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quietwings-fics · 1 month

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New Discoveries, in Good Hands

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler Additional Tags: Trans Rose Tyler, Facial Shaving, Minor Ninth Doctor/Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler, Touchy-Feely, Intimacy, Innuendo, Season/Series 01, Flirting, Denial, Trans Male Character, Fluff Wordcount: 3084 Summary:

Jack shows Rose what shaving is like. Rose enjoys more of it than she thought she would. (Or, Rose's first steps towards self-discovery.)

Rose is always surprised by how barren Jack’s room seems compared to her own. She tells herself it’s just a matter of time spent onboard the TARDIS, but she still pauses to frown at all the empty space. Even his bed is neatly made where her own remains in a constant state of disarray. The only reminders that he’s still living here at all are a spare t-shirt thrown over a chair and the sound of running water from the adjoining bathroom.

She makes her way over to him. She doesn’t knock, and didn’t when she entered in the first place, but she does call his name when she pokes her head in. “Jack?”

He turns back to acknowledge her, smiling beneath the beneath foamy wisps left of his shaving cream, though Rose is more distracted by his lack of a shirt and the dark hair spread down his chest that he hasn’t shaved. He leans against the sink, still dripping from where he’s been splashing himself clean, a straight razor held in place beneath his palm. “The Doctor sent you to fetch me?” he asks. Rose forces her eyes back up to his face, which Jack notices. It only makes his grin wilder as he angles himself to give her a better view. At that, Rose has to look away entirely, torn between laughing at his familiar confidence and flushing hot from head to toe.

“Something like that. You were running late. He notices.” Sometimes it feels like the Doctor has Rose’s morning routine better memorized than she does. He might fail to pick up on when she’s upset if it’s right in front of his face, but never if it makes her miss her usual breakfast. There’s a subtle pull at Jack’s mouth when she’s done speaking, a brief pinch around his eyes, gone by the time he’s turning to the sink to finish shaving.

“I had… a long night. Slept through my alarm. I’m almost done here.” The pause makes Rose want to push him for more, and she would if she knew where to start. It’s only a matter of time. No matter how good he is at hiding his secrets, he can’t stop himself from inviting them in to look for them. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t want Rose and the Doctor to know eventually, but whenever that might be isn’t today, so Rose is left searching for something else to say.

“He also said to ask what your opinion on sea monsters is,” she falls back on. Despite avoiding the earlier subject, nothing about Jack comes off as defensive. He hums a simple note as he washes shaving cream off the razor and asks,

“With or without tentacles?” Rose blinks.

“Is that important?” she asks.

“Incredibly,” he answers. She watches the slow, practiced glide of the razor against the side of his chin, catching a few final hairs. He tilts his head slightly to get the angle right, showing off the curve of his neck to her. When Rose meets his eyes again through the bathroom mirror as he relaxes, he says, “Enjoying the show?”

“You like having an audience.” Jack leans down to cup his hands in the stream of water and splash his face. The razor rests at his side, the edge still foamy with cream and short, dark hairs. He pats himself dry with a towel, drops it against the sink, and then reaches out a hand towards her. Rose takes it without hesitation, stepping closer. Jack brings it up to the side of his face, resting her fingers against freshly shaven skin to feel the difference. Rose trails them down along his jaw and up again until she can cup his cheek in her palm. Jack’s eyes shut as he leans into her hand, relaxed and happy. In a week, maybe less, she knows she’ll be able to feel the rough beginnings of new stubble on his face. Something twinges in her chest as she thinks about watching that happen while she stays exactly the same. She frowns, not sure why that would even bother her.

She lets the expression fall away before Jack’s eyes open again. “Do I have to tell you you’re gorgeous? You seem to know already,” she teases. Jack nudges against her hand again playfully before she withdraws it.

“Never hurts,” he says. “Especially now that you’ve seen all the work I put in to stay that way. Unlike our Doctor.” Rose’s heart flutters with the ease with which Jack says ‘our’. “Do we even know if he ever shaves, or do you think he tells his chin hairs off sternly and they fall out in shame?”

“Sonics them away, I reckon,” Rose says, nodding as she lets her hand drop. The motion brings her gaze down to Jack’s chest again, and the speed at which she snaps her eyes back up to his makes her peeking even more obvious that last time. She can just feel Jack about to tease her about it, so she says the first thing that comes to mind to cut him off. “What does it feel like, anyway?”

“What?” he says, and she can hear the barely restrained flirtation just behind the words, held back to answer her question. “Shaving?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never shaved anything before?” He sounds skeptical.

“Of course I’ve- That’s different!” Funnily enough, she can’t remember the last time she bothered to, either. No one around to remind her, she supposes. No wonder her legs have felt warmer under her skirts. She resolves to wear something long the next time she visits her mom. If she can’t see anything, she can’t say anything, and Rose can carry on exactly as she is. “I didn’t use shaving cream for my legs.”

“You should,” he says, casually. “You might need more to cover it, but it makes the whole process a lot faster. Less nicks, much more smooth, really prepares you for showing off in fishnets.” Before Rose has a minute to put together the pieces on him knowing all of that, Jack is reaching for his can of shaving cream. “Hold out your hand.”

When Rose does, he gives the can a light shake and spurts some cream onto her hand. The white foam spills messily across her palm from the nozzle.

“Don’t-” she starts.

“There’s more where that came from,” Jack says, suggestive, completely ignoring her. Rose rolls her eyes. She squishes her fingers through the foam. “Well? How does it feel?”

“Cold,” she answers. “Soft? A little like lotion.” The consistency is the same, at least. It feels nice against her skin. Jack’s watching her, thinking.

She’s still playing with the cream when she hears the water run again. Jack’s wetting the same towel he used to dry his face earlier. He turns back to her, fingers nudging her chin up. “Hold still,” he says. “I don’t want to get your shirt wet.” He dab at the lower half of her face with the warm washcloth. “Not that I’d complain, but I make a habit of only ruining other people’s clothes when they ask for it.” He motions her around with little taps against her jaw, and she follows, making it easier for him to dampen her skin with the hot water. “Which you still could. I’m not giving up hope yet.” He takes her hand in his own, palm up, and scrubs the shaving cream off of it for her before he puts the towel down.

“What are you doing?” Rose asks, though it’s obvious. She thinks she just wants him to say it for her, confirm this isn’t some kind of joke.

(But even if she didn’t know, she’d still let him. She’s in safe hands with Jack. Very few people have ever made her feel that way.)

“You said you wanted to know what it was like.” He picks up the shaving cream can again. She sees him weigh it in his hand like he’s trying to estimate how much is inside before he shakes it again. He pauses just long enough for her to step out of reach if she wanted to, and when she doesn’t, he puts his hand beneath her chin again. It’s more sure now. He guides her with his thumb solid against her jaw, turning her head slowly to make sure he covers her face with the cream. It tickles more than it did on her hand, and Rose bites her lip to keep from giggling.

“I don’t have anything to shave,” Rose protests, a little late. Her chin and cheeks feel chilled by the shaving cream, but not unpleasantly. There are streaks of it on Jack’s hand as he draws back again.

