#rockingrobin69

Potter’s lips made a wet sound as they released tortured-red skin; he blew over it gently, like an absolute fiend, and Draco choked on a moan. It was all too—sticky-close and uncomfortably hot; itchy under his skin, this buzzing, thrumming thing, a current running through his insides. Every breath was half-gulp, half-whimper. There was no space for air in him anyway.

It shone from underneath his tightly-squeezed eyelids, bright-bright and sizzling, all this Potteriness all around him. Like he grew an extra set of hands, or eight of them, touching everywhere: fingers skimming under Draco’s loosely-kept-together shirt, nails catching delicately, maddeningly not-enough; behind his head, pulling on his hair, keeping his neck open for ceaseless attacks, a thumb pressing gently on his Adam’s apple; tickling his sides and undoing his zip and tracing his bottom lip, incongruently reverent, distracting.

All of it was—

“Potter,” Draco cried, back arching into tightening hold, cresting a tiny peak with every broken inhale. Lightheaded and trembling with it. With, “Potter,” biting the whimper, unsuccessfully, and Potter laughed, because he was a fiend, and Draco couldn’t, truly, could not, for a moment longer.

“Fucking—touch me,” he said, nonsensically, as though there weren’t at least a million hands on him already, “Potter, please,” and the noise Potter made, between a growl and a wail, and—clutching at him to bring him closer, gods, closer, so that Potter was crushing him and the kiss which Draco barely noticed deepened, sharpened, teeth and soothing tongue and, shattering, breath-stealing—

“Ah,” Draco said, helpless, “ah, ah, Po, tter,” not really quite words into Potter’s mouth, bucking and mewling, sticky and uncomfortably hot; Potter switching this chain reaction within him, a million-trillion fairy-lights buzzing into a sudden, brilliant flare.  

Potter was endless, on top and everywhere around him; all hands and wet mouth and scorching eyes and heavy panting. Stupefying. Draco kissed him, fizzing with constant sparks, mad with it. Potter was magnetic, electric, and Draco was more than ready to burn.

For my beloved @getawayfox. Happy birthday!

“I want you naked,” Potter said, nuzzling the spot under Draco’s ear, and Draco—

“Yes,” he whispered, “yes, anything,” pushing into the mounting pressure of his body, hands roving, raving, anywhere they could reach, under Potter’s shirt and up his back and down his sides, to his belt, to the curve of his arse and the pockets, sliding in, “yes, yes.”

Everywhere Potter’s fingers touched sparked under his skin. Constant tiny starbursts, dazzling. Then worse, his laughter, warm in the hollow of Draco’s neck: “Darling—”

“Yes,” Draco breathed. He was shivering with how much he meant it.

“Here. Let me,” fumbling with the buttons. Draco’s shirt was so ridiculously unimportant when all of this: lemon-apple shampoo and soft flannel, Potter’s body in all the fits and stalls he could catch. Whimpering, diving head-first into Potter’s shoulder, kissing, licking, sucking in gently and then not at all so. Potter was still laughing: “Draco!”

“Mmmf,” finding the will to detach, only to bring himself to look at bright green eyes.

“You’re so—” Potter stroked his cheek, then cradled it, looking—just looking at him, so close and trembling with excitement, or maybe that was the world, trembling, trembling. The light was in love with him too, Draco thought: in the delicate catch of each eyelash and in the curve of his lips and on the tip of his nose, every single part of him luminescent. Draco wanted… everything. Overwhelmed, overpowered, overjoyed.  

Whatever came out of his mouth was a yes. “Potter,” a gasp, and “in here,” pulling towards, ah, he hoped it was a bedroom—something hard at his back and then something softer. They found a mattress, found each other, writhing out of their clothes, spell-stuck together. Losing contact was in no way permissible, so they just kept on however they could: Draco holding Potter’s elbow as he shuffled out of his socks, Potter’s fingers skimming the skin suddenly cleared of his trousers, up and down his hipbone.

“You,” Potter was saying, the dizzying brush of his stubble on Draco’s cheeks, “you’re just—”

Draco didn’t know what he was, and truly it couldn’t matter. Not right now. Not when Potter was pushing him backwards, climbing, all gracelessly graceful and recklessly stunning. It might actually have been stupefying, seeing as none of Draco’s frenzied limbs were willing to move. He let Potter take him all the way to the headboard (one hand at the back of his neck, the other trailing under his waistband, boxers still on, why was anything still—) just sat there all sack-of-potatoes and staring with sick adoration at Potter, Potter, so much Potter above him and all around him, Potter.

