The thought of being thrown into an insanely codependent and inseparable trio between yourself, James, and Sherlock immediately after stumbling into each other's lives with something deep and overbearing simmering beneath the surface.
Moriarty flirts with anything that has two legs and a pair of breasts. It's a known fact. Most of the time he does it without much meaning behind his actions. You reciprocate his advances with a teasing lilt in your voice that gives the impression that you only view this as banter before turning your attention back to Sherlock as if it never left him in the first place.
Having known Sherlock for longer, you find yourself leaning towards him more often than not, always catching the way James' jaw twitches from the corner of your eye. You view them both equally for their own distinct reasons, but, out of all of you, Sherlock is the most helplessly defenceless, trying to talk his way out of fist fights before even thinking of trying to land a punch back, and he's the brains of the group so of course your attention slides to him more so. Sometimes you think the wee lamb will be ran over by a horse and carriage, if you let your eyes wander else where for a single second.
James writes off the odd clench in his chest at the sight of your arm interlinked with Sherlock's as jealousy, despite the fact he knows the ache in his heart isn't quite the same. He can't even bring himself to feel any slight hatred towards the man. Even when there is the element of playful banter between them at who can gain your favour over something or other. Nudging each other out of the way to get to you first, eagerly holding their hands out towards you to assist you into a carriage like proper gentlemen, physically squeezing themselves in the middle of you and the other if you look too cozied up together. It's starting to become less about just you and more about any excuse to touch either of you and never let go.
Everything changes in an old Irish pub where everyone already seemed to be a dozen drinks in by the time you three arrived. The smell of alcohol and the sounds of drunken laughter fills the air of the dimly lit wooden structure. One of Sherlock's wild cases led you to Ireland, where you promptly met an infuriating dead end, resulting in everyone agreeing to attempt to blow off some steam at the local pub.
The three of you find yourselves disappearing into the sea of drunken people to go retrieve drinks from the bar before reappearing at each other's sides where you practically cling to one another to prevent being lost once again to the wave of drunkards. You've lost count of how many drinks you've all had let alone what type of alcohol. James had got up to go order a round of whiskey ten minutes ago, leaving you and Sherlock at the small round table perfectly designed for three to gaurd his empty chair from the poor bastards who have been left standing all night.
The rowdy crowd and the distinct absence of Moriarty causes Sherlock and yourself to lean closer into one another. So close that you can feel the warmth of his body heat through his three piece suit, smell the whiskey on his breath when he leans into your neck to speak into your ear so you're able to hear him over the manic crowd and beating of your heart.
James is leaning against the bar countertop to prevent his drunken swaying and let's out loud grumbles of annoyance when the bartender serves someone before him. There's a woman next to him sat on a barstool, more off her head than him. What she whispers in his ear would make a vicar blush, but not James Moriarty. No. Not when he has his ambitions set on someone else.
His eyes drift across the sea and, through the drunkards woven together, there he sees you both. The alcohol has done a decent enough job at crumbling Sherlock's somewhat uptight appearance. His suit jacket is slanted slightly, the top button of his waistcoat has been undone, and his previously perfect tie has been loosened. Dishevelled is a good look on him. James watches Sherlock lean away from your neck, only for a fraction, after saying something to you to gauge your reaction on your face. His eyes are half lidded, his nose nudging against yours at the close proximity.
Even from a distance, the sudden desperation on yours and Sherlock's faces ignites something within Moriarty. Something that was always bubbling beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment. And as your lips graze each other, hesitant and uncertain as if neither of you have thought about this day and night, Moriarty realises that it was never jealously to begin with, far from it infact. It was uncontrollable need that would blossom every time your hand slipped into his as you ran from criminals and every time his hands would find Sherlock's waist to steady him as he drunkenly stumbled up the stairs after a long night out. The need to never let go, to tighten his grip until he left a purple hand print on smooth skin. The need for so much more. For you all to become one.
James' empty chair sat snugly between you only highlights his absence when the pair of you pull away. Wordlessly, the same flickering ache appears in both of your chests. Something's missing. And when you spring up from your seats, stumbling like a pair of absolute fools, in search of your missing piece, you simultaneously down your whiskeys and none of you really have to say anything, the gleam in your eyes is enough. This long wild goose chase of an escapade is about to become an even longer night.
(A/N: I started writing this at 1:30AM last night, so ignore how the execution of my brilliant idea is a little sloppy. But my God I need to write this properly, I know I do, but I don't think my writing skills would do it justice.)
It has come to my attention that Mermaid Quay Management is heavily considering getting rid of Ianto's Shrine due to wood rot and environmental problems such as that. This shrine has gathered tourism from all over the world and is seen as the only Doctor Who major landmark. To take that away would devastate the fandom. Even if they simple refurbish the area and refuse donations to be added and they leave the sign that says "Ianto's Shrine", it would be better than nothing and I feel like most of the whovians across the world would respect that. So please, if you care about Doctor Who in any way, sign this petition and help bring awareness to this topic.
Pairings: (past) 10th Doctor x GN!reader, 12th Doctor x GN!reader (but not really, he's just thinking about his past with you)
Word count: 3946
Tags/warnings: light (?) angst, open ending(?), me projecting my obsession with Queen, hurt/no real comfort, the Doctor's self-loathing, first kiss, me not knowing how guitars work so its all super vague in that sense.
Summary: It didn't take long for the Doctor to realise that this present regeneration is built off of reminiscing and pining for his past to learn to accept it all. There's no wondering about why he's suddenly attached to the guitar that once belonged to a love long lost...
A/N: Believe it or not, this started out as a really tooth-rotting fluff idea in my head, but it soon turned into something else entirely. I apologise in advance and don't worry, guys, I'll hold your hand through it all. I hope people understand the significance of the last line and what I tried to do there. Happy reading!!
The TARDIS is quiet. It has been for a very long time now. No laughter of a naive young human who has their whole life ahead of them. No rapid rambling from the Time Lord attempting to explain a concept so far-fetched by comparing it to human equivalents which don't really end up correlating. There aren't even any occasional hums or groans from the machine itself, even though it usually likes to give its wordless opinions on things.
The Doctor has dedicated his ever- elongating life to teaching at St Luke's University for thirty years, five months, two weeks, and six days. He hadn't intended to become so comfortable and stable and reliable, but the Doctor has known for a dozen life times that he has no power over where the trajectory of his life will go next. To some, that may sound utterly terrifying. To others, it may feel freeing and beautifully spontaneous. The Doctor falls somewhere in the middle of that venn diagram.
