#Rose Tyler drabble

[xawkward-ariesx]

It sits on the tip of her tongue, burning in the back of her throat like bile; Bad Wolf Bay. A constant buzzing in the back of her mind since she heard the words, a desperate need to make them mean something. Because they do, they must. Why else should they exist in a parallel universe that the TARDIS should never have fallen into, if not for a purpose? A message to lead her back to the Doctor once before, why not once more? There were coincidences that couldn't be ignored here. Her memories of destroying the Dalek emperor returning to her as she stared down the cult of Skaro. The werewolf in Scotland recalling her as the Bad Wolf. Twice was a coincidence, thrice was a pattern. The pieces had been laid out for her.

There was a way back. There had to be. Why else would she have left a message for herself? She had seen all of time and space, every timeline conceivable and deemed it necessary to leave these pieces for herself. It had to mean something. She couldn't allow herself to ignore this glaring neon sign if there was even just a possibility that she could save the Doctor in some way.

'The whole thing would fracture. Two universes would collapse.'

So? Absorbing the time vortex should have killed her, but it hadn't. Instead she'd left messages for her future herself, her life secured even in that moment of burning. And in return the Doctor had burnt up a sun to give her once last message.

She was dead. Back home, Rose Tyler had officially died. But she should have died the moment she became the Bad Wolf. She should have died a dozen times over. A ghost couldn't be killed so what did she have to lose now? She was already gone.

[dandelionjack]

the ninth doctor trusted rose enough to believe she would stay with him after his face changed. and twelve took some convincing but towards the end of deep breath accepted that clara would stay by his side no matter how old he looked. but thirteen was so used to losing people. her previous self had loved clara and lost her, he had looked after bill and failed to save her, he had tried to redeem missy and (to his knowledge) lost that cause too. no wonder she wouldn’t trust yaz to stay for her fourteenth face. no wonder she believed she ‘had to do this next part alone’. she had grown quietly distant with the new knowledge that she was no longer even an ordinary gallifreyan, not something of this universe, but outside of it, alien even to the aliens. isolated and inaccessible, standing on an invisible pedestal her ancestors placed her on — a pedestal that more resembled a cage. glass walls on all sides like the forced regeneration chamber. thin glass wall between her and yaz now, transparent but too solid to break through. harder than azbantium when there’s no solid footing to stand on.

of course yaz would run when she saw her new self. of course she would leave. companions would never stay now, they would never fully understand. when thirteen said that she would need to do ‘this next part’ alone, by ‘next part’ she meant ‘the rest of her (potentially eternal) life’. it’s the classic gambit: push the one you love away before they get the chance to reject you. because they always will, now. either that or they die in horrible circumstances. better to flee like you’ve always done.

this is why the bigeneration was a narrative necessity, why the giggle was the perfect vision of a positive finale. the original version of the doctor gets to settle down with people that he won’t lose. people that he won’t turn away from. people whose hearts he won’t inevitably break. he’s sitting there in the back yard and he’s not going anywhere…

…yet somewhere out there in sheffield lives a police officer named yazmin khan. she’s not all sunshine and rainbows — all cops are bastards, after all. sometimes she takes her nameless rage out on a shoplifting suspect. sometimes she hands a parking ticket to a kid that didn’t deserve it. and sometimes she does genuine good for the community, sometimes she goes to the club and dances with strangers, sometimes she sits on the sofa and watches a documentary about space exploration and laughs at the painful inaccuracies. and many miles south, the doctor spends time with his family, but he’ll never get the courage to visit her. because she’d want to run away with him again. and he could never give her that, not anymore. anything but running.

yazmin khan loved the universe in the eyes of her doctor. oh, that doctor in the garden? the stay-at-home-doctor? he’s brilliant, but he would never be enough for her. his presence would never replace the cosmic vistas and myriads of stars thirteen gave her. and she’s never coming back

[weirdmorefics]

Hi! Can I send in a request for being another timelord who travels with the 9th doctor and Rose Tyler being like a sister figure to Y/N?

A/N- Yes yes yes!!! I have actually had an idea for something like this just hadn't written it yet.

Readers Pronouns- She/Her

Word Count- 3.9k

Summary- (BASED ON S1 E6) The Doctor and Rose find themselves in a bunker in Utah full of alien artifacts. They are shocked to find some of these artifacts are alive and not here of their own free will. You just so happen to be one of these artifacts.

The Slightly Behind Timelord

I used to keep track of how many days I'd been chained and experimented on but the days quickly turned into months and the months turned to years. I've long since lost hope of ever returning to Gallifrey. It was in shambles when I was last home, the war was constant. I was a coward and stole my parent's Tardis to escape from having to fight. A stupid coward who didn't check if it was in working condition to only have crashed and ended up imprisoned by a man who I know as Mr. Van Statten. I should have stayed and fought then at least I would have died with dignity.

I have refused to talk since my arrival. I may have betrayed Gallifrey by fleeing but I refuse to make things worse than they already are there. Nevertheless, Mr. Van Statten comes and talks to me every single day asking about about my ship. They have dissected the TARDIS piece by piece. I secretly hope it burns them alive. When Mr. Van Statten inevitably gets nothing out of me he sends in a man an orange suit to torture it out of me. It never works but they do not stop.

Today was different they had a new man with them, he was restrained and they strapped him to the walls like me. I wonder if this was a new torture strategy.

"Look here we got you a friend maybe now you will do some talking," Van Statten says cheerfully.

I look at the man with pity knowing they are going to torture him as well. Van Statten's men unchain me and drag me to the other side of the room. I don't even fight them anymore I don't have the energy to spare.

Van Statten powers up his inhumane X-ray and says, "Smile!"

The man screams in pain as the red beam scans him and Van Statten smiles in glee at the results.

"Two hearts! A binary vascular system! Here I thought you were special," he shouts a glare in my direction and the man chained up widens his eyes.

The man doesn't look at Van Statten but puts his focus on me, "Where are you from?"

"No point in talking to her she hasn't spoken since we tore her from the rubble of her ship. She put up quite the fight when we started dissembling her ship screaming you are killing her. Then not a single word," he sighs in disappointment shaking his head at me. "I would get rid of her now that I have you but I need more information about the ship."

I suck in a breath they kill without care here, I wonder if everyone on this planet is like that. The man chained is certainly not from here maybe he can get me out. However, he is looking at me like I am unreal so perhaps not.

If looks could kill Van Statten would certainly be dead from this man's fiery gaze, "You're not a collector you're a scavenger."

"This technology has been falling to earth for centuries I am simply just making use of it. Oh the advances I've made from alien junk you have no idea, Doctor," he grins but I quickly interrupt.

I gasp, "The Doctor! Has Gallifrey won the war! How are you here?"

Van Satten's grin turns to a full-blown smile, "First you make the Dalek talk now my longest surviving exhibit! You truly are something!"

"there- there is uh... a Dalek here," I whisper afraid to speak their name.

The Doctor looks at me eyes full of guilt and astonishment, he still looks at me as if I am not here.

"Thank you again Doctor so much for getting her to talk keep her talking for me why don't you? Since you all seem so scared of said Dalek, I think I will go back and try to have a word with it. I find fear is the best motivator to get people spending, " Van Statten is practically glowing with joy and I wish I could smack the joy right off.

The Doctor wrestles with his chains trying to break free, "You can't go in there with it! Now that it knows that I am here it will come looking for me! No one on this planet will be safe!"

His screams fill me with fear if I could throw up right now I would but they hardly ever feed me so there is nothing to throw up so I end up hyperventilating. Mr. Van Statten ends up shocking the Doctor and his angry words are replaced with painful screams.

I struggle against my chains screaming at the top of my lungs, "He tells the truth! You don't stand a chance against the Daleks! The war lasted centuries on Gallifrey here you will be lucky to last day!"

Van Statten looks at me in awe, "Wow full sentences maybe you will prove useful after all these years."

Nothing I say to this psychotic man will ever get into that thick skull of his, I would facepalm if my hands weren't shackled to the wall.

Alarms sound and angry red lights flash, my heart sinks, it's to late.

The Doctor's tone shifts from begging to demanding, "Release me if you want to live."

Van Statten quickly makes work of the chains holding the Doctor down and runs for the door.

The Doctor points to me, "Forgetting someone?"

Van Statten waves him off, "We haven't the time!"

"You need all the information you can get on Daleks, let her out now!" he shouts leaving no room for questions and Van Statten quickly does the command.

My legs feel like jelly as we run into the elevator I can't remember the last time I've walked unchained let alone run. I felt so out of place, especially in a ratty hospital gown.

"You have to keep it caged," he shouts to Van Statten's lackeys.

"Doctor it's all my fault," a blonde says apologetically on the screen.

A guard informs us that he has sealed off the exits and the lock as a million combos no way the thing's getting out. I shake my head at his idiocy I just hope this blonde girl is also a timelord, the more the better.

"Daleks are genius they can figure out a billion combinations in ten seconds flat." The Doctor informs.

The Dalek quickly figures out how to exit the moment I see it on the screen I cover my mouth in horror.

"Don't shoot I want it unharmed!" Van Statten shouts.

"Are you that dense! You would rather a whole planet die than lose a collection piece!" I shout at the man who held me captive for years and swing a punch at his face which earns me the pleasant crunch noise from his nose.

two guards pull me away from him as I smile for the first time in ages. The Doctor doesn't seem to notice the commotion shouting for the blonde whose name is apparently Rose to run.

I look back to the screen to see the Dalek destroying the screen connection. I feared the sucker would go right through the screen and appear before me like a Weeping Angel. I stumbled backward but the guards just tugged harder to keep me in place. I groaned in response to the uncomfortable position.

The Doctor's head whipped in the direction of the noise in high alert, "let her go! You are focused on the wrong alien here!"

The guards look to Van Statten for his approval, "She's got one hell of a right hook, I'll give her that... drop her.

The guards took this a little too literally and dropped me directly on my ass, as the others make their way to the computer.

"Oh my god, it's draining the whole power supply," the woman with us gasped.

"It's not just the energy it's the whole internet, it knows everything," The Doctor states.

"Cameras in the vault our down," the woman relays.

"It's going to absorb everything," I sigh

"We have to kill it now!" The Doctor shouts.

We watch soldiers die again and again through the surveillance cameras. It's Gallifrey all over again I can't escape it, but maybe I can help this time instead of running away.

"Tell them to stop shooting!" Van Statten says but I am seriously praying this is a very cruel joke.

"But it's killing them!" The woman shouted back.

"They're dispensable that Dalek is unique. I don't want a single scratch on it!" he shouts to the lifeless soldiers.

I clench my fists, "You are asking me to hurt you! You are putting lives over a killer," I shout getting in his face his guards instantly stand up preparing for me to strike him again which probably wasn't far off thinking.

"He's an idiot we need to focus," The Doctor interrupts and I return my gaze to the map as they discuss alien weapons.

