#hp lemon

[artytaeh]

𓆸 ֗ ˳ DRABBLE : [ meschinità ostinata ] 𔓘

theodore is a man of patience, or at least that's what his reserved behavior hints at. obviously, everyone has a limit; if you made your moodiness his problem, then he'll make his annoyance yours. it's only fair, right?

taglist : p in v, hinting towards theodore being a brat tamer. no further descriptions because i don't ruin surprises. obvious +18 content; read at your own risk.

"you're not stopping, are you?" the thick italian accent doesn't cover for the clear tease within his tone, a breathy chuckle leaving theodore's lips, as his hand smacks another slap to your asscheeks: "come on, tesoro; you have a lot to apologize for, don't you?"

one would have thought that, from the way theodore seems oh so patient with his girlfriend, that any annoyance would be sucked up, forgiven and forgotten. although theo is a good boyfriend... he's also a slytherin, and slytherins rarely forget resentments without a good bribery, you know? like a serpent, theo cunningly waits for the right time to strike.

in a more rational part of your mind — since everything else seems to become too blurry and white out.from the pleasure that keeps poking on that sweet spot, again, and again and again —, you ponder about regret.

should you have been impatient this afternoon? no, it wasn't fair to push your pettiness and moody behavior onto theodore, especially not when the italian was just trying to smoke his afternoon cigarette, hopefully to expel some accumulated stress, from this week's assignments.

do you regret it? not exactly.

how can anyone regret anything, if the outcome is theodore nott under you, blue eyes piercing into your soul with the cockiness of who knows what he's doing — gaze dispersing from your fucked out expression, only to stare in marvel at the way your chest bounces with every. single. movement. of your hips? oh, he's loving this.

theo loves your bratty side.

it's not a secret either. why do you think he likes the sassy ones? the comebacks make him laugh, and theo definitely laughs harder when he gets you so tired and fucked out of your attitude, that not even a huff of annoyance he gets out of you.

and he's working in that direction.

well, it's more accurate to say that he's making you work for that.

his hand lazily settles on your hip, caressing the skin already tainted with darkening fingermarks; so what? it feels so damn good to be inside you, it always has theodore muttering in italian—cursing and praising, depending on his tone, you've learned from pure experience. the other one, as if to taunt your attempts of scolding his unhealthy habit of smoking, holds a cigarette between his index and ring finger.

you know, the ones he used to impatiently prepare you for his cock, still wet with your slick. theo loves to feel you drooling for him, already fidgety and sensitive when he slips inside you — or, in this case, having seen you sink onto his painfully hard erection. the heaven's view, he swears.

taking a drag from his cigarette, theodore ponders whether you deserve an incentive, or to have him being mean with you. weren't you so smart earlier?

his fingers bruise the skin on your hipbone yet again, this time thrusting up for a harsh thrust, contrasting with this slow rhythm you're providing. theo scoffs, "seriously, is this your way to apologize for your bitchy behavior? dai, amore, non deludermi."

as if it's that easy to make your body work faster; it's already uncomfortable to be in this position, especially overwhelmed from his fingers!

not that theo cares about that, anyway.

another harsh slap to your asscheeks; a raise of his left eyebrow, and you know that he's losing his patience: "don't make me do it for you, dolcezza. i'll rip manners out of you."

and as delightful as that sounds, you're not sure if you could take that sort of overstimulation today. not when you're already like this, even less when theodore is savoring the idea of bullying your pretty lips and sensitive core.

so, hands falling for support on his abdomen, you do your best to ignore the aching on your thighs — perhaps you should do this more often or exercise? — you force yourself to lift your hips, only to slam them again until theodore is so deep inside you, that your clit makes a wet mess of his groin. theodore fucking loves that, expelling the smoke from his lips with a breathless chuckle, head tilting back to the headboard.

yeah, mattheo is probably sleeping in the common room tonight.

