Okay this stupid thing is based on Valueturtle’s hilarious Staring Contest crack fic blurb you can read here. I don’t know why I felt the need to illustrate it I just did. Someone pay me to illustrate crack fics.
omg you just know that kilgrave would talk shit in the tracked tags
I feel like Kilgrave would be really unprepared for an internet argument, he wouldn’t be able to punish the other side when they insulted him through the web so I can only imagine him reaching tantrum level almost immediately.
make your own fun (a happy birthday paige fic) [ten/rose, adult]
happy birthday paige! a long time ago - last summer, or maybe spring, i can’t quite remember - paige and i discovered a mutual appreciation of a certain recreatinal substance that has recently become legal in colorado and washington state. one day, during a serious conversation about fanfiction (like you do) we discovered a deficiency. “why does no one write stoner fic?” we asked ourselves. “that’s ridiculous!” and so we resolved to write some. we made a pact, in fact, that we would. and, rather delightfully, we independently decided to take totally different approaches to it.
well, paige, darling: this is my half of the pact. it is for your birthday, because you are lovely and wonderful, a hilarious and Good friend, a pleasure to talk to, and an inspiration as a writer. you are delightful and i hope this fic delights you as much as it delighted me to write it. happy fucking birthday.
rating: adult; warnings: explicit sex, drug use
There were lots of things you couldn’t possibly know, Rose Tyler thought, about traveling through time and space, at least before you did so. You couldn’t possibly know that dogs in Erlax 7 were neon pink and had no fur but weird fish scale-type things instead, or that when humans spread out through the galaxy in order to survive parrots somehow grew as big as a person and learned how to talk, properly talk and not just imitate. You couldn’t possibly know that there is a planet called Bartrax and that it is locked in a centuries-long marketing conflict thanks to the Dolmansaxlil Galactic Shoe Corporation, or that the planet Kria is home to the second worst poetry in the entire universe and that the Doctor, of course, can recite that poetry by heart including “An Ode to a Small Lump of Putty I Found in my Armpit One Midsummer Morning,” a poem so bad it caused four Krians who heard it to die of internal hemorrhaging. (The Doctor, of course, is immune but Rose is not, as they found out two lines in when her vision started to go blurry and her stomach started to cramp and he had to take her to Barcelona for ice cream and shopping to make up for almost killing her.)
actually, you bring up a fascinating point: we are largely approaching this with the understanding that we WILL rewatch episodes like "Dalek", yet having ready access to past episodes of Doctor Who is an incredibly recent thing. For people who watched Doctor Who at a certain time of week or risked missing it entirely, it might be very strange to consider what impact a retcon has on the AUDIENCE rather than the show itself. The show moves relentlessly forward, but the viewer can stay in the past.
I’ve been considering my reaction to the special over the last couple of days, and examining my own reasons for hating it. I’ve worked out that my problems are largely structural and come from needing a sort of narrative cohesiveness from at least the new series. Characterization and issues of sexism aside (the Queen Elizabeth bits made me literally sick for so many reasons), my problems have a lot to do with how the special was put together. How did the Doctor and Clara escape the end of TNOTD? Why was the relationship between the Doctor and Rose not acknowledged beyond a few words at Billie’s introduction and the maddening “Bad Wolf Girl” scene? How the hell did the Doctor’s other selves know to be there?
But that’s how I watch television - I rarely actually catch things on a TV channel, like everything else, I watched New Who from start to finish on Netflix. And with the advent of technology like Netflix and the internet fostering fandoms which are producing higher and higher quality fan-made content and encouraging discussion in real-time, I think it’s changing the way television should be considered.
The audience can react instantaneously, providing feedback whether you want it or not. (The relatively small number of fix-it fics actually has me morbidly fascinated; there are more people who are just giving up and leaving the fandom - albeit some temporarily - than actually creating new headcanons. There was either nothing to fix, which I doubt, or the audience, tired of being treated like a static entity instead of an active community, gets disillusioned and walks away.)
Television has become something you do instead of something you watch, and if the audience isn’t being considered, then it should be, because absorbing new media is just not a passive thing any more.
TL;DR Paige is right about it being weird to consider the effect a retcon has on the audience instead of on the show itself, but with the way media is evolving, it shouldn’t be.
Do you have any Sansa/Tyrion fic recs? I remember you said you shipped them and I want to try some fic. Thank you!
