flip sides

anonymous asked:

i am all about sociopathic jerry in threesomes but on the flip side consider david from the lobster who's the exact opposite. so sweet and soft and sure he couldn't get away with switching world's with percival bc they look quite different but imagine percival and newt just taking care of david

This just immediately made me think of David in Graves’ body. 

He looks like Mr. Graves, but everyone knows he’s not Mr. Graves. He goes out of his way to get out of the way in the hallway - flattening himself to the wall, eyes down, and moving as though conscious of a paunch that’s certainly not there. He stammers, sometimes. Voice low and unsure, as though ready and expecting to be dismissed. He’s shy and he’s awkward and he’s not Percival Graves.

But he is precious, Newt finds out when he takes him to their bed one night - curious. He’s not Graves. There’s lust in his eyes, but no heat. A smoldering ember of want that’s too used to rejection to light. He stands oddly at the end of their bed, hands clasped in front of him, looking anywhere but at Newt, and Newt finds he enjoys stalking this Graves just as much as he loves stripping control from his Graves.

He peels this stranger apart with soft, praising kisses. Reveals a body that’s as familiar to Newt as the back of his hand, but evidently unfamiliar to its host who looks at his flat belly with wide eyes, fingers tentative as they trace the exposed skin peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt. 

“Who are you?” Newt asks between kisses, crowding the stranger until he’s taken out at the knees by the bed - a shocked, short little cry tumbling from his lips - and sprawls inelegantly into the sheets.


“David,” Newt purrs. “How did you get here?”

“I d-don’t know. It just happened.”


And Newt asks no more questions. If the man’s reactions to magic or Newt’s creatures had been anything to go by, he didn’t end up here of his own volition. Best to enjoy this other, softer, submissive Graves. He’ll enjoy detailing the deflowering to his actual lover later. Explaining how his lip quivered when Newt gently massaged his prostate. The way he whimpered as Newt opened him with his fingers and his tongue. How sensitive his nipples were - and how Newt now knew that Graves had been fiercely guarding that secret somehow and clamps would definitely be in his future. The way he keened with fingers in his hair. The way he shuddered, open mouthed and silent and reverent, when he came. 

David is soft. A version of Graves that has seen not the evil of the world, but the evil of ordinary people. Subdued from bullying and cheating and rejection. Gentle when he shivered, forever this close to a sob. Something softens in Newt’s heart at the sight of him - this fragile, lonely shell of his lover. This man that enjoyed baking and eating and reading by the fireplace.

Graves’ body maybe gains a pound or two while they work to reverse whatever caused this - but Newt loves it. Loves to see his hardened lover ever so slightly plush around the tightly tailored hem of his pants. Kisses the skin there when David bashfully, shamefully, looks away - lashes caught by something wet and heavy. 

“She left me,” he whispers.

“She’s a fool,” Newt whispers back, worshipful with his lips as he praises him. “You’re perfect. Someone will see that.”

“H-how do you know?” He asks, reaching to adjust glasses that aren’t there; endearing in his timidness.

“Because I can see it,” Newt says. “That’s how.”

Graves is more than a little grumpy when he returns. He had been stuck in some strange hotel of weird, lonely people, Newt. All of which kept hitting on him. STRANGELY. And he was fat and he had to hunt people in the woods or else he’d run out of time and turn into a lobster, which evidently he chose. A LOBSTER, NEWT. And finally he’s back, only he’s pudgy. PUDGY. Nothing extreme, but… 

“Damn it, Newt, why did you let him eat so much?!”

“He was a stress eater, Percy! If you saw his face you wouldn’t have been able to say no either!”


Newt pouted and crossed his arms, utterly lacking remorse.

That night when Percival is making his bed on the couch, he can’t help but grumble, unsure of how he ended up on the couch after his boyfriend slept with his timid imposter and let him get fat. He angrily fluffed his pillow, settled down, and crossed his arms.

“Fucking lobsters.”

