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#drarry fic
itsphantasmagoria · 2 days
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Draco’s hair is a hot mess when he’s sleep deprived
(Art from ch3 of Follies!)
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sits-bound · 19 hours
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Bound: The Star Splitter by @oflights
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If there is one thing I am not, it is patient. The minute I finished this fic, I ran off to ask the author for permission to bind it. I'm so happy I'll get to have this one on my shelf!
I spent a lot of time (for me, anyway) on the typeset. I wanted the chapter pages to be special but also was afraid that if I printed them in color, they'd bleed through (like what happened with The Man Who Lived.) But I didn't think I'd be able to fit the text block in my guillotine if I used a heavier weight paper.
Happily, I was able to use the heavier paper and the chapter pages and illustrations (by the absolutely incredible @littlewinnow) without any bleedthrough on the back.
I made the end papers with illustrations off pixabay and foil toner. Do I love them? Not as much as I wish I did. I may do something slightly different for the author copy. We'll see. (Mostly I don't love the color of the cardstock I printed on.)
So once I was happy with the text block, I had to think about the cover. I didn't want to do yet another navy book, so I almost went with black, but I decided to peruse the fabric store for starry printed fabric, and brought home a couple of options. I decided I liked this one the best.
I was also nervous about this because I've never used printed fabric on a cover, and I was worried how the title would look. So I reconfigured my original design to make it legible. Oh, and thanks Joann's for having this holographic HTV on clearance! I love how it looks a million different colors, depending on the light and the angle and what it's reflecting.
Now. Go read this lovely fic if you haven't already!
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saxamophone · 3 days
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what i've read lately
Read some real bangers recently, go show these some love.
A New Form of Sight by cherrybirch (8k, T)
This is for the @hp-bardfest and it's so good!! The iambic pentameter is so well done, and the formatting!? THE FORMATTING. I was blown away. It's about McGonagall and Trelaweny having a bit too much sherry, and a few prophecies that need explanations. Get thee to AO3 and read! (Also if anyone knows if cherrybirch on Tumblr can you please tag them?)
What's Mine is Yours by @fluxweeed (17k, E)
Harry wakes up with a vagina in place of his dick, and only one person can help him switch it back. (Hint: It's Draco.) Both of them are schemers in this, and it's sexy and funny. Love.
Welcome, Peasants by @fluxweeed (15.4k, E)
This year's @dronarryfest is on fire. Harry and Draco are roommates, and Ron is a little left out. When the possibility of kissing maybe one or both of them comes up, he takes it. Lots of scheming by all three of them, hilarious characterizations, and ultimately very, very sweet.
Return to Sender: Harry J. Potter (2.5k, E) & Congrats on Your Loss, DLM (4.5k, E) by @vukovich
Ok. OK. These hurt. They do. But I finished them and then went back and immediately read both again. The first is told from Harry's point of view and the second is from Draco's. All the hurt. Some fascinating (slight) comfort. Thought provoking! Read the tags but also maybe ignore them like I did and get sucked into an amazing set of stories.
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ghostofnoir · 3 days
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Touch Me Like a Lover
It started earlier than Draco had anticipated. In the oversized marble shower, beneath the slow rolling steam and drum of hot water, Harry stepped out of his clothes and joined Draco, his hands reaching out to grip the narrow curve of Draco’s waist. In the tight press of heat, he pushed flush against Draco’s back until the lines of their water-slick bodies left no space between them.
“What do you need right now?” Harry asked, his lips brushing across the shell of Draco’s ear as he raised a hand to run his knuckles lightly over Draco’s stomach, the muscles jumping under his faint touch. Draco turned his head slightly, his mouth parted, and a soft sigh fell from his lips against the corner of Harry’s.
“Just keep touching me,” he whispered back.
🚿Commissioned Art by @jittery-wisp 💦⚡️
Hands. Wall. Grip. Hands. Cheeks. Grip.
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humsops-stash · 6 days
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*accidentally bumped into you* one is never late to ship drarry
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lilbeanz · 12 days
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Draco Malfoy will return in...
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Coming Soon to an Ao3 browser near you!
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pato-roldnart · 3 days
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"He pulls himself together for the exchange of rings, which is the most wonderful thing Harry’s done in his life."
