#RockingRobin'sflufftober

[rockingrobin69]

Sugary-perfectly-sweet

It was cold in the kitchen. Draco curled around his cup, warming his nose on the steam. His bones felt melted, stretchy, so tired and so sated. Honey-filled veins, candy-floss head. It still felt like a dream when he snuck out of bed, still so far beyond possible it was silly. But now, watching the day break over the old chestnut tree—now was something else. Draco drew a deep breath, closed his eyes.

Potter took his tea sweet: two and a half teaspoons of sugar, far too much milk. Maybe Draco should surprise him. Come back to bed before seven in the morning with a full breakfast tray. He could smile, be horribly tacky, say something like ‘sweet tea for my sweetheart’, all awful and brave. But he didn’t move. Leaned against the counter, shook himself a little. It smelled like Potter here, in his kitchen, in his hoodie Draco stole off the floor. He wondered what it made him, a bit of a thief, a bit his. Perhaps too much. Soft, though, the fabric, and so nice on his bare skin. Draco decided to keep it. He hoped Potter might feel the same way.

The fingers of the old chestnut tree waved in the wind, yellowy-orange. Leaves littered the whole garden almost on purpose. Like Potter in his mind, everywhere-everywhere-everywhere, colourful and strangely sweet. Draco tried shaking himself back, making his cotton-wool-head work. It was too early. Maybe he should go back to bed, slide under the heavy duvet, back to Potter’s intense heat. Maybe he could wake him up, make him say all those things again, in the light of day. Make him mean it. Maybe he’d be brave enough to do it.

But he kept standing there, holding a long-cold cup of tea. Too happy and too scared. Bare feet on cold tiles, real, here, real. Maybe it was enough for now.

He could feel it still, the ghost of Potter’s gentle touch on his skin. Warm, hungry fingers, tiny kisses sprinkled everywhere. Draco’s hand rose, automatic, to trace their path: behind his ear, the back of his neck, slipping down beneath the hoodie. His toes curled on the floor, heating from the memory alone, from the feeling of Potter in his honey-blood, in his fairy-floss-head, in his dream-filled-eyes—

No, it was actually Potter, the real one, shimmering in the new light. “Hey,” he said, pyjama bottoms with no top, hair mussed and incredibly, destructively handsome. Draco blinked for a long moment.

“Aren’t you cold?” Potter asked, coming closer. Slotting behind him like the most natural thing in the world, as if they belonged like this, together. “C’mere. God, you smell good.” Then, after a beat: “I thought—when I woke up, and you were gone. I thought…”

Draco turned around, swallowed the gasp. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Potter didn’t answer, just buried his face in Draco’s neck. Soft and impossibly real, impossibly bright, like the start of a new day. Sweet and so warm.

(First day of @flufftober! find all Robin’s Flufftober ficlets here or on AO3! )

#drarry fic #flufftober2022 #day 1 #Harry Potter #prompt: wearing each other's clothes #500 words #soft #when belonging is like hot tea on a cold morning and you have no socks on #and every leaf of the tree outside the window is waving #anyway it's october #rockingrobin69 #RockingRobin'sflufftober

[rockingrobin69]

Orange

He liked oranges best. Oranges, and blueberries, and star fruit. Perhaps it was the imagery—Harry’s senses were like that sometimes, and he liked things that spoke to him, that sang. Bluebells and raspberries, words that had movement, lolling, wayward, polly pocket. Perpendicular, serendipity. He’d stop in the middle of a sentence sometimes, take a breath. Open his mouth wide on a smile: Draco, listen! Slowly, slowly. Each syllable a present, with that raspy tinge to his voice, straight from his heart. Nothing to do at those moments but pause there with him. Pause and listen.

Orange was his favourites, fruit and also colour, so Draco made sure to suffuse the little flat with it. Orange cushions for the sofa and fish in the bowl, a Cannons poster on the wall and orange curtains for the window. It took time to get used to, the brightness, but it made Harry so happy. Also too bright at first. But Draco’s eyes adjusted, his heart adjusted. Got used to eating oranges, sticky fingers feeding him slice after slice; to run in the forest, aching with laughter, picking brambles (dark only) and collecting sticks and rocks and spotting squirrels. And Harry was happy—he was happy. Only that mattered.

Not a lot of things were important, it turned out. Much of what he expected to consume him as an adult was laughably distant, ended up trifle. It was easy, in orange, to realise. Easier at least. And Draco kept learning: how to wrap Harry in a blanket, tight enough that the nightmares faded away. How to kiss the top of his head so softly, or not to touch him, how to ask for the right move when he’s lost. And Harry was patient, endlessly bright. They learned together. This was important.

There was also breakfast, sugar-coated cereal, a bunch of blueberries in Harry’s bowl. Not forgetting to feed the fish. Taking plenty of walks outside; noting every flower and every tree, every fungus and bird, if not by name, then by feeling. Remembering to tell Harry the most interesting ones. Remembering this, learning how to hold it all in his heart. How to hold on to happiness: slippery-orange, so light and so fragile, but theirs. Not to give it up. That was important too. Not to give it up.

He was tempted to, sometimes: just pack his Harry and go, away from this world that demanded and demanded and never knew satisfaction. On the bad days, when they were both too miserable to try, when exhaustion made them close up and burrow into themselves, when they just didn’t want to. Not to give it up meant taking a step back, finding a breath somewhere in it all. Remembering it will pass. Loving anyway.

Loving anyway. That was important. Draco sighed, rested his forehead on the cupboard. In his hands a bowl of fruit: oranges, peeled and cut, sticky-sweet and fragrant. Divine. Harry always smelled like oranges. Lucky, that—Draco liked orange best.

