Latest Posts by chocolando - Page 5

Pathetic

Despair-infected walls rose up around Lucius, back still straight in pathetic mimicry of a past identity. Harry found it deeply satisfying. 

Lucius stared at him.

“I’m only going to tell you this once: stop writing him.”

Lucius cracked a dry, empty smile. “He’s my son, Potter. You can’t stop me.”

“Try me.”

Here is how Draco impregnated the living savior of wizardkind.

drew a scene from The Superfluous Man by the amazing peu_a_peu <3

III. Coffee

<- previous day

One unlucky day, Draco overslept. He walked into the kitchen for a late breakfast but Potter’s already there, a loud muggle machine making aggravating noises. He stood against the counter with a faraway gaze, his hair ostensibly sleep tussled, an oversized shirt draped over his frame, and bare feet on the linoleum floor. Whether he’d just gotten out of bed or was trying out a new look was unclear. It’s always hard to tell with Potter.

As Draco entered the room, his sleep-addled mind couldn't help but blurt out, “What on Earth is that?”

Potter snapped his gaze towards Draco, coming back from wherever his mind had went. “The coffee machine?” he asked confusedly.

“I refuse to believe that thing brews coffee.”

Potter didn’t respond and proceeded to press a button, and coffee spilled from the machine’s mouth into Potter’s ugly sienna colored mug. He handed the mug to Draco, who hesitantly took a sip.

It tasted entirely mediocre and incredibly bland, perfect to Potter’s taste. “I’ve had better,” he spoke truthfully and handed back the mug. Potter shrugged and went on to add—certainly an unhealthy—high amount of sugar to it. Still with the same mug, he brought it to his lips, inches away from where Draco’s had been, and sipped the coffee.

Draco’s breath momentarily hitched so he turned around and asked Kreacher to bring breakfast to his room.

next day ->

prompt list previous days

microfic may day 3: coffee

drarry. 273 words. this is unequivocally the stupidest thing I’ve ever written.

After the war, rumour had it Draco Malfoy disappeared. Puffed up and away in a cloud of smoke because he was cursed by Voldemort.

Rumour also had it that he ran far, far away.

Rumour also had it that he was completing a potions mastery somewhere exotic, and that one day he’d return home.

The one thing rumour didn’t have was a timeframe. So naturally, Harry was quite surprised to attend his 3pm appointment and come face to face with Draco Malfoy.

“Err. What did you say her name was again?”

“Coffee, Potter. Please do keep up.”

“Because the scales on her head look like coffee granules and you think they’re multiplying?”

“Well, yes. But there’s more. She’s been more tired than usual. And she’s not been eating too much. All in all, rather concerning.”

Harry poked around at the speckled snake coiled around Draco’s hand. A forked tongue gently lapped at his fingertip and was that a wink?

He cast his usual diagnostic charms which all pinged a gorgeous, normal green.

“I can’t see anything unusual, Malfoy. I’ll give you a standard vitality potion and check back in next week.”

Draco baulked. “There’s nothing wrong? At all? Are you sure?”

Harry gave him an affirmative nod and Coffee a gentle scritch under the chin. “I’ll see you both next week. For a check up.”

Draco was gracious enough to thank Harry for his time on the way out.

Though the more Harry thought about it, he was pretty sure the parting hiss from the reptile translated roughly into something like:

Foolssss. 10 yearssss apart and all he talkssss about issss you.

the most annoying people are people who don't understand storytelling. they be like "oooo how convenient that this thing happened to the main character in the very beginning". yeah no shit. that's why the story begins here

prompt a day may - day 2 - black

a story told over the course of a month, in 50 word increments. based off prompts here: [X] you can read past entries here. drarry. 50 words. no rating

Entering the room is disorienting. The air is close – the walls, floor, and ceiling a uniform, shimmering black. 

Harry drops his things – mucky-looking against the shine – and tests the bed. Soft sheets. All of it black. Prone to stains. 

