#the doctor x you

[avocado-writing]

home

pairing: 14th doctor x reader & 10th doctor x reader

rating: E

notes: no gender or age given for reader, just that you last saw the doctor fifteen years ago. thank you to @mcganns for being my beta!!

This too shall pass.

It was a sentiment that you had to cling onto when he left, because fuck knows it was the most painful thing you’d ever felt. And you’d run away from actual explosions before. Big ones, in space! Supernovas which could eat entire planets while you hung onto the side of a little blue box. 

And yet none of it even begins to compare to when he fucking left you. 

He said it wouldn’t be forever. Well, he shouted it at you as you fell out of the TARDIS. There was a time explosion, and you got rocketed back to your little flat in the middle of Hackney, on Earth only a few days from when he’d picked you up — but in your reality months of adventure had passed. 

You’d not really settled back in, certain that he was going to come and rescue you. But then days turned into weeks into months and you finally accepted that the Doctor had abandoned you. 

So you went back to it all. Your mundane little existence before a mad, brilliant man had whisked you away. Your boss was a bit miffed that you’d gone AWOL but you were their best employee so they couldn’t afford to let you go, all you got was a slap on the wrist and a command not to let it happen again. The people you loved didn’t really seem to notice your absence that much, which stung; you couldn’t blame them though. You’d probably not miss you much either. 

The Doctor. He made you feel special in a way nobody had before. Like you were the centre of a whole, giant, fantastic universe, and he adored you for it. 

Still. 

No point mulling that over again, is there?

Fifteen years. Things did get better. You moved on eventually. But you still find your thoughts drifting back to him every once in a while, and that fragment of time you spent totally utterly in love with each other. When you think about the way he kissed you, without realising it you end up touching your lips.

No. No. Stop. 

The singing of the kettle snaps you back into reality, and you pour yourself a hot cuppa. Ah, tea. The antidote to everything. You go to turn the radio on for some company as you shift into your morning routine when you hear a knock at the door. 

Probably the postie. He’s a bit early today, you think, but make no more of it as you undo the latch and open the door. 

Your heart stops. 

Because there he is, of course. 

Older. Weathered. Not the young man you once knew but a grownup version of him, as exhausted by life as you are. 

You drop your mug. Quick as a flash the Doctor grabs it out of midair. The tea sloshes onto the floor but at least nothing gets shattered. 

He goes to look up at you, but his attention is drawn back to his hand. 

“I bought you this mug years ago,” he says, utterly amazed. 

You shut the door in his face. 

Well, you try to, anyway. But he sticks a foot in between the door and the frame, with one of those stupid Converse he always wears.

“I know you’re angry, I know. But please let me come in.”

It’s such an absurd statement you find yourself laughing, a high and desperate noise. 

“Absolutely not!” Actually, no. That’s not enough. “How dare you. Why are you even here?!”

“Because I wanted— I needed to see you.”

You still want to slam the door on him, but there’s a desperation to his voice that gives you pause. And when he looks at you with those sad, puppy-dog eyes? Those eyes as lined with age as you are?

Fuck. You’re so weak. 

So that’s how you find the Doctor sitting at your kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him. You lean against the counter, defences still up, eyeing him from over the top of your mug. He drums his fingers against the tablecloth. 

“I like your house. Your calendar is nice, I enjoy the kitten motif.”

“Don’t,” you spit, slamming the mug down and sloshing tea onto the floor, “don’t you dare. You don’t get to waltz back here and start telling me ‘oh, I enjoy your furnishings, haven’t you made a nice little life for yourself since I abandoned you!’ I let you in to speak your piece, though god knows why. Say it and be done.”

The Doctor looks deflated. His shoulders sag, mouth falls. You take a moment to properly look at him. He seems… tired. Tired in a way you never knew him to be when you went on your adventures. Part of you wants to offer comfort, but the other part of you wants to withhold it maliciously. Anything to make him feel the way you felt. 

“I looked for you,” is what he settles on, heavily. You didn’t expect that, and it knocks you. 

“What?”

“I did. After the explosion, I tried searching all over the galaxy for you. I didn’t know where - when - you’d ended up. I scanned and scanned but something stopped you from appearing on the TARDIS’s sensors. I think… the amount of artron energy emitted during the blast somehow cloaked you.”

You say nothing, your silence an invitation for him to continue his explanation. 

“It took years. Literal years, for me. Every spare moment I had, I dedicated to looking for you. Head buried in the circuitry of the TARDIS, trying to fix whatever was hiding you, gave myself a couple of nasty shocks too. And, when I finally tracked you down, I’d regenerated.”

You blink. Right. Yes. He’d explained that, but you’d never seen it with your own eyes. The same person, a different face. 

“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me if I didn’t look like me. But I had to try anyway, didn’t I? So I came here. To your house. I got myself all ready for it, knocked on your door… and found that you were married.”

Your fingers grip the counter. 

“Oh.”

“He seemed nice. Loved you a lot, as you deserved. And I couldn’t tell you I was back, could I? I saw you pottering around in the kitchen, making the tea - you were always the best at making tea - and you were happy. How could I ask you to leave that all, uproot the life you’d made for yourself, just to jump back in the TARDIS with me? How could I be so cruel? I couldn’t, could I. So I left again. Tried to move on. Like you did.”

You’re crying now. You can feel hot tears slide down your face and soak into your jumper. 

“Oh, Doctor,” you manage. You want to tell him so much. It feels like it might burst out of you. But instead you settle on:

“Why now?”

He smiles thinly. 

“Because somehow I got this face back, and I wanted to see you. I wanted to be selfish for once.”

You find yourself at the table, on the wonky chair opposite him, sliding your hand over to cover his. It’s rough and warm. Just like you remember. He says your name with reverence, but like it pains him. 

“I never stopped loving you. Ever. Through it all, every adventure, I knew it wasn’t complete because you weren’t there. It just wasn’t the same without wonderful, brilliant you,” he admits. He sounds defeated. It breaks your heart — or, actually, it might just put it back together again. 

A beat passes. His confession lingers in the air, heavy, thick and choking like smoke from an untameable fire. 

“His name was Simon. He was a baker. He was lovely, actually… and we got divorced two years ago.”

The Doctor’s brow furrows. 

“You… what… why?”

“Because he knew there was someone else I never really let go of. Someone else who, despite everything, I still loved.”

He looks you in the eyes, and you see something glimmer there that you long since gave up on. 

Hope. 

And then, suddenly, you’re kissing. 

It’s like nothing has changed. His lips are still rough and searching on yours, a hint of tongue giving away into more the deeper you entangle. He sits you up on the table and steps into the space left by your spread legs, and between each kiss he says your name. It’s full of adoration but lined with desperation, too. 

Like the kisses he gave you the first night you laid together, on a bed in his spaceship floating across the galaxy. When he buried himself inside you and you felt his two hearts beat in rhythm with your own. 

“Doctor…” you manage. 

Fuck. You need him. You didn’t realise how badly you needed him. You didn’t realise a piece of your soul has been missing this whole time, fucking torn out of you and leaving a jagged hole in its wake. And him, back, telling you he loves you and always has? You’re patched together like kintsugi. 

Your Doctor is the molten gold you need. 

“Please. I need to…” he’s so desperate he can barely get the words out, but you nod; he’s undoing the belt buckle of your jeans and pulling them off like they’re silk. When his thin waist meets yours you cross your ankles behind him and lock him into place, and his hands - a little fumbling, a little nervous to be mapping out the plain of you again - begin to trace your chest. You lean into his touch to let him know yes. This is okay. I want this. Make me whole again. 

His warm, rough palms slide under the hem of your shirt and lift it easily over your head, the only break in a while you take from your kiss. You let yourself grab his tie to bring him closer. He’s fully dressed still and you’re almost naked; you remember how he used to like that, enjoy feeling a bit more put together than you. Cheeky blighter. Still though, as his suit scratches your skin, you can’t say you don’t agree. 

However. In this instance he has far too many clothes. 

You tug at his jacket and he knows what you need, letting it fall to the floor with his tie and waistcoat following it. He ruts against you as he unbuttons his shirt a bit, not the whole way, but just enough for you to feel the warmth of his chest. He’s so skinny. You’ve always been a bit worried that, on one of your rougher days, you might snap him in half. You still are now, actually. 

Cupping his face in your hands you let your thumbs caress his cheekbones. Your Doctor. Older but the same. Just like you. 

You can feel him more than half-hard against your leg. No more time wasting. You need him. You need him, you need him, you need him. 

It doesn’t take long to undo his fly and have him in your hand. You’ll always be glad he chose this human anatomy. Though you’d love him no matter how he looks, there’s something wonderful about his cock as it is here. He lets his head fall forward onto your shoulder with a moan if your name. 

“Oh… you’re…”

“Mmm hmm,” you agree, a genuine smile passing your face for the first time in god knows how long. He’s just the right length and on the thick side, and you know what a delicious stretch he is when he pushes inside of you. You can’t wait to feel it again. A couple of pumps and he’s ready, dripping precome and a ruddy red. Another time you’d bend down and taste him, remind yourself what a Time Lord’s cock is like. But now today. Well, not now. 

You lay back, readjusting yourself so he can push your underwear to the side and find your entrance. A couple of fingers - those long, delicate, clever and cunning fingers - press inside you and test you out. You’re ready for him. He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat as he realises and you laugh, properly, throwing your head back. 

“Come on, Doctor. Show me that you’ve missed me.”

He used to never shut up. And now he’s stunned into a desperate silence, lining up with you and pushing in as he does his best to make you feel what he’s been feeling too. 

A loneliness is fixed. He slides home inside you and your hips meet, the both of you letting out a long and ragged breath. You sit there for a moment, locked in the most intimate embrace, and just feel each other. You fist your hands in his shirt. He’s here. He’s real. You feel him trace his palm up your back as if you assure himself of the same thing. 

Slowly he begins to move. It is a long and lovely drag, his cock hitting all the points you missed being touched, and when he feels you gasp he goes harder. The Doctor nuzzles into the skin of your neck, nestling to the warmth of you there, and you hear him repeat a mantra both of your name and “I love you”.

Over and over. As if the two phrases are inextricably linked. 

You’re so full. You’re so light. Everything feels perfect in this moment. And when he reaches between your bodies to touch your sex, push you to the edge, you know you’ll climax for him embarrassingly fast. 

When you come you see stars light up behind your eyes. The sky, the unfiltered and untamed sky takes you over. The Doctor says your name one final fine and releases inside you, his hips riding it out as if to savour every second in the sweet grip of you. 

He can’t look at your face when he asks you. He says it from the safety of your shoulder where his face is buried, because if you say no you know his heart will shatter. 

“Come with me, in the TARDIS again. I know I shouldn’t ask you to leave your home but… you complete me, you know. Always have.”

“Leave my home?! Doctor, don’t be daft. This is just a house in bloody Hackney. You’re my home.”

You pull back to meet his gaze. He’s tired, but bright. His eyes twinkle. And there’s the Doctor you know. 

“And of course,” you continue. And, as the smile engulfs his face and he lights up, “it’s not like I’m doing anything else, am I?”

This time, when you go AWOL from your job, you never come back. 

[awkward-halfhug]

permission | eleventh doctor x reader

summary: you have your first kiss with the Doctor

sequel here

(also on my ao3)

2.1k

He's gone and done something stupid again. Stupid and heroic and brave and you're proud of him and angry at him at the same time.

You had prepared things to say to him. Angry things. But looking at him now, fresh from the fight, planet saved and looking like he's just avoided death by mere inches, all your frustrated words are gone. You still feel something strong, but it's not quite anger. Not mostly.

Now, the feelings you usually shove to the way way back of your subconscious are surging through you with a vengeance. He's standing there in front of you like that and you can't ignore it.

There's a split in his bottom lip, and that's sort of attractive, and it shouldn't be. He's got cuts on his arms and a bit of blood on his face, right by his temple, and that shouldn't be attractive either, but it is. So is the dirt on his clothes, his tie hanging undone around his collar, his shirtsleeves rolled up messily to the elbows. His hair is all over the place and he has this wild look in his eyes that you can't quite decipher.

He's never looked more beautiful.

You swallow, hard. You need to get a hold of herself. You know you do. But you don't want to get a hold of yourself. Your fingers itch to reach out and touch him.

You hold back. Because of the what ifs, because of who you are and who he is and how he deserves more and how very insignificant you are. You hold back like you always do.

Until you don't.

His collar is between your hands before you can talk yourself out of it, yanking him to you. And he's surprised, you can tell by the little yelp he gives, but you hope it's not bad surprised.

Now that he's close, your heart beats faster. Both of his seem to as well, although that could be because you surprised him. You hope that's not why. His eyes seem less wild now, but you still can't read the emotion in them, which does nothing for your confidence in this situation.

You clear your throat.

"Doctor?" You say, much quieter than you meant to.

"Mmm?" He manages.

"May I kiss you?" You rasp out, somehow even quieter than before.

At this, the Doctor's expression clears and morphs into another complicated one. Mild shock, delight(?), and for some reason, amusement. He's got a funny little lopsided smile on his face when he replies after a thoughtful moment.

"Yes, you most certainly may."

You huff out a relieved laugh, before slowly drawing yourself up onto your tiptoes, and placing your palms on either side of his head. Your gaze meets his with shyness, but upon reading...something...in his eyes, you gain the confidence you need.  Hesitantly, you close the gap between you and places your lips very gently on his face, right at the edge of his mouth.

You feels his breath catch. You hope that was okay. He said it was, so you'll try not to worry yourself over it.

You keeps your lips pressed there a moment.  The Doctor won't have known it, but he is now your very first kiss, and you want to remember this moment for a long time to come.

Eventually though, you pull back, just a little, and move to place your second kiss on his nose. You close your eyes for a second and smile to yourself, because you're sure that must seem silly to him, but you can't help it. You've been wanting to do that for a long time.

You pull back and look in his eyes, belatedly realizing that you had asked for one kiss, but took two. You hope he isn't upset.

But he doesnt look upset. Although you still can't quite tell what it is his eyes are saying at the moment. He looks a little dazed. But you don't see anger. You do see confusion, however. But you did ask him, so why--?

"Doctor?" Your voice is slighter louder than it was before.

"Huh?" His has gotten quieter.

"Is this okay?"

"Ve-" he tries to say, but seems to choke on the word and starts again. "Very." He answers, and he seems sincere.

You should probably leave well enough alone now. He's probably tired. He probably wants to go home to the TARDIS and eat his weight in pastries and then go lose himself in machinery. You should probably let him. Still, you find yourself asking-

"Is...Is it okay if I...kiss you again?"

He looks on the verge of tears now and you have no idea why that is but you feel sorry immediately. You're about to backtrack when he smiles. A tender, genuine smile, full of affection. That, you can identify. And it's aimed at you. Now you want to cry.

He nods and you smile back at him.

You lean in and places your third kiss ever, on the other side of his mouth. Then your fourth ever kiss, on his cheek, right under his left eye. You feel him smile as you do so, and are surprised to find yourself slightly annoyed by that. It's hard enough to reach his face, even with him bending down slightly, and you on your tiptoes. Why must he move his face around like that?

He starts laughing abruptly and you realize you're pouting. You pull back, but when he reaches for you, you stop retreating.

His hands hover over your hips, waiting, as he asks you, "May I?"

You're not sure what he's asking, but you trust him. You nod.

His hands grip your sides firmly, but gently, as he lifts you up and places you on a surface behind you that you weren't even aware was there in the first place. He steps forward into your space and you realize you're now eye level.

"Proceed." He says. His eyes are playful when he says it, but he seems nervous somehow. The Doctor, 6 foot tall Gallifreyan, Oncoming Storm, your best friend the Doctor, nervous? Because of you?

It just doesn't make sense. So you file it away for further analysis at a later time. Right now, you do what he says, and proceed.

You bring your hands back up to his face and take a moment to just brush your fingers across his skin. He closes his eyes. You think that's a good thing. Then you lean in and place your...fifth? Or fourth? You're going to have to stop counting. Seems kind of silly at this point. A wave of giddiness surges through you as you realize you've now had too many kisses to keep track of. And they've all been with the Doctor. Your Doctor. Your best friend.

You place your possibly-fifth kiss right under his other eye. Then another just between his eyebrows. A feather- light kiss on one closed eye, then the other.

His breathing's gotten heavy, and his hands tighten a little on your hips. Your face heats a bit. You'd forgotten his hands were there.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and a tear escapes.

You let out an alarmed noise and his eyes open again, but you can't tell if he looks sad or not. You give him a moment to say something. He looks like he wants to.

"Can I kiss you now?" His voice sounds much more stable than the tear would suggest.

His question, while perfectly reasonable, has you floored. You're not sure why, but you hadn't considered that he would want to kiss you. You're aware kissing is usually a mutual thing but...but still.

Truthfully You're a little bit scared. You're not quite sure you're ready for...for the kind of kissing he's probably used to.

Her heart is thudding in your chest by the time you finally work up the courage to answer him.

"If...if you want to?" It came out like a question. Smooth.

One of his hands reaches up to cradle your head, like you did with his. And he brings his lips to your face, just to the side of your mouth, just like you had done to him. You feel herself gasping, just like he had. You get it now.

He takes his time, before bringing his lips to the tip of your nose, then the other side of your mouth, then to just below your eyes, one by one, tracing the same path you made with your lips on his face. It's so tender, and torturous and loving that it makes your chest ache. By the time he's done placing a kiss on each of your closed eyes you can feel yourself crying. Not just one tear, like the Doctor had, but a steady stream of them out of both eyes. You get that now too.

You feel his arms wrap around you, feel him pull you tight against his chest, and you sob. You don't even know what you're sobbing for, you just can't stop now. Your body wracks as the sobbing gets harder and his arms tighten around you, almost crushing you to him.

You're pretty sure this is not how someone's first kiss is supposed to go. Or someone's first several kisses. You were so happy a few moments ago. You're still  happy, you're pretty sure of it. So why can't you stop crying? Whatever the emotion is that you're feeling, it's strong.

The Doctor's soothing voice breaks through your confused thoughts. He's saying things like "it's alright" and similar phrases, but amongst them are words in another language you only hear him speak when he thinks he's alone.

That thought distracts you enough to calm you down, and you pull herself together. Wiping your face with your sleeves, you pull back from him slightly. His arms loosen from around you but drop back down to your hips, not willing to release you yet. The thought makes you feel light again.

"Sorry" you say to his chest.

The Doctor hooks a finger under your chin and gently brings your face up to look at him.

Whatever it was you thought you'd see in his face- pity, awkwardness, regret; it's not there. What you see is understanding. Warmth. Affection. He smiles at you and you almost can't take it. Almost starts crying again. You doesn't, but just barely. What is wrong with you today?

"Can I have just one more kiss?" The Doctor whispers, and he looks unsure you'll say yes. You're acting like a crybaby, of course he's afraid you'll burst into tears again. But you do want another kiss, whether the tears give that impression or not.

You look him in the eyes and nod. You brace yourself for another feather light brush to your cheek.

He ducks his head, hesitates, and then his lips capture yours. You gasp. His mouth moves against yours and your brain short circuits. It takes you a few moments but eventually your mouth starts to move against his with unsure movements. He seems encouraged by this and presses his lips firmly into yours.

You can hear a whooshing sound in your head where coherent thought used to be. All you can think now is this is not like the other kisses, and more more more.

You pull back a centimeter from his lips so that you can catch your breath, and then you attache your mouth to his again, a little more forcefully than you had intended. He chuckles a little and you find yourself laughing with him, before he's kissing you again.

You move their mouths together for an eternity, or mere minutes, you have no idea. And then he surprises you again by running his tongue along your top lip. You gasp, again. And then his tongue is in your mouth, and you always thought that kind of thing sounded gross. But it's not. It's just...not. you feel like your body is going to explode and your legs feel like jelly and you're suddenly very glad he put you on this perch.

He pulls back, places several slow, pulling kisses to your lips, and then rest his forehead to yours.

He's breathing hard too, you're gratified to note.

Neither of you say anything for a while. You don't seem to need to.

The cool evening breeze brings you both back to reality when you shiver. The Doctor runs his hands up and down your arms to warm you and you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his torso. You both sigh contentedly together.

Your mind starts to sober as the adrenaline from the kiss wears off. You feel comfortable in his arms, and you want to stay there. Will you ever be able to be held like this by him again? What if he thinks this was a one-off? What if this was just another casual kiss for him? You've seen him kiss strangers before, usually in gratitude and he doesn't seem to think anything of it. Is this like that for him? You feel even colder now, and your shivers become more violent.

"May I hold your hand?" The Doctor's voice rumbles in her ear, causing you to shiver for a different reason.

The Doctor's companion pulls your head back to look at him. You're trying to read him but once again, his expression is unreadable. Yoy give up and focuses on what he said.

The way he says it gives you  pause. Like he's asking for more than that. Like the answer to his question would be the start of something. Or like a continuation of things already started. Things you just put in motion. Or maybe they've been in motion for quite a long time, you've both just been ignoring it. Whatever the case, it renews your confidence. This is serious to him, just as it is to you. You know your answer.

"Yes, you most certainly may." You echo his words back to him.

His relief is clear on his face. He doesn't even bother hiding it. Have you not been the only insecure one in this relationship?

"Pastries back in the TARDIS?" The Doctor whispers.

You bury your face into him again and smile into his shoulder. "And cocoa."

"And cocoa. Mustn't forget the cocoa."

"Would be a crime" you nod.

"The worst kind." The Doctor agrees. "Let's go"

The Doctor lifts yoy off your perch and places you back on solid ground. You huddle into his side immediately.

Hand in smaller hand, you walk back to your TARDIS.

♡ thank you for reading! please consider reblogging/commenting if you enjoyed, it means a lot

[denaliwrites]

Don't Blink

Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader

Summary: Going home was meant to be a vacation from all the aliens and monsters.

Part 2: Don't Turn Your Back Part 3: Don't Look Away Part 4: Dreams See Us Through

Requests: Open!

Tag List: @nyxiethesimp

Warnings: Weeping Angels, babes.

You hadn't slept in days.

It started innocuous enough -- some nerves as you crawled into your bed, for once. You'd assumed it was because you were so used to the TARDIS that home didn't feel as much like home anymore. You thought that maybe, after a day or two, it'd get better.

It got worse.

Waking up the next morning, you were confronted with the feeling of being watched. No matter where you went -- your mum's, the shops, the cellar, even the restroom. Everywhere. All day. By the time you dropped into your bed that night, you were exhausted from being on high alert the whole day.

You didn't sleep well that night.

Nightmares plagued you -- they were nebulous, slipping just out of focus every time you thought you could make out even just a single detail. But despite that -- or maybe because of it -- you were terrified.

You awoke drenched in a cold sweat, covered in goosebumps and with a stomach churning with unease. You felt feverish, but when you took your temperature the thermometer flashed with a perfectly normal number.

Going about your day felt like a monumental task. While your limbs felt weighed down with lead, the rest of you felt light, jittery... panicky. Any attempts to focus for more than thirty seconds at a time failed miserably.

Maybe it was just your heightened state, but you could've sworn that everyone could see that you were starting to lose it.

That was the first night you didn't sleep.

The second night, you finally caught sight of the predator in the underbrush -- the thing that had been stalking you since you arrived back home. Only for a brief, blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but it was still long enough for you to know that it was the cause of your sleepless nights and worsening mental state.

You weren't sure how a perfectly ordinary angel statue could cause so much distress.

The third night, you noticed the statue had moved -- just a couple inches -- but it was enough for you to see the difference. Finally, you called the Doctor. Not five minutes later, you heard the TARDIS materialize outside.

You turned away for all of one second, but when you looked back, the angel had gone.

Well, "gone" was relative. It was out of line of sight, you could say that much for sure. But you knew it was still lurking nearby -- you could still feel it watching you.

The Doctor didn't bother announcing himself as he barged into your flat -- the TARDIS brakes were announcement enough. The sonic screwdriver was held aloft, its light moving in erratic circles in the darkened flat as the Doctor gradually made his way to you.

"Where is it?" he asked once he finally reached you. "Did you blink -- did it move!?"

You weren't sure how to answer. He had told you not to take your eyes off it, you recalled that now that he was here, yelling at you about it -- but you didn't even remember looking away just moments ago you were so exhausted.

In the back of your mind some little part of the normal you knew that the Doctor was just worried, but that little piece was dwindling with every moment you continued to lose sleep.

You'd moved right past delirium at this point -- and, hell, you weren't even sure how much of this was real. What if you were hallucinating? Angel statues that could only move if they weren't being looked at? That was a little crazy, even for the Doctor.

He turned to look at you when you remained silent, and when his eyes met yours they melted into pure, unadulterated concern and some dam inside you broke.

Sobs wracked your body and you collapsed. The only reason you didn't hit the ground was the Doctor surging forward, arms wrapping around you and holding you steady.

"Oh, dear," he cooed, holding you close. You buried your head into his chest, your cries still rocking through you, though the Doctor's arms kept you pretty snugly in place, and his clothes did an excellent job of muffling your blubbering.

You could feel one of his hands running comfortingly through your hair, while the other rubbed soothing circles into your back.

Miraculously, you calmed. For the first time in days, you felt like you could relax. Breathe. Hell, maybe even sleep.

It was with that thought that you felt yourself being effortlessly lifted. The Doctor carried you, bridal style, back to the TARDIS, through the doors and the console room and the halls, until he reached your bedroom and settled you carefully onto the bed.

"What about the angel?"

"You're completely safe in the TARDIS. I promise."

You knew that he knew that you had meant something different, but you were too tired to argue. Now that you were safe, sleep was coming to claim you rather quickly.

Once you fell asleep, you were haunted by nightmares again, but you were just so glad to be getting any sleep at all that you didn't care.

You found the Doctor in the console room the next morning, looking over something on one of the monitors. Without even so much as sparing you a glance, he dived right into it.

"That's no ordinary Weeping Angel."

"What do you mean?" you asked with a yawn and a bleary blink in his direction.

"See, normally a Weeping Angel wouldn't waste any time -- you blink, you're dead. Well. Teleported to another time so that they can feed off the energy that the displacement causes. But this... this is..."

"It's torturing me."

It wasn't a question -- how could it have been? You and the Doctor both could see what it was doing to you.

"Yes," he confirmed sadly.

"Reminds me of something," you said with a shrug.

"Oh?"

"Oh, do I get to be the brainiac for once?" you teased with a smirk, leaning back against the console beside him.

"I guess we'll find out," he teased back, mirroring your expression and bumping your shoulder lightly with his own.

You blushed, suddenly self-conscious, but you forged ahead anyway. "So, usually when a predator becomes a maneater it's because it's sick or injured and almost always starving, and humans are really easy prey compared to deer and antelope and stuff."

He was watching you with such rapt, adoring attention. You could barely stand it.

"But," you continued, "sometimes there are outliers. Predators that kill humans for unknown reasons, reasons that don't align with what we know about typical maneaters. The maneaters of Tsavo -- they were these two perfectly healthy, normal lions by all appearances, that killed anywhere from -- realistically speaking -- twenty-eight to thirty-two people, but reportedly they killed over a hundred. And no one really knows why they did it. There are theories, of course, but because they were healthy, and it happened over a century ago, there's no way to really confirm one way or another why they killed all those people."

You paused, thinking.

