#harry potter reference

[wizardtributedauntlessmaximoff]

I got Harry Potter references. I’m not even shocked. I am obsessed with the Wizarding World.

First thing you see after you zoom in is how you die

How you dying 👀

[crushmeeren]

AMORTENTIA WITH A TWIST 𓍲𓍲

⋆ ft. gojo satoru ⋆ ⋅˚₊‧ FEM READER‧₊˚ ⋅

..⃗. master list link

Spicy cinnamon.

Mouth watering, freshly baked pastries.

Sugary and saccharine vanilla icing.

Cinnamon rolls, Satoru realizes with a start. You smell like hot out of the oven fucking cinnamon rolls when you walk in the front door, and his stomach flips, the muscles in his lower abdomen clenching.

Satoru swallows drily and he runs his mouth before his brain catches up, blurting the first thing that comes to mind.

“You smell.” He winces.

He watches as your head whips towards where’s he’s perched on the couch, eyebrow arching with a roll of your eyes as you toe off your shoes. Satoru tries to plaster on a playful smile but he knows his gaze is heated, intense.

Satoru’s voice takes on the familiar teasing lilt it always does. “Silly me! You smell good enough to eat baby. Is that a new perfume you’re wearing?”

You pad towards him, socked feet silent on the wooden flooring and the cinnamon scent so thick he can almost taste it on the back of his tongue. His grin stretches even further when you come to stop between his spread legs.

“No, it’s not technically a perfume. One of the girls at work got their hands on some sort of love potion experiment. Apparently the scent changes based on what’s important or attractive to the wearers object of affections. Someone spilled some on me and I came home early to change,” you complain, nose scrunching in irritation. “I can’t even smell anything.”

“Oh how sweet! Am I the object of your affections? Your lover? Your sweet and handsome husband?”

You cross your arms over your chest and huff through your nose. “Of course that’s all you focus on. What if it had been something dangerous?”

Satoru’s fingers curl in the edge of your shirt and tug gently, lower lip pushing out.

“But it didn’t.”

“You’re unbearable. At least tell me what I smell like to you?”

“Curious sweetheart?” He pulls at your shirt like a child asking for attention until you take the hint and straddle his lap, arms circling your waist and guiding you to lean into his chest. “Cinnamon rolls,” he says dreamily and nuzzles at your throat. His lips tickle your skin and a familiar warm lust lights up in his belly when you sigh.

“Cinnamon rolls?” You settle your elbows on his shoulders and tangle your fingers in soft, snowy white hair, scratching gently at his scalp.

“Yeah… like the ones you brought back for me after your mission last winter.”

“That’s what you’re attracted to? Cinnamon rolls?” You ask incredulously, leaning your forehead on his temple.

“I had forgotten how shitty it was to be alone,” he says softly. “When you came home, I realized just how much you fill my heart. Whenever I smell cinnamon rolls, I remember how the for the first time in years, I was truly happy.” Satoru hugs you even tighter as he confesses.

You pull back to frame his face with your hands, staring at him with what equates to literal hearts in your eyes, and Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, toes curling in his socks.

He’s certain he could melt into a puddle underneath you and his cock twitches at the thought, filling steadily out against his thigh. He grips your hips and tightens his fingers in an effort to not tear your clothes off.

Yet.

Your words are sincere and adoring when you whisper, “I love you, Satoru.”

Satoru is fucking gone.

He cradles the back of your head and wrenches you down into a bruising kiss, absolutely shameless in the way he pushes his tongue into your mouth and moans like a whore.

You even taste like sugary icing and he has the strongest urge to devour you — or let you eat him alive. He’s not sure which will win out.

All Satoru can focus on is wrestling you both out of your clothes and getting your tight, velvet like pussy to sink down on his achy cock. You cry out, sitting down a bit too eagerly and your forehead knocks into his. Satoru lets out a shaky breath and inhales even sharper as a moan tries to crawl out of his throat.

