Claire Keane
@theartofmadeline
DEAR READER
RMH
Xuebing Du
Jules of Nature
Today's Document
Monterey Bay Aquarium
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Janaina Medeiros
hello vonnie
ojovivo
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
almost home
Product Placement
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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Kiana Khansmith
i don't do bad sauce passes
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@rockingrobin69
(please click on the image for better quality)
Origami I did and photographed for Robin! I had the idea of doing this piece of birds who found a cut piece of a kite string, and picked it up to play with while flying it in a similar fashion
Buy me a ko-fi | Commissions
when the light catches a fish's scales
1000 words | prompt: two ghosts | tw: blood, light gore, MCD (but HEA(hurtful HEA??), but MCD), NSFW | @drarrymicrofic
You never expect a gun because magic is beautiful. Wix, even dark ones, understand this on an innate level: they're magic first, criminal second. But flying through the catacombs of Paris, heart pumping, adrenaline like froth, high enough to taste—to Harry it tastes like joy—the man in front of him turns. He aims for Harry and hits Draco.
Everyone stops. The shooter, the witness and the one shot. Spells do not do what small pieces of metal can. Draco is spread like a flower on the ground. He dies in silence. In death, he is very red.
.
Draco's funeral brings about the most beautiful weather in the world. Everyone wears black in wells of sunlight. Harry has not slept since Draco died so the sight of his ghost lounging atop its coffin he credits to delirious guilt and delirious grief. The ghost is nude and translucent. The substance inside him moves like water. Columns of sunshine sink and distort and dance through internal current.
Once the burial rights are complete, Draco begins dissipating. His thighs are fat against the wood of the coffin. He leans his head back, sunbathing. His soft cock jostles atop his large testicles, pretty like a minnow.
Draco gets down from his coffin and goes to his mother. He takes her face in his hands; it is clear she cannot sense his presence. He presses their foreheads together, growing fainter by the moment. Releasing her, Draco curls through the crowd like steam. He stops when he reaches Harry, placing his hands on Harry's chest. They do not feel like real hands, but they do not feel like nothing. Harry plays dumb, afraid that if Draco realizes Harry can see him, he will not do whatever he is about to.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Draco says. "I wanted to be the one who stayed."
"I wanted that too," Harry tells him.
Draco's eyes widen in shock. He is barely there, just motes of what spirit is left. Harry does not know if he pulls or if he steps forward. Draco, later, will claim the same.
Somehow they move together, Draco's ghost inside Harry's body.
.
The Malfoy's are very unhappy. They insist Harry is keeping Draco from his peace. Doesn't he deserve it? Narcissa weeps. Doesn't he deserve at least this? But it is not that Harry means to keep him. The last thing he wants is to be a cage.
Draco's ghost does not make itself well known. The only evidence of him at all is that sometimes their merge is imperfect: when Harry wraps his hands around a mug of tea, Draco's fingers will emerge over Harry's a half second too late. The haunting is an afterimage, a breath out of sync.
Harry agrees to the exorcism. He Occludes on the days leading up.
When the ritual has been prepared and the spells are about to be spoken Harry feels a sensation in his throat; something is there.
His mouth moves on its own. "Don't make me go."
The Malfoys look upon Harry in horror. Harry stops Occluding, and passes out.
.
After this, Draco grows stronger. He speaks using Harry's voice, but keeps his posh accent. He has opinions about Harry's clothes. He has opinions about Harry's cases. Together, they catch the man who shot him. Harry casts stupefy and sees Draco's fingers flow through his own.
Harry's body grows into the ghost. His veins make channels, his bones make hooks. Harry has room enough inside him; there were always things missing.
In the night Harry brings his hand to his lips and waits for Draco to kiss the heel of his palm.
It's weird, but it isn't bad.
.
"Tell me again," Draco says, thumb digging into Harry's arch. "Tell me again how my cock looked like a fish."
Harry groans, the tension bleeding from his feet. "I didn't mean a fish," Harry says. "I meant when the light catches a fish's scales."
"That makes it so much better."
"It does!" Harry laughs. "It does make it so much better. So, so much better."
With Harry's hands, Draco starts on his other foot.
"You're drooling," he says, pushing Harry's tongue through the spit behind his lip. "I'm making you drool."
Harry lets his eyes drift close. "You're good at this.”
They're sitting on a hill in Wiltshire, lost on the Manor's infinite grounds. Draco's made them a picnic with sandwiches and strawberries.
"I was missing the clover," he says, looking over it all.
.
Ron and Hermione get married, and Harry gets drunk. Draco gives a speech that makes everyone cry.
"Should we get married too?" Harry asks in the dark of their hotel room, hands laced together.
Draco rubs his thumb over Harry's knuckles. "I think it'd be too awkward."
"Who gives a t–toss?"
Their breath catches as Draco's thumb moves across Harry's nipple. The waves crash on the shore outside; Harry thinks it is the sound of Draco's breath. Secretly, Harry thinks it's the whole world that he haunts. Draco smooths their palms down Harry's sides. Their body writhes, pulling and pushing. Harry gets hard and Draco's prick ghosts its outline. Draco gets wetter, always, his wet evanesces so, stupidly beautifully. Their hands, both, work, bring spit from Harry's lips, drag callous over velvet skin. I am you, Draco whispers. You are me. I am we.
"Fuck me," Harry chokes. "Oh god fucking fuck me."
Their hands work faster. Harry imagines Draco, imagines Draco's prick smearing shadow on the tendons of Harry's neck.
"Fuck me, Draco, come inside me."
"Never let me go," one of them says.
