#jimjam rambles

[jimjamkagaricci]

NEW PFP WHO CHEERED BCUS I SURELY DID!!!!! GAY PEOPLE!!!!!!

[feathered-moths-ablaze]

Felt like wanting to write about Jimjam having some withdrawals and some murder :>

The bricks under Jimmy's palms were rough and cold.

It felt like it was scrapping the skin off as he crawled up the wall.

The dull pricks of pain felt near cooling against the near shimmering heat that raged through his muscles and fogged his sight into shapes and rings. Gods, how long had he gone without the coppery taste of blood in his mouth? Too long. Ghost should've shut up. should've stayed quiet like a good little ghostie. Should've-

The hoarse scream that bubbled out of his mouth felt both relieving and torturous as he clambered over the edge and onto the low roof and onto his back, trying to shut his eyes against the near fever in him to no avail while the clouded sky started to swim above.

He was in a quiet part of town, one where not meny people lived, and one where he could effectively roam free. The odd car drove past, but where he layed was far enough away from the main streets that little would disturb him.

As he panted out laboured breaths, he could feel the familiar tug tug tugging on the back of his mind, and he could feel himself going slack in response to it. It would be so easy to give in; to get out and have a clear head and be rid of this sickly state...

...and then Ghost would come back out, and he would be worse when he did come back again. No, Jimmy wasn't having anything stopping him. Not Ghost, not anyone-

"hey, you!" A sudden voice from below snapped him out of his ramblings, and snapped his eyes wide open.

Well, 'little' didn't mean 'nothing'.

Fighting the vengeful wave of feverishness that washed over him, he rolled over to peer down to the alley below, and at the owner of the voice.

"what are you doing on my roof?" The question barked hotly

He couldn't make them out through his miasma; they were pale, wore muted clothing, and had brownish hair. He couldn't make out their face, or any details - it kept swirling into shades and dots of ordinary colours. Did those details really matter though?

Of course It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. They were dead. They are dead. They are dead!

Those words marched through his head like a mantra as he scraped down the walls rapidly. His old bloodlust seemed to slash through his oppressive heat and shoved it down while a toothy smile broke on his face, sharp teeth dimly gleaming as he pulled out his knife from his pocket when he smacked the concrete floor feet first. He didn't seem to hear the little giggles that were slipping out of his teeth.

At his sudden liveliness, the new guy seemed to get the message, and started to back up, holding up their hands like they were trying to calm him down, "heyy buddy, No need for that"

Jimmy cracked out dry cackles at the shaky words, not bothering to hide his amusement- no, ecstasy, at their nervousness. God fucking right, you should be scared of me!

This is going to be so good...

Whatever was said next was lost on him as his cackles morphed to a feral screech and he charged, straight at them with his knife drawn high. The milliseconds that they froze up in panic was enough of a delay for him to dig his knife deep into their side, just missing the hip bone, and ripping out a delicious scream from them. He didn't hesitate, tearing it out and stabbing in the thigh, wiggling it in to widen the wound.

Couldn't have them running away, could he?

The impact of his charge sent them both to the ground, leaving a chance wide open for him to stab their chest. He fished out the blade from its old wounds and shoved it in deep into their chest, not waiting a second to savour the gargling sounds or struggling before he pulled out and stabbed again and again.

His vision went red as he kept stabbing their chest, practically digging into them as manic laughter poured out of him. When it became the consistency of paste, he swapped the knife out for his hands as he delve deeper into the body, licking up the blood off his hands like a hungry dog and ripping out any chunks of skin or organs that got in his way.

His rapidly decreasing patience wasn't happy with the little bits off his hands and so he shoved his face in the wound and lapped greedy at it, biting and spitting out meaty chunks and extra openings to pour out scarlet red goodness while he drank up any blood like soup.

---

He lifted his head up when he had gorged his fill, mouth and chin dripping with gore. Any blood that had escaped his ravenous hands and tounge has pooled, cooling around his knees and legs and leaving a satisfying sticky sensation all around him.

His victim was long dead; Jimmy could almost giggle at the glassy eyed stare. He picked himself up, grabbing his knife that he realised he carelessly left aside, and admired his handiwork.

Even he was mildly shocked at what he'd done: the torso was a mess of bloodied cloths, meat chunks, and even the end of a rib just barely poking though the gaping wound. He'd outdone himself here!

Licking his lips, he turned to the end of the alleyway. He wasn't burning up or thirsty anymore, but his hunger for death was still there, purring around his head.

It wouldn't hurt to find someone else to stab, right?

[glassdoll4429]

RAMBLE 01

Warning there may be: A lot of words, grammar and spelling issues, and or too much information. Read at your own risk.

I discovered very recently that I prefer to sleep with minimal clothes but it's getting colder and i keep ripping the curtain off my bed to use as a blanket because i kick my actual blankets off in the night. So now I sit infront of my cupboard and thunk about wearing literally any of my onesies or my flannel jimjams and end up going to bed in a baggy shirt anyway with full intent of removing it the moment I touch the mattress.

That wasn't as long as I thought it was gonna be.

[mumblelard]

blablabliblibloublou and also corndogs

[meowm1x]

really wishing it were publically acceptable to go outside in my jammies 😒

[maddiefriendlovesbilly]

You introduced me to polypie so imma yell here Soulmate au! You see colours when you touch your soul mate! Spooker and Colon hold hands and go "wait we can see reds and blues now cool! Where the fuck are the other colours" Toast ends up w greens and purples bc I'm smart I swear, and Ghost yellows and oranges- ghost is scared of touch too Eventually they find out and cool! But also- Oh no when Ghost becomes Jimmy the others cant see his colours anymore until hes back in control

Ooo that’s so cute! I love the Jimmy idea! Question, can they see their own colors already, or is everything in black and white until they touch?

Also I made a doodle page for this cause I’m too lazy to write something so have some people scribbles instead

[ringtailes]

Me, making my s/i:

Also me, remembering there wasnt modern electronics then, and I have to find something ELSE for my s/i to do that doesnt need electricity:

[mintchocfringe]

I'm listening to "We don't talk anymore" and for a hot second I wondered why it sounded different and it's bc it's the Charlie Puss version not Jungkook's cover ashdklllakaha free me

[dreamescapeswriting]

Crush Culture ~ PJM [Request]

➳➳➳Word count: 1.7k

➳➳➳Genre: Fluffy

➳➳➳Pairing: Jimin x reader

➳➳➳a/n: I know this is on the shorter side but i really wanted to try and write this in a happier context rather than all my others which involve liking someone else. I also didn't want to make it like 'as cold as ice' but i hope this turned out okay for you sweetie, 

Yoong could tell by the way you lit up whenever Jimin came into the room and he wasn't mad about it, he wasn't even upset which is how he knew that you weren't meant for one another. He was a little upset at first that you had gotten closer to his friend rather than him but he still didn't mind it. You and Yoongi had been dating for a month and in all honestly, it felt nice to be around him and he was a great guy, you got along well but you found yourself getting closer to his friend Jimin than you did Yoongi and Yoongi felt the same way. You didn't have the heart to tell Yoongi about how you felt, learning from past experiences that not all guys liked being turned down by girls and that it was best to keep trying in the relationship but Yoongi had other plans for you.

"Hi Jimin, how was your date last night?" Yoongi asked trying to get a response from you but you were either really good at hiding the fact that you were jealous or you had no idea you had a crush on Jimin and your anger was stored somewhere deep down inside of you that it couldn't be reached.

"Awful, she stood me up." Jimin pouted throwing himself down onto the dorm sofa between you and Yoongi, looking at Yoongi while he rest his head on your shoulder. You comfortingly patted his arm trying to make him feel better,

"Her loss, you're amazing JimJam." You whispered in his ear poking his cheek to try and make him smile but it wasn't working he was upset that he was being stood up not once but twice that week already and then touched by someone who he had a major crush on but couldn't do anything about because she was dating one of his best friends. Yoongi watched you both as you searched through Netflix together to find a movie debating on if the plan would work on not. He knew you weren't the type to cheat and he knew that Jimin wasn't the type to go behind his back but if the connection was as real as he thought then maybe it was possible.

"I left my laptop at the studio, Jimin do you mind keeping Y/n company for a little while?" You looked up at Yoongi to see him moving over to the front door of the dorms and he smiled at you leaving the dorms without giving you a kiss on the forehead something he'd grown accustomed to over the course of the last month of being with you but he wanted to get you two alone. He wanted you to see that there were feelings for one another and he needed to get out of the apartment for a bit.

"Do you want to watch Howl's moving castle?" You nodded at Jimin's question, 

"I'll get snacks and some blankets."

Then that was how it started. That whole week after the first night you stayed with Jimin at the dorms the rest of the boys were all out while you and Jimin were getting closer, Yoongi seemed to be pulling away from you though which was starting to worry you. He would invite you over to the dorms only to leave you alone with Jimin with some silly excuse for the night and not come back until the early hours of the mornings, 

"I think he's going to break up with me." You said to Jimin that night as he searched for a movie for you both, you were sitting in one of Yoongi's hoodies eating from the bowl of popcorn that Jimin had made you both.

