shewhxmustnxtbenamed

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Will Do So Gently | 138k | E

Following a coup organised by Voldemort, England's society collapses. Initial attempts by the government to regain power are thwarted by Death Eaters, and a rebellion group called ‘The Order’ forms to fight against them. The country divides, people flee, and those left are trying their best to survive.

Preview under the cut

Creaking floorboards told Draco he had finally been outsmarted. The cold press of a blade at his back halted the pour of his tea, and he lifted his head, unable to see the stranger even in his periphery. His heart betrayed his fear, hammering against his ribs as he licked his lips and considered that things could be worse. He could be dead, for example, and yet he wasn’t.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said a voice—quiet. Breathy.

The pressure of the blade increased, and Draco drew another mug from the cabinet. 

“Brilliant. That makes two of us,” Draco said, filling the second cup and returning the kettle to the hob. “There’s no need for that. I couldn’t fight you, even if I had the inclination.” 

He felt the metal withdraw, picked up the mugs and slowly turned sideways, catching the shape of the intruder in his eye-line as he went toward the table. He was slightly taller than Draco, broader, his stance defensive. Draco kept his eyes down as he moved the tea bag from his own mug into the stranger’s, casting a glance toward the stew he had just set to cook over the fire. 

“The tea will be weak, but I found a potato in the garden earlier,” Draco said, hearing the stranger cross to the other side of the table, and wondering to himself if meeting his eye would lessen or strengthen his chances for survival.

“I watched you dig it up,” the intruder said, and Draco’s eyes shifted toward him, finding both his hands empty. 

“Ah,” Draco tried to form a noise, but his throat was too dry. 

His gaze traveled upward against his will, finding the stranger’s face, but a hat and wide scarf hid most of it. Glasses obscured his eyes and Draco looked away, toward the fire.

“There’s rabbit, too—and garlic I harvested and dried in the summer,” he said, carefully settling his fingers on the rim of a mug and lifting it. 

The stranger accepted, revealing wind-chapped fingers beneath the long sleeves of his coat. 

“Have a seat. I’ll add another log to the fire. The stew will be ready in a couple of hours,” Draco said, pausing for a long moment before he turned and went to the hearth.

He kept his body angled so that the stranger could see his hands, his actions slow and deliberate. When he stood, he looked toward the door, noted the deadlock was fastened as he returned to the kitchen table. The stranger was still standing, one hand around his mug, the other near his pocket, shoulders tense.

“I just want to get warm,” the stranger said. “I won’t take your food. Just the tea is fine.” 

Draco frowned at him, wishing he could see the rest of the stranger's face, then quickly looked away. He swallowed, staring down at his mug as he dragged it across the table, stepping toward his chair.

“Take off your coat. You’ll get warm faster without it,” Draco said, crossing his legs as he sat down. 

For a long beat, the stranger stood there, as if deciding whether to do what he said. Draco caught a glint of silver as the man moved the knife from his coat to his trouser pocket, shedding several layers until he was down to a simple jumper. His frame was more slender than the coats suggested, wrists bony as he reached and pulled the scarf from the lower half of his face. He had a sparse, black beard that matched the curly hair sticking out from beneath his hat, his skin darker than Draco had thought before. The man hesitated as he scanned the small room in search of somewhere to put his clothes. 

“Near the door,” Draco said, and the man looked at it, and then quickly back at Draco. 

Never quite turning his back, he went toward the rack and hung his coat, returning to the table and pulling the stool out with his foot. 

“Careful—has a dodgy leg. Never quite sits right,” Draco said as the man sat down. 

The stool wobbled once, but steadied itself, and the stranger pulled a knee up, tugging at his laces. His boots were nice. Fur-lined. He saw a knot where the laces had broken before and had since been tied back together. The man grunted as he tugged the boot off and let it drop to the floor with a surprisingly heavy thud. Draco looked down at his socked foot and saw the water marks that it left behind on the wood floor. The second boot dropped and Draco lifted a finger toward the fire. 

“There’s a hook on the mantle for your socks. Set your boots on the ground nearby. They’ll dry in the heat.” 

The man eyed him and then picked up the closest boot, unlacing it completely and then finding the next one. When he was done, he stood, hopping slightly as he removed his wet sock and hung it, followed by the other. He set the boots down on the hearth, too close to the cinders, and Draco’s chair creaked as he made to stand up, and then froze as the stranger turned, hand reaching for the knife in his pocket. Draco showed his open palm, the other occupied by his mug as he re-crossed his legs and settled into his seat again. 

“Move your boots to the floor. The heat will singe the fur if you keep them so close,” he said, and the man watched him for a moment, his breathing harder than it had been before. 

Draco looked away, taking a sip of tea, seeing in his peripheral as the man stooped and quickly placed the boots on the ground, just outside the stretch of the hearth. He stood again, and Draco simply stared at the stool which the stranger had vacated, sipping his tea which was weak, but nonetheless better than plain water. The man returned, taking his seat again, now bare-footed, and Draco wondered if this vulnerability would make him more dangerous. The man held his mug between both hands, but didn’t drink, and Draco wished he had kept the tea bag in his own mug. 

He looked toward the man’s face, at his neck and his chapped lips, at his jaw as the muscles worked beneath his beard. His nose was slightly bowed, mouth set, thick eyebrows nearly hidden from messy fringe.

“You should dry your hat, too. It’s probably wet from the snow,” Draco said, but the man shook his head. 

“I’ll leave it,” he said, staring down at his tea, and Draco looked away, toward the man’s weather-reddened knuckles and short fingernails, noticing a glint of gold at his wrist underneath his jumper sleeve.

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Tincture | 61k | M

What if the Philosopher's Stone had never been destroyed? Hidden in the deepest part of the Department of Mysteries, it remained a secret for decades, until the life of Harry Potter was thrown into jeopardy. Draco is the only one with the knowledge to save him.

Preview under the cut

Schrödinger’s box. Pandora’s box. The Ark of the Covenant. None of those were as important as the chest on Draco’s desk. The appearance of it frightened him, but until he opened it, he could maintain the idea that everything was alright and the world hadn’t actually ended. 

“Is he dead?” Draco asked, staring at the chest. 

Nobody answered him, and he refused to do anything else until they did. He waited, his back straight and heart fluttering with panic. A cool layer of sweat was forming on his forehead, the back of his throat tightening the same way it did when he felt like being sick. 

“ Is he dead ?” Draco repeated, forcing the quiver out of his voice as he brought his eyes up to the faces in front of him. 

His office was dark, the chandelier above long dimmed from his charm. He stood and braced his fingertips on his desk, waiting. Two people stared back at him from the darkness—blank, cold. 

“Dead,” one of them said, and Draco’s heart stopped. 

He let out a panted breath and looked down at the box again, his legs feeling numb as he lowered himself into his seat. He shook his head once and raised a hand to his mouth, then his hairline, then his eyes. 

“How?” Draco asked, lacking the strength from before. 

“Fell on assignment early this morning. Hit his head. His partner saw the whole thing and thought Potter was joking, lying limp on the floor…According to him, he couldn’t find a pulse even before the mediwixes arrived. It was all over in a minute.” 

Draco released a shaky breath, gripping the arms of his chair as he swallowed, lifting his chin. 

“Is this what I think it is?” Draco asked, nodding to the chest on his desk. 

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” the same voice answered. 

“It isn’t a resurrection stone. It gives immortality to people while they’re still alive . Harry Potter is dead.” The sentence left him breathless, and he took pause. “I can’t bring him back even with a perfectly drawn Elixir of Life. No one can.” 

The room was thick with silence, and Draco stared at the clasp on the chest for so long his vision blurred. 

“We have to try,” came a quieter voice. “It’s Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake.” 

Draco stood and turned away from them, hand at the base of his throat, pressing against his collar bones. He swallowed back the sick feeling and took a steadying breath, drawing his hand to his mouth.

“There is the theory of Panacea…” he murmured to himself, one hand behind his back as he stepped toward the wall of his potion ingredients, scanning his stores. “Perhaps…if he were put under the stasis charm soon enough— Please tell me he’s under a stasis charm?” 

“Yes, sir, his partner cast it almost immediately.” 

“Hm,” Draco hummed, a new feeling thrumming in his chest. “Finally, Weasley’s good for something.” 

He turned and slid open the clasp to the chest, feeling a chill as the metal clicked. Slowly, with much deliberation, he raised the lid of the box and stared down at the one potion ingredient he thought he’d never have. The blood-red stone shone even in the light from his desk lamp, and he craved to put it under a magnifying glass to get a proper look. Instead, he shut the lid and addressed the people in front of him.

