I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells.

I like nonsense - it wakes up the brain cells.

192,115 notes

ihnfinate: winking-moon: gnarlic4l: opaquewaters: alt-ercation: mirovitaspeciosa: andoutcamethewolf: Blue Lagoon, Iceland. really not fucking fair cus Iceland hogged all the good shit ok i wanna go again qiejebfidsnerj  there is not an instance where I have seen this and not reblogged it, it looks so serene, like it’s never been tainted, and that shade of blue is just perfect. This is unreal iceland i love you Omg :( I’ve been wanting to go for so so long, I even learnt the language! But it’s so bloody expensive hey im from iceland

ihnfinate:

winking-moon:

gnarlic4l:

opaquewaters:

alt-ercation:

mirovitaspeciosa:

andoutcamethewolf:

Blue Lagoon, Iceland.

really not fucking fair cus Iceland hogged all the good shit ok

i wanna go again qiejebfidsnerj 

there is not an instance where I have seen this and not reblogged it, it looks so serene, like it’s never been tainted, and that shade of blue is just perfect.

This is unreal

iceland i love you

Omg :( I’ve been wanting to go for so so long, I even learnt the language! But it’s so bloody expensive

hey im from iceland

(via 4lanashby)

39,752 notes

a-cumberbatch-of-cookies: cloudwatchingangels: fionapondwilliams: prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient: Asylum Waiting 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

a-cumberbatch-of-cookies:

cloudwatchingangels:

fionapondwilliams:

prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:

Asylum Waiting 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

(via house-of-chemical-wolves)