futurekardashian:

Have you seen the photos from the Doctor Who launch event in Cardiff? I didn’t think Steven Moffat deserved to stand on the red carpet, so I fixed it.

"

My family has always been private about our time spent together. It was our way of keeping one thing that was ours, with a man we shared with an entire world. But now that’s gone, and I feel stripped bare. My last day with him was his birthday, and I will be forever grateful that my brothers and I got to spend that time alone with him, sharing gifts and laughter. He was always warm, even in his darkest moments. While I’ll never, ever understand how he could be loved so deeply and not find it in his heart to stay, there’s minor comfort in knowing our grief and loss, in some small way, is shared with millions. It doesn’t help the pain, but at least it’s a burden countless others now know we carry, and so many have offered to help lighten the load. Thank you for that.

To those he touched who are sending kind words, know that one of his favorite things in the world was to make you all laugh. As for those who are sending negativity, know that some small, giggling part of him is sending a flock of pigeons to your house to poop on your car. Right after you’ve had it washed. After all, he loved to laugh too…

Dad was, is and always will be one of the kindest, most generous, gentlest souls I’ve ever known, and while there are few things I know for certain right now, one of them is that not just my world, but the entire world is forever a little darker, less colorful and less full of laughter in his absence. We’ll just have to work twice as hard to fill it back up again.

" -

My only statement. My brothers’ are also online. Thank you for all your kindness, and goodbye for awhile guys. xo (via zeldawilliams)

A beautiful letter from Zelda Williams. Thinking about you and your family, Zelda. Love to you all.

(via michaeldantedimartino)

"Paper Doll" 

tripwirealarm:

Title: “Paper Doll”
Fandom: Doctor Who
Summary: A vignette.  Martha’s thoughts on competing with an idea.
Characters:  Martha Jones, Tenth Doctor (mentions of Rose Tyler)
Length: 799 words

"Paper Doll"

Something about her feels imaginary, so at first she thinks he’s just made her up, like some kind of excuse.  Even the name Rose feels idealized, like a model someone would make of a woman, a paper doll of flower scented parchment because what’s haunting the Doctor couldn’t be a person person, not a physical one with breakable bones and skin that can be cut and bruised; not something alive that doesn’t burn forever like a star.  Especially because the more she pries, the more he claps shut like a clam, changes the subject, takes too long to reply—the way someone does when caught in a lie.

Martha thinks that for awhile.  That she’s a story.  She’s the Doctor’s mythology; and she can’t compete with an idea but every day she tries.

What the point would be in that—inventing Rose—she’s not certain, not at first, but seeing things as the Doctor does is not something she excels at.  Once, she’d thought, it was some sort of means to politely express his romantic disinterest, if he seemed at all cognizant of the fact she is interested, or the necessity to be polite about showing her that he is not.  The Doctor knows so much about so much, even humanity, but it’s the little things that give him the slip.

She’s with him about a month when she finds it: an old Polaroid.  The kind she used to take with her friends at middle school sleepovers, the kind you’d flap back and forth after it rolled loudly out of the camera as though it needed drying.  It’s not a thing she’d expect to find in a timeship, although, she reconsiders, probably it should be exactly the kind of thing she should expect to find in a timeship: captured moments.  That, and the fact that she hasn’t seen Polaroid film in a shop for years.

It’s face down in a book in the library, one he’s left out on a tabletop with the white scrap poking from its top.  Martha can’t find any reason not to look, it’s left there in the open, a book about Werewolf lore of all things, leatherbound with crisp pages that feel old between her fingertips in just the way they bend and slips.  It’s old the way anything on this ship can be old, which is to say, both very and not at all.  He could have picked it up yesterday or a hundred years before and the effect would be the same.

What doesn’t belong in the book is a face down Polaroid of a blonde in denim overalls and boots, grinning bright enough that she’s like the sun coming out.  Her toes are turned in, she’s pitched slightly forward, knees bent, frozen in laughter the way she looks built to be.  Her face in the photo, it’s the kind of face you make when it’s someone you love behind the camera. It’s her own face on a long-past birthday morning with all those paper packages and star shaped bows, everything dripping with coiled ribbon. It’s Tish’s face posing at her graduation, Leo’s at the birth of his daughter.  Here is a moment, floating like an island in the ocean of a long life.  That’s what she is looking at; something that almost makes Martha’s eyes turn away on reflex because she’s intruding on something that feels inexplicably intimate. It’s why he’s kept it in a book, face down against an old illustration of a star falling from the sky, away from everything like something precious in a bell jar.

Here is a moment that lasts forever.  The way people don’t.  The way nothing does.  (The way this didn’t.)

For no reason, she doesn’t have to be told that this is Rose.  And this photo, this is everything the Doctor is quietly mourning when it takes him too long to reply, when he slams shut like a door. This is what he’d meant when he said together.

And maybe she wasn’t wrong when she’d decided Rose had to be made of paper.  Because she’s gone now, and this is all that’s left.  An idea.  Mythology.  

Something that can live forever; something that can never disappoint.

There are footsteps on the grated corridor, and the Poloroid goes back into the book, the book back on the desktop. Martha’s just opened a tome on bees when he rounds the corner, buttoning his brown jacket with his spidery fingers.

"Cardiff!" He announces with a flourish, flashing an all-teeth smile that as always looks just a little put-on; like he has to smile or he’d scream—but even that would be too honest.  Sometimes Martha wonders what he’d be doing if she wasn’t here.

She thinks maybe it’s a good thing she’ll never know.  That picture isn’t the only thing he hides, away from where anyone might see.  

androsetyler:

burntlikethesun:

loremipsumfandom:

fauxkaren:

quantumblog:

trying-to-resonate-concrete:

Dear STFU-Moffat and associates,

From now on, I insist you describe Steven Moffat as “Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat.” Just to make sure you’re being fair.

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat is a queerbaiting hack

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat’s writing features sexism and overly complicated plots that don’t really make any sense.

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat has characters needlessly tell the viewer information that he should be showing them.

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat is incapable of creating real emotional stakes in his stories.

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat calls teenage mother a ‘slut’ in DVD commentary

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat says bisexuals are too busy having sex to watch television, and therefore don’t need representing.

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat who took out lines that could’ve explained one of his many plot holes but didn’t consider them important enough and doesn’t have solutions to any of them

Before it Breaks (12/?) 

re-sile:

Author: resile
Rating: Teen
Ten x Rose x Tentoo
Summary: The walls between the universes close before the TARDIS reaches Bad Wolf Bay and the two Doctors and Rose have to learn how to relate to each other now that everything’s changed.
Words: ~3,600
Betas: rointheta and aimtoallonsy And a special thank you to my guest star beta, scullywolf. :D 
(Previous)(ao3)(Teaspoon)(ff.net)

“He isn’t!” Rose leaned forward, eyes widening, elbows sliding along the table in the galley. 

“He is!” The Doctor in blue said around a laugh and sat down next to her.

“No.” She looked at the other Doctor. His lips were pressed together as if he was holding back a smile. 

“‘Fraid so,” he said. 

“But how does he turn into the Face of Boe?” She looked between the two men. They shrugged simultaneously. “Is he even aging? He looks the same and it’s been a hundred years for him!” 

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