May. 20th, 2017

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If you’re a UK blog who relentlessly reminded people vote in the US election last year, then i really hope that you’re doing the same thing for our general election on the 8th June, and are registered to vote. Because otherwise, shut up, go online, register to fucking vote and do your civic duty on the 8th.

Honestly, the same needs to go for US followers.

For the love of Christ, please reblog any post you see reminding UK voters to register and then to vote. 


Deadline to registering to vote in the UK is May 22nd

The general election is June 8th

The link to register to vote is:

And remember you can remove yourself from the open register, or change your status on the open register.

Let’s get the Tories (and UKIP) the fuck out of the Commons and local politics.

I know I’ve got some international friends! GO UNFUCK SHIT.






Also! There are plenty of places in the US that are having special and/or municipal elections THIS YEAR! 




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Harry Potter/Avengers AU

The Avengers are a team of Witches and Wizards fighting against the Dark Lord Thanos. 

Tony is the mad Wizarding inventor who is a genius with a wand. Bruce is a part-time healer, full-time shape-shifting werewolf. Clint and Natasha are Unspeakables. Thor is a Quidditch beater. And Auror Steve has one hell of a shield charm. 

(Oh, and Loki is a Death Eater, which no one is surprised about)

Just needed to add an imperio’d Bucky as the Winter Sorcerer and Peggy in Steve’s compass…

Oh! And Peter going to Hogwarts having Harry Potter like adventures. And Mad Eye Fury is Head of the Department of Mysteries…

And T’Challa, who is from the completely magical kingdom of Wakanda (and has an Animagus that is a black panther). And Scott, who has been incarcerated in Azkaban.

Oh, and I missed Quidditch Warrior Thor the first time (who usually prefers being a beater) so here he is with Wanda, who is a defected ex-Death Eater
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tag game: what would your name be if your parents had named you like edward and bella named renesmee (renée + esme) 

Oh man this is gonna be so whacky let me see you put my grandmothers’ names together and you get … Maryanne. Oh.

Hmm, well my grandmothers are called Ivy and Marguerita, so….. Ivuerita?

If my grandmothers, Glorie. If we use grandfathers for dudes, Killiam. Either of which I would be okay with, honestly.

Glorie Killiam Starbuck. I’m wearing space armor and holding a laser crossbow on the cover of a dime novel from 1967. 

Jean and Anne. Jeanne. Well that’s…not exciting. 

If we do gentleman’s names….Ivamas. or Thoman. 
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have some sealy friends

We need cute seals today (and every day)
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dragons don’t ever really leave their princesses(and their princesses never really want them to go)

The first thing she remembers is the warmth of scales beneath her hand, a voice crooning a lullaby that she feels in her bones as much as she hears. The first thing her watery, stinging eyes behold are a loose circle of shining claws and the translucent dome of blue wings blocking out the rest of the overwhelming world. A shining blue nose, deep as sapphires, leans down and nudges her gently.

:Wake, little hatchling.: Warm, feminine, loving; it rings with will-not-be-harmed and safe-under-wings. She can’t make herself be afraid. A forked tongue gently touches her cheek and she smiles, giggles, puts a hand out to gently push it away.

There is something she ought to be worried about, but it runs from her thoughts when she tries to remember. The world has narrowed to the warm safety of the circle, the fires burning in bright yellow eyes. The dragon nudges her again before ever-so-delicately picking up a loaf of bread in her long white teeth and depositing it in her lap.

:Hatchling must eat. Lady-who-burns left food.:  She obediently begins to eat, leaning back against blue scales and smiling brightly up at her guardian. There is only one word her limited memory can assign to this giant being, and as she finishes her bread and snuggles up to a warm claw before falling asleep again she whispers it-



When she wakes again, it’s to a much smaller version of the blue snout- this time in red- peering into her face. She jumps back; he jumps back. She tilts her head; he tilts his head and snorts, confused.

A laughing rumble comes from the mother dragon curled around them both.

:Red-hatchling, meet Human-hatchling. She is one-of-us. Play nice, do not bite-claw-harm. She has no scale-coat.: Images as much as words, like before. The red hatchling snorts again and shakes himself, small wings thumping on the ground, before squawking in a rather undignified way and jumping up.