not appreciating the lack of response, zero empathy towards the effort you're already doing, theodore sneaks his free hand amidst the mess of your hair. his fingers tangle between your locks, until his nails lightly scratch over your scalp and tug you closer to him; a demand from him that feels ridiculously good to you. his free hand moves the cigarette away from his lips, and taking the chance of your gasp from the extra tug on your hair, theodore blows the burning smoke to your lips; inside your mouth. taunting how much you dislike this vice of his.

nicotine swirls between your tongues as they meet; that, however, isn't the reason why you crawl back to him everytime.

theodore nott is a drug of his own.

perhaps he decides to be nicer now, sloppily exchanging slow kisses with you, letting his hips roll upwards to pursue his orgasm.

"non puoi nemmeno essere una vera troia," theo is so close to you, that the movement of his lips, pronouncing each foreign word, brush against yours, creating a tingling sensation that only adds to the notion of being cursed and insulted—at least, that's what your intuition tells you.

his hand blindly abandons his cigarette on the ashtray, keenly aware that you can feel—and taste—that acid smell of tobacco and cigarettes, less considerate than he usually is about your irking over it. his fingers grip your jaw, his thumb squeezing your cheek as his other fingers do the same, not even letting you moan from each sharp thrust that kisses your cervix.

"cazzo, it makes me want to laugh at you. you talk, talk, talk my ear off," even breathless, theo seems to have too much to say; it should be embarrassing, really, if his disdain didn't make your inner walls clench tighter around his thickness. "and can't even own your bitching afterwards. didn't even properly apologize; maybe you don't deserve this, huh?"

it takes a moment for you to understand the implication there, too distracted by the toe curling sensation of being repeatedly filled up. it's when theodore stops, resting on the mattress once more and giving up on the fluid movement of his hips, previously bouncing you on his groin, that your eyes widen with disbelief. seriously?

at first, you think about calling him out for his pettiness.

but it's the smug look and smirk that makes you want to sob instead, dignity crumbling to ashes, reborn as despair to finally cum. please, please.

his hand lowers to your neck, fingers curling around your throat, even though there's not much of a threat there. it's a loose grip; not even properly holding it, a simple squeeze that feels rather gentle, more like he's mocking you, in a way.

the worst is that theodore isn't even being mean. no, this is him having fun; if he was being mean, he'd be teasing you about the first semblance of frustrated tears, and you'd have to cry for it.

picking up the pieces of any strength left, the smartest choice is to surrender yourself, hopefully calming down the fire that burns within theodore's temper to slowly sneak into his good graces again. your hips move — unable to exert the tired muscles of your thighs — grinding helplessly against the firm muscles of his groin, the movement enough to rip out a low groan from theodore, appeased that he won't listen any whines from you, for now.

"brava ragazza," comes as a praise; before the compliment gets over your head, his free hand slaps your thigh, "go on. use me like a toy, carina, cum on my cock."

yeah, this would be a long night.

[upthehillnsfw]

Commission for anonymous🤭

Click for full version / Alternative

[narrators-journal]

For the Lovecraft ask can we add breeding kink and squirting and maybe size kink and belly bulge

Also maybe reader is his wife and she’s turned on by him

I just kinda went wild with your prompt ngl. Lovecraft is still reader’s husband, and she’s still turned on by him! But I wrote this less as a bsd-exclusive kinktober-style fic, and leaned into the monsterfucking aspect to just GO HAM on the tentacles and monster angle. So yes, this is Lovecraft x reader, but it’s also kinda able to be read as a general monster smut. Which, was fun to write! Sorry if I went a bit light on some things, or it’s not quite to your liking on the details, this is sort of my toe back in the water after kinktober.

Thankfully it’s not as bad as last year, but ya still gotta give yourself some leniency after a challenge, y’know?

