We are a small but welcoming group of Doctor Who enthusiasts that also share a love for Roleplay! We have members of all sorts of RP styles and levels of experience, so don't be shy if you're new! We all start somewhere!
As far as plot goes, it is fairly free reign, with the occasional structured event. Storylines range from Canon to Alternate Universe tellings and anywhere in between! Imagination is your only limitation with the possibilities!
So, go on and browse our canon list and see who's free to snatch up! OR, if you have an original character, we eagerly welcome those as well!
We can't wait to get to know you! Happy RPing!!
Updates
09/19/2017 Mandatory Activity Checks are now a thing of the past!!
No one enjoys doing RP posts when it feels like a chore. So we are doing away with it completely. There are still some posting requirements, but we hope this will make things feel much more relaxed. Be sure to review our rules to get all the details.
Events
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Fitz closed and locked the door to his flower shop behind him — an honest to god flower shop, him, Fitz Kreiner the mighty wanderer and defender of the known universe, keeping up with a flower shop — and bid farewell to his cramped apartment in favor of fulfilling his engagement at Molly’s pub. Molly herself had kicked it just a little under a decade ago, but her kids were fairly decent at keeping the place going, and they kept an open door for Fitz’s performances. They didn’t pay that well, but the nights he performed he got free drinks for himself and the bird of the night he was trying to impress.
It had been sixty-three years since the first time he’d stepped into Molly’s pub as a fresh-faced eighteen year old. Sixty-three calendar years anyway — Fitz had lived both a thousand and some odd years and only five years while aboard the TARDIS, and the very thought of made his head ache. Molly’s had been updated and modernized, but it was still essentially the same— just now with big color televisions mounted on the wall and a better live music set up. It was odd to only be in his thirties and have lived a hundred lifetimes over.
It was still a small club - or maybe Fitz just spent too much time there that he had mostly everyone memorized. All the regular faces, all the recurring faces, most of the every-so-often faces. He had a good view from his throne — or the stage, as Fitz had to remind himself that he was just crownless Fitz Kreiner and not the eternally lovable intergalactic man of mystery Fitz Fortune anymore. He flashed a smile to the crowd — small, mostly familiar, and looking keenly up at him. A few new faces - two couples and an older bloke with sunglasses. “Evening,” he greeted, still giddy — no matter how many times he did this, he’d never get over the rush of energy that came with performing.
Only three songs that night — the simple siren song he’d written on the TARDIS what felt like ages ago, Across the Universe by the Beatles, and Elvis’ Heartbreak Hotel. He hopped off the stage, leaving his guitar in the case on the stage to pick it up again later. Most of the crowd had dispersed already - a few of the regulars clapped him on the back, and he beamed back at them. He sidled casually next to the bloke in the sunglasses, trying to ooze charisma and charm. Hey - the more charming he was, the more likely to get a bigger crowd. “Buy you a drink?” he offered.
Listening to the music had been such a nice dose of nostalgia, and such a strong feeling of home that the Doctor hadn't been able to pull away. He knew logically that it was silly to expect to be able to find Clara. He'd lost those memories for a reason. Had lost her for a reason, and no amount of contrition was going to release him from this punishment.
But that didn't stop him from trying. The Doctor wasn't very good at only doing what he should or at sticking to even his own rules.
He gave the guitarist with the oh so familiar voice a slow smile, eyes sparkling behind his shades.
"Oh I don't drink, except when I do. But I'd be glad of the company, I think I've been looking for you."
Alright, that was cryptic, but he could work with that. In another time, the words ‘I’ve been looking for you’ would have sent him scarpering, but they didn’t ruffle him too badly now. “They make a mean coke float here,” Fitz said. “It’s too distressingly lacking in alcoholic content for me but it’s healthier for your liver in the long run, I’ve been led to believe.” He led the man over to the bar, taking a seat at his favorite stool in the corner.
“So, you think you’ve been looking for me?” he addressed finally, wondering if this weren’t a conversation that would be easier if he weren’t sober. “What do you mean by that? In… the general sense, like you were just lookin’ for someone to play at Little Susie’s birthday or the specific sense, like ‘hey, Fitzie boy, been lookin’ top to bottom for ya?’”
The Doctor pondered asking what the difference between a mean and a nice coke float might be, but ultimately he decided against it. Humour was only valuable when it didn't detract from communication.
He didn't have the slightest problem following the man to a chair, eagerness and amusement had him slightly grinning even. That smile turned to fond exasperation as the musician talked, however.
"Little Susie's birthday?" he repeated, shaking his head. "I'm certain I've told you, Clara. I won't be intentionally introducing you to my granddaughter before she's married."
He frowned slightly at the name Fitz though, as if it was something he could almost grasp.
"Fortune?"
There was another name there, but it slid too quickly from his grasp.
