#yaz drops art

[milkypuffette]

Three Gals and a Ninja

[miss-rum-hee]

A little sneak peek at my new W.IP

[thesouppond]

ALSO: I was looking for a good reference the other day, ended up rewatching some of Gen:LOCK S1 on like 0.25x speed to do that, and this scene caught my eye. When Yaz says 'get in the pods now!' They ofc have to remove whatever layers they have on top of their suits to upload. We see Val/entina immediately go to unclasp her cloak to get in

Yaz and Cammie go for their jackets

But Kazu just runs. Doesn't try to pull his vest off or anything

Why would the animators go through the hassle of showing that detail for the others, but not Kazu?

Then I figured this out: This is Kazu's casual concept art vs his suit. It's the same vest, but this dumbass MF has it *basically tucked into his pants*

He can't strip his vest off is because he has to drop his pants first and OFC the animators aren't showing that in a high tension scene.

I can 100% see them starting a training session and Weller telling them to get in the pods and the others go to remove their jackets and Kazu has to clumsily undo his pants telling the other to PLEASE LOOK AWAY XD

Val/entina absolutely cracks jokes about how fast Kazu is able to get out of his pants when he wants to. I mean

Kazu you're supposed to be able to strip out of that at a moment's notice. the number of buckles/straps this man has to undo. You dumbass blorbo XD

BONUS: Do you think they've all been conditioned to strip when they hear 'get in the pods'? Cause I can absolutely see them pranking each other when they're sleep deprived/just waking up going "GET IN YOUR POD" and seeing if the other just instinctively starts stripping out of whatever they're in.

[kits-ships]

filling out the entirety of this ask game for Olive because i love having fun and getting silly

1. what are the basics of your self-insert? name, date of birth, height, etc.?

Name: Olive Madison Birthday: Sept 14, 1947 (Jumped 44yrs into the future) Height: 5’3 Current home: Maine Birthplace: Cincinnati, Ohio

2. when in canon does your self-insert come in? do you have a scene in mind for your entrance?

Between ‘The Ark in Space’ and ‘The Sonatran Experiment!’ The Doctor drops off Harry + Sarah Jane to do whatever they need to do and goes ‘ok I’ll pick you up in a day!!” 

But, when he’s by himself, the TARDIS dumps him in the middle of Ohio and he finds Olive injured after a protest. They go on a single adventure after the Doctor patches her up before she becomes a companion. <3

3. how do the other characters generally feel about your self-insert?

Olive is very sisterly/motherly towards other companions, so she’s generally well-liked by them. Some are confused as to why she married the Doctor, others feel the need to stand up for her when she can’t do it herself, and others are like, “How did you get the Doctor to even flirt with you? Hold on, let me get out a pen and paper-”

Some of the villains are intrigued by her, while others only see her as something they can use to manipulate the Doctor. The alien villains in particular see her as weak because she’s a human- including the Master- but he quickly regretted underestimating her after he tried to kidnap Olive and she bit the ever-loving shit out of him.

4. would you be considered a main character, side character, villain, or something else?

She would be a main character for the twelfth season but, after that, she’s a side character with a few appearances a few times each season. There are a few AUs where she might appear more often than that, though!

5. does your self-insert have any special powers or abilities?

No, not really! She majored in botany and minored in culinary arts, but that’s about as far as her ‘special abilities’ go. I’ve considered having the Master try to turn her into a Time Lord as well, but I like that she’s just a lil human :3

6. does your self-insert have any pets?

Olive had a long-haired, black cat when she was little. It grew up alongside her until she was sixteen!

When Olive graduated college, she adopted a kitten named Celeste a month or so before she met the Doctor. Celeste got to live in the TARDIS for a bit and even came to the future alongside Olive.

In a Doctor/Olive/Master polycule, the two Time Lords adopt two ragdoll kittens for Olive! I haven’t named them yet.

With Olive/Master, they come across two orphaned kittens that Olive bottle raises. The Master named them Artemis and Apollo.

7. would any other characters (besides your f/os) have a crush on your self-insert?

I don’t think too much about this, but Harry and Bill might have little puppy crushes on her that they never act on. River having a crush on her would be cute, too!! (Jack has a crush on everyone so he doesn’t count.)

8. what is your self-insert’s orientation?

Olive is bisexual and polyamorous!

9. who are your self-insert’s closest friends?

Excluding the Doctor/Master: Sarah Jane, Jamie, Donna, and Yaz.

10. how do the other characters feel about your self-insert and f/o’s relationship?

Copy and pasting from before: Some are confused as to why she married the Doctor, others feel the need to stand up for her when she can’t do it herself, and others are like, “How did you get the Doctor to even flirt with you? Hold on, let me get out a pen and paper-”

When she’s with the Master, they’re worried and confused. Did he hypnotize Olive? Is she safe? Should they try to help the Doctor win her back? Only Graham ever gets to see how happy she is with the Master after she showed up at her house one day.

With the Doctor/Olive/Master, they are so confused, but they do their best to trust Olive and the Doctor when they say that he’s changed for the better. Still, though, they’re a bit wary of it all.

11. what kind of outfit(s) does your self-insert wear?

Olive enjoys wearing sweaters, t-shirts, jean shorts, skirts, and short overalls! Her style focuses on being comfortable and being able to garden in outfits without ruining them entirely. She also likes to wear sandals but will put on a pair of boots if she really needs to.

12. how would the fandom view your character?

I like to think that they’d see her in a similar light to Rose and River! You either really like them or you pretend they don’t exist so you can focus on shipping Thoscei.

13. does your self-insert have any information about their family?

Olive does not get along with her parents. They took care of her physical needs when she was little, but were not affectionate or very empathetic. When she went off to college, they tried to get her to major in financial accounting so that she could follow in their footsteps, but Olive just moved out and cut ties with them. Her parents had even offered to pay for her classes if she switched majors, but she didn’t wanna!! She wanted to study plants and bake cakes, goddammit!

14. what hobbies does your self-insert have?

She likes to bake, garden, and dabbles in various forms of fiber arts! Olive also enjoys fostering animals.

15. how does your self-insert play a role in the plot of the story? do they help directly defeat the villain, support the heroes, etc.?

Olive is just there to help the Doctor and be cute.

16. freebie! name a fact about your self-insert that you want everyone to know.

I don’t always draw her as such, but Olive is a redhead! Her hair is a very dark copper color but she always assumed it was just brown. It was Donna who pointed it out to her and Olive was so confused. 

(I think an explanation for this would be books and audio dramas describing her as a brunette despite the fact that she’s a redhead.)

[writeshite]

Timelords Are In Fact Quite Rubbish At Baking

Summary:

You were both Timelords, old, wise, and ancient Timelords. You're species invented and pioneered time travel; you've saved the universe multiple times. Surely you can bake a cake.

Pairings:

13th Doctor x Gender Neutral!Reader

Tags:

Fluff | Baking

Words: 656

Author's Note:

The fact that I haven't written for 13 is a crime against humanity, I mean look at this sweetheart! I love her so much, look at this dork, you better believe when she regenerates I'll be bawling my eyes out.

Baking is a fine art, a masterpiece of the culinary world from the humble back corner of Earth to the high-rise skies of Gallifrey. As such, on a down day, with the fam busy with their own families, the Doctor decides that you should bake a cake. You were both Timelords, old, wise, and ancient Timelords. You're species invented and pioneered time travel; you've saved the universe multiple times. Surely you can bake a cake.

“Now, it says here, a teaspoon of baking powder,” the Doctor reads from the recipe book.

You turn to her, “Are you sure it’s baking powder? Not baking soda?”

“I’ll have you know, I am capable of reading 35th Century English quite well,” she states.

“I’m just asking, love.” You glance at the book, and she juts out her chin triumphantly when she’s proven right by it. “Alright, there’s the powder; what next?”

“Seven eggs and a drop of silver meringue extract,” she says, “do we still have any of that?”

You sheepishly smile, “Well, I may have used it in the dip during movie night.”

“Is that why my tongue was silver!”

You scratch your head, “We can’t make a cake then, can we?”

“Or, maybe we can,” the Doctor perks up, moving to the pantry; she disappears inside it, and comes out moments later, hands full of things. When she sets them all down, she rushes to the fridge, adding more to the pile on the counter - vanilla extract, papaya toffee, juvive drops, yeast - and many more. She smacks the book aside, “Who needs the recipe when we’ve got Timelord genius on our hands.”

She grabs the juvive drops, opens the packet, and sampling one, she throws them into the flour mixture, “We can replace the eggs with that, and instead of silver meringue, we can use,” she riffles through the foods, “aha! Iso-Steam.”

“Darling, Iso-Steam is used to make stews,” you remind her, “the steam mimics the molecular components of the dry ingredients, absorbs them and in 55 hours, becomes soup.”

“Who’s to say it won’t do the same here?”

“You want to make soup? I thought we were making cake.”

She boops your nose, “We are, but cake dough needs to be soft; in Yaz’s time, they use milk to make it soft; the Iso-Steam can do just about the same thing, but in a smaller dose.”

You take the Iso-Steam from her and set it back down, “Or, we can just use regular milk, you know, like the one we have in our fridge.” She pouts as you return the Iso-Steam back to its place, “Good try though, love.”

You don’t need to focus much on flavor after the milk is added in; both of you settle for vanilla and then move on to mixing the dough. The wet ingredients don’t take well to the dry ones, with bots of the wet parting off in one direction and the dry ingredient separating from each other. The Doctor comes to your aid, pouring in most of the yeast and dropping in spoonfuls of cinnamon yogurt, which surprisingly helps the dough mix together. You pour the strange-looking bright-colored batter into the pans, top them with strawberries, and leave their fate in the oven.

The hour it took to bake, was filled with the oven emitting the strangest sounds, with the combination of weird scents as well, and when it was all done, it was perhaps the most colorful food you’d ever seen. You poked the cake with a fork, and it’s top layer shone for a split second, “I don’t think that’s safe for consumption,” you mutter.

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” she takes a spoonful of the cake, and nearly spits it back out, she barely manages to swallow it and gags. “Ok, that was pretty awful.”

You shake your head at her, “Sometimes I think it’s a miracle we haven’t burned down the kitchen again.”

End Note:

We love our dorky 13, and I'm going to miss her so much, but also can't wait for 14's run.

[irishyuri]

I posted 677 times in 2022

28 posts created (4%)

649 posts reblogged (96%)

I tagged 614 of my posts in 2022

Only 9% of my posts had no tags

#doctor who - 104 posts

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Longest Tag: 140 characters

#[glass shattering] ‘good lord!’ [general commotion] [baby crying] ‘waaaah waaaah’ [yelling] [police sirens] weewoo weewoo [helicopters] ‘we’

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

me when thasmin real

[id: a painting of the thirteenth doctor and yasmin khan on a light beige background. they press their foreheads against each other; the doctor looks fondly at yaz and yaz looks up at her, tentatively happy. the doctor has one hand on yaz's waist and yaz has both hands on the doctor's shoulders. /end id]

(desc creds to @mayagender​ )

3,047 notes - Posted January 3, 2022

#4

forgot to post this here yippee for july 12th

💙 EDIT: if you'd like an A3 print of this, check out my etsy :D

3,142 notes - Posted May 14, 2022

#3

nancy wheeler likes women i just know it happy pride

3,687 notes - Posted June 11, 2022

#2

hadnt drawn these guys in a while.. can’t wait to see their new stuff in the prelude :’)

(inprnt)

(💙 EDIT: if you'd like an A3 print of this, check out my etsy :D )

6,218 notes - Posted January 22, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

nooo hunter come back your new parents just dropped

(💙 EDIT: thank you for the support on this! if you’d like an A3 print, maybe check out my etsy :D ALSO now available on inprnt, and slightly improved)

28,921 notes - Posted April 23, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[regenderate-fic]

When I Run Away (You're Who I Run To): Chapter 15

main post read on ao3

Word Count (Chapter): 2,416

NOTES: uhhh cw for misgendering at the end of this one. will also be in the next chapter, i've tried to keep it brief though

Yaz liked cooking. It was one of the things that grounded her: she cooked for her and Rose both, most nights, with the understanding that Rose would do the cleanup in exchange. She liked cooking on her own, navigating a recipe, using her hands, but she really liked when Rose cooked with her. Rose just had such a spark about her, a way of carrying herself that inevitably managed to add laughter to the whole room. Yaz always smiled more when she was around, always felt lighter, somehow. 

Well. Maybe that had just been the crush this whole time. It was ridiculous, all the signs she could see now she knew. Either way, she liked having Rose in the kitchen with her, especially now her initial nerves had worn off a bit: they exchanged small smiles and casual touches, moving around the space, and each one sent a shock through Yaz, lighting up her whole body. 

Was this what she'd been missing? For years now? Of course she'd had love, all this time: she had always known that. She'd been so comfortable, living with Rose. She'd always counted that a kind of love. But this— there was something new to it, something exciting. Yaz found herself looking for Rose’s touch when it wasn't there, reaching out, pulling Rose in. And Rose let her. Rose reached back. 

Ace squeezed around the small kitchen table to eat with them, and then she retreated back to Yaz's room. Yaz helped Rose clean up, washing the dishes, wiping down the countertops, letting their hands entangle and come apart. Finally, Yaz put the last dish on the drying rack, and Rose tossed her rag aside, stepping over to twine her arms around Yaz’s neck. Yaz smiled. Her hands landed on Rose’s waist, and she pulled Rose closer.

“Hello,” Rose said, her smile glowing.

“Hi.” Yaz leaned in, about to kiss her, but then Ace’s voice called out somewhere behind her.

“Gross! Get a room!”

“Oi, this is our room!” Rose called back. “We live here, if you haven’t noticed.” 

Yaz turned, half-frozen. She knew she looked like a deer in headlights. Probably it was embarrassing, her being thirty years old and feeling this caught-out by a sixteen-year-old in her own home, but she felt it anyway. 

“Oh, I noticed,” Ace said. “Don’t worry. I was just on my way to the bathroom. Carry on, if you like.” She disappeared into the bathroom, and Yaz dropped her head to Rose’s shoulder with a groan. 

“Oh, God.”

Rose held her close, one hand rooted in her hair. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”

Yaz nodded. 

“C’mon,” Rose said. She guided Yaz through the kitchen and into her room. Yaz hadn't actually been in here much— she'd helped Rose move in, but since then it had gotten messier, desk cluttered with art supplies and bits of paper, bed unmade. 

