#(yaz never let him touch anything sharp)

[unnecessary-dinosaurs]

halloween at the bowmans!

[poppiesforthirteen]

you & i are earth

the doctor forgets just how mortal yaz is

tags: yaz is drugged, that's essentially the premise, hurt/comfort, emotional support scouse, very real risk of death, this is tagged m on ao3 use your best judgement

(ao3 link will be in the notes)

—

Yaz wakes up.

Heavy. Heavy heavy heavy heavy. Tongue weird in her mouth.

Blurry room. Blurry hands. Can't move them.

Sounds. Voices?

"... know the Doctor. Is this correct?"

"Nh," Yaz says. Blurry blurry blurry. Foggy. Can't wake up properly. Should be more worried, but worry is so hard when her head is so fuzzy.

Can't move. Can't think.

"... is the Doctor now?"

"Hm?" says Yaz. Ears ringing. She wiggles her pinky—good, that still works. Not much else. Her head drops to the front. Heavy. Numb. Fuzzy.

"Where is ... now?"

"Hm?" Yaz says again. Can't get the full question together. Puzzle pieces, scattered. Can't move her hands to put them in order.

Something cold and hard presses into her temple.

"Where is the Doctor?"

Yaz should stay still. Doesn't know what's there, but it isn't good. Can't stay still—too heavy. Her head rolls to the side, eyes nearly shut. Blurry.

"I'n know," she manages. Tongue too heavy for more. Bigger than normal? Can barely shut her mouth around it.

Not lying, at least. If she does know where the Doctor is, she can't find it in her head right now. Should probably lie. If she can remember how.

"Try again." Sharp tone. Hurts. Like metal.

That must be what's against her head.

"Where is the Doctor?"

A voice behind her. Familiar? Doctor.

The metal moves away. Someone in front of her. Yaz blinks—Dan. Blurry. He unties rope around her wrists—that's why her hands didn't work. His hand on her face. She leans in. Less heavy. Thank you Dan.

"Yaz? Can ... hear me?"

"Hmm."

Dan's face turns away. "Doctor!"

"... busy here, Dan!"

"Come on, Sheffield. Let's ... up." He tugs on her arms; she stands, tips back and there's a hand between her shoulder blades. She stumbles—legs aren't really working—falls against his chest.

"Can you walk?"

Yaz shakes her head.

"Right." Dan takes her arms and puts them around his neck. "Hold on, yeah?" Her feet leave the ground—Yaz leans into Dan as everything spins, the room dark and blurry and the ground so so far away.

Panic. Going to drop—she tries to speak and her tongue is too heavy. Loud. Where's the Doctor? She tries to move—is held back—spinning spinning spinning—her head is fuzzy again. She claws into Dan and he just pats her back and doesn't he know Yaz is going to fall and—

—

Dan is being infuriatingly calm about this.

The Doctor takes a sharp turn in her path around the console, walking in the other direction so she doesn't get dizzy. Yaz is still unconscious—still, after hours—and he's just standing there, watching the Doctor pace.

"It's not deadly," he repeats.

"Of course it's deadly"—she passes by him again—"otherwise they wouldn't have done it."

"It's not deadly anymore." He has a point. The Doctor hates when other people have points; all her worry feels so unproductive like this. "And there's nothing you can do right now."

"But what if I overlooked something? What if deadly parts of the toxin will only appear later? What if she doesn't die, but ends up paralyzed; how are you not worried right now?" Anger boils up in her so quickly it leaves her reeling—she holds onto it. Not as helpless, anger. Not as weak.

"I am worried." Dan stands closer and she flinches back before he can try to touch her. "But we can't do anything right now—she's stable, right?" Reluctantly, the Doctor nods. "You stay and watch. I'll put the kettle on."

As Dan leaves, she growls at him, just to have done something.

Yaz looks so fragile on that mattress. Somewhere, the Doctor is glad they never got around to moving it out of the console room—she doesn't know which room is Yaz's and isn't in the right state to guess—but Yaz is dwarfed, surrounded by pillows and blankets, on her side and so so still. The Doctor perches beside the mattress, knees hugged close to her chest, and watches Yaz breathe. Slow, deep, regular. Normal.

They could have stopped her heart.

She only has the one; the sedative slowed it down so far she was dying when the Doctor found her (when Dan found her). Yaz is bouncing back—resilient, so strong—but she could have died and the Doctor needs to hunt them down again and make them pay. They're not far; she can track them in the TARDIS. She has weapons here (none she acquired herself); she can take revenge. Show them what it feels like.

But Dan is off in the kitchens and if the Doctor storms off, no one will watch Yaz.

Ah.

She keeps forgetting Dan is smarter than she gives him credit for.

Yaz stirs and the Doctor forgets to be angry about having been tricked—her hearts beat like they're trying to jump out of her chest, like they're trying to make up for Yaz's being too slow to keep her running. Another twitch—her face scrunches, eyes blinking open.

Is this what it's like to watch Yaz in the morning? The Doctor has never wanted anything more. She's rarely seen Yaz sleep, never stuck around to watch her wake up again.

"Doctor," Yaz says. Her voice is rough. She inhales deeply, and again, like her lungs aren't getting enough air. The Doctor's hand hovers over her wrist—wants to take her pulse; can't bring up the courage to touch her.

She pulls away.

"Hey, Yaz"—she forces herself to smile; nothing's wrong—"how are you feeling?"

"Tired." Yaz pushes herself up on her elbow and it buckles—she falls on her side again. The Doctor reaches for her, hands fluttering, nervous; how can she call herself a doctor if she can't even look after Yaz?

Yaz tries again and the Doctor holds her; climbs onto the mattress on her knees, ankles sticking off the side. Carefully, she pulls Yaz upright, holding onto both her arms. Watching her carefully. Unfocused eyes, slow pulse, heavy, deep breathing. Can barely keep her head up.

"What happened?" asks Yaz and nearly tips over again.

"What do you remember?" The Doctor struggles out of her boots, trying not to jostle Yaz too much, then sits cross-legged, letting her lean against her side. Yaz's head on her shoulder, Yaz's hand hanging loosely on her leg.

Her face scrunches with effort again—the Doctor shifts to keep her comfortable, to hold her wrist with two fingers.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Not much. Dan and I were on a street, and something stung me"—her hand wriggles out of the Doctor's grip to clumsily brush the puncture wound at the side of her neck and not being able to feel Yaz's pulse sends a spike of panic through the Doctor—"right there. All gone after that."

The Doctor takes her wrist again.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

She relaxes.

"You were hit with a sedative of some kind. We found you in the middle of an interrogation"—the Doctor can't help tensing at the memory—"they had a gun to your head."

"What?" Yaz tries to sit up by herself and can't, slipping; she grabs onto the Doctor's thigh and loses her grip. "Where's Dan?"

Pulse rising—panic. The Doctor's hearts pang with sympathy. "He's just in the kitchen," she says quickly. "He'll be right back."

"Oh." Yaz settles down again. She takes deep breaths, in and out, eyes fluttering shut. Not enough energy for adrenaline, not enough oxygen in her blood.

The Doctor cards her fingers through Yaz's hair, the free ones anyway—she keeps one hand at her pulse point. (Thump-thump. Thump-thump.) Yaz's braid came loose while she slept; the Doctor picks the rest of it apart, letting it fall in little waves.

"Are you okay?" asks Yaz.

"Of course," the Doctor says—it sounds fake even to her own ears. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Can hear your hearts." Yaz puts a hand on the Doctor's chest—it takes her a few tries, aiming too far away, then too low before placing her palm where she can feel both pulses and if the Doctor's hearts weren't pounding before they were now; close, too close for comfort.

"Just worried for you." The Doctor squeezes Yaz's arm and her hand drops again. "That's all."

"Mm."

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump—

As her eyes slip closed Yaz's heart misses a beat. The Doctor freezes, terrified—she's thousands of years old and for a split second she wants nothing more than to scream for her mother.

But she's the Doctor.

—thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

And Yaz is okay.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

They're both okay.

Dan comes back with a serving tray, on it three mugs (two steaming) and a plate of biscuits. He sets it down on the steps.

Yaz has gone back to sleep.

"You alright?" he asks softly and the Doctor looks up at him and his face falls. She bites her lip to keep the tears blurring her vision from spilling over.

Wordlessly, Dan moves Yaz back into the recovery position—the Doctor panics when Yaz's wrist leaves her hand, but Dan tugs her upright and wraps his arms around her and she doesn't get the chance to resist before she finds herself hugging him back.

Her chest shakes with silent sobs, tears soaking his shirt, small buttons pressed uncomfortably into her face. His thumb rubs over her back, just above the Y-part of her suspenders, and she can't let herself relax but this is as close to the comfort she needs as she'll ever get.

The Doctor is the first to pull away. Dan gives her a sad smile and she does her best to return it, eyes stinging with tears.

He hands her a mug—together, they sit on the stairs. The Doctor soaks a biscuit in her tea, letting it crumble in her mouth. It's warm—she's warm, finally.

She still doesn't know what the toxin is. She'll find it. Assess any risks; fix it. She's the Doctor—as long as Yaz is with her, she can save her. For now, Yaz will rest, and the Doctor will be okay.

Why wouldn't she be?