He has a responsibility now. Most likely the biggest one he has ever had weighed down upon his shoulders. It's Saturday today. That means there are no classes to consume his time, no droning meetings to attend, no listening to gossip in the teacher's lounge while chewing on a Jammy Dodger. There is just silence. He has already marked and annotated his students' latest essays. Not even the scratching of his fountain pen can ease the overwhelming lack of...everything.
The Doctor checks his watch. 2:34PM. The motions come to him like a second nature and he briefly wonders when this had become a set routine. He wordlessly stands from his office chair, giving one last fleeting look to the framed picture of his granddaughter, and slides the strap of a black and white electric guitar off of the back of his chair and snugly around his torso. The leather has started to show signs of wear. He should polish it tonight when he gets back.
The walk down the stairs, through the empty hallways, across the freshly cut grass, and down the steps into the basement takes ten minutes and forty seven seconds. The Doctor doesn't question the absence of his middle aged...friend? Companion? No, definitely not that, that word shouldn't even be entering his mind. He sticks with 'friend' for now. Nardole has long since picked up on the Doctor's Saturday plans.
The Doctor walks up to the ancient doorway to the Vault and tentatively places his palm flat against the metal. 'Sorry, I'm late.' It's been a week or so since he's seen his oldest friend in the universe. His mind has been drifting lately and he just can't bring himself to face her right now. The door beneath his hand feels as though it warms slightly in acknowledgment and he can picture her stood mere inches away from him in a similar position.
There are only literal seconds that pass by until he hears the gentle and precise notes echoing through the Vault from a well-tuned piano. The familiarity eases the ache in his hearts and he let's his eyes slip closed in an attempt to feel the music deeper in his old bones.
She used to wordlessly object by banging her hand against the wall or slamming down piano keys when he would play the same song for hours on end, beginning it as soon as it finished so that it would never have to end, but now she understands. She humours him, indulges even. She doesn't need to hear his explanation. Everyone has their own version of the drums that they wish to block out.
Blindly, the Doctor raises his hands to slide around the guitar, holding the correct stances in preparation for his que to join the melody. His fingertips glide over the strings and he begins to play.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
A million life times ago in the very early twenty first century, back when the Doctor had a young and fresh face (a poor attempt at trying to reimburse the naivety he had before the war; it never worked) with spiked brunette hair and an incredibly skinny body that made him look even taller than he was. He really was incredibly skinny. When he saw it for the first time from the outside, posing as a different regeneration, he finally realised just how skinny he really was. Not to mention the sandshoes. The Doctor never understood why he chose them specifically and kept wearing them for the next five or so years of his life. They really weren't all that practical.
There is alot about this regeneration that the Doctor doesn't understand. He didn't even understand half of the things about himself then. At this point, he had lost everything he could have ever had. Rose, Martha, the Master, Captain Jack, Donna...Donna really had been the final straw. He lost himself to the darkness of what he called the Time Lord Victorious. It was easier to hide his selfishness behind a different name. Because that's all it really was in the end. Raw and bitter selfishness that burnt everyone around him.
The guilt and shame of his actions boiled over within him and he locked himself away, isolating himself in the darkness of space. A lonely man with his box. But then you materialised into his life. For once, it was the human who blundered into his life and dragged him along before the Doctor could process what had just happened. The reasonable side of him wanted to put a stop to it immediately. His hearts ached, bludgeoned on a double edged sword. He didn't want to hurt anyone other than himself anymore, but the thought of being alone for any time longer killed him. His body made the decision before his mind caught up. The TARDIS key dropped delicately into your hands and that was final.
The Doctor realised quickly just how much he missed this life. The running, the laughter, the tears, the friendship, the grounding hand to hold in times of crisis. He let himself forget the faces of all the others before you. Just for a moment he ignored the inevitable truth of how this all would end. The glint of amazement in your eyes, reflecting the blazing fire of a collapsing star was all that mattered. Time stopped when you were around.
It had been one of those days where the nonstop travelling had taken a toll on the TARDIS. Getting shot at by a cybership probably had something to do with it aswell. The Doctor was knee deep in the flooring of the console room, sat with his legs kicked up at awkward looking angles, a set of wires haphazardly wrapped around his neck while he fused something or other with his sonic screwdriver. He was hyper focused, occasionally muttering technical terms that you were half convinced he completely made up just to see if you were paying attention.
You were slouched against the rickety old settee that always looked like it was covered in oil stains, even when it was new. Your trainers were kicked up onto the edge of the console, your head was tilted back slightly, eyes drifting up to the turquoise pendulum in the center of the console. Despite your relaxed form, your hands worked expertly on the guitar strings lay across your torso with practised precision. It was a known fact that if anyone knew you truly, they equally knew about your electric guitar that seemed to be on your person more often than not.
The Doctor can't even remember when it had appeared on the TARDIS, he can't remember knowing you without it. His gaze drifted from the wires and screwdriver and to your nimble fingers dancing over the strings. Even absentmindedly, you never slipped up once and created the wrong tune. You were relaxed, comfortable, and completely in control of the instrument held in your hands. It was oddly...fascinating. That was the word he described it with in the moment, unable to bring himself to even think of the word he wanted to use, but now, looking back, the Doctor can proudly say that it was fascinating, yes, but also intriguingly attractive. He wondered if that's how he looked while he was dancing around the console with an element of cockiness and flare.
Your rendition of 'Hammer To Fall' by Queen slowed to a stop and you snapped out of your trance slowly. Your gaze, like it always did, found the Doctor almost instantly. He felt his hearts jump slightly at the sudden eye contact, his mind having also wondered to other things...
'I'm sorry, am I distracting you?' You looked sheepish, hands moving to rest on the instrument. The Doctor was staring at you like a deer in the headlights when he was supposed to be doing intricate work.
'No, no! 'Course not!' He shook his head vigorously, brunette hair sweeping across his forehead. He felt his face heat at the realisation of being caught and quickly averted his eyes to the oppositely charged live wires in his hands that had almost touched while his mind drifted. It was a little white lie. You were distracting him, like you always did at no fault of your own, but not for the reasons you thought and he really didn't mind.