(Day 26 of @flufftober​! A gigantic thank you to @ladderofyears and @myaulophobia for their help. Find all previous Robin flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3)      

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #day 26 #prompt: blankets #500 words #autistic Harry Potter #fluff #very very soft #like very #RockingRobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Any Way

“I don’t play games,” Draco said, something crackly in his voice. He came closer, hips swinging from side to side. Like he was trying to stop himself, or like he was pouncing, Harry couldn’t decide. Draco certainly couldn’t, his head shaking no, but his knees already touching Harry’s on the sofa.

“I don’t take unnecessary risks,” he ground out. Like it hurt, like it was a confession. Harry’s eyes were glued to him, magnetized, head stretched so far up it should hurt.  

“Draco—”

A thumb brushed his upper lip. “You wanted the truth, no? That’s why you suggested that game. Thought you’d have to wrestle it out of me.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco just rolled his eyes. “Shh. You weren’t wrong. Just—listen.”

He nodded, choked with it all. His smell, chestnuts and cold night air, the look in Draco’s eyes. Molten iron. Hardness made soft.  

“I don’t like being told what to do.” His hands slid up to run through Harry’s hair, chest caving on a deep, deep sigh. “I don’t respond well to authority. Or kindness.”

Then he fell to his knees, right there in between Harry’s. So fast it stole the breath out of him, made his heart leap, trying to tear through his chest. Harry’s hands surged forward, helpless. Touch-reassure-protect-fuck-soft-love-love-touch.

“I’m not a good person,” Draco whispered into Harry’s palm. “I’m not patient. I’m not thoughtful. I’m selfish, and childish, and vain. If lying’s easier, I lie. If leaving is easier, I run.”

He looked up at him. The lump in Harry’s throat tripled in size, with awe and surprise and with tenderness. “I nearly did, Harry. Run. I’m not… strong like you, determined. I was scared. Am scared, still. You could hurt me a lot more than a whip or a curse.”

Harry couldn’t breathe with it. “I wouldn’t hurt you. I promise. Never in a way you don’t—”

“You’re not listening,” Draco chided, but softly. “That isn’t the point. You could hurt me. You’re fierce, and fearless, and immeasurably, unfairly kind. But I stayed, because…” he huffed, and the tears on his face could be Harry’s too, “because I’m. Willing to try.”

Molten silver burned through him, painful and precious. Draco was shaking before him, wide open and scared, but staying put.

“There, your twenty truths. Now you know. Might have known, already, but. If you’ll still… if you’ll have me, even with all—then I’m willing to try.”

It crushed him, the weight of it in his chest, the urgency. Harry pulled him up and Draco let himself be taken, kissed, held, flittering endless eyelashes in Harry’s face.

“Is that… Potter, you’ve not said. If it’s a yes.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Harry laughed, shaking his head, bursting with fondness. “And that’s not how you play the game, you know.”

A small sound of distress. “I’m just—”

“You’re perfect,” Harry said. “Yes. I’ll have you. In any way you let me.”

His own sneaky little truth.

(Day 14 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3)    

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #500 words #slight d/s elements #prompt: Truth or Dare/20 Questions #draco's insecure #but brave #and loved! #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Keeping

It started raining again. Harry leaned his forehead against the window, breathed in the cold, sharp relief. He felt dizzy. Overflown. Like the plant pot outside, tiny droplets trickling down, filled to the brim.

“Harry…”

A hand came of nowhere, gentle on the back of his neck. Warm like the kitchen, Draco loved to overheat a room. Loved it. It gushed in Harry’s belly, all of it, love love love like a string of fairy lights, switching on one at a time. He closed his eyes, tried another breath. Excitement was never this heavy before, he didn’t think. Couldn’t think, with all the tangled, lit mess in his mind, in his heart.

The hand shivered slightly—barely noticeable, but Harry’s every nerve ending was buzzing with it, heightened sensitivity to anything Draco. He wanted to turn around, say something calm and reassuring, but this warmth, this lump in his throat, threatening to overspill. He couldn’t breathe out of fear of it, of losing it.

“I didn’t mean to… Harry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. This can still be—we can keep it as casual as you’d like. We could…”

Harry did turn, no other choice, not with that pause, not with the crack in his voice. Draco looked so scared, so wet, hasn’t changed yet. Caught in the rain picking flowers to bring to Harry’s parents’ graves, and he thought—

“Casual? There’s nothing casual about… you’re such a fucking wanker.”

His hand rose, automatic, to wipe a cold cheek. This magnetic pull in his gut to always touch him, always be close, closer. Wet as a kitten and just as scared, he seemed, just as tiny, as soft, and Harry wanted to pick him up in both hands and squeeze him until they’re both breathless with it. Instead he closed his eyes. Swallowed the jumble of words he couldn’t say. Started over.

“We’re not casual,” he managed, spitting it almost with vehemence in Draco’s pretty face, wet eyelashes. “And you didn’t overstep by—you’re such an idiot. I’m keeping you, you hear me? I’m keeping you. Here with me.”

Draco laughed, big as this crushing feeling in Harry’s chest, lovelovelove and fear and joy and. “Keeping me, are you.” Arms slotting around Harry’s waist. Still so fucking wet.  

Overflowing, terrifying and also perhaps the best thing he’s ever felt, ever allowed himself to have. And Draco so freely offering, himself and his devotion. Love. It felt funny on his tongue, in the rumbling in his chest.

“Yes. Better get used to it.”

Rain kept singing away merrily, collecting in the plant pot outside, flashing and growling in celebration. Harry thought he got it, now. How something can brew inside you until it spills out, spectacular and grandiose and ever so simple.

Love. He couldn’t say it out loud, not yet. But they had all day—all autumn. All year. All the time in the world, and he had Draco, wet, still shaking in his arms. His for the keeping.