"Well, no way for the average person."

The Doctor beamed at you. "Oh, you are clever, aren't you?"

"I try."

"So you think maybe this Angel is an outlier?"

"Yeah, it's possible."

"No indicators of illness or injury, no signs of weakness or starvation. Just..."

"Sadistic tendencies?"

"But why?" he asked no one in particular, leaning back to stare at the monitor again.

"And..." you started thoughtfully. The Doctor turned to look at you again. "Why me?"

"Why you?" he repeated cluelessly.

"I wasn't here when it arrived, and it couldn't have known I was gonna be coming back anytime soon. It's possible it's been waiting for days, weeks for me to come back -- and it could've been waiting even longer if I hadn't decided I needed a break. That's a lot of waiting for a random person you don't know is coming back."

Realization dawned on the Doctor's face. "It's targeted."

"But why?"

"Why indeed?" he asked in that tone that was meant to sound casual but only served to let you know that he was deeply worried. "Let's find out, shall we?"

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Would He? (Doctor Who Drabble)

Dark!Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader / requests are open

Summary: You're not convinced the Doctor is a big fan of aftercare.

Fic type: fluff (sorta), mentions of smut.

EVERYTHING: @winchxters 

DW: @nyxiethesimp @quickslvxrr @midnight--raine @blueberry-sunshines @stevekempscocktails @go-bonkers-go-foolish @peytonpenguin37 @yeethaw13 @complimentary-breadbasket @thekirbishow @stilestotherescue @madspads @catlynharper@merrilark @jaziona92 @yeehawbrothers @mochabonesblog @iguirisu @thegen3sisark @wereallbrokenangels @florduarte @pansexual-imp (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"You're a needy little fucking thing, aren't you?" The Doctor asks rhetorically, arm curling around you like you so clearly wanted. One of your own brushed up against his bare chest and the being in question sucked air into his lungs, pleased with the contact.

"I'd have thought three orgasms were enough of a gift. Now you want cuddles too?" His fingers pinched your arm sharply.

You snuggle closer, enjoying the petering of the sting as he rubbed the area with his fingers. He smelt like cum. You both probably smelt like cum. And sweat.

"It is, and yet a cuddle is just what the Doctor ordered," you snorted, pressing kisses to whatever skin you could reach.

"What Doctor is this, then? Certainly wasn't me, was it." Not a question. There were very rarely questions the Doctor actually wanted you to answer, you had found over the years.

"Besides," you ignored him, "you should know the protocol by now. You give me orgasms, I give you orgasms- and then we give each other cuddles. Then, a little later, we'll go get snacks and terrorise some poor planet or go on an adventure or something."

The Doctor hummed, sucking air through his teeth as he thought over your proposal. Your eyes were starting to droop when suddenly he had pushed you over onto your back.

Before you could make a sound of protest or upset, his gangly form was lying on top of you, head resting on your chest.

Trying to sound menacing, the Doctor mumbled, "run your fingers through my hair or I'll cut them off."

Blinking, you did as you were bid. As you always did. Your fingers rested on his scalp, parting the brown strands and tugging just lightly- the way you knew he liked.

An answering hum confirmed you were correct on that.

"If you cut my fingers off it might make it a little difficult for me to do pretty much anything."

"That's what I'm for, love," the Doctor answered immediately, eye cracking open. You nodded, somewhat unconvinced. "Not that it matters anyway. You're doing what I asked. Therefore, no punishment and no cutting off of fingers required."

Well, you supposed that was true. Besides... he wouldn't actually do that to you, would he?

[simp-ly-writes]

For All Time

Paring: 10th Doctor x Fem! Time Lord!Reader

Summary: Many, Many worlds ago you were married to the Doctor. That was until a war tore your home planet and species apart and you were part of the lucky handful that managed to make your way out into the universe- alive. As you go through many regenerations of yourself, you run into the Master, an old friend of yours that you faintly remember. He tells you of the Doctor, warns you of your spouse and from then on, you are on a mission to never interact with him. Should be easy... right?

Warnings: 3300 words. Angst with no HEA. Themes of death. Depictions of Blood.

A/N: This is my first time writing for Doctor Who and I have only watched 12 hours worth of video essay's on the series. Please be kind and I hope you all enjoy~ :)

Masterlist | Taglist Request | edited.

You were terrified of time lords, the Doctor in particular and as to not be a hypocrite, you were scared of yourself- of everything you could fuck up for all time- that you already did fuck up for all time as the Master had already reported to you all those regenerations ago.

He told you of the horrors you made, the inconsequential decisions you thought to be just so now added up to a few hundred deaths on your hands as universe's threatened to collapse and the possible elimination of dozens of species painted your hands in guilt. Your finger nails pressing into your palms as you shook your head, trying to wring the statistics out of your head. But in the sliver of a smile, his dark eyes filled your thoughts as he placed a hand on your shoulder and leaned closer to your face, tears began to well up in your eyes.

You felt his breath on your neck as he brushed your hair away from your face, drinking up your tears while whispering in your ear, "But you haven't done the worst, love." He emits a small chuckle, his head knocking slighting against your own as you lean further back into the wall for support. "It is the Doctor that damned us all and yet we are the one's to be blamed, for everything, for all time, now and forever. He has killed millions, and nearly every little lover he calls companions he takes on his tyrannical adventures."

Your voice meek, throat clogged with tears as you sniffle for air, "I thought I was the only one, old friend... I thought that- that-"

"From what I know..." he cuts you off, taking a step back, allowing you room to breath as your legs give out from underneath yourself, your back falling against the wall before you are sat on the floor. Your fingers picking away at the grout between the tiles as you count the tiles of the room, doing your best to blink away the tears. "... its just the three of us and if I can offer you a tidbit of advice form one friend to another..."

He stand at full height, leaning down to lift your chin, that sliver now a toothy grin as his fingers dig into your cheeks, pressing your lips together, his eyes flash over to them before continuing his eye contact as you wince at the force he handles you with. "...continue to run away from us all." He drops your head, as if your skin burned his own and by the time you gain the momentum to look up once more, there are no traces he ever was here- he ever exist, a mere fragment of your imagination. You pick yourself up the floor and take his advice to heart.

--

So thats how you found yourself, sat underneath an umbrella in early spring within France. You and your Tardis concluded the time to be the mid two-thousands as you tried not to let the everlasting smell of piss on the streets keep you from enjoying an early brunch.

You watched as various tourists rolled themselves out onto the streets, snapping hundreds of pictures with their digital cameras, kids pointing at various things in storefronts, leading their parents chasing after them. A small smile casted upon your features as you listened to their little feet run across the cobbled streets, cheering loudly at the sweets in the window.

The Sun begins to peek out from between the clouds as you cast your gaze down to escape its shinning rays sneaking underneath your cover. Taking a sip of your now ice-cold coffee, you jolt in your seat, unaware that it was yourself who clattered the cup to the plate, trying to set your drink down. Dropping your shoulders down, your cheeks warm as the kids from earlier snap their heads towards the noise as you begin to pat your pants dry from the spilled coffee.

You swear lightly underneath your breath, your book-ruined and the liquid threatening to ruin your pants as well. Taking a napkin from the holder, you pat yourself down before opening the book in your lap, trying to air out the pages.

But soon the book and outfit become the last of your worries as your ear twitch to the familiar mechanical wizzing sound of what could only be a Tardis. Sweat instantly forms in your palms, your eyes dart around the streets, looking, watching, waiting for his arrival. You hate to admit that the panic holds yourself still, strapped to this very chair to witness the horror about to be unleashed yet all these humans appear none-the-wiser to their upcoming demise.

And when you think all those tears you shed were now buried away yet new ones burn your vision blurry as you grip the table in wait. What of the children, the families, the lives of them all? Your brain presses, kicking into hyperdrive, asking yourself if you are ready to die. But what will he do if he finds me? And your mind goes blank, incapable of thinking of what tortures you would endure.

So you present yourself human, plastering a fake smile, bright eyes as silent tears run rivers down your cheeks. Your breathing staggered just like your hearts, threatening to exit your body and make a life for themselves. It would be better to die, you convince yourself, the words echoing through your soul, it is better to die, die, die.

--

It feels like lifetimes move as you await his presence, eyes casting down the various alleyways, ears pointed for the sounds of agony and screams in his pleasure for universal domination. "He's killed millions," the Master's voice whispers into your ear with the breeze following by the sound of two beating hearts.

It was hard to miss the way your heart slowed, matching the breaths in between his own. His steps organized in the crowd surrounding him as a woman follows just behind his every step. His hair caught you first, its frazzled appearance as if he dragged his hands through the roots a few hundred times yet no stress coated his features, not a single wrinkle or crinkle besides a smile that has you loosening your grip on the table.

His direction leads him closer towards the coffee shop you sit in front of as a child runs across his front, stepping on one of his sneakers, an involuntary gasp escapes between your painted lips yet the Doctor takes no attention nor comment to them, simply continuing his way through the crowd. You hear his voice above all the afternoon commotion, his accent catching you off guard, "Say Donna, have you ever seen Paris or the South of France? I must say that this tower of theres is nothing in comparison to some of the future civilizations I've seen, I should, I will take you to one in the future or well, when we are done here."

The woman nods along to what he says, biting her lip, a knowing smile growing across her features as if she is cooking up a line to fire back, "Well the last time I was here was with you but we didn't really get to have a getaway besides running from those martians trying to KILL US! This is much better, oh!- did you see that woman's sandwich! How about lunch?"

Your eyes are wide as she tilts her head in your direction. You embody the appearance of a deer in headlights before swiftly unfolding the newspaper on the table, doing your best to read the various headlines with plausible interest.

The Doctor hums thoughtfully, looking to where Donna's eyes had landed, his eyes narrow in of the outrageously large paper that covers your face as he leans closer to Donna, "is that newspaper big, or is the woman just small?"

Donna laughs, knocking her shoulder with the Doctor as he shuffles back, head tipped down into a playful glare. "Well, spaceman. In comparison to you, anything appears larger than life."

"Do you want that sandwich or not?" The Doctor responds, eyes already bored and looking at the various other shops and people on the street, subconsciously looking for a threat to ruin the day.

"Well, yes-"

"Then lets get you that sandwich," and with that the Doctor is taking large strides up to your table. Curiosity brimming with excitement to uncover whoever was behind that paper. His heart rate began to climb, the walk now a light job as Donna wondered whatever has gotten into the Doctor.

--

You tense in preparation, saying your grievances underneath your breath as the man reaches forward, ripping the newspaper that had gradually been pressed closer to your face as he leaned closer to you. You pick up the book in your lap, spreading the pages wide open. Wincing once your fingers trace up the spine, finding a new crack upon its surface- that too is torn out of your hands.

In a childish effort- you close your eyes, hands racing across the tables surface before feeling the soft material of a serviette. Your plate clatters against the wooden table as you rip the cloth from underneath, waving it in the air to unfold it and subsequently into his face as he audibly complains. Swiftly opening your eyes, you look through the thin material, tracing over his blurry outline and hard-to-reach features while leaning back as far as your chair allows you too. Your feet hooking under the tables legs as only two chair legs hold you from toppling over.

The man huffs, his chair scraping against the pavement in a horrifying screech as your tableware clatters to the floor, bits and pieces of porcelain scraping across your leather shoes and socks. He peers over your napkin, eyebrow raised, brown-eyes peering to see your wide ones. You watch as his other eyebrow races to match the other, a small gasp escapes between his parting lips with fingers brushing against your own. He steals away the last of your cover, casting it aside to a nearby empty table.

The Doctor leans closer to listen to your hearts beating rapidly in your chest as he casts a hand down to feel his own. By the time he looks back up at you, a charming smile has one threatening to spread across your face but the Master's words make it fall the next moment as the Doctor gently clasps your hand between his own, taking the seat behind himself, pulling you forwards to sit level.

"Hello, darling," he whispers out, unsure if you are truly you as he awaits your answer. He squeezes your hand, ushering you to respond. You hate the way the pet-name makes you feel, the memories that flood your mind and all the time in between. A moment passes between you both before an approaching fiery-headed woman shifts your attention away from one another.

"DOCTOR? DOCTOR! What in the hells do you think you're doing?! Harassing this poor woman- oh I apologize dear, I have no idea what gotten into him today. I don't want that Sandwich in particular, just any sandwich!" Donna shouts out in the Doctors face. You wait for her to take him by the ear like a tired mom yet she smacks him on the back of his head as he drops your hand to ease the oncoming bruise.

With this distraction you quickly stand, throwing an unknown amount of currency on the table before darting down the crowded Paris streets. The Doctor curses underneath his breath lightly, "You don't understand, Donna!"

"What don't I understand? You going after some random human, is she a past companion or something?" Donna asks, eyes casting towards your empty seat that the Doctor glares at.

"Thats my wife!" The Doctor outbursts, grabbing your book and paper in hand before darting off after you, Donna running swiftly after the spaceman. "YOUR WHAT?!" Donna screams out between breaths.

"MY WIFE!"

"Don't you have five of those already?" She teases but the tone is peaked with genuine curiosity.

"Well yes- no. I don't know, they were the first!" The Doctor stumbles the words out, mind a fumbled mess at the sudden shock of you.

"The first, wait. Are they..." Donna's steps come to a halt as the Doctor casts his head back, steps slowing as they regain their breath, he hands your book and newspaper to Donna who holds onto the materials tightly. "...a time lord?"

"Yes..." the Doctor says in a remorseful tone. "....Yes, they are."

--

You lost where you last parked your Tardis as you turn down road after road, cars honking as you interrupt the traffic in your maddened dash. You keep your ears peaked for the two intruders to your centuries of peace. Your mind running a mile a minute for a plan that you assure yourself to be thinking of on the fly as you take another sharp turn, flying into someones arms.

They grip you still, smelling of aftershave and coffee with a dash of honey. You take in a deeper breath, curious to find the undertones before a chuckle has you pulling away, blinking rapidly as they hold onto your elbows and pull you into an empty shop under construction. You curse when seeing those familiar brown eyes, your hands drifting over the soft fabric of his jacket, feeling the small rips and seams before pulling away. Dusting your hands off on your pants, he moves his touch up to your shoulders, giving them a light shake.

"Why are you running, is there an emergency? A planet being overtaken, a universe about to explode?" He rattles off various answers for your selection yet you chose to remain silent. Ripping yourself away from his touch, you watch as his hands flex, itching to hold onto something, to someone, before he reaches into his jacket pocket as you do the same.

Two sonic screwdrivers are presented, shoving the glowing end into one another's presences. The door slams open and shut once more as Donna casts her arms wide and behind herself, blocking any potential escape. "Alright, lets gets things settled here, we don't need to me shoving our sonic screwdrivers at each other now!" Donna announces.

You wait for the Doctor to drop his first, eyes following as his hand open, his movements slow as he guides the technology back into his coat. He nods towards you, beckoning for you to do the same, your hands shake as you press it into your pant pocket for easier access. The Doctor raises a brow to this, looking back at Donna who's sights are set on you with pity.

The Doctor takes a step forwards, you shake your head, hands raised, your voice cracking, "You. Are. A. Monster! A Monster that has destroyed lives! You are in the midst of ruining another just now. If you would PLEASE just let me walk away I can promise you that I will do nothing- a personal moral of mine-"

The Doctors eyes gloss over, memories flash over himself. His arms feel heavy, shoulders slumping forwards as he remembers holding what he thought to be the second-to-last time lord in his arms, the Master as he died- unwilling to regenerate. "But here's the thing, I don't want to just 'let you walk away,' not with how I lost the last one- not when I am so close again to what could be," the Doctor pleads sincerity, his heart shattering at your words he knows a part to be true. But to hear them coming from who he surly believes to be you, it cuts him wounds him as you continuously step away from him as he nears.

The pain, the fear in your eyes, dictating your speech, he wishes to comfort you, hand raising to capture your outstretched one yet you quickly press your hands back into your chest. Right above your heart as it covering it for an attack. Donna sternly voices the Doctors name causing the man to pause in motion. Feet posed for another step, hand outstretched in a welcoming fashion, palm stretching outwards.

"Exactly. What COULD be. Couldn't have said it better myself, Doctor," you spit his name out, copying the Master's tone. "I'd say it even makes things easier on the both of us. Now please, let. me. go. Or better yet- kill me! Kill me right here, right now! I know you want to so just DO IT!" you scream out, words chocking on tears as you cough, hunching your form over. You feel so small, so hopeless as you look over to his companion, silently asking for her to convince him.

"No," the Doctor states firmly, hands now gripped into fists as he struggles to articulate his next words, looking over at Donna for support.

"Then I am sorry," you hush out softly before jumping up with all your strength as you cast a right hook across his nose. Blood pours over your knuckles as you fling your hand to remove the bodily fluid form your skin, making a mad dash towards the door.

You shout an apology to the human companion, having to shove 'Donna' you remember her name to be, out of the way and make your way back onto the streets. The Tardis had to be close, you think to yourself- the feeling in your gut starting to swell alongside your knuckles as you hissed through the pain, flinging yourself back towards your on-the-go home and pressing towards a random position. Pleading towards the console, anywhere but here, but now, with him- please.

--

"Wa-" The Doctor began to say before gripping his noise, casting his head upwards to try and stop the onslaught of blood. Tears cascaded down his features, creating a mess across his face as the liquids dropped down to his collard shirt and suit, staining the material for good.

Donna watched your escape through the window, you paid no mind to turn around, to take one last look no matter how hard your shoulders tensed or your neck tilted until you were out of sight. Shaking her head she walks over to the Doctor, reaching around in her pockets for a napkin as she presents the thin cloth to him.

The Doctor mumbles a thanks, beginning to wipe away at his face from his reflection in the glass. The air in the room is depleting as the Time Lord struggles to choke down air from the weight heaving in his chest. Donna rubs his back, watching as his back tenses before settling yet he refuses to look at her, only looking at the direction you fled in.

A few moments passes and the Doctor and Donna had yet to move form their positions, in a light tone, nervous to cut through the heavy silence too swiftly, Donna softly speaks, "You alright?"

The Doctor stands to full height, tissue dropping to the dirty floors beneath as he kicks away a loose bunch of screws. "I'm always alright." The Doctor nods- as if hyping himself up. He begins to make his way towards the door, looking back with a hand outstretched once more.

Donnas heartbreaks then and there as the spaceman smiles at her. She can see the pain in his eyes, the remnants of tears still in the corner of his eyes and the small sniffles he does his best to hide. She softly grasps his hand, giving it a squeeze. She listens to the breath he lets out shakily before leading them back out the door and in the opposite direction of you.

↳ A/N: what did you think? :)

[owen-writes]

Goody-Two Shoes

11th Doctor x Gender Neutral Reader

The TARDIS hums softly as it materializes on an alien planet. You step out, the 11th Doctor at your side, his signature bowtie slightly askew.

"Alright, now listen carefully," the Doctor begins, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and concern. "We're here to retrieve the Chrono Crystal. It's in the catacombs beneath that ancient temple over there. Follow my lead, stay close, and, most importantly, don't touch anything."

You nod, eager to prove yourself as a valuable companion. Amy and Rory exchange glances, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. The Doctor takes the lead, and you follow his instructions to the letter.

As you traverse the dimly lit catacombs, Amy shoots you a sideways glance. "You're quite the goody two-shoes, aren't you? Always following the Doctor's orders."

You shrug off the comment, focusing on keeping pace with the Time Lord. The Doctor, however, seems pleased with your cooperation. "It's essential to follow instructions in these situations. Trust me, I've had my fair share of companions who thought they knew better."

As the mission progresses, Amy's jabs become more frequent. "Honestly, you're like the Doctor's little lapdog. Can't you think for yourself?"

The remarks sting, and you find yourself growing increasingly self-conscious. Determined to prove you're not as "lame" as Amy suggests, you decide to take matters into your own hands during a crucial moment. Ignoring the Doctor's warnings, you touch a peculiar-looking device, setting off a series of alarms.

The Doctor whirls around, his eyes widening. "What did I just say about touching things?!"

Your rebellious act results in chaos, drawing the attention of hostile creatures. The Doctor, Amy, and Rory engage in a frantic escape, and you realize your attempt to break free from the perceived mold has backfired spectacularly.

Later, in the safety of the TARDIS, the Doctor pulls you aside. "Alright, spill it. What's going on? That's not like you at all."

You sigh, feeling the weight of Amy's disapproval on your shoulders. "I just wanted to prove I could be more than the obedient one. Amy thinks I'm boring, and I don't want to drag the group down."

The Doctor looks at you with a mix of understanding and amusement. "Ah, Amy. She has a way with words, doesn't she? But you don't need to change who you are to impress anyone. I value you for being yourself."

Surprised by his sincerity, you open up about your insecurities. The Doctor listens intently, his expression softening. "You're not a lapdog or boring. You're reliable, and that's a rare quality. Trust me; I've traveled with all sorts. I chose you because I see something special in you."

Over the following adventures, the Doctor makes an effort to involve you more in decision-making, showcasing your unique strengths. Amy, while still a bit skeptical, begins to appreciate your contributions. As the TARDIS hurtles through time and space, you find solace in the fact that the Doctor values you not for your rebellious acts but for the person you are.

[sleep-i-ness]

Disillusioned 2 (Tenth Doctor x reader)

Synopsis: You’ve awakened

Content Warning: Injury

PART 1 | DOCTOR WHO MASTERLIST | GENERAL MASTERLIST

You let your eyelids flutter open as you uncurled in the soft expanse of your bed, head propped up by a mountain of pillows, just the way you liked it. You had read something once about a large number of pillows correlating to loneliness or missing something in life. But frankly that just seemed like a stupid assumption to make.

The soothing, ever-present hum of the TARDIS lulled you back to sleep, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

Wait.

You jolted upright, rubbing the bleariness out of your eyes. The TARDIS? What the hell were you doing here? The last you remembered you were – oh. Oh.

Well, there was no fucking way you were staying here any longer.

A dull tug at your forearms stopped any attempts to move out of bed, and you scowled down at the innumerable wires that presumably the Doctor had attached to your skin. Overbearing arse. No doubt he was trying yet again to make amends for turning you into this freak. It hadn’t really been his fault in the first place; you had never been great at listening to instructions. And no one expected that a badly made replica Eye of Harmony would explode with you still in the room.

But he still didn’t get that that wasn’t your issue with the whole situation.

Immortality wasn’t the blessing the media from your childhood had made it out to be. But when you had found out you couldn’t die, you hadn’t been able to help the flutter of hope in your chest, the warmth blossoming as you had looked at the Doctor. He didn’t have to worry about you dying anymore. You could have travelled the stars forever.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t quite felt the same way.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek as you yanked out the various drips and needles, setting off a cacophony of alarms. The medical bay was lit up by the colourful flashes of sirens, and you glowered. Protective prick.

But luckily enough for you, he had left your stuff piled neatly beside the bed, including your gorgeous vortex manipulator. You really owed Jack one for that.

As the door burst open, your Doctor flushed with his hair all awry, you smiled sardonically and gave him a little wave goodbye. He didn’t get to hurt you again.

“Y/N, please, listen, just wait-”

And you stumbled into Jack’s arms.

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Jack.”

He held you out at arm’s length, eyes scanning the length of your body, and he frowned. You smiled up at him, feeling your eyes well up and you blinked the traitorous tears back. You weren’t going to cry to Jack, not again.

He led you to a chair, hand on your arm to steady you as you stumbled. Trembling. You slumped into the chair, staring off into the distance. And then you jolted, like a current of electricity had run right through you.

Jack frowned, tilting your head back and forth. You wrinkled your nose under his intense gaze, tired of being treated like a test subject in some experiment. You just wanted a nap. To be unconscious. Just something to take your mind off everything.

You screamed as your vortex manipulator began to sear on your arm, burning deep into your wrist. Jack started. His eyes narrowed as he stared at you, before abandoning his grip on your face and lifting your arm. You tugged at it, pulling at the strap, anything to get it off as it set your veins aflame, scorching you from the inside out.

“Get it off me, Jack!”

He yanked at the watch, cursing as it glowed in his hands.

“What have you done to it?” You shrieked, black spots appearing at the corner of your vision from the red-hot pain blistering under your skin.

Jack began to fade from your sight, edges slowly going blurry and the colour saturation seeping away. “Nothing, I swear, I don’t know what’s happening.”

And he was gone. The world fell away. Dropped right out from underneath you. Darkness swum up to meet you, joining the black spots and filling your sight.

Everything was black. Pitch black, not a single speck of light from no matter how far away. And the silence. The silence was endless, deafening in its emptiness. You tried to scream, but no sound came out, even as your body heaved to make a noise, anything.

You inhaled shakily. There was air. At least there was air. Eternal suffocation was not how you’d pictured the rest of your life.

But the rushing sensation never ceased, as if you were tumbling, head over heels. You swallowed back the saliva crawling up your throat, a precursor to the sick heady feeling slowly building in you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to ground yourself in the sensation, the only real solid feeling you had left.

The burning sensation in your arm had stopped and you were almost sad for it; at least then you’d actually be feeling something. Well, something other than this nausea.

Well, there were worse ways to go.

Falling endlessly would at least allow you to sleep once you got used to the horrid rocking motion, and the darkness, and the silence. The silence, which muted the sound of your breath, the huff of noise, the rush of blood in your eardrums. You’d never heard the world so quiet before.

Although this was hardly a world. More like the absence of a world.

The absence of anything.

And then everything came rushing back. The lights, the colour, the noise and oh God, it was blinding. You fell to the ground in a ball, clutching your head as you wept from the surge of everything.

“Is she okay?”

“Come on,” you felt arms slip underneath you, picking you up as if you were nothing, “let’s get you to bed.”

“No, no,” you thrashed against the grip, sobbing as it only tightened around you. “Get off me. Please. Please just get off me.”

“Okay, okay,” you were placed down on the cold, hard, solid floor again and you whimpered, stretching out a hand to ground yourself. You felt a pinprick in your arm, a slight crest in the rolling waves of nausea.

And then nothing. Again.

You screamed.

[sardonic-the-writer]

𝐂𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ warnings: none. reader kept gn as always

↳ song: this is the day—the the

masterlist!

