hello, sweetie.

[ofarchaeology-blog]

LIKE THIS IF YOU THINK RIVER SONG HAS A NICE BUTT.

[ofarchaeology-blog]

i miss this blog so much what the heck maybe i should.......

[directorsheels-blog]

                          ‘i take it walking in my HEELS has presented a challenge.’                        independent, private jenny shepard from ncis. written by kylie. 

[ofarchaeology-blog]

ofarchaeology.

              hello friends! jsyk, i will be returning to river soon ( ish ) - i feel like i need to redo tags & things like that, so i’m currently trying to decide if i want to archive or just keep on keeping on w/ this blog but anyway. i have not abandoned my precious space-hair cosmic child, she just needed a little vacation. anyway, yes, over the next few weeks i’ll slowly but surely be sorting through things. i might drop all my drafts…. and just kinda start over ( with a few exceptions / pre-established relationships / on-going heavily -plotted threads ) so bear with me. thanks, lovelies. xoxo. 

[ofarchaeology-blog]

              hello friends! jsyk, i will be returning to river soon ( ish ) - i feel like i need to redo tags & things like that, so i’m currently trying to decide if i want to archive or just keep on keeping on w/ this blog but anyway. i have not abandoned my precious space-hair cosmic child, she just needed a little vacation. anyway, yes, over the next few weeks i’ll slowly but surely be sorting through things. i might drop all my drafts.... and just kinda start over ( with a few exceptions / pre-established relationships / on-going heavily -plotted threads ) so bear with me. thanks, lovelies. xoxo. 

[ofarchaeology-blog]

kylie’s muse list ( in case you’re wondering where i’ve been )

      felix leiter - ian fleming’s 007 series - active

      beverly crusher - star trek: the next generation - semi-active

      river song - doctor who - semi-hiatus

[ofarchaeology-blog]

( &. solemnduty. )

MIRACULOUSLY, THE DOCTOR CAUGHT HIM off-duty, the hours between the bridge and sleep in which he sheds his uniform and passes time not as the prestigious starfleet captain, but simply as JEAN-LUC. 

       or so he planned, tonight. 

       but river song, as usual, arrives with an itinerary of her very own. to say her plans fail to arouse within him a profound curiosity would be an absolute LIE. she’s sparked his interest while simultaneously PERTURBING him. 

       because…he’s no longer on board his ship. these walls, these floors do not belong to his beloved ENTERPRISE, but a vessel of her own, of name and nature he knows not. only a rare handful of individuals have managed to snatch him away from his ship with such success, though of the lot, her company’s undoubtedly PREFERRED. 

       in his hand, the captain holds a padd which presents to him the image of his MUTINOUS FIRST OFFICER, commander william riker, who smirks at his captain through the screen with unparalleled smugness (a look to which jean-luc’s grown accustomed, and often dreads.) I’M AFRAID OUR SHIELDS JUST COULDN’T STOP HER IN TIME, CAPTAIN, he says with feigned seriousness. picard risks a pointed glance up at his companion, reasonably assuming they’ve become partners in crime. YOUR ONLY HOPE OF RETURNING TO THE ENTERPRISE IS YOUR FULL COOPERATION WITH THE ENEMY (here, picard snorts) AND IN YOUR ABSENCE, I ASSURE YOU THAT YOUR SHIP’S IN GOOD HANDS. PERFECT TIMING FOR AN ABDUCTION, YOU KNOW, BECAUSE I THINK THE GOOD DOCTOR CRUSHER WAS ON HER WAY TO ORDER YOU TO TAKE A HOLIDAY. I KNOW YOU’LL HAVE A GREAT TIME, CAPTAIN. DOCTOR SONG’S UNDER STRICT ORDERS HERSELF TO MAKE SURE YOU DON’T GET INTO TOO MUCH TROUBLE. RIKER OUT. 

       “ this is MUTINY, ” he says. his gentle but exasperated tone is that of someone dealing with a rebellious child – a pair of them, even. “ and you cannot POSSIBLY have permission to visit the ruins, i know of countless attempts which were all received with unfortunate rejection. ” that the woman before him could have managed what seemed to be the impossible leaves him both impressed and wary. for years, he’s merely DREAMED of tagus iii, resigned to the fact that he’d never set his own eyes upon the planet’s surface, let alone join an archaeological team. 

                                                                              ‘MUTINY? Oh, Jean-Luc, you make it sound so taboo,’ she teases while rolling her eyes, suggesting that mutiny is an almost commonplace entry in many volumes which make up her vocabulary. In all honesty she is doing him an enormous favour - she’d known the SIREN SONG this particular set of ruins holds for the formidable starship captain and had decided to do a bit of ( how some close to her might term it ) ‘timey-wimey’ maneuvering to bring him on board her team. Their team, actually. 

     Another reason she’d decided on bringing him along had been the fact that he’s much more qualified to study Tagus III. But heaven forbid she say those words out loud. 

     ‘Besides,’ she continues, not even missing a beat, ‘I’d have to be a member of your CREW for it to be mutiny. Must I remind you again that I’ve no intention of joining Starfleet anytime soon?’

