Do You Sometimes Read A Fic Writer’s Work, And Just… Thank All The Gods This Person Managed To Get

Every time I wrote your name, I lied. Every time I wrote your name, it was the truth.

1.Clarice Lispector | 2.Nickie Zimov | 3.Warsan Shire | 4.Pablo Neruda | 5.Madeline Miller | 6.Nickie Zimov | 7.Madeline Miller | 8.Vincent van Gogh | 9.James Joyce | 10.Nick Lantz | 11.Ocean Vuong | 12.Nickie Zimov | 13.Richard Brautigan | 14.Keaton St. James 

Kurt Vonnegut wrote: “When I was 15, I spent a month working on an archeological dig. I was talking to one of the archeologists one day during our lunch break and he asked those kinds of “getting to know you” questions you ask young people: Do you play sports? What’s your favorite subject? And I told him, no I don’t play any sports. I do theater, I’m in choir, I play the violin and piano, I used to take art classes.

And he went WOW. That’s amazing! And I said, “Oh no, but I’m not any good at ANY of them.”

And he said something then that I will never forget and which absolutely blew my mind because no one had ever said anything like it to me before: “I don’t think being good at things is the point of doing them. I think you’ve got all these wonderful experiences with different skills, and that all teaches you things and makes you an interesting person, no matter how well you do them.”

And that honestly changed my life. Because I went from a failure, someone who hadn’t been talented enough at anything to excel, to someone who did things because I enjoyed them. I had been raised in such an achievement-oriented environment, so inundated with the myth of Talent, that I thought it was only worth doing things if you could “Win” at them.”

I think sending someone to kill the other is their way of giving gifts, and killing the person sent their way is the gift. 

“I’d say this makes us even. I sent someone to kill you… you sent someone to kill me. Even-Steven.”

“Consider it an act of reciprocity.”

---

Literally cannot emphasize enough that my #1 writing advice is to stop being afraid. Stop being afraid of sounding too cringe, or too stupid, or too horrifying, or too horny, or too weird, or too much, or too little, or too you. You need to put your entire pussy into your art. Sure, it won't be to everyone's tastes, but if you keep yourself to the blandest tamest safest roads possible you will be of no one's tastes, not even yours.

HEY THIS IS IMPORTANT whats your favorite place to find drawing references?

Soukoku is probably the only ship that gives me immense happiness and pain at the same time.

This snippet will plague me for weeks on end! arrghhhh!!

“Your wands, if you please,” the worker said, motioning towards it.

Without pause, and to Harry’s great shock, Malfoy pulled out his wand. He slipped it into one of the open holes in the wall without question, then tied the bag shut.

“Mokeskin containers,” he explained to Harry, who was surely watching Malfoy surrender his wand unquestionably in utter shock.

“Mokeskin…?”

“Of course. It’s a standard policy at places like this—the decent ones, anyway. Mokeskin makes it so no one but the rightful owner of the wand can retrieve it.”

Harry took a moment to consider that. Really, he thought, it was quite genius. Having a bunch of wizards getting drunk in a public space did seem like a recipe for disaster, and making it so that they all had to keep their wands out of reach was an excellent way to mitigate any potential damage. Mokeskin was probably the only foolproof way to ensure that the owners of the wands would not have them stolen.

It also must have been bloody expensive too, Harry thought. He knew the mokeskin bag that Hagrid had once gotten him was far from cheap.

Unwittingly, Harry recalled the last time he had seen that bag. When Voldemort had forced him to open it, to reveal all his most precious items…

Maybe I have an affection for broken and damaged things.

…before vanishing them all, forever.

“It’s perfectly safe,” the worker said, drawing Harry’s focus back to the present. “At Cloak and Laurel we take the utmost pride in making sure that all of our—”

“Just take us in,” Malfoy interrupted in a drawl. The worker gave Harry a questioning a look, but didn’t seem to want to argue with Malfoy or ask anything of Harry at all. He eventually nodded stiffly, then opened the door for them to go in. Evocative, jazzy music met their ears, and Harry could see more faerie lights illuminating a much larger space.

Harry swallowed hard. Malfoy didn’t think he had a wand, that was perfectly clear. Harry was perfectly content to let him—and everyone who worked here—think that. He took a deep breath and followed Malfoy into Cloak and Laurel.

The second he stepped over the threshold, the doorway lit up in blue.

Malfoy whipped around, his confused, pale face glowing blue from the now glowing doorway. His magic become bright and frazzled, as did that of the worker’s.