In the Presence of My Enemy
Commission for @dodgerkedavra fic!!!!!
Thank you so much for commissioning! I'm happy I could draw drarry and design their clothes 🥰🥰, it's always my favourite part jejeje
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hogwartsfirebolt · 18 days
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the game’s the game
“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”
Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.
“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.
“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”
Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.
“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”
“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”
All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.
Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.
He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.
“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.
He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.
Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.
There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.
“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.
“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.
It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.
“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.
“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”
Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.
“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.
“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”
Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.
“What?”
“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”
There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.
They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.
Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.
“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”
“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.
“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.
“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”
The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.
“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.
Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”
Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.
“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.
“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”
“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.
“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.
“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”
Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”
“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.
“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”
Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”
He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.
It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.
“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”
Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.
They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.
“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.
Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.
“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.
Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”
“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”
He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.
Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.
“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.
They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.
Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.
“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.
Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.
“I thought we could talk.”
Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.
“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”
The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.
“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”
He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”
“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”
Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …
“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”
The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.
“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”
They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.
Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”
“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”
“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Shut up. It’s your quote.”
Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.
Read On Ao3
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kk1smet · 2 months
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I recently finished Never Mind the Bollocks by The_Sinking_Ship. Since that day, it has been living in my head rent-free, and will remain there. Perhaps for a long, long time.
Every time I try to collect my thoughts to articulate every single thing I loved about a fic, I just end up screaming and dying with the feels. So instead of words, here’s some drawn lines (and more screaming).
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phoebe-delia · 4 months
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When The Fire Is Out
For @drarrymicrofic prompt: embers.
Harry knows his back will be killing him tomorrow. Lying on the floor this long cannot be good for him. Plus his arm is starting to tingle where Draco's head currently rests, slightly cutting off blood flow. Harry wants to move it, but he can't bear the thought of Draco's head lying on the floor, or worse, Harry accidentally waking him up.
He curls into Draco instead, careful not to jostle him, and eyes the glowing embers in the fireplace. When the fire is out, Harry thinks as his eyes fall shut, I'll take us upstairs.
Harry wakes the next morning, still on the floor in front of the fireplace, back aching. He looks at Draco, messy-haired and clinging to Harry in his sleep, and smiles before falling back asleep.
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geesenoises · 2 months
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DnD: dungeons and draco
for @quail-in-red. this is just further proof that if anybody shows even the slightest interest in one of my dumb jokes, i crumble and perform like a silly jester at once. based on this post i made last year and rediscovered today about hp wizards playing DnD.
Dean didn’t give a lot of details when he invited Harry to his weekly dungeons and dragons game, but the last person Harry expected to see at the table was Draco Malfoy.
“We started a game together when we were, er,” Dean trailed off.
“When we were prisoners in Draco's house!” Luna finished for him brightly.
Malfoy didn’t say anything, just met Harry’s eyes stolidly and then went to fuss with the small pile of papers and cards in front of him.
Harry shared a look with Ron, who was already sitting between Dean and Hermione, and then sighed inwardly and took the last remaining seat between Seamus and Luna. He pulled out the premade character sheet Dean had owled him last week. It was wrinkled from having nearly been lost in a pile of post and then hastily shoved in Harry’s pocket before flooing to Dean’s flat. 
Harry looked around the table. Malfoy’s stack of papers was bigger than anyone else’s, even Hermione’s. And why did he have so many cards? There was a little wooden tray in front of him too. The dice in the tray looked iridescent, catching and reflecting the light. Trust Malfoy to have expensive poncy accessories. Why was he even here? Did he even like DnD? He’d grown up around magic his whole life; what did he need to pretend for?
“And so let’s go around and introduce our characters,” Dean finished. Harry had missed his whole introduction. “Since Draco and Luna have played before, we’ll start with them.”
Malfoy straightened up a little, carefully picking up his character sheet even though it seemed like he was so familiar with it, he didn’t need to reference it. “I’m Mike, a level three call center operator. I’m twenty-three years old, originally from Essex and just moved to London. I played football in uni, but am feeling less fit now that I have a job where I sit all day.”