     Her fingers fly over the console as she navigates them seamlessly through space to their destination; she focuses nearly all her brain power on the simple task, determined to display her navigational prowess.

     ‘And while you’re on my ship, Jean-Luc, I’m certainly not taking ORDERS...’ she adds pointedly, pulling them into orbit and letting the TARDIS drift quietly on. Because, yes, she might have stolen the time machine from under the Doctor’s nose in order to complete this little expedition. So when she says ‘MY SHIP’ ------ well, the Doctor isn’t here to argue with her, now, is he?

     The Enterprise’s senior staff had been her co-conspirators in an effort to give their captain a much needed break. She’s to have him back in ten days, in one piece, in a relaxed state of mind. She’s absolutely sure that she can accomplish two of those things at the very least. 

     Turning, hands gripping the edge of the console while she leans back against it, she studies her friend and arches a brow. ‘Now, back to your earlier comment... I do have permission. In fact, I have MORE than that - I have a commission to lead a team. And you’re helping me.’

[brunette-cosette-deactivated202]

“No homo” cries the team at the dig site. The head archaeologist sinks to his knees, sobbing. He has dedicated his entire career to the pursuit of homo habilis, an important part of the hominid evolutionary line. All his work led up to this archaeological dig site. But now, his whole life has been for nothing. There is no homo….there is only Australopithecus.

[crvsher-blog1]

                                      ‘i wish i knew how i could HELP…’                                                   ‘perhaps i just needed a shoulder.’                             ‘well, it’s THERE for you, jean-luc. it always has been.’

                                  JEAN-LUC PICARD & BEVERLY CRUSHER                                              written by cas               written by kylie

[ofarchaeology-blog]

                                             I POP IN HERE TO CHECK  on things & what do i see?? @viewtokill has decided to post something. squints @. ily tho. anyway I’VE BEEN OVER HERE ON BEVERLY, and i probably will be over there for a while because i love beverly crusher and i don’t care who knows it. also might be hiding from my ever-rising draft count over here on river. i’ll try and be on this account this weekend maybe? and get some things done. but yes, if you need me i am chilling on bev. 

[ofarchaeology-blog]

       #this blog totally has NOT been hacked by cas

SITTING ALONE IN A DARK HOTEL SUITE we find a man, commander james bond of the british secret service, surrounded by the sounds of muted typing and soft jazz which floats in, from the streets below, through an open window. with a frown upon his hard mouth, the agent stares, unimpressed, at the glowing laptop screen on the table before him. 

       nothing. he’s found nothing in the records (accumulated from his own service, from MI5, from the composite pool of information shared by allies, or even through his own personal & unofficial contacts) of a RIVER SONG. perhaps, like his good friend RENÉ MATHIS, he only knows of her alias. 

       but still, he’s left unsettled. 

       the woman, remarkable as though she may be, waltzes in and out of his life without warning -- at the edge of a turkish ballroom, on a plane to santiago, in the lobby of some obscure hotel in mumbai. and yet, any information of her LOYALTIES, of her background, hell, anything escapes him. for the wealth of resources he has at his fingertips, for all his contacts spread out across the globe, she’s no more than a GHOST. a figment of champagne-imagination. 

       he knows she’s real, though; his calloused hands have brushed the soft skin of her shoulders, her perfume lingers hours after her departure (to where he knows not) and her sultry laughter echoes in his ears on lonely nights. 

       following a heavy sigh, james lifts the glass of gin & tonic to his lips; the long, slow drink cannot wash away the bitter taste. WHO IS THIS WOMAN, what precisely are her motives? oh, if only he knew, because then the score will even out between them. her painted lips often curl into a smirk, and bold eyes glitter as if SHE KNOWS OF THINGS HE DOESN’T, as if she’s taunting his ignorance. 

       and even as a SECRET AGENT, no matter how arrogant the sentiment, he finds himself APPALLED that her dossier remains unexamined. against his superior’s wishes, even his dossier rests in the hands of enemy organizations, bits and pieces of his life foreign operatives eventually compile. a few of his less impressive outings have made it to the headlines as well. 

       but her missions, the activities & adventures of river song? no proof exists, no evidence yet supports the existence of any such individual. christ, she’s not even HERE and still his teeth clench in annoyance. 

       james will find SOMETHING on her, eventually. even if he has to type the bloody dossier up himself. 

[realsurrealfeel]

[ofarchaeology-blog]

Do we simply stare at what’s horrible and forgive it?

richard silken prompts ( accepting | mutuals only )

                                                 ‘OF COURSE NOT,’ she bites, the words, as they rake across the tip of her tongue, tasting bitter. But, like all bitter things, she spits them out and has nothing more to do with them ( other than retain the memory, in order to remember not to partake of such things again the future ). Her upper lip curls into a snarl as she handles her weapon roughly, with deft but aggressive motions. 

     ‘We stare at it, and we make sure we will remember it, so that we never have to look at it again,’ she begins, avoiding the other woman’s gaze, ‘and then we LOOK AWAY.’ 

