allwaswell16:

But We Could Be So Good

by @allwaswell16 for Harry/Draco Reverse Bang

When Harry assigned himself to be the Malfoy family’s probationary Auror, he hadn’t anticipated he would sneak into the Malfoy Manor library, play endless games of chess, or buy an entire roomful of magical plants. And he certainly hadn’t anticipated falling in love.

With gorgeous art from @chamomileteafuel that you can find here and in the fic!

cyprus-green:

The Subtle Science and Exact Art of Potion-Making

Created using Midjourney

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“I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…”–HPPS

Feel free to use as backgrounds or however you’d like. Pretty please don’t repost with out tagging me. Gracias!

thundergrace:

Flautist Melissa Jefferson plays slaver James Madison’s 200-year-old crystal flute in the Library of Congress.

(via gnarf)

slytherco:

reposting this one because this fucking hellsite decided it’s ADULT CONTENT so I had to BLUR THE DICKS THAT AREN’T THERE

AO3 linkie to sinful adult content click for satan

(via sitp-recs)

academicdisasterfic:

Threshing

drarry | 1.5k | e

A slightly late gift for the lovely @anaxandria-writes for @drarrymicrofic Wheel of Drarry mini-exchange. Thank you to my love @wolfpants for the fantastic beta.

CW for chronic/terminal illness (but with a happy ending).

Years later, Draco would think it all began when the bartender asked him, ‘Would you like the shiraz, sir, or the tempranillo?’

‘Tempranillo,’ Draco said, but as it transpired, they had run out of the tempranillo, and the bartender had to dash out to the back for more, despite Draco’s protests that the shiraz would be fine.

Draco was left to tap his fingers on the wooden counter, and as he gazed aimlessly around the crowded room, he wondered  whether thirty was going to feel any different to twenty-nine.

And that’s when he saw him; lingering by the door, flannel rolled up to his elbows, dark stubble covering his jaw. He looked tired, and Draco knew, knew before he even saw the string appear between them. He didn’t hesitate; it was like drawing breath, walking over to him, and Harry looked so relieved, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment, even though neither of them could have known, as these things were never able to be predicted, not even by the most gifted Seers or centaurs.

The string shortened and drew them together, and Draco reached out his hand to cup Harry’s face.

‘You look tired,’ Draco said, and Harry leant into his neck, inhaling, grabbing Draco’s waist, drawing their bodies together, fitting Draco’s hip bones against his. Draco gasped.

‘Of course it’d be you,’ Harry muttered, and then, ‘we’re going back to mine.’

They fucked in the kitchen, over dirty dishes and piles of unread mail on the sticky counter, Harry eating Draco from behind until Draco couldn’t take it and wrestled them to the ground, sinking down on Harry’s cock and riding him against the hard wooden floor.

They fucked on the sofa, Draco opening Harry quickly and efficiently so he could take him from behind, Harry whimpering harder, harder into the cushions.

They fucked in Harry’s bed, this time slow and reverent, Harry sucking Draco’s nipples until Draco was thrashing and sobbing, arching up and begging to be touched, and then Harry pushed into him and held his face between his huge, calloused hands. That’s when Draco fell in love with him; fell in love as Harry covered him and held him like a precious, beloved thing, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to love, and be loved, by him.

After, spent and exhausted, Draco looked at where the string joined them, and asked, ‘Why now?’

Harry smiled, crooked and sweet, and kissed the back of Draco’s palm.

‘Probably because I’m dying.’

…

People weren’t supposed to be Horcruxes.

When Voldemort destroyed the part of his soul that lived inside Harry, Harry’s magical core didn’t know what to do. It had spent seventeen years growing and shaping itself around something that was no longer there, and it rebelled.

Harry hadn’t noticed for the first five years or so, too lost in the aftershocks of peace. But then he noticed the exhaustion, then the heart palpitations, the weird visions, the way he couldn’t quite cast like he used to. And by the time the Healers had figured out what had happened, it was far too late.

Back then, he still had good days, and Draco took advantage of them; dragged them out to the mountains, to the seaside, to gay clubs and bars and parades. He moved into Harry’s flat and quit his job so they could spend the bad days in bed together, doing the Prophet crossword and drinking tea and watching daytime soaps. He couldn’t feel Harry’s pain exactly, not like in the soulmate stories he was told as a child, but sometimes he did think he knew Harry better than he knew himself; knew the meaning of an eyebrow twitch, or a downturned lip, or a slight hand tremor. Loving Harry had been easy, effortless; like falling through clouds, and then when Harry was writhing in spasms, or sleeping through whole days, or waking in sweats and shouts, it was more painful than Draco had ever imagined pain could be.

Sometimes, Harry would get distant and withdraw, wracked with guilt that the bond hadn’t given Draco a choice but to care for him. Draco would get angry that Harry could even conceive of such a thing; even contemplate the thought of them not being together. Harry still wanted to put everyone else before himself, and Draco was still the same spoiled boy who wanted more than he should. He never made any apologies for that.

Sex became more gentle, with more laughter. Draco snorted into Harry’s mouth once when Harry tried to wrap his legs around him and his entire back cracked; Draco placed pillows under his head and knees instead, and sank down on him slowly, just like the first time, only now appreciating every detail; the greys in Harry’s hair that Draco actually thought were really fucking sexy, the soft dark hair beneath his navel, the dark circles beneath his eyes that refused to budge. 

Sometimes Harry couldn’t finish, and Draco would try not to be upset about it. If he was, it was never in front of Harry.

…

The summer they both turned thirty five, Harry stopped being able to cast.

