#john smith

dwhotober (except not in october and not every day consecutively) day 1: time | promptlist created by @tiburongotico on instagram

InMr. & Mrs. Smith,Brad Pitt’s John closes his left eye to take aim, but opens it again before shooting to retain peripheral vision.

This is what snipers do, foreshadowing his proficiency with weapons

Charming: I think I’m gonna get killed.

J. Smith: What did you do now?

Charming: I stepped on Adam’s rose.

*Beast bursts through the wall*

Beast: WHAT THE FUCK-

Paring: John Smith/Rose Tyler
Rating: G
Word count: 1200
Tags: Soulmate AU

Read on AO3

Inspired by a post @timepetalscollective​ reblogged (I think?)

Soulmate AU, in which  you have a black stain where your soulmate is supposed to touch you, and when they do, it gets its colours. 

It’s not much, but I liked the idea - I hope you’ll like it!

God, how much he hated public transport. More particularly that one morning commute, when he had to ride that one bus that was always so crowded he had to fight his way through a horde of sleepy, irritable and rude people just to find that one blessed spot on that one filthy pole that had just enough space left for one more hand. Awful.

His only solace in this Styx was the tacit agreement, the one rule, the implicit decree that made it bearable. Almost bearable. No eye contact whatsoever. No smile, no greetings, no words, no sounds - apart from the occasional curses and snores, that is. That was fine by him. He had read the signs plastered all over the bus so many times sometimes he’d even dream about them - yes, his dreams were rarely exciting. Still, better to stare at those words for so long they became void of any sense after two stops than accidentally meet someone’s accusing glare. No eye contact.

He also had devised a little game of his own, for when the signs became so boring his energy was sucked out of his system and he turned drowsy. A silly game, but a game he quite liked. He looked at the shoes. That was usually enough to occupy his mind for the rest of the commute, and it was safe. No risk whatsoever to offend anyone with a haphazardous look.

He pretended not to be annoyed by the mountain of muscles standing behind him and poking him in the back with what must have been the handle of an umbrella, and he tightened his hold on his pinstriped jacket - he had found out after two rides that a bus, at this hour, was closer to being an oven than an actual bus, some kind of crematorium everyone still willingly stepped inside, like a herd of clueless cows en route to the slaughterhouse. Anyway, the shoes.

Ah, he recognized these. A pair of brown leather shoes. Probably your average businessman in his forties, single, because what kind of married businessman doesn’t own a car, seriously. A pair of fluffy slippers that oozed an odd smell he didn’t want to shell. That must be the old, very old lady that gets into the bus four stops after him, the old lady who swings her cane into people’s shins until she’s found the right seat and claimed it as her seat. A pair of brand new trainers, the white of the laces immaculate, the plastic bare of any creases. Maybe a student on his way to uni - he would know that if the trainers followed him when he’d get off the bus. And…

Oh, these, he had never seen before. And they were just inches away from his, glued to the murky linoleum. Trainers, too, but worn and dirty. These trainers must have had a long life, already - not unlike the chucks he was currently wearing, the white rubber just as soiled as hers. Yes, hers, if the thin line of pink running around the sole was any clue. Those were tricky. She could either be a teenager or a full grown woman, no younger than fourteen, no older than thirty - shoe size and shoe style, they mattered. But he rather liked the idea that she was about his age, so he took that for granted and went on with his analysis. No eye contact , he should be safe to look just a bit higher than the shoes. Jeans. Very tight jeans around very toned legs and a very round… No, he should definitely lower his eyes again, now. Still, interesting. It was too rare an occurrence to find that kind of shoes not to daydream about the lady who was wearing them.

So, he pictured her. Twenty-five, soon to be twenty-six. Blonde, he liked blonde, maybe shoulder-length but tied into a messy bun, because he liked messy buns. Green eyes would be good, but he supposed a light brown could work, too. A round nose and full lips, the exact opposite of his pointy nose and lips so thin they vanished into the void whenever he smiled. Compensation, he thought. I need balance. He had never understood what was so beautiful about women who disappeared if they stood behind a bus pole at just the right angle - no, he wanted curves, he wanted matter , he wanted a woman that wouldn’t shatter into pieces when he held her hand. And those thighs, phew , those thighs definitely fit the bill. So did the rest of her body, he guessed, without knowing he would get to feeljust how curved and soft she was.

The bus came to a full stop with the deafening sound of screeching tires that made the windows tremble, and his whole body was propelled forward, right into the owner of the trainers. He held for dear life to his pole, so his body simply curved towards her - he believed he could make a good pole-dancer for a second - and his waist bumped into the small of her back. And he felt it.

The burn that spread just above the line of his waistband, where his shirt had escaped his trousers and ridden up his abdomen. Where his soulmark drew a thin, irregular path, like a paint path brushed by a shaky hand. His heart ploughed against his ribcage as he dared to look down, not at the shoes, but at the black mark he wore. A black mark that was now a rainbow of colours melting into each other, like a puddle of gasoline on a wet pavement. The same kind of rainbow he noticed on the small patch of skin peeking between her pale blue tee-shirt and a brown leather belt.