—

thank you for reading! hope you liked it <3

the title is from a tin plate from 1661 found in the london sewers, that and the ao3 version will be linked in the notes

i appreciate all comments, reblogs, asks and such! love talking about my fics, feel free to give me your thoughts

[oswildin]

Bonded {Part Nine} ~ Dhawan!Master x Reader

~ The story is nearly complete... ~

Summary: You try to reason with the Doctor, trying to be there for her, but she isn’t having any of it. You and the Master find comfort in each other.

Warnings: Angst, more fluff as you asked, bit steamy

You headed down the corridors of the TARDIS. You felt better after showering and changing your clothes, finally feeling fresh. Of course, your mind was still full of thoughts and emotions, but you knew you had to try and be there for the Doctor. You dreaded to think what state she was in.

The TARDIS seemed to understand your intentions as she guided you to where the Doctor was hiding. You stopped in front of a door, the TARDIS humming as you understood what she was telling you. You hesitantly reached out, twisting the handle, as the door slowly opened. You furrowed your brows, seeing the library. You swear it had moved position... Perhaps the Doctor had asked the TARDIS to keep it hidden... You stepped in, seeing the Doctor sat by herself in the darkness, surrounded by pages of books.

“I always rip out the last page.” She told you as you watched her, biting your lip. “That way the story never ends.” She explained as she looked around at all the pages sprawled about the place.

“Oh I don’t know... sometimes stories need to end.” You offered as you approached her. “I’m guessing the Master didn’t find you.” She shook her head. “But you let me.”

“No, the TARDIS did.” She almost frowned at her ship as you laughed lightly.

“Maybe she’s just worried about you.” You told her as you went to sit beside her. ���I am.” She didn’t look at you.

“Don’t be.” She gave you a sharp smile, not reaching her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem it.” You sighed. “Doctor, I don’t want you going back... You’ve come so far... Please don’t shut me out again.” You almost begged as she felt guilt pang in her chest at your words. “Remember when you lost Clara.” You said, as you saw her flinch at the name. You looked at her sadly. “Remember what she told you?”

“This is different.” She argued.

“Is it?” You raised a brow. “You again lost something dear to you. But remember how much good there still is in the universe. You’ve got Yaz, Ryan, Graham... Me...” You trailed off, seeing her face soften. “Even the Master seems concerned. Although, you didn’t hear that from me.” You teased as she turned to face you. “Actually he’s helped me... a lot...” You realised. “Perhaps he could do the same for you. Maybe you could help each other...” She shook her head.

“I don’t need help. I’m fine. See!” She jumped up, putting her jacket back on. “Let’s go for an adventure! I can pick up the others and we can go somewhere new.” She exclaimed as you sighed, standing too.

“Doctor, you can’t keep ignoring this.” You told her truthfully.

“Yes I can.” She argued. “I’ve ignored things half my life, and I’m fine.” She told you before walking away, leaving you alone as you felt defeated. You didn’t know what else to do. Perhaps you needed to be harsher? More brutal? No... you couldn’t do that to her. You sighed, sitting back down as you felt a presence appear in the room.

“Didn’t go to plan then?”

You shook your head, turning to see the Master stood in the doorway.

“She’s impossible to deal with when she’s in this mood.” You said exasperatedly.

“Perhaps she needs to do this alone.” He offered, walking into the room as you watched him. “And when she wants help, you’ll be there to give it to her.”

“I guess.” You said, defeat evident in your tone. “Why does she have to be so stubborn?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” He joked as you gave him a small smile. “King of Stubborn here.” He sat beside you as you shook your head at him.

“Funny, I could see you in a crown and a big robe.” You joked.

“So that’s what you’re into.” He teased, smirking as you rolled your eyes.

“I’m scared.” You suddenly admitted, causing him to narrow his eyes. “I’m scared what this all means... How this changes everything...” You drifted off, gaze ahead.

“You were the one giving the speech yesterday.” He offered. “Maybe you should take your own advice.” He shrugged as you scoffed.

“It’s easy to dish out the advice, but to take it yourself is another thing.” You retorted as he nodded slowly.

“That’s a very human statement.” He commented.

“Na...” You shook your head. “It’s a very universal one.” You gave him a small smile.

“Hmm, along with a leopard never changes its spots.” He added as you pursed your lips.

“I don’t know about that one...” You gazed at him. “You’ve changed.” It was his turn to scoff.

“I’ll never change.” He said defiantly. “It’s in my nature. I love the chaos too much.”

“Or is that just what you keep telling yourself?” You raised a brow. “Cause if you keep feeding yourself that narrative, you’re going to continue to execute it.”

“Maybe, I enjoy that narrative.” He argued, as you saw his walls begin to build back up.

“Will you stop?” You shook your head. “For one second, let your walls down. Not everyone is out to get you.”

“Don’t lecture me.” He snapped, eyes turning dark as he pushed himself up. “You know nothing.”

“I think I’ve seen enough in my time.” You told him. “Or have you forgotten what I’ve been through already?” You stood too, staring up at him. “You’re not the only one with issues, so stop acting like it.” You told him sternly as he growled under his breath.

“Humans, always sticking their nose into other people’s business.” He spat. “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps there are just bad people in the universe? Born sick and twisted?”

“No.” You furrowed your brows. “Things in their life have made them that way. There’s always hope.” He groaned.

“You’ve been with the Doctor too long.” He rolled his eyes.

“Maybe I have! Or maybe she’s actually right?” You argued, stepping towards him. “You aren’t the only one with issues. Accept it. Embrace it. It may even help.” He looked down at you, the rage in his eyes lessening as you looked at him. You relaxed him. It was an emotion he’d never really truly felt before. It was... nice. But also scary. “You can always start again.” You said in a softer voice as he tightened his jaw.

“Can I?” He raised his brows.

“Yes!” You laughed lightly. “Of course you can. If you allow the change.” He stared into your golden eyes as he stepped closer to you, his face close to your own. You could feel your heart beating in your chest.

“What if I don’t want to change?” His voice was low.

“Then... You’ll live a lonely life.” His eyes flickered down to your lips as you felt warm under his stare.

“I don’t think I can ever be alone now.” He said quietly. Before you knew it, his lips had crashed to your own, as your bodies melded together. He had grabbed either side of your face, holding you gently as he kissed you. You were surprised at first, but as soon as the electricity flowed through your veins, you gave in to the feeling, clutching his jacket with your hands. You felt complete with him. You’d never felt like you belonged, but in this moment, you felt what you had been longing for. Acceptance.

You hadn’t realised he had backed you against a book shelf, drinking you in as he pulled you as close to himself as possible. You gasped for breath as you hadn’t broken away. You saw images of golden energy in your mind at the touch. It was electric. He finally pulled away, resting his forehead on your own. Both of you were breathing heavily as you stared into his eyes, searching for anything.

“That was...” You breathed out as he couldn’t help but smirk.

“I know.” He whispered. “We could just leave.” He spoke lowly. “Run away. Take a leaf from the Doctor’s book.” He raised his brows. “What do you say?” You felt your breath hitch, unsure on what to say. You couldn’t leave the Doctor... could you? Was it time? Your life had been consumed by the Doctor and your adventures, was it finally time to move on?

You didn’t answer, but pulled him back close, moulding your lips to his own once more, feeling the rush once again. His hand moved to your waist as he gripped you tighter than before, almost urgent, desperate.

~

Taglist: @drapetxmaniia @dannighost @imagine-whatever @yourlocalspacebisexual @the-sweet-space-bi @a--1--1--3 @blamerogertaylor @koschei-taylor @koschei-studies @lostshadow12 @hannahlilyyx @wonders-of-the-multiverse @ettorah @nikey-no-likey @imthedoctorlove @twentysomethingloser92 @startrekkingaroundasgard @sometimes-i-feel-like-falling @hellothedoctorisreal @tragic-and-tried @kind-sober-fullydressed @ateliefloresdaprimavera @chiswicknoble

[anteroom-of-death]

Life, For Dummies p2

a/n: quarentine’s brought out the worst in me, does anyone know anything anymore? idk... i hope you all enjoy part 2! part 3′s got the spice in my mind’s plotting... slow burn anyone???

It had been roughly a week since you’d join the Master on his TARDIS. It was cozier and the console room was an actual room, like a living room. Sure it had all the little knobs and a control center, but it had a mini kitchen and couches and soft chairs. As well as whatever books he had been reading at the moment. 

Homey. Comforting even.

Today’s adventure was less relaxing than his first he brought you on: A spa planet. Three whole days of being rubbed down, being fed gorgeous tasting health foods and relaxation. Closest to being a dog that chills in a rich socalite’s handbag all day. He of course, joined you in these revelries, and you even joined him as he made little jokes about other species' appearances and gossip.

This time was him killing off an entire planet for a Empress’s cheek. He offered you pour over coffee and a Danish as he giggled over the ash filling the air from an Adirondack chair as you tried to mentally stop yourself from crying over this. You, Y/N, were here with a genocidal maniac and you should really get a grip. You signed up for this. Anything you saw was your own fault, you told yourself as you cautiously took the coffee from the man and sat next to him.

“I can tell you’re thinking, love.” He said, “Why don’t say what’s on your mind? Hmm?” 

“Why me?” You tore your eyes away from the sight of a giant building falling downwards on itself. “You could have taken Yaz or Ryan or hell, even pick some schlub off the streets!”

