#anyway thanks for the prompt <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[erwinsvow]

an idea… rafe and shy reader having sex for the first time

everything's overwhelming with rafe, but this is particularly so. you thought you were completely ready for it, from the way you had handled everything else so well. in fact, rafe was the one taking things at the slowest pace possible, trying to make sure he didn’t pressure you into something you weren’t ready for.

you didn’t like it—thought he was trying to be something he’s not. he’s gentle with you but never like this, never to this extent. it must be a big deal then, sleeping with rafe, giving him your virginity, you finally decide, if he’s acting so differently about it.

in fact, you think you’ve been ready to give it up since you first started dating him. rafe brings it out of you, coaxes a different side of you out with gentle words and soft touches. you’re going mad over it. you can’t count the amount of times you’ve crawled into his lap at any given opportunity, anywhere the two of you are alone—his truck, the couch in your living room and at tannyhill, the hidden booth at the country club. you’re begging for it, not sure how much more obvious you can get.

you finally decide tonight’s the night—following a nice dinner with the two of you. you had spent extra long getting dressed up, a pretty white lingerie set on underneath your blue dress, all done up for rafe. finally back at tannyhill, entire body vibrating and tingling with excitement, you don’t wait another moment, crawling into rafe’s lap and kissing him hard. you take off your dress and rafe stops just for a second to take in how forward you’re being.

“hey,” he finally breathes against your lips, pulling away. “c’mon, you’re not ready for this.” 

“yes i am!” you whine, impatient and horny, feeling rafe get hard underneath you. you want him to be able to do all the things you know he wants to do, want them done to you. “i am, i am-” and you lean back to kiss him, ending up pinned underneath him before long.

he knows you’re not, but he plays along. you’re so wet already he doesn’t have to do much, but he makes you cum all over his fingers anyways, hoping it’ll satiate you.

“please, rafe,” you moan against his mouth, pushing in for another needy kiss. “wan’ it inside. please.” and he does know you, knows everything about you, but even he can’t resist when you say things like that.

you watch with big eyes while he lines himself up with your wet hole, hovering over you. you think you’re so ready, that three of rafe’s fingers inside you should be comparable to what you’re about to feel, that you’re more than prepared. your eyes squeeze shut when rafe pushes inside, all the air leaving your lungs. you try to moan out but it’s more of a gasp than anything else, one that rafe swallows into a kiss. 

your eyes get watery—it’s just habit. it hurts, too, because rafe is so much bigger than you expected. you bite your cheek, looking up at rafe through teary eyes and clasping a hand over your mouth—you don’t want to admit that he was right. 

“c’mon kid, give it up. y’not ready for this, i know you,” rafe says, leaning in close to your ear to whisper it quietly. he’s not even half-way inside you.

“i-i can take it,” you hiccup. you hate disappointing rafe.

and it’s not that he doesn’t want to—he does, desperately so, wants to fuck you within an inch of your sanity every time you walk into a room and look at him with your shy eyes and sweet smile. he wants to break you, wants you cumming on his dick until there’s nothing left in your head, no shyness left in your heart. but he wants it when you’re ready for it, not like this.

it only takes another minute, you finally admit you’re not ready, and rafe pulls out of you. you feel like crying, terribly sad and dejected, wishing you could just be normal for rafe for once, be what he wants. 

“stop,” he says, wiping away a stray tear. his arm rests over your stomach, trying to get you to lighten up. “when you’re ready for it, i’ll fuck you until you can’t think. s’just not today, kid.”

you finally agree when he says that, getting over it because you know without a doubt in your mind—rafe knows you better than you know yourself.

[skibasyndrome]

Oooh could you try "This was a bad idea." "Then why are you still kissing me?" 👀

Thank you :)

Hi Helen! Thank you so so so much for sending me one of these!!! 💜💜💜 This was a lot of fun <3

Whatever song is playing right now, Simon couldn’t possibly muster the brain capacity to recognize it. He’s gone, nothing else matters, he’s 50% butterflies and 50% wobbly knees. Simon doesn’t know how they ended up like this. He doesn’t know how he ended up with Wille crowding him against the wall in the most closed off corner of Felice’s living room they could find. How he ended up with his fingers threaded through Wille’s hair, with his lips moving against Wille’s. But, god, Wille’s kissing him. Wille’s lips are so soft, feel even softer than they look, and whatever Simon has spent the past months imagining doesn’t even compare to the real thing, to having Wille close like this. Closer than they’ve ever been before.

When Simon feels Wille’s tongue gentle nudging against his bottom lip, his breath hitches. No day-dreaming about his best friend could’ve prepared him for the feeling of them deepening their kiss. It’s- everything about it is so very Wille, that Simon feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. He’s gentle, he’s soft, but there’s an underlying urgency there, there’s Wille leaning into Simon, Wille cradling the side of Simon’s neck. Wille is kissing him like Wille does all things, with care and attention to detail, but with a determination that Simon has always found unfairly attractive. When Wille pulls away, Simon wants to whine. Thankfully, he seems to muster a last shred of self-respect, keeps his eyes shut firmly to stay in the moment for longer and oh, oh. Wille isn’t leaving. He nuzzles his nose against Simon’s, his breath tickles Simon’s lip and. Well. How is Simon supposed to resist. He tugs Wille closer, blindly finds his lips again, feels his pulse hammering loudly in his ears when he gets another taste of Wille. Just… Wille. And some mint from his chewing gum, and- sweet and fruity like the shots Maddie was handing out earlier. A knot of dread lodges itself between Simon’s ribs. This isn’t- this isn’t how any of this was supposed to go. Fuck. Right. He’s an idiot. He’s an idiot who got impatient and who might’ve just blown his one chance at doing this the right way. He’s fighting his every instinct when he pulls back, immediately misses Wille’s mouth on his. “This was a bad idea." His voice wavers, shaky, unsure. God, he can’t even convince himself. Wille’s hand on his neck stills, and Simon immediately thinks he’s made a mistake.

And because he’s an idiot, because he can’t help himself, because it’s been too long and because now he might never have the real thing, he lurches forward again. Desperate and needy and acting like he’s gonna find the air that’s suddenly gone from his lungs on Wille’s lips. But this time it’s Wille who stops him, who gently pushes Simon away after a brief touch of their lips. Just far enough for Wille to rest his forehead against Simon’s. "Then why are you still kissing me?" Wille sounds more sober than he’s done all evening, sounds… Simon can’t place the tone, and he suddenly feels like he’s going to cry.  He’s kissed his best friend. His drunk best friend. His drunk best friend who does this. Casually, from time to time. Who he’s seen kissing Maddie and Felice and Nils and who always ends up a giggly, beautiful mess afterwards, only to never kiss them again. Only to go back to being their friend. And now Simon is going to be another friend he’s kissed while drunk at a party and will never kiss again. It takes everything inside of him not to let out a pathetic little noise of frustration. “You’re drunk,” he forces out instead, saying nothing at all. He shakes his head.  “We’re drunk,” he corrects himself and suddenly curses every decision that’s lead him here and curses his earlier self for ever thinking those shots would be a good idea. Maybe without them, he wouldn’t have- All thoughts desert Simon’s brain at once when Wille lifts a hand up to his cheek. Every fingertip is warm and comforting, and yet Simon feels like he’s breaking apart under the touch. But Wille is still close, so close, his breath is everything Simon hears, his cologne everything he smells, and a silly, silly part of him is still clinging to the illusion. “Did you not want to kiss me?”

