Welcoming You Home
so this blog consists mostly of Doctor Who, Torchwood, Harry Potter (which I need like a grindylow needs water), Starkid, Supernatural, GOT, YouTubers, and other similarly nerdy things :)
*this is not my main blog, THIS is, and it will be this blog which shows as following you!!!*


THE SCARF OF SEXUAL PREFERENCE
{ Team StarKid }

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1 hour ago on October 20th, 2014 |2,956 notes

paperflower86:

From the archives of the Smithsonian Institute, on view for the first time at the exhibiton ‘Captain Amarica - the living legend and symbol of courage’, opening on Friday, July 4, 2013.

I recently visited an exhibition on war propaganda and was inspired to make some posters not only for Cap but also for Bucky, Peggy and the rest of the Howling Commandos. Some of the artists I referenced are Edward Penfield, Norman Rockwell and Joseph C. Leyendecker. Thanks to agentbartomanoff for beta-ing the slogans.

2 hours ago on October 20th, 2014 |9,746 notes

Am I a prude?

2 hours ago on October 20th, 2014 |145,638 notes
4 hours ago on October 20th, 2014 |2,182 notes

somanyfeelingssolittletime:

do you think that when fred and george started hogwarts all the teachers were like “ahh more weasleys. lovely. their brothers were such good students i’m sure they’ll be just the same.” and then the twins walked into their first class and just SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKERS

8 hours ago on October 20th, 2014 |57,269 notes

Marlene McKinnon painting a sign for James and Lily’s wedding. 
Taken by Sirius Black, who had just realised she had stolen his shirt to paint in.

Marlene McKinnon painting a sign for James and Lily’s wedding. 

Taken by Sirius Black, who had just realised she had stolen his shirt to paint in.

11 hours ago on October 20th, 2014 |28 notes
elmakias:


All Time Low, Pierce The Veil, The Wonder Years - Sprig Fever Tour outdoor football game. 
Please go to www.adamelmakias.com/blog and find some images. Post them on your blog, your twitter, or print them out and put them on your wall. Just use them :) 

elmakias:

All Time Low, Pierce The Veil, The Wonder Years - Sprig Fever Tour outdoor football game. 

Please go to www.adamelmakias.com/blog and find some images. Post them on your blog, your twitter, or print them out and put them on your wall. Just use them :) 

15 hours ago on October 20th, 2014 |1,446 notes
18 hours ago on October 20th, 2014 |5,991 notes
livesandliesofwizards:

There are some tales Beedle kept to himself.
A young wizard and witch, born into wealth and luxury and all manner of ease, turned to one another early in life and deemed that it was their lot to build a life together. For he was as brash as she was fair, as bold as she was delicate, and never was a tale of romance so universally held in esteem as theirs.
In time the two were married, and by and by it could not be said that it was not a happy marriage. No one did say it, in any case, so the matter was settled. Day and night the wizard undertook acts of heroism, escalating in breadth to general delight, while the witch expressed her undying admiration through silences and downcast eyes. In any case she never complained. So the matter was settled.
Many moons waxed and waned, and the wizard heroically produced a son, whose birth name was shunted aside for the moniker of the Blue Boy. A child born under the Aurora of midwinter. His blue lips, his translucent skin and the bruises under his eyes, made the Blue Boy’s death a blessing. The wizard was heroic in his grief. The witch grieved too—at least, she was seldom heard to speak a word. In any case, it was the province of mothers to give themselves over to grief.
Thus did the wizard come upon the witch on a bed of frosted thistles one night, being serenaded by the Aurora that sang shimmering pastel sheets across the sky. Rightfully indignant, he asked her whether she would not do better to come away from the cold. The witch gave no answer, so the wizard repeated his request, displaying the patience of a gentleman born to all manner of luxury and ease. Really, the witch ought to retire to the fireside so that she might decorate his hearth. Still, the witch did not stir, and so the wizard spoke once more. He would carry her heroically to safety, he declared, for she was fair and fragile and ill-disposed to carry herself, lest she should meet the same end as the Blue Boy.
At this the witch finally unfurled herself to her towering height and looked down at the wizard with the empty spaces of her eyes. Foul breath rattled from her lungs. The sandpaper bones of her hands grappled for his throat, and the wizard saw that she had been dead a long time. She had been dead as long as she lived, never speaking, never laughing, never giving life to the Blue Boy. Like the corpse of her child she had been born under the crux of the northern lights, when untempered magic flared through the flimsy onionskin veil of space and birthed terrible power into the world.
And the witch spoke in the voice of a beast.
“I am not yours to carry. My life not yours. My heart not yours. My womb not yours.”
As the wizard cowered she took back what she was owed in spades. The beast took his cloak. She took his shoes and beating heart and the skin from his bones. And, unsatisfied, she took all the rest: she took his soul.
The beast went away sated, but cold; her withered lips blue, her empty maw rasping tongues of ice. Too cold had she grown now to decorate any hearth again. The guilty and innocent alike fell before her. She was not theirs to deny. She left them as cold, blue-skinned shells.
There are some tales Beedle kept to himself, because to tell them would dismantle the ordered world of fairytales, where a hero’s fangs are bigger than his foe’s. Where nightmares dissipate in the light of day.
Only the small and empty and cold, with their lips blue and their unseeing eyes turned to the north sky, can remember. But perhaps it would be best if even they could forget.
(this is by dystopiastic, who I have recced here before. Then, as now, her writing was sharp and amazing, and her ideas phenomenal.)