Harry closes his eyes. Stars begin to fall from the ceiling.

microfic may day 2: black

drarry. 277 words.

Harry had no idea how Draco drank his coffee like that. He thought it was abhorrent.

Even so, every morning at 6:00am, Harry Potter would peel himself out of bed and smile softly at the pile of blankets, tufts of blond locks and short puffs of breath that lay beside him. He’d take a moment to observe the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders before venturing downstairs and greeting their house with a gentle pat on the banister and familiar rap to the kitchen door.

He’d go through his motions: procure two mugs, set the kettle to boil, fiddle with the French press, measure out exactly 16 grams of coffee grounds and then he’d wait. God only knows what he’d think about until the kettle whistle would gently crescendo and Harry could carry on.

He’d traverse back up the stairs and back into their bedroom. He’d place a both mugs on the bedside drawer closest to Draco. Harry would wake him up with a caress and not a jolt, a feather press of lips, a gentle press to the curve of his shoulder.

And Draco would rise, golden like the light filtering through their curtains, and smile at Harry like he was glad he stayed. Even all these years later.

Harry would pass him his mug with a purposeful brush of their fingers and say, “Awful, awful stuff.”

Draco would only grin and reply, “It’s in my blood, don’t you think?”

And Harry would snort into his tea and hold his husband’s hand. He’d make a mental mark of exactly how many cups of black coffee he’d made but never drank.

2,537.

But who’s really counting?

microfic prompt | day 2: black

They sit in the centre of the orchestra—expensive seats for opening night. The boy is rapt by the overture, but grows inevitably restless, like all six-year-olds would, by the third aria. Harry watches from up in the mezzanine as Draco pulls Scorpius into his lap, rocking him softly to the opera singer’s bellowing vibrato. He’s asleep in Draco’s arms by the finale of the first act.

He’s still asleep when Harry approaches them outside, under the marquee, with a sea of gowns and tuxedos passing around them.

“Potter,” Draco says, breathless and familiar, like it hasn’t been seven years. Like he hasn’t been caught in a world-ending lie. Like he isn’t holding the end of the world in his arms. “So, you’re back.”

“I’m back.” Harry keeps his shaky hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring and staring at the black curls tucked against Draco’s pale neck. Sorrow sings through him with all the power of a chorus.

“I thought he’d have your hair,” Harry says.

II. Black

<- previous day

The main issue was the house’s deceiving magnitude. Realistically, Potter would’ve never used half of the rooms in it. The ancient house-elf was only capable of making no more than a quarter of them inhabitable. Draco was left with no space to breathe. He rotated between his room and its attached bathroom, the kitchen, and his temporary potions lab. He refused to go into the living room unless he was coming through the floo, but even so he barely had reasons to leave the house for the time being.

Regardless, Draco was too busy to spend time exploring the rooms of this wretched place.

He walked into it by mistake. It was like the other rooms he’s accidentally gotten glimpses of. The only sign of life was the worn rug. Draco walked in and scanned the surrounding area. 

Once upon a time the sitting room would’ve received many noble guests, the lumoses reflecting off their crystals as raucous laughter spilled from their mouths. Presently the room was veiled in darkness. Only the light from the hallway illuminated the skeletons of furniture, each covered in a thick layer of grey.

Draco recognized it as soon as he glanced it, the Black Family Tapestry. His eyes were drawn instantly to his mother’s name—whether by instinct or some forgotten old magic—and the golden embroidery, now in the dimness no more than an ecru line, connecting her to his father. Below them he knows is his name, but his eyes drift to the scorched mark next to his mother.

He’d seen it again at the bottom of the fireplace with a match at his hand. He’d thrown it in and watched the residue charcoal disappear under amber flames.

prompt list next day ->

she’s right

Drarry kisses yipee

Man, we have got to stop treating art like it has an expiration date. That show stopped airing? Doesn’t mean it can’t haunt your every waking thought. Everybody’s into this album, but you don’t have the energy for new music right now? It’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready. That movie’s fifty years old and indie as shit? Incredible, you have the chance to share it with folks who might never otherwise feel that particular punch of delight. Books don’t go bad. Shows inspire fandoms decades after they’ve wrapped up. We’re still looking at cave paintings and statue work from ancient times and letting the joy of creation bring tears to our eyes. That’s the point of art. It’s as close to immortality as we ever get. Why try to give that magic a shelf life?

