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just me and my shit yaoi from a thing thats bad

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Draco thought of Harry showing up to his front door, a harmony honed out of thin air, the sudden surge of such a lovely sound. Saying: this is real. Draco didn’t think at all of Potter; of the wrong-struck key when Potter said cant, and offering no more explanation than that. What needed explaining? What more was there to say that wouldn’t simply autopsy a humiliation, carve the belly out and display the dead verve and dried red blood? He didn’t think of Potter stepping back when Draco leaned in. He didn’t think of the things that hadn’t happened; he’d rather only know the firm edge of what had: Harry had arrived and wanted him. That was the only real thing.

✦ read chapter three now ✦

where lovers have wings

currently 9k words, explicit summary:

Draco Malfoy gets everything he wants. A love story featuring: a chipped tooth, baby chicks born in a bathtub, Harry Potter playing the piano poorly, quitting smoking but taking up vaping instead, domesticity, desire, dandelion seeds, a perfect romance and then the real one.

tags: multiverse-ish, sort of, okay all right there are two harry potters

✦ read chapter one on ao3 ✦

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fic rec: the empty house by hollycomb summary: Harry is separated from his friends during the war and stumbles into an empty cabin that happens to belong to the Malfoy family.

And then it comes, finally: the end. The smell of the sheets wraps around him, their softness against his cheek like permission to turn it all in. He lets out his breath and sinks into the mattress, wishing he had the strength to wrap the blankets around himself. Here lies Harry Potter, he thinks, pulling off his glasses. A poor solution to an impossible problem. Once, he was a boy, too.

there is no mcd in this fic but there is crude, hallowed living. it's beautiful and quiet and leaves the heart wide open and leaking. this is drarry at their best for me :,)

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Hannibal (2013-2015)

1x09 || 2x12

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dailyworldcinema's 5th anniversary event – day 4: cinematography ➞ 春光乍洩 / Happy Together (1997) dir. Wong Kar-wai

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Six Studies for Gassed John Singer Sargent 1918-1919 The Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. Charcoal on paper 18 3/8 x 24 1/8  in.

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The stove hummed before them and the air breathed dry and warm, like a patch of parchment. Like a sheared storybook page. Another Harry Potter had fallen out of a shiver-thin crack in the universe. He’d come to Draco’s door and kissed him on the mouth, put his fingers in Draco’s hair and palmed the slope of his skull like his hand held home. Draco scrambled for the nearest thing to stop himself from saying everything else. He glanced down at the cutting board next to the stove. “This is just garlic and olive oil.” “Hm?” “Spaghetti aglio e olio—garlic and olive oil. Surely you might just call it that instead? Unless you meant to impress me?” Harry smiled. “Only if it’s working.”

✦ chapter two is now up ✦

where lovers have wings

currently 9k words, explicit summary:

Draco Malfoy gets everything he wants. A love story featuring: a chipped tooth, baby chicks born in a bathtub, Harry Potter playing the piano poorly, quitting smoking but taking up vaping instead, domesticity, desire, dandelion seeds, a perfect romance and then the real one.

tags: multiverse-ish, sort of, okay all right there are two harry potters

✦ read chapter one on ao3 ✦

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Photo by Sergio Royzen.

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Bruce Weber: Ian McKellen & Friend

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The Garden (1990) dir. Derek Jarman

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BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN 2005・dir. Ang Lee

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Loser, please!

the game is something malfoy centric, which means scummy, really, and it can only be played with malfoy. malfoy showed him how, in fact. ron would explode.

it's just - harry never knew you could make gold unravel before. it's a hard thing to take apart, it’s durable, it wants to be whole, but malfoy knows spells just as needling and constant and crude as he gets. there are spells, potter, obviously.

malfoy said so when harry wondered it out loud, impetuous and snobby, like his voice wasn't scuffed up from drooling around harry's dick five minutes prior. harry barely catches it because he's barely listening. its just, his mouth gets so wet and red, the flush bleeds out past his lips, a candy stain out to the chin. bleeding past the patchy edges, like his attention. "intrafindo, extrucio," malfoy keeps explaining, trying to explain, but have harry's fingers wandered right into the red. fingers on his shiny lip and he doesn’t even notice - poor attention span. harry pulls the swollen bottom one down, slicks his thumb in between malfoy’s teeth. malfoy’s rolling his eyes but working himself up again. his chest is moving too fast, breath bucking again. "of course there are spells" he says, harry thinks. its hard to tell with his whole hand in there.

gold has nothing on opal though, or emerald, precious jewels that unwrap themselves in fits, unsure what their matter ought to be. they pour out their insides liquid, sometimes, or hard edged gas. he does opal over an over, like ruining the moon. it looks like malfoy’s eyes, malfoys skin if he was served in a half-shell on the beach at night. 

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dumbest girl alive (✿◉ ‿ ◉)

for my dear @yellowfork too who also requested him too :,) - it’s so boring to be horny *

Draco's heavier than he looks. Lead ego stuffed into trousers that require a blade to get off, a kitchen gadget that's all teeth. He still has that sort of face: best viewed from a sharp angle. How god or the devil might mistake him. Looking up if he's already halfway down, almost reverent on his knees, halo-haired, innocent. Or from sneering from below. Mean. The line of his mouth quiet and still running: yeah, Potter, take it.

