Myf stops watching his lips and blanches and he doesn't blame her: Mallory missing, today of all days.
Myfanwy's signing fast, forgetting herself in her panic, but he picks up a few words without any trouble -- cards, a few times, and their own sarcastic fluttering riff on angel. Her hands are dancing backwards from the present to the past, sketching out a dimension with two axes -- fuck, just what they need, another timeline to twist around and smash into theirs. But if Mallory's with Gabriel, all bets are off.
Alois steels himself to fight down his own thoughts, argue against the inner catastrophe: he's already picturing Mallory in ten different types of deadly trouble, and he knows himself a hairsbreadth from considering himself useless. Guilty. Responsible. He waits for the sluggish lead of despair, but it doesn't come.
Myf takes his arm and Alois follows, thinking: what a difference it makes when you have no choice.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
FOR MEHMMM. I have at least five, but the only one that'd suit a drabble more than a billion chapter epic....
Mmmmkay - Merlin/Arthur, distant future verge-of-apocalypse fic. Our once and future king is awoken by a team of specialists working on the legend as a last ditch attempt to save the world, but the first thing Arthur does is demand that the team track down Merlin. They break him out of his rock or whatever the hell, and Arthur and Merlin have their reunion surrounded by unfamiliar faces and a world completely and utterly altered from the one they knew.
IT'S A BIT...SPECIFIC but any sort of snapshot around that would be lovely...?
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Ouran, post-anime and likely in the same 'verse as your story. Haruhi and Tamaki and Kyouya in a formal setting, dealing with rumors and innuendo. Likely by starting their own. *grins*