• He might not look it, but the space man is very keen on cuddling

• Initiating it is a nightmare for the both of you—think awkward conversations and over exaggerated hand movements—but once he gets your permission to proceed, he's as happy as can be

• The Doctor has spent centuries watching people come and go from his life. Lacking true connection and hating to watch it all end. So to be able to participate in such a domestic thing, even if it's just the simple act of holding each other, makes both his hearts swell

• He will be the big spoon the most of the time. The Doctor feels the urge to wrap himself around you like a protective barrier, momentarily shielding you away from all the troubles of the outside world. It's just in his nature to protect—especially if it's you that's being protected

• He does occasionally enjoy being the little spoon, however. It's always nice to know someone else you trust has your back. And he might crave touch just a little bit more than he's willing to admit

• Won't ever say it to your face, but he thinks you're ethereal when sleeping. Appreciates how the TARDIS stays just bright enough to where he can admire you while you doze off; hair matted and lips parted slightly without a care in the world

• Gallifreyans don't need to sleep as often as humans do. You know this. The Doctor knows this. But nonetheless it's become a routine for the both of you to head to a bed after a particular hard adventure and fall into each other wordlessly. Sometimes you'll talk to each other about things that are bothering you. Run ins with Daleks, lost lovers, the enslavement of the Ood, etc. And other times you'll just sit in silence, heads buried in each other's necks protectively

• More than once you've woken up to an empty bed. The Doctor, as you discovered, is still working out how to deal with his feelings after so many tragic endings. Which you respect, allowing him to take as long as he needs. But occasionally, if you're lucky, you'll wake up to find your legs intertwined with his and an arm thrown over your side haphazardly

• He starts keeping a little go bag of your pajamas in a corner of the TARDIS. It's easier than landing inside your apartment each night to grab something. Plus, he likes the way your face lights up at the thoughtful action

• If you're having a particularly hard time falling asleep one night, The Doctor will take to opening up about some of his past. He'll tell you tales of the brilliant orange sky on his home planet and the way it sparkled with the morning light until you're asleep in his side, a distant smile etched on your face

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Dreaming Of You - Tenth Doctor X GN Reader

Title: Dreaming Of You

Tenth Doctor X GN Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's parents (Mentioned), Actual doctors (Mentioned), Charlotte (Mentioned), Lucie (Mentioned), Rose Tyler (Mentioned), Martha (Mentioned), Donna (Mentioned), Jackie (Mentioned), and some popular Doctor Who aliens (Mentioned)

WC: 3,501

Warnings: Reader's parents to have been mentioned sending the Reader to a therapist/psychologist, brief mention of Rose and the Doctor's separation, it's a small bit sad, but only for a second, first meeting, not a lot of dialogue, past mini angst parental-wise, and fluff

Ever since you were a child, around seven or eight, you would have vivid dreams about one person. Though, that person seemed to change every couple of years. You had seen so many faces, but in your dreams, they were all the same man; or whom you had thought was a man at the time. 

Your dreams always consisted of him, in a strange room with blinking buttons and metal levers... And a strange blue police box. Sometimes you would see others, but they never lasted long in your dreams. They always... Faded out. You had no idea why.

Soon after your first couple of dreams, you would begin drawing him and the many adventures that he seemed to go on. You had even gone to your parents at some point with your drawings. You had thought that they would be interested in your designs and works, asking you questions with curiosity and intrigue... When in reality, they looked at you with worry, especially since most of your drawings - other than the strange man with many faces - were of horrific alien-like creatures. Instead of compliments and questions, they sent you to a child therapist... And psychologists in later years.

None of the many therapists and psychologists that you had gone to knew exactly what you were - quote on quote - suffering from. Some said that you just had an overactive imagination, while some said that you were possibly stressed or anxious. You didn't like going to the appointments. When explaining your dreams and showing off some of your drawings, they would all just act so concerned and confused. That just made you feel more and more uncomfortable as time went by. None of them really took you seriously.

It got to the point that you lied to your parents and said that your dreams had stopped. The dreams didn't stop, but you stopped showing your parents your drawings and stopped letting them read in your dream journal... And soon enough, they got off your back and you didn't have to see those doctors anymore. 

This all didn't stop you from continuing to draw and write about your dreams though. You kept writing and you kept drawing. At this point, having moved out of your parents' home, and having your own place to live, you had more than three dozen drawing sketchbooks filled to the brim with sketches; the same goes for those dream journals. It took around two cardboard boxes just to pack them all away when moving. 

And even into adulthood, you had thought that at some point the dreams were going to fade away, but they didn't. In fact, you could argue that they only got more vivid, and more detailed as time went on. The drawings also became more and more realistic. And you couldn't help but wonder if it was because of how often you drew him. All the dreams, all the drawing, all that practice made you a pretty good artist if you had to say so yourself. 

But you had questions that didn't have answers, and you wanted those answers. Why were your dreams so vivid, realistic, and detailed? Was there any truth behind them? You were sure that there was, but you had no way of proving it. You weren't sure if you even wanted proof some days. The dreams were a part of who you were now, and they were not easy to ignore. It even came to a point where they were talking...

When you were a kid, the dreams were silent. No one said anything. You would just watch as this man traveled around the strange room, pushing buttons and so on. More often than not, you'd watch as he and a friend would travel to strange and astounding new worlds, meeting equally strange and astounding beings. But as their lips and mouths moved, you never heard a sound. It was almost like a silent-picture movie.

Only a couple of months after you turned seventeen, did you begin to hear things in those said dreams. It was as if someone was turning up the volume on the radio really, really slow. By the tenth or so dream, you could hear them clearly as if you were right beside them. You heard their conversations, their secrets, dreams, worries, fears... Everything. You found out what the man with the many faces was called; The Doctor, and that he was a Time Lord from a planet that no longer existed. As well the names of his prior companions and the planets and galaxies that they traveled to in space and time. 

For years, every night, you had seen them and got to know them. You grew attached to them. The first one that you could remember was named Ace. There was even a Charlotte, and Lucie, and many others. But, then came Rose Tyler. Now, you remembered her name and face very well. You had grown very fond of her until she faded out of your dreams as well. It was a bit silly, but when you saw roses for sale, you bought them. You always had roses in your blue vase in your kitchen by the window. And only somewhat recently - in the past year or so - had you seen two new people with the Doctor; Martha and Donna. Martha was gone, long faded a couple of months ago, but Donna had stayed and was still in your dreams as of last night. 

And though, having these dreams was, in fact, very intriguing and thought-inducing, they weren't always so grand. In addition to seeing all the marvelous places that the Doctor and his companions went to, there were the horrors that came with it. You had seen so many beings, so many creatures. And though some were quite peaceful, your mind was somewhat plagued by the evil ones. Though you had once thought Daleks were cool, design-wise, you began to fear them. Especially after what your dreams had said about them, had shown you. You feared the Clockwork Droids and the Sycorax. Not to mention the Abzorbaloff and the Racnoss. And you found the Ood quite interesting, despite their somewhat frightening appearance.

It was around eight in the morning when you woke up, your alarm blaring. You quickly grabbed your dream journal, writing down your latest dream involving the Doctor and Donna Noble before getting to work with a sketch. Swapping your dream journal, you grabbed your sketchbook and pencils. For the next hour or so, you sketched what you remember most about your dream. This dream was a bit different than most of the others that you had had, this one featuring less running for their lives and more enjoying their lives. They had traveled to this planet that the Doctor found extraordinary. It was purple. The ground was purple, and the grass and vegetation were purple. And the large trees, reminding you of Giant Sequoias, were orange and red. You liked the red ones best. You loved it when the Doctor stood in front of one of those orange trees, admiring the colors as the sun rose. You wondered what it might have felt like to have been there. What did the planet smell like? Sound like?

Before you knew it, your mind had wandered, and you snapped out of your memories of your recent dream. Looking down at the two pages that you practically filled with sketches from the said dream, you sighed. Like most days, you had filled the page with him. Mostly. The page on the left had a sketch of the large, towering trees, the silhouettes of the Doctor and Donna standing before them, looking so small. On the same page, you had even drawn some of the plants that the Doctor had pointed out to Donna with such infatuation and excitement. Then, turning to the page on the right, it was filled to the brim with just the Doctor. A collage of his many different expressions; joy, excitement, calm, and content. 

Some were of him from his side profile, while others were of his full frontal view; brown suit and dirty Converse. He had a goofy grin, in what was the middle of a bright laugh, his hands on his hips as if he was proud of himself. His hair was very messy, with dark strands sticking up everywhere, unable to be captured and secured by the gel in his hair. He looked so carefree. Other sketches showed just his eyes, the dark orbs seemed to stare at you through the page; in addition to some of just his nose, hands, or that smile of his. In the bottom right corner of the collage, you had a drawing of him crouching in front of one of the many plants, arms resting on his knees as he stared down at it thoughtfully. 

You found him beautiful. 

That was something that you had noticed in the many, many years of seeing the spaceman in your dreams. He was handsome, caring, and thoughtful. Very handsome indeed, although you wouldn't admit it to anyone. Most people would probably think that you were crazy if you had told them that you were crushing on a man that you had seen every night in your dreams for years upon years. And that's why you never told anyone. Not even your closest friends knew about your dreams, your journals, or your drawings. 

Sighing, you snapped out of your thoughts once more before writing the date and time - ‘March 21st, 2024, 8:53 AM’ - in the corner of the left side page in fine print. Then, right below, you wrote, 'Day 8,432.' Setting your pencil down, you stared at the finished two pages for a moment before closing the sketchbook slightly. You would have to go and buy a new sketchbook soon, you were almost out of room; running out of pages.

Checking the time, you figured you had enough time to look at the previous dreams. Flipping towards the front of the sketchbook, you reminisced over the dreams you had seen throughout the year. The first page of the sketchbook was of the last couple of dreams with Rose. 

Fighting off or running from different types of aliens. Her and the Doctor holding hands, smiling at each other. Staring up at falling snow… Having tea with Jackie… Fighting the Daleks… The tears streamed down their cheeks. The Doctor… Hand and cheek pressed against a white wall, unable to do anything, helpless. And Rose, stuck in another dimension; in agony, heartbroken.

You bit your bottom lip as you flipped through the pages and the memories, you stumbled past the ten pages of Martha before landing back to Donna. 

You had often wondered whether your dreams truly meant anything. You had thought that there had to be some way that they did. Your mind would think rationally, telling you that you just had an overactive imagination like all those doctors had told you. But, your heart wished and yearned for something more. The thought that something more was out there. That there were beings and creatures out in the far-off places of the galaxy that you and everyone else hadn't yet seen. The whole thought was fascinating and you only wished that it was true. You had always wished for there to be something more out there.

Shutting your sketchbook, you quickly got ready for the day; getting dressed, brushing your hair, teeth, and so on. After eating breakfast, you grabbed your messenger bag and stuffed your pencil case, sketchbook, wallet, phone, and whatever else you needed for work before leaving your home. 

The walk to work was a bit too quick for your liking, but time seemed to fly and before you knew it, it was your lunch break. Walking down the sidewalk, you were minding your own business, somewhat lost in your thoughts. Headphones over your head, you listened to your playlist as you headed towards your favorite cafe where you always had lunch; their sandwiches were to die for.

But before you could decide on whether or not to get a coffee or indulge yourself in a milkshake, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You stopped, turned, and then froze. Your eyes widened, your jaw dropping slightly as you stared at the man before you. Dressed in a brown suit with a white button-up and brown detailed tie; complete with a brown, long overcoat and off-white Converse. He had very familiar brown, sticky-uppy hair and striking brown eyes... His gaze, intense, stared right back at you. As handsome as ever. His eyebrows were slowly but surely furrowing as the corners of his lips twitched into a confused frown. 

You were literally speechless, your shaky hands moving your headphones to rest around your neck. He was actually here. Standing right in front of you. After a few moments of silence of staring at each other - but what felt like hours for you - his mouth opened, his voice sounding just like how you remembered it, just like in your dreams, only clearer. "Hello." He said simply, tilting his head to the side and raising his hand to reveal the pencil he held within it. "I think you dropped this."

You looked from him to your pencil, and back, and finally, you could breathe. "O-Oh... Uh, thank you." You took your pencil from him before daring to look back up at him. 

He continued to stare at you, obviously confused that you could practically see the gears turning in that head of his. "Do I know you?" He asked, stuffing his hands into the large pockets of his brown overcoat. He raked through his mind, trying to figure out if he had ever met you or run into you before when he visited Earth, but he was left empty-handed. He was sure that he would’ve remembered you if he had met you. “You seem to know me…”

You let out a breath, blinking rapidly, still shocked out of your mind that the literal man of your dreams was standing right in front of you. It couldn't and shouldn't have been possible. 

"No... I don't think you know me..." You muttered, swallowing thickly, unable to break your gaze from his hazelnut brown eyes. "But... But I do know you." That only seemed to confuse him more. Quickly looking away, you checked your watch on your wrist before looking back up at him, "I can explain everything somewhat if you have the time- nevermind," You shook your head - as if what you had said was ridiculous, which it was in his case - and waved your hand dismissively, "Time is relative... Ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff." You muttered the last couple of lines, mostly to yourself, but he heard you; only spiking his immense curiosity. "Uh, just follow me." 

The man - The Doctor - followed you without a second thought, a step or two behind you as you led him to the park across the street. Finding a park bench somewhat away from the main path, you took a seat. As the Doctor sat down beside you, you took your messenger bag into your lap, opening it. The Doctor watched intently as you grabbed your sketchbook and passed it to him.

He noted your name on the cover before he opened it to the first page and froze. Though as quickly as he froze, he unfroze, quickly but carefully flipping through the many pages of your sketchbook; his, and many of his past and current companions' faces staring up at him.

Martha and Donna… And Rose…

Along with objects and aliens from his prior adventures; the TARDIS - inside and exterior - his Sonic Screwdriver, Oods, and Daleks…

And in the first couple of pages, he even saw one of his past faces. 

He saw little scenes, moments of his life and the adventures he had been on with his companions. He saw a sketch of himself, standing before the Clockwork Droids in the ballroom when they had wanted to harvest Madame de Pompadour’s brain for the ship. Turning a couple of pages, he saw a sketch of when he and Martha were in the hospital she worked at when it was transported to the moon. And flipping a couple of more pages, he saw when he saved Donna from the Empress of the Racnoss on her wedding day.

Once he got to the last and recent page, he looked up at you. And what you had thought was going to be a look of confusion and shock, you were surprised to find that instead, he had a wide grin on his face; eyes wide in excitement and curiosity. "This is incredible!" Your eyes widened.

"What?"

"Your drawings of course!" He answered, gesturing to your sketchbook with a hand, "I must know, can you see the future or into the past? Or do these just come to you? In all my years of traveling through space and time, I have never seen anything like this, to this extent!"

You blinked, "Uh... I don't really know much or how this works... I'm still a bit shocked you're even real, in front of me." You rubbed your cheek, glancing away, "Ever since I was a kid, I've had dreams about you every night." You inwardly cringed when you said that aloud, "They're so vivid, so... Real. They feel so real!" You paused, thinking about it. Looking back up at him, you continued, "I've seen everything you and your companions had gone through. Daleks, cybermen, everything. Well, not everything. But, I've seen a lot of it." You looked down at your lap, "I have always wondered whether or not those dreams really meant something if they were as real as they seemed to be. Or if I was just crazy… For years, I have always wondered if there was really life beyond Earth, beyond the solar system... If there was something bigger, better out there in the vastness of space." You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Opening them again, you looked up at him; watching as the Doctor stared at you in wonder. His eyes sparkled, filled with emotion. He was clearly fascinated.

And he was fascinated. He was so incredibly captivated by everything about this human who sat before him. "So you know who I am?" He passed back your sketchbook.

You nodded. "Of course. You're the Doctor." You answered simply.

You then watched as he then wordlessly grabbed the Sonic Screwdriver from the inside pocket of his overcoat before scanning you. You blinked again, the somewhat bright, blue light blinding you momentarily as the Doctor stared down at the object with a thoughtful frown. "Well, you're human all right. Nothing out of the ordinary there." He was silent for a long moment before suddenly looking up at you with a small grin, eyes still bright. "Come with me."

Your eyes widened, "What?"

He stood from the bench and offered you his hand, grinning at your bewildered expression. "Come with me. The TARDIS brought me to you for a reason. See the great dying stars of the Berugawa galaxy, see new worlds, and new beings, and see amazing planets beyond your wildest imagination!”

Your eyes widened. The sight of him, the way his warm chocolate eyes gleamed, and the way his face lit up made your heart flutter; the charm. There was always something that drew you to him, something about his aura that made your heart beat faster and your chest tighten; a sort of gravitational pull that seemed to pull you closer to him; like the planets that orbited around the sun. 

You could finally see all the things that you had seen in your dreams. You could live the life that you so wished that you could live. One of adventure and discovery; one of being able to go anywhere and see anything. To learn anything you could, to experience everything possible. And you could even possibly find out why you’ve been having those dreams in the first place. The possibilities were endless...

And then you saw him - the Doctor - your dream come true, standing right in front of you; his open hand waiting for yours.

A smile slowly stretched across your lips as you took his hand, standing up. Hands interlocked at your sides, you followed the Doctor to the TARDIS, which sat parked on the curb, waiting patiently for its passengers. You felt excitement bubble within your stomach as he opened the door, your smile widening at the sight. 

The Doctor watched you with his own grin as he led you inside. You slowly dropped his hand as you slowly spun around you, looking at the lights and the console in the middle of the room; unable to stop smiling; the awe on your face made his grin widen. "I know you hear this a lot, but..." You began, turning around to look up at him, your grin matching his. "It's bigger on the inside."

[j-eryewrites]

Rocks and Rinthonians

MAIN MASTER LIST 

Request: Hi I’m a huge dr who fan and I love your work it’s possible do you think you could create a piece with the 11th doctor where they are on a planet fighting some Daleks and the reader gets injured but hides it until they are back at the Tardis where the reader collapses, then the doctor sees the blood and realized what’s happened and has to stitch her up. Thanks

Pairings: 11th doctor x reader

Warning: Typical Doctor Who Violence, angst, blood, and injuries

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“Let’s go to a mining planet, he said! There are pretty rocks, he said!” You mocked. 

The Doctor flashed you a glare. “It’s not my fault I didn’t know the planet was enslaved by Daleks!”

An explosion thundered nearby as scorching sparks flew in the air. Each spark reached out hoping to burn your skin. The Doctor quickly yanked you to the ground for cover. 

“EXTERMINATE!” The robotic voice of the nearby Daleks loomed over you and the Doctor. 

It was getting hard to focus on anything else besides that cold metallic voice. A unanimous voice you grew to know too well for your comfort. 

The Doctor’s brown hair flopped around as he peeked over the edge of the container you two were hiding behind. He glanced around the room, listening for any trace of the Daleks amongst the chaos of the planet. You didn’t understand how he could focus on anything and everything else besides the threat of death. 

You, on the other hand, were finding it hard to breathe as you closed your eyes and wished you had just stayed on the TARDIS and slept in just like you had promised yourself. 

“Right,” The Doctor said as he crouched back down next to you. “Not long before we reach the control room…” The Doctor’s voice trailed off as he noticed your panicked state. 

The next thing you knew his gentle hand was cupping your cheeks and his sparkling green eyes were staring right at yours. “We’re going to make it.” He comforted. His thumb trailed along your cheek as he raised his lips to kiss your forehead. “I’m going to grab your hand and then we’re going to run. I’m going to say some fancy words. We’ll stop the Daleks and save the day. How’s that sound?” He whispered against your skin. 

You find the courage to nod your head. 

“Good.” The Doctor smiled. Then he grabbed your hand. “Run!” 

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“Welcome to Rinth-678! One of the Rurn galaxy's greatest mining planets.” The Doctor spread his arms out as if presenting the planet to you. 

Like most planets you visited, the view always left you speechless. Even after all the time you spent travelling with the strange man with an even stranger blue box, you never got used to the sight of a new planet. The Doctor had promised you rocks and rocks you got. Icy blue mountains peaked up far above the clouds. The sight reminded you of the glaciers you and the Doctor had visited back on earth except these ones towered over you. You were sure they were ten times larger than Mount Everest. A belief that was soon confirmed by the Doctor as he spewed facts and information about the planet. From the taste of the soil to the economy of the planet. 

“The Rinthonians rely on their mining. An ounce of the ore could provide an entire ship with a whole year's worth of power!” The Doctor exclaimed as he led you around the planet like your own personal tour guide. 

You spun around trying to take in as much of the landscape as you could before the Doctor practically dragged you to a nearby city. It didn’t take long before the two of you snuck off into the mining facility armed with the trusty psychic paper. 

You always enjoyed seeing what the paper came up with each time its use would come in handy. This time you were Chief Mining Inspectors. Well, you were and the Doctor was your assistant. The Rinth planets believed in the superiority of the female sex. A treatment you were not quite used to back on Earth. Soon after, a guide was presented and then you and the Doctor were led straight to the source…and right into the hands of the Daleks. 

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“Daleks. Daleks, DALEKS. You messed with the wrong Doctor–wait, no that doesn’t work,” The Doctor whipped his head over to where you stood in the control room. 

“I think you’re looking for ‘the wrong man’,” You so graciously suggested. 

The Doctor smiled and returned to glare at the Daleks. “What she said.”

“Enough,” The lead Dalek enunciated. “The Doctor and the companion will be exterminated!” Then a chorus of EXTERMINATE sang throughout the facility. One would think you were in a church with how commanding the phrase was. 

“Ah, let me stop you right there. You see this?” The Doctor pointed to the console beside him. His sonic screwdriver was ready to release the signal. 

The Daleks were silent as they eyed the Doctor carefully. “You cannot stop the Daleks!” The Daleks sang once more. 

“See that’s where you’re wrong.”

“The Daleks can never be wrong!” The Dalek bellowed. 

“Just shut up will you!” You barked at the Dalek who turned to look at you. Its electric blue eye narrowed in on you. 

“You see, long ago when the power of the ore was discovered,” the Doctor explained, “The Rinthonians were smart, they knew that the power of the ore could get into the wrong hands, so what did they do…?” The Doctor turned to look at you as if he was a teacher calling on a student for an answer. 

“...They created a safeguard?” You muttered. 

“Exactly! Ten points to Hufflepuff! The Rinthonians, you know what they did, Daleks? They found a frequency that destroys the ore. It hit it at the core causing the ore to lose all sources of power. Brilliant people, the Rinthonians!”

The Doctor raised his sonic screwdriver and pressed a few buttons before pointing it back at the console. “In a few seconds, I will release the frequency, and with the boost of the sonic screwdriver, all the ore you have collected Daleks, all the ore on the planet will lose all power. The very power that keeps you and the other Daleks here alive. Boo ya!” 

The Dalek began to quiver and shake. “EXTERMINATE!” It shouted just as the Doctor turned on the frequency. 

It was hard to see what happened next. Sparks flew, lights went out, the Daleks screamed, and you fell to the floor. It hurt. You couldn’t tell if it was just going dark or if you were losing sight. You could only hear a loud ringing…Suddenly there was the Doctor. You could practically feel the worry dripping from his fingertips as he held your head in his hands. 

“I’m fine…” You croaked as your senses came back to you. 

Then you were enveloped in a hug. The Doctor was hugging you. Now everything seemed to move so fast. One minute you were in the control room of the facility and the next you and the Doctor were being paraded throughout the city like heroes. You smiled as the Rinthonians thanked you for freeing them from the Dalek’s control. Your smile grew tense as you felt something wet drip down your side. It hurt. Why was it hurting? Next thing you knew, you were back in the TARDIS. 

Home. The TARDIS chirped and whirred to life the moment you and the Doctor stepped back into her safe confines. The Doctor was brushing off the dust and wiping away his sweat before flicking some controls. His mouth was moving, but you couldn’t hear his voice. Why couldn’t– The next thing you noticed were the black spots in your vision. Was the world always this swirly? You took a step forward falling flat into the darkness.

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Then there was light. It was a piercing and painful light, but soon the colours came into view. Colours became shapes. Shapes became figures. You smiled as you saw a mop of floppy brown hair resting near your hands. You felt compelled to run your hands through the hair, so you did. It was softer than you could have ever imagined. 

The Doctor sighed before shooting up in his seat next to your bed. His eyes were wide and alert as he looked over you. His view began to water when he saw your smile. Then he heard your voice. Oh, how he wished to take a picture and capture this moment forever. A moment that is never affected by time or space. A moment that never wilts like a rose or fades from view. This was forever. You were forever. 

“Doctor?” You whispered. Your voice was dry and coarse. 

The Doctor can’t control what happened next. He blamed it on the gleam in your eyes. You were alive. The flush in your cheeks said so. The breath in your lungs. He wished to breathe the same air as you. He wished to run his fingers over your cheeks. He wished to and so he did. 

Your eyes widened as his lips met yours. You smiled against his lips as he kissed you. You couldn’t help but kiss back. Then he pulled back. 

“Doctor?” You said again. 

His forehead came to rest on yours. His nose brushed against your nose. The two of you shared the same breath–The same life. 

“Don’t you ever do that again, my wonder girl.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, Star-boy.”

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Comment below if you would like to be added to the Doctor Who tag list!

Tag list:  @bartokthealbinobat​

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[flightlessangelwings]

Ktober 2023 Day 30- Cunnilingus

Thirteenth Doctor x fem!reader

Word count- 1.2k

Warnings- s.mut (18+ ONLY!), oral (reader receiving), pining, feelings, fluff, praise, no use of y/n

Notes- My wifey how I've missed writing for her!!! I actually got to meet Jodie too and she's just as nice and pretty in person too!! Prompt list made by me! Enjoy!

@flightlessangelwings-updates is myupdate blog so please follow that too and turn on post notifs to stay up to date on my new fics!

~

You missed her. It had been weeks… months since you last saw the Doctor and every day without her was agony. She promised she would be back, though, and you knew she wouldn’t break a promise to you. All you had to do was wait for her. But, the waiting was harder and harder every single day. 

A knock at the door made you jump from your thoughts, and without a second thought you bolted for the door. Your heart pounded in your chest as your trembling hands opened the door. Hoping against hope, there was only one face you wanted to see on the other side. And your heart almost burst from your chest when you saw…

“Doctor,” you breathed in relief, “Is it really you?” 

The Doctor looked up from where her gaze was focused on the floor, and her face lit up as he whispered your name, “It’s me, love,” she lingered in the doorway for a moment, “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I…”

In your relief, you didn’t care what happened and you crashed your lips into hers in a heated kiss. Explanations can happen later, right now, all you wanted to do was feel her, have her close to you. You wrapped your arms around her, and your heat bloomed when you felt her embrace you as well. Guiding her inside, you fumbled with the door while never breaking away from her lips.

“Well this was a nice welcome,” the Doctor laughed between kisses as she caressed your body.

You broke away just for a moment to look into her eyes, “I missed you, Doctor.”

She smiled sadly as he cupped your face, “I missed you too, love,” her eyes lingered on yours for another moment. The Doctor breathed your name as her thumb brushed across your cheek, “Come here,” she leaned in and kissed you again, this time slowly yet deeply.

You moaned into her as you clung to her coat. Your eyes fluttered shut as you let her guide you across the space; she knew the layout well enough by now. Without even opening your eyes, you knew where she was leaning you, and it sent a pulse of need through your body right to your core.

The Doctor led you through the doorway to your bedroom, and spun you around so that your back was to your bed. Without hesitation she pushed you down so that you landed on your back, and she smiled brightly as she watched you bounce on the mattress. 

“Doctor…” you whined as you immediately parted your legs for her. 

“That’s my girl,” she purred with pride as she slipped her coat off.

A needy whine escaped your lips before you could stop it. In a rush of desperation, you quickly undressed yourself, knowing what that look in her eyes meant without the words needed. The Doctor grinned with satisfaction and she slipped off her shirt and pants before she crawled on top of you.

“Just as beautiful as I remembered,” she cooed before she took your lips with hers.

“So are you, Doctor,” you breathed between kisses. You bucked your hips against hers in a silent plea, “Please… It’s been so long… I need you.”

The Doctor looked down at you, her hand on the side of your face tenderly, “I know, love,” she placed a light kiss on your lips, “I am sorry I was gone so long,” she paused as her eyes trailed up and down your figure, “Let me make it up to you.”

