I Feel Like Pirating Media That Isn’t Sold Or Offered Anywhere Legally Anymore Shouldn’t Be Called

Once you start thinking about humans as a species in a biome, it affects your entire way of looking at normal things.

The other day I referred to female morning joggers as an 'indicator species' in that if you see women jogging in the dark it means that the environment provides migration pathways (sidewalks, clear signs) and doesn't have any known predators of female morning joggers (guy with knife, bear, BigTruck, male morning joggers).

Though, I think that people consider framing humans as animals reacting to their environment as rude.

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.

Some phone wallpapers from the Project Eevee Twitter for Eevee Day!

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?

My first ink art

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

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.

microfic may day 8: crystal

microfic may day 9: puzzle

drarry. 220 words.

Rainbow scattered light dappled over Draco's skin. He was asleep, chest moving down and up in the crystal refracted morning sun.

It was early, too early to be awake after the night he'd had yesterday. And Harry was yet to put the puzzle pieces together and figure out exactly why Draco Malfoy was in his bed.

He wasn't complaining. The guy was oddly soft when he wasn't using his mouth-

Oh, fuck.

Harry wiggled his hips. Flexed his thighs. Stretched his back.

Zero soreness.

He bent forward, scrutinising the milky skin along Draco's neck and shoulders and clavicle. Harry knew he was a biter and a bruiser, but Draco was spectacularly unblemished.

He shifted under the blanket and Harry paused, not moving an inch.

A dream heavy, bed warmed arm slung over his waist, pushing Harry back down into the pillows.

Harry blinked at the fuzzy ceiling.

A voice murmured into his ear, "Go back to bed Potter, I'd never ravish you drunk."

He turned to face Draco, forehead to forehead. "Wait, so we didn't-"

"I swear on Merlin Potter, let me sleep for another hour and maybe then I'll do to you exactly what you asked for last night."

And well, Harry might've flushed a bright red but he did in fact curl in closer and let Draco rest.