“I’ll need Nicholas Flamel’s potion book from the vault to double check my work. Merlin knows I’ve read it a hundred times, but…It will take a full twenty-four hours for the potion to be ready, and that’s if I manage to make it correctly the first time…” He ran his fingers across his brow and then fisted his hands. “If this is going to work, we’ll need a miracle. Fortunately, he’s already performed a few of those, so the odds are in our favour.”

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Adult Skate | 12k | E

In the wake of his parent's deaths, Harry decides to pick up a new hobby to distract himself. He thinks it will be ice skating, but the rink offers him something much better.

Preview under the cut

“Maybe…I could skip practice one night and come ‘round,” Draco said, and Harry’s cheeks went hot.

He exhaled a laugh, turning his face away to check for cars as he turned on the indicator.

“Why do I feel like we’re in school or something? Skiving practice…” Harry murmured as he pulled onto the road, glancing at Draco. “I don’t want to disrupt your skate routine—I can just wake at an ungodly hour to see you.”

“Ungodly? Nine in the morning? I feel like that’s a very average time to wake up.”

“I wake at eight to meet you at nine. Ungodly .”

Draco huffed out a breath through his nose.

“Alright, we’ll do ten next time. How’s that?”

“Slightly better,” Harry said, smirking at him. “You really don’t have any evenings off?”

Draco shrugged, his mouth pulling down.

“I never had reason to. If I’m home, I’d rather be skating.”

Harry shifted gears, clearing his throat as he glanced at Draco again.

“And now?” Harry asked.

“Hm?” Draco hummed.

“Would you rather be skating?”

Draco opened his mouth to answer and then paused, his brow tensing as he looked away contemplatively. Harry glanced at the road, shifted gears again, waited for several long seconds.

“Actually…no,” Draco said eventually.

“You seem surprised.”

“Well, I am. I think this is the first time... ever , maybe, that I’ve liked something else more than skating.”

“Something? My shit car? The free food? My tip of a house that we can’t even go into?”

Draco laughed and tucked his hair behind his ear, his gaze dropping to his lap.

“Yeah, all that. Everything else is dreadful, though.”

Harry’s heart was racing, his breath holding as Draco glanced at him and laughed again, resting his elbow on his armrest, chin propped in his hand.

“What evenings are you free?” Draco asked as Harry reluctantly fixed his eyes on the road again.

“Any evening,” Harry answered quickly, and then cringed. “Well, actually, I do go ‘round Luna’s sometimes in the evenings. Sundays or Fridays it’s been so far.”

“Well, there are ice hockey games on Tuesdays a lot of the time…sometimes they go so late I only get an hour of practice, anyway. You don’t think we could—?”

“Yes. Tuesday nights. Sounds good,” Harry answered, nodding quickly and trying to keep the grin off his face as he turned into the car park.

“That’s at least one day that you won’t have to wake before noon,” Draco murmured, and Harry exhaled a laugh. “I mean, unless you only wanted to do Tuesdays—”

“No,” Harry said at once, unfastening his seatbelt. “Not to sound…pathetic, but I really haven’t got much else aside from my lessons at the minute. I should keep busy, it’s a hazard when I’m not. You’d be doing a public service, spending time with me.”

“It really is such a burden, but I think I can bear it,” Draco murmured, and Harry smiled at him.

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Strand's Seven Stars | 83k | E

Draco seeks out the help of a detective who is known for his discretion. Despite rocky introductions, Draco and the detective, Harry Potter, become friends as Draco is forced to share very personal information that reveals more about himself than he would have ever admitted to under any other circumstance. Fortunately, Harry is not only understanding of Draco's sexual preferences but encourages him to keep doing what he loves--perhaps with Harry himself.

Preview under the cut

Though his expectations were low already, upon opening the door of the smallest office on the basement level of the library, Draco's small flicker of hope was extinguished. The man on the other side of the desk was cramming the remnants of a croissant into his mouth, and he froze when Draco walked in, peering at him through his messy fringe. They looked at each other in silence, and eventually, the man decided to ingest the rest of his food, though it seemed like a chore. Draco remained at the door, partly out of surprise that the man hadn’t yet choked, but also because he had nobody else to turn to. 

“Cheers,” the man said, sipping his tea briefly before he gestured to the flimsy, metal-framed chair in front of his desk. 

Draco peered over his shoulder at the darkened hallway from which he had come, and against his better judgment, shut the door. He stepped forward and braced his hands on the chair back—cringing when he felt it was slightly sticky. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands unsuccessfully, grimacing as he looked down at his fingertips. 

“Oh, shit—that’s my fault,” the man said, and suddenly he was rounding the desk and wiping Draco’s hands with a mysteriously wet towel.

Draco made a choked noise of protest and jerked his hands away, and the man looked confused.

“What?” He asked, and at Draco’s next intelligible squawk, he lifted the towel and shrugged. “It’s a baby wipe.” 

Draco clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and wiped aggressively at his hands, glaring down at this man who had offended him on several levels in mere minutes. He scowled and threw his handkerchief into the overflowing bin nearby, too put off to return it to his pocket, and he nearly braced against the back of the chair again but didn’t. 

“Anyway, what can I do you for?” 

“What?” Draco’s voice came out in a harsh whisper, and he cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. “Do me?” 

The man snorted and clacked away on a keyboard, his gaze flickering from the screen, to Draco’s face, and then down across his expensive suit that he was severely regretting because the fumes in this room alone could render it unwearable. 

“What do you want?” 

“First, I never want you to touch me with that disgusting wipe again—in fact, never touch me again at all. Period.”

“Noted,” the man said, though he didn’t seem to take this as seriously as Draco had hoped. 

“Second… I might need your help?” 

“Might?” 

“Yes, well, you haven’t made the best impression, have you?” 

The man tilted his head, his gaze speculative as his clackity typing paused. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said, buttoning the top button on his jacket as he stood and rounded the desk again, extending a hand. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.” 

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, and they shook. 

His hand was warm and strong and blessedly dry. When Harry bowed into an exaggerated curtsey, Draco’s mouth tightened, and he peered darkly down at Harry’s grin as he straightened up and returned to his chair, exhaling heavily as he started typing again. 

“Do you know who I am?” Draco asked, straightening his tie again.

Harry’s eyes flickered to him briefly, and he heaved a burdened sigh, shrugging. 

“A rich bloke who’s in trouble and has trouble with intimacy?” 

“I-wh-h—” Draco flushed, but Harry merely pushed his glasses up his nose with the tip of his finger and continued typing. 

“Need I mention the outstanding daddy issues and fear of failing your mother? Oh, and insomnia.” 

“How—Why—?” Draco bit his tongue, taking a slow breath to ease the pounding of his heart. The keyboard clicking was the only sound in the room, and Draco flinched as he rested his hands on the sticky chair again. “What the fuck is on the back of this chair?” 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

With and Without You  | 117k | E

Harry and Draco realize that they’ve been living in the same building for the past five years, hiding from the Wizarding world in Muggle London for a variety of reasons. They grow unexpectedly close and Harry realizes that Draco’s relationship with his boyfriend is abusive, spiraling as he tries and fails to figure out how to help. In Harry’s rejection of the Wizarding world in general, he has fallen out of touch with his friends and his magical abilities, but has to reconnect with both in order to find himself again.

Preview under the cut

It wasn’t until several days later that Harry and Draco saw each other. Harry was going to get his mail, and ended up cornering Draco in the Mail room. They both froze and then Harry fumbled with his keys, struggling to open his mailbox. 

“So, I was thinking,” Harry said, once he had retrieved his mail, “maybe you could show me the third Star Wars movie?”

“Really?” Draco asked skeptically, and Harry looked at him with a confirmative nod. “I bet we can go to blockbuster and rent the fourth one,” he said excitedly, and Harry smiled at him.

“Okay,” Harry agreed, relieved that Draco was looking cheerful. 

“What are your plans today?” Draco asked, and Harry shrugged, sighing as if a great burden weighed on him. 

“You know— the average things that a rich, terminal bachelor does on the daily,” he smirked and Draco squinted at him. 

“I’m really starting to remember why you got on my nerves in school, Potter,” he said, shoving Harry as he walked past and went up the stairs. “Since I’m an actual adult I have things to do, but how about we meet outside at five?” 

“Okay,” Harry agreed, laughing. “Five o’clock.” 

Harry spent the day doing laundry and vacuuming his couch cushions. Anything to help the time go by as he waited for five o’clock to draw nearer. He brushed his cats and washed his dishes and cleaned his windows, but time was dragging. He hadn’t realized it, but he felt like he had been waiting to see him ever since they had been on the balcony together. 

Harry was so restless that he decided to go wait on the porch, having cleaned everything he could possibly clean within his apartment, including himself. He was shoveling and salting the stairs when Draco came down, slowing when he saw what Harry was doing. 

“What a good samaritan,” Draco said sarcastically and Harry set the salt bucket down. 