"There has to be a way to keep it alive, maybe we trap it down there-"

The Doctor cuts him off, "Leaving everyone trapped with it? Rose is down there. I won't let that happen, have you got that?"

That seems to shut Van Statten up for once thank god.

"Who is Rose? Is she from Gallifrey? Did you two come here to stop the last Dalek? Does that mean Gallifrey is safe again?" I ramble many questions at once.

"Doesn't talk for years now you don't shut up," he glares at me like this whole situation is somehow my fault.

The Doctor frowns, "Leave her be Statten." He ignores my questions and tells them to arm all the soldiers with alien weapons it's the only way to beat it. Then he directs the soldiers on how to kill a Dalek always aim for the eye the soldiers shut him down.

"I can't help but think everyone on this planet is insanely dense," I sigh.

The doctor smirks, " There are some good humans out there, you wouldn't know being stuck here with these imbeciles."

Van Statten's glare burns into The Doctor I feel the heat of the glare just from the proximity.

"We have visuals again," the woman informs and all of our eyes dart to the computer.

"It wants us to see," The Doctor growled.

We all stare in shock as the Dalek uses the sprinklers to electrocute and kill all the soldiers at once.

"Perhaps we should consider a different strategy like abandoning the place," Van Statten nervously stumbles over his words. I had never seen him like this he always seemed confident when torturing me. If this were any other situation I would be overjoyed to see him like this. I wish I was the one to make him feel like this, not the Dalek.

The woman glares at him, "Except there's no power to the helipad, sir."

"You said we could seal the vault," The Doctor interrupts their glaring showdown.

"There's not enough power!" she shouts.

"There's emergency power we could redirect it to the bulkhead door," The Doctor defends.

"It would take a computer genius to get through the security codes!" The woman says frustrated.

"Good thing you got me," Mr. Van Statten smiles.

"You wanna help?" The Doctor asks shocked.

"No there is no way he wants to help! It is physically impossible he has no empathy. This has to be a trick!" I shout.

"It's not out of empathy, I don't want to die as simple as that. This could have been avoided if you talked in the first place. I would have known what it was capable of years ago." He shouts back at me.

The camera turns back on and the Dalek's voice fills the room, "I shall only speak to the doctor."

"You are gonna get rusty," he responds to the Dalek who still getting soaked by the sprinkler system.

"I don't think now is a great time for jokes Doctor," I whisper.

"I fed off the DNA of Rose Tyler. Extrapolating the biomass of a time-traveler regenerated me," the Dalek speaks.

"What's your next trick," the Doctor rolls his eyes.

"I have been searching for the Daleks," it responds.

"Yeah, I saw downloading the entire internet. What did you see?" He saunters around the table.

"I searched your radio signals and telescopes," it responds.

I anxiously pick at the scabs already forming from when I punched Satten. What will happen if this Dalek happens to find more Daleks? What if he isn't the last one.

The Doctor seems completely unphased, "and find anything?"

"Nothing, Where shall I get my order from now!" It screams loudly.

"Nothing but a solider without any commands," the Doctor teases.

I look at him in shock he can't possibly think it's a good thing to rile up at a Dalek more.

"Then I shall follow my primary order, the Dalek instinct to conquer and destroy," it responds.

"What for! What's the point!" The Doctor shouts his facade slipping. "Don't you see everything is gone, everything you stood for."

"Then what should I do?" The Dalek actually seemed to have an emotion other than hatred. Many emotions. I would have felt bad for it if not for all they have done against Gallifrey.

"Alright, then. If you want orders follow this one. Kill yourself," the doctor responds coldly.

I look up at him with wide eyes this is not the Doctor they spoke of on Gallifrey the mischievous one who was too smart for his own good. This Doctor was cold and harsh with his words.

"The Daleks must live on," the Dalek shouts in a familiar rage that all Daleks have.

"The Daleks have failed! Why don't you finish the job and make the Daleks extinct! Rid the universe of your filth! Why don't you just die, " The Doctor shouts back such cruel words that I am worried that the Dalek will retaliate immediately.

"You would make a good Dalek," it responds and I think I have officially heard the worst insult anyone could make toward a Gallifreyian.

I put my hand on the Doctor's arm, " I am so sorry."

The Doctor does not look at me he looks broken but yells to Statten, "Seal the vaults!"

"She's still down there," the woman whispers to the doctor.

He calls Rose on his phone to get updates on her location he cares so much about this Rose she has to be a Time Lady like me. I can't imagine the Doctor having much time to visit other planets after the war.

He relays to her that he can't stop the gate from closing she has to run. He waits as long as he can and apologizes before shutting the vault. He frantically asks if she made it but his face quickly sets into a deep frown.

He quickly pulls off his earpiece, "I killed her."

Van Statten says, "I'm sorry." I have never heard him say sorry before I haven't heard the word sorry in so long it sounds foreign.

"I was supposed to protect! She was only here because of me! And you're sorry? I could have killed that Dalek in its cell but you stopped me."

"It was the prize of my collection!" He defended.

I shook my head hard, "You valued your collection over life you are disgusting."

"Man goes to space to be part of something greater," the Doctor spits.

"Exactly! I wanted to touch the stars! That's why I kept her here!" he points to me. "If you think about it, it is all her fault none of this would have happened if she told me how her ship worked."

The Doctor shook his head, "You just wanted to drag the stars underground! Of course, she wouldn't talk you enslaved her and experimented on her! You are about as far from the stars as you can get!" His angry screams turned to sorrowful sighs, "And you took Rose down with you she was nineteen years old."

"She's so young can she not regenerate?" I ask sadly.

"She's human," he sighs.

I can't understand what a timelord is doing traveling with humans I understand now is not the time for questions.

The elevator doors open and the Doctor is quick to yell at the man for leaving his companion behind.

The monitor turns back on the Dalek holding its weapon to the back of the girl, "Open the vault or Rose Tyler dies."

The doctor gasps, "You're alive!"

"Can't get rid of me that easily," she teases.

"I thought you were dead," he shouts.

The Dalek interrupts, "Open the vault!"

"Don't" she begs.

"What use are emotions, if you will not save the woman you love," the Dalek states. Curious what does a Dalek know about love?

"I killed her once, I can't do it again," he states as he presses the button.

This is most certainly not the Doctor who was infamous in Gallifrey how long have I been missing. I hear Van Satten shouting but none of it really matters anymore. The Dalek will kill us and I have been missing so long that no one back home will know the difference. I am not going down without a fight. If my life didn't mean something hopefully my death can.

I adjust my posture to appear taller, "You collect all these dangerous aliens so where are your dangerous alien weapons?"

The woman shouts at me "All the weapons are in the vault!"

"Only the cataloged ones," Van Statten's employee smiles at me. I can't help the blush that appears on my face I can't remember the last time someone smiled at something I said.

The Doctor nods his head at me, "Good idea." He still looks at me like I'm a figment of his imagination and will disappear soon.

We left Van Statten and his assistant upstairs and went to the basement for weapons. The doctor tosses the weapons that are useless but finds a gun which relieves some of my anxiety.

"Stay here! I'll come back for you as soon as I handle the Dalek!" He demands

"You are out of your mind! I've been locked here for years and you're the first timelord I've seen here! If you think I am letting you fight a Dalek alone you're mental!" I shout back it feels strange screaming at anyone after refusing to speak for so long even weirder to scream at a war hero from my own planet.

He takes a deep breath trying to control his rage, "I don't have time for this! I can't have you dying while I am saving Rose!"

I shove him, hold my head high, and walk right by him, "I have more regenerations left than you old man."

He jogs to catch up to me, "No convincing you?"

"God you sound like my parents when I stole their Tardis," I groan as we jog up the stairs.

He smirks, "I stole a Tardis myself once."

"Now that's a story I have to hear," I grin wide.

"Another day," he sighs as we quietly enter the room with the Dalek and Rose.

The Doctor steps in front of me "Rose get out of the way now!"

"No, I won't let you do this," she frowns.

I stare wide-eyed at her she can't be saying this does she know of the war on Galifrey why wouldn't the Doctor have told her.

"That thing killed thousands of people!" He shouts.

"It's not the one pointing a gun at me," she snaps and I kind of want to throttle this girl.

"I've got to do this the Daleks destroyed my home! My people! I've got nothing left!" He shouts.

My head whips to face the Doctor, "What do you mean nothing." My voice shakes no matter how hard I try to remain calm. "We didn't win the war? How are you here then?"

I turn back to the Dalek, "Did they win?"

I stomp towards the Dalek and the doctor pleads with me to wait. Rose looks at me nervously I guess I can still look scary in a hospital gown and no weapon of my own. When she steps out of the way I freeze in my spot I've never seen a Dalek out of its exoskeleton.

"What is it doing?" This has to be a ploy, one they use to seem weaker then snap. Though a Dalek would never do that they need to feel superior or they are nothing.

"It's the sunlight that's all it wants," Rose defends the Dalek as it reaches its hand to the sun I back up. This is not normal behavior.

The Doctors' gaze follows, "But it can't..."

"It couldn't kill me or Van Statten it's changing!" Rose defends yet again. "And what about you Doctor what the hell are you changing into?"

I whip to Rose, "You have no right! You have no idea what these Daleks did to our home!"

"Our?" She questions.

"Why do we survive?" The Dalek asks. "I am the last of the Daleks."

"You're not even that, you absorbed Rose's DNA. You are mutating," the Doctor explains.

"Into what?" it responds.

"Something new," he replies.

I frown I am happy that there are no more Daleks but this is truly a Dalek's worst nightmare.

"I am sorry," The Doctor sighs.

"isn't that better?" Rose asks.

"Not for a Dalek," why am I feeling sorry for the Dalek they destroy everything it's their goal. I can't help but relate to it when we have been stuck in the same prison for years... I thought about burning this whole place down myself.

"So many ideas, so much darkness. Give me orders! Order me to die Rose," the Dalek says pained.

She shakes her head, "No I can't."

"This is not life! This is sickness. I shall not be like you. Order me to die. Obey! Obey! Obey!" The dalek screams and I can't help but step a few feet back the words reminding me of hearing the constant battlefield noises out my childhood window on Gallifrey.

"Do it," she says.

"Are you frightned Rose Tyler?"

"Yes"

"So am I, Exterminate." The Dalek floats up and prepares to self destruct as Rose and I run away from it.

I fall to the ground as I watch the Dalek explode all the adrenaline I once had fades out of me. I look up to the Doctor, "What do you mean you have no one?"

His pitiful gaze that he sent me when he first found out I was Timelord made sense now as he responds, There's no more Gallifrey... no more Daleks. The whole planet gone."

I can sob " I should have stayed home. I should have never ran away. If I stayed at least I would have gone with my family." I turn to the doctor but can barely see him through my tears. "Is there really no other Timelords?"

