long-song - Tumblr blog

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the whole ‘blind faith’ turning into ‘restored/realistic faith’ in the god complex is genuinely one of my favourite moments between the doctor and amy. (in my portrayal) nine out of ten times, the doctor will always refer to her as amelia at any point before that episode. amelia pond, the name straight out of a fairytale, the name of the little girl who wasn’t scared when he crash landed in her backyard, who wasn’t scared of the crack in her wall. the name of the first face his eleventh face saw. of course, this changes for symbolic reasons, and i do think that shift is one of the best things they could’ve done for their relationship. i don’t specifically think their relationship was unhealthy per se, but her going from amelia pond to amy williams in the doctors point of view, is one of the last things needed to conclude the fairytale theme that had been running throughout their era, and their perception of one another. it became realistic for both of them, and afterwards, their relationship was able to grow rather than be held back by her fairytale perception of him, and him still seeing her as that little girl.

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feeling very, very sad about this today! ian was always my favourite male companion in doctor who, no one ever topped him for me. at least we saw him one more time in jodie’s last episode!

rest in peace, William Russell, and thanks for giving us all such an unforgettable performance as Ian 💙

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spotify wrapped has arrived. send me a number from 1-100 for a starter based on that song, or a lyric from it, or send a 🎁 for me to shuffle.

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DOCTOR WHO — The Impossible Astronaut

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just out here thinking about the particular choices in the doctor’s clothes + mannerisms + overall exterior between both companions.

amelia’s raggedy doctor: wears slacks that are slightly too short; shoes that look old and worn around the edges, a scruffy tweed jacket; hair only partially styled, often messy and in his face. he was amy’s raggedy doctor, and this was the image he wanted to uphold, because there was something playful about that era, despite the underlying darkness. on the surface, he expressed himself as a mixture between old and new: the tweed jacket with the elbow patches is a very stereotypical old professor kind of fashion, as well as the suspenders. his clothes were aged both in era and condition, but his attitude and charisma kept him youthful and playful. his TARDIS also followed this by upholding that warm, inviting glow. there were wonky staircases and bizarre controls when the ponds were onboard. there was never any consistency, his TARDIS was not streamlined, nor were his clothes. he became a true member of their family, and his house felt like a home for them all. he was comfortable in his oddness to be that raggedy doctor in every way. nothing was ever quite trimmed or cleaned at the edges.

clara’s clever boy: he wore a proper suit and shoes, complete with fancy fob watch and chain. his hair was always styled back, and there was an overall air of sophistication about him. his appearance literally matured. he was still playful and could be childlike, but it was presented differently in comparison to his time with the ponds. he wore two different shades of purple for the most part, a lighter purple for his waistcoat, and darker for his coat. light purple often symbolises lightness and easy energies, whereas darker shades can represent sadness and frustration; the contrast of colours showcased the conflict running through him since losing the ponds. his TARDIS became darker, more streamlined and classy, a more grown up version. there was always an air of grief about him, masked more often than not, but revealed in symbolic gestures like often wearing amy’s reading glasses, which again, altered his appearance. he'd never once worn glasses prior to losing her. his cleverness was more consistent and open, and his sense of responsibility came around full circle. clara’s perception turned him into that clever boy both in looks and attitude, which was the best way his story could have ended.

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PROMPTS FOR CURIOUS HYPOTHETICALS *  assorted dialogue, adjust as necessary

do you think you would have liked me if we met back then?

if i asked you to marry me... right now... what would you say?

could you ever imagine us together?

what if we're not meant to survive this?

if you found out you only had 24 hours to live, what would you do?

what if your life went differently? where do you think you'd be?

i bet we would have been best friends as kids.

could you imagine a world like that?

would you say yes if i asked you on a date?

what if only one of us gets out?

i wish we'd dated sooner.

what if they don't like me?

what superpower would you choose, if you had to pick one?

i wonder what that would be like.

i bet we'd be married by now, if things had gone differently.

i'll never stop considering the "what-ifs."

have you ever pictured us as a couple?

what does your perfect future look like?

do you think you might see me as more than a friend?

ever thought about the future?

what if we're not meant to be together?

but what if there's only one bed? what then?

if we get through this, what's the first thing we should do?

where do you see yourself in ten years?

if a higher power exists... i wonder what they think of us.

maybe we could try going on a date. see what happens.

i've always wondered if you'd ever look my way.