“Oh, sorry, did I ruin your plans of slipping and falling to your untimely death?”

“No— the plan was to sue and be richer than you, actually,” Draco commented, holding his chin up. 

Harry snorted and walked down the steps to the pavement. 

“Come on, Mr. Insurance fraud. We need to get going— I’m sure you have to wake up bright and early for your adult job.”

“Actually, I do, thank you very much,” Draco said, falling into stride with him. “Can we pick up a pizza on the way back?” 

“Obviously,” Harry agreed. 

They walked for a while and Harry’s glasses caught some of the falling snow. This was one thing that had him reaching for his wand— water repellant— but no matter how annoying it got, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Using magic had started to make him feel sick, which is ultimately why he stopped using it, even when it was supremely inconvenient. And once he stopped using magic, that was pretty much the end of his connection to the wizarding world as he knew it.

“About the other night…” Draco said, and Harry looked up at him, realizing he couldn’t see. Draco laughed and plucked Harry’s glasses from his face. “You’re an idiot.” 

Draco handed him his glasses back and they were clean, so Harry tucked them in his pocket so that he’d be able to see once they got inside. He looked up at the blob of Draco’s face. 

“Anyways—“ Draco continued, “Thanks for not asking me about it— I—“ he cleared his throat. “It’s a weird situation.” 

“No worries,” Harry shrugged, not having thought about questioning him about it in the first place. It’s the last thing he himself would want, and he assumed that Draco would feel the same way. “If you ever do want to talk about it—“

“I don’t,” Draco said quickly and Harry repressed a smile. 

“That’s fine. But if you did—“

“I don’t,” Draco insisted and Harry put on his glasses and grabbed him by the shoulder. 

“That’s fine,” he emphasized, and Draco hid half his face in his scarf. They were standing in the middle of the pavement and Harry let go of Draco’s shoulder now that he had gotten his attention. “But if you ever did— I’m a pretty good listener,” Harry shrugged and tilted his head, analyzing the half of Draco’s expression that he could see. “And, you know— you’re my friend or whatever,” he added and Draco lifted his head to smile at him. 

“Harry Potter did you just call me your friend?” 

“I guess,” Harry shrugged and ran a hand through his snow-covered hair. 

“Well, I still consider you to be a kind neighbor, at best,” Draco teased him, turning his back on Harry to continue their walk. 

“You know what? I take it back,” Harry said once he had caught up. “Don’t tell me about your problems— they’re below me. Speaking as The Chosen One, I mean,” Draco bumped into him and Harry stumbled. “Oi!” He laughed, shoving him back. 

“Don’t be a child!” 

“You started it,” Harry retorted, running ahead to reach the door of the video store before Draco could retaliate. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Pieces Of Me | 88k | E

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter have never been friends. After finding themselves isolated from others due to their own specific problems, they somehow connect. While Harry ignores his issues with addiction, and Draco disguises just how horrible his relationship is, a friendship blooms between them. Draco must choose between the life he's known for the past five years with Cormac McLaggen, or the life that Harry offers him, and the consequences that follow.

Preview under the cut

Harry 

I tried to stop drinking. I did. Two weeks, nearly, and I could scrape by as long as I had a vial of Dreamless Sleep before I went to bed. But this is so much simpler. Being drunk is easier. I don’t worry about Ron and Hermione, or the war, or the fact that I’m not over it all five years later. 

I’m laying in my bed, unsure of the time or day, and I’ve had so much to drink I swear I can feel the alcohol particles breaking down inside my liver. My brain is so empty it’s buzzing, and I fall asleep without the fear a nightmare will wake me up. 

This is how I spend most of the next week. I can’t be sure of how many days have passed, but I know it’s been a while, and the worst part is that nobody would know if I holed up here for another week. Even a month, maybe, and I know nobody would reach out because I’ve done this for longer than that before and I didn’t hear a word. It’s my fault. I pushed them away. They deserve better than I can give them. 

Now, I’m walking to Costa. I don’t know why, but I can’t get the idea of Draco Malfoy in a barista apron out of my head. I’m not sure that he’ll even be there, but it’s only a few blocks away and I can’t help myself. I’ve done them the courtesy of showering, and my hair is freezing in the winter breeze. The sun is bright, and it hurts my eyes because I haven’t blessed the outdoors in who knows how long. 

When I step through the door, I don’t see him. I order a coffee and a lemon cake slice anyway and sit down in a comfy chair, taking in a deep breath of the rich, sweet smell of the shop. Malfoy comes out of the washroom, distracted as he puts his hair into a ponytail, but he sees me. At first, he frowns, but then he smiles after he scans the room, weaving through the chairs as he walks toward me. 

“Thought I was lying?” He asks, and I tilt my head. 

“Not at all. Just figured you’d look funny in an apron.” 

He scoffs and looks down at himself, putting his hands on his hips. 

“Well?” he asks, and I shrug. 

“It was worth the walk.” 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Nonymity | 11k | E

Anonymity and Harry Potter rarely went hand-in-hand. When he learned about a sex club that hid both the patron's and the sex workers' identities, he knew he had to try. Little did he know that the club had a dark secret.

Preview under the cut

My cock was already throbbing with anticipation as I walked into the room, breath catching in my chest. I shut the door and stared at the long, pale legs of the man that they assigned to me. Anonymity had never been something that I could have — the scar on my face was more identifiable than any name tag. When I heard about this club, I was hesitant to believe that it could be true. That I could finally be able to feel like a normal, horny guy who wanted to have sex with someone without consequence. It was still strange, though, being with someone who couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see them. 

I was slow to approach, observing the situation in front of me with ambivalence. It looked like the person was bent over a bed or table, and there was a black sheet hanging down from the ceiling that landed somewhere on his mid-back. His feet were flat on the ground, knees straightened so that his arse was in the air, naked and ready for me to take it. I swallowed as I grew nearer, looking up toward the ceiling and then down at the smooth skin of the arse and legs in front of me. I reached forward hesitantly, fingers mere centimeters away from him, and then I withdrew my hand because this didn’t feel right. 

“Er,” I mumbled, clearing my throat. “Hello.” 

The man shifted his weight between his feet, and my face burned with embarrassment, realizing that I was essentially talking to someone’s arse. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, laughing, “I’ve never done this before, I don’t… I don’t know what to do.” 

The man didn’t speak, and I rubbed my hands nervously across my jeans. 

“I-I mean, I know what to do, but — do I — do I just… do it? Merlin…” 

I ran a hand across my mouth and stepped closer, exhaling a deep breath as I looked at the soft, pale skin of his arse. His balls looked soft and pink, swaying gently as he shifted his weight again, waiting for me to get on with it. 

“Are — are you allowed to talk? Can you say anything?” 

The silence that followed answered my question, and I licked my lips, exhaling a sharp breath.

 “Okay, um… well, I guess… I’m going to touch you now if that’s okay?” 

I waited a beat and my heart hammered against my ribs as I reached for him, exhaling in a shaky breath as I slid my palm up his soft back. My pulse pounded in my ears and the zip of my jeans strained as I felt his warm skin. I slid my hand around to the front of his stomach and down his thigh. 

“Ah, fuck,” I said, my knuckles grazing the soft skin of his cock. 

It had been too long since I’d been with someone — the feel of another person’s body was like a drug, and I felt like I could come by just touching him. Touch deprivation — that’s what I’d been told this was — and the rush of feeling another person’s body was making me dizzy. 

“Merlin, you’re gorgeous,” I said, wondering if he could even hear me. Maybe it would be better if he couldn’t, but I hoped he could. “I-I hope it’s okay that I’m touching you. Maybe I’m not supposed to yet…” 

I cut off as I reached around his stomach again, my mouth opening as I felt the weight of his cock in my hand, exhaling a sharp breath as I tugged it gently to life. “Fuck…” 

The man sighed, and I looked at the black curtain that separated us, sliding my thumb into the slit at the head of his cock. “Do you like that?” 

He sighed again, and I swallowed, hooking my fingers into his hip as I tugged him with my other hand. I leaned forward against his arse, feeling the muted pressure of him through my jeans. The groan that came out of me was involuntary, even though I knew it was pathetic. I pulled him off and rocked my hips forward against his arse, my knees trembling because of how good this felt already. My only worry was that the roughness of my jeans would be an irritant, so I leaned away from him. I took a long, steadying breath as I rested my hands on my hips and stared at the anonymous arse in front of me. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Demons Run (When A Good Man Goes To War) | 124k | E

I need your help. Ordinarily, I wouldn't ask anyone to decipher life from my perspective, but I need you to understand the situation that I've found myself in. You need to see the events that led me here and have the clarity of mind that I lack because I am more lost than I have ever been, and I need saving. Help me, because I don't know how I got here, and I need to repair the damage I've done.