He raised his hand and raised his voice. “So the Doctor’s the only one who can take a pet or two or more?” His eyebrows raised, there he was, always sprinkling in the word “pet” usually it brought a shiver down your spine. But not today. Not now.

You huffed and groaned, rubbing your finger into your eye, “No, Master-” you said the word as if it wasn’t your kink, but a derogatory term. “Why me? What do you expect? Huh? You’re gonna go after her one day and I will be there, looking like a traitor or a double agent or what the fuck ever, and here I am, getting attached to you and I’ve just seen you nuke a fucking civilization? I’ve never seen that happen besides like, footage of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” You manually stopped him with a raised hand and all the venom you could shoot from your eyes. “I can’t yet reconcile friendships! It’s like eighth grade all over again and Tammy doesn’t like Britney and Britney is friends with Joe but Joe like likes Tammy and Joe’s just over here wanting to blow his brains out!” You gesticulated this flowchart of emotional entanglement before slamming down the coffee and deciding to slam the TARDIS door shut. You didn’t want an answer anymore. You accidentally revealed too much. 

You didn’t know what you felt anymore.

Sure, the man was hotter than your wildest fantasies of what a hot person could look like, and the name was enough to bring out any other types of fantasies you could have. It’s not like you weren’t already shaking off dirty thoughts about him and various pieces of furniture in here. 

The Master frequented between slightly soft and vulnerable to ready to kill off anyone. That wasn’t the most stable of mindsets.

You began shaking where you stood. What if he was now going to kill you? You were a lot more disrespectful than the Empress was. Your breathing became erratic and there was a definite lump in your throat forming. This, out of all the ways you thought death would come to you, especially since Time Lords entered your life, wasn’t how you expected to die. 

He slammed open the door and you let out a scream before dissolving into hysterics. The scrap of dignity you had left told you not to beg for your life. 

For a split minute you tried to gather yourself up and over before getting back up and spitting through your tears, “Kill me, go ahead, I dare you to!” Your breathing sped up as your heart slammed, threatening to break your rib cage. You were so close to pissing yourself as you scrunched up your eyes, you didn’t want to see your death or the man before you shrinking you to dinky size. 

Would it hurt? You thought as you mentally started internerising all you hadn’t accomplished in life and the pile of dirty clothes you left at home. 

“Well,” Trying to sound braver than you were, “Get on with it!” 

Mirthful laughter started and got louder as you closed your eyes tighter and evened out your breathing. “Kill me!” It came out half begging at this point, the coffee stirring up the acid in your stomach

It was a second later that a sarcastic sounding applause started and you opened up your eye, only one. For caution. 

“You think I’m going to kill you because you talked back once?” He purred. “Is your opinion of me that warped?” 

Pointing outside, “I have my rights to think that!” 

“Oh please, she thinks she can speak to anyone in any tone all her life and doesn’t like when people tell her no once, so I had to. The rest of the people are just a perk to add to her little lesson in decorum…”

“Not fucking funny!” Hauling out and hitting him in the arm, “You really had me going! I aged more in the past minute than I have all my life!” You sat down and moaned in pain as you massaged your forehead and worked on breathing.

“It was fun, loads of it. You gotta admit it.” 

You groaned and leaned backwards on the couch pulling the thick afghan over your face. “Sadist.” You muttered into the thick weave.

It could have been your imagination, but you for a split second thought you heard from the other side of the room, “And don’t you love me for it.”

It could have been your dirty imagination creeping up again. Maybe…

It was like he could read your mind, and it was his own monkey bars to swing around on.Testing you out and seeing how you’d react. 

Not that you’d expect someone who’s name was The Master to do anything differently…

Not that when you saw him and learned what his name was that you weren’t gunning to board the plane into subspace from dipshit-ville. 

Hearing him start the TARDIS up and go for another destination, you pulled it off your face and around you like a shawl, “So why does yours change shape all the time and seem like you don’t have to run around the console?”

“Hers is meant for multiple people to fly and it’s very, very broken.”

Of course, you rolled your eyes.

“It’s supposed to blend in, do what it’s pilot says. You know, rather like a car. You wouldn’t bring a dinky muddy Jeep Wrangler to a proper black tie event? Would you.” He flipped a switch and started entering coordinates into the touch screen.

“If you ain’t a pussy.” You muttered again. The statement smacked of classism you felt.

He elected to ignore that. Thank G-d. 

“So what are you in the mood for, Y/N? The best traditional Earth food the 34th century can offer or a nice shallow grave I can chuck your willing corpse into.” He smirked and wrinkled his nose at you.

“Woah. King of the non-sequitur.” 

“What even is ‘traditional’ Earth food?” Last time you checked, there were hundreds of what could be argued as “traditional” Earth foods. Your curiosity was genuinely piqued. “Yeah…” you nasalled, “Gimmie the best Earth food the 34th century can offer!” You leaned back down on the couch. 

“Get dressed better.” He ordered. 

You slumped off to the massive wardrobe and got something comfy yet nice looking. Just in case you had to run away from an explosion or something. 

Schlepping out of the depths, you twirled around, “I’m decent.” 

He made a noise like the Jeopardy buzzer. “Utterly not. Try again.” 

You did. 

Another buzzer noise. 

Third times a charm, you even put on a nice corset dress and a slide-on pair of sneakers. 

He marched you up in yourself ranting about how humans couldn’t be half-arsed to make their own decisions and he should just start picking your clothing out for you. 

You held your tongue and just waited for it to be over. 

“Get undressed.” He flipped a hand at you. 

Of all the places to strip down, in front of an alien was not on the list. It wasn’t like it was the person at the lingerie store sizing you up for a bra and panties. It was a man, alien albeit, and he was seeing you in your Hello Kitty underwear and tattered nude bra. Humiliating. 

“What do I even wear? You couldn’t even whip out the Space-Zagat or tell me how many Space Michelin Stars this place has!” You covered your stomach with your hands in an attempt at modesty. 

He went over to the hanger next to the door and seemingly manifested a shimmery purple ombre tulle gown and some glitzy silver strap heels.

He hastily unzipped it and said, “Pop in.” and you slid in as he zipped it up, you felt the warmth of his hands linger on the small of your back and the nape of your neck. He took his index finger and slid it up, the corner of the nail slightly catching on the soft baby hairs at the bottom of your scalp. You shivered and had a sharp intake of breath. You nearly felt more tears spring up for today. That felt good.

Suddenly, you felt a clink of a thick chain lock around your neck. “Turn around…” He ordered again, softly. He pointed towards a mirror. The sight of yourself was bewildering. It was off the shoulder and flattered you a little too much. It, paired with the solid gold chainmail necklace made you look almost regal? Queenly. All the big words. 

“Oh wow…” The words almost came out a choked garble, and yet barely above a whisper. The image before you was beautiful, and he was looming in the background, dressed to the nines to match in purple and gold. 

Then you exhaled. 

You looked like a power couple, like Bradjelina before the split, or Michelle and Barack Obama. You were sad how well you looked together. Though, how can an alien, especially when you saw what the females of the species did- eat a bar of soap and act like a racoon on trash night. 

You shook the lovely thoughts of that away. Tonight and the sensation of his slightly calloused, warm hands on your body were enough lust for one lifetime. 

“We’ve arrived.” He noted, drawing you out of yet another blank faced reverie.

You and your damn reveries. 

That’d be your death. 

Sashaying out as he took your hand and led you into this obviously very fancy and very expensive restaurant’s coat room from what looked like a small cupboard he led you to the reception where a humanoid with grey skin and spikes on their nose sat, “Name?” They drew lazily, a curious brow spike raised at the pair of you. 

“You will give us the best table and give us the best recreation-vintage.” He stated as if he was asking the weather. The creature looked dumbstruck and walked you to the table at the end of the dining hall, looking out on the vastness of space with planets twinkling and stars churning out light in the distance. The darkness contrasted well with the silver and whites of the place. 

As if by meaning, the pair of you stood out. Everyone else was in muted silver tones and you were specks of color demanding attention and respect. The center of a very odd universe. 

“Cotes du Rhone Red…” The waitstaff converged to you, “Sir, the finest of the Spiced Cheese Triangles...made this morning.” “Madame…” They all started simping postulating towards you.

Once you got your orders taken, you bit into one of the so called “Spiced Cheese Triangles”, it was a Dorito. 

“These are Doritos.” You whispered scandalised. “Do-rit-os.” He laughed, “Classic Earth food. You know how it is. The poor people love the food, the rich come in, spruce up the area, paint over the color, then charge a dozen times more for the same food. Don’t you know gentrification when you see it?” 

You guwaffed before taking a sip of your wine. The place was quiet except for the hushed chatter and soft sounds of eating. No music. Just the chasm of looking out into space. You rested your chin on your wrists and looked out. Where were you? Where was this place? So many questions scraped around your brain.

“You’re in the Black Eye Galaxy…” He responded quietly, “At the corner of it that looks into the mighty center…” 

You poked at your temple then towards his face. “I knew it!” You accused in a breath. “You can read my mind!” You leaned back and crossed your arms, “And you have me scrambling to find words every second of every day.” 

He winked. “A little. Human brains are very easy to rifle around in. I try not to read yours. Out of respect. I don’t mean to, all Time Lords are sensitive to the psychic vibrations of others. I was just a little more good at that when I was child. I use it to my advantage. Especially all things…” He trailed off, eyes growing dark. You made a mental note to pry later. Then tried to hide that and wipe it. He could read your mind, and you had to wrap your mind around that and compartmentalize that for another day. You didn’t want to ruin this lovely moment. Or a lovely half of a moment since it suddenly got dark. Your food got served and you continued to stare off into the great abyss of space. 

