(no subject)
Dec. 21st, 2018 07:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kryptariaHappy Midwinter!
Due to Hurricane Xena, I'm behind on all my writing. My intent had been to post this fic today, but since I'm behind, I want to give you all a sneak preview of chapter 1. The alternative is to post yet another WIP to AO3, and that never goes well.
Title: A Midwinter Prince
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: Teen (possibly Mature for language)
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Lance/Gwen, Morgana/Leon, Gwaine flirts with everyone because Gwaine
Warnings: None
Tags: Modern AU, Magic is known, Journalist AU, Royalty
Summary: It's not easy to break into journalism, even with a degree. Trapped on the copy desk editing other people's lousy writing, Merlin finally sees a light at the end of the tunnel. His boss wants a reporter in Camelot for Prince Arthur's twenty-fifth birthday, when the Playboy Prince has to either take the throne or abdicate.
When the Prince skips out of his press conference, Merlin is faced with the prospect of going back to London empty-handed. But a stubborn mindset, a journalist's instincts, and a whole lot of magic go a long way, especially when Merlin finds an unlocked, unguarded side door. It's not his fault that the first person he runs across hears his London accent and assumes he's Princess Morgana's new tutor... is it?
Author's notes: Have you seen A Christmas Prince on Netflix? No? Go make yourself some hot cocoa, wrap up in a fuzzy blanket, ignore the plot holes, and enjoy! (Don't bother with the sequel.)
-----
Forgive any formatting issues. I'm still finding my way around Dreamwidth.
13 December
“Doing anything interesting?”
The question, spoken right into Merlin’s ear, jolted him out his too-early-Monday-morning, not-enough-coffee-to-face-work daze. His whole field of vision was a foggy white blur, black pixels crawling across the screen like foraging ants until he blinked a few times. The ants resolved into ten point Times New Roman letters forming words that, while correct (at least in that they were all “words” of some sort), were about as engaging as watching paint dry.
“That answers that,” Will said, shoving Merlin’s keyboard out of the way to take a seat on the edge of his desk. “Editing someone else’s shit instead of writing your own?”
“Are you saying my writing’s shit?” Merlin asked, leaning back with a creak of hydraulics that reminded him his chair was third-hand and far from the most stable piece of furniture in the forest of cubicles.
Will snorted. “Did I or did I not live through your goth poetry phase?”
Merlin conceded the point with a nod. “Fair. And yeah, I’m working on —”
“Faber!” The shout sent an instinctive wave of flinches across the newsroom before the junior editors to either side of Merlin’s cube glanced sympathetically his way.
“Arse,” Will muttered, though he kept his eyes averted from the glass-walled executive office at the end of the newsroom.
“Mmm-hmm.” Merlin shoved his wobbly chair back and made a show of quick-stepping to the aisle that ran along the windows, positioned to ensure there weren’t any coveted window-cubes for the juniors to fight over. All the cubicles were equally dreary.
He hustled to the flight of four stairs that served no architectural purpose save to elevate the office of the editor-in-chief, like a royal throne looming over the peasantry. An apt metaphor, Merlin thought as he dredged deep inside himself to find a chipper smile for the tosser who had complete power over his paycheque and career. Not that he had much to smile about. The weekend was four days away, payday almost a fortnight off, and he hadn’t had a byline of his own for almost six weeks now.
“Morning, sir,” he said full of false cheer, stopping just over the office threshold.
Cenred didn’t bother looking up from his sleek laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Editing a —”
“Fine. What do you know about Prince Arthur of Camelot?”
Merlin blinked. “He’s...” was as far as he got, which was fine. He doubted his boss actually wanted his opinion, especially when it came to the Playboy Prince. Arthur was rich, privileged, and would have been in Merlin’s top twenty list of wank-fantasies if he wasn’t constantly photographed with a new model-of-the-week clinging to his arm. Mentally editing the photos to be less blatantly hetero took a lot of energy.
True to form, Cenred didn’t give a toss about Merlin’s opinion. “He’ll be twenty-five on Midwinter. That’s the twenty-first,” Cenred added, finally deigning to glance Merlin’s way.
