Let's Rip Through That Vortex!

imaginary_iby @ 2008-08-06T22:29:00

2008-08-06T12:42:55Z

Why don't you ask her yourself?

Oh bloody hell and sod. Oh fuck. Why!? WHY!? WHY!?!? WHY!?!

I don't think I've ever been more broken by words than I have been by those words, and that scene. Just watch it. Watch it. Watch their expressions, breathe in Donna's love and happiness for them and...It's stunningly perfect. That scene is so touching; as touching as the beach scene is heartbreaking.

. . . .

I had a few realizations today, which I've known for ages but today they hit me with the force of a truck.

NO NEW WHO UNTIL CHRISTMAS! EEEEEK! As it is, I'm not sure I'll be able to watch anymore, even though they're not yet being overseen by The Dark Lord.

and, much more randomly:

Lupin and Tonks are gone! *wails*

. . . .

I also realized today that a large percentage of my time is spent lamenting and trying to accept the fact that I'll never snog David Tennant. I mean, isn't it just the greatest tragedy of our time?

imaginary_iby @ 2008-08-06T13:23:00

2008-08-06T03:29:33Z

My ticket to Hamlet has arrived!!! It's so pretty; if I could physically snuggle a rectangular piece of cardboard, I would. As it is, I'll have to settle for staring lovingly at it. I was just sitting upstairs reading all of the recent reviews for Hamlet, (have they actually had press night yet?) when mum yelled out: "there's mail for you!"

I am, however, starting to get quite nervous. I'll be all on my own for New Year's Eve. *sniff* Neeeeep!

If, on the 27th of December, you in all your locations around the globe, hear news of a girl leaping onto the stage and wildly ~~shagging~~ hugging David Tennant, don't worry. It was only me.

imaginary_iby @ 2008-08-05T11:12:00

2008-08-05T01:17:17Z

Twilight? Yes or no?

Some people are squeeing, some people are sobbing, and I keep seeing the phrase "worse than a bad fanfic" being bandied about. Neverthess, I'm reading about it left, right and centre.

I'd never even heard of it until the other day, so....should I read it?

Also, this may be the sort of thing that only I find funny, but when I selected You Can't Always Get What You Want - The Rolling Stones I was quite amused to find the song above it was: You Can Get It If You Really Want - Jimmy Cliff

A Little Red London Phone Box - romance, rose/ten, one!heart doctor/rose

2008-08-04T00:06:47Z

Title: A Little Red London Phone Box.
Rating: PG.15
Pairings: Ten I/Rose, Ten II/Rose.
Spoilers: Journey's End.
Genre: A little angst and a lot of romance. I wouldn't call this fluffy, but rather very romantic.
Summary: The Doctor can spend the rest of his life with Rose Tyler; she cannot spend the rest of her life with him. A story of overcoming unequal life-spans and loving two men who are the same, but so very different.

Rose gently smooths her thumb along the Doctor’s face, from temple to jaw, from jaw to temple. She takes great pains to trace the little lines that curve around his eyes; they’re there all the time now, not simply when he laughs. She thinks that they make him look rather dashing.

With a contented sigh, she brushes his endearingly ridiculous fringe out of his eyes and drifts her fingers up to run them through his hair. It’s a little salt-and-peppery, a little flecked with grey, but it’s still thick and luxurious and it still warms her belly.

She slides her palm across the plain of his chest, the silver hairs there tickling the spaces between her fingers. She can almost see his muscles quiver when she rubs her hand in small circles over his stomach; still flat as ever, despite the way his weight had fluctuated when he’d first become human.

She strokes her ring finger, (upon which a modest jewel now actually glints) along the dangerous path from one jutting hip to the other. Left to right, right to left, left to right and right to left. She knows without even looking that he’s growing hard in his sleep at the touch.

. . . .

The Doctor groggily blinks his way out of the fog that is sleep, his body responding to the gentle brushes and kisses against his skin well before his brain can.

Finally, once he’s accepted the reality that is being awake, he props himself up on his elbows to look down at her. Her tongue is tracing little circles into the hollows above his hip bones and all he can see is the top of her head, her light brown hair spilling around her face and tickling his legs.

She rests all of her weight on one elbow and brushes the errant strands back behind her ears with her free hand. Her gaze flickers up to meet his, and with their eyes holding each other she starts licking the skin around his navel. “You’re awake.”

He arches an eyebrow at her in reply, as if to say of course I’m bloody awake when you’re doing that.

She smiles a particularly saucy smile and he can’t help but reach for her. Slithering up his body, she makes sure to slide her skin against his and it takes him no time at all to roll on top of her.

They move against each other for what feels like an impossibly long time, all sighs and gasps and moans and hitched breaths. There’s little in the bedroom that’s new for them anymore, not after so many years of sleeping together, but they find the familiarity impossibly arousing. The only difference is that these days when he comes, it takes him longer to recover.