CW: teratophilia, sacrificing, tentacles, possible oviposition? U can kinda ignore that tbh, but it’s there. Breeding kink is lightly impied, size difference is also implied, squirting

It was an ancient, possibly outdated tradition, to sacrifice women to a god in exchange for a good harvest. Yet, ever since you could remember, each spring had been marked by the offering of a fertile woman to the god of the sea your town relied on. Normally, said woman was on the younger side, around eighteen to twenty for the best fertility chances, but your grandmother had always warned you that standards were likely to change. So, as you bathed and mentally prepared for whatever happened to the sacrificial brides of your god, you weren’t surprised at your position.

You weren’t a virgin, nor were you eighteen, or even twenty, in fact, you’d gotten married before you had been chosen to be this year’s sacrifice. Yet, there you were. Your hands being tied behind your back by your husband before you were walked down to the beach, nude, to await your new ‘husband’.

Like any other sacrifice to your town’s god, you had been tied to the edge of the dock. Your hands bound behind you, your foot tied firmly to one of the sturdy supports. So, all you could really do was sit on the rough wood of the water-warped platform and listen to the waves lazily lapping at the sand beneath the dark, star-speckled night sky.

However, it wasn’t more than two hours max before you first spotted an odd, slow movement in the water. Too slow for it to be some sort of person, but too big to be a fish. It’s okay, You told yourself as you watched the form approach and sink into the glittering soup before you, Brides don’t always turn up dead. It’ll probably be okay, no matter what happens.

With that, you took a deep breath to calm the knot of anxiety that formed in your chest. Yet,when you felt the cold, watery slime of a tentacle’s smooth skin against your own, you still jumped and attempted to scramble away. Yet, there was little you could do beyond scoot as far from the edge of the dock as your tether allowed. Not that your nerves did much to dissuade more green tentacles from rising out of the water to snake around your ankles and wrists, or around your waist to trap you in place. To hold you hostage while more tentacles emerged from the cool sea water to explore your nude body. It was disgusting.

Yet, at the same time, it was thrilling.

Ever since you were little, you had heard tales and rumors about all of the many things that might happen to the ‘brides’ your town offered to the sea god in exchange for the plentiful fish, including the exact situation you now sat in. But, in those past years until your own eighteenth birthday had passed, some part of you had always feared the possibility of becoming the sea god’s bride.

However, when you’d passed eighteen and gotten married, that fear had gone dormant. But, it hadn’t left completely. After all, how could a woman ever put to rest the anxiety of being one bad flu season away from being chosen to risk being torn to shreds or split in half?

Only to find, that the slow slide of tentacles, and the gentle kisses of their suction cups against your nipples or the tender skin of your inner thigh didn’t disgust or scare you as much as you had expected. Instead, they excited you.

Even when a rather meaty tentacle slipped between your legs to prod at your dampening cunt, the pressure of it against your folds sent lightning through your blood, and the stretch of it pushing into you was enough to wipe away the fears and earn a lewd noise. And while yes, you weren’t a virgin, as hardships had left sacrificial options too slim to offer an eighteen-year-old woman and ensure something like that, there was simply something far more exciting than your human husband could achieve.

Yet, that didn’t keep the tentacle from settling deep within you, creating a bit of a bulge in your belly while your muscles twitched and stretched to accommodate the growing girth of the appendage within you. Nor, did it stop the tentacle when it began to move.

In. Out. In. Out. The tentacle’s movements within you were slow. Curious, almost. The odd, slick appendage somehow able to brush against and find each of your sweet spots as it pushed deeper into you to explore every inch of your gummy walls. And, while the monster you had been sacrificed to didn’t seem interested in your pleasure, the tentacle’s slow, thorough thrusts and flexes still managed to draw lewd moans out into the warm night’s air. Oh god, why does this feel so good? You managed to think while your back arched off of the rough wood of the dock you laid on into the inquisitive caress and attention of the tentacles that still squeezed and toyed with your breasts. Feeding the fire in your veins that you tried to ignore, even as the more primal, needy part of you begged, More. More! I feel too good. I need more! In a shameful plea for that pleasure to continue to be indulged.