     How many horrible things had she seen over the years? How many horrible things had she witnessed and swore to never witness again? And how many of those horrible things had come back to haunt her ( for her system is imperfect )? 

      ‘Forgiveness has nothing to do with it,’ she concludes. ‘If it’s truly horrible, you shouldn’t waste the effort.’

[ofarchaeology-blog]

( &. solemnduty. )

       “ A TRULY OUTRAGEOUS ASSUMPTION, ” he begins with a laugh, because if he were sitting with anyone else in the galaxy (except perhaps vash) he wouldn’t give a second thought let alone a first to the grand leap in logic presented here. “ the ruins of tagus iii have been closed to outsiders for CENTURIES. ”

                           ‘OF COURSE  they are,’ she replies matter-of-factly, not attempting to hide the gentle roll of her eyes nor the mischievous grin that curls her lips upwards. She’d promised his crew to give him a chance to RELAX - and what could be more relaxing than a week leading a landmark excavation? Absolutely nothing, from her point of view, can compare; although, she hasn’t quite revealed all the details to him, not yet. ‘However, ME being, well, who I am, means I’ve managed to get us in with permission to dig.’

[punchit-archived-deactivated201]

                               CAPTAIN’S LOG, SUPPLEMENTAL                                  an independent & reasonably selective captain james t. kirk

[ofarchaeology-blog]

( &. thebloodyqveenmate. )

elizabeth draws back, taking a moment to assess river’s apparent shock at her appearance. she cannot help but to be entertained. it’s something of an ironic exclamation, after all, coming from a woman who looks every bit as young as she did the day they met. then again, the rules of time never did quite apply to friends of the doctor, or so said the stories she’d been brought up on.

          ❝ fifty years, is it? i guess the doctor didn’t tell you, then. about my body clock. i’m closing in on 400 years now, mate. had the same face for the better part of it, too. i figure they’ll let me get old just as soon as there’s a successor to the throne. ❞

liz approaches river now, pistols abandoned as she circles the archaeologist curiously.

          ❝ so what’s your excuse, then? more than fifty years and i wouldn’t guess you’ve aged as much as a year. are you like him? ❞

                                                               SHOCK IS AN  understatement; she loathes surprises, in all shapes and forms, at all times and places, because they snatch the floor out from under her and leave her grasping desperately for answers. It’s a sensation that she DISLIKES very much. Over the years she’s gotten used to knowing more and knowing better than practically everybody else in the room - when that’s not the case she becomes a mite irritable. 

     ‘No, he didn’t tell me,’ she growls, letting the words fall to the ground in the stale air. 

     As the Queen approaches, River stiffens, grip tightening upon her torch, the beam of light wavering as her fingers shift their position. At the question, her lips, thin and scowling at her lack of pertinent knowledge, attempt a sort of smile. But the effect of the attempt upon her features creates more of a grimace than anything else. She’s hardly going to tell a casual acquaintance, no matter the rank or standing, about her BIOLOGICAL MAKE-UP. 

     ‘Let’s just say I age well,’ she states, tacking on a late and half-hearted, ‘Your Majesty’ in order to distract from the fact she didn’t actually give a straightforward answer.

[ofarchaeology-blog]

( &. mechanicteller. )

                            the request immediately strikes her as odd. curiosity awakens; a feeling akin to a impatient child tugging on your sleeve  —–  why would she need a car at such an hour?  &  pay cash? that’s a statement gaby seldom hears. she recognizes the look in the stranger’s eyes as she surveys the cars: the type of excitement that IGNITES a person’s gaze, the type that clings to your lashes  &  falls to your lips to manifest in a smirk of sorts. she recognizes that look; silently, gaby appreciates the respect this woman clearly holds for a powerful car.      

                                curiosity mutates into a BEAST  —- rabid  &  hungry for answers, encouraged by the suspicion that’s poised on her tongue. her lips remain in a line however, tossing the rag in her hands atop the desk. calloused hands are shoved into the baggy pockets of her overalls, a brow arches.  

                      ❛ i suppose i could make an exception. ❜ tone betwixt polite, yet continually steady. the temptation of cash seduces her, she could always use more money. however, she remains cautious &  calculating.  ❛ what are you looking for, exactly? ❜  

                                              SHE GIVES NOTHING AWAY  - not the high-octane pump of her hearts nor the itch in her palms to take hold of something, the gun concealed in her waistband perhaps, in order to feel as though she has some semblance of CONTROL ( but this it not the time nor place for that, no matter how much more comfortable it would make her feel ) - as she watches the young woman’s reactions. She’s tense, but she gives the air of relaxation in the steady rise and fall of her shoulders, the controlled breath and the lazy smile. 

     The spark in the young woman’s eyes at the mention of cash is a tell-tale sign that she’d picked the RIGHT thing to say. Judging by the state of the garage, well-kept but hardly state of the art, the extra money might be needed. Pursing her lips, she shrugs. 

     ‘Something fast,’ she replies. ‘Preferably something not too garish.’ 

     In other words, she needs a getaway car