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August afternoon, Wiltshire: Seeker's Game, Lupin v. Malfoy v. Potter
DLM — —
The little fuck’s throwing the game again. Draco watches Harry watch Edward, whose barrel roll after the Snitch is pretty half-arsed for a Kestrel; Draco keeps his smile to himself about Harry’s sweaty, affronted face. Draco knows exactly why he’s been wheedled into the air over the Manor’s back meadows—the length of Edward’s shorts isn’t subtle, nor the months of languid looks since Draco moved back from Lucerne. But Harry, dense and rigid Harry, hasn’t clocked Edward's real play yet. Not even with the score at pro Seeker: two, forty-year-old layabouts: five. Four are Harry’s. Draco’s not working very hard.
He doesn’t have to; it's not relevant. Shrewd, shirtless Edward, with sun-protection charms gleaming like an oil slick down the ditch of his spine, has hustled to seduce Draco all summer, as though he has qualms only superable through acts of rude and diligent whorishness: long-throated sips of Draco’s drinks; public, lingering touch; a memorable postgame vignette on the shadowy balcony of Edward’s flat that involved an ice bath, a silk boxing robe, and drags of Draco’s cigarette.
But Edward’s miscalculated—Draco could generously be said to have had a fractional qualm, which dissolved neatly the moment the narrow white elastic of Edward’s jock rode up his tanned back at a practice he’d invited Draco to observe in June. Now the show’s too good to put a stop to, the kid too dogged. Draco’s a patient man: he prefers to let Edward dangle, to wait and see if he’ll ever work himself into a tizzy and make a real move. It’s an ambitious public line to walk, trying to push Draco over his edge—they should just be cousins getting to know each other, after all—but Edward seems to like an audience. Likes to raise the stakes for getting caught.
Hence, Draco surmises, this little dance in front of Edward’s godfather. Fifty feet ahead, as Edward flattens lazy and catlike to the broom in token pursuit, Harry catches the Snitch again.
“Teddy, you all right?” Sweat glues Harry’s t-shirt to his solid chest. He looks righteous and worried, nobler than ever with the grey around his temples. “I know Draco’s going to fuck about, but this isn’t like you.”
Pissant. Can’t even see what’s right in front of him. Draco coasts towards the pair of them; it’s hard not to notice the congruent lines of their grips, the parallel set of their thighs—Harry taught Edward to sit a broom, of course, and they both look born to it.
Edward’s looking right at Draco. “Yeah, maybe we should call it for the day. Hot up here,” he says. The slut’s pushing his little pierced tits forward, and they’re softly pearlescent from the sun charm. “Can Franco do up that gin and bitter lemon fizz, you think?”
“Certainly. He likely already has,” Draco says. He’s still looking right back, though Harry's in the corner of his eye. The man's slow turn from Edward to Draco might mean somebody’s catching on.
Edward doubles down. “Harry, come have a drink? How long’s it been since you and Draco caught up?” Shameless, utterly shameless. What’s he after, his godfather butting in with wand ablaze?
It takes Harry just a second too long to respond. “Right, yeah, just let me—” He spins off towards the far copse where he’d left a satchel. “I’ll catch up,” he calls over his shoulder. Not so protective, then. Poor Edward’s ploy, thwarted.
Draco pulls even with Edward’s Lightingbolt, and says nothing. He likes making Edward move first. Even a hundred feet up, August and its sticky air bear down on them; Edward’s hair ripples briefly platinum in the sun and settles back to his natural auburn. The end of the game’s coming.
Deliberately, Edward reaches across Draco’s thigh to grasp Draco’s Nimbus handle—more brazen than he’s ever been—and tows them both towards the Manor. He smells of clean young man, of new sweat, hay, something bready. Draco will take this boy apart with his teeth, when the time comes.
Half a minute out from the back garden, Franco's cut fruit and glass ewers of lemon fizz coming into view beneath the marble colonnade, Edward plays his final cards. "You’ll be folding me in half shortly, yes?” His tone is mild and low.
Serene, Draco smiles; there it is, the fruit of a patient summer. “I’d imagine.” This afternoon, once Harry’s off, Draco will snap Edward’s jockstrap against the pert spread curves of his arse and fuck him raw till that fresh mouth babbles. Twenty or thirty minutes from now, perhaps.
Edward’s hand slides to the inside of Draco’s thigh. “Good, I’ll stretch. Just had to check in case you were making other plans.” Edward’s tone turns archly compassionate. “Everyone can see you looking at Harry, you know.”
“Pardon?” Pansy and Blaise stopped bothering to offer Draco this feedback years ago, and it makes no more sense now than it did then. Draco looks at Harry how he’s looked at him since the trial a lifetime ago: blankly, and as little as possible. Perhaps with occasional idle malice.
Edward’s just baiting him, clearly. Or the fingertips plying Draco’s inseam may be muddying things; he’s thinking of the ice bath, in which Edward had explained, while kneading out a knot high in his quadricep, that he sometimes morphs his cock into a cunt for safekeeping, and then had reached for a long drag of Draco’s Gauloise. Both holes, Draco wants both.
“Draco. Really?” Edward floats them to the ground at the bottom of the colonnade steps and nudges Draco to dismount. “Fucking hell. Never seen more repressed yearning in my life. You’re not even admitting it to yourself?” He steps in close and rubs his knuckles low over Draco’s stomach—brash, brash, this one. “My poor old man.”
Little shit. Rude and wrong, and arrogant to boot. “For a desperate slag, Edward, you make big bets on the limits of my temper. Let’s redirect to the matter at hand, yes?” Edward’s cock perks in its cup against Draco’s thigh. Oh to be twenty-three.
But Edward just smiles an inch from Draco’s collarbone, his breath cooler than the August afternoon. “I don’t know that they’re separate issues, actually.” Edward’s knuckles scrape lower, teasing the root of Draco’s cock through his trousers. “You thought the whole show was just for you?”
Well, yes. As opposed to?
Harry appears above the tree line, with that perfect natural form on the broom. Edward tilts up, sunny and blithe, his eyes spinning grey, then emerald, then hazel, lashes blooming extravagantly long.
“You can fuck me when you bring me Harry, too,” he says. “I want both of you inside me. And he won’t, without you.” He grins outright and grasps Draco as deftly as a broomstick; Draco goes abruptly, painfully hard. Both holes, he thinks, a distant roar in his ears. Near enough to feel Potter’s cock fucking the other. For a moment he has to close his eyes.
Edward steps away and waves his godfather in for landing. He adds, “It’ll be good for you, I think.”
— — HJP
Harry’s going to hell. Alas.