“Y/N?” Asked the Master. 

“Yes, Master?” You looked at him. His eyes were impossibly large and impossibly soft, framed by the longest and softest black lashes. It was strange how a man so universally feared and prone to fire-starting was capable of such a baby face. 

“I want you to tell me what you’re thinking. I’d rather not read your mind.” 

You felt yourself swallow a sudden lump in your throat. 

“I’ll work on it.” You promised.

Were you falling in love with him? Was this love? More confusion ebbed at your head. You scraped at your eyebrow with your pinky nail. 

You shoved that down deep into the caverns of your brain, where you kept your ballerina dreams and daddy issues.

You ate quietly. He barely seemed to touch a thing however. The evening drew on in a realm between too comfortable and oddly disheartening. 

As the evening drew to a close, he didn’t even pay. He just said to the waitress, “We’re finished.” And walked back to the TARDIS. This time not holding your hand. You didn’t know if that was a sign for you to grow up and stop fantasizing. You could take a hint. You weren’t as dumb as you looked. 

You marched to your room and couldn’t yet bear to rip your beautiful outfit from yourself. Especially the necklace, it felt oddly right. Like a collar or a letterman jacket. Something definitive of a bond. You sniffled. No more tears.

Wall of emotional protection, back up. Time to protect yourself. There’s no condom for your heart- you told yourself.

You went out back to the small kitchenette in the console room and made yourself a cup of tea to settle your stomach and saw him leaning over the counter of his little planning station, papers askew, hair mussed. It was sinful for one man to look insanely good while plotting something. 

“You’re still dressed?” He asked. Of course he’d stripped into something more comfortable, an unbuttoned waistcoat and jeans, a simple light purple button up. Did he sleep? You were contemplating PJs.

“Yeah. Problem?” You shrugged.

The look given was indescribable. 

“Utterly indecent.” He shook his head. He turned away for a second to bookmark the thick book he had. The way his jeans- midrise- shift around his bum was something funky. His hips were a bit wide so they slung over his body lavisciously. You caught yourself staring at it 

“Oh for fucks sake.” He said looking at you, your mouth sideways gaped, like you were some truck driver eyeing up a dime a ride whore at the stop. For all the rollercoaster of the day, the Master was breathtaking to look at.

He was in your mind again, and you were too tired and emotionally strung out to care. 

“I just want tea.”...and you, you mentally added, hoping that he’d get the subtext and either kill you to stop you from humiliating yourself further or make a move. Either or, it was something. 

He made a tutting noise and said, “Oh, you’d have to give me something in return.” A grin that was thoroughly wicked and possibly evil crept up and warmth flooded his eyes. His perfectly white teeth flashing dangerously in the ambient lighting. 

“What’s that?” You opened the line for bartering. You slid onto the table he was working at. Tea could wait for a second. Things just got interesting. 

He put one of those larger than life hangs on your neck and rested the crook of his thumb on your jaw, and petted it slightly. The rest of his fingers slightly applied a pressure to the base of your skull. His eyes traced over your face as he contemplated. He licked his lips slightly before speaking.

“I want you, fully. No more thoughts of ‘Oh, what if the Doctor catches us?’ or if you’re a traitor to her just because you are mine now. If she was truly a friend to you, and not just a preoccupation…”He cocked his head and focused his eyes on your lips. “She’d grant you this…” He moved his thumb down to the hollow of your jaw and pressed it. “She’d let you.” You closed your eyes and fluttered your eyelashes flipping around the millions of pro’s and con’s. You felt yourself relax and your body made your choices for you, you weren’t fighting it anymore. 

“What do you say, love?” He breathed in a husky tone.

“Yes.”

“Yes, who?” He chided in a guiding tone.

“Yes, Master.” 

“Good girl.” He laughed and dipped you down on the table inhaling your lips inward and pressed down with his free hand on your hip.

Giving up never would feel so good...

[captainstressed]

The Choice

Written for Day 2 of @whumptober2020 Prompt: “Pick Who Dies” Fandom: Doctor Who Characters: Thirteenth Doctor, Yasmin Khan, Rose Tyler, The Master (Dhawan) Word Count: 1,766 TW: mentions of a gun | off screen character death AO3:

Her mind was racing a mile a minute as she tried to work out a way to get them out of this, she ran through so many possible scenarios and the longer she paused, the bigger his grin grew, and her hearts felt as though they might actually burst out of her chest from the fear and panic that grew with every moment.

"Come on Doctor, we don't have all day."

His tone held a touch of boredom, as though what he was asking barely required a second thought, as though he wasn't asking her to literally choose between the lives of the two people who meant the most to her.

She looked across to the two women, both on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. Yaz kept her expression neutral, refusing to add to The Masters satisfaction by showing her fear but The Doctor knew her well enough to sense her panic as she considered the possibility that she might not be able to get them out of this one. Rose had been the most vocal about their situation but it had taken the sound of a gun being cocked followed by a gentle pressure against the back of her head for her to fall silent. She'd paused for his warning, ready to bite back that if he was going to kill her anyway then there was no way in hell she was going down quietly. What he had said instead however made her blood run cold.

"Your daughter is turning four soon in your universe isn't she?"

Tears had filled her eyes and she locked eyes with The Doctor, who's expression was as unreadable as ever, she took a moment before responding and it was clear her words weren't only aimed at The Master.

"If anything happens to her, I will kill you."

"I'm the one with the gun here love." He had told her, increasing the pressure of the gun just a touch as though to emphasise his point before taking a step back and letting out a breath of a laugh.

She had remained quiet after that, her gaze burning into The Doctor as the latter's shifted between the three of them.

The Doctor hadn't known Rose had a child, she knew nothing about her, not since she had left her and the metacrisis Doctor in the parallel world so many lifetimes before. Was the child his? hers? It really had nothing to do with her but despite the situation they were currently in she couldn't help but wonder and found herself wanting to know, would it sway her decision?

There had to be something she could do, she'd been known to tear holes in the universe for less. How could this be happening, how could she have allowed this to happen. Rose had been safe in the parallel world, she and Yaz were in a good place, she had let her guard down, allowed herself just a moment of reprieve and he had used it against her in the worst way possible.

He was mad, she'd known that for a long time and she also knew what he was capable of but somehow she never fathomed that he would resort to this. He called it a truce of sorts, for all she had done to him, he would allow it to all be forgotten, she just had to choose who would die as penance. It was sick, and twisted, and so him.

"Doctor."

His sing song voice pulled her from her thoughts and her gaze snapped to his, he waved the hand that held the gun in her direction and she actually felt as though she might be sick. She had despised guns all her lives, something he was well aware of. He saw it as a permanent solution to their feud, but perhaps he was stupider than she ever thought possible if he didn't think for one moment that the pain she would inflict upon him for his actions would be so much greater than he could comprehend.

"I know what you're thinking."

He continued and her expression remained unflinching as she awaited for him to elaborate. If he had any idea of her current thought process then none of them would be here right now, or maybe he really was that stupid.

"If you even try and go back to change what happens here today, then I promise you Doctor, oh I promise you, things will turn out so much worser than even you could imagine."

He assured her, his tone contained a sliver of glee that didn't go amiss by her and she got the feeling that part of him wanted her to try just to give him an excuse.

Instead of responding, The Doctor looked back to the two women. First to Yaz, her beautiful, fantastic, brilliant Yaz. It had been just over a year since Ryan and Graham had left Team TARDIS and Yaz had chosen to stick around, they'd been teetering on the edge of something for a while before then but their newfound privacy of sorts had only allowed their growing feelings to blossom until finally they had decided to make it official. The Doctor had never been someones girlfriend before and although she'd never really cared much for labels it felt nice to have Yaz refer to her as such and she never tired of the look Yaz gave her every time she referred to Yaz as hers. The Doctor felt the prickle of tears at the thought of never seeing that look again, she had kept her emotions at bay throughout the ordeal thus far, letting only her anger show as to not play into The Masters hands any further.

She switched her gaze to Rose then, her pink and yellow human. Well, she supposed Rose hadn't been hers in a long long time, and in some ways she had never technically been hers at all. She looked different, older, her hair although still blonde was a touch darker these days. It had been millennia since she had last set eyes on her, many had walked in and out of her lives since Rose, some she loved, some she didn't, most of which had been there as a buffer, a reason to keep moving forward, to stop her going back and ripping another hole in the universe just to bring her back.

Then she'd met Yaz. She couldn't quite put into words her feelings towards Yaz much like she'd never quite been able to do so with Rose back when she was pinstripes. Her feelings towards both women had been and were so powerful yet at the same time they couldn't be compared to one and other. Both relationships had existed in different lifetimes and The Doctor had never expected for them to collide. Seeing Rose had brought back so many feelings for The Doctor, feelings even she wasn't aware she still felt.

Both women continued to stare back at her and she wondered what they were thinking. Did they think she had a plan in motion to get them all out of this? Did they expect her to actually choose one of them to die? Who did they think she would choose? She had to look away as the array of thoughts invaded her mind, it was suffocating and the more she thought about what she was being asked to do the more disgusted she felt with herself.

"How do I know you won't just kill them both, or me?"

