The Drarry Microfic Server Is Aflame With Babooshkart’s Latest Kitchen Art. Also, The Harry And His

The drarry microfic server is aflame with babooshkart’s latest kitchen art. Also, the Harry and his tattoos within the kitchen.

We humbly request a microfic that includes breakfast in bed, a sausage pun, and maybe Draco falling out of bed trying to keep eyes on Harry’s magnificent backside.

We humbly thank thee, House of Fake.

I’m fkn crying y’all are too funny 😂 💕 sorry this isn’t really micro, but I had to try to do it justice. Check that mouthwatering Mrs. Fake art 😍

“I asked for sausage.”

“We’re out of sausage,” Harry said, grinning at his petulant, pouting lover, who was barely visible under his mountain of pillows. Harry saw a narrowed grey eye and a tuft of blond hair. He set the tray down on the middle of the bed. “You get bacon.”

“Why are you wearing an apron?” Draco asked, his voice still rough from sleep.

“To protect the sausage,” Harry replied, smirking. Draco groaned in exasperation, throwing two fluffy pillows at him. Harry batted them away, snickering.

“That was horrible,” Draco grumbled. Harry could hear the poorly-hidden smile in it; he felt it mirrored on his own face. “And you didn’t even bring tea, you utter brute.”

“My tray is only so big,” Harry chuckled, then turned away to retrieve the tea from the luxurious kitchen on the other side of their bright, spacious loft. He smiled to himself. Ours.

He didn’t make it past the table before he was startled by a heavy thump and a loud, indignant squawk. Harry whirled around in alarm, only to see a tangle of pale, gangly limbs in a pile of duvet, puddled on the floor next to their bed. Draco groaned from somewhere within the lump of linens.

“This is your fault,” Draco said, the sound muffled by cloth and down feathers.

Harry tried very hard not to laugh. “You falling out of bed is my fault, Draco?” His voice shook, his lips pressed together to hold it in.

“Harry,” Draco whinged. Some movement among the heap of white, then Draco’s face popped out from the top, his cheeks flushed bright red. He looked like the cherry on top of a mound of cream. Harry bit down on his own fist, but the laughter was bubbling up out of his throat, irrepressible.

Draco pouted again. “I don’t want tea, and I don’t want bacon, you bloody idiot. I want breakfast.”

Harry’s hand held the apron over his stomach, his muscles aching from suppressing his laughter. “Draco, you’ll eat what I made you—”

Draco growled in frustration and stood, clumsily extracting himself from his cloud-like prison. Harry’s eyes widened as he strode purposefully over to the kitchen, nude and irresistible, his eyes heated and annoyed and fixed on Harry alone.

“I’ll eat what I want, Potter,” he purred, biting down on Harry’s lower lip, turning Harry’s giggle into a gasp. He turned Harry around and bent him shamelessly over the table.

“Oh,” Harry said, “oh,” as Draco’s lips met the base of his spine, then lower. “Alright, then, you’re in charge of breakf—fuck.”