#extremely belated

[halov3n]

Oh! Happy extremely,:) Belated Birthday to my bois as well! I was hoping to transfer them digitally but I wanted to get them out before the month ended :D

[anthonyampersand]

@thebartonbooks:  Toni your sticks

mY STICKS! D:

[whifferdills]

i really like breathplay and Nyssa and Tegan are the otp to end otps and I'd just really like it if you wrote something really gay and kinky with those two

hey anon sorry for the delay

Nyssa/Tegan, emo pwp, mild choking stuff

It wasn’t much, at first. Was exactly what Tegan had expected - the rare moments she allowed that particular daydream. Nyssa had soft hands and softer lips, lips that only just curled up into a smile before kissing her. A quiet, soft-focus moment, just the sound of Tegan shakily exhaling, Nyssa murmuring something the TARDIS couldn’t translate.

Interrupted, of course, by the end of the known universe or planets exploding or whatever it was, exactly, that was going on. Something involving high-pitched alarms and Adric nearly bowling her over in his dash to the console room. Nyssa didn’t give her any loaded glances, Tegan didn’t make any innuendos. It was like it’d never happened. But it had, though, and Tegan carried it with her, that small, delicate moment. Feeling entirely too loud and too big and too brash to be in charge of such a thing.

Second time, she held her breath. A cafe on Earth, 2013. The strangeness of an almost recognizable future and the strangeness of Nyssa curling her hand over Tegan’s, thumb caressing her palm. Lazy Sunday, the shadows drifting longer and longer over the courtyard, a half-eaten croissant. That tiny, secretive smile on Nyssa’s face.

The bed and breakfast, later. The TARDIS was busted and the Doctor ran a few laps around them, trailing wires and newspapers and a series of temporary assistants. And then left, giving Nyssa an apologetic glance and Tegan a vague, unqualified grin. Adric holed up in his room doing recreational maths or whatever. Their room, Tegan and Nyssa’s, two beds with floral sheets and decorative pillows. The last of the sunlight filtering in through the thin curtains, across all the quaint, pastel, antique tat. Nyssa sitting primly on the edge of one of the beds, hands folded in her lap.

“So,” Tegan said. Too loud, dial it back. “About that - ”

She was cut off by an entirely unexpected armful of alien girl, Nyssa flinging herself at Tegan. After a brief, uncoordinated tussle, she ended up on the bed, flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Nyssa’s hands on her wrists, weight settled down on her hips. Tegan was strong enough to push her off. She didn’t. Just waited, breath held.

Polite, placid, pleasant Nyssa with something desperate and angry in her eyes. Her hands tightening around Tegan’s wrists, neatly-trimmed fingernails digging into her skin. Something volatile beneath the surface.

Stay still, stay quiet: hands balled into fists, her lower lip bit against an undignified moan, as Nyssa let go of her wrists and slid under her shirt, lifted her up just enough to pull it off. No sweet, gentle kissing now. Nyssa fumbled at Tegan’s bra with shaking hands, finally managing to unhook it, and threw it over her shoulder. Her hair framing Tegan’s face as she bent down, eyes closed and jaw clenched. One hand scrabbling beneath the waistband of Tegan’s skirt and the other rough on her breasts, Tegan’s nipples hardening under her touch. No talking, no bursting the bubble. A stifled moan, maybe, as Nyssa’s fingers dipped into her already-wet cunt, hard and sure on her clit.

Her other hand, the other hand. Leaving her breasts and moving over Tegan’s collarbone, cupping her neck. Wasn’t nearly big enough to encircle it but it was enough, and Tegan felt it, the squeeze on her throat, her head pushed back into the pillow. Still holding her breath the best she could. A dizziness, giddiness, hips bucking up off the mattress more than willing to be pressed back down. Something coming loose in Nyssa, something aggressive and sloppy and Tegan would say human if that made any sense. She came with a strangled yelp, thighs twitching. Breathing hard, now. Nyssa leaning back on her knees, a hard, distant look on her face.

“Thanks,” Tegan said, in lieu of anything more sensible. She pulled herself up and Nyssa backed away, stepping off the bed. “Hey, hey. Your turn now, right? It’s only fair.”

Nyssa straightened her dress, re-adjusted her hair, and smiled. That polite, secretive smile. “Maybe later. We should get some sleep, though. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah. End of the world, and all that.” Tegan carefully extricated herself from the sheets, picked her bag up from where she’d tossed it earlier, headed to the bathroom.

She paused as she opened the door, turned briefly around, caught a glimpse (and committed it to memory): Nyssa sat primly on the edge of the bed, the unmussed one, hands clenching the duvet. Tegan sighed, and closed the door.