(Day 12 of @flufftober​! Find all previous Robin’s Flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3)          

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #500 words #day 12 #prompt: “You kept this?” #very er freely interpreted #loose. some might say #rockingrobin'sflufftober #fluff #gentle #but like in a buzzing way #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Ridiculous(ly perfect)

On the table, arranged by size: caramel (Draco’s favourite) in the small bowl, apple cinnamon (seasonal) in the medium-size, and salty (Harry’s favourite) in a ridiculously large bucket. All of it was, a little—ridiculous that is. Two blankets neatly folded, enough cushions to drown in. And Draco, in those god-awful slippers, answering the door in what had to be the softest pyjamas in the universe. Looking at Harry, looking like that, swallowing a lot. 

“I thought—was informed that an official movie night is meant to be... Perhaps Weasley didn’t mean it quite the way I…”

Harry had to close his eyes. “It’s perfect. Looks like such a nice, erm, fabric. Your pyjamas. Comfortable.”

“Oh.” He stood there for a second, or a million, before, “I have another pair, a fresh one. Would you like to? I could get them!”

Leaving Harry here, with all the popcorn and two large bottles of coke (which Harry didn’t even drink. Also didn’t know how to tell Draco when he declared, proudly, that he ‘managed to obtain’ the most ‘popular muggle drink’ Harry probably ‘remembers from his childhood’). Not knowing how to contain this silly, exaggerated feeling in his chest, this lump in his throat.

He melted on the sofa, trying not to imagine having Draco sitting very close, cuddling up against him, the way he only did when he was distracted. Usually this happened in Harry’s sham of a flat, a long-day, after-work type thing with Draco’s berry cider and whatever film they managed to find. Never planned, never like this, like… well. Harry certainly doesn’t prepare so much for them.

(He just makes sure the pantry’s always stocked with cider, that’s all. And keeps his blue hoodie for Draco when he inevitably gets cold. Hardly any work. Nothing compared to any of this.)

Draco came back, with an even softer pair of pyjamas, if such a thing existed. “You don’t have to, really. Only if—I could change. No? You really want to? All right. Let me just set up the film then. It’s, erm, Weasley said you liked it. You can go change while I… oh.”

Harry didn’t realise how close he was, only when he got a good whiff of Draco’s cologne. Appley-sweet, entirely intoxicating. He forgot what he was going to say.

“Erm.”

There was something about it, almost overpowering, the pink in his cheeks. “H-Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re… staring.”

He blinked himself out of the trance, looking around for something, anything to save him. “I just. You look so—everything is—” he took a deep breath, begged his mind to work. “Thank you. For setting this up. For me.”

“You said you wanted a proper marathon,” Draco shrugged, apologetic. “I just thought… I wanted to… is this all right? What you had in mind?”

He took his hand, couldn’t help it. “No. It’s perfect.”

Ridiculous, all of it, yeah. And perfect. Harry sunk into it: a night just for him, soft-soft-soft pyjamas, and Draco’s smile, even softer.

(Day 7 of @flufftober​ [wow, been a whole week]! Find all previous ficlets here or on AO3!)

#flufftober2022 #day 7 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #500 words #prompt: movie marathon #Draco as the over-the-top well meaning knucklehead #(he just wants to take care of harry your honours) #soft (literal) #my favourite item of clothing is these pyjama bottoms i got a good six years ago #still soft countless washing cycles later #there's magic in this world friends i wear it often #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Buttery Sweet

It wasn’t meant to happen like this—mismatched socks and ceaseless yawning, eyes glued half-shut, certainly not a morning person—coming out as a sigh, as an obviously, a bit of a joke and a bit far-too-serious. Potter stopped still, spatula vibrating in the air.

“What did you…?”

Draco blinked, suddenly aware of what he said, suddenly—shit, shit, shit—awake, gods bloody damn it, too late. “What?”

“No, you what. Did you mean that?”

“Oh. I don’t—just—” it was too bleeding early, and he didn’t get even three hours of sleep, with Potter’s hand always touching, just where he wanted it, didn’t want it, couldn’t, ahh, couldn’t—“Erm.”

Potter turned around, so slowly it was frightening, blurry in the soft light. Whatever smelled so good in the frying pan kept sizzling away happily. Apples, maybe. And butter. And—

“Draco.”

How can he make his name sound so menacing. Like a threat, a knife to his throat. And like a pillow, at the same time, soft and easy to sink into…

“Draco.”

Shit, he’s expected to answer. “I don’t… what’re you making?”

The frown deepened, twisting until it was almost a smile. “You’re not seriously trying—” then he sighed, shook his head. Made it look almost fond, somehow. Truly was a wizard, that man. “I’m not making anything, yet. Trying to bake those pastries you liked. They’re a fucking nightmare.”

He didn’t add, like you, although he could have, just as easily. Draco swallowed a lump in his throat, begged himself to be more awake, more—braver, better, something, damn it. He flung himself forward, not entirely on purpose, so he was only inches from Potter. Holding onto the counter for dear life, unsure what to do, what to say, how to be a fucking person about it—

“Draco,” Potter said again, laughing this time. Put his free hand on Draco’s bare shoulder, the most benevolent god to ever be fully dressed at six in the morning. “It’s okay. You don’t need to… we’ll have this conversation again later. Tonight. With some wine.” Then, to the look on his face, “Or not. It can wait, we don’t need… I mean… I don’t need, it’s not, I mean, I’m certainly not trying to—”

“Shut up,” Draco murmured, unintentionally(ish) grabbing him by the collar. “You’re—bloody gods above and below, I meant it, okay? ‘Course I did. Really thought I’d get out of bed so early if I didn’t… truly, Potter.”