Something about the way he asks it, nothing but earnestness, is so very Wille that it cracks Simon’s chest right open. He doesn’t think he could lie to Wille, ever, but especially not now. So he nods, accidentally brushing the tip of his nose against Wille’s. “I did,” he breathes. But, because that’s not quite right, he tries again, with his heart beating so fast he thinks he might have to sit down.  “I do. Do wanna kiss you.” For a beat, there’s nothing. Just Simon, suspended in a vacuum, one second from falling to his death. But then he’s back, Wille is back, is somehow closer, is pressing small kisses against Simon’s lips, his nose, his cheek, and Simon can breathe again, sucks in the air that smells like Wille. “Then kiss me again,” Wille says, lips somewhere near Simon’s ear, then on his cheek. “Please.” Simon thinks he can taste the single syllable on his tongue when he pulls Wille in again.

[alcettogo]

30 - It's Finally Over

Prompt List

[atoriv-art]

What are your thoughts on Sasuke x Gaara

beautiful showstopping saved my life we love you sasugaa <333

ok to actually answer: i think they have a very compelling dynamic! i really really like their chunin exams era with gaara being weirdly obsessed with sasuke because they're both "damaged" to put it in some way!

i wish we got to see sasuke's opinion about it a little more, especially since it comes at a time where he's starting to come around to the idea of using his power to protect and not just kill itachi, but this "i relate to your pain and i need to make sure my pain (and to gaara, therefore my power) is still bigger and more powerful" dynamic is soooo fun to me as an introduction point between them! i find it a lot more compelling than what it got interrupted by 😅

i understand the value of having gaara see someone who is Literally just like him (ie also a jinchuriki), but imo having him deal with someone who he perceives as Emotionally just like him (ie traumatized, angry and lonely) was already excellent...

also!!!!!!!!!! i'm not a fan of how sasuke is characterized in the five kage summit in general (or rather how he's demonized by the framing of it all. i love a good public meltdown. his evil laugh lives in my brain) BUT i looooooooove the scene with gaara confronting him i was NOT expecting it when i was watching it the first time and it was like an angel smiled down upon me.

and and and (guy who gets to bring up the naruto games again) they do a fun reversal of their original dynamic there it in the ninja storm games, with sasuke being the one to flaunt his pain and power against gaara

LIKE SORRY I JUST THINK IT'S FUNNN!!!! they have a lot in common and deal with it similarly but when gaara's at his lowest sasuke's starting to get better, and that gets flipped later on: when gaara's figured himself out it's sasuke who's completely spiraling... hehehehe!

ok ill put the rest in a read-more. jesus

i get why the pairing isn't very popular (sasuke has like, two of the biggest pairings soaking up all of the fandom attention span alkdsmak) but i cannot standddd the weird consensus that they don't like each other 😭 gaara showed in that scene that he does still hold some amount of respect and empathy for sasuke, enough to offer him a helping hand when he was at his lowest, and sasuke himself was engaging in the conversation much as he disagreed with gaara... it's gaara who starts the fighting back up, not sasuke!

imo gaara's words to naruto later on that get twisted into a "girl dump him" speech (😒.) are obviously meant to serve as a warning to manage expectations, because he Knows his friend is still not going to give up on sasuke and might not even particularly want him to, but he's speaking from the kage angle as opposed to what he personally would want

gaara CRIED for sasuke and stopped the fighting specifically to talk to him for fuck's sake he doesn't HATE him, his siblings have to convince him to give up on trying to talk to him and there's a distinction made of what should be done as a kage. and while i have a thousand things to say about how i don't love how the manga handles its kage characters wrt framing them as Generally Good, i do think it's notable that it's this that makes him give it up

"personal feelings" meaning, his siblings can recognize that gaara doesn't fucking want to fight him and would really prefer to talk this out. I think about this a lot sorry KSMDKSMDK so much of the consensus is that gaara, specifically, can't stand sasuke and for WHAT.

and as a sidebar i think their insistence on calling e/o by their full names/titles ("Uchiha Sasuke" / "Gaara Of The Sand") is so fucking funny.

i know what you are. also:

sasuke engaging in battle banter. OPEN YOUR EYES

ANYWAY!

i actually think that of my "quirky" pairings (the sasugaaneji triad that is.) it's the one with the most canon basis and it's not even close. however it's also the one that i notice people engaging the least with ASKJDNSAKD which is obviously fine it's just a little funny to me

[rakiah]

so i read that lions will follow females they're interested in and this gave me an idea for a funny scenario:

leona peacefully taking his nap, waking up the instant he hears vil's voice, and instinctively trying to get up before actively stoping himself while cursing his cat instincts

probably the moment he goes "fuck i'm in love with him aren't i?"

Give me more time and I’ll do a short comic about that cause this prompt is gold ✨

[hailsatanacab]

I'll ask after that secret number 8!

I only remembered secret number 8 because I saw your wip here! I'd started this one based on the same prompt, then lost said prompt and stopped working on it 😅

Instead of a snippet, I'm just dropping it all here - maybe that way I'll feel inspired to finish it?

———

It’s a full house for dinner tonight and, really, that should have tipped him off.

Bruce sits at the head of the table, smiling softly as he watches over everyone’s antics. Damian is regaling Dick with everything they saw at the zoo that day (Danny had been so happy to see Delilah the purpleback gorilla again, and her new little additions to the troupe, too!) and how well they are implementing the grant the Wayne Foundation had gifted them. Tim, Steph, Cass, and Duke are all engaged in a thumb-war tournament which Danny has no interest in participating in. It just wouldn’t be fair on them.

Danny loves that look. The one where Bruce’s eyes crinkle when he thinks none of the kids can see him. It oozes love and it makes Danny’s heart, his core, ache. 

It’s been a little over a year since Alfred found him on the street and managed to wrangle him back to the manor to stay—even after the whole biting thing when he realised how rich they were. 

A little over a year here and Danny’s starting to feel like family.

Starting to feel like he might, just maybe, like to make it official.

“Danny,” Bruce says, drawing everyone’s attention. Danny starts at his name, but Bruce’s voice is warm and calm, and his shoulders lose their tension almost immediately. “Danny, I have something I would like to tell you.”

“Uhhh…” is all Danny can croak out, eyes flicking back and forth between Bruce and the rest of them. Smooth. Looking good, Danny.