Fitz stared at the man, his jaw slightly open as he was admonished. Susie — Susan? The same granddaughter that the Doctor had cried into shoulder about over a diary? That Susan? Getting married? (Again?) Intentionally introducing him? “I— um,” Fitz said intelligibly. “Okay.” He was getting excited over nothing, because if this was the Doctor — and it wasn’t, because a lot of people had granddaughters named Susan — then he would have been recognized. Because he didn’t risk his life over and over and over in a war that had nothing to do with him just to be forgotten.
Except, knowing his luck, and the Doctor, he probably did.
“Fortune,” he affirmed, keeping his voice steady and nonchalant. “Kreiner, if you want to the family name. But I’m sure you knew all that,” Fitz said, the poster child of modesty as he waved a hand towards the stage. “What’s your name, then? Um… a doctor, right?”
He wasn't Clara. The Doctor was sure he should be more disappointed, even though the musician was fairly clearly a male (he'd gotten much better at discerning that!) He was curious, trying desperately to remember what those words, those names, strung together meant.
Fitz Fortune. Fitz Kreiner.
He knew them. More, knew he should know them.
"Intergalactic man of mystery, wasn't it?"
The words fell off his lips and tongue easily, but only flashes of what he should have known stuck behind his teeth for him to mull over. He grinned anyway, a knowing twinkle in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Fitz said after a long moment of trying to get his voice to work through the treacherous lump in his throat. “That’s me,” he continued, pushing forward valiantly. This had to be the Doctor, because he’d really only used that line with the Doctor and Sam, and maybe a few other birds he’d try to pick up at various locations through time and space. It’d never quite worked.
Fitz couldn’t help but grin in response, feeling his nerves settle. The Doctor might not remember him — which could be a good thing, because maybe then he didn’t remember all the awful things they’d had to do during the war. Fitz was familiar with the role of guarding the Doctor’s memories... why not add a different version to the mix? “Your stellar bedside manner,” he answered with a wink. “What brings you to our quaint little pub, Doc?”
He definitely knew a Fitz Fortune, the Doctor decided. The TARDIS would be able to fill him in, should she feel so inclined. He did furrow his eyebrows in confusion at the answer he received, however. They were nowhere near a bed, and while he had been trying at improving his delivery of bad news, the Doctor didn't think anything he'd said so far qualified.
The silver haired time lord leaned back after a moment of contemplating that and eyed the musician in front of him with a bemused expression.
"Didn't I tell you? I've been looking for you."
Subconsciously, apparently.
Reaching under his coat, the Doctor pulled out his electric guitar enough to be seen.
"There's a piece I'd like to share with you sometime."
“Said you might’ve been looking for me,” Fitz conceded wryly, “but then you called me Clara.” He figured those two events canceled each other out, but this was probably the Doctor, which meant that he really shouldn’t be trying to think in a logical sequential order. It was a bitter pill to swallow; he’d seen a Time Lord regenerate and watched them morph into someone new, but imagining the Doctor’s death was uncomfortable and sour. He pushed it to the back of his mind.
And it was easy to forget that particular grievance, because the very next moment the Doctor was showing him a guitar. Fitz stared at it for a long moment, then looked at the Doctor with a wide grin stretching his face. “Now,” Fitz said, jumping to his feet with all the excitement of a boy half his age. “I want to listen to it now. We can go by my apartment; it’s just a few blocks from here.”
The Doctor snorted. "Easy mistake to make." Surely Fitz couldn't hold that against him! They'd both become fairly immortal after being separated from him. And leaving and forgetting both of them.
He'd loved both of them in his own way as well. It truly was an easy mistake to make.
The silver haired man had pushed on ahead regardless, showing off his guitar. Unlike Missy, Fitz clearly approved of his instrument choice. Eyes sparkling with amusement, the Doctor was fully on his feet and bounding to the door in a moment.
Of course Fitz had approved of his instrument choice — he’d only been trying to get the Doctor to take up guitar for years, before and after he’d turned into a violin prodigy. Fitz wondered, just for a moment before deciding it was pointless to pursue it, who had been the one to give him the final nudge into learning it. After all, the Doctor had dramatically revealed his ability to play the hapsichord, flute, transverse cello, harp, banjo, theremin and wobbleboard along with his violin.
That was eight instruments — for all Fitz knew, maybe the Doctor made it a game to learn an instrument per life. Maybe the ninth instrument had always been meant to be guitar.
The Doctor didn’t need to tell him twice to ‘come along’, Fitz following cheerfully and quickly behind him. After all, even if Fitz still wasn’t totally reassured that the Doctor had really been looking for him, the point was still that he’d been found. He had a hundred questions easy — feel bad for abandoning me yet, wanker? and did the war turn out to be just as hopeless as it felt? and did you at least die a good man? — but none of them were exactly tactful.
“I like the outfit,” he said instead, hopping in front of the Doctor to lead him back to the flower-shop apartment. He spun to walk backwards, holding up his hands to mimic a camera. “Very magician chic. Dramatic. Very Doctory.” His back slammed into a light pole and he chuckled, feeling sheepish as he put his hands in his pockets and walked the normal way. “Who’s Clara? She helped you after the war?”
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