Abandoned Wip, But I Still Find It Cute (fem Drarry)

current mantra

and i will be loathing

for forever loathing

truly deeply loathing youuuuuu

my whole life long!!!!

it’s been a Long time since i last posted…. so sorry guys

i made this when i was going a little crazy about elphaba and this song and i had to draw something or i would’ve combusted

i love fem drarry… i’m obsessed with them so expect more drarry yuri fanart

also here’s the unfinished yaoi version that i made just a few days after because i just couldn’t get it out of my head 😭 but i don’t like it that much because draco looks too much like lucius for my liking…

today the song is a repeated one… next fanart there’ll be a new one trust 🤞🏻

the enormity of desire

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day twenty-seven: grow | word count: 913 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡ | warning: hanahaki-inspired/mild body horror

_ _ _

“Malfoy— alright?”

Draco glares up at him from the locker room bench. “What?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, a noncommittal up-down. “You seem tired?”

“Fuck you,” he growls.

Harry laughs, which makes it worse. “Whatever,” he says, heading for the showers.

Draco walks out, a painstaking attempt at steady, starting for the dungeons, his dorm lavatory feeling kilometers away. The sensation of foliage, unfurling, catches in his abdomen, his esophagus.

They keep growing.

. . .

“Malfoy— alright?”

Draco’s holding himself against the bartop, handkerchief tucked hidden in his palm.

“Hm?” he says, aiming for haughty, disinterested.

“You keep coughing,” Harry answers, eyes narrowing in something like caution, something like concern.

“Doxie flu,” he lies. “The cough lasts for ages.”

“Shit,” Harry says. “You’ve already seen Madame Pomfrey?”

“Plenty,” Draco says, cheeky, (knowing it’s been yes, actually plenty), before breaking into another burst of hacking.

Harry’s hand is at his shoulder then, and Draco doubles forward, uncontrollable, wheezing unevenly.

“Gotta— go,” he manages, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, face warm. He ducks from beneath Harry’s grasp.

“Hey—” Harry calls, but he can’t afford to look back, much less to stay. He slips through the exit of The Three Broomsticks and apparates with a Crack!

In his bed, he empties his cloak pockets, daisy petals and clover tumbling out by the dozens.

They keep growing.

. . .

“Malfoy— alright?”

They’re at the top of one of the myriad stairwells in the castle, Draco braced on the bannister, a bit too desperate to pay much mind to who is or isn’t watching. He swallows at the air, tugs helpless at his shirt-collar.

“You’re out of breath,” Harry says, and at a lack for words, Draco flicks him off.

“You need the infirmary,” Harry says, sounding more cross, more concerned by the second.

Draco flicks him off again. Unfortunately, it’s the most he can do, and just barely, it turns out, his legs suddenly giving way beneath him.

He lands on his knees hard, fingertips scrabbling at the railing, feels it jar up and into his teeth, feels it knock loose pollen in his windpipe. Harry is at his side, instantaneous, and Draco, furiously, can think of at least three other scenarios where he’d rather be on his knees in front of him.

Draco’s vision goes fuzzy, his hand scratching weakly at his neck.

Harry’s arm is at his back. “I’m going to pick you up now,” he says, scooping Draco upwards without waiting for an answer. Which is good, probably, since Draco couldn’t have given one.

He feels the vining expand in his ribcage, Harry’s heart hammering in his ear, his own heart hardly murmuring its response.

If he stops breathing, he isn’t awake to know it.

They keep growing.

. . .

He wakes in the infirmary with Poppy Pomfrey at his side, teary-eyed, and smiling down at him.

“Dearie, you’ve known how to fix this.” She wraps one of his hands in hers. “Please.”

Potter’s there, too, because of course he is. He’s asleep, his head cradled in his arms at the foot of the bed.

Draco pats Poppy’s hand, then gestures to Harry, resigned.

Madame Pomfrey gently shakes Harry by the shoulder, pointing him to Draco before wandering into the hall.

“Hey,” Harry says, pulling a chair to his side. “You’re awake.”

Draco rolls his eyes, jabs a finger into Harry’s arm.

Harry laughs, subdued. “Alright, yeah. I’m awake.” His face twists a bit then, his thumb running over the seam of the quilt on Draco’s lap. “Were you cursed?”