When their hearts stop racing and their bodies still, he spends some time nuzzling her cheek before pulling back to look down at her, to study her beautiful face.

Where he has wrinkles, she has smooth skin. Where he has flecks of grey, she has her natural light brown.

He is growing older. She is not.

He wants to say so much. He wants to thank her for being so brave, for twining her life-span with his in a way that would have put his other self to shame. He wants to cuddle her close, when he thinks about her sobbing in the shower as she sometimes does, when thoughts of her human children dying before she does immobilize her.

He opens his mouth to try, but she presses her fingers against his lips.

“I know,” she whispers to him. “I know.”

. . . .

The grey flecks grow in number until he has what she calls a distinguished silver mop. He thanks whatever grace that’s present for allowing him to keep a full head of hair, whatever colour it might be.

He spends more time tinkering in the garage now than he has ever done. She doesn’t know what he’s doing in there, but she doesn’t pry.

They have sex less than they used to, but they’re ceaselessly affectionate and tactile. Rose still wakes him up in the middle of the night with kisses and nips every so often, and he isn’t about to complain.

“I’ve built you something. A TARDIS, of sorts,” he says one night as he stands beside her in their bathroom, brushing his teeth while she wipes her makeup off. “I didn’t tell you about it, because I wasn’t sure how long it would take to finish. I thought I’d be…gone, before it was done, but as it turns out I’m more clever than even I thought.” He smiles at her reflection. “It’ll take you to him.” There’s a part of him that wants to tell her that she can use it now, if she wants, because he only ever wants for her to be happy. He doesn’t though, because he knows how hurt she’ll be by his suggesting that she should and could leave him. He knows that she’s happy with him and it makes his heart swell with joy.

. . . .

Rose stares at the bright red London Telephone Box that’s sitting nonchalantly in the second garage. She’s never been in here before, because she knew that he was up to something and was determined to respect his privacy. Even if the kids sometimes came and went, carrying alien bits and bobs and knowing expressions on their faces.

Bethany, James and Charlie are all stood in front of it, obviously proud as punch. Rose doesn’t fail to notice the way that James traces a finger lovingly along the handle and she thinks that he really is his father’s son.

She feels fingers on her waist and turns to face her freckled love, who is positively beaming at her with excitement. He tucks the blind-fold that he’d insisted she wear into his trouser pocket and takes her hand, walking her to the phone box. Bethany reverently passes her a key, dangling from a simple, elegant chain.

. . . .

They sit on a park bench and look up at the sky, a lovely daffodil yellow with flecks of dark green. The Doctor is licking his chocolate ice-cream enthusiastically, but nine hundred plus years of memory and fifty odd years of living on top of that have still not graced him with the ability to eat it well. He’s got chocolate on the tip of his nose and at the corners of his mouth and she finds him more loveable than she ever has.

Rose stares, as politely as one can, at the locals. They’re of the seven-legged variety, and an interesting shade of puce. They’ve no hair, but their heads are encrusted with silver jewels that form intricate and beautiful patterns. They wear long, whispering dresses of varying colours, because, the Doctor informs her, it was just too much bloody effort tucking seven legs into seven pant-legs.

She dabs at his thumb with her tissue as a trickle of chocolate starts to dribble down it. “Honestly,” she gently, laughingly chastises, “all the wonderful things you can do and yet you can’t eat an ice-cream.”

He sticks his nose up into the air indignantly. “It’s more fun if you make a mess. Some things, Rose Tyler my love, you’ve got to treat as if you’re still a child. Remember when you were wee? Getting ice-cream or going to McDonald’s was the biggest treat in the world.”

She knows that he’s bluffing, covering for the fact that he's messy, but the sentiment is one she likes so she wipes the chocolatey smudges from the sides of his mouth with the tip of her finger. Sly old thing that he is, he licks it off before she has a chance to clean it on her napkin.

“You’re incorrigible,” she says around a chuckle.

He looks impossibly proud, as if she's just paid him a compliment of the highest order. “Yup, that’s me!”

They sit side by side until he finishes his ice-cream and the wind picks up. The Doctor slips the arm closest to Rose out of his jacket, shuffles closer to her so that their sides and thighs are touching, and wraps them both up in its warmth.

Before Rose knows what she’s doing, she begins to put voice to the thoughts that have been tumbling around in her mind. “Do you think you’d like to…that is to say, when you…” the merest thought of him dying makes her throat constrict. Even though she knows that somewhere in the other universe, the other Doctor is waiting for her, this doesn’t lessen the pain. She loves them both, with all her heart, but they aren’t models that she can trade in. Each is irreplaceable.

“When I die,” the Doctor says softly, gently, tenderly into her ear, helping her along. It’s an idea that he’s grown comfortable with, even though he wishes that he could give her forever.