Rose quickly gets onto the floor and rubs my back, "hey you never know! The Doctor thought he was the only Timelord left but here you are! Plus you get to constantly prove the Doctor was wrong not many people get the oppurtunity."

I sniffle, "That's true, and I do love proving people wrong."

"There you go," she soothes. "We will get you a good cup of tea my Mum always says tea cure anything," She helps me to feet.

"You are really good at this comforting thing. Is she always this sweet?" I ask the Doctor.

The Doctor seems to have glossy eyes as well but hides his emotions well, "Yeah, that's why I keep her around."

"Hey!" she shoves him.

"The grief is very heavy right now but I am thankful to be surrounded by such light that could even turn a Dalek's cold heart warm.

[bitch-scribbles]

All the better to taste you with.

NSFW, under 18s do not interact. Non-canon Rose Tyler x reader smut. Gender neutral reader. Face sitting. Thigh riding. Nipple play. (Very) light mentions of angst. Enjoy!

There was very little that could still surprise you. Daleks back from the dead for the 1000th time? Wouldn't bat an eye. Shadows that eat the flesh from your bones? It's a normal Tuesday. Statues that move as soon as you look away? Disturbing, yet not unheard of.

But the one thing that left your palms sweaty and cheeks flushed? Rose Tyler.

Rose Tyler lounging in the rusty orange light of the console room, sharing a bag of heavily-salted chips with the Doctor. Rose Tyler laughing at the smell of crushed apple grass underfoot, the chill blue of New New Earth's sky framing her like a television screen. Rose Tyler serious, enquiring over the working conditions of various Ood dinner...'ladies'? Rose Tyler in your bed. Cross-legged. Wearing nothing but a white tank top and grey boxers. The smooth warmth of her skin curling towards you from across the bedsheets, blanketing where you lay, propped against the pillows.

"Whatcha' think?" She leaned forwards, twirling the end of a frizzing braid against your cheek. "I thought it would be good to just keep the hair out of my face. But I kind of like it?"

You nod. The soft strands tickle your cheekbone. Rose smiles, pleased. At the skin of her throat, you can see a steady heartbeat, the trailing river of a vein that flows from the lobe of her ear to the curve of her chest, disappearing beneath the neckline of her tank top.

"Oi, eyes front solider."

Eyebrow arched, Rose frowns, a mock-furrow appearing in the centre of her forehead. Her eyes shine at you though, a quirk pulling at the corner of her glossy mouth. Imperceptibly at first, the bed dips as Rose shifts, her knee presses against your hip. She lets the end of her braid go, allowing it to swing and graze the tip of your nose. Free, her right hand drops to the pillow beside your head. Her eyes on yours, you feel the length of her thigh slot between your legs, until she is resting above you.

It's true, there was very little that could still surprise you. But, watching that smiling-turned-serious face drift closer and closer, feeling those glossy lips press against yours, soft and searching, left you dizzy with the all-consuming rush of want.

For a split second, an image of the Doctor flashed behind your eyes. The way he looked at Rose, with a gentle terror that made your heart ache for him, with him. But then, Rose shifted her thigh higher, rubbing agonisingly slowly against a spot below your stomach that made you exhale into her mouth, your back arching away from the mattress.

Her kisses grow firmer, shocks of teeth nipping at the chapped skin of your lips. Rose brushes the tip of her tongue against your mouth. High breathy moans escape her throat, your hands press into the swell of her ass, pulling her closer by the nape of her neck.

The grinding of Rose's thigh leaves you breathing in small gasps of air. She presses harder and your jaw throbs with the force of kissing her back. Slowly, you move your hand from her ass, to her thigh, to pushing up the hem of her tank top, brushing along the skin of her ribcage that trembles beneath your fingertips. Rose's lips falter as your thumb circles her nipple. Rolling. Pulling.

A throaty half-formed word vibrates against your teeth. Your other hand reaches up to tug at the end of one of her braids. Pulling Rose's head to the side, you press wet, tongued kisses against her neck. Trailing, your mouth dips to her collarbone, tasting the musk of shitty Superdrug perfume bought on sale 300 light years away and 30,000 years ago yesterday. It's sharp and clinical on your tongue, but you lick her clean.

Impatient, Rose swings her leg free of yours. Shuffling onto her knees, up your torso, until her knees rest either side of your head. With a whispered "fuck", Rose presses her covered clit to your nose. Inhaling, you drink her in. The grey of her boxers darken as you lick and suck at the crotch. She gasps as you dig crescent-shaped moons into her thigh. The rough of grown-in pubes scratches your nose through the thin material as she grinds down harder and harder against you.

Your hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear, stroking yourself in sync with Rose's jerky circling against your face. The fabric of her boxers cling to the outline of her pussy. Sliding, your tongue travels from her cunt to the smooth marble of her clit. You suck, tasting the tang of sweat and warm musky flesh. From beneath, you see Rose's hands cup her tits, fallen free from the tank top. You rub yourself faster. Her thighs are tensing around you. Her moans higher and faster. Your hips tilt upwards. She's pressing so hard against you now that your breath rasps against her soaked underwear. Rose cries out, rutting against the point of your nose, your mouth lapping at her. Her hands move to your hair, digging into your scalp as her movements slow. You continue to lick and kiss at Rose until she shakily moves herself away. Laughing as your tongue chases her.

Hovering above you, Rose smiles down. For the second time, you suffer a sudden pang on behalf of the Doctor. What would he give to lie where you're lying? But then, Rose asks:

"It's your turn now, isn't it?"

and you forget anything else exists, except for Rose Tyler and her ability to surprise you.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Drabble 346/366 - Doctor Who

Rose understood from the moment she met him: the Doctor is dangerous.

When he let Cassandra die, when he killed the Slitheen, when he raised a gun to a Dalek- But those had distance, his choice with no evidence on his hands afterwards.

They’re bloody now. Rose’s eye is swollen shut, but she’s alive because the Doctor descended on the alien torturing her without mercy.

“Rose,” he says, soft. He stumbles to her and touches her bruises gently. Then he recoils, ashamed of the blood he’s staining her cheek with.

Rose clasps his hand and presses her face into it.

[its-ya-girl-phoeni]

@azure-aeon-dragonica Crossover sadposting hours

As the Doctor stared up at the night sky, he briefly wondered if somewhere, in that parallel world, she was looking at them, too.

It wouldn't be the same stars, obviously, but he hoped they were beautiful to her, too.

-

Sometimes, the boy wondered if she was actually just flying around up there in the sky, a tiny speck swimming through a vast ocean of stars, and maybe, one day, he'd see her again.

It was wishful thinking, sure, but the thought comforted him greatly.

[quietwings-fics]

don't leave

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: NineJackRose Additional Tags: Whump, Angst, Drabble, Poisoning Wordcount: 100 Summary:

The Doctor has been poisoned, and his companions have to save him.

His veins are burning with poison. He’s trying to tell them what to do, but his tongue feels thick and heavy. Jack’s carrying more and more of his weight as he hauls the Doctor back to the TARDIS.

Rose is crying. “Don’t let her cry,” the Doctor tries to tell Jack, “tell her I’ll be alright.” His words are incomprehensible.

He has to be, for Rose to smile again, for Jack to complain about this later rather than whisper to the Doctor now how he can’t leave them now.

He wouldn’t ever leave them, if it was up to him.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[theaccursedninth]

Choose between Rose or Maddie

The former Dark Elf stiffened. For a moment, his eyes widened, and tension coiled down his arms like a snake.

"No," he said finally, and turned away, his hearts painfully tight beneath his ribs. He could hear it, the voice--that voice--needling his brain the way it always did when he balked at conflict instead of taking time to process it.

'That's not an answer, Malekith,' it whispered, chided him like he was an unruly child.

"Sod off," he barked back, cursing in their ancient language. How dare he--it--that voice hold him accountable for this. This of all things. It lived inside his head, it knew how he felt about...about them. About his agonizingly long life and the path he'd stumbled down in all that Cursed Time.

'Somebody's gotta ask the hard questions. I know you won't.'

His prolonged existence in this muddled, misshapen universe was a bleeding question in itself.

'Is it? Look at yourself. The company you keep. You've built a life around you, Malekith. A real life. When was the last time you stood still long enough for that?'

The Accursed grit his teeth. Don't go there, he thought; his hearts pitched and teetered towards the pit of his stomach. I don't want to hear--

'Maybe it's time you move on. Maybe it's time yeh let go.'

"No," he said again, but it was weaker now, softer out of earshot from those who would question this habit he had of conversing with The Voice aloud.

"I can't, he said finally and with a heavy sigh. Not completely. Not for good. Letting go...letting go meant letting sleeping dogs lie, letting it be, all of this, the mess he made of the universe and the body count that trailed behind him like a shadow. It meant accepting the desolate, dying world he'd driven to darkness would always be, the monsters he'd risen from the ground up would always exist and perhaps were always meant to in this Timeline. There was more than one, of course. He used to be able to see them, to feel them moving alongside him, a constant companion.

No, he thought. I can't let go. To do so meant accepting that this face, this creature in Time Lord skin that he was now had written his future in blood the day he let Gallifrey burn.

Not the Doctor. Not a coward. A Monster.

The Bad Wolf had been right to send him away.

@deitysmuses

[timesleatherjacket]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Metacrisis Tenth Doctor & Original Daemon Character Characters: Metacrisis Tenth Doctor (Doctor Who), Rose Tyler, Original Daemon Character(s) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemon Settling (His Dark Materials), Angst, Adjustment Period, Pete's World (Doctor Who), Introspection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End (Doctor Who), Character Study, Double Drabble, Complicated Relationships Series: Part 4 of Daemon Days Summary:

One heart. One form.

But who are they, really, beyond what they've been made to become?

[rotoa]

Tyler Scott Drabble

Prompt: If you could go back in time to change one event, would you do it? Why, or why not? Word Count: 811

Tyler Scott had a gift.

Maybe it wasn't a rare gift, or anything particularly interesting, but it made her feel abnormal - special, even. And she lived for that validation. It was hard not to, when you've had an entirely normal life in a city of freaks.

Everyone had some sort of sob story. Normalcy was a myth in a city running rampant with fear and chaos. No, correction; Normalcy was chaos.

So Tyler wasn't special. Not really. But she was the type to roll with the punches, throwing out a witty comment here and there to cope. That wouldn't stop her from acting like hot shit, though, if she could help it. Did that mean antagonizing the GCPD and Bats to an irritating, but not threat-level degree to feel like she was important? Yeah. Dangerous, reckless, stupid - but she was desperate for the thrills.

So imagine her surprise when something truly strange happened.

Tyler makes portals. A fairly average gift, teleportation was. Maybe it wasn't super common - she certainly wasn't well-versed in the statuses of other metahumans - but it definitely wasn't unique as far as comic-level superpowers went. Even outside of Gotham, there were speedsters, aliens, gods- She heard about it all over the internet forums she scoured with a relentless fervor.

It was terrifying.