'You should be thankful that I like to play the considerably tame stuff. You probably would've kicked me out a long time ago, if I insisted on death metal every minute of every day.' You smirked to yourself, kicking your feet off of the console.
'I really don't mind anything you play.' His face was still red. 'Better than listening to me, aye?' He gave you a fleeting smile over his shoulder for about half a second before turning back to the cables fumbling about in his hands.
'I don't know about that.' You really liked his rambling, much more than you probably should've. The Doctor always held such passion in his voice while speaking about something, even if it was just explaining in detail how a toaster works. Sometimes, he would get so invested in his own thought process that he barely registered your existence right infront of him which gave you the chance to study him closer than usual. You just had to hope that your uncontrollable smile during these moments could be interpreted as your reaction to his words that slowly began to fade into white noise.
'Why do you alway play that one?'
Your fingers paused the small, controlled movements you hadn't realised they had began. The sound emitting from the guitar immediately squeaking to a stop. Your eyes caught the Doctor's, noticing he now had his pair of black framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. You wondered whether his Time Lord biology really required the lenses, or if he just wore them for show. It sounded odd, but when you know the Doctor, you know he is beyond irregular. He is an alien after all. Either way, you never thought he could look any better than he usually did until he pulled out those small, rectangular framed glasses.
'I don't know.' It was your time to become flustered at being caught out. 'The original Queen version isn't particularly guitar heavy, maybe I just like the opportunity to put my own spin on it.'
'Makes sense.' The Doctor said, clicking something back into place beneath the flooring, causing the TARDIS to let an appreciated hum. You smile slightly at the sight of him running a hand along the intricate workings of the machine and grinning softly up at the pendulum. 'We should meet them someday. They're a real laugh.'
'You know Queen?' You couldn't help but arch a brow as he pulled himself up out of the flooring.
'What's that supposed to mean?' He immediately picked up on your tone, giving you one of those classic offended looks.
'Well, you're always running about, saying words a hundred miles an hour with the conversation changing topics quicker than you can say 'Raxacoricofallapatorius'. You just don't stand still. I'm shocked you can even spare time for listening to music.' You smirked, trying to hold in a laugh.
'I'll have you know, I am very up to date with my music knowledge.' He objected, still keeping up the offended facade.
'Only because I play it for you.' This time you did outright laugh in his face. The Doctor didn't humour you with a response, busying himself with sliding the metal grated section of flooring back over the gap he created. 'Besides, listening to music is no where near the same as playing it. You have a deeper connection with the notes, but, then again, when you've played it a hundred times to try and get it right, how can you not be connected to it?'
'I suppose.' He said, voice vaguely distant, and tucked the pair of beloved glasses back into his inner suit jacket pocket.
'Come here.' Your soft smile turned slightly sly. He didn't like the look of that, that look meant bad news, which usually revolved around him. 'Come on,' you laughed at his apprehensive expression, 'I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely.'
The Doctor ignored the odd jump in his heartbeat and brought himself over to sit next to you. Still smiling brightly, you lifted the guitar from your person, leather strap sliding off from around your shoulders, and tentatively placed the beloved black and white instrument into his lap. The first thing he noticed, after begrudgingly tearing his gaze away from your face, was how neatly polished and pristine you kept the guitar. It shone brightly enough to show his own reflection. How much time did you put into caring for this simple instrument, just how much did it mean to you? Because it meant an awful lot to the Doctor that you had entrusted him enough to hold it, let alone attempt to use it.
As odd as it felt, you didn't let his uncharacteristic silence deter you. You placed your hands over his own, ignoring the warmth of them, and guided him into the correct stance.
'I'm not letting you leave this chair until you show me your love and undivided attention for music.' The words were definitive. The Doctor knew that when you set your mind to something, you never dropped it. That attitude is probably what made you able to master your instrument so well. Unfortunately, or possibly fortunately, he couldn't decide, that then meant he was stuck in your close proximity with your hands wondering over his own for an unkown amount of time.
The next half an hour was filled with choas to say the least. Uncoordinated notes, laughter, and the often cry of frustrated objection.
'I'm sure I knew how to do this stuff in a past regeneration.' He grumbled, allowing you to correct his hand placement.
'Yeah, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.' You laughed back. The muscles in your face were starting to ache from the constant smiling.
The Doctor looked up at you at your words, feeling his mouth run dry at the memories you unknowingly awoken. Time Lords sleep, as much as they are too proud to admit it, Time Lords do infact sleep. That being said, usually they can be fueled off of one eight hour long session of deep sleep a month. The Doctor hates sleeping. Because, for Time Lords, what physically happens to their minds while sleeping differs from humans. They don't dream in the same way.
It's like lucid dreaming. They know that they are sleeping and don't have much control over their own physical body, but instead of the usual side of their brain being in charge, it's their subconscious that pours out before their eyes and plays tricks on them. All those anxious thoughts and bad memories come flooding straight back to them. And Time Lords aren't blessed enough to be able to naturally forget their dreams after waking up. It doesn't take a genius to understand what terrors the Doctor might face whilst locked within his own mind for eight hours straight.
The days had been ticking down to when he would need to take his necessary deep sleep. He was going to try to drag it out for as long as possible, but if something happened to you just because he couldn't bring himself to have a nightmare, he would never have forgiven himself. So, he dressed down into a set of cotton pajamas and mentally prepared himself for what awaited him in the darkest corners of his mind.
Then he heard it. The strum of guitar strings, pieced together in a stuttering tune, the musician trying to discover the right notes. It was you, locked away in your room about five corridors down. The Doctor had never been able to hear the sounds of the electric guitar from your room before then. Clever TARDIS. After a few moments, he realised you were trying to string together the song that had been playing from a busking band in the forty fith century market place you had visited.
Sleep came easily that night. And instead of the horrors of the Time War, or his closest friends being torn straight out of his hands, his dreams were filled with you. When you first stumbled into him whilst racing in the opposite direction of a lone Cyberman and grasped his hand, the awestruck revelation at the sight of the blue box being bigger on the inside, the look of adoration in your eyes when he squeezed the TARDIS key within your hand, the tight grip of your hands crumpling the back of his suit after a close encounter with death. Everything all about you for eight hours straight. Suddenly, sleeping started to feel less like a chore.
'Don't start spacing out on me, Star Man.' You voice pulled him from his thoughts. How long had he been staring right at your face while his mind decided to swan off? 'Sometimes, I wonder where you go when you do that.'
