expectiations

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DOCTORRIVER + Sparks (Live Version)

you can never take away my "11 was waiting for River to show up in Victorian London" headcanon from me.

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JOSEPH BEDE + PETRA MAYLER

The Shadow Line (2011)

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The best advice i can give any creator is do it before you're good at it, do it BEFORE you're happy, do it while you suck, do it while you're doubting yourself and get stuck the fuck in, because waiting around to be "good enough" is a motherfucking trap of the highest degree. You'll get good along the way and better after ever project is complete. Remember, this is the greatest thing you've ever created, and then you'll do something else. You're only ever gonna get better, but not if you stand still.

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i blocked someone for the first time this year. she said that if you use the em dash in your writing, then she knows for certain you used AI. you can take my cunty, little em dash away over my cold, dead body, woman who obviously didn't listen in english class.

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Most blessed type of fandom experience tbh

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Martha Gellhorn, from a letter to David Gurewitsch featured in The Selected Letters of Martha Gellhorn

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don’t jokeship with me because 2 hours later i’ll have feels for the pairing.

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https://www.tumblr.com/do-you-know-this-dw-story/786455280022126592/the-wedding-of-river-song-tv-2011-do-you-know

I thought you might be interested in this.

you thought right, anon. thank you!

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Any idiot can like something thats good. It takes a real genius to like things that suck ass

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JOSEPH BEDE + PETRA MAYLER

The Shadow Line (2011)

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went scrolling through my drafts for the first time in months. there's a whole fucking treasure trove there.

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if it's good enough for you, then it deserves to be made. don't let anyone else decide if your story is worth it or not.

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3 for the ask game?

Ship: Joseph X Petra?

This took SOOOOO long (well, much longer than I planned it to be, that is) because I had been initially writing a missing scene between them before receiving this request and as I was thinking of how to go about this and where I should put it show canon wise, I realized it fits well as an ‘ending’ of sorts to my first piece and ended up agonizing over how I could bring them together narratively. But anyways, here it is!

Joseph watches her—not with the hunger or expectation she is accustomed to, but with something steadier, something patient, as if he has all the time in the world to understand her. It unsettles her, how much space he gives her, how he waits without pressing. She isn’t used to it. Isn’t used to him.

She exhales through her nose, her smirk forming instinctively—practiced, effortless, but softer now, its edges blurred by something she refuses to name. “Don’t tell me you’re going to look at me like that the whole time.”

Joe’s lips quirk, just barely. “Like what?”

She tilts her head, amusement laced through the quiet. “Like you think I’m going somewhere far.”

His brow furrows slightly, as if the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “You’re not.”

No hesitation. No doubt. He believes she’ll be back, as if the possibility of anything else has never occurred to him. He carries certainty like an unshakable rhythm, quiet and unwavering. And for a fleeting moment, Petra aches to believe in it too, in the same way he does.

She exhales softly, feeling the weight of the moment settle in her chest as she straightens from where she had been leaning against the cabinet. Joseph mirrors her, pushing off from his perch on the desk. The shift is small, barely perceptible, but the space between them remains—two feet, maybe less, a distance that feels both close and unbreachable.

She tilts her head slightly, her voice even. "Well, I won't keep you. It's late, and you look like you've got work to finish."

Joseph doesn’t answer right away. He studies her, his gaze sweeping over her face with quiet intent, searching for something she isn’t sure she wants to surrender—can surrender. Then, without a word, he moves closer, closing the space between them, slow but certain.

The kiss unfolds like a slow exhale, warm and deliberate, his lips pressing into hers with a quiet intensity that lingers in the hush between them. There is no urgency, no desperation, only the steady certainty of it—something settled, something known. One hand finds her waist, grounding, anchoring, before sliding further, his arm encompassing her back, drawing her closer until there is nothing left between them. The other lifts to cradle the back of her neck, his thumb grazing lightly over her skin in slow, absent strokes. Petra exhales against his mouth, her fingers curling into his shirt, her eyes fluttering closed as she lets herself sink into the moment, holding on for just a moment longer than she should.

His lips move against hers with a slow reverence, deepening only slightly, as if tracing the memory of her into something tangible, something he can hold onto. The warmth of his palm at her nape is steady, fingertips pressing just enough to keep her close. She isn’t sure if it’s him or her who sighs first into the kiss, but the sound is there, small and unspoken, something neither of them will name.

When they part, she stays close, her forehead nearly brushing his. His breath is warm against her skin, steady, certain. A small, quiet thing.