It was cool.

She'd spoken loosely about her abilities on the aforementioned forums, and the speculation was absolutely insane. An ability like portals was entirely dependent on how her power bent the fabric of reality to link two points together. Did it fold reality, creating warp points on the world map, or was there potential to go deeper? Could she fold spacetime itself, creating the potential for interdimensional- or time-travel?

There was so much she hadn't considered. The common denominator was always her blood, but the potential was seemingly infinite. It got her thinking.

And thinking.

And thinking.

Until she remembered something. And she wondered.

Was it possible to change something so small but so significant?

-o-

It was her twelfth birthday. She remembered it clearly, remembered the date overlapping with her parents' wedding. She wasn't upset. Her parents hadn't been able to wed until then, so it was a wonderful occasion. She even got presents, too, alongside her parents! It was a win-win.

But.

Tyler had wanted to cut the cake. Her mother had laughed, her voice full of mirth, and relented.

There was an accident.

Blood spilled.

It would have been fine - it was a small cut, a slip of the hand, Tyler would have been fine-

If she hadn't begun falling. If time hadn't shifted around her, accommodating her sudden travel through reality. Searching, searching, searching for a place to plop her down, another waypoint to send her to-

She was eventually spat back out of the portal, rising from the warp point like rising from a puddle of ink or paint. She was fine, thankfully - the wound was already closing. (Did she have a minor healing factor? It would make sense, given her blood has to be the source of her transportation-) But there were stares.

Everyone had seen her use her power.

And there was fear in their eyes.

She wasn't a superhero, after all. With her disposition, she was more a liability than anything. It made sense. She wasn't mad. She understood.

And yet, it still hurt.

-o-

Tyler wondered idly, staring at her open palm - she had no destination that day, so reality spat her back out. But what would happen if she tried to slide through the cracks in reality made by her own power?

Would she and her younger self trade places?

Would a younger Tyler inhabit a modern gotham? Or worse, would they mentally trade places? Would there be a way back?

Questions, questions, questions.

Tyler bit the nail of her thumb. A nervous habit, meant to help her focus her chaotic thoughts. She wanted to try. She really, really wanted to see how far her warping and portals went.

But she could not deny that she feared the inability to return. She was unhinged, but she was not fearless. Right now, she was capable - well-versed in her power, as well as she could be on vigilantism as practice and rampant theorizing. If her twelve-year-old self was shot forward in time, it could lead to all sorts of questions, and chaos, and-

The thought was too much.

It was a huge personal risk. One she was not willing to take. If she could use it to send someone else barreling through time, she would in a heartbeat. But Tyler had no one she could use, much less anyone she could trust with that kind of knowledge.

Tyler was alone.

Tyler filed away that line of thinking for a later date. She promised herself she wouldn't return to it unless absolutely necessary.

It was enough.

For now.

[xawkward-ariesx]

Because it hurts

“They’re people?” “They were, until they had all their humanity taken away… All emotions removed.” “Why no emotions?” “Because it hurts.”

She thinks about that sometimes over the years. After everything. After the walls have sealed them universes apart. After she sees the Doctor one last time but only to say goodbye, to tell her that this is the end, that she can never come back. After everyone moves on and carves a space for themselves in this new world that had left a gap just for them.

She thinks about the Doctor stood before a cyberman’s head as he told her, “An old friend of mine. Well, enemy.” She thinks about the way he couldn’t distinguish between the two for a moment. She thinks about the way he’d spilt about old monsters and the world he’d burned to destroy them. She thinks about Sarah-Jane, an old friend he’d never been able to speak of. 

She thinks she understands some of that now. She wonders if he keeps silent about her the way he did Sarah-Jane. Thinks she’d understand that too. She thinks about Sarah-Jane telling her the Doctor had been called home by the Timelords, how she’d never seen him again. She thinks about the way the Doctor never talks about them; talks about the beautiful planet, the trees, the grass and the two suns it used to orbit.

She thinks about the Doctor screaming at the Nestene, trying to bargain with it even after it’s shown itself to be hostile. She thinks about the Doctor and how his pity for the Gelth had made him blind to their intents. She thinks about the way he wears his scars and if she’s one of them now, or if he keeps her hidden away with his memories of people. She wonders if he still lets his pain and his anger fuel his need to save another planet, another people. She wonders if it still burns a hole through his hand the way there’s a burning in the back of her mind.

She thinks she understands him in a way she never could before as she fights to prove him wrong. Words and numbers falling from her lips in a way that reminds her of Jack, remind her of him. Things come to her easier these days, things she’d never understood before when they’d gotten lost in techno babble back before. Before she’d gotten stuck. Before Jack had stayed behind to fix the Earth. Before they’d left him alone, despite their best intentions.

Things slot into place for her now in a way that she doesn’t understand how but comes from the golden, burning place in the back of her mind that she knows shouldn’t exist. Should be locked behind fortified doors. Shouldn’t still be glittering, but hollow and cold. Shouldn’t leak secrets of the universe into her ears. Should leave her clueless and frustrated, grasping at dead ends in a way that’s expected of a girl off a council estate that never finished her A levels. A girl that had followed a stranger to the stars and picked up a few more along the way because she hadn’t understood then; but she’d seen the same lonely shadow in him that she’d felt in herself.

But she understands things now that she shouldn’t. She understands dimensional travel. Understands the cracks in the walls and the scars in the void that never completely heal if you press just right. Understands the physics and theory better than anyone of her time period should, let alone her. Understands why monsters are easier to face than the ones you’ve lost. Understands why there had been locked doors on the TARDIS in the same way she can’t bring herself to decorate the blank room she’s found herself occupying. 

And she wonders if the fire ever burns out for the Doctor in the way the universe feels a little too heavy for her sometimes. She wonders if he sees her in the way she hears his words in her mouth. And the shadows she’d seen him seem heavier in her own eyes these days. She thinks about her mum’s words on that fateful day.

“You even look like him.” “How do you mean? I suppose I do, yeah.” “You've changed so much.” “For the better.”

She thinks about how it had filled her with pride at the time. She thinks about how she’d thought she was fitting into this new world that he’d shown her. How she’d become more than just another nineteen-year-old girl from the Estates. She thinks about how she doesn’t bother to fit into this world. How she doesn’t try to force this world to make space for her where there is none. She thinks about how that sentiment has become even more true in his absence. She does look like him. From the way she carries herself to the way she carries her scars and her secrets, lets them make her someone else.

She thinks about the worlds she’s seen dying as the stars blink out of existence across reality as she fights her way back to him. She thinks about the way she’s let every single one of them harden her when she couldn’t save everyone. She thinks about the nonchalant way the Doctor had spoken of the empty Earth before the sun had swallowed it whole. She thinks she understands how he’d focused on the survival of the species of the planet living amongst the stars instead of fixating on the planet he couldn’t save. She thinks about the lone survivor of a planet with its twin suns and the little blue box that remains its planet’s only reminders of its existence after the universe moved on.

She thinks about all the people they hadn’t been able to save. About how every single one of them had burned deep inside of her, fueling a resolution to do better next time. She thinks about how the first few fires had burned her before she learned how to put up the appropriate armour up. She thinks about the Doctor and his own armour. She wonders what taught him to put walls up between himself and the fires.

But mostly she thinks about the ways the years slip by her unnoticed, despite her mortality and the way she feels as though she’s never getting any closer to what feels just out of reach. And she wonders if it’s the same for him. She wonders if his immortality weighs on him the way her humanity weighs on her. She thinks she understands now the adamant way he’d spoken of humanity and how it hurts, the way there’d been no room for argument. The conviction in his words as a man burned too many times.

[waynes-multiverse]

Ok hear me out. I got this idea after the episode of Dean getting his "virginity" back and hooking up with the porn star when he's digging through her dresser and finds the DVD of her ANYWAY

Best friend Dean who's been pining after you for sooo long but doesn't want to fuck it up and lose you. You're hanging out when you ask him to go grab something from your room and he's digging through your drawers looking and accidentally comes across some lingerie and now it's days later and he's so hot and bothered cuz he can't think of anything else (the boy has a serious panty kink lets be honest) and you catch him in your room going through your drawers again and OH

A/N: As I warned y'all, this is a longer DD because, well, the prompt was long, so it's not really my fault. All that backstory took on a life of its own, but I think no one will be mad about it 😅 Again, I had tons of fun with this one! You'll see 🤣

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSWF, a ridiculous heat wave, friends to lovers (Wayne's Version), crack, a panty kink, some sneaky fluff, and some hot lovin' aka smut (oral f & face sitting)

Word Count: 4.5k (whoops)

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles

Cruel Summer

“You open the beaches on the 4th of July, it’s like ringing the dinner bell for Christ’s sake…”

As Jaws flickered across the screen in the Dean Cave, the green-eyed hunter adjusted himself in his seat. Usually, he had perfect control over himself and his feelings for you.

But on some days – like today – when you sat right next to him on the couch in nothing but a loose t-shirt and some short sweatpants, fanning yourself with an old magazine of Busty Asian Beauties as beads of salty sweat collected on your forehead and trickled down your neck, you made it hard for him.

“God, I’m so hot,” you sighed exhaustively and sunk further into the couch cushions, lifting your shirt from your sticky skin to let some cool air to your boobs as a heat wave ravaged through Kansas.

Painfully hard.

“Dean?” You pouted with your best puppy dog look at your best friend.

“Huh?” Dean was in trance, watching you more than the movie, always on the edge of getting caught one of these days.

“We’re out of Sour Patch Kids. I have more in my nightstand. Can you get them for me please?” you asked sweetly. “I don’t wanna move. I might actually die from heat exhaustion.”

Dean sighed and wordlessly rose from his seat. He knew you always kept an array of salty and sweet midnight snacks in your room in case you got hungry and didn’t want to wander into the kitchen in the middle of the night.

Moreover, he was grateful for the break. God knows he couldn’t stand to be around you any longer, or he would’ve been too tempted to rip your clothes off and really make you sweat.

I’ll show her a damn heat exhaustion, he thought with a scoff.

Hastily grabbing the desired snack, his green eyes then caught something red and lacy sticking out from the first drawer of your dresser. The hunter knew the decent and honest thing would’ve been to just keep moving and leave your godforsaken room.

Turn around, as Bonnie Tyler sang. But for some reason, his bright eyes couldn’t resist, his curiosity overtaking him.

Dean opened the drawer with the intention to push the naughty little clothing item back into its place and out of sight. Get rid of the temptation, so to speak. It sounded like the perfect loophole. He got to touch it and look at it, but for a very heroic and noble reason – not because he was a creepy perv, violating his best friend’s privacy.

On some level, Dean knew he’d never stand a chance with you. He wasn’t good enough. He had so much baggage all his suitcases wouldn’t even fit into the bunker.

A damn touch of a pair of panties you weren’t even wearing was all he would ever get from you.

