captain oh captain
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

JVL
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Three Goblin Art

@theartofmadeline
Misplaced Lens Cap

JBB: An Artblog!
wallacepolsom
todays bird
Xuebing Du
One Nice Bug Per Day
Sweet Seals For You, Always

tannertan36
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Kaledo Art
No title available

Andulka
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
trying on a metaphor
Jules of Nature

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@screamingintp
captain oh captain
i havent been up to date in this fandom so this idea has probably been done before but like, some friendship rewards being hairstyles is such a sweet idea? like just picture tonks trying to pull your hair into a mess of spikes or orion trying to replicate his little curl/cowlick
hi it me.
tagged by @nostalgiaslithersin - thank you for tagging me! :D
Rules: Tag 15 people you want to get to know better.
I... don’t know that many people, ahaha, nor am I brave enough to tag anyone... I guess go for it if you see this and want to do it? It’d be cool to learn about everyone. >.<
Relationship status: Waiting for the one to break my heart because I need some precious angst to survive.
Favorite colors: Grey, navy blue, black, white? That’s all I ever wear to be honest! (I don’t even look good in those colors but shhhh)
Lipstick or Chapstick: None, I can’t stand having anything on my mouth(even if I have cracked lips 24/7)
3 favorite foods: Egg-fried-rice(because I only know how to make that, nothing else), plums, and... pretzels. I’ve survived on pretzels last school year and am determined to do it again.
Song stuck in my head: There’s like five going on at the same time, but I’ve recently heard Lie by Jimin(BTS)(I’ve just started to try out K-Pop and this is what I found)(I don’t even know how to speak the language but it’s stuck)(help me out here)
Last movie I saw: I’m watching Age of Ultron right now, for the second time, yay.
Top 3 TV shows: Idon’twatchTVshows
Book I’m currently reading: Catch 22, though it’s less reading that stumbling through pages while trying to make sense of my life. I’m a pretty bad reader... a wonder how I passed middle school.
Last thing I googled: How to find your google history... but if you want the more interesting recent search, it was - what to do after pumpkin animal bug borrower attack - which wouldn’t even make sense with context.
Time: 10:03 PM (darn it, I missed by two minutes to get a nice number)
How many blankets do you sleep in: Three? It’s burning here but I need to suffer to be happy.
Dream trip: Nowhere... I’m content with being stuck in my room with no sunlight and only having to worry about the world in my computer. Look at me, a model for the youths of today: run from your problems and bury yourself in watching vine compilations while pretending you don’t exist.
Anything you want: Uh, confidence? A personality? Motivation? An ability to do something, anything, without sucking at it? But I’d say friends, I’d love to talk to more people considering how I’ve isolated myself from the world last year. Be kinder, more sociable, y’know? Be able to hold a conversation without making it awkward? Friends would be nice.
discord made me do it
or, alternate title: my hogwarts mystery mc goes off the deep end because I can’t keep myself from making promises for huge projects that I’ll never finish and it’s actually not discord’s fault
or, shorter alternative: Limits
more about my mc
this is a mess, please don’t read it unless you’re interested in what i come up with when i’m sleep deprived and creating my first rp character
passing
because everyone knows by now i’m an asshole who tries to bring sorrow wherever i go, i accept my chaotic evil alignment
warnings: this piece deals with all that shit that i put in my writing for shock value because i can’t make decent content without it but this isn’t decent content
It began when you were five - touches that never quite seemed real enough since your parents didn’t believe you when you showed them the light bruising - strangers calling out names but never yours in the back of your mind when you listened. Ghostly, haunting, terrifying - keeping you up in the night while the rest of the family slept soundly. Angry, they got angry at times, and no one was able to protect you from those moments, not even Jacob, who had tried to comfort you by covering your ears and telling jokes. No one ever believed you when you told them you heard voices.
