Jan. 20th, 2017

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“Grindelwald escapee, thirsty for revenge”
Credit for the idea and photo @seasons-gredence​ xX
More Percival Manips [x]


Your thirsty-for-revenge and slightly crazy Graves is back

“You thought throwing me four hundred years in the past would be enough to get me out of your hair? Bitch I invented immortality just to tell you you were wrong.”

I can’t stop laughing. This is gorgeous, and I would really, really like to see Graves making history his bitch as he slogs his way back to the present day.
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Betty White, last of the jedi.
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my favourite thing is probably the scientific name of the Grizzly bear. 

It’s Ursus arctos horribilis. “ursus” meaning bear in Latin and “arctos”, bear in Greek.

so essentially a grizzly is a “horrible bear bear.” 


The Eurasian Brown Bear is Ursus arctos arctos

So literally “Bear Bear Bear”. The most bear a bear can be. 

So bear. Much roar. Wow.

Also! The Arctic Circle is named for the bears, not the other way ‘round. It’s the Circle With Bears In, and the Antarctic is the Circle (and continent) Away From Bears.

Are you telling us that the poles of our world are Bear Continent and Anti-Bear Continent


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I’m severely disabled & utterly dependent on disability care for food & water.

There are only 1 hr 57 min left to raise $1,014 for debt repayment. Without this, my life-sustaining disability care will cease completely and I WILL NOT survive. 

Please donate here. Overall donations count needed: $31,959. 

 I’m a 21 year old with a severe physical disability (proof) from an accident 4 years ago. I’m completely bedbound and unable to care for myself - including being unable to even walk to a tap or open my front door to receive a food delivery. My life itself is entirely dependent on assistance from home care workers, funded from donations. I also need the care workers to help me complete extensive paperwork for disability services that I had been denied for 4 years through medical discrimination. Over these 4 years, my condition has deteriorated to the point of usually experiencing agonising spinal pain from moving my arms & hands at all, and my pain medication causes drowsiness to the point of sometimes completely paralysing me. Now finally able to submit applications backed by medical reports, I will still be reliant on donations unless care workers assist me with the extensive application forms. 

I will be denied water and food almost immediately unless payment is made and similar crises will continue to threaten my life until government support applications are submitted. 

Please donate to help me survive

**IMPORTANT**: Overall donations count needed is $31,959 - to deduct unrelated previous donations  

This corrects a previous post and incl. 7.9% gofundme fees. The deadline is the final time when donations made can be transferred from Stripe to bank on Monday for debt repayment before my services are completely cut off.
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“Your tapestries are so fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess Athena.”

Arachne tosses her head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall, “What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanches and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy. Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for her wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled hands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid, but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes and declares, “Athena should thank me, since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her and keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the crowd.

They will tell tales of her hubris. They will all be true.


The next day she bumps into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place, mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she says coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as a virtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers her to a weaving contest. She accepts.


Gods are not so hard to find, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” the baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking money from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag of sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders, “Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the first dozen times.

“Thank you for your help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She grows hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to overwhelm her.

But Arachne does not believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales will be true.

She ties a scarf around her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and begins her slow ascent.


The muscles in her legs and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body and drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her head and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts his head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” she repeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, looking at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweet bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are big enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaver Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”


They tell tales of Hephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad, angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face, and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire, replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?” he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a coughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, and doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up at the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to awful lot of trouble to find me, girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack off her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have woven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales of her hubris.


They will all be true.

With a gust of wind the oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest, richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,” she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully. It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges. The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up along the clock is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part in surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take offense.

The goddess smiles and Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the goddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows. Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says, “She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber. Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says, “you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales of their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both happily married.

Gods hate being made to feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins the weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestus says, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at her reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says, not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite as the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales of her hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.


The contest goes as expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goes red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the death blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.


She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe in defeat, in loss.

It was a terribly long journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke of allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.


It takes seven years for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s a large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as the sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t return to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looks onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skitters down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that a piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him, waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand –

His face slowly fills with a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  She jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his massive hands, “We must find the Mater immediately!”

She jumps down, landing in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that same breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes, that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exact moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, that Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven years.

They’ve told tales of her hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at the web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,” she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in front of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” she returns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stays cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please come with me.”


