#aphoride

[felixip]

大鐵牛與愛美神 BossBot and Aphoride from MazingerZ #BossBot #Aphoride #MazingerZ #RobotSketch #Fanart #robot #ink #sketch #doodle #mecha #giantrobot #sketch #dailysketch

[fanfictalkdotcom]

Missed us? Catch up on the latest HPFT Fic Night! Featuring @looneylizzie and Unwritten Curse doing a live reading of Ignotia by @aphoride followed by discussion and Q&A with the author herself!

[thegoldensnitches]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Our Featured Story for May 2016 is a gorgeous but very unsettling Tom Riddle centric fic, Azrael Rising, by Aphoride.

(made by ascendio)

Laughter rings in his ears, unbidden and uninvited, harsh and musical, disbelief chiming through every syllable of it, hanging on every note. At first, it’s only quiet, but then it grows, becoming louder and louder, grating on his nerves and his veins, the adrenaline still flooding through them heady, caressing the magic in his blood from the tip of his wand to the centre of his heart, the sparks of power which flicker there hot and wildly enticing. (It reminds him, breathless, of how with a flick of his wrist he can peel off layers of skin, of muscle, of bone; carving straight down into the soul, into the very essence of a person. Of the purity of pain, how a single scream sets his spine to tingling, delicate and ardent in the way it brushes, light as a feather, over his skin. When the other boys in his dorm talk in hushed voices of girls, how soft and supple their skin is, how their skin flushes like a blooming rose as they swoon and sigh and heat up with the thousand possibilities hands and mouths and new, fascinating experiences can give, he thinks of the wonder of magic, of the million facets of emotions he can pull out of a person’s face, the muscles dancing and contorting. Girls are lithe and pretty, boys are handsome and corded with muscles and tendons; he wants to experience both.) They have cut him – Black and Malfoy and Avery, Crabbe and Goyle – they have left marks on his skin, purple and green and yellow, and nothing ends in a day. Rome was not built in a day; revenge comes swiftly, but subtly, shadows on the wall creeping and creeping before they strike, sure and vicious.

Featured Story, May 2016

Azrael Rising by Aphoride

[thegoldensnitches]

Closing her eyes, she could see the polished marble floor, the great doors at one end wide open, the curtains pulled back to show off the views of the gardens and the distant hills, the sky low over the horizon. All the candles were lit, flames dancing merrily, and guests were streaming in through the doors, dressed in ermine and velvet and silk and satin and lace and feathers and jewels. By the doors, Mr and Mrs Abraxas Malfoy, her arm looped through his, stood, greeting guests as they arrived with a shake of the hand and a kiss on each cheek. Inside, men and women, all of them with a claim to pure blood, mingled with one another, the low buzz of conversation sprinkled with the minuet the band in the balcony above were playing. There, over there, by the corner, they all stood: the young and the naïve, the hopeless dreamers and the warriors and revolutionaries with tongues of silver. As she approached them, the first to spot her and saunter over was Evan, her cousin Rosier, tall and fair with a quick compliment springing to his lips as ever. He would laugh when she blushed, delighted with himself, and lead her over to the rest of them, tucking her arm easily into the crook of his arm.

Duel with TGS Finalist: Post-Wizarding War

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables by Aphoride

[official-hpff-blog]

If this year he was impressive, then next year he will be extraordinary.

Excerpt:

So far, he’s received eight books, a vial of Felix Felicis and a box of expensive truffles Slughorn had pressed on him that morning. His friends, he thinks, have no originality, no creativity beyond their dull, ordinary lives. He knows they can’t help it – not everyone can be exceptional, after all, and no one can be quite as good as him – but it annoys him all the same. Of course, he doesn’t mind the presents: the books are at least passably interesting, the truffles already half-eaten. The Felix Felicis still drips occasionally, shards of glass embedded in the plaster from where he’d hurled it against the wall. He does not need a potion, even one for luck. He would create his own luck, if he ever needed it, and he never needs it. The semi-circles on his palms are still there, pale now; evidence of his fury at the insinuation that he needs assistance. He has never needed assistance. He will never need assistance.

[hpff-reccs-blog]

seeing double by aphoride