Their back aches, belly heats, and they come unearthly substance messily over their hands, chests heaving, waves breaking, life digging in, life going on and on.
.
In the morning, Harry packs up the car.
Draco drives them home along the coast; he likes driving. Harry likes it because Draco likes it. Likes the feel of his smile.
The sky is a skein of clouds, a sea of interwoven ghosts.
Harry rolls the window down to let them in.
.
Your Drarry is spelled as Darry in your profile dear, cute profile by the way have a nice day🍏
you are so right anon, i never noticed. now that i do i kind of like it. what do we do about it? thanks for letting me know though you gave me a good laugh 😂 you're cute yourself aren't you?
do you think it's possible to become a morning person?
The year is 2026 and I still cry over banana fish-
Laurent?! What are you doing in banana fish?!?!
WILL SOMEONE EXPLAIN THIS MEDIUM AND SOURCE JUMP. LAURENT YOU WIZARD. ANYWAY ASH
Laurent?! What are you doing in banana fish?!?!
right so i have too watched link click and. i am., not okay
you guys are cute for liking this and all but i am serious WHAT DO I DO NOW
right so i have too watched link click and. i am., not okay
for @drarrymicrofic July prompt steal (i've been busy, alright?)
Harry gets home late, breathless and triumphant. “Caught him. Finally.”
The brush in Draco’s hand snags on a burr, and Bruin whines in protest. “Oh yes?”
“And get this,” Harry tells him, looking up from the kitchen table where he’s unlacing his boots. “He was actually renting it out.”
“No.”
“I know, bloody chancer. A thousand Galleons a spin, too.”
“Gosh,” says Draco: lightly, carefully. He doesn’t stop brushing.
“He had some customer there when we showed up. The guy was almost in tears, begging us to let him use it anyway. Please, officer, you don’t understand! I only need half an hour! Fifteen minutes, anything! Almost had to arrest him too just to stop him going on.” Harry leans back in the chair, still grinning. “A thousand Galleons! Just to go back and change one tiny thing. I mean, can you imagine being that desperate?”
“I–” Draco begins. It sticks in his throat. “No,” he manages, working out another tangle. “I – I really can’t.”
“Anyway,” says Harry easily, lightly, that’s that. Draco keeps on brushing, though somehow his fingers have turned numb. The cool press of Harry’s cheek against his own is startling, and when Draco shivers Bruin jumps in turn. Harry just laughs, dipping his head to kiss his way up the smooth, unblemished skin of Draco’s forearm. “You alright there?”
“I’m fine,” Draco says. He firms his hand around the brush, the bristles digging deep into his palm. “Well,” he corrects, “I’m better now you’re here.”
the bleakness of finishing a good piece of literature and then. not having the thing to read anymore
Microween
Written for @drarrymicrofic halloween prompt "scared". CW: small penis, size difference (170 words)
“Salazar,” Malfoy is staring at Harry's crotch, “It’s a wonder you have kids.”
Harry is nude from the waist down, proper Donald-ducking it. He was in the middle of changing when Malfoy barged in, and if it were anyone else he would tell them to fuck off. But he's expending all his mental energy on not getting hard under Malfoy’s sneering gaze.
“Are they even yours?” Malfoy tilts his head, “Because I can’t imagine you can even fuck with that sad little flobberworm.”
It’s then Harry notices the significant bulge tenting Malfoy’s duelling leggings. Merlin, the thing must be a monster. His concentration broken, blood races south, as he imagines Malfoy cruelly drawling “Scared, Potter?” before shoving it roughly down his throat.
Malfoy’s eyes widen a little as Harry stiffens and fills out to a good… inch and a half.
Harry smirks and gives his little erection a squeeze between forefinger and thumb. "Wouldn't you like to know?”
Cheeks flushed, Malfoy spells the door locked. “I thought you'd never ask.”
"un/balanced"
@drarrymicrofic | 322 words | Prompt: tightrope
“Do you want to, er, come back to mine?” Potter asked with a shrug, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. But he chewed his lower lip like he cared a bit. His hand hovered by Draco’s hip like he cared a lot.
Draco had fought hard for balance in his life — a good job at the Ministry, regular outings with his coworkers, a small group of friends even. His reputation, while forever scuffed, was otherwise clean; people hardly accosted him in the streets anymore. On top of it all, he’d managed to secure a perfectly tentative truce with the Savior of the Wizarding World. Insults were no longer hurled back and forth; words hardly passed between them at all. When they did cross paths, they exchanged cordial nods then kept moving forward.
Wasn’t that good enough? To know where he stood?
It had been. Until two and a half hours ago when he’d ended up next to Potter at the bar. Until they’d exchanged awkward pleasantries while they waited for their drinks, then neglected to leave once they got them. Until Draco bought Potter a second, then Potter bought him a third. Until Potter started talking with his hands and smiling with that dimple, words uninhibited and Firewhiskey-flirty. Until the pub got louder and their bodies got closer and Potter’s mouth came right up to speak into Draco’s ear.
Come back to mine?
The words were mostly breath, warm on his skin; Draco still shivered, intoxicated more by Potter’s attention than the alcohol. He was dizzy with it, completely off-kilter. The tightrope beneath him wobbled, and Draco knew it was a long way down, a terrifying drop and an inevitable, painful crash at the bottom.
Even so…
Potter raised a brow. The hand on Draco’s hip tightened, as if Potter needed to balance himself, fingers twitching toward the skin above Draco's belt. Draco nodded and let himself fall.
so were really do this--day by day?
just jumped out of this fic with a startled excuse me? at something a minor character said. like, it bears nothing on the plot or the main characters, this minor one has barely--if even--spoken before. but this is what they say? no.