what words would [name] use to describe you?

what would be your strategy for an apocalypse?

could you ever see me as something more?

if we ever make it out of here, where will we go?

what do you think lies ahead?

what if i'm not meant to do this?

if we get trapped, we need to come up with a plan.

have you ever wondered what our kids would look like?

is there more to life than this?

do you ever wish we'd met each other sooner?

i always wonder what would have happened.

if you could ask your future self one question, what would it be?

if you could snap your fingers right now and be anywhere you want, where would you pick?

do you think we have any chance of surviving this?

i'm trying to picture a world where we get through this in one piece.

what if this doesn't end well?

what if we get stuck there?

if a genie gave you three wishes, what would you ask for?

what if everyone stares at me?

what if i'm not cut out for this?

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the problem with consistency was that it aged. its reliability became fearsome, knowing what was coming day in and out, ultimately led to the day that it stopped. when something shifted, and the balance between steadiness and fickleness tipped, leaving you desperately grasping for how things used to be. change was mandatory, but it didn't mean it had to be liked. the doctor wasn't sure he remembered a life where he'd stayed (happily) in one place so long. perhaps not since a soiled junkyard alongside a grandchild with far too much stardust in her sights to keep herself, and a silly buffer like himself settled. what a time, before the darkness of a god plagued his every breath- he'd forgotten the art of simplicity, the way it eased ancient bones. why would he want that tale to reach an epilogue? the spray of mist over her beloved garden became a sound of grave familiarity- he can't imagine its absence. it's comfortable, it's her. and, before she need ask, he's already watered the spider plant (donned with the grand title of patrick, just because he has a patrick kind of face!) living in the TARDIS.

the doctor was sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers absentmindedly toying with one of the lower hanging vines, locked in his own security as the words expelled, lacking rhyme or reason. he blinked thrice, a deer caught in blaring headlights; he'd grown accustomed to speaking aloud in the lonely echoes of his timeline, habit merely struck, oftentimes forgetting he possessed a very distinct form of companionship. his sentiment was softly answered, and a warm smile replaced stunned features, homely feelings increased tenfold- she always knew what to say. 'yes, yes, correct you are! like mufasa said: circle of life, aye?' hands clapped together, gaze striking from its downwards cast, peering up to her. 'a world without the one and only abel arden and her lovely, good ol' reliable plants,' he patted the greenery beside him, like a master petting their dog after succeeding a perfectly planned trick, 'is a world i would not care to live in! no siree bob! i despair to even think of it!' the fear of change was relevant, no doubt! was it not viable, with the notion of a thousand years under his belt, that he feel concerned with matters of the lurking unknown?

he bounded to his feet like he'd been electrocuted, a tangle of lanky limbs, almost losing stability atop his heels before straightening. a familiar glint in his eye rose, 'sour candy? huh! now there's an idea. amazing invention! not those pathetic sour patch-y children you find nowadays- the real stuff that makes you wanna tear out your tongue. no other way to eat 'em! never realised they were so symbolic! what clever, clever things, totally unique you might say.' his drawn tight posture relaxed, and he looked around the space curiously. 'you got any? not the poison oak- the candy. yuck and extra-aaa yum! don't think these teeth have had the pleasure yet, come to think of it.'

" i don't want anything to change. " ... @long-song, as the eleventh doctor.

history is the study of change. a primordial facet of life, that remains unmovable. in the shelves of abel's mind, ingrained to the core of her existence, a line rings true: change is never painful. only resistance to change is painful. (stretch your hands to the corners of the earth and you'll find, it never stops moving. try to still a moving train, and it will run you down. people, places, and things never last— permanency, no matter how desperately clung onto, is a misconception. a myth, that never stops growing. the truth, abel thinks, is that you can only take it as it comes. and when it leaves, a part of you will leave, too.) so, the doctor is in, but his heartache is a fracture even a cast can't cure. his feet chase down timelines, horizon lines, crossing-lines, or boundaries, or places he won't walk. he's a moon-man who has witnessed too many eclipses; a space-traveller, with a sunk-cost fallacy. he's got beginnings beckoning at his fingertips, an ending echoing through his skull, and abel arden has found herself the liminal space between it all. if she put any thought into luck, she might call it a four-leaf clover kind of day.

