hero.

What?   Gimme.  

Hound of Artemis, lover of pizza.
Actual furry trash, watch me cry.
about | ask
 civilian(s) to be rescued


twitter.com/the_paladog:

    verbjectives:

from calm to ill // a mix for the human who fell in love with a shapeshifter and hwo wouldn’t let the world keep them apart [listen]

i. werewolf — cat power ii. wolf — first aid kit iii. full moon — the black ghosts iv. furr — blitzen trapper v. your bones — of monsters and men vi. old coyote — the weepies vii. human — daughter viii. not with haste — mumford & sons ix. paradise — city and colour x. bloom — the paper kites xi. ends of the earth — lord huron xii. welcome home — radical face xiii. while the candle still burns xiv. sprawl ii (mountains beyond mountains) — arcade fire xv. bad moon rising (cover) — morning ritual xvi. we must be killers — mikky ekko xvii. sleeping sickness — city and colour ft. gordon downie xviii. echo — jason walker xix. hunger of the pine — alt j

    verbjectives:

    from calm to ill // a mix for the human who fell in love with a shapeshifter and hwo wouldn’t let the world keep them apart [listen]

    i. werewolf — cat power ii. wolf — first aid kit iii. full moon — the black ghosts iv. furr — blitzen trapper v. your bones — of monsters and men vi. old coyote — the weepies vii. human — daughter viii. not with haste — mumford & sons ix. paradise — city and colour x. bloom — the paper kites xi. ends of the earth — lord huron xii. welcome home — radical face xiii. while the candle still burns xiv. sprawl ii (mountains beyond mountains) — arcade fire xv. bad moon rising (cover) — morning ritual xvi. we must be killers — mikky ekko xvii. sleeping sickness — city and colour ft. gordon downie xviii. echo — jason walker xix. hunger of the pine — alt j

    — 9 hours ago with 5 notes
    #weird bits of jessie's spirituality  #werewolves 

    shigeako-cosplay:

    Share A Coke With Your Girlfriend/Boyfriend (2013)

    Ten: kittenwelp
    Donna: shigeako
    Pictures: ireneadlerholmes

    Have you seen what we were drinking? Good nobody saw that!

    (via raggedybearcat)

    — 9 hours ago with 63993 notes
    #space bffs  #give me your tennant face 

    SO MY BIG INTERVIEW FOR MY POSSIBLE PROMOTION IS TOMORROW

    I’ve got my outfit picked out, have my nails painted nicely to match, and I’ll be going to bed soon.

    Wish me luck?

    — 10 hours ago with 9 notes
    lavenderpatil:

last-snowfall:

deducecanoe:

ppyajunebug:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

I think… I could be wrong… but everyone Prof Trwylany (sp) said would die at the beginning of every term DID die in the battle of hogwarts? BUt yeah. The year after that was probably filled with grand speeches about those who sacrificed their lives, and how they would rebuild hogwarts, etc. meanwhile… the kids knew. They were there. They knew what it was really like. And the incoming first years probably had a very different relationship with the older kids, who’d seen shit, than in years past. I think there’d be a long year of seriousness and severity… or everyone would try to put on a happy face and pretend that Colin Kreevy wasn’t working on the school paper any more because he was dead. Stiff upper lip. But with a very subdued attitude.

