What Happened In Berlin Was So Scary To Me. It Rlly Showed How Far The Right Wing Is Willing To Go.

So i watched jungle cruise and since then I’ve been wondering, what would the curse have done to Frank if he had been trapped? I was thinking maybe big cats but that isn’t something you can really dissolve into unlike the others so maybe quicksand, though that’s sorta like the frog/mud guy. So maybe water with fish or something. What do you think?

Have a present thing throughout the rest of the comic being small panels showcasing various bug perspectives/her sense with bugs, then the water hits and it’s just her water obscured view with nothing else

Imagining a nice segment of the comic adaptation of the Leviathan fight as seen entirely through Taylor's water obscured lenses as carnage ensues

masks and helmets that hides someone's face in such a way that they become the face themselves my beloved

these are all creatures to me

Novella queen you speak for like half of tumblr

like as someone who has been on tumblr since 2010 destiel becoming canon was always going to be hilarious but the fact it happen while we’re waiting for election results, outshined putin resigning, and happened within a week of a 90 minute video coming out and reminding everyone what a failure the johnlock conspiracy is…like tonight truly is an amazing night for anyone out there with severe internet brain rot

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading

This is for people of Israel/anyone who supports Israel/anyone who wants to stay "neutral" about this genocide, remember that this is how your fav "defenders/heroes/government servants are supposed to be responsible" are talking about innocent Palestinians civilians:

If you choose not to speak on this matter, if you choose to not speak up for Palestinians, then be well assured, 100% guaranteed that what's happening in Palestine can (and will if you let Israel get away with MASS MURDER) also just as easily happen to you, and then there will be other people who would stay "neutral" and silent on this matter.

If you think that the reason you're not taking sides is because you don't really know the situation that well, then EDUCATE yourself. It is your responsibility, as a fucking human, to do your research to stop and prevent such atrocities from being committed.

(I know, I FUCKING KNOW I have at least a few dozen followers from Israel/support Israel/ZIONISTS who are reading this and I know that your eyes may be blind, but your hearts aren't. Don't be a hypocrite, and don't be ignorant)

The birth of Snake Venus

@glowspider has stuff

i think in terms of agony, finishing pact and then finding out that no one is extensively redrawing or animaticing fun horror bits will be fairly bad

why do 90% of all medicines sound like cool wizard names