'I'm just...thinking deeply about everything you say.' Another small white lie. This one is much more poorly excuted than the last.
'Yeah, what did I just say then?' You arched a brow, not buying it at all.
'Oh, you know, stuff about inspiration. Brian May and all that.' It was a far fetched estimated guess, you did speak quite alot about Brian May.
'Not even close, but A star for effort.' You rolled your eyes. 'Am I really that boring?'
'No!' The Doctor felt his face heat again. Why does it always do that around you? It's like he's allergic! 'No, no, of course not, obviously not! Never!'
'Calm down, space man, I'm only joking.' Laughter soon greeted his ears and he furrowed his brow at the sight of your beaming smile, having not picked up on your sarcasm in the slightest. 'You are an awful student, though. Or I'm an awful teacher, one of the two.'
'I wouldn't say that-'
'I know, you lie too much.' Your hands shifted awkwardly ontop of his own. 'I just can't- I'm not usually on this side of the guitar, so it's hard to visualise or explain.'
Your hands finally left the warmth of his own for the first time in, what felt like, eternity and you moved to grab the instrument itself. The Doctor tightened his hold a fraction before reluctantly letting go, not wanting this to be over. The implication left an ache in his chest. You slid the guitar to sit comfortably back in your hold, fingers easily slipping into the position you had been poorly attempting to teach the Doctor.
You stood up, eyes not leaving the guitar strings. 'Scoot back.'
'What?' He was startled out of his thoughts yet again.
'Zoning out again, really?' You gave him a disapproving, yet amused, glance. 'Scoot back against the seat I said.'
'No, I heard you,' the Doctor complies, despite his confusion, 'I just can't grasp why-'
You carelessly kicked his feet further apart with your trainers before doing the unthinkable and sitting down on the small portion of the settee between his legs. Silence. You tried to push away the overwhelming warmth of his torso pressing snugly against your back as you took his hands back into your own to place them the exact way you wanted them on the instrument.
'See,' you almost cursed at the shake in your voice, 'that's where we were both going wrong.'
Flexing his finger in acknowledgment, the Doctor couldn't help but pull you closer to peer over your shoulder. The both of you had the air knocked from your lungs at the gentle movement. Thanks to your hard work over the course of half an hour, the Doctor was effortlessly able to recite the introduction to the Queen song that you always found yourself playing.
'Now, you decide to be a fast learner.' The attempt of a joke comes out awkward and shaking.
'I had a great teacher.' His breath hit the back of your neck and sent an involuntary shudder down your spine.
Cautiously, tilting your head to the side to face him, your breath caught at the sight of his half lidded eyes already staring with a distinct lack of shame.
'Doctor...'
He said your name back in one slightly labourer breath, big sad eyes lazily drifted from your own to your parted lips. The seconds stretched along. He suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening, and body tensed beneath your own. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-'
It is truly shameful how quickly his resolve crumbled into dust when you leant forward a fraction and pressed your warm, soft lips against his own. His hands almost immediately abandoned the instrument and flew to your waist, trying to decide whether he wanted to grip your hips or run his hands up and down your sides. With one hand clutching the neck of the guitar, your other drifted up to embed into his hair, running your fingers through it. You always wanted to do that...
The Doctor has never wished for humans to have a respiratory bypass as much as he did then and there. Your lips broke apart with a small wet noise that made your face heat more than before. The angle to keep the pair of your close together was getting uncomfortable, but neither of you could bring yourself to detach oneself further from the other.
'Well, did I achieve what you wanted?'
'What?'
'Showing you my love and undivided attention for music?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The last few notes of the song dwindled out from both guitar and piano and silence embraced the Doctor once again. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut. If he could press the guitar closer to his chest, maybe he could imagine it was your warmth against him.
The first few notes of the song play from the piano before ceasing all together. 'Again?' The wordless question hung in the air.
The Doctor answers with a reciprocating thrum of guitar strings. 'Please.'
The days have been ticking down again towards his necessary deep sleep. Unfortunately, because no, this is in no way at all fortunate for the Time Lord, you still consume his dreams to this very day. Your small human length life flashing before his eyes for eight hours.
The Doctor doesn't know exactly how long it has been since he last played a melody with you. It feels like eons and it could well be. He doesn't like to face the reality of counting. Who wants to live forever anyway?
Every single love interest to the Doctor staring at Billie Piper regenerating into the Doctor knowing that to RTD the doctor only loved Rose and never ever loved them the same or even more than Rose:
Okay, i just saw this absolutely deliciously mind blowing edit of Conrad on my tiktok FYP and it had me realizing how many missed opportunities they had with Conrad as a character. Me, personally, I would've scrapped that his whole thing is that he believes aliens aren't real (which is an allegory for anti-vaccination poeple) and I would've had it be that his whole deal is that he hates the Doctor and UNIT because they're able to save the world from aliens and god knows what but no one was ever able to save him from abusive mother and his allies are all people who have suffered from alien attacks or stuff UNIT have done and feel like they've been ignored by them so they're fighting back because they want to finally be seen. It makes me so mad that Conrad is made to be this pathetic and literally stupid character when he could've been so much more like a really sinister character that you can't help but love.
The edit is by @/vndrain on tiktok I highly recommend you go watch it rn 👀
Mfs who still say "retcon 13" and then glaze the fuck out of this new era.
Not acknowledging that bringing back old faces to play the doctor breaks lore and having these specific faces coming back makes it seem like other eras dont matter.
Believing that Disney is the only one to blame for how this era has turned out.
Praising RTD for his inclusivity when it's really just the bare minimum.
People who acknowledge that the writinh is bad but still like it cuz its "fun". Tell me you really dont care about the show without telling me you really dont care for the show.
People saying that 13 showing up in the reality war had the best writing she's ever got. Mf she acted the same as she did in chibnall's era you just clearly have never rewatched 13s era since it came out and now that you've seen her again and aren't clouded by hate just cuz she's a woman you're seeing her in a new light.
People who blame Ncuti for david tennant showing up as 14 and how 15 regenerated so quickly just because he wanted to extend his career into other things. Just cuz he was busy did NOT mean Russel had to call in david Tennant specifically, nor did it mean he had to have 15 regenerate he could've just put the show on a break for a bit which would make sense because Ncuti filmed the 60th, season 1 and season 2 back to back. No one would've complained if it had a pause (WHICH IT IS HAVING ANYWAY SO WHY DID 15 EVEN REGENERATE IN THE FIRST PLACE).