But okay, hey, here’s the flip-side of that last post: 

Talking about all this corrigendum stuff frankly and honestly with my advisor is doing so much to assuage the weird residual guilt I had over my old Master’s research, which wasn’t even that I’d made any mistakes, it was that I was so terrified of admitting to my old advisor that I’d made a mistake that I was just… not gonna look too closely in case such a mistake arose. That my current advisor is so invested that she caught this minor thing, and that we could talk about how to move forward, is super super important and reflects so well on the relationship we have. Also, I just discovered a good friend had the same thing happen to her first paper, so we’re gonna bond over that when I fly out to visit her in a few weeks.

Funding is funding and sucks a lot, but this whole debacle has really emphasized how many very influential people are in my camp—if I’d just waltzed on into the job on day one, I wouldn’t have found out about how hard the higher-ups at a major government lab are fighting to bring me on board.

If I hadn’t gotten fed up with waiting for the bus, I wouldn’t have grabbed dinner in time to see the most adorable little girl go sprinting around the restaurant with her Wonder Woman cape flapping behind her.

If I hadn’t walked home, I wouldn’t have wandered past a dude who was sitting on some stairs pulling a bunch of swords out of his duffel bag. I walked over to say hi, because hey, random dude pulling a bunch of swords out of his duffel bag, sort of have to say hi, and he explained that he’s an Italian rapier enthusiast, and when I told him I used to fence (and coach fencing), he was delighted and showed off a bunch of his cool swords. So I got to play with a couple of really neat old swords! As you do.

I also had that feeling of “okay, you’re in a bad mood, so you must wander the wilds until you are fit for society once more”, which was oddly therapeutic, and on my walk I saw a tiny chipmunk that jumped real high as I walked by, and I think maybe a snake slithering off into the grass. Also a gigantic downed tree! Poor tree. But it was really pretty even at a 45-degree angle. I also saw two big muscly dudes jogging with their three miniature daschunds, which was very excellent.

And I had a good time making the video, even if it did fuck up in the end. It’s neat to learn all this software and to realize how far I’ve come in learning all this new stuff in the past year or so.

anonymous asked:

Hi, so a bit of an odd question: if someone who didnt believe in the craft were to perform a spell or create a sigil, would it still work for that person?

It could.

That belief line is a weird one for a lot of people - some are very firm that you have to believe in your magical actions or they won’t work; on the flip side, some may not care necessarily about believing specifically, but doubting on its own has an impact on magic. But that talks about each individual spell.

@asksecularwitch experimented with doing spells with different levels of belief versus none at all to see if it would change the effects of the spells. I’m having issues finding it, because I can’t determine if it was tagged or not, but ultimately they found that, for them, the level of belief was irrelevant to the spell working.

All in all, I think if you don’t believe in the source material, why would you bother with it in the first place? Like, why waste your time and energy on something you have no belief or care about doing? I can’t say if it would work or not, I just don’t see why someone would bother if they had every doubt that it would work. That’s my opinion on this one.

kamikazesoundsociety replied to your post:


OKAY BUT. Graves — who definitely just went by Graves by age 11 and snipped her own pigtails off at age 6 — as that butch that literally everyone is magnetically attracted to. Men want to be her? Kinda also hopelessly in love with her? Her biceps are bigger than theirs. Women dream of just BEING NOTICED by her. She does every sport and wears men’s ties. She talks about going hunting on summer break. She kills all the spiders. 

Every girl who went to Ilvermorny with her had at least one dream about her rescuing them from a dragon while wearing armor and she lifted her helm and there was a smudge of ash across her tender cheek and her dark eyes gazed directly into their eyes AND THEN THEY WOKE UP — and their hand was already in their bloomers.

On the flip side, Seraphina Picquery was the southern belle, the top of her class and better at Graves at EVERYTHING and Graves sort of forgot how to breathe every time Picquery touched her mouth with the end of her pen in class. Their relationship had a rocky start where Graves thinks Picquery is not into girls and Picquery thinks Graves looks down on her for being girly and Southern and not white and not rich (all things Graves is). But they figure things out and have very cute baby gay moments and Graves once or twice makes it rain flower petals from the ceiling when Picquery walks into a room. Picquery writes really raunchy love letters about Graves’ hands and calls her face “my most precious and handsome throne.”

