Unlike Harry, I Will Not Wax Poetic. Fuck Draco’s Hair. Why Is It So Light. It’s Not Fuckin Blonde

Microfic May: Day Five

Hang - Dronarry (157 words)

Ron’s shoes are kicked off inside the door, scarlet robes thrown at the wall in a hope that they’ll miraculously hang themselves.

From upstairs, the cadence of the shower changes as someone moves beneath it.

No. Not someone.

Some… two.

His shirt is next, lost halfway up the stairs as he trips himself closer, whilst his trousers end up draped on the bannister. He’s just in his pants when he pushes the bathroom door open, half-hard and thanking the Gods for an early finish.

They don’t notice him at first, too wrapped up in each other. Harry is gasping, breathy and loud over the top of the water fall. Head thrown back, eyes screwed shut, fingers tightening in the shock of silver-bright hair. He’s close, Ron can tell.

Draco’s on his knees, looking as utterly perfect as usual even with his mouth full. Especially with his mouth full.

Harry’s eyes snap open. “Ron.”

Ron steps straight in.

I don't think it would be challenging to make an image generator that "respects copyright" (you could train it on public domain art and photos but you could also license massive libraries of stock photos and TV shows and book/album covers etc. from the media companies that hold the rights to them) and I think the existence of such a generator would not lead people currently mad about AI to suddenly be cool with it because it's really not about copyright.

VIII. Crystal

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Turned out having breakfast with Harry Potter also meant having dinner with him.

The bastard eased Draco into it. “I’m making curry tonight, you want some?”

Spiraling out of his control, Draco went from rarely seeing Potter to twice a day. Potter’s cooking being just as good at night as it was in the morning was the only upside. 

The rising daylight was accompanied by, what Draco regrets to acknowledge, was amiable silence as they prepared for the arduous days ahead of them. The nighttime was accompanied by actual conversations. It start menially: a bunch of “how was your day?”s and “who do you think will win Quidditch?”. Then Potter would bring up a memory from their eight year and Draco would start gossiping about their old classmates.

On it went, from polite chatter to affable talk then friendly banter—or from an outside perspective: verbal war. 

“You almost murdered me once,” followed by: “Like you wouldn’t’ve.”

“You were a prick in school,” proceeded by: “You weren’t?”

One night they finished eating and Potter asked, “You want a drink?”

Draco, exhausted and always susceptible to alcoholic bribes, said yes.

Potter took out firewhisky from the liquor cabinet and poured it into two matching crystal cups.

Their conversations reached their inevitable climax: quasi-flirtation. Perhaps it was the heat from the liquor—the heat radiating off of Potter—but the air felt tight-knit with tension. It might have been Draco’s imagination warping the way Potter smirked around his glass. The light from the room refracted off the crystal somehow made his green eyes shine even brighter.

“Draco,” his name coming out of Potter’s lips sounded indecent, like intruding on a tender moment. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Draco pretended he said it with sober fondness and not drunken impulse. He allowed himself this one thing.

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i love making spreadsheets. the only problem with making spreadsheets is that i don't have enough things to turn into spreadsheets. the spreadsheet market is in shambles. but i can't just ask people if i'm allowed to make them spreadsheets, because if you go up to someone and go can i make you a spreadsheet they go literally why would you do that. but Sometimes you can social engineer your way into making a spreadsheet for someone and that's the most beautiful feeling in the world.

XI. Forgotten

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The end of the war wasn’t long ago yet it still felt like decades had gone by. Even further in the past were his early years at Hogwarts. Every once in a while, Draco would think back to the boy he used to be. There’s lots he felt regret for. 

But deep inside, he still sometimes missed him. The way he used to not have to worry. The future, something in the distance he needn’t bother with. Back then he felt on top of the world, untouchable.

Above all he felt jealous. The way his younger self could so easily feel joy in a way he would stop being able to. Angered at how it became like letting himself stop to bask in glee would sever his presence in the present. So those jubilant moments had to be hidden away.

Later to be forgotten. 

Or were they stolen from him?

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What score would u get?

she’s right

Imagine being JD Vance, who makes such a huge part of his personality being catholic. The pope himself takes time to lecture you on compassion then promptly DIES. The pope uses one of his last hours on earth to tell you that you suck at your religion on EASTER. And then DIES. Anyway RIP Pope Francis

my girls 💌