Dribble post!
Feb. 7th, 2010 06:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taleyaCutting in early - haven't slept yet, bored, and still scribbling stuff. Yes it is 6am. You lot know why I'm still up.
Original meme is NOT closed, feel free to req. As usual, if you don't want it public, say so. Otherwise it goes up in here.
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mahmoth
Cactusgirl from The End of Time as next Companion. Sexy or nonsexy, your choice.
"What the hell is that?"
An impossibility is burning through the stars. Oblong, blue. Flaming, in the vacuum of space of all things!
Rossiter pokes a panel. "It's tech. High quality tech," he shakes his head in disbelief at the readings in front of him. "Really high quality tech. Not Earth. Not ours. It's probably the Doctor." He looks up. "He's out of control. Do we salvage?"
Adams doesn't move, staring at the burning box as it plummets towards Earth. It could be the Doctor. It could be something else.
It's probably the Doctor.
Her hand can't hit the jumpdrive control fast enough.
(yeah, you did actually WATCH the second half of EoT, right? There was nooooo way that was gonna happen. Not conceivable in any universe.)
mothergoddamn
Churchill/Hitler.
There are things that are Not Done by members of Parliament.
Actually, there is very little that is Not Done by Parliament - the whole bewigged lot are as perverted as a pot of ferrets (especially the Tories) - the trick is not to get caught
Especially in some dingy back alley rented room that smells like it hasn't been cleaned since the Boer war and especially not buggering a random German art student he'd found on the streets.
But this is Europe, and he is drunk, and he really couldn't give a good goddamn what the public opinion is of him at the moment. And what better way to heal the rift between nations than a little trans-continental tomfoolery?
The scar on the German's face bothers him for reasons he can't quite pin down. "You should grow a moustache over that," he comments, searching for a light for his cigar.
The German looks at him uncomprehendingly, then produces a box of matches. Churchill tries to explain using pantomime, but apparently language is too great a barrier, and the German simply takes it as an imperious command to begin fellatio.
Oh well. These things happen.
And finally ('cos it ended up WAAAY longer than I thought it would)
siamesegoth2
Holmes /Moriarty
Holmes bottoming in sexual torture, bonus points for knife/scalpel play
"It is curious as to why you come here so often." A hand trails down his back, dry, chalk-tipped fingers, shoulder to waist, the motion repeated by the glint of a blade, the promise of pain. "The Great Detective." Waist to shoulder. "Scourge of the underground." Shoulder to waist. "Ever-present thorn in my side. And yet, you come to me. You submit."
Holmes presses his forehead into the table. He closes his eyes. His mind clamours with plans, ideals, inspirations, senses whirling. Wood. Oak. Old. Scarred. Faint smell of offal. Outside, the sounds of the docks. Stevedores calling to one another. The hoot of horns. The cry of birds. Touch of metal. Smell of blood unshed; promise in the air.
Moriarty's voice. Dry, lecturing. Probing at the edges of his mind, lifting, delicately inspecting. The tones are curious, but disinterest lays them flat. The answer to his questions are already known.
"You need to be dominated. You need to be equalled. You need to be bested. This is something Watson cannot give you." The knife trails up, deeper, leaving a stinging line behind it. No blood yet. Not yet. "Your dear Watson. Your companion. Your Boswell. Your lapdog, your sycophant. Ah - " the words trail off into a gentle tutting noise as he jerks. "You'll ruin my handiwork."
Holmes stills and the knife returns, the back of his neck chilled and frozen by the feel of the blade.
"You surround yourself with suitable companions." The blade moves again. Action. Speech. Counterpoint. "Clever, quick, but not as quick as you, no...you're most careful." The knife stills, point digging into his shoulder. Just far enough to dimple, not hard enough to cut. But the threat is there. The promise is always there. "You surround yourself with those you stand above. And you revel in their worship. But still, there's that aching, isn't there? That desire, that hole that can never be filled. That cold, still place inside of you that's alone. Even surrounded by millions, always alone."
"You sneer at the nobleman, run with the guttersnipe. You occupy yourself with the esoteric, the minutiae. You train your mind, your eyes, your ears. But still, there is that part of you that longs to bleed. The part that battles in the pits. The part that plays with drugs sublime."
The knife descends, finally, and there is the sting of pain, the warmth of pooling blood.
"That part belongs to me."
Holmes closes his eyes. The anger is gone. The noise. The confusion. There is nothing but this. Narrowed to a single point in time, caught in amber, the stillness of a single drop on a morning leaf. The knife is moving, cutting, slicing, blood is flowing, pain rising and in the middle of the maelstrom there is a crux, a single point, still, calm.