Except… they’re all happy. All smiles, all relaxed body language, all radiating calm and love and acceptance. Well, not Damian—his face is as thunderous as it always is—which at least means it’s nothing too out of the ordinary.

“Danny, first of all, I just want to impress upon you that this is in no way something you have to do. You are under no obligation to join us and, no matter what, you shall always be welcome with us in the manor.”

Wait, what? Danny squints at Bruce, trying to parse exactly what he’s saying… Is he—is this them asking to adopt him? Do they want to make it official, too? 

It’s been a little over a year and of course Danny has imagined calling Bruce ‘Dad’. Of course he’s imagined being part of the family, of course he wants to make it official!

He can’t help the beaming grin or the bright and bubbling “Yes!” already waiting on his lips. All Bruce has to do is ask, all Danny needs to hear is—

“I’m Batman.”

The smile freezes on Danny’s face.

His lungs stop working, his heart stops working, he stops working, he just—

“And I’m Nightwing,” Dick smiles, breaking the awkward silence. 

Danny’s eyes snap to him, and then down to Tim when he admits to being Red Robin. Duke is Signal, Steph is Spoiler. Damian begrudgingly tells him he’s Robin, but Danny can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“I’m Black Bat.” Cass cocks her head, almost looking concerned. It always felt like she understood him the most. Whenever he was feeling low, too in his memories, or stewing after a nightmare, she was always there, ready to card her fingers through his hair and never mention his tears. It makes his heart ache to think of it now. “It’s okay, Danny.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, but how—how can it be okay? How? 

Danny’s spent a little over a year with them. A little over a year with Batman. 

Batman, who works with the Justice League, who works with…

A little over a year. 

Just under 16 months since he escaped.

“Danny? Are you alright?” Bruce asks

Finally, his lungs kickstart and suck in a shuddering breath, only for everyone to drop their smiles.

Didn’t take them long, did it? Now that their ruse is up, there’s no kindness in their eyes, they’re just… cold, calculating. Evaluating. 

“Why?” Danny gasps, his fingers tingling, his heart in his throat.

Just under 16 months since he—has he escaped? Or was this just another one of their experiments?

"I... I trusted you, why—" Danny chokes back a sob, gritting his teeth as his shoulders shake. Why? Why would they do this? "I was happy here, with you. I thought... Weren't you happy?"

"Danny..." Bruce is looking at him, eyes narrow and eyebrows pinched, in some cruel facsimile of confused concern and all Danny can think is how much of an actor he is. How well he can play the part of a doting father. How much he made him want that.

"I don't understand, why..." 

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you before, I can imagine that it comes as a shock. We shouldn't have lied to you, Danny, but—"

"Stop it!" Danny slams his hands down on the table and pushes himself up on wobbly legs. Even standing, he feels so small. Smaller than Bruce, than all of his adopted siblings. They crowd above him when they all stand, too. "Just stop it! Why are you doing this, why are you still pretending? Stop it!"

It was easier, with Danny's biological parents. The knowledge that they'd do anything to get him on a lab table, to open him up and see what makes him tick, to rip him apart molecule by molecule, had always been there. He knew they hated ghosts. He knew they hated Phantom. He knew they hated him. It was easier because it was something he'd known all his life. When he died, when he became a ghost, he knew what to expect from them. It hurt, of course it did.

But it was easier than this.

"Danny, I'm going to need you to take a deep breath. You're having a panic attack and you need to breathe."

"Breathe?" Danny laughs, the sound harsh and choking, too high pitched in his hysteria. "You're joking, right? Or is this just more of the—the experiment?"

"Danny, please, we don't know what you're talking about, you—"

"You don't know? You're Batman! You work with the Justice League, you work with—" His words choke off as his stomach churns, bile rising in his throat. His whole body itches, screaming at him to leave, he can't go back, he can't, he can't, he can't!

Bruce takes a hesitant step forward and Danny scrambles back, his feet catching on the chair behind him and sending him careening to the floor. Where are the agents? Why aren't they swarming in, ready to apprehend him, strap him back on the table, carve him from the inside out.

"Please, Danny, calm down. We don't—"

Danny stops listening. His back hits the wall and he pulls his knees into his chest, his shoulders dipping down as he begins to sob. His heart throbs inside his throat, too painful to swallow around. Tears fall hot and heavy on his face.

Sure, he could run. He could phase out through the wall and he could be out of Gotham in a couple of hours. He's escaped the GIW once, he can do it again.

But that was before Batman knew who he was. Before he had the World's Greatest Detective on his tail.

Before he... 

He really thought this would be different, you know?

He wanted to make it official.

"Why did... Why were you so nice to me? Why did you make me like you? I really—I really liked you. I-I thought we could be a family."

"Danny, we are a—"

"Don't lie to me!" Danny snaps, but the force of his anger leeches all the fight from him, and suddenly all that's left is a bone-weary tiredness. There’s a lump in his throat that hurts. There’s a line down his chest that burns. "I don't care. I don't care anymore, I don't. Just... don't make me go back there. Please." 

Is it futile? He thought he knew how the GIW operated by now, the depths that they would go to achieve their results, but this... this was a whole new level of pain that Danny thought he had left behind him in Amity.

"We're not going to make you go anywhere, Danny, you're safe here, I promise."

"Safe? Safe? You must have—" he takes a deep breath, tries to stop the quivering of his voice. It’s all starting to make sense, now.  "The reason you're telling me who you are is because you must have told them everything already. I know the Justice League—I know you're working with them, which means the ex-experiment is over now, and they're coming to take me back. And I can't go back."

"Danny—"

"I can’t!” Danny glares at Bruce with all the rage he can, fingernails digging into his skin. “I’m not going back!"

"That's right, you're not going back, Danny. I won't let that happen." Bruce crouches down in front of Danny, his hands open and raised as if he's trying to say he's not a threat. "I don't know who you're talking about, and I'm sorry about that, but I can promise you that you’re not going back there. We will keep you safe."

Danny pulls himself closer, tucks himself further into the wall, eyes flickering all across the room waiting for that tell-tale flash of white as the agents start to swarm.

He should take his chances now and run, he should go, he needs to go!

The rest of them, his brothers and sisters of a little over a year, are spread out, giving him and Bruce some space. The same concern colours all of their faces. Why are they still pretending?

Steph is chewing on her thumb. 

Danny liked Steph and her brash confidence, her jokes. She's been promising to paint his nails for months now, they've just never found the time. He was going to go for green and black, or maybe a galaxy theme, depending on what she felt comfortable doing.

He likes them all.

"You were supposed to be my family." His mouth turns down at the corners and his voice shakes like a child. "You were supposed to—why? Why would you—I don't understand why you would make me like you..."

"This isn't an experiment, Danny," Bruce's voice is steady, soothing. "I promise."

"But you work with them and—"

"Who do I work with?"

"The Justice League."

"Yes, I do, but we—"

"And the Justice League works with them. The GIW." Danny trembles with the name, clutching tightly onto his hoodie. "I'm not going back there, Bruce."