Preview under the cut

There’s a place called ‘Potters Bar’ a little bit north of London. You’ve probably never heard of it — I certainly hadn’t until I was kicked out on my arse for being gay. Lame reason, right? Who gives a shit these days? My parents, apparently. So, no house — no trust fund — no more luxuries for me as long as I like dick. They said that once I was ready to marry a woman, I could come back and get my money — I said that was bribery and my father hung up on me. So, now I live here. Close enough to London for it to not be considered the middle of nowhere, but far enough away that it isn’t crowded. 

When I say I live here, what I mean is that I hang out down the pub until someone pulls me and I go home with them. I guess in some ways this is prostitution, but we don’t always have sex. Sometimes it’s just some lonely guy who wants someone to cuddle and warm their bed at night. I have a few of those — ones I can call up and ask to stay if I can’t find anywhere else. Sadly, I think that these men are the closest that I get to having friends. I know I can go to a shelter or put on a ‘straight pride’ badge and crawl back to my family home, but this has been working alright for me so far.

And don’t get me wrong — I have a job. I just don’t make enough to have my application accepted by any of the landlords ‘round here. Or anywhere, for that matter. So, I eat, I drink, I do fun things sometimes, but… admittedly, I’m homeless. Sometimes. I keep all my stuff in a locker at the gym where I also shower if the bloke I was with isn’t courteous enough to let me clean up. I don’t have much, so it works out fine. Being a minimalist is default when you’re poor — I didn’t know that before. 

I should tell you, I used to be a racist. I know — I suck. I can’t believe I used to think the things I thought, but I swear I’m not anymore. Or — well — is any white person truly ‘not racist’? Maybe that’s an excuse. Either way, my best friend is black… does that sound racist? I can’t tell. Either way, she’s been the only consistent thing in my life and she lives in Potters Bar, too. She’s Deaf and beautiful, and she married this ginger guy who’s… alright, I guess. He’s why she moved here — and she’s why I moved here, to be honest. You can ask why I don’t sleep at theirs when I can’t find a bed, but you tell me how well you sleep in a two-bedroom flat with two young children. 

Anyway — back to me being a racist. Hah, you thought I would skip over that, didn’t you? No… I was a racist, through and through. The worst part is I didn’t even know it until a few years ago. Felt like an idiot, honestly, once I realized. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in a very controlled environment. Both of my parents are racists, too — present tense — and therefore they raised me to be. They must’ve realized I’d be a disappointment to the family when I came home and told them that I made a new friend and that she was black. They forgave me for that — but not the whole gay thing, which I don’t really understand. 

Let’s get back to the point of the story, though. I guess I never really told you to begin with, but — I’ve met someone. Well, kind of. I’ve… seensomeone, more like. Someone that is interesting enough to not be simply a one-night stand, but I’m not yet sure if he’s a ‘cuddle me and stroke my hair’ type of guy, either. I’ve been seeing him for months at this point — ever since I moved here, but we’ve never spoken to each other. 

You see, he’s what people ‘round here would ordinarily call a tosspot — someone who frequents a bar. Sure, the term is used loosely, but no matter what label you come up with, it won’t fit this guy. Barfly, drunkard, tippler, gulch, boozer — it doesn’t apply because there isn’t a term for someone who constantly hangs down the pub and yet is never seen to be drunk. I swear, British slang has about three thousand words for being pissed, but absolutely nothing for a non-drunk bar frequenter. 

That’s what initially caught my attention — well, that’s a lie now I think about it. The first thing to catch my attention was his watch, closely followed by his hands. The watch is about half a million quid alone, but his hands… my God, his hands. I’d give anything to feel those hands on me. I’m usually not a hand person, but there’s something about the way his fingers move — 

Not important. I’ll tell you about his hands later. Let’s circle back. I’ve been seeing him for months and as every day passes, my curiosity about him grows. He doesn’t seem to speak — curiously enough. At first glance, he seems like the type to want all the attention, just by how he holds himself and the posh clothing he wears, but he’s always seen in the dark booths or at the corner of the bar, off to the side where people don’t usually sit. This is where I start to get frustrated, you see, because there’s no way of me inconspicuously getting close to him.

I reached past him to get a cocktail napkin — smelled his expensive cologne — brushed against his arm, but he didn’t so much as look at me. And let me tell you — being someone who is considered to be very handsome — this was a hit to my self-esteem. I got over it, though, when I pulled a guy just a few minutes later and spent all night riding his arse to release my frustration. 

I’m good. If someone put a timer on it, I could pick up a guy in about five minutes and convince him to take me home. Though I usually like to play with my food, it seems like I’m good enough for anyone who comes to the bar. For everyone, except this guy. The half-a-million-pound-watch guy. That’s what gets me. I can hear you saying ‘Well, Draco, maybe he’s just straight’. Shut up. Even the straightest men have melted under my very talented and capable fingers. But him? Not so much as a nod in my direction. Not a single word from his mouth has ever graced my ears. All I know is that he’s rich, he’s hot, and I think he might be married. 

I don’t want to hear it. ‘Oh, Draco, he’s probably so in love with his wife that he doesn’t even notice anyone else’. Again, shut up. Married straight men are no better than single ones. I don’t usually try and climb into bed with married men, but it does occasionally happen if I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep or gagging for a —

Doesn’t matter. This guy is driving me crazy. I’m on the brink of making a fool out of myself just to get a reaction from him. He seems to be absolutely unemotional, stoic, serious, but there’s something about his eyes that make him seem kind. I bet that if he were to smile, it would be nice. 

Who am I? Sitting here thinking of some random bloke’s imaginary smile? Stupid, stupid, stupid, and so incredibly unlike me. I know we just met, but can’t you already tell that I’m not the type of guy who ruminates on things? Piss it. I’m going to pull him — I don’t care what it takes. My best friend says that I haven’t got a chance, and I’m determined to prove her wrong. Mind you, it’s nearly impossible to prove Hermione wrong as she’s one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met. Perhaps the most brilliant, actually. She taught my stubborn arse BSL, for fuck’s sake. 

Whatever. Enough about me. This is about him — the half-a-million-pound watch guy. How, no matter the cost, I’m going to get into his bed and he is going to like it. Maybe it will be the worst shag of my life. Maybe once I crack through that bizarrely intimidating exterior, there won’t be anything underneath. Maybe he’s better left alone, to exist only in my imagination and wet dreams as a fantasy. I, of all people, know that sometimes the real thing isn’t as good as you wish it to be. Maybe I’ll get into that later. 

For now, let’s begin with learning his name. You’d think this wouldn’t be too difficult, but the barkeep said that she’s not allowed to talk about the half-a-million-pound watch guy (as an aside, I want to note that I severely regret my choice of nickname and henceforth will be referring to him as HAM ((half a million)). Yes, I said henceforth, get over it) which I find to be spectacularly frustrating. I mean, who bans other people from talking about them — and most importantly, how? Bribery? Threat? I swear, HAM is doing this because he knows I want to know his name. Maybe that’s conceited of me to think. 

I just realized I never told you the name of the bar. That’s the best part — or maybe, the worst part. The bar is called ‘Potter’s’. Get it? Potter’s Bar in Potters Bar? Yeah, I wish I knew the genius who came up with that so I could punch them in the nose. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

You Can Call Me Daddy | 37k | E

By chance, Harry finds Draco at a male strip club where he is working to scrape by on the bare minimum. Harry is immediately taken with him, his protective nature coming out, and he wants to give Draco everything that he needs. Draco has a difficult time accepting Harry's gifts and well-intentioned nature, but will he be able to let loose a little in order to gain a better life?

Preview under the cut

“Are you sure this is alright?” Harry asked as he handed Draco his tea. 

“I feel like I should be asking you that.” He peered around Harry’s flat, clutching his tea nervously in fear that he would drop it and ruin something. 

Harry sat down on the opposite side of the couch, a cushion away as he stretched his arm across the back and sipped his tea, exhaling a deep breath. “I’m happy to have you here, I never have guests.” 

Draco found that hard to believe, but he kept his mouth shut as he observed the biggest telly he’d ever seen in his life paired with an electric fireplace that flickered to life at the press of a button. 

“So—you’re, like… rich.”

Harry chuckled and nodded when Draco looked at him. 

“You could say that.” 

“Even your tea tastes expensive.” 

“It’s from Singapore,” Harry said, and Draco snorted into his mug and spilled some on his lap. 

“Oh, fuck—” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as Harry brought him a tea towel. “Sorry.” 

“No worries,” Harry said. “Do I need to bring you another pair of trousers?” 

Draco laughed and shook his head, dabbing at the tea stains. “No, no, I’m sorry—fuck.” 

“It’s okay, come on—I need to get out of this stiff suit anyway,” Harry said as he stood, extending a hand toward Draco.