And he breathes.
Original meme is NOT closed, feel free to req. As usual, if you don't want it public, say so. Otherwise it goes up in here.
mahmothCactusgirl from The End of Time as next Companion. Sexy or nonsexy, your choice.
"What the hell is that?"
An impossibility is burning through the stars. Oblong, blue. Flaming, in the vacuum of space of all things!
Rossiter pokes a panel. "It's tech. High quality tech," he shakes his head in disbelief at the readings in front of him. "Really high quality tech. Not Earth. Not ours. It's probably the Doctor." He looks up. "He's out of control. Do we salvage?"
Adams doesn't move, staring at the burning box as it plummets towards Earth. It could be the Doctor. It could be something else.
It's probably the Doctor.
Her hand can't hit the jumpdrive control fast enough.
(yeah, you did actually WATCH the second half of EoT, right? There was nooooo way that was gonna happen. Not conceivable in any universe.)
mothergoddamnChurchill/Hitler.
There are things that are Not Done by members of Parliament.
Actually, there is very little that is Not Done by Parliament - the whole bewigged lot are as perverted as a pot of ferrets (especially the Tories) - the trick is not to get caught
Especially in some dingy back alley rented room that smells like it hasn't been cleaned since the Boer war and especially not buggering a random German art student he'd found on the streets.
But this is Europe, and he is drunk, and he really couldn't give a good goddamn what the public opinion is of him at the moment. And what better way to heal the rift between nations than a little trans-continental tomfoolery?
The scar on the German's face bothers him for reasons he can't quite pin down. "You should grow a moustache over that," he comments, searching for a light for his cigar.
The German looks at him uncomprehendingly, then produces a box of matches. Churchill tries to explain using pantomime, but apparently language is too great a barrier, and the German simply takes it as an imperious command to begin fellatio.
Oh well. These things happen.
And finally ('cos it ended up WAAAY longer than I thought it would)
siamesegoth2Holmes /Moriarty
Holmes bottoming in sexual torture, bonus points for knife/scalpel play
"It is curious as to why you come here so often." A hand trails down his back, dry, chalk-tipped fingers, shoulder to waist, the motion repeated by the glint of a blade, the promise of pain. "The Great Detective." Waist to shoulder. "Scourge of the underground." Shoulder to waist. "Ever-present thorn in my side. And yet, you come to me. You submit."
Holmes presses his forehead into the table. He closes his eyes. His mind clamours with plans, ideals, inspirations, senses whirling. Wood. Oak. Old. Scarred. Faint smell of offal. Outside, the sounds of the docks. Stevedores calling to one another. The hoot of horns. The cry of birds. Touch of metal. Smell of blood unshed; promise in the air.
Moriarty's voice. Dry, lecturing. Probing at the edges of his mind, lifting, delicately inspecting. The tones are curious, but disinterest lays them flat. The answer to his questions are already known.
"You need to be dominated. You need to be equalled. You need to be bested. This is something Watson cannot give you." The knife trails up, deeper, leaving a stinging line behind it. No blood yet. Not yet. "Your dear Watson. Your companion. Your Boswell. Your lapdog, your sycophant. Ah - " the words trail off into a gentle tutting noise as he jerks. "You'll ruin my handiwork."
Holmes stills and the knife returns, the back of his neck chilled and frozen by the feel of the blade.
"You surround yourself with suitable companions." The blade moves again. Action. Speech. Counterpoint. "Clever, quick, but not as quick as you, no...you're most careful." The knife stills, point digging into his shoulder. Just far enough to dimple, not hard enough to cut. But the threat is there. The promise is always there. "You surround yourself with those you stand above. And you revel in their worship. But still, there's that aching, isn't there? That desire, that hole that can never be filled. That cold, still place inside of you that's alone. Even surrounded by millions, always alone."
"You sneer at the nobleman, run with the guttersnipe. You occupy yourself with the esoteric, the minutiae. You train your mind, your eyes, your ears. But still, there is that part of you that longs to bleed. The part that battles in the pits. The part that plays with drugs sublime."
The knife descends, finally, and there is the sting of pain, the warmth of pooling blood.
"That part belongs to me."
Holmes closes his eyes. The anger is gone. The noise. The confusion. There is nothing but this. Narrowed to a single point in time, caught in amber, the stillness of a single drop on a morning leaf. The knife is moving, cutting, slicing, blood is flowing, pain rising and in the middle of the maelstrom there is a crux, a single point, still, calm.
And he breathes.
