"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
h
Show & Tell
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
tumblr dot com
almost home
Cosmic Funnies
Acquired Stardust
$LAYYYTER
taylor price
No title available
⁂
sheepfilms
titsay
shark vs the universe
No title available
@theartofmadeline
styofa doing anything
Xuebing Du
trying on a metaphor
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Philippines
@birdiefromafar
hi⭑.ᐟ
sitara ノ starz
pakistani┊stupidly romantic┊always ready to talk fandom ❪asks are open, people.ᐟ.ᐟ❫ ┊ beware.ᐟ opinionated.ᐟ┊ao3 ┊sideblog
❝ The birds that herald dreams were exiled from their song, each voice torn out of its throat. They dropped into the dust even before the hunter strung his bow.❞ - faiz ahmed faiz
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ⊹⋆.˚ PROMPTS ˚.⋆⊹˖✮°｡⋆°˖☆˚⋆
Sharing a milkshake.
Getting stuck somewhere because of the tide.
Picnic at an outdoor theatre.
Kissing under the maypole.
Making Smores.
Tie-dye a t-shirt.
Water fight.
Walk on the beach.
Scavenger hunt.
Ice cream melts too fast.
Look for treasure at a garage sale.
Matching sunglasses.
Learning to skateboard or surf.
Accidental sunburns.
Play Quidditch.
Catch fireflies at night.
Climb a tree.
Movie at a drive-in.
Napping under a tree.
Watercolour painting.
Farmer’s Market.
Have a barbecue.
Rowing in a lake.
Finding the perfect watermelon.
Sit on a porch swing.
Build a sandcastle at the beach.
Hammock sleeping.
Strawberry or berry picking.
Go to a Renaissance fair.
Watch the sunrise.
Wildcard.
Little reminder: We have a Discord server that anyone can join, just send the blog a message off anon and we'll send a link.
sunset┊july 1┊@evance-microfics┊wc: circa 300┊tw: nudity, fade to black
the light drew downwards. overhead, the oil black of space bled technicolour to storm upon the landscape. saturated purples and pinks shimmered in the sky like snowflakes, dense to the eye, intangible to any swipe. mid-air, they melted, and their translucent drops reflected the coattails of the sun as it fled from view, making it seem a much grander target than truth.
evan ignored it. he cared little for the passing of time, except for where it painted itself upon emmeline’s skin. she was glacier-blue, terror-green, morning-orange and daisy-pink; and she was none, too.
entranced, she turned her head, hand reaching back for his arm to turn him to the sight. but he was already looking at her. she flushed and she preened, both.
emmeline rolled away in the field they lay upon, lifting herself on her elbow. the shadows sought her, deepened her hair and made stark her fawn skin. he swiped for her and she laughed.
the shadows shifted, twisted, at her dimples where he had kissed, “you’re staring, evie. do you have something to say?” her hand curled around her ear, as if listening over the breeze. it didn’t elude her that the movement pressed her assets tighter teasingly.
”minx,” he half-cursed her, taking her in. admire the art, or indulge in more? he leapt at her, shaking his head, resting an arm under her waist, “keep being coy. i enjoy the view.”
her hands shoved his chest, made their way to his face and covered his eyes.
his tone darkened, “please, lili?”
“you’ve not earned this much. lili? that’s an old trick,” she challenged. breathless still, from their activities. toes curling from the childhood nickname. liar. greedy.
“are you asking for a repeat performance? hm?” he pulled her chin, chiding, “you have to say it, lovely…”
Happy to announce that we are having a new Blackinnon Summer Fest!
The fest starts on August 1st and ends August 31st, please reblog the post and use the tag #blackinnonsummerfest2025 if you are participating
There is no need to participate every day, we have enough prompts for one day each, but any prompt that grabs your attention is fine, we would love to see more work for the ship, even if it is just one.
An update on the FAQ.
Update: We are not accepting generative AI submissions, nor well reblog them.
It is not a tumblr exclusive event, even if we do not promote anywhere else you can participate and submit the link to the blog so we can spread the love as well.
If you want to join our discord group please send a message off anon.
Please reblog to spread the word!
You know what I hate about the Jegulus fandom? (You can ship what you want BUT this is my gripe with the FAN.DOM.)
How people make James POC, then proceed to make him dumb, two-dimensional, and constantly being verbally and abused and pushed to the side, worshipping his white savior boyfriend who eventually participates in a genocide. (Willingly or not.)
