if tumblr shuts down

to-the-glitter-end  asked:

I just wanted to say I am the worst at overthinking. I read into everything and if I get a compliment and an insult on the same day- it's the insult I'll think about for days after. I don't know how you handle nasty messages. I couldn't do it. I would have shut down my tumblr forever ago so thank you for keeping up as long as you did for your fans. We love you Good on you for finally putting yourself first and pulling back. Hopefully it reminds people you're a real person with real feelings xxx

Thank you!! xoxoxo

It’s something psychological I think everyone relates to. The bad sticks a lot longer than the good, unfortunately.

“it’s a bit impossible to forget about the boy who traces the constellations in the sky“ 

- @seung-vi / inkingbrushes 

One of the best Tumblr blogs for photography lovers, mpdrolet, was recently shut down due to two copyright claims made by the same person.

Mark Peter Drolet is an excellent photo editor, and has been sharing excellent photographs, exposing and promoting the work of photographers from around the world to his thousands of followers, and making our dashboards a beautiful place to spend time on.

Even if there was a copyright violation, we hope that this can be solved on a case by case basis, without having to delete mpdrolet’s archive altogether, and letting Mark keep on updating his Tumblr.

Please reblog this to ask the Tumblr staff to #BringMPDroletBack!

Phases of being a HP fan
  • me: loves harry potter, adores all things harry potter, judges people who pretend to be fans but aren't, reads fanfic instead of doing homework
  • me a few days later: am i an antisocial human being cooped up in my room wasting my life?..... Nah.
  • me: ok maybe
  • me: realizes that HP is one of the only things that define my personality... shuts down tumblr, dusts off old hobbie. LETS DO THIS.
  • me: feels sad. Okay back to harry potter
  • me: obssessively tumblring once again
A Walking Paradox (Michael/4)

On Tuesday June 14 @0kbutmichaelclifford and @jigglypufftribe held a Hogwarts!5sos Blurb Night. Unfortunately I had a Psychology exam that week and no time to start a queue for it, yay me! However, I was inspired by it and today I’ve finished writing the first idea that came to mind. Please enjoy the 2k of Hogwarts!Michael below!

1. Platform 9 ¾

Fully aware of the fact that King’s Cross Station will be crawling with tourists on a last-minute city trip to London and bustling with businesspeople rushing to attend their important meetings, you leave early for Platform 9 ¾. You’ve agreed on meeting your friends at 10.50 AM and you still want to finish your book before they start ranting about all their adventures this summer.

It’s just past 10.20 AM when you roll your cart through the seemingly solid brick wall and find yourself on the wizard’s platform. It’s quiet, only the occassional Prefect and this year’s Head Boy and Head Girl already there. You find your usual compartment on the Hogwarts Express, stowing your trunk in the overhead compartment, and smile when you notice the initials you and your friends had inked into the little table. Seems like the magic marker used at the end of the previous semester really was as permanent as it promised to be.

Knowing that your friends will surely be quite a bit later than the agreed 10.50 AM, you grab your book and step back out onto the platform, finding somewhere to sit and quietly read. (Much like you’d expected, your group of friends are some of the very last people to arrive. The lot of them are chattering and laughing, hugging and squealing in excitement when catching up with each other.)

You’re found by your best friend, seemingly still engrossed in your story. She knows you better than that though, and upon closer inspection notices that your eyes keep flitting away from the paper and flying over the crowd that’s slowly gathered before you. You start biting your lip when you finally fixate on something. Your friend smirks a little when she sees what, or rather who, is holding your attention.

Michael Clifford, a Sixth Year like yourself, is standing a little bit away. The Slytherin is surrounded by his three best friends (2 of Gryffindor’s finest and one of his fellow Slytherins) and his cat’s curled around his neck and shoulders. You’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for him, though you’d rather jump off the Astronomy Tower than admit it.