People who say "oh, I really hope (insert beloved character here) will show up!!" DONT GIVE RTD IDEAS YOU LUNATICS.
Russell: "So, Ncuti wants to leave to extend his career into other things. Obviously we'll have to have him regenerate and find a way to bring in more fans. Let's call Billie in."
Me: "If Ncuti wants to extend his career, why don't we put the show on a hiatus for a bit. Maybe have it so that theres a couple years of just a few specials, like the second half of season 4. By doing that, we can also research the reviews of the fans and work to accommodate some of the things they want include or excluded. We saw how Marvel fans reacted to Robert Downey jr. being revealed as Doctor Doom in the MCU and bringing Tennant back had very strongly mixed views. If we are going to have him regenerate, I think it would be best to bring in a new face. That way it would give fans hope that the show is going back to it's old formula."
Russell: "...Get the fuck out of my office and never return."
Doctor Who spoilers!!! (Also neurotypical people DNI because you will never understand how neurodiverse people feel and how much we do feel things for stuff you find insignificant.)
I haven't seen Reality War, but I have seen the big reveal at the end of the episode. I remember being so excited when the big reveal of the 14 Doctor was announced and how RTD was coming back to write for Doctor Who, I remember not really liking the 60th specials as much as everyone else but I shook off my doubt and persevered with Ncuti's era. Everyone knows 15's era isn't like any other era of Doctor Who, which some people find bad and some people find good.
Billie Piper being cast as the 16th Doctor was my final straw. Before I say what I'm about to say please note that the opinion that I have of this is not fueled by any kind of hatred but pure and utter sadness. Doctor Who has been a constant source of comfort my entire life, starting when I began Eccleston's season when I was seven, as an undiagnosed autistic kid I never really connected with things as much as other people my age, but Doctor Who was something I instantly clicked with.
I have hyperfixated on this show for as long as I can remember and seeing it crash and burn the way it has has genuinely destroyed my soul. The little things that make Doctor Who Doctor Who have been destroyed - fuelling the show with nostalgia bait (bringing back David Tennant and Billie Piper), biregeneration, the lack of filler episodes, the companions not meaning anything to the plot and not doing anything. And they haven't even gave a plausible explanation to most of these things.
And yes I will admit that I have been crying for the past half an hour about this because it hurts my soul that my most favourite thing in the world hasn't been handled with any kind of care. They dont care about their audience anymore, they just care about shock value nostalgia bait like the MCU.
And FYI I'm not one of those people who hates this new era because its "woke" or because the doctor is black or because he's gay. I dont care about that I just wanted it to feel like doctor who.
Might delete this post if all I receive is hate comments. I just dont know anyone irl who can even begin to understand how I feel about this. All I'm hoping for is that someone feels the same and I dont feel alone in this.
You are so right Babes. I grew up with Doctor who specifically 11/12’s era and I haven’t even watched the episode yet but this writing is so shit it made me stare into space for like ten minutes ranting.
I hate all the people saying "isnt it so great that billie is back!!" as if that doesn't tear down the main foundations of the show. And I HATE the excuse of "it's a sci-fi show of course it's not gonna be realistic!!" which is like yea but the show has to have some level of boundaries or else it all falls apart???
Doctor Who spoilers!!! (Also neurotypical people DNI because you will never understand how neurodiverse people feel and how much we do feel things for stuff you find insignificant.)
I haven't seen Reality War, but I have seen the big reveal at the end of the episode. I remember being so excited when the big reveal of the 14 Doctor was announced and how RTD was coming back to write for Doctor Who, I remember not really liking the 60th specials as much as everyone else but I shook off my doubt and persevered with Ncuti's era. Everyone knows 15's era isn't like any other era of Doctor Who, which some people find bad and some people find good.
Billie Piper being cast as the 16th Doctor was my final straw. Before I say what I'm about to say please note that the opinion that I have of this is not fueled by any kind of hatred but pure and utter sadness. Doctor Who has been a constant source of comfort my entire life, starting when I began Eccleston's season when I was seven, as an undiagnosed autistic kid I never really connected with things as much as other people my age, but Doctor Who was something I instantly clicked with.
I have hyperfixated on this show for as long as I can remember and seeing it crash and burn the way it has has genuinely destroyed my soul. The little things that make Doctor Who Doctor Who have been destroyed - fuelling the show with nostalgia bait (bringing back David Tennant and Billie Piper), biregeneration, the lack of filler episodes, the companions not meaning anything to the plot and not doing anything. And they haven't even gave a plausible explanation to most of these things.
And yes I will admit that I have been crying for the past half an hour about this because it hurts my soul that my most favourite thing in the world hasn't been handled with any kind of care. They dont care about their audience anymore, they just care about shock value nostalgia bait like the MCU.
And FYI I'm not one of those people who hates this new era because its "woke" or because the doctor is black or because he's gay. I dont care about that I just wanted it to feel like doctor who.
Might delete this post if all I receive is hate comments. I just dont know anyone irl who can even begin to understand how I feel about this. All I'm hoping for is that someone feels the same and I dont feel alone in this.
Edit: if I see any of you mfs use the words "it's just a show" I'm going to actually lose my shit because if my feelings about something are made to be invalid I am gonna jump off a roof. I had all that shit thrown at me when the recent season of a show that is also my entire life was written poorly and whenever I spoke out about it poeple would throw that line at me.
The hidden war with the Empire has been going on for as long as Kleya can remember at this point. Recent events have taken a toll on Luthen, he's slipping and needs a break desperately, but the Empire and the Rebellion never sleeps. Including Kleya.
She works restlessly, piecing together bits and pieces of conversations from the many bugs they have planted across the galaxy, while also responding to calls from rebel soldiers. It all has slowly become one big blur to her, everything is so similar. She's had to correct errors in her notes numerous times.
Kleya is sure Luthen will only point out her mistakes instead of thanking her for working so late into the evening. Speak of the devil, he's just walked through the main entrance to the antique shop.
"You're late." Her tone isn't harsh or cold, like she wants it to be, it's just neutral and tired.
"I know." Luthen's tone matches her own as he joins her in the backroom. "Anything interesting?"