or, since she's abel, she'll simply call it tuesday. "why not?" star-speckled eyes keep their gaze fixated to a plant. a spray of water mists over the leaves, and a soft poke bounces one up and down. "change is important." a glance is swung his way, paired with a crescent moon grin rounding at her cheek. "if it wasn't for change, plants wouldn't exist." her posture straightens from its place, tap shoes tip-tip-tipping across the flooring of her apartment. the spray bottle sets down beside a cup of tea, exchanged out in an instant to lift to her lips. a slow sip, as her stare watches liquid sink down the ceramic. she lifts her head once more. "and if plants didn't exist, people wouldn't exist, and if people didn't exist, then i wouldn't exist." the cup clinks back down to the counter. "but poison oak exists." a scrunch of her nose. "so, maybe that makes change bad, too." a finger dances around the rim of the cup absentmindedly, a soft pop of her mouth filling the silence for a brief moment. "or, it makes it like sour candy." lips pucker in imitation, and then relax. "yuck, and yum."

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the question that must never be asked; the oldest question in the universe, hidden in plain sight. 'was she happy?' she was there, always, at the crux of it all- he could see it in every line upon @l1sten's face. every shadow, every ragged exhale where it's far too evident something, better yet someone, was missing. the doctor's breath left his lungs in the way a winter's wind shudders through an empty house, empty and frigid. his successors TARDIS felt eerily similar to an abandoned home, with only memories of old to sustain, existing just to survive, rather than passionately experiencing life. 'did we-' not you, you didn't have enough time with her. you were given a potential list of what if's, but he knew her. he loved lyra reed. and as the story of the time lord inevitably concludes: he lost her. 'could you help her?'

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people: william hartnell was too grumpy as the doctor!! he was mean!! he was sexist and old!

literally william hartnell:

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i love how you focus a lot on the doctor's flaws and his dark side. your portrayal is great so far. i'm surprised how well you write him. is this the first time or have you written him before? is 11 your favourite doctor?

goodness, hello!! firstly, thank you so much for taking the time to send this in! i was having a weird, insecure day about my writing yesterday, so this was so kind to read! this is my first proper time writing him, yes, on a consistent base. i have written him here and there on multis across the years, but never long enough to properly feel connected or flesh him out. i love love love the dark side of the eleventh doctor in particular, so i’m glad i’m doing a somewhat decent job at getting that across!

i honestly am the type of person now that whatever doctor is on screen, in whatever episode i’m watching, is my favourite lol. i genuinely cannot decide anymore. i think deep down, 10 will always be my favourite purely because he was my first, and i grew up watching him. but i love all the doctors so, so much, particularly hartnell, pertwee and mcgann. and as it may be obvious, i have really really come to appreciate matt smith over the last year or so. but i think they’re all brilliant in their own right.

again, thank you for taking the time to send this! i truly appreciate it! 🩷

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there was no dishonesty in her sentiment: no child had lived inside her mangled body for decades, a vacant tomb consisting of endless might-have-beens. 'right, yes, you're no child- haven't been for a long while now. the last thing you deserve is to be treated as such.' the memories creep into his head in a cycle: a beacon of youthful faith burnt down by suffocating darkness, forced to repeat forever. his self-righteousness bled outwards, 'children don't do this, after all. children are better than this.' what children do, is wait for their friends to return when they're expected; they don't anticipate on-the-whim abandonment. stunned and frozen by his own helplessness, there's some gnawing part of him, buried where he dared not venture, wishing to take her claw-like hand. a ghostly memory of what was, what could never be. it's gone in a second, symphony of connection broken by a slow, angry drawl, and he stepped back only as far as she pushed. no further. nor does he attempt to inch closer.

another one failed, [what is the point of you?] like adric, like katarina, like peri, like- 'ah, of course! i'd nearly forgotten: regina mills and her kept promises- or, not kept promises, in this case. most important things to you once, weren't they? suppose they still are.' unlike the others, regina wasn't gone. it was easier to believe the girl he knew was six feet under, rather than here before him; a clear picture of what he'd propelled into existence. the best answer to anger is silence, and deep down the doctor knew he had no leg to stand on, no right to speak- but tranquillity was hardly a strong suit.

