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in the flesh

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When Draco and Harry decided to get a townhouse together, all their friends predicted it would end in disaster within the month.

Draco thinks money may have actually changed hands over it; Theo was never one to pass up the opportunity to set up a betting pool, especially at the expense of his friends. That stakes of some sort had been established was obvious; he and Harry compared notes each evening, about who had approached them that day and what they’d said in a coy attempt to instigate a fight.

He thinks Ron must have won the pool, because after three months had passed and they were still cohabitating, he came to pub night one week looking terribly smug, and he’d bought Harry and Draco’s first three rounds with no explanation whatsoever. Hermione had also been oddly grumpy that evening.

After a couple of years, he and Harry are rubbing along quite nicely, though. It had surprised them both, how little they actually argued; Harry likes cooking but hates dishes, and Draco can’t cook but enjoys keeping a clean kitchen, so even the division of chores hasn’t been a problem. They keep similar schedules, are fond of quiet evenings, and conduct their weekend business discreetly (although Harry is definitely more prone to forgetting Silencing spells than Draco; Draco’s spent a few too many nights wide awake in his bedroom, sweating with the effort it takes to not touch himself to the sound of Harry screaming himself to orgasm with whoever he’d brought home that time). Their friend groups get along well enough that there aren’t issues having multiple sets of people over at once, and the building is big enough that they can have privacy whenever they need it.

There’s a garden out back that they plan out over the winters, and tackle together in the springs. It’s terribly domestic, when Draco stops to think about it—which he tries not to do too much. He doesn’t like to consider the feelings that accompany such musings, if he can help it.

Sometimes he catches Harry looking at him like he has similar thoughts, but he never says anything, either.

It’s probably for the best.

Years of familiarity breeds a level of casualness, of assumptions to one another’s time and space, and they’ve both become accustomed to walking into whatever room the other is in without announcing themselves, provided they know they’re alone.

That policy, Draco thinks dazedly as he lets Harry’s bedroom door shut behind him, may have to be revisited.

Harry’s face-down on his bed with a pillow under his hips that he’s rutting into. He’s got a sheen of sweat over his back, and he’s working a dildo in and out of his arse, and he’s so noisy that Draco’s shocked he hasn’t broken through the Silencing charms he’s draped his room in.

Is that what might have been happening, the nights Draco’s been able to hear him?

Draco’s getting hard shockingly fast in his joggers, and he really should not be standing here watching this, he knows that, it’s clear Harry hadn’t even heard him come in (and how could he, god, those sounds are going straight to Draco’s cock), but he feels frozen to the ground, and then Harry’s head twists out from the pillow and he chokes out “Draco...” and there’s no chance he’s leaving now.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, but it must have been loud enough to cut through whatever fog Harry’s in, because his head whips around and he stares at Draco, eyes huge and hazy, whimpers of pleasure still dripping from his lips as they watch each other from across the room.

Draco palms at the outline of his cock over his joggers, and Harry drops his eyes directly to Draco’s groin, and that’s it; he crosses the room, kicking off the joggers as he goes, and crawls over next to Harry on the mattress.

“Look at you,” he says softly, reverently, reaching over and skimming his hand over Harry’s back. He scores his nails down the sweaty skin lightly, and Harry arches his back, grinding further into the pillow under his hips, muttering something that trails off into a hiss, and oh, Draco did not know that was on the table.

His hand goes lower, squeezing Harry’s firm, muscled arse, and finally he traces his fingers over where Harry’s holding the toy. “Harry… God, Harry, can I? Will you let me?” He sounds desperate, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to care, especially when Harry chokes out a desperate yes and lets go of the dildo.

Draco scrambles up to his knees and gets behind Harry, straddling his legs and twisting the toy in hard, looking for the angle that will make Harry scream. He wants to hear what all those other people did, wants to listen to it knowing it’s for him this time.

Harry pushes back against the toy, whining and squirming, and Draco can’t look away. “Merlin, Harry, who knew you were such a fucking slut for this? Do you let your hookups see you like this, all tangled in your sheets and sweating and desperate? Do they know that when you’re alone it’s me you think about?” He runs his free hand up until it’s cupping the back of Harry’s neck, and he pushes down gently. “How long have you been waiting for me to see you like this? How many times did you wish it were me making you scream?”

“Oh fuck, Draco,” Harry chokes, and Draco rewards him with a punishing thrust against his prostate. “Every time. Every time. I always— I’ve always wanted— Fuck, Draco, I need you to fuck me, now.”

“Are you sure, Harry?” Draco coos, slowly pulling the toy out. “I’m bigger than this. Are you sure you can take me?”

“Can take anything you give me, please Draco, I swear it, please, I need you, I need you—” Harry’s babbling, fists clenching in the sheets, and Draco takes pity on him, rubs lube over his prick and positions himself at Harry’s hole.

He bends down and licks the shell of Harry’s ear as he starts to push in. “Hold on tight, Potter. I’m going to ruin you,” he murmurs, then rears back up, gripping Harry’s hips tight enough to bruise as he thrusts the rest of the way in.

When Harry screams that time, Draco can feel the Silencing wards break, feels the magic shatter and shiver over his skin like glass, and the knowledge that if someone were to come over now, or even stand outside close to Harry’s window, they’d know exactly what was going on in here, would know who Harry’s doing it with, drives Draco wild.

He speeds up, pulling Harry’s hips up just enough so he can get a hand around Harry’s cock. He needs to know what it feels like in his hand.

“Ah, shit,” he breathes as he fits his fingers as far around Harry’s girth as he can. “Next time, I want this inside me. I want to pin you down against the couch and ride you until your eyes roll back into your head. I want to get on my knees and shove this so far down my throat I can’t talk for days after. I want to fuck you into the headboard and then eat your arse clean, then do it all over again. Can I, Harry? Would you let me?”

“Jesus,” Harry chokes out, twisting to stare back at Draco with eyes that look almost black with lust. “Holy fuck, Draco, Draco, I can’t, I’m gonna, I’m— Fuck,” and with a final wordless shout he comes all over the pillow.

Harry’s arse was already so incredibly tight that Draco was seeing stars the minute he got himself all the way in, but the squeeze from his orgasm is enough to send Draco over the edge too. “Oh my god,” he slurs, slumping over Harry’s back and thrusting a few more times, riding his orgasm out.

He pulls out with a hiss and rolls over onto his back next to Harry, staring at the ceiling as reality crashes down on him.

All those nights he’s laid in bed wondering what it would be like if he were the one making Harry sound like that, all those fantasies he put away each morning and pretended they didn’t exist; he knows now, and it was perfect, and amazing, and devastating, and he can never go back to how things were before.

Suddenly, Harry’s cuddling up to his side and whispering a cleaning spell over the pair of them, and when Harry tangles their legs together and presses a kiss to his shoulder, Draco thinks that maybe he won’t have to go back.