“I’m using my imagination,” Jack tells her. He washes his razor off for her, turning it this way and that beneath the sink before examining it to make sure nothing is sticking behind from its last use. It looks well-sharpened, but even when Jack rests it against her cheek for the first time, Rose can’t feel scared. There’s far too much focus in his eyes, even more so than when he was shaving his own face earlier. Very slowly, he scrapes a little of the shaving cream off her cheek. The razor slides against her skin, warm from the water it was under, contrasting against the cream and leaving the space behind it exposed again. “Breathe, Rose,” Jack tells her. She inhales, not realizing she’d stopped until he points it out.

The next glide of the razor moves in time with her exhale as she holds as still as she can for him. His other hand has found its place beneath his chin again, keeping her steady. When all she can do is memorize the feeling of him touching her, she notices the little differences between him and the Doctor, that the Doctor’s fingers are slightly longer, that Jack’s thumb has more of a callous along the inside of it. The razor moves easily through the shaving cream, and she can see Jack begin to relax the longer it goes without incident, as though he needs more reassurance than she does that he won’t mess up and nick her.

“Smoothest shave I’ve ever given anyone,” he jokes, but his voice is low and warm. Rose swallows.

Did he mean before that he was imagining her with… with what? Surely not a full beard, not unless he wanted to laugh at her… right? No. Maybe- Well, maybe he wasn’t imagining anything at all, from how concentrated he was.

Or maybe he was seeing her in his mind’s eye with a lazy week’s stubble, gently shaving it off for her. Did he imagine how it felt beneath his hands before when he was preparing her? Was he imagining it now as he rubbed his thumb along the bottom of her jaw? Would he like that, a little scratch of growing hair that she was letting him take care of? Rose’s could hear her own breaths from between her parted lips catching with the thought of all of it.

Would she like that?

“You alright, Rose?” Jack’s voice pulls her out of her own thoughts before she can scare herself. Scare herself? Is she scared? Her heart is beating faster, but she can’t tell if it’s fear or something else.

“Fine,” she answers, lying poorly. Jack pauses, and she feels his thumb rub against her jaw again. She focuses on that.

Safe in Jack’s hands, wherever he’s taking her.

“I’m okay,” she says, and this time, it’s true. Jack still waits for her to pout and say, “Get back to work, Jack.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, a professional snap to the words like a verbal salute that makes Rose bite her lip again. The razor comes back, continuing its journey across her face and smoothing away the shaving cream.

A few more drags in silence follow before a lopsided grin climbs onto Jack’s face.

“Found one.”

“One what?”

“One little brown hair,” Jack says. He flips the razor for her to see, and it really is the tiniest hair floating in the shaving cream on the blade. Rose stares at it.

She feels strangely proud that it exists. Even stranger, a little sad that Jack’s shaved it off.

It’ll grow back, she finds herself thinking.

“Blow on it,” he says. “Make a wish.”

“You’re thinking of eyelashes.”

“I don’t think the wish will care that much which hair it came from.” She indulges him. She blows a few white drops of shaving cream back onto Jack’s chest. Without thinking, she reaches forward to wipe them off with her thumb. She freezes when she touches him, but it’s far too late to back out now. She brushes her thumb across each speck, following them down along his chest to the last one low against his ribs. Her fingers run over his chest hair as she does. It’s a fight both to make herself not react to that or to go back and explore a little more. Her cheeks are burning, and there isn’t nearly enough shaving cream left to hide it.

“You really didn’t need an excuse if you wanted to feel me up,” Jack says, and he sounds delighted. She almost pulls her hand back, but she stops herself. After all, he started it.

“Then I’m not going to bother with one.” With that, she resolutely slides her hand back up his chest. She feels it rise and fall slightly as he breathes, shift as he moves his arm again to continue shaving her. She curls her fingers to feel his hair move against them, the thick dark patch at the center spreading thinner across his chest. It’s soft.

No wonder he doesn’t shave it. She’s jealous.

Jealous of what? It’s not like she can’t get her fill of him. Jack will happily let her.

She tries to shake off the feeling and can’t quite.

“Do you ever wish you were someone else?” He wipes some spare shaving cream off of her cheek. He’s almost done. Not that there will be much of a difference to show it, Rose thinks. She frowns.

“In what way?” he asks. “Am I swapping places with someone, or am I turning into someone else?” She wonders how much his answer would change depending on which she chose, but in the end, she can’t pick both.

“The second one. I think.” Her frown deepens. “Sorry. I’m not sure what I’m asking. I’m confusing myself now.”

Jack takes her hand from his chest and lifts it to his mouth, absently kissing her knuckles before he answers. She’s not even sure he registered that he did it, too focused on the razor in his other hand and her question.

“I like being me,” he says, honestly. “Wasn’t easy to get here, so I think I’ll keep it.” Rose withdraws her hand, touching the spot his lips brushed. “What about you?”

Rose feels the razor make its last pass over her face. Jack lifts it away. Not a single scratch on her. Not a spot of irritation where he wasn’t careful enough. Rose lifts her fingers to her cheek and finds the skin there as smooth as ever.

“Yeah,” she answers, and she realizes she’s lying. “Who else would I even be?”

Jack passes over her face once more with the warm rag to get the last of the shaving cream off of her. He has to get another to dry her with. Rose enjoys the pampering.

“How about a Rose Tyler who’s been thoroughly kissed?” She turns her head up to let him. Jack’s arms wrap around her back. “Among other things,” he murmurs when he’s done.

“I’d like that.” Jack makes himself easy to get lost in, and right now, Rose wants that. It’s easier than… She’s not sure, but whatever it is, she’d rather be kissing him than facing it. And if Jack’s hands slide down to her waist and lower still, she’s not complaining.

She’s forgotten why she’d come in his room in the first place completely until the Doctor—who knocks as much as Rose did, which is to say, not at all—comes complaining. “Rose, you left thirty minutes ago, what are you-” He cuts himself off, and Rose drops her head against Jack’s shoulder to stifle a laugh. She doesn’t even have to look at the Doctor to picture his expression, rolling his eyes, annoyed that they could possibly think making out against a bathroom sink is a better use of time than what he has planned. Jack’s skin is warm, and they both unmistakably smell like his brand of shaving cream. She rubs her face against him.

“Just finishing up, Doctor,” Jack shoots back. She presses another giggle into his shoulder imagining the way the Doctor’s face must be screwing up in feigned disgust. She manages to get herself under control enough to lift her head and face him.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“About what?” the Doctor says.

“Rose came in for a shave,” Jack answers. He strokes her chin playfully. “How’s she look, Doctor?”

The Doctor looks her over, once a cursory glance, twice a real study. Rose is curious what exactly he’s seeing. It’s not like she’d had anything to shave. It’s not like anything had really changed, had it?

But the Doctor gives her one of those lovely, genuine smiles, and says, “Most handsome boy in town, I’d say.” Rose’s heart skips a beat, but she tells herself that’s nothing special. The Doctor can always make her feel that way.

She wouldn’t mind him calling her handsome again.

(She wouldn’t mind him calling her a-)

“And me?” Jack wheedles for his own compliment.

The Doctor lets his smile drop, showily unimpressed as he responds, “You missed a spot.” Jack shakes his head, disbelieving until he reaches up to touch the place the Doctor’s indicating on his own neck and finds a small spread of missed hair right there.