He’d made a deal with himself—pickup Quidditch with his godson as Remus and Tonks intended, repress deeply impure thoughts, facefuck some consenting twenty-year-old at Wands Out later—but there went Teddy with the arched-back shoulder-barge again, then the draft of his familiar sweat and a panting look over the shoulder. And Draco with the—Draco Malfoy with the trousers, circling sweaty Teddy on the thermals like a bird of prey? His own flesh and blood. Harry’s godson, in the shorts he’s worn since he was fourteen. Harry’s going to hell, and Malfoy beside him, because there’re no sinless grounds for standing so near to one’s glistening and mostly-nude baby cousin, no innocent explanation for looming like that over sweaty Teddy. Sweddy Teddy. Sweaty shiny tiny titt—fuck’s sake.
No: a hundred feet left in the air to get his head out of his arse. By the time Harry’s dropped his satchel at the Manor’s back steps, he hasn’t come up with any righteous reason for watching his godson seduce Malfoy, but he doesn’t have a semi anymore, either, so. The Saviour, a virtuous light unto the wizarding world.
But then Teddy, having waved Harry down like a slightly iridescent twink homing beacon, sprawls lean and loose-legged back on the stairs, and bares the gold stalk of his throat to ask Malfoy to pour the drinks.
The Saviour’s boner forsakes virtue outright. Harry has to hope the way he adjusts his trackies is subtle.
Teddy’s a fucking problem. Teddy’s been a fucking problem; Harry hasn’t let himself look directly at that problem for nigh on four years now, or maybe even as far back as Teddy signing with the Kestrels after Hogwarts. One humid, empty locker room after a midseason game, six seconds of eye contact as his godson peeled down his leathers, and, well. The Wands Out barkeeps have known what to send Harry's way for a while.
And now Teddy’s forced him into a front-row seat for this mating dance, god knows why. Like the bill come due for a half-decade of repression. And some midlife trial of character, apparently, about remaining the adult in the room, about abstaining from what he absolutely could have.
Meanwhile, for Draco Malfoy and his trousers, Teddy’s pulling out all stops short of painting his own bare arse bright red. Just look at that posh git, mixing lemon squash with a foot-long silver spoon like he’s got all weekend to fuck his cousin. There’s a sick knot in Harry’s stomach; he refuses to let it be anything but loathing. This is more or less how he’s felt around Malfoy for three decades, and it’s fine. Teddy’s grown. Harry’ll drink and go, and the other two can get on with it.
With a searching and vaguely hostile look, Draco serves up something apparently called a Tom Collins in the States, then he’s asprawl beside Teddy on the steps, too. The pair of them shield their eyes as they squint smirking up at Harry. Draco’s white undershirt—the toff at least took off his dress shirt to fly—remains immaculate; he doesn’t break that strange sharp eye contact as he speaks. God does Harry despise this fit fuck and his wide mouth.
“Edward, do you always let your godfather thrash you like that? Six to two is positively ritualistic.”
Oh, let Malfoy fucking look. Harry roves his eyes right back over Draco and Teddy’s symmetrical lounging, and then it comes to him: Harry’s the pretext, the dinner part of the dinner date, the goddamn seared salmon share-plate foreplay. Harry did not raise Teddy to have enough hangups, Jesus.
Teddy grins and takes a slow sip, tilting his long throat to the sun. “Call it nostalgia. Did you enjoy it, Harry? That’s the important part.”
From Teddy? Not fucking on. Spectating’s one thing, getting toyed with’s another. Harry flicks a wandless icepick of a cooling charm at Teddy and is pleased with the commensurate jump and shiver. “Don’t give yourself heat stroke,” he snaps. “Did you not want to muss your trousers, Draco, or was seven-to-one your best outing?” Teddy’s still shiny but his nipples have pebbled, their barbells glinting. Harry glares at Malfoy to comfort himself.
“I’m content with my afternoon,” Malfoy replies. “The pair of you are a delight to watch.” Whatever Harry’d expected out of taunting him, speculating warmth wasn’t on the list, and Teddy’s twitching mouth confounds Harry further. “Do sit down, Potter. D’you play these Seekers’ games often? Once he’s out of his leathers he’s been nothing but lazy with me.” Malfoy gestures to the shaded step above him and Teddy.
One near-nude and gleaming, one crisp and covered but for strong pale forearms, two curled mouths. A Dark Mark for good measure. Ah, and there goes Teddy’s tell, hair rippling black to platinum and settling again to the familiar red-brown. It was dirty blonde when he was little. Fuck’s sake.
Knees creaking, Harry drops down on the stair—neither of them makes room, the degenerates, so Harry has to tilt towards Draco to spare himself the sight of Teddy’s tanned hipbones—and girds his loins to endure. Twenty, thirty minutes, tops. He’s ridden out worse.
— ERL —
Oi, Harry caught Teddy's hair fritzing again. But it’s fine, he’s fine, fucking hell, this might really work. A decade-long brutal heart-stomp of a crush, of waiting for Harry to notice, then to let himself want Teddy back—and all it’s taken to tip things into motion is one summer of Teddy throwing himself at Draco sodding Malfoy. Which has been far from a hardship. Look at the man.
Harry does, that’s for sure. Teddy can’t really believe they haven’t figured their shit out yet, or at least sucked cocks about it once or twice in some prissy gala loo, but it seems they have no idea they’re glaring at each other’s mouths whenever they’re not fully eyefucking. God help anyone who wants a word in edgewise. Embarrassing. Hot? Embarrassing. Neither even notices Teddy stretch out his shoulders, his obliques, his hips. And the chat up is absolutely outrageous—Teddy drains his drink while Harry angles his entire open-legged self on the stair towards Draco, dick-first, like Harry’s trying to intercept the whole sinister lech thing Draco aims Teddy’s way, but meantime has forgotten not to be a panting slag.
That’s likely on the money, actually. Poor Hazza, really, blind to what’s good for him, too stubborn to take what he wants, and an open book, to boot. Or he is to Teddy, always has been. And what fun that’s been, to see all of Harry so well and get to have only the noblest piece of him.
An armslength away, his godfather’s mouth twists in a sneer truer than half the sweetness he loads on Teddy, more genuine with his disdain than his affection, and fuck this. Fuck these years of Harry playacting Nice Daddy. Teddy’s going to root out the whole of Harry Potter, just the once, wring the entire truth of him—of them—between Teddy's two hands, look him in the eyes and force understanding. Just one time—Teddy isn't stupid enough to imagine it’ll be durable, tenable. And maybe this’ll finally knock those two fucks together. They can thank him later.
