Harry's Friends... Love Him So Much...

on anti culture & how narrative influences reality

So look.

A common point of discourse from anti-shippers is the fact that narrative influences reality, and therefore - they claim - depictions of harmful acts will have a normalizing effect on how real people perceive those acts outside of fiction. The problem with this claim is that, while there is evidence for the idea that narrative can indeed influence reality, it’s a gross distortion of fact to say that it does so in the specific way they mean.

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Rhetoric

drarry | E | 1k | kinktober, public sex, exhibitionism, sort-of enemies to lovers

Summary: Harry thought he was past being lured in by Malfoy’s dares.

Read on Ao3

“I dare you.”

Harry ignored him, glancing across the room of well-dressed gala attendees. It was tedious, one of the many little performances he was required to put on to maintain the goodwill and good behaviour of the political elite of their world. Malfoy loved it all though. He loved the formal robes and the glittering chandeliers that floated above the party, he loved the tiny hors d’oeuvres and the sparkling elfwine. He loved the pantomime of getting along.

“Come on, Potter, don’t be so fucking dull. I know you like the idea.” Malfoy paused, stepped close enough for Harry to catch the scent of him, and leaned in as though he was telling secrets. “You’re bored and I’m offering to help.”

His breath was warm against Harry’s ear. Harry stifled the shiver it prompted, but not quickly enough; the only person who noticed it was the only person he wanted to hide it from.

Malfoy lowered his tone, injected a breathy note of excitement to his voice that could have been entirely manufactured for all Harry knew. “You like the idea, don’t you? Dirty bastard.”

At the very moment Harry was about to deliver his stinging reply, the vast gong in the corner of the hall was battered by an over-enthusiastic waiter, and an usher came to hurry them to their seats.

Harry was put in pride of place at the top table—ready to give his speech and convince the landed elite of the wizarding world that donating vast sums of money to causes they shouldn’t need persuading to support was the sensible and elegant thing to do. Malfoy was seated next to him; he’d had the common sense to start throwing his money at good causes as soon as he was spared a sentence in the post-war trials.

At first Harry had thought it was pure self-interest, and he was still sure that accounted for at least eighty percent of Malfoy’s motivation, but Harry was on the board of governors of most of the charities Malfoy donated to, so he knew the sums he was donating and they were not insubstantial. These days Malfoy didn’t even talk about most of his philanthropy publicly, so it wasn’t like he was benefiting in any real way.

He was still a bastard though, and never failed to sidle up to Harry at parties and galas with a mean quip about someone’s outfit, or a suggestion so scandalous Harry would have to work not to blush.

Harry had learned to take it all with a pinch of salt though, even if sometimes he wondered whether Malfoy was actually just joking.

Benedict Hughes—rich, alcoholic, and a desperate social climber—was tonight’s host. He stood to a polite smattering of applause and began one of his infamously nasal and long-winded speeches of introduction—he was clearly pleased to have scored the prize of Harry Potter at his high table and made no attempt at subtlety in his exploitation of it. He opened his address by listing Harry’s medals of honour—awarded long after the war, when the Ministry decided a bit of a history rewrite was needed—and Harry immediately tuned out everything the man said.

“Utterly intolerable, isn’t he?” Malfoy whispered as he leaned in. He was probably only doing it to make it look like the two of them were friendly. They weren’t. They didn’t talk outside of these events. “I might actually fall asleep if I don’t take drastic action.”

Malfoy never fell asleep at parties—he glided around looking bright and engaged until the sun came up, he was the definition of a social butterfly and everyone loved him, even if he spent the entire the time criticising one half of the room to the other.

“You’re just annoyed it’s not you giving the speech,” Harry replied.

Malfoy hummed, then rearranged himself in his seat. “I’m annoyed because you used to be interesting. Can’t even rely on you to throw a punch, these days.”

“Is that what you want, then?”

Harry looked out across the room, more than fifty tables were filled with the beatifically smiling faces of people who had never been touched by the poverty this fundraiser was supposed to fight.

“I told you exactly what I want,” Malfoy muttered. And then his hand slipped under the table and he leaned against the side of his chair—it looked comfortable, insouciant, but it brought him within inches of Harry. Close enough to reach across and undo the zip of Harry’s finely tailored suit trousers.

“What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?” Harry whispered, carefully maintaining the bland smile that was the particular mask he wore when he was being paraded on stage like this.

Malfoy’s hand was deft, he had his fingers trailing up and down Harry’s cock before Harry’s words were out of his mouth. Harry stared ahead, desperately trying not to give away what was happening. Malfoy’s hand was warm, and Benedict was droning on, and Harry was getting hard.