Kleya removes her earpiece and slides the communication compartment back into it's hiding place. "Senator Organa was escorted back to Alderaan with high security, like we had predicted, Lonni reported that Hert has been promoted to Lieutenant Supervisor and Andor has completed his mission and is on his way back to Mina-Rau."
"Good." Luthen says, distantly. "You're dismissed for the evening."
"Are you sure you can handle it here for the night?" Kleya asks, not in a snarky way, but in genuine concern for his well being.
"I just said you're dismissed." Luthen emphasizes his point, his tone more demanding.
"Fine. You're the boss." Kleya grabs her bag and makes her leave. She didn't put up much of a fight with him, because, quite frankly, Kleya has been wanting to leave that backroom hours ago. Her body moves her in the direction of your apartment before her mind can keep up. That's all she needs. You.
《》《》《》《》
You softly hum the rhythm of the song playing quietly on the radio as you dry your hair. As Senator Mon Mothma's aide, you have had a very long day. You listened to all the meetings she had and made note of nearly everything said to scribble down on your datapad later, you started writing a speech about Mon Mothma's new bill that she's trying to get votes for, put up with Perrin's snide remarks, walked with Leida and provided her with emotional support towards her betrothal.
You almost let a relived sigh slip past your lips when Mon dismissed you for the day. You've been Mon Mothma's shadow for as long as you can remember now and not much can phase you. As soon as you reached your apartment, you removed all your fancy clothes and jewelry and took a well needed bath. The sweet floral smell of the bath salts is still wafting through your home.
A faint hiss echoes through the apartment and a small smile appears on your face. "In here, love."
Kleya soon emerges in the doorway, looking just about as exhausted as you feel. "You really shouldn't say that. What if I had been a burglar?"
"The point still stands." You rise from the chair at your vanity and make your way towards your partner. "You'd make a very hot burglar."
Kleya let's out a faint snort in amusement and let's you wrap your arms around her to pull her into an embrace, her arms loosely looping around your waist. You press a kiss to the crown of her head from where she's slightly slouched in your arms
"Long day?" It's a stupid question really, because you already know the answer.
"The worst." Kleya pulls away from you, but only enough so that she can finally kiss you after so long. It's been about a week since you've seen each other. You were off world with Mon for a while and Kleya has been very busy the past few days.
"Come on." You guide her over to your vanity and sit her in the chair. Kleya makes a small sound of disgust, thinking that wiping off her make up, letting her hair down and changing into a different pair of clothes is so much work.
It's quiet for a moment, as you slide the neatly placed pins from her hair and place them into their own compartment on you vanity. Kleya silently observes you through the mirror, admiring your slightly tousled hair, the lack of make up on your face and the way your pyjama shirt is slipping off of your shoulder. This is the real you. Not the girl who hides in a Senator's shadow with a fake smile plastered on her face all the time.
"Tell me about your day." Kleya requests and you give her a small smile through the mirror. You know she's asking for a distraction, a set routine her mind can think about instead of worrying about everything else.
"Well, Senator Mothma decided to have breakfast with Senators Bail Organa and Riyo Chuchi. They only talked about problems we already know about and can't fix." You begin. "By the end of that, Mon entrusted me to write her a new speech for one of her many bills, which I started writing the draft for during Mas Amedda's banquet."
You slide out the last pin and Kleya's hair falls past her shoulders. You gently turn the chair to face you, so you can focus on cleaning the make up off her face.
"On the way back from the banquet, Perrin decided to become very talkative. I was strongly resisting the urge to punch him in the throat." You tell her.
"That's the spirit." Kleya let's out a small laugh.
"I went on a walk with Leida and Mon soon dismissed me after that." You conclude and finish wiping the make up from her face. "And then, I had a visit from my lovely girlfriend."
Kleya teasingly rolls her eyes. "I am lovely, aren't I?" She stands to wrap her arms around your neck.
"Only when you bring meiloorun candy." You smirk, hands moving to her waist.
"God forbidden you ever get caught by ISB. All they would have to do is tempt you with something covered in sugar." Kleya scoffs out a laugh.
This is what makes it all worth it. Fighting the Empire, lying to everyone you ever meet, staying on high alert all the time. It's all worth it when Kleya can come back to you at the end of the day.
There is no better feeling than when the whole plot of a multi chapter 100k+ word fic finally all aligns in your mind and you start feeling like the next Shakespeare.
I haven't posted anything in a while, but does anyone know what's happening with the bad batch comic series in the UK? Is it here yet, if so what shops is it in, or if it isnt here yet does anyone know when it will be? I know you can read comics online for free but I'd like to have them physically. <3
Can I be honest for a second and say that one of my biggest fanfiction pet peeves is when someone will write their character or the reader insert as someone who should in theory be really badass (for example a Jedi or a Mandalorian, or an Avenger, or a soldier/fighter in general) and then make them really weak and basically not be able to handle themselves at all? Like come on realistically these mfs should be able to kill someone. Maybe this is just me being a girl who isn't girly, but I just want a character like this who can actually defend themselves and doesn't cry and need to be picked up by their s/o all the time.
Fox stomps his way through the Coruscant streets, suddenly wishing he had brought his helmet to filter out the stench of exhaust fumes and who knows what. Even though he knows exactly what would happen to him if he loitered around the lower levels in full armour. Fox rearranges his jacket, which was yours at some point, and keeps his gaze glued to the floor while he marches on.
The Chancellor had arranged a banquet with all his sleazy rich friends, which obviously required the utmost security. They stuffed their faces with delicacies from around the galaxy, until Fox was sure they'd split at their grubby seams. They talked about the state of the galaxy, as if discussing the weather.
"A thousand civilians dead on Lothal from one terrorist bomb. Awful."
"Better them than me."
The sound of the laughter made Fox want to clasp a hand around their necks and wait for the gasping giggles to finally cease and to observe the amusement fade from their eyes.
As the evening went on at a snail's pace, they just got drunker and drunker. By that point, they just became even more rowdy than before. The topic of the clones suddenly sprung up in their conversation and Fox prayed to whatever wretched God that's up there for them to not single him, or any of his men stationed in the room, out.
Thankfully, they were all too drunk to tell Fox and his vode apart from droids standing in the background. They had complained and complained and complained for every and any reason they could come up with about the clones fighting across the stars. As their jarring voices spoke "jokes" about leaving clones to rust after the war, Fox held his hands behind his back and dug his nails into his palms so harshly it felt like they ripped through his gloves.
