here it is my dear anon

anonymous asked:

It says they are starting prep for 12.19 today on jim micheal's twitter. So that means they'll start filming it next week no? i thought that episode (cas centric) was when jared was having his daughter but the baby is not due till mid march (according to the comm) so why do we have a cas centric episode coming up? So when Jared actually has a baby, he is not going to be written in as much? I'm so confused.

Hello, dear anon!

Oh my, this is a very tricky question! I was trying to look up some info on this at spn-gossip, but didn’t find anything. I must admit that filming schedules and future episodes isn’t something I usually dig up - that information either passes my dashboard or doesn’t… tinhatting has my hands full, so to say.

Here’s Superwiki’s guess at episode 19 filming schedule - next week, like you said! Could it be that Padababy #3′s expected arrival date is earlier than we thought? I know I’ve seen some speculation about it, but that’s something I find very hard to investigate. Don’t mind me, just throwing it out there, not saying it’s something I believe.

On an unrelated note, AMANDA TAPPING is directing episode 19! I don’t know about you, but I’m a huge fan of hers and I’m really looking forward to seeing her directing work. :)

Let’s hope they’ll make the schedules work! As much as I love watching Sammy in action, Jared’s well-being is so much more important than a couple of episodes. Have a fabulous day, sweet anon, and thank you for dropping by!

PS: If anyone knows anything about this, feel free to add. I’m rubbish at these filming-related things.

Originally posted by cas-dean-sam-supernatural


Here you go, anon dear. And uh…backstory? Hmm…

Talon gets a hold of Winston’s unfinished blueprints (through Sombra maybe?) creates the chronal accelerator, and “saves” Tracer before Overwatch. After feeding her with lies about the Slipstream Flight Experiment, why she was selected to be its pilot, etc. Successfully manipulated and now filled with hate for Overwatch for ruining her sex life (can’t take the damn bulky chronal accelerator off ughhhhh), Tracer joins Talon and gets herself a hot purple girlfriend who happens to be her late boss’ ex wife. Also, the Latina freelancer flirts with her every chance she gets. Luckily, Sombra has her translocator or she would have been dead by the hot purple girlfriend’s hand.

PS Gabriel designed this outfit, not me.

“Don’t worry Oikawa, it’s just dog adolescence.”

Sorry dear Anon ( and @etstrubal​ for you too ofc :D), but did you really think that “IwaKyou” is going to get a serious answer from me? XD ……Didn’t think so.
Here have some Kyoutani rebelling against the team-mom.

anonymous asked:

So do you think the gif of Jensen saying he wants to be Rob Benedict, was out of context or not? Have you seen the video yet?

Hello, dear anon!

I don’t think the gifset was out of context - it was just another one of those where Jensen implies he wants to be the one that gets to be with Jared. He was very subtle this time, though! I didn’t get it when I watched the panels the other day, but luckily other people have sharper hearing and keener eyes. :)

Have a lovely week, sweet anon! Here’s my panel post in case you missed it.

Too late

Name: Too late.

Author: Aya-Fay

Fandom: Fantastic Beasts and where to find them

Pairing: Percival Graves x Reader

Theme: This story based off on this request: The reader is Muggle and is in love with Percival and listens to him saying that he could never fall in love with a no-maj leaving you very sad, but he had lied. And when you are kidnapped by an evil wizard he confesses to you when you find tired and injured.

I changed it and sorry for that. But i love how it turned out, so i just hope you will love it too, my dear anon.


Tags: @seninjakitey @umbrellas-and-tallymarks @oswald-cobblepot-is-my-addiction @elvirateaqueen13 @queencobblefreezestuff @myregardstothereader  @rawrcoptergaming  @seaweedredandbrown @ofnifflersandkings @ohlookfanfiction @hirainhisrain @waywardtimemachinejellyfish @this-is-a-unique-username @socktrollqueen @eli-cya @casfaith777 @n-octicolor @fairylightsandfandoms @kazezakura @animeo2l @aeichajoanes @coffeeandmondays @misofine @sweetlittlequeer @officially-a-magizoologist @starkingdom @lilasiannerd @bitweird1 @timelessclassic86 @ithilnarmo @theslytherinblood @fandomsunitedtogetherforever @neganslittleprincess @bovaria @newtts-scamander


ASK is open <3

New story should be up soon.