But as they get older and once they leave school, they decide they wanna see other people. It’s only a little bitter. No one ever again makes it rain flower petals when Picquery walks into a room. Graves doesn’t again meet anyone who literally steals her breath with a simple, thoughtless gesture for another twenty years.

Rolling to the side, you flipped beside your boyfriend, both panting hard. The room smelt of sex and sweat, regardless of the open window pulling in a cooling breeze. Tugging up the thin sheet, you covered yourself up, grinning over at Tom as you mapped out his profile. He was still breathing hard, skin shining as he pulled a hand through messy curls. “Woah,” he breathed out, looking over towards you. He laughed, “that was-” he closed his eyes with a pleased smile, “-intense”.

You laughed, hand coming up to cup his chin, “yeah,” you grinned, “a good welcome home present?”

“The best,” he teased, leaning over to kiss your nose before sitting up. He ignored your annoyed whine, the sheets tumbling back down the bed. You scrambled to pull them back up as Tom leant to the side of the bed, fiddling with something.

Suddenly, a familiar tune started playing incredibly loudly from the speakers, causing you to jump and let out a curse.

“I JUST HAD SEEEEEEX” Tom shouted/sang along, eyes screwed closed and head thrown backwards, “AND IT FELT SO GOOOOD!”

“Thomas!” You scalded, pushing at his firm shoulder. You started laughing, blushing like crazy before frantically throwing yourself face first into the mattress with a low groan.

Hurried footsteps could be heard approaching, before the bedroom door was thrown open. “Yes mate!” Harrison cheered, high fiving Tom with a laugh. “Hey!” He greeted you, waving before closing the door again.

“I hate you,” you mumbled, face first in the pillow. You held up your middle finger, shoving it in the general direction of Toms face with a laugh.

“No you don’t,” he laughed, the music still blaring out, “you looooove me.”

“Your lucky I do,” you pushed up onto your elbows, glaring fondly at Tom, “dork.”

concept: a hockey bro whose last name is “sweet” so his teammates call him “sweetie” and “sweets” and they kind of lean into it and start to call him “sweetums” and “sweetheart” and “sweet cheeks” and “sweetie pie” and eventually they forget where it started and just refer to him with terms of endearment like “babe” and “honey” and “cuddlebear” and it gets kind of out of control

Unexpected Aspects of the Types

ENFP: They actually crave schedules and structure like nobodies business, if and only if it revolves around their passions. 

INFP: The “manic pixie dream girl” stigma is so wrong. 90% of them are more along the lines of “embittered memelords” with a splash of off-beat and sensible fashion. 

INTP: They’re actually excellent in social situations that they throw themselves into. Your odd aggressiveness and shouting is amusing and weirdly charismatic. 

ENTP: You’ll have to murder them a thousand times before they’ll admit that they actually DO crave harmony and peace more than chaos; Debate and verbal jousting (and memes) is just their way of getting there. 

ENFJ: The worst time management skills. Worse than all of the P’s put together, bar none. You got stars in your eyes and not a single “no” in your throats and it often leaves you ragged busybodies from over committing yourselves. 

INFJ: Despite their ‘mysterious and secretive nature’ stigma, if you engage them in a deep conversation about their passions, 9 times out of 10 they will splay their soul to you even though you met 5 minutes ago at a college party.

ISFJ: They’re known for being the kindly, grandmotherly type that just wants the best for their friends, but the flip side is they’re all basic bitches that secretly crave being a tool. They’re usually just too nice to go Full Douche™, praise the Lord. 

ESFJ: Despite being known as the social butterfly, the Fe and Si combination sometimes makes for an extremely judgmental, polarizing, and single-minded personality, and can seem like the most socially inept/oblivious person in the room. 

ESTJ: Weirdly enough, more often than not, they’re one of the most socially graceful and self-aware people in the room. That, or they’re utterly cringeworthy. Not really any in between. Just don’t get them started on politics (I’m begging you). 

