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WIP Meme

I got this from eponymous_rose via kalleah:

This is something I've concocted primarily because I want confirmation that I'm not the only one with a folder full of half-finished fiction on my desktop that might never get written at this rate. So here you are! The Work-in-Progress Meme! When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.

From a "Immortal Rose on her own in Pete's World" fic:

Maybe the trick is not to stand outside time, as she has done, standing still while it flows over her, but to flow with it, bending and changing and becoming a new thing as time flows endlessly on. The Doctor did this in abrupt transitions, burning from one person into another, but she will change with every day, until from where she stands no trace can be found of how she once began. Because the only way he could change was completely, going from one self to another like a book finished and shut forever.

On December 23 of 2006, I had insomnia and lay in the darkness, cursed with consciousness, while Christmas Eve approached. At 4:30 am I got up and started writing crack!fic. Then I went out for pancakes.

It was not as if he hadn’t had sex. With that much time spent among short-lived, reproduction-obsessed species, he was bound to try it out. Evolution had not yet done away with the equipment. A complex circulation system ensured that, with effort, he could concentrate blood in the right places. He didn’t ejaculate, but for many species, that was ancillary to his partner’s enjoyment.

In his early years among humans, out there in the galaxy, he had devoted time to learning the techniques appropriate to human lovemaking. He had learned the necessary movements, developed a strategy for engaging erogenous zones, practiced the fine muscle control, much as a man might learn to play the bassoon. He liked to think that he was pretty good at it.

From something that never coalesced enough to get an identity:

The bitterness of love comes not from having it not returned. It comes from realizing what you’re still prepared to do despite knowing your love is not returned.