Latest Posts by chocolando - Page 2

XX. Reverie

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

Walking among muggles stopped feeling alien around Draco’s third visit to muggle London. It became outright dull by his tenth, and was only ever interesting when Harry came along. Not because the crowds shifted toward Harry Potter like in the wizarding world, but because spending time with Harry had simply turned enjoyable.

They started to make grocery runs with each other, brainstorming what they (Harry) would make for mealtimes. 

Draco felt himself decay with the candied reveries of mundane domestic life turned into reality.

Harry side-eyed him as he added another bag of bonbons to their cart. So what if he had a sweet tooth?

next ->

all entries ao3

When I say “I love this artist” I either know 5 of their songs that I play on repeat or I know their entire discography and you just have to guess which one it is

Just here to share the Italian judo winner kissing her girlfriend after the match, in front of our fascist, homophobic, disgusting prime minister.

We won this one🏳️‍🌈

Credits to: @apriteilcervello on instagram

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

XIX. Heavy

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

After dinner, they moved to the living room as per their ritual. However when Harry had collapsed on the couch, he sank onto the cushions with a veritable weight.

Recently, it was clear he had become more exhausted. There were deep circles under his eyes and his hair was just that bit messier than usual. The way his shoulders slumped with unseen pressure carried him down inch by inch, day by day.

Draco stood behind him and sunk slender fingers vigorously on his shoulders. 

“Is there a problem, dear?” he asked, worry hidden within mockery.

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. A weary sigh left his lips before he spoke, “Auror training.” A repeated sentiment Draco had been subjected to ever since he moved into Grimmauld Place. Ever since they graduated, really. 

“Did real life prove to be too hard for you, my dear?” His fingers dug deeper, more meanly, as he found tense muscles.

Harry hadn’t bothered to reply. He sighed, a little more contently, as he laid his head on the back of the sofa. Little by little, as the night ebbed deeper and deeper into the lazy hours near slumber, a small portion of his heaviness seemed to leave with the time.

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Now also available on ao3

It's not a memory Harry will ever forget—Hermione, stressed out of her mind, clutching a little blue box from the muggle pharmacy. She'd kept messing up the charm, which was the real giveaway that she was panicking, so Harry had gone to buy it.

He sat on the other side of the bathroom door.

It was shit timing. She was in the middle of her second year exams for magical law school. Ron was in Japan for the four weeks of the Quidditch World Cup, having been selected as one of just two assistant coaches for England after his meteoric rise as the junior coach for the Chudley Cannons, taking them from bottom of the league to third place nationally in just two years.

When Hermione comes out of the bathroom, Harry sits up straighter. "What'd it say?"

"It's not immediate," she says, voice high. She sits on the floor beside him. "We have to wait a few minutes." Hand trembling, she casts a countdown charm, then puts her head between her knees. Harry rubs a hand between her shoulder blades.

When her wand vibrates, she shakes her head, voice still high-pitched. "I can't look. I can't."

So Harry climbs to his feet and walks into the bathroom, to find the little plastic stick resting on the counter.

There are two pink lines, a perfect match.

Hermione looks up at him, face already wet, and he crouches down in front of her. "It's positive."

She bursts into fresh tears. "I c-can't have a baby. I can't! But Ron—Ron's g-going to h-hate me if I—if I get rid—"

"Shhh, shh," he pulls her tight against his chest. "No he won't. Ron loves you. It's okay. You don't have to start—" Something lodges briefly in his throat. "—a family yet." He smooths a hand over her bushy hair. "It's way too soon. You haven't even finished getting fifty degrees."

Among the great, big heaving sobs, she gives a broken, snotty laugh into his shirt.

Six years later, two weeks after his twenty-seventh birthday, Hermione is the one smoothing his hair back as he retches into the toilet. He's been feeling shit for days, and he's fucking over it. Finally, he sits back against the tiles, stomach muscles aching.

Ron's in the doorway, rocking baby Hugo to sleep. "Blimey, Harry. What did you eat? Slugs?"

Harry snorts weakly, reminded of second year. Eat slugs, Malfoy. Malfoy, his auror partner of almost two years now. Malfoy, who's been shagging him quite thoroughly for the last five weeks. Harry misses him, which feels pathetic, given he's only gone to Paris for three days with his mother. But it feels like a fucking lifetime when Harry's feeling so under the weather.