Arachne weaves a dress for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take you somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at her loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you like me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Of course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at the goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your company equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of her hubris.

“An excellent point,” Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii
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Alcohol poisoning? Alcohol what - oh. You mean when you get all dizzy and your skin goes bluish and it’s hard to breath right? Nah, that’s fine. It usually goes away after a nap. Bit inconvenient though if the nap happens before you get home, but that’s life. Last time I drank that much I tried to apparate home because it was too far to walk and ended up in the middle of the Pacific. Had to get rescued by a nomaj fishing trawler which, let me tell you, was awful - seasickness and hangover? Not good. Not good at all.

But other than the surprise fishing trips, it’s all fine. Right?
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snoozelolly replied to your post “Unpredictable knitting dork with goofy smile whose sock puppet…”

I’m pretty sure Newt’s a dangermancer, or at the very least a troublemancer.


But do you even understand what this means

It means that Newt uses danger in his spells

Can you just see what this would cause though? What chaos? Mayhem? He’s struggling to learn the banishing charm in the normal course of affairs but whoopsidaisy he’s just tripped and fallen off the astronomy tower and suddenly BAM that’s the strongest banishing charm anyone’s ever seen and he’s banished the ground so hard he’s now in the stratosphere

Or or or he’s trying to unlock a captive kirin’s chains but the damn thing won’t budge so he just shrugs and sends up a firecracker to wake the poachers up and woah hello spells flying people shouting is that a fucking bazooka and the kirin’s chains don’t just unlock, they transfigure themselves into a pair of basilisks that set upon the poachers while Newt and the newly christened Jeremy leg it for freedom.


Newt noticing there’s something odd about Credence but he can’t quite tell what, needs to give his divination a bit of a boost to get this one sorted out so bring on the dangermancy, let’s just unclasp this and swap this and oh deary me a muggle’s got my case of magical creatures and let them loose in a city where they’re all banned however did that happen but hey ho ERUMPETS IN HEAT and DEATH SENTENCES and EVADING CAPTURE and after all that Newt’s got enough juice in his truth-seeking spell that he not only works out what was bugging him about Credence but Grindelgraves is basically highlighted neon pink to his sight as suspicious and basically, if Grindelwald hadn’t tried to sentence Newt to death Newt wouldn’t have had enough dangermancy to unmask him and if you don’t think that’s poetic then I don’t know what is


Just imagine what would happen if the brothers managed to combine Newt’s dangermancy and Theseus’ woolmancy.
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I’m so mad because this worked

help me roger

Reblogging myself because

Originally posted by gifs-for-the-masses

Reblogging myself because… what was that? Five minutes?


………my friend has made me curious

help me roger

Update: after I reblogged this someone messaged me offering me tickets to the sold out Hausu screening with a Q&A and autograph session with the director

These never work for me, but here’s to trying.

I don’t believe in these things

But last time I reblogged one ten/fifteen minutes later I got a call offering me a job

But I reblogged it because I was waiting on hearing back from the job. So there you go.

Roger is cute.

Eh Roger is cute I might as well

That fish is so happy it makes me happy.

Reblogging myself because I reblogged this yesterday and got promoted today!

oh what the hell…lol.

this is important


Roger please work your magic I need it now more than ever.

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And everything turns out sunshine and rainbows, please, my heart can’t take it. I go to the Dumbledore Scamanders AU when I want angst. Let us have our crack, pleeeeeeeease.
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Oh no, oh no, my heart can’t take it. But maybe now Newt can clear that shit up? Because it wasn’t really that he hated them, but that there were so many dangers involved in bringing Muggleborns in during those times. 

Poor Newt. 
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Oh no, oh no, my heart can’t take it. But maybe now Newt can clear that shit up? Because it wasn’t really that he hated them, but that there were so many dangers involved in bringing Muggleborns in during those times. 

Poor Newt. 
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I keep talking about money but we literally can’t afford to do laundry. We starve in between food stamps lel. My brother goes to school on the off chance a teacher drives him or we have enough money for the bus/uber. We’re living in a shitty house with a shitty landlord, barely scraping by with my dad’s contracting job and my mom’s part time job. I literally cannot jus live off one or two commissions a year, so yes! Check my commission prices! Donate money to our family’s Paypal: m_scholfield@yahoo.com
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Mermaids of the World ♕ P A R T   O N E 

“….but a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more.”



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