“Po—” the grunt punched out of him, Potter’s knee in his groin, then his laughter in Draco’s ear, “fuck, sorry, haha, I’m so,” and it, it, barely registered, any of it. Potter was crushing him to the mat and the whole world was spinning, erupting in flames or, something. Everything was three sizes too large and blistering hot. He wanted it so badly. God, he wanted, wanted, wanted, and Potter gave, Potter kept giving.

Skin to skin, both of them feverish, possibly mad. It burned so bright behind his eyelids, tingling everywhere, the crook of his elbow, behind his knees, the soles of his feet. The back of his neck, buzzing, the sweetly-sore spot under his jaw still damp. He was so… it was all so…

“Draco,” into the shell of his ear, “Draco, Draco,” singeing-hot, and Draco said, “Yes,” just kept saying it in non-words, in mewls and nips and frantic fingers, in moans, “yes, yes.”

The night seemed endless, star-bright. Half-rolled into the thin blanket, all his nerve-endings alight, and the room sang back to him in delight, in revelation. Potter, in his arms, a sweat-drenched cacophony; it was summer still somehow, under the thunderous rhythm of his heart, the lovely weight of this joy.

Malfoy wasn’t always distracting: only when he swallowed. And when his mouth softened into that half-smile, with the almost-dimple. And when he looked up—or down, all eyelashes—when he looked at Harry, basically; and when his mole, the one under his jaw; and when he stood all tall and broad-shouldered and lean.

Sometimes they go to the little pub down the road and order nothing but blackcurrant lemonade. Sit crammed around a table and pretend to follow the screen. It’s nice to groan with a dozen or so people, to jump when the little men in different colours score on their little field—it’s mostly nice because Harry leans back and grins when Draco shouts, referee!

‘I like seeing you like this,’ he explains, much later, nuzzling into Draco’s neck on the sofa, sticky with tiredness and achingly sweet. ‘I like that you’re a part of my world.’ And Draco hums something nonsensical, coaxes him up and to bed, come on, love, let’s call it a night. To wrap under covers, to sing softly in his ear: glory, glory, and hear Harry laugh, bat at Draco with a far-too-fond hand.  

Sometimes they go to the little Korean shop near the train station. It’s the only place that sells the ramen Harry likes, and Draco would travel much further than a couple of stops for that: they also have the best snacks, and Harry’s first and foremost a snacker. Sweet, savoury, doesn’t matter at all, if it comes in a small bag and is preferably crunchy. Draco suspects the roots go Deeper, but he doesn’t push: buys whatever Harry wants in the reusable plastic bag with the dragon pattern. Watches him flush and try to hide behind his hands, the way his smile melts wider and he sighs, ‘All right. Take me home, you unbearable creature.’

‘I just like—’ he can’t explain this one, but he tries, those star-bright eyes and the rasp of affection in his voice. ‘I like it, okay,’ as they boil the water. The noodles are very spicy and Draco needs the tissue paper nearby, but they’re sort of his favourite, too. They sit very close and talk about nothing, about their days: Harry tells him how many dogs he’d seen (in detail, words tumbling over themselves in delight, tiny-little-thing-with-a-ribbon, black-lab-with-a-huge-stick). They sit and make silly jokes with no punch-line, and invent new careers to take (Draco’s going to be a slug tamer, and Harry’s will make candles). They sit. Draco just likes it too.

Sometimes they go for a walk around the neighbourhood. They let the traffic lights decide on each turn and point at things they see on the street: flowers, boots, the reflection of the night sky in a puddle. They walk and walk and sometimes Harry sighs, takes his hand, and they go quiet for a little while, both flushed and both grinning. It’s silly, and it might always be, how devastatingly darling Harry is. The dimple in his cheek when he gestures with his head, the twinkle in his eyes.

‘I like those curtains,’ to a window on the third floor. Draco memorises them on sight. He’d look through a catalogue or, Greg is fairly good with sewing. He’s thinking about fabric shops and yarn until Harry laughs, takes his chin. ‘Oi. I can see the wheels whirring.’ And Draco swallows a meaningless denial and squeezes his hand instead. They walk back a meandering path through all the parks, and Harry says, ‘You know,’ but doesn’t continue. Draco does, he thinks. Know.

