he he ho ha ha

10

“You don’t know who I am?”

a list of crack headcannons

tag yourself i’m sheep coat. 

stop scrolling

and take a moment to enjoy peter gabriel’s teeth

they are v lovely

and magnificent

full of whimsy and wonder

thank u for ur time

20 minutes into Game Theory and Chill and he gives you the look.

8

anything that is beautiful
people want to break
and you are beautiful
i’m afraid

Just so everyone knows, @avveh tried to say Jimin had lost his second place spot on her bias list not even 24 hours ago and has already admitted defeat. 

Just so we are all clear and on the same page here.  Don’t let her lie to you.  Jimin owns her ass.  When she says the Bangtan slut life chose her, she isn’t lying.

thegaypumpingthroughyourveins  asked:

God, okay, but how about a vampire!Newt. Vampire!Newt who is so busy running around New York trying to catch the creatures who ran away and being dragged by Tina at the MACUSA and then everywhere and since he got to America he hasn't had a single chance to f e e d - and there comes the interrogation scene. Graves - the real Graves, mind you, fuck Grindelwald- and Newt are alone, and Newt tries to respond to Graves' questions but he hasn't fed in so long and there's this attractive man right -

right /there/ in front of him, and Newt can’t hold back -he just lunges.

Newt as a vampire. Newt as a vampire. That is indeed a very interesting thought.

It would happen… Where would it happen? Newt wasn’t born this way, he was turned for sure, but where? In St Petersburg, in the shadow of the Church of the Spilled Blood? The river runs close to the church, and the last time Newt saw that river through human eyes was in March when it was iced over and hidden under a dusting of snow. By the time he emerges, dazed, blinking, aching through every inch of his body, the ice has melted and the river runs freely. It’s been - what, five days? Five days. Summer comes quickly to Russia, but Newt’s last memories as a human were of the final threads of winter’s grip.

Or perhaps in China? The crowded streets of Macau, the busy press of people and sellers and shoppers - through the back of a medicine shop, down a narrow alley lined with dragons carved into the walls, out into a market where pixiu pups lean their paws against wire cages and howl at passers by, chained xiezhi are sold as guards for the wealthiest of patrons, bifangs perch on metal stakes and peck listlessly at the flames below.

It’s easy for a foreigner to disappear from the streets here, and easier when he won’t stop asking questions and working his way into places where he doesn’t belong. He remembers the fear of being surrounded, the patronising head shake when he takes out his wand, the grave-cold hand that clamped around his neck -

Ghana, maybe? The sun is strong in Ghana, too strong surely for a vampire to survive, but the forests are thick and deep and, yes, home to a type of vampire. They call it the asasabonsam, a creature with hooked iron claws in place of its feet. It hangs from the trees and falls on unsuspecting prey passing beneath; Newt was searching for anansi spiders and he dodged the first claw but the second sank into the meat of his shoulder and the curved iron hooked around his collar bone. His wand tumbled from blood-slicked fingers and the lumos at the tip stuttered and died.

Well. Maybe not Ghana; the vampire Newt becomes doesn’t have iron claws in place of his feet. I’m not entirely sure if asasabonsams even turn their victims, truth be told. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Newt’s a vampire now, fine. He needs a fix of blood every now and then - he’s not going to squeamish about it. He has places to go, creatures to meet, and if some of them shy away from him, that’s part of life. There are others that crowd close, winding around his legs and sheltering under the curve of the bat-like wings he sometimes sports.

It’s a very different menagerie that Newt brings with him to New York, hidden away in his impossible suitcase. Not completely different - Frank’s still there. Thunderbirds are powerful things, he won’t be deterred by the cold taint of darkness that flows from Newt’s shadow. And Pickett, Pickett stays; bowtruckles are well versed in carnivorous trees so he’ll hardly be fazed by a bit of blood. Besides, every plant understands the value of good fertilizer. But Susie the little feathered occamy hatching from her silver egg; she’ll be gone. Dougal, too, with a world of possibilities swirling in his eyes.

