tag:things i made

John Blanket

Now selling a John Blanket! Inspired by John Watson, on my own design. The blanket is reversible and has a basketweave/boxed pattern down the middle, with cables on the left side and panels on the right!

Why you should buy it: 

  • warm and cosy
  • soft and snuggly
  • reminds you of your favourite army doctor
  • acrylic (no wool allergies! Easy wash! No cotton-shrinking!)
  • supports a struggling uni student


  • lap sized! 33in (84cm) wide.
  • can be machine washed (hand wash/delicate cycle) and dried (delicate cycle). Handwashing is just fine if you love it that much.
  • heavy and snuggly. Nothing near a weighted blanket, but the yarn is thick and the blanket weighs (on estimate) just over one and a half pounds or 760 grams.
  • reversible. No matter which way you turn it, the cables will be on one side with the panels on the other, so both sides are pretty! 

Asking Price - 185 USD. Price breakdown:

  • Yarn - 75 USD
  • Needles - 15 USD
  • Supplies - 5 USD
  • Labour - 90 USD

Considering the hours of work put into this, I’m paying myself well below minimum wage, but this is for several reasons. A) I know the yarn may get fuzzy. Acrylic does that when it’s soft. B) handmade goods are never perfect. And lastly, C) I’m a struggling uni student who can never afford to buy fan merch, so I wanted to make it semi-affordable. 

Paid through Paypal, shipping not included. Please send me a message if you’re interested! 

I put way too much time into this. I calculated the most common pokemon types(Water 124 -> Normal 97, etc.) as well as most common birth dates(averaged each day over the 12 months), and most common first name initials in order to put this together. So, the more common your birth day and first initial, the more common your pokemon types!

I also mixed in some blanks in the secondary types to be more realistic, as well as took out a lot of the super uncommon letters to give people a better chance of being dual typed, because that’s more fun!

There is a pretty likely chance you’ll get a typing that doesn’t currently exist in pokemon, and that’s fine! I wanted this to be somewhat vague, and up to personal interpretation. If you get a non existing type combo, you can be creative and try to come up with what pokemon you’d actually be! :)

Anyway, I hope people enjoy this since I put so much effort into it to make it “accurate”. haha


Power Ranger Team Up: In Space/Lost Galaxy

{image: three gifs from ‘Power Rangers: Lost Galaxy.’ two gifs represent the respective teams: In Space is overlayed with text that reads “Let’s Rocket” and Lost Galaxy is overlayed with text that reads “Go Galactic”. in between these gifs is a gif of both teams standing side by side. black, yellow, blue and pink smoke billow behind them followed by a full explosion.}


{image: two gifs from a promotional video for Mystery Queen. Seol Ok and Wan Seung dance together under a spotlight. she’s in a red dress and he’s wearing a blue shirt. they’re surrounded by other characters from the show, all under different spotlights in different action movements. they wear black and white outfits. in the first gif, the rest of the cast is frozen as Wan Seung walks and spins along with Seol Ok. in the second gif, the cast abruptly disappears when Seol Ok spins into Wan Seung’s embrace.}

jeynedondarrion  asked:


omg meg you sweetheart ❤️❤️so as always it’s only tangentially related to the prompt but uuuh. i used it to write a fifth part of this brienne-is-a-maid-in-a-hotel-jaime-is-her-often-naked-guest thing, i hope that’s ok? here are parts one two three and four. i guess i started it two years ago lmao? anyway ty ty lovely it’s jaime and brienne sort of picnicking on a rooftop, i hope you like it  

When Brienne finds Jaime, sitting on the floor outside his room, head in his hands, she sighs. She sighs and he looks up and there’s something broken in his expression, something chewed up raw, and she sighs again. At least he’s wearing actual clothing.

“Come with me,” she says, and she holds out a hand. Jaime stares at it for so long she almost gives up and leaves but then he’s reaching up and taking it and she’s pulling him onto his feet and his hand is dry and warm and it fits against hers perfectly. She lets go quickly, curls her fingers into her palm, and she doesn’t watch the way he stretches out his hand, like he’s testing the way it feels now. After touching her. He has no one else, she remembers, but that’s not her problem. Still, she’s not good at ignoring kicked puppies either.

“You have a strong grip,” he says, faintly. Brienne rolls her eyes and takes off down the hall and he has to trot to keep up with her, but he matches her stride quickly. He doesn’t smell like alcohol. He smells like the artificial caramel of the hotel’s bubble bath. He’s a sober mess today then, but still a mess.

Keep reading

Just a ficlet I decided to write for y’all a couple weeks back when, for some torturous reason, my dash was flooded with first Johnlock kisses in the form of ficlets and fan art.

It’s a bit out of season, but I never let that stop me. Here’s payback.

Enjoy (I hope).