She nods swiftly. “Yes. Well…would you like to be on some distant, fantastic alien world? Amongst the stars and a million years into our future?”

He looks at her and it is at times like these that she remembers that even though he is still the oncoming storm, he is tempered by mortality and moulded by love. “Honestly? I’ve done all that nine times already and quite frankly it gets a little old. I can think of nothing better than to pass in my jim-jams, in our bedroom, in our home, in our village, in our country, on our daft little planet called Earth. Surrounded by you.”

. . . .

This, he knows, is his last night. He’s not sure if all humans have this sense or if it’s something to do with his being half Time-Lord; no such feelings ever came forth from Gallifrey and he is once again a pioneer.

He knows that when he falls asleep tonight, he will never again wake up.

“Rose,” he whispers as he watches her move about their bedroom, carrying out her familiar nightly routine.

She pulls her pyjamas out from behind her pillow and locks her gaze with his. She strips for him, in front of him; unbuttons her blouse, unzips her jeans, unclasps her bra and shimmies out of her knickers. Fond memories float through his mind and they smile at each other like giddy fools as she puts her pyjamas on.

Not long after, she’s snuggled against his side, all warmth and cotton and familiarity. She rests her head lightly on his shoulder.

He turns slightly, and his bones protest, but he ignores the pain and reaches for the box he’d put on his bed-side table. Carefully he opens it, revealing a modest ring exactly like the one he himself is wearing. It's a masculine variation of the one on her fourth finger. “I made this a long time ago. For him.”

She stays awake the whole night, her arms wrapped around him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. She can feel his chest rise and fall beneath her hands. She can feel the puffs of his breath against the top of her head.

His breaths peter out and his chest stills.

. . . .

. . . .

“He made this for you,” Rose whispers as she holds up the ring.

They’re stood somewhere in the rolling green and grey plains of the North York Moors, and Rose wouldn’t be at all surprised if Wuthering Heights appeared through the fog at any moment. The metal band clinks against her own and Rose holds her hands steady so that the Doctor can inspect them both.

His hesitance in taking the ring from her fingers is just another reminder of how different the man standing before her is to the man she’d spent the last fifty years with. When they’d married in the gardens at her parents' house, that Doctor had bounded up to her, snogged the living daylights out of her, slid the ring on her finger in a flurry of excitement and then grinned, a touch embarrassed, when he’d remembered that he was actually supposed to wait for the ceremony.

She gives him time, merely studying a rabbit nibbling at the grass as he studies the ring in her hands. It’s been a little over two years since she’d parked the time-travelling London Telephone Box beside the Police Public Call Box, and it’s been four years since losing her human Doctor. Emotionally, she hadn’t been able to hop across universes straight away and she hadn’t been able to dive right into a relationship with the Doctor now before her.

She’d had things to sort out with Beth and James and Charlie; she’d been reluctant to leave them, her children, her flesh and blood, but with each passing year they looked even older than she did. In the end, it had been her own old argument that had convinced her that the time was right. Everyone leaves home in the end. Her children were all grown up, had happy and healthy lives of their own to lead. They were creatures of the earth, and their adventurous spirits made them appreciate the far reaches of Peru, the highest peaks of New Zealand, not Time and Space.

She thinks about her babies, her husband and his ring, forever in the other universe. Though their lives were of different lengths, she and the Doctor had carved out a new family, a new line to trickle down through the ages. He would never be forgtotten.

She whirls back to the present when she feels warm skin brush against her wrist, watches as he gently take the ring from her.

He is radiating nervousness, but there’s no denying the small smile that plays around the sides of his mouth; he drops his gaze to his left hand and slips the ring onto his fourth finger.

. . . .

They sit on a park bench and look up at the sky, a lovely daffodil yellow with flecks of dark green. The Doctor is licking his chocolate ice-cream enthusiastically, but nine hundred plus years of living have still not graced him with the ability to eat it well.

During the first few years, whenever they’d landed anywhere that she’d travelled in a red London Phone Box to see, she’d been overcome with sadness, overcome with longing for her daft little freckled human love.

These days though, the memories feel like warm, comfortable blankets - the similarities between them sooth her. Time and the learning that it allows have taught her to love them both, have taught her that life isn’t about replacement. Sometimes she tells him stories about Bethany and Charlie and James, and when he’d tentatively suggested that they try for their own at some point, she’d found herself oddly open to the idea.

At the moment though, he’s got chocolate on the tip of his nose and at the corners of his mouth and she finds him more loveable than she ever has.

She dabs at his thumb with her tissue as a trickle of chocolate starts to dribble down it. “Honestly,” she gently, laughingly chastises, “all the wonderful things you can do and yet you can’t eat an ice-cream.”

