fadewithfury said:

No problem. Um... how about top 6 reasons why you love the Tenth Doctor?

Oh, boy. You do send in the tricky ones.

1. I’m gonna go with charm first. The first time I watched S1 I wasn’t that invested. I adored Rose, which was why I kept watching, but didn’t particularly like Mickey and Jackie, didn’t like Jack at all, and thought the Doctor was “only” all right. (I marathon watched so I never really got a chance to digest and think about what I’d seen). Then came The Christmas Invasion. During the episode I found myself thinking that, wow, I’d probably miss CE after all. It would feel strange without him and I realized that I probably liked him more than I’d thought. Until Ten woke up. I think this Billie quote was so great, because that was basically my thought process when Ten stepped out of the TARDIS and did his bit with the Sycorax.

I wanted to leave at that point too [when Chris Eccleston said he was leaving Doctor Who] because it felt weird to have to recreate that with someone else, but then I met David…and I was like…’goodbye, Chris.’

(I only needed to do one rewatch before I loved Nine too, and I love him more and more each time. So this isn’t any Nine hate. I just wasn’t as instantly charmed).

2. His swift changes in mood. Again, TCI is a good example of how he’s all dark Doctor and threatening, but as soon as the Sycorax leader promises to leave Earth, all tension leaves Ten’s body and he’s cheerful again. That’s scary. And intriguing. And David Tennant does it so, so well.

3. His character arc. Because it’s so sad and well done and ended at the exact right time and the 50th never happened.

4. The way he loves Rose Tyler. Obviously, it’s one of my fave things about him, because watching him shoot rainbows and moonbeams out of his eyes whenever he sees her is addictive. But I’d love him as a character regardless, hence the fourth place.

5. Thanks to him there’s a Tentoo. :D Man, I love me some Tentoo.

6. It feels a little strange to say, but since we’re similar wrt some things, I find him really easy to sympathize with. It’s the same with Martha. She has a special place in my heart because I can identify with her.

ask me my top six anything

Benedict, your taste in music is costing me too much money.
Every time he mentions another artist the same thing happens.

"Hmmm….let me iTunes sample this artist I’ve never heard of/haven’t really checked out yet."

"This…is interesting."

*45 minutes and 4 purchased albums later*



Happened with James Rhodes. Elbow. Sigor Ros. Alt-J. Daft Punk (to be fair I already liked some of their stuff just hadn’t looked too much into their discography). AND NOW NICK CAVE.


anonymous said:

top five things to put butter on

Is this the kind of question where I’m supposed to spam pictures of David Tennant’s appendectomy scar and faint chin dimple?

Watch on sabaceanbabe.tumblr.com

I was tagged way more than 48 hours ago by the wonderful purple-cube with the prompt “defiant” for the character or pairing of my choice.  When I think “defiant,” I see Johanna Mason, full stop.  When I was looking for the quote from the movie that kind of replaced “Whole country in rebellion?  Wouldn’t want anything like that!” I came across this awesome video tribute to Johanna by ShiningStar4Y2, so I thought I’d share it here along with my drabble (unbetaed, written just a couple of minutes ago).  Enjoy!  If the challenge is still happening, and if they have the time and inclination to play, I tag chistudios, ro-nordmann, and ilarina to create something THG for the prompt “I was disappearing in plain sight.”


She’d watched as they screamed, cried, beat themselves bloody as they tried to escape, then and now.  Well, maybe not then, but that never stopped her brain from filling in the blanks.  Instead of smoke, it was a mass of birds’ wings, black and red and yellow and white, just the same.  Instead of her family, it was her friends, one of them, anyway, and the other someone she’d pledged her life to protect, if it came to that.


She watched her friend now, his blank stare, as though something inside him had died, and a restless, unholy anger filled her, seeped between the cracks inside – and there were a lot of cracks, fissures and chasms that started out small the moment she first put an axe through a boy’s head, large enough and deep enough now to swallow her whole, if she let them – and began to burn.  No, not anger.  Rage.


Rage burned hot inside Johanna until she couldn’t sit still any longer.  As the boy tried to calm his girl on fire – Ha! Johanna laughed inside – she stalked away from them, closer to the trees, away from Snow’s mutts and the destruction they left behind.  Axe in hand, she swung it at whatever it might hit, picturing Snow’s fuzzy face with every branch and leaf that connected with the sharp blade.  But when Peeta mentioned Katniss’ sister, she stopped and turned back toward the group on the sandy ground.


Interrupting their comforting little circle jerk, spurred on by the hope she saw in Finnick’s eyes now, she spat out, “Of course Peeta’s right.”  She marched toward them again.  “The whole country adores Katniss’ little sister.  If they really killed her like this, they’d probably have an uprising on their hands.  Don’t want that, do they?”  Looking up at the fake sky as though searching for the Gamemakers or, better yet, their sadistic little puppet master, she shouted her defiance.  “Whole country in rebellion?  Wouldn’t want anything like that!”  She saw again the smoldering remains of her parents’ house, her little brother’s rope swing untouched where it hung from the big oak out back, smelled the stench of charred flesh beneath the wood smoke and sawdust of home.  “Hey, how’s that sound, Snow?  What if we set your backyard on fire?”  She felt their eyes on her, felt their dismay and their outrage and their sudden fear for her safety, but she didn’t – couldn’t – care.  “You can’t.  Put.  Everybody.  In here!”

Spreading out her arms, lifting her axe high, she dared Snow and his puppets to give her their best shot.  After seeing what he’d just put Finnick through, she didn’t trust Heavensbee to not.  It was almost disappointing when nothing happened.  Shaking her head, she lowered her arms.  “I’m going for water.”


I heard a prayer
you prayed 
among the wheatgrass,
your fingers woven
into the stalks
for soft rapture.
I heard what lifted
like little essence
from your upward eyes,
cast to the boughs
of the wild oak
set between the hills.

I heard your eyes
find the mockingbird
and its mother
releasing hymns
to a congregation
of turning leaves
crowded on black pews.
They praise the shadows,
steady steeples
lengthening across
the yellow valley,
praise the gloaming
pink with promise
for its not lasting,
their hymnals
made of mountains,
writ by giants,
pitched in sky.

You prayed
to become birds,
become giant,
set course away
from the wheatgrass
to the eastern cliffs.
You prayed to run
with hands winged
beside your flowering
body, the wind-streams
of owls coloring
your journeyed palms,
you prayed your toes
would press the dirt
into new shapes
like fallen plum
or heavy lake
and your heels
would pass overhead
unnoticed in every town
from here to sea,
your feet sirens
calling and leaving
all at once. 

You prayed to rush
as children to the snow
that cleaves white
in the mouth of winter,
joyous and struck
with expectation,
adoring all that falls. 

You prayed to fall
from the high cliff
as a clean stone
smoothed and circled
by the steady peace
of leaving ground.
You prayed to shout
long and cast a romance
to the sea’s rising
up to meet you.

You prayed the sinking
to be sweet, the ocean
to be blushed
with lowering suns.
You prayed the crash
to resound as bells,
the bells striking
all hours and all
tones, the symphony
waking deep
slumbering beasts.

You prayed the stone
to turn to sediment,
the water to marry it,
the clouds to come
and inhale it.
You prayed your soul
spread over the earth,
raining upon it
in the mythic storm,
the earth to swallow
you back in
to feed the soil
in the spanning
of wheatgrass.

Oh, constant traveler
Oh, dreaming runner
Let me be earth
in the pages of your prayer.
Throw yourself across me
and settle back in
at twilight, flush
and pleased
with the riches
you’ve heard.