livesandliesofwizards:

There are some tales Beedle kept to himself.

A young wizard and witch, born into wealth and luxury and all manner of ease, turned to one another early in life and deemed that it was their lot to build a life together. For he was as brash as she was fair, as bold as she was delicate, and never was a tale of romance so universally held in esteem as theirs.

In time the two were married, and by and by it could not be said that it was not a happy marriage. No one did say it, in any case, so the matter was settled. Day and night the wizard undertook acts of heroism, escalating in breadth to general delight, while the witch expressed her undying admiration through silences and downcast eyes. In any case she never complained. So the matter was settled.

Many moons waxed and waned, and the wizard heroically produced a son, whose birth name was shunted aside for the moniker of the Blue Boy. A child born under the Aurora of midwinter. His blue lips, his translucent skin and the bruises under his eyes, made the Blue Boy’s death a blessing. The wizard was heroic in his grief. The witch grieved too—at least, she was seldom heard to speak a word. In any case, it was the province of mothers to give themselves over to grief.

Thus did the wizard come upon the witch on a bed of frosted thistles one night, being serenaded by the Aurora that sang shimmering pastel sheets across the sky. Rightfully indignant, he asked her whether she would not do better to come away from the cold. The witch gave no answer, so the wizard repeated his request, displaying the patience of a gentleman born to all manner of luxury and ease. Really, the witch ought to retire to the fireside so that she might decorate his hearth. Still, the witch did not stir, and so the wizard spoke once more. He would carry her heroically to safety, he declared, for she was fair and fragile and ill-disposed to carry herself, lest she should meet the same end as the Blue Boy.

At this the witch finally unfurled herself to her towering height and looked down at the wizard with the empty spaces of her eyes. Foul breath rattled from her lungs. The sandpaper bones of her hands grappled for his throat, and the wizard saw that she had been dead a long time. She had been dead as long as she lived, never speaking, never laughing, never giving life to the Blue Boy. Like the corpse of her child she had been born under the crux of the northern lights, when untempered magic flared through the flimsy onionskin veil of space and birthed terrible power into the world.

And the witch spoke in the voice of a beast.

“I am not yours to carry. My life not yours. My heart not yours. My womb not yours.”

As the wizard cowered she took back what she was owed in spades. The beast took his cloak. She took his shoes and beating heart and the skin from his bones. And, unsatisfied, she took all the rest: she took his soul.

The beast went away sated, but cold; her withered lips blue, her empty maw rasping tongues of ice. Too cold had she grown now to decorate any hearth again. The guilty and innocent alike fell before her. She was not theirs to deny. She left them as cold, blue-skinned shells.

There are some tales Beedle kept to himself, because to tell them would dismantle the ordered world of fairytales, where a hero’s fangs are bigger than his foe’s. Where nightmares dissipate in the light of day.

Only the small and empty and cold, with their lips blue and their unseeing eyes turned to the north sky, can remember. But perhaps it would be best if even they could forget.

(this is by dystopiastic, who I have recced here before. Then, as now, her writing was sharp and amazing, and her ideas phenomenal.)

22 hours ago on October 19th, 2014 |786 notes
im-not-mishacollins:

With the Wizarding War behind them, Dementors had to resort to desperate new methods.

im-not-mishacollins:

With the Wizarding War behind them, Dementors had to resort to desperate new methods.

22 hours ago on October 19th, 2014 |1,175 notes