Merlin unclenched his teeth and pointedly didn’t pull the pentagram out from under his shirt. “Yes, sir. I know.”
Cenred’s lip twitched with the start of a sneer. “Then you’ll also know it’s his deadline for abdicating or accepting the crown.”
“Yes, sir,” Merlin lied, his cheerful tone strained. He aggressively didn’t care about the monarchical politics of Camelot. Yes, the King Regnant was a silver fox, the Crown Prince was a golden sun god, and the kingdom had been a thorn in the side of the fading British Empire for a thousand years, but that was about it. He was much more interested in real news, not celebrity fluff.
“Good. I want someone on the ground, covering whatever he decides.”
Merlin bit back a sigh, wondering why he was involved at all. Couldn’t Cenred just send an e-ticket to whatever poor sod got stuck covering the Royal Ego over the border? Being a junior editor wasn’t glamorous, but if Cenred wanted the message hand-delivered, well, they had interns for that, didn’t they?
Him and his fucking ego, Merlin thought. Now that was a story that could have teeth if not for the NDAs everyone in the office signed before they got their employee badges. It was like living in the sequel to The Devil Wears Prada.
“Well?” Cenred demanded.
Merlin blinked, realising Cenred was staring at him. “Sir?”
“You’re still here,” Cenred drawled. “Do you not have a passport?”
“I — Me? You’re sending me?” Merlin asked, immediately regretting it when Cenred’s sneer made a full appearance.
“No, I’m chatting with you to kill time while deciding what other disposable junior writer to send, since you apparently don’t want to go.”
Merlin’s heart skipped as Cenred’s words finally sank through his dismal mood. “I do! Absolutely. Coronation or abdication,” he said in a rush, visions of his own byline dancing before his eyes. Covering what passed for politics in Camelot wasn’t exactly admission to the Parliamentary Press Gallery, but anything was better than scrubbing typos and deleting superfluous commas.
Cenred scoffed, looking back down at his laptop, and flicked a hand in dismissal. “Just make it good, or don’t bother coming back.”
Due to Hurricane Xena, I'm behind on all my writing. My intent had been to post this fic today, but since I'm behind, I want to give you all a sneak preview of chapter 1. The alternative is to post yet another WIP to AO3, and that never goes well.
Title: A Midwinter Prince
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: Teen (possibly Mature for language)
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Lance/Gwen, Morgana/Leon, Gwaine flirts with everyone because Gwaine
Warnings: None
Tags: Modern AU, Magic is known, Journalist AU, Royalty
Summary: It's not easy to break into journalism, even with a degree. Trapped on the copy desk editing other people's lousy writing, Merlin finally sees a light at the end of the tunnel. His boss wants a reporter in Camelot for Prince Arthur's twenty-fifth birthday, when the Playboy Prince has to either take the throne or abdicate.
When the Prince skips out of his press conference, Merlin is faced with the prospect of going back to London empty-handed. But a stubborn mindset, a journalist's instincts, and a whole lot of magic go a long way, especially when Merlin finds an unlocked, unguarded side door. It's not his fault that the first person he runs across hears his London accent and assumes he's Princess Morgana's new tutor... is it?
Author's notes: Have you seen A Christmas Prince on Netflix? No? Go make yourself some hot cocoa, wrap up in a fuzzy blanket, ignore the plot holes, and enjoy! (Don't bother with the sequel.)
-----
Forgive any formatting issues. I'm still finding my way around Dreamwidth.
13 December
“Doing anything interesting?”
The question, spoken right into Merlin’s ear, jolted him out his too-early-Monday-morning, not-enough-coffee-to-face-work daze. His whole field of vision was a foggy white blur, black pixels crawling across the screen like foraging ants until he blinked a few times. The ants resolved into ten point Times New Roman letters forming words that, while correct (at least in that they were all “words” of some sort), were about as engaging as watching paint dry.
“That answers that,” Will said, shoving Merlin’s keyboard out of the way to take a seat on the edge of his desk. “Editing someone else’s shit instead of writing your own?”