She tells herself she should pull away, should sever this moment before it solidifies into something too real, too dangerous to carry with her. But she lingers. Just for a beat. Just for now.

“We’ll see each other again,” Joseph says, not as a question, but as something certain, something unquestioned. His hand lingers at her waist before slipping away, fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of her coat as if reluctant to break the contact. His other hand remains at her nape, thumb brushing back and forth in slow, absent strokes, as if committing the feel of her to memory. His posture remains easy, assured, but his gaze searches hers, holding onto something unspoken.

Petra smirks, not with the guise she used to wear when she first met him, but something genuine now, something softer, almost fond—but not because she allows it. "Of course. Can't let you miss Bach now, can I?"

He exhales a quiet laugh, his fingers brushing absently against her waist before he lets her go. "No, you won't," he murmurs, quiet, assured. She feels the absence of his touch immediately—more than she should, more than she wants to admit. Or maybe she doesn’t feel it at all, because she won’t let herself. He was just a means to an end in the first place—that’s what she tells herself, what she has to believe.

She steps back, reaching for her coat and slipping it back on, her hands disappearing into the pockets, fingers curling into fists. "And try to show up this time, will you?" Her tone is light, teasing, but her thoughts aren’t. It shouldn’t matter whether he comes or not. It shouldn’t matter at all. And yet, the words leave her mouth before she can stop them, betraying something she refuses to name. Something that lingers, quieter, harder to place.

Joseph shakes his head, amusement soft in his expression. “I won’t.”

She lets out a quiet hum, a small acknowledgment of his words, her gaze lingering on him. A soft smile flickers at her lips—brief, fleeting. They eye each other for a moment, something unspoken stretching between them, neither willing to break it first. And then, without a word, she turns and steps out into the night, the door left open behind her.

The air is cold, needling through fabric, curling against her skin, but it barely registers—drowned beneath the lingering heat of his touch, the ghost of his lips still pressed against hers. The city hums around her, streetlights pooling golden against the pavement.

She doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t have to.

He’ll be waiting.

Except, he won’t. Except, they will never see each other again. They part, unaware that this was already an ending—that fate had long since sealed their separation. The world will move on, indifferent to the weight of this moment, to the quiet tragedy sealed between them. The promise lingers in the air, fragile and unbroken, as if time itself believes in it—oblivious to the cruel turn awaiting them both. The next time their names are spoken, it will be in hushed tones, wrapped in the heaviness of things unfinished. Not in laughter, not in reunion—but in the quiet ache of what could have been.

No one will speak of them together, not really. To the world, Petra Mayler will be nothing more than Peter Glickman’s ex-lover, murderer, and the unlucky woman who tried to kill Gatehouse—a footnote in a story already written. And Joseph Bede? An accountant turned florist—never quite able to outrun the weight of the world he was tangled in. A drug dealer, a survivor for as long as survival would let him be, until it didn’t.

Joseph Bede will die alone, his name reduced to the cruel finality of a gunshot in the dark. He will not die with a name on his lips. His end will come sudden and brutal—expected, like a storm on the horizon, yet still flinching at the first crack of thunder. A gunshot will tear through the silence, his body left behind like an afterthought.

And Petra—Petra Mayler will die alone in a sterile room, the cold bite of the sheets pressing against her skin. Unlike Joseph, she will never see it coming. Her death will be as cruel as his, but in a different way—swift, unanticipated, stolen from her before she even has the chance to fight it. Her body will be left behind on the bed, her breath still rising and falling, but the Petra they knew—whatever part of her was truly alive—will already be gone.

Whatever tethered them in this moment will be severed, and no one will be left to remember it. Whatever was between them, whatever lingers now, will dissolve into silence—unnoticed, unspoken, and lost to time.

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the word doesn't look like how it should be sometimes. but i never tell anyone that because one time i did, my ma gave me a worried look cause i might have dyslexia (well... i might actually have it)

sometimes "friends" looks weird to me as a word. like. are you sure you're supposed to be spelled like that. is my brain playing games with me. is my autocorrect fr. webster's dictionary back me up.

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sometimes "friends" looks weird to me as a word. like. are you sure you're supposed to be spelled like that. is my brain playing games with me. is my autocorrect fr. webster's dictionary back me up.

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the secret to organising any kind of trip with your friends is to become the benevolent dictator. do NOT wait for everyone to provide a consensus on things before you book anything. do it and then ask for feedback after. do not ask people what they would like to do just tell them what is happening and let them all nod along like the sheep they are. this is the ONLY way to coordinate a group of adults in their 20s/30s

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probably needed a hug. went completely nonverbal and dissociated instead