:Come play pounce-and-pin!: He dashes away, looking over his shoulder, and Mother nudges her towards him with another amused chuckle.

Tentatively at first but then with more confidence, she chases after the red hatchling to play a rough game of tackling and wrestling. The red plays fair and does not use his talons or teeth, as Mother warned, but he is larger and stronger than her and she ends up on the ground much more often than she manages to pin him. Nevertheless, the old castle hall is filled with the sounds of human and draconic laughter as the blue watches on with happiness shining in her eyes.


Time passes. Her memories slowly come back, of a place where “mother” means a tall blonde woman, her smiles always forced and distant and her voice always ready to scold. Where “brother” means cruel laughter and taunts made by a man who looms tall over her, solid boots ready to crush unwary little fingers.

She stops missing them after a few days.

Her time is filled with laughter as she and the red hatchling invent games for themselves through the castle’s abandoned halls and gone-to-seed courtyards. They gorge themselves on sweet berries from bushes long gone wild, they hunt for rabbits that Mother will cook for them, they mock-duel with her holding a stick and he pretending to flame her.

She teaches him to read, from what she remembers, curled side-by-side in the dusty library. He tells her the stories Mother has told him, how when he breathes his first fire he will earn his name and become a true dragon. And at night they sit by Mother’s side and listen to her sing as they fall asleep, safe under her wings and warmed by the fire inside her.

Sometimes other humans come to search the castle. She and Brother hide while Mother scornfully tosses them aside. One day Mother gently herds a terrified horse into one of the large inner courtyards, and once he has adjusted to his new neighbors she teaches herself to ride the rather placid gelding.

She teaches herself to sew, eventually, and makes herself clothes from the cloth brought each month by the strange woman who is the only other human Mother will tolerate. One day she begins to gather the scales Brother and Mother shed and sews them into tough cloth for armor; the interlocking patterns of blue and red entertain her for hours, and the extra protection gives Brother more leeway with his growing claws when they wrestle.

The first time she uses the scales to deflect her brother’s full-force blows successfully, Mother’s pride can be felt from across the room.


Brother earns the name :Heart-of-Burning-Star: when he breathes his first flame; she sings along with Mother to honor him, her heart bursting with pride.

Mother takes her flying, perched securely on her shoulders and Brother frolicking alongside, to see the mountains and the marshlands and the ocean and the forests. She teaches them how to tell hungry predators from those who are well-fed, how to sneak up on unsuspecting prey, how best to avoid the sword striking for their hearts. At night she tells them of magic, of the world’s mysteries, of how a dragon can change their shape if their need is great.

When at last she bids them farewell they let her go with sorrow but not despair; she has taught them well how to fend for themselves, and the girl will not be alone. Brother will never leave her while she has no wings of her own.

Before she leaves, she touches her nose to the girl’s forehead. :Adopted-child. You will not breathe flame, but you are grown, with a dragon’s heart; I name you Lover-of-Life. Honor and love and wind for your wings, my hatchling-now-grown.:

Their lives continue as they always have among the ruins of the castle; supplying for themselves, and needing no luxuries but the warmth of their sibling by their sides.


Though Brother fights valiantly when the men come again, he is smaller than Mother and not quite as wise; he is young, and proud, and easily drawn out of his defenses by their taunts. She screams as fireproofed ropes encircle his proud limbs and he is dragged to earth, easy prey for their blades.

One of the men catches hold of her as she tries to run to his side.

“Easy, easy fair maid!” She flinches from the sound of words spoken to ears, not to heart. How can they speak truly to one another when their words are so flat and depthless?

“We shall rescue you from this beast which holds you captive here. Only look away a moment and it shall trouble you no more.”

Rescue? Rescue? From what?!

She cannot form the words on her lips to make them understand, and none of them hear when she reaches for their hearts. She screams and cries, fighting with all the muscle she gained wrestling a young dragon, as they drag her away from her brother. It is still not enough to stop them. Her brother lies still on the ground with dirty men laughing over his helpless body. She cannot take the indignity to the noblest, best friend she has ever known, and fights all the fiercer.