I’m pretty out of the loop as far as Sansa/Tyrion fic goes now - it’s been a long time since I read any fresh, probably because I only read in the #gotfic tag or on AO3, and it was always more popular on ff.net. As well, many works in the S/T tag on AO3 feature pairings I just can’t stomach, so I may be missing some things. I’ll do my best, though!
I’ve included links to author’s tumblrs where I know them, btw!
Your first stop should be inkandcayenne’s writing - scroll past the True Detective and there’s a wealth of Lannister fic, with some delicious pearls of Sansa/Tyrion.
Billie Piper is petite. Small. She fits between his arms securely, snuggly - smugly, hiding her expression in his jumper. Even with the puffy jacket wrapped around her, he can feel her thin frame, how the shivers from the cold subside the longer they stay like this, huddling together for warmth in the middle of Wales.
Billie Piper is funny. Witty. She tells him jokes between takes; in his trailer; on his answering machine after she’s had a few drinks. He grins at them, laughs at him, tension melting from his shoulders when she smiles up at him, too. She’s funny when she’s oblivious, as well, her brow furrowing softly and her accent posh. He can poke fun at her because there’s no ego to deflate, just curiosity and friendliness and a willingness to learn.
Billie Piper is smart. Talented. She reads and reads and reads. His books have her fingerprints on them. Not literally, just in the smell of her perfume that permeates the pages; just in the Post-It notes she leaves bristling between the covers, her handwriting looping, curling, asking questions he will answer later. She acts as naturally as she breathes, drawing in air and exhaling Rose; he sometimes wonders where the character ends and she begins, and he wants to trace that seam, the edge. He begins to wonder if there is one after all. He marvels at her seamlessness.
Billie Piper is a flirt. Shameless. She gives her smiles away freely, because they aren’t for sale, obviously. She walks the taut line between innocence and suggestiveness and never stumbles. He feels like an old man (he is) when he invites her in for tea, even though the offer is just for a warm drink and a place to wait until the next scene. But the corner of her mouth is knowing, and she flicks back her hair with a graceful hand, the wrist flashing, delicate and pale. She doesn’t wait for the boiling point, doesn’t wait for the kettle to click when it’s done; she leans up on her toes and kisses him, bold and brief and Billie. His arms go round her, pull her close, keep her there as he kisses her again and again until there’s nothing left but pants and gasps and lukewarm water waiting to be poured.
Billie Piper is a blanket hog. Greedy. She has cold feet and never warns him, just laughs at his grumbled complaints. Her hair is a golden fan against his pillow, a halo he adores when he makes love to her, but becomes a tangled mess afterwards; rumpled, mussed; in need of brushing. She has no sense of space, or timing; no sense of propriety: she wakes him up with a hot mouth and a hot hand wrapped around him, ruining his morning routine in the most spectacular fashion. Her smirk is unflattering in someone so young, with lips so swollen, but he finds it hard to care.
Billie Piper is many things, but most of all she’s not his. She’s her own, entirely. They part sweetly, fondly, and he tells himself it’s only a little bittersweet, their ending.
The Doctor is so overjoyed to have her so miraculously, impossibly back aboard the TARDIS that he doesn’t even fathom the questions that may arise. That is, until later that night.
“Doctor,” Rose begins hesitantly. “How long has it been? For you.” And he doesn’t want to answer that question, because the truth is even a moment would have been too long. So he dodges, misdirects, avoids the question. But Rose persists. “I only ask because my room is exactly as it was, but the linens on my bed… they’re so worn. Like it’s been years.”
“Oh,” he realizes; belatedly, embarrassingly. “I may have… sleptinyourroomwhileyouweregone.” He confesses his sin quickly but he knows she hears. Rose bites her lip, holding back a grin, and he’s just waiting for her to laugh at the lonely old man, creepily invading his beautiful young companion’s personal space.
“Well, since you’re so used to sleeping there, I suppose you should come along with me tonight,” she offers graciously and he is undone by her brilliant smile so full of promise.
And then, an afterthought: “But you’d better not hog the covers.”
In a broad, sweeping, offensive generalization, the thing I love most about smut written by people with a certain amount of bathing suit area experience is that it’s not about getting down to it, not only about the actual sex, but the build up, and the stop-starts, and all the uncertainty.
There’s that realization that you’re always going to be striving for the way your nerves felt and your blood felt and the back of your neck felt those first times, furtive fumbling and so much heat, and so you can sort of write to that, trying to recapture that, and it is terrific.