Work Text:
Harry squints into the bulbous vanity lights and squirms, his thighs gingerly spaced apart, his stylist huffing as she tries again to glamour the bags under his eyes.
A futile effort—he’s fucking exhausted.
Isn’t the Oak King’s skin textured like bark anyway? According to Pansy, however, “Nobody wants to see the life force draining from a papery old man on the solstice, darling.”
“Wow, you’re really making me feel like the Sexiest Wizard Alive.”
“It’s Draco’s job to stroke your little ego, not mine. Now chop chop, we’re on a tight schedule.”
The stylist gives up on glamours to rearrange the decorative foliage spelled to his face instead, and Harry relishes the opportunity to shut his eyes. Maybe he can rest for—
“Places for June! We’re ready for you, Potter.”
The stylist huffs again when Harry’s head jerk displaces the antlered headpiece. He’d take a bludger to the face right now if it meant he could remove it; it’s as heavy as a goddamn copper cauldron. His neck’ll be sorer than his lower back by the end of this photoshoot.
Last year’s calendar shoot was much more fun—Draco had been here too, scantily clad in silk ribbon and dripping with glitter and blossoms for May, a fey king in his element.
Upon being excluded from the roster this year, Draco tried to make the argument that his pregnancy only enhanced the celebration of fertility, but Pansy felt very strongly that “the target audience of Witch Weekly does not need their eye candy bitched and bred.”
It then fell to Harry to reassure his highly hormonal husband: no, he does not look like an overripe pumpkin, and even if he did, they already have someone for October; and yes, of course, he is still incredibly fuckable—no that’s not mollycoddling, see, look, it’s very easy for Harry to get hard again.
That was a month ago. It’s not so easy now.
The sheer volume of shagging required to keep Draco happy is staggering.
It was a shameful relief to leave Draco on the sofa this morning under a cashmere blanket with the new season of Isle Amoris, and a fry-up from the muggle cafe he pretends to hate but secretly loves. Anything for a break.
As Harry heads towards the wood-carved throne on set, bleary-eyed and trying not to rearrange his balls in front of everyone, he vaguely wonders who July will be.
It’s usually a buff and bronzed Quidditch player. Oliver Wood was the victim the year before. Both Harry and Draco enjoyed flirting with him at the craft services table while he stuffed pasties in his mouth, that rough and tumble Scottish brogue an auditory meal.
Likely a contributing factor to the speed at which Draco swallowed Harry’s cock in the loo afterward. Wood’s notorious (and depressing) heterosexuality meant they had to settle for a poor substitute later: a boring muscle-bound pull from the club—alluring accent not included.
“Try to look like you enjoy living, Potter, or I will force-feed you Pepper Up.”
“That’s a great idea actually, can I have some?”
Pansy rolls her eyes and barks at a runner to find the potion stat because it’s too early in the day for manslaughter.
Harry bites back a grin. He’s developed a severe affinity for Slytherin snark; Draco’s friends have grown on him. Thank Merlin his husband didn’t have to work through the trauma of supremacist parents and post-war grief alone.
With smoke dissipating from his ears and a fresh outlook on life, Harry does his best to embody the sexy ruler of the summer solstice and follow Pansy’s directions. This is for charity, after all, and Harry is a generous man—in more ways than one.
“That’s a wrap on June. If July’s not sorted in fifteen minutes you’ll all be spewing slugs for lunch.”
Harry ditches the headpiece immediately and basks in the weightlessness. While pulling on a fluffy dressing gown to grab a snack before he leaves, he overhears the stylist chattering to one of the photographers.
“Wait until you see the next one, he barely needed my help.” She’s breathless and blushing.
“I heard he plays for the Falmouth Falcons, a brute then?”
“A proper built brute, he can whack me with his beater’s bat anytime.”
Harry chokes on a grape. He knows one of the Falcons’ beaters, an old friend of Draco’s. Surely they’re not talking about–
Sweet fucking Circe.