Then, and thank god dick is cheap and abundant, Teddy will fuck off to get bounced on every fat prick between Wales and London, for as long as it takes to get the taste of Harry’s come out of his mouth. Or maybe he’ll shack up with Draco, if Harry biffs it. The man’s a genuine pleasure, as witty and generous as he is exacting, plus Teddy could’ve clocked Draco’s horse cock all the way from Switzerland through those lightweight trousers he likes.
Teddy gently lifts Harry’s highball out of his gesticulating hand—he’s off on some twist about how rest and recovery, Malfoy, is part of a pro athlete’s job, all right—and tilts his head to watch the two of them bicker it out. Twenty years since they’ve seen each other more than annually, and still utterly obsessed with each other. Draco Malfoy’s blushing to the ears, for fuck’s sake, and Harry’s deep skin looks suspiciously ruddy. Teddy wants their dicks jostling together in his mouth so goddamn bad.
Fine, let them work each other up; Harry is Draco’s problem, anyway, always has been. It’s too hot for this. Finishing Harry’s drink, Teddy toes off his trainers and comes to stand between them in his socked feet, one knee nudging into Harry’s shoulder. He presses the ball of the other foot into Draco’s thigh and waits for their argument to peter out, for Draco to wrap long fingers around his ankle.
Then Teddy passes Harry his empty glass. “Need to rinse off, I’m itchy. Harry, will you be here when I come back? I’ll only take a few minutes.”
Draco scrapes his eyes up Teddy’s body, but Harry doesn’t. Ugh.
“Sure, Teds. See you in a sec. Malfoy, you can’t actually buy Pudd’s crock about the aerodynamics coverup, you aren’t that thick.” They’re off again, and incidentally both wrong about the broom-charm mechanics of the scandal, though Teddy’s thrilled they’re having fun. Is it time for heavier artillery? Might as well.
“Draco, look here again?”
Puzzled, leering—maybe even a little fond—Draco’s face tilts up. Hand to Harry’s shoulder for unnecessary balance-help, Teddy bends at the hip, leaning close enough for Draco’s eyes to widen and then narrow. “Harry, you let him sit here with filth on his face?” Teddy licks his thumb and wipes a nonexistent smudge from the corner of Draco’s smirking mouth out the stubbly line of his jaw. “I’ll bring you back a cloth, Malfoy, such a mess.”
Draco grins; Teddy preens. It’s so nice to be enjoyed. “Use the east guest bath, Edward. Call for Franco if you need. And take your time, I’ll keep him here for you.” Teddy can feel Harry’s temper simmering, and Harry’s eyes on Teddy’s barbells, too. Good enough. He straightens. Without looking, Teddy brushes a fingertip through Harry’s grey streak, pads across the colonnade, and, just outside the high shady doorway, slips out of his shorts and socks.
DLM — —
Well. Shorts off, beneath the jock, Edward’s untanned arse shines cream-pale. Harry swiveled to look too when Draco near bit through his lip, and after the socks go—tan lines there, as well, indecent—Harry tries to turn back slow enough to keep his dignity. Once Draco starts watching for it, though, Harry becomes completely transparent. How long, Draco wonders, and who first, and has anything happened? Likely no, by the ruddy edge of Harry’s cheeks and the shame knotting his sweat-beaded brow.
Draco’s…delighted. Is that the word? Yes, delighted. Harry denying himself for no earthly reason, and his devious young godson plying him till his pious little bubble pops, or somebody’s prick pops it for him. It’s all making for a delightful afternoon, or August, or autumn—however long this escapade takes. Draco dearly wishes Edward had brought him aboard sooner.
Harry stares off square-jawed towards the south terrace and tries to start up on Chaser regimens again, but no, they won’t be doing that. Draco cuts him off mid-syllable.
“Say the word and I’ll get out of the way,” he drawls. “You can have him to yourself for the week-end. Would you like a guest suite?” Oh, it’s like a devolution to his natural form, like the state of total bastardry has been waiting open-armed for Draco to unclench and return. Maturity has been so fucking dull. Who is he without this man to sharpen his teeth on, after all?
But the gaze Harry lifts to Draco doesn’t spark at all—no shock or resentment or ire, just flat hostility. “You’re a real evil cunt, Malfoy, you know that?”
Draco smiles. “Well, yes.”
He wonders if Harry’s ever spoken about this to anyone, if a single person’s ever seen through the Saviour’s fortress of good press and broad shoulders to the deviant beneath, the one with his eyes glued to his godson’s arse.
There’s a moment of quiet. “And you say weekend like a dowager countess.” Harry’s eyes dart over Draco’s face in a flash of jasper green, and he turns away again.
This’ll take all of twenty minutes. Draco clicks his tongue. “Quit flirting, Potter. What would Edward say if he caught you? Or have you two got an arrangement? He’s been rather forward all summer, I must confess.”
Ah, too far. Harry’s face slams shut. “Close your fucking mouth. Shut the fuck up, Draco.”
Draco, though. How nice to have a thirty-year-old tell.
He’ll be gentle. “What are you here for, then?” Harry doesn’t answer, and Draco plucks the front of his undershirt for a little air circulation. “Have you any idea?”
Harry makes a complicated little twist of his hand, and a cool wind rustles the hawthorns and lifts Draco’s hair from his damp forehead. Quietly, Harry reaches to neaten the trainers Teddy left strewn on the steps into a tidy pair. Fussing with one white shoelace, he says, “Should I deprive him of a family, just because I’m too fucked to be decent?”
Draco honest to god buries his face in his hands laughing—has to grab for Harry’s shoulder to keep him from heaving off into whatever black-and-white panoptic moral universe he imagines himself to be the center of.
“No, Potter, wait. No, stay.” Draco has to take a sip of his gin to unfuck his voice from choking a little. “Did they literally name the saviour complex after you? He wants you desperately, and he’s well and truly grown. And I do mean well, Edward’s a rare piece of work.” Draco’s about to get his nose broken. “Healthy, healthy, is what I’m saying. Sane and grounded. Can you stop being a righteous prick long enough to see it? A sight more self-actualized than either of us, surely.” Barely containing his guffaw, he watches Harry, absently kneading the idiot’s shoulder.
Harry’s slow to speak. “His parents are spinning in their graves, and it’d be a bell I couldn’t unring.”
Sweet, upright, dumbshit Harry. “They’re dead and the bell’s rung. The poor boy’s prostrating himself. Might as well make him happy, to say nothing of yourself.” Draco worries his lower lip with his tongue, considering. “Or come watch, at least. Be honest in the same room. I won’t make you lay a hand on him.”
