a TARDIS of my own

[psl] we're death-defying, coming in like lightning

Sun, 24 Apr 2022 17:28:22 GMT

Posted by: story_of_jack

The machine had been hidden away, in a spot where it would be unlikely for anyone would stumble across it. After a rather lengthy trek to reach the hiding place, Jack watched as Mary - Mina - uncovered it, and understood immediately why it had needed to be concealed.

It looked more like an organism than a machine. It was as shiny as a beetle Jack had once seen walking along a tree trunk, and the carapace was molded around its form in a way that, it seemed to him, human means could not have accomplished. And yet it wasn't alive, but inert, functional - Mina quickly proved it by pulling a lever built into the side, which opened a door to the interior. Jack found an identical handle on the opposite side, and felt the click of the machinery through his hand as he pulled.

If he had suspected either Mary or himself had gone mad in the past few hours, he was starting to have doubts.

Inside, he found his hand drawn to the curved leather - or was it leather-like material? - that sat under the window, and his eyes drawn to the dials and lights in front of Mina's chair.

"I might regret asking," he said, "but how exactly is this going to take us anywhere?"

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Rudy and Angel

Tue, 17 Sep 2019 18:28:19 GMT

Posted by: multiple_man

( Previously, on this thread )

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/misfits theme song playing faintly in the distance

Tue, 15 Jan 2019 17:13:06 GMT

Posted by: multiple_man

The back door of the warehouse dance party led to a bare, concrete alleyway, all quiet but for the persistent thump of bass from inside. The noise flared as the door was flung open and a young man stormed out, dressed in a checkered dress shirt, his head lowered like he was ready to use it as a battering ram. He made a quick swerve to the side and strode fast toward the mouth of the alley.

Two seconds later, just before the door would have clicked shut, it was shoved open again by another man. Also wearing a checkered shirt. The exact same checkered shirt.

Also wearing the exact same face, although this one was screwed up more in anger than distress.

"Don't walk away from me, ya prick!" The Rudy in pursuit called after the other one, hanging by the door for a second before continuing the chase. "You stop now and explain yourself! What in the fuck was that?"

Other Rudy kept walking as he responded, in a tight, low voice: "I couldn't take it in there anymore, man. I needed some air."

"So you just popped out right in front of everyone? Ooooh, fantastic. Now everyone's gonna think I'm a bloody freak."

"It's pandemonium in there! Nobody saw."

Rudy finally caught up with Other Rudy and nabbed him by the arm, forcing him to stop and turn. "The point is you shouldn't be doin' that without givin' me some fuckin' time to get meself someplace private."

Other Rudy leaned in close, lowered his voice to a hiss. "Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't be buyin' meth from a man workin' out of a rusty old Dacia."

"God's fuckin' sakes, it's not meth. It's just some dodgy speed." Rudy placed his hands on Other Rudy's shoulders, giving them a firm, but meant-to-be-soothing squeeze. "Look. I have been here before. You know that. Ya just gotta fuckin' relax, mate. All right?" He coached Other Rudy through a couple of slow, steadying breaths. "Right? There we go... fuck's sakes." He dropped a hand and gestured toward his chest. "Now come on back inside. I'm not leavin' you alone out here... what?"

The what was a reaction to how Other Rudy was very much not coming back inside, and was instead looking off to one side, toward the other end of the alley. Rudy turned his head, and very quickly realized what. There was somebody there.

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Cass and Tulip take New Orleans - for boo_berry

Wed, 15 Aug 2018 19:33:43 GMT

Posted by: riotousjunkie

The first important step was being seen.

The folks back in Angelville, if they were expecting anything, were more than likely expecting an attempt at a sneak attack. Cassidy and Tulip being seen publicly around New Orleans might not stop them from thinking an attack was coming... but it'd sure make them curious about what was going on. Tulip's thinking was, that'd draw them out, expose their weakness.

It was a solid plan. Cassidy still wasn't so sure about it.

He was trying not to push back on it too much. If he'd had any objection to the actual plan, it would have been easier to say something. That wasn't it.

Every bloody thing, it always had to lead back to Jesse.

Tonight, Cassidy wanted nothing more than to put Jesse Custer out of his mind. He wanted to imagine it was just him and Tulip going out for going-out's sake. Just because they were friends. He was going to hold onto that fantasy for as long as it lasted.

He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt one more time before taking the long coat up off the hotel bed and swooping it around to pull it on. Almost time — Tulip had gone out to pick up smokes, and she was bound to be back any minute.