“We’ll wait for you,” Rose tells him, though the Doctor huffs about it and makes a face. He won’t go without her, and she won’t go without Jack, and somehow, they’ll make it work.

Jack waves her off to follow the Doctor back to the console room.

(“Doctor, settle a bet? Do you shave normally, or do you…”

“Rose, I know you’re not asking me if I can sonic a beard off.”

“Course not. I knew that.”)

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

#fanfiction #teen and up audiences #1001-5000 #doctor who #jack harkness/rose tyler #jackrose #jack harkness #rose tyler #trans!rose #transmasc!rose

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deathdefyinggarlic · 4 months

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its Merthur week 2023! (@merthurweek2023)

Day One Prompt: Royalty + Angst

a quick one shot where a visiting prince (royal) seems to take a liking to Merlin, and Arthur has some opinions on it he needs to work out (tldr; he's an idiot and he doesn't know it yet)

Read it here!

Technically pre-relationship but they're so close!!!

#merthurweek2023 #merthur #my fic #bbc merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #teen and up audiences

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steddieas-shegoes · 10 months

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Tumblr Requests (Rated Teen+)

Everyone Has a Crush on Steve

Driver's Ed with Steve

Jock El

Everyone Learns ASL for Steve

Nature Nerd Steve

Wayne Adopts Steve 5+1

Soulmate Tattoos

Steve's Pet Rabbits

Steve, Big Brother Extraordinaire

Gamer Steve/Rock Star Eddie

reading to you

#teen and up audiences #tumblr requests #masterlist #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things

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grandaddy-of-all-liars · 7 months

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for the reader folks, a one shot inspired by the fantastic art of none other than @snailgam, dedicated to @snailgam & @rensnumberonefan for well, you guys know ❤️

(CW: some expletives/harsh language only)

🚧 🚧 🚧 🚧 🚧

" 'B'! Bleeker Ave!"

"You can't do that, you used eet for thee 'A' already."

"Nuh-Uh, that's a different word, 'Avenue', so it's not cheating! Your turn."

"Aghhh ... fine, whatayver, I don't care."

"Come on now, your turn!"

" 'C'. Closer. Ya happy? Go."

"Wait a minute, where's 'Closer'?"

"Een thee mirr- eet's etched een the side mirror, okay!?"

"Nowww that's cheating, it's on the car!"

"Eet's outside, OUTSIDE THEE CAR. And you want to double-use words!?"

"That's different, though!"

"Give me thee strength ... makeeng up your own damn rules ... "

"I don't SEEEE a 'C'! Try again!"

"Okay, 'C' for thee Crap I'm goeeng to beat of your, 'C', Carcass, later!"

"Jeez, what a spoil sport."

"THERE! Kowalski EleCtreeC, 'C'! Now you go twice!"

"Wh- how come?"

"Because there's an 'E' too, you EEEmbecile!"

"Now now, you know that's cheating. Same word."

"Just play by your dadgom saylf and geeve us a rest, ah?"

"You're such a party pooper. Play wittthhh meee ... I bet we get to 'Z!' "

"We already deed twice! Now lay off, I need to theenk."

"Okay, on to 'D' it is ... "

"I'll geeve ya a 'D', pain een my ass ... "

"What Ren?"

"Huh what nothing. I deed'nt say a theeng."

A Frank Comstock & His Orchestra cassette spooled along, ticking at every rotation. Everything in this car was at least slightly well-loved. Okay, so there were in fact worse things he could conjur up than being stuck on the road with Stimpy for, what, thirty-seven minutes now? Bearing in mind, this was supposed to be a two-stop, forty-five minute errand, tops. At least they had snuck in a fast lunch of eggs and refried beans and almost too-stale-to-eat toast before flying out of their apartment. But for what? To sit on the crosstown overpass for half an hour? Because Stimpy just had to insist on coming along for the ride, and just had to insist Ren take the bridge so he could look down at the sailboats in the bay and wave at the cranky gulls on what should have been a smooth jog across the waterway. And, as Ren had decided, the universe of course hated him especially. Just for him, it had plotted the lifting of the bridge gate for a marvelously timed passing barge, as well as the lout who had started turning just as traffic halted and was now delightfully stalled out across both narrow lanes. What a freaking terrific plan, Ren callously applauded. He sunk deeper into the bucket seat, pressing his angry hide against the blazing black backrest. Oh how he now lamented having not fixed the air conditioner. But it wasn't his fault. How was he to know he'd get stranded on sun-baked tarmac hovering over the glaring brown waterway's blindingly reflective waves microwaving fire air back into his little sedan? Why him, why always him?

Stimpy seemed content with the windows down, angling about to look for all the letters in the alphabet. Again. Ignoring that their car and everyone adjacent had maybe traveled four feet in the last half hour. Ignoring that the big box truck offering a canopy of shade had of course been held back by a pushy little shit in a compact that just had to get one vehicle ahead, forcing them into raw sun without any shielding reprieve. At least Stimpy was seemingly spared of the cosmic torture doled out just for Ren. If only he'd taken the tunnel. If only they skipped their meal. If only the budget for his department wasn't axed two-thirds through the fiscal year to offset a horrible company investment that had fallen through. If only he wasn't relegated to treating their few precious possessions as collateral until he got a new job. If only he'd never woken up this morning. Why did he ever bother waking up at all anymore? He leaned forward, pressing weary brow hard into the steering wheel, pressing sweat-soaked hat rim up against his ears. He closed his eyes too tight, so tight they hurt, so tight he swore he could see solar flares vacuuming his body inward to a flaming abyss.

"Ren?"

Stimpy sounded worried.

"It's gonna be ok."

"Steempy, I don't even know eef we're gonna have enough gas to get home at thees point. Maybe thees ees a sign."

"How's that?"

"Maybe we're not supposed to make eet today. Maybe there's another way."

"What way is that then?"

"I don't freaking know, ok? What's weeth all the questions weeth you always! How about an answer for once in your brainless life!? Do you not get thee sheer pressure to be me all de time!?"

Ren motioned toward the glove box. Stimpy reminded him he'd smoked the last cigarette in that box about twenty minutes ago. Ren rubbed rigid hand over his scowl, pulling his eye sockets tight as palm dragged across his weathered face. As last resort, he pawed beneath his seat, knuckling greasy crumbs and loose change and straw wrappers until he heard that sweet telltale cellophane crinkle.

"C'mon C'mon C'mon, for Daddy ... "

Two white tips rolled in the corner of the carton.

"Sweet baby Bee-ayzul-bub!"

Maybe not every stellar installment fixed above loathed his existence. He lit up and savored the distraction from their predicament.

"So how much ya think we're gonna get for this stuff?" Stimpy quizzed, shaking a small dirty envelope.

"I told you to stop asking me questions, for fuck's sake. And poot that down, you'll drop sometheeng."

Stimpy returned it to the console compartment dejectedly.

"Hey. Don't be so moody, I'll buy ya a new one some day, huh?" Ren quipped.

"I know you will, it's not that."

"Well what then?"

"Do you really care, Ren?"