Rose went to adjust the blankets now, tugging them into place, and then she moved to stand in front of Yaz, taking one of Yaz’s hands in hers, lifting her other hand to push a bit of hair behind Yaz's ear. Their eyes met. Rose was looking at Yaz carefully, her gaze like the delicate touch of the sun on a clear spring day. Yaz looked back, hoping she could live up to whatever it was Rose was seeing. 

Rose kissed her, and Yaz melted into it. Her free hand came up to cup Rose’s neck— it was odd how natural this felt, after so many years without it. 

Rose pulled away, her forehead still resting against Yaz's. 

“All right?”

“Yeah.” It came out breathy, bordering on giddy. Yaz hadn't known she was capable of giddy. “Still kind of can't believe this is happening.”

“Oh, you better believe it,” Rose said. She squeezed Yaz’s hand. “You're not getting rid of me now.”

“And after years of trying,” Yaz joked. 

Rose laughed. “Yep. Completely fruitless.” She pulled away, dropping down to sit on the edge of her bed. Carefully, she moved over so there would be room for Yaz, and Yaz sat. She wavered for a moment, and then leaned her head on Rose’s shoulder. Rose wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. 

“So,” Rose finally said, a smile in her voice. “What do we do about the sixteen-year-old in your bedroom?”

“I don't know,” Yaz said. “I guess we ought to help her find a place.” She lifted her head to look at Rose. “I don't mind having her for a little while, though. If she needs it.” She thought for a second. “She probably needs more than just a place, at this point. A kid like that needs adults like us to support her.”

“I don’t know if I feel like that sort of adult,” Rose said. “I mean— do you?”

“Not really,” Yaz admitted. “But— does anyone?”

Rose hummed. “Maybe not.” She kissed the side of Yaz’s head. “Suppose we can manage, then.”

“Yeah.” Yaz smiled. “We’ll manage.”

Getting ready for bed was equal parts intimate and nerve-wracking— Yaz’s hands brushed against Rose as they pulled clothes out of drawers, awkwardly changing back-to-back in different corners of the room. It was funny: it wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other’s bodies before, in various states of undress. Yaz was a tattoo artist, after all, and responsible for most of the ink on Rose’s skin. Besides, they’d been living together for years. They’d gotten more than comfortable with wrapping themselves in a towel just out of the shower, or stretching out on the floor in very little clothing on a hot day. Or— Rose had initially been more comfortable than Yaz, but it had been eight years. By now, Yaz had stopped caring how much of her Rose saw.

Somehow, she cared now. And Rose seemed to too: they didn’t leave the room to change, but they maintained an awkward distance until Yaz was safely in her flannel pajamas and Rose in her tank top and shorts. Yaz went to brush her teeth, only rushing a little bit, and then she flopped on Rose’s bed while Rose did the same. She took advantage of the moment alone to pull out her braid, stealing a brush off Rose’s nightstand to brush out her hair.

Rose came back just as Yaz was starting to braid her hair again. She sat down across from Yaz on the bed. 

“D’you want help?” she asked. 

Yaz looked up. “With my hair?”

Rose nodded. 

“Okay.” Yaz shifted forward, and Rose came to sit behind her, letting her legs stretch out on either side of Yaz's body. Her hands covered Yaz's, taking the locks of hair, and Yaz let her palms rest on her knees as she sank into Rose’s touch. Rose was gentle but efficient: exactly what Yaz needed. When she got to the end of the braid, she held out her hand, and Yaz passed her the hair tie. 

“Okay,” Rose said a couple seconds later. She kissed the back of Yaz's head. “Done.”

Yaz smiled. She twisted around to drop a kiss on Rose’s nose, then on her lips. They got stuck for a moment in that latter one, Rose’s hand steady on Yaz's back, and then Yaz settled against Rose’s chest, her eyes slipping shut. 

“Time for bed?” Rose asked quietly, her voice brushing softly against Yaz's ear. 

“Yeah.” Yaz sat up and slid off the bed, giving Rose room to lie down properly. Yaz joined her, pulling the covers up to her chin, her legs tangling with Rose’s in the process. 

“If you hog the blankets, I’m breaking up with you,” Rose whispered, her face an inch from Yaz’s. 

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’ve never taken the last pack of biscuits even though I was saving them—”

Rose rolled her eyes. “That was three years ago. And I apologized! And bought you more!” 

Yaz kissed the tip of her nose. “Whatever you say. D’you want me to get the light?”

“Yeah, okay.” 

Yaz reached over and turned off the lamp. She rolled back towards Rose, and immediately, Rose curled up against her chest: Yaz wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer, burying her face in Rose’s hair.

Miraculously, Yaz woke up in much the same position. It took her a moment to remember what was going on— why she felt so peaceful, why the light was just a little different through her closed eyes, why there was a soft warm weight wrapped around her body. She opened her eyes to see a mess of blonde hair, spread out across the pillow, and without thinking, she pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Rose’s head.

Rose stirred. She made some sort of sound, an attempt at speech, but it came out a mess of blurred-together mumbling. 

“Sorry,” Yaz whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Rose shifted her head to look up at her, a soft smile emerging on her face. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” Yaz couldn’t help but smile back. Rose leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, and Yaz’s smile grew.

“Sleep all right?” Rose asked. 

Yaz nodded. “You?”

Rose nuzzled closer again, her hair tickling Yaz’s chin. “Better than I have in ages,” she murmured into Yaz’s chest. Yaz’s smile only grew. 

“D’you want to go get coffee?” she asked. “Think Penny’s supposed to be working today.”

“Not if it means getting out of bed,” Rose replied, wrapping herself even more firmly around Yaz. 

“Oh, none of that.” Yaz trailed a hand through Rose’s hair. “You like coffee. And Penny. And we can come back here after.”

Rose looked up again. “Promise?”

Yaz kissed her. “Of course.”

“Okay.” Rose stretched, then sat up, tugging Yaz with her. Yaz groaned. 

“Okay, maybe bed was better.”

“Too late now,” Rose said, grinning. “You promised me coffee.”

Yaz sighed. “Silly of me.”

“Yeah,” Rose agreed. “But it's too late to go back on it now.” She tugged at Yaz's hands. “C'mon. Up you get.”

Ten minutes later, they were crossing the street together. They entered the bakery hand-in-hand— there was no one at the counter, but Yaz could hear voices coming from the kitchen. She and Rose circled the counter, poking their heads through the doorway. Ace was putting pastries into an oven, but Penny was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello?” Rose called out.

“Rose!” came Penny’s voice from behind a mixer. “Yaz! D’you know, Ace made me give her ten pounds?” A second later, the mixer turned off, leaving silence behind, and Penny emerged from behind it, using her full body to push her office chair across the floor. 

“She works for you,” Yaz said. “She’s going to make you give her a lot more than ten pounds.”

“I keep my gambling and my business expenses entirely separate,” Penny replied. “Not that I gamble, really. Except this time I figured it couldn’t hurt. Only ten pounds. Plus, I was so sure I was right.”

Ace grinned in Yaz’s and Rose’s direction. “She’s a bit thick, isn’t she?”

“To be fair,” Penny said, “this was before I knew you were putting it all over the Internet.”

“I wasn’t—” Yaz shook her head. “You know what, whatever. Glad I could entertain.”

“You put it on the Internet?” Ace asked.

“Absolutely not!” Yaz lunged for the door, but Rose wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back in one fluid motion. 

“Sorry, Yaz,” she said. “You’ve got to face up to it. You used Reddit to get a girlfriend.”

Yaz could feel her face getting warm. “Yeah, well, at least it worked.”

“So does this mean I can’t flirt with you two anymore?” Penny asked, her head tilted to the side. Her face was the picture of innocent curiosity. Yaz sort of wanted to disappear.

Of course, she didn’t. Instead, she got Rose jumping next to her, cheering, “Yes! I told you she was flirting with you!”

Yaz covered her face with her hands. 

“Right!” Ace said, very loudly. “I think I hear a customer!” Yaz peeked between her fingers to see Ace sweep past her and out the door.

“Sorry,” Penny said. “Didn't mean to startle you, or anything.”

Yaz lowered her hands, forcing herself to meet Penny’s wide eyes. 

“That's okay,” she managed. She glanced at Rose. “Honestly, it’s sort of funny, watching Rose try and flirt with you.”

“Oi, what do you mean, try?” Rose knocked her hip against Yaz’s. “I’m a very successful flirt, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh yeah?” Yaz raised her eyebrows. “Is that why it took me six years to figure out you were into me?”

“I haven’t been flirting with you,” Rose scoffed. “Thought you were a lost cause, didn’t I?” 

Yaz rolled her eyes. “Rude.”

“I know better than to try and start something with my straight best friend, all right?” Rose shook her head. “Anyway, none of this answers the original question, does it?”

“Wasn’t that serious of a question,” Penny said immediately, her face red. “Didn’t think you’d start actually debating it. Didn’t want to make things awkward, either.” She shrugged. “Although honestly, for the sake of full transparency, I do have to tell you I can’t always tell when people are going to think I’m flirting. Gets a bit complicated.”

“Well, that’s good,” Rose said. “‘Cause I love being surprised.” She grinnedd. “When’s your shift end today? We can come by. Bring Ace around, call it a party.”

“Don’t know if I’m up for parties,” Penny said, her head tilted to the side. “Definitely up for Rose and Yaz and Ace, though.”

“Right,” Rose said. “No party, then. Just us.”

Penny’s responding smile was one Yaz hadn’t seen on her before— something small and genuine. “Just us.”

“Right,” Rose said. “Now, I think Yaz told me that if I got out of bed we could get coffee.”

“Oh, I knew you were only my friend for the coffee,” Penny sighed, an air of melodrama about her.

Yaz grinned. “We’ll see you later?”

Penny gave another sigh, flinging her hand to her forehead. “I suppose.”

“See you,” Rose said, laughing, and she and Yaz stepped out of the kitchen together.

Ace was behind the counter, talking to a customer, an older woman with a straw hat at the back of her head. When Yaz and Rose came out, she turned.

“I’m looking for my son,” she said. “Do you know him?”

[ghostly-thorn]

Update

Hi guys, it's been a while! A lot has happened and I figured I'd drop by to give some news

I am... tired. Turns out, working as a fully fledged nurse is exhausting and I barely have time to myself. Well, so I did until recently. After graduating in November, I took some 2-month vacation to recharge my batteries and tackle real-world-nursing. Meanwhile I kinda put writing on hold, as even though i like it, it drains me. So yeah, I rested until January when I started working at (i kid you not, the 9th best hospital in the world, not joking, look up the "CHUV" and "world record"). So yeah, new grad shy me starting in a medicine in unit was quite the shock and i ended up wondering wheter or not I was fit for this job (yeah, that bad...). But eventually I got hold of my fears and decided to push on

So now what? Well, I've officially started 12 hours shifts (which means I work up to 2-3 days, and have 2 days break, and then resume on and on). That means: 1. i get more free days! 2. i definitely can't write when im working. Therefore, i'm gonna try to balance out my new lifestyle with writing.

I love writing, and I've dearly missed it. Because of all the things happening in my life, I had kind of dropped it (you know, during my internship and my holidays) but now im back in the fold (mostly thanks to my dear Freya, who made this art) and im ready to break your hearts even more. The Circhester Chapter is completed at 15% and moving steadily. I'll keep you updated as i advance. Until then, I wish you guys all the best for the new year.

(Art by my good friend @madeby-meru, please give her plenty of love, she deserves it)

See yaz

[kunio-fox]

Hello Tumblr! Hope you’re all doing well. Apologies for the low activity, I simply tend to forget this site exists at times! Here’s a small art dump for yaz. Buncha pokemon, buncha the bat aka yours truly, and Elutran’s sona as he appears in the cave story multiplayer skin I made as a gift for him!   Can’t promise I’ll be that active on here, but hopefully I can remember to drop the occasional art piles!

[riversofmars]

The Doctor and her friends try to escape a deadly trap as Dorium’s bar and the planet burn up. Meanwhile, River is continuing her research into the Timeless Child...

Chapter 5: The Pieces Are Moving

The Maldovarium, 52nd Century

The sun was blazing down and Dorium’s bar, built mostly from metal, was heating up even faster than the surface of the planet. The sun was growing bigger in the sky, it was getting closer.

“The Master must have found so much more in the Matrix than he led on.“ The Doctor pressed through gritted teeth as she considered how this was possible. “This is like the Time Lords of old, able to wheeled so much power… what they became in the Time War… he wasn’t there in the final days to know the horror…“ She mumbled, trying her best to prioritise her thoughts. Time was changing around them. They were in grave danger. There was no time to wonder how the Master had accomplished this, there was any number of ways he could have done it and finding out which it was would not help save them. She looked around back to her friends who awaited an explanation.

“You shouldn’t have come. This is far too dangerous for you.“ The Doctor realised, slowly shaking her head. “He knew I’d come here. Perhaps a Matrix prediction… it’s a game and he’s one step ahead of us at every turn.“ Her mind was reeling but they had more immediate concerns. The sun above the planet was growing closer, they appeared to be heading towards it and the temperature kept rising. “Dorium, do you have a way off this planet?“ She asked and stepped into his line of vision.

“I’m nothing if not well prepared, Doctor, there is a shuttle for emergencies outside, but we can’t just abandon my bar, this is my life’s work!“ Dorium protested. “What is happening out there?“

“If you don’t get out of here right now, you won’t have a life.“ The Doctor interrupted him. “One of you will have to carry him. Get to his ship.“ The Doctor gestured towards the box and Yaz complied while Jenny rushed to support her wife who looked as though she was about to faint. Vastra’s body couldn’t regulate its temperature at all. Yaz and Jenny seemed to have trouble breathing the hot air and even Strax was beginning to show signs of struggling as beads of sweat formed on his head.

“But Doctor…“ Yaz wanted to protest, trying her best to hold Dorium’s head level.

“This planet is being dragged into that sun, get off world and quickly.“ The Doctor shut down any protest and glanced out of the window again. The sun continued to grow bigger and the temperature inside the bar was becoming unbearable. They didn’t have time to argue. She could sense that this was only the beginning.

“But we have the TARDIS, can’t we just…“ Jenny jumped in but the Doctor interrupted her:

“No you don’t. I need to find the Master and I’m doing it by myself, it’s far too dangerous.“ She looked around, assessing what she had to work with. “Get off this planet, I’ll be in touch and pick you up to take you home but right now, I need to find him. He is messing with the fabric of time itself and while you’re close to me, you will be in danger!“ She explained hastily and rushed to a computer terminal in the corner.

“Doctor, you can’t.“ Vastra protested weakly.

“A Sontaran does not run away!“ Strax exclaimed, outraged.

