31 8 / 2014

(Source: claraoswalds, via lostinfic)

31 8 / 2014

31 8 / 2014

skaremark:

Hmm, maybe I should use this at work someday? … Like tomorrow

skaremark:

Hmm, maybe I should use this at work someday? … Like tomorrow

(via nepenthegold)

31 8 / 2014

30 8 / 2014

(Source: carpaldis, via oodlyenough)

30 8 / 2014

this-puppy-flies:

Drink with me?

Adventure in liquor drinking between the Doctor and his Rose.
part 1 (x) / part 2 (x) / part 3 (x) / part 4 (x) / part 5 (x) / part 6 (x)

this-puppy-flies:

Drink with me?

Adventure in liquor drinking between the Doctor and his Rose.

part 1 (x) / part 2 (x) / part 3 (x) / part 4 (x) / part 5 (x) / part 6 (x)

(via crazyandsexy)

29 8 / 2014

29 8 / 2014

beachgnome:

luftangrepp:

Since klingon sex is basically violent wrestling, I wonder if the klingons don’t have BDSM but like the opposite. Klingons gathering in secrecy in dark cellars to engage in sweet, gentle loving, to the scorn of fellow klingons.

"How can you do that?" the other klingons ask. "You don’t even draw blood? Not a single furniture breaking? It doesn’t seem… natural".

"What is this… cuddle, you speak of?"

Fifty Shades of QamuSHa’

(via nepenthegold)

29 8 / 2014

28 8 / 2014

rointheta:

THE KISSING GAME | PART IV: Game Changer
Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler

Genre: Humor, Romance, Fluff
Rating: Adult for this chapter (dirty, dirty language)

Previous chapterstumblr | teaspoon | ao3 | ffnet

WARNING: in this chapter, Rose and the Doctor suffer the effects of an aphrodisiac. He’s had a lot more of it and will be coercive in his attempts to seduce her, but he won’t be successful. So no sex! But it could still be a little uncomfortable if that’s something that upsets you. Also, some secondhand embarrassment.

Betare-sile
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who. I just like to torture the characters and the readers.

Parched, Rose moves through the dancers in the ballroom to the table of refreshments in the back. On a golden tray, next to four bowls of punch, stand swan-shaped crystal glasses. Their necks bend into a loop, beaks touching breasts, to form a handle. She curls her finger around one, and a server rushes to her side, frowning at her, and takes her glass with one hand and a ladle with the other. 

“Which punch, madame?”

“Right. Sorry.” She eyes the bowls of punch, each containing a different flavour. The Doctor’s drunk the blue one all evening, because it’s the same colour as the TARDIS, but she wanted to try all of them. She’s had a glass each of green, pink, and orange so far, so she nods at the only one left. “Blue, please.”

“Khåtberry-lime,” the server says, over pronouncing the words as if talking to someone he finds terribly stupid, and fills her glass to the brim before handing it over and returning to his spot by the table.

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