You tried to understand it when you were nine - when a new voice popped into your mind, finally familiar. Father, his low volume and hoarse throat, echoing with the rest of the people in your head - sometimes singing sad songs that he once sung to you and sometimes cursing out names. You had started to recognize some of those names - James and Lily Potter were married and brave, Evan Rosier constantly muttered about taking someone’s nose during battle, Regulus Black prayed for his younger brother. And you had started to figure out what the truth was when a letter came telling you that your father was gone. You had almost protested(he had just been telling a goodnight story), but one dark glare from mother had shut you up right away. That day was when Lily had spoken your name and left the feeling of a kiss on your cheek instead of the bruises cast by the restless, nameless.
When Jacob had left in his storm of rebellion and broken hearts, you wondered if you would hear him too, if his lively chatter would drown out the ‘mudbloods’ and ‘traitors’ tossed around like he did when you were younger, but no such thing happened, even when you waited. Your father had to explain to you that his leaving was different. That was when you started to learn of the difference between death and leaving. Infinite and temporary. Their world and your world.
Harry Potter was the name you had heard at eleven, spoken outside your voices - and then crying, weeping, happiness and you wanted to pat a dead couple’s shoulder when they cheered for their son’s survival. You wonder how it would feel if you heard a child’s voice with the symphony of adults - you wonder if you would ever hear your friends’ voice or if they would hear yours. You wonder if anyone else thinks of the same things you do. You hope they don’t.
The voices and pain had almost faded out into normalcy by twelve - that was when you heard him. Not cheerful, not lively, but you heard him. Everyone wrote it off as divination, but you knew better. He didn’t speak to you after that brief moment, but you knew that he had crossed the line between leaving and dying. It scared you when you realized that you had no tears to cry for him - no mourning - just a calm acceptance of the fact that he was no longer alive. After all, you had rationalized, he was still with you among the other ghosts. That apathy was terrifying.
But it only grew, til you no longer flinched whenever a new voice entered, confused or turbulent - til you could no longer distinguish the difference that you had learned, blurring together like the cacophony in your head. When the second war became a threat, more of them came in, scared and desperate as if they didn’t know that they were safe in the arms of death. Then you cared not.
It remained that way when an old classmate’s stutter came in with a dose of darkness, when Regulus spoke to his brother(and James and Lily greeted their old friend) and when one of your prefects turned out to be Evan’s cousin. A younger, more aware you would’ve cried - an older and lost one did not. It remained that way when fifty new voices arrived in the span of one day, it remained when friends found their ends.
It’s too late now, when you are tired and weary, to wake up from the stupor of grief that you have put yourself in - the only choice being to slip through the difference and to rise on the other side. You wonder if you will meet up with friends there, or if death would be a blank slate that you had drawn on to make more appealing. You close your eyes and finally listen to the goodbyes sung by your voices, remembering the divide that you had learned and then forgotten.
innocence
@barnabybotts posted something about this and because it makes people upset, it falls into my alley. (see, when you start saying things like this, you have problems)
Barnaby’s kindness was unmatched, tender and child-like - always ready to defend you with no ulterior motive. His smile was gentle, his laugh was pure - you found him far more naive than the rest of your friends and kept your wing over him the best that you could. He wasn’t stupid like everyone said, no, he displayed remarkable intelligence at times - but the majority of the words coming out of his mouth was pure nonesense, from conspiracies about paper to questioning the names of Bowtruckles. For that, you wanted to protect him with everything you had, trusting him almost immediately as you brought the innocent boy into the group.
That... that had been your mistake. Innocence was the furthest thing from what he was. If only you had seen past those honey-coated words and sickly-sweet smile for what he truly was - if only you had pushed your own foolish feelings away to peel away his lies. Your sympathy had been your undoing, even with all your precautions.
Too late now, as you sit on stone, eyes trained on his too-large-to-be-a-fifteen-year-old arm as he traces his dark wand over smooth skin - turning tan into black as a snake and skull begins to appear. It makes you cringe and turn away instinctively - somehow repulsive despite its simple design.
“No one’s that stupid...” He hisses - voice low, lower than Barnaby - no, this is the real Barnaby. It pains you to see such a crooked, sinister smile on his face but you keep listening to the truth - the ugly truth that you failed to recognize. Of course no one could have been as child-like as Barnaby and have survived through so much - those flashes of wisdom, you recall, could not have been just luck.