[whifferdills]

I know it's probably far too late to submit prompts but I just thought of one that I wish I'd sent in so here it is: Clara and Lady Me traveling through time and picking up every one of Clara's Girls of the Week for an orgy party at the end of the universe

i tried, kinda

Clara/Journey Blue/Saibra/Jane Austen, not terribly explicit

She’s waiting for the day when it all becomes old-hat. That last line stepped over, the sinking realization. Hedonism, surely, can only take you so far. Even deathless, breathless Clara Oswald will eventually have to live for something other than the moment. Chase something other than immediate gratification. Eventually, probably. Maybe.

What were the rules, again? First, do no harm. Second, have fun. Something about pears. It’s been a while, her memory is fuzzy.

“I can give you a ride,” she says, nodding to the TARDIS. Ignoring the crowd of soldiers, guns bristling. “My good deed of the day.”

Journey hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, and then follows her.

(Better the unknown than an endless war, Clara knows. Anywhere but here. Still, she likes to think it’s something to do with her in particular.)

Between the two of them it doesn’t take long, not long at all, before the searching glance over the TARDIS console leads to something more. The familiar hum of the ship against her back as Journey leans over her for a fumbling, hungry kiss. Desperate, obscurely angry. Her thigh hitched hard between Clara’s legs, eyes wide, red-rimmed. The vortex howling a half-step away.

Me, who is linear, doesn’t quite understand Clara, who is iterative and recursive.

“You can’t fix everything,” Me says. “And you’ll never learn from your mistakes if you always go back and undo them.”

“And what’s the lesson I should be learning? ‘Everything ends, everyone dies, we all end up alone’? Please.” Clara slams the lever home, looks away. The TARDIS materializes neatly.

“Fancy a trip?” she asks, grinning.

“To where?” Saibra, understandably suspicious. Still uncomfortable in her own skin. How long had it been? Not long enough, clearly.

“Anywhere. Everywhere.” All of time and space. “Come with me.”

An invitation, an innuendo. Saibra accepts.

(Journey sticks her hand out roughly, Saibra takes it. Something wordless passing between them. She’s not a part of that, Clara knows. She’s not them. Not anymore.)

Me, who is tired, doesn’t exactly get Clara, who’s just getting started. She rolls her eyes - sighs - an aching, knowing look. She’s learned too many hot-stove, dog-bite lessons. She watches silently as Clara stands too close behind Saibra, who is marveling over the waffle-maker. And closer still, hands settling on her waist, a slow inhale. Time stopped and then resumed: Saibra turns and lets herself be guided through to the back, the inner workings of the ship. Swallowed up, whisked away, a giddy uncertainty as Clara wraps her hand around Saibra’s wrist.

Journey finishes reassembling her rifle and, triple-checking that the residual energy from the battery is fully drained, aims at the wall and pulls the trigger. “Bang bang,” she whispers.

Me forces an awkward smile and then heads back down the open floor panel.

“So you’re the new blood,” Journey says.

Clara looks appalled, Saibra looks confused. Me, who is over it, is elsewhere entirely.

“She’s my hero,” Clara corrects. “A brilliant author, all-around excellent person, and.” She pauses, struggling for the right word. “My friend.”

Jane with an expression that implies 'friend’ isn’t quite right. Jane appearing slightly uncomfortable. “So this is your magic box, then. It’s even stranger than you made it seem.”

“This? This is nothing. Wait 'til you see what it can do.”

The TARDIS door slammed shut behind them and Clara’s laughing. No one else is.

“Is this what you do, then? Run away from nightmares?” Jane, wiping the sweat off her brow. Saibra steps in to help with some of the more finicky, sweltering bits of clothing. Half-tender, mostly efficient, the hint of something else.

Journey unhooks the clasp of her helmet, watching them. Watches Clara watching them.

“Well. Ideally, I vanquish the nightmare as well, but you can’t win 'em all.” Clara, wiping the last of the grin off her face. She circles them slowly, then drifts away. Leans against the console - a loaded glance directed towards Journey, then a much more vulnerable expression for Jane, who is shrugging, bemused, as Saibre’s hands venture into uncharted territory.

“It’s fun,” Journey supplies. “Adventure. Some people like the…excitement.”

“And the stress-relief immediately following,” Clara says.

Jane, squirming. “You are a strange creature, Clara Oswald. With strange acquaintances. I mean that in the most positive - oh.” Flushed, flustered, stockings in disarray.

“Strange, yeah. That’s a word you could use.” Journey advances towards Clara, lazily predatory, a casual swagger. Hands rough on her hips, a kiss with teeth. “Some people, you know.”

(Jane probably doesn’t know. Whenever, wherever the fuck she’s from, anyone with a disposition like that doesn’t know. She’ll figure it out, though, eventually.)