But then his fingers touched the soft and see-through material, his pads tracing every delicate scarlet thread with precision and care. It was game over for him then and there, cursing himself internally for not resisting harder as his cock twitched joyfully in his jeans.

Dean had laid his eyes on you the second you strolled with swinging hips into that diner in Wichita for your very first case together, a werewolf hunt six years ago. And he had managed to get by without an incident for years since then, even when you moved into the bunker, being rather proud of that achievement. He never wanted to lose you as a friend and didn’t dare to cross a line. Ever.

Recently, though, it became more difficult to keep his distance and not let his thoughts wander. His feelings were magma that slowly had filled a volcano over the years. Each time you did something sexy or sweet or goofy or smart, another drop was added. And now, that damn fire mountain was overdue for an eruption – no thanks to that stupid heat wave.

“Thanks,” you said absentmindedly as the hunter handed you the candy but didn’t settle back down. Instead, he stood behind the sofa and leaned his hands on the backrest.

What you didn’t know, though, was that Dean was sporting quite the boner and wouldn’t dare to come into your line of view. He was surprised he could even walk up straight and not like a caveman early in the evolution.

A hunter gathering panties.

“I’m gonna hit the hay,” he told you with a somber clear of his throat. As the fan carried a breeze of your perfume to his nose, his grip tightened on the couch.

You turned in your seat and looked over your shoulder at him, raising a surprised brow. “Already? But the movie’s not over.”

“Yeah, I’m beat,” he excused and tried his best not to look strained. He forced a tight smile to his lips while his little dude celebrated Spring Break in his jeans. “‘Sides, we’ve seen Jaws like a million times now, Y/N.”

It was a cherished summer tradition between the two of you, watching it every 4th of July.

“I guess so.” You shrugged disappointedly, watching your best friend retreat to his room. Truth was, you loved spending time with Dean and held those little traditions close to your heart.

The Winchesters were your family, the only one you ever had. And while some families wore matching pajamas on Christmas morning, you watched the first two Die Hard movies. You would watch Dean’s favorite horror movies on Halloween. Sixteen Candles and High Fidelity on your birthday, Tombstone and The Great Escape on Dean’s, and some lame-ass foreign language documentaries that you both snored through on Sam’s.

Valentine’s Day was a dreaded non-holiday for all three of you, but for the past four years, someone would leave a box of chocolate in front of your door. The salted caramel ones would always be missing, and it always came with the same Forrest Gump quote:

I’m not a smart man, but I know what love is.

You knew the anonymous someone was Dean, and you knew he meant it as a joke. Still, you clung to those little traditions. They might seem silly and stupid to some, but to you, they were your lifeline in a world full of darkness.

So, you felt rather saddened Dean didn’t seem to honor them anymore. It wasn’t just Jaws, either. He’d been withdrawing from you for a while, and you didn’t understand why.

Unbeknownst to you, the green-eyed hunter had kept a lacy souvenir from your room.

Now, Dean had managed to avoid you for four days. Every night since his stealthy excursion, he would lie in his bed with your stolen panties in one hand and his throbbing length in the other, feeling goddamn pathetic for sinking so low.

It was probably so low that even his memory foam mattress would remember it.

With closed eyes, he then imagined how the perky globes of your ass would look like covered in crimson lace. How you would stretch out on his bed on all fours, with your ass high in the air and wiggling in front of him. How his fingers would push the wicked material aside to push into you, taking you deep and hard while you moaned his name.

As he ruined tissue after tissue, the guilt would wash over him as soon as he was done. Call it a post-nut epiphany.

Dean knew it was wrong to think those things. He knew he only made it harder for himself to ever look you into the eyes again. Hell, he barely could do it now, even though a part of him audaciously wondered what other treasures were hiding in that drawer of yours. And more pressingly, what ultimate wealth he would find beneath your clothes. If your lingerie was gold, he’d be a creepy-ass dragon sitting on it.

So, Dean tried to avoid you as best as possible. Mostly because, well…

“God, fuck me,” you groaned exhaustively and opened the refrigerator door, leaning against it as the refreshing cold hit you from behind. On top of that, you held a big bag of frozen peas to your sweaty chest. You already wore the bare minimum – some short denims and a white tank top, your hair up in a messy bun.

“I swear underboob sweat is the worst. Just be glad you don’t have tits,” you complained. “Guys, seriously, can we invest in an AC? This heat wave is killing me! This bunker is like one giant oven…”

You watched as Dean squirmed in his seat as he ate his cereal, looking as uncomfortable as you. Surely, the boys were suffering just as badly during those sweltering temperatures, already forgoing the usual flannels and opting for plain t-shirts instead. How they were still wearing jeans was beyond you. When you first moved in, you protested against Dean’s suggestion of Naked Tuesdays, but these days, you were actually giving it a second thought.

“Well, I’m gonna drive to Kansas City today and see if I can get us an AC. Apparently, they’re all sold out, but I figured maybe with a bit of flirting and some cleavage, I can still get us one,” you explained your plan with a bright smirk and wiggled your eyebrows. “What d’you guys think, huh?”

Dean then abruptly banged his fist on the table, spilling some milk from his bowl on the surface. “For God’s sake, Y/N!”

You frowned in confusion at his unexpected outburst. “What’s up with you? Are you having a heat stroke?”

“Flirting, really?!” the hunter barked, his brow shaped into a deeply furious v.

“What’s wrong with that? Double standard much? You do it all the time to get shit,” you countered and watched his jaw clench in anger.

“I do-... not,” he remarked snappily with a fierce finger drilling into the table, clearly lacking a good argument. Sam cleared his throat in agreement with you, but that only earned him a glare. “And Jesus fucking Christ, would it hurt you to put on some goddamn clothes? You’re not even wearing a bra!”

“Did you not hear my tits rant just now? Of course I’m not! ‘Sides, those boobs are gonna get you an AC, so be a little more grateful to them,” you retorted, annoyed with his attitude. You’d think of all the people in this world, Dean Winchester would understand. (And maybe even appreciate it.) “And how can you even tell, huh?”

“‘Cause science, Y/N! You’re literally cooling your tits! What did you think was gonna happen, huh? Nipples!” he vented outrageously. “This ain’t a strip club!”

“It’s 102 degrees, Dean!” you argued, throwing your arms up. “Look, if I could, I’d even go naked, alright? It’s fucking hot!”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Dean shook his head and stormed out of the kitchen without any further comment.

Confused, you blinked at the younger Winchester. “What’s up with him?”

But Sam only shrugged, shaking his head. “Uhm, I don’t know,” he replied, although he could take an educated guess, suspecting his brother’s feelings for you as the culprit.

“Well, alright, I’m going to Kansas City,” you decided without wasting another thought on the older Winchester’s strange behavior. “Text me if you guys need something. I can pick it up on my way home.”

Dean knew he was in deep trouble as his bow legs bolted down the bunker’s hallways. He tried so hard to keep it together, but when he saw you, half-naked and panting in front of the fridge, he quite literally lost his coolness in this goddamn heat wave.

The green-eyed hunter understood a thing or two about torture, but this was the worst of all. He’d rather have a demon repeatedly peel off his skin in hellfire than endure a day more of this fucking madness.

If the temperatures didn’t drop soon, it would be a cruel summer ahead of him.

As Dean heard the door to the garage close, he knew you’d left for your trip and exhaled a deep sigh of relief. At least he’d get a few hours of peace.

With the best intentions, he strolled to his bedroom, but as he passed your room on his way, he found the door ajar. Whatever good motives he had up until this point, went quickly out the window right then.

His hand twitched at the thought of more riches, worse than any trigger finger and competing with a California earthquake, and well, so did the dick in his jeans. It was an addiction at this point, an obsession he couldn’t resist nor get rid off. The fact that it was forbidden and wrong only made it even more appealing. The apple in the garden of Eden.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t an anonymous support group for this kind of sickness.

As unbearable shame and guilt collected in his stomach like rainwater in the gutter, his eager hands rummaged through your dresser drawer. There was purple lace and black satin, navy G-strings and white Brazilians. It was never ending, and the hunter couldn’t stop as he picked up each item and let his fantasies roam wild.

God, the things he wanted to do to you were as colorful as your rainbow full of underwear.

“Dean?!”

The green-eyed hunter froze in his place, a white lace panty still bunched up in his large palm. The hair in the back of his neck stood up in shock, a part of him refusing to turn around at the sound of your voice. He was caught red-handed, and he knew it.

“What are you doing in my room?” you prompted, suspiciously cocking an eyebrow. It looked fairly obvious what your best friend was up to, but you didn’t want to accuse him right away, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Frankly, it was quite unbelievable.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Dean replied and swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he held up his hands like a criminal during an arrest, the evidence still in his grasp.

“Well, it looks like you’re snooping through my lingerie,” you pointed out bluntly.

Dean nodded, guilt-ridden and reluctant. “I can explain.”

“Good,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m waiting…”

“Right, uhm…”

“Oh, before you scramble for an answer, you should know, though, that I’m aware a pair of red lace panties is missing, and I know the washer didn’t eat them,” you said and raised an expectant brow.

You had a feeling your pervy best friend was behind the mystery of the missing item. Now you knew for sure.

“Man, I always knew you were a kinky son of a bitch, but this is a new level, Dean,” you scolded.

Dean’s gaze dropped to the floor in shame, scratching the nape of his neck. “Look, uhm, there’s no good excuse. I know I fucked up here. I’ll sleep in a motel tonight until I find my own place. You can stay here with Sam, alright? I’ll move out and won’t bother you anymore.”

As he tried to brush past you, you blocked his exit and grabbed his arm. “So, you’re gonna leave? Just like that?”

“What other choice do I have? I don’t wanna make you more uncomfortable,” he stated without glancing at you once. He couldn’t bring himself to look into your eyes and see the disappointment and disgust there. “I know what I did was wrong.”

“Oh, so wrong,” you agreed. “I just figured you wouldn’t run away like a coward and take your punishment like a man, you know? Aren’t you at all curious what I’m wearing right now?”

That was when Dean’s juniper eyes slowly wandered to you and caught your gaze for the first time. You smirked as his breathing became heavy and his look darkened and filled with lust. It seemed like he wanted to rip your clothes off with his goddamn bare teeth like a wild animal.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or if I’m dreaming,” he admitted, his deep voice part harsh swallow and part nervous chuckle.

“Neither,” you said, biting your bottom lip.

Carefully, you leaned closer, your hands reaching up to cup his scruffy cheeks. Noses nuzzled as your lips ghosted against his with a daring grin. You wouldn’t go further; it was up to Dean to make that final decision.

And then, as no more than a mere second ticked by on the clock, the hunter crashed his lips against yours in a kiss so scorching it made the current heat wave look like an ice age. If you thought you were hot before, now it felt like you were burning in a wildfire.