'and what's next then, eh? sit around feeling sorry for yourself because you lost? flash those teeth at anyone who dares to venture too close? (…) you've had better plans, your majesty. brilliant plans, in fact. this is quite a pitiful sight for the evil queen.' words held simmering venom. spoken like a wise man, like no history passed between them, as if first impressions were conceived in this moment. gods and men alike had bowed at the knee in the wake of his cruel destruction. battlefields cried his name both in mercy and praise; solid centuries mattered little, when his one true failure stood bound and broken, and so very vengeful. 'don't worry, i meant what i said,' but he can't promise anything, not to her, 'no yelling today, no lectures, i'm not going to unleash. it would be a waste of time, and i've none to spare anymore.' his gaze flickered roughly amongst her, this cornered, caged animal who hisses and bites back because it's all they can do to protect themselves.

but ask, oh simply ask it of me, and all the time i have left shall be given to you. properly: it'll be my final oath. 'answer me one question. one lone question.' his tone shifted just-so, losing lithe fragments of threatening emotion. it's a simple request, and body language says nothing to display his desperate desire to know. 'what do you want now?'

' ᴵ ᴺ @long-song / received, i'll tell you what. if you promise not to fight anymore, i promise not to yell at you : except on special occasions.

indignation surges, rising from THE DEPTHS of her belly like dragon fire- she imagines it spilling forth from her tongue with smoke, heat warming her blood and flaring in her eyes where violet cracks once glinted in the dark of her pupils. there's no magic to call forth now, bound deep in her bones by the unassuming leather brace tied around her wrist like shackles. it's infuriating, it's humiliating, and it's devastating. fingers curl into the muscle of her biceps as regina glared bitingly at the doctor- nails would C A R V E into the soft flesh of her arms were they not protected by soft cashmere, sweater replacing the armour he last saw her wear, and she grit her teeth menacingly, snarling at him like the animal she sometimes thinks lurks within. " i am not a child, time lord. " she seethes, spitting his title as if a curse . . . of which she is an expert in identifying.

how D A R E he attempt to calm the fire ablaze in the likes of her, as if he too hadn't abandoned her to the horror of her world, left her to be eaten by the darkness that now calls her body home. so few knew her as she once was, most long dead or an enemy of her crown- regina scowled.

petulance evident in the clench of her jaw, eyes narrowing with heavy ragged breath expelled from her lungs, heaving her chest as she reaches out- fingers like CLAWS press into his chest, palm flattening languidly, snake like, and she pushes. shoving him away from her, he's too close for comfort and she feels cornered, surrounded by reason she refuses to abide. regina is a bitter, vengeful woman, and the grudges she hoards are life - spanning. " i make no promises, and i don't trust yours. " time has changed her considerably, pulling her apart and rebuilding her in the image of a monster. she is not the girl he knew. THAT GIRL IS D E A D. " yell all you like, doctor. unleash upon me. it's nothing i've not heard before. "

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i do keep clara’s echos as part of my doctor’s timeline, because i always liked the idea of it, and i think the way they did it was visually stunning, but i just don’t think it was executed in the best way. however, clara does not tell the first doctor which TARDIS to take. the doctor did not need help with that, and was drawn to his TARDIS, because it’s his TARDIS. it was always meant to be, and was always going to happen. she had no influence whatsoever.

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frankie, stop mentioning and referencing past doctors in every single thread response, mission: impossible!

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@kissygram: ❝ you okay? you just seem extra quiet today. ❞

i'm always okay, he might've replied if he still wore a pinstripe suit, and possessed eyes so large they'd betray an attempt to lie, loudly exposing the inner workings beneath. how he loathed the quiet. silence brought stillness, and with stillness came too much time alone with those thoughts running uncaged inside him. like whispers of solemn speech in a confessional. but, sometimes it's the only thing manageable. he couldn't stand the silence, but he often couldn't stand the noise, either. amy's warming voice froze his working hands, tinkering for a solid hour on the magnitude adjuster whilst the pitter-patter of companionship announces itself, spoken against a rare hush in the console room. he can feel her before he sees her. forever intertwined in his company, but the addressed concern took him by surprise.

grand amelia pond: the girl who gave the doctor just what he needed, when he needed it. the first face he saw; in the haste and chaos of a newly altered body and its predicaments, she somehow understood. seems nothing thus far had changed since that night. 'silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.' words muffled from his screwdriver locked between his teeth, yet mostly coherent. his brow furrowed, poetic notion proclaimed in his continued distraction consisting of oily fingers and tampering. a beat passed and he peeled his line of sight away to look at her. with a flutter of a shortened breath, he offered her his routine smile, million miles a minute pace. sonic removed, thrown once in the air for good measure, perfectly caught in its landing. 'francis bacon said that! (...) er, pretty sure. always liked it either way. boy, what fun old bacon was. said a real lot of great stuff! good man, very good man. even better dancer, believe it or not! spun circles around me. mind you, i was stiffer back then, didn't have the moves i've got now. not when i was carrying a cane.'

