Fic Master List
TARDIS
lyricwrites
Because my LiveJournal is more than one page, I decided I ought to get started on a master list for my fic.  I'm dividing it up roughly by era, and will try to keep fics roughly in temporal order (whatever that means in Doctor Who). So, if you don't see a new fic at the bottom of a category, that's probably because it's in the middle.

When a story fits into more than one category, I will put a link to it in both of them.  This is probably a waste of electrons, but I figure it makes finding things easier.  I have stories for all Doctors except War and Twelve, and I don't know when I'll get around to writing for either of them, so new categories will appear when they appear.

If anyone has any other categories they'd like to see—for instance, if you'd like a list of my first person POV fics so that you can either seek them out or avoid them—please drop me a line.


Anyway, without further ado . . .

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Fic: Someone Else's Promised Land
TARDIS
lyricwrites
Title: Someone Else's Promised Land
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Word Count: 2166
Characters: the Doctor (twelfth), Journey Blue
Summary: The Doctor said that he would do something amazing for Gretchen Alison Carlyle.
Author's Note: unbetaed and un-britpicked, sorry.  I am still finding my bearings with the twelfth Doctor's voice, but I'm fond of this fic even though I'm not sure I got it perfect.

Someone Else"s Promised LandCollapse )

Fic: Always a Bit Left Over
TARDIS
lyricwrites



Title: Always a Bit Left Over
Rating: G
Word Count: 300
Warnings: Offscreen violence
Characters: Amy, Rory, the Doctor (eleventh)
Summary: From tumblrite laurelhach: "
Headcanon: the ‘popcorn’ button on the tardis microwave causes all corn within a two mile radius to violently explode."

Author's note: Unbetaed and written on the spur of the moment because the-last-teabender wrote this, and I am apparently incapable of seeing something like that and not wanting to riff on it myself.  So, here we are.

Always a Bit Left OverCollapse )

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Conversations I wish were imaginary
TARDIS
lyricwrites
Fact: both my children are, at the moment, very interested in cars and trucks.
Fact: both of them have avoided pronouncing "truck" as "fuck," but that doesn't mean they have the correct pronunciation.  They vary between "guck" and . . . well, not guck.
Fact: my neighbor has a gleaming black pickup.
Fact: a not-quite-two-year-old's voice can carry for at least three miles in clear weather.
Fact: For some reason, Mommy has a tendency to facepalm when my darling little girl announces "IS A BIG BWACK COCK!"

So if I have to flee the country and change my name from embarrassment, I just want y'all to know what's going on.
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Fic: The Music Snob of Sherwood
TARDIS
lyricwrites
Title: The Music Snob of Sherwood
Rating: G
Word Count: 200
Warnings: None, unless you count empty threats and egregious trolling.
Characters: The Doctor (Twelfth), Alan-A-Dale
Summary: The Doctor does not have a very good bedside manner.

The Music Snob of SherwoodCollapse )

Kneel Before Stormaggeddon
TARDIS
lyricwrites
What apparently went through my baby boy's head today, just before naptime:

All right, time to keep myself occupied while Mama gets my sister to sleep.  Still don't know why I can't ram the bedroom door with my toy car or make it play "Yankee Doodle Dandy" fifty-seven times.  Grownups are just weird.  Ah, here we are—pokey things!

Right, I've seen Dada use these pokey things before.  This one points, and *press press press press press press* ah hah!  The screen thingy comes on!  Sort of boring, though, just a little sign bouncing around saying "No Signal."  Well, I can fix that with the other pokey thing.  *poke poke poke poke wiggle wiggle wiggle poke*

Hah!  Now everything's purple!  And there are boxes!  *wiggle wiggle wiggle*  No, I don't want to play Mama and Dada's squareness game.  They keep yelling at someone called a "creeper," and I don't think I'd like him.  No, I think I want . . . Internet!  That sounds cool.  I'll get an internet.  *poke poke*

Hey!  Pictures!  Pictures are good!  Little boxes with words are boring.  Go away, little box.  *poke*  Why are there more little boxes?  Wha—HEY!  Mama, why are you taking away my pokey things?  Why are you turning off the screen thingy?  What do you mean, "You can't buy stuff on Amazon?!" Put me down, I have rights!