“Doctor… Ahhh…” you cried out as she kissed her way down your body, stopping at your breasts to lick and suck at your soft flesh. Your hands landed in her soft hair as she circled your nipple with her tongue, eliciting louder moans from you. Arching your back, you lost yourself in your touch as she kneaded your other breast.

“That’s it,” she cooed. The Doctor shifted herself and continued to kiss her way down your stomach. Her breath ghosted over your skin, causing goosebumps to erupt. But when she reached your pussy, she paused, lost in admiration for your body. “Lovely,” she murmured as her fingers ran along your folds, teasing you with her light touch. 

“Please,” you begged as you blinked your eyes open and met her gaze as she looked up at you from your parted legs, “Doctor…”

“Shh,” she shushed you gently, “I’ve got you, love.”

Not wanting to tease you anymore, and having missed you just as much if not more than you missed her, the Doctor dove into your pussy with an open mouth. She savored the scream you let out as her lips made contact with your skin for the first time in a long time. You tasted even better than she remembered, and the Doctor was instantly hooked on you once more.

She moaned into you, a rush of need pulsing through your veins as she devoured you. Her tongue ran up and down your folds, exploring your pussy like it was the first time. You moaned loudly as your hand landed in her hair, gently tugging it as your hips bucked into her face.

“Fuck… Doctor…” you cried out as your skin warmed.

The Doctor groaned into you as she grabbed onto your thighs, parting them more. She nodded her head up and down as her tongue hit your clit over and over again. Losing control of herself, she rutted against the bed, desperate for some fiction for herself. Between the beautiful sounds you made and the intoxicating taste of you, the Doctor lost herself for a moment. Nothing else in the world- in the universe- mattered. All she wanted to do was taste you for hours, to give you a pleasure unlike anything else.

“Shit… Doctor! Right here!” you moaned as you felt dizzy from the way she worked you with her tongue.

She smiled against you as she turned her attention fully to you. Determined to send you over the edge, the Doctor moaned into you as she picked up her pace with her tongue. Her movements were precise and calculated as she licked and sucked as your clit until your legs started to shake under her grip.

Heat rose in the room as your moans grew louder and louder. You saw stars as your climax hit without warning while the Doctor’s tongue ran up and down your folds. Your entire body shook as you screamed loudly and threw your head back against the mattress. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes as you gushed into her mouth.

She didn’t stop, not until she was sure she had pulled every once of your climax from your body. It was only when you let out a whimper that she reluctantly pulled away with a loud pop. The Doctor pushed herself on her elbows and watched as your breasts rose and fell from your heavy breaths as you came down from your high. 

Feeling her gaze on you, you blinked your eyes open and smiled when you locked eyes, “Doctor,” you breathed as you reached and caressed her face, “Welcome home,” you whispered.

The Doctor smiled back at you as she leaned into your touch, “It’s good to be back, love,” she kissed your palm before her tone dropped and she smirked, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

[arting-block]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝟐) | Eleventh Doctor x MCU!Sorcerer Reader

❝𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩—𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥?❞

Summary: Recovery and revelations.

Genre: Romance, AU/Crossover

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, PTSD, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of killing, comfort

Words: 26.2K (yes you heard that correctly)

Reader: POC friendly, she/her, 24 y/o.

A/N: i wrote 6 whole drafts of this god-forsaken chapter all of which included more backstory and angst. trust me, this was going to be over 50k but i didn't think tumblr could handle allat.

previous chapter |

[KAMPOT, CAMBODIA  24 YEARS AGO]

The humid air from outside still somehow seeped into the old hut of the village shaman. Dark, moody clouds could still be seen over the night sky. A small abode tucked away from the main roads, separated on all sides by thick foliage and dense forest. 

Therula hated using Eldritch Magic more than anything, but cannot deny the ease of the sling-ring. Cracks of azure light cut through the air in front of the hut. Warmth from the (L/N) estate and its lavish tapestry halted, turning to centuries-old wood and tropical breeze. The door to the hut, covered in red talisman and chicken feet, was left ajar. Yellow candle light came through the crack of the door frame, enticing the young woman inside.  

Bright yellow walls and intricate drawings cover the old shaman’s home. Ink sketches of human bones against mandalas; the hollow sockets where eyes were supposed to be staring back. On the ceiling there was an intricate projection of the night sky. Nebula, stars, and planets floating against the inky black of space, much like the one Therula conjured in her own home. 

It smelled of incense and peppers. A horrid combination that made Therula (L/N) physically ill. Even without the pregnancy hormones, she would still gag at the sharp smell of the home. Silks adorning Therula clung to her clammy skin. Its ornate pattern, coupled with hand-woven lace seemed odd in the humble environment. 

Anxiety crept in her bones slowly. As if to draw out her unease for as long as possible. A dull cramp settled in her gut, making her seeming calmness falter. Therula placed a laced hand above her stomach, exhaling softly to get her mind under control. 

This is for her own good.

A new mantra she often found herself saying. It keeps her focused, reminding herself that sacrifices are worth it. 

Months of sleepless nights are finally catching up to her. No matter how much concealer or color corrector she puts on, there’s still the gaunt look under her eyes. Her skin is losing its usual luster, and her fidgeting increased tenfold. Very improper indeed, but she gave up trying long ago. 

With anxiety came the sudden rise in heat. Therula felt her chest, neck, and face starting to flush. Inch by inch, crawling up her skin until sweat collects at the base of her head. She couldn’t help but mutter a soft prayer, hoping a call to her patron will give her strength, “Planet of oceans and ice, I ask to strengthen my veins with your power.”

She spoke in an ancient tongue, one that no book held record of. A language passed down from mother to child, only spoken within family. 

On cue, the familiar chill of her magic materialized. It took root in her heart and quickly overtook her body. It wasn’t enough to send her teeth chattering, but enough to calm her. Above all, it was a testament of Therula’s bond to her planet. A sign that they were there for her, aiding her through this difficult time. 

Whilst Therula was acclimating, she failed to notice the shaman materialize behind her. She didn't feel the air shift or the feeling of magic crackle through the air. A sign of the old shaman’s abilities than the lack of awareness on Therula.

“Back so soon? And without your husband, no less,” a snide voice said from behind Therula.

Therula whipped around, placing a hand over her startled heart. She silently cursed herself for letting her guard down. 

The shaman is a raggard woman with a hunched posture and a perpetually hoarse voice. Her tan skin was wrinkled heavily, but still had some residual roundness of her youth. The whole of her chest is covered with amulets and thick, circular clusters of peppers which Therula believes contributes to her posture. Bright primary fabrics construct the robe she adorns. 

A stubborn woman and old enough to have seen Pluto’s full orbit thrice. Her bony hands are covered in dainty tattoos and the tips of her fingers are dyed bright red. The old shaman regards Therula with a piercing gaze and her wrinkled lips into an even thinner line.

Therula had only met the old woman once before. Months ago, when she was barely showing her pregnancy. Therula had come with her husband then, seeking arcane advice for something barbaric. Enestor wasn’t keen on seeing a traditionalist, especially if it concerns his wife and unborn daughter, but he knew how much it meant for Therula. 

At that time, the shaman pushed back at Therula’s request. Too risky, especially when the subject has yet to breathe air. 

Now, as her due date grew nearer, Therula acquired new information regarding her family history—around the curse plaguing her unborn daughter. 

Therula rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high, “He doesn’t understand the situation we are in.”

The shaman shuffles closer, the amulets clanging softly against one another. Peppers along her neck are still sharp with capsaicin, making Therula’s nose scrunch. The shaman’s gaze zeroes in on her large stomach. Beneath the extravagant dress and expensive lace, the shaman could feel the pulsing heartbeat of an unborn child. 

A grunt came from the shaman, “You make decision without husband? Something that will not be reversed?”

The same warning, the same displeased look. 

Something in Therula hardens under the gaze, hardening her voice as much as she could, “He’s not part of my practice. This is a matter that concerns me, no one else.” Her tone is final despite the obvious waver. Her hands stuck along the sides of her swollen stomach, both soothing the baby and her own nerves. 

The shaman’s smile is smug, almost proud. She wags a red dyed finger at Therula, “You are bold, I’ll give you that. Many people come to my hut asking for power. None have asked to take it away.”

A warning. Something irreversible that cannot and would not be undone. 

“Will you do it?” Therula asked, her nerves starting to get the better of her. The calm, collected façade chipping away. 

The shaman huffs, “You ask for impossible, I give you impossible. Although I advised against this, it is clear you are stubborn.”

The old crone beckons Therula to the other side of the room. Wood beneath their feet creak and groan under their weight. The small room only takes a few strides to cross. On the other side, a dark wooden door with a large magical seal painted in red. The brushstrokes are precise and delicate, but it looked more haunting than beautiful. As Therula approached closer, she could make out the grooves of a fingerprint along the paint strokes. The sound of keys clanging made Therula watch the old woman shuffle through her belt. 

Keys, small knives, and talisman were bunched up on a single loop of her belt. The shadows swallowed any definition, making it seem like one big mass. It was hard to tell which key started and the talisman ended. 

A few seconds of shuffling until Therula heard the click of the keyring. An old brass key was finally found. Carved by a dark metal with small flourishes. 

It seemed heavy by the looks of it. The shaman’s shaky hands lodged the key into the lock, twisting it with some strain. The door creaked open as the gears of the lock shifted. Therula could see clusters of lit candles of different colors in every corner of the room. Despite the numerous candles, it was much dimmer than the room previously. Ends of the walls were a dark, inky black with no discernible corners.  

Light from the candles gave a blue hue to the contours of their faces. The smell of incense wafted away to a damp, moldy smell. 

Shelves filled with exotic herbs and more peppers sat along the wall. Glowing bottles next to wet specimens. Even a few shrunken heads dangled in the dark corners. All of which were nothing surprising to Therula. An old crone of her caliber is expected to adhere to traditions, no matter how unsavory. 

In the middle of the room was a giant magic seal. Old Khmer script along its edges along with complicated geometric patterns in the same red paint as on the door. Therula found herself transfixed by the seal. It was a dying art in the magical world. With newer mages seeking Eldritch Magic, there was no need for manually hand-drawing seals. Here, in the small hut in Kampot, a piece of this tradition is marked in stone. 

In the dim lighting of the room, the red seemed dark and muddy. Almost like…

Something uneasy was felt in her gut. Therula took a deep breath, caressing her abdomen. The door creaked shut with the sound of a metal lock clicking, making the poor mother jump. The shaman snickers, no doubt trying to make Therula on edge. 

“I fail to understand why you come here. Plenty of other strong, young mages to do your bidding,” the shaman grunts, pouring glowing liquids and peppers into a wooden bowl. Her bony fingers found a stone pestle to grind the ingredients together, “Not that I mind. Rare to see such esteemed witch from powerful family come to old shaman. Many good elders from your clan to take care of your problem. Those who know this curse better than I.”

Therula shifts her weight, feeling a dull ache in her knees, “You’re the only celestial witch old enough to pull this off. Even the most promising witches and warlocks from my clan only have a planet to call upon. Rumor has it that you have a star. A large one at that.”

A planet for guidance is a feat in itself. Talented mages had taken decades of their lives trying to build a connection. Complete devotion wields pure energy to siphon off of. Planets, with their rich mythology and monstrous size, give unparalleled power to their mage. 

But a planet would only take you so far. 

The shaman smiles at the praise, “You need power to match the curse, yes? One that is old and of equal value.” She brings the wooden bowl to Therula, who hesitantly accepts. 

Fluorescent blue liquid sloshes inside the bowl. The sharp sting of peppers hits Therula, forcing her to aggressively blink away tears. The shaman once again took another look at the mother’s stomach. There was no doubt that the unborn child had the gift. A strong current of magic swirling in around the womb despite the soul not taking hold yet. 

A strong vessel, perfect for a powerful witch. 

“I wonder what your ancestors did to warrant such a nasty curse,” the shaman mutters, still loud enough for Therula to hear, “No doubt the caster pulled divine intervention. Your family is protected by the nine planets, yes? But that’s not good enough. Not pure enough.”

Curses, especially ones involving the soul, are notoriously difficult to break. The older the curse, the more it festers and grows. With time comes the destruction of knowledge, including customs and language. Sooner or later there would be no one alive, nor any record preserved, to break the curse. 

The old shaman was born centuries before, older than some of the elders in Therula’s clan. Her magic was cultivated during a time where magic was still abundant in the public mind. A celestial witch with a star as her patron. Pure energy, older than the curse festering in Therula’s child. Energy that is easy to bend and manipulate, especially when it comes to magical seals. 

Therula huffed, a bead of sweat dripping down her temple, “It has to be done. Trust me, I weighed any other possibilities.”

There wasn’t any other choice. Not one that could save both mother and child. 

“Each year fewer of us are being born. Not to mention the sickness that's spreading,” the crone says, still eyeing her stomach, “I’m sure you’re aware of the potential of your daughter—.”

“Potential means nothing when her life is at stake,” Therula snaps, her eyes burning despite placing the bowl away from her face, “Powers or not, she’s my baby. If there’s a chance to give her a better life, then I’m willing to take it.”

Months of stress pouring through each word; no mistaking the raw edge of desperation.  

The shaman’s lips pressed to a thin line, but said nothing. It was clear that Therula was going through with her plan one way or another, even if it meant going to a lesser mage to get the job done. At the very least the old woman could provide a safe, stable spell that won’t harm either the mother or the fetus. 

The shaman reaches within the deep sleeves in her robe, pulling out a small decorative dagger. It was gold, matching the amulets on her chest, and encrusted with blood-red rubies and rich emerald. The blade gleams despite the low lighting, curving down to a sharp point.  

“I need to ensure the seal will last. Blood from me—” the shaman wastes no time slicing her palm. The thin skin broke through, and her darkened blood dripped into the bowl in Therula’s hand. The shaman took the bowl and flipped the handle of the knife to Therula, “ —blood from you. Power from two witches, and their patrons, are better than one.”

Therula’s heart hammered in her chest, but her hand grasped the ornate handle with no hesitation. A slight burn emanated from her hand where the deep cut was made. She clenched her hand, watching the blood pool out of her fingers and into the glowing bowl. Fluorescent liquid bubbled upon contact. 

“You drink this the moment you go into labor.” The shaman decants the liquid into a clear jar. “The soul of your daughter will start to enter her body. This elixir will enter her bloodstream and create a barrier around her spirit. Once child is born, she will be cut off from magic. The older she grows, the stronger the seal. Her soul will attach itself to barrier and create unbreakable bond.”

Therula takes the glowing jar. It’s easily a cup of liquid and no doubt will taste like copper and spice. Her hands tightened their hold. Early victory could easily sour as there were still five weeks left in her pregnancy. Nothing is for certain until the time of her labor. Even then, Therula would still worry and fret over her child. 

“How strong? Nothing is unbreakable, you of all people should know that,” Therula bites.

The small kernel of hope did nothing to mask the skepticism. After many months of mental torture, it seemed too good to be true. 

The shaman smirks, all knowing with her centuries of power, “Not even a star could undo it.”

— — —

[PRESENT]

Sound is a distraction. It dulls your brain and nullifies your other senses. Silence, in the absence of numbing noises, makes the air coil around you. Your body becomes aware of forces beyond your control. 

It wasn't crippling, but always there. 

Vibrations of energy flowing inside your skull, through your bones. It fills space between your atoms, making your body denser. It’s been the background of your existence for so long, that a part of you feels empty. It feels…

Lighter. You feel lighter. 

The Doctor left the room to retrieve his companions: Amy and Rory Pond. Husband and wife who he swept away from their ordinary lives back on Earth. Rather, they became husband and wife during his time with them. Not too long ago, but he seemed unsure. His eyes are always going about from one side to the next. The Doctor then remembered why he went off on a tangent, saying it would only take a few minutes. 

“Get comfortable. Don’t exert yourself.”

It’s been a few minutes. You shuffled back to the meager cot against the far corner of the room. Each step sends an ache in every fiber and joint in your body. 

It’s unnerving. The quiet of the air. No overbearing weight on your chest. There’s space between your thoughts and air into your lungs. 

It’s a new feeling, too new to be comfortable with. 

Sitting on the edge of your bed you let the seconds tick by, hoping to gather your bearings, think things over before the Doctor and his companions arrive. 

Your hands drag against the edge of your wrappings. Numb, damaged fingers find the frayed threads to slowly unravel. Scratching would hurt, so you quell the urge to scrape your nails on your palms. Keeping your fingers occupied so that you can fuel your nervous tick. A habit you couldn’t shake off and one that your mother always disapproved of.

Scattered thoughts pass through your mind. 

Flashes of color. The familiar burn of your magic. The rush of adrenaline—

Your throat closes. You need to keep calm. Focus on the now, figure a way out…

Silence bites your mind. It makes your feelings more apparent and it frightens you. 

You don't know the next step. You always know—should always know. 

A Master of the Mystic Arts, always a step ahead of everyone else. Commander of spells with experience that came with being an apprentice for six years. You had a big role to fill the moment the Ancient One anointed you as her apprentice and you met her expectations step by step. 

You were powerful. Surrounded by heroes and supportive friends alike. 

You were on top of the world. Power imbued in the fibers of your body. All the knowledge the universe had to offer at the tips of your fingers.

So why did you wish to leave? 

Being stuck in space wasn’t the issue. Being stuck in a universe with no discernable way out isn’t what’s plaguing you. 

Why did you leave? Why did your only thought—your dying wish—was to leave the world behind?

You were supposed to be a brave soldier, fighting for the universe itself. You never caved, never wavered in the battlefield. When the blood spills from your teeth or bones break beneath your skin, you always get back up. 

You swore an oath, bound by blood, to serve humanity and in return was bestowed the highest honor a sorcerer can have. 

And yet…you’d wish to give everything up. To leave your family, Peter, the Avengers—even Stephen and Wong. In your dying moments you acted on selfishness. 

The guilt causing tension in your body wasn’t from failing to keep Wanda and Vision safe…

It was because you chose your own life above all others. Above your friends; above the billions of others who no doubt deserved it more than you. 

The only surefire way to get back is if someone opens a portal and brings you to them. There’s too many variables, too many worlds to slip into. Traversing through the multiverse is like gliding through hot syrup and pure madness. No one in their right mind would suffer the cost just for a ghost. 

There’s no guarantee that even if you manage to survive another trek without magical protection that you could sift through and find your universe. The equivalent of finding a needle in a larger, near infinite pile of identical needles. 

You’re stuck. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

Voices and footsteps echo outside. Growing louder, getting closer.

Your body stiffens, your ears trying to pick up their conversation. Closer and closer they come. You shake away any stray thoughts, focusing on the present.  

Their voices sound clearer. Accents, different from the Doctor’s. Male and female, young, agitated. Arguing about something. They're too far away for you to make heads or tails of their conversation. Their voices come fast, fluctuating between stuttering exasperation (the Doctor most likely) to scathing retorts (Amy, judging from the higher pitch) and a deep groan that oozes annoyance (Rory, process of elimination). 

Voices and footsteps grow louder as the seconds tick by. Jumbled noises smooth into intelligible words. Not enough to piece together their conversation, but enough to know that they were a few paces away. 

Whisper-shouting and rustling of clothing stops the moment they reach your door. 

The ornate brass door knob rattles against the steel door. Side to side, as if it’s stuck. The door creaks open, the voices hushed the moment you see three figures standing outside.

Red hair, plaid shirt with worn jeans, and curious eyes peek through the door frame first. A beautiful woman, with a round face and even rounder eyes. She steps into the space with an air of caution, but there’s no mistaking the piqued curiosity. 

A tall man with sleepy eyes and spiky blond hair follows behind her. He wears a comfy, soft sweatshirt and a pair of dark, crisp denim. He doesn’t appear fearful, but doesn’t look too happy to be here. You notice the squared shoulders and measured steps, reminiscent of those in the military. 

The Doctor comes in last with a mind swarming with unfinished thoughts. His hands sweep around his jacket, trying to fix his appearance before stepping beside the blond man. The tension from your conversation seemed to dissipate, leaving a rather aloof expression on his face.  

The woman—Amy, you assume—stares at you, unblinking as if to not miss any movement. Her husband with cool regard, but has a protective arm around her shoulder. Their eyes take in every bruise and discolored skin, waiting for the Doctor to speak up. 

You can’t help but observe them too. They stood far enough that you could take in the tops of their head and all the way down to the worn converses they both had. Human, but something tells you they’re a bit more than that. 

Everything about her and her husband seemed so…ordinary. Civilians with catalog clothes and that tentative look on their face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they would be another faceless civilian out on the streets of whatever city you’re stopping in. The three of them stand in opposition to you. Each with their own perception of you, ranging between caged animal to war-stricken soldier. Pity, confused, and sad. It’s almost suffocating. Beneath the hesitance was an undeniable feeling of sorrow. As if seeing you was a tragedy. 

You don’t like it. Despise it, even. It seems that in every corner, in every face you see, there was an underlying sadness for you. It seems the lingering stares follow you outside of the multiverse and into the green eyes of Amy and the steel blue of Rory. 

The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice his companions’ less-than-enthusiastic mood. He stands beside you, bending slightly to get to your eye level. “These two lovely chaps are my companions: Amy and Rory Pond! Ponds, meet the wonderful—and very much alive—(Y/N)!” He does some jazz hands towards you with a proud smile on his face. 

They each wave to you awkwardly. 

You lick the sharp skin on your lower lip, the tiniest of smiles on your face. “I’m assuming you’re the Nurses?”

Rory and Amy seemed a bit stunned at your poor attempt at a joke. You guessed the contrast of a beaten face and a strained smile was a bit jarring. 

Then, Rory chuckles. Airy and genuine. It seemed the tension between them lifted. Amy’s shoulders relaxed, letting a smile of her own to be seen. 

“That’s a good one, I see what you did there,” Rory says. “Though, for the record, I’m the only certified medical nurse here.”

Your brows pinch, turning towards the Doctor with suspicion. He doesn’t seem to notice your wary looks, simply beaming at you with that smile of his. 

You shift in your spot, “Uh, I should’ve asked this when I woke up. How long, exactly, was I out for? When I blacked out, I didn’t register time passing. At all. Lemme guess, a few months?”

You’re not stupid. Back in the jungle, lying in that ditch, you felt your soul bursting inside your body. If it wasn’t for your unwavering spite, that stubbornness to get up, to keep trying, you would’ve seen the familiar skeletal face of Death herself. 

So far gone, that enough time passed that you are able to walk. You clearly remember struggling to do so; the biting pain still lingers in your knees. 

Something flashes in the Doctor’s eyes. A shift in his cheery demeanor to something serious and foreboding. 

Caution, you thought. 

“Five days.”

You blink. Once. Twice. 

Maybe you shattered your eardrum on the way here. 

“Sorry, I thought you said five days,” you scoff, almost laughing at the ridiculous thought. Sure you may heal cuts and bruises relatively fast, but you were on the brink of death. Bones were broken, no doubt a ton of internal bleeding sprinkled throughout your body.  

A taste of lemon on your tongue, a warm energy above the nerves of your spine.

Truth, your body says. 

You look at the Ponds and see the same look of weariness. Amy gives a slight nod of her head, confirming what the Doctor said. 

Denial grips your mind. Doubt in their words despite the lack of obvious deception. It makes the settling realization hit a lot harder. 

“It doesn’t make any sense. I should be out for weeks—months even,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Damage like that, I wouldn’t even bat an eye if it was a year.”

Acceptance creeps up, denial withers and in its place the cold grip of anxiety. You feel the leftover stinging and the scattered numbness from your injuries. You’re still healing and nowhere near full health, but you could walk and think somewhat clearly. 

A distinct memory floats in your mind; the time when you sustained a nasty fall from an eight story building. While some magic had cushioned your descent, you still heard the crack of bone when you landed on your side. Your humerus had deep fissures which took three weeks to fully heal, even with the help of healing magic. Not to mention the physical therapy alongside it.  

No, there’s no way I could’ve healed like that on my own.

You lift your head up towards the Doctor. “Did you give me some sort of medicine? Some technology that could advance human healing?”

“Well, not exactly,” the Doctor says, trailing off at the end. “Most of the machinery here requires blood work and stem cell extraction. However, because your body was retaining so much heat, we quickly realized that it could damage our equipment. Our biggest concern was the amount of blood being kept in your body cavity—a big sign of internal bleeding. And boy did you have a lot!” The Doctor chuckled, but upon seeing the disapproving look of his companions, he immediately smoothed his expression.

Rory rolled his eyes, continuing where the Doctor left off: “When the Doctor initially scanned your body in the jungle, he identified the sources of your internal bleeding. Mostly in your spleen and around your abdomen from blunt force trauma. We thought we would need to take you in for surgery but—” 

“Your body cauterized the wounds,” the Doctor cut in, too eager to let Rory finish. “Initially we thought it was due to the burning you sustained, but upon closer inspection, I realized that the burning was localized to the wounds you had. Tried my luck and decided to nick one of your veins and observed what happened. Sure enough, you sealed it moments after.”

You almost couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Almost. At this point you were willing to believe that you were a long lost moon princess that can transform with a magical compact. Somehow that seemed more believable in your mind than crossing the entire multiverse. 

At your stunned silence, Rory clarified further: “What he means is that your body—somehow—burned off the areas where you were bleeding without damaging surrounding tissue. But that wasn’t the weirdest part.”

“That wasn’t weird?” you ask, wondering how much new information you could take before your mind breaks. “So I now have burnt tissue stuck in my body on top of CMBR? Are my organs constantly boiling?”

The Doctor taps the bridge of your nose, making you jump. “Good, you’re paying attention. Luckily your cognitive functions seem to be working fine. To answer your first question, no. Whatever burnt tissue remained was overtaken by healthy tissues. Your cells were rapidly dividing to fix whatever damage was left behind. Even your bone marrow was working overtime to bring back the blood you lost.”

“What about the second question?” you ask. “You said that I still housed the CMBR—Big Bang CMBR—in the tissues of my body. Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn't my insides be cremated by now?”

In a flash, the Doctor’s finger points dangerously close to the middle of your brows. “I’m a bit insulted that you think I forgot.” He retracts his hand and paces in front of you. “To answer your other question, yes and no. The heat is mostly concentrated towards your heart and your blood. After a few days your body returned to normal temperatures and the CMBR was safely stored. For the most part.” 

You can’t help but inwardly wince. Phantom licks of fire tingle around your hands, threatening to swallow you whole once more. 

Amy moves closer, peering at you. Less analyzing, more like gazing over your features. When your eyes met, you were surprised she didn’t falter. She moved one step closer, her hands tense at her side. A bit of fear clung to her skin.  

“You told the Doctor something, before we came in,” Amy prompts. Any caution melted, spurring her curiosity. “You came from another universe, yes?”

“Don’t entertain her,” the Doctor says, though there isn’t malice. He seemed more exasperated that his companions were considering your story despite his opposition. 

Amy ignored the Doctor, focusing her attention on you, eager to what you had to say.

It was hard to pinpoint where you could even start. Bruce crash landing on the foyer of the New York Sanctum or the Battle of New York years prior? 

Events in your mind cloud and blur together. Too fresh of a wound to recount, even though five days have passed. Your body is still tense. The adrenaline has long since faded, but you can’t seem to unwind the taught muscles in your body. It doesn’t help that you’re in a room with strangers and a humming environment that seems alive.

