i blame angela

onefruedian  asked:

Sweet!!! Well I was wondering, since the last one you did was summer themed, I was thinking it could be like a back to school thing y'know. Maybe Pharah and Mercy could be students and they're sitting next to each other? :33

study buddies? life lab partners? 

this could be a start of an AU ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Thank You for the request!! i really enjoyed this! feel free to ask for more ^^

PSA: don’t blame someone else for not playing healer if you won’t do it yourself

It was not uncommon for Dr. Patrick Turner to be on the receiving end of sighs or glances of pity from those who laid eyes on the cluttered chaos of his desk. 

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anonymous asked:

Can you please make another fanfic with Red as Resslers father in law? It was literally the best thing I had ever read!!! 💕💕💕

Oh anon, this is probably not what you were expecting, but it’s the only thing I have right now :)

“I can’t believe you got kidnapped, again.”

Ressler lifts his head. He’s tied up to a chair with some Italian guy beating the crap out of him, blood dripping from his chin to the floor, of course Red is going to show up now.

"Reddington? What are you doing here?” His captor asks, the surprised obvious in his voice.

“Hi Michael, how is the wife? And the mistress?” Red turns to look at Ressler. “His wife makes the best raviolis I’ve ever tasted. Maybe we can go and have dinner together one day, forget this big misunderstanding. What do you say Michael?”

“What do you want, Red?” The guy asks again. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“I would like to get my son-in-law back, if you don’t mind.”

Ressler rolls his eyes. He’s tired of having this conversation, he really, really is.

“For the thousandth time, I’m not your-“

The punch on the face doesn’t let him finish. Ressler open his mouth and his jaw makes a cracking sound, going back to its place.

Liz is going to kill him.

"Your son-in-law?” Michael asks confused, and then puts a gun against Ressler’s right temple. “He’s an FBI agent!”

Red turns to look at Ressler again, a hand on his chest.

“What!? Donald, is that true?” He asks with faked astonishment. “How could you? What I’m going to tell poor Lizzie now? She’s going to be heartbroken.”

Before anyone can react Red takes a gun from his back and shoots Michael in the head.

"And there goes my chance to eat those wonderful raviolis again,” he says sadly.

Dembe is behind Ressler within seconds, setting him free.

“I’m seriously tired of this kidnapping thing, Donald. Just ask Lizzie to tie you to the bed if you like it so much.”

I Never Miss

Author’s Note: So I was having some formatting issues and had to re-upload this one. A friend of mine suggested the prompt what would have happened if Tracer hadn’t blinked out of the way in time in the Alive trailer. Here’s my take on what might have happened. I do not own any part of Blizzard or its many franchises or characters. 

Everything was at a stand still. The sky froze, the clouds hung reluctantly in the sky, low and menacing. Two figures floated through the air like dancers on pause. One took position at the end of a grappling hook, the other falling freely through the air. Opening her eyes slowly, Tracer spotted a bullet slicing the air. She had enough time to glance at her failing accelerator before searing pain erupted in her chest.

And then nothing. She felt nothing. Not pain, not the moisture of the foggy King’s Row evening, not the blood trickling down her chin. She gasped for air and none came. Her lungs burned, her fingernails clawed at her failing chest, and glass bit into her hands. Recognizing the feel of drowning, she looked back to her chronal accelerator. The chest piece was in shards, glass, circuitry, and steel in pieces between her hands. She was lost once again in the time stream, stuck somewhere between dimensions like the riptide of the ocean. Except here there was no surface for her to scramble to.

“Shit…” The thought echoed through the emptiness. And then she was skidding across pavement, everything screaming in her body as if she was on fire. A growling moan scratched through her teeth and heels clicked along the ground. Widowmaker grunted at Mondatta’s escort ushering him through the crowd of onlookers desperately searching for the shooter. They were positioned far enough away that Widow wasn’t worried they’d spot her or the fallen wasp she had finally swatted. The assassin slung her rifle over a shoulder and hoisted Tracer in the air by one of her straps, once holding together her accelerator, now barely clinging to her body.

“Pitiful.” Widow sneered in the Overwatch agent’s face.

“That’s it, love.” Tracer resigned, “You did it. You won.” Widow’s eyebrows furrowed, and just as she was about to continue, the younger woman disappeared from her grasp. Widow whipped around, searching for a flanking attack and finding silence. She slowly grabbed for her rifle just as Tracer appeared again at her feet. Widow yanked her up again to meet her face to face.

“What do you mean. What are you doing?” The questions came out more like accusations as the assassin shook the Brit.

“This,” Tracer choked on the words as she tapped on the demolished equipment on her chest, “doesn’t just let me pop around. It keeps me here. Keeps me anchored. An’ you cut the rope.” And she was gone. Widow’s jaw flexed. This didn’t feel right, didn’t feel like her other kills. Her teeth ground together and a dull ache flooded her brain. The Brit snapped back into existence by the assassin’s feet once more. She knelt down, bracing herself with her rifle while grabbing for Tracer’s collar.

“What do you need?”

“What do you care?” Tracer coughed out the words, sputtering blood onto Widow’s chin. Those words waged war in the French woman’s head as she dug for an answer. Watching the inner turmoil unfold in front of her, Tracer slowly realized her only hope was the person who put her in this predicament to begin with. “Bollocks.” Widow opened her mouth to prompt an answer from the Brit, but Tracer interrupted her. Rattling off an address, she made the assassin promise to not use that against her or Overwatch. Widow scoffed. “Promise-” And the woman was gone again, ripped under the waves of time, drowning once more. Her angry demand echoed in her absence. Widowmaker rubbed her now empty hand on her face and cursed under her breath.