"WHAT DEED YOU JUST SAY?" he ripped the cigarette from his lips and held it out the open window, panting hot nicotine breath through his mouth into the cabin.

Stimpy flinched only marginally, turning his unperturbed frown to look Ren dead in the eyes.

"I asked if you really cared. About me."

"What's your goddamn problem!? You gonna start weeth me now?!"

Stimpy huffed through his nose, "It's a simple question, Ren."

"You got sooome nerve, ya know that, and for what!? Where do you get off ... you theenk I'm haveeng thee time of my life right now? Stuck weeth all these bastards in thees stewpid old jalopy weeth you? No job, no plan, selleeng our sheet for a few bucks? And you have the fuckeeng right!?"

Stimpy finally relented and peered back out his window, tracing his finger along the door paneling. Ren threw his elbow into his seat and pushed his hat down low over his eyes. He pulled the last drag off his smoke in one long slow suck and flicked the filter toward the murky waters below. He expended his smoky exhale purposefully in Stimpy's direction, sending tiny faint ribbons whirling around his kitty ears and nose. Stimpy didn't react. Only continued to stare blankly at a sky that was neither cloudy nor blue. Just an undefined, opaque hot white. Ren's shoulders relaxed down his back. He sneered at the envelope. Might as well take one final inventory while they were stuck motionless, suspended. Nowhere important. He needed a derision from Stimpy's attitude regardless.

Lip peeled and folded back, Ren beheld the contents of the meager package. A few gold fillings that supposedly came from his grandfather's muzzle. His silver Communion bracelet. A 14kt hoop he'd been lucky to find on the boardwalk earlier that summer. A couple old coins of questionable value. His platinum chain with saint medallion his mother had gotten for him as a pup. And then their wedding rings. An odd collection of somewhat precious items spanning his entire lifetime, reduced to the contents of one battered envelope. Their destiny now felt cheap, hollow, meaningless. He would exchange these relics for a few nondescript bucks and their individual meanings would be forever lost on civilization. He examined each of the personal items more carefully. The St. Michael medallion on delicate chain that had adorned his neck throughout gradeschool, a special gift his mother gave him as a symbol of protection from the world she had just yanked him into. The words 'Protección y Devoción' along with his initials etched into its back. The bracelet his aunt gave him, which had not fit around even his weak little wrist for years, not that he'd worn it more than a few weeks after he recieved Communion. Or to gatherings for which his mother reminded him his aunt would be in attendance. He found it difficult to believe he'd somehow been even smaller than he was today. And finally, the only adult jewelry he'd ever worn until last night, the two artifacts of their union tied together with a snip of fishing line. Disbelief gnawed over him. How he'd picked these out with such pride and candor, such deliberation when he finally accepted his life would have and never would again be as full as it was without Stimpy in it. Perhaps the only time in his life he'd felt so ecstatic and terrified at once, assured Stimpy would agree to become his for good, yet, simultaneously gripped with the threat of rejection that had cast its plague over every other step in his journey. How such a small earthly metal object could carry with it such incredible power and history. Memories filled his senses, the smell of the store where he'd purchased the rings, the carefully planned but ultimately scrapped proposal in favor of a more organic approach, Stimpy's lovely green eyes looking at him and nothing and no one else in that gorgeous moment just before and just after he said his "Yes", no wait, how he'd told Ren nothing would make him happier and if only Ren knew how much his heart had wished for this, the weekend of bliss that followed their engagement, right up to their municipality wedding set between small claims and traffic court, Stimpy dressed to the nines on the courthouse steps beaming after the judge had announced them officially documented family. It wasn't painful last night, when he was mixed up in the mania of instant gratification and fast-cash scheming. But now, cradling the rings in his fingers, feeling their figurative and literal weight in his grip, a sadness crept through his spine.

"I know it doesn't mean we're not together, ya know. I'm not that dumb, Ren."

Stimpy had caught him poring over their marital bands.

"I know you know that," rolled Ren's eyes with some poorly hidden embarrassment.

What Stimpy didn't know, or maybe he did by now, was how petty and careless Ren could be about pretty careful things. Stimpy knew Ren had collected these items to take the the dank and derelict pawn shop they'd visited with curbside finds many times before. Stimpy knew the sedan needed a new alternator and battery. Stimpy knew this was yet another lean yet temporary period in their timeline, bookended by Ren's gainful employment and his supplemental stints as seamstress, cook, or courier to make ends meet until their refrigerator and wallets could fatten up. What Stimpy didn't know was that Ren planned to ignore their car's mechanical needs, and was actually going to march those dollars right into the seedy betting parlor next door while Stimpy remained transfixed on shelves of abandoned memories in the pawn shop. Stimpy didn't know any of that as he looked over at Ren from across the cabin, understanding and love in his eyes overtaking his gloomy countenance. Ren felt rotten to the core, wondered if Stimpy could see the slime leaking from his orifices or smell the decay emanating from his soul. He was reminded why, as he clutched the rings, why he had been so apprehensive to ask Stimpy to be his, in the first place. Stimpy was pure. Stimpy was whole. Dumb as paint, but the truest he would ever meet and have the privilege to be loved by. Ren always contended he himself was deep down no good, nowhere near decent enough, and it was only a matter of time before the cat figured that out for himself. But no matter how many times Ren spoonfed him the sour fodder that was his true self, Stimpy never balked. Only wrapped his arms and tenderness more tightly around the broken dog, mending his heart with unconditional uninhibited adoration. It was beyond anything Ren could convince himself he deserved. Ren's eyes lowered to his knees as he sank back in his seat, envelope of trinkets tinkling in his lap.

The still moment was broken by some distant hollers and honks, which dominoed toward their little red car stuck on the bridge. It must have started up ahead at the stalled vehicle, one irate commuter finally snapping the herd into heated frenzy, concentrated frustration no longer containable for the hoarde of lives delayed by a singular disruptive variable blocking natural order. Reframed in Ren's mind at least, had this traffic dalliance not thwarted his path, he would at this very moment very likely be in no better financial shape. A betting voucher wealthier maybe, but spiritually poorer for certain. Horns blared around them, for no purpose other than for motorists to vent their disgust. The noisy exchange layered rage on rage fruitlessly in the concrete and iron colony. Ren threw back his head and rubbed his face with both hands, then returned all shiny treasures to envelope with a defeated chuckle.

"Too bad we can't turn around now, huh?" he shook his ears.

"Ren."

"Yeah."

"Ren, we ... I don't think we can go back."

"I know that, I just said eet."

"I mean ... Ren ..."

"You're een some kinda mood today."

Just then flashing DOT lights beaconing from the front of the jam caught Ren's glance, the heroes of disabled vehicles had arrived!

"Yeah now wee're talkeen!"

"Ren, you're going to be a dad," blurted his passenger.

The heart can only beat so hard and so fast. As long as it's attached to its host. In Ren's case, it fell through his ass past the leather and steel and machinery and asphalt and rebar, plopping heavily into the brown water and sunk straight to the planet's center. He froze. He repressed urges to vomit and cry and scream. Stimpy panted as quietly as he could, he himself looked ill for having just dropped such a revelation. Ren tried to make some sounds with his parched mouth but tongue and vocal chords were petrified in place. Stimpy's ears lowered and nose dropped. He couldn't quite gage Ren's reaction or his own for that matter.

