EVERYONE… EVERYONE… LOOK….
JUST STOP AND LOOK AT THIS. This is my good friend who I met through rp. She is fucking amazing and seriously needs help with this project. I’m going to assist, but we need more help! Please join us in this project!
Nine: I think I was in love once.
Ten: Really? What was her name?
Nine: Her name was Rose.
Ten: Doctor, we all love Rose.
Nine: I love Rose because she's fantastic. She always knew just what to say and she made me better.
Ten: Oh, yes! Rose was brilliant. All soft and warm and clever and so very human.
Eleven: I love River!
Nine: ...
Ten: ...
Eleven: I love Clara!
Ten: Doctor, are you just looking at girls in the universe and saying that you love them?
Eleven: I love... fez.
Ten: Do you really love fez, or are you just saying that because you saw it?
Eleven: I - I love fez! I love fez.
We were battling a very evil, dark Digimon named Myotismon. He was about to destroy Kari and Gatomon. Wizardmon stepped in The way of Myotismon’s attack. And he payed The ultimate price. Wizardmon sacrificed himself in order to save Kari and Gatomon! And we’ll never forget him for it.
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.”