Dean roughly pushed you against the door, his kiss all teeth and tongue in an uncontrollable frenzy. His dick was hard and thick, straining against his jeans and rubbing along your thigh. Pantingly, you gasped for air and grabbed his hand, guiding it down your body and into your shorts.

“Feel that?” you asked mischievously as his fingers dug through your soaked folds and collected the arousal he caused. A wanton growl left his plush lips. “All for you, baby. You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?”

“Shit, yeah, so bad…” Dean rasped huskily against your throat as he worshipped his path down your body, forcing your shirt up till his wet tongue rolled over your pert and still cold nipple.

“Gonna make it up to me, huh? Show me how sorry you are?” you prompted, your fingers raking through his sandy blond and soft hair, eliciting a groan from him every time you tugged a little harder.

Teeth pinched your skin, tongue cherished your taste, and lips left your throat bruised. It was equal parts hot, sweaty, messy, naughty, dirty, and sticky as your bodies rutted against one another, looking for dire release.

With swollen and plumper than before lips, he came back up for air and found your eyes. He kissed you with heated passion once more as if he couldn’t resist to touch you over and over again. He had to restrain himself to be able to speak.

“So, uhm, you sure about this?” Dean asked between labored breaths with an insecure gleam in his green eyes. “‘Cause if we go further, I don’t think I can stop. And I don’t mean just this time but ever… If you want this to be a one time thing, you gotta tell me, sweetheart, so I can mentally prepare myself. I mean, I’ll take what I can get, you know? Not that I care either way… Well, that’s not true. I do care. A lot… But, you know, you’re you, and I’m me, so I’m not delusional. I know there’s no way you would–”

You interrupted his babbling with a kiss, causing the hunter to lose his words. You looked deeply into his eyes and offered him a small smile of comfort.

“Dean, listen to me, okay? ‘Cause this is very important,” you urged, your hands gripping his shirt tightly.

He nodded, gulping anxiously. “O-Okay.”

“You’re incredible,” you said and watched him inhale sharply at your words, blinking at you in disbelief. “Absolutely fucking bonkers incredible. You’re right – you’re you. And thank God you are, because you’re the best, funniest, smartest, kindest, and goddamn hottest man I’ve ever met. I’m tired of you not seeing that. As my boyfriend, I really need to you to see that, alright?”

As Dean pensively took in your words, his brow began to furrow. “Boyfriend?”

The corners of your mouth rose to a beam. “Yeah, boyfriend,” you confirmed. “That’s what you want, right? ‘Cause I’d really like that, too.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah… That’s what I want.” Dean nodded eagerly before another swallow followed. “I mean, among other things…”

You bit your lip, smirking. “What other things?”

“Well, uhm…”

Dean didn’t finish his sentence, his lips impatiently claiming yours instead. He pressed you hungrily back against the door, massive hands sliding down your sides till they hooked into the hem of your denim shorts and ripped them down to your ankles, leaving you only covered in teal lace. He growled shamelessly at the sight, his thick digits eagerly diving inside.

“Wanna be inside you,” he groaned into your ear, thumbing furiously at your clit. “Every hour of every day…”

“We can do that,” you agreed with a giggle, your arms locking around his neck, fingers carding through his hair in the back.

“Wanna feel your mouth around my–” The last word was muffled as he ravaged your neck, but you understood where he was going with this.

“You can do that,” you said with a smile.

“And fuck, I want you to ride my face,” he declared. That demand left you speechless, making even Dean stop for a minute and look at you. “Too far?”

You shook your head and smirked. “I can do that.”

Before Dean’s mind could fathom your words, you shoved him onto the bed, his back hitting the mattress. When you stood before him, slotted between his muscular legs, his gaze trailed up and down your body, memorizing every beautiful curve. As your fingers curled into the waistband of your panties, however, the hunter stopped you.

“Leave ‘em on, sweetheart. Don’t you dare take those off,” he told you, his hands rapaciously reaching out to you.

You played with the hem of your top and smirked, your tongue licking over your lips. “What about this? On or off?”

“Off,” he shot back faster than a bullet leaving a barrel.

“You first,” you demanded and grinned. “Remember, this is still your punishment.”

“God, I love getting punished,” Dean mumbled and slipped out of his shirt. He then swiftly shimmied out of his jeans, discarding each item carelessly around the room.

He then took a deep breath as he tugged the waistband of his boxers, his erection already fighting its way out. “Well, here goes nothing,” the hunter said and pulled his underwear down.

You tilted your head to see his hard cock from a better angle as it sprang against his stomach. Your lips parted in anticipation, wondering what he’d taste like on your tongue and how deep you’d be able to take him. You guessed there’d be a struggle ahead, considering how huge and wide he was.

“Oh, I would not call that monster nothing,” you commented with a scoff, your pussy throbbing with need. “Explains all that BDE.”

Dean blushed. It was cute to watch. “Thank you.”

Giggling, you removed your shirt and tossed it at his face, blinding him for a second. You used that momentum to slide onto the bed and straddle his torso. As his eyes finally found you again, he almost choked on his spit when he gazed up at your perfect tits above him. A primal grunt escaped his throat.

With a mesmerized sparkle in his eyes, his hands trailed up your body and cupped your breasts, massaging them roughly as your panties grew damper by the minute. He then pulled you down to his lips and kissed you breathless before he left them with a boyish smirk on his freckled face.

“Hop on, sweetheart.”

And as if his words hadn’t been enough motivation, his hands wandered to palm your ass and hauled you closer to his mouth. He was an impatient one – or maybe he’d waited years for this and was finally tired of it.

Your knees sunk into the mattress on either side of his stubborn head. His fingers dented your flesh as they grabbed onto your thighs. Yours held onto the headboard for support. You tried not to look down, because then you’d see his big lopsided and full of excitement grin.

The same one he had when you found a diner in Kentucky that advertised the biggest burger in America (it wasn’t). The same one he had when he thought he had run into a member of Metallica at a gas station outside of Phoenix (he didn’t). The same one he had when you and Sam gifted him his own beer brewing station for his last birthday (which tasted horrible, but neither you nor Sam had the heart to tell him).

And now, he had that same grin when he was about to be with you.

As your pussy dripped above him, Dean couldn’t hold back his lewd groans any longer. You didn’t even have to lower yourself; he just dragged you down onto his face all to eagerly. His fingers swiped your panties to the side, and before you could even adjust your grip on the bedpost, his tongue darted into your soaked channel as deeply as he could and sucked you goddamn dry.

With several whimpers, you clenched around his wet muscle. If you were water in the desert, he was parched and drinking to survive.

His nose was buried in your folds, rubbing deliciously against your clit as he lapped your pussy in a vicious attack that left you squirming and moaning to a pornographic degree above him. Because Dean was just that – pure porn.

Instinctively and irresistibly, you ground your cunt against him, the vibrations of his keen groans against your sensitive flesh rocking you to the edge of your climax. He ate you out and devoured you like that damn gigantic burger in Kentucky. And as you dared to blink down and watch him in action, he had the audacity to devilishly smirk up at you with the crinkles around his green eyes alone, gauging your every reaction to his touches as if you were a goddamn movie on a silver screen.

You trembled and quivered and screamed as your orgasm electrified every molecule in your body. You white-knuckled the wood in your grip, your body only held up by Dean’s strong arms because God knows your weak legs were useless now.

As wave after wave washed over you, Dean drank every drop of yours, his tongue never getting enough of your taste. The sounds that filled the room were carnal and obscene.

“Fuck, Dean,” you sighed blissfully and lifted off his face and captured his swollen and red lips in a grateful kiss, your palms finding purchase on his broad shoulders. Your drenched and sensitive cunt settled on his thighs as an egregiously large erection poked your belly and tempted you further.

Dean smirked up at you, all satisfied and confident with his achievement. “I think we have a slight problem, though.”

Your brow knitted, your heart tightening with anxiety. Had you been as disappointing as the burger, beer, and that fake Metallica band member?

But Dean only grinned teasingly at your confused face. “There’s no way I learned my lesson here.”

You snorted and sought out his lips, the kiss giving you a taste of yourself. “We’ll work on that. I might have to nickname you Jaws after this,” you joked.

“Can’t wait for you to explain that one to Sammy.” Dean snorted, chuckling. “Now, how about you hop on again, but this time a little further south, huh?” he proposed with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a suggestive twitch of his cock for emphasis.

You giggled with a few nods. “I can do that.”

Was it worth the words? 😝

For all you newcomers and as a general reminder, Dirty Drabbles are always open. I still have quite a few left, but you're welcome to send more in, and we'll add it to the collection at some point 😎🔥

PUT YOUR DIRTY THOUGHTS HERE

TAGS:

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @imsapphine @globetrotter28 @mxltifxnd0m @lacilou

[rootedinrevisions]

In His Arms

A/N: Just a little aftercare fluff with our favorite cowboy. Not much of a plot and this is kind of more of a drabble than a one-shot. But I was struggling to write anything else so this is what my brain wanted to think about tonight

WARNINGS: Implied smut, maybe cockwarming? (not sure if that's the right label for what happens here.)

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The room was steeped in warmth, the kind that only came from the perfect combination of love and passion. The soft hum of the ceiling fan mixed with the distant sound of crickets outside the window, creating a soothing backdrop to the slow return of your breaths. Tyler was beneath you, his broad chest rising and falling steadily as your own heartbeat began to settle. He’d only been home an hour, but already, it felt like the days apart had been nothing more than a distant memory.

You lay sprawled over him, your body molded to his like it belonged there—because it did. His arm rested lazily above his head, his fingers occasionally flexing against the pillow. The other was anything but idle, his roughened palm drawing a lazy path up and down your spine. His touch was featherlight yet deliberate, the tips of his fingers brushing over every curve, every dip of your body like he was memorizing you all over again.

Neither of you spoke at first. Words weren’t necessary—not yet. The moment was too raw, too precious to break with conversation. He was still buried deep inside you, his body unwilling to part from yours. You felt his heartbeat against yours, steady and sure, as if tethering you to him.

"You okay, darlin’?" His voice was soft and gravelly, thick with exhaustion and satisfaction.

You nodded against him, your cheek resting against the firm plane of his chest. "More than okay," you murmured, your words muffled but still clear enough to make him chuckle.

"Good." His hand slid into your hair, fingertips massaging gently at your scalp. "I missed you so much. Felt like I was out there forever this time."

It wasn’t the first time he’d been gone chasing storms, but this week had felt especially long. His absence left an ache in your chest, one you hadn’t realized had grown so deep until he was back and holding you like this.

"Me too," you admitted softly, your lips brushing against his skin. You felt the way his body shifted beneath you, his arm tightening around your waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“You have no idea how much I missed this,” he finally murmured, his deep voice a low rasp that sent a ripple of heat through you. His words came with a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

You nuzzled into the curve of his neck, your lips brushing against his pulse. He tipped your head back slightly, just enough so his gaze could find yours in the dim light of the room. His green eyes, flecked with golden warmth, held a look so tender, it nearly stole the breath you’d just regained.