Kreacher has been staring at Harry for weeks.

He opens the door to his bedroom each morning—Kreacher’s right there. Staring. The first two days, Harry shouts in surprise. By day three, he’s resigned to this strange new habit.

When he gets home from practice, Harry sheds his muddy trainers at the door and wanders down to the stone kitchen for lunch. Kreacher creeps after him down the hall, and every time Harry turns, the elf stops, staring.

“WHAT?” Harry bellows. Kreacher just stares harder.

Then he starts leaving weird shit around the house.

The first thing Harry finds is a little wooden box. The lid is etched with intricate carvings. Harry fires off five seperate cursebreaking spells that Bill had taught him after one too many fanatic mail incidents. The box is harmless.

Harry remains suspicious.

Next, it’s a finely crafted brooch. Harry has never seen it before in his life, and now it’s in the middle of the kitchen table: clearly intended to be some sort of message, although he’s got no fucking hope of decoding it.

The third item is a delicate golden ribbon, colour shifting as he picks it up. The fourth is a tiny dragon figurine of polished bronze.

“Kreacher,” he yells. “What does this mean?!”

Kreacher appears with a pop. Stares at him some more.

Harry gives up. He stuffs the dragon, ribbon, brooch and box into his coat pockets and apparates directly to Hermione’s poky little office, pushing the door open impatiently.

“Hermione, can house elves go senile?”

She looks up, bent over a large, complex looking tome. Malfoy, writing notes with an elegant grey quill beside her, does not. Harry still finds it weird that they work together. Every time he stops by, Malfoy ignores him, and today is evidently no different. Fine by Harry.

“Harry,” Hermione says exasperatedly. “Kreacher isn’t senile, he’s just—“

“Watching me like a weird creepy shadow? Leaving random shit around the house and refusing to tell me what it means? Look!” He pulls the items out of his pockets, chucking them on the desk one by one. “What the fuck is any of this shit?”

The little dragon lands in front of Malfoy, whose hand suddenly stills. He looks up, smirking, and meets Harry’s gaze. “Potter.”

Something clenches in Harry’s stomach.

“Your house elf is telling you it’s time for the Heir to the House of Black to start courting.”

Black ♣️ Day two of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s unofficial microfic may challenge

1 - Key

Malfoy's quietly singing to himself, off key and on the other side of the partition, when it hits Harry all at once. Hits him like someone's just set off the emergency alarms, and it's even come with a frantic sort of wailing klaxon that seems to be getting louder in his head. ALERT. ALERT. THERE IS A FIRE IN YOUR PANTS.

"Nooo," Harry says, low and desperate. "No no no no no."

Ron finds him just like that a bit later on, says "What's the matter with your face?" and then follows Harry's eyes where they're still fixed on the top of a smooth blond quiff.

"'Mione's gonna spew," he says gleefully, and pulls out his mobile.

Prompt List

I. Key

It was tiny and cold in Draco’s hand. It was entirely muggle and completely stupid. It was the key to Draco’s new prison.

Potter had gotten him out of Azkaban and in turn sealed his fate to a different kind of punishment. His own sadistic way of forcing Draco into repentance.

“You don’t actually expect me to use this,” he told his tormentor.

“How else are you gonna get in?” There was an edge to Potter’s voice, a dam on the verge of breaking. Draco despised whatever was holding it back.

“It can’t possibly be safe,” he rebutted while inspecting the small object. It was a valid concern to have.

“The wards are safe enough, this is just a way for you to get in without apparating.” It was true enough but knowing it didn't make him feel any better.

“What if I lose it?”