Draco nods, picking up a near-whole daffodil from the bedspread and twirling it between his fingers. He taps his throat, a cough burbling harshly out of him, petals slipping past the handkerchief he draws hastily to his mouth.

“There’s no cure?” Harry asks, brow troubled, green eyes glinting.

Draco leans back into the pillows, his gaze tracking the high ceiling, the cobwebs in the corners. He’s tired, and he can feel leaves tickling at his trachea, obstructive and insistent.

He doesn’t want to die. I’m spite of everything, he doesn’t.

He pulls Harry’s hand to him, palm up on the blanket. C, he traces with the tip of his finger.

“C,” Harry says. Draco nods, continues, Harry spelling softly aloud. “C. U. R. E.”

His eyes flicker to Draco’s, fingers curling lightly where they lay on his lap. “You do know the cure?”

Draco swallows, sharp and thorny, and nods, once. He presses a finger to Harry’s lips, a silent plea.

“Alright,” Harry whispers, falling quiet.

In his hand, Draco writes slow and deliberate, each letter drawn out against his will, each necessary to sustain him, each revealing and damning and precious.

I - L - O - V - E - Y - O - U

He keeps his eyes cast down, wraps his fingers around Harry’s once he’s finished.

“Malfoy,” Harry says, and Draco deigns to meet his gaze. “It’s alright.”

His eyes draw to Draco’s chest, and he untangles their fingers, placing his palm carefully over his heart.

“Take a breath,” he whispers.

Draco does, and he’s overcome by the scent of potions and antiseptics, the laundry detergent on the linens, pumpkin juice on Potter’s breath, spring air on his skin. He breathes in and in and in. He feels it then, the flora wilting, a slow recession, his heart thrumming a steadier song.

Harry grins at him, bright, waylaying.

He loves him.

(It keeps growing.)

՞⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷ 𓈞 ᵒ̴̶̷⸝⸝՞

[day 10 of Microfic May: scene]

Inevitably, they return to the scene of the crime. It's their fucking locker room adjacent to their home pitch exclusive to their Quidditch team.

And now, every single morning, as Morrison drones on about warm-ups and tactics and offensive manoeuvres, Harry's traitorous mind wanders: to the showers (echoing with Draco's choked moans), to the David's locker (its coldness the only thing keeping him cognisant as Draco licks him open), to the bench Draco is sitting on (and the scuff marks it left on the floor from being… pushed).

Catching Draco's eyes is an accident, but it seals Harry's fate either way.

He's doomed: a future repeat offender.

other days: tumblr / ao3

Children please stop calling the slightest hint of sexual desire “gooning” I’m going to strangle all of you

god, your worst warrior needs money

i need the clip here actually

transcript:

Gem, moving Scar and Grian's heads around in REPO: [giggle] We could- we could play with them, like they're dolls. They should get married. Or fight it out. Somewhere.

They could get married. Scar's got like a tiara on. It's perfect. [moves Grian to a corner] We'll put him there, [grabs Scar] and then he can walk down the aisle. [starts humming wedding march as she pushes them together]

Skizz: Who's getting married?

Impulse: Who's get- Aww!

Gem: These two, look!

Skizz: Awwww!

Impulse: How cute! Can I be the best man?

[Skizz continues humming wedding march]

Gem: Grian, you may now kiss the bride.

Impulse: I'm Grian's- I'm Grian's best man.

[Gem picks up Grian, pushes him against Scar and makes kissy noises repeatedly]

Impulse: Skizz, you be the maid of honor.

Skizz: I'll be... I'll be, I'll be- WOW! I'm Scar's best man.

Impulse: That works too.

Gem: How many times is it too many times to kiss at a wedding?

Skizz: You know what? It's their day.

Impulse: Like-

Skizz: You let it ride.

Impulse: Yeah. Yeah.

Skizz: I want it- I want it to get so crazy that people in the audience are like "we should maybe leave"

Impulse: Yeah it needs to get uncomfortable

when i say i’m from ukraine, people assume i live somewhere else now. when i say i live in ukraine, they assume i’m somehow immune to war, and there’s a logical division between a ukrainian they chat with on discord and a ukrainian on the news. bitches my yaoi is written from the bomb shelter

harry james potter