Clifford’s a sight to behold: he’s wearing his usual attire, and while it’s no longer uncommon to see wizards dressed in Muggle clothing, he stands out. He’s wearing black skinny jeans with colorful patches haphazardly sewn over the legs (tight enough that you could swear the jeans were painted on), a black faded and torn jean jacket (with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tattoos curling around his forearm) and a plain black t-shirt. The all-black ensemble looks great against his fair skin and green-and-silver hair.

You squeak, a flush crawling all over your face and up to the roots of your hair, when his eyes fly over you and your friend. You know there’s no chance that Michael Clifford was looking at you, a mousy Ravenclaw, but you’re mortified enough as it without being caught staring.

Your friend giggles when you start dragging her to the train, leaving your other friends to follow, and winks when Michael raises a curious eyebrow at your back when you pass him by.

2. Hallowe’en Detention

October has been unusually kind to the students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year: it’s been warm and sunny up until the very end and it seems as though the weather’s not changing anytime soon. Tomorrow’s a Hogsmeade weekend and knowing your friends, you’ll be going out as soon as the Professors allow you to and you won’t be getting back until you absolutely have to.

Curse you for befriending not one, but several adventurous Gryffindors (bloody energetic lot of them).

You realize that there’s not a single chance that you’ll get to finish the impromptu History of Magic essay Professor Binns sprung on you if you don’t start it now and thus, despite the Hallowe’en Feast happening in the Great Hall, you make your way up to the library. You’d convinced some of the house-elves to pack you some food in a picnic basket and shrinking the basket, you plan on sneaking the food past the librarian.

The library is empty when you push open the heavy doors, no librarian in sight, and you find yourself an empty desk in the farthest corner of the room. You’re mostly hidden from sight (you don’t want to be caught eating in there), but you’ve still got a clear view of the doors. Nibbling on some pumpkin pastries, you start working on the 4-foot-long essay.

The whole table soon gets cluttered with discarded feathers, spare bottles of ink and copious amounts of spare parchment. Towers of books are surrounding you and the only sound that’s heard is the furious scribbling of your feather on the scroll in front of you. It comes as a total surprise when the doors to the library fly open.

Hogwarts’ caretaker stomps inside, dragging a boy behind him by his ear. The boy whines about it hurting, the whole thing being rather amusing as it comes from a person well over six feet tall.

“You think this is funny?” The caretaker growls at the unidentified boy. “Creating not only a swamp in the entrance hall, but also filling it with Grindylows?”

The boy mutters, clearly not finding it as funny now in the face of punishment, but you’re impressed. That’s some level of magic skills, not to mention patience! Getting your hands on multiple Grindylows? Talk about commitment

The boy’s gotten himself out of the grip of the caretaker, disgruntledly rubbing his sore ear and rolling his eyes when the older man takes away the boy’s wand and threatens to keep him inside the castle for the rest of the boy’s Hogwarts career if the returned books are not put back in their proper place when he gets back from the Feast. The boy eyes the cart the books are in and whines anew.

“There’s got to be at least a hundred books in there and I’m hungryyyyy…” The boy moans. “You can’t keep me away from dinner. That’s child abuse!”

“Shut up, boy,” The caretaker warns. “And get started if you want to ever again feel the fresh Scottish winds blowing through that ridiculous hair of yours!”

The old man slams the doors shut with an almighty bang and the boy starts cursing. You hear him mumble something about Peeves the Poltergeist and a quest for revenge, before he promptly drops the large volume he’s holding on his foot. He curses again and you stifle your laugh.

The boy rights his back and the sudden beam of moonlight catches his face. He gives a girly shriek (‘Excuse you, but that was a very manly shout, thank you very much!’) when the light reflects in your eyes and your breath hitches when you recognize the boy.

The green-and-silver hair, the usually-emerald-but-now-turned-silver-in-the-lighting eyes, the dark ink decorating the bared skin of his forearms… Michael Clifford was the apparent culprit. (You’re not entirely sure why you’re surprised by that denouement: Michael and his friends aren’t exactly what you’d call innocent little angels.)