Danny doesn't miss Bruce's look over his shoulder, nor Tim's nod in return. Tim turns slightly to the side to hide his movements, but Danny bets he has his phone in his hand, probably letting them know they can take him now. Guess this is it, then. They'll be here soon, and he'll be gone.

"Kill me."

"Danny? What do—"

"If you ever had any kindness for me, if you ever cared, kill me. Please, Bruce. I can't do it again."

"Danny..."

"End me now. Take my core out and break it, please, before they get here."

[wisteriagoesvroom]

For the trope mashup thing whatever: arranged marriage and neighbors 👀 - CX

again not one i would've picked but thank you for prompting it !! this also uh, got longer than i thought.

(from the prompts mash up - still taking submissions)

--------

“What do you mean your visa’s running out?” Lando asks.

“I’m Australian. Not a magician. Commonwealth only gets you so far.” 

“I thought you were here on a scholarship.”

“Well. Yeah. But scholarships stop. Once you graduate.” 

Lando toes the doorway rug. It feels weird to be talking about this in the middle of the hallway, though the only other person who would be listening might be Mrs. Kapoor, and half the time it’s only because she sticks her head out to ask if Lando or Oscar would take one of her mystery vegan curries. Lando is neither a huge fan of vegan food nor curry, and he trusts Oscar’s word for it that it’s good because they eat it while playing Gran Turismo at Lando’s place. But Lando always accepts the curries nonetheless, because his parents raised him to be polite, and he wasn’t raised in a barn. (Even if he technically grew up in converted farmhouse in the countryside, but that was besides the point.)  Either way, this is slipping away from him much quicker than he’d anticipated. Late night hangouts, dropping mail and post-it notes, text messages about the community garden. The most inane smalltalk about things big and small from the origins of moths to whether aliens were out there or just chose to ignore the +44 area code. Oscar always laughing in the right places when Lando regales him about tales of his terrible online dating stories, Oscar always picking the pickles out of the roast beef bagels before he passes one to Lando. The corner of Lando’s sofa that Lando has started to think of as Oscar’s because he’s there so often, reading one of his books or trying to speedread a JSTOR article about the lifecycle of urban pathogens while Lando worked on artwork for his upcoming store launch. 

Lando’s synapses are firing too fast. His brain did that most days, and that was what made him exceedingly good at his job, and today in particular - it doesn’t feel like there’s any logical way out. 

Lando remembers that movie they watched once though. As a joke. The one they both pretended not to enjoy, with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds in Alaska. The one they watched when Oscar sat next to Lando on the sofa, and they both pretended the entire night that their knees weren’t touching. 

His therapist said he had a tendency to get ahead of himself when under stress. But it’s a joke, it’s not serious, there’s no way—

“We could just like, get married.”

Lando shoves his hands in his pockets. That came out way more calm and cooler than he thought it actually would.  And to his credit, Oscar doesn’t drop his mug of tea. Lando knows that’s his favourite one, because Lando got it for him, and it says Science is my superpower. Oscar does, however, slightly shift his grip on the mug.

“I feel like it’d be complicated to explain to my mum why I randomly married my upstairs neighbour?” 

“But it’s not a no.”

Oscar tilts his head. There’s a glimmer of something focused, maybe even hungry in his eyes. Oscar gets like that when his mind turns, when he’s working on an especially difficult thesis, when the pieces are forming and he can lock into the crucial details.

Lando is a little alarmed at how much he already recognises it, and how much more often he’d like to draw that reaction out. 

“If the facts don’t fit the theory, then reexamine the facts. Right?” Oscar says.

And Lando is there, in the doorway. Conscious that Mrs Kapoor might’ve heard everything, but all the more conscious that there’s a hammering in his heart that he can’t tell is nervousness, or anticipation. 

What’s the stress limit for a joke you’re probably already pushing too far? Lando thinks.

He isn’t sure.

But maybe it’s a thesis worth testing out.  

-------------

(and ok maybe i cheated a little on arranged marriage but i think this is the closest i could get with the contemporary context. thank you @cx-boxbox for the prompt <3)

[tunastime]

hiccuping tears into the shoulder + ranchers by chance?

hiccuping tears into their shoulder (1087 words) (x)

For the first time in a good, long portion of his life, Tango despises how silent the night gets. It's not without its natural noise—the balmy, sticky humidity and breeze in the grass, or the crickets, the cicadas quieting down, the sounds of animals rearranging themselves to a comfier sleeping arrangement. He should be doing the same, but he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his spine a rigid line. He can feel the blood in his body, he can feel the spaces where his muscles connect to each other, with every breath he can feel his lungs separate out the oxygen. It's at the very least startling, and at the very most, he feels like he might dissolve on the spot if touched. 

Tango knows how death feels—painless respawn and a few seasons of a life game behind him, but to feel someone else die, too. The echo of death alongside your own. He didn't like that! Not good at all. All his blood and heartbeat-y things are rushing around in his ears. He doesn't even hear Jimmy the first time he speaks up from the other side of the bed, with how his voice scrapes out.

"I didn't know they were aiming for us," Jimmy says.

"Of course not," Tango says, furrowing his eyebrows. "I know you didn't."

He's still looking at his hands, running his thumb over the lines in his palm and pushing into the tiny bones and muscle there. Jimmy flexes his hands like he can feel the pressure and bones moving around. He watches him fold his hand tight around each other and slump, pulling his shoulders to his chest. His breath squeezes in his chest as Jimmy deflates tiredly.

"I just don't want you to think—"

"I'm not gonna think this is your fault, alright?" Tango says, frowning at him. "Why would I?"

Jimmy sighs. His jaw works.

"Cause it usually is," he grits. Tango scrunches his nose on instinct, recoiling out of habit before he manages:

"That's not fair, man."

"This whole game isn't far!" Jimmy huffs, waving a hand about.

"Sure but—"

"But nothing, Tango. I just—I can't lose and drag you with me. That's more than not fair."

"I don't care."

"I care."

Before Tango can argue, though, he tastes the faintest hints of anger and frustration at the back of his mouth fade. He watches Jimmy's face contort as he tries to come up with a better sentence, something he probably thinks Tango deserves. Maybe an apology. 

Tango just looks at him. He kind of feels bad, that little bit of gut wrenching cold that trickles in, but mostly he's just confused. Jimmy's words bat around in his brain like dust particles. Dust bunnies. He definitely assumed they were done with this. That maybe Jimmy made peace like he did—though really he hadn't had that much time to make peace, if he's being honest. He's still bitter. He's sure a lot of people are still bitter. But in terms of Jimmy's whole situation? It's not like it could be helped. They just had to be careful. So Tango was being careful, and Jimmy was taking what Tango thought was a calculated risk, so he was mad, sure, but he couldn't really stay mad for a long time. So he takes a long breath and sighs it out his nose. It still tastes surprisingly reminiscent of smoke.

"So what are we going to do?" he asks softly. Jimmy inhales.