“So grumpy in the morning,” he said, two hands sliding around Draco’s waist, his smile shining. Coming even closer, nose pressed against his. “You’re—I’m not as good as you. In keeping it down. You already know, don’t you? How I—”

“Shut up,” Draco repeated. Potter smelled like butter, like early morning and something frightening and terrific and apples and so much butter. This wasn’t how it’s meant to happen. They can talk when Draco’s more awake, when he’s coherent; for now, he kissed him, buttery-sunshinely-frighteningly-sweet.  

   (Day 5 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3!)  

#flufftober2022 #day 5 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #500 words #prompt: oh no you're a morning person #confessions in the early morning #sweet fluff #Harry's a god at baking obviously #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69 #casting: it's morning wherever you are

[rockingrobin69]

Season

It got cold in the mornings, little patterns in frost on the windows. You had to get up early to see it; Draco used to hate the days his job forced him out of bed, but now there was something sweet to it. Putting the kettle on to sounds from the bathroom, Harry’s a singer, preparing two cups instead of one. Milk for Harry, sugar for him; something comforting in it, in the knowledge. Going in after him through apple-shampoo steam, into Harry’s towel-ed embrace, into every gentle kiss. A murmur, morning darling. Morning.

If it rained, they had lunch inside. Harry always served his favourite soups around this time of year: lentils, cream of mushroom, broccoli and bacon. There was something pleasant to the buzzing of people in the café, to sitting in the kitchen at the back, stealing one more piece of toast. Of Harry, always smelling like coffee, bright and awake and lovely. Draco would sneak kiss after kiss until the chef shooed him out, or until he had to go back to work. Softly touching his fingers to Harry’s lips, to his cheek, to his eyes. Afternoon, sweetheart. Afternoon.

The days were shorter, but in return they got the evenings. Harry liked to play—exploding cards and chess but also strange games, ones that didn’t move or shout or hurt you. Although Draco did get very upset when Harry used that card in Uno, the truly unfair one with the… anyway. They had the evenings to play, to drink Luna’s homemade ‘wine’ and laugh until their throats burned. Evenings that smelled like log fires and felt like Harry’s old jumper, tiny kiss on the top of his head, enough for now. Let’s go to bed. Night, love.

Then there were nights. He used to dread them, to try and stall as much as he could, avoid altogether if possible; now he had Harry’s arms wrapped around him, Harry’s curls in his mouth. And sometimes when he snuck out of bed, back to the moonlit kitchen—sometimes he’d lean against the counter and sigh. Look for his constellation beyond the clouds, think about home, about belonging. About what it means to have something, to have it truly. Then hear a sneaky pair of feet, feel a warm hand on his shoulder. All right? Yes. Just needed some… don’t worry. I know.

So they’d do the silliest things, fight or invent new identities, a whole new life for themselves they’d forget in the morning. Warm up milk for hot chocolates they always leave half-drank, kiss their way into each other, into the dark. Go outside barefoot to run on wet grass, be terrible, be idiots, be free. It was easiest then, pretending the whole world was just for them. Lovely and full to the brim. And all the things that frightened him during the day were just shadows, unimportant. The dark gave them shelter, and they took, grateful and quiet. Close-close, with a little kiss: night, love. Night.

(Day 19 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3)      

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #500 words #prompt: Hot Chocolate #soft #fluff #no one said this was going to be easy friends #RockingRobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Brewed out of control

He found the note under a book, only the yellow tip of it visible in the clutter on the desk. Draco never bothered tidying up; said he knew ‘exactly where everything was, thank you very much’. Even if it took him half an hour to find Harry’s hoodie (‘I swear I don’t have it, Potter! You can come search yourself if it’s so bloody important!’). And even though he was relentlessly forgetful, always without just the thing he needed, always having to borrow Harry’s. Pens, for example. And notebooks. And woolly earmuffs, although admittedly only once.

(He quite liked seeing Draco in those. And Harry’s scarf too, ‘just because it complimented the look’. With the cold-pinked cheeks and the smile, bright-bright, and, well. Harry wasn’t immune to cute boys in cute outfits. Certainly not deranged ones.)

He wasn’t looking for a note. Draco said he had eyeglass lens spray somewhere in here—typical. He didn’t have any plasters in the whole flat, had to come to Harry for it, for toothpaste, for a bleeding blanket in the middle of winter, but he had eyeglass lens spray. He didn’t even wear glasses. Didn’t stop him from rolling his eyes at Harry, sending him to the bedroom on a fruitless mission. ‘It’d be a shame if you couldn’t see me properly,’ with that smirk, the one that drove Harry mental. If only he wasn’t right.

In any case, he didn’t mean to, but that yellow corner stuck out enough, and the edge of Draco’s slanted handwriting was like a beacon, not something he could ignore. Not even with blurry eyesight, spray nowhere to be found, and also forgotten. Harry pulled the note free. It was some sort of list, most of the items crossed off. Impossible to decipher anything but the very last line: that coffee he liked from the poncy place downtown (?!?)

He couldn’t breathe after reading it, no idea why. Harry didn’t even know what it meant. The ‘he’ in question could be anybody. Although they did go to a poncy café downtown together, just the two of them, and Harry did go on and on about the Brazilian brew. Draco wasn’t even listening, stirring and stirring his tea. And it was… what, ages ago. Why would he write it down? It wasn’t anything special. Draco wasn’t like Harry, obsessively going over the time they spent together like a sad loser. He wouldn’t…

There was something underneath the note, a receipt. From the café downtown, the one Harry liked. From yesterday, months after they went. After that day he missed the last train, crashed at Draco’s, before he moved in. Before… all this. The receipt was for three bags of coffee beans.

Draco didn’t even like coffee. Certainly not enough to buy three bags of it.

Excitement felt thick in his throat, burny. He had no idea what all of it meant. Shaky fingers, all scraps of his courage finally, finally dredged up, he was going to find out.