He sticks his nose up into the air indignantly. “It’s more fun if you make a mess. Some things, Rose Tyler my love, you’ve got to treat as if you’re still a child. Remember when you were wee? Getting ice-cream or going to McDonald’s was the biggest treat in the world.”

Her heart thumps and swells in her chest, but she can’t hold back her beaming grin. She still knows that he’s bluffing, covering for the fact that he's messy, so she wipes the chocolatey smudges from the sides of his mouth with the tip of her finger. Sly old thing that he is, he licks it off before she has a chance to clean it on her napkin.

“You’re incorrigible,” she says around a chuckle.

He looks impossibly proud, as if she's just paid him a compliment of the highest order. “Yup, that’s me!”

Eventually, when the wind picks up and the yellow fades to the darkest of greens, they snuggle up close and amble out of the park.

“We’ll travel in this for a little while,” the Doctor said as he patted the red walls affectionately. “In honour of him. Jack said he’d watch my TARDIS for us.”

Rose stared at him, completely taken-aback by what he was proposing – leaving his treasured, beautiful blue Police Public Call Box behind, in an effort to commemorate all that his other self had done.

Hand in hand, they make their way home.

To a little red London Phone Box.

imaginary_iby @ 2008-07-30T10:54:00

2008-07-30T00:59:37Z

Bah. Bloody. Humbug.

I made a mistake at work last night and had to explain it to all the managers today. I don't know what you guys are like, but when I talk to managers, my brain siezes up to protect itself from any outside harm; thusly, all I get is white noise.

It doesn't help that we had to review video footage; the security system at our store is more comprehensive than what you'd find at your local spy headquaters, and there were flat screen tellies everywhere and cables and sheets of paper with complicated graphs and such. My department manager said to me "you can't quite wrap your mind around it?"

At which point I thought I could totally take you, bitch.

I just wanted to scream I'm not stupid! I know I sound stupid, because I've no earthly idea what it is that you're saying to me, but I'm not! I promise!

And now I've just found an enormous piece of plastic in the salad sandwich that I bought. Wonderful.

imaginary_iby @ 2008-07-29T19:49:00

2008-07-29T09:51:12Z

Does anybody on my fantastic flist know exactly how the public tickets for Hamlet will work?

I know that they're supposed to go on sale September 12, but I just don't understand what tickets there are left to sell/seats there are to sit in/places to stand, if members have already pretty much bought them all.

Anybody know?

I've been listening to the Doctor Who proms today and wow. Just wow. I would have given my left arm to have been there, especially since Jupiter is one of my favourite pieces of music. The theme for Doomsday still makes me want to lay down and weep; the opening keyboard part in particular makes my heart sieze up. The opening song, All The Strange Strange Creatures, the song they used for a lot of season four telly spots, is so unbelievably cool.

imaginary_iby @ 2008-07-27T02:44:00

2008-07-26T16:46:01Z

Oh. OH.

I got a ticket.

I have purchased a ticket. I am the owner of a ticket. They're sending it out to me in the post.

I will be going back to the UK! Twice in the one year, oi to the vey I must be fruitloopy.

I...I....*faints*

In which I stress about Hamlet tickets;

2008-07-26T01:34:25Z

I bought my membership to the RSC on the 24th, and even though they say that they post the membership pack in three working days, it's going to take ages to reach Australia.

I just sent them an email to ask if I coud be forwarded my details so that I can login and book as soon as the membership is authorized. Desperate, much? Tickets are selling like hotcakes and I am almost ~~actually~~ shaking with nerves.

I WANT to see Hamlet. I want for not a lot in life but my bed, but THIS? I want it. David Tennant as Hamlet - I'm not sure it gets any bloody better. So much so that I'll be flying from Australia to the UK to see it and whilst this doesn't make me any more worthy of tickets than anybody else, it certainly makes me more pathetic. I WANT A TICKET! *sobs*

I am absolutely not checking my inbox every five minutes to see if they've replied. Absolutely not.

Does anybody know if the members are using up *all* of the tickets? As in, they won't even get to the general public tickets, because there'll be no seats left?

Does anybody have any GOOD news?

OH MY GOSH

Whilst writing this post, I've also been collecting together all of the documents I'll need to lodge my tax returns. HECS/HELP (the group that loans money to non full-fee paying students in Victoria to pay for uni) have CHARGED ME $2,300 FOR A SEMESTER THAT I NEVER TOOK!

$2,300

EEEEEEEK!

imaginary_iby @ 2008-07-25T18:53:00

2008-07-25T09:08:25Z

That's it. I'm sorry, I normally try not to comment on actor's personal lives, but the fact of the matter is that I just want Billie Piper and David Tennant to have lots of great sex and pretty babies. I know she's married and he's whatever but...look at them!