"I don't know," he says. "Go to bed? Wake up and start planning?"

Tango hums plainly. He likes that idea. The small spool of feeling in his chest that must belong to Jimmy gives a little tug, like it wanted to take him down with it. 

"Yeah," Tango says, voice coming hoarse. "Yeah, I think so."

For a moment, Tango runs his tongue over his teeth, runs his thumbs over the seams of his knees. He sighs, and then he leans into Jimmy's shoulder with a definitive huff. He's tired. From the ache in his bones, to the breathlessness of dying, to just taking in Jimmy's stress. Man. He's exhausted. Jimmy snorts quietly. He feels him press his cheek against Tango's head. The hand Jimmy had been fiddling with in his lap ends up at the base of his spine, splayed over the fabric. Tango squeezes his eyes shut.

"Thanks Tango," Jimmy says shakily. He sounds like he's on the knife's edge of crying, so Tango fumbles out a hand and lands it solidly on his knee. It's not a terribly comfortable thing to stretch one of his achy shoulders or biceps that far but he does anyway, and Jimmy huffs out a damp laugh. "Guess I'm just... pissed off."

Tango snorts.

"If you think you're pissed, just wait until they rile me up," he says into the fabric of Jimmy's shirt. Jimmy laughs. Tango tries to hold in a grin that he also smothers into his shoulder, but fails. Jimmy's hand skips over his knuckles and squeezes the hand on his knee.

"Sure thing, Rancher," he teases. Tango makes a half-suppressed noise of indignation, squeaking as he bolts upright. He nearly knocks into Jimmy's jaw as he untangles himself with all the grace of a cat trying to weasel out of someone's arms. 

"I'm just sayin'," he grumbles, crinkling his nose. "You seem like you're in a better mood though."

Jimmy sighs, rounding out his shoulders. 

"Think so," he says, working his cheek between his teeth. Tango feels the sensation of prodding in his mouth. Bleh. "Think so."

"Probably a good idea to make good on that sleeping... thing,” he says, reaching up to scrub at his eyes. He barely stifles a yawn as Jimmy stretches, twisting his tall body around in a way that feels surprisingly pleasant to Tango’s stiff muscles. He can’t imagine, especially with the way Jimmy holds all his emotions in his shoulders, that his upper back is doing him any favors. Jimmy makes a little noise in confirmation as Tango turns, attempting to make ample space for him in the small bed. He knows they’ll end up back to back at some point, but as he lies down, shoulder to shoulder, an easy comfort rolls over him. Sure there’s all the red blood rushing around in his ears, and sure he feels it right up on his skin like a bad rash, but for now, next to Jimmy, he shuts his eyes.

They’ll make this time count for something, at least.

[thedeadthree]

-ˋˏ .·:·. ⊱ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐛𝐲 @pavus — day one: 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

— 𝐈𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐑 . 𝐕𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐃𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀 . 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐒. 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒.

— 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 (mutuals can opt in/out via 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 <3):

@loriane-elmuerto, @carrionsflower, @auricfog, @girliefailure, @sunsofdawn

@risingsh0t, @griffin-wood, @lilywatt, @full---ofstarlight, @grapecaseschoices

@tommyarashikage, @shadowsofrose, @shadowglens, @weisshaupts, @queennymeria

@deadrlngers, @d-esmond, @courtana, @gothimp, @wlwaerith

@unholymilf, @aezyrraeshh, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @shellibisshe, @florbelles

@celticwoman, @neonshrike, @cloudofbutterflies92, @adelaidedrubman, @carlosoliveiraa

@pinkfey, @spookyrares, @yharnams, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood

@theelderhazelnut, @leviiackrman, @ellierenae, @anoras, @lavampira

@dialdrunk, @full---ofstarlight, @imogenkol

[xoxogeorgiegirl]

45 for franky/alex :))

45 - realisation of feelings at the worst possible moment | just a little taste of wasting time on ao3 | 1.9k

Franky is the first to check her phone and see the message from Valentina in the group chat to say that Alex will be staying in their hotel suite tonight, and could they please try and make her feel welcome. It’s oddly cheerful in tone, but then Vale usually is while they’re on these holidays, too relaxed to even bother lying to them properly. She’s about to say something, words eager to trip off of her tongue, and then decides to wait for Pecco to disentangle her arm from around Bez's shoulder and check her phone. There's a general outcry about it; expressions ranging from Bez's scrunched up, baffled face to Pecco's mildly disgusted frown. Franky stays silent, tapping her fingers against her phone under the coffee table while they chat, and ignoring the way that Luca, beside her, is trying to squint at the message she's sending. "I'm going to kill her," says Pecco darkly, not at all scary. She will, Franky thinks, be refusing to use the groupchat with Valentina in it for the next few days, defaulting to the Academy chat that they're still pointlessly denying the existence of to Vale. "Marc is making how much off that Ducati contract, and neither of them will pay for another hotel room?" She shudders and falls silent. Luca switches her attention to her, eyes turning teasing, and Franky is grateful for the reprieve as she clicks at the spot where the send button should be and considers whether it’s too risky to turn her phone brightness up.

Sorry, change of plans, Alex has texted her. It’s from before Valentina said anything, and abruptly Franky wonders whether she was going to cancel and if Marc had said anything. She looks up to see Luca’s eyes on her again, thoughtful, and turns her phone off, dropping it face down on the table with a click.

“Yes, well. We should go soon. Don’t want to keep her waiting,” Pecco says suddenly, and doesn’t move. Across the table, Cele casts an uncertain glance at her, halfway to standing up before she seems to register that she’s not ready to leave yet. Bez tugs Cele towards her, pulling her arm across with a laugh. The conversation washes over Franky, suddenly, inexplicably nervous, until Luca stands up decisively, pulling the keys to the rental car out of her pocket. When Pecco opens the door to the hotel room, Alex is sitting on the couch, knees together and arms folded, a duffel bag with clothes haphazardly sticking out of it still slung over her shoulder. She looks up when they enter, smiling at Franky, albeit somewhat tensely.

“Alex,” Pecco greets with a nod. For a moment Franky thinks she’s going to hold out her hand for Alex to shake. “I hope we didn’t leave you alone too long?”

“I’ve been surviving,” says Alex, and shrugs, skittish.

Pecco nods at her again. “Vale’s stuff is still in her room,” she says, “so-”

“That’s fine,” Alex interrupts. “The couch is fine.”

Luca laughs, and ignores Franky’s warning glare. “You can share with Franky,” she offers. “She’s got a double bed, you’ll be more comfortable than on the couch.”

“Right,” Alex says, and glances at Franky. She smiles again. “Mind showing me around, then?”

When they wander out of the room together, her hand drifts towards Franky’s arm. Behind them, someone snickers.