(Day 10 of @flufftober is part one out of two​! Find all previous Robin’s Flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3, and come back tomorrow to find out together with Harry! )      

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #day 10 #500 words #prompt: love language #part 1 #part 2 will be posted tomorrow! #you can also subscribe on AO3! #pining #cute boys in cute outfits (deranged) #coffee vs tea debate (not really) #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Try

For my beloved @phoebe-delia. Happy birthday!

Knitting wasn’t so much a decision as an accident—a Draco special, as it were, something only he could pull. It was his second week living in Harry’s place, fighting with the fire, poking and poking until fuck, he fell and ripped right through the throw blanket Molly-Bloody-Weasley made. With her own legendary two hands. Wrecked with guilt, with fear, with fuck-fuck-fuck and the never easing feeling this was it, the thing that’ll break it, this delicate peace between them, the thing that’ll make Harry—anyway, Draco had to fix it. Had to try. So he picked up a needle, and made a whole new mess.

The house wasn’t good for it, for him. In that it was, too good, far too good for his restless fingers, for his fuck-it spirit. Right at the edge of the forest (“Not out of the woods yet, are we, Potter”), far enough from the stream to be quiet, where he could think. Big windows to sit at and stare and stare and stare, waiting for deer to appear in the clearing, unafraid and light as rain. And rain—lying on Harry’s jacket in the attic, clutching his hand as thunder and chaos pelt the roof, always threatening to break through. Never succeeding—never even frightening, with Harry’s hand in his. With Harry’s heart in his smile. In the Cm’ere, in the shh, in the kisses, more delicate than any peace could ever be—

So he picked up knitting, when Harry was outside with his logs and his chainsaw and his fuck, no shirt on. And he took drawing, as Harry lay on the carpet before the fire working on his letters, radiant, smiling back at him—what? What’s so funny?—and he started gardening, a small patch in the back of the house, tomatoes and turnips and peas. He had too much, too much time to do everything, to do anything, to be free and—and he loved it, he loved it so much he felt sick. And Harry, and the habit of taking his hand all the time, the habit of looking him deep in the eye, of looking fond. How is anyone meant to survive this, being loved by Harry Potter? Making ceaseless fucking mistakes, and still being kept, still being held and kissed and treasured? How?

Like this: no decisions, per-se, but accidents, and chances and why-nots. And no shirts, and cooking from his own garden, and Flooing Molly with tears in his eyes (“Please please please teach me—“) and laughing like crazy, and fuck-its, and making the new throw blanket Slytherin green, because why not. Because it matches Harry’s eyes, those fond ones. And sitting very still and looking out for deer, for foxes and rabbits and squirrels. Waiting naked on the bed while Harry’s in the shower, happy-birthday—and singing at the top of his lungs, I just wanted you to know, this is me trying—

Accidents and mistakes, this was him trying. Dunno, seemed to work.

  (Day 4 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3!)  

#flufftober2022 #day 4 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #500 words #prompt: supporting silly quirks/hobbies #edge of the world in a little corner drarry #taylored ;) ;) ;) #love you phoebes #only good things this year #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69 #extremely soft M (mention of nudity)

[rockingrobin69]

Understandable

If you believe everything you hear, which Harry didn’t, on principle, Draco Malfoy moved out of the city to live in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Also, if you’d have it, he was now gay (!), dyed his hair pink (!!), made a habit of wearing ridiculously tiny crop-tops (!!!) and picked up sculpting as a hobby.

Utterly ridiculous, of course—it was painting, not sculpting. And you couldn’t really call it a hobby. It was what he did for the better part of every day, in the back shed on Harry’s grounds. Harry said he could do it in the main house, hell, in their bedroom, it wouldn’t bother him at all, in fact it would probably be—but Draco smiled and shook his head. Needed his space, he said. And Harry, who couldn’t always understand him, couldn’t even most of the time, got this.

So Draco painted in the back shed, the smallest of the three. He would come back in the afternoons splattered with paint, in his hair (not bright pink but more Morganite, pale and just as shiny), on his face, on the visible slice of his abdomen. Harry would laugh as he tried to lick it off him (“Potter!”), as he resolved to just licking any part of him he could (“Potter—“), as he pinned him at the kitchen door to kiss him properly, everywhere, everywhere. And Draco would laugh too, would say things like, “you’re impossible”, or “honestly, one would think”, or “P-Potter, fuck, oh, fuck".

They would have a brief lunch, soup and a toast, drink their bucketworth of sweet tea. Some days Draco would come back with Harry to help, or they’d go for a walk around the farm, or down by the stream. It was nice in October, fresh cold air, crisp like the leaves they joyfully jumped on, beautiful like the trees. Forever changing colours—Draco would bring his camera, pause every once in a while to stare at something only he could see. Harry didn’t always understand him, but he got this. Wanting to freeze time, to have this one, perfect moment ingrained forever. When Draco would came back with a hungry look in his eyes, with cold, searching fingers, Harry felt the same way.

If you believed the rumours, Harry Potter was in a committed relationship. He lived in a three-house village in the highlands (!), raised Thestrals for a living (!!), photographed in the nude to raise money for charity (!!!), and spoke Parsletongue in bed. Ridiculous, of course—it only happened once, and by accident. Although Draco didn’t really mind. Harry didn’t always understand him, but he thought he might get that: there was some magic, something brutal and free about it, about letting go. Harry’s been practicing. It was going rather well, if he said so himself.

Rumour had it he was doing all right. But you’re wiser than believing everything you hear, I should hope. He was absolutely, entirely, tremendously, happy.

