having feelings that you know are dumb
being upset at yourself for having feelings that you know are dumb
the accuracy in his swing… I have never seen something like this…
wth?! did i just see that happen?
I need to start a dark magic tag.
This…can’t be real…
did someone say magic…>:]
^no……………-_-
holy motherfucking shitpants wtf!
what
Things Yahoo/Staff should change
- make a chat system
- give alerts when someone answers your ask
- REMOVE THE FUCKING ‘REBLOG AS A LINK’ THING
- FIX THAT FUCKING TUMBLR VIDEO PLAYER GOD DAMNIT
- search multiple tags at once
- MAYBE HAVE A ‘LIVE VIDEO’ BUTTON OR SOMETHING
- FUCKING REMOVE BLOGS THAT HAVE BEEN INACTIVE FOR 18 MONTHS
- REMOVE BLOGS OF PEOPLE WHO SEND HATE OR VIOLATE THE RULES OF TUMBLR (YEA IM LOOKING AT YOU, 12.9 YEAR OLDS)
- SENT FOLDER SENT FOLDER SENT FOLDER like I’m supposed to remember what I just said
prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:
AsylumWaiting 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.”
^ that was beautiful yet traumatizing, thank you
Let me explain you a thing.
When I say I adore Misha Collins, I don’t mean because he’s attractive or funny (though that comes into it), I mean because he is a genuinely nice person.
I was at Asylum 10 this weekend, and for Misha’s autographs he wasn’t allowed to personalise things because of time constraints which is fair enough. However, when I was getting mine, I managed to blurt out (I mean it I was shaking really hard) how important it was to meet him, as Asylum 10 was a goal for me not to kill myself.
The second I said that he stopped writing and looked up at me, and his response was:
“You need better goals.” I almost laughed but I was really trying not to cry, so I responded with:
“No. I don’t.” At this point, he reached across the table and grabbed my hand, pen still off the paper. He looked up at me, shaking and almost crying and smiled and said the simplest thing. At this point he let my hand go.
“See you next year?” I nodded, I was shaking really hard and I picked up the picture and went to leave, but he grabbed my hand again and pulled me back a little. He asked for my name and then wrote what it says on the top left hand corner. He squeezed my hand and smiled and then let me go.