He was still magical; Draco could feel it, even when Harry couldn’t, could feel the golden warmth surrounding him, and could also feel its frustration, the way Harry’s magic so desperately wanted to escape and couldn’t.

Things got worse after that.

Harry’s fits were worse, and he was addled and confused after, taking hours to come back to himself. Draco could only sit by the bed and stroke his hair, read to him, watch as Longbottom and Lovegood came in with increasingly bizarre herbal concoctions which never did anything, but Draco appreciated them both anyway, the way they teased Harry, reminded him who he was.

Granger and Weasley were more distressed and less able to be funny, but they tried as hard as they could. Rose liked to snuggle next to Harry after his fits, tell him about her friends and teachers, knowing he wouldn’t remember the details but was always soothed by her voice.

Teddy didn’t visit very much, which Draco couldn’t blame him for; he’d lost enough parents.

One morning, Draco was woken up by Harry’s lips on his neck, and his hand over his stomach.

‘I want you to give the Invisibility Cloak to Hugo,’ he whispered. Draco’s blood ran cold. ‘James and Sirius’ mirror to Ron. The Potter fortune to Teddy. Everything else is yours.’

Draco wanted to scream at him. To point to the string, still a vibrant red connecting them, and ask him how he could even fathom leaving Draco; why his body didn’t love Draco enough to keep fighting, to stay alive. 

But Harry had already fallen asleep again.

…

Not even Voldemort had dared approach the fae. They took more than they gave, always, but as long as the thing they gave Draco was Harry, he didn’t care what he’d sacrifice.

The Forbidden Forest was very dark, and very quiet.

‘You called,’ came a voice. The fae never showed themselves. 

‘I require your help,’ Draco said, voice firm. 

‘For your mate?’

‘Yes.’ Draco tried to imagine Harry, seventeen and terrified, walking to his death out here. He just had to be half as brave, and he could do this. And then he thought about Harry in their bed, skin blotchy and grey, his body shaking in pain, and everything else faded into insignificance. ‘He’s dying. And he saved you too, that day.’

‘That’s debatable.’ The voice sounded vaguely affronted, and Draco stared stonily ahead. ‘It would have taken more than a mere human to eradicate us.’

‘I know. But it would have been harder without Harry.’ Draco squeezed his eyes closed. ‘You would have had to leave the Forest.’

Something squawked overhead, startling Draco’s eyes open. The stars were very bright.

‘You do have the power to save your mate,’ the voice echoed, seeming closer, and Draco’s heart soared. ‘But something must be given; energy cannot be destroyed or created. A life cannot be created from anything other than a life. Do you understand?’

Harry was never going to forgive him. Draco was okay with that.

…

Years later, Draco would think it all actually began when the bartender asked him, ‘What do you want tonight, sir?’

Draco flicked his gaze over him, and the bartender flushed. ‘Usual spot, Sebastian. Five minutes.’

Pulses thrummed in the dark, smoky room. The night smelled like sex; arousal and sweat and blood.

Harry had started by the time he got out there. Sebastian was always too keen. It was one of the things they liked about him.

‘Hello,’ Draco said, amused, and Harry unlatched himself from the young man’s neck. He was so beautiful like this; selfish and greedy and so very alive.

Or a version of it.

‘Does he taste good, Harry?’ Draco asked. Harry and Sebastian groaned at the same time. ‘My turn.’

He did taste good, Draco thought with satisfaction. Sebastian moaned as Draco pressed his hardness against him, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Behind them, Harry was panting, and when Draco finally sent Sebastian back inside with a Blood-Replenishment Potion and a quick cleaning charm, Harry was on him in seconds.

‘Here?’ Draco asked, amused, and Harry growled softly.

‘I can’t wait.’ His voice was gruff and low and his eyes were trained on Draco’s lips. Draco smiled and lifted his hand to cup Harry’s face, string dangling between them, blood-red and taut.

‘Sweetheart. We have time.’

(via havingaverydrarryday)

drarrily-we-row-along:

July 8: Postcard

The corner of the postcard had been torn when it arrived, just a little nick, not enough to ruin the image of the ocean on the front or distort the message on the back.

Draco had read it so many times when it arrived in the mail yesterday that he didn’t actually need to read the words now to know what it said. Tracing his fingers over the nick in the corner was enough to make him block out whatever Pansy was saying so he could replay the message in his mind.

Dear Draco,
It’s so warm here! The sun and the ocean are amazing, and I think you’d love it.
Wish you were here. It’s not too late to join me. (Waikiki Beach Resort, Room 13)
XO, Harry

But they didn’t do things like that, right? He was just a convenience, just someone to warm Harry’s bed on the cold nights. Surely he wasn’t someone who Harry wanted to take on vacations with him. Surely he wasn’t the type of person you wanted with you in the sun.

Still.

He’d gone through the trouble of sending a postcard. Harry’d taken the time to pick a postcard, write a message, and tell him it wasn’t to late to come. That had to mean something, right?

“Draco,” Pansy said, snapping a manicured finger at him. “Are you even listening to me?”

“No,” he said frankly. “Sorry to cut lunch short,” he said as he rose from the table and dropped a kiss to her cheek, “I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

He didn’t wait for a response, didn’t even let himself pack a bag, he just went straight to the international portkey office and got a portkey that left five minutes later.

When he arrived, it wasn’t hard to find the hotel, or Harry’s room with a gorgeous view of the ocean front. And he was so thrilled by the idea that Harry might want him there too, that it wasn’t even hard for him to knock on the door or wait impatiently for him to answer.

What he somehow hadn’t been expecting was that Harry would answer the door in his bathrobe, with a gorgeous man standing behind him.

(read more below the cut)

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