Tagging list is HERE if you want to be tagged - let me know.

Originally posted by eduardica2

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Sidney Crosby #2

Requested by Anon:  can you do a Sidney Crosby imagine where the reader and him cuddle while he watches tapes for work? and make it super fluffy?

*Here you go dear! I hope you enjoy this. :)*

Word count: 757

Originally posted by sidmalkin

You felt the touch of cool lips on your forehead and opened your eyes. The warm light on the wall was still on, the drinks on the table still half-full, and the tv was still showing game day tapes from a week or so ago.

Your eyes finally settled on Sid, looking at you with a blinding smile, “I dozed off?” you asked.

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anonymous asked:

Hi there! I'm wondering if you could possibly write me a little some from prompts 33 and 53? MSR?

Dear Anon, this somehow turned into a sequel to this prompt

33. “Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?” + 53. “Do you think I’m scared of a woman?”

They’re lucky, for once; the ER is mostly deserted. No other disoriented, disorganized agent in here with an unexplained injury. The nurse told her that a doctor would be with them in just a moment, but Mulder can’t keep his eyes open. His head keeps lolling about only to snap back as soon as it hits anything solid. Whether it’s her shoulder or the window in the car earlier.

“Drunk, huh?” The doctor, a short blond female greets them with a sharp nod, snaps on her latex gloves and smiles at Scully. Who feels strangely protective of Mulder at that moment.

“Actually, no,” she answers not knowing if it’s the truth; for all she knows Mulder is drunk and has been ever since he showed up at her apartment earlier, “he hurt his wrist.” Mulder, like a lost puppy, offers his swollen wrist. The doctor grabs it and he winces.

“Yeah, we’ll x-ray it,” she says, “so what happened?”

“I had an accident,” Mulder’s words are slurred; Scully is certain that he did not sound like this earlier, “Just an accident.”

“Is it just your wrist? Did you hurt anyone else?” She turns to Scully, who shrugs. She doesn’t know anything and for the first time this night she thinks maybe she should have asked Mulder beforehand. This is not like her; she is unprepared in every sense of the word,

“No one else hurt,” he assures them, “no, wait!” Both women turn to him. Scully tries not to think about it. Maybe he got into a drunken fight. Or he hit someone with his car. There’s an endless string of possibilities running through her mind; this is Mulder after all.  

“My pride,” he grins, “I think I hurt my pride.” Scully feels her cheeks burn. She feels sorry for the poor doctor. But her pity is limited; at least doesn’t have to take Mulder home with her and nurse him back to health. That job lies with her and her alone.

“That's… it would really help, Mr.-” she checks the chart, “Mulder, if you could give us some information about what has happened. Is anyone else hurt? Another human being?” He shakes his head no, finally.

“I went running,” he quickly glances at Scully, before he looks at the ground, “and I took off my shoes in the bedroom. I always do. I took a – a shower. I forgot the shoes and well. My hand stopped the fall.”

“No alcohol was involved?”

“No,” Mulder sighs, “I took a couple of pills to make the pain go away.”

“What kind of pills?” Scully asks before the doctor can and earns a confused glare.

“She’s a medical doctor,” Mulder explains for her, grinning from ear to ear, “I thought it was Tylenol. I don’t think it really was Tylenol, though, Scully. I feel dizzy.”

“Come on, Mr. Mulder. We’ll just x-ray your wrist and then you can sleep it off.” He follows the doctor and a young nurse dutifully.

“I’m not drunk,” he tells them, “Scully, tell them I’m not drunk.”