“S-so sorry, sir,” the worker said. “But I must ask that you stow your wand at the front like Mr. Malfoy did. It’s for the protection of all of our clients…”

Harry tensed. He really didn’t want to give away that he had a wand at all, let alone the Dark Lord’s wand…

Malfoy stared at him with his brows raised but said nothing. Harry, not seeing a way around it, slowly reached into his pocket. He reluctantly withdrew the yew wand.

I get asked a lot for tips with coloring black people, so i put together a little tutorial! (and bumps my kofi if you found this helpful)

The Fates (Maleficent AU)

"M–my Lord," a rat-faced man speaks, knees sinking to the floor. "I know where he is, I know where Harry Potter is."

The Lord on his throne laughs. A cold, hollow sound that could shake the fear out of the ground.

"It would seem," Voldemort smiles, "the Fates are on my side."

(As the Lord sits and prowls on his glory of grandeur, above the clouds, the Fates snicker with shaking heads for they are not, in fact, on his side)

They have done well to hide his location.

Kept in the deepest, most dangerous parts of the woods. Secured under a barrier of protective magic. It takes a while for Voldemort to pierce through the wall. That fool, Dumbledore did his homework.

Slowly, he lurks closer to the crib. He is disgusted to find the thing already staring at him.

With big eyes that shone the type of innocence only seen by youths, this thing, his would-be destroyer, looks nothing more than a common baby with an oversized head. Offended, he is, that the majority of townsfolk considers this to be their ungodly savior.

Either way, Voldemort would gladly crush their hopes once he encloses his claws around his neck and squeezes.

His oversized head tilts to the side, curiously staring at the face of his soon-to-be killer.

Then, softly, he smiles. A wide grin displaying multiple gaps and small teeth that has yet to mature.

The oversized thing raises a hand, fingers dwindling in a silent plea to come closer. Amused by the request, Voldemort reaches out a hand of his own.

His palm and fingers are significantly longer, both in length and width, dwarfing the oversized thing's own hand. With this, he could easily crush his wrist, and finally be rid of this thing.

"A–are you going to kill him yet my lord?" the rat asks, and for a blissful minute there, Voldemort nearly forgets his existence

He looks back at the oversized thing. His would-be killer. Then smiles wickedly, "Not yet."

(Voldemort is curious—

What would the boy become? Does the prophecy hold any relevance? Is this boy just an oversized thing with an oversized head and oversized eyes?

To not be careless, he'd send Barty watch over the boy. In case the prophecy indeed holds some truth.

Perhaps some day he'd visit that cottage himself)

"My Lord," his servant bows his head. "I have returned, and came to report you per usual."

"Speak, Barty."

"Harry Potter will be turning eight next week. He does his morning routine as follows; fetching water on a well, baking or tidying the garden, rolling down grassy hills, speaking to faeries and sometimes disregarding his godfathers' warnings or commands." He clears his throat. "He is a curious boy, indeed. It seems he has no knowledge of what lurks outside the barrier, and I believe, some day, he would be killed by wild beasts lurking on those murky woods if he ever tries to indulge on his curiosity."

Of course. A sigh almost escapes Voldemort's lips. Every year, as he grows, his young would-be destroyer becomes bolder and braver and perhaps losing braincells along the way. "Keep an eye out. That boy would die and seal his own fate before I could."

"My Lord, do you mean I simply observe... Or do I find a way to stop it?"

"Let no harm come to him. He must not perish." Not yet.

Many years

come to

a pass,

Voldemort decides to visit.

"How old is he?"

"Eleven, my Lord."

Voldemort hums.

That oversized thing— is not oversized anymore. His head shrunk, his eyes no longer overtaking most of the space on his face, and the child-like innocence he's come to notice before is mostly gone.

He's taller now. The softer lines of his face disappears, emerging harsher features that showed his maturity.

"Is this a normal occurrence?" Voldemort asks, frowning at the obscured sight of a raven-haired boy sleeping beneath the thick, long grasses.

"Yes." Barty presses his mouth, biting an amused snort. "He usually sleeps here in this time of day. The friendlier creatures has deemed him Sleeping Beauty because of it."

"Hm."

(The boy slumbers, plays, runs and laughs. Unbeknownst to a crow and a Lord watching him beneath the shadows.)

Unbeknownst to a Lord who has taken too much interest in a way this boy smiles)

The boy left the barrier.

Voldemort seethes through his gritted fangs. Perhaps he'd finally get rid of his misfortunes and end him. One less stupid thing in this world filled of stupid things.

He encounters a galavanting grey-hound wolf, and decides to threaten question him.

"Where is he?"