He breathed in deeply and, sod the rules, he looked up. Her back was still to him, even as the bus was spurred into motion again. A messy bun of blond strands. A slender neck. A spine moulded under the garment that pointed to a definitelyround… No, he would not look. He’d get to look until he got drunk on the sight later. Hopefully, not toolater.

He was just a bit upset that she didn’t turn around - surely she had also felt her mark flare to life at his contact - but then again, meeting their soulmate on a crowded bus wasn’t ideal. Maybe she was shy. Maybe she had also signed the implicit contract and didn’t want to nullify it.

That was why he bent forward, his head above her shoulder, so close their cheeks almost met, and he pretended to squint and read the sign he already knew by heart.

“I hate to break the rules, but…” he whispered, hoping only she would hear him above the general hubbub. “Hello.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she took a step back to press her back against his chest, and found his hand that was still holding his jacket. She curled her little finger around his and he felt the strain in her neck as she fought the urge to look at him.

“Next stop?” she breathed out - and, oh yes, he fell in love with that voice at the first syllable.

“Next stop,” he confirmed.

He broke another rule that day, when he stared into her light brown eyes mere moments before the door opened. He almost didn’t make it out.

Paring: John Smith x Rose Tyler
Chapter: 2/?
Rating: T
Word count: 1900
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, University AU

Read on AO3

Tagging@doctorrosepromptsand@timepetalscollective for the second chapter of this University AU!

He grinned proudly as he tore the cardboard of the parcel he had received on his desk, taking out a heavy book he had ordered. He had spent his own money on something he would never use, just for the sake of retaliation - and because he couldn’t wait to see her furious face again. The motivation was clear. Get his revenge for that cheap short she had aimed at him the week before. It was simple, efficient, and not evil enough to risk much more than a glare and another fit of anger. Oh, he couldn’t wait.

He tucked his book under his arm and walked out of his office, unable to wipe the smug smile from his features. You’ll get your stupid book, he thought as he walked into one of the humanities corridors that sprouted from the mail hall, greeting a few of his own students on the way. He had never been to her office before - not for lack of interest, because he had wanted to visit her for two years, but for lack of any precise reason that would leave her wondering why he had even bothered when they had a phone and emails. Phone and emails had this one disadvantage he couldn’t see her, skirt and high heels and tight blouse, but well. He always managed to find a good spot at the canteen to make up for all those times he didn’t visit her - namely, that one table behind the plastic plant that shielded him from her, but from where he had a very good view of her legs under the table.

He knocked on her door, grinned even brighter when she answered, and stepped into her office with the firm intention to thoroughly enjoy her rage. He was momentarily struck by the size of the office, less than half the size of his, and he realized a lighter budget was not the only bad thing about the humanities. Especially since, being the literary person that she was, piles and piles of books were stacked against the walls, precarious towers that would all tumble down if she picked but one of them.

She was wearing that light pink blouse that day, one of his favourite, and he was disappointed he couldn’t see what skirt she had paired it with. No. He wasn’t there to watch her legs. Revenge, he remembered.

“Doctor Smith, what can I do for you?” she greeted with a smile, taking off the black glasses perched on the bridge of her nose - he would have liked to tell her to leave them on, because he didn’t think he had seen anything sexier in his whole life, but he managed to keep that thought for himself.

“Doctor Tyler,” he nodded, shutting the door behind him with a kick of his heel. “I got you a little something I thought you might like. Remember that book we, er, argued about last week?”

“Yeah, I do, thanks for reminding me,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair, tucking a temple of her glasses in her cleavage. “So?”

“Well, I kinda felt bad, you know, I got this brand new, amazingcentrifuge and you’re left with nothing,” he said - he made sure to sound falsely saddened and offered an ironic smile of compassion. “So, I got you the book.”

“Did you?”

He nodded with a grin, the delighted flutters of thrill blooming in his stomach at her surprise and immediate softening. Oh, she really wanted that book. And she was genuinely happy he had bought it. It made it even better. The downfall would be rough.

“Here it is, new edition and all,” he said, letting the book plop down on the desk, putting its title on prominent display. “Cost me fifty quids, but well, I’ve got a centrifuge worth a few thousands so I thought… You know, consolation prize.”

“It’s in French,” she noted with a frown as she flipped through the pages. “All in French.”

“Oh, is it?”

He faked an outraged gasp, and started to ramble about how it hadn’t been made clear enough on the website, and how they would hear about it and he would get his money back because it was unacceptable to pay that much for a few pages in a wrong language. Of course, he was jubilating at her momentary perplexity, but on the inside only. Well, probably a bit on the outside too, because she raised an eyebrow and smiled, the kind of amused smile that had him observe her with a hint of suspicion. She wasn’t disillusioned, like he had hoped she’d be. She looked… Pleased. Now, that wasn’t part of the plan. Something must have gone wrong somewhere.

“Thank you very much, Doctor Smith,” she simply shrugged, shoving the book in a drawer. “That you would go to such extents is proof of your repentance.”