The next model walks out of the dressing room in nothing but a bulging speedo, his olive skin tanned to a golden-brown glow and slicked with more shimmering oil than should be legal. The effect under the studio lights is stunning—every dip and curve of his sculpted physique emphasised, from arms that could crush a dragon egg to a torso capable of carving ancient runes.
And Good Godric, he must ride a reinforced broom to keep those thighs from snapping it like a twig. To be between them… A ridiculous thought because this person is practically family.
How the fuck did Harry and Draco miss those abs?
Harry’s pulse rabbits in his throat, cheeks somehow redder than those tiny swim briefs. Did he swallow a mouthful of sand from the set change that’s underway? Because that’s what his mouth feels like.
The beach babe for July is Gregory fucking Goyle.
And if Harry’s prick was still working it would definitely be twitching.
“Hey, Harry. Alright?”
“Y-yeah.” The pitch of his voice is bloody embarrassing. “You?” Harry’s only seen Greg in loose joggers and a hoodie when he comes over for their monthly dinners, never naked and oiled. He knew Greg was in good shape but this is next-level fit as fuck.
“Good, good. Happy to help Pans, even when she’s being an absolute cow.” Greg’s chuckle sharpens the vee of his obliques. Harry tries not to stare. “How’s Draco? Ready to explode?”
“All the time.”
“Probably driving you mad, I reckon.”
Harry’s groin throbs, and not in a good way. “You have no idea.”
“He’s always been a needy motherfucker. But we love him anyway, eh?” Greg smiles warmly and claps Harry on the back, his broad palm knocking Harry off-kilter.
An insane idea shakes loose.
One that seems less insane the more Harry considers how important Greg is to Draco—as steady as an anchor in rough seas, the kind of friend who sees all his shit and stays anyway.
The words are tumbling out of Harry’s mouth before he overthinks it: “You should stop by Grimmauld when you’re done. Draco’d love to see you.”
***
Harry is dead on his feet coming home. The potion’s worn off, but there’s a beacon of light beaming through the brain fog.
Draco’s right where Harry left him this morning—lounging on the sofa, feet propped on a pillow, large and luminous in the late stages of creating their child.
Harry’s face softens, heart bursting at the seams at the sight of his family.
“Oh thank Merlin you’re back, I thought that harpy devoured you.” Draco sniffs, clearly still miffed with Pansy.
“Nah, she just tortured me a bit. You didn’t miss anything.” Harry kneels to rest his head against Draco’s belly, arms bracketing hips, gazing up at his husband. “The calendar’s significantly less sexy without you.”
A lovely pink dusts Draco’s cheeks despite his scoff. “You are such a sap.” Fingers twist into Harry’s hair and he sighs, melting further into the welcoming soft warmth of Draco.
Draco squirms slightly, and Harry feels a growing hardness poking into one shoulder, an acute reminder of both his tired body and impulsive decision-making. His pulse flutters.
“So listen, you remember the shoot last year? And how much we liked July?”
“You mean Wood? Oh yes, I definitely remember wanting to come all over those abs.” A salacious hip roll shifts Harry’s head closer to Draco’s erection. He can take a hint.
Harry kisses down the exquisite swell of Draco’s stomach, rucking up the bottom of his silk nightshirt to caress buttery skin. “Well, this time July is someone we know.” He mouths at Draco’s cock over the bunched fabric. “And I may have invited him over.”
“Wait, what?” Draco’s voice is a breathy lilt. “Why?”
“Because we like him, too. He’s a good friend and he can help us.” Harry pushes the nightshirt up further to taste the satin-hot length on his tongue, his own arousal remarkably dulled.
Draco exhales a soft “oh” as Harry surrounds the tip, a loving sacrament of spit.
The rush of the floo startles Draco, his groan a mix of pleasure and protest as he fruitlessly tugs at Harry’s hair.
Harry stays put.
“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I’ll just–” Greg covers his eyes and fumbles for the floo powder on the mantle, sending the jar crashing to the ground. “Bollocks, let me–” He starts awkwardly trying to scrape up a handful with his eyes squeezed shut.
Harry finally releases Draco’s cock. “No, wait, it’s okay!” He crawls over to where Greg is crouched over the glittering green mess, placing a hand on the mountainous slope of shoulder. “We want you here.”