“Honestly, I can’t believe you fell for my sob story about Slytherins beating each other up in the morning - anyone could have proven me wrong and yet you fell for it.” You can see his face light up, emerald eyes glitter in the candlelight with a coldness that had never been present before. He was right, the moment you had heard his words, you hadn’t considered the possibility of lies that could be unraveled - too concerned with the mere idea of him being injured. “The Dark Lord would be pleased to know that both you and your brother are now gone and that stupid old man pretending to be Headmaster wouldn’t know what hit him, he didn’t even catch me infiltrating his ranks.”
You stare, wondering if there was any regret in him as he turned the lights off and left you at the mercy of death.
celebration after morning
based on @theterriblytiredravenclaw‘s AU, in which Penny becomes a potion master but with a twist because I hate myself
The Three Broomsticks was filled with the chattering of your friends as butterbeer got passed around for the third or fourth time that night. The only people who looked remotely sober were Andre and Charlie, with the former now trying to straighten up everyone’s clothing(a relatively futile task considering Rowan still hasn’t learned how to tie a proper tie) while Charlie swayed back and forth chanting dragon names under his breath. Bill cheers merrily, the golden band glittering on his finger as he raises another glass - much to the chagrin of his wife, Fleur, who had come to make sure all of you didn’t wind up stumbling through the streets into Aberforth’s goat yard(apparently veelas could hold their drinks better than the normal wizard or witch).
Ben, Rowan, and Barnaby crowd around Penny, congratulating her enthusiastically(or, as enthusiastic as Ben could get for about anything) - while you hold Tulip to stop her from slipping out of her seat(the prankster hadn’t bothered to warn you of her low tolerance). It reminds you of the old days, where there wasn’t a need to speak in a hoarse whisper all the time and when dreams were able to become reality. For a long period in your life after you left the school, those thoughts had all but disappeared from your mind.
Now they were rekindled by the scroll that Penny clutched, Mcgonagall’s large signature standing proudly on thick paper - the words Potions Professor written in the same elegant print. Pride, that was the word, though it was strange to feel pride for an accomplishment that wasn’t your own. However, you could not dwell on that when Penny pulls you into a hug, her blonde hair let down from its usual braids smelling of valerian and rose. Intoxicating, you think, patting her back with more soft words of congratulations as she beams at you.
You do not miss Snape for all of the pain he had caused you, but, looking at your friend and seeing her with the same title as the former professor, there is a deep sorrow that fills you, more than the butterbeer can numb. You do not wish to bring the evening down by voicing those feelings and yet - while the rest of the crew starts singing the Hogwarts’ theme with the typical lack of coordination - you feel more sober than you have ever been. Fleur’s voice is as beautiful as she is(even with her thick accent), but you cannot pay attention to that.
She’s sitting where Tonks sat. She’s so graceful - ethereal. Tonks was humble, clumsy. Fleur isn’t Tonks. Fleur doesn’t have to be Tonks. But Tonks should be there. Should be here.
There’s no bright pink hair to make you wince, no butterbeer being spilled on other peoples’ cloaks when she’s not here. You wonder if she, too, would’ve worn a golden ring like Fleur.
Penny’s arms around you no longer feel solid - your mind flashes with images of screams and blood as you fail to breath in her floral scent but instead inhale smog.
Remus - fallen. Tonks - broken. You - running. Her body.
But you cannot mourn any longer - and you raise another glass with a cheer(genuine or not, you cannot tell), hoping that you can rise from the darkness of your thoughts. Penny smiles and leans into your arms further, whispering something before falling into her dreams - accomplished and proud.
It would take time for you to feel content - but you can at least rest easy knowing one of you can sleep happy.
looking back
is this actually completely happy for once??? ha. you thought.
prompt courtesy of: @xxskyhd-blog
merula x reader but not really because that wouldn’t be angsty enough
I wanted to hold their hand, to have them smile at me the way they smile at their friends, instead of being glared at. I wanted to sit next to them during lunch and listen to their stories for hours on end just to listen to their beautiful voice speaking, without the bite that they usually hold just for me. I wanted to carry a conversation without it ending up with them in tears or me storming off alone.