“But it’s in French,” he pointed out, frustrated that she wouldn’t make any more comments about it when he had expected, and even hoped for a tantrum.

“Yes, it is,” she smiled, slipping her glasses back on the tip of her nose - ah, that looked much better. “Good thing I speak French.”

“You… You do?” he asked as he watched his plan crumble down to ashes along with his confidence.

“Of course I do, majored in French literature, did one of my thesis about Molière. Why the disappointment? At least you didn’t spend your money on a silly joke. I can actually use it. Gonna need to do a few extra hours to translate what my student needs, but all in all, this is better than nothing. So, thanks.”

“Oh, good, then, very good,” he could only nod, trying hard not to let the his abatement show on his face. “I could send it back and order the good one, though, I really…”

“Don’t sweat it, Doctor Smith,” she grinned as she handed him a small file of papers. “I know what you wanted to do. Sorry it didn’t work.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, I just wanted to help you.”

“Right. Now, I have work to do, so…”

He nodded with a sigh of defeat, but it was when he started to turn on his feet that he absent-mindedly read the title written in sharp little letters on the top of file. A title he knew all too well.

“Wait, what’s this?” he asked as he sifted through the sheets to make sure it was what he thought it was.

“Your article about nuclear fission in subaquatic rift currents was good, but your whole theory doesn’t look very professional,” she started to explain much too matter-of-factly compared to the scornful twitch that pulled on her lips. “You’ll find annotations and corrections. It might be science, but if you can’t spell all your gibberish properly, you won’t get published. You can leave it as it is, of course, but I doubt you’ll go far with subacquatickrifts.”

“You went through the trouble of reading my article just to taunt me on stupid grammar?” he huffed, both angry and embarrassed to see so much red painted over the pages.

“Spelling, Doctor Smith. The grammar isn’t that good either, though, you’ll find a few notes about that too. Page three, you say one thing and the exact opposite two lines further. It matters when you’re talking about potentially deadly stuff, just saying.”

“This is a paper I am still working on, I typed my notes at two in the morning, okay? How did you even get this, you snoop, I only posted it to my personal drive.”

“And on the staff Intranet. It appeared in the news stream, under the glorious title, hm, what was it? Oh yes, FML this fissions my ass. Thanks for the laugh, by the way.”

“No, I didn’t, I can’t have! It wasn’t even on the page yesterday when I logged in, and the latest news posted dates back to three weeks ago.”

“Don’t get your pink panties in a wad, your ass suffers enough as it is, it seems.”

“Just tell me how you found it, for God’s sake!” he huffed, angrily rolling the file in his fist as if he wanted to whack her head with it.

“The Intranet,” she repeated, undaunted by the way he braced himself against the edge of the desk to bend towards her, menacing and eyes shooting thunderbolts. “I knew you’d posted it by accident, so I saved a copy and deleted the post to spare you the embarrassment. But you know what, you’re right. Not my problem. I’ll just post it again and you can deal with it yourself. Now stop fissioningmy own ass with your childish enterprises and go back to your toy to grow your mushrooms. Might want to stop by your computer first, though. People don’t need to know about your current anal health.”

He watched, powerless, her fingers type words he couldn’t read and click several times on her mouse. Surely, she wouldn’t… But then, she cocked her head at him with a bright smile and mouthed a done. Obviously, she would. And she had. Yes, he had been looking for trouble and willingly tugged on the Devil’s tail, but that didn’t prevent anger from boiling in his veins. If anyone else found this article, under that title, he wouldn’t bet much on his reputation for the coming weeks. He’d need to invest in earplugs rather than in books to mute the sneers and laughs that would bury him under mountains of shame.

“Go to Hell, Doctor Tyler,” he seethed, shoving the rumpled sheets in his pocket. “I won’t argue with someone who can’t differentiate between mushrooms and microbiological cultures!”

“Fine, just go, then,” she shrugged as she planted her fingers on her keyboard and waited for him to actually go. “Thanks for the book again, that was very thoughtful of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for my next course. You’re welcome to attend, it’s about latin etymology, you might learn a thing or two about spelling subaquatic.”

“I know how to spell subaquatic, I wrote this in a rush, alright? I just… Nevermind. Have a nice day, Doctor Tyler. Enjoy your stupid book.”

He stormed out of her office before he could drown in her sickening smugness and rushed back to his office, his highest priority now consisting in deleting any trace of the humiliation eulogy this post was. He sat behind his computer and hurried to log in, opened the page he was looking for and scrolled through it to find the subject of the offence. Sure enough, there it was, posted under his name, but it seemed Doctor Tyler had deemed necessary to add an attachment. Introduction to Latin Etymology. He made a face at his screen and erased the article from the database with a few clicks. She was saucy, that woman. He loved it. Still, he would need to up the ante and hit harder if he wanted a chance at winning.

The email bell chimed again. His face blanched as he read the message she had sent him and his hands went to his fly.

I didn’t say pink panties by accident, BTW. Lovely underwear, Doctor Smith. Dr. T.

He zipped up his fly and fell back in his chair with a groan.