"what's the next big fic we're readi-" do you know fun and whimsy? do you know what it's like to randomly scroll ao3 and find a masterpiece with 50 hits? do you know joy? light? freedom?
Hey Gwen! I can't help but notice that you were looking for some handy manuals and guides for your new job and there just so happens to be a library full of books for that specific need! It's called the library of Jurgen Leit- [I am shot several times]
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
i've started reading tvl and no amount of posts telling me there's a "huge tonal shift" could have prepared me for this HUGE TONAL SHIFT this is the funniest fucking thing i've ever read it genuinely goes like:
louis, narrator of iwtv: as i wandered the streets of paris, i wished most of all for death. i had called to god, to satan, anyone, to find meaning in it all. but for an evil creature such as myself there is no place in this world. there can be no love where this evil lies. it was as though a veil separated me from all that could be good and righteous. i did not deserve to love and be loved in return, not by claudia, lestat, armand. to attempt it would be a sisyphean task, a fools tale. and yet...... the need for hole from armand was so great. greater was only the need for........ living human blood.
lestat, narrator of tvl: hey guys, my name is lestat, you may know me because i'm really hot and sexy. english isn't my first language so sorry if i make any mistakes!! okay here's my story: after rotting beneath the earth for decades, my hot and sexy body has finally risen from the ground. i used to be depressed, but now i'm slutting it up again in the 20th century! first thing i did was get some (hot and sexy) new clothes and then wore them while riding my (hot and sexy) motorcycle and listening to bach on my sony walkman. while i was watching this super niche indie film (you've probably not heard of it) "apocalypse now" i realized that i'm so evil that i shouldn't exist. but then i realized what could make me deserve to live on this planet: rock n roll music.
My name is Mahmoud, and I'm a 17-year-old from Gaza. The ongoing war has devastated my city, destroyed my school, and made daily life incredibly challenging.
Despite these hardships, I'm determined to continue my education and build a better future. I've been given a chance to study abroad, but I need help to cover the costs of leaving Gaza, as well as living expenses and other essentials abroad once the crossing opens.. 🙏
If you can, please consider donating or sharing, your kindness can truly make a difference, and thanks for your time. ❤🍉
https://gofund.me/bd3ccf0b 🔗
Happy to share!!! 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸
(the gofundme link)(I think that makes it easier to click on idk)
have read HEAPS so here's some hcs about marauders characters and books
lily loved whimsical, comforting books like anne of green gables (she read the whole series), heidi, and the secret garden. she also enjoyed reading more magical books like howl's moving castle, alice's adventures in wonderland and the borrowers
marlene obsessively tore through series' like a series of unfortunate events. she also really likes sci fi, reading books like cakes in space when she was little and then progressing to things like the wayfarer trilogy and inscape when she was older.
james loved high fantasy like dragon riders of pern, the hobbit and lotr. he really likes dune. (he also secretly enjoys trashy romance novels)
mary particularly likes to read murder mysteries and crime fiction. when she was younger she read every single roal dahl book. as well, she loves reading non fiction biographies of interesting people's lives
peter read all of the enid blyton books when he was younger (reread the secret seven books more times than he can count) he doesn't read so much now, but his favourite author is agatha christie and he loves to read all her books. more regularly he prefers doing crossword puzzles
sirius was forced to read classic literature as a child and was tutored in ancient greek and latin, and although now hating most of the classics because of this he does have a soft spot for dickens. now he prefers to read short, really strange classic dystopian novels like farenheit 451, a clockwork orange, a brave new world and slaughterhouse five
remus. remus would read anything he could get his hands on when he was younger, and he just loved, and still loves, to read. he does like to read classic literature, and enjoys all the books that sirius hates. some favourites are jane austin and the brontë sisters
The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.
The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger.
“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?”
Mary didn’t mind.
“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”
Mary had not.
“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”
The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.
…
The next thing she forgot was her own hands, glowing with the light of a thousand suns. She forgot the letter that came on her birthday and the man who came with it, tall and silver and kind when he told her she was magic. She forgot the feeling of a wand in her hand, the control, the certainty it gave her, something inside her slotting into place without ever having realised it was missing at all.
