#flufftobrt2023

[rockingrobin69]

competitive arse

They’re not supposed to participate, only to observe, and perhaps step in to referee if there’s trouble: and yet, again and again Potter makes his way down to the pitch, to give ‘helpful’ tips or just ruffle everyone’s hair a little and say what a good job they’re all doing.

And grin, and nod, and yell ‘go team red’ when blue and yellow are playing, and flaunt his huge arms and thick thighs and that absolutely ridiculous arse Draco doesn’t see in his dreams. Often. And stretch, with the old Gryffindor Seeker top that leaves a fair bit of his belly on display, dark and hairy and driving Draco out of his mind. What? nothing. He’s fine, absolutely fine. He’s agreed to do this.

Under wand-point, yes, but—Merlin’s balls, what is Potter doing now? On all fours on the grass and letting one of the kids ride him like a pony. One of the—it’s Scorpius. It’s Scorpius. Holding on to Potter’s hair like reins and laughing. Draco… hmm? No, he can’t, ah. Think. Anymore.

He’s going to kill Ginny. He’s going to kill her, and Astoria, and then Potter for good measure, and then he’s going to lick that glisten of sweat all the way down his neck and—argh! Not good not good not good. They’re in public and Draco’s bloody son is playing pre-broom Quidditch. Meant to be playing, too busy making heart-eyes at Draco’s forever-crush. Forever-nemesis, he means. Oh, fuck, Potter took his shirt off? When. No, why. No, when, and also, what, and also, oh, no, oh, fuck, he’s coming closer.

What to do? What to do. How to, ah, survive this now, and also what to fucking—

“Malfoy,” two steps down and a thick grin like he’s so pleased about something. He didn’t shave this morning, face full of stubble, and Draco dreams of rash and tickles.

Says: “Potter.” And then, once he’d cleared his throat of this awful, er, thing, “You make the rest of us look bad.”

“Hmm?” Potter is distracted with something on Draco’s lips. What on earth has he got? Jam from breakfast (and Ginny and Astoria holding him at wand-point), mud from the tackle-hug Scorpius gave him, grass in his hair, what, what?

“What,” Draco says without fully intending to. Shaking his head, “I mean. You’re so—all the other parents are just sitting there watching.”

He laughs. The sound is so distracting, Draco almost manages a smile. “Yeah, ‘Mione’s already told me I’m showing off. Can’t help it, though. They didn’t tell me you’re coming today.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees, because Potter is flexing his arms and Draco would quite like to choke in between them, and then, “What? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Potter says. Is that winking? Is he winking or having a fit. Draco’s face feels awfully warm and he’s pretty sure he’s losing whatever competition they’re currently on.

Breathes in, out, looks to the sky (blue-blue and unhelpful. Where is lightning when you need to be struck). “Well,” he says when nothing more catastrophic happens, “I suppose I could come every week-end, if, ah. If this is the kind of show I can expect to get.”

When Potter’s grin turns luminescent: “I meant the kids! The way they played was so, ah, they’re so enthusiastic and it’s great to see, ah, stop it, stop, you absolute goon.”

“Yes, you’re only here for the kids,” with a hand in his disastrous hair, disastrously handsome, coming—ah—coming closer, for some incomprehensible reason.

“Stop it,” Draco says, when he truly means—something? Potter’s so close. His chest is bare. It's, ah, stunning. “What, what do you want.”

“Usually we go to the café across the road, after,” Potter smiles from under his thick lashes. Draco, who's milked every last detail regarding the Quidditch Junior League from Astoria for the past three months, knows this to be a definite lie. “Just some of the parents and the kids. You’ll have to come too. Scorp and Albus are just starting to get along, it's be such a shame, to tear them apart.”

It’s a weak excuse and Draco’s weaker. “Of course,” he coughs. “If that’s something you usually do. Who am I to break such a sacred, ah, tradition.”

They both know they’re full of it. On the ground, the actual coach has grown a peculiar set of tentacles, and is carried away by one of the parents who happens to work at St. Mungo’s. The kids are all cheering, and Scorp looks up to the stands and smiles. It’s… a bright sunny day, and Draco was threatened with a bad haircut if he backs out, and besides, he wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.

(For flufftober day 27. Find the soft AO3 collection here).