the feeling of grief and longing, portrayed by shen wei. using the songs "never love an anchor by the crane wives" and "abbey by mitski".
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coirë | a stirring
“Thou callest this season beautiful,” he said one morning, watching shadows shift through the canvas as an attendant cleared the doorway of snow. “Forgive me, but I cannot see it.”
“But thou hast seen it not,” protested Findekáno, setting aside his mortar and pestle. (The skill of preparing medicines he had picked up in the fearful days of the last winter, needing desperately to be useful, and yet unable to look at the wound wrought by his own hand.) “Not everywhere is so grey! Come, Russandol; I shall show thee why we name it so.”
Read the whole story on AO3
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I gave Ao and Ai new names now, so....
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there are flowers growing all around a massive animal inside of me
and it's so ugly
and I'm so broken
and I'm so ugly
and it's so broken
Angel Eyes & Basketball - Foot Ox
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😧😧😧
I got really bored and finished it 😭
I might redesign or change the character a bit in the future but rn I’m happy with it!!
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Twelfth Doctor
Characters: Tenth Doctor (Doctor Who), Twelfth Doctor, Nardole (Doctor Who)
Additional Tags: Age Difference, (duh), Shameless Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Gender Dysphoria, Minor The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Deja Vu, ten is a mess, twelve feels very grown up, the pronouns are very ambiguous but we’re considering that an artistic choice
Summary:
Ten works through having to regenerate; Twelve helps him come to terms with it. (Or: me putting ten and twelve together on a page and just watching what happens.)
snippet below the cut:
The first thing he notices is the raw emotion, roiling and twisting and darkening the air around him. It’s scarily familiar; it settles around him, shaping the air, his gut and he remembers.
He turns. Slowly, cautiously, prolonging the inevitable.
And it’s him. It’s the Doctor. Standing poised at the far end of the field, scanning his surroundings like a trapped rabbit.
He holds his stance for a moment longer, feeling the snowflakes settle on his lashes. And he watches himself, through the warp of too many years.
The brown suit. (He loved that brown suit.) The stupid, stupid tennis shoes. The hair. That resolute, determined, heartbroken expression on his face, like he knows how heavy the world is and has made up his mind to carry it anyway. (He doesn’t know. Not back then.)
The Doctor turns and spots him, and then he’s crossing the field to meet him, vibrating with naked urgency. “You!” the Doctor calls. “Are you from around here, by any chance?”
The air is heavy with resonance, that unnerving double-echo that saturates every encounter with his past selves. He has to answer; he has to engage. It’s what he remembers doing, after all.
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