Ren could only emit a confused whining sigh, inflected for confirmation. Stimpy gave a single assuring nod. Their mouths hung open. Time meant nothing. The chorus of horns and yells ceased for them alone. Nothing else mattered.

"Like right, right now?" Ren finally squeaked, grabbing at his own gut, pointing to Stimpy's belly with his eyes.

"Uh huh," Stimpy delicately placed his gloved paw over his own tummy, which looked very much the way it always had, though it was very much not the way it always had been.

Ren had forgotten to breathe until his lungs autonomously forced a choke of fresh oxygen back into his body. The exhale pinkened his sclera and flared his nostrils and yielded the ugliest sob from his rattling chest. Fat hot teardrops rolled from his eyes. His nose leaked down his upper lip. His hands grabbed at the air aimlessly. The weight of a strange and fraught lifetime pressed upon his temples, rendering him absolutely bewildered in body and mind.

"So, you're really upset, huh Ren? I'll understand if you'll wanna move on and-"

"HUH?" Ren's bloodshot eyes shot upward.

"Well it's just that, I know this is a lot to put on you and all, I just, I wasn't ready to say goodbye is all," Stimpy whispered holding back his own tears.

"Jesus Christ, ees that really what you theenk of me?!" Ren wailed unabashedly, his voice breaking between gags.

Maybe Stimpy really had sized him up for who he was, afterall. Maybe Stimpy had always known. But the notion that Stimpy did not see his own worth beyond convenience broke something in Ren he didn't know was there. It pierced Ren. He clutched his chest, feeling as if applying pressure was the only thing that would stave off implosion.

"Well you're crying Ren!"

"So are you!"

Gates finally broken, Stimpy began sobbing freely, flooding the passenger seat.

"You're sure?" Ren's hands wrung.

"Uh-huh. I went to the doctor three days ago. You're, uh, you're gonna get a bill. I'm sorry, Ren."

"NO!"

Ren ripped off his seatbelt and climbed over the middle console, wriggling himself between Stimpy's thighs on his knees.

"Whoa hey hey! Get a room!" shouted the car beside them.

"Mind your own business pal, thees is an emergency!" Ren returned, trying not to scream into Stimpy's face as he cupped it in his palms.

Ren ran his hands down Stimpy's cheeks, wiping his tears away. He coasted them down Stimpy's shoulders to his breast and over the sweet little pudge of his belly, caressing it gingerly as if the most exquisite treasure in the world. He pressed his forehead against Stimpy's and continued crying until he'd wept himself dry.

"Steempy, I've nayver, I've nayver wanted anybodies as badly as I want you right now, een every way."

"So you're happy?"

"I don't theenk there's words, Steempy baby."

It was so infrequent Ren called him that. Stimpy swooned. If ever he so desperately needed Ren to reveal his affectionate side, it was right here and now. They embraced and held each other tight, not wanting the moment to end.

"Steempson?"

"Yes?"

"I loave you. I've ... always loaved you."

Ren picked up the envelope and pulled out the rings, freeing them from the cordage. He put his band back on, then took Stimpy's hand to replace the ring to its rightful home.

"Are you sure, Ren?"

"Everytheeng's deefferent now, Steempson."

A horn blared behind them. They'd not noticed traffic had begun breaking up, the disabled car was now off to the side, and vehicles began pressing forward to bottleneck past the obstruction.

"Let's go scumbag!" someone yelled.

"Eat my deeck!" Ren screeched back at no one in particular, stretching back over to the driver's seat.

The car lurched forward, in line for a one-lane merge ahead.

"Take thees," Ren gestured, holding out the St. Michael medallion to Stimpy.

"What's that for?"

"To keep you and the baby safe," Ren pronounced.

"But you don't follow all that religious stuff?"

"It's seemboleec. Plus, eet's thee one thing I can pass on, ya know, besides my dasheeng good looks."

As they inched past the stalled vehicle now pulled over, Ren leaned out his window and addressed the driver who was sitting against the guardrail.

"Thanks a meellion, buddy, I owe ya one!"

"Hey fuck you asshole!" retorted the distressed mororist.

"I mean it! Fuck you vayry much too!" Ren laughed, speeding free of the auto tangle at last.

The gold teeth and bracelet and coins didn't fetch much, just enough to minimally feed the gas tank for job-searching the next day and procure for Stimpy a great big porgie from the fish market as a celebratory dinner. Ren even purchased some dill and lemons and garlic and herbed butter to fashion a savory sauce for the panfried delicacy he served Stimpy that evening. He waited on Stimpy hand-and-foot, brimming with a newfound exhilaration he wished he could bottle and dose every day for the rest of his life. Stimpy was not one to shirk his contributions to the home, and helped Ren scrub the pans and dry the plates after they'd picked every bit of meat from the fishbones together. They spent the evening talking of cribs and formula and parenting styles and potential colleges and bibs and names that would suit either a girl or boy manx-chihuahua hybrid. They were inseparable through the wee hours, cuddled close in bed, staring through their ceiling together upward to the stars above, excitedly imagining and planning every milestone ahead.

"Are you scared too?" Ren would nudge ever so often.

"Not as long as you're here," Stimpy would reassure.

"Let's play ag-ayn."

"Okay Renny. 'A', for ... Alton or Alina."

"Hmmm, Alina Höek, ok, that could grow on me. Now 'B', 'B' for Balthazar or Belsita?"

"Always with the classical names huh?" Stimpy teased. "Ya know they might call him Balls for short, or ta' tease 'em, you know how kids are."

"Don't I though! Ah, when you're right, you're right."

This continued on until it was Ren's turn to pick 'R' names.

"Dont even suggest that, I don't like eet!"

"Oh come now, if he's a he and you're his daddy, he'll be Ren Junior!"

"Keed's gotta have hees own indenteety. We can geeve him my meeddle name, but that's eet."

"You're gonna be such a good father, ya know that, Renny?"

Ren buried his face into Stimpy's belly, hiding his big idiot grin from view of his beloved moron. He sure hoped Stimpy was right. He pressed ear to abdomen, hearing the sounds of dinner but pretending he heard the teensiest little heartbeat behind the digestion. So much of his identity, within the last twelve hours, was now primed on slashing fear from his quintessence and burning bravery into its place. Even if it took some pretending to achieve mastery, something had ignited in him today. Perhaps the flirtation of chance with destiny had reformed him. He would do everything he could to be the better version of himself from here on, no matter how hard he had to fight his demons. With his cheek snug against Stimpy's belly, he talked to the little life inside telepathically, convincing it that it was in good hands so long as Ren Höek walked this world. He would bet every last material good he owned that the baby answered him back, forging a lifelong connection. He was finally holding on to letting go. He felt like the baby was already in his arms, looking up at him as the great protector he knew himself to be. It was bliss. Pure unequivocal bliss.

"I can't wait to meet you, Reecardo."

"I like that, Ren. I like that a lot."

#ren and stimpy #ren & stimpy #rempy #my crap art #character dialogue #one shot #ricky hoek #stimpson j cat #ren hoek #mild language #teen and up audiences #story time

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fictionalnormalcy · 10 months

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As AO3 is down, or at the very least glitchy, I’ll publish the story here, then reblog later once I’ve posted it on the alternate site.