Sometimes they take the train to nowhere in particular. Sit across from each other and dream up songs with no rhythm. Sometimes they go to the theatre and catch a film neither of them gets. Sometimes they sit at the window, together, and stare, and stare: sometimes they stop behind the bins outside their building for a kiss.

‘I like,’ Harry says about everything, and Draco says I know. Sometimes it’s a Monday, 17:25, and they're looking at each other.

There were four fish in the bowl, and all of them were George. Draco named them, and apparently didn’t find it at all confusing.

“There’s George one,” he said, tipping the fish food over the tank with an exasperated roll of his eyes, “that’s the little red thing in the corner. Boy George is the one with the stripe. George two always forgets it’s been fed—and then this one, it’s just George.”

“Just George?” Harry asked, a crinkle in the corner of his lip.

“Not—just George. Its name’s George. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Just George is the best.”

Draco sighed, carefully administering colourful droplets of feed. “Of course you’d play favourites with the fish.” Rubbing his hands clean, head tilted to the side, giving Harry that look. The one that made his mouth go dry. “Now, unless there’s anything…? Then excuse me, Mr. Potter. Paperwork awaits no man.”

Oh, right, he was in the way. Had this habit of crowding Draco into tight corners, entirely unconscious. Harry took a step back, and another, startled and warm in the cheeks, mumbling this half-formed, automatic response that wasn't quite an apology. Draco walked away with a small smile-part-smirk, leaving Harry at the windows, near the fish tank, heart racing.

This wasn’t at all what he came out here for. Not to watch Draco feed the fish, third time today. He needed the copies for Mrs. Nelson’s case, and he needed… a moment. Honesty. Like he’s not built any resistance, stacked up any immunity to Draco’s—antics. Come on now, come on, come on.

Copies, then. Throat cleared, breath caught, head shook, Harry gathered himself, bit by bit. The copies were in the cabinet, by Draco’s station. Could have just asked him for it. But that would’ve led to a whole new debacle, and besides, it’s good to get away from his desk sometimes. Before he hired Draco, he never remembered to stretch.

Forgot to stretch still. Got an email, ran back to his office and furiously typed a reply to his stupid boss who wanted to assign them another case, as if their hands weren't full enough. And then it was getting near lunch-time, and Harry’s belly started on this dance, a little jig it only learned recently. Since Draco.

Thankfully, it was a Thursday, and Harry came prepared. With the fancy soup he spent three hours making, and the softest rolls Aldi had to offer. He caught Draco on the way to the kitchenette, signalled with his eyebrows (and with the tub, raised in promise). He’s really going to like this one; Harry made sure to get the cheese he knew Draco preferred, the perfect bottle of wine to pair with it. For the soup, he meant. Not that he brought wine to work. Harry may have been silly sometimes, but he was still an adult, and a professional. Who took his job seriously. Very seriously, even.

A fact he often forgot when Draco did this. Just walking, mind you, but slowly, almost on-show, dragging the chair next to Harry with big open eyes. Didn’t ask, didn’t say anything: crossed his arms in his lap, waited. It made something in Harry jump, seared right through him.

“French onion soup, as per requested. With so much fucking cheese it’ll give you heartburn. You’re welcome.”

“Looks delicious,” Draco said. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, a gesture so small it had to be unintentional.

That burnt bit inside Harry sizzled. “Why don’t you try some?” he handed the microwaved bowl. “Careful, it’s really hot.”

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Draco said, with that look. “Aren’t you having some? Heartburn isn’t something to suffer on one’s own.”

He tried to laugh the dry-throat-ness away. “I will, yeah. How is it? Too much salt? Not enough?”

“Mm,” Draco took a spoonful, closed his eyes. “Perfect.”

Whatever he was going to ask melted away. Took a moment or two to shake himself, get up. Punch the time on the microwave with a slightly-trembling hand.

Harry started this a while back, bringing lunch for the both of them. Not so much as a decision as a series of events: too much pasta made, an extra sandwich bought by accident, leftover soup from soup Wednesday. And—he got a little addicted, he supposed, to the way Draco reacted. The way he—

The beeping of the microwave made him jump, meet the cabinet, too close, too suddenly.

“All right over there?”

Cursing under his breath, Harry nodded, returned to the table with a throbbing forehead. “Sorry. Got a little… distracted.”