It was the first time The Doctor had acknowledged what she was being asked to do out loud and she had to take a deep breath to try and keep her urge to throw up at bay. She averted her gaze from Rose and Yaz as she spoke, unable to look at either of them as she discussed the very matter of their lives.

"I'm nothing if not a reasonable man." He told her with a shrug and she laughed, a loud, short burst of noise that sounded odd coming from someone with an expression as stone faced and cold as The Doctor's.

"So, say I choose."

She paused when she heard a sharp intake of breath coming from where Yaz and Rose were still kneeling, the very possibility that she was considering going through with his sick game finally sinking in with the two women.

"Say I choose someone."

Her voice cracked every so slightly as she continued and she looked over at The Master, a quiet smirk on his lips as she finally played along with his game.

"You let the other one go."

If she thought by dropping their names and averting her gaze it would make this any easier she was wrong on so many levels, it was taking every ounce of self control she had not to throw up at the very thought of what she was considering.

The Master gave her a nod.

"I want your word."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and offered The Doctor what would be considered a friendly smile if not given the current circumstances.

"You have my word, Doctor."

The Doctor nodded. It was the smallest gesture, but it was acknowledgment that she was agreeing to his terms, agreeing to choose someone, someone she loved, to die. She heard another sound coming from where Yaz and Rose were, this time it was a sob. Looking over to them for a final time, she saw both women with tears streaming down their cheeks, there was no longer any reason for them to put up a front when the decision had already been made, one of them was going to die and there was nothing they could do about it.

Both women met her gaze despite their tears and The Doctor was unsurprised to feel tears slipping down her own cheeks, making no effort to wipe them away she looked each of them in the eyes, one of which would be for the final time.

"I'm sorry."

She whispered, her voice broken as she finally looked back to The Master who actually had the nerve to look like he felt sorry for her.

"I love you."

The tear-filled voiced reached her ears from behind and she squeezed her eyes shut in order to stop herself from looking back, she had to do this, she had no other choice. It was a handful of moments but felt like an eternity before she reopened her eyes and prepared herself to tell The Master who she had chosen.

[tardis-sapphics]

20 + Thasmin (also i love your blog)

hi i love your blog too!!

20: ‘breaking the rules’

so this became a oneshot, not a ficlet, for which i apologise. more to read, i guess? also, i’d recommend listening to this song while you read. i am a little obsessed with it and had it on repeat when writing this Temptation is a cruel mistress. The perpetual out-of-reach; the ghost on her fingertips when she can’t quite close a hand around what she wants. It whispers quiet enough to let her continue with her day, but loud enough to muddle all else in muffled sound. It is the constant whine in her ear; the image in her head sticking to the insides, like paint. The conjurer of impatience and reality’s favourite trickster.

It has the glossiest voice. A touch like satin. But it has teeth like toothpicks, whining and desperate to bite down into rationality.

Aiming for the jugular and sinking in. Its claws have her in its clutches.

An undercover mission is not meant to last this long. Her previous attempts have all been fraught with boredom, a mounting frustration. She can’t stay in one place—she never has. Her freedom is her lifeline.

But the end result must be worth it. This missing princess and her entourage—they must be worth it.

Landing on this planet went from a brilliant idea to an awful one very quickly. Important—but still awful. To the local king’s delight, his daughter Tanza has been found. He brushed off Tanza’s proclamations that she was not a princess, but a time-travelling alien, and these were not her personal attendants but her human friends. He put it down to shock. Being kidnapped with one’s servants and being left for dead in the wilds of the Bostara Jungle would make even the strongest man mad.

So they’ve been forced undercover. And still, no real princess has returned. The Doctor has no idea what happened, only that she needs the real Tanza back. Taking her place is burning all her patience to ash.

Ryan, Yaz and Graham have settled into life as the princess’ personal attendants—as well as one can when rapidly learning new skills and customs. It isn’t unlike medieval life on Earth, except her fam were never medieval—and this king, this land, this world, is not human.

As personal attendants, the fam are there when she calls, but their interactions are coded if the presence of someone else forces it. If they are left alone—the two of them, the three of them, the four of them—then they can discuss matters. The Doctor leads discussions, but they glean information from wherever, and whomever, they can. Servants enjoy a gossip about their masters, and Tanza is no exception: Graham hears from the porters that she enjoys long walks; Ryan hears from the cooks that she will ask for enormous amounts of food, but leave most of it.

Yaz learns that the princess is always close to her treasured personal attendant, Bellara. Always. She was the first to disappear, alongside her princess, to the surprise of no one. Nobody gives a second thought to “Bellara” spending as much time with the Doctor as she does, because she always did.

She is the first to arrive in the morning, and the last to leave every meeting. She personally oversees the Doctor’s routines in the mornings. She helps the Doctor get a hang of all these ridiculous clothes, all of them exponentially more complicated than her rainbow, trousers and braces. She often says as much to Yaz, when they are both alone and both sure of it.‘You’ll be back in them soon,’ she reminds her, lying down the third outfit of the day: a frilly shirt, a flowing skirt that affords some manoeuvrability. She always passes over the pencil skirt, and the Doctor is grateful.

Every day is a minefield of too much: of being too close to Yaz, and too far from her. Yaz’s fingers trail down expensive silk like a caress, each fingertip light on the material. Each piece of clothing is blessed now, the Doctor thinks—and it has become part of a routine, to have this be the closest thing to touch between them. Life would not feel the same without it. She would itch, constantly. As if she does not already.

The Doctor has no qualms about changing in front of others. But it is forbidden here, especially between a royal and her attendant, and humans—never mind Manarans—are more conscious of these things.

But Yaz stays close. Just on the other side of the door. If the Doctor stills, she can hear her breathing.

Temptation is the fox in the night. Its eyes are upon her, not quite doleful and not quite curious. It knows what it wants. It lies in wait.The dark is felt more strongly for knowing it is there. If she forgets, it will call, a baying sound that sits uncomfortably in her ears, her head.

Not that she would ever forget.

Yaz is always polite. Hesitant. When the Doctor emerges, unsettled, in her frilly top and strange skirt, the Doctor hears the slightest inhale. She swears, for a moment, she can see Yaz reach for her., but she stops herself. The Doctor does the same.

A maroon top and navy blue skirt. It feels closer to home. Yaz’s own outfit is rougher, a roughly-cut piece of cloth wrangled into a dress. Still sleek, but unkempt no matter the effort.

She wants better for Yaz. For Ryan and Graham, too, with their too-thick collars. But especially for Yaz—she sees, day in, day out, her unease in the bodice, and she wants Yaz to wear some of these clothes that the Doctor has no need for. She wants Yaz to be comfortable.She wants to take—

But, no. These are the rules.

‘M—ma’am,’ Yaz stutters. She takes a step back, and then flits off. The only trace of her left is the smell of kitchens that cling to her clothes.

Animal fat, and woodsmoke, and mint. And underneath all that, her own scent, something the Doctor seeks to uncover over and over again.

She stands there, helpless.

Among the rest of her duties, Yaz escorts her to all her meetings and to the balls the Doctor must attend. She watches on from the sides, assimilating with all the other servants waiting for their masters to finish with their frivolities.

Except, tonight, Yaz has not once stopped watching the Doctor. And the Doctor has not stopped watching her.

She is meant to be more careful. She is meant to be painstakingly accurate when she dances. She could not anyway, but she absolutely cannot now.

Manaran bodies do not touch, ever. Intimacy is reserved for the words; affection laced into the beauty of language. When Manarans dance, they do so with ample space between them. Even amongst prospective suitors—of whom there are many at this ball, and the Doctor is interested in precisely zero of them—there is no touching, only glances, only words.

The Doctor only looks at Yaz, and Yaz only looks the Doctor. And the King writes the whole ball off as a gargantuan failure.

It is strange, being infinitely older than this man, being bossed around by him. But they are undercover. They have to find Tanza. For themselves, so they can be free—finally—but also for the King.

He is a man of too many words. He lavishes verbs and adjectives onto Tanza—the Doctor—as if they were roses, but even in his ornate dining room, all the riches of a life well-lived, the words conflate themselves. Each of them struggles to fit in amongst the many others, rubbing and squeaking against each other like too-big balloons. The Doctor wonders when they’ll burst, and what—if anything—they will leave behind.

At least, she can tell from his eyes, there is a hint of relief whenever she is around.

She escapes from time with the King to laze around Tanya’s quarters, all of it too much space for so little to do. There is plenty for a person like Tanza to occupy herself with—clothes, dresses and trousers, all sharp lines and pastels; or embroidering pictures of the local fauna. But it is lonely stuff, discovering a personality of a woman no longer here. As dictated by the royal culture, Tanza is a very lonely woman.

She digs through Tanza’s belongings and traces every line of writing with her fingertips. Diaries, letters, requests. A gaping sense of something missing lives in all of them: in the ink, the push of pen. The words, in contrast to the world around them, are strangely vapid. Like father, like daughter: too many words and too little meaning. For a woman of so much power, she seems uninterested in it.

It all helps. She presses her fingertips down on ink again, the pretence of connection.

She throws herself into invention: her requests for metal parts and wires invokes the ire of the King, but she puts her foot down. The Doctor knows Tanza’s character well enough to hazard a guess at the reasons behind the disappearances, and she will use that unhappiness to get away with what she can. She cannot reconcile the two without this.