“You’ll have to wait for me to let you in.” Draco made a face and Potter sighed. He leaned against the wall and his shoulders slumped. The dam had broken but behind it wasn’t the flood Draco was expecting. “Look for some place else if you don’t want it.”

“I’m just going through the logistics. No need to be so irritable.” 

“Whatever makes you sleep at night,” he said, walking away and muttering under his breath. Draco could barely hear him saying, I’m gonna regret this. 

He’ll use the floo for the foreseeable future.

next day prompt list

microfic may day 1: key

drarry, 229 words. tw for drugs.

“It’s a what?”

“It’s called a key Coco, calm down.”

“How am I supposed to calm down? You bring me to a muggle club, procure a bag of god knows what, the floor is sticky-”

Draco is interrupted mid-rant. Harry is smiling at him fondly and his eyes are flickering with the oscillating disco lights. There’s a hand on his shoulder and the world narrows to a single point.

“All you have to do is breathe it in. I’ll go first.”

It’s strange for Draco to see him like this. His hair is wild and his shirt is unbuttoned more than it should be. Harry puts his house key into the small plastic bag and Draco watches every practiced tap of his fingers as he sifts the white powder into the tip of the biggest crevice of the key.

Harry grins and it’s all teeth, split slicked, reflective like a mirrorball. And then he lifts it up.

A short, sharp pull of air. A sniffle.

“Your turn.”

And Draco feels the hesitation on him, the twitch in his upper left cheek that Harry obviously knows to look for, and clearly, has found.

“I promised. I’ll look after you.” He’s earnest. Sincere in a way that makes Draco gag a little, but what can he do other than take a deep inhale and trust every word that he’s been given?

Source: ayumioyabun

harry james potter

You don’t own fanfics. They’re inherently public domain because they aren’t your IP. Agree or disagree with AI, there are no grounds for “protection” from AI because it isn’t your IP to begin with. That’s what you chose when you chose this medium

Oh dear.

Okay, you get an answer, because at least you took the effort to write your ask out properly, even if you are hiding behind the grey, sunglassed circle.

Do I, or any fanfic author for that matter, have any legal claims to our work? No, not really, no. (Although if someone took a fic, filed off the serial number--deleted the fandom specific elements--, and then had it published for financial gain, yeah, that would be a case.)

BUT

Fandoms are built on a social contract that says we respect each others work, the effort people put into their art. We don't steal or disrespect the work of our peers. By feeding people's fanworks to AI you both steal and disprect it, and we need to make people realize that before it's too late--before fandom falls apart, because there will be no more real, actual fanworks.

Disrepectfully,

Orlissa

(i can't believe I have to say this)

as much as i understand being a hater you have to offset that shit with genuine, sincere enjoyment & wonder sometimes lest YOU become the one who is corny. and sad. imo.

Yule ‘94

Happy 1st of May! 🌼

May is finally here! But sadly, this years beloved @microficmay is not.

@uncannycerulean and I were itching to get back into the writing groove, and with support from the microficmay mods, decided to create a daily prompt list in spirit of the event.

Any fandom, any ship! Feel free to tackle all 31, or just the ones that spark inspiration! For any prompts that aren't scratching the itch, there is an alterative list to choose from.

It's low-key, unserious, unofficial, meaning there is no ao3 collection to post to. Simply join in and have fun as you wish. And of course, this whole idea would not exist without the wonderful @microficmay starting it all. As this is not part of the official event, please refrain from tagging or using hashtags related to the official account, though we will all try to share the love for your works as much as possible! ❤️

Two Women Kissing in Nature (b. 1859)

— by Georges Rochegrosse

Have you ever wondered "Hey, which person is this Hermitcraft fanart actually depicting?" and didn't want to just scroll down to read the tags?

Behold. My magnum opus. The Hermitcraft fanart flowchart! Please click for legibillity.

my girls 💌

cursed drarry for @the-forbidden-forest ‘s art palette challenge!!

good god.

tomarrymort as lps

QUILLKILLER!!!