This is a lie; Draco will likely have Edward’s lips and cheeks bulging with both their cocks in short order. Hands aren’t necessary, he supposes.
Harry turns down to inspect where Draco’s own hand still braces his bicep. Draco leaves it there until Harry sucks his teeth.
Draco levers up. “Right. Strangely, Potter, I’d rather be balls-deep in your godson than indulging a crisis of martyrdom. Feel free to join in whatever capacity you choose when you realize you agree. Or Franco can help you find the Floo.” He confiscates the highball glasses and tosses his last play over his shoulder: “And don’t fret for Edward, regardless. He’s told me how he likes it.”
Maybe that’ll do it, or maybe Harry’s incapable of letting a good thing happen to him. Nothing more to be done today. Draco’s going to see if Edward will budge on the terms of their bargain, if Harry doesn’t follow. Draco has a preference, but he’s nothing if not adaptable.
The Manor’s cooling charms and the gracious afternoon dim of the southeast staircase have dissipated the sun from his skin by the time he hears that gauche swish of Harry’s trackies well behind him. Their gaits echo heavy over the flagstone, just out of step; no one is rushing. Through the carven vines of the mezzanine’s balustrade, from above, he glimpses Harry’s locked jaw, the darkened cotton sticking to his chest, Edward’s trainers held at his side.
—
“Edward? Time,” Draco calls from the threshold of the east guest suite. Sun and steam spill from the door of the bath on the far side of the room; the Manor supplied the boy with Draco’s summer soaps, by the scent of lapsang souchong and pine sap. Draco doesn’t slow for a second as he passes the socks Edward’s abandoned between the armchairs, nor the shorts crumpled at the edge of the duvet. The jock on the floor, though—at twenty-three it’s a coin flip whether this is seduction or slovenliness, Edward, good god—Draco scoops into his pocket along the way, sparing a wistful thought for the notion of having taken it off Edward himself, or of leaving it on for the duration. Harry’s perhaps sixty seconds behind. Under the bouquet of tea and resin, there’s still the faintest trace of clean sweat. “Edward?”
Edward laughs. “You have him?” Wet and bare and tan in the sunlit white anteroom to the bath, he scrubs at his hair with a plush bit of ivory toweling, grin burgeoned like the gold belly of a trophy as Draco saunters towards him. Harry can do what he likes; Draco will take this boy by the nape and pound him teetering over the copper tub until the tub’s as dented as Edward’s…all right.
One dent at a time. Draco tosses the towel away and cards a hand through Edward’s hair. Edward lets him tug his head back, but when Draco aims to put teeth to summer-warm throat, Edward's palm slips over Draco’s mouth. “Broke him in under ten minutes? I don’t believe you.”
Muffled against Edward’s callused palm: “He followed me up here. Give it, sweet, it’s mine.”
Draco allows the palm but forces Edward’s free wrist behind and across the narrow saddle of his back, letting go of Edward’s hair to splay insinuating fingers over the flexing rounds of Edward’s arse. Edward is on the move, though, pushing Draco back into the bedroom with his hand still over Draco’s frown, pressing Draco’s own scent into his nose. Sturdy little fucker, isn’t he. He laughs up into Draco’s face and twists to peer over his shoulder as Draco tries to hold ground.
“Liar. Hazza?” He’s loud, it’s certainly echoing down the hall to his godfather. “Calling one Harry Potter, miraculously ready to fuck me? A mister Draco Malfoy alleges he handled in mere moments what I couldn’t in years.” Fucking flirt. “Are you out here, Potter, can you verify the—don’t fucking bite me, I don’t know where your mouth’s been—can you verify the claim? Calling Harry James—oh, fuck.”
Edward’s lovely long face slips slack, his whirlcolor eyes fluttering closed, and Draco had fucking known he’d be like this, mouthy then liquid when handled with the slightest bit of skill. The hand on Edward’s arse has slunk lower, hitching him up onto the tips of his toes; Draco has Edward’s balls rolling in his palm, frets his thumb-knuckle into the tender flesh behind them, with the flat of his inner wrist giving Edward a bit of pressure, a bit of friction between his cheeks. More than a bit, since his knees aren’t particularly holding him up. He’s wet there from the shower, damp everywhere, really, leaving a watery Edward-print on Draco’s front. Draco tightens his grip, rubs with his thumb. With the damn hand still over Draco’s mouth, lax and forgotten now, Edward tips his platinum head forward and spills a long whine into Draco’s neck. Draco can feel the pulse thudding through Edward’s cock as it fills against Draco’s thigh, and why not, why not press his leg forward and give the boy something to rut on.
From behind them, a brutal gust of breath clamps itself off: that’s Harry in the doorway having his crisis, of course. Edward, for his part, remains boneless and whimpering and delightful, oblivious, all his years of Quidditch muscle and pitch awareness rendered useless in the face of some minor taint play. He’d have let Draco do this either way, clearly. Sweet little slag, the easiest thing Draco’s ever seen.
And poor, poor Harry, with his perfect timing. Draco lets him listen, lets him see Edward’s tawny arms flop around Draco’s neck, then cling; Draco’s magic has loosened Edward only the very slightest bit but slicked him thoroughly, and Edward buries his face deeper in Draco’s throat like a tantruming puppy as Draco slides two fingers inside, just to the first knuckle. Soothing him’s as natural as anything, stroking Edward up and down from the crown of his damp head to the soft pale skin of his arse.
This’ll be the last thing that’s just between them, the last of Edward’s sweetness laid bare for Draco alone to relish. Draco twinges at being the fulcrum and not the dearly coveted prize, but Edward shudders and angles for more of Draco’s fingertips, panting; Draco’s a forgiving man. Gathering Edward close and held, Draco murmurs into his upturned ear like a secret, like a present, and Edward’s eyelashes shiver against Draco’s jaw.
“You said, Edward, it’s mine. We had a deal. Will your little hole be ready? He’s in the doorway.”
Edward snaps alert: Draco’s ready for him, flexing his knuckles in to lavish a wave of pressure on Edward’s prostate as he turns them both in place, turns them so Edward can see his godfather at the threshold, so he can watch Harry watch him get fucked. The helpless, bewildered moan into Draco’s ear is fucking exquisite.
This Draco pitches at a volume for everyone: “Potter, he’s gorgeous at this, you should have said. Here, listen, this is only two—” and eyes locked to Harry’s, Edward keens exactly as Draco intends.
In Draco’s periphery, Harry sways under the lintel, blurred at the edges by the afternoon shade. Even from across the room and out of the corner of his eye, Draco can tell the man’s an utter disaster—still sweaty and clutching those trainers, with his trackies doing precisely nothing to hide a truly fearsome erection. Undignified, honestly.
