i don't know!!! i don't work here!!!!

She’s the betta half of the two

I am in my own Harry Potter AU hell.

And just because I can:

“Dad…” 

Malfoy looked up from his desk, quill poised over the parchment as his son hovered by the study door. Aware that he was frowning, Draco lifted his expression into something more neutral. He was vaguely aware of his own father always frowning whenever he’d tried to talk to him as a boy, and he didn’t want Scorpius to one day think the same about him.

“Come in, come in. Shut the door, you’ll let the heat out.” 

The Greengrass estate was a crumbling ruin compared to Malfoy Manner, with only half the library and none of the artifacts Draco had spent the last few years archiving and putting safely away behind spelled glass. But for now it was home, chilly stone walls and all.

“Did you want something?”

“Yes.” Scorpius replied, pausing to tug at the hem of his dark shirt. There’s still a bruise under his eye, faded to be sure, but the mere presence of it made Draco’s heart skip a beat. When he’d seen Severus Potter crawling out of the rubble, face covered in blood and no sign of his own son, he’d known terror like no other.

And Draco Malfoy was intimately familiar with the machinations of terror. He’d been hugged by it once.

“Well,” he prompted, setting aside his work entirely and giving his full attention to his son. “What is it?”

“I want my friends to come visit.”

Draco blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Your…friends?”

“Albus Potter and Rosie Granger-Weasley. I would like them to come stay.”

Draco blinked again. Later he’d laugh—somewhat despairingly into a decanter of fire brandy—at the absurdity of the notion that his boy, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, was best friends with a Potter and the hybrid off-spring of a Granger Weasley, but the threat of impeding hysterics was quelled under the defiant gaze of his son, narrow chin lifting at some unspoken challenge. 

“I see. For how long?”

“A…a week…maybe two…They’re going to France for the Quiditch Cup Primaries…” he glanced down and Draco spied the curled up parchment hidden up his sleeve. “So it wouldn’t be for long.”

Draco glanced at his desk, to the fireplace, then back to his son. “I don’t…”

I want my friends…friendshow often had Astoria lamented his lack of playmates as a child, how often had she fretted that Scorpius’ only interaction had been with adults—or books, or enchanting his own toys for someone to play with. And how quickly had Scorpius’ face crumpled at the utterance of two simple syllables. 

“…know if two weeks would be wise, given your mother’s health. She’s still recovering from the move. But I shall discuss it with her, and see what can be done.”

Scorpius stilled, the beaming smile on his face reigned in to something calmer, even now, not wanting to get his hopes up too much. “Thank you. For what it’s worth, we will be good.”

Draco snorted at that, remembering the last time a Malfoy, a Potter and a Granger and a Weasley had been together at their age. “Somehow I doubt it. Go on off you go, go see what your mother is up to. She’s enjoying having you home.”

“And I am enjoying being here,” Scorpius replied, in that curiously courteous and stiff way of speaking he’d always had, even as an infant learning his words. “I am happy to be here, with you, and mother.”

“I’m…very glad to hear it.” Draco replied, unsure what else he was supposed to say to such an open admission said so politely like one was discussing the weather. “Now go on, off you go, I need to finish this manuscript before I lose the thought.”

“You’ll talk to mother though, wont you?” Scorpius pressed from his space by the door. “You’ll ask…”

“Yes, yes.” Draco waved a hand, “I’ll ask if the Potter spawn can come stay with us. Just for a little bit. To say thank you for…everything.”

Reassured, Scorpius left, closing the door behind himself with a firm click. 

Draco waited several more moments, counting to a hundred before opening up the top desk of his drawer and pulling out his correspondence folder, flipping through them until he found the appropriate manila envelope, writing the address of the Ministry Neatly to the front. 

Clearing his throat politely, he composed himself, then tapped it to life with his wand.

“Hello Potter,” he spat with a vicious familiar glee, unable to keep from laughing, “I’m not sure which one of us is going to be more surprised by this turn of events, but I swear to gods if you break my son’s heart by saying no, I will personally send you a red Howler on the hour every hour till the day one of us dies. Now, about dates, the last week in June works well for us…”

Ravenclaw Headcanon

Ravenclaws are very happy that their dormitory is in a tower. Most of the windows can be climbed out of and they pull themselves onto the roof. They don’t do it like the Gryffindors do, for bravery, but for solitude. There is an unspoken rule that if a Ravenclaw sees another Ravenclaw on the roof, they don’t talk. On the roof or afterwards. It’s a safe space. Sometimes it’s where Ravenclaws be the teenagers they are and smoke, while sometimes it’s a peaceful place to just read. If a Ravenclaw is sitting on the roof crying, any other Ravenclaw, friend or not, will go and sit on the roof with them until they calm down. And another unspoken rule is that if someone sat on the roof and cried more than twice in a week, they have to talk to someone about it, a friend, a professor, or Madam Pomfrey. This is what once led a third year Ravenclaw to march a first year Gryffindor, who had somehow made his way on the roof of Ravenclaw Tower, to Professor McGonagall. He thought he was in trouble, but became very confused when he was simply asked how he felt.

Sincerely, Me

Evan: In an email I received from you two weeks ago I noticed a comma in the middle of a phrase

Evan: It changed the meaning. Did you intend this? One key and you’ve consumed my waking days.

