A/N: I debated posting these away from Twitter, because I don't want to hijack our current political and cultural upheaval and all the change happening to ask people to pay attention to my own writing. And it feels odd to write about these fictional characters given all that's happening. But I feel like posting these to a wider platform may generate some additional financial support for BLM.

I wrote these over 12 hours, and for each ficlet written and posted I also donated £10 to a different organisation or charity working towards equality and justice for black people and communities. Roughly organised by chronological order though much of it is set post-S9 finale.

As you read these, please consider donating. I have listed different groups in the end notes. Seriously, even £5 helps. Your contribution matters.

All ficlets are pretty much as written, edit for grammar/spelling and clarity.

Prompt: What happened the morning after The Other Time

There's unfamiliar birdsong out the window to his right where there isn't usually a window, and it nudges him half into consciousness.

Fucking... Goddamn birds, he thinks, his brain sleep-blurred, and he shifts from his side onto his back with a lithe, slow stretch. Morning sunlight is falling across his face in a way that makes him, half-asleep still, squint away and bury his face in the crook of his elbow, nudging his cheek into a pillow that's too soft for his own liking. The mattress is squeezing a low pinch into his spine and there are too many blankets and he wonders lazily why everything in his bedroom is not like his bedroom.

Also, he wonders, why is there a long, freckled arm stretched out over his stomach, fingertips scratching light circles, soothing over reddened skin still sightly sticky from whipped cream and hold on what the fuck, he thinks, and he cracks an eye open.

Donna is on her stomach, sheets pushed low on her hips, face half pressed into her pillow, the morning making her pupils lazy and blinking slowly towards him, observing, and half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Oh.

"Morning," she says.

"Morning." He glances around. It's her bedroom. He hadn't really stopped to look at it. They were both somewhat… preoccupied.

"Nice curtains," he says, and she laughs into her pillow and tickles her hand up his side and into his hair, and calls him an idiot.

He smiles broadly at that and isn't quite sure why. It's many years later that he will come to realise that it's because 'you're an idiot' means something very different when coming from Donna.

"Coffee?" she murmurs.

"Mmm," he says. She climbs over him to slide out of bed, and it's all he can do not to grab her by the hips and pull her down to him again, because last night… last night. Was good. Much better and much more important than a one night stand should feel.

He probably should have gone home, a reluctant part of his brain thinks.

She plucks his shirt off the floor while he tries to figure out if it's okay for him to admire the sight of her, naked, and as she shrugs into it and smiles shyly behind her on her way to the kitchen, he thinks, well, this is awkward.

Only, it isn't. It feels, terrifyingly, normal. Like it's right. Like she's right.

She chats at him through the door while she sleepily bumps cups and french presses against each other, her hair shoved back out of her face and his shirt mis-buttoned. She looks for all the world like she's halfway through a month-long vacation, carefree and messy and light.

Fucking hell, he could get used to this, he thinks quietly to himself.

This is why he goes home after one night stands, and why he definitely should have gone home last night, like he'd intended to. Because she is dangerous. She's beautiful, she's interesting, she's whip-smart, and she fascinates him, and she's close to every fantasy he's ever had.

She is far, far too easy to fall in love with.

She pads back with coffee, which she drops onto side tables, and climbs back into bed, and wraps her arms around him, and they kiss like they are starting something, and fall back asleep, tangled together while their coffee cools next to them.

In her shower, a couple of hours later, he thinks fuck, Harvey, you are in some kind of trouble.

A/N:

Here is the list of organisations I donated to and their websites. Please consider donating to one or more of these:

Black Visions

Reclaim The Block

The Bail Project

Know Your Rights Camp

Atlanta Solidarity Fund

Unicorn Riot

Black Lives Matter

Black Table Arts

Movement For Black Lives

National Bail Out

Emergency Release Fund

NAACP Legal Defence Fund

NAACP

Runnymeade Fund

Stephen Lawrence Trust

Liberty Human Rights UK