The Signs as Bad Fanfiction Writers
  • Aries: turned off spellcheck and never looked back
  • Taurus: "lol fuck canon"
  • Gemini: would actually be a pretty good writer if they would stop calling characters by their hair color all the damn time
  • Cancer: can't imagine a fanfiction where they write their favorite character shagging anyone but their OC
  • Leo: three words: Throbbing Meat Wand
  • Vigro: can't describe anything without writing at least 30 fucking adjectives for the same thing in front of it
  • Libra: "Ohayo, Snape Sensei," Harry-kun said blushing, "You are looking Sugoi today, desu."
  • Scorpio: Thinks their writing is better & more mature the more times they have the characters curse at & insult each other, no matter how inappropriate (ie. Smurfs)
  • Sagittarius: "Hi my name is Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that's how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears"
  • Capricorn: has written 10 different fanfics about their most hated character dying within the past month
  • Aquarius: writes the most anatomically impossible sex you've ever seen
  • Pisces: "hi this is my first fic sorry i suck at summaries hope you enjoy"

I don’t think about Harry Potter a whole lot, typically, but today I saw a video that featured Harry wearing some cool shades and I started wondering: what if Voldemort’s killing curse had struck Harry just a little lower? What if, on the first of November, 1981, the Dursleys had discovered on the doorstep their infant nephew - not with a conspicuous jagged scar, but instead with eyes the colour of electricity? How would blind Harry Potter’s life differ from the story we already know?

The first divergences are small and predictable. On his eleventh birthday, Harry’s letter from Hogwarts is written in delicate braille and the signature of Minerva McGonagall is elegantly embossed. At the Hut-on-the-Rock, the newly-revealed wizard boy is impressed not by Hagrid’s size but by the unusual depth of his voice.

Arriving at Hogwarts, we get no description of Draco Malfoy’s appearance, but instead learn the self-important scuffing sound of his footsteps, plus the fact that Crabbe and Goyle smell of old oatmeal, too much candy, and something that reminds Harry of grumpy toads.

Instead of learning “Lumos”, our blind Harry learns spells like “Oros” - which makes books and letters whisper their contents to him in their papery voices - as well as “Divinus”, which causes his wand to hum like a tuning fork the closer it gets to the object he’s thinking of.

One very notable thing has changed, however. In this world, no-one will ever tell Harry that he has his mother’s eyes. It’s hard to tell how much this changes Harry’s story; perhaps, without Lily’s eyes to stir up such emotion, Professor Snape won’t inflict Harry with the sadistic cruelty of a jealous lover - though he still treats the Potter boy with the same distance and hostility he felt towards Harry’s father, James (this, plus the acrid fumes and addling, humid vapours of the potions classrooms, continues to make the subject one of Harry’s least favourite).

With eyes that mark him as “The Boy who Lived” he may not be able to see the reflection of his desires in the Mirror of Erised, but upon placing his hand on the mirror’s cool surface Harry’s head is filled with the murmurs of familiar and comforting voices - his uncles, grandmothers, great-aunts and second cousins - and he is taken by an overwhelming sense of belonging, of being home.

Our sighted Harry always relied on the help of his friends to overcome challenges, and this remains true through the challenges to reach the Philosopher’s Stone. Hermione will still fend off the devil’s snare and solve the potion riddle, while Ron’s command over the chess board will still get the trio through the fourth chamber. Unable to see, Harry may yet be able to capture the winged key in the third chamber; instead of chasing the key like a daring snitch-seeker, he rises cautiously on his broom into the middle of the whirling, fluttering cloud and waits patiently until his keen ears distinguish the slow and clumsy flapping of the injured old key, grabbing it cleanly out of the air as it lumbers past him.

In his second year, Harry’s blindness is if anything an advantage in the fight against the basilisk, making him immune to the serpent’s petrifying gaze as he follows the sound of Fawkes’ voice to rend it through its head. (Incidentally, the repercussions of Dobby’s meddling this year will be slightly lessened, as who could blame a blind twelve-year-old for knocking over a sugared violet pudding - although the Dursleys will try - or bumping into a wall at Central Cross station?)