[whifferdills]

If you're up for a DW/AoS crossover, a continuation of/follow-up to 'On the Prowl', please!: Someone's hijacked and commandeered Lola, and it's none other than the Doctor. Melinda May is on a hell-bent mission to retrieve it. Just as she's got the Doctor subdued and is about to deliver the final blow, Clara shows up, and there's a mutual moment of recognition between her and May.

oh take me back to the staaaaaaaaaaart

May/Clara (but mostly gen), ~800 words. post-"Maveth" and "Hell Bent"

May keeps thinking about the first time she saw Lola. Coulson's boyish excitement as he showed off his new ride, his knowing self-deprecation. One of the things she always loved about him, the little kid he didn't mind you knowing he still sort of was. His midlife crisis, goofy enthusiasm, the genuine smile. Cherry-red and it flew.

Feels like a hundred years ago, now.

This could be a symbolic moment if she were the sort of person to think the world followed rules the way fiction does. But it's not, since she isn't. It's a mission. An unavoidably sentimental, mostly pointless mission, but still. A mission.

Lola had been stolen off the street two days ago. It's low on the list of priorities, Coulson had said. Looking defeated, looking old. Pragmatic. May was pragmatic too, and she should understand. Shouldn't have scraped a spare few hours out of her schedule and taken the Quinjet, should have at least come up with a better excuse than 'recon'.

Maybe she's earned the right to be sentimental.

She catches up to the car somewhere over Idaho. Erratic flight-pattern, not quite out of control, but near enough. Five minutes and it's landing, or crashing, or a mix of the two. Hits the ground rough, spins out, comes to a stop alarmingly close to a tree. She sets the Quinjet down neatly.

The driver stumbles out, heads towards the highway. She follows. Assessing him as she closes the distance between them: not physically impressive, but the hairs on her neck standing on end. Inhuman? Augmented? Alien?

"Beautiful day for a yomp through the countryside," he yells, not turning around. He stops at the edge of the road, takes something out of his jacket pocket.

She tenses, hand hovering over her holster.

"Shame it's about to storm," he says, and wheels around, pointing a device that looks a little too much like a remote detonator.

So she shoots him. He looks surprised for about two seconds, then collapses like a handful of pick-up sticks. These new costumed vigilantes, so much bravado and so little common sense.

She drags him back to Lola, heels dragging in the dust. Drops him in the back seat. Thinks about taking him in for questioning. It would be the sensible thing to do. This hasn't been the most sensible day, though. And something else is stopping her. What exactly, she's not sure. But she gets behind the wheel and she drives, not towards the Quinjet but just - away. Up the road.

The first sign of civilization after ten miles: a diner, looking like it time-warped here straight from the 50's. She checks in the rear-view that her joyriding vigilante is still unconscious, then parks, honks. Honks again. And again.

Honk four, a young woman stomps out of the diner. Waitress uniform like something out of Grease. A familiar face. One night, a hundred years ago. The tug of something approaching nostalgia. Things had been almost simple, almost fun. That night had been fun.

She takes off her sunglasses, fishes around her memory for a name. Claire?

"Clara," Clara says, like she can read May's mind. "Don't worry, I know how hard it is to keep track of names when you meet so many people."

"Melinda," May says, hooking her thumb at her chest.

"I know," Clara says. "You're late."

“Late."

"Or maybe I'm early. Nevermind, the important thing is that we're both here, before-" She breaks off, biting her lip. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course not."

"Change your mind. Change your mind, trust me, and listen. That man in your car, he's not part of your fight. He's not a threat to you. And you couldn't keep him imprisoned if you tried, so don't bother. There's something he needs to do, and you need to let him do it. Just leave him, drive away, and try to forget this ever happened." She glances towards the horizon, where the sky's darkening, storm clouds gathering.

Trust just means setting yourself up for betrayal. Trust is a luxury the universe has firmly reminded her she can't afford. She shouldn't do what she's about to do, can't figure out why she does. Maybe it's just that kind of a day.

"You'll take care of him, then."

Clara smiles, the sense of a whole lot of complication behind it. "I'll make sure he's okay, yeah."

They pull him out of the car together, prop him up on a bench by the diner door. It's surreal, this whole situation. Something about this woman, this man, this empty restaurant in the middle of nowhere.

"It's good to see your face again," Clara says. "Even considering the circumstances."

May nods, and thinks about kissing her, but doesn't. The past is the past, and she's hit her nostalgia quota for the year. So she turns away, before she can change her mind, slides behind the wheel and revs the engine and floors it, back to the Quinjet. She doesn't look in the rear-view mirror once.

[ishgardsmongrel-blog]

“I was about to say I really ought to get out of the Brume more, but seein’ as there’s some kind of gray magic going ‘round, turning everyone into another sex... Maybe laying low in the Brume’s not such a bad idea, after all.”

[kborg]

the 7 jeopardy! categories of my weekend (v54)

Crate Returns & Exchanges

Equinox Driving

Bear's 1st Road Trip

Margaritas & Family

Laundry at Dad's

Verbal Warning

Evan's Robotic 1st Birthday

[stupidfuckingquestions]

The goodbyes that made me smile instead of cry