“See what you do to your godfather, sweet?” Draco’s still loud enough for Harry to hear over Edward. “Look how much he wants to put that fat cock inside you, he can barely breathe. What a perfect slut you are, getting him so hard and thick. Don’t you want it, sweetheart? Don’t you need his big heavy prick stretching you full? Say yes, won't you.”
By a cruel handful of hair, Draco nods Edward’s head for him dumb and slow, and grinds his own cock against the heaving plane of Edward’s belly, which might be gasping or might be starting to laugh a little. Draco, sensing the return of Edward’s capacity to rebut, cradles him soft against his shoulder and tilts to sink a bruising kiss deep in his moaning mouth, only pausing to call, “Three, Harry, that’s three.”
The pillock’s still just standing at the door, for fuck’s sake. He can’t even really see anything untoward from his angle. Between swallowing Edward’s escalating yelps, Draco glimpses how one hand’s come up to clutch the doorjamb, though, so cheers to growth, Harry.
Oh, Edward’s very good, satin-mouthed and hungry and yielding, tasting of lemon. Catching on to the scope of his fine fortune, if Draco’s any judge. Tugging at Edward’s tits makes him scrabble and whine, and the little slut’s riding Draco’s three fingers hard, spread-legged on his tiptoes so he can fuck down onto Draco’s hand faster. Just fucking voracious and perfect. Somewhere in the back of his mind Draco had lazy plans for the two of them—a long punishing fuck alternating holes with Edward flat on the bed, then stretching his throat in the steam shower for round two, perhaps—but it’s not the show called for today. Draco wants to watch Harry watch everything. A splay, a gape, a pillage.
And, miracle of miracles, when Draco pulls his wet fingers from Edward’s arse to tease the boy’s cock a little, Edward clutches at his wrist and nods towards the door. Harry’s made his way to one of the armchairs. Honestly quite impressive that he could walk, with all the blood in his body in that third leg of his.
Draco has to smile; he’s genuinely proud. “Oh, good, Potter, you found the cuck chair. Here, I got you something.” Draco whips Edward’s jock straight into Harry’s face and bullies a grinning Edward back towards the nearest piece of furniture to be had. “I don’t want to look. Is Harry huffing your jock, sweet, or is he still trying not to come in his trackies?”
Edward slumps forward into Draco’s mouth, delighted fingers plucking at Draco’s waistband, but still manages to project for Harry—“Both.”
Good boy. Very good. Draco lingers over Edward’s straining cock for a moment, tugs his balls for emphasis, then eases Edward gasping up onto the credenza and palms the back of his skull before it can smack the wall behind.
“There you are, sweet, that’s perfect, just perfect. Play with your tits for me, there’s a love. You wanted my kit off, didn’t you? Harry, make sure he doesn’t touch his cock, you're the pro.”
Draco steps out of his flying loafers and undoes his belt, stripping off his dampened undershirt and trousers. Edward flicks a hungry-eyed pattern from Harry to Draco’s face and chest and prick, back to Harry, plucking at his barbells with both flinching hands. He’s a sight, a long, smooth, laughing creature of lean muscle and summer skin, hair and eyes in flux, with that shocking unsunned strip of not-shorts framing a cock ruddied to jewel-purple and listing heavily to the right. A bead of precome crests his cockhead and runnels to the crease of his hip.
Something about his long feet being pale fucking does it for Draco, too. The white arches, the ankles. Draco, reaching to hold one and gripping his dick through his boxer briefs, checks on Harry and suppresses another laugh—he really does have Edward’s jock pressed over his mortified face like he’s trying and failing to chloroform himself, and that outrageous cock still threatens to rip the thigh seam of his trackies. Hell of a Saint Potter statue, next time someone wants to cast him in bronze.
Poor Edward, yearning for this lost cause. Draco wants to scoop the boy up and fuck him sweetly stupid. Lifting Edward’s ankle high enough to bend down and kiss just under the jut of bone, Draco lets him wrap the other leg around his hips and pull him close, scratch fingers through the hair on Draco’s chest. He basks in the boy’s full focus, thumbing over his mouth and cheekbone; Edward dives to knead and suck Draco’s nipples, flashing practiced doe eyes up when Draco groans. His wicked fucking mouth, good God. Too easy to picture stuffing it.
Maybe in a moment. “Show me that pretty tongue, will you? And your hands, just fold them there for me, that’s lovely, sweet. Tongue all the way out, now.” Draco’s jaw works a moment, then he spits all over Edward’s reddening face, and again onto his pink lolling tongue. “Perfect, you gorgeous thing. Give it back, won’t you? Let me taste.”
Draco bends to lick into Edward’s open mouth, one hand locked over the crossed wrists in Edward’s lap and the other splayed just one notch too tight over his throat. Edward’s weeping cock nudges Draco’s thumb, and the shuddering grin it elicits against Draco’s lips has him consciously keeping the choke at a mere implication until the last second. Charming boy. Draco tightens the clamp as he speaks, and gets back exactly the wide-eyed compliance he wants: “Edward, hold yourself open and tell me how your godfather looks while I eat you, there’s a love.” He drops to his knees to plant Edward’s feet on his shoulders.
Edward shoves right forward to the edge of the credenza. His stubby browned hands obediently splay his pale cheeks apart where he's soft and slick, not quite closed, unfurling further as he relaxes into the stretch. While he's down there the little slag works a fingertip of each hand in to open himself wider for Draco's tongue; Draco mouths from Teddy's knuckles into the flexing center, stops with his lips brushing Teddy's hole to say, "Tell me, sweet," and tastes the shudder as he slips his tongue in deep between Teddy's fingers.
Whimpering, his thighs jumping and Draco's spit drying across his nose, Edward does: “He looks—he looks like a, fuck, a hero, he won’t look at me, he’s grabbing his fuck his thigh and god the no, there, good good good your teeth, right the fuck there, he’s huffing my, the jock—have you seen those Muggle plane god, your fingers, Draco, have you seen those pl-plane pamphlets with the shit fuck Jesus please emergency masks? Stop laughing and do the teeth oh Christ, I can’t. Draco." He loses the thread and starts to shake, moaning. Draco slips another finger in alongside his tongue to give him some burn to focus on and grips Teddy's thigh hard until he speaks again. "God. Oh, god. Draco—I want him so fucking bad, still, I want it, please. Can I. More, wider, show him—god that hurts so fucking good. Harry, do you like it?” Edward’s voice deepens as he tries to control himself. “Do you—ah. Sitting there hurting, Harry, does it make you f-feel like a good, a good, a—fuck I’m gonna, please, not yet, please— like a good daddy? A good daddy who won’t, Draco you’ll make me come—a good daddy who won’t touch me? Let somebody else do it for you, watch somebody use my hole so you can p-pretend? He’s good at it. I smell f-fucking fuck fucking good, don’t I. Don’t I, Harry. Touch your fucking cock, Daddy, you fucking coward. Draco, I’m gonna come.”