Luna went next and spoke in a surprisingly deep voice. “My name is Archie, and I’m a level six IT consultant. I’m forty-six years old, originally from Norwich, but I moved to London for uni and never left. I’ve been married to my wife, Evelyn, for twenty years and we have two children and a cocker spaniel named Rosa.”
Harry stared down at the character sheet in front of him. He hadn’t looked at it before grabbing it in his rush to get here on time. It told him he was meant to be playing Grace, a 29 year old paramedic who’d grown up in London and recently broken up with her fiance after finding out he had cheated on her. She had a cat named Pomegranate. Harry didn’t know much about tabletop games, but there had been a group of kids that Dudley’s gang would sometimes target instead of Harry who had played. And what he’d overhead from their games didn’t sound anything like this.
“Hang on, these are just normal people; we’re all humans with muggle jobs. I thought we were playing dungeons and dragons, you know, with magic involved.”
Malfoy glared at him. “Weren’t you paying attention, Potter? Dean just explained the premise of our campaign.”
Harry didn’t want to admit to Malfoy he’d been too busy wondering what his dice were made of. He looked away from Malfoy to Dean. “Er, sorry. I was… distracted.”
Dean sighed but looked more resigned than irritated at having to explain again. “When I started the game with Draco and Luna, they got confused by the magic system because actual magic doesn’t work the way it does in DnD, so I made up a slightly different game we could play. We’re a group of Londoners in a recreational dodgeball league.”
“And honestly, Harry, it doesn’t feel right pretending to be of magical creature heritage for a game,” Hermione added. “Think of what kind of hurtful stereotypes we could fall into.”
“Okay…” Harry said slowly. It still felt strange, but now that he thought about it, he supposed he didn’t need to spend his Thursday evenings pretending to be part of a group camping out and hunting evil. Once per lifetime was enough without having to do it recreationally in the realm of imagination.
Harry smoothed out his character sheet again and introduced the group to Grace.
not sure if there will be more, but we're all shipping mike/grace right?
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itsphantasmagoria · 3 months
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Commission I did for @dodgerkedavra for her Erised fic Former Things Come to Mind for @mallstars 😃
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orange-peony · 5 months
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Written for @flufftober with the prompt "fireplace".
A little wolfstar raising Harry, rated T.
“He’s so irritating.”
“Tell me about it,” Sirius says. “He’s my cousin Cissa’s son.”
“And he’s so bloody posh!”
“Language,” Remus chides gently from the kitchen, busy with Christmas preparations.
“The b word is not swearing,” Harry declares with a frown, then softly, to Sirius, “is it, Pads?”
“Nah,” Sirius says, waving his hand in dismissal. “Tell me more about that obnoxious Malfoy kid.”
*  ~  *
“And he’s so fucking annoying with his pointy face and his white-blond hair,” Harry says, scratching his arm where another mosquito bite is swelling up.
“Language!” Remus says, even though Sirius can’t even see him. His husband seems to have a special radar for swear words.
“Sorry,” Harry says, looking much less concerned than he probably should. Sirius feels a little guilty because he’s always swearing in front of Harry, but brushes it off as teenagers being teenagers. “And he’s just—so tall and so smart and so…”
“So?” Sirius asks with a frown.
“So irritatingly fit!”
“Wait, what?” 
*  ~  *
“Do you think they’re going to spend much longer snogging on the train platform?” Sirius asks with a resigned sigh.
Remus chuckles and wraps his arms around Sirius’s waist, pulling him closer.
“Summer is long when you’re seventeen,” Remus says calmly.
“But they’re going to see each other in a couple of days!” Sirius protests. “We’re dragging the brat to France with us on holiday.”
“If I recall correctly,” Remus starts, his voice like a caress on Sirius’s cheek. “The first time we parted for a couple of days, you cried and begged me to come and visit you at James’s house.”
“Oh, shut up,” Sirius replies grumpily.
He thinks a kiss is in order, at least to distract him from his godson being snogged within an inch of his life by a Malfoy.
*  ~  *
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sirius groans, covering his face with his hands and making Draco squeal in embarrassment.  
He supposes it’s kind of his fault. He should have probably sent his Patronus to Harry before Flooing straight to his kitchen. But Harry is his son. And he’s been living on his own for only a week, so Sirius was worried and wanted to check on him.
