(no subject)

[retro_eidas]

Oh. my. Giddy. Aunt.


My inner-pig isn't looking above, but that gradual curve down the back. Look at that curve. What I would give to see her in a pencil skirt. I don't care if they're hard to run in and they're usually accompanied by heels and would be entirely impractical for TARDIS/UNIT adventuring. She has that body that cries for the fitted. Although that cameraman behind her seems to have let out the inner-pig buck wild, nice angle on that camera there.


I desperately want to see the back of that dress, it looks to have a dip?

Oh and these were apparently from something called The South Bank Awards that I really don't care about at all.

I wonder if she could get cast in "Heroes"? Perhaps during Claude's sudden, but inevitable return? Or maybe as St. Joan's hot, British cousin who is a suprsekrit agent on her Majesty's Secret Service with a penchant for tight leather as she channels Emma Peel? *has very giddy, happy dreams*

Comments

[amy-wolf.livejournal.com]

You know that thing you do where you post pretty pictures of Freema and I look at them?

Yeah, keep doing that.

[eido.livejournal.com]

God help me, but I think the plotbunny is now overwhelming me of Martha being *gasps* a chameleon-arched Rani (Freema has such a lovely eyebrow arch that could most definitely be utilized for naughty purposes). Simm!Master then returns (miraculously cured of all his racism and homophobia) and since only EVOL OverTime Lords are apparently interested in teh sex, she and the Master decide the best way to win over the Lonely God to their New Time Lord Empire is to utterly corrupt him in a lascivious fashion. Then all their evil sexual energy proceeds to take over the universe.

[violetisblue.livejournal.com]

...I totally want this story now.

[eido.livejournal.com]

And he looked on in despair as the Master held the child, his beautiful shepherd, Martha Jones in his arms. Echoing the position from months previous as he believed he'd held the last of his kind, dying like a human in his arms. How stupid he was to think that centuries' grip on an obsessive survival instinct could be discarded so easily. The bright, blinding glow from the watch flooding into her as she screamed. Screams dying away with the dimming light and, to the Doctor's horror, that distinct, irrepressible presence in the back of his mind growing steadier to the fore. Then all there was the terrible weight of silence but the buildings around crumbling apart from the inferno of the Master's wake and her breathing, growing stronger and more sure each passing second.

She began to stir and the Master held her tighter and with a tenderness so unlike him, pushed the hair from her face to look into the eyes that were slowly fluttering open and he said softly as if speaking to a child, "Ye shall be as gods and know good and evil," and he turned to look at the Doctor, arrogant victory etched all over his face, "The child Martha Jones is dead." Every fiber of the Doctor was quaking then. Either with fury or anguish he didn't know. Yet he was helpless to watch as those eyes opened to look on the face of his enemy, her enemy, with a look that should have never been there, not for *him*, but with a familiarity that terrified him. A familiarity that would frequent his dreams more than he'd ever admit to these empty, wandering times, of images of long corridors of burnt orange light seeping through ancient windows and being late for exams and rivalries that stirred feelings in him that could come to no good at all. Images believed forgotten but never forgotten.

Agonizingly slow, those eyes - those fathoms-deep pools, so alien in that face of his lost, beautiful shepherd - turned to him. Those eyes that beckoned him to come to them and complete the terrible fall he began since the storm destroyed two planets 'for the good' - a lie his mind repeated incessantly - of the universe and left him the lonely authority. The lies he could hear now desperately screaming to him with Donna's, Sarah Jane's and Rose's voices, heard now like the fading, hollowing cries on the winds of the barren Arcadia. Inspiration, madness, fugue held within those eyes and he frighteningly knew with an inescapable finality he never had far to fall.

BAH! This is why I don't fic. Clearly the madness has overtaken me. *goes to hunt for coffee*