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Worlds Collide (Again) — for imaginationswoes

Tue, 03 Jul 2018 21:27:28 GMT

Posted by: riotousjunkie

"So my question, what this has been about from the beginning and I think we should really dig in to and discuss here, given that the fate of the entire universe is at stake, is: how shall we proceed?"

Several infuriating minutes later, Cassidy found a bag being slipped back over his head, and rough hands hustling him and Tulip — he heard the footsteps and the sound of similar manhandling next to himself in the dark — back to a vehicle. The engine started up, and then...

And then... things got a bit fuzzy. It seemed no time had passed at all, but suddenly he was horizontal. Feeling groggy. Fucking bastards must have gassed them.

Before he opened his eyes, he was gathering little details about where he was. No more head-sack. Pillow under his head, thin mattress under the rest of him. He was still wearing his clothes, including his shoes.

He squinted open his eyes, taking in the first sight of overhead lights and a concrete ceiling. He grunted a little as he started to sit up — his left arm was still in its sling, and he was sporting a fair few bruises from where the Saint of Killers had tossed him through a wall. Never did get those fresh blood bags. Now it looked like he was going to be stuck with these injuries for a while... unless he could find a disposable, jack-booted thug to take down. Which seemed like just the thing one might find around a place like this.

Only... none of the people in his immediate vicinity fit the description. They were scattered around the beds, same as him, only they all seemed to have been awake for a while, and were passing the time in various ways. There was even what looked like a mother with her kid.

None of them were Tulip.

Cassidy frowned. All right, maybe going the guard-murdering route wasn't the thing to do, right off. Maybe he'd better start by asking some questions.

"Hey," he said to the room in general, to whoever would listen. "I just got here... might've been brought in at the same time as a woman? Few inches over five feet, short dark hair, really big soulful eyes...? Anyone seen her?"

The couple seconds of awkward silence that followed told him the answer was probably no.

"Right," Cassidy said, "as you were." Gritting his teeth through the pain and disorientation, he started dismounting the bed.

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Worlds Collide — for imaginationswoes

Wed, 28 Mar 2018 19:22:45 GMT

Posted by: riotousjunkie

The sun had risen over New Orleans, and Denis's apartment was in a state of relative quiet. The man himself was sleeping restlessly, waking up every hour or so for a short coughing fit. Tulip was still in bed, the nightmares of the Saint of Killers only just starting to catch up to her.

Jesse was the only one of them awake. He was already dressed, and gearing up for the next step in the hunt for God. Today, 'gearing up' meant another viewing of the Mark Harelik audition tape. Just like every time, Jesse watched with the fond hope that he might catch some detail he'd been missing.

The volume on the tv was quiet, but loud enough when compared to the rest of the apartment. Easily heard down the hall, through any doors that were even a little bit open.

"Um — Mark Harelik. Six-two. Gunth Management."

"When you're ready..."

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Heading down the Atlanta highway — for brujah_barkeep

Wed, 13 Dec 2017 16:57:04 GMT

Posted by: riotousjunkie

(( Continued from here, this is now a full-blown PSL sons ))

After the news had run out of things to say about the riot in downtown Atlanta, and as the sun had started threatening to rise, Cassidy and Denise had settled in for the day: slapped the DO NOT DISTURB placard on the door, and picked sides of the bed.

When Cassidy — his sleep unrestricted by the motions of the sun — awoke in the late afternoon, he started off by removing the possum corpses from the bathroom, bundling them up in a plastic bag and sneaking them around the side of the motel... taking care, of course, to stay within the shadows of the awnings.

Then he killed time watching television and draining a bit more of their alcohol supply. By the time the sun was hovering just over the horizon, their assets consisted of the following: one bottle of whiskey, one remaining six pack, the rum, the little thing of schnapps, and half a dime bag of coke. Cassidy himself had enough cash dollars left to buy one more night in a motel, which was just how he'd planned it. After that, they'd be within sight of New Orleans.

Sundown hit, and Cassidy was sat up on his side of the bed, still nursing a beer. He waited until he saw some sort of vital signs out of Denise before he gave her a friendly tap on the knee.

"Wakey wakey. You're just in time for Baywatch."

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a/b/o verse for sleight_of_fate

Tue, 07 Mar 2017 00:39:52 GMT

Posted by: thegreatestproject

When Tick had first proposed the idea, Eliot and Margo had had a relatively short debate -- but a debate, all the same.

It had sounded like a wild goose chase, after all. Some Fillorian magician, some exile whose whereabouts had been nothing but rumor for years, who supposedly had some spell that might help restore the wellspring. A manhunt for a single person, with an uncertain outcome. That's a lot of resources they could have potentially been flushing down the drain.