Vigcup Week 2023 Day 1! @vigcup-week

Survivor: A Burning End

The sunlight was increasingly bright. Searing his eyelids. Even in closing his eyes there was still a blaring orange. He took a heavy breath, feeling pain in his side. He was sure he was laying against a solid surface, though feeling his shoulder hanging.

"Keep an eye out! We want to make sure the job got done properly." He heard him shout from the air.

Viggo forced his eyes to stay open, even if the sunlight caused him to squint. There was the urge to run coursing through him, but his body wasn't fulfilling the command. Wanting to stay still, reminding him of the other weight keeping him pinned. Sure, it would take a good effort to push away what had collapsed over him, but that would mean exposure.

Besides, being trapped in rubble was inevitable. That had been their strategy, explosion after explosion, devastation forcing them back. He'd retreated, presuming they would have thought Hunter Isle being the last place standing.

There was a sudden shuffle some ways to his left. He found strength enough to stiffen. And the slight movement must have been enough, because a dragon screech followed some seconds later. He recognized what it meant. There's someone there. The few shadows the fallen debris provided was taken away, and his hand began to slide behind his waist.

"Look where the coward has fallen. Oh but look Toothless, at least he's alive. Not like the rest of his men."

"It had to be you." He said in an exhausted whisper.

"And you're not looking so good." Hiccup responded.

"No, but that's what you wanted. This much destruction, to prevent anyone fighting back."

"Well it was a better alternative to what you wanted. Us struck down from the sky in an inferno, or impaled with arrows." He withdrew his sword. "We struck first."

"It was simply, business."

“Tell me Viggo. Your armies are fallen. You might be the last standing.”

“You can’t be sure of that-”

“That’s what my friends are looking for. How will the leader of the Dragon Hunters proceed?”

His fingers found the hilt as he saw Hiccup approach wielding his own weapon. A sword he knew held the ability to be lit aflame. A worthy weapon of his adversary, but he wasn't appreciating of where it could be embedded.

"You found the other base." He ground out.

"You abandoned your former stronghold. But dormancy was far too out of the question. Both of us were preparing to end this."

"It seems like you've won, doesn't it."

"It really does." Hiccup looked animatedly around the burning wreckage, his eyes easing shut and grinning as the cries of freed dragons pierced the sky. "But you're still breathing. Toothless and I didn't have the luxury of finding your charred corpse. No," The sword neared Viggo's throat, "we get you still capable of acting like you have the upper hand."

Viggo's eyes gazed at the sword, then they flicked back up to Hiccup.

"Do you wish it would have killed me?"

"Now you've left me with a dilemma. You know this wasn't your only base to fall, and how many Hunters you've lost. Perhaps the ones who've fled. We've reached this point of the game, Viggo. The Viking King is the one who has to give the final command to strike down his opponent. When he's sacrificed so many of his people for his own self-preservation."

Then he glanced slyly backward. Looking to the sky, then eyes skimming their surroundings. His head slowly eased back to watch the lying victim, and with a click of the hilt, the sword ignited.

"They don't have to know I found you like this." He said lowly.

Viggo had pressed his head back. Able to feel the heat of the flame inches from the skin of his face. The wooden remains he had been leaning against creaking from the pressure. If the sword was this close, there wasn't a point in begging for mercy. Yes he knew. Knew how many ships had fallen, how efforts to regain supplies had also been interrupted. Figured out too late how the Riders' decimation had been to close in on him.

And in this final stroke, a flamed sword in the hand of a teenager preparing to deliver a searing end.

#my fanfic #fanfic #vigcup week 2023 #vigcup week #rtte #hiccup haddock the third #viggo grimborn #toothless #graphic depictions of violence #hiccup's inferno #teen and up audiences #dark hiccup #dark dragon riders #vigcup #hiccup and murderous intentions #viggo at the end of his rope

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broke-art-girl · 15 days

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Here's a short Ficlit I wrote based on my assumptions on @eleanorrigbyrice 's fanfic (read it here it's so good and I beta read it!) fyi these are 100% just made up no spoilers.

Eddie sat in a corner hugging his knees, holding himself for comfort. It was like he was cold -on the inside-, yes the air around him was warm but when he breathed it felt like ice was passing through him.

"Eddie?" Steve asked walking towards him in the dark room. "Why is it all dark in here let me ju-" Steve felt Eddie's hand clamp down on the light switch. He got over so fast it was crazy.

"Please no. No light. It hurts."

Those words pained Steve to hear. He just wanted everything to be okay. Just wanted him to be comfortable in his own skin again. "Okay. No lights. What can I do to-"

"Quiet.. please.." he mumbled.

As Steve squinted he could see that Eddie was covering his ears. "Okay. Quiet." Steve whispered.

Eddie sighed then sniffed deeply. "Smell good. Sound good." He slowly reached out for Steve. "Hold me?" He begged. Steve immediately wrapped his arms around Eddie, trying not to stiffen at the temperature difference.

"Mhh.. warm.. heart..beat.." he mumbled as he nuzzled into Steve.

Eddie cuddled up with his lover, feeling a little less cold on the outside and a lot more warm on the inside. Steve wrapped a blanket around the both of them and brought Eddie a cup of "some kind of weirdo tea I guess if you don't have coffee.. you monster." As he said. "It's called cozy up." He said as he handed it over.

Eddie hesitantly sniffed the cup, it smelt good, like cinnamon and vanilla. He took a sip and hummed. Steve rested his head on Eddie's shoulder and they watched Ghostbusters and ET. Sleeping soundly for the first time in a while. Steve rubbed his now pointed ears and giggled when he sighed contently, falling quickly asleep.

#ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #teen and up audiences #teen author #teen writer #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #vampire eddie munson #ficlit #eleanorrigbyrice

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ineffableclassics · 4 days

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It's 1912 and Aziraphale, not wanting to be lonely during his mission aboard Titanic, invites Crowley along for a cruise. But he boards the ship before knowing exactly what his mission is. When he learns Heaven wants to teach humanity a lesson for the claim even God couldn't sink it, it could damage his relationship with Crowley, who has his own views on Heaven's need to punish innocents. Can he repair things with Crowley and can they work together to save as many lives as possible?

Please note: There are two versions of this, one rated Mature (for sexy times) and one rated Teen (friendship/ace-aro relationship, depending on how you choose to interpret it). The only difference is the level of relationship that adds some extra material in the M version. Otherwise, they're identical.

Words: 24,929 or 23,498

Status: Complete

Rating: Mature or Teen and Up

#fanfic #fanfic cover #fanfiction #fanfiction reccomendations #good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfiction recs #good omens fandom #ineffable husbands #rated m #teen and up audiences

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meaninglessblah-writes · 2 months

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#dcu #batman #dick grayson #slade wilson #dick grayson/slade wilson #teen and up audiences #no archive warnings apply #meaninglessblah #check yourself #art #break the ice

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fromxxthexxashes · 3 months

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born with a weak heart (7450 words) by foxwatson Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Additional Tags: Holding Hands, it just sort of happened, Cuddling & Snuggling, if i ever don't use that tag assume i'm dead etc, idiots to lovers, Touch-Starved, Post-Episode: s06e11 In Another Life (9-1-1 TV), Sitting In Laps, there's not a tag for non sexual lap sitting apparently, but there is a lot of lap sitting in here, Getting Together, First Kiss Summary:

It takes Buck longer than it should to notice. Which - okay, sure, he’s oblivious about certain things even on the best of days, and he got struck by lightning less than a month ago, so maybe he should give himself a break. But still, it feels like something he should have noticed, so he ends up feeling pretty stupid for not noticing.