I'm not sure which one of them I want to sleep with more. *g*

A sign that I spend too much time at work:

Last night, I dreamt that the registers were built into a cliff-face. We scurried around from checkout to checkout inside the cliff/plateau/whatever, and then emerged from little holes to serve people who queued up on metal steps that were built into the side of the cliff.

This is the third work dream I've had. I once had one where we were all in a musical; singing and dancing as we served. The other was where the store was in Japan with lots of flashing lights. *fruitloops*

imaginary_iby @ 2008-07-10T15:52:00

2008-07-10T06:07:14Z

It's funny how different people can be, isn't it? How people can end up thinking such completely different things with all their heart and mind.

I've just been reading a post where someone argues that Rose is immature and hasn't changed in season four at all - she has in fact gone downhill and is disappointing. Whilst the person making the post is articulate and intelligent and doesn't actually bash...I CANNOT understand it. To me, Rose is incredible. Just absolutely fantastically incredible.

Fandom is a microcosm of life. Then again, I suppose everything is a microcosm of life, but fandom is the only thing that I take an interest in these days. Some people are pro-choice and cannot wrap their minds around pro-lifers, some people are pro-life, and cannot wrap their minds around pro-choice folk.

Some people on my flist and in the circles that I swim in cannot WAIT for Moffat to take the reigns. They want to poke RTD with Sticks of Doom and would happily go to jail for throwing him into a pit of fire. They HATE him for the finale and what he did.

Some other people on my flist are nervous, weeping, inconsolable wrecks because of RTD leaving and would gladly give their life to stop Moffat from coming in to work of a morning.

Something Better Than Forever, Rose/Ten romance by imaginary_iby

2008-07-08T00:51:10Z

Title: Something Better Than Forever.
Spoilers: A post-ep to Journey's End.
Genre: Angst, romance, hurt/comfort and a dash of hope. Stir well to combine and serve hot.
Characters and Pairings; The Tenth Doctor, Rose; Rose/Ten in all its forms.
Rating: PG.13.
Author's Note: Another fic in my quest to make myself feel better, even though I don't actually feel bad. Is this unhealthy? A lot of my flist is dealing with their confusion, I'm just rolling fic out like cupcakes.
Summary: Rose had always been brave, and now she can be brave for them both.

It is the moments that hurt that measure the strength of a relationship. They both know that they will come out on the other side, someday, somewhere, somewhen, somehow. It is their unfaltering belief in this that tells them that they’re meant for each other, that they’re worth fighting for.

imaginary_iby @ 2008-07-06T12:52:00

2008-07-06T03:18:19Z

Title: Not Dreams But Memories.
Author: Iby.
Spoilers: A post-ep to Journey's End.
Genre: Romance. I wouldn't call this fluffy, but rather romantic.
Characters and Pairings: The Tenth Doctor, Rose; Rose/Ten.
Rating: PG.13.
Author's Note: Written solely to make myself and (hopefully) others smile. Also? Coming up with a non-spoilery summary to this fic was harder than trying to understand my old Chinese classes. I failed Chinese, by the by.
Summary: He does not dream of a life with her. He remembers a life with her.

. . . .

He can smell the most incredible scents in the air. Mango shampoo from the hair he’s nuzzling and burned bacon wafting down from the kitchen. He can smell the not-so-incredible but still cherished wet-dog that’s just traipsed into the house and the Satsuma that’s sitting in the fruit bowl by the door.

He can feel the most incredible textures underneath his fingertips and against him. Warm skin, soft lips, silky hair, a big round belly pressed up against his stomach and the two hearts inside her body radiating their thuppa thuppa beats against his chest.

He can see the most incredible sights reflected in the mirror hung on the wall of their hallway. A tall thin man in an eccentric suit and a beautiful blonde woman about eight months along. He can see a ridiculous but perfect collection of children’s paintings and a very impressive snog taking place.

He can taste the most incredible flavours in his mouth. The leftover strawberry of her gloss that’s smudged against his bottom lip, her tongue in all its softness and familiarity and arousal. He can taste the not-so-incredible foundation powder that she wears when he peppers kisses across her cheeks. He can even almost but-not quite taste the bacon.

He can hear the most incredible sounds rolling around the house. The snappy dialogue of The West Wing (he’ll not allow EastEnders but Aaron Sorkin is encouraged) coming out of the telly and the spray of water from a shower being taken upstairs. He can hear the delightful giggles of children playing and the yuck, daddy, stop it! that is cried out upon the discovery of their snog.

It’s not all warm skin and snogs and wet dog; not all strawberries and showers and bacon. There are bits and bobs of genius being built on the kitchen table, mission reports for Torchwood being written in the study and schematics for Time Machines being drawn up in the garage. There are discussions amongst the children, their children, on how best to reverse the polarity. There are arguments over who is the best at hullabaloo and jiggery-pokery.

There is a house, ordinary and yet still fantastic, for reasons other than the fact that it is painted bright blue. Oh, the neighbours had stared until their eyes had fallen out, some had even gone to the council over it, but bright blue it remained.