"What makes you say that?" You groaned not wanting to confide in his best friend but also the need to let the feelings out was getting too much for you to handle and the weight of carrying something like it was hurtful, 

"I don't seem him as a boyfriend anymore...It sounds awful because we've been together for a month but I don't feel-"

"A connection?" Jimin finished for you sitting down beside you and abandoning his quest to find a movie. He was more intrigued by the fact that you didn't see Yoongi as someone you could date anymore or at all,

"Yeah." You whispered looking up to see Jimin staring back into your eyes, he knew what he was thinking was wrong but it didn't stop the thoughts from running through his head. Thoughts about kissing you and not stopping until you told him to, or just holding you in his arms all night. 

"Is there someone else?" He whispered not wanting to act on his thoughts right now but feeling the urge to he wanted to make sure he was reading the room right, your hands were hovering over his as you thought about telling him that it was him making you second guess everything around Yoongi. 

"There might be." You both whispering despite being the only ones in the dorm, Jimin looked at you and then down at your hands which were inches away from his yet again. 

"I think you should talk to Yoongi about it then, it sounds like it's something a couple should talk about." As if by magic the door to the dorms opened and Yoongi walked through, you moved away from Jimin and stared up at Yoongi who was in all honestly a little sad that you were still apart from one another. 

"Can I talk to you?"

Yoongi had taken you into his room after you asked to speak in private with him and now you were standing in front of him while he sat on the bed watching you pace back and forth in a ramble, 

"I know that we've been together for around a month but do you honestly feel some kind of connection for me? Because I thought I did but I'm starting to think I like you as more of a friend than anything Yoongi and I know it's probably awful to say and that you're going to hate-" Yoongi was staring at you with a small smile across his face which made you stop talking, you'd never had someone smile at you during a breakup before and it felt unnerving. 

"You like someone else I know and no, I thought I felt something with us too but now it's like-"

"I see you as more of a friend or a brother..." He nodded in agreement with you and you felt the weight lift from your shoulders, your body physically lifted up as you felt yourself feel free from the weight you were carrying. 

"Why didn't you say something before?" You questioned sitting next to him on the bed, he shook his head. 

"I'd never been in relationships before, I thought if I kept trying it would feel better but I guess not...Then I saw the way you looked at Jimin and I knew there was something real there." You felt guilty once again, so he knew about Jimin? 

"You knew I liked him?" He nodded looking over at his bedroom door and starting to chuckle, 

"I actually kept leaving all week in hopes you would both confess for one another, he's had a crush on you too it's so obvious." You stared over at the door and then back to Yoongi as if he was a crazy person he was taking this really well and you liked that he wasn't being judgemental about it, 

"You're not mad?" He shook his head and took your hands in his sitting them on his knee. 

"I would have been madder if it had gotten into later in the relationship and it happened but as you said...we both see each other as nothing more than friends so we should stay that way." You smiled at him and he pulled you into a comforting hug letting you know it was all okay.

"I'll just get changed and head home." With that, he left the room and you got changed back into some jeans and the original shirt you'd come over to the dorms in. 

"Jimin is going to drive you home," Jimin was shoved forward by Yoongi and you smiled nervously at him looking up at Jimin with another smile as you walked out of the dorms together and down to the cars. 

"Did you tell him you liked someone else?" He questioned as he drove you home, the journey had been silent until that point. 

"Yeah, and he said he felt the same, that it was better to be friends for us than anything else." You told him, Jimin felt a twinge of hope as he heard the words leave you mouth, he pulled up outside your apartment and began walking you up towards the door. 

"Jimin-" You were cut off by him kissing you roughly, your back being pressed against your apartment door as he held you in place, one hand on your waist while the other cupped your face. One of your hands found their way into his hair and the other fumbled with the door handle getting it open and making your way inside the apartment together, your lips never leaving for a second as you made your way up to the bedroom together.

After that night it was pretty weird to be around Yoongi for a while, you and Jimin started hanging out in your apartment instead of at the dorms until things cooled down. You didn't want to be the reason any fights started happening even though Yoongi told you it was okay you wanted to be sure it felt right with Jimin first and it did. You ended up dating for a while and now, three years later, you were sitting at a wedding together, Yoongi's wedding to be exact. Watching him marry someone he found after you and Jimin set him up with one of your friends and they seemed happy together a lot happier than you and Yoongi were. You smiled over at Yoongi as he stared at you and Jimin on the front row, sending you a small thumbs-up as he began repeating his vows back to his soon-to-be wife.

tagline: 

@yoongisdumplingcheeks​ @snowy-meowl​ @lynnthevirgo​ @jooniesdarlingdimples​ @kpopfanfictionhoes​ @lyoongx​ @fan-ati--c​ @mitzwinchester​ @callingmyangel​ @btsiguess-kpop​ @rjsmochii​

[wichols]

For the "Get To Know The Writer" prompt can I request Grey, Orange, and PINK!

Grey: What’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

This is a pet peeve of mine (and really I could go on a whole rant about this but I won’t) but I always replace the word perfect with something else. I find that in most cases when the word is used it is in conjunction with either what a character is doing (dancing, kissing, performing a task) or what they are wearing (the way the garment clings to their body or falls over their chest). I find that there are very few things in this world that are ‘perfect’ even in regards to thinking about a loved one. 

And I know that when writing fiction you can write the ideal but I find that if a character is thinking about that other person they are more likely to have one of two responses. Imagine a ‘walking down the aisle situation’ (though I admit that this isn’t the most ideal example because not every interaction with your characters is going to be as grandiose but all well). Option one: The character’s minds are going to go blank from sheer shock at what they are experiencing. Head empty just wow. And I know that some people just start rambling their thoughts to the other person but I find that it is a knee jerk reaction and not the norm.

Option two: A physical response. Their jaw goes slack, eyes go wide, hands tremble, body freezes.

Secret option three: A combination of both.

Basically not everything is perfect but if in your story you use it, it better be at a climax point of the story. Limit the use of the word ‘perfect’ for special moments. Not really a writing tip, just a personal preference.

Orange: How many projects do you usually have going at once?

At least for this year I am trying to limit my projects so that I am not overwhelmed by trying to accomplish too many things at once. And my projects are not just limited to writing projects as well. I do dabble in painting, crocheting, drawing, and small house projects on top of writing. But I will give you a sneak peek into my current writing projects I have for this year.

-2 oneshots for YOI

-1 OHSHC Multi-Chapter Work (KyoHaru, Mafia AU)

-1 YOI Multi-Chapter Work (Victuuri, Historical/Shifter AU)

-A Prompt Event for the Month of March for Ouran (Stay tuned for an upcoming post in the next couple of weeks!)

And between all those different writing projects I have a yearly goal of writing 100k words overall (this covers planning/brainstorming, formatting, and actual progress made to writing fics). I started a spreadsheet at the beginning of the year to compare words written to words actually published.

Pink: Which of your characters would become your best friend?

Let’s be real...I am a Mitsukuni kinne. I feel like he and I would get along so well. He enjoys going out and doing things but also he likes to stay home and cuddle. He is just a little ball of intelligent sunshine and I feel like we would really vibe together. We would talk over sweets and tea in our matching footie jimjams and our stuffies. 

If you want to ask a color, refer back to this post!

[lastbluetardis]

Home for the Holidays (1/2)

This is part one of my gift to @timeladyelpia for the @dwsecretsanta gift exchange! Apologies for the delay; I hope you enjoy this! Your info said you enjoy reunions and established relationships, so that’s what this is :)

Ten x Rose, 4400 words, teen

Also tagging @doctorroseprompts 

Summary: Despite being locked away in different universes, the Doctor and Rose have managed to stay connected through their marriage bond, celebrating holidays and special events even through the impenetrable distance. After celebrating three Christmases apart, fate brings them together once more just in time for the holidays.

Note: If anybody remembers this little ficlet (If Only in My Dreams) I wrote for last year’s Ficmas, I borrowed from that idea and wrote the reunion. However, you do NOT need to have read that in order to understand this.

AO3

The holidays were one of the hardest times for the Doctor. Though he didn’t naturally celebrate—at least not any Earth or human holiday—Rose had. Oh, he would join in the festivities with his past companions, wishing them Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Festivus, or whatever holiday they in particular celebrated, but he was always on the outside looking in.

But all of that had changed when he’d met Rose, when he regenerated into his current body and left her and the Earth to fend for themselves during a Sycorax invasion while he was—helpfully—in a regenerative coma. All on Christmas Day.

When it all had blown over—blown up, more like it, thanks to Harriet Jones, former Prime Minister—he had strangely been invited to Christmas dinner at the Tylers’. Even more strangely, he’d said yes. After he changed, of course. He couldn’t very well have Christmas dinner in his borrowed jimjams. No, he’d gone back to his TARDIS and found himself a new outfit before heading back up to Rose and her mother.