Professor Trelawney’s classes in third year could only be incredibly tedious for Harry, being unable to read tea leaves or see into crystal balls. What’s more, the Divination professor makes near-constant references to “blind prophets” and “third eyes”, which Harry can’t help but feel is somewhat offensive. Hermione will be very patient with Harry when they sit down to practice their astrology readings and Harry has to ask “Where are the stars, Hermione? The stars? Is Mars in the house of Jove right now? What’s the moon doing?”

With all the talk of The Grim this year, all Harry notices is the lingering ‘shaggy dog smell’ that seems to follow him around whenever he’s outside the castle.

Will a blind boy be allowed to participate in the Triwizard Tournament? Of course he will! Wizards don’t understand ‘safety’. Our Harry may not be a confident flyer, but he still has command of the Accio charm, as well as an entire stash of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products under his bed in his dormitory. Even a Hungarian Horntail can’t see you through Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, not can it smell you once you’ve detonated a few dung bombs. After being tricked into devouring an entire case of Skiving Snackboxes, any dragon is going to feel like taking the day off.

Harry doesn’t recognise Hermione at first when she attends the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum: her improved posture changes the sound of her footsteps, and her voice has taken on a new lilt and clarity after Madam Pomfrey shrunk her teeth to undo Malfoy’s hex. Masking her characteristic smells of library books and toothpaste, she carries with her the flowery scent of the cosmetic potion she put in her hair.

Harry will be incapable of seeing thestrals, even at the start of his fifth year; after hearing the clopping of hooves from his carriage and remarking that “regular, horse-drawn transport seems rather mundane for Hogwarts”, he will be drawn into a very awkward and illuminating conversation with Luna Lovegood about the nature of death.

Umbrige will be described to us not as “toad-like”, but in terms of her voice “like an indignant budgerigar stuck in an expensive vase”. Her classroom smells strongly to Harry of talcum powder and too-sweet tea, with an undertone of vinegar and hints of nightshade.

With a fragment of Tom Riddle’s soul trapped within his eyes, Harry’s visions of Voldemort are stronger than ever, and he rushes as always to confront the Death Eaters - a group of determined friends by his side - at the Ministry of Magic.

Of course this Harry will succeed in hunting down the remaining Horcruxes and tracing the paths of the Deathly Hallows. How could he not, with his magical talents, his powerful capacity for empathy and love, and the endless help of his his allies and friends?

Coming to in a spectral representation of King’s Cross Station, Harry recoils from the whimpering fragment of Voldemort’s should before being greeted by the figure of Albus Dumbledore, whom Harry recognises from his distinguished voice - like a grand old oak tree, its branches bowed under the weight of a thousand stars. Harry’s figment of Dumbledore smells like soap and gold wire, like ink, polished wood and lemon sherbets, and very faintly of kind and humble tears. Occasional wisps of the old man’s expansive beard brush past.

Harry has the same conversation with Dumbledore about life and death, about his own plans and foils, and about Voldemort. Harry is offered the same choice: to go back to the land of the living or to board a train into the beyond. Harry still chooses to return to Voldemort’s camp in the Forbidden Forest, for the sake of his friends, whom he knows and loves by sound and smell and touch.

Harry - The Boy Who Lived - the boy with eyes like lightning, duels Voldemort without ever seeing his snake-like features or the contempt and malice in his red-ringed pupils, and defeats the dark lord just as he does in the original story, because the sum of one’s strength is more than any one sense, just like a community’s strength is greater than that of any one person. Beside the skinny boy with the dark glasses held together by Spell-o-tape stand a frizzy-haired muggle girl who has read every book, two of redhead siblings from a huge and loving family, a forgetful boy raised by grandmother, a girl who still carries around a battered pair of Spectre Specs, and countless other witches and wizards who know that love, acceptance and cooperation are the most powerful magics of all.