Evan: It says “Dear Evan Hansen,”

Evan: With a comma after dear

Evan: You’ve written “Dear, Evan Hansen”

a not-entirely-earthling stinky boy

4

Some cosplay valentines for all my sweetheart followers! 

 Happy Valentine’s Day!! 💖😘

(also happy birthday to my boy andy robinson aka garak aka the love of my life. they are both my valentines today)

6

regardless of whether or not she is able to regenerate, it’s gotta be a little traumatic to see your bird mom get stabbed through the chest. He canonically had flashbacks about it. I know this is way back in the beginning of season one but I can’t stop thinking about it I HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT BIRD MOM

(Psst also Square Mom and Purple Mom)

Sasuke’s handcrafted flower crown.

Thank you to those who left little welcome messages and support (whether in your tags or via other methods, asks, likes, reblogs, etc.). I read and truly appreciated them all!

@rainbowcicada (no way, we’re not sinking, we’re swimming) @tomato-x-ramen (thank you!!! <333) @bean-paste-man ( 😍 ) @notesofpaint (yes, an amateur still) @schaychan, dark-naruto and others too!

Thank you!!

i feel like going for a walk, but with someone else. i want to hold hands and go have a picnic. we could draw bad pictures of each other and eat ice cream

probs done a thousand times already but I just watched Pacific Rim again and I had to

  • Lance: You know Keith, I don't really like your name.
  • Keith: Um, excuse me?
  • Lance: Your name. Particularly your last name. It sucks.
  • Keith: *angry* What's wrong with my last name?
  • Lance: I don't know.. it just doesn't suit you. You should change it.
  • Keith: Change it?! To what??
  • Lance: McLain. *walks away*
  • Keith: Did you just
  • Keith: DID YOU JUST PROPOSE TO ME
  • Keith: DON'T YOU WALK AWAY
  • Keith: ARE YOU SMIRKING
  • KEITH: COME BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT

donthugmeimweird  asked:

Hello I'm a young aspiring artist that just started high school and I want to be an animator. Lately I've been stressing my self about how good I am and if I'm going the right path to be where I want to be. I get so worried about the future and if I'll be able to achieve my goals enough or on time I know this is long and your a busy person so please don't answer this if you don't want to. But do you have any advice at all anything will be appreciated thanks so much

The trouble is, even when you’ve ‘made it’ and you’re a working professional that feeling doesn’t go away! It turns into “oh god I’m a hack, they just haven’t seen it yet” or “im not good enough to be here”. The difference is, pros have these feelings and they keep drawing. When I was in high school I had the lowest self esteem but I kept drawing and striving for my goals because it was better than doing my homework. (haha I was an awful student. dont be me)

Also, there’s no such thing as “achieving goals on time”. Everyone has a different path. Yes, art school > internship > job is the path everyone obsesses about but it’s not the only way in. I have friends who didn’t work in animation until their 30s, and honestly it made their work more interesting and beautiful! I have a friend who never finished high school and lived out of a car for two years while stacking produce at a corner store. Now he’s an award winning Character Designer! One of my heroes never went to college and just pestered people until someone gave him a job. It’s all persistence, and maybe that’s why this job isn’t for everyone because that shit is HARD. When you’re feeling great, keep drawing. When you’re feeling bad, keep drawing. That’s how you know if you’re on the right path, if you can persist even when you’re at your lowest point. 

I’m sorry this advice isn’t very practical outside of “keep it up”. But that’s all you can do, that’s all I’ve ever done, and that’s all we have to keep doing. Good luck on your journey! 

@arabian-batboy said: Can you write something where Bruce comes across Jason in an alley after his resurrection but before Talia took him in & since he couldn’t talk at that time (& because he’s supposed to be dead) Bruce thinks it’s just a hallucination and just leaves him?


It had been a long time since Bruce was afraid of ghosts, mostly because they never left him alone. If this one seemed more real than usual, hey, it had been a rough day.

Always was, this time of year. 

April 27th. Bruce liked to think he was getting better— maybe some year he wouldn’t find himself lurking in Crime Alley on today, the anniversary of Jason’s death— but he wasn’t there yet.

It made sense. How was he supposed to forget Jason? That was what it would take, Bruce knew, to leave the guilt behind. Every time Jason crossed his mind, it all came crashing back: the grief and shame and pain in his chest. 

Flashbacks, sometimes. Hallucinations.

He wasn’t particularly surprised to see his dead son lying on the cobblestones. It was bound to happen today. 

Bruce took a deep breath. It was time for another hell ride through his own subconsciousness. What would it be this time?

Older, he thought— this Jason looked older, the age he would be if he had lived. That was normal; Bruce spent a lot of time imagining Jason alive and growing up. This Jason looked like he had been on the street for a long time, and Bruce could explain that too; they’d met on this spot when Jason was young and homeless. Of course he was remembering that day. 

Bruce blinked away the image of Jason, small and defiant, sprinting towards the mouth of the alley with his tire iron. Who hit the Batman with a tire iron? Jason did. Jason was…

Well, Jason was dead. Jason had been extraordinary— brave, bright, explosive, kind— but he was gone, and the illusion on the pavement was just that: an illusion. A memory. Bruce’s mind playing tricks.

The punishment he deserved. He could feel it beginning like it always did, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his fingertips, his chest, rooting him to the stone underneath him until he couldn’t run— not that he should run. He hadn’t saved Jason. The least he could do was feel it.

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When all your friends are posting pics with their significant other for Valentine’s Day but you’re still single