Even now, remembering the look of appreciation in Rose’s eyes when she beheld him in his new suit sent butterflies through his stomach.

He had stayed for dinner and the snow-that-wasn’t-snow and for dessert. And even once that was finished, once the food was cleared away and the dishes piled high in the sink for the following morning, he hadn’t wanted to leave quite yet. So he had accepted Rose’s invitation to sleep on the sofa for the night. Not that Time Lords needed much sleep. (However, newly-regenerated Time Lord could certainly use a nap.)

He had spent the next couple weeks with the Tylers, which was virtually unheard of for him. But the TARDIS had been in no shape to fly, thanks to whatever jiggery-pokery Rose had done to the old girl to look into her heart to become the Bad Wolf. And thanks to his less-than-stellar driving while his brain was imploding and collapsing during some regeneration complications. 

No matter, he had been able to get his beloved ship flying again a week or so after the New Year. In the interim, between TARDIS repairs, he had reconnected with Rose. Answering all of her questions regarding regeneration. Filling in the gaps of her memory during her time as Bad Wolf. Recounting all of their adventures together to prove to her, without a doubt, that he was still the Doctor. Still her Doctor, though he’d never exactly stated it as such.

(Little did he know then that Rose had already considered him her Doctor. She later confessed to him that his earnest attempts to convince her of his identity had been endearing.)

On the evening before he and Rose were to depart for the stars once more, Rose had stayed up late with him in Jackie’s living room and had presented him with a small package. She had seemed slightly embarrassed or self-conscious as he ripped into the brown-paper-wrapped parcel; she had begun rambling about traditions and new beginnings and something about “together”, which he very much liked to think about. He liked the idea of him and Rose together forever.

Upon indelicately ripping off the wrapping paper, he saw a simple white box. When he removed the lid, a Christmas ornament lay nestled in a soft bed of shredded cotton. His hearts had constricted in his chest as he pulled out the ornament, two penguins clad in hats and scarves leaning in to touch the tips of their beaks together. Beneath, in an elegant script, were the words “The Doctor + Rose’s First Christmas” and the year.

“I know it’s silly,” Rose said, still looking anywhere but him. “Christmas is over now, and it’s not like we even had a tree in the TARDIS to put it on, but I saw it and couldn’t resist. Obviously, I wrote in our names. Not many ornaments have ‘the Doctor’ written on ‘em.”

He pulled her into his arms, silencing her words. “It’s perfect,” he said through the lump in his throat. “Tell you what. We can put it up on the tree next Christmas. And get another ornament to go with it. Eh? Can be a tradition.”

Rose wrinkled her nose. “You put up a Christmas tree in that box of yours?”

“Not usually,” he admitted. “But you celebrate Christmas. I want the TARDIS to feel like home for you, and if celebrating all of your little human holidays makes it feel like home, then I want to celebrate with you, however you’d like. If you’d like.”

Her expression softened and she smiled shyly at him. “The TARDIS is already my home, Doctor.”

The admission both floored and delighted him. A big, beaming grin split his face in two, and the echoing expression lit up her face too.

He very nearly kissed her then, and he spent the rest of the night, after Rose had gone to bed, cursing himself for not seizing the opportunity.

No matter. They got there eventually, after a few hiccups in the road.

By the time their second Christmas rolled around, they were an actual proper couple, and they went shopping together not only for their first Christmas tree, but also for the companion to the penguin ornament. They’d decided on two polar bears decorating a Christmas tree together, snouts pressed together in a supposed kiss.

They had bought other decorations as well, but they displayed their couples’ ornaments proudly on the front of the tree, making sure no branches, lights, or baubles obscured them from view.

“I wonder how long it’ll take before we have enough couples’ ornaments to decorate the tree just with them,” Rose mused as they de-decked their tree after the holidays. “Ages and ages, I’ll bet.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’ve got ages and ages,” he replied, a goofy grin on his face. “Forever, in fact.”

And they did. They had forever together. Whatever Rose had done as Bad Wolf had changed her at the cellular level. Her body wasn’t breaking down at all; it had enough regenerative energy—courtesy of the TARDIS—to replenish any aged and dying cells before they turned hazardous. For all intents and purposes, she would live just as long as the Doctor. Longer, perhaps.

Upon realizing what that meant for them, for their future together, they decided to bind themselves together in every way possible. One soul in two bodies. At least, that was how Rose had liked to think of it when he had explained the telepathic marriage bond. An open channel between them, their minds, allowing them to see the most intimate parts of the other.

There had been no one the Doctor had wanted to share that sort of connection with, apart from Rose. There had never been anyone like her before—nobody he loved as deeply, fiercely, wholly, eternally—and there would never be anyone like her again.

Not even now that she was gone.

It had been over three years since Torchwood. Since Canary Wharf. Since the Daleks and Cybermen and parallel worlds and Void breaches that ended with the multiverse being saved, but with Rose being trapped permanently in another world.

In those first few moments, as he watched the Void breach fold in on itself like a crumpled piece of paper, the Doctor had held his breath and tensed for the inevitable slash of pain in his mind as his bond with Rose broke. But when a minute passed, then two, then ten and his bond with Rose was still there, he relaxed a fraction.

The anguish and desperation clanging from her half of the bond was what kept him sane, funnily enough. Regardless of their mutual devastation, the fact that he could still feel her in his mind meant he hadn’t truly lost her. She wasn’t truly gone. He wasn’t truly alone.

It had taken months for them to adapt and adjust to their new reality. Time moved around them differently; Pete’s World, as he’d dubbed it, moved slightly faster than their prime universe. And time didn’t really exist in the TARDIS. However, they tried to sync their internal body clocks with each other, to sleep and eat and relax at the same time to make up for the fact that they weren’t physically with each other.

Despite having his wife in his head at all times, he still missed her. He missed her more with every passing day. Nevertheless, they had coped as best they could.

However, the holidays still hurt. It hurt to try to celebrate with Rose when she was—literally—worlds away. Universes away. It hurt to go out and get a Christmas tree. It hurt to decorate it. But above all, it hurt to pick out and purchase their couples’ ornament alone. He’d had to pick out the last three on his own, and if his calculations were correct—which they were, because he was quite brilliant—he would be needing to go out and buy a new one soon. Their sixth overall, the fourth he would buy alone.

Despite Rose’s confidence in the Dimension Cannon—a clever bit of technology that the Torchwood researchers and engineers in Pete’s World had been developing for well over a year now—it seemed as though the Cannon hadn’t worked enough to bring her back to this world in time for Christmas.

But he didn’t care when she came home. He just cared that she did come home. One day.

He had been skeptical of the Cannon when Rose first informed him of its creation, but now that it began showing signs of life—acting as a crude teleport—he was cautiously optimistic that one day it would work. Once he or any of the Torchwood scientists managed to figure out how to poke a hole through the Void, through the fabric of reality, large enough for Rose to squeeze through, but small enough that the entire microcosm of the multiverse didn’t implode in the process. It was a delicate balancing act.

However, now that Rose was busy testing the Dimension Cannon, letting it blast her to whatever corner of her universe it fancied, their bond was a little more strained and out of sync. It had nearly given him a hearts-attack when she went utterly silent one day, only to reappear in his mind hours later as though nothing had happened.

She had since taken to warning him about when she was planning a Cannon jump so he wouldn’t be alarmed if she disappeared from his head for a few hours. Though he appreciated it, it didn’t stop his anxiety from squeezing a tight band around his chest. Every time her half of the bond went quiet, he feared he would never hear from her again.

Inevitably, though, she always returned. She would always return.

He had taken to running errands on the days she did her Cannon jumps. Not only did it distract him from the silence in his head, but it gave him a break from trying to keep his body clock synced with Rose’s. He didn’t need to concern himself about when or where he went, or for how long.

On one particular day in the beginning of December—for Rose, at least… Pete’s World had gotten completely out of sync with their universe by now—the Doctor had decided to visit Ghealach, a small moon on the other end of the galaxy that was basically a junk shop masquerading as a bazaar. The unique feature of Ghealach, however, was that it was utterly psy-null. Telepathy was strictly forbidden as a security measure; the shop owners didn’t want a telepathic being creeping into their heads to swindle them out of money and supplies.

As such, if the Doctor were to go to Ghealach, it meant his bond with Rose would be silenced.

I’ll be there for just a few hours, he told her that morning. I should be done by the time you’re back, but in the event that I’m not, I don’t want you to worry.

Thanks for telling me. Stay safe, Doctor.

He snorted. I’m not the one blasting myself to the gods know where.

He got the impression she was sticking her tongue out at him, and so he rolled his eyes right back.

Be safe, he murmured, passing a kiss and a caress down their bond.

He piloted himself to Ghealach but stayed in the TARDIS until Rose’s presence faded from his mind, indicating she’d gone on her jump.