And, as if the god had read those deep, lust-addled thoughts, the tentacles that snaked around your breasts and toyed with your nipples squeezed your mounds and the thicker tendril that stretched your cunt so deliciously flexed against that special spot within you. Pulling another, louder cry of desire from your throat with the force of the lightning it sent hurdling through you. Yet, even as your blood screamed with need, and the chill of the water-cooled tentacles that held your wrists and legs down were the only things keeping your small body from combusting, your new husband kept going. “Hah! W-wait! Hold on!”You begged into the spring night’s air, able to feel the tell-tale tightening of your muscles with each brush of that thick tendril against your g-spot. “I-I’m gonna- ngh!- going to c-cum! I’m gonna cum!” You screamed, no longer scared of your fellow townsfolk hearing your blissful calls over the waves when your euphoria crashed down upon you with such force that your juices squirted out slightly.

Though, your pleasure didn’t end with the deviant pleasure. You merely got a brief break from the friction, as the tentacle that sat buried in you stilled to let you stare up into the colorful night sky and catch your breath. And, for a second, you thought your monster husband had somehow sensed that you had orgasmed and was going to stop or at least pause their movements. However, the tentacle only paused for a moment, before you felt the already thick girth of the tendril move more within you.

Not to continue fucking into your twitching entrance, though, but to push something into you. The...egg? Capable of being felt as it slid down the length of the tentacle to settle into your womb. Followed quickly by more and more masses being pumped into your belly to the point that your belly began to look bloated. Not that you minded, though. You simply laid on the dock, listening to the waves lap against the supports beneath you while the tentacles kept hold of your limbs until your monstrous husband was satisfied with how plump your belly had gotten. Only then, did those strong tendrils finally release you to lay on the dock beneath the stars. Exhausted, slimy, and bred.

[apicelladonna]

"Lemon sherbet, headmaster?" "Don't mind if I do, professor!"

Happy death anniversary Albus Dumbledore!

[badsmellyboy]

Pairings: fred weasley x reader

Warnings: nsfw

Masterlist

Summary: (headcanon) dating fred weasley

A/N: I love fred sm, that's it

☆

Okay, he gets jealous super easily

He doesnt show it in front of people in fear of getting called out

But you know him well enough to know when hes jealous

Fred can never take anything seriously

It's why hes rarely ever in serious relationships

You bring out something in him that he doesnt want to lose

It scares him a bit

Hes scared of people knowing how genuinely he loves you

Hes known for being a natural flirt

Its second nature to him, he doesnt even mean to

But he unintentionally flirts with everyone hes around

He doesnt admit hes doing it even if you're upset, you'll have to accept him how he is

That's a big part of your relationship, accepting

You had to do a lot of accepting to love fred, but it's okay with you because you already loved him for who he was

He is SUPER handsy

Even in public he doesnt care

He prefers recieving (iykyk)

Blowies are an everyday thing w him

Broom cupboards are a go to

His emotions trump reason

Is a violent person in nature

Threats (to anyone except you) are expected

Him after he lost a quidditch match

Bro.

I am obsessed w this man

[gellertalbus]

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Author's note: This lemon-drenched snippet is not for minors nor the good of taste. It's cursed. This is your first warning. The second is the "Read more" cut. After that, you are on your own and any bad decisions are your own <3 Check the tags for more info. Enjoy~

It’s just his luck.

He’d been separated from Ron, Hermione, and Dobby just as the house elf’s magic transported them away from Malfoy Manor, leaving Harry there. Alone. Surrounded by Death Eaters. Well, Bellatrix and three less-than-enthusiastic Malfoys, but the odds still weren’t in Harry’s favour.

So he’d used Malfoy’s wand to blow up a wall with a well-placed bombarda and ran the fuck away in the ensuing chaos. His ears are still ringing from Bellatrix’s demented screeching. 