For most people, especially people who have been playing for years, today’s Pokémon games are extremely easy, offering little to no challenge whatsoever. If you’re anything like me, you don’t find this lack of challenge fun. So I put together a list of things you can do (most of which I personally do in my playthroughs) to make your experience with Pokémon a bit more difficult. I’m definitely not saying that you should follow all of these steps strictly or that they’ll be everyone’s thing, but they helped me get much more out of my Pokémon experience so I thought I’d share them. :) [more]

Four, three, two, fuck you

Listen up y'all, this shit is ironic

Strider’s beats are best suited to trolls hooked on phonics

Karkalicious definition makes Terezi loco
She wants to know the secrets that she can’t taste in my photo

Dyin’ just to know the flavor

I ain’t doin’ her no favors

No reasons why I tease

Her flush just comes and goes like seasons

I’m Karkalicious (so delicious)

No, I don’t do kismesis

And if you read any fanfics

All that shit is fictitious

I blow kisses (mwah!)

Don’t matter if we’re just moirails

Trolls be lining down the veil for a chance to fill a pail

(Four, three, two, fuck you)
So delicious (super sweet)

So delicious (fuckin’ adorabloodthirsty)

So delicious (even egbert wants a piece of me)

I’m Karkalicious (l-l-l-l-like candy, candy)

Karkalicious def-,

Karkalicious def-,

Karkalicious def-
Goddammit, doc scratch, stop fucking around with my mic-

Karkalicious definition makes the shippers crazy

Nepeta’s always squealin’ cutsey pet names like Karkitty

I’m the K to the A, R, K, the A, the T,

And the majority of pairings had better include me

I’m Karkalicious (so delicious)

My body stays vicious

All the highbloods feelin’ nervous ‘cuz I’m doing some fitness

Zahhak’s my witness (*whistle*)

Bet that ship curls Nepeta’s tail

And he’ll be needing all the towels ‘cuz I'mma make him sweat pails

(Four, three, two, fuck you)

So delicious (super sweet)

So delicious (fuckin’ adorabloodthirsty)

So delicious (even egbert wants a piece of me)

I’m Karkalicious
Now you nooksuckers hold the fuck up, check it out

Baby, baby, baby,

If you really want me,

Honey get some patience,

Maybe then you’ll get a taste

I’ll be tasty, tasty,

I’ll be laced with lacy,

It’s so tasty, tasty,

It’ll make you crazy

T, to the A, to the S T E Y - fuckin’ tasty
T, to the A, to the S T E Y - fuckin’ tasty

D, to the E, to the L I C I O U S
To the D, to the E, to the, to the, to the-
I’ll just spell it out for you!

All the time I turn around trolls gather round
Always sniffin’ at me, wanna guess the color of my blood

I just wanna say it now I ain’t trying to round up any drama, little fucker, I just don’t want you to know

And I guess I’m coming off as just a little insecure although I keep on repeating how the secret’s fucking awesome

But I’m tryin’ to tell, it’s a secret that I just don’t wanna tell

Terezi says I smell delicious (so delicious)

No, I don’t do kismesis

And if you read any fanfics

All that shit is fictitious

I blow kisses (mwah!)

Don’t matter if we’re just moirails

Trolls be lining down the veil for a chance to fill a pail

Four, three, two, fuck you

My body stays vicious

Zahhak’s been feeling nervous 'cuz I got down to business

Nepeta’s my witness (meow~!)

I’ll even let her first ship sail

Just watch that kitten be the first in line to fill a pail

So delicious (Eridan, see)

So delicious (you can trust me)

So delicious (I’ll help you be)

I’m Karkalicious (l-l-like candy, candy)

It’s so delicious (ay, ay, ay, ay)

So delicious (ay, ay, ay, ay)

So delicious (ay, ay, ay, ay)

I’m Karkalicious, (she says my blood is like candy, candy)

T, to the A, to the S T E Y - fuckin’ tasty
T, to the A, to the S T E Y - fuckin’ tasty

T, to the A, to the S T E Y - fuckin’ tasty
T, to the A, to the, to the, to the, to the
To the D, to the E, to the L I C I O U S
To the D, to the E, to the L I C I O U S
To the D, to the E, to the L I C I O U S
To the D, to the E, to the-
Now, wait just a motherfucking second!