Draco gingerly set his tea down and stood, clinging to the waistband of his joggers that had nearly slid off him during their dinner at the chippy down the street. He held Harry’s calloused hand as they walked toward his bedroom, and Draco felt familiar butterflies in his stomach that only came when following a man toward his bed. He sat down on the edge of a king-sized mattress with sheets as soft as silk, watching Harry rifle through his closet for clothes that might fit Draco. He came out a moment later holding up a pair of much smaller joggers, looking pleased with himself. 

Draco didn’t wait for Harry to turn his back before he dropped the overlarge sweats, leaving him only in his work shorts and the hoodie from earlier. Harry didn’t even flinch and instead bent to pick up the clothes and toss them into the hamper. 

“Do you want me to find you a smaller shirt?” He asked, tugging at his necktie. 

“No—this is good. Cheers.” 

Harry nodded and turned away as Draco shimmied into his new joggers, his eyes glued to the opening of Harry’s closet as Harry undressed. Heat churned in his gut and he licked his lips, able to tell in the darkness that Harry’s back and arms were covered in tattoos. The soft light above him illuminated his muscles, toned and gentle under his skin and soft belly. Draco swallowed and pulled his hands inside the sleeves of his hoodie, only averting his gaze when Harry came out.

“Better?” Harry asked, but Draco was busy eyeing Harry’s mouth-watering Tattoo sleeves. “You okay?” 

Draco nodded and Harry reached a hand toward him, letting Draco step forward to meet his touch. He slid his palm up the inside of Harry’s wrist, gliding his fingertips under Harry’s sleeve as they got closer, faces mere inches apart as Harry looked calmly up at him. 

“Our tea is getting cold,” Harry murmured.

“Well, I dumped half of mine on the floor, so…” Harry laughed breathily, resting a hand on Draco’s hip when Draco touched his shoulder and looked at him, his heart thumping madly in his chest. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Count On Me | 23k | G

University students Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy run into each other one day. Literally. On bikes. After that, they can't get away from each other, no matter how hard they try. And then, it seems, they might not want to.

Preview under the cut

On Friday after work, he’s indulging in his usual routine of fish curry and a movie when he’s startled by a jump scare. As usual, he glances at the doorway to assure himself that he’s alone and safe, when he sees a person standing there and screams, clutching his Pikachu pillow for dear life. They turn on the light, and Harry’s shouts die in his throat when he sees the very confused, oddly wet face of Draco Malfoy. 

“What in the hell are you doing in my house?” He asks, taking in the pile of scattered rubbish on the sitting room table, along with random clothes and blankets that had gathered there during the week. 

“Your house?” 

“My mother owns it. It’s supposed to be empty this semester, she said no one was renting it.” 

“Is your mum related to Sirius Black?” 

Draco pauses.

“Yes…he’s not—I mean…are we related?” 

“No—he’s my godfather. He raised me. I call him my dad because that’s easier. Because…well, he is.” 

“Oh,” Draco says, and he exhales as he looks at the rubbish on the counter again. “So…you’re staying here, then?” 

“Well, I thought so…why are you here? Why are you wet?” 

“It’s storming like mad outside. The lab where I do my internship is near here and I didn’t feel like taking the bus, so I came here. Thought I’d stay the weekend—get out of the halls.” 

“Okay…” Harry says. “Er—well…I can leave, then. I mean, it’s your house.” 

“Which you’ve destroyed, by the looks of it,” Draco says, and then he frowns. “Hold on…is this the place you were talking about that gives you the creeps?” 

Harry presses his lips together. 

“Er…it’s much nicer now. Kudos to your mum.” 

“Well, it was . It looks like a tip now and it absolutely reeks, what is that smell?” 

“What, my fish curry? It’s good.” 

“It’s ghastly. Throw it away—God, throw all of this away. How do you live like this?” 

“Give me a break I’ve had a busy week!”

 “Busy week…” Draco mutters, and then he exits and starts to go up the stairs. 

Harry goes after him, but Draco is quicker, and reaches the room that Harry has claimed as his own. 

“It looks like the sun vomited in here. What is your obsession with Pokemon?”

Harry shuts the door and presses his back up against it, bracing himself as he looks up at Draco. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll tidy and change the bedsheets and…and…it will all look normal come tomorrow night. Okay?” 

“That’s my room,” Draco says. 

“You can’t stay in another room just for one night?” 

Draco crosses his arms and goes down the stairs, leaving Harry to trail behind him. He gets to the kitchen and stops, exhaling a loud breath. 

“I’m almost impressed. You’ve managed to wreck this house worse than I’ve ever seen it in the span of one week.” 

“It’s not that bad! It’s just some rubbish, alright? I can clean it tomorrow.” 

“Unlike some, I can’t stand to live in mess, so it seems that I’ll be the one cleaning this,” Draco says, searching for a garbage bag and a pair of gloves. 

Harry groans and takes it from him, jamming his hands into the gloves as he grabs the empty garbage bag and begins to toss the rubbish that had built up throughout the week. 

“Just wanted to have a relaxing night…Halfway through a movie with a nice curry…Ice cream in the freezer…” Harry mutters to himself, but Draco seems satisfied and finds his own pair of gloves to help with the cleaning. 

In surprisingly little time, the place is clean, and Harry collapses on the couch while Draco takes the rubbish to the bins outside. 

“It still stinks,” Draco says, and Harry sighs. 

“There’s nothing I can do about it. Open a window.” 

Draco crosses the room and opens the two garden-facing windows, letting in cool night air. Then, he sits on the couch beside Harry and Harry straightens, looking at him. 

“Are you going to kick me out now?” Harry asks. 

“No, I’m not evil. It’s still storming.” 

“I know, but are you going to be living here now that you work in the lab nearby?”

“Well, I thought I might, but, apparently not. My mother usually tells me when we have a tenant staying here. I’m sorry—I barged in, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, and then you forced me to clean.” 

“You really ought to clean more, its disgusting to—” 

“Enough, enough, you’ve already scolded me. Just tell me if I’ve got to move or not, alright?” 

“No, that wouldn’t be fair to you.” 

“Okay…well…can I finish my movie, then?” 

“I can stay?” Draco asks. 

“It’s your house.” 

“Do you mind?” 

Harry shrugs. Considers it. 

“I don’t mind.” 

“Alright, then,” he says, sighing as he settles back on the couch. “We’ll finish the movie.” 

Harry nods and presses play, clutching his Pikachu plushie and ignoring the smirk that pulls at Draco’s mouth. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Through His Eyes (I Am Set Free) | 134k | E

Harry and Draco have a telepathic connection that remains unexplained in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Draco is assigned a mission by Voldemort to locate and capture the Boy Who Lived-- the trouble is that they don't know anything about him. While Draco struggles to gather information on this mysteriously absent hero, he and Harry start communicating again for the first time since they were kids. Harry continues life as normal until he discovers information which compels him to abandon his ordinary Muggle life with the endeavor to rescue and emancipate his only friend—even if that means bartering with his own life.

Preview under the cut

I’ve had a voice inside my head since I was young. Some people would call this a conscience. Others, maybe, an imaginary friend. That sits well when you’re a kid and everyone thinks you’ll grow out of the freaky habits that you pick up in adolescence. However, at twenty years old people are far less understanding. Especially when your “inner voice” has a name. 

“Draco,” I told my aunt one evening as a child, “that’s his name— the person in my head.” 

“Be quiet, boy,” she hushed, her narrow eyes glancing toward the open window. 

I wished that my conscience would’ve had a more ordinary name— maybe Tom or John. I was sure that other people had to have names for their voices, but as I grew older I realized that this isn’t the case at all. 

For one thing, people usually have thoughts in their own voice— Draco’s voice sounded like a posh northerner, which is far from my Surrey accent. I also figure that most people can control the voice in their head, but I can’t. I haven’t heard from him in nearly five years— not until recently, anyways, when his voice started slipping through. 

At first, it was just in my sleep. I’d wake up with the memory of shouting, but as soon as I was conscious, it was gone. Then, it started bleeding into reality, coming through louder than the music in my headphones. The odd part was that the things the voice said had nothing to do with me— sometimes it didn’t make any sense at all. 

I’d feel angry at random times, terribly sad at others, and occasionally when I was going to sleep, loneliness would overwhelm me so acutely that I would ache. On the other hand, I’d burst out laughing in the middle of work or have dreams about a giant castle with flying people and ghosts. It was bizarre, but I grew to like it. It was something interesting in the mix of my incredibly mundane life. 

