Tag: oncomingstvrm

try + the eleventh doctor!

Send Try + a muse that you want to see me write! (accepting) 

     “RIGHT!  Didn’t anyone notice?”

What the Doctor lacks in eyebrows, he supplements with obnoxiousness and levity.  Bowties and posh drawl and foppish hair: all of it, a calculated screen over a putrid darkness like solidified magma, like papel picado over something rotten and reeking of sulfur.  He is what remains of the Timelord Victorious, petrified in the state of “lived too long” and “lost too much.”  

As often as he seems happy, he is angry. 

    “No, I say, really, did NO one notice the brilliance with which I just disarmed that bomb?  It’s not exactly as if it were a matter of cutting a few red, green and blue wires, now, was it?”

He laughs, and flings up gangly arms. 

   “Honestly, what IS the point of you lot? You’re lucky that I love you!”  

A sadness passes over his gaze, fleeting as a goldfish beneath an iced lake.  And then the whimsical merriment returns. 

oncomingstvrm:

for @masterfulxrhythm

He was BORED. He had been piloting the TARDIS wherever she would take him. He didn’t do anything on the planets he visited, not really. He just walked around them and observed life going on while he thought up music for his guitar.

He wasn’t mourning, or at least he didn’t think he was. He was just, tired of the universe. he was tired of the hypocrisy and the lies and slander. He was tired of the violence and war. He just wanted to r e s t. 

Alas, the universe called. He was currently situated in his TARDIS when she let out a warning hum before she took off without his ministrations. He stumbled on his feet and ran to the console room to find the door already open. 

WHO could have done this?

Who indeed, who or what.  

A red-meat-eating, volcano-roaring, blood-spilling career assassin; a beast with hearts too large and too charred; a child scared of the dark that is being forgotten and dying, lashing out perennially; a lover ousted by the other half of his own soul. 

An arrogant dick, who calls himself “Master.” 

Clad in head to toe black and red, the colors of death and its price, he’s leaning against a crashed space shuttle that’s still smoking.  

While eating Jelly Babies. Popping them, one at a time, cavalierly, into his mouth.

      “Hey bitch,” he merrily cries, and aims a black-nailed middle finger at
       his incredulous oldest friend. “Remember me?”  

A pause, glancing  back at the collateral. 

     “Oh, relax. It wasn’t inhabited. I was just trying to catch your attention.”