Do I seriously have to spell this shit until the end of the fucking song?
I mean, whoever fucking wrote the original never had access to spellcheck I guess
Because T-A-S-T-E-Y does NOT spell “tasty.” Was this Fergie douchemuffin illiterate or something?
What do you mean human rap artists are the only ones brave enough to write their own grammatical trainwrecks and call it music!? What the fuck even is Will Smith doing?
He doesn’t throw down sick fires anymore!?
Fuck this shit, I quit.

jack and the bilingual bullshit
  • jack won’t watch a british show without french subtitles because it’s too hard to understand their accents, but he also watches foreign movies with english subtitles even though the french option is right there??? jack????
  • unclear on how his own name is pronounced. his parents don’t seem very sure either. he is afraid to ask.
  • jack hates english punctuation so much. so much. why is it always cramping his style. 
    • shitty can tell when jack’s writing a paper in English because his texts get increasingly capital-F French
      • shitty replies with “hello jack       .   when are we going to annie   ‘  s   . lardo says     << i   ‘ m hungry >>    .”
  • The Autocorrect Struggle
    • autocorrect is also cramping his style
    • marty texts to ask about the game schedule the next day and jack, being half asleep, forgets to change his language settings and replies “Devonshire entire la a 17 heiress pour lo dinner”
      • marty always replies to these texts with “thanks, jacques, that was helpful”
        • he is a jerk.
    • jack’s slowly teaching his english autocorrect to speak french; shitty claims that if you yell “hey siri - FUCK NO” when it corrects to the wrong word it’ll learn faster
      • autocorrect knows to leave tabarnak alone, because jack is a great teacher.
      • speaking of siri - why does she not understand anything jack says ever, any of the time. jack and siri Are Not Friends. they are not bros and jack does not like her.
  • absolutely refuses to watch disney movies in english. that is not the language of disney. he’s seen a whole ten minutes of the english version of the lion king; all of the voices were Wrong
  • he thinks bilingual puns are so funny!!!! he only gets say them every once in a while but they’re hilarious!!!!!!!
    • jack once called ransom, with an actual honest to god phone call, just to tell him a great pun that bitty didn’t react to strongly enough
      • (a key part of rans’ impression of jack is the phrase “i just told bitty this one but he didn’t laugh”)
  • he takes german for his language credit freshman year (shitty: HAVE YOU NOT DONE ENOUGH) and fails a test on possessives because he never learned how to use apostrophes in english and he can’t figure out how to translate plural possessives. he may be the first person to fail a german test because his english isn’t good enough.
    • just?? random gaps everywhere in his english knowledge, honestly. he can write a paper but he doesn’t know what an adverb is. he missed two spelling tests in high school because of a concussion and he still just lets spellcheck tell him how to write “occurred”
  • jack knows history vocabulary but he learned a lot of it out of books and he doesn’t actually know how to pronounce any of it in english
    • he does presentations with his Absolute Most French Accent just so everyone is really clear that he doesn’t know what he’s doing
    • has no idea about science words and won’t discuss it with anyone in english, no thank you
      • someone claims that jack once implied that petroleum comes from exploding fish bones; every time they try to ask jack about it he dodges the question and then runs away.
Writer Gothic

- You stare blankly at the page. There is nothing on it. You blink once. It is still blank. You blink again. There’s 4000 words on the page.
- You start a sentence with “The.” You get distracted looking for the right word on an online thesaurus. You go back and the word “The” has been written five times in succession, all capitalized.
- You are typing. You turn to look at the text your friend sent you. You have written the same sentence six times in a row. You sigh and write it again.
- You activate spellcheck. You’ve misspelled every word. You begin to cry, and spellcheck underlines your teers.
- You click save. You write another word. You click save. You write another word. You click save. you write another wo—
- You forget a character’s name. You open up the chapter you think you introduced them in. It’s the wrong chapter. You open up another. You cannot find their name. You swear it started with J
- You start writing at 10:00 PM. You are startled by the morning sun peeking in through your windows. You begin writing at 8:00 AM with fresh toast.
- You finally publish the next chapter of your ongoing work. You proofread it 10 times. Upon you reading the live version, you notice you put the the twice.
- You are crying onto the page. Your tears manifest as words of encouragement. Your character promises you they’ll do what you want this chapter.

The Five Stages of Grief

Arthur hasn’t gotten out of bed although he’s been awake for three hours. He heaves air through his lungs slowly, as if it was painful- but the only pain is the dull ache in his chest where his heart is supposed to be.

Francis was gone.