With a rising wail, Edward’s orgasm clamps his whole body like a loaded spring, toes curling on Draco’s shoulders, and hot come spatters down Draco’s fingers.
Sweet boy. Landed the fuck out of that, didn’t he. Edward quakes through his comedown, and Draco works his mouth softly around the spasm, rubs his heels, kisses the back of his thighs, strokes up his legs and hips and flanks. He's going to split this perfect hole open and sloppy in a minute; he's going to watch his own come spill out of its ruin. Gently, Draco lets Edward’s knees down and clambers wincing out of his crouch, massaging Edward’s side and insisting wordlessly that he clean the mess of Draco’s fingers with his tongue.
“Perfect, sweetheart,” and it’s just for them again, a murmur, “you did so very well. I need to fuck your little arse now, sweet, come here. That’s good, I’ve got you. Perfect.” Edward isn’t light in his arms, and his trembling legs don’t help much wrapped around Draco’s hips. It’s not far to the open armchair, though, and Draco’s cock rubs the fold of Edward’s hip with every step, plus the “Fuck’s sake, Draco” shuddered into his neck—well. Hardly a strain, to coddle this boy. Under certain circumstances he does love to coddle. For a brief moment, Edward's trusting nose pressed under his ear, Draco pictures him folded in half beneath him, frantic and babbling the word he'd called Harry. Gauche to demand such a thing, obviously, but nobody's stupid, and Edward quite clearly wants it like breathing. Draco will have it by midafternoon, most likely. It'll sound sweeter to provoke him into it.
Keeping his smile between himself and the rim of Edward's ear, Draco drops a kiss there. “Can you stand, sweet? Oh, look, Edward, well done.” Draco lets Edward down and turns him, still melted to Draco’s shoulder, towards where Harry has finally rucked down his trackies. He isn’t wanking, but he’s tangled the jock in the fist clutching his purpling fat dick, the elastic obscene where it distends around the bulb of his cockhead. Draco had assumed rumors about this particular national treasure had been greatly exaggerated, and is fucking annoyed to discover the opposite. Ten years ago—five—Draco would have flicked a measuring spell at them both. How’s he even fit it in his…
Edward, though, just heaves a desperate smiling breath and reaches. Harry flinches away, rasping, “Teddy, you know I can’t, you aren’t—”
“Shut your fucking mouth if you’re going to lie,” Draco snaps.
He’s a bit shocked at his own venom; Edward had winced into his shoulder as if struck when Harry balked, and Draco had spat it out before he knew what he was saying. Edward stares at him, skeptical. “Oh, I don’t fucking know, sweet, I’ve been hard since June and he’s been a prat since 1991 at least. Come sit on my dick, won’t you? You’ll like it,” and that has Edward loose-limbed again, blooming himself up to be kissed and helping Draco tug down his boxer briefs, pulling them towards the armchair, and hell is Edward’s callused hand heaven wrapped round Draco’s cock, finally, finally, Jesus.
The boy’s caught a full second wind. That was what, all of four minutes? Cock visibly plumping, Edward pushes Draco down in the chair and bends to keep wanking him, to keep delivering slow, sucking kisses with one knee braced between Draco’s wide-set thighs on the seat. Harry’s strangled grunt is Draco’s only cue that Edward, back-arch and all, is flashing his godfather his well-slicked arsehole.
Draco can help with that, though he’s no earthly idea why Harry deserves what Edward offers again and again. He takes Edward by the jaw, pulling one barbell firmly enough to ensure his full attention. Edward’s hand tightens on Draco’s cock but doesn’t stop its slow twist. Good boy.
“Still want to put on a show, sweet?” Edward’s eyes flicker through no color Draco knows, and he nods, lower lip between his teeth, giving a particularly dear stroke to Draco’s dick. Draco holds Edward’s gaze as he speaks. “Potter, I’ll be fucking your godson’s little arse in front of you now. Think he can take the whole thing, or should I bounce him on the tip a while first? His hole was just so tight on my tongue.”
Edward sways, his eyes fluttering shut again. “No, sweet, keep them open. Your godfather’s going to wank that inferiority complex of his, and I’d like you to see it. Is he fucking your jock in his fist? Go on, have a look, love.”
Draco turns him, smooths his hands up Edward’s thighs, leaves a lavish kiss above one of the dimples at the base of Edward’s spine as his magic slicks them both, decadent.
“Yeah,” Edward says, low. “Yes.”
Draco had a plan to squat Edward over him and pull him down inch by inch, taunting the three of them until Edward broke and begged; instead, strangely tender, urgent in the face of Edward’s quiet, Draco finds himself gathering him down into his lap, one arm wrapping around to rub slow circles over the boy’s chest, using his own thighs to spread Edward’s and fumbling to lift him clear enough to press his aching cockhead into Edward’s sucking heat.
He slides deep in one greedy, devouring, inevitable roll, bullying in too tight, too hot, Edward’s weight and moaned curses settling fully on him, damp now from sweat. Edward slopes back on Draco's shoulder in a liquid trusting languor, nose wrinkling his face into a greedy snarl through the stretch, the good, thorough, grinding join, and snakes his arms up to cling in Draco’s hair, at his neck. He vines one foot around Draco’s calf and flexes it there, so artlessly that it roots something in Draco's belly.
And so into Edward’s ear, still soothing his chest, he murmurs just loud enough for Harry: “Sweetheart, I know it’s too big, you take it so beautifully. Does it hurt? You sound so goddamned lovely. Grind on it, sweet one, he’s watching, that’s right, I’ll fuck you so thick and so deep for him, I’ll do it. Can you hear him stripping that monstrous cock for you? Hush, hush, just for a moment, sweetheart, listen for it, that’s how much he wants to be in you, to fuck his cock in you. Hear it? That’s right. Good, sweet, that was so good, loud as you want now. Oh, more, darling? Do you want to bounce a little? I’ll bounce you, I’ll fuck you on this fat cock so deep you taste it. Just like that, just right there, sweet, I’ll bounce you. Harry likes that, doesn’t he, look, look how he’s watching your pretty cock swing. Perfect, god. I’ll tip us forward and pound you through the carpet, sweetheart, if you’ll keep making those sounds for me, would you like that? Right here on all fours so you can stare up at his prick, I’ll do it. You want to taste it, don't you, you want to suckle it and choke on it while I fuck your pretty hole loose. Spread wider, love, that’s right, get your legs over the armrests, nice and wide, show him. Beautiful. Show him how your little arse sucks me in, sweet. Ride a little. Perfect, perfect. Edward, my god, god, the best little fuck I’ve had, perfect, love, you’re so very fucking good.”