Worst of all, he seems to recognize you as well. He cocks his head to the side a little in what appears to be confusion.

“Little Rowena Ravenclaw,” He eventually says. You groan internally when you’re reminded of your ancestor. It appears as though that’s the one thing everyone can focus on when talking to you for the first time. “Now what are you doing here on a night like this?”

You gesture to the books surrounding you. “Being little Rowena Ravenclaw?” You say sarcastically. (What? Just because you’re a little shy, doesn’t mean you’ve got no backbone.)

“Tonight?” He seems curious, coming a little closer. “You do realize it’s Hallowe’en, tonight? And there’s a glorious feast being served in the Great Hall?”

You don’t do it often, but you do it now: you smirk. “I know,” You whisper mischievously, beckoning him a little closer and showing him the basket hidden under your desk. “I got first pick.”

He moans when he sinks his teeth in the pumpkin pastry you hand him, patting his stomach contently and taking a seat in the chair opposite yours. “What are you working on?” He asks between big gulps of the juice the elves had packed you.

“Binns’ essay,” You groan. “Idiot assigns a four-foot-long essay the day before a Hogsmeade weekend…”

Michael nods sympathetically. “Calum said something about that. Pretty sure he won’t complete it or force me to write it, but hey: at least this time he remembered the homework! Progress!”

The both of you laugh a little, before calming down again. Then something dawns on you.

“Wait, Calum forces you to write his?” Michael nods. “So you’re good at this?”

Michael shrugs. “I have trouble sleeping sometimes, so I read History of Magic when I can’t doze off. Works like a charm, no pun intended: stupid shit bores you right to sleep!”

You grin a little. “Have you, by any chance, already read the chapter on the Giant Wars?”

“Why? Little Rowena Ravenclaw about to make me do her dirty work?” He winks and you shrug bashfully.

“I’ll write it, I promise,” You assure him. “I just don’t feel like reading through the entire chapter…”

“Can’t blame you.” He grins. “Sure, I’ll help. ‘S not like that old bat can actually keep me inside for forever if those books don’t find their way back to their shelves.”

You raise an eyebrow at him before whipping out your wand. Michael’s eyes widen and he lets out a surprised laugh. “Why would he?” And you wave your wand at the cart. The books start flying through the air as you and Michael get to work.

(A couple of hours later, your sides hurt from laughing as much as you did and your friends grow steadily frustrated when you refuse to spill why you practically floated all the way up to Ravenclaw Tower. Their curiosity worsens when the First Year who’d come in with you tells them that he had to help you solve the riddle the bronze eagle guarding the entrance to the Common Room had given you.)

3. Before Winter Break

The night of the Hallowe’en Feast has changed things for you. It’s no longer rare to suddenly find someone else in whatever deserted corner of the library you happen to be inhabiting. You’ve turned it into somewhat of a game: will he find you? How long will it take him?

(Spoiler alert: yes, he’ll find you. Another spoiler: it won’t take him long.)

It still startles you however, when you suddenly find yourself being jostled out of the story you were reading. His hair’s red now and he’s got tiny little Christmas ornaments hanging from the piercings in his ears. He’s also wearing the world’s ugliest sweater and a pair of reindeer antlers are planted on his head. (It takes a lot to convince yourself that no, that wasn’t a whimper of longing and adoration fighting its way up your throat, but merely the beginning of a cold. It’s been going around the Common Room, okay?)

You wonder what Michael’s doing here; the semester is over and most people are getting ready to go home the next day to spend Christmas with their families. Shouldn’t he be spending his time wreaking havoc and causing mayhem before leaving the caretaker to deal with it? Shouldn’t he be spending time with his friends before they’re split up for three weeks?