The realization hits Arthur as if he had run into a brick wall. Mumbles of no, no, no, fill the air. The quiet if effectively broken for just a few moments, but it settles back into silence when Arthur feels the tears sting at the corners of his eyes.

Although the mantra remained alive in Arthur’s head, he let the sound fall out because he just wanted Francis to come back. He would come back, right?

Light shines through the light off-white curtains of Arthur’s bedroom, yellow rays spilling across his bedsheets, his clothes that he hadn’t bothered to change out of last night, and his ungroomed face. The house that had so many memories, situated in the British countryside and very estate-like, seemed empty now. Weeks had passed and still Arthur felt numb, cold. Was their decades of a relationship just a fluke to the country of love?

And some country of love he is! Up and leaving like that, not leaving a trace after so long! What did he even do?! It’s not like there was anything new or changed about their relationship that might have caused him to leave, the only possible reason is that Francis Bonnefoy is a huge dick! In fact, he’s such a fucking dick that his actual dick looks like a toothpick in comparison!

How dare Francis. How dare he leave Arthur and take all his things like he was never there in the first place? Did he think that Arthur would just move on with his life, casually pick up a new partner, fuck around with a whore for a little while? Fuck no.

Arthur hasn’t gone to work in weeks. When he tries the Queen or the Prime Minister or Matthew stops him because he’s clearly not okay and honestly at this point he’s willing to do anything just to have Francis back.

To have that long, blond hair, smiling blue eyes, the skilled hands, Arthur would sell his soul. He wants what he used to have back; after all doesn’t the saying go “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone”? Well now Arthur knows and he wants back his Francis. He wants the teasing and the play fighting and the amazing sex and the actually good French food and Francis’s hands and arms and love back. He wants Francis back but for some reason God decided that he couldn’t have back the one thing that kept Arthur going these last few decades.

Another wave of sadness washes over the Brit, and he rolls over on his mattress, pulling a sheet up and over his head. Memories flash in and out of Arthur’s head and he groans. Why now, why does he always have to think about him when all Francis cared to do was leave?

Of course that didn’t help his growing depression. All that he did each day was gripe about Francis, make himself tea, try to eat something, and get back into bed. Occasionally Matthew would visit, but he had his own nation business to handle. No one has the time to deal with Arthur but he himself.

But maybe, if Francis wants to be away from him, Arthur will just have to deal with it. It’s not as if Arthur can drag Francis back to the countryside house and they’ll start living like they used to again. Francis is such a free fucking spirit.

Arthur would just have to move on after another few hundred cups of tea.

“I don’t think you belong in the mafia, Dazai-san!“ 

The boy, no, the young man tells him. Earnest sheen in his eyes even as his arms press stiffly against his sides and nervousness threatening to bend his back and shake his bones.

"I think,” Atsushi licks his lips and glances down at the concrete in a sudden wave of bashfulness, “I think that - I’m so sorry if I’m selfish, I have no right to be but - I believe your place is here." 

Atsushi takes a deep breath and Dazai do too. The sunset makes all the grey areas sparkle, and the yellow in Atsushi’s eyes as he looks up at him glows vigorously. "With us,” Atsushi finishes, attempting to stay calm. 

“With me." 

And, deep in that lonely hole inside his soul, Dazai yearns for that to be true.

this is a weird think to take comfort from but im studying overnight for my classics exam tomorrow &

it really comforts me that such prominent figures back then were, in todays terms, disabled. julius caesar had epilepsy. augustus got seriously ill very frequently to the point where it heavily factored in the events of his rule

im not going anywhere with this post it just feels goodthat it didnt require 110% abled-ness to become the most powerful person in the roman empire. makes my own goals seem a little more reachable

{{Snart has been trapped inside the speedforce, and hopes Barry can help him escape. Inspired by tonight’s episode of the Flash. It’s kind of just a sad little drabble without spellcheck, I might try something a little more fine-tuned in the morning.}}

“I thought I already dealt with you?”

“You’re fantasizing about me? How sweet,” Snart drawled, offering that familiar smirk of his. Something was off about him, though. His voice was hoarse and his clothes old, his hair was growing in awkward patches and his bright eyes were uncharacteristically dull. 