“Whatever we’re doing, can we do it now? It is really very stuffy in this box!“ Dorium called from his box.

“We’re coming with you.“ Yaz insisted but the Doctor shook her head.

“No, you’re not.“ She stated and sonic-ed the computer terminal. A teleport beam engulfed her friends.

——

Shuttle outside the Madovarium, 52nd Century

“Ugh! That insufferable man! Woman!“ Vastra collapsed onto the floor as they found themselves in a shuttle. The temperature was bearable, the insulation for space travel was far superior to the bar, but temperatures were rising even in here.

“I hate to be the bringer of bad news but unless we leave this planet right now, we will be fried, and I’m lacking hands to operate the controls.“ Dorium realised the Doctor had managed to engaged his emergency evacuation teleport. He was glad to have spent the money. It wasn’t like he could have walked anywhere in the event of a disaster and it had proven a sound investment already. “So if you wouldn’t mind.“ He glanced to controls, having no better means of pointing.

“How do we fly it?“ Yaz sat his box down by the controls hoping for instructions. She pushed her anger at the Doctor’s actions aside in favour of getting off the planet in one piece first.

“Step aside. A Sontaran can operate any kind of combat vehicle. Strap in. Someone secure the head.“ Strax instructed pushing her aside.

“We can’t just go without her.“ Jenny launched a weak protest as Strax started the engines. He engaged the shields and the temperature dropped significantly, allowing them all to breath more easily.

“It seems we have very little choice, my dear.“ Vastra replied weakly, as her wife helped her to her to a seat. “She will come to her senses.“ She had been the Doctor’s friend long enough to know that they couldn’t change their mind by force.

“Unless she gets herself killed first.“ Yaz huffed as they launched and shot off into the atmosphere, away from the planet that was hurling towards its doom. Below, the Maldovarium caught fire.

——

The Maldovarium, 52nd Century

The Doctor checked the computer console. Her friends had reached the shuttle and set off. Good. Step one. She looked around herself, the building had just caught fire. The temperature was still rising. Judging by its speed, she calculated she probably had about seven minutes: three minutes until the air would be too hot to breath and she would have to use her respiratory bypass, five until her skin would start to blister and seven until her core temperature would rise so high that the proteins in her body would break up and she would die. She’d have to work quickly.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard on the computer terminal as she pulled up the security camera footage of the last five minutes. Good old Dorium, of course he wanted his establishment well protected. She fast forwarded through it and there it was: one moment, everyone was having a lovely time, the next blazing sunlight streamed into the bar and the customers disappeared into thin air. Some screamed, some just looked confused, but they all vanished. Time was being rewritten. They had never come here because the planet was not where it had been. So the planet had moved, not the star.

She wondered how far back the footage would go. Would it go back far enough to show who brought Dorium back here? Unlikely. He’d probably had to rebuild and set up everything anew upon his return. She had about a minute of breathable air left and she was struggling already. She looked around, the TARDIS was in the other room, she would need a minute to get there at least and above her, thick smoke started gathering. She would have to feel her way forward at this stage. Her mind was racing. Any clues she would find here, she’d have to find now or they would be lost forever. She couldn’t think. The moment had passed and the air had become too hot to breathe.

“Think, Doctor, think!“ She snapped with her last proper breath, she ground her teeth. When I arrange for your death, I expect you to stay dead. The Master’s words echoed through her head. Nothing was gained if she she risked her life chasing after clues that probably weren’t there. The Master was too clever to leave traces; which begged several questions: why would he reveal himself to Dorium; why allow him to see his face, knowing a description would point her straight towards him? Arrogance? Was he trying to taunt her? Or did he just not care? Did he think he was so far ahead of her, that it wouldn’t matter? Something about this didn’t feel right. She had to get back to her TARDIS before the fire bared her way. The skin in her hands was starting to go red and raw.

——

Space, 52nd Century

“That was a close call…“ Jenny breathed a sigh of relief when they cleared the gravitational pull of the planetoid and the sun alike. It wasn’t a moment too soon, the planet was beginning to burn as it hurdled closer and closer to the sun.

“How was that even possible? You can’t just move a planet…“ Yaz shook her head in disbelief as she watched the destruction on the monitors.

“You and I might not be able to… but anything is possible, given time…“ Dorium mused.

“The Master is a dangerous foe but this does appear beyond the capabilities they have displayed so far.“ Vastra sat in the copilot’s seat as she recovered, her body temperature normalising.

“Maybe he’s not working by himself…“ Yaz mused. “Last time we saw him, he’d allied himself with the Cybermen… maybe he realises he can’t do it by himself… Maybe he’s found new friends.“

“A sound stratagem.“ Strax commented.

“What do we do now?“ Jenny asked. They had retreated to a safe distance nearing the outskirts the solar system but they had yet to determine a new destination.

“Wait for her to come and pick us up?“ Yaz suggested half-heartedly, she didn’t believe the Doctor actually would be back so soon but she decided to try and be optimistic.

“We have no way of knowing when that would be. Besides, we don’t know if she will even be successful in her endeavour.“ Vastra retorted matter-of-factly.

“Then what do we do?“ Jenny asked, feeling at a loss. They all so desperately wanted to help but the Doctor had cut them off.

“We have hyper speed travel, yes?“ Vastra turned to Dorium who was watching the screens, looking melancholy at the loss of his life’s work.

“State of the art systems, I only purchased it last week, what a shame, the hull is all blackened…“ He sighed, pulled out of his thoughts.

“We made a promise to the Professor to look after her child and so far, we’ve failed. We will carry on, even without the Doctor.“ Vastra decided, pulling herself up. “Perhaps we will find whoever is responsible faster than the Doctor weighed down by her hunger for revenge…“

“Excellent. It would be most disappointing if we were to miss out on the fight and the opportunity for a glorious death.“ Strax announced with glee.

“Where do we start?“ Yaz asked, nonplussed. She couldn’t help but feel abandoned by the Doctor, and so soon after her previous disappearance. She was, however, glad for the company she found herself in. If she was going to be stranded in the far future without means of time travel, an ancient lizard woman, a potato-headed warrior, a Victorian maid and a blue head in a box seemed like appropriate company. “Where could the Master possibly be? Would he have taken the child with him or maybe he’s got a base and people who work for him? Or maybe, this is the Master earlier in his time stream? Maybe to him, the destruction of Gallifrey hasn’t happened yet…“ All the questions were becoming overwhelming. It seemed like an insurmountable task, particularly without the Doctor at hand.

“We can’t discount any possibilities.“ Vastra agreed. “We are rather more limited with our means of travel but there is one point of interest in this time period. Somewhere where the Doctor is stubbornly refusing to look.“ She had given it some thought and a plan was forming in her head.

“Where?“ Jenny asked and her wife smiled:

“The Library, of course. Professor Song might be able to tell us where to start looking.“ She nodded decisively and turned to Strax to provide coordinates for their destination. “And if nothing else, she deserves to know the truth.“

——

The TARDIS

The Doctor slammed shut the doors to her TARDIS. She took a deep breath, fresh oxygen reawakening her senses. She rushed to the console. As sturdy as the TARDIS was protected by it’s shields, she didn’t want to tests its limits by staying on this doomed planetoid any longer than she needed to. She ran a final scan, searching for the shuttle her friends had escaped in, and noticed with relief that it was just clearing the solar system. They were safe. Safer than they would be had they stayed with her. Content - if not happy - with her decision, as she launched the TARDIS into the time vortex.

The Doctor gave a sigh of relief once she had left the Maldovarium behind. She stepped away from the console but didn’t get very far. As her adrenaline levels normalised, she felt weak and became aware of how close she had come to reaching her physical limits. She struggled out of her coat that was singed in places and sank to the floor, trying to catch her breath. Her hearts hammered in her chest, her hair was sticking to her head with sweat, her hands and face were red and raw. She had to pause for a moment, gather herself, before she could carry on. The TARDIS circled around the vortex waiting for coordinates, buying her time by staying where time didn't pass.

“Perhaps I just need a moment… maybe some after-sun…“ The Doctor mumbled to the TARDIS that hummed and wheezed in response, almost scolding her for having been reckless.

The Doctor didn’t like stopping, even for a moment. Those where the times when she had time to think and those things that she had been trying to avoid, those feelings she had been pushing down, had an opportunity to catch up with her. She was in no way closer to finding her son. In the absence of her friends she allowed herself a moment of weakness. The tears stung on her burnt skin of her cheeks. What would the Master want with her son, apart from torture and hurt her? He was being used as a pawn against her. She would make the Master pay for this.

Slowly, she got to her feat. Unsteadily, she staggered back to the console, deciding on her course of action. She wouldn’t be able to properly rest until she had found her child so she had to keep going. For now, the Master was her best lead. It was time to see the destruction she had left behind as she had fled Gallifrey. If the Master had found a way to escape death, she would find answers there.

——

The Library, 52nd Century

“Someone is having you on. Whatever it’s meant to be, the Timeless Child, it doesn’t exist.“ Anita closed the book she’d been reading and pinched the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t focus anymore. “There is no reference to it. Anywhere. Are you sure that’s the phrase we’re looking for?“

“I’m certain of it.“ River confirmed but couldn’t deny she was getting frustrated as well. They had been at it for days now. Or was it weeks? River was starting to lose track of time. And they had nothing to show for it. Initially, River had enjoyed finding stories about the Doctor’s past; adventures she didn’t know about that she hadn’t been part of. It had been entertaining for a while, as were the essays written about her and the Doctor. Who would have thought they would become such a popular subject matter for students at River’s alma mater?

“Well, it’s not mentioned anywhere.“ Anita sighed, leaning back into the cushions of the sofa. “How did you learn about al this anyway?“ She hadn’t pressed River for information so far but it seemed about time.

“Those words, those exact words, the Timeless Child… Dorium was so sure that’s what it was.“ River closed the book she was reading as well. It was time to stop.

“Well, maybe he got it wrong.“ Anita shrugged.

“Maybe…“ River couldn’t deny that it was possible. In her head she recounted the message Dorium had sent her. He had mentioned a Time Lord giving him the information, as if it would give weight to it. Since he hadn’t given a name, part of River had believed that it might have been the Doctor himself. Perhaps he was keeping his identity hidden for any number of reasons; most likely not to interfere with his own timeline… But now she wasn’t so sure.

There were other Time Lords out there. The Master. The Corsair… From what the Doctor had told her in their time on Darillium, Gallifrey was still out there. Not just the Gallifrey of the past, before the Time War that River had visited not so long ago. Gallifrey had never been destroyed in the final days of the War, just hidden away in a bubble universe at the end of time. Maybe they were starting to emerge again, taking a few tentative steps back into the universe but why now? Why this? Were they maybe just trying to mess with her? Or the Doctor? Had all this just been a pointless goose chase and she had walked right to her death on a fool’s errand? She shook her head to herself. No. There was something else, something she couldn’t quite remember. It was right there at the edge of her mind.

“How long have you been at this?“ Anita asked, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know, you tell me, I’m starting to lose track.“ River chuckled half heartedly. She had always had a very special relationship with time, being the child of the TARDIS, but inside the Library computer, cut off from reality and actual time, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“No, I mean before this, before you came to the Library. You said you’d been researching this before and couldn't find anything and you hoped there would be answers here…“ Anita prompted.

“There clearly aren’t…“ River stated in frustration.

“How long, River?“ Anita frowned, noticing her deliberately evading the question.

“Well, let’s just say it wasn’t obvious I was… expecting when I left the Doctor and started researching.“ River answered at last, her bitterness evident in her voice. Anita remained quiet for a moment. They had hardly spoken about River’s pregnancy and son, bringing it up seemed to make it all the more painful.

“Did you find anything at all? What were you doing?“ Anita tried to steer the conversation back to the subject matter.

“All sorts… I knew it had something to do with the Time Lords so… that’s where I went looking first and of course I got myself involved in yet another of the Doctor’s adventures… younger Doctor that time, very young, couldn’t tell him who I was of course… I went to Gallifrey but I had no time to look around really, not with a fight for the very fate of the universe going on…“ She gave a half smile. When wasn’t the Doctor fighting to save the universe? As much fun as it had been, it had distracted her rather… As she recounted her adventures in her head something occurred to her. She blinked, confused. How had she forgotten about it? How had she failed to make the connection? “But there was something…“ Maybe the trip hadn't been entirely wasted.

“What?“ Anita frowned, confused by her sudden wistfulness.

“As I… things went a bit pear shaped. I was pulled inside the Matrix.“ River revealed which suddenly seemed a whole lot more significant than it had at the time. She considered how furious the Doctor would be if he ever found out what she had put herself through whilst being pregnant. She couldn’t deny that she herself had been incredibly relieved to find her son completely healthy at birth. She hadn’t exactly been taking it easy. There had been a few close calls in the early stages which was why she settled for desk research when she’d become less agile on her feet.

“What’s that?“ Anita asked. “The Matrix?“ She’d felt like she should know what she was talking about but she didn’t.

“The Matrix… it’s like a super computer, not unlike this one. Time Lord minds get uploaded as they die so it’s the sum knowledge of their race, so to speak… Algorithms generate prophecies, predictions, extrapolations, possible futures. In the golden days of the Gallifreyan Empire, they would base their interference around time on them and heed their warnings.“ River tried to explain the best she could. “I used my… affinity for all things Time to help the Doctor: bring him back to where he needed to be. Only barely got out of there myself in the end… but while I was in there… I can’t quite remember but there were flashes of something… I was very preoccupied, mind, but I think subconsciously they did register… maybe the Matrix sensed that I was looking for answers…“ She hadn’t thought it significant at the time, she had had bigger things to worry about but the more she thought it about, the more she believed it couldn’t have been coincidence. The images were beginning to take shape in her mind, as if she was only now able to remember.

“And you saw the Timeless Child?“ Anita asked perplexed, wondering why she hadn’t mentioned it before.

“I don’t know… maybe…“ River tried to focus, struggling to reproduce the images in her mind. “It was a little girl, standing in front of a gateway…“ River closed her eyes as the image became more clear. Why hadn’t thought about it until now?

“A girl though? Didn’t you say you had a son? Then it’s probably not related to you?“ Anita mused disheartened as it seemed like just another dead end.

“Time Lords don’t take the whole gender thing very seriously…“ River couldn’t help but chuckle as she continued watching in her mind’s eye. Someone was approaching the girl.

“River…“ Anita reached out for River’s arm, trying to get her attention.

“Just hang on…“ River was doing her best to remember. She didn’t recall seeing any of this before. Apparently her subconscious had picked up much more in the Matrix than she had realised.