And he has yet to be found – his scar feels like hot oil is being poured into it with how irate Voldemort is with the incompetence of his followers because of this fact. The issue is that Harry couldn’t give anyone directions to find him, either. Malfoy Manor may as well be a labyrinth with all the twisting, circuitous paths and hallways and nooks (and even some crannies). He is thoroughly lost.

He’s made his way to a three-storey attached greenhouse, filled with plants large and small. Most are magical, but some he recognises from his many, many hours weeding and tending to Aunt Petunia’s garden. He’s not sure who would be more disgusted to have shared tastes – his aunt or Narcissa Malfoy. 

With the far wall being entirely glass, Harry is almost certain he can get outside from here. There has to be a door. And… well, if there isn’t, he’s not going to be shy about breaking some windows, if that’s what needs to be done.

He finds a patch of glass panels that have no plants nearby and thinks he’s on to something. Carefully checking for hinges or handles or any other sign that he could open them, Harry’s attention is fully on the glass.

This proves to be a mistake.

He has the barest hint of what’s to come when he feels a curiously fleshy press against his ankle, and then he’s being dragged on his stomach away from the greenhouse wall and into a dark, leafy mass that blots out the scant moonlight.

And he recognises the shape of these leaves. After their adventure at the end of first year, he’d made sure to remember this plant in case he ever ran into it again. This Devil’s Snare is a bit more proactive than the others he’s seen, though. They’re typically opportunistic and wait for victims to come to them – he doesn’t remember them pursuing prey.

He very slowly and gently extracts his stolen wand from his sleeve and casts lumos. But instead of shrinking away from the light – like the bloody thing should – the plant somehow produces an ear-splitting shriek and seizes his wrist with a vine, squeezing until he drops his wand and using another vine to bat it away, spinning into an unseen corner.

And now he’s pissed the plant off. Unarmed and still in the grip of a vine, Harry feels the adrenaline kick in. He slows his breathing and tries to stay calm, as struggling will only make things worse, but it is difficult. He wants to get as far away from this weird Devil’s Snare as quickly as he can – he feels the hair on the back of his neck standing up – but he’s not sure how to manage that.

He feels a rough, vegetal limb slip under his shirt, making him panic and twitch, and that seems to be the sign the plant was waiting for. The vine around his wrist pulls taut, drawing his arm out and pinning it in place as more vines wind around his legs and drag them straight, while others twist around his torso, trapping his left arm to his side. He feels very much like a favoured toy being fought over, tugged in all directions and unable to escape or even move.

The vine under his shirt begins prodding at his belly, making him squirm and causing the vines to squeeze tighter until he shouts in pain, at which they loosen slightly. Then, he feels more and more tentative touches along his legs, his chest, his hair, and his face – everywhere they can reach. 

They poke around his mouth, and he keeps it firmly shut until the vines around his ankles clench tightly enough to force another pained cry out of him. An inquisitive tendril sneaks inside his open mouth. He bites through it immediately, spitting the end out with savage glee. With another high-pitched noise, the plant wraps a vine around his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter until he’s certain he will pass out, black edging his vision and lungs on fire with lack of air.

When it lets up, he coughs and hacks until his body remembers how to breathe, and he pants in as much air as he can. Several thin vines take advantage of this, slipping into his mouth to trace his teeth and tongue, press against his cheeks and palate. He switches to breathing through his nose and threatens to bite the vines again, but there are enough that he can’t close his mouth tightly enough to shear through them.

He’s lost track of what’s happening to the rest of him, but the other vines have been busy in his inattention. And damn the Dursleys and their hand-me-downs from Dudley, and damn Harry for not buying better-fitting clothes, because there’s plenty of room for those vines to wriggle under his jumper and trousers. He squawks through a mouthful of vines when a couple caress a little too closely to his delicate bits for comfort. Thankfully they continue past that part of him, though the sensation of them rubbing against his bare thighs isn’t much better.

“Well, well, Harry Potter,” a familiar voice says from somewhere. “We’re finally together again and you’d rather entertain the flora.” 

