*crickets chirp*
Awright, lads, now I'm very conscious of the fact that this year I have no pre-prepared (is that a tautology?) mathoms to post, which is a bit of a break in tradition for me. And there's not really any way I'm going to get my epic crackfic finished, beta read and britpicked in the next 8 hours
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He keeps his head down for the rest of the meeting, though, doodling a stick figure on his otherwise-empty notepad, giving it huge breasts that translate through his artistic skill as more like binocular lenses. He circles them idly with his pen for a moment before guiltily cladding the figure in a somewhat demure dress; Fiona from accounts is sitting next to him after all, and she's nice enough.
Owen's not exactly worried, certainly not by Ginger staring daggers in his direction whenever he so much as looks around the table in boredom again. When the meeting's over he doesn't linger, though, after all it's taken half the bloody day ( ... )
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He can't help it, his eyes flick down again, taking in that glorious rack. What might be the last glorious rack he ever sees, he realises when he glances up again and discovers that her teeth are actually bared.
He stands, abruptly very willing to forfeit this particular battle if it means getting out of her with his life intact, let alone his bollocks.
"Look," he says, and darts rapidly past her desk to the closed door just behind it, bearing the name plate John Smith, CEO, along with the company name. "I'll just drop this on his desk and be on my way then--" He knocks twice, frantically, then turns the handle and pushes in without waiting for an answer.
Instinctively he goes to shove the door closed again behind him but the wood reverberates alarmingly as Ginger slams her hands against it--"Oh no you don't, sunshine,"--and he finds himself leaning all his weight against it desperately, setting the backs of his shoulders flat against the wood ( ... )
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(although I was initially thinking I'd like a Face of Boe/Ianto Jones futurefic/AU romance where, like, Ianto only visits occasionally because he's busy being a Companion or a Time Lord or future-Torchwooding or something, and they have this really sweet and mannered long-long-term relationship because Ianto has an extended lifetime for some reason AND/OR the aforementioned timetravel, and that this long-distance relationship involved telepathy or epistles with old-fashioned fountain pens and ink, and Ianto still wears pinstripes even though they're terribly out of fashion, and possibly there would be mention of some time when the Face of Boe did not actually live in the jar but was free to roam space or fold space or swim around water planets or whatever it is he did before then [and the The Face's identity and history would be at your discretion and according to your personal preference]
...but then I realized that was probably hemming you in a bit much.)
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"Bloody hell," Owen mutters next to Ianto, slorping his way around to the other side of the huge head. "I don't even know how to take readings off this thing. Is it hurt? Does it have internal organs or what? If it's conscious now, maybe we can get it to communicate. As long as that doesn't involve any tentacling..."
"Hello," Ianto says back, getting in response another twitch of the mouth and--making Owen swear again--a twitch of a tentacle or two. "We're Torchwood. You appear to have fallen through..."
"...A rift," the voice reverberates through his head again, with more amusement. Ianto's not quite sure what's so funny, but finds being awash with such a sensation--and one not his own--mildly exhilarating. "In space and time.The pace of the voice is slow, and by the time it's finished completing Ianto's ( ... )
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Gimme another one!
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I CAN'T REMEMBER ALL THE OTHER THINGS I'VE WANTED YOU TO WRITE.
Jack and Ianto explore the tunnels and disused railway and discover pixies.
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Ianto sighs, silently, inside his head. "Wasn't me, Sir."
"No, seriously... Something just touched my leg!"
Ianto sets down his thermos lid carefully and picks up the torch again, flicking it on and angling the beam until Jack's legs are in its trajectory. His trousers are scuffed with dust, but otherwise 'something'-free.
"You just made that up so I'd turn the torch on again," Ianto accuses, tilting the light up to see Jack's face. Jack scrunches his eyes closed and scowls against the sudden brightness. He looks ridiculous.
"Well I told you we should have brought the wind-up one, that doesn't even need batteries--"
"If someone hadn't decided to use the crank on the wind-up torch for such unconventional purposes, then I would have brought it."
Ianto's torch beam catches Jack's arms folding sullenly before he turns it off again. "I didn't make it up," Jack says.
Whatever, Ianto mouths to the dark, and picks up his tea again. He swallows the first gulp before he ( ... )
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None of them are inclined to indulge this rather obvious urge, so no one even looks up from their work as the invisible lift starts its slow descent from the Plass.
"Oh wow," says a voice that is most certainly not Jack's (unless he's had another unfortunate accident with the transmogrifier that came through the Rift from Delta-405Q9).
Gwen's head jerks up. There's a girl, still standing on the paving stone, slight and blonde and clearly awed.
Not awed enough to stay where she is though; she wobbles off the paving stone and totters forward in ridiculously high--and also, Gwen has to admit, ridiculously pretty--heels.
"Um," Gwen says, wondering if she should get out her firearm; at first glance their invader appears quite harmless, but... appearances can be deceiving, especially when she shouldn't even be able to see the lift, let alone use it ( ... )
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