Ah, yes, she forgot thinking, when the man took out his own and conjured her mother a rose. Now everything is finally right.
She forgot how it felt when she heard that Word for the very first time and she realised she’d been so very wrong.
…
Mary forgot that the voice belonged to a girl. A girl with long, soft, pressed-copper hair, hair that smelled like vanilla and apples and sunshine.
She forgot how she sounded when she laughed.
“Sunshine isn’t a smell, Mary—but thank you all the same.”
Mary disagreed. Sunshine was her favourite smell.
She forgot how the girl looked with her sleeves rolled up and her wand in her plait, hands stained red-yellow-green by berries and powders and potions, eyes blazing in triumph when the man with the walrus moustache told her she was clever. Mary wondered how he did it—how he made her light up like that, and how she could do it, too.
She forgot late nights in the dorm and afternoons in the library, painting nails and proofreading essays. The girl would look at her Potions and Mary would look at her Charms, and they’d roll their eyes when boys with silly names and big mouths sent them cards and curses and called them pretty.
“You’re all I need, Mary. Romance is reductive, and they’re all arrogant prats with frogs for brains.”
Mary wished it was true.
But then she forgot glasses and messy hair, and battles won with wands and broomsticks and words, and watching her watching him when she thought no one was looking. She forgot being sixteen and feeling something change around her. She forgot feeling like she should change, too. She forgot crying when she couldn’t.
…
She forgot the star.
She forgot his black curls and his silver eyes, and his face, pretty like a girl’s. She forgot holding his hand and pretending it was hers. She forgot how he made her listen to Bowie and she made him listen to ABBA, and how they laughed and cried and fought and made up and never, ever kissed.
She forgot sitting by the fire in a crowded common room, not reading, not talking. He looked at him and she looked at her and neither of them looked at each other.
And she forgot that the reason they’d always worked so well was that really, they’d never worked at all.
…
She forgot the castle in winter, the way the ice hung off the stone like a diamond necklace, the way the white made the blue swallow you whole.
“Here we are, Mary!” said the girl. “Our very last Sluggy Christmas! What are you wearing? Did you decide yet?”
Mary hadn’t, but she was leaning towards the pink with the lace.
“Oh, good,” said the girl. “That one’s my favourite.”
Mary’s favourite was the emerald silk.
“Yes,” said the girl. “I was thinking that, too—it matches my eyes, doesn’t it?”
Mary wondered if the girl was sad. She’d just broken up with the latest boy, and it was the first time she’d be going alone. Mary didn’t have a partner, either. She wondered if she might like to go together.
Just so they wouldn’t be lonely.
Just as friends.
Just once.
“Oh—er, sorry, Mary,” said the girl. “But I’m not going alone.”
Mary didn’t want to ask. But she did.
“Potter,” said the girl. “James Potter.”
…
She forgot the words to Lady Stardust. Cherry Bomb. Jolene, Lola, and Nina, Pretty Ballerina. She forgot the Blitzkrieg Bop and the Crocodile Rock, and she forgot dancing in the tower and the flat and the cottage, arms around a boy or a girl or a stranger or the air above her head, dancing just to move, dancing to remember. Dancing to forget.
…
The forgetting came quicker after that.
She forgot the war. She forgot the secrets and the lies they told themselves to get through the day, the lies that tore them apart from the inside out and the ones that put them back together. She forgot killing and torture and running and waking from nightmares to find herself in hell.
She forgot the dead. She forgot the traitors and the cowards and the black, festering hole in her chest where her heart used to be.
She forgot the girl with Healing hands. She forgot her yellow hair, her whip-crack wit, her soft, warm hugs. She forgot the girl who loved her, the crusader with a chip on her shoulder, and she forgot how they died exactly one month apart, how the streets ran scarlet in the August heat.
She forgot the boy with kindness in his voice and fear in his eyes, the boy who died and the finger they buried. She forgot the snake in lion’s clothing who killed him and the scarred, broken shell of a man he’d lied about loving and left behind.
She forgot Halloween.
