“Having dreams again?” she says, soft so as not to yank the human out of her sleep-sweet mist.
Buffy nods, tired, and starts to sit up, gathering sheets about herself in layers of protection.
“Past or future?”
When her only answer is the hum of the TARDIS, she nods, once, and leaves her companion to her peace.
( I'm gonna be a fireman when the floods roll back. )
Word Count: 1,031
Prompt: 330 - I.O.U. / Over-protective!Eleven for gr8muppetyodin
Author's Note: Admittedly this prompt more to do with the fact that I saw "IOU" and went oh yeah, I do owe fic than, er, anything else IOU-ish, but that's what prompts are for sometimes! Or sommat. SORRY FOR BEING SO LATE.
This is not home.
Perhaps it would have been, once, in seconds lost to eternity, in the twist of decisions and relentless flow of time. It is, is not, once was but will soon never have been, home.
Humans have a saying, home is where the heart is. It is anachronistic to apply to a Time Lord; their hearts lie in their chests, reliable in the steady tandem rhythms. To speak it is as obvious and useless as it is to say that home is in the body. Of course it is. But it is not the true home, the one hidden in metaphor. And if it isn’t true, then it isn’t really home at all, but merely a place of dwelling.
Time. Is ever-changing. Must we really even consider it?
It would be unreasonable to assume someone accustomed to the evolution of existence, cells dying and regenerating, minds dying and regenerating, to consider something as stagnant as a fixed point home. Home is so much more, so much more amazing and fantastic than any one space. And in the traveling, the journey – that is home. That is right.
On one dark night on Gallifrey, a man who will come to be known as the Doctor steals an elderly, out-of-date TARDIS slotted for destruction. And for the first time in his life, he is home.
Word Count: 312
Prompt: 327 - "Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home."
Comment with one of these choices, and I will write you a ficlet based on it.
8. Fashion plate!Doctor
Also! Notice how I left it Doctor and not Eleven? Intentional ambiguity is because you can pick Eleven AND/OR Three (not_theman_iwas)! And I'll write those. Or you could leave it ambiguous, too, and I'll pick which Doctor you get.
He smiles, then, because he can; because he is inexorably caught in orbit; because once, long ago, he gave himself to the relation of tug and pull, dark and light, and in the acceptance of captivity there is a freedom. In the denial, too, there is liberty; and also constraint. She does not smile, because she is bound; because she, too, must take her place in the attraction of forces, or there is no equilibrium. And all relations must come to equilibrium. By chaos they come to rest, and thus to the deeper order. Push and pull, opposing concepts that, in dependence on their application, may work either together or apart.
( but the history books forgot about us, and the bible didn't mention us. )
Word count: 668
Prompt: 323 – "The problem, of course, was that people did not seem to understand the difference between right and wrong. They needed to be reminded about this, because if you left it to them to work it out themselves, they would never bother. They would just find what was best for them, and then they would call that the right thing. That's how most people thought." --Alexander McCall Smith, The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
Author's note: So while I was writing this - yes, I had a word etymology dictionary open the entire time - I found the following veeeeery interesting items:
'Domination ... from dominus "lord, master," lit. "master of the house," from domus "home" (see domestic) + -nus, suffix denoting ownership or relation.'
'Meddle ... From mid-14c. to 1700, it also was a euphemism for "have sexual intercourse."'
I think we all know what this means: a botched proposal and extremely elaborate come hither message gone horribly, horribly awry. It all makes sense now!
α. Request any fic of mine and I will provide you with a commentary/annotations, like a DVD extra. (I'll admit: mostly I'm curious if anyone WANTS commentaries.)
...Oh, also. For reference. A fic timeline, of sorts. I haven't gotten around to adding anything new to it, and I'm pretty certain I left off some things by accident, and a couple by design.
1. Who are you?
2. Yay! How long have we been RPing together?
3. What was your first impression about our RPs? (i.e., were you nervous, intimidated, disappointed, impressed, amused, annoyed?)
4. First characters we played together?
5. Most amusing scene from one of our RPs?
6. Most depressing?
7. Sappiest/most romantic?
8. Cutest couple from our RPs?
9. Cutest friends?
10. What's your favorite character that I play? Why?
11. Least favorite? Why?
12. Something you'd like to RP/see happen in an RP with me at some point (no matter how random!)?
13. Name a song that reminds you of one of our couples/one of my characters and why you chose it.
14. Anything in particular that makes my style of RPing stand out from others'?
15. Anything I could improve on?
16. Character of mine you'd like to see more of?
γ. Trufax, I actually memorized the Greek alphabet. Because my Physics teacher threatened to have us hold matches and not let us blow them out until we'd recited it from memory. ...I don't do fire, so I can recite it really fast.