Like.
Is that not kinda insane?
But it’s okay because Regulus is a pretty little twink and James is a meathead jock with money and arms the size of his brain!
Guys… We’ve officially lost the plot
jegulus is quite literally a race play fantasy for these white/whitewashed ppl and i stand by that.
i’m begging, leave brown men alone, please! there isn’t anything wrong with letting james be white instead of promoting age-old, racist, stereotypical fetishisation. that, or at least, being more thoughtful about characterisation. it’s easy, actually.
well…
as a brown person who adores james, i love brown james and i think we should keep brown james. but white people just need to get better at writing people with different experiences than themselves cuz that’s basic human empathy.
like
i think it’s preeeeeetty easy to not write james as a giant idiotic linebacker who beats people when he’s mad and takes advantage of young white boys for fun. maybe that’s just me. LOLLL
oops, sorry, i meant to be agreeing with you!
everything you said was extremely valid of you (that’s why i mentioned more thoughtful characterisation as an option) (i’m also a brown person who loves james, by the way, hi!)
i think i’m just too cynical maybe? i haven’t seen brown james done before in a way that doesn’t make me feel some level of unsettled, so i just want him off my feed. i don’t trust white people much with writing good brown characters, unfortunately.
You know what I hate about the Jegulus fandom? (You can ship what you want BUT this is my gripe with the FAN.DOM.)
How people make James POC, then proceed to make him dumb, two-dimensional, and constantly being verbally and abused and pushed to the side, worshipping his white savior boyfriend who eventually participates in a genocide. (Willingly or not.)
Like.
Is that not kinda insane?
But it’s okay because Regulus is a pretty little twink and James is a meathead jock with money and arms the size of his brain!
Guys… We’ve officially lost the plot
jegulus is quite literally a race play fantasy for these white/whitewashed ppl and i stand by that.
i’m begging, leave brown men alone, please! there isn’t anything wrong with letting james be white instead of promoting age-old, racist, stereotypical fetishisation. that, or at least, being more thoughtful about characterisation. it’s easy, actually.
is it just me or would juniflower be such a cute ship name for bartylily? juni for junior, flower for lily (or maybe junilily?)
hm...
it's just you
juniflower, yes!
junilily, yes!
neither, but we do need a cuter ship name for them
im so sick of the gryffindor x slytherin agenda
this is why slytherin x slytherin evance have my soul. i don't need another gryffindor x slytherin rivals / enemies to lovers. there are other options, people!
RY calling Xaden “not white” is really just reinforcing the idea that a lot of authors in the romantasy space view POC as something to fetishize.
White is the “default” and anything else is exotic. They love to use the “primal” brown man caricature and getting the brownie points for “diversity” while putting no real effort in. The ambiguous tan man is almost always the love interest to a white women.
They don’t actually value their fictional poc on the same value as their white ones, and it’s very apparent when you read about non LI poc.
We see this happen time and time again, and no one cares because the majority of the fanbase fetishize POC they’re attracted to in the same way 🤷♀️
^^such an important discussion - i could go on and on about the dangerous, beastly, primal brown man stereotype and the harm it causes - which applies not only to published books but also somewhat to fandoms too, imo ( cough brown james potter cough )
i think the only solution is for more own voice content really because white folk cannot be trusted to get us right
there are some couples you read fic for and you’re like oh so you guys like didn’t get it
i feel like nobody has NOTPs anymore. like if you hate a ship now it has to be for some deep moral reason and you have to justify it to everyone what happened to just not liking stuff that isnt inherently bad but just because you personally think it sucks
it’s so nice to go no i don’t like [insert ship] just because. that’s all the reason you’re ever going to get out of me.
you can say "women, especially women of color, are often written poorly in comics, so you can't just take everything canon says at face value" and everyone will cheer, but the second you say "which is why purely watsonian analysis of Talia al Ghul, Jade Nguyen, Tana Moon, Catalina Flores, and countless others will never work because you have to acknowledge the biases they were written with" you get called an abuse defender :/
death of the author yeah whatever but death of the fandom is so integral to enjoying legitimately anything like that is just a necessary step to take in ur head always. do not let them affect the text in any way exterminate them all with ur death ray. they r not real and cannot hurt u
lover┊may 2┊@taylorswiftmicrofic ┊evance┊wc: circa 1000┊tw: bad(?) decisions┊ ao3
Tattooist Evan receives a familiar client, asking for a tattoo that goes against his (who’s he kidding. the owner’s) moral principles. He ought to say no but… he can be flexible when he wants to be.
lightning┊evance┊wc: circa 1000┊tw: implied neglect
Bang!