Imagine the seventh years who came back. Because nobody finished their seventh year. That year was a loss. But the ones it really mattered for were them. Imagine the older kids who are up in the night because they can’t sleep for bad dreams hearing the crying from the lower dorms and finding that little girl who can’t make pincushions but can make Fiendfyre hugging her knees, and saying, “You know what, bring your pillow up, you can sleep on my bed while I read.” Imagine the new first years, the ones who hear the story on the train, who’re eleven and still young, seeing an older student sitting alone staring blankly and going over to them and saying, “D’you want some of my chocolate frogs?” because they can’t think of anything else to do. Imagine one finding someone who’s sitting staring at nothing one day and asking in a quiet voice, “Do you need a hug?” and then staying for an hour while the older student cries and cries and hugs them, because some eleven year olds are really smart (and some eleven year olds already came to the school from Bad Shit) and know that sometimes it helps to hold someone you could look after. Imagine the older students who look at these younger ones coming in, all new and safe and bright, and swearing on Merlin’s grave that nothing will ever, *ever* hurt these kids. Imagine the alumni of Dumbledore’s Army, who refused to let the fucking Death Eaters win when they were here and kicking and sure as she won’t let them now, finding things to do on weekends, organizing things, refusing to have it so that people just stay there alone being sad. Fuck the third-year rule: *everyone* can go to Hogsmeade, you just buddy up the young kids with the older kids and I mean, fuck, *who’s going to be a threat to the older kids now*?Imagine them making up insulting nicknames for their old enemies, taking Voldemort and the Carrows and Lestrange and metaphorically spitting on them every time they use them. Imagine Ron volunteering to take on the Boggart that takes up residence in the one class cupboard because no, look, the stupid thing *still looks like a bloody spider* and look it’s fucking hilarious when you take its legs off and tie it up with a bow. And the class laughs. Imagine Harry staying at the school for a couple years, even when he’s done, because once people understand how the charm worked - how because he let Voldemort kill him it meant that nothing Voldemort could do could hurt any of them anymore - everyone just feels *better* when he’s there. Imagine the nights where everyone leaves the common rooms and camps out in the Great Hall and drinks Butterbeer and tells stories and cries and sometimes there are shouting matches because people get so raw, but in the end everyone falls asleep in a pile together. Imagine all the really, truly inappropriate jokes the survivors make, the ones that make their parents’ eyes fill with tears and terrify the first years, because actually when you’ve been dragged face-first through Hell the *worst shit* becomes fucking funny. Imagine how the owls don’t have to be kept in the owlry anymore, because every kid needs the animal they brought with them; imagine that for the kids that lost theirs, or never had one, their friends finding them some, buying them some. Imagine the girl who knows the Cruciatus Curse breaking down crying because she can’t believe she did that, she can’t ever believe she would and she knows she’s wrong and evil and tainted, and Ginny holding her while she cries and when she calms down, Hermione tells her the story of Regulus Black, and about how just because you made shit choices once that doesn’t mean you can’t make better ones now. Imagine that people have been dealing with this kind of horrible shit all through human history, and people are out there dealing with it today, and yes it absolutely sucks and it’s horrible and the scars it leaves are real and heartbreaking and sometimes people are too badly hurt to go on, but also former child-soldiers play team games and laugh at funny stories and refugee kids with horrible stories love colouring books with bright colours and play games with the friends they’ve made in the camps. And these are kids who fought. Who fought like little demons. Who *chose* to fight. So yeah, it could be awful. It could be nothing but bleak from beginning to end, a year (a decade) of sternness and unhappiness. But it doesn’t have to be; it isn’t guaranteed. (and as @tygermama notes, we Muggles have been figuring out this shit: we give it names and throw our best guesses at it, and some of them are good. So there’s help there, too.)

This is my favourite response to this ficlet so far, oh my goodness, thank you.

    lavenderpatil:

    last-snowfall:

    deducecanoe:

    ppyajunebug:

    thelethifoldwitch:

    Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

    But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

    Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

    Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

    Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

    Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

    Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

    Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

    Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

    Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

    Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

    Imagine the ghosts.

    Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

    Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

    Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

    Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

    Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

    Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

    Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

    Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

    Imagine the students who never use magic again.

    (Image source.)

    (From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

    Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
    lavenderpatil
    because everyone should read it

    I think… I could be wrong… but everyone Prof Trwylany (sp) said would die at the beginning of every term DID die in the battle of hogwarts? BUt yeah. The year after that was probably filled with grand speeches about those who sacrificed their lives, and how they would rebuild hogwarts, etc. meanwhile… the kids knew. They were there. They knew what it was really like. And the incoming first years probably had a very different relationship with the older kids, who’d seen shit, than in years past. I think there’d be a long year of seriousness and severity… or everyone would try to put on a happy face and pretend that Colin Kreevy wasn’t working on the school paper any more because he was dead. Stiff upper lip. But with a very subdued attitude.

    Imagine the seventh years who came back. Because nobody finished their seventh year. That year was a loss. But the ones it really mattered for were them.