ISTJ: Despite the ‘emotionless Traditionalist™ robot’ stigma, although they can’t offer consistent emotional output, all of the ones I’ve met are some of the most emotionally stable, mature, and available people I’ve ever met. 

ENTJ: Your responsible, efficient, and commanding CEO of a friend is actually the biggest procrastinator in the game, bar none. It’s hidden under a few hundred layers of self-confidence, but they need the stress of the last minute to feel anything in this world. 

INTJ: Massive internal war between fearless, emotionless sociopathy, and caring so deeply for a select few people that they’d give up every ambition to follow them to the ends of the earth without a single plan. TL;DR, their black and icy hearts are secretly hearts of gold and they absolutely abhor that about themselves. 

ESFP: Your favorite quick-talking, loud-mouthed, social explosion with all the friends is probably pretty lonely on the inside. Almost every ESFP I’ve met has huge commitment issues (big and pretty accurate stereotype), but few people realize it usually comes from self-knowledge of their sporadic nature, and they keep people at an emotional distance as a result, so they don’t end up getting hurt. Advice: letting people in and trying to make it work is infinitely better than loneliness in a crowd. 

ISFP: The EXTJ’s WISH they could be as soul-crushingly terrifying as your favorite superwholockian, equestrian painter friend when somebody’s crossed their family or friends. 

ESTP: The “sex, drugs, drinking, and more sex” cliche with ESTP’s is so dumb because literally every ESTP I know doesn’t care about alcohol or sex more than any other person I’ve met, but they ARE infinitely more obsessed with ultimate frisbee and bridge jumping. 

ISTP: The calm, rational, logical side of Ti is thrown completely out of the driver’s side window when they’re behind the wheel, because these hoes have the worst road rage I’ve ever seen, without exception.


For those who don’t know what it is:


JUNE 19th

Two months after Gen. Robert E. Lee surrendered on April 9, 1865, effectively ending the Civil War, Maj. Gen. Gordon Granger steamed into the port of Galveston, Tex. With 1,800 Union soldiers, including a contingent of United States Colored Troops. Granger was there to establish martial law over the westernmost state in the defeated Confederacy.

On June 19, two days after his arrival and 150 years ago today, Granger stood on the balcony of a building in downtown Galveston and read General Order No. 3 to the assembled crowd below.

“The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free,” he pronounced.

This was the first time many in the crowd had learned of the Emancipation Proclamation, which President Lincoln had issued two and a half years before.

White slaveholders had suppressed the news of the decree freeing the slaves in Confederate territory not under Union control.

“We all walked down the road singing and shouting to beat the band,” a Texas freedwoman recounted.

“Black men pitched their hats high in the muggy June air,” according to another report.

“Men and women screamed ‘We’s free! We’s free!’ ” Others left town, in what became known as “the scatter.”

The jubilation following Granger’s announcement in Galveston moved across Texas, quickly reaching the state’s 250,000 enslaved people.

A year later, a spontaneous holiday called Juneteenth — formed from the words June and nineteenth — began to be celebrated by the newly freed people of Galveston and other parts of Texas.

In 1867, Austin, the state capital, saw its first Juneteenth celebration under the direction of the Freedmen’s Bureau, the federal agency created to provide relief to people displaced by the Civil War.

Embraced as an exuberant day of jubilee, Juneteenth combined a history lesson and a political rally with the gospel hymns and sermons of a church service.

Barbecue was soon added to the mix — this being Texas — with strawberry-flavored red soda water to wash it down.

In time, rodeos, baseball games and family reunions all became part of Juneteenth tradition.

As former slaveholders attempted to maintain their control, this display of freedom was often met with violence.

Juneteenth revelers sought the relative safe haven of black churches — a poignant irony given the tragedy on Wednesday night in Charleston, S.C. Some of these churches began raising money to buy land on which to mark Juneteenth.