He shrugs when you ask him. “Pretty sure I’ll find them in my kitchen first thing tomorrow, forcing my mum to make them her special pancakes she usually saves just for me.” You laugh a little at his extensive eye rolling. “Besides, I’d rather spend tonight with you…”

You flush, because Michael Clifford would rather sit with the shy Ravenclaw in an all-but-deserted library on a musty, lumpy couch than cause mischief? That’s not something one sees every day…

“You’re weird, Clifford.” You shake your head and he shrugs. He winks, too. “Also, I’m sure the caretaker will be positively heartbroken by the lack of a Christmas present…”

Michael laughs. A bit too loudly, but you’re prepared to glare at the librarian until all hell freezes over and You-Know-Who rises from the grave if she dares to shush him. A sound so joyful shouldn’t be shushed in your (honest, but totally unbiased) opinion.

“He shouldn’t worry,” Michael whispers conspiratorially. “I didn’t forget him. No use asking me; I don’t want anyone to spoil his surprise.”

You whine a little, but Michael won’t budge. He does however, advice you to stay away from the Christmas baubles in the Great Hall. (“Highly unstable,” He pretends to be offended. “Flitwick’s wand work isn’t what it used to be.”)

Your eyes widen, but you decide to not ask. If you don’t know, you can’t be blamed for it.

“What’s with the festive attire?” You’ve put your book in your bag and when you’re settled in a more comfortable position, he’s pulling at a loose thread hanging from his sweater.

“Christmas is my favorite time of year. We Cliffords go all out for it.” His cheeks turn an adorable pinkish color and you’re careful to keep the cooing sounds struggling to escape, inside. Instead you shake your head.

“You’re a walking paradox, Michael Clifford.” He moves his hand in a way that asks you to elaborate before he drops his head in your lap and closes his eyes. (You think he’s beautiful in that moment, but you’re careful to keep that dangerous thought to yourself.)

“You’re pureblooded as far as one can trace back the Clifford-family tree, yet you’re the biggest Muggles’ rights activist anyone will ever meet. You can’t make it through a single one of Professor Binns’ History of Magic lectures without falling asleep, yet you’re the only one in the whole entire year who’s ever read Hogwarts: A History. You cast spells, spells that tend to trouble Aurors when altering their appearances for undercover work, to dye your hair shocking colors. You have piercings, which by the way are an unusual thing for a wizard to have, and tattoos, yet the love of your life seems to be your almost-fully-grown cat…”

Michael sputters, interrupting you, and one green eye glares at you. “She’s just a tiny baby kitten, Y/N. I need to show her love and affection or she’ll become some roguelike creature.”

“You’ve had Voodoo for over a year, Michael.” You grin. “Face it: the kitten is gone.”

Michael grumbles and you continue. “You’re a Slytherin through and through, yet Calum and Ashton are two of your best friends and they’re both Gryffindors. You’re tough as nails and scare the shit out of all the younger students, and most of the older ones too, yet you’re practically purring in my lap right now.”

Michael smirks and nudges his head against your stomach, closely resembling a cat asking to have its head petted. (You indulge him. You can’t help it: he’s Michael Clifford. Anyone who wants to make a big deal out of it, can piss off.)

The two of you end up sitting on that musty, lumpy couch until the librarian shoos the both of you out, shaking her head at your silliness.

(For the first time in probably forever she catches herself not reprimanding a student for not being quiet in her beloved library. She sees the way you look at him and she understands.)

The loud-mouthed prankster and the shy bookworm.

The center of attention wherever he goes and the frail wallflower blooming in his rays of sunshine.

Him, the all-consuming force of nature, and you, the inevitable casualty that comes with his aftermath.

A walking paradox…

A/N: First piece of writing in months… I’m actually really insecure about it?! I liked the idea when it first came to me, but I’m not totally sold on the final result?! Please let me know if you liked it and whether or not I should bother writing the other Hogwarts!5SOS-blurb sketches I’ve got?

Tumblr be like

EXCUSE ME? I’ll have you know I identify as a genderfluid polyvoid aromantic mocha frappucino foxkin megaqueer attack helicopter swiss army knife demiboy and I’m OPPRESSED that you MISGENDERED ME YOU CIS SCUM.