Edward watches Harry through lowered lids, fidgety with pleasure, sound falling from his mouth in an incoherent, unpredictable stream, sometimes his almost-words rising to a keen when Draco revs the tempo before easing them back down. Spread, splayed, each knee flung wide, his sweaty back sliding on Draco's chest, Edward's powerful lean thighs flex and stretch to wriggle for pressure and friction, and his blood-dark cock jostles obscenely in its pale backdrop as he rolls. He reaches to fist it every few moments and then loses himself riding Draco’s cock into a daze.
Draco’s as fuckdrunk as Edward, couldn’t stop the rush of it if he tried—he runs hands mindlessly over every inch of Edward he can reach, stroking his hair, his chest, his cock, his flanks, his arms, the dear soft planes inside his wrists, murmuring, murmuring. Draco loves this long middle part, the indulgence, the vise-tight grind and bounce and spoiling the fuck out of the boy. Loves hauling Edward's jaw around and gripping him in place to have his mouth pillaged, to mutter nonsense praise against his lips. The drugged haze in Edward's eyes from an inch away. And—through it all, the frantic suppressed sound of Harry losing a fight with himself, like he's trying to pretend he isn't here, and the choked-off cursing and uneven slap of his fist stripping his cock anyway, long panting silences while he fends off the finish it seems would send him from the room in shame.
It’s abject, the yawning gap between the armchairs, the melting decadence on one side and brutal abnegation on the other. Draco doesn’t understand the point of it; Harry’s in the fucking room with them, reverently watching Draco’s cock reshape his godson. But Harry hasn’t left yet, and Draco, who will joyfully hand Edward the deed to the Manor if he’ll only keep doing that with his hips, had been told Edward wanted both men inside. There’s no reason not to try.
Draco slows them but doesn’t quite stop, angling himself away in the chair so Edward can only arch and wind on a few inches of cock. For the first time in all this, he locks eyes with miserable Harry while Draco speaks to Edward, while he fucks Edward onto just the head so Harry can see, watches the wrenched yearning warp through jealousy and obliterating lust. “Sweet, he’s close. He’s so close. Do you still want both of us, at once? It’ll be too full in here, your little hole’s too tight, he won’t fit, love. Can you make him a pretty little cunt to come in, just as tight as your arsehole? I want…” He has to swallow. “I want to feel his cock in you next to mine, sweet. I want it.”
Face like an apocalypse, Harry clamps the base of his prick in a savage grip, almost levering up out of the chair. Edward moans long and low, and then swears softly, buries his face against Draco’s ear, and stills: after a long moment Draco’s hand, which had been gently rolling Edward’s balls, grasps around shrinking weight. The soft flesh of Edward’s perineum parts and dampens. Harry curses at the sight and then quiets, stills himself too, and the whole room’s an empty palm outheld, waiting.
Testing, Draco traces up the softening seam, pads of his fingertips circling the thumb-sized nub where splayed Edward gets loud, managing a climbing tenor chant of please, god, inside, I need, both, please, please; Draco takes his time slipping down along the folds to dip lightly into a soaked, pulsing grip. Edward bucks; Draco knows precisely what's on the tip of the boy's tongue, wants it badly, and will have it before Edward gets what he's asking for.
Doesn't take much. Two fingertips, swirling at the wet clasping heart of him; "Tell us, sweet, say it and it's yours," just for Edward, just into his sweet reddened ear; Draco presses his lips to Edward's temple and he's off, Daddy fuck me daddy please please both jesus get in I need I need it both my fucking holes, daddy, both, both I love it deeper both daddy both.
There it is, new air, cracking open. Fucking delightful, a vulgar miracle. Draco brings both hands to Edward’s cunt, finds the stroking pressure between two spread knuckles along the length of his clit that convinces the shudder into his thighs, fill it fill it up daddy please I need I need. It sounds so good Draco has to pinch the soft crease of Edward's hip about it, has to make him writhe and moan a cresting wordless protest. They need the brakes, even though he still only has half Draco's cock in him; Edward will come if Draco plays with his clit much longer, and Draco wants to watch Harry's face as Edward's needy cunt takes its first fuck.
And Edward's been so very good, hasn't he, so richly deserves the finger Draco curls inside him. His cunt sucks Draco deeper; Harry lets out a true groan and they both watch his abused prick leap and weep in his lap. This fucking sod. Somewhere in the melt of the fuck Draco grasps that he does want the idiot for Edward, that Edward should have him, that Harry should allow it. Draco wants it for himself, actually, to see it up close, Harry freeing himself. How they could wreck Edward together, stealing each other's air. But Edward lets out a shredded whine—for needing Harry, and to get fucked, too, and screws his face shut to force onto Draco's hand. Draco feels him wrench himself away from the ache back to only pleasure, how he turns and begs quietly and then not quietly at all into the spot behind Draco's ear, daddy please yes daddy more please another daddy I love it another thicker more daddy please, please, please. Not yet; just the one, so Edward can whine on the not-enough of it. His cunt, begging too, spasms irregularly on Draco's finger.
But Edward, stilling, reaches back and twists Draco's face down to his, presses his forehead to Draco's nose, gasping. It's for him, it's between them now: Edward rasps please, Daddy, fuck me, and truly what else could Draco possibly do but give him precisely what he needs. What'll get him what he needs. Draco sets the heel of his palm to Edward's clit hard, fingers splayed over the drenched heat of his cunt, holds him still with it, and pushes the rest of his throbbing cock slowly, steadily back into Edward’s clenching arse, the entire length and thickness of him in, out-in, over and again, until little Edward—sobbing, begging, only half-full—shakes apart, daddy god no daddy fill it up please please fuck me daddy please, and with both hands Draco spreads his spasming cunt agape for Harry to see the empty wring.
— — HJP
Fuck it.
— ERL —
Raw, raw, split open already, and he’s here, he’s here. Draco’s so big inside him there’s no room for Teddy in his own body, floating and clenching by turns, tremors shaking his mind out his mouth insensate: Harry surges up years late and finds him, finds them.