…
She forgot standing alone in a churchyard, carving words on a slab of white marble. She forgot a familiar face, a form in the corner of her eye, and she forgot the words she yelled at him as he tried to explain.
“I loved—”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Snivellus.”
…
The last thing she forgot was a road called Privet Drive, and a neat little house filled with secrets and pain and a crying boy with eyes she’d spent ten long, beautiful years loving so much it almost hurt to look.
She forgot the feeling of night air on her face, cold and sharp, turning her tears to ice. She forgot knocking on the door, and the face Petunia Evans made when she pulled out her wand and froze her where she stood. She forgot the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and how she didn’t need to say a word before it burst into a shower of sparkling stars. She forgot holding Harry in her arms, and looking back to see a fat, blond baby bawling on the living room floor, and wondering just for a moment whether she ought to take him, too.
She forgot walking, then running, cradling a soft black head to her chest, too afraid to Apparate with such a fragile thing. She forgot the rage in her throat, on her tongue, when she saw the tall, slim man in silver robes, blocking her path.
He was there to take him away. He was there to take away her Harry, her godson, just like he took away her Lily. He threw her life away like it was nothing, nothing, nothing, when to Mary it was everything.
“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t send him back there, you can’t make me leave him.”
Of course he could.
“You won’t,” she said. “You won’t let them hurt him, you won’t close your eyes.”
Of course he would.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong if you think this is good. You’re wrong if you think there’s no choice.”
His name is Moss and he's a knight who did bad things while he was alive and was cursed by the faeries after his death. Now he's a servant of the fey who uses his fighting skills to protect the weak magical creatures of the woods 🌿
He likes to sit on rocks for a long time and walk slowly around the forest dragging his weapon on the ground. Most birds think that he's some kind of statue and of course he's a nicer person now 🌱
The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.
The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger.
“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?”
Mary didn’t mind.
“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”
Mary had not.
“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”
The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.
…
The next thing she forgot was her own hands, glowing with the light of a thousand suns. She forgot the letter that came on her birthday and the man who came with it, tall and silver and kind when he told her she was magic. She forgot the feeling of a wand in her hand, the control, the certainty it gave her, something inside her slotting into place without ever having realised it was missing at all.
Ah, yes, she forgot thinking, when the man took out his own and conjured her mother a rose. Now everything is finally right.
She forgot how it felt when she heard that Word for the very first time and she realised she’d been so very wrong.
…
Mary forgot that the voice belonged to a girl. A girl with long, soft, pressed-copper hair, hair that smelled like vanilla and apples and sunshine.
She forgot how she sounded when she laughed.
“Sunshine isn’t a smell, Mary—but thank you all the same.”
Mary disagreed. Sunshine was her favourite smell.
She forgot how the girl looked with her sleeves rolled up and her wand in her plait, hands stained red-yellow-green by berries and powders and potions, eyes blazing in triumph when the man with the walrus moustache told her she was clever. Mary wondered how he did it—how he made her light up like that, and how she could do it, too.
She forgot late nights in the dorm and afternoons in the library, painting nails and proofreading essays. The girl would look at her Potions and Mary would look at her Charms, and they’d roll their eyes when boys with silly names and big mouths sent them cards and curses and called them pretty.
“You’re all I need, Mary. Romance is reductive, and they’re all arrogant prats with frogs for brains.”
Mary wished it was true.
But then she forgot glasses and messy hair, and battles won with wands and broomsticks and words, and watching her watching him when she thought no one was looking. She forgot being sixteen and feeling something change around her. She forgot feeling like she should change, too. She forgot crying when she couldn’t.
…
She forgot the star.
She forgot his black curls and his silver eyes, and his face, pretty like a girl’s. She forgot holding his hand and pretending it was hers. She forgot how he made her listen to Bowie and she made him listen to ABBA, and how they laughed and cried and fought and made up and never, ever kissed.
She forgot sitting by the fire in a crowded common room, not reading, not talking. He looked at him and she looked at her and neither of them looked at each other.
And she forgot that the reason they’d always worked so well was that really, they’d never worked at all.