They were perfect, beautiful, untouchable and I’m a mess - undeserving of the completion of those fantasies in my head. I know that I’m destructive, bitter, unloved for a reason - even those who were closest to me left(I doubt my parents regret it, even if they have to sit in on the stone floor of Azkaban to get away from me).
Still, I wanted to be able to approach them in the hallway and not have them flinch in fear or anger.
I didn’t mean to be such a pathetic bully - for nasty words to spill out of my ugly, deformed mouth and for bruises to form on their neck after my dirty, tainted hands pushed them to a possible death. I never meant to become the boggart that they had to face(though the stained purple eyes and torn up cloak and monstrous appearance matched the demented little devil inside me).
They were imperfect too, but nothing like me - with their grace and power and cool confidence that allowed them to brush off my insults balancing out the bad parts - and they were wonderful with those faults. Even if I could, I didn’t deserve them. That didn’t stop me from staring at them through the years, wondering what it would be like to be able to be close to someone so kind and unique.
They never stared back - those brilliant eyes trained on another(bright red hair in a stupid ponytail).
Unrequited love, I had learned, was worse when doubled, because you would see the pain and want to heal it all the while knowing that there was no chance for you to do so, to soothe the shattered heart.
But maybe I could’ve been there - could’ve held them when they cried and tell myself that I had done good.
Maybe my words could’ve redeemed the trash that had left me before.
...
Maybe doesn’t change what I have done.
Maybe doesn’t mean I could take back the jealous insults and physical scars I gifted them.
Maybe doesn’t set things right.
I still remember the cold night and burning skin as I spoke those terrible words of allegiance. I still remember their bright eyes and beautiful voice contorting into pure hatred when they saw the black on my arm. I still remember the sound of my heartbeat in my ears as I gave up all hope of someone, anyone, caring for me ever again - I still remember how they turned away from my pointed wand when I challenged them to one last duel.
One last duel.
One last dance.
They looked so stunning in those formal robes as they dazzled under the candlelight. I was pure darkness in velvet, dressed as if for a funeral.
I wanted to walk up to them and repent for the evil I have created(they would forgive me in this dream) - instead I walk up to stone and sit under the stars(wondering of a life that can’t be).
just a small doodle
warning: it’s crowded and completely nonsensical. i just wanted to figure out how much is too much when it comes to my drawings
process
summary: goddamnit not again. i’ve killed another person and made a shit ‘poem’ about it
warnings: i wrote this
he kisses you on your forehead when the two of you went to bed -
he whispers goodnight stories to cease the migraine in your head.
he holds a candle up to the darkness that unfolds -
older, so much wiser, yet shivers in the cold.
he covers you from the silence -
dulls their drunken smell -
refuses to sign his allegiance and leave you alone in that house.
But it’s not enough.
he kisses you on your forehead when he starts to pack his bags -
he whispers his regrets and that’s all he ever left.
he smothers his candle for when he never comes back -
the house is with a hole and exposes the love that your family lacks.
he’s not there to tell them off when they whisper his name -
not there to hold you when you’re overwhelmed by your pain -
not there when you realize the horror of his days.
Is it your fault that he went away?
his kiss still lingers when you walk into the ice -
his whispers still sound in the dead of the starless night -
your candle is now the one that has to burn bright -
you have to try to find yourself your own light.
his shadow still surrounds you when you begin to climb -
his darkness still holds on when you start to fight -
and his legacy still clings to you but it’s alright.
You’ll be the one to save him this time.
his lips are cold as he lies on the ground -
his voice fades out when you start to come around -
the flames are snuffed and the candle goes out -
as you lose what you have only just found.
his arms cover your body to shield you from the blast -
emaciated frame stilled at last -
having signed a deal with death to save you if he passed.
You fail.
You scream.