Eventually they force some bitter drink down her resisting throat, and it makes her sight grow dark. She screams for Brother one last time as she drops down into unconsciousness, and she hears him call back with desperation,

:Will come find you! Sister-of-my-heart…:

He keens as the men drag her away, before the sound abruptly chokes to nothing. Her tears burn as they fall.


The world has changed to something she doesn’t understand.

She is surrounded by humans, women clucking at her in concerned tones, men speaking over her head as if she doesn’t exist, little children stopping to point and stare and whisper. The world is a mass of noises she only barely comprehends, missing the touch of heart on heart that made all emotions seem real.

They take away her scale armor; she later finds and rescues it from the dung of the stable midden, crying as she cleans each scale and remembers what she has lost. The too-soft fabrics tie her up and trip her. Her bed seems cold, no matter how many hot bricks they add, with no warm heartbeat beside her. They make her sit all day, surrounded by chattering women, and she fidgets with the need to roam, to stalk, to ride, to fly. She thinks with longing of her quiet castle and Brother’s uncomplicated love.

At night she creeps out the window- the chiseled stone is hatchling’s play to climb- to run through the gardens and smell air that isn’t perfumed to cover the human stink. Even that brings her little joy; the gardens are all carefully cultivated patches of life with sterility in between, and there are no rabbits to chase or berries to pick. All too soon, though, her guards come grumbling to seize her arms and drag her in, back to where even the cleanest dirt is not tolerated against her skin and her own scent is washed away under the gagging stink of dying flowers.

She wilts, day by day, her eyes losing their sparkle and her bright gold hair losing its shine. Food tastes like ash in her mouth, her sleep is fitful. Her not-mother pretends to fret over her when people are looking, her not-brother makes snide comments about her appearance. She barely hears them anymore. Mother would not recognize her now; there is no love of life in her heart.

She paces her chambers like a beast in a too-small cage, claws removed and fangs filed to nubs, and stares out the window with dull, lifeless eyes.


She is wakened from fitful sleep by a calloused hand pressing over her mouth. Only a moment’s panic crosses her mind before her heart begins to sing; she’d know that amber-eyed gaze anywhere!

:Sister-mine!: She throws her arms around her brother and weeps, silently, reaching out for the only being who feels real in this land of perfumed, empty words.

:Thought you were dead, saw you fall! Saw so much blood…: He shudders, and she feels scars across his back, only recently healed.

:Wing-torn, lost much blood, but not yet dead. Men grew bored, left. Was able to stop bleeding, heal. Searched for heart-sister, found you, could not reach you. Reached for magic to be human. Climbed wall.: He huffed and stroked her hair. :Humans not guard well from other humans.:

She lets out a broken, teary laugh and wipes her face with her sleeve. :Looking for me-escaping, not you-entering. Won’t be easy to leave.:  

He grins, all teeth and dragon’s fire.

:Easy not fun.:  


They sneak their way upwards, towards the castle walls. He can only hold this form until daylight, as young as he is, and it’s fast approaching dawn; the plan is for her to ride on his shoulders away from the castle as dawn takes back his human form.

They’re caught halfway up, by a knight sneaking back from a maid’s room; she takes him down with a swift slash of a stolen knife, but not before his yell alerts the castle.

The warriors bring them to bay on the parapets just as light crests the horizon; her brother is forced to leap from the walls as he loses human form and hovers just out of bow-shot, desperately calling her.

She cannot reach him…. But she refuses to be taken again.

Her eyes locked on her brother and her scale armor turning gold in the morning light, she leaps from the wall. She ignores the screams of the humans, listening instead to the despairing heart-call of her brother who cannot reach her in time.

Her mind flashes back to a lesson of Mother’s; “a dragon may change shape if their need is great.”

Mother had named her a dragon at heart.

Her roar splits the air as her armor grows, turning into golden scales the color of morning sun, and her wings cut the air like butter.

The golden dragon joins her brother in the sky, crying out her joy as they circle one another, and as the humans gape they turn to the mountains with their wings nearly touching as they fly.

From that day forth, the armor coat became her dragon-skin; when she wore it, she would be the golden dragon her heart knew her to be, and when she removed it (as she did only rarely) she would be the human woman she was born.

