Is It Crazy To Wanna Be A Dishwasher?

I don’t have to make everything gay but I want to and I fucking will 

@drarrymicrofic prompt: jubilee

“How’d your Prophet interview go?” Draco’s stretched out on their bed, naked. Lazily dipping bright red strawberries in dark chocolate. Plump mouth curving into a smirk.

Git looks pretty fucking comfortable. And delicious.

Harry chuckles softly. “Skeeter asked about us. Wanted to know if Mr. Malfoy makes me feel jubilant.” He drops his robes onto the floor.

Draco bites into another berry, raises a brow. He pats the spot on the mattress beside him.

Harry laughs, climbs into bed, and drapes his legs over Draco’s. “Told her I didn’t know anyone by that name. Rendered her speechless.”

Draco scoffs, traces his fingers across Harry’s chest. “She should know I go by Potter.”

Because when everyone in the Drarry Pit gets put into Azkaban, you mine the "Prisoner Draco Malfoy" tag for gold. Obviously. ⛏️🖤⛏️

✨Stars Shine Without by @p1013: Angsty Azkaban Draco realness somehow masterfully combined with domestic fluff, smut, and hope. E, 2k.

✨any day now by @oknowkiss: Not Azkaban but a fully realized rehabilitation center with a delicious power imbalance and heart-aching ambiguity. E, 17k.

✨Fearful Trill by @vukovich: Middle-aged (ahem silver fox) Harry and still-incarcerated Draco reunite in the Ministry. Sexy dark comedy ensues. E, 30k.

✨Former Things Come to Mind by @dodgerkedavra: A beautifully crafted post-Azkaban Draco and post-war Harry hurt/comfort fic where they tenderly heal together. E, 64k.

I only hate certain types of fic the same way I hate mosquitos and ticks. Like get these nasty little buggers away from me but also I respect their place in the ecosystem.

literally every music genre has at least one album that will absolutely change your life if you give it a shot

undertow

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day twenty: reverie | word count: 292 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡

_ _ _

The sea swells like a symphony, and Harry finds himself tangled, untethered, in the reverie.

The tomb is here, he knows it, he knows it, but there’s no simple way beneath the surface, no path through the craggy caves, the harsh caps of them splitting the water like sentries.

There’s a sound over the wind, a sharp, singular tone among the roaring rip of the current. Harry listens again, the water pulling at his clothing— denim laden-down, his hoodie turned a vice.

The sound comes again, echoes off the cliffside, high and hollow. Harry strains toward it, as the deep strains toward him.

Then, clear, breaking: “Potter!”

It’s no small thing, to keep a broom steady in the gale that swirls over the sea. But there he is, upright, if not wind-blown. Draco.

Harry goes to call, but finds his throat raw, salted and aching. How long since he’d last spoken?

He raises his arm, as high as he can manage (half-mast, and flagging).

Enough— it’s enough. Draco dives for him, unflinching. His gloved hands snatch at him, pulling, lifting. The mechanics are dodgy, his grip precarious, but in the moment he pulls Harry over the broomstick, he begins their escape, coaxing the steadfast Nimbus skyward.

The ascent is slow, and speech near-indistinguishable, but Draco is undeterred.

“Idiot!” he cries, and Harry realizes then— exhaustion finally overcoming him as he slumps, boneless— that he may actually be crying.

He wraps his hand around Draco’s. Sorry, he thinks. I’m sorry.

“Yo— ne’er le—ve my si—,” Draco is shouting, the storm stealing half of it away. “Once I ge— you o— land, I— goi’ to toss y’ back i— the sea!”

Land, Harry thinks, sleepily. Land, and Draco.

Yes, he’s feeling rather better already.

Just here to share the Italian judo winner kissing her girlfriend after the match, in front of our fascist, homophobic, disgusting prime minister.

We won this one🏳️‍🌈

Credits to: @apriteilcervello on instagram

ya gotta stop caring what people think and start being extremely weird. but never cruel. i think that might save you

“I feel like I’ve forgotten something,” Ron says, patting his waistcoat down distractedly.

“It better not be the bloody ring,” Harry grits out, teeth clenched with anxiety, nerves coursing through him like electric currents as he bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Nah, mate,” Ron grins. “Don’t you fret.”

Harry gives a choked laugh. “Me? Never been calmer.”

“Picture of serenity,” Ron agrees.

“Exactly.” Harry takes some deep breaths, shaking out his hands. “Oh god. Why isn’t he here yet? I just want this to be done.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

“It is romantic,” Harry insists. “I want us to be married now. Or fucking yesterday.”

“Language!” Hermione whispers from the front row behind them, but she’s beaming and already crying a little, hands over Hugo’s little ears. Harry grins back, feeling so painfully excited. He’s a little worried he’s going to throw up from it. The thought of it makes him laugh, imagining Draco’s face if Harry was sick all over his custom-made white robes, spun from fucking unicorn hair or mermaid silk or whatever. God.

And then a hush falls over the crowd, and there he is, looking so fucking beautiful as he strides down the aisle, robes billowing behind him, sun gleaming in his hair, eyes fixed firmly on Harry. Jesus fuck. Harry's crying now too. He can't look away. Draco is a vision, glowing, his haughty, pointy, beloved face softened with something that looks like awe, disbelief. Harry can relate.

"Hey," he chokes out, when Draco reaches him.

"Hello," Draco murmurs, his mouth pulling into a grin. "My god, Harry, control yourself."

"I can't," Harry sobs. "Ugh. Fuck. I love you."

"We're not at that part yet," Draco reminds him, gripping his hands tight, radiant.

Ron puts a hand on Harry's shoulder, passing him a handkerchief. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Harry beams, wiping his eyes and looking back to Draco. "Are you?"

And Draco, grey eyes bright, nods.

Forgotten 💍 Day 11 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.