"Of course I've thought about just getting my own room," Alex says grumpily, as soon as the bedroom door swings closed behind them. "Marc's still trying to pretend like she's not planning these holidays so she can run into Valentina halfway through, and that involves playing happy families with hotel rooms." "Then book another one to use after Valentina inevitably steals your side of the room?" Franky asks innocently. She pulls Alex onto the bed behind her and they settle into place, heads bent close together to the centreline of the mattress like they’re sharing secrets at a slumber party. "Please, she ambushed me," Alex squawks, indignantly pushing up onto her elbows. "Escorted me here, even. One hundred percent chance Marc asked her about-" She cuts off, and Franky blinks up at her. Alex is blush prone at the best of times and it's showing now, a flush spreading up over her cheekbones while she avoids looking at anything in particular; it's a nearly impossible task given that over the course of her movement she’s ended up leaning nearly directly over Franky, but she’s giving it her best shot, eyes wide and lips curving up. "Alex," Pecco calls, poking her head into the room. Franky tries her best not to audibly groan. "Sorry, we're figuring out dinner, and we don't know what you'd like." "Anything," Alex says, a little wildly. She hasn't even twisted her head to look at the doorway where Pecco has been hovering, checking in on them while she switches between her usual dislike of Alex and what she feels is her duty, blatant neutrality followed by guilty fussiness; Valentina, Franky thinks, has a lot to answer for. There's a third aspect to it tonight, because Luca likes to think she's good at reading people, and now everyone else thinks they know something about Franky and Alex. To be fair to her, Franky isn't sure Luca's been wrong yet. She's trying very hard not to think about it, at least not while Alex is lying on the bed next to her, warm and still halfway to laughing. "Oh, alright," Pecco is saying, slipping out of hostess mode and back into relieved neutrality. Franky blames Valentina and by extension Marc, somewhat, for making this into a big deal and also for ruining her plans for the evening. “What type of pizza do you want?”

“Ham and cheese, please. With pineapple,” says Alex, without hesitating or smiling.

“So. A Hawaiian?” Pecco asks, tentatively. Alex shakes her head sombrely and Pecco frowns, nods, and promptly shuts the door.

It’s hard not to grin, at the obvious bait and at the way  lets herself fall back down on the bed again to laugh as soon as the door clicks shut. The sun is beginning to go down now, the last dregs of light filtering in through the open window along with the warm air. When she twists to lie on her back, hands pressing over her stomach and legs stretched out long in the jeans, Alex’s hair is pulling out of its ponytail, longer strands falling down to frame her face. She twists them back, exaggeratedly aggressive, and Franky laughs.

“Up,” Franky says, grabbing her hand and pulling her backwards, towards her, letting her twist halfway onto Franky’s lap. Gently, she uncurls the twisted hair tie and combs her fingers through Alex’s hair through, gentle, and begins to braid it.

“You’re better at this than Marc,” says Alex, too restless even when she’s trying to keep still, and Franky has to let her hands go with the movement to avoid yanking at the strands. “She’s, eh. Impatient.”

“Like you,” mutters Franky, affectionate, and even though she can’t see Alex’s face she can feel the grin in the lift of her shoulders and the arch of her neck, loose and easy. “Easier than curly hair, anyway. Tangles less than I’m used to, as long as you stay still.”

“Why I love you, of course. Easier for you to do my hair than to learn myself, eh,” Alex says halfway through laughing, light and absent-minded, and maybe it would have been fine if both of them didn’t go tense at the words, Alex’s voice cutting out. As it is, she pulls back, her half-done braid slipping out of Franky’s suddenly numb hands as she climbs off the bed, movement awkward across the tangled quilt.

“I should go,” she says, and doesn’t look back in time to see Franky open her mouth. She closes it again uselessly as her body continues to catch up faster than her thoughts, pushing up off the bed and moving towards Alex, too slowly.

“You can’t go,” she says. The worlds fall, too blunt, and she wishes Alex would look at her if only to see the way that she’s wincing. “Marc has the room-”

“I’ll find a place,” Alex mutters stiffly, hand twisting on the doorknob and finally, decisively, pulling the door open.

Instead of disappearing down the hallway, though, she takes a step back, and Franky cranes her neck to see past.

“Oh, good, you’re ready,” Pecco says, too brightly, hand still tentatively raised to knock. “Pizza’s been delivered.”

Neither of them react, and she frowns, adds, “We thought we’d eat outside. Luca dragged the table onto the balcony, since – it’s such a nice night.”

Finally, Alex brushes past her, denim of her jeans swishing ridiculously loudly in the sudden silence that follows her to the balcony. When Pecco raises an eyebrow, Franky can only shrug, swallow the acrid taste lingering at the back of her throat, and mutely follow.

Franky sits down next to Luca, and Alex drags her own chair to the very opposite side of the bench. Beside her, Bez startles and shuffles her chair a little closer to Cele; they were already, Franky realises, sitting so close that the gap to Alex now seems comical, a scene from one of the old, long-table press conferences that you could look at and tell immediately who everyone’s friends were. Alex, with her hair loose and slowly tumbling out of its braid, suddenly seems very vulnerable, like on one of the rare nights she falls asleep before Franky.

Alex’s detachment seems to stymie the conversation somewhat, and Franky wonders belatedly whether Pecco was relying on her to keep the presence of a relative unknown from being awkward.

“How did you find the beach, Celin,” she offers dutifully, and Cele looks up from where she’s been fixing her gaze on the untouched slice of pizza in front of her.

“Ah, it was… fine,” Cele says finally. “Good. Hot.” She glances to her left, reddens slightly, and looks away again; Franky frowns, realises that the general oddness is directed at Bez, not Alex, and loses interest.

“Alex,” she says abruptly, too loudly. Someone that she didn’t realise was speaking has stopped mid-sentence, “Can we talk?” “I wouldn’t want to interrupt dinner,” says Alex, and glances at Pecco, as though expecting her to agree. She doesn’t react, though, and so Franky pushes her chair back and heads inside, looking back over her shoulder for Alex to reluctantly follow. She leaves the balcony door open, sounds of conversation filtering through until Franky doubles back and closes it. Bez is peering back at them through the gap in the glass, and she pointedly avoids meeting her eye.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says, not sounding particularly sincere. She’s staring at the wall, arms folded. “If I’ve made things weird, then we can go on a break, although I refuse to sleep on the couch-”

“Alex, just because Marc and Vale are, eh, complicated-” Franky says, interrupting, and hoping that Valentina will forgive her. “It doesn’t mean that we have to be. And, hey. Maybe I love you even though you’re trying to make my friends believe that your pizza order is anything different to Hawaiian.”

“I swear it’s an entirely different type of pizza,” she says, mock offended, but she’s laughing now, relaxing and allowing herself to be pulled into a hug.

The balcony door pulls open behind them. Bez looks at them, wide-eyed and tugging Cele by the hand, and guiltily says, “Don’t mind me.”

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

he's flufye <3

[flow2024]

V, JoeNicky & Nile

V. An abandoned or empty place.

When Joe pulls the sheet off the couch it kicks up enough dust that it makes Nile sneeze. The couch underneath is old, wooden frame rotting, fabric stained and full of holes where moths have eaten away at it. 

