Not gonna lie, my heart melted a wee bit.
my mom cried
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…
Still. Donna.
“The Fault in our Death Stars”
So I had this idea ages ago, but I never really got started on it.
Earlier this month, I finally did and it turned out great! :D
So I’m saving this graphic for May 4th, but now I find out #thefaultinourdeathstars is already a thing?!?Oh well. I guess there’s little point in keeping it from you, then…
Anyway, I was on a roll, so this also happened:
Dean: So where's your boss?
Uriel: Castiel? Oh, he's not here. See he has his weakness: he likes you.
Uriel: I mean he LIKES YOU likes you.
Uriel: He has your name written all over his notebook.
Uriel: "Mrs. Castiel Winchester"
Uriel: It's actually kind of pathetic.
Uriel: So could you just tell him if you like him back already because it's really getting on my nerves.
prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:
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