“River!“ Anita insisted, her voice urgent and River opened her eyes, ripped from the otherworldly portal she had been watching but she didn’t find herself in the cosy living room the Library computer had generated for her. Instead she found herself in a laboratory. She jumps to her feet in shock and not a moment too soon, as the sofa also disappeared from under her. Anita looked around utterly confused. Was this a computer glitch? There were other people too: the woman who River had seen approaching the child and the child herself, sitting in a chair being examined.

A/N: You may have picked up on my using the events of Doom Coalition here which canonically are set between Darillium and the Library, if you happen to have been following those Big finish audios. I thought it could work really well with the whole being pulled into the Matrix thing. I know a lot of people don't know the audios though so I'm trying to write it in a way that you don't have to know them and anything significant will be explained. I hope that works for everyone. Please let me know if you find things confusing at any point <3

[milkypuffette]

Nah because I forgot that I had this in here 💀

Took me like 3 days to draw this, the hardest part was probably the colors.

[geniusgub]

north//chapter ten

genre: angst

pairing: season ten spencer reid x female oc

warnings: panic attack, talk of maeve and that whole situation, death, mention of drugs and relapse

word count: 9.8k

summary: spencer gets to see another part of amelia’s ugly side and amelia gets more than she bargained for when she steps onto her balcony

also i just wanted to say that the panic attack described in this chapter is based off of my experience with panic attacks. nobody has the same experience, but this is based off mine. also part two, i don’t know how medication for panic attacks really work, what i wrote is literally based off my experience with migraine medication. so if it’s not accurate, then i apologize. i also apologize for taking so long to write this. school was a lot and my mental health sucks. but it’s here now!! enjoy

AMELIA

"Yaz, if you don't stop moving, I'm going to purposely poke your fucking eye out!"

"It's not my fault! Quinn keeps nudging me!"

"No, I'm not!"

I roll my eyes at the two girls in front of me, flicking my wrist to put the final touches on Yaz’s makeup. "You two need to shut up." I then grab Quinn’s shoulders and force her to move against the wall, right next to Yaz. They continue to quietly bicker with each other.

"So," Frankie speaks up from across my studio, lounged back in a bean bag chair, fiddling away with a camera of his own, "Lia, you're coming up on one year with your genius doctor FBI boyfriend, right?"

"Mhm," I hum, too focused on painting my friends' bodies to give a full and coherent answer.

"Do you guys have plans yet? Dinner? Movie? I don't even know what you guys do as dates. In fact, I don't really know much about this guy at all. Are we even sure he exists?" Michael teases, waving around his bottle of beer. Quinn squirms away from my grasp to take a sip of his beer and only comes back when I tug on her hand. 

"No plans yet," I mumble, biting my tongue for a moment as I focus on getting the swirls of blue and yellow just right. If the painting isn’t absolutely perfect then I’ll never be happy with the way the pictures come out. And if I’m not happy with the pictures that come from today then that just means I wasted my time today. "We don't make plans in advance, really. His job doesn't allow for that."

"His job doesn't allow for that?" Dani scoffs. "Stupid excuse. Horrible excuse. Men are trash. How can you be sure that all the time he’s spending ‘at work’ and not with another girl? Or maybe another guy? I don’t know, I don’t judge. Maybe he’s-"

"Dani," I hiss, twisting my head to send her a pointed look, "he's an FBI agent. He hunts down serial killers for a living. He travels for work on a whim and it’s not a big deal. He’s not gay and it’s rude to speculate about someone’s sexuality, especially if you’ve never met them."

"But don't you want him around him more?" Frankie jumps up from his seat and throws his arm around my shoulder, effectively pulling away from my work. He thinks that grabbing me will diffuse the situation, bring some humor, keep me from getting too upset. But it actually does all the opposite and I can feel a ball of heat growing and swelling in my stomach.

I’ve been friends with this bunch since college. We all went to Carnegie Mellon together and even lived in a house together in junior and senior year, but they aren’t always the best of friends. Clearly. They can be quite judgemental and exclusive when it comes to people outside of our friend group. Jenna and I commonly find ourselves sharing looks across rooms when one of our friends says something rude or stupid. They’re not the best, but we’ve been through so much together and they are all I have.

I push Frankie away from me as best as I can. "Do you guys just not like him because he's a federal agent?" The room goes silent and that's enough of an answer for me. I scoff, moving across the room to grab some more paint and squirt it into my palette. I wind up putting too much on my palette and groan, screwing off the top of the paint tube and trying to scoop the extra paint back in. The longer I try, the less gets back inside the tube and the more my frustration starts to grow, the more tears well up in my eyes. "You're complaining about my boyfriend who you've never met just because he works for the FBI. Ridiculous. Unfair."

"We get arrested all the time and all we do is spray paint empty brick walls," Dani protests, and, again, judging by the silence of the others in the room, I know that they have no problems with what Dani is saying. "It's bullshit! We should be able to express ourselves creatively without having to do art in the middle of the night and worry about being thrown in a holding cell."

"First of all; express yourself creatively on a canvas, not on someone’s property. Second; I can promise that you’re not getting arrested by federal agents. You’re getting arrested by cops and my boyfriend is not a cop," I growl at my supposed friends. I don't get angry easily. In fact, I'm a very patient person and I've been told that by many people on many occasions. My first instinct is to never get mad. Anger doesn’t get anyone anywhere. I prefer to have conversations instead of screaming matches and to hear out the other side's argument. But this is different. This is Spencer we’re talking about. I love Spencer more than anything and since meeting him, I know I'd do anything to protect him, even if that means arguing with my friends on his behalf. It’s not fair for them to be making these judgments about him. "You get arrested by Virginia Police so if you wanna hate anyone then hate them. Don't you dare all go hating my boyfriend for no reason. Don't hate him when you've never met him."

I throw my palette onto a table, not caring about paint splatter, and grab my phone, leaving my studio and heading into the fresh air. My heart is pounding against my tightening chest as I lean against the brick wall and slide down to an incredibly uncomfortable crouching position, tucking my head between my knees. The stance almost instantly makes my back ache and my neck sting but I ignore it. Maybe I deserve the pain. My breathing quickly gets more and more shallow and my head goes light. I try to lift my head to bring sunlight into my eyes, but my head seems far too heavy to move. I reach for my phone and it slips right out of my fingers when they tremble too much for me to get a grip on the thin metal. This feeling is helpless, painful, too familiar. I can’t seem to get a grasp on myself and I’m spiraling out of control more and more by the second. Every gasp for breath turns into a sob and every attempt to move my head turns into overwhelming shame when I notice people passing by are staring at me and whispering.

It's almost perfect that my phone starts to buzz on the ground and I manage to open my eyes enough to see that Spencer is calling me. I attempt another deep breath to calm myself down but it doesn't work and it only makes my grip on reality dwindle. It's getting harder to breathe and my eyes are stinging with tears. With every pounding beat of my heart, my chest gets tighter and tighter and tighter until it feels like someone has successfully squeezed my lungs flat. 

The buzzing of my phone should bring me back to reality but it just makes it worse. It’s an annoying, persistent sound that just won’t stop. It won’t stop. It just won’t stop. I want to answer, I need to answer, but I just wish the sound would stop. The way to get it to stop is to answer. Just answer. It’ll stop if you answer. You’ll feel better if you answer. I slam my hand down on the ground and grope the floor until I manage to grab my phone and bring it up to my ear.

"Hi, love," Spencer's chipper voice comes through the receiver, none the wiser to my current situation. He's been away on a case since early yesterday morning, having woken me up while getting dressed, kissing me goodbye, and leaving my apartment to get to the BAU. I would kill to have him here right now. Maybe he could talk me down and reteach me how to breathe. Maybe he could reinflate my lungs and kiss my hands until they stop trembling. 

I try to answer, but nothing coherent comes out. I let out a strangled sob, my fingernails digging into my knee so hard that I worry I might draw blood. My inability to communicate is frustrating and that ball of heat in my stomach rises up to my chest. The trembling overpowers me and I almost drop my phone again. 

"Amelia? What's wrong? Are you okay? Talk to me," Spencer says quickly, and it's only followed by more choked wheezes from me. "You've gotta breathe, okay? Take really deep breaths for me. In through your nose and out from your mouth.”

His instructions seem simple enough to do. Just breathe. That’s all I have to do. It’s simple. Just breathe. I open my mouth to try to speak to him, to tell him what’s happening, even though I’m pretty sure he can tell, but all that comes out is fragments of words and whimpers.

"It’s okay, you’re okay. You don’t need to speak. In through your nose, out from your mouth, remember? Can you try that for me?" I’m not sure how long I’m sitting there for, on the phone, trying to focus on my boyfriends’ voice as he tries to calm me down. It feels like I’m sitting for a few hours, but my tiny grasp on reality lets me know that it’s been ten minutes at the most. I just do what I can to focus on Spencer and what he is telling me to do and how I can calm down. I clench my fists and finally succeed in doing what he tells me to after a while, breathing heavily in through my nose, my chest burning as the heaving comes to a gradual stop. I breathe out and then repeat the process a few times. “There you go. You’re doing so well. I’m right here for you, okay? Take all the time you need.”

He continues to tell me sweet nothings and encourages me to breathe until my breathing has regulated and my head lays slack against my knees. Spencer lets just a few moments of silence go by to let me collect myself before he speaks again. “Are you feeling a little better now?” I gather enough energy, the last of it, to hum a confirmation. "Where are you right now?" Spencer asks next. Even just his voice calms me down. Maybe it's his experience with his job but he sounds so calm right now. Nobody in my life has ever been able to remain so calm during one of my panic attacks, leaving me to cry and heave and occasionally faint in private. But Spencer's voice sounds so soothing and calm and low that just him speaking helps me more than anything. More than any useless, overwhelming, smothering hug ever has. 

"Studio.”

"Okay. You should get home and get some rest. " 

"Mhm.”

"You shouldn't drive. I don't know if you did, but either way, please don't drive. Take the train or call someone to drive you home," Spencer pleads. "I was calling to tell you that we're on our way home. We closed the case and we're leaving in a few minutes for the airport, but don't wait for me. You need to go home and get rest. Panic attacks are really taxing and you need to re-energize. I'll come over when I get back but you need to get home."

"Amelia?" I hear Jenna's voice approaching me but I don't even bother to look up. "Are you okay?" 

I've exhausted my energy on speaking just those few words to Spencer so when Jenna gets close enough to me, I just lift the phone up for her. She crouches down beside me and grabs my phone, wedging it between her shoulder and her ear as she pushes my hair out of my face. I try to lean away from her touch but I can’t get very far. "Who is this? Oh, hi, Spencer. This is Jenna. She's right next to me. I can definitely bring her home. Don't worry, I'll get her home and I'll stay with her until you come around, it's no problem. I'll take her phone and let you know when I get her home. Okay, bye."

I finally lift my head and look at Jenna, watching her tuck my phone into her pocket, giving me this stupid, pitiful smile that I’ve seen far too many times in my life. A half smile that says, it sucks that you’re going through something but I only kind of care. "Mr. Genius says I gotta bring you home and keep you safe until he comes over and I don't feel like ending up in prison, so let's go, babe." I don’t have it in me to correct her to day Doctor Genius instead of Mister Genius. Jenna holds her hands out to help me up.

I bring my shaking hands up to hers and let her pull me to my feet and lead me over to her car, feeling weak and useless as she pulls the seatbelt over my chest. I pout as she dotes over me, humming casually to herself just so she can make this situation not so tense, but it just makes it seem like she doesn’t care. "Okay," Jenna says, hand poised on the passenger side door, "I'm gonna go kick everyone out of your studio and then we'll get going. Sit tight."

///

"Hi, Spencer, I'm Jenna,"

"Hi, Jenna. Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's sleeping on the couch. She didn't even wanna go upstairs to bed so she asked me to put on a record and she just passed out on the couch."

Everything sounds foggy as I wake up what I assume is hours later in an uncomfortable position, curled up on my couch. My head is pounding and my eyes feel puffy and I'm now regretting not forcing myself to get into bed. I would have much rathered waking up with my duvet wrapped around me and my head on Spencer’s pillow. Waking up on this stiff couch with my toes virtually frozen and my head twisted uncomfortably on the armrest isn’t how I wanted to wake up post-panic attack. 

I open my eyes just in time to see Spencer setting his go-bag down beside the coffee table, sending me that same stupid, pitiful smile. "Hi," he whispers, coming to sit on the floor in front of me. He raises his hand to drag his fingertips along my cheekbone and the soft touch makes my eyes flutter closed. I’ve gotten used to being without him when he’s away on cases, and having Spencer with me makes all the separated days easier. I know that the moments like this make up for the times I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, because I can’t sleep if his arms around me and if I can’t hear his heartbeat. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Mm," I hum, but it's not much of an answer, not a satisfying one, at the least. 

"It's good that you got some sleep but you gotta have something to eat too. Do you want me to order something?" I nod slowly at his suggestion that I couldn’t care less about. I just want his hands on me. "Okay, I will. Sit tight, I'll be right back."

A whine falls from my lips as I reach my hand out for his, hoping to keep him from leaving. I just need his touch and his love and his affection to feel better. I don’t need sleep or food or anything he could possibly suggest that helps a person relax after a panic attack, based on this study I read. I love his facts but I just want him to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it will. The boiling hot baths I usually take after a panic attack never do the trick. Nothing does the trick like physical affection does.

"Don't go," the words could barely be considered words, especially not after I mumble them through almost closed lips.

"I’m not leaving," Spencer crouches down again and presses a kiss to my forehead, and I’m sure he realizes that a kiss was the wrong move because I just keep trying to pull him closer. “I just wanna order you something to eat, okay? Let me bring you upstairs and get you in bed and then I’ll call for something. Is that okay?”

Spencer is sitting up on his knees before I even try to answer because even though he's posed a question, he doesn't need an answer. He knows how to help me from the studies he reads and he knows what needs to be done and he's relatively stubborn. So despite how my body feels heavy and how I wish I could just melt into the couch cushions with my arms wrapped around my boyfriend, I force myself to sit up. Spencer scoops me up and carries me up the stairs, setting me down in bed and tugging the duvet all the way up to my chin.

Spencer goes a bit overboard with tucking me in, but I don’t mind, as long as his hands are on me. And he is happy with his work, he finally takes off his peacoat and sets it on the edge of the bed. "I'm just gonna go run downstairs and order something and make some tea, okay? Did you take your medication?" He turns away from me and goes towards the stairs, digging his phone out of his pocket.

"Huh?"