Wearily, the Doctor rubbed at his eyes and at the dull throb that pulsed behind his temples. Ignoring the ache, he grabbed his overcoat, swung it around his shoulders, and exited the TARDIS.

Ghealach was bustling with activity. All sorts of creatures were buying and selling, bartering and trading. While he usually loved the atmosphere—all of those people, all that life—he couldn’t stomach it today.

So he moved with a purpose, knowing where he could find the parts that he needed to fix the TARDIS. Well, not exactly fix, as nothing was technically broken. But the mechanisms behind the fine-tune precision needed for landing at the coordinates he set must be going a bit faulty. He was landing in an incorrect time or location more often than usual.

If Rose were there, she would’ve teased him about his poor piloting skills.

Pushing that thought aside, the Doctor strode from tent to tent, turning out his pockets to exchange whatever baubles and trinkets and bits of alien tech he happened to have.

It took nearly two hours, but he finally had all of the pieces he had sought out to find, plus a few extra bits he didn’t need but might one day have use for.

It took another half hour or wandering to find the TARDIS again. He hadn’t realized how far he had wandered into the labyrinthine stalls of the market. But he finally beheld his glorious ship. It was odd not to hear her welcoming hum as he approached. Even his bond with his ship was muted on this moon.

He slid his key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door inward. Her central rotor gleamed in welcome and the lights flickered between bright and dull. As soon as he closed the door behind him, leaving the psy-null territory, he felt his ship’s utter joy and delight.

“I missed you too,” he cooed to his ship, affectionately rubbing one of the coral struts as he draped his coat across it.

It was only when he’d skipped up to the center console that he realized his ship wasn’t the sole presence in his mind.

Oh! You’re back earlier than I thought, he said, cringing. Sorry, love. Didn’t think I'd be on that moon for so long.

“Doctor.”

Her voice was faint and breathless, and the Doctor clenched his jaw; it sounded as though she was right beside him. He was getting bombarded with a mixture of emotions, strong ones at that. Stronger than he usually felt from their strained bond.

What’s the matter? Everything all right? Jump go okay?

“It’s you… It’s really, actually you.”

He frowned at the display controls of his ship as he worked on sending her into flight. Rose was coming across clearly. He could read every thread of thought and emotion: disbelief, confusion, love, hurt, happiness, desperation. All of it. Everything that was going on inside that beautiful head of hers was broadcast for him to see.

But if he could sense her so easily, then that meant…

Where are you? he asked, frantically tugging the display screen so close to his face that his nose nearly brushed it. He typed at the keyboard fervently, even though he had no coordinates to input. I’ll find you, Rose. I will find you. Gods, you’re here. Where are you? I’ll find you.

A choked sob sounded from his wife, and he reached into himself, into their bond, to cradle her close. A maelstrom hit him, and he couldn’t seem to soothe her, no matter how much comfort and love he swaddled her in.

I know, love. I know. We’re so close. All these years and you’ve finally done it. You’re brilliant, you are. We’re so close now. Just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you and bring you home. But I need to know where you are.

“Turn around.”

Turn around? What? Where are you, Rose? I need as much information as you can give me so I can find you.

“Turn. Around.”

His mind was still churning even as something—someone—touched his shoulder. Fingers gripped his shoulder hard and tugged. Spinning on his heel, his jaw slackened as he beheld the blonde standing before him. Rose. His wife. His bondmate. His everything.

“Rose?” he croaked, clenching his hands into fists at his side.

She looked nearly the same as the day he’d lost her. The planes of her face had sharpened, the roundness of youth having faded over the years, and her hair was a gentler shade of blonde, seemingly professionally dyed rather than a cheap bit of bleaching product she found in the shops.

His eyes roved across her face hungrily, urgently willing her to be real, as his mind sought her out. He hadn’t realized how muffled their bond had become, separated as they were through universes, but now it was in perfect focus, at full power. It was as though a radio station that had been staticky was now tuned.

And all of the emotions swirling through both of their minds was being broadcast on all frequencies. Shock and disbelief and tentative, delicate hope.

“Oh, Doctor!”

Rose launched herself at him, pulling him from his stupor. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, holding her as close as he could. Her warm, small body contoured to his, pressing against every inch of him until there was no space left between them.

Her hands scrabbled at his back, searching for better purchase to cling to him. He buried his nose into the soft spot where her shoulder met her neck and breathed in deeply, inhaling the smell of her. She smelled like energy and electricity, but beneath that was the familiar scent of Rose. Of home.

“What… How…?”

“It worked,” she said, her voice warbling. “The Cannon… it worked. With a bit of help. Needed a bit of alien tech to help brace the Void open, then close it up behind me. Some friendly aliens helped out with that. Though they said the fabric of that reality was already fragile. Not sure what that was about. Torchwood promised to look into it, and I said we’d look into it from this side of things.”

“Fragile?” he asked, pulling away from her. “How can the fabric of reality become ‘fragile’?”

Rose looked like she was about to open her mouth, perhaps to offer her input, but the Doctor realized he didn’t particularly want to talk about the fabric of reality or the universe or anything that wasn’t Rose.

He shook his head and cradled Rose’s jaw in her palm, brushing his thumb against her lower lip. She sighed, her warm breath ghosting across his hand.

“I’ve missed you,” he rasped, raking his eyes over her face to recommit every detail to memory. She was even more beautiful, more breathtaking, than he remembered. “So much, Rose. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t miss you. And I know we were never truly apart, but…”

Rose rocked up onto her toes, fisted her hands in the lapels of his suit, and tugged him down until their mouths met in a hard kiss. All thoughts left his mind as he lost himself in her. The taste of her, the touch of her, the smell of her, the sound of her, the sight of her. His senses were utterly overwhelmed by her, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Pleasure sparked through his veins as their lips moved together in a familiar rhythm of pulling and yielding, sliding and gliding.

A full-body shudder rippled down his spine as his mouth parted for her probing tongue. The little whimper she let out weakened his knees and he stumbled back a step until his backside pressed against the central console of the TARDIS.

Rose followed, not breaking the kiss. The Doctor braced himself against the console, more than willing to let Rose cage him in, resting her weight against his. Their bodies moved together, rocking and writhing as their hands explored every inch of each other that they’d been deprived of for three and a half years.

“I missed you,” he murmured between frantic kisses. “I love you.”

I love you, he whispered into her mind. His half of the bond wrapped around her half even tighter than his body wrapped around hers, needing to feel her everywhere, needing to hold her close to convince himself that this was real, that she was real, and that she was here with him.

“I’m here,” she mumbled against his mouth. I’m here. I’m back. I came back. I love you. I love you.

Her hands moved restlessly across his body, alternating between pressing into the small of his back and his hair. Desire rippled through him as their hips and legs tangled together, rubbing and grinding and relishing all of the sensations they’d been deprived of for these many long years.

Sure, they’d had the mental presence of each other during their separation, but no number of mental embraces could replace a real hug, of being ensconced in another’s arms, two bodies inhabiting one space.

A deep groan rumbled up the Doctor’s chest as he devoured Rose’s mouth. The bedroom was too far away for the utter need throbbing through them both. Hastily removing all necessary pieces of clothing, they joined together on the raggedy old jump seat. Their bodies moved as one, touching and kissing and teasing and tasting until their coupling culminated in the pinnacle of pleasure and love.

Afterwards, they sat slumped together, panting for breath and clinging to each other. The Doctor skated his fingertips up and down the smooth expanse of Rose’s spine. She still had her shirt on, and the fabric bunched and fell with every up and down motion of his hand.

“I love you,” he said groggily, pressing a series of kisses to the column of her throat. His mind was blissfully blank and full of Rose. She was everywhere, filling the deep, dark expanse of his mind with her light and warmth.

“You feel so good,” she sighed, nuzzling closer physically and mentally. “I hadn’t realized how faint our bond had become. But now… God.”

“Mmm,” he hummed in agreement. Then he asked the question that had slowly been eating away at him. “How long were you waiting in here? How did you even find the ship? That moon… you wouldn’t have been able to feel her—or me.”

“Maybe a half hour,” Rose said. “Felt like an eternity. But then I reminded myself that I was lucky enough to have found the TARDIS at all. I would’ve been devastated to know I’d landed here but just missed you.”

He would’ve been devastated too. Even more horrifying was the idea that Rose wouldn’t even have been able to reach out for him to tell him where she was, what with that telepathic dampener suppressing their bond.

“But I was just wandering around when I found the TARDIS,” Rose continued. “I nearly walked right by her at first, ‘cos I didn’t think the jump had actually worked. I figured I was on an alien planet in that other universe. But then I walked past her and the door just… clicked open. That’s when I turned and saw her, and I ran right in.

“But then I wasn’t sure which version of you it would be. Everything about the TARDIS looked the same, so I figured I wasn’t too far off. Then I was beginning to think about how I would explain everything if it was a past you. Especially if it was a past you who hadn’t met me yet; how on Earth would I explain to you who I was and why you needed to help me.”