Crack!
Boom!
Lightning shattered the air. Splintering, bolts of blue bombarded the blossoms of the Rosier’s gardens.
If he closed his eyes - which he didn’t, because he wasn’t scared, duh - then Evan could imagine the individual petals. In his mind’s eye, hungering fire ate away at them from the edges to the innards, leaving only a deceptively gentle powdering of grey on the grass. That, and hard shards liable to cut him.
There was nothing good about the thunder and lightning; storms.
Tearing himself from the window, he paused, holding himself still save for his ears which still pricked at every strike and his jaw which creaked at every rumble. Dry, his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. Mama and Papa wouldn’t like him disturbing their gathering…
Evan could almost hear their footsteps, as if they were approaching, remembering him. Remembering he could be frightened.
But he couldn’t, truly. Shouldn’t.
That’d be inappropriate. Weak.
C’mon. He liked the sound of Felix’s screams when he pushed him over. This rattling in his ears was hardly different. Surely.
Breath in. Breath out. He’s fine.
He jumped.
”Oh!” The girl behind him, whom he placed after a scouring look up and down as Emmeline Vance - daughter of one of his parents’ circle, recoiled too. Her lips tried for an unassuming smile, lightning reflected in her lustrous eyes, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Thats how he knew she was a liar. He slung her lazily and without thought to the compartment of snakes in his mind; no one here would say sorry. Ever.
Maybe when pigs fly.
”I’m not frightened,” he told her in his best attempt at flatness. The lightning cracked his voice and left it high, high enough she raised her eyebrows, “I was watching the lightning, before.”
Crackle!
She full-body flinched at the booming interruption. Like someone scolded, her head remained down.
A cocky smile pulled at his lips, “What, are you too scared to look at it?”
“Uh uh,” positively affronted, Emmeline’s arms criss-crossed over her chest. Her poofy shamrock-green gown - the colour of his eyes - was simple, and the embroidery on her gossamer gloves was peeling off.
”Mm Hm,” he countered.
She turned her head, eyes off him like she had better things to be staring at. Her hands poorly shielded the wilting flowers stitched on her gloves from his view even as she clambered up to the window - an awkward dance, that was.
The next time light struck through the air she resolutely kept her eyes fixed on the bolt, peering down to glance at the grass it hit.
Triumphantly, she asked him - his muscles tightly controlled, watching her from the side - “Were you really watching? Prove it.”
”What?”
”You weren’t at the window. You were in the corridor when I walked in,” she proclaimed.
No was on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t have to prove anything to her. She was nobody. Nobody compared to the Rosier name, that is. Her family’s in genteel poverty, so laughed his mother’s friends. He shouldn’t bother. Doesn’t want to. His hands stiffened at his sides.
Emmeline saw this, and her shoulders drooped, like she was resigned. Her foot grazed the edge of cupboard she used to climb up to the window ledge.
“It’s fine-“ she said, almost kindly, at the same time as he told her to budge. Her eyes narrowed at him peculiarly, like she’s about to deny him.
The stubborn twist to her lips was nothing he’d seen before. Matching it to faces, he’d guess uncertainly it was an approximation of pity. But… not quite.
Care?
Evan didn’t understand why she would. It made his head ache harder than the drumming of the skies.
She stepped to the side after a moment, compressing herself to one side of the wide sill. Her hand grasped at the lock to keep on her knees rather than tumble backwards.
Miffed - she really was quite good at balancing, Evan attempted to ascend, making a show of leaping up in only two movements. But, he landed awkwardly, almost falling short. His foot wavered on the precise of the ledge. Dammit-
A hand grabbed at his waistcoat. Emmeline hauled him carefully to safety. Flushed, her rosy complexion deepened as she strained - him being inches taller than her, considering how she was well below average.
“Are you alright?” she said, as if she looked anything resembling alright. Her hand wiped over her forehead, and without thinking, he reached his forward to stop her from having it catch on her up-do.
”Says you,” Evan told her it straight. He glanced her over and finally had to face it. “You’re nice,” he said. His face, which he had been told was as though carved to resemble the marble statues of his forefathers, was suitably suspicious.