There are lives lived and loved with single hearts united.

. . . .

Through the fog of sleep, the Doctor felt fingers press gently against his temple. He snuffled into wakefulness and though he could see nothing out of the ordinary, certainly not mysterious fingers, he knew that something was different. His brain felt as if it had been exposed to the whirl and twirl of a tornado; his thoughts felt like sheets of paper hastily stuffed into a filing cabinet with no appreciation of order nor alphabet.

Stretching his long legs, stiff from being tucked awkwardly underneath him as he’d slept on the chair in the library, he looked up at the ceiling of the TARDIS and pondered just what had happened to him.

Something was new, something was rattling around inside his old noggin that hadn’t been there before his kip.

There!

A little one with scraped knees was sobbing against his neck. Arms were stretching up towards him, in the universal way of saying pick me up! Rose was holding his hand as they ran and dodged bullets. She was moaning breathlessly underneath him, sliding her hands up and down the line of his spine. She was throwing sweets at him and laughing as they filled Christmas stockings whilst the kids were out.

There was a bright blue house.

The images that flashed through his brain were familiar. The way his hearts responded to them made him feel that he wasn’t looking in on somebody else’s experiences, but rather on his own.

He had been there for those moments. He had wiped away those tears and he had picked up the imploring child. He had held Rose’s hand as they'd run, he had moved so gently over her and in her and he had made her breathless. He had dodged the sweets, he had made her laugh, and he had filled those Christmas stockings. He had painted that house bright blue.

A flash of grey hair disappearing behind a tall shelf of books caught his eye and he sprung up to investigate, but was met only by more books. One lay open on the ground and he stooped to pick it up. It was blank save for a hastily scribbled note in a handwriting that he recognized as his own.

We lived this life, you and I. This life, beside her, beside them. It was fantastic.

The images were not dreams. They were not fantasies.

They were memories, and they were his.

. . . .

Hope this helped, in its own small way!

The Big Day Dawns.

2008-07-05T06:46:37Z

Well. Here we are. This is It; that which shall determine my psychological health for the next seven to ten years - yours too, I suspect.

It is, (at the time of this post - 16.37 Saturday, Victoria, Australia) 07.23 Saturday in London, the United Kingdom, Earth, the Solar System, Iby's Brain.

Good luck, and may Who bless you.

DO NOT FORGET THE ALCOHOL!

THIS IS OF DIRE IMPORTANCE!

EDIT: Home now from stupid party. This is going to sound silly, but it has just sunk in:

This is the FINAL. The fucking FINAL. In a few short hours, we are going to KNOW the secrets that RTD has been cackling evilly about...well, some of them, We'll KNOW! THE FINAL, PEOPLE! THE FINAL! With every past episode, we've always had hope of the next episode somehoe fixing our broken hearts, but we don't have that with this episode.

I feel ill from nerves.

imaginary_iby @ 2008-07-03T19:07:00

2008-07-03T09:09:43Z

OH. MY. GOSH.

I just found THE best post EVER. It's from a Billie/David community, which isn't really my cup of tea (in the sense that I think real life fic is a bit weird), but the post is the BEST!

It has all these adorable pictures of them and really cute quotes they've given about each other.

Examples:

Billie tells him: "You're more emotional. I like the way you play that stuff - you're good on your feet. You have good hips!"
David laughs: "That's something else entirely!"

Chris Evans: So you're getting on very well with my ex wife...
David Tennant: I, I love her dearly.

I just LOVE that upon completetion of Billie's final scene back in the old days, not only is she crying...he is too! He's all teared up!

CLICK ME AND WHATEVER ANGST YOU HAVE FELT RECENTLY SHALL FADE AWAY

Doctor Who Conspiracy?

2008-07-03T06:46:38Z

Billie, John, Catherine and David are all standing in front of a red truck, that has a big sticker on it saying "Henrik's"

Surely if it was a spoiler or at all important, they'd not park it in the street.

Ok, well...not conspiracy, but...

Am I just late to the party about this? I looked up Henrik's on google, and have a look! Henrik's They're talking about John Lumic and Jackie Tyler. It looks to be a 2006 site but I find it amusing.

I Was Paid To Be A Geek Today.

2008-07-01T13:13:21Z

I had a hilarious moment at work this afternoon. One of the girls was stocking the DVD shelves and she had all five Harry Potter films. She didn't know what order they were supposed to be in, and nobody else in the Service Desk knew, so...

she came and asked me! Me, at the other end of the store! She had a copy of each of them in her arms and I had to line them up for her on the bench.

I was practically crying with laughter. She'd specifically hunted me out, and had bypassed several people. When I asked her about it, she said:

"Well, we figured you'd know."