“I hear you, Mr. Mulder. Given your current state, I think it would be a good idea if we kept you overnight.”

“I’ll take him home with me,” Scully interjects quickly and Mulder smirks, “and make sure he gets all the rest he needs. I am, like he said, a doctor myself.”

“All right,” the ER doctor is not convinced, but Scully couldn’t care less right now, “Now let’s get your wrist x-rayed.”

Scully watches them wander over and fights the need to follow. Mulder doesn’t need her to hold his hand. Their voices are fading as they slowly make their way down the hall; it’s quiet here this late and the white walls echo only Mulder’s voice, louder than usual. Or maybe she’s just so attuned to him that she can hear him amongst all the chaos in the world.

“Do you think I’m scared of a woman?” She hears him ask and she sees his face turn towards the tall nurse. “If you’re talking about my partner then you’re absolutely right. She shot me once, you know.” The words put a smile on her face and it’s the last thing she hears for a while; the nurse gently pushes Mulder into a room and closes the door.

When Mulder returns, finally, his wrist is in a bandage. Scully throws the magazine she’s been reading aside and quickly joins him.

“Just a torn ligament.” He answers her unasked question, grinning at her as if he won a prize.

“Mulder, it’s not funny.”

“I agree. It really hurts. I think the pills are starting to wear off again.”

“Here’s some ibuprofen you can take, Mr. Mulder.” The nurse hands him the pills and Scully takes them from him immediately. The nurse blushes.

“I’ll make sure he takes them.”

“Of course. I’ll finish the report.”

“Oh Mulder,” Scully sighs, gently examining his bandaged wrist, “come on, we’re going home.”

In her living room, Scully removes the melted Ben & Jerry’s container as Mulder, still wearing his jacket, examines the VHS box of Scully’s movie. He holds it up like a piece of toxic waste.

“Did you watch this?”

“We can’t all have your excellent taste in movies, Mulder.” She mocks him, making sure the molten ice cream doesn’t drip on her carpet. She throws the container away and stares at it longingly for a moment. This is definitely not how she imagined her quiet weekend at home.

“We can watch it,” Mulder almost yells, “I don’t mind, you know.”

“Mulder, you need to sleep. Whatever you took earlier, you should sleep it off.” Scully makes a mental note to check the pill bottle tomorrow when she takes Mulder to his own apartment. And then take it away from him.

“I’m not tired. I feel like I slept all day.” He doesn’t look like it, though, she thinks, biting her tongue.

“But Mulder,” Scully sighs; she doesn’t want to complain, she really doesn’t, but it’s late and he’s looking at her like that puppy again. Ready to be walked, ready to be entertained, “I’m tired.”

“Then go to sleep. I can,” Mulder looks around, “I’ll find something to do.”

“Mulder, please.” Scully begs of him. For a moment he remains still, but she can almost feel the wheels turning in his head – and she has a distinctive feeling she’s not going to like whatever he’s going to say next.

“How about we make a deal.” His lips curl upwards.

“What kind of deal?” Scully asks carefully.

“I think I remember you wearing a certain garment earlier. Or was I hallucinating?”

“Mulder, no.” The grin disappears and his lower lip comes forward just the tiniest bit in a sneaky pout. Scully can’t help but think that he knows much how that affects her. He must know.

“Then I’m not going to sleep.” He tells her decisively, turning away from her. She rolls her eyes; all she wants right now is to sleep and she knows it’s not going to happen if Mulder is out here, unobserved.

“Mulder,” she begins, but he refuses to look at her; just like a little child, “Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?” He nods, playing with the lapels of his jacket. It completely slipped her mind to help him out of it.

“Mulder, look at me,” he doesn’t, “I have a deal for you.” His head snaps into her direction.

“Let me help you out of your jacket first.” Mulder lets her take it off for him. They manage to avoid coming into contact with his wrist. That’s something at least. Until she remembers that she’ll have to help him out of the rest of his clothes, too, in the near future.  

“What’s the deal?”