The spicy scent of cinnamon makes his mouth water and then he’s digging his fingers into the backs of your thighs and forcing you to bounce up and down on his thick cock, biceps flexing in an effort to lift you quickly and letting his hips thrust upwards to meet you.

You push Satoru into the back of the couch and follow him as he goes, bracing your palms on his sweaty chest and riding him until you’re both sent spiraling into white hot pleasure that rushes through your limbs.

Later, when you’ve gone to bed and showered off the spilled experiment, you’re curled into your husband’s chest and he softly exhales, ruffling your hair.

“Baby, you should really get your friend to give you a bottle of that love potion.”

You hum noncommittally and half heartedly punch him in the stomach, causing Satoru to wheeze in laughter.

“Or I could just bring you more cinnamon rolls, idiot.”

“That works too.”

[yourlocal-edgelord]

more batfam as shit me and my friends say part 4:

——————————

Jason: ngl voldemort could just thrown harry from a roof when he was a baby instead of using magic, skill issue tbh

Tim: Nd also like harry couldv’e just shot voldemort? Guns exist Another skill issue

——————————

Dick: Gitchee gitchee goo

Jason: wtf is that

Tim: ig it doesn't apply to me? it sounds like a thing from the olden days, like a childhood memory

Jason: it sounds like a baby word

Dick: i feel so dissapointed

Steph out of nowhere: GITCHEE GITCHEE GOO MEANS THAT I LOVE YOU~

——————————

Duke: Lowkey we could make a podcast and it would be trending bc it would be the stupidest shit anyones ever heard.

Steph: Honestly tho Podcast name? The sh¡theads

Jason: Im down

Tim: sounds cool

——————————

Tim: I dont wanna workkk

Damian: too bad you have to

Tim: I cant though your best friend keeps trying to suck my blood

Jason: Damian has friends??

Tim: 🦟

——————————

Prev - next

[koi-karpfen]

Stanford The Grey vs Mabel Potter!

Or: Ford and Mabel goofing around on their way home after inspecting the Bill statue. I mean, what else would they do, wearing witch hats and being the Fantasy fans they are? :)

[abbylikestodraw]

[forgottenl0v3r]

[seaskate]

A Darker Form of Magic (Masterlist)

Masterlist for mood boards made for my ‘A Darker Form of Magic’ series

Total canon rewrite with a Slytherin Harry Potter that has the Boy Who Lived dropping the rose colored glasses from the start, and collecting friends from all houses as he strives to surivie and flourish within the magic world as he possesses a broken sort of magic that changes things more than before. (Because Harry being a Horcrux really should have done more than give him the ability to speak Parseltongue and look into Voldermort’s mind since the other Horcruxes like the locket, dairy, and ring did) Check out the mood boards below to get an idea of the series:

Book One, Dark Affinity

Book Two, Parseltongue

Book Three, Dementors

(Fanfic Collage Masterlist)

[charliesopus]

After looking for a year I finally found the last two (for a reasonable price) and finished the set!!

They’re so gorgeous I can’t wait to display them 🤩

[tortoise-n33ds-purpose]

Mad Max 1979 + Furiosa 2024 Crossover

[liv45no]

the-movies-who-shall-not-be-named

you-know-which-movies

[leofromsomewhere]

"i'm not an owl, thalia" -grover, probably

[ask--glasses]

What’s the funniest headline you’ve ever sold?

Oouh! This one is a good one, definitely 2 months ago. There was this headline and it said, " Young Man Vomited Slugs! " ..it was stupid, but I'd say it was interesting and funny. As I was selling it I changed it into " Young Man from Brooklyn Vomits Snakes! " And I nearly sold out that day!

[qwerty-between-the-lines]

Me: I've read all the books that were written by your camp scribe, and it looks like all that stuff about Camp Half-Blood turned out to be true.

Annabeth: Well, duh. What did you think? Who would lie about being a camp scribe?

Me: For a camp full of demigods... and I suppose next it'll turn out that there really is a Hogwarts Express that leaves from King's Cross.

