//Please never apologize for a language barrier! You know more than one language which is amazing! ❤ 😀 Also I LOVE explaining my tags and headcanons.
“Other Self” is a term that I took loosely from Ludwig von Beethoven’s love letters to a mysterious “immortal beloved,” a lover who was never historically revealed. Some translations say “my very self,” and some say “my other self.”
The term means a “soul mate,” basically. It means a profound emotional bond. It means that the Doctor’s soul is so much like the Master’s that the Doctor is another version of the Master, another piece of him. An “other” version of the self.
Send me TRY + a muse you’d like to see me write in the future!
((LOL oh my gosh. Well Steven Universe is easily my favorite animated series in years, so you’re astute about my personal tastes XD You just listed most of my favorite characters on the show tbh. If I had to pick just a couple, I’m convinced I’d be Rose, Pearl, Garnet, or Peridot. This suggests I ought to write an SU fanfic, but god, I’m mid-thirties with full-time work, past the age where I have time for fanfiction good enough that I’d allow myself to post. LET’S SEE. I’ll give you Peri for the meme :D))
Alright, she’s aware she may over-use the term “clod.”
Like when she’s trying to learn how to make vegetable stir-fry, and the scalding canola oil speckles her face: that wok is a CLOD!
Or when the mail carrier leaves an important parcel out in the rain and ruins it: that mail carrier is a CLOD!
Or when someone walking their dog along the beach doesn’t use a poop scooper, and Peridot steps in it: a CLOD!
Anyone or anything hampering her efforts to learn how to be more like the humans who have softened her edges: CLODS!
But honestly, Peridot stood out among her fellow vertically challenged green gems centuries and centuries ago, from the moment she constructed her visor, from the moment she chose to belie her small stature with mechanical enhancements of her own invention. Hasn’t she earned the right to a single abrasive behavior?
Steven would say otherwise: that kind conduct is its own merit, and shouldn’t be thought of as a bank from which to withdraw, for personal gain. AH, that terrifyingly frail flesh sack! She loves him.
SHE’S a clod.
Peridot peers into the bathroom mirror and sighs. She’s dropped her toothbrush into the odd waste fountain again, and Steven has said that it’s unsanitary to fish it out and use it again. But Peridot’s cheeks sting with hot shame. How many times, even since moving into the barn with Antisocial Kataara, must she prove her incompetence?
Behind her visor, the lime hued plastic fogs. She removes it quickly, clandestinely, to rob evidence of tears.
For the most pregnant interval, the Master stares at his interviewer with wicked disdain. It seems inevitable that he should send the presumptuous interloper off empty-handed.
Then he draws a regal breath.
“Black. Sleek. Horn, no wings. Tattoo would be a red sword with machine gears adorning its hilt piercing a white skull to signify my conquest over mortality using my intellect. I would always have a TARDIS. And Rassilon isn’t cool enough to be a Pony.”
He clicks his tongue, and makes finger guns, to end the interview.
Icarus 