reblog this and tag with a food you no longer have access to (closed restaurant, state you moved away from, ex’s mom’s cooking, etc) that will haunt you until your dying day, mine are the spicy chicken sandwich on the employee menu at the fine dining restaurant I was a prep cook at, and the onion bagel from the kosher place down the street from my house when I lived in the city
Can you guess this fic? Requested by our first monthly winner, @omcree!
Hints: Oneshot, T, published in 2023, we aren't done with what happened in the basement
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Set after the witches' excursion in Ep. 77.
After their conversation in the basement, Imogen's got some things she needs to say.
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“Imogen.”
It’s loving and soft, because of course it is, because it’s Laudna, but it’s also…she’s doing that thing she does sometimes, where she acts like Imogen doesn’t know what she wants. Like Imogen is too young and too naive to understand. The same tone she used in the basement.
Promise me.
As if Laudna wouldn’t burn the world down for her. As if they don’t both know it.
It’s not the first time she’s dealt with this bullshit. Laudna gets to be passionate and protective and fierce in her love (I would murder everyone around us if anything happened to you) but Imogen is supposed to pretend like Laudna’s life is worth less to her, to the world. Supposed to somehow just…let Laudna go. Because what? She’s a little bit dead? A little bit different? Imogen leveled a city block without conscious thought and nobody’s trying to put her down like a rabid dog, so why does everybody act like that bitch Delilah makes Laudna’s life irrelevant? Why does Laudna act like her life doesn’t…like Imogen should just be able to…
A new coworker was talking about his experiences at college and how he couldn't wait to graduate. He asked me if I had been to college, so I said a little yeah, never got any sort of degree, but if college was free I'd go for the rest of my life.
He seemed shocked. "Why would you do that to yourself, wouldn't you get sick of it?", he asked. I was shocked that he was sort of protesting it? He continued: wouldn't you get sick of doing the same thing over and over again. I tried to counter that by saying I'd be learning things I only wanted to learn, but in the end he was all "that's bizarre to want to college for forever." Idk maybe this is a bit of an age gap sort of deal?
Tl;dr this isn't a gotcha/would you rather with a penalty. It's free and you can take whatever classes you want.
If the college of your choosing was free and you can take any classes you could, would you go for the rest of your life?
I've been looking for you. I've been standing still for eight months, B. How hard you look? Are you alright? Five-by-five. It's that thing about a coma. Wake up all rested and rejuvinated. And ready for payback. So much for pleasantries, huh?
Alive and rewatching Doctor Who and wrote this little Yaz/Thirteen thing because I couldn't help it. In which Yaz gets to have complicated feelings and the Doctor can never quite get it right.
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Yaz knows that she can’t know the Doctor. Not really. Doesn’t stop her from loving her, though.
The problem with loving the Doctor, or one of the hundred problems with loving the Doctor, really, is that it makes Yaz different. But that’s one of the great things about loving the Doctor, too, because she likes herself when she’s different, when she's braver, bolder, kinder.
That’s got nothin’ to do with me, Yaz.
She can hear it, the Doctor’s voice strong and easy, eyes taking a moment to still on Yaz between flipping switches at the glowing console. Just a moment, though, a moment of making Yaz feel seen before tearing back to everything else, barking a gruff order for Yaz to twist this or pull that or…Hold on!
And Yaz does twist this or pull that or hold on. She does whatever the Doctor asks, even as the drop in her chest between that second of the Doctor’s full attention and its loss makes her stomach clench. It happens enough that she should be over it. She’s not.
It’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing to be such a melt. She can feel her eyes get big, or, worse, wet, when the Doctor seems to forget that Yaz is supposed to be special, hers, in a way that the others aren’t. She can see Dan, see whatever visitors for the day, watch as the Doctor talks to Yaz like…like a soldier, if she wants to be kind about it. Like a child, if she wants to be honest. (Loving the Doctor has not made her more honest.) She clenches her jaw, maybe, or raises an eyebrow, but it’s nothing, not really, because in the end she does as she’s told.
She knows what it must look like, her doing anything the Doctor asks, no matter how she asks it.
Yaz’d spent time around Sonya’s boyfriends, around the boys down the pub and at the station. She’d shouted them down if they made the mistake of thinking she wouldn’t but mostly she’d ignored them, because Sonya and the others could handle themselves. They’d made their choice, a choice Yaz would never make.
Except. Except.
Years with nothing but a hologram. She should’ve known better than to think it would be different when they were together again. Daft. Pathetic. And here for as long as the Doctor would keep her.
“Alright?”
She smiles in answer, and the Doctor’s eyes flit up from her mouth, lips turning down briefly. It’s too much, too close, the wrong kind of attention, but she doesn’t stop it. She’d rather be a problem the Doctor’s figuring out than nothing at all.
“Been thinkin’ maybe Florana next.” Her body leans closer to Yaz, forearms pressed together on the railing. At the raise of Yaz’s eyebrow, she says, “Beach planet.”
“Promises, promises,” Yaz says lightly, bumping her shoulder, and because she can’t help herself, “I get it. Bit borin’ for you.”
The Doctor’s brow furrows and her eyes narrow and there is only Yaz, then. Only Yaz and the Doctor and it happens sometimes, this between the two of them. It happens and it wrecks Yaz and makes her feel bigger than anything. It happens and then the TARDIS jolts, or Dan, bless him, wanders into the room, or the Doctor or Yaz or both of them find something suddenly very important to do.
This time, though, it’s quiet. This time Dan is flinging through pirate clothes and the TARDIS is humming only in the normal way and there are startlingly small fingers wrapping around Yaz’s wrist.
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be. You know that?”
Yaz can see her, because the Doctor lets her, and she’s soft and sad and maybe…scared? And there’s something else, something she can’t…so she says, grasping, “The beach?”
Her cheeks go hot immediately, her voice a crack, and my god, she sounds like an idiot. She bites back a groan, but the Doctor only smiles, bright and beautiful and Yaz thinks, for the millionth time, that it’s a good thing she can’t read minds.
“Alright there, Yasmin Khan?”
Maybe she can read minds. Yaz looks down and tucks her hair and feels absolutely stupid, but when she takes a breath and meets the Doctor’s eyes again, ready to break the moment, it’s the Doctor who looks flustered, the fingers holding Yaz’s wrist squeezing slightly as her body fidgets. Still, she stays, and...
“With you, is what I mean to say.”
“Really?” It’s out before she can stop it, because Yaz doesn’t know, hasn’t known, and the Doctor still isn’t bothering to hide, so Yaz sees shock and hurt and a look she’s used to, the hard line of determination.
“Really. Nowhere I’d rather be in the universe. You should know that. It’s my fault you don’t know that. I…”
The TARDIS jolts, and Yaz moves before the Doctor can, because she needs to be the one to leave. She needs to draw the line, to make the choice, because she’s going to be the one who feels whatever that was for weeks and weeks and…the Doctor’s eyes catch hers as she passes to the console, and Yaz grips the rail so hard her knuckles go white.
Yaz knows she can’t know the Doctor. Not really. But she could swear she knows the look on the Doctor’s face, and suddenly she finds it very hard to breathe.