He wasn’t expecting to find Draco Malfoy making himself tea in Harry’s kitchen, wearing only Harry’s oversized hoodie and a pair of boxers.
Sirius covers his eyes and makes a disgruntled sound.
“I’m going to go grab my pyjama bottoms,” Draco says. “I’ve made enough tea for an army. Help yourself, Sirius.”
“It’s Mr Black-Lupin for you,” Sirius grumbles.
“Oh, stop being impossible, Pads,” Harry croaks, appearing by the kitchen door wearing just a pair of pants and a collection of love bites. “Morning, love. Thanks for making tea.”
*  ~  *
The fireplace roars to life as a green flame appears and Draco’s blond head pokes through.
“May I come in?” he asks, looking extremely nervous.
“Of course,” Remus says, uncrossing his legs and sitting up.
And Sirius should have known. He should have fucking known, because Draco send an official request to speak to him and Remus, written on the fanciest parchment Sirius has ever seen (and he grew up with a bunch of pure bloods). Draco is wearing the most dazzling formal robes, and he has a small, blue box clutched in his shaking hands. He looks like he’s about to be sick. He looks even paler than usual.
“I—I know you have your reservations about me, and rightfully so,” Draco starts, and Sirius is about to say well, of course, you little Harry-thief, but Remus places a hand on his thigh, and Sirius just exhales and listens. “But I love Harry with all my heart. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love him, and I promise I will spend the rest of my life trying to make him the happiest man on earth. So, please, I know I’m asking you an awful lot, but…”
“Can we say no?” Sirius asks, but Remus pokes him in the ribs.
“Of course, you can marry Harry,” Remus says with a warm smile, and Draco starts crying straight away, looking at Sirius, waiting for his approval.
Sirius sighs.
He should have seen this coming.
He really should have.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “But I reserve the right to tease you both mercilessly and to swear in front of your kids.”
“Deal,” Draco says with the brightest grin.
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sits-bound · 2 months
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Bound: Grounds for Divorce by Tepre
For some reason, after I posted this, it disappeared. So here it is again.
I love everything about this bind. The end.
(Did I hit the lemon theme hard? Yes. Do I regret it? I do not.)
Usually, I'd complain about whatever I messed up here but I didn't mess up anything! It's perfect! I love every little bit of it! (Okay, if pushed, I'd say I wish I'd used slightly darker paint on the borders of the cover, but I also like how they're kind of invisible.)
Let's see. I bought the lemon graphics off etsy, and used them all over the book. The end papers are just a bunch of them layered. I love them. I even foiled one on the other side of the endpapers, just for fun.
The stenciling came out beautifully. The vinyl gave me no trouble. I don't even know what to say about this except I can't wait to read it.
Body text: Corundum Text (as usual) Chapter titles: MrsSaintDelafield Pro Drop caps and titles: Fino Pro
Bookcloth: Dubletta in orange-yellow
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lettersbyelise · 2 months
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seeds of beauty.
Inspired by @trashcanprince's 'Draco has moles' art, which completely rewired my brain. If I only write Draco with freckles and moles from now on, it's entirely that art's fault.
About 800 words of Harry kissing Draco's moles. That's it, that's the ficlet.
AO3 link
Harry blames it on the detention.
Potions was never his favourite class, but brewing potions in Snape’s dungeon as part of a two-hour detention has got to be a particularly cruel kind of torture.
Harry’s so bored his eyes keep wandering over to Malfoy, who’s sitting at the same desk as Harry, his long, pale neck outstretched to peer inside the bubbling cauldron in front of him. He waves his wand every so often above the gently simmering liquid, a muttered incantation on his lips.
The swotty bastard is so focused on his task, he’s not paying any attention to Harry. 
Harry swallows a twinge of annoyance. He’s raking his brain for something to needle Malfoy about—this indifferent, concentrated silence won’t do—when his gaze snags on a spot just above the top of Malfoy’s shirt collar.
There’s a mole there. 
Not even a mole. A freckle. 
A tiny, golden spot on Malfoy’s otherwise unblemished skin.
