(via forever90s)Source: forever90s
Plot twist: The next companion is a normal girl/boy who only dies once in their lifetime and has no remarkable back story but he thinks they’re wonderful because they are human and the Doctor needs reminding that you don’t need to be a mystery to be remarkable.
(via soonwillbethebreakofday)Source: prongsmydeer
do you ever just “what the fuck is the point” so hard that you stop everything you’re doing and stare and pretty much wonder why you don’t vanish from existence because the level of done you are should pretty much deconstruct your biological makeup
(via soonwillbethebreakofday)Source: angrynerdyblogger
WAIT HOLD THE FUCK UP
IS ‘MRS’ JUST MR’S
LIKE BELONGING TO MR
Mr comes from the French monsieur, which I think literally translates as ‘my lord’ and basically just means master, and Mrs comes from maistre which is the feminine form of master, so actually—for once—no.
This was an extremely relevant comment and I thank you for educating me
(via xseeingstarsx)Source: castiel-is-wonderful
AsylumWaiting Room of the Big Three.
it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here
Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.
Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.
Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.
A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”
“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.
“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”
Supernatural gurgled something quietly.
“No, I won’t forget the pie.”
I SWEAR TO GOD TUMBLR NEVER FUCKING CHANGE
(via wahnsinnjedilaufen)Source: prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient