(no subject)
So I got suckered into writing crackfic AGAIN.
What's worse, it's MORE TIME LORD CRACKFIC and I have another one on the way. In my head. Everyone should go write for the Fail Battle to drown this out, okay.
AND I've got a document open with a whole page written about PANIC AND MCR IN MARCHING BANDS.
My life is harder than Patrick's, you guys.
Daleks! At the Disco
RATED PG, HIDE THE TODDLERS BEHIND THE COUCH
Fandom: DOCTOR BANDOM. BANDOM WHO. THE ADVENTURES OF PETE WENTZ THE TIME LORD, that should be its own spinoff series. Pete Wentz! Acting! Good times!
Pairing: dalek gsf PETE'S HARD LIFE/PATRICK'S HARD LIFE
Warnings: Crack, nonsense, can you tell I only make these headers because they're fun to write.
Disclaimer: THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN, if you got here by Googling yourself, go read someone else's fic about you. This isn't even porn, how lame are you.
Summary: Pete Wentz fails at time travel (again), some Daleks fail at being Daleks.
Patrick’s first encounter with legitimate aliens is. Slightly underwhelming.
Pete’s trying for the fourth time to show Patrick a city park full of “these adorable little kids, really, they’re the sweetest things,” when the ship-box, whatever-comes to a particularly painful-sounding halt. Patrick glances at Pete from under his hat, which he’s tugged down lower with every failed stop.
“I guess we just didn’t land on the grass, that’s all.” Pete’s not the best at sounding optimistic, especially after three trips gone wrong.
“As long as this place doesn’t try to crowd-surf me, I’m good.”
“Hey, the Desolation Row concert is great, I’ll take you back sometime when you’re more prepared.”
“Those kids were going to murder us!”
“Only a little!”
Patrick decides that this should be the “give up and stop trying to reason with Pete” point in the conversation, and flails his arms a bit helplessly. “Let’s just go see what you’ve landed us in this time.”
“It’ll be the park this time, promise.”
“Right.”
Pete opens the door first-the last time Patrick left first ended in being floated across a sea of punks-and steps out, looking around hopefully.
“I don’t see much grass,” Patrick sighs as he steps out after him. “Plenty of rock, though.”
It’s all rock, really. Rock, dust, some mountains. It’s probably a moon or something.
“I think we’re on a moon or something,” Pete says, squinting at one of the mountains. “Not sure which one, but. I’ll figure it out.”
“That won’t be ne-ces-sa-ry,” comes a voice from behind, making Patrick jump and Pete squeal-yeah, Patrick’s totally teasing him about that later, but for now, holy shit there’s a fucking alien behind them holy shit-
Well. Four aliens, now that he’s looking. And they don’t look all that threatening, mostly they just look like some kind of kitchen tools. Kitchen tools that float a few feet above the ground, but kitchen tools nonetheless. Still, creepy electronic voices are a perfectly good reason to freak out-as Pete seems to be doing.
“Fuck, fuck, Patrick, go back to the ship, run.” He flails his arms at Patrick in an attempt to get him moving, all the while backing slowly away from the aliens, never averting his eyes.
“Is some-thing wrong?” one of the aliens asks, drifting down to land on the ground. If it had a proper face, Patrick would think it’d have a concerned expression.
“You’re fucking Daleks, that’s what’s wrong, why don’t you go and exterminate something else-“
“Ex-ter-mi-nate is so pas-se,” a different alien starts, the one that looks like it’s wearing a scarf. Aliens wearing scarves, wonderful, Patrick’s life just had to get a little more fucking bizarre.
“Ig-nore him, he’s been ex-per-i-ment-ing with words late-ly.” The biggest-what did Pete call them, Daleks?-alien thing floats down with the scarf-alien. The fourth one seems content to stay floating.
“Ex-per-i-ment. No, not a good one,” scarf-Dalek says. Somehow, it sounds even more robotic than the others.
Pete and Patrick, during this whole exchange, seem to be in agreement on the what the fuck factor of the situation, for once. Usually it’s just Patrick who has no idea what’s going on.
“So, uh,” Pete says to the big-Dalek-he seems like the one in charge, or at least the least insane one-“You’re not going to kill us?”
“No,” it (he? It sounds like a he) replies, “We’re not kill-ing ma-chines a-ny-more.”
“We were en-light-ened,” says the first Dalek, who seems to have gotten bored of the ground and is now floating up and sinking back down at random intervals. “Well, sort of.”
“We’ve been stuck here for a cen-tu-ry,” floaty-Dalek starts.
“We have not. Half that.” Big-Dalek. Patrick needs names for these aliens. Do Daleks have names?
“What-ev-er. The point is, we lost our fleet.”
“A space rock knocked us here,” jumpy-Dalek adds.