“Ask me again about the tank top,” he opens his mouth, “when you’re no longer high on drugs. Now come on, g-man. We need to get you into bed.” He mumbles something, but follows her obediently.

“What, Mulder?”

“I’m not high on drugs, Scully.” He mimics her.

“Of course not,” she not so gently shoves him into her bedroom and he sits on her bed, waiting, “We have no idea what you took, Mulder. So I’d rather wait for it to wear off.” For once he decides to remain silent. He lets her help him out of his pants; he’ll have to sleep in his boxers and t-shirt, Scully decides. Mulder watches her as she reaches for her pajama pants she threw on her bed earlier.

“I’ll be right back,” she tells him gently, “get under the covers.” She almost winces; she sounds like his mother and that’s not at all what she wants. As she enters the bathroom, she hears rustling and she sighs in relief. In the bathroom, she quickly puts on her pajama pants. For a moment she debates whether to leave the t-shirt on or not; it stays on, she decides, turns off the bathroom light and joins Mulder in the already dark bedroom.



“I’m sorry.”

“About what, Mulder?”

“Everything. I crashed your evening and I realize I – I probably should have called. And I didn’t mean to, with the tank top. I know I – just ignore me, Scully. You’re probably right and I’m high on drugs. Good night, Scully. Thank you for letting me stay here.” With a sigh, she grabs the hem of her shirt and takes it off. It lands with a soft thud on the floor somewhere.

“Scully?” She’s aware he can’t see her in the darkness.

“Shut up, Mulder,” Scully says, lying down next to him, “And sleep.”

He manages to stay quiet for a couple of minutes; long enough for Scully to almost fall asleep. Almost.

“Scully? Are you – I must be hallucinating, but… are you wearing the tank top?”

“Mulder, if you shut up now you’ll wake up to me wearing it in the morning.” Scully expects him to say something – anything – but he remains beautifully quiet. She doesn’t tell him that if he’s his normal, drug-free self tomorrow, she might even let him take it off.


Joker x Reader

Requested by Anon

“Well, well if it isn’t the infamous (Y/N) Wayne… looks like Daddy isn’t here so we can have some fun.” The Joker chuckled and watched you carefully, frowning slightly when you didn’t flinch or do more than eye the men around him with a nervous flick of your eyes.


“Are people going to get hurt?” You asked quietly and he burst into peals of laughter.


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anonymous asked:

I'm gonna need more of that When Jamie Met Claire AU

Dear Anon - I’m so glad you’re enjoying the When Claire Met Jamie AU! Unfortunately, that was originally meant as a one-shot, so I don’t have many ideas for future installments just yet…Until I can whip something up, here is the first chapter of a fic that has been bumbling around my brain for a while now. It’s kind of similar - more angsty, yes - but it does follow Jamie and Claire’s entire relationship throughout modern day. Hope you still like! :) - Liv

Our Story

[December 24th, 1989]

It is the beginning of their story, the first time Jamie sees her. The dividing line between what was and what would be. The setting is a Christmas party: an Edinburgh flat, roaring on the cusp of a new decade. Champagne bubbles in flutes and greetings. The players: just two university students, dancing across a stage of shaggy green carpet, garlands of tinsel. 

And the opening scene? Well. It goes something like this:

She is wearing a holiday sweater, a confection of silver bells and sequined penguins. It is the hard-won earnings of an hour’s wade through mothballs, she says, of a knee-deep dive in the Goodwill bargain bin. All of this she relays to Jamie with a smirk, a precocious, all-knowing smile that he will come to know so well.

The lights dim, and her eyes flicker. Lit coals in the flat’s half-dark. She smells of fresh rain, of flowers just beginning to open, and the scent forms a sweet, perceptible weight in the air. It settles on him, around him, when she leans forwards, straining to hear his stuttered -

“Hello,” Jamie says, or tries to. He forgets his vowels and it comes as, “Hlllll?” 

“Sorry – what was that?” 