Since Buck woke up in the hospital, Eddie’s stopped touching him.

or - the one where eddie won't touch buck once he wakes up in the hospital, and buck goes absolutely bonkers bananas about it

Notes: This is such a good one shot. There’s a little bit of angst and a lot of Buck and Eddie being soft with each other. I love it. Also, so much hand holding and snuggles, and I adore it. I need more Buddie hand holding in my life.

#buddie #buddie fic rec #911 #911 on abc #911 fic rec #evan buckley #eddie diaz #holding hands #cuddling & snuggling #idiots to lovers #touchstarved #post episode: s6e11 #sitting in laps #getting together #first kiss #teen and up audiences #7k

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quietwings-fics · 3 months

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go looking for ghosts

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Thoschei (11/Simm!Master) Additional Tags: Time Travel, Angst, Post-Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Pre-Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Drunk Doctor (Doctor Who), Grief/Mourning, Minor Violence, Genderswap, The Master (Doctor Who) Being a Bastard, Female Doctor (Doctor Who), Female Master (Doctor Who) Wordcount: 2651 Summary:

The Doctor loses Amy and Rory. She makes a poor decision of who to turn to.

Harriet Saxon is not having a good day.

The Master, who is not Harriet Saxon but wears her smile well enough, is having a worse one.

“Doctor,” she says through gritted teeth. It doesn’t take much guesswork; no one else would break into her office just to be a nuisance. It’s not her Doctor, the skinny one who she left behind at the end of time, but a new one, whose existence manages to be both reassuring (of course she would survive) and infuriating (of course she would survive.) She looks younger, but the Master can almost taste the centuries of separation between them. She’s so disheveled — one suspender missing, buttons undone, hair that’s had her hands dragged through it dozens of times — that the Master would question how she got inside, if getting into places she wasn’t supposed to be wasn’t the Doctor’s main talent. “Get off of my desk.”

The Doctor swings her head up and nearly topples backwards from the motion. The Master realizes that she’s not leaning back on the desk to look smug, or not entirely, but rather, because the minute she moves her hands, her whole balance goes askew and she ends up tipping over again. She saves herself from humiliation at the last moment, catching herself on the Master’s desk again. She does not save the Master’s plastic bonsai tree, the only decoration she bothered to get for her desk, and it hits the ground with a thud. The Master glowers at her for that.

When she’s stable, she squints at the Master. The Master has already shut and locked the door behind her.

“I’m still taller than you,” the Doctor says.

“Congratulations,” the Master responds, dryly. “Here to stop me?” The Doctor blinks at her.

“What? I already did that. Can’t do it twice. No crossing time streams.” She gives a morose little laugh. “Look at me, obeying the rules. Nothing I can do for them. Time says… no.” She pauses for a minute between words as though she was searching for something more grandiose to say, but her voice and flourish fall flat with the simple negative. And then she falls off the desk when she sweeps her arm out too far for emphasis and forgets that she needs it to keep herself balanced.

The Master lets her. She smirks. The Doctor picks herself up off the floor. It’s an ungraceful maneuver, full of limbs that won’t obey her and scrabbling at nearby furniture to haul herself to her feet.

“From where I’m standing, you haven’t stopped anything,” the Master tells her, but if she’s honest, she’s not surprised. Irritated that a year’s worth of plotting won’t end in victory, but not surprised. It’s still worth it, if only to do whatever damage she can and make herself a thorn in the Doctor’s side until she tastes blood. She circles the Doctor. “Are you drunk? How did you manage that?”

“Enthusiastically,” she snaps like the Master is poking a fresh bruise. It only makes her want to jab her finger into the spot harder. “From where I’m st-” Her legs shake, and she collapses back into one of the chairs in the Master’s office. Not the comfy one behind her desk, but the ones she got specifically to make anyone trying to interview or ask her for things squirm in discomfort. She likes to think of it as encouraging efficiency in the government — by making sure no one ever bothers her.

Except the Doctor, who could make herself comfortable on a bed of spikes and would still find time to annoy the Master.

“From where I’m sitting,” she repeats, “you’re…” And then she smiles. There is no kindness behind it. “You helped save Earth.”

The Master feels vaguely nauseous at the idea.

“Well, thank you for warning me. I’ll make sure not to.” The Doctor’s eyes are dangerous in a way the Master usually only gets to see from within a trap she’s about to break. She rolls her head the moment she feels tension forming in her shoulders, forcing it to release and not show the Doctor anything.

“No. Now, I’ve told you you will, and you’ll have to.”

“Do you think I care about causing a paradox?”

“Do you think I care if you try?” The Doctor almost sounds eager for it. For a moment, as she stares the Master down, she’s far too still, like a held breath.

“I won’t give you the satisfaction,” the Master decides. She watches the Doctor slump.

The Master refuses to be concerned about her, but it’s disturbing how disappointed she looks.

There’s meant to be a rhythm to this. The Master pushes until something breaks, and the Doctor drags them both back. She doesn’t know where she stands when the Doctor is already broken. All she knows is that she’s jealous of whoever managed it before her.

“What happened to you?” she asks. “Blow up a planet? Find another genocide to commit?” Digging her knife into the wound of Gallifrey should get her some kind of reaction, but all she receives is a tired glare. The Master searches, and when she comes up with the alternative, she spits it, disgusted that it could ever trump their shared loss, “Lose another one of your humans?”

That’s like cracking a whip against the hide of an animal. The Doctor rears up, driven forward by anger, but her refusal to sober betrays her when she ends up falling into the Master. She clings to the Master’s pantsuit, leaving obvious wrinkles behind wherever she grabs at. The Master leans back from her and from the boiling grief under her skin.

“Don’t,” the Doctor warns, as if she didn’t know what coming to the Master would mean. If she wanted someone to be nice to her, she has dozens of companions who look at her like a god and would happily have her in for tea.

She chose to be here, instead.

“Did they die for you?” The Master guesses, and the Doctor’s fingers lock tight but her expression doesn’t waver. Close. “They died for nothing,” she says, certain now, reading every little cue from the Doctor until she knows exactly how to hurt her, “and right in front of you. Why didn’t you stop it, Doctor? I thought you loved your companions.” The Doctor’s whole body stiffens up as she speaks, and when the Master reaches loved, the Doctor yanks on her before her weight bearing down on the Master shoves her right back against the desk. The back of the Master’s thighs ache from the impact. The Doctor is pressed chest to chest with her now, her breath fanning across the Master’s face, and they’re so close that the Master is forced to notice that the Doctor was right. She’s taller, and the Master still has to look up at her.

The Doctor has no right to look surprised at her words. She came here because cruelty was the point. The Master provides, generously.