The hound whines from his wrenching grip around its hairy neck. Voldemort has no time for this, for all he knows, that boy could be slaughtered and his organs are left dangling somewhere in the trees.

He tears through the hound's mind, ignoring its cry of protest, and peers into his earlier memories.

In his search, he finds a glimpse of memory, a boy going inside a house built in saccharine sweets, fooled by its false illusion of secutiy, and there, he is invited inside by a kind-looking witch.

That same witch, from what Voldemort knows, has a penchant for green-eyed boys who smelled of summer breeze and freshly rolled grass.

He growls.

Voldemort arrives right in the moment that the witch is ready to stew herself a next meal, pushing a white-stricken Harry Potter into her blazing oven.

Behind her, she is unaware of the hellfire she brought on herself.

(I knew it, was the first words that left the boy's mouth once the gag on his mouth is released.

Knew what?

You're real, he breathes out, disbelief. The faeries warned me that a stranger watches me in secret. I had my suspicion... I remembered red eyes staring at me when I was a baby and for a while, I thought it was simply a weird dream. Was that you?

Yes.

You're real.

I am.

They stare. And the boy visibly swallows. What's your name?

I'm not sure you want to know.

He laughs like the hum of summer breeze. Why wouldn't I want to know the name of my protector?

When Voldemort provides no reply, the boy frowns. Oh. You really won't tell me? Fine, I'll just call you Fairy Godmother, that's what I call you to the faeries anyways.

Cheeky boy.

Fine, he says in final.)

"I was wondering when you'll appear again."

"I was unaware that you were waiting for me at all."

"It's my birthday," he says. "Is that why you came? Have you returned to me with a gift?"

Yes. "No, of course not."

Harry sits on his bed, legs crossed against the other. The snores of his godfathers hum behind thin, cracking walls. If Harry would scream, his guardians would wake instantly.

But Voldemort could easily lure Harry outside, far away where no one could hear him at all. He'd believe anything, this naive, stupid thing.

Harry blinks, moon-lit glasses glinting behind glittering green eyes. "Fairy Godmother?"

Voldemort scowls. "You insist on calling me that? I am neither a fairy nor a mother."

His lips quirk into a sly smirk. "I wouldn't have to if you simply gave me your name."

With a sudden prickle of annoyance, his hand itches to—

Hold him?

Kill him?

Is there a difference?

He ignores this feeling.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

Already. Voldemort observes Harry and finds the image of a stupid, oversized thing inside balled up blanket too distant. "Come."

"Where are we going?" Harry whispers, hastily following Voldemort out the front door, and only then does he notice how the boy walks barefoot, wearing nothing more than a billowing sleeping dress made of white cotton, his tanned legs underneath seemingly wore nothing.

When cold late morning wind blows, Harry shivers. Voldemort refrains to mention it. He continues to dash forward as Harry struggles to follow along his longer strides.

At some point, they reach the end of the barrier. Harry freezes.

"...will it be alright?"

"You doubt yourself now? This is not the first time you stepped out of boundary."

"Yeah, but that was before! I'm not stupid to risk it again. Who knows what's in there at this time of day..."

"I'm here," Voldemort claims. "No creature would dare cross us."

"And you're so sure of this because...?"

"I just am," Voldemort responds coolly. "Unless you want to go back—"

"No!" the boy cuts in. "Fine. I'll come with you."

How remarkably easy that Voldemort nearly laughs.

("Is that...?"

Voldemort watches Harry gape, stunned. His moon-lit glasses glinting behind star-struck eyes. "Indeed. It's a unicorn."

Harry laughs, and Voldemort steps back when the creature of light threads closer to the boy. Watching the young thing with intelligent eyes. Its head bows, and Harry's jaw hinges free. Then with a shaky hand, touches its forehead, his hand engulfing through pure, vivid brightness.

Harry looks to his side. Grinning at him with all of his teeth present.)

"Will you come back?"

Without hesitation, he responds, "No."

"But you will, right?" Harry says, ignoring what his first reply. "You've been watching me for a long time. I know that crow who spies on me at a basis somehow involves you, I've been seeing it since I was a baby. Now, I can see you."

"Listen here, brat." He points a claw on the sharp edge of his jaw, an inch away from piercing the skin. "I have other matters to attend, more important than playing tea party with a kid like you."

Harry remains motionless. Then, softly, adds with a cheeky smile, "...but you will, right?"

Voldemort Apparates.

(Every time he comes back, he thinks this time, I'll kill him this time.

Only to come back to his castle, annoyed at this boy who easily slept on his presence, who's moon-glasses hid the starlight of his eyes, who's scent of summer wind and sunlight follows him everywhere.