"I don't know," he answers, coughing at the lingering taste of bile. "I tried some Pepper Up, it hasn't helped at all."

"Harry," Hermione says slowly, a peculiar look in her eyes. "Have you been seeing someone?"

"Um. That's… a bit out of the blue." He presses a fingernail into a nearby line of grout, dropping his gaze.

"That's not a no."

He feels his face grow hot. He and Malfoy still haven't had the 'what are we' talk yet; there hasn't really been a lot of talking in general, to be honest. "Yeah. I—think so. I mean I am. Yes."

"Okay." She pulls out her wand, and Harry eyes it, alarmed. "I'm going to cast a... diagnostic charm on you. I want to check something."

"O...kay?" he echoes, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt. "I'm not under a love spell or anything."

"No, that's not—" She does a complex charm pattern in the air, and a pale blue glow fills the room.

Ron sucks in a sharp breath. "Holy fuck, are you saying he's—?!"

Hermione nods, eyes bright. "Harry—"

"Ten galleons it's Malfoy's," Ron says in a rush.

"Ron!" Hermione scolds. "Now is not the time! And I'm not taking that bet, I'm not stupid."

"Excuse me," Harry says. "What the fuck are you guys talking about?"

She crouches in front of Harry, and takes his hand.

"Harry. I think you're pregnant."

Match 👶 Day 16 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.

《Time-out》9-17

XIX. Heavy

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

After dinner, they moved to the living room as per their ritual. However when Harry had collapsed on the couch, he sank onto the cushions with a veritable weight.

Recently, it was clear he had become more exhausted. There were deep circles under his eyes and his hair was just that bit messier than usual. The way his shoulders slumped with unseen pressure carried him down inch by inch, day by day.

Draco stood behind him and sunk slender fingers vigorously on his shoulders. 

“Is there a problem, dear?” he asked, worry hidden within mockery.

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. A weary sigh left his lips before he spoke, “Auror training.” A repeated sentiment Draco had been subjected to ever since he moved into Grimmauld Place. Ever since they graduated, really. 

“Did real life prove to be too hard for you, my dear?” His fingers dug deeper, more meanly, as he found tense muscles.

Harry hadn’t bothered to reply. He sighed, a little more contently, as he laid his head on the back of the sofa. Little by little, as the night ebbed deeper and deeper into the lazy hours near slumber, a small portion of his heaviness seemed to leave with the time.

all entries next ->

Now also available on ao3

Draco has never been good at waiting.

The day the Prophet breaks the story of the year, the decade, nay, the century—cover splashed with a blurry photograph featuring a nonetheless unmistakable bird's nest of hair and another man, topped off with the unimaginative yet direct headline, POTTER: GAY?—is the very same day Draco sits down across from Pansy in their favourite booth at Theo's Bar (also unimaginatively titled) and announces, with verve: "I have a plan."

Pansy sighs, sharp and judgemental. "Let me guess—"

"No," he interrupts. "Let me tell you."

"I already know this is about Harry fucking—"

"This is about Potter," he continues, talking loudly over her, "and my absolutely foolproof plan to get my hands on some Chosen Cock."

"Only your hands? Dream big, Draco," she says sarcastically, brow flat with irritation.

"Oh I am. Naturally this is only stage one. Stage five is marriage. Stage six? Impregnating him with the Malfoy heir."

"Not a visual I actually needed, thanks ever so!"

"You're not listening, Pans." He emphasises his point with a sharp slap to the tabletop. "You're not appreciating this for the life-changing moment it is. I am going to seduce Potter, and fuck him so hard he—"

"What?" comes an amused voice. "So hard I what, Malfoy?"

Draco's life flashes before his eyes, confirming that he's experiencing some sort of near-death phenomenon. He manages, somehow, to start breathing again, and affects a casual, unaffected lean against the booth seat, turning to face Harry Potter, giant wanker and wank-inspirer.

"Potter."

"Hi."

He's grinning, dark hair even more disastrous than that wretched photo. So annoying. Draco's never found him attractive in his entire life, actually.

"We were having a private conversation, very much not concerning you."