Most clones would think otherwise, but Fox does care about his vode. Cares so much about them that he can't even remember how many brothers he's saved from decomissioning by smuggling them into the gaurd. Even though he has the title of Marshall Commander, Fox is powerless. He may aswell be a shiny. The only thing he can control is how much effort he can put into saving his vode and putting them above everything else. No matter the consequences he'll face.
It took a few days for Fox to calm down after the banquet. For once, paperwork became a welcoming distraction. That is until he became utterly swamped with demands for requisitions that they barely have any money left in their budget for.
"Where are you going?" Thorn had inquired, stood next to the holy grail that is the caf machine.
"Fresh air." Fox ironically said back.
His brothers have most definitely picked up on him leaving the Senate building for a peculiar amount of time, but they have never questioned it. When it comes to Fox, it's better not to question.
Fox runs a hand over his face, staring at the durasteel door infront of him. He punches in the access code and tries to ignore his disheveled appearance in the blurry reflection.
《》《》《》《》
Crash!
You've been watching a pair of squabbling Trandoshans for the past fifteen minutes from your tiny balcony. You let out a small laugh at the sight of one of them smashing his beer bottle on the other's head.
You're hunched over slightly, elbows resting on the metal railing and your right hand occasionally lifts up to bring the burning blunt to your lips.
Your recent quarry was not worth the payment and left you pissed and tired and bruised. You trecked through a swampy wasteland for two days, nearly got eaten by the wildlife and your quarry wasn't as stupid as you hoped. He, she, they, it, whatever it was, managed to land a few good hits.
Atleast when you slammed its decapitated head onto your client's desk, she paid you the agreed price and slid you a box.
"For your troubles." She cryptically said.
You scoffed when you opened it later on your ship and saw a neatly rolled blunt. By the time you slumped into your apartment, shed your armour and provided treatment for your bruises, you put the gift to good use. It's working. You feel numb enough to not feel any pain, but not enough to feel nothing entirely.
You hear the door chime and slide open from further within your apartment and you can't help but grin. Some days you can't help but laugh at the irony of the big bad Marshall Commander Fox falling for a bounty hunter like you. You can just imagine the flustered outrage on all those sleazy politicians' faces if they ever found out.
The glass door screeches open behind you and within seconds a pair of arms slide around your waist and a head of salt and pepper curls leans against your shoulder.
"Evening, officer." A swirl of smoke slips past your lips and you lean back agaisnt his chest, observing the Trandoshans yelling profanities at each other before finally going their separate ways.
Fox releases a heavy huff from behind you, before leaning back slightly as you look over your shoulder. This isn't the worst you've ever seen him, but he still looks rough. He doesn't seem to want you to analyse him for too long, so he presses his slightly chapped lips against your softer ones.
He lazily follows the movement of your lips and that's enough for you to know he's stuck in his own thoughts. You slowly pull away and he blinks his eyes open.
"What's wrong?" You furrow your brows.
Fox let's out another sigh, before saying; "sit with me?"
He lightly drags you over to the singular wooden chair on the balcony and pulls you onto his lap with you back to his chest. You use this moment of silence to take a long drag from your blunt, the embers at the other end glow a vibrant orange when you do so.
"What the hell are you smoking?" You hear the disgust in his voice and can't help but laugh.
"Spice." You reply in a duh tone. "The plant that it's made from is used in medicine, it's supposed to make you feel…floaty."
"Floaty." Fox echoes back, amusement evidence in his voice.
"That's what I said." You recline further into his embrace.
"Does it work?" His hands rest just underneath your undershirt.
"Find out." You raise your hand in offering.
He hesitantly plucks the blunt from your hand and you can imagine him inspecting it as if he's never seen such a thing. You see the glowing embers in the corner of your eyes, before hearing a deep exhale.
"Good?" The blunt is placed back between your fingertips.
"It tastes weird…"
"You don't smoke it for the taste, dingus." You roll your eyes and release a shriek when he pinches your hip.
"What…" his hands ruffle under your shirt, feeling the bacta patches along your torso, "what happened to you?"
"Same old story. Asshole bounty wasn't as stupid as I hoped." You leave it at that. "Besides, you're stalling. What's wrong?" You repeat your question from earlier.
"Nothing worth saying."
"Fox."
"Some of my men and I were tasked with providing security for Palpatine's freinds at a banquet. It was an unwelcome reminder at how society puts all the wrong people in power, let's leave it at that." Fox looks past you as he talks and looks off somewhere in the distance.
"What did they do?" Did they get you, or your men, involved in anything?
"They just talked some banthashit for an hour and a half." Fox replies, distantly. "Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore. I came here to see you, not think about that." He suddenly snaps himself back to the present.
"Aw, you miss me?" You slightly turn in his arms, just enough to face him. "Or do you just miss a good fuck?" You hover your lips just over his.
"The best fuck of my life." He slots his mouth over yours. You reach a hand up to grip his soft curls and the groan you get in return is so delicious. A small surprised sound leaves your lips and Fox wastes no time to deepen the kiss, his hand rests on the slight bulge in your trousers after giving you a squeeze.
Fox's hand slivers up to your buckle and works to unbutton and unzip your trousers. You break away from the kiss that quickly turned sloppy for the requirement of oxygen.
"Aren't I supposed to be the one distracting you?" You lean your head back agaisnt his shoulder.
"You think seeing you moaning and writhing in pleasure while I do whatever I want to you isn't distracting?" His lips skim along your exposed neck. A chocked sound leaves your throat, when he finally clasps a dry hand around you and works it up and down your length.
"Been, hmm, thinking about you all week. Never thought I could think about someone so much." You cut yourself off with a sharp inhale when he twists his wrist around the head of your cock. "Can't even be satisfied when I jerk myself off anymore. You bastard." Fox can't help but laugh agaisnt your neck from where he's been marking his claim on you.
"Im only sorry that I can't be with you all the time, ner mesh'la kyramud. Can't sink my teeth into your jugular, or give you a helping hand when you need it the most." His lips trail from your neck to press agaisnt your ear. "Or fuck you so hard that you won't be able to walk for a week afterwards."
"Fuck, Fox!" You arch your back, feeling your body heat up as red as his armour. Arousal sinks down through your body and makes your cock throb in his hand. Fuck. You're not going to last long.