“I was in battle, protecting Earth,” you start, the words scratching your throat. You can clearly remember the panic and animosity on the battlefield. The air was sparked with rage and stank of blood. “An alien named Thanos wanted to kill half of all sentient beings from the universe in order to preserve resources. He managed to collect five out of the six Infinity Stones. Each stone represented a core trait of existence. Infinite power, that when collected together, could bend the entire universe to your every whim. They were remnants of the Big Bang, hence the CMBR in my body.”

Your voice wavers slightly. Tired, scabbed, numb fingers clench the cotton sheets beneath you. 

Guilt swirls, clawing the inside of your chest. Enough to force your words out with anger lacing each syllable. “My friend had the last stone. He was already injured and Thanos’s army had worn through our defenses. I swore that I would protect him. I took an oath to protect humanity, even if it costs me my life. I tried to stop him—I did what I could and it didn’t matter—”

You cut yourself short. Your eyes were trained on the linoleum floor but all you could see was blood. The sound of flesh being torn apart by alien teeth and the screams of Wanda pounding in your head. 

“The stones—my arms—I tried to stop him. I absorbed as much as I could and I wasn’t strong enough. But I didn’t care about the burns, all I wanted at that moment was to save my friend…And it wasn’t enough.”

It didn’t matter that you managed to hold off Thanos long enough for Wanda to break the Mind Stone. Your promise was null and void and perhaps deep down you both knew it. It was better to hope than go into battle with defeat instilled in your mind. 

Forcing your head upwards, you locked eyes with the Doctor.

Something passed through the Doctor’s face; his lips pressed to a thin line and his eyes holding what words would fail to say. 

Understanding. 

The atmosphere of the room was thick with tension. Though your rushed and jumbled recount of events left more questions than answers, the three strangers didn’t pry further. Amy seemed to be the one most visibly upset. 

Feather light steps and a pinched expression on her face, Amy sat down on your bed beside you. Her weight makes the old foam creak, the close proximity makes the emotion pouring out more apparent. Pity and empathy came off of her in waves. If it was anyone else, under any other circumstance, you would recoil at the feeling.

“You’re safe now,” Amy whispered, her hands on your shoulder accompanying the gentle words. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Not unless you’re ready.”

Citrus on your tongue and the waves of sorrow easing the tension in your body. 

You don’t let the tears flow. You scrape together any ounce of energy to let yourself fall apart. Not now. You’re not ready for that. 

Breathe.

A muffled groan leaves you, your shoulders sagging with the weight of…honestly, you don’t know what to call it. Overwhelmed is a vast understatement to what you’re feeling. A throbbing headache threatens to pound against your skull, your body still desperately trying to pull itself together. You were teetering dangerously close to the edge of your sanity; one wrong thought and you’ll plunge into a familiar abyss. 

The three strangers dare not to move, scared that they’ve pushed you too far. The Doctor’s bright, observant eyes watch every movement of your face, trying to gauge your reaction. 

A shuddering breath escapes you, and you force yourself to fill the empty silence. 

“I-I think I need some time…alone.” Your voice is cracked, barely audible to Amy. You lower your gaze to your clenched fists, barely keeping yourself from trembling. You feel too vulnerable, exposed like a raw nerve. You mumble a strained: “Please.”

Amy doesn’t move right away, lingering in her spot beside you. After a few moments, she gives a feather-light squeeze of your shoulder before standing up. 

The Doctor, despite his distance, seemed to hear you just fine. Shoving his hands into his pant pockets, he sends a tentative smile your way. “Of course, we’ll be out of your hair for the time being.”

He walks to the other side of the room, opening a cabinet to reveal a small fridge. He bends slightly, rummaging through the fridge before grabbing a glass pitcher filled with cold water and a mug from an adjacent cabinet. 

Long legs carried the Doctor back towards you, setting down the pitcher and water on a nightstand beside your pillows. Opening the drawer from the nightstand, you hear the sound of rattling before the Doctor retrieves an orange bottle with large, white pills. 

“Some medicine to help you sleep,” the Doctor explains. “Don’t worry, we ran tests for any allergens.”

You make no move from your spot, only giving the man a stiff nod. 

The Ponds observe silently, fearing that any sound could set you off. They wait until the Doctor ushers them to the door to finally move. Amy twists her head, trying to keep you within her sight even as the door was being shut on her. You catch the quiet panic in her voice as she talks to Rory, but they’re retreating away from your room before you could catch what they’re saying. 

The Doctor is the last to cross the threshold, lingering once more. The corner of his mouth twitches to a slight frown, before straightening to a thin line. “Give a shout if you need anything. Don’t try to leave the room, it can get a bit confusing navigating the hallways. I’ll come back in a few hours to change your dressings.”

He didn’t wait to hear your reply, softly shutting the door with a faint click. 

— — —

The second the door closed, Amy wasted no time dragging the Doctor down the corridor and into the console room. The Doctor protests against her harsh tugging, something about expensive wool, but she couldn’t care less. Her grip on his sleeve was like steel, unyielding even when the Doctor tried wiggling out of her grasp. 

When the familiar flight of stairs came to view, Amy shoved the Doctor forwards, causing him to nearly fall down them. His feet miraculously stumbled to place, albeit with little grace to his movements,  saving him from a nasty fall and possible regeneration. The Doctor stumbled the remaining steps before turning back towards Amy. 

“What was that for?” he demands.

Amy descends down the stairs rapidly, stomping towards the man. “You knew she was gonna be awake.” She pointed a finger square in the Doctor’s chest, her accusing tone pinning him in place. “You didn’t want us in the room with her. All week you’ve been dodging questions—hiding something. Why?”

The Doctor scoffs, which only fueled Amy’s anger. “I told you not to worry about it. Besides I was testing, you know how dangerous CMBR is? Dangerous, lethal. Does that not scare you?”

“You said the radiation levels were not a problem! You tell us what’s going on right now because whether you like it or not we are in this mess together. We found that girl together and that means that Rory and I are just as responsible as you are,” she reminded. 

The Doctor leans back, putting distance between Amy’s face and his. He looked to Rory for support but all the blond could offer was an exasperated look. 

The two of them had an inkling that the Doctor was avoiding them only in regards to the comatose patient in the med-bay. Stuttered, whip-fast excuses, and long winded explanations for his continued disappearance. They knew the Doctor tried to work around their sleep schedule, so Amy proposed sleeping shifts to catch him. It never worked and couldn’t confirm their suspicions, but they couldn’t ignore their gut feeling. He deflected questions from Amy and outright refused help from Rory. 

Amy leaned closer to the Doctor so he could see every inch of her displeased face. Rory, who usually let his wife do the scaring, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Amy. Effectively creating a human wall against their Doctor. 

The Doctor raised his hands in surrender. “It was only a hunch—but I immediately went back to you two afterwards.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “Telling us after isn’t the same as letting us know beforehand. What happened to being a part of a team? Why did you feel the need to sneak around? We’re here to help.”

The Doctor heard the faint sound of disappointment from his companion, sending guilt straight to his two hearts. He sighs, running his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time. He hoped to have gotten away with it for longer. Alas, nothing could get past Amy or Rory. A part of him—a large one—was glad they were observant to see through his attempt at secrets.

“You’re right, I was sneaking around,” the Doctor admits sheepishly, though a part of him was unwilling to say it. “I wanted to be sure. This situation is unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with.” 

Amy scoffs, but lets a smile peek through. “Just hack it up already.”

The Doctor’s mood lightens a bit, letting him shift in excitement. “As you know, I’ve been trying to comb through her things, rather, what's left of them. Right when she was stable, I checked the driver’s license number on her ID. Y’know, run it through the New York DMV database to find any matches—”

Amy cuts the Doctor off, “But you didn’t find anything. She didn’t exist with no living relatives. You checked her DNA and knew she was human. You traced her back to around our time. We already know this, just tell us what you found out.”

“There, that’s the problem,” the Doctor states rather unhelpfully. Amy groaned. 

The Doctor pivots around, already ignoring Amy. “Girl crash lands in a jungle and has energy from the Big Bang. Wears clothes of a monk but clearly has defensive wounds meaning she was in battle. Odd, monks in battle. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.” He turns back to his companions but continues to ramble to himself. “Why would a New Yorker wear monk garb? A young one at that? Temples, monks. You don’t find enlightenment on the Statue of Liberty.”

Rory nudged Amy’s side, mouthing something to her: money. 

Amy’s eyes widened in realization, digging into her pocket. 

“Forget crashing, why voluntarily fight if you value all life?” the Doctor mumbled into his hand. 

“Doctor, I think I found some—” 

The Doctor cuts Amy off, not even looking in her general direction. “Stones? Who uses stones? Oh, who am I kidding, stones are cool, stones are sturdy and reliable. If I was the Big Bang I would be a stone too.”

“Doctor would you please—”

“Not now Amy, I’m in the middle of something.” The Doctor tries to maneuver around the console, but Amy grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to acknowledge her. 

God, sometimes she wants to smack him, possibly knock his brain in the process. 

Amy shook the Doctor, glaring at him with enough heat to make anyone wither. “If you would just listen for once, I could tell you where she became a monk. Goodness, it’s like you get paid to ignore people.”

The Doctor looks to Amy’s hand. In it was a crumpled 20 rupee banknote. 

“National currency of the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal. Odd currency for someone living in New York, isn’t it?” Amy smirked at seeing the Doctor’s eyes widened. 

The Doctor snatches the rupee, giving it a sniff and inspecting it under the TARDIS lights. It was real all right. He spun back towards his companions, “How come I didn’t see this earlier? Were you hiding this from me?”

“A taste of your own medicine,” Amy quips. “It was in her robes, not her wallet. Found it a few minutes ago when I was inspecting it.”

It was a stroke of luck that Amy managed to see the red bank note in the sea of red fabric. Whoever constructed the robes had a knack for secret pockets and seamless edges. At first glance, the pockets themselves were placed in rather odd places. It seemed as though they were slapped on haphazardly; one of them was adjacent to the armpit, another placed smack in the middle of the back. Most of them were empty, save for an odd post-it note or some receipts from Delmar's Deli-Grocery. The Doctor had already found no matches for the receipts or any deli in New York with a name like that. 

Pride bloomed in the Doctor’s chest. He gives Amy a giddy smile and ruffles her hair, “Oh, Amelia. What would I do without you?”

The red banknotes flips in his hand. Another clue for him to dissect.

“So our soldier-monk went to Nepal to be enlightened,” the Doctor observed. “Somewhere along the way she somehow gets recruited into a big war where monks are part of enlistment. Sounds like an awful system to be living under. Things happen, stones get collected, infinity becomes real, she crash-lands on Rwanda.”

“Think you missed a few steps,” Rory mumbled. 

The Doctor flicked the side of his head. “Plot holes in stories are what gives us clues. If her memories have been tampered there would be glaring problems with her story. Problem is, her story is just a big hole with bits of plot in them. A plot stew if you will. No, that’s not right.”

Amy leans against the console. “Maybe she doesn’t trust us to give the whole story. She didn’t seem like she was lying. Everything felt so…genuine. Besides, what else could cause those injuries if not…stones made from the Big Bang?”

“I’ve come from a whole line of medical professionals,” Rory adds. “Never had I seen burns look like that. The skin only split where her veins were. Any other normal injury would follow the pattern of the fire or lightning, not the pattern of your veins.”

The Doctor had to agree on Rory there. Nothing about this made any sense. Normally that would be a surge of excitement. Few things puzzled the Doctor, especially for days on end. What would usually be something of a game very quickly turned to a massive headache. 

You believed everything you said wholeheartedly, but everything that came out of your mouth seemed to contradict the thing before it. 

The Doctor rounds the console, finding the swiveling monitor, with Amy and Rory trailing behind him. His fingers type out something on the keyboard, the monitor beeping to life. 

Charts, data, and a scan of your body was shown. Text flashes, blocks of letters and numbers that could make anyone’s head spin. Amy had seen this screen many, many times, yet couldn’t make out anything in plain English. Rory’s nursing background gave some leverage, easily spotting medical terms and diagnoses that the Doctor gave. 

“Remember how I said that I couldn’t find a relative traced to her?” the Doctor asked, enlarging the scan of your DNA. Large parts of your genes were highlighted in bright orange and another set of text appeared: NO GENETIC MATCHES FOUND. The Doctor continued: “I checked everything. What diseases she’s immune to, her microbiome, and general physiology. All signs point to her being human, but it’s this that gives me trouble. This specific sequence not only doesn’t belong to any human, but doesn’t relate to any living species on Earth. It’s not spliced, it’s the same genome she was given to the day she was born.”

“So she’s an alien,” Rory said, albeit a bit unsure. 

“As much as she is human, yes,” the Doctor answers, typing more things out. “Monk working as a soldier, New Yorker with Nepali money, human with alien DNA. So alien that the sequence doesn’t match any known species—sentient or not—across the Milky Way. I even sent a sample to the Department of Intergalactic Biologics back in Andromeda. Nothing back yet, but I’ve been told that my case is top priority.”

Amy leans her body against the edge of the console. “Last time you asked them for help they took a month to reply back. If I recall correctly, that case was also top priority. Are you going to keep her here until then?”

“That’s the plan, yes,” the Doctor replied. There was an edge of frustration lined in his words. He hoped his normally erratic behavior covered it well enough. “Even if she did omit elements to her story, I doubt it will clear anything up. However, my reason for keeping her onboard is to monitor her CMBR. Specifically, how her body houses it. Or worse, if it can metabolize it.”

Amy’s lips pursed in thought. “Metabolize? As in eat it?”

“As in convert it to energy,” Rory corrects. He glanced at the Doctor for confirmation, to which the man nodded. 

“And that’s supposed to be a bad thing?” Amy asked. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing? That means that the radiation wouldn’t harm her or us.”

The Doctor shakes his head, his body wrung tight with tension. “You and I see her as who she is, as a sentient being with ambitions and goals. At best she could harness the radiation and be at peak physical performance at all times with little food. But not everyone will see her as such.” 

Amy’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion at the Doctor’s purposefully vague wording. A part of her regretted trying to prod the alien for information. 

Realization of the Doctor’s word dawned on Rory nearly immediately. “She’ll be a battery.”

The Doctor let out a heavy sigh. “A weapon would be the correct term. That's why I couldn’t let her go to the hospital. Even a human one. At such a vulnerable stage, anyone could try to conjure ways to extract the energy inside of her. If not the staff, then surely any desperate enough group who are willing to get their hands on a stable energy source by any means necessary.” 

As much as your odd words and mysterious origin makes the Doctor’s temple ache, it relieved him that he and the Ponds were the first to find you. With countless wars and fights for resources plaguing galaxies across the universe, there’s no doubt in his mind that you would’ve been picked off and made into something less than. All things good and human would be torn away, and you would be left as a husk whose sole purpose was to give and give until you simply couldn’t. 

If what you said was true, that multiverses do exist, then that reality has already come true. The Doctor didn’t make it in time and the universe would have swallowed you into an unknown path where not even the TARDIS could track you down. So many possibilities sprung from his mind that he nearly forgot he was being watched carefully by the Ponds. 

The Doctor didn’t acknowledge the worried looks of his companions. With a deep breath, the man steadied his mind and straightened his back. Back to his old self. 

He clasped his hands and pivoted towards the Ponds. “Right, no point in worrying about the would have or could have. Focus on the now—the present and what we control. As Amy pointed out, our top priority should be our patient’s health and well-being. I’ll save the testing ‘til she’s in full recovery.”

“And how long would that be? A few days?” Rory asked. At the rate you’ve seemed to recover, it would be a matter of time before you were at your full strength.

“I don’t know,” the Doctor admitted. Arguably a worrying statement coming from someone like him. “Internal bleeding and bruising are healing exceptionally fast, but it’s her arms. Whatever force, power—what have you—had done that damage seemed to alter the way her cells repair themselves. It’s hard to tell why, but it’s not going to heal the same way the rest of her body does. That is a certainty.” 

“But she’ll live, right?” Amy asks, a bit fearful of what the answer would be. 

Rory looked expectantly at the Doctor as well. 

Once again, the Doctor is reminded of why he is so fond of humans and their planet. Why he orbits the Earth and adopted it like it’s his own. 

“The chance is never zero,” the Doctor reminds, but his grin betrays his own bias. “I think she’ll be okay.”

— — —

The medicine the Doctor gave you managed to knock you out for three hours. There was no label to tell you what exactly you were putting in your body, but you knew that the Doctor could’ve easily killed you in the five days that you were in his care. After drinking the entire pitcher of crisp water, you took a single pill. In no time, your body sagged against worn pillows and the warm duvet. 

You would’ve probably slept a lot longer had it not been for Amy desperately trying to wake you. 

“You have to get up,” she whispered, gently shaking your shoulder. When you stir slightly, she raises her voice a bit louder. “Rory says you need to eat. You can go back to bed after, promise.”

Sleep still clung to you, trying to pull you back to the soothing, dreamless state you were before. You had half the mind to ignore her, hoping that she will get the message and leave you be. As you shifted your body away from her hands, you felt a familiar ache in your stomach. A loud, rumbling growl that echoed inside your body. 

That certainly woke you up. 

Amy’s laugh further cemented your embarrassment, but you knew she wasn’t trying to make fun of you. She helped you out of your bed as your arms were incapable of hauling the duvet off of you. Still groggy with sleep, you allowed Amy to hover beside you as you stubbornly limp to the door. 

“The Doctor went out for supplies,” Amy says. “Just going to be me and Rory for the time being. We would’ve let you sleep longer, but Rory realized that the Doctor took out your feeding tube, meaning you haven’t had any food for twelve hours.”

“He knew I was going to be awake?” You had to remind yourself that you weren’t back on Earth with your limited technologies. They probably had your whole genome mapped and analyzed by now. 

Amy let out a frustrated sigh. “He had a hunch, but kept Rory and I in the dark. Turns out he wanted to interrogate you alone. He didn’t piss you off, did he?”

You tried to think back on your initial conversation with the Doctor. The confusion, the whip-fast talking, and the odd words he said. U.N.I.T.…Torchwood…

“The Doctor called me something.” You wracked your brain, trying to push past your sleep-deprived memories. “Spor…Sporgatuu? He got pretty upset, accusing me of trying to get him to join a club?”

Amy stopped in her tracks and gave you a questioning look. “He said that to you?” She gave a scoff and under her breath mumbled: “Unbelievable.”

“What? What did he mean by that?”

“The Doctor calls them a fringe, off-the-wall cult,” Amy starts. “One of the oldest in the universe. What we know is that they want the Doctor to join and they always send a woman to speak with him. I’ve only seen one of them, and I can tell you first hand that they got a few screws loose. They believe in magic and that their gods live in other universes. Don’t worry, I’m sure the Doctor knows by now that you’re not one of them.”

You gave a small chuckle. “He sure seemed pretty convinced back there.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “The Doctor is as stupid as he is smart. His heart is in the right place, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do questionable things. How about we put away the multiverse talk and think about something else for a change. Like…how do you feel about stew?”

— — —

The kitchen wasn’t too far off from the med bay. You managed the distance without wincing or injuring yourself further. Inside, you could smell the cooking vegetables and feel the steam warming up the room. Rory stood at the stove with a plain black apron and some upbeat jazz in the background. You wanted to keep to yourself, opting to sit on the barstool on the kitchen island. Amy respected your silence, not wanting to further distress you and went to join her husband despite his insistence that he could handle cooking. 

She helped Rory with setting the table and poured you a generous serving. Dinner consisted of veggie stew and mashed potatoes. The steam kissed your cheeks and the plate was warm to the touch.

Rory became sheepish when you rightfully complimented his cooking. The steamed carrots melted on your tongue and the seasoning was a delicate blend of savory with a tiniest splash of sweet. The last meal you remember having was microwaved dim sum and expired fried rice. Between covert missions and temple duties, you didn’t think to restock your fridge or have any spare time to grab a decent meal. 

You learned that Rory was automatically elected to babysit you as the only human medical professional. The Doctor simply handed a communication device should he run into trouble. Amy wanted to stick behind, partially because she wanted Rory’s cooking, but also to see how you were doing. She knew how hard transitioning into TARDIS-life (as she called it), and hoped to make it smoother for you. 

After your first plate was cleared, your stomach still felt hollow and ravenous. By the third time Amy refilled your plate, Rory brought the cast iron pot on the stove to the counter in front of you. Breathing became a suggestion and shoving spoonfuls of stew became your sole priority. 

You didn't realize how much you missed home cooked meals. With missions across time and space, your options for food were limited at best. Slobs of unintelligible meat with exotic plants that could poison you were unfortunately very common. 

It was during the holidays or times where your body was on the verge of collapsing were when you could indulge in simple comforts. 

Warm food, cozy bed, time with your parents and siblings.

The thought makes you pause. Hunger that festered in your stomach for the past hour had evaporated, leaving a sour pain. 

Amy, who was observing you like a hawk, immediately picked up the miniscule change in attitude. “Something wrong?”

You cleared your throat. A scratchy, hoarse sound. You shook your head, “Sorry, just lost in thought. It's just…been so long since I had any good food.”

Just how long has it been? Weeks? Months?

It was better to consume anything remotely edible than be picky. You’d learned that the hard way. That didn’t mean that eating mystery meats and slobs was enjoyable. If anything, it made the juxtaposition of seasoned stew and creamy mashed potatoes all the more jarring. 

The two of them said nothing as you slowly ate the rest of your plate. By the time your spoon scraped the bottom of your bowl and your fork scooped the last bits of mashed potato, Rory had decanted the leftovers into plastic tubs. Amy took over dishwashing duty, thoroughly scrubbing the pans and utensils. 

Slowly, you rose from your chair with your empty plate in hand. Movement was difficult and your full stomach made you feel the beginning stages of sleepiness. Still, you made your way over to the couple and placed your plate beside the sink. 

“Thank you. Seriously, you don’t know how much this means to me,” you say softly.  

Amy seemed surprised at your admission. Then, a wide grin blossomed on her face. You returned with a small one of your own, pained as it was. 

— — —

The first time you wandered through the TARDIS by yourself was downright terrifying. When the Ponds supplied you with their information regarding the space-craft, you realized that you were far too tired to actually hold onto the information. Bits and pieces of the conversation stood out; bigger-on-the-inside, spatial warping, dizziness. Amy advised to call one of them to guide you around as it can be overwhelming to experience the TARDIS alone. 

Three days and some hours have passed since you’ve woken up on the strange ship. You’ve always had a speedy recovery—something you’ve come to loathe—and your altered cells have only increased it. Walking around the room can now be handled without any opioids or morphine (courtesy of Rory). Days were spent glued to the bed, broken by the timely visits by the Ponds or the Doctor. Rory made the executive decision to prescribe bed-rest. A week at least. 

Three days and you’re now starting to lose it. With all the sleep medication and sore limbs, you were practically welded to the mattress. 

You’ve walked down the hallways before, but always accompanied by one of the Ponds and never further than a few doors down to the kitchen. So when you woke up much earlier than anticipated, you made the impulsive decision to wander out. 

The door to the med-bay was a light blue tint over the steel; it silently shut itself behind you when you crossed into the hallway. Other doors were other versions of plain steel. You foolishly thought that if you kept track of the doors you’d see, you eventually make your way back to your squeaky cot until it was time for the Doctor to do his daily checkup. You told yourself that you’ll only be gone five—maybe ten minutes tops. 

Blue steel of the med-bay’s door marked the end of the hallway. You hadn’t walked for thirty seconds before you felt a strange shift in the air. As if something had moved and the air blew in response. Turning around, you expected to see the end of the hallway staring back.

An endless, repeating hallway met you instead. On and on it went that you could see a small vanishing point on the horizon. 

Maybe you were freaked out. A cold sweat overcame you and you started to walk back to where you came from. You twist your neck left and right to try and see the familiar door. All of the doors along the hallway were plain silver steel. 

Air billowed around you, like seconds before. This time, it fluttered your cotton shirt and the cuffs of your loose pants. You turned around, nearly jumping out of your skin. 

Blue steel inches away from your face. You turned back around and saw the same endless hallway. Looking at the reflective surface of the med-bay, your fingers hesitantly felt the metal, shocked that it was solid. 

Now you were more than a little freaked out. Maybe you were a little impressed. Was hallucinating part of the side effects of the drugs you were taking? No magic, so space-warping spells are immediately ruled out. You’d encountered many things, but the warping of space without the aid of some type of magic was perplexing. Scary, even. 

And very intriguing. 

It took some mulling and a lot of overthinking. The best hypothesis you could come up with is that the TARDIS is somehow telekinetic. When you panicked and tried looking for the med-bay, it immediately materialized, just out of your sight. 

So you wandered about away from the med-bay, longer than you had previously. You needed to put as much distance between you and the last known location of the med-bay so there could be no doubt. As you gingerly walked, you took the time to catalog the different doors. Most of this hallway was steel, but now that you’re taking time to observe, you realize the slight variations. Some were inscribed in alien language, others had tacky door knobs that didn’t fit with the aesthetic of the door, each one had a small plaque next to them. Some were numbered and others had plain English. Words like “pool”, “storage”, “1890s Costumes”, and other odd labels. 

Turning around, you see the endless hallway. Turning back, the same was met back. Closing your eyes, you plead:

I want to go to med-bay.

Air in front of your face swooshes away, kissing your eyelids. When you opened, the blue steel flooded your vision. 

You were still freaked out, but curiosity eventually won. 

You told yourself a couple minutes at the most to explore; that the Doctor would be waiting to check up on you.

Five minutes easily slipped to ten. Ten to twenty, and eventually you had been gone for an hour. Instead of the med-bay, you tried to summon different doors. Hell, you even opened a few rooms. 

The pool room (yes, a room full of pools) was huge, easily swallowing the med-bay by a few thousand square-feet. Costume related rooms were mostly a plain white room with racks of period clothing. Sometimes there were a pile of mismatched fabrics in the corner, as if someone haphazardly sifted through them. 

Easily, you’ve been in over fifty different rooms. You’d found another kitchen, which looked straight out of a 60s home magazine. Light green walls, pastel appliances, and a large fridge filled with various leftovers. It was bigger than the ones in New York, but smaller in comparison to the vast rooms of the TARDIS. 

You walked down the hexagonal archways, everything blurring together. You didn't mind the repetition as it made each room seem like a mystery. 

A few rooms stood out the most. Ones that had a name and had painted wood instead of steel. They were spread out from one another, taking you twenty to thirty minutes before seeing another one. 

Their knobs were round brass and when you went to touch it, there was a whisper of warmth. As if someone just held it before you. Some variations of these doors were present. 

“Martha” had grooves and was painted beige. 

“Donna” was a light blue with some flourish on the door knob. 

“Rose”, as the name suggests, was a dusted pink with small, colorful flowers. Each of them was locked shut, so tightly in fact, that the door knob didn’t wiggle no matter how much force was put in them. 

Old companions was the likely answer. People, like Amy and Rory, who were swept away from Earth and into deep space and time. You get the feeling that the Doctor locked them for a reason. 

Eventually, you made your way through the endless hallways, completely forgetting about the Doctor’s timely visit. Your hand glides through the oddly shaped hallway and your feet softly padding down clean floors. You didn’t have a destination in mind, just blindly walking in a straight line. It was repetitive, calming in the way meditation was. You didn’t think about potential meetings with masters, or the Infinity Stones residing inside you. 