"Oh?" Those stupid green eyes are fixed on Draco's face. His grin is so. fucking. obnoxious. "Is there another Harry Potter you were hoping to impregnate?"

"Yes," Draco scowls, feeling his face grow blotchy. "You don't even make the top hundred. Sorry for the terrible blow, but you could stand to be taken down a peg or two."

"Oh, you know me." Potter spreads his arms. "I'm not averse to a good peg."

Pansy gags into her martini, as Draco tries to regain the feeling in his legs.

"Well," Potter shrugs, tucking his thumbs into his jeans. Merlin. Draco wants to climb him. "I guess I'll leave you be, then. Good luck impregnating that other fellow."

And then he's turning—leaving!—

"Wait!" Draco's hand shoots out, and the warmth of Potter's arm sends a shock right up through his fingers, tingling. "Perhaps you could be of some use, Scarhead."

There's a dimple threatening Draco's sanity, in the corner of Potter's cheek. "Yes, Draco?"

"Yes." He's such a prick. "Harry." Draco rubs a thumb against the inside of Potter's wrist, watching with great satisfaction as a shiver runs through him. "After all, I'll need someone to practice those impregnation skills on."

Waiting 🍸 Day 17 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.

if you are lucky you will love someone and their hair will thin and their breasts will sag and you will kiss them everywhere over and over again

drawings from our drive across america 🚙

Part 1 b/c 10 photo make is not enough:

A few binds I made for my love @kushyreads

Who We Are in the Shadows by the talented @quicksilvermaid featuring art by yours truly which took me a whopping 16 HOURS!!!

Balance, Imperfect & That Old Black Magic by the amazing @bixgirl1

I’m literally obsessed with these fics and drarry and poured all my love into them

brash testing

and i will be loathing

for forever loathing

truly deeply loathing youuuuuu

my whole life long!!!!

it’s been a Long time since i last posted…. so sorry guys

i made this when i was going a little crazy about elphaba and this song and i had to draw something or i would’ve combusted

i love fem drarry… i’m obsessed with them so expect more drarry yuri fanart

also here’s the unfinished yaoi version that i made just a few days after because i just couldn’t get it out of my head 😭 but i don’t like it that much because draco looks too much like lucius for my liking…

today the song is a repeated one… next fanart there’ll be a new one trust 🤞🏻

Can i say something problematique for terminally online millenials and people born after that point: I think the seeming lack of ability or willingness to call one another and chat on the phone with friends unprompted or out of the blue contributes to whatever hellish loneliness everyone is talking about feeling these days. Say what you want about boomers and old people but those guys mostly knew how to keep in touch with each other. Idk man call a bitch today

My followers know I hate talking about politics and current events, and generally refuse to do so, but this is important.

A bill has been introduced in the US that would make all pornography a federal crime. Owning it. Creating it. Distributing it.

Under this law, fanart of nude characters would be a federal crime.

Under this law, depictions of homosexuality or simply being transgender, would be considered pornography and a federal crime.

This bill is not going to pass.

However, the reason for this bill is to continue to push the "overton window". The reason for this bill is to make banning pornography seem more and more normal to everyone until they can actually do that.

And remember, they consider depictions of gay characters and transgenders characters "pornography" in any context, including platonic.

They have been working on this for a decade now and it has been working.

If you are one of the people in fandom who thinks that "nasty" porn on AO3 should be banned because it's "icky" or "immoral", then this mental scam is working on you.

Censorship is never about protecting people.

Censorship is always about control.

Do not let the rising moral panic affect your mind and make you weak to propaganda that lets others control you and control what you watch and read.

Do not fall for the scam.

When they say they are going to ban "pornography" it means they're going to ban anything they don't like by calling it "pornography" and they don't like you!!

՞⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷ 𓈞 ᵒ̴̶̷⸝⸝՞

XVIII. Oval

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

“Glasses?” Harry asked from beside him.

With his eyes closed Draco reached for the floor, searching until his hands touched an oval shaped object. Then he silently handed it to Harry and went back to dreams of golden light and green eyes.

all entries next ->

XVII. Waiting

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

Since the beginning of the year, Draco had been waiting for his appeal to go through.

It had been fine having limited access to his wand during his eighth year. It was horrible, but he could live with it. He still had a bit of magic.