(Day 22 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3)      

#flufftober2022 #harry potter #drarry fic #500 words #prompt: “Have you heard?” #fluff #soft #RockingRobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

As-you-wish

One year they went as Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. It was Draco’s idea: he kept saying how funny it’d be, how fitting. “Seeing as I am, one must admit, a hugely bad influence,” he said with a kiss to Harry’s nose. “And you’re so easily led, if the Prophet is to be believed.” Harry liked the feeling of the dress Draco sewed, soft satin on his thigh, the way it dipped at the back under his jacket. “For me, for later,” Draco whispered in his ear, ludicrous and unimaginably hot. With Draco, for me always meant for you. He proved it again that night, big wolfish grin in the loos of the club, entirely-too-enticing.

They went as Inigo Montoya and the six-fingered Count the next year. “Because you’re full of that virtuous revenge,” Draco laughed, a gentle rub to Harry’s cheek. “And my evil is visible from the elbow downwards.” Harry protested, but Draco had everything ready weeks before the party. Besides, it meant they could watch Princess Bride as many times as they wished. And Draco shone that night, the way he always did, funny and charming and lively, liquid-gold on the dance floor. It didn’t hurt, not a lot. Not when Draco took his hand and kissed it, revering. Not when he hugged him all the way home. Not when he fell asleep on his shoulder, on the sofa back at the flat, rosy-cheeked and lovely.

The year after they went as Robin Hood and the Sheriff. “Because you’re a thief,” Draco smiled, eyebrow hiking up. Hand on his chest, thumping one, two, three times, as though to emphasise that which was stolen. “And besides, I’d look so dashing with a beard.” It didn’t matter what Harry said, how he took Draco’s face in both hands and kissed it, again and again and again. How he promised and cried and begged. “It’s just a costume party, Harry,” he said in the end, looking a bit confused, a bit unsteady. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not when I get this,” he squeezed Harry’s hand, squeezed a smile out of him. Almost enough.

The following year, Harry had their costumes made before June. When he showed it to Draco, he didn’t understand.

“I liked the dress you made for me,” Harry said, flushed and awkward and breathless. “But I wanted—I thought we should do it a bit differently. Because you, because, you’re my entire heart, Draco, and it’s silly that you still believe—that after all this time, you don’t know it. You thought you were the Count? To me you’re the princess, pricesless, the most precious—and I’m your, your as-you-wish. A bit of a pirate and a bit farm boy and a bit gentleman. Is… is that all right? We can change, if you don’t like it. God, we can—”

Draco took the dress. “No, don’t. It’s… good.”

He shone just as bright that night, laughing and lovely, liquid-gold in Harry’s arms.

(Day 3 of @flufftober​! Find all Robin’s flufftober ficlets here or on AO3! )

#flufftober2022 #day 3 #Harry Potter #Drarry fic #soft M #500 words #prompt: thick as thieves #Halloween partys #rockingrobin'sflufftober #mouthful of a tag that one #rockingrobin69 #they take care of each other your honour #Also Draco sews

[rockingrobin69]

By Accident

It started with a card. Unsigned, of course, wishing him a happy Halloween in June. Spooky, and yet entirely silly, with those frilly figures under the sheet who go ‘boo’. Draco put it on the mantle with all the other birthday cards, as a joke. Mostly. Hopeful, maybe, that the sender, who had all the courage to write ‘with love’ but left out their name, would reveal themselves. No such luck.

The cufflinks were next. Left on his doorstep in the end of July, hidden in the most mundane brown box. Nothing but a ripped notebook page, “Thought you’d like them better”. No name again. Fairly wretched handwriting, like someone gave their three-year-old chimp a quill and some vague instructions on English alphabet. The cufflinks were beautiful, though. Draco kept them in his dresser and never, ever let anyone see.

It was flowers in August. And Potter was there, how bloody embarrassing, laughing with his head thrown back and that look in his eyes. Then a knock on the door, and the poor delivery person with a bouquet twice the size of their head. “Blimey, Malfoy,” Potter smirked, so entirely blasé it stole the breath out of him. Made him go all pink like a pathetic tosser. “Well, show us? Who’s it from?” but of course, no card. And Potter kept looking at him, just looking and looking. Rude. Draco showed him the door with a glower and vowed never to fall for silly little heroes again. Not ones with laughter and eyes. Who are not even the teeniest, tiniest bit jealous, who are so obviously not interested.

It got worse in September, with Teddy back to Hogwarts, and Potter practically moving to Draco’s flat. Something about his pipes bursting—no, he was redecorating? No, it was being fumigated for roaches. No, something else, it was always some poorly made, unreasonable excuse, and Draco was reaching his wit’s end. It was impossible to keep denying the… whatever his heart was attempting with Potter there all the time. Draco found the book in his bedroom, just an ‘x’ on the front page, like it should be self-explanatory. He cried the whole night.

October didn’t promise any improvements. Potter kept coming around, suggesting they take a walk outside to see the how the colours changed, and Draco’s heart was in pieces. He didn’t get it. He simply couldn’t, and the random gifts and miserable notes didn’t make it any more comprehensible. Someone was making fun of him, he gathered. Someone wanted him to remain miserable forever. And Potter, with all his coming over, all his easy, obnoxiously-good nature, and his laughter and his bloody eyes, he was just…

It took a shopping list to finally realise. Potter was there often enough, it made sense for him to write it. For Draco to notice he forgot something, the lovely idiot. For him to see…

Fuck. For all his clever, Draco sure wasn’t smart. But he might just end up being happy, by accident.

(Day 15 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3)  

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #500 words #prompt: Accidents don’t just happen accidentally #they sure don't #OBLIVIOUS draco #pining #fluff #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Practice makes - erm

The fucking poodle kept staring. Draco had to hold himself back from sticking his tongue out, from making an utterly-childish, completely out-of-the-question sound. Potter’s kitchen was so wildly—ugh, he couldn’t use the word ‘decorated’ without feeling ill. The photos, puppies in a bowl, kittens purring in balls of yarn. All the ‘life is short, lick the bowl’ signs, ‘no bitchin’ in my kitchen’, ‘kiss the cook’. As though he hasn’t been trying. As though he’d come here day after day if he wasn’t—

Gods. Get your act together, Malfoy. Draco closed his eyes, shook his head. He will not succumb to this. Whatever frilly, sunshiney, tacky offence this kitchen throws at him, he shall prevail. He had a mission, and proficiency in the art of baking, essentially. He’s practiced. Night after night of sticky bowls and disasters, only to come to this. To here. Potter counted on him, and Draco will not fail him, even if it took everything he had.