Guilt was still there, always lingering in your body. Then again, there was always something weighing you down. Still, you kept walking, completely lost in your own bubble. 

Your body has healed remarkably since your waking. Soreness ebbed to stiffness and the nerves damaged had slowly, but surely, been repaired. Your hands haven't had the same luxury as the rest of your body. Still stitching itself together. Deep lines along your veins that had barely been scabbed over. Even if  weeks passed the Doctor believes it will take a year before your skin will finally close. Until then, gauze will cover them, keeping them safe from further damage. 

You hope your body will pull itself together soon. Residue energy from your universe—though terribly unlikely—could help speed things up. 

Air shifts behind you. 

Confused, you turn to see the med-bay materialize, even though you didn’t summon it. Footsteps were heard behind the door and before you knew it, the door swung open. 

The Doctor hung in the doorway, equally as confused. 

“There’s a lot of doors out here. Gets kind of confusing,” you say, as if it was the perfect explanation to your whereabouts. You slipped past the Doctor and into the room. 

The Doctor followed you, still utterly confused. “You could’ve at least told me you wanted to wander. You could get lost in there.”

“But I didn’t. It’s not that hard to figure out how to find your way back,” you say, plopping down on the squeakiest mattress. “Amy failed to mention how the TARDIS can warp space and is telepathic. Is it sentient? Did someone die here?”

A ghost, an emotional one especially, could explain the weird ship without delving into magic. Still spiritual, but not touching sorcerer territory. 

“Kind of, and no. If you knew your way back, why did you take so long to return? I had to get the Ponds out there looking for you.” The Doctor grabs several rolls of gauze and some ointments. 

You paused for a moment. Then, you answered honestly, “It was repetitive. I could walk for a mile and have the med-bay appear the second I command it.” 

I didn’t feel lost. 

For the first time in weeks—months even, you managed to entertain yourself without interruption. You had time to focus, shift your mind into a peaceful state. Even if it was temporary. You take any victory with stride, no matter how small. 

The Doctor unravels your gauze with surprising carefulness. You don’t see him much on account of your sleeping habits and his tenacity to leave the TARDIS for long periods of time. In the rare glimpses you do see, the Doctor is erratic as much as he is smart. Constantly bumping into corners, fumbling instead of walking, always in motion even when seated. 

It’s only when he engages in his namesake is when the Doctor is gentle and slow. Mumblings are few and his focused gaze is hidden behind his brown, wild hair. 

When the entirety of your right arm is revealed, it’s still as raw and tender as yesterday. Most of your skin seemed to remain intact, save for the deep, exposing gashes along your veins. A burn describes skin that's peeled and blistered. A cut would aptly describe the wounds you have. It’s clean, burrowing deep into muscle like butter. It winds and twists around your arms, only stopping around your bicep. From there, the only damage you see is dark, almost purple markings that extend to the middle of your chest and back. 

“It could be worse,” the Doctor notes, sincere and light-hearted.

A small chuckle escapes, but your words are dull. “It definitely feels worse.”

The Doctor reaches for the ointments, weird smelling pastes, and a saline solution. The saline is bottled in a dark, glass bottle written in a script that barely passes as English. After submerging a cotton round, the Doctor dabs the solution along the open wounds. Cold liquid cascades down, kissing the raw edges of your tissue. Up and up the cotton goes until all sides are discolored with flecks of blood and old ointments. 

You don’t mind the silence this process brings. It’s never awkward or boring. The cleanings don’t burn or sting anymore and the Doctor’s focus allows you to observe him. A habit you’ve gotten since you were young, always cataloging features of the people around you. Doctors, policemen, civilians. 

When the Doctor moves to get the next set of items, your eyes briefly meet. He doesn’t seem alarmed at your staring, even when he catches you often. He commented once how you often look at people more when they face away from you. You suppose he’s referring to the times where the Ponds interact with you. For a moment—perhaps for the first time—you really observed his eyes. A clear, muted green that easily slips into blue. The skin and features surrounding his eyes are young and prominent. It’s easy for his eyes to blend into his face and go unnoticed. But at this distance, you see him for who—what he is. 

“You’re old.” 

It’s a second too late and you realize how terribly you’ve worded your scattered thoughts.  

The Doctor looked startled. He immediately turns to the reflective bottles beside him and twists his head around, capturing his features on all sides. Before you could take back your words and verbalize what you actually meant, he scoffs, never taking his eyes away from his reflection. 

“Old? Me? Humans age, it’s natural, it’s supposed to happen.” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or just rambling to himself. Then, he turns to you with concern, rubbing his throat. “It’s the neck isn’t it? Amy tells me that it’s the first place that starts to change. Or is it the hair? She tells me it doesn't suit me. Or was that Rory?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, trying to cut in before he misunderstands further. “I mean, sort of—I just mean that you’re older than you appear. You still look young, but you’re for sure older than us, the Ponds and I. You’re immortal. At the very least not human.” 

Now that you’ve verbalized it, everything about the Doctor’s behavior and being makes sense. Apart from the odd clothing and overly loud personality, there’s something off about him. It really shows when the Ponds are also in the same room as him. It’s not scary or uncanny. So subtle that most wouldn’t be able to tell. But you’re not most.

It’s the misplaced, dated slang. The sense that he knows too much and isn’t afraid to show it. How he constantly refers to the Ponds as “people” but sometimes slips into “you humans”. It seems he catalogs every sensory input, from the subtle change in the air to the pumping of his heart, because his brain has the capacity to do so. 

The sheer happiness radiating off the Doctor is infectious. His wide grin and twinkling eyes, joyous that you’ve caught on. 

“What gave it away?” he wonders, an echo of childlike curiosity. He tilts his head, leans ever-so-slightly towards you. 

It’s clearer now. The weight of centuries lingering in the depths of his iris. How could you have not noticed sooner? It’s familiar. Being an apprentice of the Ancient One; having spent countless months—maybe years—traveling between worlds where time is merely another dimension for you to alter. You’ve met and befriended a god whose age transcends the thousands and more so deities who have made you their sworn enemy. 

You remember the first time you’ve met Rocket. How despite his appearance as a normal mammal, you could immediately spot his wisdom before he uttered a snarky question. The way the Collector carries himself and how his brother regards you as less than. But time always manifests. Maybe not in the grooves of one's skin or the white strands of hair, but in the eyes. Always. 

“I’ve seen enough to know. You hide it better than most.” 

The Doctor’s smile doesn’t fade. He still has your wrist in his hand, a gentle but firm grasp. When he squeezes it subconsciously, he finally remembers why he’s there with you. 

Something crosses his face. A thought that makes his brow twitch and his focus falter. “And what are you?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asks. You survived a shock of radiation that would’ve no doubt vaporized any other being. Your body heals at an accelerated rate to the point where it takes less than a week for you to walk again. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, but you’re caught off-guard nonetheless. 

Your throat tightens, your tongue feeling like paper in your mouth. “I’m a person. With thoughts and feelings.”

The Doctor stares a moment longer. His lips settle into a more neutral state, and he thinks over your response. You wait for a response, but he turns away. He then grabs a tube of blue paste, the one that smells like burnt rice, and resumes his care. 

You watch as his fingers glide over your hand. Starting with the middle of your palm and working his way out. To the lengths of your fingers, then the tops of your hand and up your forearm. The paste is dense and hard to manipulate. The tips of his finger catch on the sharp, dry flakes of skin and it stings. 

His response is delayed, so much that you’ve returned to watching his work on your arm in deep thought. When the Doctor speaks in a calm, observant voice, it glides through the silence. “You used the word ‘person’. Not ‘human’ or some snide comment that humans normally respond to when asked. Your first thought was to make me emphasize, to humanize yourself without saying it.”

The Doctor’s analysis cuts straight through you, pinning you in place. The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, as if reading from a book that is lying in front of him. 

To have the observation made by someone you know little about—

Your answer is rushed, almost shamed. “It’s just that…some people seem to forget. They’re more concerned about what I can do for them, feelings are second.”

You couldn’t blame the masters for doing so. You often took the hardest jobs, throwing away your childhood one mission at a time. Perhaps it was easier to treat you as a powerful soldier, pushing you to your absolute limits, because it’s easier than acknowledging that they’re enabling your suffering.

The Doctor doesn’t comment or try to analyze the words you say. Fresh gauze winds itself securely back onto your wounds. Your left arm was cleaned and wrapped at the fraction of the time it took your right. At the speed he was going, the Doctor still made sure to not harm you further. 

You don’t say anything when he piles the glass bottles into a drawer next to the sink. Nor do you acknowledge him when he goes towards the door. You feel his heavy stare and the questions that hang in the air. 

You don’t move from your spot until long after his footsteps fade away. 

— — —

In your travels you’ve come to know two things. One: you do exist in other universes. Two: none of them are sorcerers. None of them get their magic. They all seem to live ordinary lives, plagued with little threat, and return to their homes safe and sound. Sometimes there’s trouble in the form of being late to appointments or the forgetting of pants. It’s a break from fighting demons in realms without time. Perhaps you offer alternate versions of yourself fantastical dreams. In return you get to live out a life where you chose differently.

You’ve come to treasure these dreams. It was a break from the norm. So when you start to lie down and the TARDIS lights dim, it wasn’t dreams you were experiencing.

Instead of the normal dreams, ones where you live vicariously through the various alternate lives that you have, you have memories. Exact recreations. No autonomy; nothing you can do but simply watch.

— — —

Guilt festers. It grows and grows until you can do nothing but wallow in your anger. Anger is new. What used to be bottomless sadness that leaves you heavy has now been replaced by bubbling rage. 

You’re glad no one on board shares your gift of sensing energy. Behind every neutral look, every small grin, every dry-humored joke were storms of emotion. It hurts, physically pains you that you allow your grief to evolve. 

You deserve it. All of it. 

There was a point in time where the voice in your head sounded like yours. Then your mother’s. 

Wanda now whispers, her voice echoing in your ear like nails on a chalkboard. 

— — —

There’s a pattern to the dreams—memories, rather. 

If one night you experience a pleasant, mundane sliver of your life, the next will be filled with agony. Sometimes you’re lucky, and get a dreamless rest. But those are few and far between.

You’re not in bed, lying on a dingy cot that squeaks with any miniscule movement. Glowing orange walls are replaced with light green paint and white trim. Disinfectant morphs to a sweet, ambery vanilla from the candles your mother collects. 

The air is warm with the bristling of energy, and sunlight caresses every surface in the living room. 

You shouldn’t be here. 

“Are you okay?” 

A childish voice, one that rings through the air, in the silence of your thoughts. 

Snapping your head down, you meet the scrutinous gaze of your younger brother. Younger than you remember when you’d seen him last. He sits on the old Persian carpet your father loves dearly. No one is allowed to play on the good carpets, lest they ruin the intricate design underneath. Elio sits with his trucks and action figures scattered around him.

But your parents are away and you let him play as long as you’re watching. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m just tired from traveling. Probably be even more tired when I go back to the Sanctum.” 

“You’re leaving again.”

You feel his pain before his face betrays him. He knows it, hiding his eyes as he stares at the dozens of toys lying around him. Too many for one boy to play with. 

You were gone for three months, trapped in a universe that is comparable to Hell on Earth. Nearly missed your father’s birthday and Master Hamir’s annual potluck; the latter you don’t really care as much. 

No matter how sore your body is or how much work awaits you at your office, you make it a point to see your family after each mission. Always. 

“Not for a few hours at least. Seems like you’re stuck with me.”

For someone who’s age hasn’t passed the double digits, Elio doesn’t let his emotions show. You don’t blame him. Since you’ve gotten promoted, your visits have gotten shorter and shorter. Soon, you’re going to be regarded as just another adult in his life. 

No. You already are. The Elio in front of you is not the one you’d left behind once more. 

The floorboards creak, signaling the arrival of another member of the family. A pink ball of energy, with a fury that rivals your own.

“Elio! I told you not to take my stuff!” 

Lene’s shrill, whiny voice is almost jarring against the silence of the estate. Her puffy cheeks and wrinkled princess gown makes it known that she had just woken up. 

Elio doesn’t bother to look up from his toys. He responds in a calmer manner than his younger sister, “(Y/N) said I could play with your toys as long as you were still asleep.”

At the mention of your name, Lene freezes. Her face was so full of surprise that her eyes bulged out of her head. 

You’re situated on a couch right beside the entrance of the living room, yet Lene’s face morphs into shock at you. As if she’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I thought you left already,” she mumbles, her gaze wide and unmoving. 

You stare back, unsure of how she would react. 

And react she did. Not a second later, her nose scrunches up and tears begin to form. “Does…Does that mean—”

Lene couldn’t finish her sentence before a sob escaped her. Tears that are almost comically big started to bead off her eyes in droplets. Her shrill voice got louder with each cry. Immediately, you scrambled on the floor to embrace the small girl. Her tiny hands wrapped around you and you feel your shirt getting damp. 

“I’m not leaving for a while, okay?” you cooed softly in her ear. Scooping her up in your arms, you start to rock her, holding her tightly. “(Y/N) is gonna leave tomorrow morning, so that means you have the rest of the day with me!”

Your words did nothing but make your sister sob even harder into your chest. You can barely make out her words between each hiccup. “I-I already sl-slept all d-day!”

Glancing up at the window, you can see the sun making its descent. 

Not again.

“I’m gonna visit again soon, you’ll see me again,” you promised, trying to speak over her wails. Still, it feels empty when you say it. “Mommy and Daddy will come home soon and you can ask them to visit me in Nepal. Or what about New York? Don’t you wanna see New York?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Lene is burying her face in your shirt to muffle her cries, you would for sure lose hearing in one ear. She shakes her head violently, gripping onto you tighter. 

You rock and bounce, still remembering the motions when she was just a small baby. You still see her as such, even now that she’s bigger than most kids her age. 

Her cries mellow into loud hiccups and her pudgy fingers grip onto your crisp shirt like a vice. You feel the wet patch where her tears fell, but you continue to rock her in your arms. 

“Are you really gonna leave tomorrow?”

You almost didn’t catch what Elio said. His voice sounded so small. Far away. His face is downcast, picking at the fibers of the rug beneath him. 

“He misses you a lot, you know. Looks up to you, more than anyone else.”

Your father’s disappointment hits you hard. As stoic as Elio always seems to be, you know how much you mean to him. How much he means to you. How you fight tooth and nail to make it home for the holidays, birthdays, and everything in between. 

To the world you’re Seraph. The Burning One. Master of the Mystic Arts. 

It’s hard to see yourself as anything other than that.

It was difficult to maneuver on the floor with a crying child in your arms, but you managed to lie down on your back next to your brother. Lene’s cries dwindled to violent hiccups as she curled up on your side. You turn your head towards your brother who avoids your stare. Stubborn. You pat the empty space next to you. 

Elio hesitates. For a moment, he stays rooted in his spot, contemplating. At this angle, you can clearly see the hurt on his face. Can feel the hurt. A constant stream of deep longing that pours and weaves between the space of spiritual and physical. Between dream and reality. 

With the wobble of his lip, Elio scoots to your empty side and hugs you tightly. The river of emotions is more intense, almost washing over you. It didn’t take long for his tears to follow. It's a silent cry, one that shakes his body but no noise escapes.

His grip is tighter, his hold on your bruising. The lack of outward passion and vigor doesn't diminish the intensity of his feelings. More so than the normal person. 

It's why he doesn't run to greet you at the door anymore. Why he tends to play next to you rather than with you. 

You don't know whether he naturally keeps his emotions to himself, or if it's something he learned from you. 

“They don't want a hero,” your mother once snarled at you. Her wrinkled eyes would pierce through you, full of hurt. “You're their sister. Act like it.”

You don’t remember how long you stayed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Your shirt was drenched with tears, spit, and snot but you didn’t move or push them away. If anything, you pulled them tighter against you. 

You didn’t cry. Your chest didn’t ache nor did your stomach cramp from the guilt. You can’t allow yourself to. If you keep crying helplessly whenever you leave, it will only hurt you more. 

By the time the sun dipped past the horizon, your two siblings had long exhausted themselves. You wait an hour more before gently carrying them up to their rooms. With a help of some magic, you managed to tuck them in their beds without so much as a single stir. 

A buzz came from your phone, along with it a sense of dread. 

Master Rokda: The Elders request a debrief of your mission on Earth 75-C. Do not keep them waiting.

When you meet your parents at the front door, they don’t comment on the fact that you’ve put on your sorcerer attire. You promised to be gone for an hour and be back for dinner. 

You pretend not to notice the crestfallen expression of your father or the lack of emotion from your mother. 

— — —

Energy still fires in your blood. Taunting you. 

You should try. The very least you could do is try to harness the power you absorbed.

It’s easier to move now that most of your body has healed. Sleep is now in tune with your circadian rhythm meaning you can stay awake for longer. Your hands are still tightly bound with gauze with only your fingers being exposed. The Doctor replaces the wrappings everyday so you can clean and examine the progress. 

The Doctor had warned you that your arms wouldn’t heal the same, even with the technology he possessed. 

You shake your head, clearing unnecessary thoughts. 

Try. That’s all you have to do. 

Taking a deep breath, you perform some basic maneuvers that maximize the flow of energy throughout your body. Stiffness in your legs and arms are expected, but the strain is difficult to push through. Your muscles still remember the placement of your arms, the amount of force with each step, the way your lungs expand in your chest. 

Your body is used to taking. Greedily absorbing any energy you come into contact with. It’s hard to reverse what you’re used to. To release rather than to hoard. 

The power of the stones sits stubbornly in your body and around your soul. Once frenzied and bubbled, the energy slowly settled as the days passed. Burrowing deeper, melting into any space between your cells. 

You feel your body warm up. Heartbeats quicken and your breathing gets deeper. Your tempo doesn’t change, only the force behind each punch and step. Again. Again. Again. You focus on precision. Every valve of your heart, every cell moving in your body. The way your nerves spark and burn around your arms, down your spine, surrounding you. 

Again. 

Again.

Again.

It’s slow at first. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. A flow of heat blooming from your soul, bleeding into your physical body. Streams of static curl alongside the blood flowing, and it creates a strain against your movements. 

As if something’s holding you back. 

Fluid movements slow. Muscles start tightening as the stones’ power solidifies. No longer a scalding plasma, but a physical force that locks your body. 

Again.

Muscles beneath your skin grow taut. Sweat accumulates, forming a film around you. 

Again.

It’s starting to hurt. The fluid precision is slowly morphing to choppy, erratic motions. 

Aga—

The tension wins out against your body, locking you in place. You drop to the floor, gasping as your knees knock painfully on the floor. All at once you cease movement; not even able to twist your neck or limbs. 

You’re trapped. 

You can’t move. You can’t move. You can’t move.

All at once, the orange walls turn into the familiar grasslands of Wakanda. It’s hot. It hurts.

A scent that is so sickeningly sweet and leathery that hangs in the air like thick smoke. It mingles with the ash on your clothes and you can’t breathe. 

Screaming. You hear it in front of you. Around you. 

Breathe breathe breathe—

You can feel it—God you can taste it. Your own flesh searing off. It’s in your mouth, all over your body. You can’t breathe. Why can’t you breathe? Why can’t you move? 

You don't see the old creaky cot you’ve been sleeping in or the mirror next to the porcelain sink. You’re still on the field—no in the jungle. It hurts, it burns, everything is killing you. 

I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave—

The air hums with energy. The floor rattles and shakes. Someone’s—something’s panicking. 

Your body caves in on itself and your cheek smashes against cold flooring. 

You feel the strong pulses of energy flowing beneath you. It’s erratic. Alive. Your body tries to siphon it off. No, that’s not right. 

The energy is coming to you. It’s warm. Your hand reaches out, trying to meet it halfway. 

You see the door slam open, a rush of voices, and a burst of emotions mingling with the warmth. 

“You’re not meant for this.”

A voice. Familiar. It’s angry, bleeding with disdain and hurt. 

“Can’t you see this is killing you?”

Your mother’s voice sounds so clear. You miss her. Even if most of the words you spare to each other are angry. 

“Give up. Give up everything. This life isn’t meant for you.”

No. No it wasn’t. 

Only when you closed your eyes, and your consciousness slipped away, is when the taste of your flesh finally leaves your mouth. 

— — —

When you finally came to, it had only been a few hours since the Doctor had found you on the floor. 

He had parked the TARDIS beside the Ponds’ house, hoping to pick them up from their family reunion. The moment the three of them entered the console room did the TARDIS suddenly start acting up. Lights around the room started to flicker and the room seemed to pulsate with urgency. 

It wasn’t long before the med-bay materialized and the Doctor found you lying on the ground. 

There was a dazed look in your eyes, as if you were caught in a dream-like trance. Only when the Doctor came did the TARDIS return to normal. 

A quick scan of your body revealed nothing out of the ordinary. A temporary paralysis brought out by excessive movement. Or so the Doctor says based on what you told him. 

You were trying to gain movement back and became engrossed in your exercise. Not an outright lie, but you didn’t want to remember what transpired. 

You’re tired and you make it known. 

Thankfully, no dreams come to haunt you. Or the night after that. 

— — —

A full week has passed. At least, according to Rory. It certainly felt longer. 

You’re glad they respected your space and need to grieve silently. 

You reap what you sow. 

Today the voice is the sweet, gentle cadence of your mentor. Late mentor. 

Yesterday the memory was of an afternoon brunch with Stephen and Wong. Warm pasta with the side of your favorite juice. A rare day when the three of you forgo the sorcerer attire and wear something casual. Of course, you and Stephen transmutate your robes into jeans and a sweatshirt. Wong tends to spend his limited paycheck on “real clothing”.  

It’s only fitting that tonight’s memory is a violent contrast to yesterday’s serene moment. 

You knew it wasn’t real. All of this. The blood, the panic, the body, was all just a cocktail of chemicals made by your brain. 

You’re fine. You’re in bed, you’re safe.

The Ancient One lies a few feet from you. Her golden robes slowly turned a dark crimson from the gaping wound in her stomach. 

You’re screaming. The air cuts your throat, your lungs burn with the force you exert. An ear-splitting screech that pulls your entire body with it. 

Everything feels sluggish as you desperately try to crawl towards her. Your hand tries to stop the bleeding but the wound cuts through her whole body. The blood is cold, gushing around your trembling hands. You can’t stop shaking. 

Something in the air crackles. A twisting feeling in your chest.

“Does it pain you?” Kaecilius asked, bent down to the other side of the Ancient One’s body. In his hand was a bloodied time shard.

You can’t force a word out. Pitiful sobs leave you; tears slide onto the sickly skin of the Ancient One’s forehead. Every shuddering breath makes it harder to control your body. The Ancient One’s skin is cold, infecting your skin with chills. Why is it so hard to breathe? 

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s—

Kaecilius hovers above you while the other Zealots stand by awaiting orders. 

No other master is around to help you. They’re guarding the Sanctums while the Ancient One tracked her former student. 

Except they knew you were coming. They knew that the Ancient One would try to fight Kaecilius one-on-one. 

She made you wait with the other Masters in the Hong Kong Sanctum, but something in your gut told you something was wrong. A cold feeling that spreads all over your body. 

It was too late. 

Kaecilius knew you would come. He aimed the very shard in his hand towards you. 

He knew the Ancient One would come to block it.

Your hand trembles in a way that makes you angry—boiling with rage. 

“I’ve heard many stories about you. How the Ancient One sends you away on long, grueling missions into the multiverse. How she makes you take powers from dimensions above without indulging the true secrets to her powers.” Kaecilius gently raises your chin upwards, forcing your eyes to lock. “You can be something greater. Join us and together we could bring Dormammu to Earth. He is a savior. Our savior against time. Against death.”

At this distance, you can see the flecks of brown in his light blue eyes. No regret whatsoever for the deaths and damage caused by his selfish actions.

There’s a sharp sting where your nails dig into your palms. Suddenly, everything hushed. The crushing despair and endless anger swirl in your chest.  

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?” Kaecilius taunts.

Your body jerks awake, chest still struggling to inhale. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Glancing at the metal plating of the ceiling, you reminded yourself of where you were. Not in one of the Sanctums, or your lush room in Kamar Taj, or your room in your parent’s house. You’re a very long way away. 

You throw the blankets off your clammy skin. It’s cold, unbearably so. Every hair along your body stands and your skin rises with it. 

Forcing your body upright was a feat in itself. Your limbs are still numb with sleep and your head throbbed in pain. Bringing your hands to your temples, you tried to stop the panic rising or spreading to your head. The last thing you need is to lose focus. 

He’s gone. 

Dead, along with the others. You made sure of that.

You took a long, deep breath. The stitches along your ribs throbbed as your skin stretched. You let the breath go with a shudder. Repeating the process again, this time with less resistance. Again, again, again until you can stop the shaking. 

Control yourself.

Fear would only make you vulnerable. Others could die by your inability to control it so you smother the fear, the panic, the guilt until there’s only an ache left behind. A cavernous hole in your chest that weighs you down. 

The room is suffocating, the walls are too close, you can still smell the blood—

You need air. Real air. Not the recycled stuff coming out of the vents. Rising out of bed, you try to find some way out.

In your unrest you always find yourself wandering down the corridors of the living machine. Endless halls, geometric interiors. An almost sentient being confined in a box of wires and metal. 

Although you are in the depths of space, the TARDIS tries to mimic night on Earth with its lack of lighting. 

Your vision is hazy and grainy, greatly increasing the risk of your tripping over. Placing your hand on the wall, you let the worn pads of your finger feel the traces of the TARDIS circuitry. Energy, old and powerful, dances beneath the wires and metal. As if to sense your apprehension, the walls slowly glowed a soft orange. 

“Thank you,” a hoarse whisper of appreciation. Your throat is still dry and swollen.

Warmth envelops your spine and the rhythmic pulsing of energy beneath your fingers. A thanks back. 

With each step you take, the more your body seems to wake. Keeping your fingers on the wall, you let the TARDIS be your guide. There’s no words communicated between you, just instinct and feeling. 

The hallway is short, only one soft turn at the other end. You can hear a faint clattering of metal just beyond.

It takes you a long while before you reach the entrance of the console room. A wide room with various lights, colorful wires, meta, and glass. At the center of it all, a large contraption with a mix-match of levers, knobs, and buttons. It was unlike any spacecraft you’d ever encountered, and you’d seen many. You were sure Rocket would curse at the lack of standardized spacecraft mechanisms. 

Beside the entrance of the room—the front door to the TARDIS—was a large hole filled with more wires and more circuitry. You try to stay as quiet as you can so as to not disturb whoever was tinkering. As you approached the hole, to your surprise there was no one inside. 

The air shifted behind you.

“Can’t sleep?”

Spinning around you were face to face with the Doctor; in his hands a wrench and some alien-looking parts. 

“You scared the fuck out of me,” you grit, loud enough for the Doctor to hear. 

“Hey, what did I tell you about that, hm? No cursing. My box, my rules.” The Doctor passed you and tentatively stepped into the abyss of wires. The hole was only chest deep, but he bent down so he could fully disappear.

You followed him to the edge, but didn’t step inside. 

Sensing your staring, the Doctor turns slightly towards you, locking eyes for a moment. Turning back around, he unscrews a few bolts. “Are your arms bothering you again? I have some medicine stocked up in the back of the cabinet next to the sink.” 

