Hi. Can You Please Recommend More Draco!bottom Blog? I Feel So Overwhelmed By The Fact That Some Blogs

Hi. Can you please recommend more draco!bottom blog? I feel so overwhelmed by the fact that some blogs with draco!top content specially put the #draco bottom tag It really hurts me as an autistic person.

I'm sure people have very different preferences, tho here are some bottom Draco blogs that I personally know. I may not be entirely sure, but I hope this helps

@drarrywords @drarry-is-my-therapy @dracobottoms @thebusyfangirl @malfoydusk @draco-and-harry-malfoy-pottah

If I'm mistaken please correct me, these are all I am somewhat sure of. And I'm sure there's plenty but these are the few I know.

And I'm highly apologetic for anyone making you overwhelmed. It's a safe place to talk to, personally me if you ever need me.

I didn't know I had to see this until now

Somewhere in an Italian rivera 🌊

life's like an hourglass glued to the table

Based on "Breathe (2am)" by Anna Nalick.

I really don't know how it got like this.

That's not true, yes I do. Of course I do. I was there, near the middle of it all; not the epicenter, not the periphery, but somewhere within the nebulous part in between. I was close enough to be scathed, to be one of the supporting characters—though I'm fairly certain my support was the problem—but I was neither protagonist nor antagonist.

And from my perch, my station, I got a perspective few can claim. I teetered on the edge: between Light and Dark, between Good and Evil, between Child and Adult, between Love and Hate. The line was razor-thin, sharp like my Aunt's blade, yet steady, like a firmly-clasped hand in mine.

My moment in the spotlight came and went, the luminous beam generally ignoring me in favor of making the dark hiss and cower, and letting the heroes bask in it, their skin shining. I neither cowered nor shone. I was lit by the brightness until I was not; it swung to another target.

I watch my father lose his mind in Azkaban, eventually being carted off to the Janus Thickey Ward. I watch my mother's hands grip her suitcase tightly, her knuckles white on the handle as she kisses my cheek. She tells me to "be good" and to visit her in the south of France. I watch the portkey take her.

I watch Pansy go on dates with men she doesn't care for, see her eyes linger a little too long on women in tight dresses. I watch her acquiesce to her parents' attempts to see her married and settled, and I watch her clench her jaw when her suitors' hands grip her waist a little too tight or their rough mouths attach to hers without warning. She always unfolds for them, lets her body go limp. It appears submissive; I know it's calculated.

I watch Greg stumble through the Floo when he has nowhere else to turn, a cheap ale on his breath and his t-shirt rumpled. I see him grin lazily at me before he staggers wordlessly to the guest bedroom that I don't bother to ask the house elves to make up. He'll just be back again, and I let him.

I watch Blaise pour himself into his work. I watch him gesture wildly into the Floo when he finishes work calls that delay our friendly dinners, his eyes bright and intense as he rants in complicated jargon. I watch him skirt sensitive topics in favor of discussing his job and his co-workers, and then shifting to mine, and then back to his when the subject dries up. I watch him politely send me off; he has work to do.

So here I still am, in the middle, somewhere, watching everyone else as they work out where they were and where they are.

Pansy calls late at night. I hold back my wince at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. She makes up a story of some man who'd run from her bed, but I know she sheds tears over the nightmares that won't leave it.

I wish I could offer a stroll or a shopping trip through Diagon the next day, but we both know I won't, I can't. The kind ones stare, the bolder ones glare or hiss accusingly, and the angry ones wag their fingers and shout and slap.

The angry ones aren't always there, but a few encounters are enough to deter us, no matter what the Wizengamot said when it declared I was still allowed to walk the same streets as everyone else.

On one particular day I am bold enough to set foot on such a street, keeping my head low and eyes downcast, humble; so unlike what I was taught.

But then, I was taught a lot of things.

I walk, and when I bump into another rushing figure I am filled with dread, with anticipation. An apology is on my lips, first for the jostle, and then probably for crimes I didn't commit but witnessed and was too powerless to stop. Not that that matters, to them. With the actor not available to repent, an accomplice is the next best thing.

The victim of my clumsiness looks at me. He is not kind, nor bold, nor angry.

He is Potter.

And he smiles. Beautiful, beats my traitorous heart.

And he apologizes. Why? thinks my curious mind.

And he asks questions. What about you? wonders my stammering voice.

And he gives me his Floo address. Yes, nods my head.

And he walks away. Don't cry, blink my hopeful eyes.

I rush home, my errand forgotten, and all but collapse onto the couch as I breathe deeply, as my Mind Healer taught me. There are times when it feels as if my chest is being squeezed in a vise; my heart is shedding its skin as it is forged in a crucible, the present reckoning with the past. In these moments, I try to center myself. I find my body's equilibrium. I grasp for the middle I know rather than sit on the edge of insanity, of oblivion.

So I write. It's the only way to ensure my brain doesn't implode with the pressure of the thoughts that shoot white-hot inside. The pain and anxiety travel from my mind, down my shoulder, in the veins in my arm, to my fingers, through the quill, and drip from the ink I use to etch them into the parchment.

I glance and see the piece of paper with Potter's Floo address written in his scrawl. That one hastily torn scrap gives me more joy, more excitement than one word I've painstakingly written here.

That night, I dream of standing in the middle of a tunnel. Potter is on one side, extending a hand and beckoning me to his side. On the other side, there is familiar darkness waiting to fold me into its cool, misty arms.

I look between both ends of the cave. I know the darkness; I've cowered within it. Potter's smile shines with new promise.

I step away from my place in the middle.

Potter's grin widens.

Them : you can't fall in love with men in drawings

Me :

Dark! Draco in a Beauxbatons uniform

You can download the illustration on Patreon, see the creation process in TikTok, links in the bio 💫