“Are you saying my writing’s shit?” Merlin asked, leaning back with a creak of hydraulics that reminded him his chair was third-hand and far from the most stable piece of furniture in the forest of cubicles.
Will snorted. “Did I or did I not live through your goth poetry phase?”
Merlin conceded the point with a nod. “Fair. And yeah, I’m working on —”
“Faber!” The shout sent an instinctive wave of flinches across the newsroom before the junior editors to either side of Merlin’s cube glanced sympathetically his way.
“Arse,” Will muttered, though he kept his eyes averted from the glass-walled executive office at the end of the newsroom.
“Mmm-hmm.” Merlin shoved his wobbly chair back and made a show of quick-stepping to the aisle that ran along the windows, positioned to ensure there weren’t any coveted window-cubes for the juniors to fight over. All the cubicles were equally dreary.
He hustled to the flight of four stairs that served no architectural purpose save to elevate the office of the editor-in-chief, like a royal throne looming over the peasantry. An apt metaphor, Merlin thought as he dredged deep inside himself to find a chipper smile for the tosser who had complete power over his paycheque and career. Not that he had much to smile about. The weekend was four days away, payday almost a fortnight off, and he hadn’t had a byline of his own for almost six weeks now.
“Morning, sir,” he said full of false cheer, stopping just over the office threshold.
Cenred didn’t bother looking up from his sleek laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Editing a —”
“Fine. What do you know about Prince Arthur of Camelot?”
Merlin blinked. “He’s...” was as far as he got, which was fine. He doubted his boss actually wanted his opinion, especially when it came to the Playboy Prince. Arthur was rich, privileged, and would have been in Merlin’s top twenty list of wank-fantasies if he wasn’t constantly photographed with a new model-of-the-week clinging to his arm. Mentally editing the photos to be less blatantly hetero took a lot of energy.
True to form, Cenred didn’t give a toss about Merlin’s opinion. “He’ll be twenty-five on Midwinter. That’s the twenty-first,” Cenred added, finally deigning to glance Merlin’s way.
Merlin unclenched his teeth and pointedly didn’t pull the pentagram out from under his shirt. “Yes, sir. I know.”
Cenred’s lip twitched with the start of a sneer. “Then you’ll also know it’s his deadline for abdicating or accepting the crown.”
“Yes, sir,” Merlin lied, his cheerful tone strained. He aggressively didn’t care about the monarchical politics of Camelot. Yes, the King Regnant was a silver fox, the Crown Prince was a golden sun god, and the kingdom had been a thorn in the side of the fading British Empire for a thousand years, but that was about it. He was much more interested in real news, not celebrity fluff.
“Good. I want someone on the ground, covering whatever he decides.”
Merlin bit back a sigh, wondering why he was involved at all. Couldn’t Cenred just send an e-ticket to whatever poor sod got stuck covering the Royal Ego over the border? Being a junior editor wasn’t glamorous, but if Cenred wanted the message hand-delivered, well, they had interns for that, didn’t they?
Him and his fucking ego, Merlin thought. Now that was a story that could have teeth if not for the NDAs everyone in the office signed before they got their employee badges. It was like living in the sequel to The Devil Wears Prada.
“Well?” Cenred demanded.
Merlin blinked, realising Cenred was staring at him. “Sir?”
“You’re still here,” Cenred drawled. “Do you not have a passport?”
“I — Me? You’re sending me?” Merlin asked, immediately regretting it when Cenred’s sneer made a full appearance.
“No, I’m chatting with you to kill time while deciding what other disposable junior writer to send, since you apparently don’t want to go.”
Merlin’s heart skipped as Cenred’s words finally sank through his dismal mood. “I do! Absolutely. Coronation or abdication,” he said in a rush, visions of his own byline dancing before his eyes. Covering what passed for politics in Camelot wasn’t exactly admission to the Parliamentary Press Gallery, but anything was better than scrubbing typos and deleting superfluous commas.
Cenred scoffed, looking back down at his laptop, and flicked a hand in dismissal. “Just make it good, or don’t bother coming back.”
no subject
Date: 2018-12-23 05:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-23 11:35 am (UTC)And... now that you mention it, you're right about the Converse. Huh!