Sitting down, bringing your knees to your chin. Phantom pains still come and go, especially after a rough night of sleep. No doubt the Doctor put two and two together. 

You pick at the exposed wires jutting out. The rubber casing rolling between your thumb and pointer. Bright red. The color of your robes, the color of blood. “You’re right, can’t sleep. I should be too old for nightmares and yet, here I am.”

The Doctor stops his tinkering, standing upright so he can peek up at you. Pity clearly displayed. You try not to scowl.

“No one’s too old for them. Dreams are a reflection of your life. Nightmares, as much as we hate them, do have their purpose.”

You grunt, half agreeing. Because to him, dreams are nothing more than a cocktail of bad memories and hyper-active imagination. Nothing you say will change that. 

So you wipe away the discomfort, the guilt that bleeds into anger. You remember why you left your room in the first place.

“I’ve been walking on my own for a while now. A week at least.” You continue to roll the wires and pick at the copper sticking out. You feel the Doctor’s eyes on you, but you don’t mind him. 

The Doctor catches on to what you’re implying. “You want to go outside. On Earth?”

You shake your head. Because what good would it do to bring you to an empty imitation of the real thing? “I don’t mind going on a different planet. I just…I’m starting to go a bit crazy walking down the maze outside my room.”

“Thought you liked walking aimlessly for hours on end,” the Doctor says, leaning against the edge. His voice balances along the edge of teasing. “I have a box that travels through space and time. Anything you want—anywhere you want, I can take you. Any historical figure, any future figure. We can go to the first pizza shop, y’know because you’re from New York.”

A breath of a laugh escapes. “Very observant of you Doctor. Truth be told, I don’t want to get back to Earth. Not for a while at least.”

You try not to think about what you left behind. 

They’re resilient, you often have to remind yourself, They will survive. They have to. 

The Doctor, either choosing to ignore your sullen words or just happy to have the chance to show you something new and fun, immediately gets out of the man-made hole with a broad smile. His hand, warm and inviting, takes yours and sweeps you off your feet. Giddy and mischievous, the Doctor tugs you along to the convoluted and intricate console. 

You’ve peered at it a few times, often when you perched yourself atop the staircase or in passing when walking through the TARDIS. Never this close. 

Knobs, dials, metal, plastic, glass, and other random items welded or bolted together. Either true engineering feat or complete nightmare, you don’t know. The way the Doctor immediately goes to press buttons and pull levers at such a speed to where there’s a gentle breeze when he zips past you is fascinating to see. The more you look, the more puzzling the mechanisms. Do your eyes deceive you or are you looking at a rotary phone that is bolted to the side of the console?

“Time and space, all within our grasp.” The Doctor rushes to your side and whips out a swiveling monitor and a mechanical keyboard. “Since it’s your first time traveling, I do have to lay down a few ground rules. Firstly, do not wander off no matter how many times Amy encourages you to.” 

The Doctor types out something on his keyboard, the monitor displaying characters in some alien language. Pictures of a planet and charts of data appear along with some notes. 

“Two, never ever drink what’s being offered. More often than not it’s going to make you puke and have an aneurysm.” The Doctor spins around to smack and pull whatever’s in front of him. All of which is nonsense in your eyes. When he turns back to you, his gaze is serious and his finger points between your eyes. “Third, the most important. Always have fun!”

A lever with a cherry red handle is pulled down and the room shakes with energy. The TARDIS pulses, sings with power that flows and ebbs in the air. 

Your hands clumsily find purchase on the edge of the console, bracing as the shaking worsens. The sparks of energy lap at your skin and trickle into your flesh. Warm, tantalizing energy that makes you feel rather than empower. 

The TARDIS is alive. 

As if reading your jumbled thoughts, the energy pools toward you. Caressing your shaking body, enveloping you in a comforting hug. It doesn’t seep into your body and get absorbed by you, but simply hovers. 

When the shaking ceased, only then did the energy rippled in the air, settling to a stillness once more. 

— — —

The door to the outside opens, and the bright light from a foreign sun momentarily stuns you. First, you feel the crisp air kissing your face. Next come the smells of dirt, ocean, and salt. Shouts of street vendors, ships docking in the bay, and children laughing. 

You open your eyes and the light settles. Colors bloom into your vision with colorful signs, exotic tapestry, and anything that could possibly be eaten or made being sold in crowded huts. Clear, open blue sky and buildings that remind you of the bustling coast of Greece. Vendors of varying species, colors, and size all hustle anyone walking in hopes to purchase their goods. An entire city, alive and thriving off the coast of a foreign land on a planet across the Milky-Way. 

“The Veskarla Markets from the planet Tresh,” the Doctor says with pure delight, “Haven’t been here in centuries. Met their queen once, she was a very nice lady. Though, she would later put a nasty bounty on me. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know chickens were seen as a declaration of war.”

Amy steps in next to him, observing the scene in front of her. “You really start cracking open history books before going to places. Would save us from all the trouble you keep bringing.”

The Doctor sniffs, fixing his tie. “Reading history is not my style. No, I would much rather experience history rather than think about it from a dingy old book. It’s good for you.”

You ignore the chatter, focusing on securing the black leather gloves you nabbed from one of the costume closets. The cloak you adorn is light with breathable cotton and slightly bigger on you. The color of the midnight sky, swallowing you from head to toe. A stark contrast to the lively colors that surround you. 

Taking in a deep inhale, you relish in the soothing the air gives your lungs. The stuffy ventilation from the TARDIS is slowly leaving your body. 

“Now remember,” the Doctor warns, pointing between the Ponds. “Stick together. We have fresh meat here with us and I don’t want to get into another nasty skirmish with Treshian royalty. No adventures today. Just simple, fun leisure.”

Rory scoffs, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Amy skips over to you and links up your arms. “You boys get more food and supplies. We’ll venture in the markets.”

The two men nod and scurry away into the depths of the city. The Doctor excitedly mouths off any fact he can remember about Treshian wildlife while Rory tries to read off a supplies list. It took only a few seconds before a current of people swept them out of your sight. 

You look back at the tall blue box that is parked in a very obvious area. It sat snugly beside two open restaurants facing the main road. 

“Wouldn’t someone notice the TARDIS there?” you ask, pointing at the very conspicuous timecraft. 

Amy waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me, the Doctor left it parked outside Buckingham Palace when Queen Victoria first ascended the throne. If no one on the streets of London cared, I think we’re safe here.”

That was another thing you were getting used to. The jarring recounts of time-travel that slip into every conversation. A part of you still doesn’t believe their stories or the figures they’ve met. You’re glad that the Doctor decided to simply travel through space rather than time; the mere idea of time-travel feels taboo to even think about.  

Weaving through the sea of people is difficult when Amy is speed walking effortlessly, practically tugging you by the arm. Your steps, whether it be from the lack of exercise or grogginess, are far less graceful. A few times your boot hits a stay cobblestone or your shoulder roughly hits a pedestrian. Somehow, you manage to stay linked with Amy. 

“Two fish! Great price, the best in the galaxy!”

A vendor with purple hyde and jagged yellow teeth shove two fish in your vision. His many eyes on his face stare expectantly. You peek around the cramped shop, eyeing the walls of fishing rods and weathered nets. Clear basins filled with various marine life are tucked beside the vendor. All the colorful fish were clearly displayed, while the ordinary ones were stored in the depths of the shop. 

Before you could utter a reply, Amy manages to haul your body down the block. You force your stiff legs to carry you faster until you’re walking in tandem. 

“That vendor—Did he speak English? How come I can read the signs posted?” Your eyes follow the cluttered wooden huts and their weathered signs. On a different planet with various species that no doubt immigrated here, there should be shouting in different languages and tongues.

Amy laughs, bumping her shoulder with yours. “The Doctor didn’t explain? Typical. I can’t explain in detail, but the TARDIS can go into your brain and translate everything for you. Words, shouts, anything really.”

Everything you learn about the TARDIS, both from your own observation and tidbits of what others tell you, makes your decades of knowledge of the arcane feel rudimentary. Science that borders on sorcery would be revolutionary back home. A strange universe indeed.

The two of you continue down the single street along the edge of the city. Vendors continue to shout and shove. There seemed to be an endless, unbreaking street with hoards of people acting as a current to pull you through. The worn shoes you hastily put on were not ideal for walking. The tough soles of your boots feel more stone than rubber. You don’t complain, having needed the exercise after essentially being a human vegetable for a week. 

You quickly realized that Amy was looking to do more personal shopping rather than gather items from the Doctor’s supply list. Each shop you stopped inside was ornate and featured odd trinkets. While Amy converses with the vendors, you tend to hover behind like a shadow. 

For an intergalactic merchant hub, Veskarla lacked any shops for weapons or machinery. From the hundreds of shops you’ve passed through, there only seemed to be fish, jewelry, or clothes for sale. Any knives being showcased were for decoration only, often using shells for the blade and gold plated wood. Perhaps there was a different district that handled metal and tools. 

After passing by a myriad of fish sellers and net makers, Amy finally stops by a large shop. It’s lavish with teal paint and gold trim around the frames of the large glass windows. Large, chunky pearl necklaces the color of iridescent snow enticed your eyes. 

Amy lets out a low whistle, taking in the shiny entrance. “It doesn’t hurt to take a peek, right?” 

Amy’s sight has caught a beautiful bracelet made from pearls and gold. In fact, the entirety of the shop is dripping with dazzling gems and shiny trinkets. What made the pearls and gold special is that it lets out a twinkling sound whenever there is a breeze passing by. You seemed to have entered a more wealthy part of the markets as now the crowd has dwindled to about half than it was before. The people around you have more intricate clothing with gems and pearls sewn into them. Vesklara is a city of seafood and jewels, judging from how even the lower income district of the town seemed to also carry these goods, albeit at a lower quality. 

Immersed in the distinctions between Orthalian gold or Treshian silver, Amy doesn’t notice your wandering gaze. While the crowd had certainly diminished, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t a myriad of beings still pushing their way through the markets. Very little seemed to interest you. Most of the items sold were nothing you haven’t seen before. 

After taking a glance around the store, you ended up going back outside. A warm breeze brushed over you, carrying the smell of the sea with it. 

You were glad to have a change in scenery. The nightmare that befell you hours before is now at the back of your mind. Being grounded, tethered to a living, thriving city with people and stone to stand on brings an ease back to your body. It doesn’t replace the electric hum of the atmosphere back home, but it does allow you to feel connected to the space around you. You feel the rush of excitement, the displeased customers, the swell of pride for a city that is the crowned jewel of Tresh. So caught up in your musing, you almost failed to hear the stall across from you, across the sea of beings. 

A boy, whose back faces you is pleading with a grumpy vendor. His clothes are dirty and ragged with spindly limbs and matted hair. You peer over to Amy, to see her still obsessing over the bracelets. 

Without a second thought, you cross between the crowds of people. Limbs and pointed joints shove into your body, but you force yourself through. When you exit out of it, you find yourself next to the small boy. You can see just how frayed the edges of his shirt are. How the deep blue skin in his legs and arms are smeared with dirt and scrapes. His long black braid has leaves sticking out of it. 

“Please sir. Just let me try once,” the boy, who looked no older than ten, asks pitfully. “I’ve been saving for a while now and—”

The vendor grunts out, slamming his fist against the wooden counter. “How many times do I have to tell you boy? We don’t serve your kind here.” 

You see how the boy’s face crumpled. His shoulders cave and his lip wobbled. “Please…just once. If I lose, then you will never hear from me again.”

The vendor laughs at that. Cruel and full of teeth. You step back to see what the man is selling—or rather promoting. 

Proto’s Festivities! Try Your Luck or Buy Trying!

Three red targets are parched behind the counter, similar to ones in amusement parks. There’s scratches and indents, but more so on the wall behind them. When you look to the side, you see a stack of daggers hanging from the wall, blunt from repeated use. What really caught your attention was the ornate items dangling from the ceiling. Pearl necklaces, polished leather shoes, and laced fabrics encased in gold. 

“Can I help you lady?” 

Your attention snaps to the large alien who stands behind the counter. His face looked like an unholy union between a pig and a snake; reptilian eyes and mouth with a large snout placed in between. The collar of his shirt is stained with grease and the purplish hue of his skin glistened with sweat. 

Proto towers above you with a questioning gaze. 

“Do you serve humans?” you ask, sharper than you realized. 

Proto’s beady yellow eyes scan you from head to toe. A noise, something akin to a snarl, emits from his throat. Scratching at his chin, he answers, “Not my preferred customer. But I suppose money is money.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Then let me play in place of the boy.” 

The child’s eyes widened, mouth agape. He takes a small step towards you, a small look of hope graces his features. “Y-You would do that?”

Proto lets out another laugh, louder than the first. It drones on for a few seconds longer than necessary, and he goes to wipe his eye with a pudgy finger. He wheezes, “You—ha—You’re gonna play for him, yeah? You and your tiny human form? Is this a joke?”

You reach out your hand towards the boy expectantly. His hold on the gold coins in his hands tightens, just for a moment. Then, he relinquishes his hold, placing the heavy currency on your palm. The leather in your gloves squeaks when you close your hand. 

Slamming the coins down on the counter, you cease the light-hearted attitude of Proto. “The goal is to hit the targets, correct? Money is money. Let me play.” 

Proto’s eyes narrow at you in suspicion. Picking up one of the three coins, he holds it up to his face, inspecting every groove minted on the metal. Once he deems the coins genuine, he looks at you with wickedness on his face. A grin that shows the rows of teeth caked in plaque. 

His hand reaches for the knives hanging on the wall, picking off the shortest and dullest ones from the set. His face inches towards yours with a condescending grin. “Yes, you simply hit the targets and your efforts will be rewarded. Simple as that.”

There’s a concerning amount of insincerity dripping from his voice; glee and dishonesty practically oozing from every word. Proto slides the knives to you whilst pulling the coins towards him with his other hand. 

You take in one of the knives, flipping it in your hand experimentally. There seemed to be no weird center of gravity or any odd characteristics that might give away foul play. You can make do with the dull edge. Looking at the targets ahead, you can easily make the throw blindfolded. You move to raise the knife, but Proto stops you. 

His finger wags in your face. “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say we could start yet.” 

You hear the click of a button, then the whirr of machinery. 

The red targets seemed to jerk and slide, the machine beneath them creaking and groaning from overuse. Red circles move from side to side. There’s no pattern to the speed or direction of the targets’ movements. 

Your lips curl to a snarl, at which Proto starts laughing once again. 

“Oh! Is the tiny human regretting her choices already?” Proto slaps his leg as he wheezes out another belly laugh. “Look at that face! You’re practically seething! Ha!”

This son of a bitch.

You ignore the howling mass of scum behind the counter, focusing on the blurring vision of red targets. Gripping the tip of the knife, you steady your breathing, bracing your knees. A lingering, dull throb still haunts you, but you ignore it. Focus. 

Twisting the knife in your hands, you try to find the target with the slowest movement. Judging by the choppy movements and run-down shop, Proto might’ve never had any repairs. You can make out the large patches of rust and hear how the gears catch onto one another. A harsh, screeching sound that barely makes the targets falter. Click, click, click. You stand still, counting the gap between each miniscule falter of the machine. 

Ten seconds exactly. 

Proto’s laugh continues. He grins, wider this time. “Is the tiny human having second thoughts? I forgot to mention this before, but no refunds. Ha!”

You quell the urge to dig the blade into the gummy flesh in his thick neck. It might take some hacking, but it would be worth it to shut him up.

The squeaks of the machine snap your focus back. You take a steady inhale, clearing your mind of murderous thoughts. This wasn’t about you. 

Focus. 

Metal scrapes against metal in an awful pitch. The targets blur, and the laughing continues. 

You hear the familiar click, click, click. 

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Quick as a whip, your body snaps in motion and the blade lodges cleanly into one of the targets. 

A gasp comes from the boy beside you. Proto’s howls of laughter cease. 

Another knife finds its way in your hand and you repeat the motions. You eye a target, trying to predict its motion. Whatever force you exerted on the first target had altered the motion of the machine. It was slower and the falter in of the targets’ movements were longer. 

Click, click, click. In another flash, the knife lands clean in the middle of another target. 

You hear the shuffle of feet and the whispers of passersby.

“There’s no way she would make that shot.”

“Isn’t that Proto? I thought he was still in jail.”

“Come on! Shoot it already!”

A crowd has formed behind you, but your sole focus is the last of the shuffling targets. 

Its movements are faster than the last two. Almost a blur of red that dances between one side of the stall to the next. Your body tenses, being still longer than previous tries. Your brows furrow, your muscles flexing beneath your skin. 

Proto seethes in his corner, nostril flaring like an animal. The crowd draws nearer, trying to get a better look at what you’re doing. 

Excitement buzzes in the air. Fueling you. 

The scrape against metal, and the tune of click, click, click. 

One.

Two. 

Three.

The knife whistles in the air, the crowd goes still. Wood snaps and buckles, caving under the pressure of your throw. 

For a split second, your heart stops. Then, a wild cheer erupts behind you. 

Under the sheer power of your throw, the target snapped backward, nearly breaking off the machine entirely. Still, your knife sits lodged in the wood, swinging erratically with the rest of the set. The machine lets out one last howl before the rust and age finally forces it to stop. The metal groans and creaks in protest before succumbing to its fate. 

Proto’s jaw unhinges, gaping at the sight. 

The boy with deep blue skin and rags for clothes is beaming. Tears prick his eyes and he’s jumping up and down in sheer joy. Before you could say anything, the boy leaps into you, giving you a bone-crushing hug. Maybe you were lucky that you heal fast. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy squeals, pressing his face against your stomach. He releases you and points to an item hanging off the rack inside the stall. “That one! I want that one please!”

You follow his finger, trying to find what the boy wanted so bad. 

Red robes sewn with a delicate lacing of pearls and gold. Decadent craftsmanship that no doubt took months—maybe even years to create. You dare say more intricate than the attire you’ve seen around the whole market. 

You couldn’t fight the smug grin even if you tried. Proto looked furious. “You heard the boy. Give him the robe.” 

Proto huffed, looking monstrous and wrathful. If there weren't so many watchful eyes, you were sure that he would try to skin you alive with one of your dull knives. Begrudgingly, Proto marched up to the robes and snatched it off its hook. With a nose-flaring glare, he tosses it to the gleeful boy beside you. 

Above the cheers of the small crowd, you hear the familiar shouts of your group. 

Amy is jumping up and down, similar to how the boy was moments before. Rory hollers with the crowd, waving his hands in the air. 

The Doctor comes barreling towards you, clasping his hands on your shoulders. He shakes you with a big smile on his face. “Bra-vo! Splendid, that was absolutely—positively—brilliant! Well done!” 

Hands from the mass of people shake and prod you. Praise and cheer ring hollow in your ears.

When you turn to look at the boy, his toothy grin is aimed right at you. Only for you. Tears flow in rivers down his face, curving around his smile. “Thank you!”

Sincerity, joy, relief. It flows from the boy and straight to your chest.

Only for him do you smile. It’s small and beaten around the edges, but a no less genuine thing. Something warms the hollow in your chest. A crack in your armor, one that makes the pain erode away. Ever so slightly. 

— — —

“How on Earth did you manage that? I thought you would be stiff from sleeping all week.”

You take a bite out of your dessert, taking a moment to ponder Rory’s question. “One of the first things I learned when I started training. Knives were much easier to handle when you’re twelve.” 

The sky is turning a hazy orange and the shops along the coast of the busy town are still alive. The small café tucked away in an alley deep in the city where their hours of operation start when the sun lowers in the sky. 

After destroying Proto’s machine, you walk the boy to his family who live in a small house at the edge of town. Only when you arrived at his front door did he give you his name: Rivolo. His parents were both equally shocked at what the boy delivered and were eternally thankful for what you did. You were simply glad to give the boy a chance to have new clothes to wear. Though, the strain of your body lingers, especially in your upper back. 

For the first time, the four of you collect around with food and drinks, talking. It started with little stories about the last few hours when you departed. Rory bought a new weighted blanket with fabric that behaved like water. The Doctor tried bargaining with a seamstress for a new jacket and ended up being kicked out of the establishment. Supply runs and odd occurrences transitioned to earlier adventures. Mostly the Doctor talking about famous historical figures with such clarity it might as well have happened yesterday. 

“I did have a knife throwing contest whilst traveling during the Ottoman Empire.” The Doctor takes another heapful of shaved ice and condensed milk. His mouth is full when he speaks: “I still technically have another date set up. You’re going to come with me.”

“Is that a threat?” you muse, picking at your own bowl. 

“Most definitely.”

Streetlights that dot along the pier were the first to alight. Then the ones along the edge of town, until the cobblestone streets are bathed in warm light. Stars are beginning to twinkle in the sky and the ocean breeze makes the air drop significantly. It doesn’t stop the people who journeyed here from crowding around bars and enjoying the dusk. 

Rory is the first to groan out, stretching his arms over his head. He rubs his stomach, his eyes pinching close. “I think I ate enough for three. God, it feels like my stomach is about to burst.” 

Surrounding him were piles of fish bones and dessert bowls. At least he had the courtesy to stack them. Amy and the Doctor lean against one another, the former sharing her husband’s discomfort. You had the foresight to order enough to quell your hunger, not enough to inhibit movement. 

“I’ll clear these up, you guys get back to the TARDIS.” You take the hefty load of plates and bowls into your hands with little effort. “I can find my way back. Go before it gets too dark.”

The three of them huff and groan, slowly rising out of their seats as if it pains them to do so. 

Amy pats your shoulder with a grimace. “You’re an angel, thank you.”

Rory gives the Doctor his shoulder to lean on as Amy trails behind them. You couldn’t help but watch them stagger down the street. 

A family. A unit. Whatever the three hold runs deeper than friendship and would be an understatement to say so. 

Walking down the alley, you try to locate the front of the café. With the crowds of people blocking the entrances of any open building made it all the more challenging. You walk in slow, measured steps, careful to not trip over any wobbly stone that pokes out. When you do manage to slip into the right café, the sun has more than set. The chill in the air turns into a cold breeze that flutters your cloak and makes the hairs on your body stand on edge. 

You don’t feel safe. If you had the thunderous power of the multiverse behind you, then you wouldn’t feel so paranoid walking through the narrow alley. No weapons adorn your legs, no phone to call for help. You cursed under your breath. 

Pulling on your hood, you let the dark fabric cover you completely. You keep towards the edge of buildings, always scanning ahead for any activity. Find a crowd, blend in. Easy enough when the entirety of the marketplace is still buzzing. 

It’s hard to pin down exactly where you are. Your eyes squint in the low light, trying to find any landmarks to help you journey back. You don’t realize how lost you are until the crowds slowly disappates and the lamps along the streets get fewer and fewer. 

Shit.

You should’ve swiped the knives from Proto. A dull blade is better than no weapon at all. 

Straining for any signs of life, you try to backtrack your steps. Maybe if you make your way back to the café, then you could wait for the Doctor to come get you. 

Your foot was already pivoting before you caught a faint glimmer of red fabric out of the corner of your eye. 

Turning around, you see a familiar cloak with pearls and gold stitched along its side. 

Rivolo!

What better way around the city than the boy who lived here? With newfound determination, you follow the trail of red down another alley. Your legs are loose from walking, already catching up to the fleeting figure. 

Your feet soundlessly trek the uneven streets, bobbing and weaving through tight corners and miscellaneous boxes lying around. Rivolo seems to dash just out of reach, always dodging out of sight whenever you cross another street. 

“Rivolo!” you call out, trying to keep the fabric in your sight. The boy is a few ways ahead, delving deeper into the city. You quicken your pace. 

In a matter of seconds, you’ve managed to close the gap between you two. The boy is fast but you have a decade or so of running through the boroughs of New York under your belt. You push through the burn in your muscles. Your hand stretches outward and you catch the scruff of the hood. 

With a twist, you reel the boy back and spin his small body around. 

Your chest heaves, putting your hands on your knees. “I’m so sorry, I tried calling you but you were too far away. I need some he—”

You freeze, the blood in your body running cold. 

The person you’ve tracked down wasn’t the innocent boy with a long braid and toothy grin. In the low light, you can clearly see the robe this stranger adorns. The intricate stitching, the same glimmering pearls that twinkle under the light. You reel back, as if the sight of it offends you. 

Whatever you caught looked almost human. Its flesh was a ghostly pale that looked sickly under the streetlights. Gaunt face with a long nose and bulging eyes. His iris looks like a small pinprick, wild and focused on you. No hair on his head or on his face. When you observe longer, you see the imprint of scales along his skin. 

You narrow your gaze, your voice an echo in the silent alley as a deadly whisper. “Where did you get that cloak?”

The alien eyes you up and down, tilting his head to the side. His words are impish, almost nasally in tone. “Hm? Who are you? You don’t seem related to that Ikrallian boy.”

“I’ll ask you again.” Your hands shoot out, gripping the color of the red cloak. The alien falters at your harsh movements. “Where did you get this cloak? A boy named Rivolo had it earlier.”

He didn’t seem frightened by your tone. Boredom is set in his features, as if you’re inconveniencing him. He ponders for a moment, only for his features to light up in mock realization. “Oh, that’s his name. Did he have blue skin and freakish hair? Y'know, introductions never came up. I could barely hear my own thoughts because of his screaming.”

Pure delight drips from his mouth. The thing in your hands snickers as if he’s letting you in on some inside joke. 

Your heart pounds in your ears. 

Something poked your ribs, and the man’s mouth curled to a sneer. “Now, now. Usually I don’t like fighting women. Gets too messy and there’s always so much crying. If you just walk away, go back to where you came from, I won’t have to gut you in this alley.”

The familiar heat of rage bubbled in your chest. Tension in your body cramps your muscles, threatening to snap.The knife the man holds starts dragging up towards your ribs, teasing the soft flesh there. The thing chuckles, his breath fanning your face. 

“Maybe I should. ‘Cause then you can see your friend…what’s his name again?” He tilts his head up, pretending to think. “Ah, Rivolo. He probably bled out by now. Oh—where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. The name’s Beetle—”

Your fist connected to his jaw with a sickening crack. 

Beetle’s body flies out, landing into the ground in a heap. You take lungfuls of air, trying to cool down. The alien twitches before rolling back to his feet. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, but his grin still remains. 

Wiping his chin, he hunches down, the knife in his hand gleaming in the moonlight. His nasally, gruff voice cuts through the still air. “Just my luck, a lady who can fight. Now I won’t feel so bad when I drain you on the street.”

His body caves in before he launches himself. 

You stagger to the side before you twist around, dodging his slashes. When he gets too close, trying to aim for the spot where your heart lies, you grab his arm and pull him across your body. Using your leg and stiff muscles, you use his momentum against him and slam him to the ground with his arm twisted behind him. In the quick second that he’s off-guard, you stomp on his hand, forcing him to let go of his knife. The knife, you realized, had dark substance caking it. 

Blood. 

You hear something crack before Beetle’s body rotates beneath you. Dislodging his arm out of his socket allowed him to sweep your body off balance and bounce back up. You land on the ground, your jaw connecting to stone with a pained groan. The stitches under your clothes throb painfully. 

Beetle swings his dislocated arm back, forcing it in the socket once more. He laughs at the face you make. 