“Sorry,” Joe says to Nile when she finally manages to get the sneezing under control. “Didn’t realise it was that bad.” He puts his hands on his hips and looks down at the couch. Nile looks it over.

“There’s no saving that,” she says, wiping at her eyes. She can heal from falling over ten stories, but she can’t get away from allergies.

Joe frowns. “I liked that couch.”

The house is older than anywhere else they’ve brought her, and has been abandoned for long enough that it’s falling apart. But through some trick of posing as their own sons, or something, Joe and Nicky still own it, even if there’s a giant hole in the roof and all the windows are broken. Why they’d decided to come back here, Nile doesn’t know, but it’s a nice enough area, and a good distraction from, well. Everything. Growing back a leg, she’s discovered, is not fun. 

From one of the other rooms – she thinks it’s the kitchen, she’s not actually sure where Nicky had wandered to – there’s the sound of something breaking and crashing to the ground, and a muffled curse. 

Joe makes a questioning noise in the vague direction of the kitchen. A few moments later, Nicky appears in the doorway, covered in dust. “I am okay,” he says. “But I think we will need to go out to eat tonight.”

“Nothing?” 

Nicky shakes his head. “Unless you want to start a fire and go hunt some rabbits.”

Joe grins. “Just like old times, right?”

Nile shakes her head firmly, which makes Nicky smile. She loves them, but there’s no way they’re doing that. 

“We can probably clear out enough space in here,” Joe says, gesturing to the floor. “Get the sleeping bags out of the car. Probably have to start a fire anyway, but…”

Nile looks around again while Joe says something to Nicky in Arabic that makes him laugh. The house is falling apart, sure, but it’s structurally stable, and the bones are all there. It could be something. They’ve got time to make it something. 

Nicky is the one who goes for pizza in the end – he doesn’t trust Nile and Joe to order it if left to their own devices – while they try to clear out a space in the living room. Eventually, though, after Nile has another sneezing fit, Joe suggests they just take the sleeping bags outside instead, which works out a lot better. He sets about starting a fire with practiced ease while Nile sets out the sleeping bags around it. They’re far enough away from civilisation that she can’t hear cars passing by, which is kind of surreal, and the stars are brighter than she’s ever seen them. 

When Nicky gets back, two boxes balanced on one arm and a bottle of wine in the other, he looks over their makeshift camp and laughs. “Just like old times, then?” he asks.

Joe grins. “Except we have pizza.”

“And actual sleeping bags,” Nile says.

“Ah, these modern inventions could never quite match the comfort of a pile of furs,” Joe says wistfully. Nile gives him a look. She’s ninety percent sure that one’s bullshit, but she can never quite tell with him. 

Nicky sets down the pizza boxes, and jogs back to the car to grab the pack of plastic wine glasses they’d bought before they got here. 

“We should’ve bought marshmallows,” Nile says. “Could have made s’mores.”

“Well, we’ll have to go to the hardware store tomorrow anyway,” Joe points out. “And I think it’ll be a little while before we can actually sleep in there.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Nicky agrees.

[cementcornfield]

Do you think Tee was aware that this might have been his last game in this building?

I'm sure he's aware, he went out with a bang though....

If it is?

If. If. If. Big if.... I think that's 8 minutes right??

[tohruies]

hi hi mrs yao !!!! christmas is coming up, are you going to celebrate anythinf with xiangli ? :33 btw, since miss coco doesnt have a tree, here's a little something to say thank you for being one of my lovely moots 🥺

oh! 😁 hi hello mr puppetgear! 😁 christmas celebrations with xiangli you ask! 😁 well actually! 😁 you see, i was th— *dies upon seeing the image you’ve attached to this ask* 😳😲🤯😱😱😱😵💀🪦

[evverest]

WIP whenever, tagged by @arcanearcherayz 🖤🖤 tysm for the tag

The walk to the restaurant is not as tense as Clove expected. Gale is hanging off her arm, close and giggly and delightful, and if anything, the dirty secret they share is just the cherry on top of what would already be a dreamy night, because hell, they’re on vacation, and the weather’s cooling off as the sun goes down, and the ocean is audible from everywhere, and every so often, Gale’s hip bumps hers. Clove’s heart is thrumming with it all, and her fingers are wrapped tight around the little remote–his pleasure, his trust, his dignity, his body, all offered freely, pressed right into the palm of her hand.

ohh, a remote. gotta love a good remote. i am so goddamn crampy and tired and sad rn, so please forgive the open tag <3 show me your words, i'd be ever so happy.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Autumnal doctor/rose, i lov it! How about ninerose and some alien hot cider?

thank you so much for this prompt, nonny! <3 hope you enjoy the fluff! and as always, please forgive any mistakes. i am my own worst grammatical enemy.

[read on AO3]

"That can't be right."

Through the doorway, he watched Rose laugh as she dumped yet another fistful of pseudocinnamon into a giant cauldron. The TARDIS had dug both out of storage—or generated them spontaneously, the Doctor suspected. He certainly would have noticed the cauldron before: the thing was massive, a piping hot shade of orange that assaulted the eyes, tall enough that Rose could barely see over the rim after hauling it up onto the hob. It was so fanciful and absurd he couldn't believe it was supposed to be functional.

It was also exactly what Rose had asked for.

Could hardly be a coincidence, could it?

You spoil her, he thought with a brief, mild accusatory glance upward. But he was not favoured with so much as a blinking light.

Typical.

The Doctor had always known the TARDIS had favourites, but he'd never in all his lives experienced such blatant, unrepentant spoiling of a travelling companion! The first time he'd seen Rose's bedroom—or, more accurately, palatial bedroom suite—he'd been gobsmacked. Her bed was enormous, at least twice the size of his. Though he wasn't much for throw pillows, hardly any aboard the ship had escaped the journey to Rose's bed; it was a miracle she could sit on the thing, let alone sleep there. And the eightieth century hi-fi teledeck?

No longer the centrepiece of the media room.

Which he was still sulking about.

But this was a new level of indulgence. The ship didn't just create matter out of nothing; everything had to come from somewhere—usually her vast stores of past rooms. To come up with something completely new involved energy transference. Effort. Time.

And, to create something as specific as a garish orange cooking cauldron? Care.

Shaking his head, he stepped inside the little galley kitchen. He'd followed his nose thus far, but the scent grew even more potent the moment he passed the threshold and into the sweltering heat of the narrow space.

"What do you mean?" Rose was asking, turning to look at him with big, worried eyes. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, nose and lips a berry pink. "This is exactly what the barista told me to do!" She rapidly dusted off her palms, a cloud of warm brown powder dispersing into the air, carrying with it the spicy, faintly floral scent of the cloned cinnamon root native to Chame. It made his nose itch. "Why would he lie?"

The Doctor scoffed. "To keep you coming back, Rose! All the way across the charted universe—dragging me and my poor ship with you—just to get your hands on the real thing," he said, with a grumbling noise of displeasure as punctuation. "Probably a bit of clever salesmanship."