“Stop playing games. I’m done dealing with you. We’re leaving,” Barry stated, still supporting Wally’s weight. The younger man groaned his approval, but otherwise contributed nothing.

“I know you are,” Snart snapped. “I want you to take me with you. I need you to get me out of here.”

Barry’s eyes widened and he took a step forward, scrutinizing the figure in front of him. “Snart?”

“The one and only,” Snart croaked, smirking again. Barry’s face lit-up with a smile, and he helped adjust Wally so he was able to stand on his own.

“It’s really you. You’re real…” It was more of a question than a statement.

Snart nodded, “I’ve been stuck in here since I took one for the team a few months ago. I can’t get out. I have to get out.” 

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see you,” Barry grinned, crossing over to Snart. “I thought you were dead…” Barry reached out a hand, slowly placing it on Snart’s shoulder, needing to feel that he was real. He didn’t pull away from the touch. “I’ll get you out of here.”

Snart visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping as he nearly fell froward. It was then Barry saw how terrible he looked- Aside from the untidy appearance he had long, twisted scratches along the exposed skin of his arms, a bruise that had been hidden in shadow was visible this close, and it marred the left side of his face. The torn parts of his clothing were singed, as if burned. “What happened to you?” Barry’s voice was barely a whisper.

Snart’s eyes turned to his feet, “There was an explosion. I was in the middle of it.” He shrugged, then winced. “I woke up in here. I was stuck in a cycle of the same day, I was–” His voice trailed off. “It changed when you showed up. It stopped.”

Suddenly those blue eyes, even the one marred by the bruise, were starring at Barry with a look of intensity he didn’t recognize. He felt his cheeks heat at the intense way Snart starred at him, but he didn’t break his gaze. “You were the figure it took, the speedforce. The one they used to threaten me. The one that got me to spill my guts.”

“Why are you here?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we’re home.” Home. Snart smiled at the word, and followed Barry through the corridor, to where a breech was opening at the end. They spilled through, and when Snart hit the ground he did so with a grunt of pain. 

“Barry! Wally!” The team’s voices all mingled together, until one of them finally focused him. “Leonard?” Caitlin approached, and he struggled to sit-up and look at her. “Let’s get you and Wally checked out,” She smiled softly, offering a hand to help him to his feet.

Barry left the apartment with an overnight bag, his vision blurred by the tears he was trying not to shed. He was going to head straight to Cisco’s, avoid talking about it until the morning, just let himself wallow a bit overnight. However he found himself running in the direction of STAR Labs, sliding to a halt in front of his Flash costume.

He wanted to hate it, wanted to hate the rifts it had caused. But he couldn’t blame his powers. He had made the choices on his own, the speed hadn’t done it for him. He didn’t have an alter-ego like Killer Frost living in his head. He was just Barry. Barry Allen.

“Aren’t you a little young for a mid-life crisis?” 

“Snart?” Barry spun around. Snart was leaning against the doorway, his hand holding onto his waist. “You’re here?”

“Snow told me I should stick around until morning. Something about changing my bandages and resting. Better question: Why are you here?”

Barry sighed, turning away from Snart. “I don’t know. I’m not supposed to be. Iris and I are… Not in the best place right now. I guess I was hoping to avoid it for a little while. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re in luck because I don’t want to hear about it.” Barry laughed.

“You look like shit, Snart. Maybe you should lie down.”

“I’ll pass. I spent the last months of my life relieving the worst day of my life. I’d rather avoid thinking about it for a little while.”

“Oh… We could watch a movie, or something. There’s a killer flat screen in here.”

Snart quirked the brow that wasn’t covered by a thick bruise. “We’re going to pretend to be friends now?”

“We are friends. You’re just going to have to deal with it.” Barry smirked, already lowering the TV screen. Leonard ungracefully walked towards a chair, falling into it. “Now, what do you want to watch?”

“No sappy Nicolas Sparks crap.”

“And I’m assuming movies with explosions are out?” Barry smirked at Snart, who starred blankly back. “Too soon.” Barry turned his attention back to the TV screen, now lit-up with Netflix recommendations. For awhile they sat in silence, Barry occasionally looking over at Snart, who was certainly worse for wear. What the hell had that man seen inside the speedforce.