Working as a builder wasn’t any more fun than it sounded. Sure, it was cool to see a house patched up and finished, but the dust that got in my eyes, and the mask that I wore every day did tend to get old. Not to mention that all of my clothing is covered in paint. It didn’t pay well, either, which left me to stay at my aunt and uncle’s house even though I’m twenty. I try as hard as I can in order to avoid them, but I’ve never had much luck in the realm of friends.  Growing up underfed and lanky, the target of my cousin’s bullying in school, and with a gigantic ugly scar on my forehead didn’t prove well for me even as I grew older. The confidence that I so desperately wanted never seemed to form, so I stuck to myself and kept my mouth shut. Being invisible is better than suffering— I learned that a long time ago. 

One thing about having a voice inside your head is that it can make inconspicuousness difficult, especially when you’re climbing a ladder to start thatching a roof and suddenly someone is screaming. I first took out my headphones and looked around, expecting someone to be in a perilous position and in need of help, but after locating all of my workmates I realized that it was Draco. 

It wasn’t a stream of words either, but random, sporadic ones that made me jump. What he was saying didn’t make any damn sense— like it was a made-up language you’d invent as a kid. He kept shouting word after word and I tried to get back to my work and ignore it, even turning up the volume on my headphones as high as it would go, but Draco’s voice only got louder. Eventually, on the roof with a bale of long straw at my feet, I yanked the headphones from my ears and shouted, “SHUT UP!” as loudly as I could. 

I stared around wildly, waiting for the voice to keep yelling or even argue back, but it was finally silent and I could think clearly again. Unfortunately for me, my workmates were all staring and I quickly realized how mental I appeared. I cleared my throat, waving them off as I shoved my earbuds back in and got to work, my face burning. 

After that, I only heard his voice in distant echoes in the back of my head. It was starting to be a concern of mine, and I did a lot of research on schizophrenia but didn’t think that most of the symptoms applied to me, except the auditory hallucinations. Clearly, that’s what this was— sounds that are being made up in my head. Nobody else can hear it, and it was never attached to anything that I’m doing. 

As a kid it was different— sometimes I would be able to have conversations with him and we’d play. He was my only friend, and we could talk anytime I wanted, no matter if I were locked in my cupboard for days on end, or if I was alone on the playground. We had come up with this imaginary world of magic and spells, and Draco would tell me stories of a grand school called Hogwarts that we would both go to one day. Over time the conversations grew less and less, and I assumed that my imagination was shrinking. And then, I didn’t hear from him at all— not a peep except a dream now and again of the made-up school we created. 

So what was happening to me? Why, all of the sudden, have I heard him? And why couldn’t I control his voice anymore? Why does he never seem to hear me? 

I felt like a child— not in the fun, playful way that a lot of people seem to think, but like I was lost and alone, and I wanted my imaginary friend to talk to me. Yes, I realized how pathetic that sounded, but when you’ve gone without friends for as long as I have— when you’ve lived in an abusive household since you were a year old— you get desperate for any type of connection. 

I felt braver in the dark. Maybe because it was familiar from all those years in the cupboard, but I pulled the duvet over my head and whispered to him desperately. 

“Draco?” my voice was quiet and hoarse. “Draco, can you hear me?”

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Good Housekeeping: A Guide by Draco Malfoy | 78k | E

The Malfoy family has been in the butlering industry for five generations, and Draco has learned a multitude of tips and tricks that qualify him to run his own team of household staff. What he doesn't expect is that the billionaire he'll be servicing takes a predilection for Draco that solicits activities far beyond the onus of a butler, and he has to choose between fighting for the career that he's been training for his whole life, or for the attention of the man who needs him.

Preview under the cut

Harry. Fucking Harry, I said. Not Harry. Potter. Mr. Potter, in fact, because he’s my goddamn superior even though I’m older than him. Tosser. A tiny part of me hates his guts because if I had met him anywhere else I would have gotten him into my bed by now. But, of course, the only person I fancy in years turns out to be this toff. Idiot, idiot, idiot. My father would be so cross with me if he knew, but he doesn’t, and I’ll never tell him. I do live here, after all, it’s not like my father could find out.  

I gather his clothes for the day and find his house robe, leaving to collect his tea from the chef because one day I sat here for so long that his tea had gone cold by the time I woke him up. When I get back, he’s moved positions so that his face isn’t in the light anymore— his dark leg twisted up in his sheets, bare and vulnerable to the world. His hand is twitching, small hums of noise coming from his throat like he does when he has a bad dream. I straighten my expression and clear my throat, waking him up as I always do— roughly, loudly, insensitively because if I confuse him enough, he’ll let me put his house robe on for him and I love touching him any chance I get. 

I find him dressed (poorly) in his office that afternoon for lunch, and as I’m standing by the door, I realize he’s looking at me. Not at me, but at my body— my clothes, maybe, I’m not sure. I look away and don’t comment, because something about his eyes grazing my body makes my face hot. 

“Draco, can you tell me how to get your shirt to stay tucked like that all day?” he asks, pointing a finger in my general direction.

“Sir?” I ask in question. 

“Only, you seem to look like this throughout the day— all nice and put together, and from the second I put on my clothes I look like I’ve been caught up in a hurricane,” a smile threatens my mouth and I take a calming breath. 

“They’re called ‘shirt stays’, sir,” I explain calmly, and he tilts his head. 

“Can I see them?” he asks, and I lick my lips because I want to laugh at him. 

“No, sir,” I answer with a deep breath. 

“Why not?” he questions.

“Because then I’d be standing here in my pants. Sir,” I tack on the last word with extra emphasis because this is too comical and I’m trying my best to remain professional. 

“So, what, they connect to your pants or something?” he asks and I sigh minutely, swallowing. 

“No, sir, they connect to my socks,” I reply, moving my gaze toward the window because that’s easier for me to look at. 

“They go under your pants?” he seems more confused than ever and I clear my throat. 

“I’ll have your assistant pick some up for you,” is all I say, because I don’t want to keep talking about what’s going on underneath my trousers. 

“Right… right, yes, sure,” he murmurs, sipping loudly at his tea. “And— and do you have something like that for your tie?” he asks, and I look at him with my eyebrow raised. “Well, I see that your tie always stays straight and mine always seems to have a mind of its own, no matter what I do,” he exhales slowly and then takes in a sharp breath. “Hey, you wouldn’t mind doing my tie for me in the morning, would you?” 

My eyebrows pull together fractionally and then I smooth out my face. “Of course, sir,” I agree, straightening my shoulders. 

“Ah, brilliant,” he sighs in a satisfied type of way and I look away again because now I’m imagining getting him dressed. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Two Minute Warning | 12k | G

Sports show anchor Draco Malfoy spent the majority of his career traveling to different venues and cities. As he grew older, he realized his need to settle down, and did so in the middle of nowhere northern England where nothing ever happened. Except, of course, the unexpected.

Preview under the cut

I changed into joggers and a sweatshirt, my mind on a nice glass of wine and perhaps a book as I went down the stairs, halting in my tracks as the door knocked. I stared at it as if it had spoken to me, and jumped when it knocked again. After I got my legs to work again, I went to unlock it and opened it a crack, finding Harry on the other side. 

“Er, hello,” he said, and I eased the door a bit further. He drew a bottle of wine and a shopping bag from behind his back. “I had planned on trying to make mulled wine for the first time tonight. Er…Any…Tips?” 

I stared at him for a long beat, looked at the driveway, and saw his car wasn’t parked there, so he must have walked. The door opened further as I glanced down at the bottle of wine in his hand. 

“Do I look like a chef to you?” I asked, and I noticed that he was looking at my chest, down to my waist, and then my slippered feet. 

“You’re not wearing your suit.” 

“I don’t live in the bloody thing.”

“I know, I know—I just…I didn’t expect…” He gestured vaguely to me and didn’t complete his sentence. 

“And I didn’t expect for you to turn up asking me for cooking advice. I guess we all get surprises sometimes,” I said, and he finally met my gaze. I hoped my blush wouldn’t be too obvious in the dim lighting of my porch. 

“I guess I just thought to myself…nobody deserves to be alone on Christmas. Not even gigantic dickheads like us. And rather than force anyone else to put up with us…why don’t we just…put up with…each other.” 

I swallowed and licked my lips which were chapping in the cold. My joggers weren’t thick enough to keep out the weather, and I shivered a bit before I made my decision, stepping back to allow him inside. 

“Well if you aren’t going to leave then I suppose I have no other choice,” I said, and he stepped in, looking awfully pleased with himself. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

In the Middle of the Night  | 25k | E

Harry Potter had been straight for twenty-five years without complaint or reason to doubt his sexuality. After a conversation with his roommate Draco Malfoy, however, he begins to realize that there is a whole other world out there that he has yet to explore.

Preview under the cut

It was proposed in the dark over a bottle of whiskey. We had been watching an American crime show which often talked of prostitution and I asked Harry how much he would charge per hour of work if he was on the streets. 

“Depends on what I’m doing, I guess,” he said. 