“The marriage bond would’ve been proof enough,” he assured her, tapping at his temple for emphasis. “The bond transcends time, through regenerations, past and present. No matter which version of me walked through those doors, I would have known who you are.”

“Thank God it was you,” she said. “Though for a minute there I thought I went mad and was invisible.”

He offered her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I didn’t think to look around the TARDIS. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here.”

She smirked at him, then nestled her head into the crook of his neck, letting out a sated sigh Despite the sound of utter contentment, she murmured, “We should get up.”

“Or we could stay here like this forever,” he countered.

“As wonderful as that sounds, my legs are going half numb,” she retorted. “And I feel disgusting. I could use a shower, if you’d care to join me?”

His belly swooped in renewed desire as he nodded fervently. Rose grinned at him, her tongue poking teasingly out of the corner of her mouth. He pinched her bum for her cheek, causing her to shriek with laughter and swat at his hand.

A daft grin settled across his face at the sound. Oh, how he’d missed her.

He couldn’t help but lean up to plant a row of tiny kisses across her jaw, beginning at the sensitive skin beneath her ear and working his way to the corner of her mouth. He felt her cheek lift in a smile as her hand went to the back of his head to keep him where he was. As if he would ever wish to stop kissing her.

“Shower?” he mumbled against her skin, slowly making a path down her neck.

“Mhm,” she hummed distractedly.

He laughed softly and pressed a final kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Rose heaved a great sigh but dutifully lifted herself off of his lap to stand on wobbly legs. He followed suit, and they each fixed their jumble of half-off clothing before they moved, hand in hand, down the corridor of their home.

Part Two (the Christmas fluff) coming soon!

[jimjamkagaricci]

FINALLY got a hardcover version of the new edition of radio silence so now (markiplier voice) i am a man that owns SIX copies of radio silence by alice oseman

(dont worry abt the placement of the other one, i have plans to move the wtnv ones soon lol)

[ryukogo]

i will literally never get over my first tabletop campaign because of that brave goblin sniper who killed everyone with 0 dex and 5 crit hit rolls in a row

[megabadbunny]

Minuet, Part VI

“Why’d you kiss me, if it was wrong?” Rose asks. The Doctor bristles. “Why did you push me away, if it wasn’t?”

***

(ten/rose angsty post-gitf au/fixit; here there be smuts (but sfw version can be found on ff.net)

(full-size image)

Minuet, Part VI

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII

Rose is pulled from her sleep, rather violently, by the sound of hammering on her door. “Rose,” hisses a voice on the other side. “Rose, it’s Mickey. Open up. Please?” Groaning in response, Rose yanks her pillow over her aching head. When did Mickey’s whispers get so loud? “Rose?” says Mickey’s voice, louder. Swearing under her breath, Rose slides out of bed, squinting against the lightning blaring overhead and steadying herself with a hand to the wall as she slouches her way over to the door--it’s an actual door, thankfully, not that magical hole-in-the-wall thing, which is a blessing, because Rose has no idea how that knock thing works, and she’s fairly certain her brain can’t handle anything more complicated than a doorknob right now. She pushes the door open to find Mickey standing in the hallway, clad in satiny jimjams and a plush robe; yet another set of amenities provided by Uruud or one of the other Votaries, Rose thinks. “Can I help you?” she grumbles. “I wanted to check in. What’s going on with you right now?” Rose sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. It doesn’t help the pain (in fact, it might make it worse), but it at least helps allay the sensation that her head is going to inflate and float away like some kind of wine-filled balloon. “It’s...nothing,” she says after a moment. “It’s stupid. I’m just being stupid.” “Rose,” Mickey says, admonishing. “Mickey,” she replies flatly. Mickey crosses his arms. “Okay. Fine. We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want--” “Great,” says Rose, pushing the door closed. “Wait! Rose!” Groaning in frustration, Rose pulls the door back open to find Mickey looking stricken. “Why are you really here?” she asks. “Just spit it out.” “Oh my god, he won’t stop talking, okay?” Mickey blurts out. “It’s driving me up the bleeding wall. No, scratch that--it’s driving me all the way off the planet, out of the galaxy, into a neighboring universe. He just won’t. Stop. Talking!” Rose squints in confusion. “Who?” “The Doctor,” Mickey replies, exasperated. “Who else? Ever since we got back to the room, he’s going a million miles an hour, Allstorm this and barometric pressure that and something about Therran politics and just all this stupid nuttery nonsense and he won’t bloody shut up.” His mouth quirks downward in a lip-quivering pout. “I just want to sleep, Rose.”

Leaning against the doorjamb for support, Rose feels the smallest inkling of pity welling up somewhere where her stomach used to be; she would have warned Mickey that might happen, had it occurred to her, but she’d grown so accustomed to the Doctor’s rambling during overnight stays in strangers’ homes and sleepy movies in the TARDIS library and occasional stints in otherworldly prisons that his late-night lectures often served as a handy sleep aid. Or at least, they did before. Rose has no idea how she’d react to it now, after half a year’s-worth of falling asleep each night completely and utterly alone.

“Look, can I just stay in here tonight?” Mickey asks, fidgeting uncomfortably in his slippers. “Please?” Yawning, Rose nods, stepping aside to make room. “Thank you,” Mickey gushes, stopping to peck a quick kiss on her cheek before he darts inside, making a beeline straight for the bed. Rose closes the door and follows after much more slowly, her feet dragging over the floor, her entire body moving as if it were filled with lead, heavy and cumbersome and reluctant to fight against gravity’s insatiable pull. Hauling herself back into bed, Rose wants nothing more than to sleep the night away and pretend this godforsaken mess of a day never happened. But instead she lies awake next to Mickey for what feels like hours, her thoughts plodding on sluggishly in an endless parade as her stomach twists in knots.

