- malnpudl: Two characters walk into a bar:
Which is a great premise for a crossover ficathon-a-thing.
First, you only have to write 500 characters (minimum). Doable, right?
…it doesn't have to be a bar; it can be any public meeting/gathering place or a party etc…
[SIGNAL BOOST – HAVE I MENTIONED LATELY HOW MUCH I LOVE CROSSOVERS?]
14 Sep: community
- garnettrees: In Amnion:
The world itself wasn't real, because Hua She Street was the world. […]
When he confided in Ianto, it was small things– broken, blunt-edged moments. His lover kept secrets like priests kept confession. […] Then he could get up in the morning and be Jack Harkness, who began with Alice Guppy's Victorian script and now ended with the documents transferring Torchwood authority to Gwen.
'I couldn't let you go, Ianto',
[Needs moar beta, but the narrative makes me want to roll around in it; good use of flashbacks. This COE fixit is both romance and horror story. Blood drinking, bad magic, psychic powers, and soul-bonding that doesn't feel cliched. WIP – wilo:ch13]
- nancybrown: TW Fic: From the Cold Coast of Norway to the Beaches of Maui, Just You and Me:
"We've been known to provide transportation from time to time," he drawled casually in the common language of this part of the galaxy. Ianto spoke it brokenly. He learned languages during the long periods between ports under Jack's haphazard tutelage. The first words Jack taught him in any tongue were those for restrooms and body parts, which unfortunately meant Ianto was in many languages only capable of asking about putting his cock in the loo. (Jack thought this was funny as hell.)
- pocketmouse: Waiting:
Rory pointed back at the Pandorica. “This is a test. This is my test. This is my miracle, and I refuse to let gods, or emperors, or the universe itself stop me. Report back to Caesar as you please. I and this box are all that are left, and I won’t leave the Pandorica unguarded.”…
Hadrian, Rory thought, sitting next to the Pandorica in the open caravan, watching the dust rise from the wheels of the carts, was an interfering ponce. They were all still a superstitious lot, though, and 20th century knowledge and augmented hearing and eyesight was still good for something. A little magic and a few remembered history lessons and he had them all convinced he was a messenger of the gods themselves.
Fez-wearing, mop-weilding, bowlegged gods if anything, but he didn’t want to say that anywhere where it might get written down.