Spencer halts himself from walking down the stairs, turning his chin over his shoulder. "Your medication," he turns his body towards me. "You know, for your panic attack?"

I shake my head, eyebrows furrowed so much that it makes my headache worse. "No, no, I don't have any."

My fuzzy brain can't exactly decipher the look on Spencer's face, but he turns his back to me yet again and rushes down the stairs. I let out a hum at his confusing reaction, but it turns into a disappointed whine as he gets further and further away from me. So, still in my post-panic attack state, I reach for Spencer's coat for some sort of comfort.

As I tug on it, something falls out of the pocket. I blindly reach for it and have every intention of tucking it back into the pocket it came from, but the cool metal of the object heightens my senses, as if the object brings me back down to earth. I hold Spencer's jacket to my chest as I lay back down against my pillows, looking down at the metal circle in my hand. There's a triangle on the front- or maybe the back?- with a Roman numeral one on it, with the words unity, service, and recovery around the three sides. I turn it over in my hand and find a compass rose with only north labeled.

"Amelia?" My head pops up when I tune into Spencer's footsteps on the last stair, his phone in his hand and his untied converse in the other. He drops his shoes on the floor and then leans against the wall, his eyes traveling down to the floor instead of on me. I can feel his shame from all the way across the room and how his embarrassment starts to consume him. He instantly shuts himself off from me and it’s so disheartening to see how easy it is for him to do so. 

"It fell out," I hold it out to him, despite our distance. "What did you order?"

Spencer doesn't move as I hold the medallion out to him, but all he does is tuck his hands in his pocket and study the patterns on his socks. "You don't wanna know what it is?"

I drop my hand against the bed and sigh, having used too much energy to keep my arm up for longer than two seconds, nuzzling my cheek against Spencer's jacket and trying to get a whiff of his cologne. If he won’t come to me then I’ll have to get a piece of him in my bed, even if it’s just the scent on his jacket. I need his comfort. "I know what it is, dove."

He takes a long breath and then walks over, taking the medallion out of my hand and shoving it in his pocket. "Pizza. I'm gonna go change and I'll be right back."

I hadn't even realized he had brought his go-bag upstairs at some point, but I only see it when he carries it into the bathroom. He doesn't shut the door all the way and I find myself wondering why. Maybe he doesn't want to completely shut himself away from me because he can tell I need him close. Or maybe because he didn’t want to rebuild his emotional walls around me, and closing the bathroom door would separate us. But I don’t have the time to come to a clear and coherent hypothesis before he has returned.

He's in a tee shirt and plaid pajama pants when he returns, dropping his bag onto the floor and letting out a heavy sigh. I watch him as he walks around the bed to grab his shoes and begins the process of shoving them into his bag, even though he doesn't need to. He knows he doesn’t need to clean his stuff up immediately. But I notice his medallion in his hand, squeezed between his pointer and middle fingers, and it makes me call out to him. His head whips over to me and I realize I have nothing to say. I need him beside me but he clearly has so much going on in his head and in all the time we've been together, I've never seen his medallion. That makes me nervous. Is this why he's acting like this? Is he thinking about getting his hands on a drug that will ruin his life?

I have nothing to say. But Spencer is staring at me, waiting for me to ask whatever question he thinks I’m needing to ask, as I clutch his jacket like my life depends on it, eyes half-closed as I start to struggle to breathe again. I open my mouth but nothing comes out and a tear drips down my cheek.

Spencer moves to kneel on the bed, pulling his jacket out of my hands and replacing the fabric with his body. "Hey, I'm right here, Lia, just breathe. Sit up for me, sweetheart," He places his hands on my waist and helps me sit up, coaxing my head between my knees. He somehow knows exactly what to do, despite not being able to see me during my previous attack. He knows just how softly I need to be touched and what volume to speak at without overwhelming me. "It's okay, it's okay, I'm right here, don't worry. I don’t want you to get worked up again." I manage to nod, and he kisses my forehead as a reward. Spencer just keeps holding me and whispering praises, tucking my head under his chin and rubbing my back with a feather light touch.  “There you go. There’s my girl.”

“I’m okay,” I whisper, but it’s more for myself than for him. 

“Yeah, you are,” he affirms. "Will you talk to me about these attacks and how I can help you?" His sweet voice is so buttery and smooth that I get lost in it, eyes fluttering and almost completely missing his question. I just want him to keep talking, to read me poetry or tell me random facts that I’ll probably never need to know. I just want him to talk, and talk, and talk, and break me away from the prison in my mind. I just want him to distract me.

“Um,” I lean into his touch when he brings his hand into my hair, scratching me behind my ears like a cat. But when I manage to open my eyes and look at him, he’s giving me such a serious look, one that says he means business, and I know that there’s no room for jokes or wit. “I don’t know. I’ve mostly dealt with panic attacks alone. I just let them happen and wait for them to be done.”

Spencer’s eyes widen in surprise but he quickly tries to hide his reaction, clearing his throat as a distraction, but it’s nowhere close to this distraction I had hoped for. “So you don’t know any coping mechanisms or take any medication for panic attacks?” I shake my head no. “Have you ever gone to a doctor or a therapist about this?”

Definitely not the distraction I was hoping for. I reach for the duvet and pull it over my head, deciding to ignore him. I manage to crawl out of Spencer’s lap and curl up on my pillow with my back to him, earning a defeated sigh from my boyfriend beside me. He takes a breath to speak but then the doorbell rings and I can only assume that means that dinner is here. Without a word spoken, Spencer climbs off the bed and goes to answer the door. I hear his chatting quietly with the delivery person before his sock-covered footsteps echo back up the stairs, and he returns with a pizza box.

Spencer just casually suggesting I go to a doctor or a therapist is so obnoxious and annoying and I truly can’t remember a time in our relationship when I was this mad at him. He talks as though a doctor's visit will solve all my problems and if taking a pill will turn me into the healthy, stress-free, mental illness-free girl that I want to be, but never have been, and never will be. I spent my childhood taking care of myself and my brother and I can keep doing that as an adult. I’ve gotten this far in my life, farther than I thought I would, so I’m not going to fix something that isn’t broken. 

Spencer sits at the foot of the bed and sets the pizza box in the middle of the bed, not saying a word as he opens it up and separates the slices. I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes as I tuck my legs underneath me. I reach for a piece of pizza and lean over the cardboard so I don't get the bed messy. If the bed gets messy and crumby then Spencer won’t be able to sleep tonight, knowing that there’s particles of food all over the duvet. He seems to be on the same train of thought because he refuses to move the piece of pizza in his hand away from the box. If I wasn’t so upset, I’d be telling him how cute he is and finding his cleanliness endearing and suggesting that we eat at the table downstairs instead of my bed. But the tension is so thick that I could cut it with a knife, and I don’t have the energy to ease it. But apparently, Spencer does.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Spencer asks casually, keeping his eyes down as he takes another bite of his pizza. "The way you talk,” he pauses and considers his words very carefully, “you've clearly had panic attacks before."

"It's not a big deal."

"Amelia," the stony, serious tone of his voice makes my head pop up. He looks annoyed, as if he doesn't believe what I'm saying. I haven’t yet learned that lying to a profiler is useless. "You had a panic attack on a public sidewalk and it was so bad that you went nonverbal. Panic attacks happen to a lot of people but they're serious and debilitating and you should get treatment for them."

"Don’t tell me what I should do. I don't need treatment," I answer far too quickly. "I know you have your degree in psychology or whatever but I don’t need to hear it. I’ve taken care of myself for this long and I actually happen to think I’ve done a pretty good job at it, so I don’t need medication or therapy to interfere.”

Realization flashes on Spencer's face and he puts his piece of pizza down, leaning his elbows against his knees. "Seeking out help doesn’t make you weak."

I scoff and roll my eyes into the back of my head, but maybe that's just to avoid eye contact or to repress the tears that burn at my ducts. "That's not what this is about."

"I didn’t mention anything about my degree, Amelia,” Spencer snaps. “And all I’m trying to do is help you. You can go to a therapist and discuss coping mechanisms and figure out why you even have them or go to a doctor and get medication that will regulate attacks and maybe you'll get something to take after you get attacks, it'll be so much-"

"No!" I shout, cutting him off, my hands balled into fists as I struggle to rein in all the nasty things I want so badly to say, but that I know he doesn’t deserve. "I won't! I'm not! I'm fine without it! I've gone my whole fucking life like this and I don't need to be fixed!"

I decide it's the appropriate time to throw a temper tantrum and scramble off the bed, not even bothering to grab a jacket or a blanket or shoes or anything as I stomp down the stairs and throw open the door to the balcony. It's colder than I remember it being and the air instantly seizes up my bones, but I ignore the feeling as I close the door behind me. I lean against the railing and let a few tears silently slip down my cheeks, not bothering to wipe them and instead letting them trail down my neck and dampen the neckline of my crewneck. Fresh air used to always calm me down, but now, being alone on a balcony after fighting with Spencer, the air only feels suffocating.

A few minutes pass before I head the door slide open and Spencer steps out. I expect him to speak right away, to use his profiling skills to defuse the situation, but he doesn't. He drapes a blanket over my shoulders and as frustrated as I am at him and at the world and at myself, the tiny gesture makes me feel better. I'm craving his touch yet again and I wish he would just wrap his arms around me, but yet again, he doesn't. I tug the blanket as tight as I can around my shoulders and imagine it's his arms. His arms that are so close to me but feel like they are miles away.

"I've been a hypocrite." Spencer's voice is quiet, but not in the same way as it was during my attacks. No, before he was quiet for my sake. But now he seems quiet because he can't bear to speak any louder. Like if he hears his own words, he will combust and break down. "I kept something from you too."

I turn around and find that he's sitting down in one of the armchairs, another blanket wrapped around his shoulders. I, yet again, notice that his medallion is in his hand. But he's not trying to hide it, he's staring right down at it.

"Does it have anything to do with your medallion and why it was in your pocket?"

"Partly," he answers, and then looks up at me, pretty brown eyes already glistening with tears. If I wasn’t so upset, if Spencer wasn’t so upset, if the tension hadn’t carried outside, I would have poked his perfect nose and told him how cute he is when the tip of his nose gets red from the cold. My eyes are just focused on the medallion though, being passed between his fingers with expertise and never slipping out. "I'm clean, I promise. I wouldn't risk breaking my sobriety. I have too much to lose now. I've got you, and my job, and my team- my friends, Henry. But, um, yeah, there's something that I didn't tell you and I know that I should."

Partially born from my own selfish need for affection, coupled with Spencer's broken down state, I go and sit on his lap. He happily lets me do so, draping one hand over my thigh, holding the medallion there. I rest my head on his chest and wait for him to feel comfortable enough to start his story. I can feel his heart pounding against his chest and I stare down his hand, tap-tap-tapping on the arm of the chair. His nervousness is just as palpable as the tension.

"So, um, do you remember when we first met? You always like to point out how you're not the profiler here but did you happen to notice how nervous I was?"

"Mm," I hum, racking my brain for the memories of our first few coffee dates. I remember his strained smiles and his stuttered out words. I think back to us spending Christmas together and how, later on, he just blurted out an invitation to be his girlfriend that lacked finesse and confidence. He has always been nervous around me, but I always just thought that he was nervous with new relationships. It never crossed my mind that there was a reason other than anxiety. "Of course. The first day we met, I don't even think you took your bag off, right? I just thought dates made you nervous."

"Well, yeah, that's kinda true," Spencer sighs and when he tilts his head down, his lips brush against my temple. His warm lips bring a shiver down my spine and he holds me tighter against his cold body. "The truth is, about two years before I met you, I had a girlfriend, her name was Maeve. Our relationship wasn't really conventional. We, um,” he pauses and shifts his weight, “she was a geneticist and I saw her when I was having migraines, but then we started dating. We never met each other though."

His constant past tense is alarming. Was.

"We talked on the phone. She had a stalker from before I met her and she wanted to make sure that I didn’t get wrapped up in it. And we had to be safe so we only talked on pay phones. Only on Sunday's and never from the same phone twice. I thought I, um, I thought I loved her and then-" Spencer lets out a breath that sounds defeated, tired, helpless. He drops the medallion into my lap and his hands fly up to cover his face, another shaky breath falling from his lips. “I shouldn’t be telling you this when you're in such a fragile mental state. This is a lot of information and-”

"If you want to tell me then you can. I’m not a fragile little girl, I can take it. But if you don’t think you can then that’s okay too. I don’t need you to show me all the skeletons in your closet because you think you’ve been hypocritical.”

Spencer drops his hands, revealing his quivering lips and wet waterline. I return the medallion to the palm of his hand and close his fingers around it. "I mean,” he lets out the tiniest, saddest chuckle, “I was being hypocritical, being mad at you for keeping information a secret when I was doing the same.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” my slight teasing gets a more genuine laugh out of him, and he drops his forehead to my shoulder to hide it. “But it’s okay. I understand that there’s some things you don’t wanna share immediately.” 

Spencer keeps his head down, his hand in a tight fist around his medallion and the other on my waist, keeping me close. I can practically feel his fear and anxiety and his overwhelming pain through the tips of his fingers digging into my skin, and I want so badly to take it from him. I would gladly shoulder his pain so he doesn’t have to drag it around behind him like a suitcase with a broken wheel. But as badly as I want to, I can’t help him the way I want to and so I just need to comfort him to the best of my ability. 

"She got kidnapped and shot in front of me," he blurts out quickly, the memory obviously too painful to say gracefully. "I realized she was gone so the team investigated and we found Maeve and the unsub brought me inside where she was being held and had me see her for the first time ever and then killed herself and Maeve right in front of me and there was nothing I could do about it."

Sometimes I don't know what to say to Spencer. He sees the worst that society has to offer, and the worst took away the first woman that he loved. I don't always know how to comfort him. Sometimes he just wants to be held and would rather not verbalize his feelings. And although I don’t love it when he decides to not talk things out, cuddling and giving out kisses is easier than arguing with him and trying to get him to talk about things he doesn’t want to. So physical affection is easier. But right now he doesn't seem to want to be held and I don't know how to help him. He didn't want to tell me this but clearly, today hasn't gone how either of us has wanted it to go. I've been spontaneously panicking and he's now confessing that his girlfriend was killed. None of this is right.

It takes him a few minutes to start speaking again, but when he does, his voice is quiet. "I almost relapsed after that," his head finds home on my shoulder again, and his other arm wraps around my waist. He holds me tight against his chest, adjusting the blanket around me to make sure I’m always covered and warm. "When I first got clean, I brought my medallion with me everywhere I went. I couldn't leave the house without it. I brought it with me on cases, to the store, everywhere. Then time passed and I could leave without it, and I was really proud of that. But then Maeve died and suddenly it was like I was right back at square one. I couldn't go anywhere without it. I needed the reminder of all my hard work and dedication or else I would've easily relapsed."