Harry has never been happier to see– er, hear Voldemort. He’d rather take his chances with the bigoted megalomaniac than the amorous plant weaving tighter around him.

Except Voldemort doesn’t do anything – doesn’t even say anything else. When a vine sneaks down the back of Harry’s trousers and starts prodding at a place it really shouldn’t be prodding, Harry’s had enough.

He fights his way up far enough to glare at Voldemort, silently demanding why he’s not killing him or cutting him out of this lusty Devil’s Snare to monologue at him before killing him. The bastard plant takes exception to this, attempting to pull him back down and pressing more insistently against his arse. Harry grunts in alarm, squirming away as much as he can when the vine simply follows him to push harder into him. He squeaks, and if his face looks more pleading than he’d like, he’s willing to cut himself some slack.

Maintaining eye contact, Voldemort conjures a wingback chair and sits down in it a few feet away, facing Harry.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he drawls, leaning back and getting comfortable. “I’m in no hurry.”

Harry groans in distress as the plant's many limbs continue to move against and in him.

(Part two, where the Harrymort happens)

[greeneyeofenvy]

page 2 od Cassie angst

Hanging these right by my door, so my parents can walk in and see fucking mitski and angst on my wall.

[hptruefan-cheekytorah]

Draco: *smirking* I'm like a fine wine, Potter.

Harry: More like a stubborn stain I can't get rid of.

[thepandalion]

not to be annoying or anything but it's been 9 years since the release of indie game undertale

[risetherivermoon]

Jewish Remus that i drew for my friend @mo0n-water 🤭🤭

he holds a special place in my heart…havent drawn remus as much i would like to cuz i cam never decide on a design for him but im in love with him here 🫶🫶

[dewitty1]

you look so fine

michi_thekiller 

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Harry/Draco, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Narcissa Malfoy Additional Tags: Veela!Draco, Veela, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mild Gore, Sexual Content, Dark Comedy, Horror, Crack!Horror, Explicit Sexual Content

Summary:

In which Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. .

"When Draco Malfoy turned 16 years old, he thought he’d make a night of it. He went to a club, met a bloke, and then promptly took himself next door pay-by-the-hour hotel, determined to get the most bang for the Galleon, in a manner of speaking.

Not even one full Galleon into it, Draco Malfoy lost his virginity.

It all went just how he’d always imagined it, and it was, all in all, a bloody good time.

Waking up the next morning, however, next to a bloody ribcage and a man’s intestines strewn all over the bed like thick wet streamers - that was a bloody bad time.”

Excerpt:

“Don’t touch me,” Draco warns him. “We both know how this ends, and bloodily is an understatement.” It ends, of course, with him waking up next to the devoured remains; bones and bloody bits, a green eyeball like a grape, broken glasses and some messy black hair stuck in his teeth, and thinking, ‘I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!’

“Shhh,” Potter shushes him. He ghosts a hand over his skin, hovering, just an inch above his clothes. It hovers over his arm and Draco can feel the warmth radiating from it, can feel the goosebumps forming and his skin prickle with the feeling.

“I’m sorry,” Potter whispers hoarsely, “but I need this.”

He can feel his breath, warm and moist, on his own lips. “Just one moment. Just let me have this,” he pants. And his mouth is so close. So achingly close that Draco can feel and taste and kiss his breath but not those saintly lips. Not his mouth. That wonderful private needy dirty part of him.

“Let me have this.” And Draco nods. Draco would have agreed to anything at this point, would have killed a man, would have chased the moon, would have torn off all his clothes and danced naked in the centre of Hogsmeade - anything.

And Potter, still not touching with his body, not touching with his hand - saving, murdering, forgiving, damning hand - slowly notches their mouths together. Chaste, gentle, and perfect.

When they say a kiss is stolen they must mean this. A kiss taken from him, lips stolen from him because they are no longer his the moment their mouths meet. A kiss ripped from him, everything he wants and nothing he wants, too much and not nearly enough. His breath, snatched completely out of his lungs in that one meeting, where his whole body is left empty, hollow, wanting.