And it doesn’t take long, even when crafting a device in secret. It is a simple thing, working with mechanical olfactory receptors to recognise and discover specific smells across time and space. The untouched pencil skirt comes in handy, unsullied by the Doctor’s or Yaz’s hands.

As soon as it works, the Doctor hatches a plan. It takes two days to tell her fam, and three more days to launch it. In the in between, she sees Yaz watching from doorways and in mirrors, and temptation claws at her patience again, and again, and again.

The King finally commences his annual hunt—and then, they are free to do as they please. “Tanza” immediately announces a trip to the next country. It should take a day to Falada, personal attendants and all. There they will find the princess, and convince her to officially abdicate.

The journey requires warm clothing. For Yaz, Ryan and Graham, this means a coat. For “Tanza”, warmth was never a simple affair. It means layers: jackets and scarves and materials slipped onto her arms. It is all so ridiculous, really, all so unnecessary. But this is the mission. These are the rules.

Beneath all the layers, she has donned a shirt, designed to be laced up at the back.

‘Yaz,’ she mewls, feeling sorry for herself. She knows what this means. She has no patience, now. It has all turned to ash.

Bellara really must have been treasured, she thinks, for Tanza to allow this. Yaz approaches slowly, and the Doctor, unlaced, feels tightly strung.

She feels hands grab at the silk ties and pull. Her body follows, persuaded. She has to tug a few times to tighten the material, thread it over and under, over and under, the corresponding thread—and the Doctor feels the motion every time. It is like an electric shock to her midriff, the small of her back.

Yaz is barely breathing.

Deft fingers tie a bow, and when she is finished, before she can think she pats the Doctor’s back in confirmation.

They both still. The Doctor, also, is hardly breathing.

And then she spins round. Gaping at Yaz. Yaz staring back at her.

Every moment they have been together, calling each other the wrong name. Never saying anything about their real selves until they were alone, truly alone.The Doctor has been lonely except for these moments.

‘I think the carriage is ready, ma’am,’ Yaz murmurs. But she makes no effort to move.

They have been seconds from this, from reaching out and grabbing, this entire time. Temptation screams at her now, a burning chill just under the surface of her skin, and it blocks out all sound but Yaz.

Yaz, breathing quickly, eyes wide open.

‘Shall I tell them to wait?’ she wonders.The perpetual out-of-reach? The Doctor is not so sure.

She reaches out a hand.‘Doctor, we—’ Yaz clears her throat. ‘The rules,’ she tries.

This is all-consuming. The Doctor’s reach pauses for a moment. Her hand is suspended in the space between, the forces of want and necessity pulling it this way and that.

‘I know,’ she whispers, watching her hand dangling there. ‘I can stop, Yaz. If you want.’

And Yaz swallows. Quietly, ‘No.’She can feel Yaz’s breath tremble as her hand settles on Yaz’s front. Feels it on her palm, in her veins. Like an electric shock. Clothes soften the touch, but she knows underneath the Yaz’s midriff is firm, strong. She knows. She knows how strong Yaz is.

And this is a choice. Not a surrender.

This knowledge allows the Doctor to continue, her other arm coming forward to rest on Yaz’s hip. Her hand moulds to the curve of it. She watches, entranced, when a huff of air leaves Yaz’s mouth involuntarily.

‘Doctor.’ It’s a murmur, an anticipation. Yaz steps closer: the Doctor’s hand on her midriff moves to mirror the other. ‘Please.’

The Doctor cocks her head to the side. Brown eyes are almost black now. ‘Please what?’

‘I don’t know,’ Yaz admits. She huffs again, this time in laughter. The Doctor’s body is being bracketed, now, and gripped. Electric shock, every moment. ‘Just please.’

‘Okay.’ She can work with please. She can work with touch.

They spend the few moments savouring the sensation of it—sensation they have been deprived of for months now. Only when they have reached a breaking point they have finally relented, caved to the need of each other. They will treasure this as much they can.

Ryan and Graham are still waiting for them outside. They don’t care.

Yaz’s hand wraps around to the Doctor’s landing at the silk ties. It pulls the Doctor closer: chest to chest, a fingertip grazing at exposed skin.

The temptation is eating her alive. Right there. Yaz is right there. She is painted in it, all of her.

‘I missed you,’ the Doctor whispers, eyes alight. ‘It’s been awful.’

‘I’ve been here,’ Yaz responds, but she is nodding along, her eyes flicking down to her lips. ‘But this is a different kind,’ she adds, almost plucking the words out of the Doctor’s brain.

‘Something we couldn’t have. Not without breaking the rules.’

Yaz gazes at her again. ‘So break them.’

The Doctor needs no more persuasion. She brings her hands up to Yaz’s jaw, brushes a knuckle over it, gently. Caresses her cheeks, the soft rises of them. Temptation is silent now, satisfied. Electricity takes over. And the Doctor leans in.

Their lips have barely touched when a cacophonous smash breaks through their haze, the sound of metal hitting a wooden floor.

‘By the gods!’ a maid screeches.

They jump apart, hearts in their throats. 

send me some numbers!

[cas-tellation]

Not What You Thought (I’m sorry, I didn’t know) Pt. 7

masterlist - read on ao3

summary: Dan's ready to start his new life, as a boy. As Dan instead of Yazi. He's going to a new school in Manchester, where everybody knows him as Dan. Everything's going fine, except for when Nichole texts him and his binder is too tight and when dysphoria hits him like a fucking train. Oh, and there's that kid that sits with him behind the school at lunchtime and brings him food.

TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains lots of very descriptive self harm. If you are triggered by this but still want to read the chapter, please message me and i’ll give you a summary!!  

There’s something about the atmosphere around Dan’s house that makes his skin crawl. Maybe it’s the way that his mum watches him with prying eyes. Or perhaps it’s the lack of family pictures on the walls. It could be the low whispers that he can hear through the walls late at night. It might even be the odd family relative that still refers to him as ‘Yazi’.

Whatever the reason was, he was uncomfortable and frankly quite anxious. The anxiety is what sends him outside late at night in nothing more than his pajamas, alternating between staring up at the night sky and sitting on the swings in the park.

This particular night it’s the stars that have caught his attention, calling his gaze up to the sky so that he doesn’t have to suffer through  everything that is happening on earth.

His runs his fingers over his forearm, grimacing when he’s met with the ghosts of scars. It wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting it. More like he wished that they’d just go away. Battle scars, yeah right. More like ugly scars left over from being too weak.

-

Nearly a year ago, on the bathroom floor of Nicole’s house, his whole body hurting.

His back is pressed against the door, not letting Nicole in, despite how hard she was knocking. He doesn’t know where her parents are, but wherever they are, it’s not here.

Nicole had been drinking. As usual. Maybe that’s why she didn’t realize what triggered Dan. Or maybe, she didn’t care. Though Dan thought it was the first one. It had to be, because if anybody cared about him, it would be Nicole, right?

His current state of mind suggested otherwise, screaming at the already-broken human and telling it to destroy itself in what may be the worst way possible.

There’s already too many scars to count. All faded and white, or bright red, having been made recently.

The thing about Nicole’s house is that it’s a relatively safe place, if you ignored the copious amount of alcohol that were stored away in the fridge. The knives were kept high up in cupboards, razors tucked away under the sink, nothing very easily accessible.

But the thing about Dan was that when he wanted or needed to hurt himself, not much would stop him from doing so. His fingernails were long. He could bite the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood on his tongue.

This time it was the razor. It’s surprising, really, how easy they are to disable until all you’re holding is thin metal blades. His hands has slipped a few times, resulting in a copious amount of accidental cuts on his hands. He tries to steady himself, tracing the veins in his forearm without pressing down hard enough to draw blood, Nicole’s slurred screams in his ears.

Everything was too much.

Too much hurt, too much pain, too much emotion.

Too much.

“Don’t you dare do something stupid Yaz!”

“Please, babe, get out of there we should - we should talk !”

Nicole’s voice, as panicked as it is now, really isn’t helping in the slightest. It’s simply making everything more than too much. That extra boost, unbeknownst to Nicole, is what finally makes him press the blade harder, feeling the cold metal bite into his already-scarred and broken skin. Then, he flicks his hand to the side, gasping and barely holding back a cry as beads of blood poke up along the cut, instantly turning into more and more and more.

It’s running down his arm and everything hurts.

But for the life of him, he can’t stop.

Again and again and again and again until he can’t hold back his screams of pain and despair.

And again, after that, and then another one.

More and more and more and he wonders, vaguely, if he has any more blood left to bleed out. He lets his head slump back against the door, choked sobs wracking his thin body.

This is it, he thinks. This is the end of everything. On the floor, a distraught friend trying so hard to help him. But her screaming made his heart beat faster and his hands tremble more.

No matter how much she wanted to help, how could she possibly fix someone who didn’t want to be fixed? Who didn’t want to feel better?

Or, perhaps better phrasing would be preferable. How was Nicole expected to save someone from themselves?

In short, she couldn’t.

Nobody could except Dan himself.

But Dan is lying on the floor covered in blood and hyperventilating. His heart is beating too fast and he feels like his brain might explode. The blade drops from his hand to the tiled floor with a sharp clang, and his eyes drift close.

-

The scars feel ugly. Ugly and stupid and pointless and just plain disgusting. They make his fingers shake a little and his breath come in shorter intervals.