And in this dream, puppies and kittens roam the land in droves, flowers and trees bloom always but never cause allergies, and series two of Doctor Who stars Lynda & Jack & Nine as Team TARDIS. Impossible, you say? MAYBE. But behind every impossible is a possible shuffling its feet sheepishly and staring at its shoes.
...Which is to say, I has a Jack and I need a Nine!
Reasons why any Doctor would be idiotic to not want Jack & Lynda for his Team TARDIS:
1. Lynda is made of cuddles and cuteness. Trufax. Plus! She's from a culture where random trivia bits can save your life, so you just know she could bust out with totally unexpected skills and everyone would be all ":o !!!" and then flock in for a Lynda hug, so it's a win-win-win, win-win, win-win-win-win situation!
2. Jack is made of smexy. You know you want him.
3. Together, they
Blah-blah I will also be begging on Muse Most Wanted.
There's a few crashing sounds from the inside that sound somewhat painful.
And then a woman with short, jaggedly-cut black hair sporting an extremely fashionable outfit consisting of a denim miniskirt (probably Rose's), a cricketer's jacket (guess who), a ridiculously long scarf (definitely her Fourth's), and a Beatles concert t-shirt (who even knows) leans out the door, squinting in the light.
"Trakken, isn't it?" she asks of whoever happens to be closest by.
No, it isn't.
"Oops," she said. "Pet shop next door."
After a minute and a little bit of course correction, the TARDIS landed in a bright green alleyway, covered in tiles and linoleum. From there, it was a clear shot across the road to a bright pink shop boasting the best hot drinks in the galaxy. "There," she said, brightly. "A few feet away from the best coffee shop in the 51st century. What did I tell you?"
At least, not wearing a white coat and masquerading as a medical doctor. She'd gotten a call from Torchwood that they were tracking some sort of dangerous, sick alien that would more than likely kill anyone within a million-mile radius with its dying breath, and Gwen and her team were searching thsee other hospitals and would she mind searching this one in America?
Honestly. As if she was Torchwood's errand girl. Still, she'd be hard-pressed to decline. Which lead to standing in some poor bloke's hospital room, trying to read his bloody chart. Unfortunately, the TARDIS didn't do Medical-to-English translations.
Translation for those of you who don't speak 90s covers of 60s songs:
I WANT YOUR CHARACTER COOTIES!
...Wait, that didn't come out right. But, basically, Eleven doesn't thread nearly as much as she used to, and that's inherently sad to me because she's Eleven! She needs threads to grow and thrive!
So, way back during summer of '09, I was hanging out and plotting things, because that's what you do on vacations, and I had general sorts of ideas, most of which I've forgotten by now. Except for the 'everyone wants a post-regenerative Eleven amirite? (don't even try to lie.)' one. ...That wasn't very helpful.
So, clean slate. Let's say you can thread anything with Eleven. What do you want them to do? Where do you want them to go? Will there be Muppets?
P.S. Ooga chukka.
P.P.S. I'm scatterbrained from filling out the Giant Character Survey of Doom, hush.
Prompt: 319 - Friday, and best_served_hot 's first lines meme.
Word count: 997, not including the borrowed first lines..
Author's note: Idk what you mean when you say you want comprehensible plot.
The air was light and cool, blowing gently and ruffling their hair and clothes without being bothersome. The Doctor shut her eyes briefly, sharpening her perception to the feel of wind on her skin, then slowly allowed her senses to open outward, from the tips of her fingers to the sensitive skin of her bare shoulders.
The Master splayed his fingers out along her collarbone, and she shivered. He was close now, close enough that she could feel a distinct bulge pressing against her hip bone.
She tilted her head so she could see him better and smiled, a little cheekily. “Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
Glass shattering roused the Doctor abruptly. She didn’t move or open her eyes at first - just the feel of time flowing around her was too much sensation right now, even without the addition of light, colour and motion. But someone kicked her in the ribs, lightly at first, then more insistently. “Rise and shine, Doctor,” the Master said, his voice grating on her mind. “It’s time to face the day.”
Her eyes opened, unfocused at first. His faced blurred and swam in front of her eyes, so she rolled onto her side and threw up a bit. It didn’t help, but at least some of it landed on his shoes, which was probably decent payback for whatever he did to her that she couldn’t remember.
Annoyingly, he didn’t seem particularly bothered by the presence of stomach acids on his leather shoes. “That’s it,” he said, purposefully too loud. “Detox! I should take pictures of you like this and broadcast them to your companions. They can make Christmas cards.”
“What happened?” she said, once she felt like she could speak and her head wouldn’t fall off or explode or anything inconvenient like that. He just laughed and pulled her to her feet, too fast.
And then the world exploded.
( Friday the Thirteenth (or, why the Doctor could never get the hang of Thursdays, cnt'd.) )