In Houston, two black congregations collected pennies and nickels until a 10-acre parcel was purchased for $800 in 1872 and named Emancipation Park, which is still used today.

The festival of freedom spread across the former Confederacy in the late 19th century.

And as African-Americans moved north, they carried this celebration of liberation with them.

As Isabel Wilkerson wrote in “The Warmth of Other Suns,” her prizewinning account of the Great Migration: “The people from Texas took Juneteenth Day to Los Angeles, Oakland, Seattle, and other places they went. Even now, with barbecues and red soda pop, they celebrate June 19, 1865.”

Granger’s order was momentous, but it was no magic bullet. Even with the ratification of the 13th Amendment in December 1865, the emancipated people of Texas, and the rest of America, confronted violent resistance as they attempted to claim the promise of their liberation. Any small gains came in the face of whips and guns, followed by the well-documented decades of Jim Crow laws and Klan terror.

Officially neglected, over time Juneteenth lost much of its resonance in the black community.

But it has enjoyed a renaissance in recent years. Spurred by a revival of pride in African-American traditions long denied or suppressed, Juneteenth has gained official recognition — although not necessarily full legal holiday status — in a number of states, starting, appropriately, with Texas, which made Juneteenth a paid holiday for state employees in 1980.

Still, 150 years after its birth, Juneteenth remains largely unacknowledged on America’s national calendar. Many Americans are unaware of its existence, or its roots. Sadly, that ignorance of Juneteenth reflects a deeper issue: the continued existence of two histories, black and white, separate and unequal.

Frederick Douglass voiced that fundamental divide in a memorable speech on July 4, 1852. “The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me,” he said. “This Fourth [of] July is yours, not mine.”

Juneteenth is the flip side of the Independence Day coin. One hundred and fifty years after General Granger told the enslaved people of Texas they were free, Juneteenth is viewed by many of those who are aware of it as an “African-American holiday.”

That perception unfairly diminishes the fundamental significance of Juneteenth. The day should be recognized for what it is: a shared point of pride in the symbolic end of centuries of racial slavery — a crime against humanity and the great stain on America’s soul. As meaningful as Independence Day itself, Juneteenth completes the circle, reaffirming “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” as the rights of all, not a select few.

I was in Sephora the other day and a woman was there with her young son. When I say young, I mean probably 5 years old. She was looking at the makeup so he was running around looking at it too. He wasn’t being obnoxious or anything though, just excited. So he runs past me and I hear his mom go “No! Hey! Don’t put that on!” I turn around and see that he has one of the tester lipsticks in his hand. She snatches it away and says “You can’t wear lipstick. First of all, you’re a BOY. Boys DON’T wear lipstick.” and then she went on about how she told him not to touch anything.

It broke my heart honestly.
I understand not wanting your little one to mess of the testers but really? “You’re a boy so you can’t wear lipstick.” I mean, come on. You took him to a makeup store and he tried to put on some lipstick so I’m guessing he gets the interest from YOU.

On the flip side, when I worked in childcare, I knew a little girl whos little brother looked up to her so much that he liked to dress like her. The dad didn’t even bat an eye when his son and daughter both came in wearing skirts. I also knew many rather “punk rock” kind of families who would paint their sons nails all kinds of colors for no other reason than the children requested it.


So I see a lot of “Pidge HATES Lance and Keith’s PDA!!” but what about instead, she has a hate/love relationship with it. Growing up her parents didn’t want her and Matt to grow up being scared of affection or thinking it’s some private thing so they casually kissed and held each other without making a big deal out of it. Pidge loves when Keith brushes his knuckles against Lance’s check, or when Lance just calmly hugs Keith from behind resting his forehead on the back of Keith’s neck, because that was all stuff her parents did and she kinda feels like she has a piece of them with her. But on the flip side it makes her miss her parents so much and she has a hard time dealing with those feelings. She’s the first one to defend them, when someone makes a comment about how Keith and Lance need to chill out a little Pidge gets real upset and just starts scream crying about how this may be the last time they ever see each other so hell yeah they should show how much they care!! *finger guns out*