Claire starts when his hand takes hers, crunches it firmly inside his palm. For Claire, this moment will never lose its clarity, and in the years that follow she will argue that this is where their story begins: nestled in the slight curl of Jamie’s lips.  His voice, as smooth as the whisky he offers to pour her. Another ugly sweater, this one boasting a lager-stained Santa and a hem of unraveling wool. The red string hangs there for her to tug, to close the gulf between them, and she does. Twenty one (him) and twenty two (her) years of strangerhood reduced to nothing - and then, so suddenly, transformed into knowing. 

They make small talk in the corner, mentioning the weather (“seasonably cold”) and her biology exam (“after break”). Eventually Claire asks, “Do you know anyone here?”, and bracketed inside this question is her secret hope that he does not. She wants to believe that Jamie is on her side, that it is only the two of them (that it’s only ever been the two of them) against the world. She is so used to feeling alone in crowds – but here! Oh, but here in the rainbow glow of tree lights, she feels a part of Something. She holds onto it, wishing her hand was as big as his so that his curling lips and his whisky voice would never seep through her fingers.

“Dinna ken anyone,” Jamie confirms, “though I’m no’ sure that’s a bad thing.”

He inclines his head towards the mass of bodies, all gyrating in a singular, chaotic wave. Music plays in the background, oppressive and electronic, as a third year belts Bowie between tokes. Jamie lets it fade away, forgets it all – the noise, how to blink, how to breathe. Forgets everything except her. 

Claire wrinkles her nose.

“The problem with these people is that they think they’re interesting.” She is yelling into his ear but even so, it seems strangely intimate. Every word exchanged is a secret between them, one they tuck inside their pockets, will place under their pillows when they lay their heads to sleep. “But they aren’t – not even remotely!”

“Weel, fortunately you’ve met me now.” 

“Mmm. But are you truly interesting or only remotely?”

“That’s for you to decide, lass. You being the expert on such things.”

Claire grins at the floor. “You haven’t even told me your name, y’know.”

“James Fraser,” he says, all too quickly, and he’s unreasonably embarrassed. James, he thinks – what an unremarkable, commonplace name! How many ‘James’ were in this very room, wearing equally hideous and soiled sweaters? How many ‘James’ had she met in Scotland? Would she even remember him, one of 337 (to be precise), after this night? (She would, of course. During her biology exam, she will think of James Fraser and leave fifteen questions blank. She will get a C – a grade as average as his name.)

“But you can call me Jamie,” he adds over the roar.

“I’m Claire Beauchamp. Just plain Claire Beauchamp!” 

Jamie laughs – a beautiful laugh, the best laugh, a laugh Claire will spend the rest of her life wanting to hear (she will have to work harder on certain days). 

“If I call ye anything, it’ll be ‘Sassenach’. Whereabouts in England are ye from?” 

And Claire smiles – a beautiful smile, the best smile, a smile Jamie will spend the rest of his life trying to earn (finding success and failure in turns). 

“Oxford by birth,” Claire says. “But from nowhere, really.”

She pauses, hearing the third-year shout – “Bowie, man! Greatest artist of all time!” – and swears the kid is wrong. It’s God who was the greatest artist, and this six-foot deity with his lager-stained knit was His chef d’ouevre.

“Do you want to make this night interesting, Jamie?”

“Remotely interesting?” 

“More than remotely.”

“That depends…What d’ye have in mind?”

Claire reaches for his hand, and he gives it to her. Jamie squeezes, she squeezes back. She leads him through the throng. He follows, licking his lips and at her heels.