But they had been desperate. And Fillory is a fantasy world, after all. Sometimes wild goose chases and Hail Marys are all you have.

Anyway, Eliot recalls saying. Tick may be a classist dickbag, but at least he's loyal to the crown.

As far as we know, had been the response. And she hadn't been wrong. 'As far as we know' has become the go-to addendum to definitive statements, sometimes. Often. Too often.

Today, though? There's word that the exile has been found and delivered to Castle Whitespire. With Quentin still in his own self-imposed exile, and Margo off on an errand to Earth, there's only the High King to greet him. Along with Tick, of course, and the King's royal consort.

Eliot takes his place on the throne. Fen stands to one side off of the dais, hands folded prettily in front of herself, while Tick stands by the door, awaiting the order.

"Bring him in."

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alpha/alpha - for fillorybooks

Thu, 22 Dec 2016 17:55:14 GMT

Posted by: thegreatestproject

( Read more... )

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for alphaophiuchi

Tue, 07 Jun 2016 19:10:39 GMT

Posted by: thegreatestproject

( moved from over here. )

Having his city-assigned loft located directly across from a wine shop was more than serendipitous. It was almost like having his own little not-actually-private wine cellar.

It was almost as if the city knew. Which, Eliot supposed, wasn't impossible. And if it had known, he was glad it hadn't placed him in an apartment that was actually above it. That might've been a touch too on the nose.

He turned up at Draco's with a bottle of Merlot so luscious you'd have to feel a bit shameful drinking it at anything faster than a sip. But that was at least partially the point, wasn't it?

Draco had said he'd leave the door open, and so Eliot opened it without a knock, only pausing once he'd taken a step inside.

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for original_fine

Tue, 03 May 2016 19:53:38 GMT

Posted by: thegreatestproject

It stood to reason, really, that if one fictional universe turned out to be not-so-fictional, others would be as well. It also stood to reason that, given the nigh-infinite number of fountains in the Neitherlands, picking one at random would lead to a place that no human on Earth had ever dreamed of — or, at least, written down.

So, no. You didn't exactly expect, while walking around this strange new world attempting to get your bearings, to run smack-dab into the crew of the motherfucking Enterprise.

It had almost been too meta for all of them, in the beginning — Eliot included, but someone had needed to keep Quentin from fainting, or dying of nerdgasm, or just plain blurting something out. It had been decided right quick that they needed to get through this with as little obvious magic as possible. Their own personal Prime Directive.

Trouble had found them, as they could've predicted, beaming-up had occurred, followed by mishaps and danger and, finally, escape. Soon enough, now, Eliot and his entourage would be returned to their 'home planet,' namely, the location they'd sussed out would be most advantageous for returning to the Neitherlands.

Their story had changed slightly since the start. They'd started out pretending to be a lost crew, until Margo had called Eliot 'Your Majesty' with a little too much sarcastic weight, after which Eliot had needed to 'confess' to Captain Kirk that he was the runaway Prince of a planet who was now sick of the adventures and just wanted to go home. All in all, he thought he'd sold the story masterfully.

For now, they had nothing but time, and so the prospect of drinks had been proposed to Kirk. In private. By Eliot. Because, come on. James Tiberius Kirk. This would be the very peak of conquests, a veritable goddamn Everest. Eliot was going to fuck that mountain.

Provided Kirk swung far enough in that direction. Eliot and Margo had a bet.

"Prost," he said, raising the small glass of sweet liquor before tossing it back in one swallow.

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for thewomanwhocounts

Tue, 03 May 2016 03:01:14 GMT

Posted by: colecomfort

She likes to watch programs on television where people sing. It took Cole a little while to understand the concept, on top of how his mind tends to wander when he's asked to pay attention to the flickering screen, but he grasped it eventually. The songs are already inside them. They're just letting them out.

They're currently arranged on the sofa, him in a t-shirt and well-worn jeans, his arms wrapped around Molly as she leans against him. He remembers, this time, to wait until the commercial to speak up.

"You sing, sometimes. Soft in the shower, or when the sun's not out yet. But you leave out the words." He likes discovering these little truths about her, that drift over to him in the quiet moments like this one. Hopefully, the fact that he knows this, despite them so far never having shared either a shower or a very early morning, won't disturb her too much.

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for thetruthismine

Sat, 02 Jan 2016 07:39:51 GMT

Posted by: seesobserves

((SCENARIO: Bete Noire-ish 'verse. Mind Palace-y pirate adventures, riffing off of this post. Things are not entirely what they seem...))