Piper: (shrugs) Well, possibly. I mean, who would make up details like that for no reason?

Percy: Well, if you guys are planning to take a trip to King's Cross just to see, you can count me out. I have enough demigod problems without inviting magic problems.

Me: ...so if the scribe told real events as they happened, does that mean you guys never cuss?

Percy: What the fuck are you talking about? We cuss all the time!

Leo: Yeah, watch! Bitch, damn, piss, ass, bastard...

Nico: Alright Leo. Enough with that shit!

[reneethegreatandpowerful]

Athena and Simon except Prisoner of Azkaban.

[libraryledge]

Only Human (A Suspenseful School Story)

A/N: In honor of Halloween, someone challenged me to craft a story about a character having a scary encounter with a teacher. As I was writing it, the images of Timothee Chalamet on the set of Marty Supreme came to mind because his attire reminded me of a college professor. Although my story has no relation to the film, I used the photos as inspiration for what this professor would look like. Enjoy the final piece!

Everyone was scared of him. He was the substitute professor that no one wanted to be left alone with. He filled in for teachers when they couldn't make it to class or were feeling under the weather.

He would drop in on a random Wednesday morning, and the dreaded sound of his brown loafers clinked upon the marble floor of the hallway. He always carried a black briefcase, whose contents remained a mystery. The rumor was that it housed a black list of all the students that clashed with him. Others suspected that he had dirty secrets stored within the confines of his case. There were even a few rumors were too foul to recount. Whatever the case may have been, there came the fateful day when I found myself sitting in front of him as he stormed into the classroom and slammed the dreaded briefcase onto my absent English professor's desk.

Upon first entering the room, I placed myself toward the back, where most of my peers were seated, but he wasn't having it.

“No. No. None of that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Come to the front. How do you expect to learn anything if you're hiding back there?” 

His look was unreadable, but one could only infer the pleasure that he felt by having such control over the room.

“Turn your books to page 394,”  he announced to us, with an indifferent air. “Clearly you haven't made much progress since the last time I was here, which to be fair wasn't quite long ago.”

He said this as if he was annoyed at our teacher for falling ill once more. Working at a university was a hotspot for contracting a nasty virus, so it wasn't unheard of for teachers to miss class due to illness. However, I had to agree with him that it was happening more often than not.

“So, Dr. Frankenstein. Was he a villain or a hero?” the man said, thumbing through the pages of our assigned reading book absent-mindedly.

Someone at the back of the class scoffed and replied, “How could he be a hero when he very clearly released a monstrosity upon the world?” 

Still flipping through the pages of his copy of the book, the professor looked at him over the rim of his wired glasses.

“Okay, so he's the villain then?” he prodded. The way he stared intensely at my classmate brought a chill down my spine. 

“Maybe…” the student replied, clearly stumped.

The professor's eyes roamed the classroom, looking for the next victim to call upon. Desperately not wanting to be singled out as the next target, I took the leap myself and I raised my hand.

“Yes? The young woman in the front,” he said, motioning toward me.

That was another thing about him that was so obscure. Despite being only a couple years older than us, he always referred to the students as “young man” or “young woman”, which made it seem like he lived many more lifetimes than us.

“I’d say that Dr. Frankenstein was neither a hero or a villain. He was simply a human who contributed something into the world that he could no longer control,” I said, slowly making contact with his green eyes.

The professor nodded slowly. “Alright. Can you elaborate upon that perspective?” he asked, as he thumbed through the novel. 

I took a deep breath and continued, “Well… it's like when you bring a child into the world. Yes, you’re responsible for teaching them and shaping them into a productive member of society, but you're only responsible for them to a certain extent because then they turn into individuals with minds of their own.”

I heard the sound of indifferent murmuring coming from the back of the room. I shrugged and quickly added, “I don't know, it's just my opinion.”

The professor looked at me with an unreadable expression upon his face. He looked as if he was mulling over how to respond. 