(Who knew it could ever be this easy? Falling in love.)

anonymous asked:

Blog recs? 😀


Okay… let me first shamelessly promo my sideblog @longhairedyuriplisetsky which is dedicated to long haired Yuri!!! >///7///< PLEASE, PLEASE FEEL FREE to send in headcanons and submit fic/art/WHATEVER OMFG I love talking about Yuri’s long hair HUEHUE 8D

Okay, as for other blogs… I’m way too tired to write a paragraph for each blog (I TOTALLY WOULD THO LET’S BE REAL) but here are some of my absolute fav blogs:




























The Snow Day Debate

Anonymous: please more fluffy first kisses jamilton I’ll love you forever I LOVE JAMILTON SO MUCH 

Your wish is my command, dear anon! And what a great wish you have. Enjoy some snowy, fluffy first kisses! (Read more of my lil fics here.)

Macaroni Man: I’m calling it now
Macaroni Man: SNOW DAY

Alexander Hamilton: why r u up at 4:51 in the morning

Macaroni Man: um you replied like… right away
Macaroni Man: so you can’t say anything about my sleeping habits

Alexander Hamilton: what if you’d woken me up with your text?

Macaroni Man: bullshit, hamilton

Alexander Hamilton: ;)

Macaroni Man: so what’re you gonna do with your snow day?

Alexander Hamilton: they haven’t announced any closings yet, jefferson

Macaroni Man: p-leeeease. can u see the roads? bc I cannot

Alexander Hamilton: I’m not getting up to check

Macaroni Man: I’ll be proven right soon, Hamilton
Macaroni Man: just you wait ;)

Two hours later…

Macaroni Man: HA
Macaroni Man: I win yet another debate ;)

Alexander Hamilton: Only you can make me wish we didn’t have a snow day.

Macaroni Man: so what’re you doing with the day off?

Alexander Hamilton: shoveling
Alexander Hamilton: then some hw, maybe pleasure reading if I get to it

Macaroni Man: omfg, hamilton
Macaroni Man: nope
Macaroni Man: I cannot allow you to throw away your shot at a fun snow day

Alexander Hamilton: well I have to shovel, jefferson
Alexander Hamilton: nothing u can do about that

Macaroni Man: that’s what you think ;)

A half hour later…

“Hey, Hamilton,” Thomas said as he strolled up the Washington’s driveway.

Alexander dropped his shovel and stared at Thomas in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here, Jefferson?”

“Making sure you don’t spend your snow day in a particularly stupid fashion,” he replied with a shrug.

“What, then,” Alexander said, walking up to Jefferson, “would be a particularly good way to spend the snow day?” Alex was practically in Thomas’ face, glaring at the taller boy.

Thomas just smirked down at him. “Eh, I don’t know. How about like this?”

He leaned down and kissed Alexander and the world stopped. The snow stopped falling, the neighbors stopped shoveling. Alexander was convinced his heart even stopped beating.

When Thomas pulled away, he was still smirking. “I’ve found a way to shut you up, it seems.”

“Shut the hell up,” Alex whispered. He reached up and grabbed Thomas’ face, bringing it down to his.

“Gladly,” Thomas said onto Alex’s lips.

And so they stood in the snowy driveway, making the best possible use of their snow day.


Dear anon who messaged me a few days ago.

I’m sorry to reply here in the public space. But I don’t know other way to tell you my appreciation, hope you see this. I’m really thanksful for your kindness and politeness. You’re not presumptuous at all! Based on your suggestions, I altered some lines of comics, feel sure that it’s better than before. I’m going to keep working on Gradence things for a while, so will be glad if you advise on my English when you feel like. Thank you so much again.

Thomas Chabot #1

Requested by Anon:  hey! can I have a Thomas chabot imagine where you guys are best friends and kinda have a thing. And where some of his teammates tease you and ask why you two aren’t together already. maybe have it set during world juniors ? Thanks babe, love your writing

*Hiii! Thank you so much. Here you go dear. :) Enjoy!*

Word count: 771

Originally posted by dyllarkin

It was Connor Ingram and his big mouth who saw you first, leaning on the wall just outside their dressing room.

“Hey best friend!” he said excitedly, “Chabs is on his way out,” he grinned, “date?”

You rolled your eyes at him, “I bet him you’re gonna lose to Russia,” you snorted, “I owe him a burger.”

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