(It probably won’t, this time. But Draco liked to be prepared.)

All right, all right. He picked the spoon and swallowed the sigh. He’s got the recipe—bought the whole cookbook just for it, thank you very much. Lost sleep and learned how to chew words like ‘moist’ until it didn’t make him sick anymore. Just a simple Victoria sponge. But not so simple, because it was for Potter.

Well, for Weasley. But really for Potter, because he volunteered to bring it, before remembering he couldn’t bake for his life. Before turning to Draco. (Target achieved). And Draco, who never baked so much as a biscuit, was bold enough to say: “Of course I can make a Victoria sponge. You need not go to Asda. Trust me.”

Trust him. What a bloody fool would say that? Never mind, Draco’s been over it enough in his head. He practiced and practiced and practiced. Had to—not like he had any experience, hell, any familial inclination to the thing. The only family recipe the Malfoys kept would be secrecy and fucking-up. And so he’s worked up the skill, the courage, and the—

Why was the poodle still staring? Honestly. The poster wasn’t even enchanted, still the bloody pup won’t quit it. Dressed like that, too, with the chef’s hat. Must be some sort of animal abuse. And it kept looking at him, with those eyes. Draco hasn’t even done anything, yet.

Shit. He’s not done anything yet. The cake should be well in the oven by now. Fuck, fuck—

“Malfoy?”

Fuck.

“Alright? Came to see if you need any help. I’m the one who signed up for this, after all.”

Draco lost the ability to speak for approximately an age. Potter came closer, leaned against the kitchen island.

“Wow, you look cute in that apron. Should’ve brought you over way back. Have you bake anything, as long as you… erm.” The blushing was a surprise, tender and sweet like sponge cake.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

(Day 13 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3)          

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #day 13 #500 words #prompt: Secret Family Recipe #draco has a very serious mission #distractions have absolutely no chance #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Brewed out of control - part 2

*Part 1  

He found Draco sprawled on the sofa, socked feet (mismatched! Mis-fucking-matched! One knee-high, red and yellow stripes—Harry’s old Quidditch gear?—and the other a green ankle sock. Like he was trying to drive Harry mad. Trying to ruin him.)

“Finally, thought you got lost in there. All right? What’s with the face?”

“It’s just my face,” Harry murmured, stunned sullen, holding the note to his chest like a child. “Was born with it.”

“Unfortunately for us all,” Draco lamented, picking his book up again. “What? I can feel you growling.”

“I’m not growling.”

Fuck, maybe he was. It’s just—the way Draco lay there, so neatly, deranged-ly placed. Perfect, like a sculpture. One knee to his chest, one foot on the armrest, stretching till forever. Eyes rolling on a sigh.

“What? Spit it out. Gods, your glasses are even filthier. What did you do in there? Drowned in my French poetry again?”

Harry hated him as he laughed. Where was all that courage he worked so hard on drawing? “Found this on your desk. From the café. You went back.”

The arch of his eyebrow was impressive on a normal day. Today it lifted him right out of slinking, made him sit upright. “Aren’t you the little detective. A bit rude, by the way, sniffing through someone else’s stuff.”

“You’re currently wearing my socks, you unbelievable brat,” Harry huffed, unable, unable to—“Just tell me, why did you go there? Why buy coffee you don’t even drink, if—why?”

Draco tilted his head to the side, biting his lower lip. Unfair. Harry was already in shambles. “Maybe not quite the detective after all. I’m glad you didn’t go for Auror, it’s certainly not—oh! What the fuck are you doing, Potter?”

Harry didn’t notice he got up, not until he had Draco’s face in his hands. “Just tell me, you coward. Tell me. Tell me before I lose my bloody mind.”

He was so still, so close. Smelling of Harry’s cologne, lavender-lovely. Gulping, the silliest little creature to ever hold Harry’s heart in such clutches. “You already know.”

“Do I?” he couldn’t help falling closer, inhaling him deep. “You wrote it down. So you wouldn’t forget. Like it was important.”

“It is, you arse,” Draco breathed, warm on Harry’s nose. “You know that… you are.”

“Tell me.”

For a second he looked almost miserable, and Harry was about to back down—to apologise, run away, leave the country and never—but then he shook his head. Closed his eyes. Whispered, “I went back to that place. Of course I did. Unfortunately, I like your ugly face.”

Harry grunted, helpless. Draco ran a careful finger down his cheek.

“I want you to have—I want you to always have the things you need. And the things you want. I… I like you. Bastard.”

Laughing felt preposterous, unbelievable, like relief. “Finally. So hard?”

“You tell me,” Draco huffed, pulling him in.

Yeah. It was. Hard, and also so, so unbearably soft. 

(Day 11 of @flufftober is the second and final part of this little story! Find all previous Robin’s Flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3 )    

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #day 11 #500 words #prompt: Poetry Art Music Craft #mutual pining. so much of it #drarry being a bit gone for each other #and they were roommates #part 2 #might make sense without reading the first one #would make more sense if you have read it #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Game on

He felt stupid. Pulling hair out of his eyes, stretching the fabric far as it would go. The skirt was so short, he’d soon be showing the entire pitch his knickers. Some of the red paint on his cheeks caught on his eyelashes, making him blink and blink and—gods, he felt so stupid.