"Is," my voice is shakier than I wanted it to be, "is there something that's making you wanna relapse now?"

"Stalking cases," he answers, and that's not at all the answer I was expecting. I’m not really sure exactly what kind of answer I was expecting, but it wasn’t stalking cases. "They're common and they're not always violent so we don't always investigate but when we do, I hate it. It’s like torture on those cases, just having to relive what happened with her. Hotch doesn't even let me take part in takedowns of stalking cases because we both know I wouldn't be stable if a hostage situation happened. So,” he tucks his head into my neck this time, and I can feel his lips on my skin, leaving light kisses to make up for the heavy topic, “yeah, that’s what I was keeping from you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, dove. I understand.”

I turn my head away from him and stare out at the city. The sun is setting and the sky is painted a pretty pink and purple, mixed together in a way I wish I could achieve in my work. But the people below pay no mind to it. They speed-walk to whatever their next destination is and keep their noses tucked in their phones, or to wave their hand for a cab and bark out orders and throw money at the person who spends their lives being chauffeurs to rude politicians and businessmen. Nobody cares to look up and admire the beauty around them, beauty that they won’t see some day. They don’t look up at the unnatural colors in the sky or check to see if the clouds have taken the form of a shoe or a candy wrapper. They just walk, and walk, and walk. They don’t care. Nobody ever cares. 

"I'm sorry," I choke out, tears suddenly pouring down my cheeks. I reach for Spencer’s hands, intertwining our fingers but keeping his arms around my waist. I don’t want to be without his comfort and his arms and his warmth. He seems to feel the same because he pulls me even closer somehow, my body completely flush against his. "I love you, Spencer, and you-” I hiccup, “fuck, you didn't deserve any of that."

"You're all I need in this life, Amelia. I didn't think I'd ever fall in love again but now I have you and," I can feel his hands shaking in mine, and although it’s hard to tell if it’s from the cold or from anxiety. "I just love you so much. Please don’t leave me."

"I’m never gonna leave you, Spencer Reid. Ever. I'm not going anywhere," I whisper, but I can't tell who it's a reassurance for. "I love you."

///

SPENCER

///

THE NEXT MORNING

///

No amount of nights turned into mornings at Amelia’s apartment could get me used to being woken up to sun beams in my eyes.

I scrunch up my face as the sunlight flows through the windows and almost blinds me. I roll over and reach towards Amelia's side of the bed, grabbing a fistful of sheets instead of a fistful of her. I let out a disappointed sigh and force my eyes open, popping one lid open to confirm my sad realization that I'm waking up alone. Now I'm understanding how Amelia feels when I have to leave for cases.

I can feel the heat blasting and it makes it bearable for me to exist in only my pair of pajama pants, so I don't bother to put a shirt on. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and check my phone, just to make sure there isn't a spontaneous case on a Saturday, and there thankfully isn't anything yet. So I run a hand through my hair that is probably wild and climb out of bed, making the trek down the occasionally terrifying floating stairs.

I pause on the last step when I peer into the kitchen, the dumbest smile appearing on my face when I locate my girlfriend. She's sitting on the counter in the kitchen with her legs up and crossed at the ankles, dressed in only an oversized white tee shirt and pale blue wool socks. Matching, unfortunately. She's wearing her normal butterfly necklace, I can see from here, but she's missing all of her piercings- nose ring and earrings. Her natural curls are out in full force and are only contained by one of her patterned scarves, wrapped around her head like a headband. She's holding an apple in one hand and she has a book resting in her lap but I can't quite see the spine to read the title. But this is one of the moments I'm thankful for my fancy memory, as Amelia calls it, because she looks so effortlessly stunning and perfect and beautiful that I'm glad I'll remember this moment forever.

I watch her for a moment. She wiggles her toes every few seconds and then takes a loud bite from the apple, flipping the page and darting her eyes across the lines. Effortless. Remarkable. I'm often blown away by her simple beauty. I wonder how she does it without trying. How she renders me speechless. How she makes me feel like a teenager in love. How she makes me feel like a lovesick puppy, galloping around at her feet with stars in my eyes. How she makes me feel like she's completely out of my league. How she makes me feel like I'm the luckiest man in the whole world.

When I decide that I have to get my hands on her, I step off the stairs. She still doesn't notice my presence, I credit that to my bare feet on the hardwood, and she only looks up when a floorboard creaks. She lifts her chin and reveals her stunning dimples, ocean eyes wide for me. "Morning!" she quips, tucking a bookmark into the page and setting her book aside. "Wasn't sure you were ever gonna wake up."

"I don't like waking up alone," I brush my fingertips along her leg as I walk closer, eliciting a shy giggle from Amelia. No matter how many times I touch her, she still gets shy about it. I peer over her legs and my eyebrows raise. "You're reading Rossi's book? What's that about?"

Amelia giggles, picking up the book and inspecting the cover. "It's more of a courtesy, actually. I bought all three books of his the other day and I'm planning on ripping out all the pages to use for a piece of art for my next exhibit. But I figured I'd read them first before I destroy them, you know? He saved my life as a kid so the least I can do is read his books before I destroy them."

"Hmm," it's not really at all the answer I was expecting. I watch her face as she plasters on a shy smile, kicking her feet like an excited child and clutching the book to her chest. I don’t have the heart to ask her any more questions about her decision to rip up Rossi’s books because I don’t want to wipe that smile off her face. "Interesting. Breakfast?"

"Not before you give me a kiss," Amelia's delicate voice balances out the horrors Rossi illustrates in his book as she brings her lips to mine. "If you're cooking, I don't care what you make."

"Sounds like a plan,” and just as I didn’t have the heart to question her art, I don’t have it in me to go further than an inch away from her lips before she decides it’s okay. So that leads to kissing for far too long, the book tumbling out of Amelia’s hands and onto her lap, my hands holding her jaw. Her lips are different in the morning, slightly chapped and not yet bleeding from being chewed relentlessly. But, for some reason, I prefer them like this. And I definitely prefer chapped lips to glossy lips that get all over my face and takes a makeup remover wipe to get rid of. I quickly flip through the last few images of Amelia in my head and notice she hasn’t worn lip gloss in a while. Maybe that’s for the better though. She won’t have to hear me complain and watch me rub at my lips and grimace when my hand gets sticky too.

“Okay, okay,” Amelia giggles, grabbing my hands and pushing them away, “let’s not get carried away. I am hungry.”

“Then why didn’t you make breakfast yourself?” I sass, turning on my heel to start collecting breakfast ingredients and feed my hungry lady. 

“Haha,” she snickers sarcastically, rolling her eyes at me. And a comfortable silence falls over us as I start cooking, occasionally glancing over to watch her thumb through the book. It etches a hopefully permanent smile onto my face.

"I do have a question, though," Amelia fiddles with the corner of a page, curling it between her finger and keeping her eyes down. I hum lazily in response, mixing pancakes batter, far too focused on making sure I get measurements correct to be able to make eye contact with her. "I don't wanna make you uncomfortable but your medallion- well, it," she sighs, obviously not able to find the words for what she wants to say.

It’s not my favorite topic of conversation so early in the morning, but I guess the sooner Amelia asks her questions and gets them out of her system, the sooner we can stop having conversations about my demons. "You can ask whatever you want to.”

"It's not a bad question, I don't think," she responds, and turns so her legs are swinging over the edge of the counter, facing me. "I'm just curious what the compass on the back means. It seems odd to me. I mean, the front says recovery and all but the back has a compass? I've never heard of these medallions having a compass on them."

"The designs differ," despite the relatively tame question, I busy myself by trying to create perfect circles with the batter on the hot skillet. She could've asked me about my experience with drugs and how it feels and she could have unknowingly triggered me, but no. She just wants to know about the compass. I guess that’s better than making me relive relapse or make me remember what a high feels like. "I've obviously been clean for more than a year, so the other medallions I have for other years have different designs on the back. But I always liked the one year medallion the best."

"Will you tell me why?" She presses gently, pulling her knees back up to her chest. I've seen her do this plenty of times, shut herself off from conversations, I mean, and I hate it when she does. On normal days, when she shuts herself off from conversations, I do what I can to put her at ease and get her to open back up. But if anyone should be shutting off from this conversation, it’s me. "You don't have to, if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Getting to one year is really hard," I admit quickly, keeping my eyes off her as I move the pancakes from the skillet to a plate. "So when I finally got to one year and I got the medallion, it was a huge accomplishment for me. And the compass? It’s just a thing that my program preached. North is always regarded as the right way to go, even though that’s not really true in theory, but I never pointed that out. But my program had us pick someone or something to represent north for each person. So that way, if anyone was ever going through withdrawals or cravings, we could think of that thing we chose and it would give us the motivation to get through a hard time. The thing would give us a reason to go north, the right way. Basically, the way to recovery. The way to go back home.”

“And what did you choose?”

“My job,” it’s such an unenthusiastic answer, no light or happiness in my voice. “My job was all I had at the time, but my job being my north never felt right. It was never really motivating. Maybe that’s why it was so hard to get past a year. I had nothing to look forward to.” 

"One more question," Amelia speaks, softer this time. "Can you come here?"

I look up and find that Amelia is resting her chin on her knees, giving me that same cute smile from before. I nod, scooping the last pancake off the skillet and putting it on the pile before walking over, dragging my feet. Amelia drops her legs and holds out her arms, wrapping them around my shoulders the moment I get close enough. I instantly melt into her embrace and tuck my face into her neck, feeling her fingers on the back of my neck, tracing small shapes and letters.

"I know that I didn't know you back then," Amelia whispers, warm breath tickling my skin, "but I'm proud of you. I'm proud that you're strong enough to keep your head up and stay clean. And thank you for trusting me with all this information. I love you so much."

My body is filled with that familiar warmth that I only feel when Amelia is around, and I can't stop the smile that comes to my face. The tears in my eyes dry up quickly at the praise. "Thank you for loving me."

"I always will," she pulls away and slides her hands up to my face, pointer fingertips tracing my jaw and up to my cheekbones. She swipes her finger across my bottom lip and then brings it up to my nose, poking it gently and giggling under her breath. She’s deep in thought, I can tell from the look on her face. "You know,” she smooths down my eyebrows and then her fingers follow my hairline all the way down to my jaw, “I’ll be your north," she suggests. "I know you always tell me that talking to me when you're on cases helps, but I wanna help you with everything, with every aspect of your life. I wanna help you with the ugliest parts of your life, and not just the ugly parts of your job. I'll be your north. I'll be your reason to come home and I'll be- I'll be like your guiding light. I'll be your lighthouse. I'll just," her hands halt on my cheeks and her legs twist around my waist, bringing our bodies flush, "I'll be your north."

My heart is pounding as I smile at her, the tears that had just dried up coming back tenfold. She's smiling her stupidly gorgeous smile but not even making eye contact, just staring down at my lips as she lets her brain settle from all the words she just vomited and as she holds herself back from her obvious impulse to actually kiss me. So I lean forward and peck her lips, untangling our limbs. "I'll be right back," I ignore the sting in my chest at the disappointment clear on her face as I pull completely away from her hold. But I kiss her cheek for reassurance before I disappear back upstairs, grabbing my go-bag.

I return to the kitchen with last year’s Christmas present in my hands and open up to the page I'm searching for, walking up to my girl. Her back is to me, pouring more batter onto the skillet to finish up breakfast. But the moment she puts the bowl of batter back on the counter, I swing my arms over her head and bring the sketchbook in front of her to show her a journal entry.

"I didn't always use it for sketches," I explain as she grabs the book from me, "but I use it. A lot. Read that entry," Amelia goes radio silent as she reads, and I rest my chin on my shoulder to read with her.

Amelia is my north. I always thought that I'd be alone for the rest of my life and I'd never fall in love again. I thought I had been scorned too hard and I'd never recover. But Amelia gives me a reason to want to go home. She gives me a reason to not make that reckless decision that comes to my mind in the field and she gives me a reason to not go out in the middle of the night and go searching for a new dealer. She gives me a reason to live and maybe it's wrong of me to rely so heavily on another person who could leave me just as easily as everyone else in my life has, but I don't care. She gives me a purpose and she's the reason I come home every day.

It's the little things she does that make me love her. I love seeing her face pop up on Garcia's video chats and I love seeing the snacks she leaves in my desk and the notes she leaves for me and how she always makes a point to clean my apartment when she's over. I've never met someone quite like her.

I didn't think I'd ever find a person to personify "north." I always thought that "north" would remain this mysterious entity that I would blindly chase after my entire life and remain following towards a life of recovery, or a life of constant relapse and pain. Or that I would just continue lying to myself and saying that my “north” was my job. But now I know that Amelia is that "north" that will always be by my side. As long as I have her, then I'll never have to chase after a nameless, faceless goal. I'll always have my north right beside me.

Amelia sniffles as she shuts the sketchbook, setting it gently on the counter. "Okay, fuck you for making me cry."

I toss my head back laugh, grabbing her waist to turn her around, taking the job of wiping her tears. "I’m sorry, love, that wasn't my intention."

"That was really sweet, dove," Amelia disregards her tears, throwing her arms around me and pressing her face into my neck. “I’m never gonna leave you, Spence. I want you to believe that. I love you so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” I clutch her waist in my hands as if that would keep her from leaving, “sometimes, I just feel helpless and unlovable and when I feel like that, I come to you.”

“Good. You’re not unlovable. I am so insanely in love with you and you’re never, ever getting rid of me.”

“Good,” I echo, pressing my lips to her shoulder and trailing kisses up her neck. “You’re-” Amelia’s stomach growling silences me, her cheeks turning pink as she ducks her head away. “Okay, alright, the mushy love fest is over. Eat some breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” she giggles, turning in my arms to dish out pancakes for us, “I’m just really hungry and I wasn’t gonna make anything until you woke up. But the bottom line is that I love you and I’m always gonna be in your apartment, cleaning shit you don’t want me to and annoying the hell out of you.”

“Yeah, you definitely annoy me when you leave the curtains open and I get blinded in the morning.”

Amelia turns to me with the cutest smile, holding a plate of pancakes out for me. “At least you get to wake up next to me in the morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I lean over the plate to give her what seems like the millionth kiss to the morning, “waking up next to you is pretty amazing.”