You cry.
you place your kiss on his closed eyes and whisper a story - a story of goodbye.
mc
i guess i’m doing this shit too - feel free to tell me about your MCs as well
Meet my character: Mark Knox, a Ravenclaw idiot who probably should’ve been put in Gryffindor for sheer recklessness
Fun facts about him:
- his amortentia’s scent is lime, smoke, and sharpies
- his wand is spruce and phoenix feather - 12″ and springy
- he can’t produce a patronus
- he has most definitely tried to use the fire-breathing potion multiple times after learning how to make it
- and his worst class is Flying because his impulse control is non-existent
hints for an appearance from Roger - let us hope for it to be followed through. do you guys want to meet him?
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been eating sandwiches all day.
related to ‘soft voices’ but i honestly don’t know what this really is. i just like scribbling
soft voices
desc: if mc doesn’t die before the war, what happens to them after?
forgive me.
...
Forgive me.
You sit next to him, pushing back the strands of hair that had fallen into disarray, rearranging them into the iconic spiked style he had always worn. It’s a half-hearted attempt - the gesture falls flat - but you cannot bring yourself to leave him like he was found. His eyes, brilliant green like you remembered, now are unfocused, gazing up behind and above you(you wonder if he dreams of paradise). You can fix up his face to bring a little bit of comfort, wipe off the blood that had trickled from his battered lips and close those glazed eyes, but, as you turn to look at the rest of him, you know you cannot salvage all of his body.
Deep cuts decorate his chest and bruises in the shape of boots stain his exposed limbs - acts of violence that you hadn’t thought possible when you were younger(oh, the naivety). They struck him down when he, the beautiful, sweet, wonderful idiot, had intervened to protect the younger students of Hogwarts, leaving his broken body under the rubble after they were satisfied with his pain. You should have been there, you know. You should have been there to save them but you were not, and now they lie in stretchers, waiting to be lowered into the cold earth.
You trace over his face one last time - trying to remember every feature to save for the future. He’s still smiling, but it’s not the same as the goofy grin he wore when the two of you took lessons from Professor Kettleburn and is now tinged with sorrow and regret(if only childhood could be an eternity).
“Orchideous.”
Many people murmur those words under their breath, the other most common phrases being ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Rest in peace’ - and you add your voice to the mix as you produce a bouquet of purple hyacinths to place in his hands. They meant sorrow, you were sure, and were a stark contrast to the green and black that he wore(he was always there, a constant even after you had left the halls of the castle).
You get up and start to walk away, glancing back only once to remind yourself that it was the truth: Barnaby Lee was forever gone and there was nothing you could do.
...
You cannot bring yourself to search for Tonks and the man you know would’ve been her love, but you spot her signature bright pink hair on one of the bodies in stretchers. Too young, she was too young and yet you know that there are children waiting to be buried too. Innocent, little children who were like you when you were younger(but you never suffered this consequence).
Her last words to you was a warning - your last words to her was a goodbye. You wonder what would’ve happened if it was the other way around.
They had also found Professor Snape, silenced in a boat and missing a chunk from his neck, and had told you the truth of his allegiance. Not that it mattered anymore, you think as you stare at the black cloak of a man you once considered your worst tormentor - he now lies stiff and powerless, dead while you still live. Wrong. It does not feel right to see your former teacher fallen.
It does not feel right to see any of this.
To look about and see Charlie and Bill sobbing into each other’s shoulder as almost the entire Weasley family gathers to mourn someone you can’t identify - to see Merula somberly take the wand from a Death Eater’s hand and hold on to it like a lifeline. School had been a long time gone and yet the memories made there attempts to cover up the carnage that your facing, reminding you of butterbeer and warm candlelight.
There is no butterbeer and warm candlelight. Only stone and dust and the silence that comes before the break, only the quivering lips and shaking legs and stony faces. Only your bundle of flowers and the melody of regrets that spill from your mouth(you keep quiet because the others cry too).
Barnaby was only one of the casualties, you know. Tonks was only one of those who had died young. Images of blonde hair in braids and blue eyes filled with tears were only one of the scars that would be left.
The sun doesn’t peek through the grey cloud of ashes - Filch’s endeavor to clean the gateway is, in your eyes, fruitless, and the world does not seem to move from the carnage. It stays, watching, as if waiting for someone to rally the aimless souls that have lost too much, and you wait with it, breathing in smoke and the scent of blood.