She smiled winningly anyways, “Thanks,” and then, finding she could not say the same back to him, “You’re daring.”
”It’s brave to watch,” she continued, and when he opened his mouth, spoke quicker over him, “both me and you, mind. I’m being daring, too.”
Together, they spend the rest of the evening watching the skies. Light streaked by, and they played pretend that it was only spells. Rain beat on the window, like it was trying to get to them, and she told him the tale of Thuy Tinh. He told her the Sea God would’ve gotten there earlier if he really wanted to. She laughed, and he opened his ears, letting himself hear the storm only to delve beneath and hear her chiming giggles beneath. Company was like a blanket thick as molasses for the two of them.
When it came time for her to leave, Evan called after Emmeline, “You care. Clearly, about me.” He slanted his head challengingly, “Come again.”
Elusively, Emmeline only shook her head fondly and pressed her lips together. A whisper carried up to him where he stood on the balcony as he watched her family floo away, “Tôi hứa.”
hey guys, barty crouch jr. was in ravenclaw and also blond. nerd. timid prolly. got 12 owls. bye
follow┊may 17┊@bartylily-microfics┊wc: circa 1500┊tw: none
The forest, in a dim lighting that forewarned lazily of the impending dusk, appeared to have slipped into a deep slumber. Trees shaded the rugged mud paths, protruding roots lumping into indistinguishable masses beneath a shadow blanket. Where once slivers of sunlight had squeezed from between wide leaves to grant sweet mercy to the flow of insects below, no brightness was left but the faintest lilac shimmer of a waning day. Carved as they were, the eyes engraved into every great oak squinted. Grooves deepened into yawns; crickets chirped like a horde of mothers; flowers hid their blossoms, removing their make-up to sink finally into rest.
Lily Evans had not once - well, just about twice, or a few times, maybe, truthfully - thought she was a follower but, as matters stood, like the slowing critters and the gentling breeze, her limbs too began to leaden.
She couldn't afford to halt herself here: camp, sweet sanctuary, was but a few yards away. She could feel it. Really. In her bones! It didn't matter that their map had winded it's way away from any sensible hands. She just knew.
But the drowsy atmosphere, weighted as it was, inched its tendrils beneath the layers she'd adorned (bandana, hijab, under-cap) to her ears and whispered lullabies. In the evening haze, it was beautiful. Lily had always been weak for the beautiful things of life. The overgrown park down the road, the scarlet she'd magicked her hair and the maroon she'd dyed her hijab the muggle way, the black and white of old movies, how the air of Hogwarts effused the extraordinary property of the castle, the sprinkling of dust when she cracked open a tome that had not received its due remembrance, the even-toothed smile of-.
The even-toothed smile, she thought mulishly, of the boy behind her.
He hadn't paused as she had, his footsteps crunching the carpet of orange leaves until he came to a stop beside her. Their shoulders did not brush, but it was a close thing. Almost, Lily wished that they would have, so she could've claimed - with only the implementation of the slightest of dramatics - to herself that he'd shoulder-barged her. Then, she'd be given a reason for avoiding him as she had done. No. He was awfully, terribly, cruelly clever, and his disrespect was reflected that effect: it was telegraphed in the subtlest of smirks he directed her way.
Ya Rabb, Lily had never met anyone so infuriating as Barty Crouch Jr.
"Tired, Evans?" he cocked his head a smidge, like he wasn't very surprised, despite that she had been leading the trek. The award at the end gleaming in the eye of her mind like it would be a medal and not parchment, it's shine cut a clear path from the darkness, one which had gotten her - and subsequently her idling party - this far, and further soon.
"Not before you," she told him, and Barty chuckled lowly, a sound that was irresistibly enchanting in its ambiguity. Like the Mona Lisa's smile, like the first breath of spring in their temperamental climate, it was barely there, and Lily found her own lips chasing to mimic what her ears had glimpsed.
Lily did not hate him, for hate was an exceptionally strong word, not suited for even exceptionally empathic sixteen-year-olds, but she severely disliked this aspect of him that left her seeking for more. He was the picture of effortless, admiring fingers stroking away the colour of his polaroid and leaving him pale to her bronze, muted to her bright, dark to her deep, but no less... bold. Starker, though. Much starker. He glowed dimly, did not care for much. He returned barbs equally, occasionally worse, but always with the flavour of amusement.