Malfoy laughed along with whatever asinine joke Benedict had made—Harry didn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything above the roar of shocked arousal and pumping blood in his ears—and thumbed at Harry’s foreskin. It was wet now, with precome, which Malfoy smeared around to make the tiny, gentle twists of his wrist even slicker, smoother, more devastatingly aching. Harry held his breath.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, before he used his free hand to lift his wine and take a sip. “I’m going to make you come before dear old Benedict has finished his speech. I’ll even charm you clean before you have to stand up.”

“I’m not—”

Malfoy continued as though Harry hadn’t spoken. “You are.”

He was. He was dangerously close already; hundreds of eyes on him, and one hand, and Harry couldn’t think of anything but the strength of Malfoy’s fingers and how gently, how expertly they dragged pleasure out of him. If they got caught—he clenched his hands into fists, grit his teeth, and tried to ignore the way that thought made his belly hot and tangled with anticipation.

“You are going to come,” Malfoy said. “And then after this farce of a night, I’m going to let you bend me over and fuck a load into me. How’s that for fair play?”

Harry’s balls tightened. Fair play, indeed.

Read on Ao3

October 5th from this prompt list

Read the series here on Tumblr or here on Ao3

I hated sleeping without you.

✨They’re dating✨ I needed a boost of serotonin so I decided to draw my beloved couple: possessive Draco and clueless Harry.

Btw, I feel like he’s prettiest Draco I’ve ever drawn. I usually prefer him with wavy long hair with a man-bun or something like that, but I think that it makes more sense that he didn’t have such long hair or that kind of hair style before his 20s.

Love,

Cuckooboo

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Words: 365 Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Teddy Lupin/Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Additional Tags: Established Harry/Draco, Threesome, Polyamory, Drunkenness, Kissing, POV Second Person, POV Draco Malfoy Summary: Here’s how it happens: Teddy is drunk. A/N: I saw that our beloved Hogwarts365 / @hogwarts365 is closing for new prompts, and I really wanted to show my gratitude for the comm over the years. Thanks so much! <3 This is for the prompts: thankful and full circle

Sirius Black

(Book ver.)

The Dateless

“Lost your friends Potter?”

“They’ve ditched me.” Harry replied morosely, wondering what had possessed him to plonk down next to Draco Malfoy of all people. He blamed his traitorous friends for ignoring him. “Sickeningly loved up the lot of them.”

Draco screwed up his nose in disgust at that, an action which combined with the alcohol induced pink flush across his cheeks Harry absently noted was kind of cute. Wait, what? Harry glared down at his champagne glass. How many of these had he had?

“No date then?” Harry asked, when it became apparent that Draco wasn’t going to initiate any further conversation.

Draco smirked slowly and raised his left arm just enough that the sleeve of his sky blue dress robe slipped back to reveal the reddened edge of his dark mark. 

“With this glowing endorsement branded into my skin you’d think suitors would be throwing themselves at me wouldn’t you?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Alright you arse, I get it — let’s talk about something else.”

“Oh? What makes you think I’m going to waste any more of my evening talking to you?” 

Draco’s tone was cutting but Harry didn’t miss the way his gaze dropped, could almost feel the caress of his appraisal across his body. Already this ministry ball was seeming a lot less dull.

“Why not? We’re both here tonight, together.” Harry drained his glass and stood. The room was too hot, too loud and he’d spotted a secluded balcony earlier which looked perfect for what he had in mind. He extended his hand to help Draco from his chair. “What have you got to lose?”

@drarrymicrofic prompt: Waste It On Me by Steve Aoki ft. BTS

A normal yoga session 🧘🏻‍♀️🐍

where would we be without those 60s housewives and their gay little kirk/spock fanzines. where would we fucking be

daniel molloy character of all time once again: like imagine you’re a 20-something drug addict and a terrible journalist on account of being 20-something and a drug addict and you randomly meet a vampire at a gay bar and you think wow I might get drugs, gay sex and a story out of this and instead what you get is psychologically and physically tortured by his husband and your memories of it all erased and then 50 years later you’re DYING and those vampires show up in your life again to ask you to write the story of their happy marriage and your memory might be fucked but ON GOD you WILL ruin that marriage if it’s the last thing you do. and then not only do you succeed and walk out of it alive, but also with a bestseller, millions in your bank account AND immortality AND the knowledge that your annoying human ass was somehow the one thing that made that 500+ year old predator so mad that he broke his lifetime vow to never turn anyone. AND, on top of that, you’re out of the CLOSET.