Eventually, he broke the difficult silence and said, “That's just your opinion?” he repeated.

I couldn't tell if he was mocking me or not so I nodded hesitantly.

“I have the strong belief that our thoughts are not “just opinions. Instead, they are the foundations of ourselves, but if we're too afraid to own them proudly..." he said, looking at me. “...or voice them out loud at all..."  he continued, his gaze trailed across the entire classroom towards the students who were clearly not interested in the lesson, “...then will we ever make any progress at all?” 

“Whether Dr. Frankenstein is a hero or a villain is irrelevant. What matters is how you approach your perspective of him. Humans are unique beings with individual minds and points of view, but if we're all so close-minded and afraid to be wrong, how will we ever learn?” he said as he closed the book and placed it on the desk with a sigh.

I shrunk in my seat under his gaze. Tears prickled at the brim of my eyes from the intensity.

“You both clearly have a strong perspective on the topic, but you need to own those views. Have confidence in them,” he said to the other student and I.

I heard my classmate mumble obscenities under his breath at the professor. Whether the man heard them or not was unclear. Regardless, I figured that it was best that the teacher didn't respond.

The professor sighed and took a seat behind the desk. 

“For the rest of class time, I want you all to write about why people are afraid to speak up for their opinions,” he said. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he directed the final word at me.

I slouched further into my seat in frustration just as my classmates began to protest.

“That's not fair! You can't assign us work that is not part of the curriculum!” protested a girl to my right.

“Oh, but I can if it will help you understand the material better,” he countered, his eyebrows twitching with obnoxious amusement.

Turning to face the entire class he continued, “So I suggest you begin writing. Class concludes in thirty minutes.”

A collective groan filled the classroom as I reluctantly began to write.

It wasn't fair. I was the only one who actually gave him a decent response, and he still managed to pick on me. I studied the teacher intently. With his old fashioned sweater vests and oversized blazers, it wasn't as if he was the image of perfection.

Therefore, I began to write. I wrote non-stop for the next half hour as I listened to the sound of the clock overhead, ticking down the minutes. After what seemed like an eternity, I heard the professor clap his hands intensely to gather our attention.

“Alright. I hope that by now we’ve found a response to this calamity of confidence,”  he proclaimed.

I rolled my eyes and was certain that he saw me, but he didn't acknowledge the gesture.

“I need someone to share their writing aloud with me,” he said. “Any volunteers?” Unsurprisingly, no one raised their hand.

I held back a smirk as he stared back at the class, which ironically hadn't learned from his so called lesson.

That's when I raised my hand. I'll show him, I thought.

Seeing my hand in the air, he responded with the hint of a smile as he nodded and said, “Ahhh! One Brave soul. The floor is yours.”

I stood up and began to read from my paper.

“As a society, we are afraid of being wrong. We don't want to be seen as strange for having views that are different from the rest. There are certain people who are so intimidated by others around them and are afraid of making a fool of themselves in front of them. They don’t realize that others are just as afraid as they are, but they are simply better at masking it," I said.

“For instance, like I mentioned before, I believe that Dr. Frankenstein is neither a hero or a villain. He's just a man who is afraid to face the repercussions that his ideas brought into the world. I firmly believe that. Although it might be intimidating to say this in front of an audience whom it may seem knows better than us…” I looked at the professor dead in the eyes as I read this part. 

“...this is clearly more than “just my opinion”. It showcases my views of how humans are more than right or wrong. We’re nuanced, and no one is exempt from learning from their experiences,” I concluded.

The professor began to clap slowly. “Impressive,” he said. “Glad to know at least one person took something away from today's exercise.”

The clock struck the top of the hour, and everyone was anxious to get out of the classroom, which was evident by the rustling of backpacks and shuffling the feet.

“Okay. I know you are all in a hurry to leave, but don't forget to finish the reading tonight. Your professor will know if you don't,” he said.

I picked up my copy of Frankenstein and stuffed it into my bag. I was in a hurry to get out of that classroom. I did not want to spend another moment with that obnoxious professor.

