*crickets chirp*

[hope]

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.

So! I would like to take some prompts in order to ramble ficcishly in comments.

My current fandom is Torchwood with a side of New Who, please prompt me in that direction. I may consider crossovers with other shows/books/texts I'm familiar with. Scenario prompts work best for me, the sillier the better. (And those who are familiar with the epic crackfic, you're not allowed to request anything you know is already going into that.)

Right! *rubs hands together* Let's see how that goes?

ETA:

All ficlets from this are now posted here.

Comments

[hope]

The CEO's got a new temp in, a ginger bird, built like a fucking amazon only with two tits, which, he might add, both appear to be in excellent working order. When he looks back up at her face again she's glaring at him, and if looks could kill then Owen would be a pile of mincemeat right now. He glares back defiantly; what the bloody hell did she expect, with her neckline plunging like a bungee jumper?

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 and he's got work to do.

Back in his cubicle, he opens up his working spreadsheet and flips open the manila folder alongside his keyboard again. For a few minutes he drums his fingers lightly against the surface of the keys, not enough pressure to depress them as the cells blur into a tablecloth pattern before his eyes. He then spends an hour constructing a working propeller out of a ball of elastic bands, two blunt pencils and a staple remover.

By then it's almost half-four. He spins side to side in his chair until his computer clock ticks over to four-thirty-four, then clicks onto another spreadsheet and hits print.

Hard copy file in his hand, he makes his leisurely way past short row of cubicles, keeping his head forward to maintain the air of purposeful confidence before stepping into the boss's antechamber.

"Hallo love, just got this report for Mister..." It's the ginger bird. Sitting at the CEO's PA's desk, looking up at him with mixed parts relish and scorn. "...Smith," Owen finishes pitifully. Shite. He should have known, Smith never managing to keep a PA around for longer than a few months at a time. Bloody temps.

"Sorry, love," Ginger says. "Mister Smith is indisposed at the moment, but if you'd like to wait--" She gestures generously towards the uncomfortable chairs that sit flush against the flimsy wall opposite her desk. "--I'm sure he won't be long."

Owen waves his papers a little, eyes shifting. "I could always just--"

"Oh no," she says, smiling. It doesn't make him feel any more at ease. "It'll be any minute, now." She points imperiously. Owen sits.