And he’s never so much loved the thief.

A kiss like this is surely an accident. Draco can’t blame Potter, for the way their mouths fit so perfectly together, for the softness of it, the strange tenderness of it when his whole body hums with the need to tear a human being apart. To disassemble it and explore its insides. The way Potter kisses him, it’s the way that they kiss in romance novels and in fairytales, the way people kiss against sunset-drenched backdrops and under velvety moonlight; soft and gentle and almost achingly innocent. It makes a strange feeling well up in his chest. A choking, sick feeling; a sharp pain and he can’t breathe. As if his lungs suddenly shrivelled up, as if they’d forgotten what they were meant to do.

It has to be pity. Draco pities him. Potter was supposed to be one of the good ones, after all. He was never meant to want this, any of this, and at the heart of it, he really didn’t want him, as he said. How could he?

Draco supposes that he really can’t help it, and he can’t help that Potter can’t help it, and he’s not sure who he’s supposed to blame, here, but someone should be here to take responsibility for this mess. “I’m sorry,” Potter murmurs against his mouth, hands balled into a fists at his side, clenching. Draco can feel the heat roll off of his body in intoxicating waves. “All these days and I haven’t found anything. I’ve been completely distracted from my mission and I’ve nothing to show for it. I need to find that bastard and it’s just like before, with them, that was my fault and now I’m doing the same thing to you. You’re just getting sicker and sicker, it’s killing you, and I’m the one to blame. It’s all because...because...”

He stops himself abruptly, cutting off the stream of madman babble, and pulls himself back with a visible jerk. The breeze that wafts in the empty space between them is so sharp and so bitter it might as well have been the Arctic wind.

“Tonight,” Potter says, much more clearly now, clarity in his voice and clarity in his mind; voice filled with that familiar, stupid Potter resolve. “Tonight, at sunset, I’ll let you go, and you can Apparate to the nearest town and...do...whatever it is that you need to do.”

“I’ll come back,” Draco says, quietly.

Potter laughs then, a sound so sardonic and bitter it was far more Malfoy-ian than Potteresque. “Shut up, Malfoy. I’ve three-quarters of a mind to just keep you here and damn the consequences.”

“You’ve only three-quarters of a mind,” Draco points out.

“Exactly,” says Potter, wryly. “So shut up, Malfoy.”

And then he kisses him again, that soft way with just their mouths touching, painfully not enough, body angled carefully away, so close that he can smell him, can feel that heat of him, can hear the pounding of his heart, and yet not close enough to touch - so horrible and frustrating that a few scant inches between them might as well be an endless chasm. Fingers drift, ever so lightly, carefully down the bare skin of one arm and Draco shivers and wants to scream, pushes closer for more contact, arches desperately for it, but all he can get is the touch of lips, soft and wet and almost-shy, moving gently against his own.

Draco actually finds it quite easy to shut up for quite some time.

꒰˘̩̩̩⌣˘̩̩̩๑꒱♡

[greattemptation]

This week, I read Preserving Lemons by @saintgarbanzo

This fic is as generous as it is sensuous. It explores of depth and multiformity of culture, asks what it means to listen, and teaches that learning about your own self often means touching things outside of you.

It's pretty, poignant, hot, and timely. Do yourself a favor and head on over. And bring a snack--you will get hungry!!

[pharaoh-ferrous]

Was anyone going to tell me Neil Cicierega wrote songs for Gravity Falls???

I know none of them actually ended up in the show but that doesn't lessen the impact of finding out he was the one who wrote It's Gonna Get Weird, and that he also made a song forcthe pilot that went unused???

How has this man done so many things

[calico-strawberry]

Also the only dlc characters I've fought more than once in Strive in my 2nd floor purgatory being a beginner is Dizzy and Elphet and boy. They sure fucking feel like dlc characters.