…
She forgot the castle in winter, the way the ice hung off the stone like a diamond necklace, the way the white made the blue swallow you whole.
“Here we are, Mary!” said the girl. “Our very last Sluggy Christmas! What are you wearing? Did you decide yet?”
Mary hadn’t, but she was leaning towards the pink with the lace.
“Oh, good,” said the girl. “That one’s my favourite.”
Mary’s favourite was the emerald silk.
“Yes,” said the girl. “I was thinking that, too—it matches my eyes, doesn’t it?”
Mary wondered if the girl was sad. She’d just broken up with the latest boy, and it was the first time she’d be going alone. Mary didn’t have a partner, either. She wondered if she might like to go together.
Just so they wouldn’t be lonely.
Just as friends.
Just once.
“Oh—er, sorry, Mary,” said the girl. “But I’m not going alone.”
Mary didn’t want to ask. But she did.
“Potter,” said the girl. “James Potter.”
…
She forgot the words to Lady Stardust. Cherry Bomb. Jolene, Lola, and Nina, Pretty Ballerina. She forgot the Blitzkrieg Bop and the Crocodile Rock, and she forgot dancing in the tower and the flat and the cottage, arms around a boy or a girl or a stranger or the air above her head, dancing just to move, dancing to remember. Dancing to forget.
…
The forgetting came quicker after that.
She forgot the war. She forgot the secrets and the lies they told themselves to get through the day, the lies that tore them apart from the inside out and the ones that put them back together. She forgot killing and torture and running and waking from nightmares to find herself in hell.
She forgot the dead. She forgot the traitors and the cowards and the black, festering hole in her chest where her heart used to be.
She forgot the girl with Healing hands. She forgot her yellow hair, her whip-crack wit, her soft, warm hugs. She forgot the girl who loved her, the crusader with a chip on her shoulder, and she forgot how they died exactly one month apart, how the streets ran scarlet in the August heat.
She forgot the boy with kindness in his voice and fear in his eyes, the boy who died and the finger they buried. She forgot the snake in lion’s clothing who killed him and the scarred, broken shell of a man he’d lied about loving and left behind.
She forgot Halloween.
…
She forgot standing alone in a churchyard, carving words on a slab of white marble. She forgot a familiar face, a form in the corner of her eye, and she forgot the words she yelled at him as he tried to explain.
“I loved—”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Snivellus.”
…
The last thing she forgot was a road called Privet Drive, and a neat little house filled with secrets and pain and a crying boy with eyes she’d spent ten long, beautiful years loving so much it almost hurt to look.
She forgot the feeling of night air on her face, cold and sharp, turning her tears to ice. She forgot knocking on the door, and the face Petunia Evans made when she pulled out her wand and froze her where she stood. She forgot the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and how she didn’t need to say a word before it burst into a shower of sparkling stars. She forgot holding Harry in her arms, and looking back to see a fat, blond baby bawling on the living room floor, and wondering just for a moment whether she ought to take him, too.
She forgot walking, then running, cradling a soft black head to her chest, too afraid to Apparate with such a fragile thing. She forgot the rage in her throat, on her tongue, when she saw the tall, slim man in silver robes, blocking her path.
He was there to take him away. He was there to take away her Harry, her godson, just like he took away her Lily. He threw her life away like it was nothing, nothing, nothing, when to Mary it was everything.
“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t send him back there, you can’t make me leave him.”
Of course he could.
“You won’t,” she said. “You won’t let them hurt him, you won’t close your eyes.”
Of course he would.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong if you think this is good. You’re wrong if you think there’s no choice.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Been feeling vampire-y again now that it's spooky season, so I thought I would do some promo for one of my favourite fics ever, which is criminally under-kudosed on ao3. Wolfstar dealing with the vampire-ing of Sirius, set in a canon-adjacent au (as opposed to a more removed vampire au like disintegration) during the war (and it actually ends up being a fix-it fic too!). Super super super well-written, one of those fics that makes me rage internally against ao3's 1-kudos policy. Go check it out!!! (And leave the author some kudos if you like it!!!! Do it for me bc I can't lol)
areudirty
stormborns
gummygunk
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
