In which Hogwarts House would you place me?

Bonus points for justification.


Top 15 Animated Movies ↳ 5. The Lion King

 You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the Circle of Life.

mcu meme; 8 characters: Pepper Potts [2/8]

[You thought] I was dead. Why? Because I fell two hundred feet?


It’s very fashionable in certain circles on Earth (x)

creamcolored-converse: "Rose and tentoo shoping for baby clothe"

They’re just little pieces of white nylon.

(Well, in fairness, they might be a poly-cotton blend. He’s not gotten around to reading the tag).

Anyways, they’re just tiny bits of white fabric, with little green and yellow dots on. Stretchy, with a bit of elastic round the top, and not even eight centimeters long.

He’s been to planets where these could be sleeping bags for full-grown adults, can rattle off half a dozen species diminutive enough to use these as shelter for a family of four. A shift of perspective can change the way you look at anything, but when he looks at them, sitting there in the palm of his hand–

They’re so small.

She’s going to be so small.

He’s just got the one heart, steadily plodding along in a chest that’s still not quite used to a single set of beats. He has scars (scrapes and falls and one too many close calls with the stove) and grey hairs (five years along and it’s just rubbish, this whole aging thing) and aches and pains he won’t admit to (except when Rose is in the mood to help relieve them). He’s got to sleep at least five hours a night unless he fancies collapsing from exhaustion the next day. Sometimes he gets sick, and sometimes he gets headaches, and sometimes he actually gives in and eats beans on toast because it’s been one of those weeks and it’s really the only thing they’ve got in.

In any event, it’s been five months since Rose sat him down and told him he was going to be a father.

The whole human thing ought to have settled in already.

But standing there in the shop aisle, holding a pair of newborn-sized socks, the thump-thump of his single heart feels just as startling as it did five years ago – just as alien, as simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. The muted, dull music being piped in through the shop’s overhead speakers twists into the rush of sound as he bolts upright from the floor of the TARDIS, the crash of metal and rash of sparks going up from the console as he realizes there’s something different about this body, the howl of the wind on the beach as he waits for Rose to see that it’s him, it’s him, it’s really him.

The Doctor is so fixated on the green-and-yellow dots ringed around the ankles of the socks, so wrapped up in how small they are, so small and so big all at the same time, that he doesn’t immediately hear Rose saying his name.

When he looks up, Rose is standing next to him in the aisle, one hand resting on the swell of her growing abdomen, the other holding a basket full of baby clothes.

There’s a pair of booties on top of the pile of onesies and tiny jumpers – yellow and green, just like the socks, and just as small.

“You okay?” Rose’s voice is concern layered over with curiosity, just as willing to hear yes as she is to hear no, and it makes his heart do something funny inside his chest.

It’s not quite the right word (brilliant fantastic amazing terrified) but it’s not the wrong one, either.

He closes his palm around the socks and says, “Yeah.”

thank you all so much for the prompts! I’m working through them but there’s a LOT, so there’s no way I’ll be able to get them all up tonight (sorry!) keep an eye out for the next couple of nights as I get through all of them. if you have a prompt and haven’t sent it yet, send it my way! I think I’ll keep taking prompts till 12 AM (MST) tonight. and thank you all again for helping me out!

posted 2 weeks ago with 3 notes - reblog
canadican: "Welcome back, lovely! Prompt: Rose wants to celebrate the Doctor's birthday. She's not especially concerned with how old he is; she just wants to celebrate him existing. (Preferably early days, original recipe or Tentoo)."

"So how’s it work with birthdays, then?"

“Hm?” The Doctor is only half-listening. He’s far more invested in digging through the sack of groceries on the kitchen counter – the one her mum’s just brought back from the shop and very emphatically instructed him to not rifle through.

Unfortunately for her mum, this new him’s got a thing for nibbles.

“How’s what work with birthdays?” The Doctor responds to her rather absent-mindedly, more absorbed in the tasking of picking through assorted fruit and veg to see if there’s any biscuits in the bag.

Rose waves a hand in his general direction. “The you thing. Is it a new birthday every time? D’you have to celebrate on a new day, now?”

She’s only half-serious. It’s a light-hearted question, the kind she’s been tossing at him all week while they settle into this new groove. What d’you think about apples now, Doctor? Bananas? Coronation Street or EastEnders?

There are other questions she wants to ask, ones that aren’t as quite as light. But for all that he’s changed, he’s still the Doctor, and she’s still fairly certain that she won’t get any answers.

Her tongue’s between her teeth and she quirks her lips up at the edges, making it clear that the question’s half a joke. But instead of grinning and quipping back, the Doctor looks up from the groceries and says, rather more firmly than she’s gotten used to, “It doesn’t work like that.”

Rose starts, a little, at the tone in his voice – more don’t challenge me, Harriet Jones than trouble’s just the bits in between. “Come on,” she says, lightly as she can manage while her tongue trips over the words. “You can’t tell me you don’t have a birthday.”

The Doctor turns back to the bag of groceries, resolutely focused on the brown paper sack, as though it might hold the key to all the universe’s questions. “I don’t have a birthday.”

Rose makes a disbelieving tsking noise. “Rubbish. ‘Course you do. And we ought to celebrate.”

“I’m not human, Rose.”

There’s something a little…sad about the way he says it, something Rose isn’t sure she’s heard before. Not in this voice, anyways.

“I did know that,” she says slowly, emphasizing the sarcasm in every word. “I bet you’ve got one. You just don’t want to tell me how old you’re gonna be.”

The Doctor splutters, for a minute, before he manages to bluster out, “Nine hundred and ten. I’ll be nine hundred and ten. On the birthday that I don’t celebrate. The one I don’t have, I mean.”

Rose grins. “You filthy liar,” she teases, poking him in the chest. “A year ago, you told me you were nine hundred.”

In New New York, after the hospital, and the cats, and the other thing – the kiss, which they are apparently not going to mention ever, ever again – she slips away from the Doctor for a few minutes, just long enough to duck into a shop and buy something with her unlimited credit stick.

It’s more a hologram than a card, a little projector that supposedly flashes the phrase Happy Birthday in fifty-seven different colors (some of which don’t appear to be visible to the human eye) and eighty-nine different languages (which she can’t confirm, because the TARDIS translates them all into English for her). But she surreptitiously leaves it on the console that night, on her way out of the control room, and hopes it doesn’t get lost in the scattered debris that follows the Doctor wherever he goes.

When she comes out the next morning, it’s top of the console, fixed there with a bit of tape and flashing HAPPY BIRTHDAY in bright neon pink.