Harrys mostly guessing about the last part. Hes seen Draco kneel before but only to refasten a gone-sloppy shoe. He's that way though, making laces salacious. Slaggy just when he stretches, yawns, leaves his wide mouth open in the air like a fish spoiled for all the wet. 

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I am tired. These people make me feel I have a hole in the middle of me.

D.H. Lawrence, The Plumbed Serpent

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DICKHEAD >:))))

4 u <3 - Harry stretches his hand out in the flour dense dough, an argument as much as it was a compromise. He puts his whole shoulder into it the way you're sort of not supposed to, that's likely to strain, and thinks again about what Draco Malfoy's cock looked like. Normal, first off. He'd be more interesting if it were interesting. Even being born with one bollock or something probably would have made him cooler, like an artist or something instead of a sticky cornertable performer, over a stage of ice melting gin and tonics, or vodka sodas, or anything else pale and intoxicating and sort of easy to find. No, Malfoy wouldn’t be weird, probably, just a little underwhelming. Harry's as uncreative about the ideas themselves as he is sure about Draco's uncreative dick. He isn't pushing the dim fringe at the edge of the interest and finding any rawer wetter underneath thing. It’s just the same thing, over and over: what’s it look like soft, how does it sit hard? If he’s wild enough with want does his cock curl up at angle, and then, which? To the left, the telling-direction and same hand he’d write a letter with? Or to the right? Because he’s always straining to be good.

It’s a Tuesday. It’s five thirty in the morning, which means he’s probably  awake. Still awake, if you’d rather be specific. Which Harry does, always, when it comes to him. Malfoy insists sometimes, I’m not around, distracted and devoted to some tiny invisible smudge of dirt under a fingernail, a shadow more than a stain, and Harry corrects him: You’re actually very around. Around is pretty much the only thing you are. You don’t do anything, even, you’re just sort of there. You’re like air, that way. Maybe capable of like, an irritating wind, but nothing much besides that. You’re not not around, you just want to seem hard to come by. 

Some nights go really late between them. Harry’s voice gets hungry like a magnifying glass following an ant around, seeing how long it takes for the sear to turn to melt.

Only, that’s the thing. Malfoy doesn’t go molten or ever seem to get any closer.

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fic: a prayer flung into the night

rating: nc-17 pairing: harry/draco tags: a/b/o, alpha harry, omega draco, power play

There was no mark on his neck to match Potter's, but Draco was convinced something of it had pulled him here anyway. Some sly, spiteful tendril of Potter's magic had wrapped him up somehow and he hadn't noticed until it threw him at his feet. Even without the bond, Draco could feel it: a nasty little ache just behind his sternum, picking and picking at his insides.

last installment in my a/b/o series. it is a wip and it is not pre-written so god help us. if you read along thanks very much :)

one |

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NERVoUS Game

ty also to anon for nervous game ::)

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The night's half-past past sloppy, careening towards shit-show.

Everyone's focused, so intense that it’s kind of dumb, an over-acted show of dedication, but Harry keeps catching Dean’s eye, and Blaise’s—even Malfoy’s once.

Slowly, kind of unbearably slowly, Dean's hand scales Harry's leg steady, slow, stopping every so often until Harry slides him a ratifying glance or a grin. Blaise's fingers draw a tight loop on top of Malfoy's thigh, striking it through with a line. Harry realizes too late to read it that he's likely writing a word there, letter by letter, without even looking down. Looking right at Harry. And with everything, Dean's swimming, steady grip, the lulled warmth of the dim pub, Harry stays half-stuck in the fence of his gaze.

He hasn't noticed Blaise’s face before, maybe, or not this close, definitely not while he's also got his own hand on Blaise's leg—which is so warm, summer trapped in the lean length. Sharp cheekbones but soft waiting beneath, nothing like Malfoy. Blaise has these treacle-sweet eyes. Sticky, almost, too look at. Harry does, keeps staring even while Malfoy slinks his legs open a little wider so that Blaise teases up along the inseam. Harry's scalp feels tight, a prickling up the neck that’s way-back and familiar, just the same.

“Kind of cheating to play with someone you’re shagging,” Harry says, rushing the words out to soften the way he adjusts in his seat.

“You and Thomas are shagging?” Blaise tilts his head and Harry snorts. His hand is draped over Malfoy’s pleated trousers, an easy centerpiece to twill table. Or, if Malfoy’s button fly is the center, a boring epergne, Blaise’s grasp is placed as the full plate. 

“Not yet, but feeling inevitable at the moment,” Dean replies, pleased and winking. He squeezes Harry’s bicep with his other arm.

Harry laughs, and Malfoy looks bored. Malfoy doesn't look at all, not even when Blaise leans further against him, shoulders thrust together, not part of the game at all. He traces more letters on Malfoy's trouser leg. A t, Harry catches, then maybe a cursive ch.