( The ship is yours, Sherlock. It's always been yours. )

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for demonicbeauty

Mon, 28 Dec 2015 15:53:34 GMT

Posted by: unharrowed

It took weeks of solo survival in the wildnerness, followed by months of moving from one refugee camp to another, but at long last, Vasran made it to Skyhold. She had not let on to many that she was a mage — people tended to assume you weren't one when you weren't carrying a staff or dressed in robes. The dagger at her side and the ill-fitting, scavenged clothes on her back meant that most people took her for just another downtrodden elf, easily overlooked. That was just fine by her.

Now that she'd made it to the Inquisition, however, her mind was set on getting noticed. Mages were accepted here — if nothing else, there was safety in numbers. She had heard that the majority of them were holed up in one of the towers, and she was crossing the battlements on her way there when she was brought up short.

A Dalish at the fireside last night had told her. 'I've got something of an eye for faces. She could be your sister, except for the ears. Your father didn't sleep around with shemlen, did he?' Vasran had assumed he'd been trying to get into her smallclothes in a particularly creepy way. Even if he was... looked like he'd been on to something.

"Would you look at that," Vasran muttered to herself — staring for a second, but fully intending to move on once she'd gotten over the sudden bemusement.

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MEME: take a puff and pass it (420)

Tue, 21 Apr 2015 01:25:08 GMT

Posted by: swagmancer

You know what day it is, don't you? Only the greatest day of the week, the year, possibly all time at least until 2014 rolls around. It's 4:20, my ghouls and boils. Stoner Christmas. The Highening. For 24 hours, you can smoke as much weed as you want, judgment free, and if that's not what you're doing, I feel bad for you son. But that's okay! Because now there's this meme, so you can smoke while you smoke, or while you don't smoke. Either way I heard you like weed.

Rules:
1. Post with your character's name and canon. Tag others.
2. They are now high. Or getting high. Somewhere in the process of smoking themselves the fuck up.
3. Need options? Uh. Kay. Well, are they rolling a joint, packing a bowl, or ripping a bong? MacGyvering up an apple pipe, hotboxing their Volvo, or just enjoying a contact high after a leisurely stroll through the park perhaps a little too close to that drum circle? They can do whatever, wherever, however, smoke it, toke it, bake it into brownies, suck it out of a soda bottle, pack, jack or just don't lack it, you're only limited by your imagination and your ability to make fire.
4. And don't forget munchies!

(I stole this from crypt.)

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Do you wanna build a sandman?

Fri, 27 Feb 2015 19:35:26 GMT

Posted by: swagmancer

IT'S BEACH DAY!

Grab your towel and sunblock and head to the shore! Relax in a private cabana, play in the surf and splash your friends, build a sandcastle. Or maybe you're the weirdo combing the beach for treasure with a metal detector. Whatever. We're all just here to have fun.

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for cherrypie

Thu, 08 Jan 2015 21:12:33 GMT

Posted by: grace_less

( Thanks, RNG! )

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Tattoos =3

Sun, 28 Dec 2014 05:47:02 GMT

Posted by: goodnotlucky

( In which Holmes joins Jane in Venezuela, and decides to stay there with her for more than a couple of days.. )

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Alphalock

Tue, 28 Oct 2014 22:12:31 GMT

Posted by: seesobserves

( He's home. )

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because vampires.

Tue, 01 Jul 2014 03:56:12 GMT

Posted by: seesobserves

The Cobweb -- the network of madness that links every Malkavian on Earth -- has its uses. Though Sherlock prefers the stark clarity of Auspex most days, there are details that can't be discerned with only six senses. There's insight in the network, inside the broken shards, or again in the blinding glint of light that flashes off of them...

And then there are the nights when it overwhelms him. When he loses hours to his fugue state and wakes to find he's assembled entire puzzles he hadn't known were in front of him, solved mysteries he can't remember having walked through the door.

Outside of the ones that remain unsolved, those are the least satisfying. What's the point in finding answers when you can't enjoy the discovery?

He needs a distraction, after one of those nights. It used to mean feeding from a junkie, sipping blood laced with morphine or cocaine; that, at least, was a loss of control he could explain and quantify. But he's been under Seneschal Mycroft's and Sheriff Lestrade's influence long enough that he doesn't do that -- much -- anymore.

Probably why he accepted this invitation to spend an evening with a whole mess of people Mycroft would sneer at as 'vermin.' The stated reason was that it's a celebration of their most recent success -- the real reason why Sherlock's prisoner-turned-compulsory colleague-turned-almost friend invited him to meet his 'family' is still unknown. He can't be entirely certain Jane doesn't mean to have him killed the moment they arrive...