Is Another Man's Treasure, Nine/Rose by imaginary_iby

2008-07-01T00:12:40Z

Title: Is Another Man's Treasure.
Author: Iby.
Characters and Pairings: The Ninth Doctor, Rose; Nine/Rose.
Genre: Humour and a little smidgeon of romance.
Spoilers: Nope.
Rating: PG.13.
Author's Notes: This is the most dialogue I've ever written for the Ninth Doctor, so I'm a trifle nervous.
Summary: The TARDIS is full to the brim with impossible bits and bobs; things that levitate, things that turn invisible, things that catch on fire if spoken to in the wrong tone. Despite all of this, it is the completely ordinary, slightly charred, obviously loved frying pan that knocks Rose Tyler for six.

The Doctor sniffed indignantly in said cookware’s defence. “Yes, it is. Well done, ten out of ten for observation. It’s does the job. It’s a bit charred I’ll grant, but I did wash it first, thanks.”

imaginary_iby @ 2008-06-30T13:19:00

2008-06-30T03:20:15Z

Title: Meet Me Anywhere.
Author: Iby.
Rating: G.
Genre: Angst, romance, fluff, hurt/comfort.
Characters and Pairings: The Tenth Doctor, Rose; Rose/Ten.
Spoilers: Slight spoilers for The Stolen Earth; it's based around a theme at the end of the episode. Nothing terribly explicit, but I borrowed an idea and it is there.
Author's Note: My flist and I (and I suspect a lot of you good folks) have been going spare since the airing of The Stolen Earth, so this was written as a cheer!up and a fix!it.
Summary: They're close, they're almost there, but then memory takes her and she freezes, stops still. It's up to the Doctor to reach her, to touch her, just as she did so many years ago.

He carried her back to the TARDIS and straight to their room, where he gently placed her on their bed. He shucked off his shoes with surprising ease, as if the Mighty Power of the Converse had decided to, for once, bend to his will.

imaginary_iby @ 2008-06-29T12:39:00

2008-06-29T02:42:50Z

I used to be a person. I used to be a Human Being. I used to have a heart that loved many things, and a brain that thought many thoughs.

Now, I am a Whovian Shell. I eat, sleep, drink and breathe Who. My heart feels only what the show lets it feel, my brain thinks only what the show lets it think.

I suspect I'm not alone here, either.

As to the final seconds of the episode...I'm not worried. I know some of my flist is, but I'm not.

*HUGGLES YOU ALL*

imaginary_iby @ 2008-06-28T20:44:00

2008-06-28T10:49:27Z

Sometimes, I am such a girl.

Got home from work at 7.30 and then I had a full-on:

WHICH TOP? WHICH SKIRT? A SKIRT OR TROUSERS? WHICH TROUSERS? THIS TOP WITH THAT SKIRT OR THAT TOP WITH THOSE TROUSERS? LEAVE HAIR CURLY OR STRAIGHTEN IT? *FRANTICALLY TRIES EVERYTHING ON IN VARYING COMBINATIONS*

SILVER JEWELLERY OR GOLD JEWELLERY? WHICH EARINGS?

FLATS OT HEELS?!?

FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS?!?FLATS OT HEELS!?!

GAH!

I am now dressed in trousers (because it's COLD), a lovely new silk top which I want to huggle and black boots, because last time I went out I wore heels and ended up hobbling around the city like some sort of...hobbly-creature.

My bed CANNOT be seen underneath the pile of clothes that's flopped all over it, my floor cannot be seen underneath thousands of shoes. It's like my room has been invaded my some sort of wardrobe monster.

I am now pleasantly tipsy, which does not bode well, because I haven't even left the house yet. I want to watch Who completely sober tomorrow. I turned down the pre-party drinks at Joel's house, because he makes a kickass Long Island Iced Tea, which is my favourite.

Solving Clues and Finding Who.

2008-06-27T05:16:36Z

So. I had a dream last night that a video tape of The Stolen Earth and Journey's End had been hidden somewhere in a city (I'm not sure which) by BBC Wales. Myself and a group of people had been given a sheet of clues, and each clue solved moved us closer to the location of the tape.

We were progressing very nicely, solving impossible riddles as one always does in dreams. We'd just walked into a pub called the Upside Arms, and there was a supernatural/ghostly wind. We were close, very close, to the loaction of the tape. Then my alarm went off.

Darnation! I was this close to finding a dream!tape of Doctor Who.

I have a party on Saturday night. Thusly, I've decided not to drink too much because I've got to set my alarm for 5.45AM Sunday morning to get The Stolen Earth. I don't want to feel like I've been put through a blender and then stapled back together whilst watching it!

I believe that this is a legitimate concern, but my friends think I'm a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

EDIT: New Behind the Scenes Pictures of The Stolen Earth/Journey's End

Not particularly spoilery, but they *are* from future episodes and contain the characters that appear in them, so...