“It’s called an as-ter-oid,” scarf-Dalek interrupts, sounding rather huffy without actually conveying emotion.
“Space rock,” floaty-Dalek concurs. “We can’t fly high or fast e-nough to leave, so we’ve been stuck on this space rock in-stead.”
“It’s a sat-ell-ite.”
“Big space rock.”
“Moon, I thought,” Patrick says, trying not to feel too left out.
“A moon is a sat-ell-ite,” scarf-Dalek says in that weird huffy-but-not voice again. Patrick backs down and lets floaty-Dalek continue.
“So, yeah.” Floaty-Dalek is probably the least threatening alien Patrick’s ever seen, and he’s seen Plan 9. “There was no-thing here to ex-ter-mi-nate, so we most-ly sat a-round and talked.”
“A-bout life, and death, and ex-ter-mi-na-tion,” jumpy-Dalek says sagely.
“And we de-ci-ded not to do it a-ny-more,” big-Dalek finished.
“What, the living, the dying, or the extermination?” Patrick wanted to punch Pete in the face sometimes.
The Daleks swivel their heads (caps?) to look at each other. “The ex-ter-mi-na-tion, na-tur-al-ly,” scarf-Dalek replies after a moment.
“I’m not a fan of the dy-ing part ei-ther, though, so.” Jumpy-Dalek is kind of adorable, Patrick has to admit.
Pete apparently thinks so, too. “So, you four haven’t been able to leave for a while? Doesn’t it get boring?”
“A lit-tle,” big-Dalek admits. “Those two can en-ter-tain them-selves pret-ty well, though.” He (definitely a he, Patrick decides) swivels his head to point out floaty-Dalek and jumpy-Dalek, who seem to be having a floating contest of some sort.
“Ever thought about going somewhere else? I mean, describe your ideal habitat.”
Patrick doesn’t like where this is going.
“Some-where with a-ni-mals,” says floaty-Dalek.
“And peo-ple to talk to. A-bout art. And words,” adds scarf-Dalek.
“And shoes. They fa-sci-nate me,” says big-Dalek, which, okay, why not.
“And stairs.” Okay, maybe jumpy-Dalek’s kind of adorable, but that doesn’t make him any less weird.
“All right, I know just the place!” Pete grins and starts running back to the box, which-oh god, no, Patrick’s not letting this happen, and he grabs Pete before he can get anywhere.
“Pete, those aliens are not coming with us,” he hisses, hopefully not loudly enough for the aliens to hear.
“Oh, come on, ‘Trick, they’re harmless!”
“How do you know they’re not just acting harmless so they can hijack our ship?”
“Because they haven’t killed us yet, and believe me, they could. Come on, just one trip, drop them off, and then we can go back to finding that park.”
“You realize that one trip will probably take twelve tries before we actually get there?”
“Well, we can’t just leave them here! They look so lonely!”
“Then buy them a puppy or something, I don’t know!” Being quiet stops being a priority at one point, apparently.
“…Good idea!” Pete grins, then practically skips back to the ship. Patrick looks back at the Daleks, who had been arguing over whether shoes or stairs were more important in a perfect world while Pete and Patrick were not-whispering at each other.
Pete returns a minute later with an unfamiliar-looking box. “It’s not much, but I can make at least one of you happy.” He sets the box down, then opens the top to reveal a kitten, curled up in a corner, asleep. The Daleks all gather around, making what Patrick could only assume were cooing noises.
“Well, we did all a-gree we like small fur-ry crea-tures,” scarf-Dalek says.
“You’d better take care of her until I get back. She’s genetically designed not to need food or water, but she’ll die without fun and snuggles. You can snuggle?”
“We’ll man-age.” Floaty-Dalek never takes his eye-stalk off the cat.
“The next time I have time and more control over my ship, I’ll bring back something else. That sound good?”
“Ve-ry.”
“Bring back some stairs!”
“I’ll work on that.” Pete tries to nod seriously at jumpy-Dalek, but both he and Patrick can’t help but smile at him. Stairs, seriously.
“See you soon!” Pete turns to leave, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder for a moment as an indication to follow.
“Bye, then.” Patrick feels a bit awkward waving at something that doesn’t have arms, but he feels a bit better when the Daleks wiggle their-rather egg-beater-like-appendages back.
Patrick waits until they’re both back on board before asking. “So, where did you find a future cat?”
“The future, obviously. The cobras were working on new forms of life, and I took one. I had to leave Hemmy at home, so I thought it’d be a good companion. That was before you, of course.”
“You-wait-cobras?”
“Long story, I’ll explain when we get there.” Patrick’s still sputtering something about cobras when Pete yanks on a lever, sending them spinning into another trip to god-knows-where.