**

The Doctor looks more confused than anything when he answers the door. “Mickey’s snoring,” Rose grumbles by way of explanation, pushing past the Doctor before he has a chance to reply. The Doctor doesn’t move from his post by the door, doesn’t even turn to look at Rose as she kicks off her slippers, gathers the skirts of her gown, and yanks open the canopy-curtain, collapsing into the bed. She pulls the duvet over her head, tunneling deep into the bedclothes like a rabbit in a burrow, and waits. Any minute now, the Doctor will acknowledge her presence, with babble or chatter or a protest, but only silence meets her ears. Silence, and then the quiet whine of the door closing, and the soft padding of the Doctor’s shoes over the floor. Rose expects the bed to dip with his weight, and frowns when she hears something that sounds suspiciously like a chair dragging over the tiles instead. She peeks out from under the bedclothes just long enough to see the Doctor depositing himself at the bedside table, raking a hand through his hair. That churning-feeling rises up in Rose’s stomach again. She tells herself it’s just the alcohol. She hates how much this bothers her, how much she just wants him to pull her into his arms even after what a horrible arse he’s been, hates how much she wishes he would hold her tight and promise that everything’s all right. She hates it. “You don’t, erm,” she tries to say, mentally kicking herself even as the words leave her mouth. “You don’t have to stay over there all night, you know. It’s your bed after all.” Silence again. Rose squirms in the bedclothes. Not because she feels guilty and uncomfortable; no, it’s because the bedclothes are a little scratchy, that’s all. The fancy, expensive, definitely-made-out-of-some-kind-of-silk bedclothes. (Mickey said the Doctor wouldn’t shut up--why isn’t he blabbering now?) “Just...you’re not gonna get any rest like that, is all I’m saying,” Rose tries again, her voice muffled by the mattress. “C’mon. Bed’s big enough for two.” The air is quiet and still, and moments pass in endless agony. But just when Rose thinks the Doctor might sit by the desk all night after all, she hears the soft rustle of moving cloth, feels the mattress pull to accommodate another occupant. She peeks out from under the duvet again to see the Doctor lying atop the bedclothes, staring at the canopy ceiling, hands folded over his stomach and feet crossed at the ankles. He hasn’t even taken off his plimsolls, the barmy alien. The bad feeling in Rose’s stomach loosens a little, but only a little. “You’re not going to bed like that, are you?” “Like what?” “All, y’know. Still dressed and everything. Can’t be comfy.” “That hangover you’re nursing can’t be comfy either.” Rose’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Shut up,” she mumbles, though with a mouthful of bedsheet, it emerges a bit more like Sherderrmpf. The Doctor shifts next to her, and a hand creeps into her field of vision, unfolding to reveal two tablets. “Take them now, before the full effects set in,” the Doctor says softly. “Should clear you up in a jiffy.” Reluctantly, Rose slips the tablets out of his hand. “You’ll need a glass of water.” “I know,” she grumbles as she slides out of bed. “Drink the whole glass.” “I know,” Rose repeats, grumpily, even as she follows his orders and drags her half-lifeless corpse over to the en suite so she can fill a glass with water. Tablets, mouth, swallow, water, she drains the glass and refills it and drains it again, and already she’s starting to feel better despite herself, damn him. After a moment, she chances a look back at the Doctor, whose thousand-yard-stare bores into the canopy up above, his face alternately painted white by the lightning leaking through the curtains and plunged back into darkness seconds later. Rose wonders at his strange silence, what she can do to disrupt it. As disconcerting as his extreme chatter was earlier in the day, Rose would trade anything for it right now. She doesn’t like it when the Doctor is quiet. It’s weird. Rose avoids her side of the bed on her return trip, heading straight for the Doctor instead, or rather, for his shoes. She ignores the way his eyebrow arches in question when she sits down at the foot of the bed and pulls the laces free from one plimsoll. “You can’t sleep like this,” she chides gently. “To be fair, it’s doubtful I’ll sleep at all.” Rose finishes unlacing one shoe and sets to work on the other. “I know.” She tugs both shoes off and scoots up the bed, unbuttoning the Doctor’s top jacket-button. He doesn’t try to stop her, not when she slips the next button free, not even when she moves down further, but with his hands still folded over his stomach, he doesn’t exactly try to help her, either. (Rose can feel the weight of his gaze on her face, though, heavy and questioning.) Probably she should pull away, give him space, allow him room, if he wants it, but her hands linger near his, fingers ghosting over the landscape of his knuckles. “Just seems like you could use a proper rest, is all,” she mumbles. “I’m not tired,” the Doctor says quietly. “When’s the last time you slept?” “I’m all right, Rose.” “Yeah, that’s what you say when you’re anything but all right.” With a heavy sigh, the Doctor sits up, dislodging Rose’s hands as he swings his legs round, hanging over the side of the bed, feet ready and prepped to stand. To run, Rose thinks, and panic rises in her chest, squeezing her heart until it hurts, bursting at the seams like a stress toy clenched in an angry and unforgiving fist. “Doctor,” she tries to say, but it’s too late; he’s pushing up from the bed and re-buttoning his jacket and he’ll slip his shoes on next just before he slips out of the room, and she’s just going to be left here alone with nothing but her own thoughts and aching heart and fluttering stomach for company. Rose doesn’t know if she can take another night of that--last evening was more than enough, thanks. So she rises with the Doctor and, pulling him down by the jacket-lapels, presses a kiss to his mouth. He freezes beneath her touch. Rose’s lungs contract painfully in her chest and she pulls away, panic pulsing higher and higher and louder and oh, god, oh, fuck, oh, no, no, no-- “Rose, I thought it was clear that my actions the other night were a mistake,” says the Doctor, his voice surprisingly quiet for all that its edges are sharp. Her cheeks flush hotly in the half-dark. “You didn’t say it was a mistake. You said you were sorry.” “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” “No,” replies Rose stubbornly. “It’s not.” The Doctor shoves his hands into his pockets, but he doesn’t move to leave, so Rose considers that a small victory. She’ll take them where she can get them, right now. “Why’d you kiss me, if it was wrong?” Rose asks. The Doctor bristles. “Why did you push me away, if it wasn’t?” “I don’t know. I guess I was just surprised, or confused, or taken off-guard, or…” Mouth pursed tight, the Doctor watches her, unconvinced. “Look, what do you want me to say?” Rose asks, crossing her arms defensively. “You want me to say it was because of what happened in France? Fine. It was because of France. Want me to say I was jealous? Fine. I was jealous. Happy?” “Jealous? Jealous of whom?” the Doctor asks, bewildered. The question hits Rose like a physical blow; she has to step back to absorb it. “Jealous of…?” she stutters, and when the Doctor doesn’t elaborate, she throws her hands up in the air, at a complete loss. “Who do you think?” The Doctor just shakes his head, eyes wide, and Rose drags both palms over her face in exasperation, heedless of any makeup she might be smearing. “God,” she groans, “it’s just so easy sometimes to forget what a bloody alien you are.” Buzzing with barely-tamed impatience, the Doctor watches her, waiting. Lightning arcs above them, painting the Doctor’s face in a flash of white, and his eyebrow arches expectantly, as if to say, Are you going to go on, or aren’t you? Drinking in a deep breath, Rose steels herself. “You were just gonna disappear,” she says. “Just running off after the next shiny thing, like always. You were gonna leave me behind, right after you promised you wouldn’t.” “Rose, I never--” “Never what? Never popped in and out of all those time windows like it was nothing, or flirted and carried on, or made a right arse out of yourself at some bourgeois party while Mickey and I were almost cut up for scrap parts? No kissing, no dancing, no I just snogged Madame de Pompadour?” The Doctor’s expression cools. “You do realize that I don’t require anyone’s permission to do those things. Or anyone’s approval, for that matter.” With a heavy sigh, weighed down by the plummeting twin masses of resignation and defeat, Rose bends over to scoop her slippers off the floor. Coming in here was a mistake; she knows that now. “Yeah,” she says, her voice flat as she slips the shoes back on. “I’m sure you’re right. You always are.” “Oh, come on--” “No, I get it. You’re the Doctor, you’re your own man, you don’t answer to anyone, ain’t nobody gonna tie you down. If you’re looking for a higher authority, there isn’t one. Isn’t that right?” “Rose,” the Doctor says warningly, but she plows on. “Just, if you never want to be held accountable to anyone, not ever--that’s fine, I guess, but then what’s the point of having friends?” Rose pleads. “Or are we even really your friends at all--are we more sort of empty shells that you can pour information into, or just fresh pairs of eyes to make the universe seem new and bright again, or just things that make noise and distract you from feeling quite so miserable and guilty and lonely anymore?” “Rose, that’s enough.” “Is it, though? Cos I’m happy to go on about how stupid and clueless we all are, all us silly humans struggling to keep up with you hopping from world to world and one obsession to the next. After all, there’s none in the group that’s stupider than me, since apparently I haven’t got even the faintest clue about how other people feel about me or how I’m supposed to react to their ridiculous mood swings and shifting tempers and ever-changing invisible boundaries—” “Quite frankly, you’ve got no room to talk—” “—and I can’t even tell whether I’ve got the right to be jealous or not. C’mon, let’s chat about it, I’ve got all night!” “Fine,” the Doctor snaps. “Yes, you are stupid. Very much so.” Rose’s mouth falls open in shock, only to twist back shut. Telltale pressure builds up in her sinuses, insistent and near-overwhelming, and she blinks furiously to dam the flow before any leaks spring forth. She hasn’t cried in nearly half a year; she’s not about to let it happen now. She’ll be damned before she lets the Doctor see her so vulnerable. “Guess I sort of walked into that one,” she mutters to herself. “You’re an incredibly stupid, reckless, selfish, short-sighted human child who can’t see past the here and the now,” the Doctor spits out. “Did you even think about what could have happened when you jumped through that mirror? Did it ever cross your mind, the damage you could have caused? Do you ever stop, even for a single second, to consider the consequences of your actions, how you might alter things irreparably, how you--” “Jesus, I get it, all right? We already talked about this, I was never gonna let anything happen to Reinette or the timelines or--” “I’m not talking about Reinette!” the Doctor shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. “When did I ever bring up Reinette? I’m talking about you, I’m talking about me!” Inhaling sharply, Rose hesitates. She opens her mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. She closes it again. She waits. The Doctor shoves both hands in his pockets, looking resolutely at anything in the room besides her. “What would have happened if I hadn’t found that last connection?” he asks, perhaps more of himself than anyone. “Or if I’d found it even a few moments later? You were already stuck there for months, months, and your stupid human life is already so short as it is. If you’d been stranded there for years, decades--what if you’d gotten sick, what if you’d gotten hurt?” Rose hasn’t got a reply for that. They’re all things she had wondered herself, back in France, and just hoped every day she wouldn’t ever have to find out. “I was so--I panicked, Rose, I panicked and it rendered me utterly useless,” the Doctor continues. “That could have cost you everything. What if I had found the connection too late, what if I’d never found it at all?” “You would have found another way,” Rose insists. “That’s what you do.” “I don’t always, though,” the Doctor laughs weakly. “Not every time. And I worry you don’t understand that. You look at me like I can do anything. I can’t, Rose. Your unwavering faith--I don’t deserve it. And I’m not saying that for the sake of receiving reassurance,” he snaps when Rose tries to interject. “I don’t want that. I don’t need it. Heaven knows I haven’t earned it. My behavior has been nothing short of abominable, if not downright monstrous; don’t think I’m not aware.” He pushes one hand through his hair, sighing heavily. “The truth is, I can’t always engineer a happy ending. Sometimes there simply isn’t one to be had. You’ve seen it, time and time again; no matter how hard I try, nearly each time we intervene to help someone, there’s someone else who doesn’t make it. We may save the day for most, but in the end, there are still lives lost. Someone I couldn’t help, someone I couldn’t save. What happens when that someone is you?” “That’ll never happen,” Rose says stubbornly. “It will, though.” His eyes cinch shut, as if the conversation costs him, like his body is paying the bill with hurt. “We’ve already come so close. You just rush in, headfirst, no looking back, no thinking, no stopping to consider what might be. You just in front of a car to save your father, break through a time window to save a stranger, absorb the Vortex to save me--” The Doctor swallows. “It’s just a matter of time. You’ll do something, or I’ll misjudge something, or I’ll panic, or there’ll be an accident, or you’ll grow tired of all of this, and--and then you’ll be gone. And I’m not ready for that yet. I’m just not.” His shoulders sag in defeat. “And I’m not sure I ever will be.” Rose’s hand twitches, the impulse to soothe him with touch so deeply ingrained that her body starts to move of its own accord, drawn to him like her hands are programmed to comfort, her arms to