...which is what makes it fun, really. If nothing else, it should be surprising.

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Open RP Post

Tue, 17 Jun 2014 18:02:49 GMT

Posted by: swagmancer

Leave me thread openers, quote prompts, picture prompts, AUs, OOC plotting thoughts.
Prose, actionspam, phone call, text, snail mail, gen, smut.
You get the idea.
Any characters on my muselist are fair game.

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Navigation

Tue, 17 Jun 2014 17:54:50 GMT

Posted by: swagmancer

"Where d'you wanna start?"

MUSELIST | OPEN RP POST

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for thetruthismine

Wed, 28 May 2014 01:52:01 GMT

Posted by: seesobserves

((Continuation of this thread.))

Months pass.

Sherlock didn't ask Jane to come to the doctor's office with him, in the end: he'd known what needed to be said, hadn't felt the need for company. But he had made sure Jane saw the pills once he had them in hand. Just so they could both be sure he'd done the responsible thing after all.

The suppressants have done their work. One small pill a day, and Sherlock hasn't had a heat since that one. He's been able to focus on work entirely, never worrying about getting distracted by a certain scent or the assertion of his own hormones. If life feels a little emptier when there's nothing else to do, he figures it's a small price to pay.

That mindset contents him for a while. The first sliver of doubt comes during a conversation with his brother.

"Friends... that's right. You go in for that sort of thing."

"And you don't? Ever?"

Mycroft -- the smart one, the stable one. The Beta. Sherlock used to admire him so much. And he knows his brother's isolation has more to do with his personality than his hormonal state, but... he starts to think about other Betas he's known. Lestrade, for one. He's got a live-in mate, but they're always either on the outs or making up for being on the outs. Never quite certain about one another.

Certainty, he starts to think, would be nice. After all, he's not the only one who could fall prey to an accident. If Jane ever forgets or goes off his meds again, gets blindsided by a particularly potent Omega...

The loneliness would be crushing. Bonded or not, Sherlock's gotten used to... having him. Having him around, at least. Loneliness may not be a foregone conclusion living as a Beta, but it does appear to be a much higher probability.

Even then, it takes him another month to make the final decision. Then, when his prescription's about to run out, he goes back to the chemist -- one last time, he thinks. So long as Jane hasn't changed his mind.

He arrives home and ascends the stairs with no more caution than usual, but listening and looking for signs of whether Jane is home.

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For thetruthismine

Wed, 23 Apr 2014 00:00:06 GMT

Posted by: seesobserves

London doesn't have motels. It has service station rooms. Travel lodges. EasyHotel. Motel is an American word... but it largely amounts to the same thing.

Tonight's was a traveling building contractor from Dubai. Offered to pay for his next bump of dope, on top of the fee, if he'd suck on his balls. Along with a few other favours. 'Shezza' did as he was told, and pretended he didn't understand what the man was calling him.

"العربية الموحدة*," he said when he was finally on his way out, loud enough to be heard without turning around, just before the door shut behind him.

He steps to the edge of the curb, puts a cigarette to his lips. He's still warm and lightheaded from the hit he took before hitting the streets: a little GHB goes a long way toward prolonging the high. He plans on taking his time heading back to the House.

((*Thanks for your time))

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my songs know what you did in the dark (for cassie_of_troy)

Wed, 15 Jan 2014 21:55:19 GMT

Posted by: seesobserves

He needed to get back. Back to 221B, Baker Street. Back home. He was running, feet flying along familiar pavement.

Something was wrong, and yet it wasn't, because it hadn't dawned on him yet.

John would be there. Sherlock knew he would. John, with whom everything had gone all pear-shaped from the moment he'd turned up in Bete Noire until he'd vanished, a victim of the city. John, who in the waking world Sherlock was still waiting to abandon. One day he'd finish falling, and then he'd have to disappear.

Well, not now.

The door hung askew on its hinges (something was wrong), and Sherlock burst through it to leap up the stairs two at a time. Up to the flat, and he raced inside...

...and stopped. The sitting room was empty. The kitchen, empty. There was dust in the air, the entire flat was cloaked in silence. John wasn't here.

Something was wrong.

The colours. The colours were all wrong, all reversed like a photo-negative. Sherlock's green chair was a brownish-red. The light streaming through the windows, through the dust, was somehow black, though it was daytime.

Sherlock looked down at his own hand.

He still looked right.

He raised his eyes to the window again, took a step toward it.

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