Billie and David are so cute together. If there was any more chemistry between them, the world would explode. They're all snuggles and flopping about together on the ground and grinning dopily at each other. *squishes them tightly and never lets them go*

Second Edit

Catherine Tate: I always struggle to keep up with David because he hasn't got breasts like I have. Breasts aren't built for running.

I love you, Catherine Tate. I freaking love you to bits and pieces. It is so bloody true and I'm glad that you've acknowledged it.

Girls, are you with me?

Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster

2008-06-24T23:36:27Z

I just found this on the net; isn't it beyond brilliant!?

For the last company picnic management decided that due to liability issues we could have alcohol, but only one (1) drink per person.

I was fired for ordering the cups…

Teehee! My work parties are never like that. Well, the official ones thrown by the managers are never like that. The ones held by us youngins are bacchanalian, riotous affairs. *grins*

imaginary_iby @ 2008-06-20T20:53:00

2008-06-20T10:58:29Z

Ok, I've got to get something off my chest.

When I watch David Tennant as Detective Inspective Peter Carlisle dancing and swinging his hips with his hand on his belly, to The Boy With The Thorn In His Side...I have to fight down the urge to snog the living daylights out of him. I just want to shove him up against a wall and...well, it's better than the best smut!fic out there. My reaction is embarrassing, that's for sure.

I actually swoon. Pardon my French but it. is. just. so. fucking. hot.

So, out of curiousity:

What's your favourite song-scene from Blackpool?

Mine is, obviously The Boy With The Thorn In His Side, but I'm also partial to The Gambler. All that ice-cream licking and head-bobbing!! Then there's Skweeze Me, Pleeze Me, where we have some bed-shaking...

...boy, my mind is in the gutter tonight. I want to watch Blackpool so badly, but the DVD player on my laptop is kicking up a fuss and my mum (who is both slightly drunk and entirely mad) is vaccuuming the house at 9PM and singing at the top of her lungs about pterodactyls. *woe*

Be Warned: Comments contain incoherence, shoddy ~~pretty bloody fantastic~~ flirting, talk of bunks and general whackines. So, upon reflection, don't be warned at all! Stroll right in, dear flist. You'll feel at home!

imaginary_iby @ 2008-06-18T21:25:00

2008-06-18T11:36:01Z

What kind of self-respecting fic archive (with upwards of 1000 stories) only has the title, the rating, and the link for each story?

WHERE IS THE SUMMARY?!?!

What is the world coming to? Is it too much to be forewarned that a fic contains something icky/stupid!?

In my efforts to extricate my heart from the mess that is Doctor Who, I've launched myself back into two of my oldest and dearest fandoms; The West Wing and Angel. Even though I don't go beyond season three of Angel and well...my favourite character dies, it's nice to see all the early!happy again.

As for The West Wing; I bow before it. This is...possibly my fifth official and complete rewatch (that is, from season one to season seven) and it just gets better every time.

In honour of Queen C:

I'm not some snivelling little cry-Buffy. I'm the nastiest girl in Sunnydale history. I take crap from no one...Back off, Polygrip! You think you're bad, all mean and haunty? Picking on poor pathetic Cordy? Well get ready to haul your wrinkley, translucent ass out of this place, cos lady? The Bitch Is Back."

imaginary_iby @ 2008-06-17T00:10:00

2008-06-16T14:35:49Z

Ok, flist. I had this whole post planned out where I was going to put in a picture from the end of Doomsday to try to cheer up some people (namely goldy_dollar) who were...disheartened by Silence in the Library and Forest of the Dead.

Now, I know, I know, Doomsday doesn't equal cheerful, but I thought if I mentioned how heartbreaking it was, it would solidify how in love they were.

Now, I suppose my emotions are always kind of on edge and WHACKY, partly because I'm sort of sensitive, partly because of my problematic personality, and partly because of my mum but...

I am now sobbing. Hysterically, completely hysterically sobbing my eyes out. It just makes me so sad. It can't be right, can it? To feel so sad when I watch it? To feel like...this sort of pain in my belly and chest? It's so real and it hasn' let up since the day Doomsday first aired. I feel like I've been put through a blender and then cobbled back together, but not quite in the right way.

I think I sort of project my sadness about my mum onto it. I must, because a lot of the time I'm in denial about my mum. The brutal sentence is: Doomsday makes me sadder than my mum's diagnosis. Now, I am either the Devil and every evil thing alive in this universe and the next in human form, or I've somehow pushed my real life thoughts/sadness onto my television thoughts/sadness. Does that make sense?

I'm sorry, I know I sound like a complete nutter who you'll all rush to defriend to preserve your own sanity, but...well, what started out as a quest to cheer some people up turned into a quest to be cheered up.

Please, will somebody post some cute pictures or links to cute fics? Just fluff, I just need fluff.