"I thought about you every night," he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair. "Every damn minute. You don’t even know what you do to me."

His free hand began its slow path down your back again, fingertips trailing over the curve of your spine. When he reached the small of your back, he paused, pressing his palm flat against your skin and holding you there. 

"This," he said softly, "this right here is what I needed."

A flush rose to your cheeks, and Tyler’s lips curled into a soft smile as he felt the heat of it against his neck. 

“There it is,” he teased, his voice dipping into that gravelly tone that always made your heart stutter. "That blush I love so much."

He shifted slightly beneath you, his arm tightening around your waist as he pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel every inch of him, the heat of his body wrapping around you like a blanket. He didn’t stop touching you, his hand tracing slow, deliberate paths that left trails of goosebumps in their wake.

“You feel so damn good,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, then down to the corner of your mouth. “I swear, nothing else compares. Nothing else even comes close to having you like this.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he beat you to it, his lips capturing yours in a slow, searing kiss that left no room for doubt about how deeply he meant every word. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

“Stay with me like this a little longer,” he said softly, his hand coming back up to cradle the nape of your neck. “I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

His fingers trailed down your spine again, his touch firmer this time, as if grounding you both in the moment. His lips found the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he continued in a hushed voice that sent shivers racing through you.

“I missed you so much,” he said, his tone rougher now, edged with the kind of desire only he could make feel like a promise. “And I’m not done with you. Not even close. I want you again, sweetheart. Over and over.”

His words made heat bloom low in your belly, and you couldn’t stop the way your body shifted against his. Tyler’s hand on your waist tightened, holding you still as his eyes darkened. 

"Easy, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "We’ve got all night. No need to rush."

He let his hand drift lower, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding back up to the small of your back. 

"I’m gonna show you just how much I missed you," he whispered, his lips grazing your jawline. "Gonna make sure you feel it—every inch of it."

You shivered as his words washed over you, his breath warm against your skin. He shifted beneath you, his body a comforting weight as he pulled you impossibly closer.

"I love you," he said softly, the words catching you off guard even though you’d heard them before. There was something different in the way he said it now, like it wasn’t just an expression but a vow.

Your heart swelled, and you leaned up just enough to kiss him again, pouring every unspoken feeling into the connection. He responded in kind, his hands roaming your body like he couldn’t get enough, like he was memorizing every curve and dip.

The world outside didn’t matter—not the storms he chased, not the time apart, not anything but the two of you in this moment. In his arms, you felt it all: desired, cherished, and deeply, irrevocably loved.

And as the night stretched on, Tyler made good on his promise, showing you again and again just how much you meant to him.

[keehomania]

like him — rcm (drabble)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ i’m everything that i’ve strived to be. so, do i look like him? do i look like him? i don’t look like him

he saw it every time he looked in the mirror. he knew it was there, following him, clinging to him like a second skin. even when he tried to move on, something was always there to remind him. he was reminded of it when he saw the look in his sister’s eye, the look of fear, disdain. he saw it every time he walked by her friends, their glares boring into his skull. sometimes he’d glare back, because he was supposed to. that was him. but not today.

today, he was tired. tired of the constant weight bearing down on his shoulders, tired of pretending it didn’t exist. he leaned forward, his palms pressing against the cold marble of the bathroom sink, the sharp edge biting into his hands as if to anchor him. his reflection stared back, hollowed and harrowed, a shadow of the man he was expected to be. the room was dim, the fluorescent light overhead flickering, casting uneven shadows across his face. it wasn’t the face of a son. it was the face of a ghost.

blood was thicker than water. he wanted to change, but how could he? how could he take a wrecking ball to the dominoes he had been placing since he was a little boy? every step, every choice, every piece of who he was had been meticulously constructed to fit the image ward cameron demanded of him. and if he tore it all down, what would be left? nothing. nothing but the boy who was never enough.

“ever since you were a little boy,” rose’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting, delivered with the same coldness that had made her such a perfect match for ward. “even then, you were there, sucking up to him.”

it wasn’t the words themselves that stung. no, it was the venom, the quiet disdain in her voice, the way she said it like it was a fact, a cruel joke at his expense. because she knew. everyone knew. rafe cameron, desperate for his father’s approval, clinging to the scraps of affection ward had dangled before him like bait.

he didn’t know when it had started. maybe it had always been that way. maybe he had never been his daddy’s little boy, not really. maybe he had just been a means to an end, a pawn in the game ward was always playing. but he’d wanted it to be real. god, how he’d wanted it to be real. he dreamt about it sometimes. about him.

sometimes they’d talk, just the two of them, no tension, no expectations. his father would sit across from him, his expression soft, his words kind. other times, they’d hug, ward’s arms wrapping around him in a way that felt safe, steady, the way a father’s embrace should. those dreams were the worst. because he couldn’t remember which parts were real and which weren’t. did his father ever hold him like that? did he ever look at him with pride, with love? or was it all a fabrication, a desperate attempt by his mind to fill in the gaping holes his father had left behind?

rafe swallowed hard, his throat tight, his chest heavier with every breath. the mirror in front of him blurred as his vision clouded, tears threatening to spill. he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the pain. rose had been wrong about one thing. he hadn’t stopped being his daddy’s little boy. not really. because even now, with ward gone, with the weight of his father’s sins pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket, rafe still wanted to make him proud. even now, he still wanted to be enough.

he looked like him. he’d seen it first when he ward had died, standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, the weight of his father’s suit draped over his shoulders. it didn’t fit him—not then, not now—but he’d thought, this is what it means to be the man of the house. to carry the weight, to wear the armor. the fabric swallowed him whole, but he’d stood there anyway, staring at himself, trying to see what his father saw. trying to see the man he was supposed to become.

but all he saw were his father’s eyes. cold. empty. they stared back at him, unrelenting, the kind of eyes that gave nothing and took everything. he didn’t have the beard yet, or the wrinkles etched deep into his face like scars from a life lived with too much pride and too little joy. not yet, at least. but the eyes were there, as unmistakable as the blood that tied them together. he looked like him. and it haunted him.

it haunted him every time he caught his reflection in the mirror, every time he passed a window and saw the faintest shadow of himself. it haunted him in the moments of quiet, when there was no one around to pretend for, no one to blame but himself. because no matter how much he hated it—hated him—he couldn’t escape it. ward had known it too.

rafe saw it in the way his father’s eyes would linger on him, not with love, but with a strange, detached fascination, like he was looking into a distorted version of himself. like he was trying to figure out how he’d gone so wrong. ward would see himself in his boy’s eyes, his own reflection staring back at him. and even that wasn’t enough. it wasn’t enough to love him. not the way rafe needed to be loved.

he had spent his whole life chasing it, that love, that approval. he’d followed his father like a shadow, desperate to be noticed, desperate to be something to him. he wanted to be seen, not as a reflection, but as a son. a boy who had tried so hard, who had given everything he had.

but ward had only ever seen the flaws. the cracks. the places where rafe didn’t measure up. and rafe knew that because every glance, every word, every disappointed sigh had cut him deeper than he’d ever let on. and now ward was gone, and all that was left was the reflection. the man in the mirror, staring back at him with cold, empty eyes. the man he had spent his entire life trying not to become. the man he couldn’t stop becoming.

he wasn’t the hero he wanted to be. not in sarah’s eyes, and certainly not in ward’s. he wanted to be. god, he wanted to be. but heroes weren’t made of cracked mirrors and borrowed shadows, and that’s all rafe cameron had ever been. he wasn’t the strong, steady protector sarah needed. he wasn’t the prodigal son ward had demanded. he was something else entirely—something broken.

he went to sleep at night carrying the weight of sins he didn’t know how to put down. they clung to him like chains, heavy and unyielding, each link forged in blood he couldn’t wash away. his hands were stained, his soul tarnished, and it was all for his father. every mistake, every crime, every dark corner he’d backed himself into—it was all for ward. and yet, it was never enough.

he knew something was wrong with him. he could feel it, an ache deep in his chest, a hollowed-out space where something vital should have been. he’d told ward that once, on a cold night by the docks, his breath visible in the frigid air, his eyes wet with fresh tears.

“something’s wrong with me,” he’d said, his voice breaking as he looked at the man he was trying so hard to become.

ward had barely looked at him. he’d brushed it off with the same indifference he reserved for inconveniences, telling him to man up like it was that simple. like it was a choice. like rafe hadn’t been trying to man up every single day of his life, pulling on that damn suit and praying it would fit. it still didn’t fit.

he lashed out. he fought, screamed, tore through the world like a hurricane, desperate to prove that he was enough. desperate to hear the words he needed, the words he would never hear. he watched ward’s love go to sarah, to rose, to anyone but him. it didn’t matter what he did or how hard he tried. it was never going to be him. but it was supposed to be. he needed it to be. he was angry at ward, at sarah, at the pogues, at the whole damn world. but most of all, he was angry at himself. because deep down, he blamed himself.

he blamed himself for not trying hard enough, for not being good enough, for not being enough. if he’d been stronger, smarter, better, maybe things would have been different. maybe ward would have loved him the way he loved sarah. maybe rafe would have felt like a son instead of a failure. but he wasn’t. and he didn’t. and so he stayed angry. It was easier that way. easier to burn than to crumble. easier to fight than to fall apart. easier to hate himself than to admit he’d never been given a fair chance to begin with.

the house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that felt wrong, like it was waiting for something to shatter. you stood in the doorway, watching him pace the room, the expensive rug muffling the sound of his footsteps. he was wearing the suit again, the one that didn’t fit right. too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves. it hung off him like it didn’t belong, like he didn’t belong in it.

you were the only one who saw through the mask he wore, the carefully constructed armor of arrogance and cruelty that he carried like a second skin. to everyone else, rafe cameron was the villain in his own story—reckless, unhinged, the cautionary tale whispered in the quiet corners of polite conversation. but not to you.

to you, he wasn’t the monster they said he was. he was the boy behind the mask, raw and bleeding, his soul fraying at the edges. they called him unredeemable, a lost cause, but you wondered when the last time was that any of them had asked him how he was really doing. when had they looked at the storm raging behind his eyes and dared to reach out a hand instead of casting judgment?

rafe didn’t wear his pain on his sleeve; he buried it deep, where no one could touch it. but you saw it. in the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. in the way his voice would crack, barely audible, when he spoke of things he wished he could change but never did. you knew he wasn’t the bad guy people made him out to be. he was just a boy who wanted to be loved. that was the tragedy of it all, wasn’t it? he wanted love so desperately, but love had never been gentle with him. the heart, after all, came with blood. and his heart had bled for so long, it felt like there was nothing left.

“rafe,” you called softly, but he didn’t hear you. or maybe he did, and he just couldn’t stop.

his movements were erratic, sharp, like he was trying to outrun something that wasn’t there. his hands twitched at his sides, curling into fists before unclenching again. he muttered under his breath, words you couldn’t make out, his voice low and strained, like he was arguing with himself. you stepped closer, hesitating when his shoulders stiffened.