It repeats the next year.

Then the next.

And the next—)

How old is he? Somehow, Voldemort always forget. And each time, he asks—

"Fifteen. He's turning sixteen tonight," Barty answers. Staring at him intently. "Will this be the year, my Lord?"

The crow-animagus looks at him in question, withholding his breathes as if praying for something.

Voldemort knows Barty, throughout the years of being the boy's observer, has grown weak for him.

"We shall see."

Barty isn't pleased at the vague response, but he smartly keeps it to himself.

( Harry brightens at the sight of Voldemort. "You're here," he says, a little shyly. "You said something about a party?"

"I did." Voldemort's scarlet eyes slides at the boy's form. "You're wearing that?"

"What?" Harry pouts. "Is there something wrong with it?"

It isn't, but it's rather... revealing.

His dress shirt hangs loosely on his frame, collar hanging free to expose cold collarbones and long expanse of Harry's neck. If Voldemort observes any close, he could almost see the silhouette of his chest and nipples under the thin sheen material of his shirt.

"Nothing," Voldemort says a tinge too quickly. His voice drier than it should be. "Let's just go.")

Voldemort disappears the moment they step into the festivity.

With lanterns hanging above twisty twigs, with people, vampires, ghosts, faeries and a few centaurs all gather together to dance. All gaudy lights and loud music, Voldemort hates it in the same amount as Harry loves it.

Harry drinks a variety of liquor, from cherries, pumpkin and carrots. He explores the food he hasn't eaten, and glances discreetly to the creatures he's never seen up close before.

A vampire even asks him to dance, his eyes, for a brief second, lingering to the wide space of Harry's neck.

Harry cocks his head, considering, then nods, letting an arm curve around his waist and taking him to a moving crowd.

Voldemort does not care. He does not care when anger licks his temper, and the flames rise out to burn the vestiges of control he has left. The burning desire coils in his bones and he wants to—

To steal him away

To lick the teasing skin of his neck

To explore his hands under his shirt and watch him writhe under his touch

What he wants does not matter.

That boy will die, he swears to it, he swears—

( "I'm returning you to your godfathers—"

A tipsy Harry Potter pouts— pouts with fruit-scented lips, high off in the colour of his cheeks, and his dress shirt somehow draws looser and looser. "But I'm still dancing."

Voldemort then shoots a glare at Harry's partner from behind. "Not anymore. He left."

His partner pales, and does, in fact, leaves before disappearing out of sight.

Harry is stubborn, and wretches away his arm, folding his arms like a brat. "You didn't dance with me."

Irritable, Voldemort answers back, "You never spoke interest for it."

"That's because you left before I could," Harry grumbles, his dragon boot stomping on the ground.

"Next time."

The boy peers at his face, unconvinced. "You won't leave this time?"

"I promise."

And that seems enough to break Harry's dampened mood, he smiles, not to its usual cheerful extent, but its there, and it's still bright. Like his moon-lit glasses and starlight eyes. "Okay."

He grabs Voldemort's hand, tight and trustful.)

This is it.

Kill him.

Apparate to the furthest parts of the woods and kill him

Kill

Him

The boy is near-asleep, his fluttering eyelids and hazy irises, and gently, Voldemort places him to bed.

It never fails to surprise him of how his prophecy boy falls asleep lighter than a feather. And the boy is awake, only barely. "...will you ever tell me your name?"

"Not yet."

He lets out a quiet chuckle. "You said yet. Does this mean you'll tell me one day?"

"Maybe."

"You always seem to keep secrets from me. Will I never know or is that also a not yet?"

"Will you ever stop asking meaningless questions?

"And are they?" Harry whispers. "Are they really meaningless?"

Voldemort plucks the glasses out of the boy's face, ignoring how Harry's face seems softer without them. "For now, they are. Go to sleep."

He looks tired, his body sprawled in a position that could could sing a siren out to lure. And for a moment, he remembers Harry's earlier instance with the vampire. The beast inside of him bares its teeth, and so Voldemort bares his.

He sucks a small, pale mark on his neck.

Harry is fast asleep. And tomorrow he'd wake up with the sting of his fangs.

The boy, now aged sixteen at the stroke of midnight, lies asleep, neck claimed by a love bite and Voldemort watching him still, thinks next year, he will kill him, for sure.

(He is not aware the Fates above him shake their heads at the man who's not aware he has already fallen)

Dippin’ sauce from Gravity Falls!

And you guys may notice a few (a lot, actually) mistakes in the background and that is because I really had a hard time drawing it, that’s why these effects cover those mistakes (mostly).

---