In their place, lethifolds ripple over the workshop floor, flowing up to drape themselves over Newt’s shoulders like a living cloak. Serpentine aspids coil at his feet, beaks dripping with lethal poison; huge dog-like pesanta wag their tails and rest their hole-ridden steel paws on his shoulders. Newt doesn’t sleep, so the Nachtalbs can’t feed off his nightmares - but they trail behind him anyway and huddle in his shadow for the cold and darkness it brings.

A different menagerie, perhaps, and when they creep and sneak and slide through the gaps and crevasses of New York they leave more behind them than plundered jewellery shops and escaped zoo animals.

But this is the same: Newt is taken for questioning. Tina doesn’t stand behind him, and Jacob isn’t left in the cell to await obliviation; this Newt ran the nights and not the days, and he never gained a group of hangers-on who would become his friends. There are no executors waiting by the door and Grindelwald doesn’t sit opposite him, wearing Graves’ face and twisting it with his hatred; it’s Graves, in this universe, and his face is bored and blankly dismissive.

It’s the dismissal, Newt thinks, that does it. He’s been brought here, abandoned in an auror holding cell for who knows how many hours while his creatures wreak havoc across the city, and he’s had the manners not to flit away through cracks in the stone and the gaps between the bars. The patience to wait, to not tear this shiny building down stone by polished stone - the man, Percival Graves (and in Newt’s mind he sneers the syllables with dismissal), he has Newt’s case. He has Newt’s creatures. So fine, Newt will play nice, keep his wings pressed tight against the bones of his spine and keep his teeth sheathed in his gums. He can pretend to be human and pretend to be weak if it will get them back. But to be dismissed? Few would dare, not to him.

“Are you aware how many laws you’ve broken by smuggling that case in?” Graves asks, flipping idly through a stack of papers.

Newt pauses in the doorway, tilting his head as though in thought. “It doesn’t bother me,” he finally says, and resumes his languid walk across the room. The metal door swings shut behind him with the inaudible click of spells locking into place. Newt ignores it; the door won’t hold him, and this close he can smell the tense wary what is he not human keep up your guard radiating off Graves. Not that the auror shows it; his hands are rock steady, the pulse beating in his throat slow and even.

He is, objectively, attractive. Magic coils beneath his skin and the taste of it is electric on the air, and that is attractive too. It’s been too long since Newt last fed, and longer still since he’s enjoyed it.

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Azusa: How about this one?!

MC: Hmmm… I don’t think it’s tall enough….

Randy: It’s taller than you, shouldn’t that count for something?

Klaus: We’ve been out here for two hours….

the plan, for @nihilfugit, BobbyxRufus ~1.8K

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Bobby does his damndest to not wince as he clenches his jaw and stares at the blood smeared shirt Rufus is wearing. Rufus isn’t gentle, but he’s steady and quick as he pokes a needle through Bobby’s forehead, sewing up a sluggishly bleeding gash.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” Bobby tells the carpet at his feet.

Rufus grunts, inelegantly ties off the stitches in Bobby’s forehead pulling them tight. Stepping back, he sits down on the bed opposite from Bobby. “Let me tell you something. No one’s really cut out for this kind of stuff. You get better, or you get killed.” Settling the first aid kid on his lap, tucking the needle away and pulling out a bottle of something, Rufus shrugs. “You can go home if you want. Those are your options. Go home. Or get better at it.”

Bobby thinks about tucking tail and calling it done. He doesn’t like killing things, but it’s necessary. When it’s a deer in the woods, it’s dinner, it’s nothing personal. But ghosts and vampires, things that still look human, he’s having a hard time.

So what if he went back home? It’s still sitting there in Sioux Falls, waiting for him. The mortgage has been paid off since his parent’s parents bought it. The only thing the place is collecting is dust and property taxes. But he can’t think about it without thinking about Karen, her presence still a tangible thing there, all the imprints of a life she’d left behind. The curtains she sewed, the wallpaper she picked out. Even the goddam casserole dishes Bobby had spent extra on for the flower pattern she liked.

Her body is salted and burned and spread through the back forty. First thing Rufus taught Bobby. How important the salt and burn is.

He doesn’t want to go back. Not yet.

Besides, even if he doesn’t like it, he sees how necessary hunting is. To keep that sort of tragedy from happening. What happened to Karen, what would happen to the people and the families and the communities that monsters haunt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bobby tells Rufus when he looks up. 

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