Rose's smile slipped a little, prompting an unpleasant dip in his own stomach. It wasn't fair to her, him being so obviously jaded.

After all, the barista had been perfectly nice. To Rose.

Specifically.

"Was that a harrumph? Did you just harrumph at me?" Rose's head cocked, and the grin she set loose on him was a true blue Rose Tyler special, top to bottom: eyes sparkling, tongue curled around her teeth, and with a certain jaunty angle to her chin that told him she was gloating for some reason he didn't want to think too hard about, lest he actually find out what in the world she meant by it.

"Here, put this on. You can help," she said, turning to withdraw—from one of the kitchen's many and dangerously full drawers—an apron that didn't quite match her own. Hers had cheerful, smiling Jack-o'-lanterns all over a white backdrop, nestled amidst illustrations of autumn leaves and lit candles and seasonally appropriate candies that nobody he'd ever met actually enjoyed.

His apron... also had pumpkins on it.

"Oi! Is that s'posed to be me?"

He snatched the article from her hands, pulling it up to look closer at the frowny, grumpy-looking illustrations dotting the black fabric. The eyes and mouths of the Jack-o'-lanterns were slightly puckered, like someone had left the pumpkins out in rough weather for a few days, and it gave them a uniformly sour, Scrooge-like expression.

His gaze narrowed, and Rose pressed her lips together, like she desperately didn't want to laugh. "Don't look like that," she managed, raising her hands. "I just asked her for aprons."

The Doctor scowled, even as a part of him perked up. Aprons, plural. Had she wanted him to join her all this time? Why hadn't she said anything?

"Anyway, don't worry," she went on carelessly, "nobody's here to see you in it."

You are, he thought in spite of himself.

His eyes followed her as she took back the apron and motioned for him to bend so she could drape it around his neck. The brush of her jumper-clad arms against his hair made the tips of his ears tingle and grow warm, and he ducked his head nearly to his chest in sudden awkwardness. The few moments it took for her to make a knot would give him just enough time to get hold of his rebellious—not to mention ridiculous—biology, he decided.

Don't be daft, came his stern internal voice.

There. Job done.

When he righted himself, Rose was beaming. "I dunno," she said, tipping her head this way and that, observing him, her ponytail flopping about. "I think it works for you."

"Do you now?" He looked down at the frowning pumpkins spread across his chest; they were even more wrinkled and unpleasant viewed upside-down.

But if Rose thought differently...

"Yeah." She nodded more definitely. "Very good look."

Well, then.

-

Making the cider took more time but was somehow less involved than it seemed Rose had expected.

Aside from grinding up all the pseudocinnamon and quartering the apples—they hadn't picked up any authentic Autogolds on their last grocery stop, but had some lovely Galas to hand—the other steps were quick and simple. Most of the process was a load of hurry up and wait.

Which left them with little to do but hover around the cauldron, breathing in the steam and knocking hips when they got too close. Which was often.

"What's so great about this cider anyway?" the Doctor finally asked, after a few moments of grinning at one another across the cauldron. He dipped the wooden spoon in for another sample, wondering when he'd suddenly taste what made it special enough for Rose to go to all this effort.

He remembered the overly-friendly barista, smiling with all his teeth. He remembered walking around the market stalls afterwards, Rose beaming and pointing out every little thing that caught her eye while the sun set. He remembered sudden warm pressure—how she hid her face against his shoulder when a stiff wind blew through the courtyard, setting all the beads in the jewelers' tents tinkling and flashing. There were no skittering leaves to speak of, but the whole scene had given a passable impression of a mild Earth autumn day.

It had been a good day, yes. But the cider had been rather ordinary.

Rose nudged his hip again, then deftly pulled the spoon from his hand. "Stop messing with it, or it's never gonna brew right. We're s'posed to let it sit." She replaced the lid, closing in the steam and the gentle sound of simmering. Then she sighed. "I dunno. The barista told me all the ingredients and how to make it and it all seemed fairly normal, I guess, but there was just something about it—comforting. Couldn't put my finger on why. Maybe because it was such a perfect day," she added absently, fiddling with the hem of her apron.

The Doctor stilled. "Perfect?"

When he looked at her face, her eyes were on the floor. "Yeah. Think it was."

"Not... boring?" he asked, wishing she'd look up at him. But she was just crossing one foot over another, concentrating on her shoelaces. He wondered why.

After they'd dropped Adam off on Earth, he recalled with a scowl, he had gone a bit mad with the easy trips. Just a little break, he called it. But their "break" had turned into weeks of short stops on interesting—but more importantly, peaceful—worlds. Playing tourists.

At first, neither of them had really known what to do with themselves in these sorts of places. Relaxation was anathema. And Rose had been around long enough to know you never took off your running shoes, not ever, so she didn't quite let her guard down either. They'd wandered around, taking in the sights—Rose was never short on curiosity and clever questions—but it was always with their backs up. Ready for anything. It was a vigilance neither exactly knew how to shrug off.

Especially after he'd nearly lost her.

And she knew it.

They would meet each other's eyes and just know what the other was thinking of. The Dalek, the laser to the back of her head. Incomplete goodbyes over a staticky video. And the fear in her eyes when he'd run toward her with a gun in his hands. He hadn't felt that kind of shame in... a long, long while.

But they'd survived.

It took every moment of those two weeks to make him believe it. And it was only once they landed on Chame, in that market—so familiar, so Earth-like, and yet so different—that the calm finally found them. Arm in arm, meandering through a crowd with warm cups of cider in their hands. He'd realised then he wasn't waiting for the next thing to come around the corner. And neither was she.

Time had passed since that day on Chame. Back to the old life. The adventures. Neither of them could bear to stand still for long, or rest on their laurels. There were so many worlds needed saving, where time and tide of history had to be set right. It was never-ending.

It was their life.

But not the only part. Was that why she wanted to recreate the cider?

"No," Rose said after a moment. "Not boring. Not for me." She finally looked up, eyes soft. Shrugging helplessly. "Could never get bored with you."

The Doctor swallowed. Her proximity was like gravity.

He felt himself tipping into it. Giving in to it. Hands lifting to settle on her arms. and his head falling forward, lips coming to rest gently on her crown. Her hair smelled like apples and cinnamon and warm human.

It would have been impossible for him to say it, but he had no doubt she knew.

That day hadn't been boring for him either. It had been... more than good.

It had been perfect. The day's very ordinariness made it unusual, standing out like a burning star amidst their murkier, often more difficult travels. Its simplicity—its uncomplicated pleasures—made it rare and maybe even worth recreating. Sometimes.

"All right, then," he said. "We'll have cider." He couldn't say all he felt, couldn't tell her he understood, because he didn't know exactly what he felt. Like a pinching deep within him, clenching tight around his hearts. The Dalek had called it love; his people might have called it foolishness.

All the Doctor knew was, he wanted more perfect days with her.