They’re just seconds away from beginning the countdown in the lounge of 221B when it happens: John hears a pop, and almost immediately afterward smells smoke. The origin of both of these things is the kitchen, which currently contains one stroppy detective (one holiday is bad enough, but two so close together are evidently enough to kick him over the edge from man-child to full-on-toddler) and certainly a headache for John. His brow furrows, and he gives his guests a cursory glance before resigning himself to abandoning them to make sure the whole place isn’t about to become warm and bright with more than holiday cheer.

No one else has taken notice; the atmosphere is relaxed. Even Mycroft, holding court over Lestrade, seems to be enjoying himself. Lestrade doesn’t even seem to mind; to the contrary, he seems rather focused on Mycroft’s face and whatever bit of political intrigue he’s just become privy to. Mrs. Hudson is squiffy, flushed with mirth and pride over having just told Molly Hooper a story so racy that the younger woman’s face is bright pink, her lips pursed as though either holding in laughter or a lemon slice, perhaps both simultaneously.  All seems well, for now at least, as the year flips like a coin. Anyone’s guess how it’ll ultimately land.

Sherlock pokes his head out of the kitchen, coughs, and demands, “John!”

“Oh Christ, Sherlock,” John grumbles, already headed in that direction. He’s feeling warm-bodied and slow from all the champagne he’s consumed, and he only manages to feel resigned, perhaps even borderline amused that whatever Sherlock is destroying, it had to happen right now, in the face of all the festivities. Metaphorical, and most certainly intentional.

As John crosses the threshold into the kitchen, glancing around for a dead toaster or perhaps a Frankensteinian blender-flamethrower hybrid, he hears them start behind him:

“Ten! Nine!”

Sherlock, standing closer to the left door than John had expected, takes him off guard by catching his wrist and signaling quickly for him to stay quiet.

John fails. “What–”

Sherlock shoves him gently against the wall beside the frosted glass. John stares at him, utterly confused as Sherlock enters into his personal space in a way he–audacious as he is–has never done before.

“Six! Five!”

The comforting voices of their friends chorus together, the words becoming a blur now because Sherlock is looking at him with a question in his eyes, swallowing nervously. John stares back, frozen, certain his face is a mirror of his friend’s.

“Four! Three!”

Sherlock swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He’s rapidly beginning to look uncertain. It’s an expression so rare on his face that it hits John right in the bottom of his stomach, which answers with a nervous flutter.

“Two! One!”

John, on autopilot, has reached out without even realizing it. His hand curls into the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls him closer. The gesture feels familiar because he’d done this once before, yanking Sherlock down to eye level to yell some sense into him after he’d pulled a stunt that could have gotten him killed.

“Happy New Year!”  

Party horns are blown for a moment, and then they’re all singing Auld Lang Syne and laughing at something, probably Lestrade, if one were to theorize based on past experience.

Sherlock has been incrementally closing the gap this whole time. John feels the lock of hair over Sherlock’s forehead brush his own skin–he’s that close. John’s heart is pounding; this really is what it looked like on the tin, is really happening. His lips are dry and it is too late to do so much as lick them. Their eyes close and John tilts his head up, the tip of his nose deliberately brushing Sherlock’s, and then their lips touch.

It’s the lightest press, not questioning, but loaded. John still has his hand fisted in Sherlock’s shirt and he can feel the man’s whole body thrumming like a live wire. Sherlock opens his mouth very very slightly and John feels the wet part of his friend’s inner lower lip as it catches the dry edge of his own. He gasps a breath even as Sherlock pulls back a hair’s breadth, giving him room to breathe. He’d sort of forgotten to keep doing that over the last twenty seconds or so. He immediately pulls Sherlock back in again and the brunet’s long arms come up to brace against the wall for support, caging John in. This second kiss begins with breath and parted lips. It’s braver. It’s time and the discarding of long-held patience. It’s finally.

Their tongues finally slide together, and John is dizzy with want. He also knows that if this goes on any longer, he won’t be fit to go back out into the lounge. Sherlock indulges the kiss for another long moment, then pulls back slowly, reluctantly.

Their eyes meet. They grin at each other, and it’s both humorous and affectionate. John clears his throat.

“What did you blow up?”

The kitchen around them is definitely foggy.

“Nothing of yours,” Sherlock says calmly.

John’s hand is still wrapped in the front of Sherlock’s shirt. He runs his thumb over a button and murmurs, “Do we make that distinction?”

Half of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up again and he counters with, “Nothing important, then.”

Their friends are drunk enough and celebratory enough that they probably have at least one more minute before anyone thinks to come looking for them. One glance toward the kitchen and the smog emanating from it might satisfy their curiosity for an additional three quarters of a minute, even.

“Nothing that can’t…wait,” Sherlock reassures as he draws back in, and then they’re kissing again.

We’re kissing, John thinks with equal measures of amazement and relief. “Happy New Year,” he murmurs against his friend’s lips, only just containing a joyful laugh.

“The happiest, John,” Sherlock murmurs back.

John feels Sherlock’s fingers brush lightly against his cheek as though he’s acknowledging the smile that wants to bloom there even though John’s lips are otherwise occupied.

The happiest.