Yes. I have returned. :D
I'm not sure for how long exactly...this part of my life had to kind of take a very distanced back-seat as I had to sort out my life (in a good way)...
And so I haven't written since...November. Not creative writing anyhow, unless you call scientific essays and lab reports 'creative', ha..
So excuse if this is horrible and very rigid.
New Born
Sleeping was fruitless, he knew. Time Lords didn't even sleep anyway. But this...thing, this bitterness residing in him -he had to drown it out somehow. Convince himself infalliable to the dull, throbbing pain in his arm and the steady drip, drip of panic.
And it was...nice, to say in the least. Far better than practically vomiting his gut lining out, anyway. And the thin sheen of pespiration that covered his superior skin, so alien he could feel it penetrating deep in his dermis. Everywhere. Encircling, suffocating, the wicked, yellowed gleam of eyes-
The inhalation was torn from him, like an infant taking its first gulp of air. He was tangled, almost straight-jacketed in the thin sheets.
Too hot. Too cold. His senses were on fire, and there was a faint tang of copper in his mouth.
Sweat dribbled from his brow into his eyes. The fluid and the mere fact that he was, ugh, sweating -of all the human things- should have disgusted him.
But it didn't. The tang of salt, the strong overlay of minerals and lactate. And of course the fact that one particular type of cresol would perform as a pheromone and -
What was up with him? Him, the Doctor, a Time Lord, suddenly slave to all these primitive ways.
This wasn't...appropriate. Sudeen thoughts bombarding him, inclinations he'd never -okay, maybe may have had once or twice- and all thrust upon his person like some-
Itchy. So very itchy. His skin and the slight facial hair he had tingled -actually tingled- and felt like it was moving. The sensation irritated him far more than normal and caused him to scratch at a spot just above a patch of stubbled chin.
Ouch. Didn't he trim his nails yesterday, before he and Rose were due to attend a meeting on Rolexuf?
The white shirt that he'd failed to remove before collapsing into bed clung horribly to the Doctor's skin in damp patches, particularly all the way down his spine. With a grimace, said shirt was discarded. Along with his Time Lordy-ness. And propriety.
A strange yet extraordinary sensation, or a feeling, or something, tripping through a deep-seated part of him. That side of his brain he barely thought about, let alone exercised.
The next thing he was on all fours, pained breaths puffing through his nose as a terrible thing gripped him in wicked claws. He was in agony- pain slicing across his chest, crushing his ribcage. His head felt close to bursting, he couldn't think-
Hands clawed into the sheets, back bowed, a scream flowing forth like a tidal wave, features stretched in a grimace.
It felt like it would never end. This feeling like his very hair follicles were trying to rip themselves from his skin, his organs tight and in turmoil, stomach roiling.
The TARDIS rumbled sympathetic alarm as he lurched over to the right side of the rumpled bed and retched violently, but bringing up nothing but a few drops.
Drops that fell like scarlet rain in the bucket the TARDIS provided, hitting the base with a wet, empty plat, blooming inky red flowers across the plastic.
Face down and shuddering as the pain slowly ebbed away but left him empty and weak, he eventually fell into deep sleep.
In the recessses of his tattered mind, yellow eyes glow,wicked teeth gleamed and a misty howl followed, slowly, slowly fading into nothing.