 TAGLIST

@bxnnywriting​ @babybloodstonebones​ @blameitonthenight21​ @feralreid​ @anepiphany​ @goldenalvez​ @reidscardigan​ @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto​ @stxrryspencer​ @m0rcia​ @whollytaciturn​ @thegingerfairchild​ @yasminwashere​ @shrimpyblog​ @blakes-dictionxry​ @anamelessfacelessnerd​ @wonderlandhatter​ @whxt-to-write​ @inkandexchange​ @just-call-me-non​

[queerconfusionthings]

She’s the Master

Whittaker!Master x reader

oh wow, oh wow, everyone's art of this has driven me into a frenzy, but, thank you to @spoonlesss-artbook​ in particular for this piece of wonderful and genius artwork for which has partly inspired this fic.

(a fun game for anyone reading - see if you can spot which point i started fantasising about whittaker!master stepping on me)

I may still have prompts to get through, but I definitely won't have any complaints if you send in Whittaker!Master (Dhawan!Doctor too) requests xx

---

The TARDIS was manic, each passenger shouting in turn over the screeching and the bleeping, the Doctor attempting to manouver around the console despite the violent turns and swerves. At one point, your feet definitely lifted off of the ground, knuckles turning white under the sheer pressure you were exerting onto the railing next to the stairs. At least, you assumed they were turning white, any sense of colour perception thrown off by the flashing red.

You slammed your eyes shut.

"Everyone doing okay?" The Doctor practically screamed.

Graham made a completely undecipherable remark, Ryan made a noise, and Yaz gave a quick, "Not really!"

"Y/N, what about you?"

"I'm fi- "

Your head slammed to the floor, arm twisting to at least attempt a softer landing, bringing about a groan inducing ache in the process. Your head was panging with a certain stabbing pain, sharp and repetitive, hand clenching to push it back.

Barely opening your eyes, you let out a choked sigh of relief and the sudden lack of flashing. Still red - ominously so, actually. No noise though.

And no talking.

You rolled onto your back, very much back into a panic. Brilliant. Never any time to relax. Across from you, someone was pushing themselves up. You assumed it was the Doctor, the woman having a tendancy to get up no matter the situation - a bomb could go off and she'd take it in her stride.

The unease still remained.

It was when she stood up fully, still turned away, that the unease managed to flair into a slight fear. Of course something wasn't right. Why would it be? Why wouldn't you land yourself in a threatening situation. No lilac coat, but rather a fitted black blazer, maybe purple - the deep red was making it hard to tell - and much shorter hair.

You could tell it was her. Or not her necessarily, but definitely someone that looked like her; she was unmistakable even from behind, even in drastically different attire.

In an attempt to move yourself in a position to stand, you leaned on your shoulder, the sudden burst of heat drawing out a wince and a sound that sent your head spinning.

The sound of movement soon overlayed that, eyes opening to see a very different Doctor looking down on you. Her foot landed on your chest before you could even make an attempt to get up, grunt passing your lips when the heel of her boot digged in. Very different Doctor. Red tie- or purple - god, you really couldn't tell, but it was undountedly ominous, a pocketsquare to match and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just slightly to almost expose her collar. Hair quiffed, flowing over to the left side, framing eyes that suddenly seemed a lot more... well, for lack of a better word, mad.

"How did you get onto my TARDIS, and what have you done to it?" The Yorkshire accent was sharp, close to resonating in a growl.

"Doctor?"

An eyebrow arched, lips quirking into a sort of gleeful anger as she pushed down further on your chest, your lack of breath bringing about a sudden round of choking coughs for air. The pressure was painfully constant. "Doctor? Has he finally ruined one of his pets into madness?"

His. Okay, okay, so either this is a past or future incarnation, which seemed incredibly unlikely, or you were somewhere else altogether. You took a glance to the TARDIS console. It seemed ever so slightly off, uncomfortably different. Much sleeker, with the red ingrained into the walls.

Please don't be, please don't be, please don't-

"Master?"

Her eyes were wider, smile deeper. The change from this, however, was instant, leaving you no time to contemplate anything as she dragged you up by the collar and pushed you onto the stairs, one hand wrapping around your throat as she leaned over your sprawled form.

She seemed to look you up and down.

"The last time I saw you- "

"I've never met- "

Her thumb pressed down briefly onto your windpipe, hand clamping your mouth shut with a precise ease. That maddening grin you'd occasionally seen the Doctor wear in the face of an enemy flashed over this Do- the Master's face. "Hush now, Daddy's talking."

You squirmed in her grip.

"You look different," she said, "And you clearly don't recognise me, but you know my name, and you crashed into my TARDIS - which," she growled, "We will get back to. Not many people would have to guts to mistake me as the Doctor either, and if you even try that again, I promise to tear out your throat and beat your body beyond recognition."

Her eyes were practically glazed over. You, on the other hand, were so tense it was nearly as uncomfortable as every time she increased the grip on your neck, ring digging into the flesh.

"Different universe." She released a hand from your mouth, pushing your head haphazardly to the side to take a look. "Your pilot isn't taking very good care of how she drives her ship."

"I need to get ba- "

"No no no, you don't get it." Her voice was still jarring, the Yorkshire accent still settling a deeper sense of discomfort in your stomach. Even some of the mannerisms of tone seemed the same. "Why would I try and let you go back, hm? What use would that be to me? What fun would that be?"

"Your own universe too small for you now, or- "

A very swift backhand to the face and she'd interjected you with ease, the sharp sting increased by her unrelenting hold on your neck, keeping your head in place as you slumped down, curling up ever so slightly. The ring on her finger had caught your lip, the result being a slow trickle of blood down your chin.

"What the hell was that- "

The same action was repeated, your focus suddenly on holding onto the involuntary tears glossing your vision. A very quiet swallow and you resolved to maybe shut up. You wouldn't stop usually, questioning and insulting until the very last breath, but this was so different. You'd only shrunk back on yourself, the attention this version of the Master was paying you somehow close to making you glad the Doctor tried not to get too cosy with any of you.

Her thumb pulled down on the cut on yout bottom lip, seemingly giving her some sense of satisfaction at the visible sting it caused.

She was off you again in another instant, leaving you very much vying for breath, the tears of catharsis falling unbidden as you slumped back on the stairs, chest heaving up and down at an uneasy rate.

She only leaned back on the console, arms crossed and glare suddenly back to cold. "Stand up."

You didn't look to her, only debating the situation as it appeared. You should do as she said. Slapping you across the face was the least damage the Master could give you, and although ready to take that damage if needed, there was nothing at stake but your own life. Resolve weakened, you pushed yourself up to stand on what seemed like uneven ground with the unsteadiness of your own legs.

"Now kneel."

No way. It wasn't even just because it was the Master - she looked and sounded like the Doctor. Your mind was still flicking between the two, and, really, you didn't need two reasons not to be able to look the Doctor in the eye - fear, and the weirdly sensual subtext that came along with kneeling. One of them you'd much prefer.

Your eyes still fixed elsewhere, she stalked up to you, ears almost pressed to your ear. "Kneel for your Master," she practically spat.

Clenching your eyes shut for a moment, you obeyed, dropping one knee down after the other until you were situated directly in front of her feet.

"Since you've broken my TARDIS and taken away any form of entertainment, I think it's only fair that I get to have some fun, don’t you?”

You didn’t take the risk of responding, not even shifting as your knees dug into the floor.

[isagrimorie]

👀

for this meme ask: send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing this year (r.i.p)

“One Day it would just drop out of the sky and tear down your world.” - The Pandorica Opens 

The Revelan alien music was something else almost psychedelic in some areas. They stuck around for all of the sets up to the moment the last fireworks exploded above them and the lead singer shouted, “Good Night, Revel!” 

The crowd they were in took the hint, the Doctor wanted to go behind the stage but Graham convinced the Doctor it was time to head back to the TARDIS.  

The Doctor looked despondent until Graham started singing an ode to West Ham, he even corralled a bunch of aliens to join in; not to be out done Ryan and Yaz countered with a loud Sheffield United song. The Doctor joined in with a spirited, if confusing, rendition of a Bristol FC chant. 

The aliens they were with slowly broke off from their group as the Doctor led them back towards the alley where the TARDIS was parked. The Doctor continued her confusing Football club chants, hollering, “We will follow Rangers/Everywhere, anywhere/we will follow on!” 

“Oi, Doc, first Bristol, now Glasgow Rangers, where’s you’re Yorkshire pride?” 

“I was Scottish for a long time!” The Doctor chirped back, she put her curled fingers over her eyebrows, “Had these fierce angry eyebrows— Oh, hello.” 

Yaz stopped when she saw the Doctor address the people ahead of them. Cops, Yaz thought. She would know that kind of wide stance anywhere.

A woman stepped forward in very severe looking clothes, her skin had a grayish hue under the dim blue lights. Yaz stepped forward next to the Doctor, she didn’t know what was going on but she sensed there was going to be trouble, and not for the first time, Yaz missed her own police issued extendable baton. 

“Is this your travel capsule?” the woman asked, her eyes were sharp. 

“Was it in the way?” The Doctor asked, apologetic. 

“Doctor,” Yaz said, quietly, trying to convey in tone: Be careful. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ryan freeze. They hadn’t spoken much about his life, after meeting Rosa Parks but Yaz knew enough to know that he’d had his run in with the less scrupulous members of Hallamshire police. 

But all this seemed to be lost on the Doctor. 

“So this is yours?”

“It isn’t so much mine as I’m hers,” the Doctor said, “If it’s in the way I can move it, no need to impound it.” 

The woman turned her head in profile the woman’s cheek bones were as sharp as her eyes. 

“Doctor,” Yaz said, louder now. 

Frustratingly, the Doctor didn’t heed her warning even when Yaz tried to step forward to cut off the Revel cop heading for the Doctor. 

“I’m sure this is some sort of misunderstanding,” the Doctor said, tone placating. 

The woman was laser focused on the Doctor. “We are arresting you.” 

Graham, who was silent through the whole thing finally spoke up, indignant, “For parking in the wrong area?”

“We should run for it,” Ryan hissed. 

“What are you arresting the Doctor for?” Yaz questioned, trying to match the official tone. The tone she was trained to use. 

“We are arresting you,” the woman continued on as if they weren’t there. “For war crimes against the people of Revel—”

The Doctor looked stunned. 

War crimes?

“You have the wrong person!” Yaz shouted. 

“Oh, am I?” The woman nodded in the direction of the TARDIS, “Is this not the TARDIS?” 

“It is,” the Doctor said, voice soft. 

“Then I have it right.” 

“A moon and a festival of reconstruction. Stupid, stupid, Doctor.” The Doctor murmured and then looked at the woman, “Revel isn’t it’s original name.”

“No, it’s not,” the woman confirmed. “We used to call this—”

“Skull moon,” the Doctor’s now is barely above a whisper and suddenly, Yaz felt a chill run through her.  

“You are being arrested for war crimes, warrior—”

“That’s not what she’s called!” Graham responded, angry.

“—also known as the Butcher, also known widely in the universe as the Doctor.” 

Yaz felt the moment all the fight left the Doctor, it was the same time Yaz felt like the world shifted beneath her feet. Ryan let out a shout, and grabbed the Doctor’s arm but it seemed she was immovable like a marble statue. 

“Ryan!” Graham shouted just as the woman turned to the officer beside her and said:

“Staze them.” 

This seemed to rouse the Doctor as she shouted, “Don’t!” 

Too late, there was a shock of pain and then, nothing.

This was supposed to be a long case fic/trial story set between series 11 and 12 where Thirteen is put on trial for her war crimes during the Time War (and look at that we’ve circled Thirteen back around in Revolution of the Daleks.

Unfortunately, I got bogged down with all the trial and legal stuff and worldbuilding.

[yowzariversong]

╰⊱♥⊱╮ღ꧁  𝒻𝓊𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎  ꧂ღ╭⊱♥≺

so I’ve been feeling the muse for River a bit more and have finally sorted through the drafts I owe and whether i want to keep those threads or not in preparation for coming back on here a bit more - details of which threads I intend to keep/drop are below the cut. I’ve only done this on the basis of working through what I have in my drafts, so if I don’t mention a thread we have it’s either because it’s not my turn to reply or tumblr ate it (if it’s the latter please let me know and I can add it to this post)

if I’ve dropped a thread we have then it’s not intended personally - I have tried to decide what I’ll keep purely on the basis of what I have muse for and have attempted to lay aside my usual ‘I’m obliged/they want me to/I really should’ attitude in doing so. That said, just because I’ve dropped a thread it doesn’t mean that I don’t want to start another one with you (however, I’m intending to limit the number of threads per person for my own sanity). If I’ve dropped a thread with you and you a. had plans for that thread and wanted to continue it or b. want to start a new thread instead, then please just drop me a message and we can work something out

if I’ve kept a thread with you then that is also not intended personally - I love all my partners but I have tried my best not to play favourites here and only base the decision on what I have muse for. If I’ve kept a thread with you and you a. aren’t feeling it and would rather drop it or b. want to start a new thread as well (bearing in mind I’m limiting thread numbers), then please drop me a message and we can work something out 

threads I intend to keep:

@brvesouls ​ - family reunion with Amy

brvesouls - trigger happy with Andy

@incogniiita ​ - tea in the moonlight with Carver

@likeacharacterinamusical ​ - reunited with Twelve

@manaborn ​ - being a smart arse to Gwen

@mxndwitch ​ - strawberry scones with Wanda

@rainbcwhearts ​ - honeymoon discussion with Thirteen

@savedsomelittlepeople ​ - River resurrected by the Timelord Victorious

@sensesdialed ​ - a little victimless crime with Peter

@thedoctornumber11 ​ - Christmas gift from Eleven

thedoctornumber11 ​ - ‘First meeting’ between River & TARDIS with Eleven

@theresastargirl ​ - family catch up with Ophelia

@time-qxeen ​ - art gallery meeting with Thirteen

@timewarn ​ - first meeting with Eight

timewarn - idiot River admits her feelings to Eight

@wcrriorhearts ​ - alien object with Daisy

@whomuses ​ - chat with Yaz

@winterbranded ​ - morning after with Bucky

winterbranded​ - post-accident angst with Bucky

threads I intend to drop:

@becomewolf ​ - first meeting with Rose

@dxctxrii ​ - weird alien sludge with Two 

@londonx1965 ​ - mysterious object with Ian

@pepperpxtts ​ - bookstore meeting with Pepper

thedoctornumber11​ - sword fight with Eleven

thedoctornumber11​ - making out with Eleven

time-qxeen - Kisses for Thirteen (late addition - tumblr ate it)

timewarn​ - a massage for Eight

@valorxus-a ​ / @valorxus - champagne opulence with Ten (moved from keep list)

valorxus-a​ / valorxus​ - flirting with Jim

winterbranded​ - visit to Bucky in the 1940s

(looking at this i have dropped far fewer threads than I intended to when I started on this, but I guess I thought I owed more than I actually do and returning muse has reignited interest in some threads)

I’m gonna delete dropped threads from my drafts in the next few days, but since I’m putting all the links in here if I do un-drop any after talking to anyone they should be easy enough to find

please remember you’re all awesome and i love you ❤️

[wykart]

Oneshot fic where I try to piece together Thirteen’s character post spyfall part 2, and extend the episode’s final scene. (read on ao3)

The Promise

She stands, bathed in blue, with three pairs of eyes boring holes into her back. Inquisitive eyes, reproachful, skeptical. Dissatisfied. She thinks that’s probably fair enough. 