embrace. But she stops herself. Some strange cocktail of emotions is brewing and surging in her veins and she just needs a moment to sort it out properly, so the whole thing doesn’t boil over into one big bubbling sticky mess. So she doesn’t drown. (She can’t believe that the Doctor would ever feel so much, all because of her. All for her.) “Well,” she says, hesitantly. “Stop insulting me and maybe I’ll stick around longer.” “I don’t think it qualifies as insulting so much as accurate. Your actions really are astonishingly ill-advised, sometimes. Shockingly so.” “Right,” says Rose, anger rising to the surface once again. “So I’m reckless. Great. And selfish. Fine. And yeah, stupid, too. Why keep me around, then? What’s the point? If I’m so foolish, why don’t you just get rid of me?” “If you’re not foolish,” the Doctor snaps, “then why do you love me?” A lump lodges in Rose’s throat. “I don’t,” she lies. The Doctor’s gaze meets hers and god, does he look tired. His expression is so sad, so unbearably pathetic in the watercolor-grey splashes of light, that something wells up in her, a blind driving need to wipe that stupid, awful look off his face. (Is he upset because he believes her--or because he doesn’t?) Rose pushes him by the shoulders, a sharp jab that knocks him back a step. “I don’t,” she insists. Chest heaving with exertion, she pushes the Doctor again for good measure when he doesn’t reply--why won’t he just say something, do something, anything, goddammit--and another sharp shove sets him back until his legs hit the bed. “I don’t love you,” Rose says, bitter hot tears swelling fatly in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t, I don’t, I swear I don’t--” “Good,” replies the Doctor, his voice short. “Me neither.” “Good,” Rose echoes, and please, please don’t let him see the moisture glittering on her lashes. “Then none of this means anything.” Yanking him down by the jacket, she captures his lips in a punishing kiss. This time, the Doctor doesn’t freeze, isn’t a cold marble statue unwilling and unable to respond; no, this time one hand flies up immediately to her face, gripping her firmly by the chin while his other hand clenches her by the hip, pulling her tight against him. Rose’s fingers slide up to tangle in his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp; he bites her lower lip in response, his tongue slipping past her lips when she gasps in shock. His tongue brushes slickly over hers and Rose groans despite herself, the sound humming from her mouth into his. Dizziness fizzes up in Rose’s head, a direct counterpoint to the swooping sensation descending low in her belly, and this time, she knows it’s got nothing to do with the alcohol. Her hands shift to the Doctor’s tie, loosening it up enough to bare his throat to her teeth. His breath hitches when her lips brush against his Adam’s apple; his grip on her tightens when she bites down. His skin flushes brilliantly against her mouth, delightfully hot and pulse point pumping-pumping-pumping, and Rose gives the spot a good suck, privately reveling in how the Doctor swears under his breath. All those layers, all that haughty superior species thinking-instead-of-doing nonsense, all those snide remarks about the base instincts of human nature, and yet here he is, trembling at her touch and clutching her close just like any human bloke might. “Leaving your mark?” he asks breathlessly. “Yeah,” she says, pushing him until his knees buckle and he lands on the bed. “Wanna ruin you like you ruined me.” With a growl, the Doctor forces Rose down into his lap. A needy whimper arises in Rose’s throat as the Doctor pulls her in for another harsh kiss, his hand sliding beneath her skirt, skin-on-skin at last. He dispenses with any sense of buildup and slides a thumb beneath the neckline of her gown, teasing her breast as his other hand slips between her legs to stroke her through her knickers. Thighs clenching, Rose gasps as pleasure sparks through her, setting her nerve endings on fire and pooling slickly between her legs. She knows the Doctor is watching her, filing away expressions and scents and sounds so he can chart a map for himself, telling him where to stroke next, where best to lick and kiss. But she’s not a brave new world for him to explore; there’s no promise of anything forbidden or new, no sense of wide-eyed wonder. Instead there’s just heat, and pressure, and need. And right now she needs to see him lose control. Her fingers slip down to his waistband, pulling his shirttails free and flicking open his trouser-clasp so she can lower the zipper. He’s already half-hard when her fingers reach his cock, and he shudders as she strokes, teasing him with swipes of her thumb. He swells beneath her hand and she thinks she should lick her fingers, grip him with something warm and wet. Then she has a better idea. Pushing the Doctor until his back hits the mattress, Rose offers him one more kiss, hard and punctuated with teeth, before she grabs him by the wrists, pulling his hands out from beneath her skirt. She aches at the loss of his touch but she ignores the throb between her legs as she sinks to the floor. “Rose--” the Doctor starts to say, but she’s already leaning forward to take him in her mouth. Back arching off the bed, the Doctor gasps, straining against Rose’s grips on his wrists as her lips close around him. His thighs tense beneath her and she knows he’s fighting not to thrust, not to choke her. She rewards him with a swirl of her tongue and a hard suck. Releasing one wrist, Rose wraps a hand around his cock, ringing the base where her mouth can’t reach, pumping in counterpoint with the motion of her head and lips, and the Doctor pants heavily above her, stomach muscles constricting with effort. Humming around him, Rose takes him in further still, and the Doctor groans, head thrown back against the mattress, throat exposed to the night air. Rose rubs her thighs together for any sense of friction she can get. The sights and sounds of the Doctor, helpless and panting and strained because of her, makes her ridiculously wet, makes her entire body cry out for his touch. He chokes out her name, arm twisting in her grip so his hand can grab hers. The other hand tangles in her hair, the pressure undemanding, his thumb idly stroking her cheek. Rose wonders if he’s even aware of the gesture, decides she doesn’t care. She swallows around him, sliding her mouth up and down along his cock until he cries out, every muscle in his body seizing up beneath her. His cock pulses hotly in her mouth and she eases him through it, stroking and swallowing until he stills. Discreetly wiping her lips, Rose stands on shaky legs, watching the Doctor as he fights to regain control. His chest heaves with labored breaths--did he forget to engage his bypass, she wonders?--and his eyes are glassy, unfocused. Inwardly, Rose rewards herself with a small but satisfied smile; she did this. She made him come apart, spiral unbound, surrender to just a shred of humanlike vulnerability. Just for once, she was the one in control. Yet, after the heavy rasp of his breathing dies down, when he sits up on the bed and runs a shaking hand through his hair, Rose find she can’t quite meet his eyes. She’s not sure why. (He won’t look at her either.) Somewhere in the back of Rose’s mind, a small voice pipes up that this is it, this is the moment to throw herself into the Doctor’s arms, press a real honest-to-goodness kiss to his lips and tell him everything that’s been simmering between her lungs for the last half-year (longer, if she’s being totally honest). And if she really thinks about it, the voice goes on, doesn’t she think if she opens up to the Doctor first, wouldn’t that make it easier for him to respond in kind, to chisel even just the tiniest crack in his walls to let her in? She feels in her gut that that’s true. He may never leap into things the way a human partner might, but if she jumps in first, Rose knows, there’s a healthy chance he’ll at least wade in after her. And even if he doesn’t respond quite the way she hopes, at least then it would all be said, spoken into tangibility out in the open. At least he would know. But something slithers in and strangles the little voice before it can give shape to its words, and suddenly Rose is afraid. (Who is she kidding? She’ll be lucky if he ever looks at her again, after tonight.) Wordlessly, head thudding dully, Rose crosses to the other side of the bed, ignoring how her body still cries out for attention. She crawls beneath the duvet, her back to the Doctor. She tries not to hold her breath. Minutes tick by. The silence is deafening. Finally, the silence is cracked apart by the Doctor, clearing his throat before he leaves to duck into the ensuite. The sound of water splashing on skin greets Rose’s ears, and she realizes he’s washing up--washing her off, of course, why wouldn’t he?--and suddenly all of the air leaves her lungs, her throat seizing up after. The Doctor is better than all of this, higher than all this stupid petty human hormone-ridden muck, and she just dragged him down into the dirt with her, didn’t she? Surely that must be what’s going through his head right now; surely he’s disgusted with her. Shame boils up deep inside. What’s wrong with her? When the Doctor emerges from the ensuite and does not return to the bed, but rather heads straight for the bedroom door without so much as a Good night, Rose’s worst fears are confirmed. The door clicks shut behind him and for some reason that click of utter finality brings the panic flooding in. Oh god, she’s ruined everything, hasn’t she? What the fuck is wrong with her? Suddenly sleep is the furthest thing from Rose’s mind, a surge of fight-or-flight adrenaline rushing through her veins. She can’t stay in here. The bed is too small. The room is a cage. Her heart hammers frantically in her chest and she throws off the duvet, it’s strangling her, she’s got to escape, she’s got to run--maybe it’s not too late to apologize, or maybe if she’s lucky she can find a black hole to throw herself in-- Rose yanks open the bedroom door to find the Doctor standing in the doorway, fist posed as if he was about to knock. They both blink at each other in surprise. Rose’s breath catches. Is he…? Could he be…? “Sorry,” says the Doctor, his hand slowly falling. “Erm, I just realized--Shoes.” Frowning, Rose shakes her head. “Shoes?” Avoiding her gaze, the Doctor scratches the back of his neck. “I might’ve forgot to put my shoes back on.” Of course. He wouldn’t--it wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Feeling very stupid, Rose nods, rapidly blinking back tears. She steps aside so he can enter, her mouth twisting with the effort not to cry. If he registers the look on her face, or notices the stiffness in her shoulders, the clenching of her hands, the Doctor doesn’t show it. He crosses the room in several long strides, grabbing his trainers and returning to the door without a single glance in her direction. Stepping into the corridor, his head jerks her way, lips parting like he may say something; if so, he must think better of it, because he just issues a curt nod and starts to walk away. Rose’s pulse thunders painfully in her ears and before she knows it her feet are carrying her after him. “Erm, Doctor…?” He stops and turns, expression carefully neutral. “Hm?” Oh god, what now? She feels dreadfully stupid. “I just sort of realized,” Rose stammers. “I mean, it’s silly, I know, but--” She gulps, audibly. “It’s just, we, erm. Haven’t really had a proper hug since I got back, have we? You know?” He watches her silently, waiting, his expression inscrutable. “And I don’t know about you,” Rose continues, shaking, “but, erm. I could really use one?” For a few horrible seconds, Rose is certain he’ll slap the olive branch out of her hands, or just leave it hanging there while he turns and runs, abandoning the poor thing to wither and rot. But in the blink of an eye he’s dropping his shoes to the floor with a loud smack that echoes in the hallway and another blink later and he’s wrapping his arms around her, binding her in an embrace snug enough to crush the air out of her lungs. Stunned, it takes her half a moment to respond with a hug of her own, but once she does, his arms tighten even further, a steel trap with no intention of ever letting go. Rose isn’t sure why that’s the thing that breaks the walls to let the tears flow free, but damn if she isn’t choking back sobs now. “The sex wasn’t that bad, was it?” the Doctor asks wryly. She can’t muster the energy for a laugh, so Rose just shakes her head instead, burying her face against his chest. He smells--god, he just smells so good, she’d almost forgotten, and he feels so wonderful, like wiry muscles and a slim frame, like comfort, like home. Her tears slowly soak his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind, or maybe even notice. “I didn’t--” Rose tries to say, and chokes on the words. “I never meant--” “I know, Rose,” he says quietly. “Me neither. I’m sorry.” She hears him swallow, the noise thick. “I’m so sorry.” Sniffling, Rose nods against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispers. Fists clenching in the back of his jacket, Rose’s fingers seize up painfully tight. “I missed you,” she admits, willing herself not to shake. “God, I missed you so much.” The Doctor doesn’t reply, but Rose feels his chest deflate beneath her cheek, as if he’s letting out something that was trapped inside. He presses his lips and nose into her hair, breathing her in. His hold on her relaxes in increments as his thumbs draw lazy little circles on the small of her back, and Rose feels her muscles slowly loosening, the last of her tears subsiding with a hiccup. Something uncoils in her ribs, unclenching for the first time in hours--really, the first time in months--and she nuzzles against the Doctor, eyes shuttering in relief. (It’s really quite a nice hug. Nothing in the universe like it, and she would know.) “C’mon,” the Doctor says gently, pulling away after a few moments have passed. “Let’s get you some rest.” Rose threads her fingers through his, offering him a faint grin. “You, erm. You gonna stay with me?” “If you’d like,” he replies, his voice soft. Rose pushes up on her toes to plant another kiss on his mouth, a shy thing, this time, pressed to the corner as lightning pulses gently overhead, and the Doctor’s lips twitch in a small smile, after. “Yeah,” Rose says. “I’d like.”