Just as I got out of my seat and headed toward the door, I heard a voice call out to me.

“Uh…miss?”

It was the professor.  I grimaced internally. Couldn't he give me a break? I turned to face him with a blank look upon my face, and he motioned for me to come closer. My classmates exchanged weird looks amongst themselves over his sudden action. 

“Good luck!" one of them whispered sarcastically in my ear, as he headed out the door.

I ignored him and walked towards the teacher. 

“Yes?” I asked, with an arched eyebrow, uncertain of how to respond to the summoning.

“I want to thank you for your honesty today. I really appreciate when students take the lesson to heart,” he said sincerely.

“You're welcome. I only spoke what I felt was my truth,”  I replied with a shrug. I observed him anxiously, uncertain of his ulterior motive for calling on me.

“That's important,” he said, with a nod.  At this point, we were the only two people in the classroom.

“I know you and your peers must hate me for being so uptight all the time,” he said as he gave me a wry smile. “I don't blame you because believe it or not, I'm only a few years older than you all, and I've had my fair share of professors that I’ve butted heads with.”

I stared at him, contemplating how to respond.

“Then why pick on us? On me? I'm the only one who bothered to respond to your lecture properly, and you still humiliated me!” I exclaimed.

 A look of guilt crossed his face. “I'm sorry that you felt that way. I'll admit that sometimes I take it too far, but it's only because I see potential in students.”

I was surprised by his apology. I'd never seen him so… Dare I say human?

“I've overseen many classes of students, and it's always the same. They're consumed by the fear of being incorrect and don’t speak up for themselves. I see that in you, and that's why I wanted you to gain confidence in your views,” he continued.

“You're right. Most people are simply better at masking their fears from others. Ironically, I preach about self-assurance as a manner of coping with my own fears,”  he said, as he adjusted his glasses upon the arch of his nose.

“What do you mean?” I questioned, almost incredulously, at this man who I found it difficult to believe was intimidated by anything.

“Something most students don't stop and think about is perhaps how anxious professors are. All those eyes staring at them, lessons to prepare for, and the constant judgment from fellow staff members, especially when someone is at the beginning of their career. Perhaps students may not see it this way but instructing them in the power of courage and confidence not only helps them, but it gives me a purpose as well,” the professor replied with a shrug. “Kind of strange, huh?” 

I'd never witnessed the professor be so honest and vulnerable. In a way it was quite touching to see him be so truthful with me.

“I guess it's not so strange," I admitted. “Going back to my opinion on Frankenstein,”  I said, emphasizing the word “opinion” which prompted a smile from him. “We're all just people learning from our experiences. Sure things can be scary, but not everything or everyone is what meets the eye.”

The professor chuckled, and that was the first time I'd ever heard him release such a genuine laugh, which in turn made me smile.

“Well, I don't want to keep you any longer. I appreciate our little chat,” he said as he began to pack up for the day.

He opened the famed black briefcase, and I held my breath at the realization that I would finally be able to see what was inside.  As he did so, a glob of something sticky spilled onto the counter.

At first I was surprised, but then chuckled as I realized what it was: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

The professor rolled his eyes with a slightly abashed smile and said, “I guess you know my secret now. This briefcase is just what I use to store my lunch in. It makes it less of an easy target for prankster students. Trust me. I'm not going back to the days of having my sandwiches stolen.”

I chuckled. As we stood there in comfortable silence for a moment, I couldn't help thinking how I misjudged him. Here he was teaching us about the power of self-worth where he was struggling to get by himself. He had a tough love way of teaching and building us up, but his heart was in the right place. Deep down, the professor was just one of us. Not good or bad. Only human. This was one belief that I would stand my ground on because that was nothing to be afraid of.

[racheldoinstuff]

We can only accept spiders whose legs number eight. You will appreciate that otherwise it would be impossible for members to be classified as arachnids. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, you are now an insect.

Poor little Trichonephila clavata.