“We have a winner,” she teases to feel the Doctor’s hands tremble with rage. “Was it painful?”

“They were together! They were happy!” More than one. That does nothing to abate the Master’s jealousy. How dare the Doctor grieve them like this, like they matter?

“Without you, and that’s worse.” The Doctor is practically belly-up. The Master gives her exactly what she wants, claws raked across exposed weakness. “After all, you’re the only one who should get to choose when you’re bored of them.”

“Shut up!” The Doctor shakes the Master again, though this time, she’s prepared and stops herself from hitting the desk. She could throw the Doctor off of her easily, but this is so much more fun. (So much better than watching her mope around and beg for the Master to destroy her, to destroy everything, for the sake of her pride and the Doctor’s grief.)

“Are you trying to intimidate me, Doctor?” she says, matching the Doctor’s volume gleefully. It’s not like anyone can hear them. The Master took care of soundproofing shortly after she realized that she would be supplied an infinite amount of interns, no matter how many went missing. “You can barely stand. You can barely dress yourself.” She gropes at the dangling cloth around the Doctor’s neck, loosely held in place by her collar.

The Doctor recoils from her so fast that the Master wonders if she’s finally thought better of this whole thing and sobered up. From the way she wavers in place and how hard it is for her to get her eyes to focus on the Master, she has not.

“Don’t touch that!” She reaches up around her own neck to yank the undone cloth completely off. The Master had thought it was a tie at first, (She’s gotten very familiar with wearing one herself. She looks dependable in them, and more importantly, sexy.) but it’s too thin and too short.

“Is that a-” she starts. The Doctor’s terrible fashion statements have always been an open invitation for mockery.

The Doctor slaps her.

What follows is an honest, uncomfortable silence. The Master’s cheek stings. She can taste blood on the inside of her mouth from the impact. She smiles and hopes it shows on her teeth. The Doctor doesn’t lower her hand completely, the other furiously tearing the undone bowtie free and stuffing it away into a pocket where the Master can’t see it.

“Feel better?” the Master finally says. The pain radiates outwards, into her jaw and up the side of her face. She bears it.

“Yes,” the Doctor answers before she can think better of it. If she was going to bother to at all. And then, “Give me one back.” The Master’s hand itches. She grips the edge of the desk.

“No,” the Master answers. They know what will hurt worse.

She lifts her fingers to her cheek and traces the outline of the Doctor’s hand bruising it. The Doctor flinches.

“You deserved it,” she says. She sounds like she believes it, which is fair enough, but like she still regrets doing it, which is so her, it’s sickening.

The Master leans back against her desk. She glances to the side, finds that her plastic bonsai tree has not picked itself up off the ground and put itself back where it should be, and decides that she’ll throw it in the dump later for being so useless.

“Did they have names?” she asks.

The Doctor hesitates for a long time, but she can’t resist forever. “Amy and Rory,” she says. The Master makes a face that she assumes is in the ballpark of sympathetic.

“Last names?” she attempts to tempt out of the Doctor. She gets a hard stare in response.

“Suddenly, I can’t remember.” The Master spreads her hands, a ‘what can you do’ gesture that she’s taken to adopting. It makes the papers say she looks humble, and she doesn’t even have do any real work to win their praises.

“I’ll just have the Toclafane kill all of the Amys and Rorys, then.” The Doctor takes a step towards her again. The Master turns her head so that the Doctor has to stare at her bruised cheek if she wants to approach her. It stops her in her tracks. “Does it matter, Doctor? Aren’t you going to stop me?” That glare tells her everything she could want to know. Not soon enough. Just a taste of that victory is addictive.

She extends a hand. She finds the Doctor’s remaining suspender, pulls it taut until she has no choice but to come close again, and then lets it snap back against the Doctor’s chest to see her wince. “Ask me to spare them,” she says. She traces the Doctor’s open collar to the base of her throat. “And do it right, Doctor.”

“You won’t.” The Doctor wants to hit her again. She wants to scream and rage and hurt. It’s all she came here for, to be goaded and to get some release taking it out on someone she thought she wouldn’t feel as guilty about lashing out at. But she is still the Doctor, and she won’t. Not when the only provocation is words and threats for time she’s already lived through.

“It’s all you can do,” the Master says, “besides killing me right here.” The Doctor’s expression closes off suddenly, and the Master wants her back the moment she’s denied, wants to see her desperate and in pain. “What’s one tiny paradox to save your friends?” she pushes. She taps a beat softly against the hollow of the Doctor’s throat, one-two, three-four.

She imagines taking her hand and squeezing that soft neck. She imagines giving the Doctor the perfect excuse she needs to fight back. She taps her way up to right under the Doctor’s chin and holds her fingers there at the bend, so that the Doctor can’t look down.

“More than I can bear,” the Doctor answers.

Even the light brush of her fingertips against the Doctor’s skin bleeds with emotion. The Master siphons off drops from the flood, savoring them. She’ll have to remember this for later and drug the Doctor until her mental shields are down and the Master can scrape bits of her out of her mind as souvenirs.

“You’ve always been so selfish,” the Master says, her voice low for an accusation only she could make and know to be true. The rest of the universe would laugh at the idea, but she knows. She knows.

The Doctor can’t defend herself from the truth. She takes the Master’s wrist. Her grip is too tight, betraying her as much as the way she holds on too long. The Master narrows her eyes, and for the first time, wonders why here, why not with the version of her who haunts this Doctor.

“Don’t hurt them,” the Doctor says, resignedly, her attempts to create a kinder past futile and she knows it and she doesn’t have the energy left to try harder. “Master,” she adds after a beat, the name barely breathed.

The Master reaches up to cup the back of her head and draw her down. The Doctor’s eyes go soft at the gentle touch, almost like she has hope. The Master’s lips brush her foolish Doctor’s ear.

”From where you’re standing,” she tells her, “I already have.” The urge rises to bite the Doctor when she’s so close, but before she can take advantage, the Doctor is already wresting herself away from the Master’s hold. She looks disgusted.

She opens her mouth, and the Master waits for her to get the last word, as she always tries to. The Doctor’s mouth twists like a dying animal writhing on the ground. She shuts her eyes, and she turns her head. Her hands uselessly go to her collar and find nothing to straighten, to make herself presentable as she walks out in defeat.

“Visit me again, Doctor?” The Master calls after her as she turns her back and tries to leave. The locked door stops her in her tracks, but never for long until her screwdriver rings out in the Master’s office and sets her free. (She thinks the Doctor has the frequency set too high on purpose, to hurt the Master’s ears, but so long as the Doctor’s forced to suffer through it too, she won’t say anything.)

She slams the door behind her like a petulant child. The Master snorts and rolls her eyes.

She touches her cheek and hisses as the sensitive skin throbs.

The Doctor will come back. When and with what face, she can’t guess now, but she will. She couldn’t stay away if she wanted to.

And now, she has an office to clean up. The Doctor always does leave behind a mess. The Master may enjoy that, but Harriet Saxon has appearances to keep up.

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#fanfiction #teen and up audiences #1001-5000 #doctor who #eleventh doctor/simm!master #thoschei #the doctor #the master #simm!master #eleventh doctor #fem!master #fem!doctor

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