He has Teddy by the cheek, presses his starving mouth to Teddy’s and pins him against Draco’s cradling shoulder, daddy, daddy, sucking, biting, needing, a huge dark weight; the blunt sponge head of his cock Harry’s cock Harry’s cock won’t fit up Teddy’s cunt won’t go. Teddy can’t spread any wider the hold of his body stretched and stretched: any more and he’ll burst, except this starving starving hole needs stuffing up like the other, like Draco behind huge and safe and rutting Teddy open. Harry rumbles and earths them, Harry says Teddy love give it, I fucking want it, give it, baby boy, you fucking slut, it’s mine, this cunt’s for me, this tight little fucking cunt you made is mine. It’s true. Harry says it ugly into his mouth and Draco laughs, delighted, and fucks him.
Daddy a seesawing beat on Teddy’s tongue paced to the breath of them, to the fuck of them, daddy daddy please daddy. It presses, Harry’s fist around his own cock the flat ring of his finger and thumb it presses, it presses to the wet split, the fat beastly head pressing through, aimed and relentless and huge, stuffing him, Harry into Teddy's mouth naming him baby, baby boy, sweet fucking cunt, mine, my sweet boy. Draco in his ear the water, the laughing current floating him, love, sweetheart, he’s here, you'll take him, we have you, perfect, stretch for us. Take him for us, love.
Teddy lets everything but daddy’s cocks float from him, Teddy’s gonna fucking break again already already from the stuffed up muchness of his whole-fucked split arse and just the cruel blunt head daddy reams into his cunt, god only the head, the cunt he made so daddy could fill it up full. Harry hurts him as he fucks, Harry says you wanted it little boy so take it, fucking take my big dick, Teddy, Harry needs Teddy too bad to be sweet, he’s here, he’s here, he’s here so wide each fuck noses just a little more here into Teddy, yes here daddy here god it hurts daddy please I’ll come I’ll come I’ll come. He does and daddy doesn’t stop.
When he can hear again Draco has Harry by the back of the neck, bracing, pulling their foreheads together. From Draco’s shoulder Teddy can only see their stubble, Harry chewing his lip, Draco gritting his teeth, Harry’s pulse flickering in his throat and in Teddy’s cunt both. Too big, jostling. Slow, Harry, slow, you idiot, let me feel you in him, fuck him through it. That slide again, that’s right, fuck. Shit, yes. Like that, darling, stretch him. Hear how he loves it? Here, pull back when I—yes, fuck, perfect, darling—and in, like that, good, good. Feels even better than you thought, doesn’t it? Harry nods slow, trembling, only god half his cock pressing wider where Teddy's cunt still clasps to the pound of his heart. Harry leans on Draco's forehead, Harry pants and stares at where he's fucking and bruises Teddy's waist daddy daddy where he grips.
Draco has them. Such a fucking treasure you get to wreck, look at him. Could have had this all along, then you wouldn’t be such a mess, would you. Stupid. Can you fit your whole fat idiot cock in him before you come? Oh, he’s tight, darling, I know, I know. He made it tight for you. Here, darling, we’re too big, he can’t fit us. Give us your thumb, we’ll fix it, we’ve got him. Draco sucks it into his mouth and Harry’s big hand cups his jaw, awed, coming away with strings of spit. Haven’t you opened a cunt before? Kiss him more, he likes it. He’s already come twice, won’t take a minute, perfect little thing. Teddy crushed between them weight and heat Harry kissing like iron like magnet like gravity, then air between, just enough for daddy’s hands, Draco tugging and twisting his tits sharp and clear, rolling thick into his arse again. Fullness already gathering.
Brace on his hip and stroke him, darling, rub your thumb—oh very good. Yes, circles. God, look how he shakes. Love, no clenching, sweetheart, let us in, we have you so well. So well. Harry, with his breath, in, I’ll—god—fuck—huge, deeper, invading, sliding, waves and waves of it smooth and soaked and splitting, letting, unclutching, letting daddy daddy daddy daddy fuck up his arse and everywhere all the way till his insides are the shape of them—
They catch it before he breaks, they catch the rhythm, they hold him entirely. Draco grinding twisting up from below, deepest, Harry working long inescapable strokes so huge at the top daddy Teddy weeps and weeps and weeps, Harry’s thumb circling and circling, Draco laughing, I told you you could have it, darling, isn’t he sweet, fuck him just like that, he’s perfect, he’s perfect, it’s perfect, stroking Teddy’s chest, Harry’s arms, touching, touching, pulling Harry down to Teddy’s mouth like gravity, catching Harry’s jaw, their starved biting laughing kiss a bellows gusting the room hotter and hotter, sliding home past each other again and again, two ruthless creatures matched. Teddy’s cradled safe the whole time.
Then a gasping moaning chorus out of sync, daddy, d—, Harry cursing against Draco’s shoulder, into Teddy’s mouth, driving their pace to a hot wringing hell, a wordless clawing—Teddy comes so hard he pushes Harry all the way out, gushing, sobbing, and on the other side Draco’s laughing again—Harry left so bereft standing there in his fucking trackies and t-shirt with his cock soused in Teddy’s white come that Draco says Here, darling, you moron, give it, just—hold his cheek and look at me, he’ll settle—Harry does, Teddy sucks Harry’s thumb, it’s nice—then Draco takes Harry’s dick in his cruel fist grinning, and then not, staring up at Harry and his heaving chest, his cock hardening just that touch more as he fucks without rhythm or attention into Teddy’s sore arse and works Harry’s cock very exactly. Something’s turned in the room, unlatching. Holding its breath.
Teddy clenches Draco inside him slowly, thoroughly, minutely grinding down and up, again, again, pulse still a thunder. Nestled back on Draco’s shoulder, he’s trying, despite his tremors, not to break what’s arcing. He wants Draco to come inside him, to keep it there a while; he wants Harry in his mouth, on his face, his chest; he decides he’ll ask for it, and does, nosing close under Draco’s chin, murmuring into the quiet, daddy, want your come, give it please, speaking around Harry’s thumb, clenching, sucking, clenching. Harry bends low over Draco’s upturned face, a threat, a plea as Draco starts to shudder and jump, hissing short bursts of air through his teeth, missing not one single twist of Harry’s furious cock. Darling, fuck, I’ll—Teddy opens his mouth wide, wider, daddy please, for me, want it—Harry grunts and paints great spurts across Teddy’s tongue, jaw, Draco’s working throat, and deep up Teddy’s clutching arse Draco spends himself with a wracking moan.
—
They don’t let him leave, it’s surreal. Late in the night, on the south colonnade, Draco—the blush, visible at fucking night! Thirty years, the goddamn simpletons—Draco, stroking his thumb over the arch of Teddy’s foot, steals Harry’s cigarette and kisses him in the dark.