So . . . yeah.  Despite a vocabulary of less than twelve words, my son is smart enough to use the Playstation.

Mark my words, in five years, he'll be running this joint.  And by "this joint," I suspect I mean "Earth."

Toddler Help
TARDIS
lyricwrites
Just a few examples of toddler help:

Shoe Help. Step 1: Fill Mommy's right shoe with all baby shoes.  Step 2: Fill Mommy's left shoe with balls.  Step 3: Drag shoes to opposite ends of the house.

Phone Help. Wait until Mommy is on the phone with someone who doesn't know you, such as the insurance rep.  Help with the conversation.  Like so:
  Me: Okay, my subscriber ID is 123—
  Baby Boy: BYE-BYE!
  Me: Sorry, one of my toddlers really—
  Baby Boy: BYE-BYE!
  Me: Really likes phones, and he knows what you say to them is—
  Baby Boy: BYE-BYE!  BYE-BYE!  BYE-BYE!!!!
  Me: Shhh, it's not bye-bye time yet!
  Baby Boy (delighted that I took his suggestion and said the thing): BYE-BYE-BYE-BYE-BYE-BYE-BYE!!!
  Me (after a distinctly longer-than-usual phone conversation): Yeah, that's everything.  Thanks for being so understanding.
  Rep: No problem.  Have a nice day!
  Me: Bye!
  Baby Boy: . . . Hewwo?

Bathroom Help. Notice that Mommy is in the bathroom.  Ascertain, through vigorous and possibly head-first testing, that she has firmly closed the door.  Sit outside with sibling and sing/shout, loudly, in two-part cacophony, about bottoms (DODDUMMMM, DODDUMMMM, DODDUM) as if you think that Mommy's bottom is in dire straits (DODDUM DODDUM DODDUM DODDUM) and can only be saved by some sort of epic theme-music power-up (DODDUM!!!  DODDUUUUUUUM!!!!) which will enable it to . . . you know, I don't think I want to pursue that sentence any further.

I wonder how I ever lasted this long without toddler help?
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In Which I Am Ded of Cute and Sass
TARDIS
lyricwrites
I recently had a conversation with my son.

Me: Why would you chew on a sock!  It's a sock! Sock, ugh blech blech blech yuchhhh!
Baby Boy: Tock!  Um num num num nmmmmm! *cheekiest grin in the history of cheek*

Increasingly Unsure if my Conversations Are Imaginary
TARDIS
lyricwrites
What the title says.  I really don't know how much I'm imagining this stuff . . .

Mentions of body functionsCollapse )

. . . but I think communication is at least beginning to occur.  (Which is, frankly, completely incredible in all possible ways.)

*He didn't actually say "ba ba" at this point.  He said something that might, if you try reaaaaallly hard, sound somewhat like his name.  But he's too young to decide whether he wants his name on the internet, so.

Fic: Christmas Punch
TARDIS
lyricwrites
Title: Christmas Punch
Rating: G
Word Count: 1008
Warnings: spoilers through "The Doctor, the Widow, and the Wardrobe," if anyone's still catching up
Characters: Rory, Amy, the eleventh Doctor
Summary: At the end of "The Doctor, the Widow, and the Wardrobe," the Doctor visits the Ponds.  Rory has something very important to say to him.
Author's Note: Unbetaed (again).  A bit of Christmas feel-good that has a bit of a bittersweet edge in light of later developments, but I think remains fairly sweet all the same.  In honor of Matt Smith.  Happy holidays to everyone!

Christmas PunchCollapse )
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