The sight and feels of the past memories makes him want to do it again, which is perhaps the scariest thing about them, the power that they still held. Dull and light and barely visible, and yet they still made him break.

Weak.

He lets his gaze drift up to the sky. It’s simplier up there anyway. Much better than down on earth, at the very least.

They calm his heart, making it easier to breath. He stops running his fingers over his scars and presses his palm flat over his heart, feeling it’s steady beat. He takes deep breaths, his eyes never once leaving the sky.

Calm.

-

By the time that Dan goes back to his house, the stars have disappeared and the sun has started its slow climb up the sky.

His breathing is steady and his mind is away from the scars on his body, calmed to the extent of a smile crossing his face.

(In reality, the scars still felt ugly, but Dan was just too starstruck to feel that thought in his mind anymore.)

-

By the time that Dan drags himself to school, he really regrets staying up all night. His eyes keep drifting shut in class. One moment he was blurrily staring up at the teacher, and the next there was a big thunk as his head hit the desk.

-

Phil’s waiting for him, behind the school, a bag beside him, a smile on his face.

Dan says, “Hi,” and “did you bring energy.” Not even stated as a question.

Phil says, “You look like a zombie,” and then he reaches up to grab Dan’s hands, tugging him down to the ground, where Dan fell against Phil’s chest and decided that this would be a great time for nap.

Phil calls Dan a nerd in the most affectionate tone of voice, ducking his head down to place a kiss to the top of Dan’s head, not even attempting to wake Dan up.

-

His dreams are plagued by memories that he’d much rather forget. Of Nicole, mostly. Some of her friends. Their friends. It was just that Dan was weird and shy and kept to himself so they never really became his friends. Nicole was his friend. Singular. Nicole. That was, until she wasn’t.

-

Phil wakes him up by shaking his body slightly, grimacing at the look that Dan gives him.

Dan says, “I actually hate you.”

And Phil, rolling his eyes, kisses the frown off his face and runs his hands through Dan’s hair.

When he pulls back, Phil says, “You’re late for your next class.”

Dan, groaning, drags Phil into another kiss, leaving his words ignored.

-

Phil had managed to persuade Dan to go back to class. How he did it, Dan doesn’t know. Still half-asleep, Dan barely makes his way through the rest of the day. He tells himself that he’s going to go to sleep earlier from now on. Of course, sleepily telling future-him to do something and actually doing the thing are two completely different things.

-

When Phil texts him close to three in the morning, Dan gives up trying to sleep completely, and goes to the park to meet his friend.

Phil instantly tells him that he’s not trying to make a habit out of being outside at night, nor is he in any way attempting to keep Dan awake after he’d fallen asleep at school the previous day, in such a worried tone that Dan cuts across him and assures him that everything’s fine and that he was awake anyway and how he’d never want to willingly pass up the opportunity to spend the night with Phil.

Lapsing into comfortable silence is something that Dan loves. A conversation coming to an end, and then quiet. Quiet and bodies moving against each other. Maybe not comfortable silence , persay. But comfortable all the same.

He hadn’t come here for this, the taste of Phil on his mouth and his hands buried deep in his hair.

He’d come here because there wasn’t anything else. No sleep. No peace.

And then Phil, around him the atmosphere being lit up like a fucking firework show. Peace.

Phil’s fingers on his waist and Phil’s tongue in his mouth and whatever sleepiness that Dan had been holding wasn’t there anymore. Phil. Everywhere, Phil.

Phil pulls back and Dan whines.

“No,” Phil murmurs, and then, “i’m sorry.”

“About what?” Gasped, needy, hands still gripping at Phil’s body. Are you okay, did I do something wrong, why are you sorry.

-

A year ago, another person, shorter, longer hair. Thick eyeliner. Nicole. “I’m sorry,”

“Why?”

And then, a universe, crashing down.

-

“About what?” Dan repeats when Phil doesn’t reply right away. His hands are still on Phil. Like if he stopped touching him, Phil would disappear. Like Nicole.

“For-”

Dan cuts him off with a kiss on his neck, the words left unsaid and tumbling into a low groan. He pushes Dan away. Gently, his hands soft, lacking anything real.

“I didn’t-... Dan, ” He says it like Dan’s name means something. “Dan.” His pupils are blown wide. There’s desperation in his tone.

“I- um.” An awkward glance down towards his crotch and oh.

Dan backs off immediately, his face red with blush, his eyes averted almost uncomfortably. Phil mutters something about needing a few minutes. Dan rolls his eyes, still sitting close enough to Phil that their shoulders touch.

“Jesus christ you’re horny.” Dan nudges Phil with his elbow, “We literally were barely making out.”

“Yeah well - …” Phil fails to come up with a good enough retort, just making a little grumbling noise under his breath.

“Am I really that hot that you get hard with just a kiss?” Dan teases, being careful to keep his voice light.

“You’re too cute to be hot.” Phil bites back, using one of his hands to brush his fringe up into a quiff.

“I can be hot.” Dan argues, turning to glare at Phil.

“ … no, not really.” Phil laughs, “you’re cute.”

“Shut up.” Dan settles into Phil’s side, turning his head to look up towards the sky, which was conveniently speckled by stars.

Phil says, “Cutie.” His voice hushed. He wraps an arm around Dan’s shoulders, drawing him closer.

[tardis-sapphics]

Thought I'd take a chance and throw out a Thasmin prompt. an accident involving a teleport and the TARDIS freaky fridayish but they have access to each other feelings and memories 😁

okay i know you wanted something funny but i’m really i’ve gone full throttle angst. i hope that’s alright lol. thank you for the prompt, i’ve had a lot of fun playing around with this!

this is going to be a four-parter, and this is the first bit. i’ll post the second bit when i get home from travelling, and the other two parts should be ready by tomorrow or saturday. as always, they’ll be up on ao3 soon, too, but in that case they’ll be a two-parter. keep a look-out for updates on here and on ao3!

i’d also recommend listening to this song during it. i know it’s for broadchurch but it’s the right mood ok

as always, below the cut.

Every step is a beckoning. It doesn’t help them.

Lately, Yaz has found herself wondering about how deadinside the action heroes are on the films back home. Eyebrows furrowed, deadthin lines for mouths, every limb fluid only to run, to jump, to pull a trigger.

How do they not cry? How do they not bluster and fluster andfall? Why don’t they grip onto each other when the going gets tough – reallytough?

Ryan and Graham have each cried three times in the lasthour. They’re the bravest men Yaz knows.

(Films are a lie.)

Explosions and gunshots are a constant shock to the systemfor a trio not brought up in war. Their deafening nearer, louder. Yaz hassqueezed the Doctor’s hand more times she can count. Even after all they’vewitnessed together, after seeing all the bodies that have littered theirjourney through this planet, Yaz finds refuge in the Doctor. Every time. Shehas held on tightly that she is at risk of melding their bones together; butthen, at least, there would be less flesh to locate, to target, to shoot.

Sight, not sound, betrays them. Every step is a beckoning,so they do their best to float. Silent breaths flee in bewildered spirals: everythingpained to be anything but reluctant.

Yaz can see goosebumps on her forearm, the sleeve of herhoodie only pushed back to prevent any more bloodstains. She will not groan forfear of discovery. Winces are all impassion. She has too much passion.

At least the Doctor’s hand is warm in hers. Hood up,grey-white and spoiled red against the rust red rock, she leads the way; theymust follow the ripped coattails, so sure on this trembling planet.

‘She’s got to be around here somewhere,’ she mutters, almostmerely mouths. More to herself or to her friends, there is no indication.

Time is the first victim that war’s first bullet claims. Wardevours history – arrogant, starved – and feasts on futures for dessert. Thisplace lost time long ago; it is up to them to find it.

Madness.

A shot, then a snarl. Must be a foot soldier, prowling. ‘Sniffout the fear and find the traitors,’ they’d heard all around them. Yaz isterrified that fear will fail them, but it wafts off them in waves. Every stepinto the unknown is a beckoning. Every step is a step into ending.

The Doctor dives behind the nearest free-standing rock and slamsherself into it; they obediently press themselves against its jaggedness andpray to gods they do or don’t believe in.

They do not breathe.

There is no point in breathing.

‘Breathing is death; all is death,’ so the saying goes here.If they are to achieve the impossible – to defy all – then something as obviousas breathing would be a fool’s mistake.

Unfortunately, breathing is generally essential forsurvival, and Yaz can feel her lungs bursting with the effort to contain thecarbon dioxide building up.

Graham is going red as the rock that might save him.

A vein has started bulging in Ryan’s neck.

The Doctor is fine.

The soldier marches on, the two-beat rhythm quieting. Untilthe only rhythms they hear are their own accelerated heartbeats.

Exhalation has never been sweeter. Or more silent. Yaz feelsfuzzy and everything looks the same sort of red. The Doctor is fine. She helpsYaz to her feet and her gentle grip, slender fingers on the hook of Yaz’selbow, is central to everything.

‘You’re doing amazing,’ the Doctor whispers, hazel-greenpiercing into Yaz amongst the burnt blaze.

The words are so close that Yaz almost inhales them. Shestutters in her breath. Doesn’t want to let go, even though it doesn’t help herworldly disorientation. She nods, somehow.

The Doctor switches her attention to the two men, andgestures to them manically. ‘Come on, we’ve got to keep going,’ she adds, andthis, too, is more a shape than a sentence.