Once his sentence was abruptly changed to a strict no magic regulation once he graduated, had it become unbearable. 

He had managed it though. Found simple solutions to his magical needs and learned to live like a muggle, but live he did. Still, he was going to get his magic back.

As soon as he got a reply.

all entries next ->

You’re telling me this plot has a hole? Is it tight?

The Graduation

ITS THAT TIME….

XVI. Match

This is part of continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

“I have something to show you,” Harry said, then pulled something out of his pocket.

He held a jigsaw piece up to eye sight. 

It had no color to it, a blank puzzle piece.

“Where did you get this?” Draco asked.

“I told you I’d find it,” was all he said as he placed the final piece on their first garden puzzle. 

A perfect match.

It was also obviously not the original lost one.

“Did you make this?”

“Does it matter? The puzzle’s complete now.”

all entries next->

At their core, drarry are more like their mothers

I’ve always thought that, despite their outward appearances that remind people of their fathers, drarry, at their core, resemble their mothers more.

Draco was raised with the expectation that he would become a leader. Lucius even deliberately placed two sidekicks by his side to create the illusion of leadership around him. But the truth is, Draco was not a natural-born leader like Lucius. His peers never truly respected or followed him. His authority came from fear rooted in his father's power. And when Lucius fell from grace, they quickly abandoned him.

Draco is also passive at times and tends to rely on authority figures for guidance. And I believe this passivity was inherited from his mother. Narcissa was the third child, and being the youngest often makes someone more of a follower than a leader, especially with an older sister like Bellatrix, who had such a dominant personality.

Yet Narcissa possessed a strong determination beneath her passivity, which surfaced primarily when her son’s safety was at stake. This is evident when she sought Snape’s help despite her sister’s disapproval, or when she lied to Voldemort in order to search for her son. That same kind of determination is reflected in Draco as well, such as when he continued with his assigned task despite consecutive failures, because his family’s lives were at stake.

Harry resembles Lily in her sense of justice. His justice-driven instincts clearly mirror hers. For instance, when he defended Neville against Draco’s attempt to steal his Remembrall, it echoed the moment Lily confronted James for picking on Snape. She wasn’t afraid to challenge someone more popular or powerful and Harry shows that same kind of bravery, just like his mother.

However, while Harry is righteous, he often lets his friends off the hook when they do questionable things, this makes me think Lily might have been similar. Although James stopped bullying people in front of her, it's possible she would have let some things slide if she believed they were justified, especially if she thought he had changed or that his actions weren’t that bad.

James was flashy, confident, and socially dominant, while Lily was principled, passionate, and quietly powerful. Harry is his mother’s son more than his father’s. He may look like James, but his soul leans more toward Lily.

It’s sad how much of what is taught in school is useless to over 99% of the population.

There are literally math concepts taught in high school and middle school that are only used in extremely specialized fields or that are even so outdated they aren’t used anymore!

XV. Future

This is part of continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

The ambiguity of their relationship hung in the air. A limbo of the past and future.

Mornings they still had breakfast.

Now there was a gentle caress of hands as Harry made the food and Draco brewed the tea and coffee.

Nights they still had dinner.

Yet there were heated glances shared across the table, every look a promise.

Afterwards they still built their puzzles.

With the addition of kissing. Lots of kissing. Draco no longer felt worried Harry would catch him staring since the other would do the same and then they would kiss again.

The lines blurred and Draco didn’t know which ones he was crossing. Hunted with the mistakes of his past and the fear of the future, he chose to enjoy the limbo. To live within their gap and be happy with the present.

all entries next->

sharing this gift for @faiell :3

some angsty forced bond 8th year muejeje

please don’t spend your life convincing yourself that love or joy is reserved for the idealized version of you that only exists in the future

[Podfic] Dearest by hoko_onchi (M, 32 minutes)

Draco and Harry accidentally activate a marriage curse and move into a cottage. With chickens.

Harry and Draco, and CHICKENS! I loved hoko's story and wanted to podfic it, so here we go with my first podfic!

Head onto AO3 to listen to this tale of chickens and domesticity and if you enjoy it, feel free to kudo and leave comments there and on the original work!

Story by @hoko-onchi-writes | Art & podfic by @stormy-sky-art