Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. You guessed it. But God, I wish I did.
My friend made me post this. I wrote it for fun. Not for fanfiction. But oh well- enjoy? Review?
"Hawt."
I remember, probably when I was about nine, when my bratty cousin in her pink spaghetti straps announced her "boyfriend" was "hawt." Of course, she was about eleven at the time and this love was for a teen pop star who refused to wear a shirt for longer then five minutes when the paparazzi showed up. Somehow, she found this toothpick-skinny boy with more freckles then a tan as "hawt."
The word rang in my head: every hint of the fake Jersey accent hitting me right on with more force then a bus. Her wide eyes, her devilish grin flew back, scarred in my head, and I can only hope it wont haunt me in my dreams tonight. I can almost feel the aggravating craft glitter (or was that eyeshadow?) on her face, falling into her eyes, the way she'd grabbed my tiny, uninterested hands and tilted my head so I'd stare into those freakishly huge and unattractive bloodshot, green eyes, like she'd spent all her nights stalking so-called teenage phenomenon and didn't sleep.
I hate to admit it: but the word, the word I hadn't thought of since that very day, rang in my head and I knew exactly why.
As this man, the man who broke my shed and my little-girl heart when I was merely seven and had demanded various food items, was unconscious. In my very presence, he lay, handcuffed to my old heater, and I just stood there like a dumbstruck fan girl, my jaw hanging open as I watched this man. It had to be the most ill-timed situation ever; the day before my freaking wedding nonetheless, and not to mention I was standing there in a skimpy and cheap kissogram costume I'd bought at the party store with my unnecessarily large heels on.
My raggedy doctor. My raggedy doctor was lying in front of me, and I must of not realized when I was seven, he was extremely, unfairly attractive. In fact: this man was hawt. Hawt.
His hair, it fell so perfectly in front of his face, brushing it gently, his baby-blue, button-up shirt falling to pieces, and that beautiful face that must of been made by angels. There was something, some strange force, that was pulling me towards those ears, giving me the strong impulse to: well, nibble on it. Sure, I only ever saw people do that in bad pop music videos, but maybe I now understood their motive. He looked so vulnerable, so innocent, and somehow this made me all to tempted to take off my tights before his eyes fluttered open, practically radiating innocence.
I wonder if I'll ever know if this man is just as hawt as I think he is.