“Promise.” She said to the chilly night air. Tracer came tumbling onto the street a few strides from the kneeling sniper. Moving quickly, she snagged a strap of the accelerator and starting dragging the now limp body towards the secret Overwatch bunker.

The bunker was a short distance for the assassin to cover, but she had lost Tracer an additional three times along the way. Each time caused her to stop and wait, leaving her somewhere between concerned and irritated. Widow couldn’t tell if there was more time passing between each of Tracer’s disappearances, or if she was building up the wait in her head. Either way, the dull ache that consumed her mind made it extremely difficult to decipher a true answer. Once she made it to the base, she was greeted by a small team of guns, and a large, rather angry looking ape.

“What’re you doing here?” The gravelly growl finally broke the tense stand off between the assassin and soldiers. Widow responded by rolling Tracer around to gap between her and the small Overwatch team. “Lena!” Winston lumbered to the fallen woman, but after making a few steps, she was gone. Silence fell over the group, a palpable tenseness filling the air. Widowmaker slowly looked around, using the same smooth gaze she had practiced in her trek to the building.

“He asked you a question.” A blonde woman stepped out from behind the bunker entrance and confronted the assassin. Widow cocked her head, the question already forgotten in the sea of pain thrashing in her head. “Why are you here?” Widow gestured to where Tracer once laid, as if that was answer enough. The blonde woman shook her head, a stern look settling in her soft features. They exchanged glares, and the blonde elaborated. “You obviously did this to her. I could see that much damage from back there. Why didn’t you just leave her to die like your other victims?” The way she spat her words almost made the fearless assassin flinch. Racking her brain for an answer was like a ship being tossed about a stormy sea. She truly didn’t know. This didn’t feel right, but neither did leaving the woman to bounce between dimensions. She shook her head, an unacceptable answer for the scrutinizing blue eyes.

“And what’s to stop us from ending you here?” A gun racked in response to the woman’s words. Widow slowly raised her hands, a gesture signaling surrender, but was contradicted by the angry leer outlined in bloodstains. Tracer suddenly appeared high in the air between the two parties, and Widow acted before she could think. Her grappling hook shot from her wrist, snagging the jacket of the free-falling Brit. Retracting the instrument brought the women sailing together into the pavement. Widow recovered, minor bruises aside, and quickly surveyed the young woman now splayed across her lap. A shallow breath confirmed her grasp on this world, as feeble as it may be. Widow rolled the girl off her lap and locked eyes with the blonde doctor. They moved at the same time, Mercy scrambling for the injured woman, and Widow deploying her grappling hook once more to a nearby rooftop. Her lungs burned for air as she ran into the night, losing to the fire lit in her head.

Lena woke to the steady beeping of an EKG machine monitoring her heart rate. She groaned, sore and beaten. She examined her chest, a blue glow met her eyes and she sighed.

I’m back. I’m here. She started going through a comforting script of words in her head when Angela walked in the ward.

“Good. You’re awake.” A glowing smile greeted Lena as the doctor checked the various equipment surrounding the bed.

“The hell happened?” The words rolled from Lena raspy and barely audible. Her lungs protested each breath she took.

“I was hoping to ask you that. The sniper dragged you here like a cat’s kill. Did she do this to you?” Tracer swam around in her brain, searching for an answer. She remembered drowning, remembered the crowd, remembered fighting, remembered making the sniper promise…

“I took the bullet for Mondatta.” Mercy shook her head, sitting on the bed next to Lena.

“Suppose Zenyatta will be happy to hear that…” A small smile graced Lena’s face before she broke into a fit of coughs.

“So what’s the damage, doc?” A smirk pulled at the young woman’s lips as Angela rolled her eyes.

“Collapsed lung, shattered ribs, and Winston had to rebuild your accelerator from the ground up. Nothing you haven’t recovered from before.”

Widowmaker pulled back from her scope, unsure of how long she had been watching. Shifting her weight, she let loose a sigh she hadn’t known she was holding. She watched the women banter for a while longer through her heat sensing visor before a voice crackled in her ear.

“Widowmaker, Sitrep.”

“Target escaped. Overwatch intervened.” The voice paused.

“Unlikely. Overwatch is dead.”

“Not any more. Overwatch has just been recalled.” Widowmaker sat up, switching off her radio. She looked back at the window, watching the red figures laugh. “And I look forward to our future dances, chérie.”


Katy Hart in every episode|2x08 Girl Meets Hurricane

I hate it when I’m taking a shower and the drain decides it’s time to make this terrifyingly loud gurgling sound like the intestines of a lactose-intolerant demon who’s just eaten a tub of ice cream.

Because then I can’t turn my back on the drain and wind up eyeing it suspiciously for the remainder of my shower like “I fucking hear you down there Pennywise no one’s gonna float today”

my love's after the water; as i'm swimming back to land

a/n: this is very fluffy, at least a bit ooc and ¼ of it is stargazing. i can’t say i’m sorry about the last one. (angela found an old post and told me to do the thing, so this happened. i swear i tried).

word count: 4.694 

(Read it on AO3!)


“A day. At the beach?” He puts his coffee mug on the kitchen table a little too harshly.

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A Lost Apology.

                                                                    “Look at me.”

His words cut her like a sword, each syllable making a new gash on her battle-worn skin. She can feel his gaze on her,and it stings her very person. This wasn’t intended - none of this was what she had wanted.

All she wanted to do was safe her best friend. 

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