    Imagine the older kids who are up in the night because they can’t sleep for bad dreams hearing the crying from the lower dorms and finding that little girl who can’t make pincushions but can make Fiendfyre hugging her knees, and saying, “You know what, bring your pillow up, you can sleep on my bed while I read.”

    Imagine the new first years, the ones who hear the story on the train, who’re eleven and still young, seeing an older student sitting alone staring blankly and going over to them and saying, “D’you want some of my chocolate frogs?” because they can’t think of anything else to do.

    Imagine one finding someone who’s sitting staring at nothing one day and asking in a quiet voice, “Do you need a hug?” and then staying for an hour while the older student cries and cries and hugs them, because some eleven year olds are really smart (and some eleven year olds already came to the school from Bad Shit) and know that sometimes it helps to hold someone you could look after.

    Imagine the older students who look at these younger ones coming in, all new and safe and bright, and swearing on Merlin’s grave that nothing will ever, *ever* hurt these kids.

    Imagine the alumni of Dumbledore’s Army, who refused to let the fucking Death Eaters win when they were here and kicking and sure as she won’t let them now, finding things to do on weekends, organizing things, refusing to have it so that people just stay there alone being sad. Fuck the third-year rule: *everyone* can go to Hogsmeade, you just buddy up the young kids with the older kids and I mean, fuck, *who’s going to be a threat to the older kids now*?

    Imagine them making up insulting nicknames for their old enemies, taking Voldemort and the Carrows and Lestrange and metaphorically spitting on them every time they use them.

    Imagine Ron volunteering to take on the Boggart that takes up residence in the one class cupboard because no, look, the stupid thing *still looks like a bloody spider* and look it’s fucking hilarious when you take its legs off and tie it up with a bow. And the class laughs.

    Imagine Harry staying at the school for a couple years, even when he’s done, because once people understand how the charm worked - how because he let Voldemort kill him it meant that nothing Voldemort could do could hurt any of them anymore - everyone just feels *better* when he’s there.

    Imagine the nights where everyone leaves the common rooms and camps out in the Great Hall and drinks Butterbeer and tells stories and cries and sometimes there are shouting matches because people get so raw, but in the end everyone falls asleep in a pile together.

    Imagine all the really, truly inappropriate jokes the survivors make, the ones that make their parents’ eyes fill with tears and terrify the first years, because actually when you’ve been dragged face-first through Hell the *worst shit* becomes fucking funny.

    Imagine how the owls don’t have to be kept in the owlry anymore, because every kid needs the animal they brought with them; imagine that for the kids that lost theirs, or never had one, their friends finding them some, buying them some.

    Imagine the girl who knows the Cruciatus Curse breaking down crying because she can’t believe she did that, she can’t ever believe she would and she knows she’s wrong and evil and tainted, and Ginny holding her while she cries and when she calms down, Hermione tells her the story of Regulus Black, and about how just because you made shit choices once that doesn’t mean you can’t make better ones now.

    Imagine that people have been dealing with this kind of horrible shit all through human history, and people are out there dealing with it today, and yes it absolutely sucks and it’s horrible and the scars it leaves are real and heartbreaking and sometimes people are too badly hurt to go on, but also former child-soldiers play team games and laugh at funny stories and refugee kids with horrible stories love colouring books with bright colours and play games with the friends they’ve made in the camps.

    And these are kids who fought. Who fought like little demons. Who *chose* to fight. So yeah, it could be awful. It could be nothing but bleak from beginning to end, a year (a decade) of sternness and unhappiness. But it doesn’t have to be; it isn’t guaranteed.


    (and as @tygermama notes, we Muggles have been figuring out this shit: we give it names and throw our best guesses at it, and some of them are good. So there’s help there, too.)

    This is my favourite response to this ficlet so far, oh my goodness, thank you.

    (via raggedybearcat)

    — 17 hours ago with 46176 notes
    #did you guys know that zoe hates me  #I'd seen this post already but there's more additions now  #thanks for the cry 

    jean-luc-gohard:

    castiels-weenie:

    jean-luc-gohard:

    What fucks me up about the Darren Wilson fundraiser is that he hasn’t been charged with a crime. He doesn’t have to hire a lawyer. He’s on paid leave, so he’s not losing wages. This is not covering his expenses, because he doesn’t have any additional expenses. This is a reward. He’s getting a $250,000 reward for murdering an unarmed black kid.