“rafe,” you tried again, louder this time. he stopped.

for a moment, you thought he might turn to you, might let you in. but then his fist shot out, slamming into the wall with a sickening crack that made you flinch. he hit the wall again, and again, each impact reverberating through the room, through you. his knuckles split open, blood smearing against the pristine white paint, but he didn’t stop. his breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air.

“rafe, please,” you begged, stepping closer, your voice trembling. “you’re scaring me.”

he froze, his fist hovering mid-air, his whole body trembling as though he were holding himself together by sheer force of will. slowly, he turned his head, and for the first time, you saw his eyes. it wasn’t you he was fighting. it wasn’t even the world. it was himself. your heart ached as you watched him, standing there in that ill-fitting suit, his knuckles dripping blood onto the marble floor. he looked like a child playing dress-up, trying so desperately to be something he wasn’t.

you reached out, your hand hovering near his arm, but he felt so far away. you didn’t know how to reach him, didn’t know how to pull him back from wherever he’d gone. so you stayed. you stayed and watched as he shook, as he muttered, as he fell apart piece by piece. and then, suddenly, it was like all the fight drained out of him.

he collapsed to the ground, his knees hitting the marble with a dull thud. his bloody hands hung limp at his sides, his head bowed, his breath hitching in his throat. you didn’t think. you just moved. sinking to your knees beside him, you wrapped your arms around his head, pulling him into your chest. he didn’t resist, didn’t say a word, didn’t even cry. he just let you hold him, his body trembling against yours.

he didn’t cry right away. at first, there was just the silence—the kind that suffocates, heavy and oppressive, wrapping itself around you like a shroud. his chest heaved against you, his breaths uneven and ragged, but the tears didn’t come. they were caught somewhere deep inside him, trapped beneath years of anger and shame, beneath the weight of a name that had always felt like a curse.

you didn’t say anything. not yet. you didn’t dare look down at him, not when you could feel the tremor in his body, the way his hands shook as they hovered near your sides like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold on. so you held on for him.

your arms stayed locked around him, pulling him closer, your fingers threading through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. you didn’t care that his blood was on the floor, that it was smearing against your clothes. all you cared about was him.

“rafe,” you whispered, your voice trembling but steady. “you’re okay.”

the words weren’t just for him; they were for you too. a lifeline for the both of you as the room seemed to close in, as the echoes of his fists meeting the wall still lingered in the air. it was exactly what ward had said to him, but when you said it, you said it like a promise. not a platitude. not a lie. you weren't convicing him, you weren't convicing yourself. you said it like you believed it, and no one had believed in him. and that was when it happened.

the first tear slipped down his face, silent and almost imperceptible, blending into the sweat on his brow. but then came another, and another, until they were streaming freely, carving paths down his cheeks, dripping onto the marble floor beneath him.

his sobs were quiet at first, muffled against your chest, but they grew louder, rawer, until they were shaking his entire body. he was falling apart in your arms, piece by jagged piece, and all you could do was hold him together as best you could.

“i’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking on the words. “i’m sorry, i’m so—”

“don’t,” you cut him off, your hand still stroking his hair, your other arm pulling him impossibly closer. “let it out, come on. you're doing so good.”

and he did, because he was. he cried for everything he’d lost, for everything he’d done, for everything he’d never been. he cried for the little boy who had worn his father’s suit, desperate to be something he could never be. he cried for the man he had become, the man who terrified even himself. but most of all, he cried because you didn’t look at him the way everyone else did, the way he did.

you didn’t look at him with fear or disdain or judgment. you didn’t tell him to man up or walk away when he unraveled. you stayed.

“you’re okay,” you murmured again, your voice soft but sure. “you’re not him.”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

a/n: s1-s3 rafe they could never understand u like i do

[quietwingsinthesky]

Drabble 285/366 - Doctor Who

“I’m a Time Lord,” Rose says. “I’m the only Time Lord left.” She looks too young for the hundred odd years she claimed, in her distant eyes and the way the words haphazardly fall from her mouth, too soon for her to stop them.

“There was a war, and…” She pauses on a breath and never finishes her sentence. He reaches for her hand and hesitates to take it.

“My Mum kept asking when I would visit,” Rose says instead. Now, he takes her hand. Now, he knows it won’t be enough.

“I’m sorry.” He promises, “I’ll come with you.”

[cowgirlcherrie]

after the storm. ⚡︎ florist! abby drabble

╰   * a/n: no plot for this either but rather a spin off on my headcanons ! just a little treat for my patient babis who were waiting for more ♡ in simple words this is about happy accidents. . .

song(s) — after the storm. kali uchis & tyler the creator , falling in love. laufey

3:40pm new york. 

Abby didn’t do love.

Although it would be nice and she yearned for it. She wished with the very small penny that she would find in her sage dickies, somewhere blanketed with an old mint gum wrapper and her brown leather wallet in her pocket. Tossing her very last penny into the Washington Square Park fountain wishing for a lover as considerate or even more than her. One to build flowers for and be her muse. 

One to make stockings with around the holidays where she would plant mistletoe around the house, using it as an excuse to merge lips with her lover; and to make floral centerpieces for the family dinners.

Was it too much to ask for?

Abby felt like a late-bloomed flower in comparison to her peers. They were going to wine and dining events with their partners, fancy yachts in the summer, and getting engaged. Everyone was falling in love around her whilst she fell behind and was tormented into watching. 

On this typical, almost mundane Saturday,  the rain flooded down the crevices of the tall buildings hugging the wood and brick of the apartments and offices. Golden Canary taxis beeping as passengers let out screeches rushing to the nearest hut under the rain. Abby stood frozen in her floral shop. Figure in front of the window pane, as she let out cracked whistles through her dry lips, hands in her pockets. The jingling of her keys almost matched the sound of how hard the rain came down. Rocking on her toes, to and fro. Abby being alone for the evening took a number. It was vacant around the shop, the smell of roses, chrysanthemums, and daisies merged together itching at her senses — she could feel a faint sneeze drifting up her nostrils from the dust in the vents. 

She liked the glass windows. Largely panned giving everyone a wide view into the small business, including herself who had gotten nosy at strangers on the concrete. She admired the different people that she would see. The couple where the girlfriend would beg her partner to buy them a bouquet or a rose; The children dug in the crates begging their parental figure for dandelions to make wishes. It was all too pure for Abby, making her heartache at how the flowers brought unity to everyone around her. It was innocent, lovely and made her love her job even more. 

Abby itched at the nape of her neck, swinging her braid to the back as she bolted outside in a hurry to bring the cart of flowers inside as the wind picked up; business was dying down now that people seek shelter instead of enjoying nature. Abby stuck her left foot out kicking the wooden stopper in the door, door chimes ringing as her hands gripped the cart of the flower display. 

Abby underestimated the rain, her body was instantly covered in droplets her black t-shirt clinging to her chest almost becoming uniform with her skin. Providing a roughed, sloppy kiss to every curve and outline of her tender body. Abby let out grunts as she pushed the cart inside having to do it all alone until she heard footsteps. Not slow ones, but rather rapid, almost like the sound of the motorcycles against the pavement, bikers revving up at the stoplight. 

You were in a hurry, and it seemed as though the day couldn’t get any worse. You wanted to cry and bawl up into your bed, holding the sheets so tightly as sobs flowed through you as the serotonin in your body decreased. Tears weld up in your eyes as you run through the city streets, an oversized blazer above your head with some distance as you used it to shield you from the rain. Why me? – you would cry out, thick lashes sticking to the sunken skin of your eyelids as your face grew puffier in tears. That was all you wanted to do. But naturally, you couldn’t find a way to win. Not only was it raining, wet wind smacking your face, but you were going to miss your train because you weren’t moving fast enough. You were through for the evening. Briefly, your running slowed down in front of a flower shop catching your breath, heaving as your hands lowered letting the rain wash over you like a fresh cold shower.

You lost.

And to confirm it, a black Sudan drove by; hitting a pothole, splashing murky rainwater onto your work outfit leaving you drenched and soaked furthermore. Blinking rapidly, a loud gasp echoed behind you, followed by a falling ceramic flowerpot that collided with beige concrete, the sound echoing like an ice machine. Making your head snap to your left seeing a just-as-wet figure, cursing under her breath as her hands gripped the edges of the table.

She seemed just as stressed as you were. Considering the flower pot on the floor with dirt smeared and washing away into the city drains like mascara on a wet face made you wince. Picking up the still intact flowers surrounded by the broken glass.

She looked like she could use some help.

“Hey!” you shouted, but your voice was low compared to the rain that was drowning you out, the girl didn’t answer steadily pushing the cart in between the long rectangular door. “HEY!”

She stopped moving the cart, lifting her eyes up from the cart in front of her. Her lashes were long – her face free of any makeup, a light dusting of rose across each cheek, contoured and sculpted edges, giving her a bronzy look under the summer solstice. It didn’t help that the rain was making it hard to see turning your vision into endless mush. The flowers behind her almost popped out and came to life…full bloom and kissable touch. You were stuck, still breathing…but heavily of course; you zoned out somewhere lost in her ocean of eyes, before snapping out of it at the sound of someone’s car alarm going off on the street.

her tattoos and soft face almost mocking each other at her inquires as a floral shop owner.

Everything got louder almost amplified. Obnoxious noises match your heartbeat. Her lips were parted as she eyed your wet figure up and down. 

“Let me help!” the both of you shouted at the same time. Followed by sweet sweet laughter amidst the rain. 

“No, seriously let me help” This time the woman in front of you was whispering, almost merging voices with the pellets of rain hitting the metal of the table. Blonde hair sticking to the sides of her face.

There was a silent agreement. You put the jacket you were using as an umbrella back on your arms, followed by locking your purse over your shoulder as you reached to the other end across from Abby lifting up the table with the count of 3. The two of you carry the table back inside, this time no spills.

You weren’t sure why but she was like a breath of fresh air, beautiful and in her own world almost as if the heavens planted her there for you to see. It was purely an accident that you stopped in front of the flower shop. Hell, you could have chosen Mimi’s Bakery or that’s vintage! Threading and clothing warehouse but your body chose  Lovestrung Florals. How glad you were that you did, new feelings brewing inside of you as your brain struggled to find the right words. 

The broken flower pot remained, in unity with the concrete hugging each and every crevice of the holes in between the rocks. Going unnoticed by both you and Abby as the two of you worked together, not even catching the single cream-colored rose that was deteriorating under the harsh application of rain. Drowning in water as the petals peeled off and ran down the sidewalk into the city drains, tainted with dark mud; changing like the seasons. The sun begun to peak out embedded through the grey clouds casting a bright glow haze on the busy Soho streets.

“Now let's get you inside, don’t need your beautiful self getting sick now do we?”