***

Next Part

[intergalacticstarlight]

“Hey Rose! Do you wanna go to brunch today? Brunch, brunch, brunch. Funny word, Brunch. Breakfast and lunch both together. Why do you think people started doing that? Oh, I know. I bet it was so that they could stay in bed and shag a bit longer. Good idea, that. Maybe we should do that and /then/ brunch? What’d’ya think?” // allonsy10thdoctor (Stars verse)

@allonsy10thdoctor - Stars In Motion Verse

Rose turned around as he started speaking, giving him a bright smile from her place in bed where she’d been reading in her jimjams. The moment he spoke she’d closed her book- The Incarnations Of Immortality, With A Tangled Skein, and slid into a sitting position against the headboard. 

She couldn’t help but let out a soft giggle as his question turned into a tangent, which turned into a ramble, which… turned into an invitation for shagging. Her cheeks tinted pink as she blushed slightly, sitting her closed book on the night table and pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, humming softly with an expression suggesting she were thinking about it.

She was about to tell him to get his clothes off and join her in bed when her stomach rumbled and she put a hand over the small swell of her abdomen, still looking no more than about five months pregnant, despite having been so for 10 months now. 

She let out a soft laugh and began to rub her stomach a bit. “Well, I was gonna say we shag first then go out for brunch but I think the little one’s got other plans. M'so ‘ungry I could eat an entire chippy.” She slid her legs off the side of the bed and waggled her eyebrows at him. “But I swear t'Rassilon soon as we get back, you’re mine, yeah?”

Then she winked, giggled softly and got up to find proper clothing to wear to brunch, asking him as she went, “So where’re you takin’ us for brunch then, Doctor? Need ta know what ta wear.”

[lalaurelia]

I’ve been steaming in my thoughts over Gotham’s latest episode, the mid-season finale and the 4th season overall.

Like, my main point is that Sofia’s storyline is basically proving that Jim has no qualms about literally getting in bed with the mob and one particular mobster. Whether for feelings or as a means to an end, regardless. Jim. Mobster. Bed. Yay.

Jim, if you were going to anyway, there’s a definitely more reliable option right. there. Oh, but he rubs you in all the wrong ways, doesn’t he? Once again I have really hard time believing that Jim is so fixated on The Penguin being bad and needing his immediate attention and “dealing with” purely for professional reasons. I won’t fiddle with “what if Jim’s just so ardent a cop?” argument since I’m a shipper and I don’t care. Everyone can have their own opinion. This is mine XD And I think that Jim is so fixated on Oswald and crushing his quite successful Pax Penguina because he is conflicted about his feelings towards Oswald, feels their connection slipping now that he’s not in control and Oswald is, and needs to reestablish it in the only way he knows how now that he can’t go around slamming him into every other wall.

You’re a bit of a hypocrite JimJam. Anyone told you that?

I’m gonna ramble more, though.

So, anyway, Sofia. Oh, I enjoyed her very much. I like Crystal Reed anyway and was pleased to see her here. And I liked that she was so cunning, so cruel, yet not completely devoid of compassion. Sure, her driving motive is a bit... simple? But valid nonetheless. And while her and Jim’s relationship was rather clear cut - I wonder how she went on with it actually, she must have hated Jim a lot - it’s her relationship with Oswald was the one I enjoyed the most.

That constant see-saw of is she, isn’t she, will he, won’t he? Sofia positioned herself as a friend, as a support. And heavens, does Oswald need a friend. This need and want of friendship that he has, it resonates with me a lot. And how he knows it’s a bad idea to trust her... and he still does. To an extent, thanks god. But still. The way he reacted when Pyg stabbed her hand - immediate jump to action, to protect, to avenge, even though Oswald is not cut out for fighting and I’m sure he knows it. But the instincts were there and I couldn’t admire him more for that.

I’d like to think Sofia hated Oswald slightly less than she did Jim and it’s not personal for her. But it is for him, oh, it is for him.

Back to Jim during that scene where Zsasz betrayed Oswald... Sure, Sofia told Jim that Oswald killed Martin. But he should know by now that Sofia is not the one to be trusted, hey. And Oswald’s reaction to the accusation - laughter and total confidence that this issue will be cleared up in a jiffy. Not really faked.

With the way Jim is watching Oswald and his facial expression during that scene... I am 100% sure that Jim knew it was not faked. Because he knows Oswald, he reads him, and whether he himself is conscious of it, he has a pretty clear idea of what is Oswald capable and incapable of.

And I am sure that he knows it was another Sofia’s lie. But since he’s trapped anyway and he can’t just shrug off such an accusation, he’s forced to go through with it.

Jim, I do hope it weighs on your conscience though. Among other things. Above other things.

So sort out your head, break your boy out of Arkham next season, kiss and make up, will you? ❤