    HE HAD TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL. MIKE REACHED FOR HIS GUN. HIS FRIEND THAT WAS WITH HIM EVEN ADMITTED THAT HE LIED ABOUT THE COP JUST RANDOMLY SHOOTING HIM AND CONFIRMED THAT THEY ROBBED THE STORE. SELF DEFESE.

    None of this is true. This is how good the Ferguson PD’s smear campaign has been. Not one sentence here is accurate. Let’s break this down:

    1. "HE HAD TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL." Michael Brown’s autopsy showed no sign of struggle.The picture of the CT scan that’s being passed around to show that Wilson had an orbital blowout fracture is actually from 2008 from the University of Iowa, and a right-wing pundit photoshopped out the date and hospital info.
    2. "MIKE REACHED FOR HIS GUN." Officer Wilson’s story is that the first shot that went off was an accidental discharge while they were fighting over the gun. However. there was no gunpowder residue on Mike Brown, meaning that he was absolutely not holding the gun when it went off and furthermore that he was not even that close. He was fired on from a distance.
    3. "HIS FRIEND THAT WAS WITH HIM EVEN ADMITTED THAT HE LIED ABOUT THE COP JUST RANDOMLY SHOOTING HIM AND CONFIRMED THAT THEY ROBBED THE STORE." This is actually a compound lie, which is kind of impressive. His friend, Dorian Johnson, did not say that. His lawyer said they were together in the convenience store, the police said there was a robbery, and the media put those two statements next to each other to imply a statement was made that never was. Johnson isn’t being charged with anything because the Ferguson PD “determined he committed no crime." The Ferguson PD also admitted Officer Wilson didn’t know about the scuffle at the convenience store before he stopped Brown and Johnson. You may be wondering why I say scuffle instead of robbery. That’s because there wasn’t one: the owners of the store didn’t call the police and video shows Brown paying for the cigarillos! The clerk confronted Brown about reaching across the counter instead of waiting for him to hand over the cigarillos, he put his hand on Brown, and Brown pushed him. Yes, he pushed him too hard, but the clerk apparently didn’t care enough to call the police. The police were called by another customer in the store, who apparently didn’t know what was actually happening.
    4. "SELF DEFESE." The autopsy shows that he was shot on the inside of his arm, meaning his hands were up, and the top of his head, meaning that, since Brown was 6’4”, either he was on his knees or the officer was 8’ tall. The officer was not 8’ tall.

    The evidence clearly shows that Officer Wilson, who had no idea of the not-actually-a-robbery, executed the unarmed Mike Brown while he was on his knees with his hands in the air. Just like all of the eyewitnesses said (except for “Josie,” who turned out not to be real).

    But the Ferguson PD’s already tainted public opinion. They’ve spread so many lies so effectively that no amount of evidence will bring justice. Your ignorance here is proof of just how effective it’s been.

    (via jiraiyaas)

    — 1 day ago with 84684 notes
    #ferguson  #important 
    "I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
    if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
    tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
    from the grave so he can tell them every reason
    why he wishes he were born in a time where
    he could have a damn Gmail account.
    The day after I taught my mother
    how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
    me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
    Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
    But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
    your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
    while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
    Send angry letters to state representatives,
    as we record the years first sunrise so
    we can remember what beginning feels like when
    we are inches away from the trigger.
    Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
    while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
    Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
    Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
    Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
    nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
    Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
    and we all would have checked it every morning while we
    Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
    we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
    This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
    rewatching JFK’s assassination and
    7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
    Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
    what my fathers voice sounds like.
    No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
    to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
    No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
    or how grasshoppers procreate.
    I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
    in public parks on my cellphone
    and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
    But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
    you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
    how to say I love you in 164 different languages."
    — 1 day ago with 124998 notes
    #noble words  #I FUCKING LOVE THIS 

    blacksupervillain:

    I need someone to make a GOOD tv show about werewolves

    (via werewolfau)

    — 2 days ago with 92 notes
    #same