Old Spice Guy Voice: Hello tumblr. Look at your shows. Now back to me. Now back to your shows. Now back to me. Sadly they aren’t me but if they started using authentic own-voice production values, they could be like me. Look down, back up. Where are you? You’re on a ship with a diverse and fascinating crew. What’s in your hand? Back to me. I have it. It’s a pair of neurodiverse middle-aged characters from different social backgrounds with complex and traumatic histories. Look again, those middle-aged characters are in love against the backdrop of recovery from the trauma of toxic masculinity and societal expectation. Anything is possible when your show smells of diversity and not outdated stereotypes. I’m on a dinghy.
The ceiling doesn’t hold any answers, but there are cobwebs scattered across the corners with shadows tangled in their threads. The rug against his back is rough and scratchy, threadbare and devoid of colours other than various shades of brown. Harry takes it all in, absorbs the dingy and depressed state of his home. There’s a pointed moment of decision, a note about to be played, a silence about to end, and then he rolls to his feet and sets to cleaning.
It’s the first constructive thing he’s done in years.
Reblogging for those who might have missed it over the weekend.
What Draco doesn’t fully realize, is that Harry loves it.
He might constantly nag about his clothes going missing, he might complain that Draco never wears his own bloody shirts around the house anymore, andhe might never even find some of them again, but Harry definitely recognizes the shivery, possessive heat that crawls all over his skin any time Draco does it.
His boyfriend has taken a particular liking to one of his old, worn Quidditch jerseys; and seeing how it bears the Gryffindor house colours, Harry is that more enamoured with the idea of Draco wearing it.
Harry loves how Draco brings the collar up to his face to smell it every once in a while when he thinks nobody can see him. He loves that Draco secretly switches the jersey for something else from time to time—an unspoken hint for Harry to wear it for a bit, just until it smells like him again.
Harry just loves Draco wearing his clothes, how it practically screams “Property of Harry Potter"—not that he would ever call Draco that in the literal sense, it’s a different kind of belonging.
It never fails to render him hot and speechless: Draco, standing in the kitchen in the morning, a cup of tea in his hands, wearing his jersey and nothing else. The shirt is a little too big, just loose enough to get a small glimpse of a pinkened arsecheek under the hem. Just big enough to show a little collarbone, a trail of purplish lovebites disappearing under the fabric. Lovebites that Harry left there last night as he kissed and licked and sucked every inch of his lover’s skin.
In moments like that, Harry realizes that Draco is completely, irrevocably his,just as much as he is Draco’s. And Harry still can’t fully believe he gets to see him like that—dreamy expression, tousled hair, a soft smile, and that damned jersey.
(And, what the fuck, he’s lovesick even when Draco is standing just a few feet away.)
It never takes long for Harry to just vanish the cup with a flick of his wrist, take a few quick strides, and Draco only manages a “What the—” before Harry is devouring him against the counter. He disapparates them straight onto the bed a few minutes later and the jersey stays on, rucked up to his armpits, the crimson fabric stark against porcelain skin.
It’s one of their favourite ways to spend a Sunday and what Harry might not fully realize, is that Draco loves it just as much.
~~~
Dedicating this one to @veelawings, my darling, tagging me in this was a Big Brain Energy move. No booty shorts this time, but I hope this Draco is absolutely “Made to be licked, topped and loved.” <3
Long-haired Draco isn’t usually my go-to but… I could be convinced. :>
There are a lot of things Harry could do about that.About Draco being long-haired, a bit broader than Harry remembers, just largein all the right places and looking like some elven warrior. Harry imagines all that hair spilling across his bedsheets as if he wasn’t already completely gone on Draco to begin with, and maybe looks down at his own hands, thinking how Draco’s hair would feel wrapped tightly around them.
Can’t stop thinking about Battinson. Never in my life have I understood the “poor little meow meow” thing until I saw this man rock up to breakfast in a massive t-shirt and sweatpants, eat a single blueberry because Alfred told him to, and then put on sunglasses indoors because it was too bright. He tried to wingsuit down from GCPD headquarters, got his parachute caught, hit a bus and a parked car, tumbled through the street, then just stood up and ran away. This man looked like he was on the verge of crying out of sheer awkwardness every time he had to be Bruce Wayne and he still didn’t look clean.
He’s a dirty, greasy, disgusting little gremlin man and it shows and I love him
For some people, life doesn’t truly begin until they’re 26-30. The way we romanticize and obsess over youth is super harmful. Your life is not over at 21, I promise you. It’s just beginning
It feels like the first time Harry’s taken a deep breath in a long time. He closes his eyes and tries to separate the strands of sensation. Cedar wood smoke, damp peat, wings fluttering in the trees, rushing water, prey, wild magic. Draco’s scent layered over it all, welcoming. Everything will be all right, it seems to say.
“You.” Inadequate.
“Me,” Malfoy responds. His tone is playful, a little challenging. Wolfy but with no threat in it. A persistent low grade worry had set on Harry like a fever since that first moon. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
But he knows instinctively even if he tackled Malfoy to the forest floor, pinned him, even if they really fought this close to the moon, Malfoy would be in no real danger. No danger except getting caught in the joy of it.
“I didn’t know.”
“You knew. You didn’t like it,” Malfoy answers. Harry has only just arrived, and this cabin is already better than being miserable in his flat, learning the footfalls and heartbeats of his neighbours these last few months. But no.
“It’s not this place. It’s you,” Harry says. Truth, as sure as the surprise on Malfoy’s face.