Potter didn’t even want him there. Didn’t invite him, after all, and probably for a reason. If Weasley hadn’t insisted… and Draco trusted her opinion, so help him. Let her dress him, too, let her—ugh, charm her clothing to match his stupidly-long legs, and…

Gods, here they come. Both teams, holding their brooms. And here’s Potter, oh, oh, fuck. Why did he have to look so perfect? Always, but especially now, eyes shining, face flushed. Golden in his red uniform, determined, perfect. While Draco’s out here looking like an arse. He always did this, always had to embarrass himself in front of Potter. Always had to make an utter fool of himself, the most ridiculous silly little man, like that was the only way to get his attention.

On the other hand, how could he not. How could he help it, when Potter’s smile did this thing, from one edge of the pitch to the other. When he stretched, gods. Just the tiniest strip of bare skin between his trousers and his shirt—

Fuck, the sound Draco made was mortifying. Shut the fuck up, idiot. He can’t be so vocal about being a simpering, eye-bugging buffoon, he needs to keep some… shit, Potter’s seen him.

Draco couldn’t stop fiddling with his skirt. Barely covering anything, and a crop top to match, Ginevra was out of her mind—

“Draco?”

Why did he come to him? All the others were getting on their brooms, but Golden Boy has the time to do rounds with the crowd?

Then he stumbled. On the fucking pitch. In front of thousands of people, coming to speak to Draco, and he stumbled.

“Fuck, sorry, you just look…”

“Harry!” Wood called, in the air already, outraged arms flapping. “We only have three minutes!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Potter waved back, not even looking. Draco stopped playing with the fabric. Couldn’t move an inch, actually, pinned to the spot by green bloody eyes. Potter walked towards him, cautious now. “You came.”

“Yes.” Draco gulped, once, twice. “Weasley—Ginevra said it’d be okay. If I… that you wouldn’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t mind?” Potter didn’t seem fully in control there. “No, I, I don’t mind. You didn’t have to—all this, though.” He waved an unsure hand at Draco’s ensemble.

“Well. I just thought I’d come by and. See, I’m rooting for you. Or whatever.”

“I do see,” Potter recovered, smiling, unbearable. “A kiss good luck, then?”

Oh, fuck him. Draco’s cheeks did the impossible and invented a whole new shade of red. But he nodded.

They won the game, obviously. Didn’t really matter. Potter came to find him at the end, and Draco didn’t feel so stupid, anymore.

(Day 9 of @flufftober​! Find Robin’s flufftober ficlets here or on AO3! )  

#flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #drarry fic #day 9 #500 words #prompt: game day (sports) #pining draco #professional Quidditch player harry #smitten. they're both smitten #draco in a skirt anybody? #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69

[rockingrobin69]

Alight

TW for panic attack

The car broke down maybe twenty miles outside Aviemore. It was dark all around; just the moonlight reflecting in the snow, catching in Draco’s hair, making the whole experience even more surreal. He was still asleep, Draco. Had been since they left Perth. Tucked in all his scarves, barely peeking through the mounds of fabric. Harry almost didn’t have the heart to wake him.

Then the engine started smoking, and lingering was no longer an option. “Draco. Darling. Hey, wake up. We need to get out.”

“What…” he let Harry pull him up, unbuckle his seatbelt. “Are we there yet?”

“Not exactly. Come on.” The air was freezing outside, coming back to him in puffs as he ran to the other side, opened the passenger door. The smell of smoke was sharp in the nothing, with only the snow and night and Draco, lemony-sleepy, drawn automatically to Harry’s heat.

“Where are we?” he asked as Harry hurried them further uphill, almost a run. Not that he thought the car would explode or anything. Just that he couldn’t bear the thought of—just that it was night, and they were alone, and it didn’t work, didn’t work, didn’t. “Harry?”

“Mm?”

“What’s going on? Is it meant to make that noise?”

He could hear it too. Not just his heartbeat, this unexplained panic. “Erm, I don’t think so, no.”

Maybe not so unexplained. Maybe fully-fucking-fledged. “It’s probably… the cold, or, something malfunctioned, or I did, fucked it up somehow—”

Draco’s hands either side of his face forced him to gulp the rest of it down. He looked so serious in the moonlight, every scar on his face silvery-sharp. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Harry spat, heartbeat rat-tat-tat in his chest. “It’s not. I said I’d take… this wasn’t meant to…”

Foreheads crushed together, Harry could only see one grey eye at a time. “Hey.”

“What?” what, what, what?

“You’re okay,” Draco said, so soft it barely carried. “I’m okay.” His kiss so light on the edge of Harry’s nose. On his left cheek, on his right, on frozen eyelashes. He still smelled so warm, so lemony and dear, which may have been why Harry started to cry, or maybe just fuck, fuck, it was… it was all getting too…

Draco rubbed his cheek against Harry’s wet eyes. Covered them both in his trillion scarves, built a tiny nest in the middle of a hill in nowhere. Starlight barely filtered through, but Harry could still see him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Draco made a sound, not unlike a ‘tut’.

“Shut up. What do you want to do? Call the insurance, or, we could get Arthur?”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed, tired and infinitely lighter. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Okay. We’ll decide in a minute.” Draco broke away, looking up. “For now, let’s just… Look. It’s so beautiful here, isn’t it? The sky. How it’s all… alight.”

Harry nodded, eyes closed. He could still see it, this shimmer behind his eyelids: bright-bright, his own constellation, kissable, lemony-close.

(Day 8 of @flufftober​! Find all Robin’s flufftober ficlets here or on AO3! )  

#TW panic attack #flufftober2022 #Harry Potter #day 8 #drarry fic #prompt: shooting stars #emotional hurt and comfort #soft soft soft #car breaking down (but they're wizards it's all right) #for personal stories of driving at night in the highlands press 1 #rockingrobin'sflufftober #rockingrobin69