Behind her, the ship puts on a pale imitation of its usual golden hue – which is partly her fault, because the strength of her anguish resonates within the temporal engines. The ship mourns with her. It had been her home too. 

She’s taken on more than she can handle; three humans – she hasn’t had to deal with that many at once in a long while. It’s exhausting, because behind her back, they talk. They conspire. They formulate attacks in the form of questions and furrowed brows. It’s her against them, and it has been for a while now. Her against them; how had it ever come to this? Friends or enemies? She’s always found it difficult to tell the difference. 

It would be easy, perhaps, to drop them back on Earth, waltz off with a grin and a lie through bared teeth, and never return. She’s done it before. 

But the promise she made claws at her, raging at her behind pale eyes. Eyebrows; with his lined face and harsh expression – easy to intimidate, with a face like that. Easy to lie.  She craves that mask of lines, that icy stare. Maybe if she still wore that face, they wouldn’t ask so many questions.

He wanted to die, old Eyebrows had, and she’s starting to think that maybe he had the right idea. “Be a Doctor,” She had promised, but she doesn’t feel like the Doctor anymore. It all just feels like a game. 

And what was the rest of the promise? Never be cruel, never be cowardly... oh, but she is a coward – she’s been afraid of the dark since she was a boy, and she’s been running for – how long? About three thousand years, half of her assures (more like four and a half billion, the other half answers). And – though this is harder to admit – she is cruel. She’s crueller, colder, older. Be a Doctor, but the Doctor is a lie. Now more than ever, she’s hiding behind a title. For the first time, stranded without her friends, marooned in history, the cruelty had boiled over, and she’d found that she was full of so much of it that it scared her, but she couldn’t stop it from spilling out. At least the Master knows he’s cruel, he revels in the fact. She is something worse, because she’s convinced herself that her cruelty is some sort of justice. Some sort of twisted kindness, because the rules of time are not hers, and she is just a traveller. Walking away, in Montgomery and the Punjab, leaving a young boy to burn and a horde of innocent creatures to starve, that was cruel, but it was necessary, because sometimes she loses. Because the rules of time were never hers. 

Wiping Ada’s mind should have shaken her, it should have reminded her of  pleading eyes and words of power; Donna, Clara, Bill. But it didn’t. (If you ever stop, I think the universe might just go cold). And what if I go cold, she asks no one, what happens to the universe then? 

Always try to be nice. This one, she has down to an art. She can’t remember ever being nicer. She’s bubbly and hopeful and sweet - at least, when her friends are around. When she’s putting on a show, because the Doctor is a lie. Even when she’s cruel, she’s sweet. She’s nice. All wicked smile and steely eyes, teasing. A trickster’s stare. It was fun, at first, the youth, the constant movement and chatter and quirky quips. It was fun, because they didn’t question her. She revelled in their awe and their reverence in a way that filled her with sour guilt. She kept herself mysterious, confident, infallible. Vague. She stuck to the rules, when her friends were around. No weapons, no interference. Hasn’t she already seen where breaking the rules can get her? She is just a traveler; not a god or a monster or an impossible hero. Not anymore. She’s holding herself in, but the shell is too small. Jagged edges of her past jut through the edges of her silhouette, so she keeps her friends distracted. She keeps them moving and she never stays for tea, because the quiet is when questions are asked, and linear time makes her head ache and her fingers twitch. She’s hooked on the adventure. The lie. (It is Clara, she answers an old question, weary, it is like an addiction). 

Never fail to be kind. But she was always failing. She’s told her friends who she is, using empty words robbed of their usual pride and significance. Her voice and her manner had been waspish, impatient. Cruel. (There, happy?). Their unending curiosity, their kindness, it grated against her in a way that told her she was becoming something awful. She holds them, her new best friends, at arm's reach, and never closer, because she knows what happens when she lets herself get too invested. 

Oh, and never tell anyone your name. Well, that’s one promise she can keep - because everyone who can understand the cadence of her true name is dead. Killed by the only other person who still knows it. She will never be able to tell anyone her name again. 

Laugh hard. She’s done all sorts of laughing.  Triumphant exclamations of wonder, because she’s just a traveller, and everything is new to these dark eyes, everything inspires hope. Belly-clutching, strained reels of laughter when her friends are cracking jokes. When they’re travelling, never stopping, never still. The real sort of laughter comes when she’s alone. Low, cruel chuckles to the enemy that roil in her gut, that make her feel alive. Wind whistling through newly spun blonde hair, cold air against new bared teeth, old tattered clothes hanging loose as she shed the one she was before. It was a good feeling, intimidating. Darkness biting through the nice. 

Run fast. She’s faster than ever. She’s running so fast that she can barely keep up with herself. Hands always moving, fixing, tweaking, tinkering. Mouth running off at a hundred miles an hour spouting tidbits and anecdotes that even she isn’t sure are truth or lie. That night on the train, she had hit the ground running, and hasn’t stopped since. Not until she’d taken a trip home, and she’s stopped dead in her tracks. All the adrenaline she’s been running off it gone, now. All she has is anger. 

Be kind. And that’s the most difficult part of all. Nice is just a show you put on to the people around you, and pretending is easy. Kindness is deeper, and difficult to fake. Difficult, especially, because she can feel him – the Master – in the back of her mind like an itch, gloating. The ghost of a laugh, bright and spitting and maniacal, because this is exactly what he wanted. Where he is, that dark, dead dimension, the walls are thin. He can see her. Exiled to an unknown dimension, foiled and hopeless and alone, he’s still won. Laughing. Gloating. (Why would it stop). He tore apart the life she’d been building, ripped away the veil to show a glimpse of her true face; to her friends, and to herself. And she hates him. She hates him so much she wants to scream. Who is he but a reminder that it can never, ever stop. The grief and the running, and her, growing colder by the moment. A snarl twists at her face. She’s all anger, prowling, body wracked with energy that makes her want to break something, break him. The thought only makes him laugh harder. 

“Doctor?” A voice that doesn’t come from inside her head. A voice without the bite of the telepathic. Simple, human. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

It’s Yaz. The Doctor turns, blinking against the golden light of the console and its amber pillars. Graham and Ryan stand under its canopy, concern knotted through their features. Yaz is closer, because she’s the only one who’s brave enough. Her eyes are wide and dark and kind. The sort of kind she hasn’t been in a long while. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just tired, it’s been a long few days.” Five days, five planets. No trouble, just relaxing. She did it for them rather than herself, because her ideal vacation involved a lot more running and danger and mystery. Instead of sickly sweet ice cream and soft golden sands, she craved blood and ash, the slick oil and grease of weathered machines, the smell of fear and panic. The calm and emboldening feeling of being in charge, weaving together a solution, saving the day and bounding off on the next adventure. The past five days have been hell, because hell is quiet. Hell is being left to your own devices and thoughts and left to stew out in the sun like the the rocks baking on the shoreline by her faded luxury deck chair. Decaying. And all the while, his laughter, echoing inside her skull. 

“Doctor?” The voice tries again, impatient. 

“Hmm?” She murmurs, absently meandering back towards the console, looking for something to tinker with. Something to do with their hands to make herself look busy. Behind her back, she feels them shifting, casting glances at each other that speak a thousand words. Inwardly, she sighs. Friends or enemies? 

Graham is the first to venture forth. “Look, I, err, we” – he amends, and nods pass between her friends, still behind her back – “we’ve been meanin’ to ask you something.” Of course it’s him, the most skeptical. She sees the way he looks at her, the way he worries. It’s true that she prefers the company of the young, because the young haven’t yet had the chance to learn what old eyes look like. They don’t recognise those eyes in her. “Why are you travelling with us, I mean really…” Because you were there. You were human and you were there and I was lonely, she doesn’t say, because that would be cruel.

“Yeah, and who are you? We’ve tried asking’ so many times but you always dodge the question.” Ryan cuts across, emboldened. She turns around, away from the nothing she was doing with her hands. She stares at them and tries to look nice, but fails to look kind. 

“‘Cause we’re putting’ our metaphorical foot down, Doc,” Graham says, with a hint of a smile. Keeping it light. “We’ve been talkin’, and we think, if we’re gonna keep on travellin’ together, we should get to know who we’re travellin’ with.” There was a time when they wouldn’t have dared. They were so caught up in the adventure and so scared that it was going to end that they would never have asked her that question, not when she’d been so adamantly obvious about dodging it. They were afraid to lose her, but now, they know just how much power they hold. Her against them. They know she’s lonely, that she needs them just as much – maybe more – than they need her. Running from grief, from abandonment, from boredom. Human problems. Simple reasons. The other reason they are asking now is, she knows, because they’re afraid. She slipped up. All that time carefully calibrating the ultimate TARDIS experience; controlled, self-contained adventures, and never to those voluminous corners of the galaxy where the people knew her name; in reverence or in fear, because she’s just a traveller. Now they know that she can make mistakes, that she has a history, old enemies. It scares them, because they wanted, needed to believe that she was infallible. It made following her seemingly arbitrary and ever-shifting rules all too easy. Now, suddenly, travelling is difficult. Scary. Real.

“Not that we don’t want to keep on travellin’ with you,” Yaz assures her with that officer calm. “We just think we’re entitled to know a bit more, seein’ as you know us so well.”

“And I don’t mean some made up words that don’t mean anythin’ to us” Ryan says. Gallifrey, Kasterberous, Time Lord – what did any of that mean to them? Nothing, especially when her voice had been so cold, deflated, deflective. Trying to make them feel guilty for daring to ask. “I mean, why are you runnin’?” What a question... Of course, he doesn’t realise what he’s asking, the gravity of it. Boredom or exile or fear – or a mixture of all three. (And why, he asks, with his eyes, not his mouth, because he can’t quite articulate the feeling, why do we trust you?) It had been going so well. In her head, the Master laughs some more, and she doesn’t know whether he’s really there or if she’s imagining it. 

“And who were you before we met you?” Yaz asks, eyes softening, begging her. “Who were you before that night on the train?” It’s the final question that makes her muscles seize up and her eyes go cold. It’s what makes the anger bubble to the surface and the laugher break from background noise to a shrill cackling inside her head. She had been a white-haired scottsman, and she made a promise. A contract, and she’d broken every clause. 

“Why should I have to tell you?” She snaps. Maybe the ferocity should surprise her, but it doesn’t. Cruelty is becoming normal, for her, something that’s always lurking there, just below the surface. Yaz steps back from her stare, shocked. “I’m just a traveller, didn’t I already say, I’m nobody. Isn’t this enough for you?” she pleads, and he laughs. “Aren’t you having fun?” a different angle, because they can’t deny that. It’s been fun, it’s been lighthearted. It’s been good.  “Why can’t you just let me be this?” her voice comes in strangled, breaking gasps, because there isn’t just cruelty under the surface, there’s grief as well. “Why can’t you just let me leave it all behind?” The ship rages beneath her; lights flashing, sparks spitting, crystalline pillars spiralling with blue and harsh red. It casts them all in shadow. The remnants of her voice rings out in the hollow space, the ship whirring back into silence, echoing her, understanding her like none of her new friends ever will. 

In the silence, Graham hums, his mouth folded into a line. Ryan is staring at the ground, chest rising and falling with subsiding panic. Worse, though, is Yaz, because she’s staring right at her. There’s no fear in her eyes, just kindness and a twisted sort of satisfaction. Her face says ‘I was right,’ and in her cruellest moment yet, the Doctor hates her for it. 

“I’m sorry – I…” she knows what she has to do, and all her previous faces are looking at her in disdain. In disgust. Shut up, she swats their images away. They aren’t her, not anymore. The Doctor is a lie, and she is just a traveller. “Yaz, I’m really, really sorry,” she whispers, voice like silk. Beckoning. The girl can’t resist. 

“I know, it’s okay,” Yaz smiles, walking forwards. But the Doctor isn’t apologising for what she said, instead, she’s apologising for what she’s about to do, because she won’t get the chance after it’s done. More faces; Donna, Clara, Bill. Ada. She ignores them, and takes comfort in the cruelty of the act. 

The Doctor reaches out, and Yaz leans in to her touch, thinking that she’s offering comfort. The Doctor places outstretched fingers against her temple and searches her mind. As she sifts through her timeline, the act pressed into the space of a moment, it occurs to her that she could pick apart the strands of her memories and pluck out the parts that don’t fit. The doubts, the fear. The time she spent in that horrible dimension; lost and alone in the endless forest. She could make her better. The ship hums a dissonant note; a warning, and she realises that she isn’t quite that cruel. Not yet, anyway. She only takes the past minute. It’s barely a touch upon her mind, barely a dent, so she stays conscious. Yaz sways for a moment, dizzy, while the Doctor strides over to the two boys. They aren’t paying attention. They’re talking amongst themselves in low, harsh whispers. Behind her back. Her against them. 

There’s a moment when they notice her purposeful steps clanging against the metal floor, and they look up. They see her expression; flat and cold. Unyielding; and their eyes flash with fear. Graham opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, she raises both hands towards their heads. She takes Ryan in one hand and Graham in the other; outstretched arms reaching, the pads of her fingers running over the surface of their thoughts as their eyes brush closed. She could take back the memory of the Master, the panic on the plane, the bone-burrowing fear of being on the run - but she doesn’t. She thinks she will regret it later, when she’s grown a little colder still. 

In their moment of confusion, time rewinding, she takes her position at the top of the stairs. The blue light on her face feels right, it feels honest. She waits for their eyes to open and adjust, once again trained on her back, and she walks away before they can pose their carefully constructed questions. She leaves them standing under the fading gold of the console, sharing those transparent, conspiratorial glances, forming a new plan to get her cornered. Her against them. She makes a new promise, and the promise is this; they can never know. You are nobody. You are just a traveller. 

The Doctor is a lie, and they can never know.