She must have frowned, because his eyes lightened again, shade lifting to an attractive amber. This time, he inclined his head further, a concession, but not, "And what then? When I stop?"
Her eyes shot to his, surprised he'd consider it. Barty Crouch Jr., in her oftentimes unfortunate (she failed to even kid herself, truly, of this notion) experience, never fell short, holding himself separate to everyone else in his easy excellency. It pleased him, she theorised, to be ahead, to keep ahead, if only to annoy her, and prove himself above his peers and his like. Something in the distance, foggy, untouchable.
"I'd go ahead," Lily decided before her logic had the chance to dismiss the notion.
"Alone," he drawled, "In the woods," in a manner suggesting he knew she wouldn't, but would allow her the fantasy.
"Yes," she folded her arms across her chest, "Why would I wait for you? If you were really tired," she called him out, "you wouldn't have the energy to be a nuisance."
"Feisty," and like always, her temper suited him marvellously. He pivoted so that they stood face to face and leaned down, "And if you wanted to go on, you wouldn't have stopped to smell the roses, sweetheart."
He continued, dripping with honey, "So, I have energy. You do not. What's the solution, Evans?"
The new angle allowed her to see he'd been gesturing by the turn of his head to a small pathway branching off from their main route. It was undefined, trees impeding upon her line of sight, large and towering, their shade offering the allure of privacy past what the lowering sun ensured.
It appeared exactly as how the trail their project partners - Evan and Emmeline - had branched off on, took with the easy confidence of their ages-old relationship. Being away from their sizzling flames was probably for the best, Lily had thought and so didn't question their leaving, recalling on many an occasion walking in on the pair having at each other viciously passionately. Hypocritically, for their high statuses too, which had made her sorrily smug.
Barty had asked her, eyebrows raising, so really, taunted her, she'd say, then, if she knew what they were doing. Her ears had pinkened beneath her scarf, and she was grateful for the concealment, but the quick burning of her cheeks told her she had said her prayers too soon. Lily, unwisely - but she was supposed to be clever, no one told her strictly to act on common sense - responded to his shots.
He had mentioned, head tilted to the sky and hands stuffed in his pockets, long stride slow or otherwise he would have overtaken her, that he'd been an unfortunate witness of their collisions since the two were but childhood friends, whispering in tubes at parks and hiding in the foyers at hoity-toity balls. He told her, pointedly, that they'd collected themselves a few months prior, and she argued that she'd been seeing them in each other's arms since forever, and feeling each other up for a year at the minimum. That had been, unsurprisingly, the answer he had wanted. Innocent, he'd called her, teasing.
Innocent, he'd said, and now he was asking her to follow him down the other path.
Tire him out. Lily found the answer as quickly as it was designed for her to do so.
Inside her, Layali cringed. The young girl she was, is, tightened her lips.
Because, if one were to piece together the puzzle, if they'd known the girl who first stepped foot on platform 9 and 3/4 and the girl who disembarked from the train and met her first sight of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, then they'd know Lily Evans was a follower. That day, she had crumpled Layali Haifa Evans upon every sensible advice and ignored the sensation of her petals being crushed to powder, leaving only the flexible stalk - Lily. Lily who didn't wear a hijab, no, of course not, it's just wizarding fashion with a muggle spin, duh, and who wasn't different, so please don't go.
She kept Layali, like one would keep an oath. She kept Layali in the trenches of her too-sensitive heart, and let the girl wither with every pretence, until the glass cage that was Lily, casting a distorted image, became her only option, lest she wanted to appear hurt and shy and be lonely among the swathes of students at Hogwarts. She kept Layali like a precious truth. The truth always, always reared its head.
Barty taught her that, in his knowing smirks and his soft accusations and his solicitous silence and his raised head and his waggling brows and how he said Lily like he knew better than to think it was anything but hollow, because the twat always knew better.
Barty taught her that, and what he taught her was more often that not irritatingly right.
So, it was Lily who shook her head, and who became a piece fuller, as she set her first boundary, unwilling to follow past a line she'd chartered. And, so it was Lily who watched as Barty quietened and moved them both forwards on their path without acknowledging the situation, and it was Layali who observed sadly and pridefully as well. It was Layali, battered as she was, who could only rise one brave inch higher, to drag her line above the mud, but not so high as to be heard by him over the wind.
'Will you wait for me?', when they were older, when they could loop their signatures on paper and share the sweet taste of a forever-romance, never reached Barty's ears.