“Mrs. Nelson?” Draco asked, handing him a napkin, then a spoon. “She called again. I told her we don’t have the results yet.”

“No, not that. We’re getting a new case. I've been trying to fight it, but...”

“Fighting the boss man,” Draco nodded. “Always drama with you, isn’t there. Hand me the pepper, please? Thank you.” Without another word, Draco was peppering Harry’s dish. “So, more importantly, it’s been brought to my attention you haven’t signed up for the draw this year.”

“Hmm?”

“The draw. Strictly come dancing? You know, the only thing anyone in the office talked about all week.”

Harry wasn’t all that interested in office talk. He might have heard about this one—had this vague recollection of Draco in blue, nattering about some dance show on the telly. “Can’t say I… sign up?”

“To the draw. Each pair picks a couple out of a hat. The principle is very simple, you should be able to follow.”

“Pairs,” Harry repeated, just to be sure he heard right. Tasted the soup: peppery, the way he liked it. “Who… erm, who’s your partner?”

Draco gave him that look again. “Why, Mr. Potter, it’s you, of course. I took the liberty of signing you up—please don’t be mad, it’s important for the people here to see you taking part. Not just, work-work-work all the time. It’ll be good for you.”

Harry grunted something wordless and tight. “Fine. If I'm with you it’s not—fine. What’s for the winners, then?”

“Of course you think you’d win it.” But he was smiling. “I don’t know, HR hasn’t announced yet. Probably some puny prize not even worthy of taking home. It’s for the camaraderie, knucklehead.”

“Camaraderie. Right. I think I know what that means.”

Draco rolled his eyes. It was warm in the kitchen, and nice. It was nice. They ate their soup in peace; Draco was busy with his crosswords, that he never completed and never gave up on, and Harry went back to his notepad, looking at what still needed to be done for Mrs. Nelson. Lunchbreak never used to be like this. Unrushed, like it was important all on its own. Draco made things feel like that. Important.

When the bowls were empty: back to the office, and the copies he forgot to take from Draco’s station were waiting on his desk. With a smile, and a sigh, and another sigh, Harry sat down and got to work.

He had to finish everything for Mrs. Nelson by tonight, with this new case threatening to take most of his time. Harry was no stranger to late nights, to coffee after coffee and reading until his eyesight blurred fuzzy. It was five thirty by the time he looked up again, and that was only because Draco was at his door.

“Hmm? You were saying something?”

Leaning against the doorjamb, long legs crossed, head tilted back. “Just enjoying the view,” with a wink. “Come on. Time to go.”

“Can’t,” Harry said, raising the contract he was currently reviewing. “Got to finish this first.”

“Mr. Potter,” Draco said, in that tone. Harry felt the lump he just swallowed, burning all the way down his chest. “Can’t leave me to brave the train station all by myself. I might get lost.”

“Please do,” Harry laughed, helpless. “You know I drive anyway. And you take the bus.”

Draco’s eyebrow arched, unimpressed. “You’ve stayed late every night this week.”

“It’s only Thursday.”

“Exactly. Now get off your arse, please, or you’re going to be in serious trouble.” When Harry didn’t look persuaded, he sighed, overly-dramatic and far too sweet. “Don’t make me beg, Sir. Not in the office. It’s unseemly.”

The ‘pah!’ of his laughter didn’t go a long way to hide the blush, coming rapidly and extensive. “Shut up! I have to… it’s the new case. Got to finish with Mrs. Nelson, or Gregson’s going to give her case to John.”

Draco winced. “God, not that tosser. Well… all right, pass over the consent forms.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll proof while you work on the contract. Come on, chop-chop. We’ll finish much quicker if we work together.”

“Draco…” Harry started, gently, felt this thing in his chest go tight and tender. “It’s half five. You should go home. Your cat will miss you.”

“Whisker’s a dog, as you well know, you wanker,” Draco smiled sweetly, falling into the chair across from him. “He’ll be fine, my neighbour’s watching him. Now, hand me the papers.” He sent a hand forward, waiting, imperiously, for Harry to obey, which of course he did. Didn’t have much of the resisting part of his brain wired right, when it came to Draco.

“Fine. But you’re leaving by six.”

“Half six, and so are you.” Draco smoothened the papers and stole a pen from Harry’s cup. “Aha, see! Already found a typo. Truly, you should fire your secretary.”

Rated E, NSFW.