I took another drink because I wasn’t drunk enough for the conversation I had started. He shut his eyes and sighed as if he wouldn’t elaborate, but then he did. 

“Most clients would be men, and I’m not gay, so I don’t know if that would work. I’d probably get fired by my pimp or something.” 

He looked at me and laughed, taking the bottle from my hand. 

“How much would you charge?” He asked. 

“Thousands of pounds.” 

“Really? I was thinking like… twenty quid.” 

I smacked him and took the bottle back. 

“You think I’m so easy?”

“No! I just figured… easy money, right? Since you like men.” 

I shook my head and grunted in disagreement. 

“No way. People who hire prostitutes have got to have something wrong with them, you know? Clingy, aggressive—maybe a weird kink they’re ashamed of. Not to mention the risk of getting an STD—I wouldn’t do it for anything under a grand. That would filter out a lot of the weirdos, and hopefully whoever could afford it would have some decency.” 

He mulled this over as he stared at the blank television screen, shifting the way his glasses sat on his nose. 

“So you’d be, like… an escort, then.”

“I don’t think there’s a difference.” 

“Maybe.” 

He reached over and touched the ends of my blond hair. I took another drink. 

“How much would it cost for you to sleep with a man?” I asked. 

“Why? Interested?” 

“Piss off. We’re talking hypothetically.” 

“Well, I have money, I don’t need more.” 

“So you’d do it for free?” 

“If I met a man I really liked, sure.” 

“No, no—” I groaned. “A stranger! You’re a prostitute, remember?” 

“Right—sorry. Er… I don’t know. Is it safe? Am I an escort like you?” 

“Sure. Clients have been screened and had an STD panel. It’s safe.” 

He rubbed a hand across his face and shrugged. 

“I don’t know. How much would you charge to sleep with a woman?” 

“I don’t think I could. I am really—really—not straight.” 

He laughed and shook his head a little, leaning to set the bottle down in front of us. 

“But women are nice and they smell good and they’re so soft—” 

I made an obnoxious gagging noise and he smiled at me. 

“I’d sleep with a woman who was a stranger for, like…. A hundred quid. If we’re under the assumption that I don’t have any money," he said.

“You could charge more.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Trust me,” I muttered. 

He rolled his eyes. 

“So you’re not going under a thousand? That’s your firm price?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Okay, what if it was just like… messing around, not full-on sex.” 

I felt my cheeks go hot and glanced toward the whiskey bottle. 

“I guess I’d go lower. Maybe five hundred.” 

“Wow, still high, though.” 

“Would you do stuff with a man for five hundred?” 

He pursed his lips in contemplation and then shrugged. 

“I know what it’s like to be desperate for money. If someone was offering five hundred quid and I needed it, I’d probably do whatever they wanted. I’d at least try, but I don’t know if I could be convincing enough if I’m as straight as I think I am.” 

“So you think you could be bi or something?”

He shrugged. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but I’ve never liked a man the way that I like women so I don’t think I am.” 

“That’s very… open-minded of you.” 

He smirked and touched the ends of my hair again, his knuckles brushing against the front of my shoulder. 

“Nothing worse than a closed-minded prostitute,” he muttered. 

I laughed loudly and clamped a hand across my mouth, shaking my head at him. 

“You are so stupid.” 

“You’re the one who started this whole thing, don’t judge me for my hypothetical exploration.” 

“I’m not! Maybe you should go to a gay bar and kiss a couple of men to see how you like it.” 

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, exhaling. 

“Doesn’t feel right.” 

I paused and looked at the whiskey, chewing on the inside of my cheek. 

“You could kiss me.” 

He looked at me with a smile at first, but his expression turned more serious. 

“Really?” 

“For a hundred quid,” I added with a grin and he crossed his arms, laughing as he rested his head on the back of the couch. “Some of us are desperate for money non-hypothetically. It’s not my fault. I’ve gotta pay rent somehow.” 

“You have a job,” he said, tilting his head to look at me. “I don’t think you’ll get very many customers who are willing to pay a hundred quid just for a snog.” 

“One will do.” 

He snorted and shook his head, propping his heels up on the coffee table. 

“You think you can take advantage of me because I’m rich?” 

“Absolutely. It’s a win-win. I get money and you find out if you’re queer.” 

“You don’t think it's insulting?” 

“Hard to be insulted with rent paid and food on my table.” 

I propped my arm on the back of the couch and turned toward him, smiling suggestively. He laughed again and looked at the ceiling. 

“You are so different when you’re drunk. You’re going to regret this conversation in the morning, I can already tell.” 

“Better kiss me quick, then. Besides, I’m not that drunk. You’ve had more than me.” 

“I’m bigger than you, I can take more.” 

“I’m taller.” 

“I’m stronger.” 

I rolled my eyes and propped my cheek on my fist, sighing. 

“So are we going to do this?” I asked, and he looked at me. 

He fixed his glasses and glanced at my mouth, smiling a little. 

“You won’t be weird about it? No teasing me?” 

“I swear,” I said, reaching up to cross my heart. 

He lifted his hips and dug into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He flipped through the notes, counting under his breath as my pulse picked up pace. 

“One hundred,” he said, handing me a folded stack of bills. 

I put it on the table and looked at him slowly, my confidence dimming. We stared at each other for a long beat and he smiled at me, extending his hand. I rested my fingers against his palm and he brushed his thumb across the back of my knuckles soothingly. 

“This is nice of you,” he said.

“I haven’t done anything yet.” 

“I know, but it’s nice of you to even offer.” 

“I’m just in it for the money,” I said halfheartedly, watching as his thumb continued to stroke my fingers. 

“I know,” he said, and my eyes jumped to his face as he sat up. 

He was smiling at me softly, his hand moving from my hand to my cheek, pushing back into my hair. Chills went down my neck and my cheeks felt hot, breath shallow as he came closer. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

The First Time He Held Me | 12k | E

Draco works for a Muggle escort service, and uses a Polyjuice potion to disguise himself when meeting clients. He’s highly desired, but not often requested because of his high prices, so it’s more of his side-hobby to bring in a little extra cash now that his parents are in jail— plus, he enjoys it. One night, he’s called to the room of the one man who he has always wanted, but could never have. Now, he needs to decide whether or not to reveal his true identity, or to remain in this polyjuiced body so that he can keep the attention of the Boy Who Lived.

Preview under the cut

“You remind me of someone,” he murmurs, tilting his head as his fingers sweep under my chin. I look up automatically and my stomach flips because I hope he’s talking about me— the real me, I mean, not this Muggle body.

“Who?” I ask, and I’m frustrated at how breathy my voice has become.

His eyebrows pull together fractionally and then they smooth out as a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Someone even more stubborn than the pair of us combined,” he says calmly, and I arch a brow. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Harry Potter the Part-Time Sugar Daddy | 65k | E

Draco has been alone for a long time— by choice, yes, but that doesn’t make it less lonely. Over time he has convinced himself that it’s for the best, but this thought is threatened when he meets Harry Potter. After fighting his feelings and almost losing Harry in the process, Draco gives up and finally lets himself be loved.

Preview under the cut

Draco was in the steam room after a long training session and he didn’t know he dozed off until he woke up at twelve fifty-five. He jumped up and changed clothes as quickly as he could, but by the time he got to the train station the attendant said the last train had left. He shivered as he walked back to the gym, realizing he needed to get his bag and jacket before starting the six kilometer walk home. 

    He groaned as he entered the gym, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He knew he had to go home because of his early classes, but he dreaded to think of how sore his feet were going to be. He also wasn’t thrilled to walk through that part of town at this time, but he didn’t have anything valuable to steal and he was sure he could run more quickly than most people anyways.

    He bundled himself up and moved his pepper spray from his bag to his pocket before he started to leave, stopping short when he turned the corner and Harry was there, panting from his workout. 

    ‘Hi.’ He said cheerfully, and Draco felt his heart skip in spite of himself. 

    ‘Hi.’ He answered, sounding miserable even though he was trying not too. 

    ‘Is everything okay? I saw you run out of here a little while ago.’

    ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Draco sighed and hauled his bag up farther on his shoulder. ‘I have to be going, though. Sorry.’ 

    Draco passed him and started towards the door, shoving his hands in his pockets as far as they would go. He cursed himself for wearing himself out and not paying attention to the time. He knew that he was pushing his luck when he went in there at twelve, thinking he’d only stay for twenty minutes and have plenty of time to catch the last train.

    ‘Idiot.’ He whispered to himself, shivering in the wind.

     He had only walked down half the street before he heard quick footsteps behind him. A chill ran down his neck and his heart raced as he whipped around with the pepper spray gripped tightly in his hand. 

    ‘Woah! Please don’t—‘ 

    Draco gasped when he saw Harry, hands shielding his face, a few meters away from him. 

