#Sassafras McSassyFace from the planet of Sassifrey in the constellation of Sassterbourous #Don’t you know he was a nightmare for his teachers at the Prydonian Academy (via gallifreyburning)
(Source: thesarahjanesmith, via creationofeverything)
![elphabaforpresidentofgallifrey:
happyhealthyhopeful:
[x]Outtake of Matt/Karen. Apparently they kept having to reshoot it because Matt would kiss back. Ooh girl.
SECRETLY MARRIED
If they’re not already secretly married, they need to just go do it already.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/b5da5018ff4432b1559ebdf0c30f53d5/tumblr_mmrcomUzco1qe8ujwo1_500.gif)
elphabaforpresidentofgallifrey:
[x]
Outtake of Matt/Karen. Apparently they kept having to reshoot it because Matt would kiss back. Ooh girl.SECRETLY MARRIED
If they’re not already secretly married, they need to just go do it already.
(via shrlockholmes)
IF YOU ARE A DOCTOR WHO/TORCHWOOD FAN, YOU MUST LISTEN TO THIS
AND I MEAN MUST
IT IS REQUIRED MATERIAL
This is seriously one of the best things ever.
Doctor Who: The Musical!
Starring John Barrowman as everyone.
I have this song on my phone, and it’s called
“Captain Jack’s Gay Song For Doctor Who”
WHY IS THERE NO DOCTOR WHO MUSICAL
Ugh fine I’ll ship it
I want this played at my funeral
(via cass-get-out-of-my-ass)
He’s a mess, as she quickly learns.
He toes off his trainers right as he walks in the door, kicking them off and leaving them wherever they land, leaving her to trip on them countless times in the dark.
He spends hours in the kitchen the first time he craves tea; when she finally ventures in, every surface is covered in mugs, cups, even a few bowls, all full. He’s positively bouncing, liquid sloshing over the wine glass he’s holding, his hands soaking.
“This is it, Rose!” he exclaims, holding it out to her with an almost manic grin. “This is tea!”
He leaves clothes everywhere. The first outfit he tries on each day is never right. He rifles through the closet, tossing shirts over his shoulder, making tiny mounds on the floor. Most days he ends up in jeans and a t-shirt. He’s starting a collection, apparently. She’ll come home sometimes and there are shopping bags everywhere, full of band t-shirts and ones with cartoon characters or silly slogans.
There’s one she loves, an absolutely ridiculous red one with some logo she doesn’t recognize. It’s soft, and it fits him just right, and she pretends to hate it, but he sees right through her. He wears it all the time, especially when she’s brought work home. She sits on the sofa, filling out paperwork, and he walks by, eyes forward, hands in his pockets and chest puffed out. She’ll pretend not to notice, and he’ll pass by a few minutes later, walk a little more ridiculous, reaching up a hand to run through his hair. She’ll sigh, forcing her eyes down to her work, and then he’ll come by one more time, his brainy specs on, and he yawns, stretching up to the ceiling, the shirt rising up so she can see his hipbones protruding out of his jeans.
Then she’s grabbing him by his belt, pulling him towards her, and it’s all tongues and teeth and he’s fucking her on the sofa, that red shirt hanging on the lamp, tinting the room in a soft pink glow as his hands grip her hips and she moans into his neck, her papers scattered on the floor next to his shoes.
He sleeps more, long legs hanging off the bed in the morning, the sheets twisted around him and his mouth open. More than once he’s fallen out of the bed and she’s woken up with a start, her heart pounding until his head pops up from the side of the mattress, eyes sleepy with confusion and hair sticking straight up. Sometimes too she wakes up and he isn’t there; the first time she’s scared when she can’t find him. But she happens to look out the window and there he is, sitting on the ground looking up at the stars. She can’t see his face, and truth be told she doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to see that sadness that she can’t fix.
They fight, too. About stupid things, whose turn it is to do the washing up, who ate the last bit of bread; sometimes, though, it’s not stupid. They yell and yell and then it’s quiet, the silence worse than the noise, and he just goes, out the door, running shoes in hand. She sits on the sofa and waits, but it’s been an hour and he’s not back, so she goes after him.
She finds him down the road, sitting on the sidewalk, bloody knees, face forward. She sits next to him and they’re both quiet for a while.
“I fell,” he finally says, and he touches a hand to his knee, pulls it away bloody. He holds it up and just stares at it. She reaches for his other hand and squeezes it in her own, and he looks at her, really looks at her, and then his fingers tighten around hers.
He doesn’t like clocks in the house, and she makes him get a mobile phone. He tries to cook, and fails, and she tries, and fails worse, and they end up eating chips for dinner more than once a week. He uses up the hot water for the shower on purpose so they have to share, his tongue licking water from her neck in the morning becoming an almost daily routine. There are days when she worries, when doubts creep up in her mind, and some days he thinks about running and never stopping.
But his hand fits perfectly into hers, and when he looks at her he sees whole universes in her eyes. He finds every chance to tell her he loves her, and she helps him explore, to find adventures he’d never thought of.
It’s hard. It’s a mess. It’s them.
(via noyouplum)