It’s scorching hot in the back of the shed, half-hidden behind Mr. Weasley’s van, with his back pressed into the shelves. Draco’s sweat-soaked, mind empty, muscles fizzled and turned into mush, into lava: it’s Potter’s hands all over him, under his greasy shirt and tugging at the band of his boxers.

“Hngh,” is what Draco manages to say, weakly, into Potter’s mouth. It means: more, it means, please, it means, god oh god oh god oh fuck. The day’s roasting and sunlight filters through the grimy window, lighting and re-lighting the fire running down all his nerves. Potter is so beautiful, his pink lips trying to devour every sweaty inch of Draco’s skin, the way his eyes go blinding-hot, go molten. They’re both supposed to be working; there’s no chance they’re going to stop. Melded together between Mr. Weasley’s tools—there’s a wrench jabbing into his hip and oh, god, something else jabbing but it’s soft as flesh and hot and glorious and oh, oh, oh, oh!

“Shh,” Potter croons as he licks a bead of sweat off Draco’s neck. “Oh, darling, fuck—”

All he can do is whine, and grind forward in desperate, frantic motions. It means, now, it means, fuck, it means, we could have been doing this all summer, should have been doing this always. It’s England and the weather turns in seconds, sun shifting, making way for cloud to cover: Draco doesn’t care, can’t. They’ll get soaked on the hike back to the farm—so they’ll get soaked. It’s all wild, giddy pleasure, it’s all feral, impossible happiness. That his week at the Weasley’s became a month, became an apprenticeship, became—this.

The wrench really fucking hurts. Draco howls when Potter’s slick fingers graze just the right spot, legs both kicking up, catching around Potter’s waist.

“Mmhm,” Potter says, and peppers burning kisses up and down Draco’s collarbones, “yes, so good for me, fuck, Draco, so fucking hot,” and the wrench—and the world—and the rain, pelting the grimy window, exaltation up to high heavens—

“Po,” Draco tries, “Po-tter, ah, ah, please, plea—”

Tongue, fuck, in his ear, melting his already-smouldering brain. “You can take it, sweetheart, yes, just like that, perfect, you’re just,” hammering mindless praise into his skin and fisting his raging-maddened-bursting cock, relentless, merciless, pushing Draco further and further back into the shelves, into the wrench, into a frenzy—

It’s full-on raining, inside and outside the shed, fucking English weather, fucking brilliant. Potter’s sticky fingers and his wild eyes, his pink lips: he could die of this. Might just. Just as well: his knees shake as he detaches, but he manages to drop to them anyway. Supplication that turns genuine, him and Potter at the back of the shed in the end of summer.

“Draco,” Potter whispers. It’s reverent and debilitating, it’s everything he wants.

“Shh,” Draco hums from between Potter’s legs. He always gives as good as he gets. Peels Potter’s trousers down, kisses the tacky skin left bear: “You can take it, sweetheart.”

(It means: let me give you everything).

Outside the rain stops. Draco doesn’t care. In here he’s perfect, filthy and sated and uncomfortably hot, nestled between Potter’s thighs. Potter truly is sweet, and who could have guessed, who would have ever, that they’d end up here. Draco’s ravenous, and revelling in it, in being allowed.

Can he take it? Probably not. Will he, is the question, and of course, of course he will. In the back of Mr. Weasley’s roasting-hot shed, a wrench falls from its shelf with a clang! and they both start laughing.

I swoon, or sway to the hum of the electric fan. So happy just to come (home to you) so happy to come (back). It feels bigger than it should, than it’s supposed to (it feels dramatic and sort of funny, the way I tear up) but I tear up and you take me in your arms. You smell so good, like our laundry detergent and your shampoo and like pepper, like what I would see if I closed my eyes.

This feeling, right here, this point between your neck and your shoulder: this warmth? It undoes me. Tongue darting out (you taste like airports and like fairy lights) it’s quite possible I’ll never get enough of you. How many years now? And still.  

It’s more than just your hands on me, how you touch. It’s in your eyes and in the way your breath evens, in a tiny flutter of a kiss that I hear more than feel on the top of my head. It’s everywhere (but I’m so glad to be where you are).

You might just be everywhere, but you’re here right now. And me, with you. The plant looks fucking massive, what have you been feeding it? The fridge is full but the washing up needs done. Your hand, when it slips in mine: your shoes under the table in their normal place on the rug. It’s home when you smile (I’m so happy) (just so happy) it’s home and so am I.