They move on.

Steps beckon.

The Doctor’s hand trails from Yaz’s elbow, via the undersideof the woman’s arm, to her hand, and squeezes. Yaz is shaking off herunworldliness but that touch still feels the most important thing.

One squeeze against countless. The inside pounding seems tobe in harmony with the relentless outside world. How Yaz wishes all therelentless stayed only inside their adrenaline.

A shot blasts off, a shot at someone, which lands inpainstaking acknowledgement. The world does not shudder. There is no one elseto perform the civilian’s ‘Last Post’ except themselves; no melody but the cry,no trumpet but the voice.

Yaz can hear Ryan’s reaction – something halfway between agrunt and a whimper. Graham whispers to his grandson, a wheeze of a sound, buteven then he cannot hide the tremble in his voice.

Yaz reaches out for Ryan, finds the teeth of the zip on hisjacket, and bunches the material in her hand. Ryan’s hand makes easy the uneasyjob to hold on – human warmth is preferable to cold material – and Graham completesthe line.

She turns her torso to face her friends. ‘You okay?’

They both nod. ‘You?’ Ryan asks.

‘No,’ is her reply, but there is nothing to say to it, sothey don’t try.

Still they trudge on, shielded by cliff edge and rockstructures. Shapes of stone and earth make this a labyrinth; they are yet to discoverwhether the promise of escape is just an illusion.

The Doctor didn’t flinch. Wars have gorged on time.

Yaz wonders – after the death in their movements on thebattlefields, where do the heroes go to cry?

Yaz wonders – where does the Doctor go?

They turn a corner as another shot rings out. The laser hitsthe rock next to Graham and he jumps, yelps.

‘Run, Doc, faster!’ The ground melts beneath Graham’sfootprints as he shouts and scatters. Quiet has failed them, so all, onceagain, is death. Graham is still defiant.

The Doctor gasps. ‘We found it! In there, go!’ She pointsher hand to her north-east, and ducks her body as they scamper in thatdirection.

Yaz yanks Ryan forward – his stumble, loud, is enough toyank Graham closer, closer to an opening inside the cliff they had not spottedbefore.

Disappearance is not death; they have defied it.

There are no lights for the disappeared, the unconsidered,so the Doctor procures her sonic screwdriver and keeps a steady finger on itsside. Its glow unearths an ice-cold cave: there is frost forming, stalagmitesand icicles spreading over each other. Red in colour; blazed by the orange ofthe alien light, they look aflame. Burning ice wouldn’t be the strangest thingon this planet.

The lack of the fire’s grumble banishes the illusion tofolly. Instead, the buzzing bounces off of walls to greet them louder than ever before, and Yaz’s wince evolves into irritation.

She hears Ryan groan at the sudden sound, and he lets go ofher.

‘Hello?’ the Doctor calls out.

‘Doc!’ Graham immediately hisses, and the Doctor turnsaround to blink at him in bewilderment. He’s standing to the side of the caveentrance, shaded from the light of the outside world. He and Ryan have releasedthemselves of held hands to favour recovery from the sprint. ‘What’re youdoing?’

‘You’re gonna get us killed!’ Ryan adds.

‘No, no, I promise, we’re quite safe now,’ the Doctor shakesher head, ‘as long that soldier hasn’t followed us.’ She stares at all three ofthem. ‘We’ll be leaving here soon, I promise.’

Her gaze lingers on the wound on Yaz’s arm, a scratchagainst enemy metal refusing to let up, and finally determination dissolvesinto remorse.

She takes off the hood with one arm and guides them deeperinside. Ryan and Graham follow, light treading.

Breath clouds in front of them all. The Doctor marches into herown mist. ‘Hello? It’s the Doctor. We came for a favour.’

They hear the sound of scuttling bouncing off the cave wallsbefore the sonic illuminates the source. A Viba in hiding, her four insect legsstruggling to find much purchase on the slippery rock ground. One leg slips,but she hurriedly rights herself. The clothes sewn around her humanoid torsoare ripped with giant holes, but there are no injuries underneath. Perhapsthey’ve healed, Yaz thinks. The planet has hidden her from certain death, fornow.

The two parties take a moment to study the other. Yaz cansee the details of the Viba’s sharp, jutting face. The bridge of her buttonnose flows into a wide brow; underneath, purple irises take up the entirety ofthe four eyes on show, and their pupils have receded in the sonic’s brilliantlight. Her eyes narrow as she regards the four of them: inhuman blinking on ahumanoid head – Yaz is reminded of cogs, working inside brains; a loadingscreen.

‘Plor,’ the Doctor addresses her. ‘It is Plor, yeah? CountessPlor. 3rd Andrun Battalion when you were 13.’

The Viba sniffs. Behind them, the soldier passes by theentrance of the cave, satisfied.

‘Doctor,’ Plor sighs. ‘You shouldn’t have come. Especiallywith them.’ Her head jerks towards the humans, visibly wounded and shaken,their lives dependent on the two aliens in front of them. Plor’s gaze drifts onthe Doctor and Yaz, and the little space between them.

‘I thought that I – we – could help,’ the Doctor admits. Hershoulders slouch but the sonic is still pointed forward, a sagging angle at herelbow.

‘You thought wrong,’ Plor cuts her off.

‘Clearly,’ but the Doctor’s words have no bite, unlikePlor’s.

‘We did help, though, Doc,’ Graham protests, ‘we helped abit.’

Plor’s four eyes pin him to the spot. ‘Yet the war stillrages.’

Yaz’s gaze gravitates to a stalactite near the Doctor’shead, copper alight, and the film rolls before her eyes. Crystal palaces.Honour and family. A helping hand, running, jumping, shelter and laughter.

(Films lie. The silence was terrible.)

‘So now you’re running?’

The Doctor nods. ‘This isn’t their war to fight,’ and Plorblinks. The Doctor continues, ‘Have you got the teleporter still? Give me acouple of minutes to work on it, and we’ll be out of your hair before you knowit.’ A drop of water echoes as Doctor considers the sight of her entirelyhairless alien friend. ‘Or, you know. Cave.’

Another shout from outside reaches their ears.

Plor blinks.

‘Come.’

Steps beckon freedom. Yaz treads tentatively, careful not toruin this blessing. The Doctor squeezes her hand again, a tense anticipationpassing from Time Lord to human, and although their threat of death has beenreduced since entering the cave, Yaz’s pulse is unrelenting.

It seems so loud in the silence.

They are rushed to another alcove deeper into the cave,where the sonic’s light becomes crowded by fire and alien technology. TheDoctor detaches herself and is immediately magnetised towards the lengthy blackbox and the pedestal at the centre of the room, caressing her sonic over itsedges. Both of the Viba mechanisms appear to be battered and aged, but still inworking condition. Working enough for the Doctor’s eyes to light up again. Thethree humans stand in the corner, useless but alive.

They can breathe now. Yaz tries it.

She swears she’ll never be silent again.

‘Well?’ Plor, sliding over to the pedestal, crooks aneyebrow at the trio. ‘Stand on it.’

They comply. Yaz strangely feels like she is stood on ahangman’s box. She taps it with her left foot, ungainly in her sturdy boots,and it clangs resoundingly. Yaz remembers the wound in her right arm andwinces.

The sound is met with a disgruntled hiss from Plor – it wasa disturbance enough for the outside world to listen in on, Yaz realises; acall to forget defiance. She might as well have walked out of the cave alone.But it’s sight, not sound, that defeats them, so Yaz is repentant butunworried.

She looks up to Plor, to apologise, and spots her scratchingincessantly, with long, unkempt nails, at a hairy patch on her left arm. A hairappears to be growing, in real time.

The Doctor looks over to Yaz with an apology in her eyes,but keeps her head down.

She takes only a minute more. Her persistent buzzing and afew keying in of commands on the pedestal’s interface has notified the TARDISof their location, she explains. The TARDIS will take care of them.

The Doctor plants her feet next to Yaz once her commentaryhas finished. A low humming immediately starts; their feet are forced intoimmobility on the box. The Doctor’s boots have knocked against Yaz’s.

‘There’s room on the box for you, Plor,’ she says as theViba types in more commands on the interface. It is a whole paragraph oftyping; the Doctor looking on with her brow furrowed.

To the untrained ear there would be no sound but hope in theDoctor’s voice. Yaz can hear the remorse that threatens the Doctor’sdetermination, the thin line of a mouth that speaks of future death. And sheknows Plor’s answer before she opens her mouth.

Plor nods her head, too busy typing to look up. It robs hervoice of intonation. ‘My place is here, with the unconsidered. I am to themwhat you were to me, all those years ago. But thank you.’ She presses a buttonon the pedestal, and the process begins.

For a second Plor’s face contorts. To the untrained eye itwould be sadness, but Yaz has seen enough war now to read the signs.

The box starts vibrating, the thrumming louder and louder. Plorlooks at the Doctor’s friends. ‘This is old technology, long before the war. Icannot guarantee it won’t hurt. Brace yourselves, it won’t be long.’

‘Doctor, I don’t think—’

Yaz forgets how to breathe again. The thrumming becomes awhirring, and the sides of the box are suddenly aflush with white light –bright white light. She doesn’t want it to hurt. In the last moment before thetransfer, they hear the whoosh of the TARDIS – and, on instinct, Yazgrabs the Doctor’s arm.