A dull cramp locks your joints. Cold air and strained tissue squeeze your nerves, sending pain throughout your body. You try to brace yourself on your forearms, but a heavy foot stomps on your back, forcing your back down. Your chin collides with stone and your teeth rattle in your mouth. 

“I’m starting to like you like this.” He raised his foot from your back momentarily before slamming it down. Air is forced to leave your chest as you cough beneath him. His other foot is planted just beside your head, the other digging between your shoulder blades. “Maybe I’ll let you go just so I can chase you down the street. I’ll let the fear settle in, then delight in your screams when I finally catch you—”

You put every ounce of strength into maneuvering over to his ankle and bite. Your teeth sink into skin, catching the tendons of his foot. Warm liquid gushes in your mouth, spilling between your teeth. A shrill howl of pain and the weight lifts off your back. Beetle falls, desperately grasping his ankle. Blood seeps, coloring the pavement beneath him. 

“You fucking cunt!”

You roll to your side, hacking out the bitter blood into the cobblestone. With a grunt, you rise to your full height, swaying slightly.

A mouthful of iron is on your tongue. It mingles with the ocean breeze and sours in your mouth. Your steps are silent and methodical. Half limping, half striding to your target. 

The red cloak Beetle wears beckons you closer. Your heaving comes from the barely hidden wrath that bubbles. You reckon you looked more like a rabid animal than a human. When you approach Beetle, you grasp the back of the hood and yank it. His smaller, stout frame unraveled from the flowing cloak and you held it tightly against yourself. 

Something warm trickles down your abdomen. Bringing your hand to the bottom of your rib, you feel the cotton of your shirt being soaked. Your stitches torn and the thin skin broken. All the energy you had gained this past week has been sapped, leaving you trembling. 

You spare the alien a cold, withering stare. Your bloodied mouth is twisting to a snarl. “Thank every single star under this sky that I am not in full health. If I see your wretched face ever again, I will not hesitate to rip you apart. Bone by bone.”

Kill him, leave nothing behind.

Your voice sounds unfamiliar in your own head. A monotone, apathetic edge, almost clinical in nature. 

Another voice rings over. Young, still full of life. 

Don’t be the monster everyone expects you to be.

Peter did not understand the beaten path you’ve forged for yourself. Nor did he understand the continuous nature between black and white; to him, good deeds and bad ones are objective without nuance. 

Beetle is hunched, body held taut with caution. Gauging to see what you’ll do next. 

No matter how much you want to wring his neck like a stubborn piece of cloth, you can bring yourself to spare mercy. Just this once. You will alert the proper authorities and hope that Beetle is injured enough to not stray too far. 

Karma will see to it, sparing you of the role of judge, jury, and executioner. 

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

A voice, accented and childlike. 

You back straightened, whipping around to the entrance of the alley. A shallow breath escapes your throat and relief washes over you. 

“Rivolo, y-you’re safe.” Your voice is raw around the edges, and you catch the unease in his face. You stagger towards the boy, bleeding and hurt. When you grasp his narrow shoulders, you utter a rushed, “What happened?”

The boy maneuvers to your side, pulling your arm over his shoulder. “I went to get food for my family. I was trying to get back home before a strange man tried taking my food. He stabbed me, but it didn’t matter. My species don’t bleed out easily.” 

At the sound of his voice, Beetle thrashes around. His head jerked and his mouth frothed in fury. 

“Of course you survived. Of course! Even after I went after your heart—just my fucking luck!”

Beetle rolled to his stomach with a murderous gaze. His teeth bared and his back hunched like a prowling animal. 

So much for mercy.

You hurriedly unlatched yourself from Rivolo and shoved his cloak in his arms. “Go find the Doctor and the Ponds. Run as fast as you can from here and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

Sounds of bones cracking turns your attention to the heaving alien. Beetle’s finger is shoved in his ankle, forcing his bony finger into his Achilles tendon. Blood gushed out more, spilling over his leg and arm. With a strained growl, Beetle rearranges the fiber in the back of his ankle.

Anger and determination pulse in the air. A warning.

“Go, go, go!” You shove Rivolo into the open street. He scampers away, and you see him retreat out of sight. 

You couldn’t anticipate the speed at which Beetle came at you. Without warning, Beetle sent a punch straight towards your stomach. As if his punch was a singularity, your body caved inward, warping around his balled fist. You slam against the wall, not even a moment to think before another punch lands squarely on your cheek. Whipping your head to the side, you feel your skull throb painfully and the vessels inside your face break. 

Beetle’s hand wraps around your throat and slams your head into the stone wall behind you. His hold constricts, closing your windpipe as he kneed you in the abdomen. Once. Twice. You try to squirm out of his way, blocking his repeated attack with your hands but you’re losing strength.  

You’re getting lightheaded. Everything hurts. Bile tries to climb its way up your body, but Beetle’s hand prevents anything from getting in your body or getting out. 

The sickly creature looms over your face. His earlier grin and playful façade completely wiped clean. “Do you know what I hate more than cunts who fight dirty? Hm?”

Another kick. Your organs contort inside your body, trying to accommodate the point of Beetle’s knee. If choking you out won’t kill you, internal bleeding certainly will. You try to muster a cough, only to choke on your own mucus. 

His face draws closer, into your ear as you desperately gasp and thrash in his hand. His words sliding across your skin like sandpaper. “An ugly, bleeding woman. No matter where I stab, you’ll always look gross and disgusting when you die. I suppose it isn’t such a loss though. I do enjoy watching your life get snuffed out. And once I dump your body on the street, I’m tracking your little friend next.” 

You don’t stop writhing, even when he keeps slamming your head against the wall. Even when he sends another punch to your face, bursting your lip open. Even when the next one lands in the middle of your face and you feel blood gushing out. It hurts, your lungs burn. Your soul rams against the confines of your body, trying to break itself free. 

His laugh is cold, void of any real humor. 

“What are you going to do about it?”

The words cut through your mind like an arrow. Everything stills, and for a moment Beetle's eyes morphed into a light, steely blue. 

Glass and stone contort, fractals that dance in the background with magic humming in the air. A blade made of air and crystal that drips crimson blood, the markings of Dormammu's power etched in your mind forever. 

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?”

The hush of the world around you. A moment where nothing exists but the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your head. 

A goal carved its way to the forefront of your mind, silencing all other thoughts, wants, needs. 

Make him bleed. Make him suffer— 

The heat came first. A thunderous roar that synced with your heart, it flooded your body with a burn. Energy that lights up your cells and singes the ends of your nerves. 

Grasping the thin, pale wrist of your attacker, you focus the energy that’s building. It lights up your body with a crack. Beetle’s smug face falters. The bones in Beetle’s wrist snap and crumble. You feel the fragments ripple beneath his skin and his tendons bunching as your grip gets tighter and tighter. 

A blood curdling scream rips through Beetle as he jerks away from you. With his weight finally off your throat, you collapse against the wall trying to catch your breath. Releasing the hold on Beetle’s wrist, you stagger to your feet. Every ragged inhale sends shocks of pain from your midsection. Using the wall for support, you lift yourself up. Everything feels numb, your legs and arms feel like static. 

You watch as Beedle clutches his swollen hand. When he jerks his body, his hand rotates dramatically, detached from the forearm entirely. You give no warning, no ounce of preparation. Before Beetle had a chance to blink, you were already towering over him.

The first punch made Beetle’s head turn so sharply that you thought you’d broken it. A loud, thunderous sound came, echoing in the narrow back alleys. The sounds of Beetle’s ragged breathing and heartbeat were the only indications that he still lived. The next hit was just as hard, with no time to react. Each blow you deliver slices the space between you, turning his skin to paper and bones to glass. A precision that comes with years dealing with the worst outcome possible. A lingering notion that each blow you deal is fatal. 

Sometimes the flesh caves and splits where you hit. Blood splatters on your gloves, making it increasingly difficult to continually land punches. When the blood in his face makes your fist slide off his skin is when you move to kicking his body. Over. And Over. Wherever your foot lands, his body jerks accordingly. Again and again.   

Only when you stop your onslaught do you manage to get your heartbeat to steady and your breathing to even. 

Your body is a furnace. It trembles trying to keep whatever power lies in your veins. When you move, it feels distorted in a way. Your mind is still hazy from the oxygen deprivation, near floaty in feeling. One foot in front of the other, you move through the stagnant air. The thrashing, bleeding alien tries to crawl away from you. Your hands shoot out from your robes, catching his ankle and dragging him close to you. 

Mixing in with the salty ocean air and the blood coating your teeth is a taste you’ve come to hunt for. It’s sweet, addictive and delights you so. 

Beetle’s fear is palpable. As he lays shaking below you, he doesn’t tear his gaze from yours. 

“You hurt my friend.” Beneath the soft whisper of your words, an undeniable edge of wrath can be felt. “I gave you a chance to run and you used that as an opportunity to attack me. You’ve made your decision and I have no choice but to see it through.” 

The scum twisting and groaning doesn’t get a chance to fix his mouth before your foot connects with his sternum. Not enough to break it completely, but enough to knock all of the wind out. You can’t move effectively without the entirety of your midsection erupting in pain. You crept your foot up Beetle’s chest, seeing the realization hit him.

A barbaric move. But it’s clear that Beetle has already done more, if not worse, on innocents. When your foot meets the middle of Beetle’s neck, you ignore the spark of delight at the sight of his terror. You slowly apply more of your weight as thin hands try to wrap around your shoe. 

His feet kick wildly trying to land a hit but his strength is weaning. You offer him no taunting words, no remorse for what you’re doing. Beetle was trying to kill you from the start and it would be dangerous to let him wander. 

You didn’t want to spill blood on your first day out, but you’re too worked up to care. What’s another death to you? 

Beetle squirms, trying desperately to throw you off. Murderous intent swallowing his eyes, directed only at you. Whatever good he managed to do, it will never balance the harm he confessed to doing. He would be better off as fertilizer, the only way his existence would ever be a net positive. You wouldn’t mind if his dying breath lingers in your dreams. 

You don’t find it in yourself to care. 

Movement dwindles and the fiery passion is slowly dying the longer your foot lingers. Copper and sugar invade your nose in harmony. 

Beetle spasms and gargles. His already pale skin gets impossibly more stark.

Just a bit more—

You feel the air shift, a presence just beside you. But you felt it a second too late. 

A blur of black and a crackle of light is all you see before a powerful punch sends you flying backwards. Your body tumbles down further into the alley, rocks and sharp debris awaiting you with each hit. Your momentum finally stops when you collide into a stack of wooden crates, splintering the wood upon impact. You let out a pained hiss through your teeth, trying to move.  

Moonlight scatters where the streetlamps fail to illuminate. Shadows bend and warp most of your vision, but you spot the imposing figure easily. It’s tall, whatever it is. Humanoid in shape, covered head to toe in fabric. You’re too far away to see any clear details, only a vague, smokey outline where light manages to hit. 

Something else invades the charged air. For a moment, the pent up anger and murderous intent evaporates leaving behind something primal. 

Hairs on your body stand on end. Dread suffocates you. It surrounds the cloaked figure and you wonder how it managed to sneak up on you. 

Your body trembles, nearly collapsing down into the pile of broken wood again. The energy you’ve mustered up has already started to disperse. 

Beetle gasps loudly, wheezing with such ferocity you think his heart would climb up his throat. The pungent smell of blood and sweat hangs in the air, encasing him. 

The imposing figure doesn’t spare him a single glance or word. No mask or identifiable features could be seen, but you feel the weight of his gaze. An inhuman, powerful energy accompanies it. Grasping the leftover wood that surrounds your body, you force your weakened body to get up. To fight, to stand your ground. 

Beetle hacks and coughs. “You were there the whole time?” His voice is raw, his words barely intelligible. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” 

The figure offers no words or acknowledgement, never turning its head away from you. Your skin prickles and a dull instinct makes your hand twitch. 

Beetle turns his head, ready to mouth off to his companion. When he sees the figure’s hard gaze fixated on you, Beetle’s face morphs to a furious sneer. 

“You’re my assignment! Are you kidding me? What about the Ikrallian boy?” 

Your ears perk up, your body on high alert. They wanted you here. Beetle may not have realized, but he wasn’t just a simple passerby. Assignment…had they…planned this? 

Then it clicked. Maybe it was your proximity to the Doctor, perhaps they believe they could kidnap you to have leverage over him. You did spend a good few hours with him and the Ponds, traveling around the market. Why would they target him? For the TARDIS perhaps? Amy did say that it was the last of its kind. A powerful machine that could travel anywhere would be a target for any criminal worth their salt. 

But why Rivolo? Why target him? Cruelty for cruelty’s sake?

“(Y/N)!” A startling loud echo of your name, one that seems to have a series of footsteps that follow. It was behind you. “(Y/N) are you there?” 

Before you even had the chance to turn your head to the direction of the voice, you hear the thundering steps halt behind you. 

The Ponds are out of breath; Amy grabbing onto your shoulder for support while Rory has his hands on his knees. Their skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and humid air, their chests heaving with exhaustion. 

“We…Rivolo…help…” Amy could barely muster up the words, her head hanging low, trying to even her breathing. Whatever relief she had when find you was wiped clean when she got a look at your face. No doubt the blood from your nose had already crusted on the lower half of your face. “What the hell?”

Rory was already tensed beside you two, staring at the two figures in the alley. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards Beetle. “Is this why you couldn’t find your way back?”

You move out of Amy’s concerned hold, putting yourself in front of them. “You shouldn’t be here. Go find the Doctor—”

“There you guys are!” 

As if the mere mention of his name summons him, the Doctor rounded the corner also out of breath with the familiar blue alien boy behind him. The Doctor’s arms flail as he forces his feet to stop. “How many times do I have to have the talk with you two? Hm? No wandering! No running off in foreign lands! It’s rule number one when traveling. I don’t expect much from (Y/N)—”

His tangent stopped when his mind finally caught up with the present. His face frozen, looking over your newly battered face. Rivolo cowers behind him, clutching his jacket in a tight fist. 

You cursed under your breath. It’s one thing to have to fight, it’s another to look after four individuals who don’t seem capable of fighting. You’d barely healed enough to walk properly and now you could look forward to another week of mindless wandering in the sterile hallways of the TARDIS. Great. So much for a first day outside. 

Beetle hauled up his shaking body, his two legs appearing as though they might snap under his own weight. Hunched and heaving, Beetle clutches the midnight fabric that encases the figure. Even from this distance, you can clearly see the pure hatred plastered on his face. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this? I thought the boy was the target!”

It was then that the dark figure finally directed its eye-less gaze to the trembling alien beside him. Beetle doesn’t falter, instead gripping tighter on the fabric to stabilize himself. 

When the figure spoke, it was a deep, rumbling sound. Smooth and unhurried. It carried through the salty breeze as if they were speaking right next to you. “Target the young Ikrallian and remain in the city thereafter. Your duty has been fulfilled.”

There was something in the tone of his voice. Such finality, a sureness that everything that has happened was meant to be. Dominos falling into place. 

“Target the Ikrallian boy…” you thought, everything rushing in your head at once. I was their target. By attacking Rivolo, it would guarantee that I would try to follow him. Why me? They don’t know who I am. 

The eye-less figure slides his head in your direction. You feel its glaze stripping you, peering through skin and muscle. It shakes off Beetle’s grip like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust, stepping towards you. Feather-light steps with only the sound of plated armor clinking together being heard, its glaze holding yours. 

You force yourself into a defensive position, trying to lock into every movement. The figure stops a few feet away from you and you can make out the reflective surface of armor underneath a billowing cloak. There’s enough light to show the texture of the cloak and the buckles along its waist, but the place where a face should be is pure darkness. No curve of a nose, or sockets where eyes would be, nor a mouth to speak from. A smooth, glossy surface that reflects your bruised face. 

“Who the hell are you?” you hissed. Your warped reflection moves, highlighting the swollen jaw and caked blood across your face. “Did you purposefully lure me out here? Am I some unlucky passerby you just so happen to choose for your sick little game?”

The figure takes a few, slow steps towards you. The way his body moves seems streamlined; no unnecessary sway of his arms when he stands still nor any miniscule movement of his chest to indicate that he’s breathing. 

When he speaks, it’s calm, barely passing a whisper. Still, you hear it loud and clear. “We know what you are. Where you are from. What you will become. You will come to shape my past; I too shall shape yours. You will fight me, here in this city. It would mark the beginning of the end.”

“End of what?” you demand. You try to shake off the way his tone makes the hair at the back of your neck raise. The total resolve of his voice, as if whatever you do will make no difference. 

“The end of everything.”

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[rootsofdread]

o-oh, i love me some new X reader blogs!! i really liked your first post and very excited for all the new content <3

could i request Doctor, Ghostface, Julie (or any other Legion member of your liking) and Wesker with a survivor, who is a god looper and treats trials more lika a friendly competition than.. whatever they are for everyone else? like they would full-on run the killer until the gates are open, leave their item and say they r already looking forward for the next trial together 🏃🏃. bonus points, if they also compliment both successful and unsuccessful mindgames mid-chase :D

thank you!! i'll be very happy to provide new content! also this was a funny request to fill out cause i myself have looped a wesker for two gens, so you can say i wrote from experience. but that wesker wasn't as friendly hehe <33

Herman Carter / The Doctor:

Without a doubt, Herman is confused by your behavior. He's never seen a survivor behave like you -- skillfully running him around and laughing while you do it, giving him a friendly goodbye at the gates after every trial and leaving your items for him. It's perplexing. He'd feel the need to study you, figure out why and how your brain ticks in this kind of way. But he knows he'll have to catch you first.

He takes every chase as a chance to study you as best as he can from a distance: where you decide to go, how you decide to trick him, what you think he'll do to counter him. Chances are he has a few pages of a notebook dedicated to whatever the hell it is that you're doing.

He enjoys the opportunity to run another real experiment, he doesn't get many chances in the realm. He'll do any number of things during chases to see how you'll react and what you do to compensate for it, and will be quietly impressed when you successfully mindgame him.

And when you unsuccessfully mindgame him, instead of hauling you to a hook, he'll take a moment to have you cornered and more closely inspect you. Half-intimidation tactic, half-studying you. He must know your secrets.

In truth, Herman may never understand why you see the trials as more friendly competition rather than a fight for your life…But he does find you fun to study. He'll keep you around.

Danny Johnson / The Ghostface:

Danny is very much a can of worms. You never really know what'll happen when someone does something out of the ordinary around him. But as he's chasing you and realizes you're running him around for fun, so your teammates can complete gens, he honestly enjoys it. Something new and exciting. He may be unpredictible, but he enjoys a good bit of fun.

He's immediately playing along with you, happily chasing you around pallets and vaults, even hiding around corners or in bushes or underneath windows waiting to scare or grab you when you round/jump them. You're the most fun he's had since coming to the realm, most likely.

He won't hurt you when you accidentally smack right into him; he prefers giving you a chance to correct your mistake and keep the little game going. He's having fun and doesn't want to end it so rudely.

When you mindgame him successfully, though, you may be able to hear him giggling a little bit before running after you again. He may be having a little too much fun. Any other survivors who happen to witness this will be utterly confused.

He's always so happy to wish you goodbye and tell you he's looking forward to your next trial too. He counts the days until he happens upon you while stalking around again.

Julie Kostenko / The Legion:

Julie is insanely pissed at first. She enjoys a good chase, but not like this. She almost hates that you're having fun and are so carefree during trials - it's not supposed to be fun for anyone but her! She gets the worst tunnel vision whenever you're in a trial together, she sees red every time she gets you in a chase and has to get you on a hook.

She's like this for a while about it, trying her hardest to out-mindgame you and get you down and on a hook. She's quiet when she does; she's not really one for rubbing her victories into people's faces. But she's proud.

She gets over it, eventually. She starts seeing it more of the same way you do: a little friendly competition, at least between the two of you. She starts having more fun chasing you around, and stops caring whether she wins or loses -- she just enjoys having another person to run around having fun with.

When you successfully mindgame her, she laughs about it. It helps her feel like the superior one, whether you're doing it on purpose or not, and she loves that.

She does especially love your little goodbyes and gifts at the gates. She always accepts your items and takes them back with her, and may even use them in personal projects. She feels touched having a new person who likes her so much. It absolutely warms her cold, murderous heart.

Albert Wesker / The Mastermind:

You know Wesker, he loves his games, and he's delighted to have a survivor who sees the trials the same way he does; as a game. He may be one of the few, if not the only, killer who would get a kick out of a survivor like you. He genuinely has fun in trials with you.

He gets so caught up trying to catch you he often will completely lose trials to you, but he doesn't even get frustrated. He just knows he has to try harder to be able to catch you, because it'll be that much sweeter the next time he does get you.

He's always trying to out-mindgame you at pallets and vault locations, and almost every time he thinks he's finally gotten your patterns down, you surprise him. He finds you a very interesting and entertaining specimen.

When the two of you are closer, he'll compliment your technique when you impress him like that. He's rarely impressed and he thinks you should know when you do it.

…But when he manages to outsmart you, he gets quite smug about it. He may rub it in your face a bit as he carries you to a hook, but it's all in good fun, he's just like that.

He does enjoy your little goodbyes at the gates, and always tells you he's looking forward to your next trial, too. He may even give you a little wave with his ouroboros, if the other survivors left before you.

[denaliwrites]

Cute Things

Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader

Summary: The Doctor gets you a plushie, thinking it'll be a nice gesture, but it doesn't go exactly as planned.

Warnings: Pure, unadulterated dumbassery.

Requests: Open!

"I thought you'd like it," the Doctor tried hopelessly as you stared down at the gift he'd brought you.

"Why... why would you think that?" you asked, bewildered. You held the object up, bemusedly examining it inch by inch.

"Well... You like cute things... and it's blue, like the TARDIS," he offered. When you shot him a look, eyebrow raised, he continued. As if he couldn't help himself. "And, I'm, well... I'm crabby? Ish? Oh, I don't know!"

You held up the little blue crab plush so that its beady plastic eyes were staring right into the Doctor's soul. Finally, a grin cracked across your face. If he'd been holding the thing, he would've (playfully) thrown it at you.

"You are not crabby," you told him with a laugh.

"I can be!" he protested lightly, hand reaching out to pluck the little crab from your hands.

You held it just out of his reach, cackling. "Oh, no," you said, bouncing back. "He's mine and his name is the Docrab!"

"The Docrab? Really?"

You could hear the exasperation in his voice and it filled you with delight.

"What will my friends think?" he sighed dramatically.

"What friends?!"

"Oi! I have friends!"

[raz-writes-the-thing]

“faster, please~” for the tenth doctor please? also I really love your works and have been admiring you from afar for a long while

thx love (if that’s okay)

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18+ BELOW

"Yeah? You want it faster, Doctor?" You all but cooed, fingers tightening only slightly around the flushed head of his cock. He looked gorgeous underneath you like this, bathed in the lightest sheen of sweat as you repeatedly brought him up to that edge and then backed off again. You liked to watch him squirm every time he thought you were finally going to let him cum but didn't.

"P-please, love, I-" his voice choked off as you started to stroke him in earnest, thumb swiping over the head and other hand reaching to lightly curve around his throat. He arched his head back, encouraging your touch.

"Oh, pretty thing," you said, moving your hand over him faster. You used heavy strokes up and down, tightening your fingers around the top and loosening them on the way back down again. "Look at you, begging me to choke you out, huh?"

He nodded desperately, eyes squeezed shut as his oncoming orgasm threatened to take him by force.

"Come on, sweetheart, let go for me."

[simp-ly-writes]

Space Cat

─────── · · A Doctor Who Story (pt.1)

Pairing: 10th Doctor & Cat-Hybrid!Reader, Donna Noble & Cat-Hybrid!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You are a cat hybrid. How? You have no idea- just like you have no idea how you ended up in what is defiantly not a police station.

─ · · WARNINGS: silliness, bickering and possible non-canon behaviours. eventual x reader

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 772

─ · · A/N: I have had this idea in my head for awhile now.

─────── · ·

You don't know how you ended up as a cat, what deal you must have made with a witch in your past life or contract you signed with an unknown devil yet here you were walking amongst the sea of commuters making their way back home for the day.

With the various heels nearing stomping on your tail, or the dress-shoes you swatted at as they held no concern to step on your paws. You cautiously made your way through the seemingly never-ending crowd. The pads of your feet were burning from the hot pavement, furry skin wet with sweat from this record summers day heat.

Stopping at a street corner, you opened your mouth to ask for help- for guidance only to forget the situation you found yourself in. The people peered down at you, cooing and trying to scratch behind your ears as you swatted their hands away- the hairs on the back of your neck standing up with caution before you darted off for shelter from the heat.

─────── · ·

A few blocks down the line, and a few alleyways passed through as fellow cats tried to communicate with you that you failed to understand. You found yourself walking into a blue structure. Walking back and straining your little neck as far as you could, police was written in large bold letters.

Your body slumps forward in relief as you take refuge on the doorstep, you pray to whoever is listening that someone would allow you into the air conditioned space-

"Oh my GOD, Doctor! Look at this sweetheart here- oh you poor thing," a lady speaks before you. She is already falling down to her knees, palms reaching outwards to greet you.

Standing up cautiously, you press yourself further towards the door emitting a pitiful meow as her coo's only increase. "It probably has rabies, best we leave it to its own device-" Your head snaps over, eyes narrowing at the man that protests your possible sanctuary.

You take in his lanky form, the oversized jacket he wears paired with converse and a brown suit. His hair nearly matches your raised fur as you are scooped up into the red-haired woman's embrace as she starts to stroke the hair on your back.

This feels quite nice actually, you think to yourself- allowing your limbs to go weak as you fall into her embrace emitting a few quiet purrs. You can hear her smile as she confidently walks up to the door, keys already in hand and a gust of cold air has you forming a smile- point teeth poking out as the man wags his finger in horror.

His eyes catch your own, his narrowed, finger now pointed in between your eyes with an accusatory manner. If he places that finger any closer- I may just have to bite it, yet the woman seems already ahead of you. Swatting his hand away with a scoff.

"Donna..." the Doctor warns, "...I don't trust these... these things!" he outbursts, standing tall with his head raised. His glare never ceases as you match his own, claws starting to dig into Donnas clothing.

"I swear you say that about every creature, I mean, look at the size of..." Donna looks down at you, your scowl now directed at her as she snaps her head right back up, "...them. Worst they could do is scratch up that already ugly face of yours-"

"My face is not ugly, I have heard quite the contrary in fact-"

"Well the fact is, I'm the married one right?"

"... I guess? But thats besides the point!"

Your head snaps back in forth as the bicker at one another, their voices only raise as your ears start to ring. You try and wiggle your paws to cover them as Donna fumbles to keep you in place. You end up landing on your feet, now free to take in what was definitely not a Police Box.

The high ceilings catch you by suprise, matched with the warm lighting of a hundred lightbulbs illuminating the space. Narrow hallways dart off in all directions as you peer down from the stage you are set on before backing away and into the back of the Doctor leg as he taps his foot in warning.

You raise your clawed paw, ready to retaliate as he crouches down next you you, flicking your head with a warning look in his eyes. "Now don't you start to, little thing. I know what you really are."

Your heart stops in that moment, paw falling to the ground as your eyes widen... well shit.

─────── · ·

─ · · A/N: asks are open!

(pt.1) (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (pt.5) ... (pt.6) (pt.7) you are here