The armor’s scales all stayed golden, even after she removed it; all except two, that is. They rested directly over her heart, one a gorgeous sapphire-blue and the other a deep, fierce red; for no matter how much you change your shape, you keep your true family close to your heart.  
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Slytherin: Family crests and ballet lessons, a perfume your grandmother picks for you. Black coffee in Paris at 7 in the morning, champagne in New York in the evening. Cashmere sweaters, turtlenecks and high waisted skirts. Heavy diamonds and chins held high. Upper east side, Monaco, shopping in Brussels. Lying through clenched teeth. Northern lights. Hiding pain and using people. Contradictions. Daisychains. Richard Siken. Glitter socks. Learning French. Louboutins. Traditions and secrets. Green and Silver.
Gryffindor: Hands on fire, bandaids and ginger ale. Treehouses and make believe. The kissing of wounds to soothe the pain. Stardust, bruised knees, pinky swears. Sunflowers and David Bowie. Lightning, thunderstorms, tornadoes. Too much energy; too much caffeine. The smell of a bonfire, the crunch of first snow, laughter resonating through crisp winter air. Fingers intertwining and whispered gossip followed by giggles. Supernovae. The roar of a sportscar's engine. Truth or dare. Courage and morals. The knight in rusty armor who forgot his horse at home. Red and gold.
Ravenclaw: Kneesocks, Sylvia Plath and the dusty smell of books. Paint drying on fingertips and hair in every colour of the rainbow. Oxford dictionary, the louvre, shadowpuppets. Dancing in the rain, overthinking, posters and empty canvases filling dorm rooms and adorning bedroom walls. The first touch of a paintbrush, forget-me-nots, hunger for knowledge. Metaphors. Fanfiction. Black boots and leather jackets. John Lennon sunglasses. Tartan. Poetry. Blue hair and black lipstick. Creativity and curiosity. Blue and silver.
Hufflepuff: Promises and shooting stars. Giggles, goosebumps. Stolen kisses behind the quidditch field. Bumblebees and libraries, fiery hair and squad goals. Shared breakfast, tutoring. Growing. Security. Those friends you can tell everything, and they will never judge. Libraries and open fields. Golden retrievers, the smell of sawdust and hay, horse riding. Roadtrips. Study groups. Ivy League. Scholarships. Humble, soft, friendly. Loyal and smart. Stubborn and accepting. Yellow and black.
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SunMun + looking at each other in the middle of the fight.
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I wondered why it was quiet…mikey realised my jeans pocket smelled/tasted of treats and was happily sooking on the lining!!!
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this is the best twitter story i’ve seen in ages
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“All of my life, I’ve had to pretend to be something I wasn’t. And to become something I wanted to become, I couldn’t be what I am. I am a gay man.“
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Magnetic ball in magnetic putty


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trans!albus potter headcanon: when albus is like five or so, he comes up to harry and says, timidly, ‘daddy, i think i’m a boy’ and harry goes into supportive parent mode and just automatically says ‘that’s great son’ and they hug and then albus asks, ‘can you give me a new name, daddy?’ because albus knows all of their names come from his father and mother’s loved ones and he thinks it’s important to keep that going.

but harry’s just freaking out mentally because damn, he wasted sirius by using it as a middle name for james but he doesn’t want to tell his son to wait until he’s slept on it for his name so he just blurts out ‘albus severus’ and for a second, he’s mentally cursing because that is a terrible name but albus loves it! he kisses harry on the cheek and immediately tells everyone his great new name so it just sticks.

This explains everything about why Albus’s middle name is Severus. 