    ‘You can’t just go running at people in the middle of the night!’ Draco exclaimed, shoving his pepper spray into his pocket again. 

    ‘I’m sorry! I called your name, I thought you heard me.’ He was panting, but looked on the verge of laughter and Draco turned away from him to carry on down the street. ‘Oi!’ Harry called and Draco sighed, slowing his pace. Harry caught up to him easily and rested a hand on his shoulder briefly to stop him. ‘I’m sorry— really. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ 

    ‘It’s fine.’ Draco said shortly, but he softened by how genuine Harry’s expression was.

    ‘Listen, I know you don’t know me very well, but why don’t you let me give you a lift?’ Harry said, and Draco frowned at him. ‘It’s one fifteen. You take the train, don’t you?’ 

    Draco raised his eyebrows, feeling both self-conscious and freaked out that this guy knew he took the train. He gripped the pepper spray in his pocket. 

    ‘I’m sorry, that sounded a lot creepier than I meant it too—‘ he carded a hand through his curls nervously as Draco stared at him. ‘I just have seen you walk toward the station— it was an assumption. I don’t follow you around— I mean—‘ he barked out a laugh and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘God this isn’t going how I expected.’ 

    Draco kept staring at him, hand ever tighter on his pepper spray. 

    ‘Please don’t mace me.’ Harry begged and Draco almost smiled. ‘It’s just— I have a car. And I thought— well, I don’t know how far away you live, but it’s not safe to be walking around—‘ 

    ‘I’m fine.’ Draco said shortly, and Harry pressed his lips in a line. 

    ‘Right.’ He answered in a sigh. ‘I’ve creeped you out haven’t I?’ 

    Draco didn’t answer but Harry got his answer from the expression on Draco’s face. 

    ‘Right. Okay.’ Harry nodded and put his hands in the pockets of his coat. ‘Well— just thought I’d offer.’ 

    He ducked his head away from Draco’s gaze and turned away, mumbling goodbye under his breath. Draco watched him start walking away and then looked over his shoulder at the long street ahead of him. It was dark and empty and the wind was already making his ears numb. He heard Harry crossing the street and the farther away he got the more jumpy Draco felt. 

    Harry may or may not be a stalker, but there was a lot worse out there, especially at this time of night. He held his breath and watched Harry walk away for a long moment before calling out.

    ‘Harry! Wait—‘ He jogged across the street and Harry turned around. ‘Sorry— I know you’re just being nice—‘ 

    ‘No, I definitely came off as a creep. It’s okay, I get it.’ He shrugged and laughed at himself and Draco smiled a little. He felt better now that he was near him again, and the chill that had settled on him eased. 

    ‘Okay, you were a little creepy.’ Draco said, and Harry looked up at him with a half smile on his face. ‘But even though you might be secretly stalking me, I do— for some reason— seem to trust you.’ 

    Harry’s smile got bigger and Draco’s face felt warm. 

    ‘Brilliant.’ He said cheerfully. ‘I’m parked this way.’ 

    Draco followed him down the block, his hand still firmly around his pepper spray, but he stopped short when a shiny red sports car beeped and shone its lights. He stood in the middle of the street as Harry approached the car and opened the door for him, looking back over his shoulder. 

    ‘What?’ Harry asked, concerned. 

    ‘You can’t be serious.’ Draco said, looking Harry up and down as he approached slowly. ‘This car is like… a million quid.’

    ‘Oh— right.’ Harry glanced at the car and shrugged his shoulder. 

    ‘No offense, but you don’t look like the type to have hundreds of thousands of pounds to go throwing around on shiny sports cars.’

    ‘Er… none taken?’ Harry answered with a chuckle. 

    Draco stood for a moment, looking into the car and then over at Harry, who was still holding his door open for him. He sighed and ducked into the car, holding his bag in his lap. Harry shut the door to walk around the front, and the car turned on before he had even gotten in. It smelled clean like new leather and Draco tried his best to be small and not hurt anything as he put his seatbelt on. 

[shewhxmustnxtbenamed]

Play Me Like Your Favorite Song On Your Mother's Piano | 32k | G

As a child, Muggle Harry had often been reprimanded for playing the Dursley's piano. As an adult, he wants to learn, which is where he meets Draco Malfoy and his mother. Narcissa is a person who is living with cancer, and as Harry and Draco's relationship strengthens, she only gets weaker and eventually passes away. As the one who typically suffers from social anxiety, Harry must remain strong and be there for Draco when he needs him most. Will Draco allow Harry to take care of him in the aftermath of losing his mother?

Preview under the cut

Harry had always wanted to learn how to play the piano. Until recently, he had reserved himself to the fact that it would never be something he could learn, but that changed when he saw an ad posted on the billboard at the library where he worked. 

Accepting new students — Beginner to Advanced Piano Lessons.

He pulled a tab with the phone number on it, and it took him days to work up the courage to call, but he did. A friendly woman answered the phone — reassuring him that it was alright to be a beginner, even in his late twenties, and he scheduled his first lesson for the beginning of the month. The best thing he could do was distract himself — ignore the anxiety that he felt anytime he thought about showing up to her house — focus on anything and everything that didn’t have to do with the fact that he was about to go and embarrass himself in front of a stranger. 

When the day finally came, he was a wreck. His hand shook as he knocked on her front door, taking a step back to gaze up at the massive house in which she lived. It was a moment before she appeared, gesturing him inside with a welcoming smile and a handshake. Her hair was long and white-blonde, her eyes crystal blue and friendly, and something about the way she spoke made Harry feel a little better. 

When he sat down on the piano bench and played the few scales that he could remember, she was encouraging and didn’t reprimand him for fumbling the arpeggio. She put some simple sheet music in front of him and he did his best to read it, red in the face from embarrassment at not knowing all of the notes. At another time in his life, he would be punished for the smallest mistakes — ridiculed for not knowing the answer to any question. The piano in his childhood home was off-limits to all except his aunt, and even though he would fiddle with it when they were out of the house, there was still something about the instrument that gave him general anxiety. 

But, he loved it. He always had. And more than that — he wanted to know how to play it as well as the people he listened to. 

They scheduled another lesson for every week going forward, for as long as Harry wanted them, and she sent him off with a few theory books and scale sheets for him to study. Each week when he would show up, she greeted him with the warmest smile and didn’t pester him about practicing if he had been busy. She was calm and relaxed and kind — exactly what Harry needed to start feeling comfortable. 

So, one week, when he arrived with his theory books and a tin of cookies he baked, the smile was knocked off of his face when a tall, blond man opened the door. 

“My mother is ill today — I’m sorry. We tried to call everyone, but…” 

“Oh,” Harry said, taking a step back and clearing his throat. “Right.” 

He hesitated, adjusting the strap of his bag. 

“Er — w-would cookies help?” Harry asked meekly, lifting the tin. 

The man’s grey eyes dropped to Harry’s hands, down to his ripped jeans, and then up to his face with an unreadable expression. 

“What flavor?” the man asked, and Harry swallowed, opening the lid. 

“Chocolate chip.” 

“Hm.” 

He held out his hand and Harry shut the tin, handing it over and stepping back again as if he had put a log in a roaring fireplace. 

“Right — well, I’ll go then,” Harry said, clenching his hands and relaxing them again. “Nice to meet you. Hope she feels better soon.” 

Harry ducked his head and retreated down the steps, letting out a breath of relief as he started up the footpath that led through their garden. 

“Wait,” the man called, and Harry’s shoulders tensed, pulling up toward his ears. “I know how to play — did you want your lesson? Since you’re already here?” 

Harry turned, clutching the strap of his bag as he let out a sharp laugh. 

“No, no that’s okay. Just — er — look after your mum, yeah?” He was still walking backward toward the garden gate, and the man came forward, tin of cookies still in his hand. 

The sun beat down on his blond hair, making it glow and look transparent as it blew in the wind. Harry gulped and scrambled with the lock on the gate, feeling sweat collect on his brow because the man was getting closer and the lock was stuck. He held his breath as the man reached toward his waist, meeting his eye with an amused smile as he slid the bar to unlock it, and Harry stumbled out onto the pavement. 

“Right — thanks,” Harry said, waving at him as he turned to leave. 

“I’m quite good, you know,” the man said. “I bet I could teach you a thing or two.” 

Harry licked his lips and laughed breathily, avoiding the man’s gaze. 

“I-I don’t play very well — I haven’t learned enough yet —” 

“It’s okay. I’m a good teacher,” the man said, and he reached a hand forward, gesturing for Harry to come back through the gate. 

“I don’t know — I-I feel like… I’ll just make a fool of myself.”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re probably better than you think you are.” 

Harry shook his head, clutching the strap on his bag more tightly. 

“Come on,” the man said, tilting his head toward the house, and Harry was so distracted by the friendly gleam in his grey eyes that he found himself walking forward.