Harry holds his breath. Counts one, two… five such moles, dotting the back of Malfoy’s neck. There’s another one hiding behind Malfoy’s ear, half-concealed by the hair Malfoy tucks absentmindedly.
Harry holds his breath. He only notices he’s inched closer to Malfoy when he’s practically leaning over Malfoy’s back.
“Do you mind?” hisses Malfoy with a pointy elbow in Harry’s ribs. Harry sucks in a breath.
Holding his side, he meets Malfoy’s eyes over his shoulder. 
“I,” he starts. He places a hand on Malfoy’s arm—gentle, the touch light but firm enough to feel the warmth of Malfoy’s skin through his shirt, the hard muscle. 
Malfoy swallows.
“Can I—?” says Harry, leaning into him. 
“Potter…” Malfoy’s voice is thin and strangled.
“Let me,” says Harry. He nuzzles into Malfoy’s neck and mouths at the freckle.
Malfoy holds very still under Harry’s parted lips. He lets out the tiniest of whimpers as Harry’s tongue darts out to lick. Harry hears the sound through the mad thundering of his pulse in his ears.
Malfoy leans his head to the right, exposing the long column of his throat.
Dimly, as though he’s dreaming, Harry marvels at Malfoy’s unexpected compliance. Malfoy should be hexing him in the balls, not exposing his neck to Harry’s ministrations. Yet somehow it all makes sense, and Malfoy is as pliant, as soft, as a kitten held by the scruff of its neck.
Harry breathes against Malfoy’s skin. His exhale ruffles the downy hair on Malfoy’s nape. Malfoy shivers, gooseflesh breaking across his skin. Harry searches for the next mole—finds it in the soft dip of Malfoy’s neck. He closes his lips around it. Malfoy’s skin is so soft… It smells like something warm, clean, something that makes Harry’s insides feel swirling and tender. 
Harry’s never let himself consciously consider how soft Malfoy’s skin could be. But now that he’s touching him, he knows. He knows just how much he’s considered it. He has considered it a lot, every time he caught Malfoy showering after a Quidditch match, every time he helplessly looked as Malfoy rolled his shirt sleeves to perform a spell in Charms, every time Harry watched Pansy stroke Malfoy’s hair out of his face. 
Malfoy reaches up with a sigh, pulls on the knot of his tie to loosen it. When he undoes the top buttons of his shirt, letting the collar fall open over his collarbones, Harry wraps his hand around Malfoy’s throat with a low whine. Slides his hand underneath Malfoy’s shirt. Touches a raised nipple. Malfoy is leaning back into him now, panting, and Harry pushes Malfoy’s hair aside, kisses the last mole, the one hiding behind Malfoy’s ear.
With a growl, Malfoy turns his head around and captures Harry’s lips in a kiss.
Harry’s hands grip the back of Malfoy’s neck, his shoulders; Malfoy’s fingers thread in Harry’s hair and pull, pressing his whole body into Harry’s, all the long, hard lines of him, and Harry reaches for the remaining buttons on Malfoy’s shirt—
“Potter.”
Harry jolts back with a sharp inhale. Reality rushes back in—the damp, dark dungeon, the acrid, chemical smell of potions, the slow ticking of the clock on Snape’s desk.
Malfoy is glaring at him, sitting ramrod straight two feet away. His tie is done in a perfect Windsor knot, tight against his throat. His hair is unruffled. 
His freckles unkissed.
Harry blinks.
“Merlin, what’s with the heavy breathing all of the sudden? It’s not enough that I’m stuck in detention with you, I can’t even brew my Dizziness Draught in peace.” Malfoy gives his head an irritated shake and turns back to his potion. “Bloody Gryffindors.”
Harry stares back at his cauldron, which now emits an ominous yellow smoke. Most definitely not a successful Dizziness Draught.
Merlin, what was that? Harry’s still catching his breath from the intensity of his daydream.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy run a hand over his nape. A slow flush is spreading over his pale skin.
His long fingers linger on the freckle behind his ear.
Thank you @sassy-cissa for pre-reading this even when you were tired and sick, and @nv-md for the beta and comments! <3
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spacesaz · 2 months
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As soon as I woke up I grabbed my phone and wrote this down like a person possessed
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