Patrick doesn’t really care, as long as there aren’t any future cobras.
What's worse, it's MORE TIME LORD CRACKFIC and I have another one on the way. In my head. Everyone should go write for the Fail Battle to drown this out, okay.
AND I've got a document open with a whole page written about PANIC AND MCR IN MARCHING BANDS.
My life is harder than Patrick's, you guys.
Daleks! At the Disco
RATED PG, HIDE THE TODDLERS BEHIND THE COUCH
Fandom: DOCTOR BANDOM. BANDOM WHO. THE ADVENTURES OF PETE WENTZ THE TIME LORD, that should be its own spinoff series. Pete Wentz! Acting! Good times!
Pairing: dalek gsf PETE'S HARD LIFE/PATRICK'S HARD LIFE
Warnings: Crack, nonsense, can you tell I only make these headers because they're fun to write.
Disclaimer: THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN, if you got here by Googling yourself, go read someone else's fic about you. This isn't even porn, how lame are you.
Summary: Pete Wentz fails at time travel (again), some Daleks fail at being Daleks.
Patrick’s first encounter with legitimate aliens is. Slightly underwhelming.
Pete’s trying for the fourth time to show Patrick a city park full of “these adorable little kids, really, they’re the sweetest things,” when the ship-box, whatever-comes to a particularly painful-sounding halt. Patrick glances at Pete from under his hat, which he’s tugged down lower with every failed stop.
“I guess we just didn’t land on the grass, that’s all.” Pete’s not the best at sounding optimistic, especially after three trips gone wrong.
“As long as this place doesn’t try to crowd-surf me, I’m good.”
“Hey, the Desolation Row concert is great, I’ll take you back sometime when you’re more prepared.”
“Those kids were going to murder us!”
“Only a little!”
Patrick decides that this should be the “give up and stop trying to reason with Pete” point in the conversation, and flails his arms a bit helplessly. “Let’s just go see what you’ve landed us in this time.”
“It’ll be the park this time, promise.”
“Right.”
Pete opens the door first-the last time Patrick left first ended in being floated across a sea of punks-and steps out, looking around hopefully.
“I don’t see much grass,” Patrick sighs as he steps out after him. “Plenty of rock, though.”
It’s all rock, really. Rock, dust, some mountains. It’s probably a moon or something.
“I think we’re on a moon or something,” Pete says, squinting at one of the mountains. “Not sure which one, but. I’ll figure it out.”
“That won’t be ne-ces-sa-ry,” comes a voice from behind, making Patrick jump and Pete squeal-yeah, Patrick’s totally teasing him about that later, but for now, holy shit there’s a fucking alien behind them holy shit-
Well. Four aliens, now that he’s looking. And they don’t look all that threatening, mostly they just look like some kind of kitchen tools. Kitchen tools that float a few feet above the ground, but kitchen tools nonetheless. Still, creepy electronic voices are a perfectly good reason to freak out-as Pete seems to be doing.
“Fuck, fuck, Patrick, go back to the ship, run.” He flails his arms at Patrick in an attempt to get him moving, all the while backing slowly away from the aliens, never averting his eyes.
“Is some-thing wrong?” one of the aliens asks, drifting down to land on the ground. If it had a proper face, Patrick would think it’d have a concerned expression.
“You’re fucking Daleks, that’s what’s wrong, why don’t you go and exterminate something else-“
“Ex-ter-mi-nate is so pas-se,” a different alien starts, the one that looks like it’s wearing a scarf. Aliens wearing scarves, wonderful, Patrick’s life just had to get a little more fucking bizarre.
“Ig-nore him, he’s been ex-per-i-ment-ing with words late-ly.” The biggest-what did Pete call them, Daleks?-alien thing floats down with the scarf-alien. The fourth one seems content to stay floating.
“Ex-per-i-ment. No, not a good one,” scarf-Dalek says. Somehow, it sounds even more robotic than the others.
Pete and Patrick, during this whole exchange, seem to be in agreement on the what the fuck factor of the situation, for once. Usually it’s just Patrick who has no idea what’s going on.
“So, uh,” Pete says to the big-Dalek-he seems like the one in charge, or at least the least insane one-“You’re not going to kill us?”
“No,” it (he? It sounds like a he) replies, “We’re not kill-ing ma-chines a-ny-more.”
“We were en-light-ened,” says the first Dalek, who seems to have gotten bored of the ground and is now floating up and sinking back down at random intervals. “Well, sort of.”
“We’ve been stuck here for a cen-tu-ry,” floaty-Dalek starts.
“We have not. Half that.” Big-Dalek. Patrick needs names for these aliens. Do Daleks have names?
“What-ev-er. The point is, we lost our fleet.”
“A space rock knocked us here,” jumpy-Dalek adds.