#B E A U T I F U L #nitwit; blubber; oddment; tweak #later ginny says ‘harry what were you thinking’ #’I PANICKED I COULDN’T THINK OF ANY MORE DEAD PEOPLE’ #’remus; harry. why didn’t you choose remus.’ #’oh yeah.’ (tags via skulliotss)


Reblobbing this cause the I couldn’t think of any more dead people made me spew my drink.
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might look a bit weird in your search history, but it’s the most helpful and informative site i’ve found for naming characters. search by letters, meaning, nationality, and syllables, among other things. has intriguing name lists — from harry potter names to oscar winners.

social security archives

helpful especially for characters in specific era’s, or in specific demographics. holds archives of the united states’ names dating back to the late nineteenth century. also charts the popularity, and other statistics, of names.

surname generator

very, very helpful for last-minute surnames. wouldn’t recommend for any important, significant, or completely solidified characters, simply because there’s no telling the nationality or origin of the name that comes up.

global naming customs

tracks family names as well as given names through nationality, ethnicity, origin, and popularity, shedding light on the subject of why. huge insight on the origin of naming and what it really means for the individual

some more helpful links

“hispanic last names: why two of them?”

psychology today’ “what do names tell us”

re: china; “so many people, so few surnames”

re: female surname choice (or lack thereof)

surname database

I also use these two for quick look ups and meanings! Not comprehensive but a good list! /
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This is such an interesting dissection of a very common trope in writing female characters that I never really thought about before, but it’s so prevalent and so obvious and so fucking disgusting.

This is a really well put together breakdown of this trope, particularly how the fantasy basically breaks down to “unremarkable men are remarkable to women with no life experience”, but the one thing I might say merits further conversation is the point he tries to make that the trope isn’t typically reversed because women don’t find the idea of naive men sexy. I’m not going to say that women DO want to cow around inexperienced manchildren, but I will say I think he’s making a fairly inequal comparison when he says reversing the trope plays up men’s buffoonish nature. Half of the equation here is that the character is supposed to be heavily sexualized and I would argue that his examples of “born yesterday” men are not. Or if they are supposed to be, they were devised by someone with a very patronizing view of what people who find men attractive are attracted to.

I feel like choosing Blast From the Past as as example of a Sexy Naive Man Played By Brenden Fraiser when George of the Jungle exists goes to show that the guy who made this either has a shaky concept of what constitutes “sexy” when it comes to male characters or was cherrypicking his examples to make his point;

His whole performance in this movie was deliberately constructed to be a direct reversal to the female version of this trope.

Another better example of a 1:1 reversal of this trope would probably be, of all things, Universal Soldier. Jean Claude van Damme’s character is intensely athletic and competent at his designated role as a secret government super soldier, but he’s grossly ignorant to social nuances like when it’s acceptable to wander around naked. He’s not played off as a buffoonish manchild, he just leaves Ally Walker scrambling to protect his decency between bouts of grappling with Dolph Lundgren.

Probably the most iconic, deliberate reversal of this trope that I’m kind of amazed was overlooked is the titular character of the Rocky Horror picture show.

Like… This character exists completely as commentary on this trope. There is no conceit of trying to pretend he exists as anything beyond a sexualized, naive plaything for the amusement of the worldly, experienced character who built him. His verse in the finale number outlines this even more explicitly;

I’m just seven hours oldTruly beautiful to beholdAnd somebody should be toldMy libido hasn’t been controlledNow the only thing I’ve come to trustIs an orgasmic rush of lustRose tints my worldAnd keeps me safe from my trouble and pain

His role in the story also works to deconstruct the convention in exactly the way this guy say he’d like to see it handled more often; the conflict is rooted in Rocky choosing to become involved with a similarly sheltered and inexperienced person rather than the seasoned one he was built for, effectively “ruining” his intended purpose as a blank slate for Frank to claim ownership of.

I’m not trying to argue with this guy’s central point or anything because it’s a super important thing to be aware of, just with the idea that staging the same trope with a male character as the inexperienced party doesn’t typically work because inexperience makes men unattractive, when it’s more because the guys making these movies are usually either afraid of or don’t understand what DOES make men sexy.

I know I reblogged the video recently but I really like the additional commentary so you’re getting it again. 
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Blogs from European people getting turned into eurovision blogs like:
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Donnie Yen on the set of “Blade 2″.
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requested by anonymous

Always reblog this.
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May. 20th, 2017 09:25 pm
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A post shared by Vonnegut & Schiele (@facebeak) on Oct 30, 2016 at 3:18pm PDT


I arrived home with our new little baby ringneck yesterday and this was Vonnegut’s reaction when he first met her!!!
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