the doctor's tone lowered a fraction or two, for a split second. he wonders, idly, if his scarce, albeit prominent tranquillity made her question him, caused her worry, 'nothing wrong with a little quiet, pond.' softness coated his expression, a moment of gentle seriousness breaking out. then it was gone quick as it came, and he simply asked, 'why?' he leaned forward, closer to her, piercing gaze locked into her own, as if he were trying to decipher her answer before she was given the chance to respond. there's an evident shift in his stance, mood reaching a tender lightness. accompanied by curiosity, threatening tension severely abandoned. playfulness etched over somewhat sad, resigned eyes. 'something the matter with my quiet face? not any good? too serious, is it?'

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“I had been abandoned by both life and death: neither would take me.”

— Death’s Door (via story-dj)

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the eleventh doctor's arc truly comes so full circle! it’s the story of a mad gods hard, angry conflict between responsibility and fantasy. from the moment he crashes into amelia’s backyard, he’s like something of a fairy tale; a phantom, a wise man, a hero. a mad man who can disappear just as quickly whence he came. and when he returns, has the ability to turn one’s entire world around— without a single thought for any damage he may have caused along the way. he didn’t just forget his part in the time war: he’s quick to forget a lot, to go too far, to never look back. to never question himself. he hurries on to the next place, becomes a legacy within a few hours on some planet, in some time, and calls it a day. until he begins again. he is the dreamer of improbable dreams, because he requires that divide from reality.

he is “the man who forgets” because he needs to seperate himself from who he was, he needs this new perspective, he needs the worship, someone relying on him, and only him. “i took you with me because i was vain. because i needed to be adored.” eleven began his life as a goofy, kind soul who would happily spend his first moments eating fish fingers and custard with a child, and promise her adventure. the fantasy. yet he’s also a man who would disappear for fifteen years and never provide a legitimate apology. the avoidance of responsibility. (until the god complex, of course.) he calls the atraxi back to earth because it allows him to fulfil the role of a hero in some fantasy, to show off in front of amy, to be that whimsical, magical figure she saw him as when she was a child. to uphold that image. he wants to be a story, he doesn’t want commitments. not to mention the fact that amy literally dreams him back into existence, that her belief in him made him whole again.

the doctor hates endings. he rips the final page out of his books because he can’t stand the thought, the concept. he doesn’t want the adventure to conclude, he doesn’t want the reality to seep through. he doesn’t want the stories to ever end, because in his mind, he is the greatest story of them all. (i’m not even going to go into his arc in season six because i need a whole separate post for that. season six is the consequences of all these actions. and hoo boy. it is brilliant.)

the day of the doctor, i believe, is really the turning point for eleven. the man who forgets arc forcing him to face the consequences of his actions, to step down from the mad man in a box pedestal he’s reigned on for this entire incarnation. he finally takes full responsibility on trenzalore, by sending the TARDIS, and clara away so he can stand and fight for the remaining centuries of his life. he wants to run, to flee, the idea of staying in one place so very terrible (but he takes responsibility, sees the reality, sees he can't just help out for a bit, then saunter back into his box) and he stays. he sends away the TARDIS because he knows he’ll take the easy way out, and step safely inside her doors.

not to mention the hard, in your face symbolism of the christmas town in trenzalore quite literally looking like it came right out of a fairy tale. visually, this is how the doctor wants to live, he wants the whimsical, to live like a storybook. he wants only the middle of the book, before the conflict, before the hero has to make a hard choice. but when he does achieve it, when he arrives in that fairy tale-esque town, it becomes the reality he’s chosen to live, with more responsibility, more bravery than this incarnation has ever shown. he’s rewarded for his nine centuries of responsibility because he’s no longer running towards the fantasy. he can separate the difference, and can find happiness in staying put. he ultimately becomes the heroic raggedy man amy idolised far too long, he’s earned the title, he’s become the doctor.

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the eleventh doctor listens to olivia rodrigo. i just thought everyone should know this!