Fox traces the thick vein running down the under side of your cock and that's all it takes. You cum with a almost obnoxiously loud moan, streaks of cum coat his hand and your shirt. Fox kisses down your neck and over your cheeks as you come down from your high, feeling like jelly in his arms.
"Feeling even more floaty now?" Fox plucks the blunt from your fingertips and takes another drag. You only hum in response, settling further onto his lap and feel the bulge in his trousers.
"Don't get so cocky, Commander, you and I both know how much of a whore you can be aswell." You stand up and turn to face him. Fox tugs you forward with an arm around your waist. He runs the flat of his tongue along your abdomen, cleaning up the mess he made. "F-freak." You voice comes out too shaky for your liking.
"Your freak."
It's safe to say that Fox is willing to make up for lost time tonight and it's safe to say that one of you definitely won't be walking tomorrow.
Can we get more fics about Bryan's other characters and himself please 😔 like I love Connor, Nines and Sixty but i need more. I need someone to shake it up a bit. PLEASE IM BEGGING!!!
Tags/warnings: angst, grief/mourning, there's alot of signs of autism shown in Tech in this fic but less obvious ones.
Summary: After finding your name in the Imperial obituary, Tech doesn't know how to move on.
A/N: How many aura points do I lose for crying while I wrote this even though it's not that good? I was originally going to have a part two of the reader's perspective where it's reveal that oh my god you're actually alive, but I dont know whether to do that now purely because of how deeply Tech is shown to be grieving and I kinda don't want to take that away from him. Yk what I mean? But if people say they want a part 2 who am I to deny them? Also, yes, the title is based off of that one ABBA song cuz I was listening to it while I wrote this.
The Marauder was tingling with tension. The genocide of the Jedi, the betrayal of the Empire, the loss of Crosshair and the gain of Omega all happened over the course of twenty-four hours. Everyone had their own reasons to be on edge.
Tech's mind had been on autopilot for days. As soon as he saw what Master Billaba's men did to her and how quickly Crosshair became bloodthirsty for all Jedi, time seemed to stop. He had frantically typed on his datapad to try and find an explanation for such a brutal attack. When Tech saw that it was a full fledged genocide, he swore his heart stopped beating for a second. The only thing that kept him from having a panic attack was his advanced biology.
When they got to the Marauder and fled Kamino, Tech was instantly searching the Imperial database for the list of the dead. He never thought he'd have to check an obituary to find your name, but there you were. Jedi Knight. Executed on Lothal. The reference image they used for you was haunting. To see you stood there, just so alive, with the word executed next to you was enough to make bile stir in his stomach.
It didn't feel real. Tech looked at your information in the obituary again and again and again, but his mind just couldn't process the information. He felt like the only way he could believe you were dead is if he saw your body laying before him and he could never bring himself to do that.
Everyone noticed the difference in their brother. Even Omega, who hadn't even been with them that long, noticed his irregular behaviour. His brothers were puzzled by his reaction to their new living situation. Out of all of them, Tech should be the least likely to get emotional over this. Then again, change has alway been a problem with Tech. It always takes longer for him to process things like this.
They began working for a trandoshan called Cid to do some seedy work. It was obvious why Hunter made them work for her, obvious to Tech anyway. It was because being sent out on missions that have various conditions is all they ever knew. The concept of settling down on a planet and ignoring the war raging on outside is foreign to them.
It's been ten months, three weeks and five days, since your death. Tech's behaviour hasn't changed and his siblings have assumed it's all because of Crosshair up until this point. Tech had been understanding with Crosshair on Kamino and held only mild hatred for his decision.
No. This is something else entirely.
Hunter's heart aches at seeing his brother's despair and having no idea what's making him feeling this way. Tech being Tech, will never say.
He finally snapped when one of Cid's workers, Phee, persistently kept making moves on him. Tech couldn't help the pure emotion radiating off of him in waves, as he shouted and yelled at the woman. It should be you laughing at his sarcasm, it should be you calling him pet names, it should be you with him. He just wants you and that's the one thing he can't possibly have and it hurts, it makes it feel like his heart has been ripped straight out of chest.
Tech stormed off to the Marauder which was a mistake, because everything in there reminds him of you. Your first kiss on his bunk, your late night conversations in the cockpit, your shared experiments at his desk.
He wants to scream and yell at how unfair everything is. Out of everyone in the galaxy, why you? Why did death have to take you? His perfect cyar'ika who could do no wrong and managed to cling to the little faith you had left through the most devastating battles.
Grief is something Tech has experienced only a handful of times. The feelings still feel new and uncertain and that unnerves him. Tech's emotions are usually filed away in organised compartments that only he understands. Now, everything is overflowing and overlapping. Everything is too much.
It's like a bad dream. He doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants the comfort of a familiar routine, back when his biggest concern was what days him and his cyar'ika would be on shore leave at the same time.
Tech sinks down into the far corner of the bunk room, ripping off his goggles and letting them clatter agaisnt the durasteel floor. He draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his shins, before leaning his forehead agaisnt his kneecaps.
The last time he found himself in this position was back when he was a cadet. As much as he tried to ignore it, the regs had gotten to him. 99 had found him curled up in the corner of an embryo lab. He had said nothing at first, just sank down next to him and let him know that he was there if he needed him. Tech found himself wondering for years why he couldn't have been like everyone else, why the Kaminoans made his mind work this way. Tech would give anything to be "normal". He never asked for any of this.
A set of footsteps stomp their way up the ramp and Tech doesn't bother looking up. He's prepared for the demanding yells, the overbearing questions and the looks of outrage on his brothers' faces. What he isn't prepared for is someone sliding down the wall next to him. Tech almost flinches at the feeling of someone placing a hand on his back and tenses all the muscles in his body instantly. Eventually, his body goes back to being lax and a shaky sigh leaves Tech's lips, as he leans into his brother's side.
Tech doesn't want to talk about you to his brothers. If he talks about it, then it's real. Your body is rotting on Lothal and he'll never see you again. He can't face the reality of it. It's too real. He can't do it.
The hand on his back rubs soothing circles into his spine. I'm here, if you need me.
Someday, he will tell the tale of his beautiful cyar'ika and you'll become an honoured part of their mismatched family, even though they had never met you. You will forever live on in his heart.
