I ship it, so there.
(I wanted to post more of Ten and Rose, but those pieces are older and I’m not as happy with them, so … apparently, time to draw more.)
I’ve been working on a little project called Night Vale Inspires, which is, quite simply, a series of typographic posters with moving or inspiring quotes about love, and life, and being. Things that have stuck with me from the show. Maybe they’ve stuck with you, too.
If you have any lines that stay with you—like a spider-like flickering in your peripheral so constant that it becomes a familiar comfort, you know the ones—then feel free to drop them in my ask box. I might make up a poster for it. :]
i found irl dr. frank n furter ohmygoodness
Elsa (me) and the Doctor. (And a really awesome tardis)
My husband took this picture before I listened to The Girl Who Never Was. Now I have feels. ALL THE CHARLEY POLLARD FEELS.
My proper Gally photos. McGann’s TARDIS is to die for.
My Moment cosplay, and a picture I took of Gareth David-Lloyd that has been making the rounds. ;D
→ The Eighth Doctor and the Bad Wolf fight the Time War side by side (x)
He knows her, somehow. Perhaps he has forgotten, but when she calls him My Doctor, he is certain he will walk with bloody heels until he finds her again.
Her skin is lined with the glow of the vortex; planets move along her blades and bones. It is she who protects him in the front lines of the War, who locks her shield with his against the Meanwhiles and Neverweres and the Could’ve Been King, who follows him into the siege.
President Romana, in all her faith, hands him a weapon, a choice. The Medusa Cascade detonates in cadmium light and leaves his body mangled. She calls him to her, and when he wakes he is new and she has gone.
He could build kingdoms of gold in her honor.
The Moment was coming by the Doctor’s hand.
He dragged the weight from his shoulders to his feet, burdened by the direction of his unstoppable march. Cards were dealt and yet the sound of the war still reverberated against the glorious golden mountains. All songs would end. And he would witness it. But he had a choice —everyone always had a choice— and it had been done willingly. Two unmeasurable, incomparable sides, and he had to choose one. Impossible, unthinkable, and nonetheless it had to be done.
If his hearts were given the chance to be truthful, he would admit that, during his quivers, it was difficult to draw the line between the sake of the universe and his own. He did his best to push those thoughts away from the road, replacing them with memories of that little blue planet, of its people, of how they reach the stars and, oh, the things they meet, how far they go; and, in turn, everything those things, those places, those lives out there do, strangers to this bizarre fight, and how he couldn’t and wouldn’t allow their chance to be torn away.
She had picked that form and, for the life of him, he could not put a name on that face. He pitied her, the one most powerful weapon in the universe with a conscience, for having to deal with the likes of him, the lesser man who came to light the flame.
She decided to walk with him. He did not protest. He felt the distinct taste of a ceremony once they held hands in silent unison. What was this grip of hers flowing into him? Compassion, maybe? The Time Lord clenched his free hand, the wind ripping the swell of condensation born from his trembling. He did not deserve such kindness.
Ashes tainted the path and crushed under his feet even when he pressed the trigger. The Moment had come. Although it did not go off right away. For an extra minute, everyone was given one more breath, one last free thought. That was when Cass appeared.
The Doctor tried to warn her, told her to get away. However, Cass cursed him; the damage was done, Time Lords and Daleks were insanely alike; he was just a killer. She told him he was better off dead.
He dared not merely attempt to correct her, nor did he feel the need to.
He stayed until they died. But he awoke inside his TARDIS, floating in the middle of a now-nowhere. A last lingering comfort of the Moment, or perhaps a curse on its own: to survive, to go on, to live.
The sound of the screaming ones bursted inside his head. Dread, pain, hopelessness, and, together, the voices shrieked until the sound was no more. All the links, severed. That silence would follow him until the end of his days, for that was the price of that choice, one like no other.
The gold had long faded but he wore new hands. He had been born with no memories, he had died unsure of who he was anymore, and he couldn’t care less of what he was now, other than the last of the Time Lords, hands forevermore tainted and heartbeat throbbing in ache.