“It’s called an as-ter-oid,” scarf-Dalek interrupts, sounding rather huffy without actually conveying emotion.
“Space rock,” floaty-Dalek concurs. “We can’t fly high or fast e-nough to leave, so we’ve been stuck on this space rock in-stead.”
“It’s a sat-ell-ite.”
“Big space rock.”
“Moon, I thought,” Patrick says, trying not to feel too left out.
“A moon is a sat-ell-ite,” scarf-Dalek says in that weird huffy-but-not voice again. Patrick backs down and lets floaty-Dalek continue.
“So, yeah.” Floaty-Dalek is probably the least threatening alien Patrick’s ever seen, and he’s seen Plan 9. “There was no-thing here to ex-ter-mi-nate, so we most-ly sat a-round and talked.”
“A-bout life, and death, and ex-ter-mi-na-tion,” jumpy-Dalek says sagely.
“And we de-ci-ded not to do it a-ny-more,” big-Dalek finished.
“What, the living, the dying, or the extermination?” Patrick wanted to punch Pete in the face sometimes.
The Daleks swivel their heads (caps?) to look at each other. “The ex-ter-mi-na-tion, na-tur-al-ly,” scarf-Dalek replies after a moment.
“I’m not a fan of the dy-ing part ei-ther, though, so.” Jumpy-Dalek is kind of adorable, Patrick has to admit.
Pete apparently thinks so, too. “So, you four haven’t been able to leave for a while? Doesn’t it get boring?”
“A lit-tle,” big-Dalek admits. “Those two can en-ter-tain them-selves pret-ty well, though.” He (definitely a he, Patrick decides) swivels his head to point out floaty-Dalek and jumpy-Dalek, who seem to be having a floating contest of some sort.
“Ever thought about going somewhere else? I mean, describe your ideal habitat.”
Patrick doesn’t like where this is going.
“Some-where with a-ni-mals,” says floaty-Dalek.
“And peo-ple to talk to. A-bout art. And words,” adds scarf-Dalek.
“And shoes. They fa-sci-nate me,” says big-Dalek, which, okay, why not.
“And stairs.” Okay, maybe jumpy-Dalek’s kind of adorable, but that doesn’t make him any less weird.
“All right, I know just the place!” Pete grins and starts running back to the box, which-oh god, no, Patrick’s not letting this happen, and he grabs Pete before he can get anywhere.
“Pete, those aliens are not coming with us,” he hisses, hopefully not loudly enough for the aliens to hear.
“Oh, come on, ‘Trick, they’re harmless!”
“How do you know they’re not just acting harmless so they can hijack our ship?”
“Because they haven’t killed us yet, and believe me, they could. Come on, just one trip, drop them off, and then we can go back to finding that park.”
“You realize that one trip will probably take twelve tries before we actually get there?”
“Well, we can’t just leave them here! They look so lonely!”
“Then buy them a puppy or something, I don’t know!” Being quiet stops being a priority at one point, apparently.
“…Good idea!” Pete grins, then practically skips back to the ship. Patrick looks back at the Daleks, who had been arguing over whether shoes or stairs were more important in a perfect world while Pete and Patrick were not-whispering at each other.
Pete returns a minute later with an unfamiliar-looking box. “It’s not much, but I can make at least one of you happy.” He sets the box down, then opens the top to reveal a kitten, curled up in a corner, asleep. The Daleks all gather around, making what Patrick could only assume were cooing noises.
“Well, we did all a-gree we like small fur-ry crea-tures,” scarf-Dalek says.
“You’d better take care of her until I get back. She’s genetically designed not to need food or water, but she’ll die without fun and snuggles. You can snuggle?”
“We’ll man-age.” Floaty-Dalek never takes his eye-stalk off the cat.
“The next time I have time and more control over my ship, I’ll bring back something else. That sound good?”
“Ve-ry.”
“Bring back some stairs!”
“I’ll work on that.” Pete tries to nod seriously at jumpy-Dalek, but both he and Patrick can’t help but smile at him. Stairs, seriously.
“See you soon!” Pete turns to leave, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder for a moment as an indication to follow.
“Bye, then.” Patrick feels a bit awkward waving at something that doesn’t have arms, but he feels a bit better when the Daleks wiggle their-rather egg-beater-like-appendages back.
Patrick waits until they’re both back on board before asking. “So, where did you find a future cat?”
“The future, obviously. The cobras were working on new forms of life, and I took one. I had to leave Hemmy at home, so I thought it’d be a good companion. That was before you, of course.”
“You-wait-cobras?”
“Long story, I’ll explain when we get there.” Patrick’s still sputtering something about cobras when Pete yanks on a lever, sending them spinning into another trip to god-knows-where.
Patrick doesn’t really care, as long as there aren’t any future cobras.