Draco clambers to sit up and cover himself with a blanket, mouth agape. “We do?”
“Yes.” Harry stands to offer his hand to Greg—who takes it with a confused look—and leads him over to the sofa where they settle on either side of Draco. “Look, Draco.” Harry cradles a hand in both palms, kissing the back of Draco’s knuckles. “I love you so much. But I cannot have sex with you for a bit. It’s physically impossible. I thought Greg might be a good option to fill you up in the meantime.”
The dumbfounded look on Draco’s face is unreadable, doubt creeping up Harry’s spine like Devil’s Snare.
He changes tack to Greg. Harry knows for a fact his Quidditch stardom yields a healthy casual sex life. “What do you think, Greg? Are you okay helping Draco out?”
Greg rubs the dark crew cut on top of his head. “Well, we have wanked together before.”
Draco’s lips twist as he laces his fingers into Harry’s and relaxes back into the cushions. “He is right, you know. As teenagers in separate dorm beds, how scandalous.” An airy wave has Draco’s other hand dropping onto Greg’s glorious thigh, shivering as he palms the muscle.
The thrill of choosing correctly incinerates all of Harry’s apprehension.
There’s nothing more satisfying than giving Draco what he needs.
And right now, he needs to be fucked.
Draco gasps when Harry vanishes the blanket and nightshirt, nipples pebbling, the hand in Greg’s lap shifting to squeeze the sizable bulge. Greg has a stupid, excited grin on his face.
Harry brushes back Draco’s hair and licks a sinuous line up the arched neck, circling the exposed cock in his fist as he whispers in Draco’s ear, “I knew you’d be a willing whore, ready to spread your legs and take whatever I give you.”
Draco gives a low moan, the melody to Greg’s percussive breathing, Harry the sinful conductor.
He has Greg lift Draco like a bride to carry him to the bedroom, Draco’s face scrunched in embarrassed delight as he throws his arms around pure, powerful brawn.
Sprawled on the sheets, his entire body flushed and dewy, Draco keenly watches as they undress in tandem at the end of the bed, eyes ablaze when Greg removes his shirt. "Oh, my, you've been holding out on us, Gregory."
Harry ignores the way Greg’s muscle mass makes him feel like a scrawny kid again in favour of lying down and pulling Draco fondly to his chest.
Draco unglues his gaze from Greg's abs to throw a leg over Harry’s hip, sighing as he grinds his erection into it, belly supported atop Harry’s.
There’s a dip in the bed as Greg kneels, cock in hand—not quite a beater’s bat, but reminiscent of one. He strokes it slowly, eyes eclipsed with lust and following Harry’s hand as it twists Draco’s tender nipples one by one. Draco cries out.
“You like being on display, don’t you? Putting on a show, like a cat in heat begging to be bred.”
Draco bites his lip and nods, colour staining his cheeks as he eagerly continues rutting, arching into Harry’s hold.
“Gods, you two are gorgeous together,” Greg rasps, his cleft chin hanging open. Harry agrees. Light and dark, lithe and lean, two halves of a harmonious whole.
“Look how hard you’re making Greg, baby.” Harry grips Draco’s jaw and kisses hungrily before tilting his head up, that beautiful mouth swollen and slut-slack. “What do you think? Are you gonna be able to take that cock? Let it stretch your needy hole and stuff you full?”
Draco’s gaze has gone hazy, his slurred “yes, please” making Greg hiss and grip the base of his cock. Harry smirks, his own cock giving a feeble pulse in anticipation of what comes next—sadly not him.
He mutters the well-worn chorus of incantations and beckons Greg forward to straddle Draco’s stretched-out leg.
“Hold yourself open for Greg, love.” Draco mindlessly grabs the flesh of his upper arsecheek to pull it towards the ceiling. “Mm, exactly, that’s it. You’re doing so well.”
Greg groans like gravel as he thumbs the lube dripping from Draco’s arsehole. “Fuck, you’re so wet now, like a girl.”
“Hear that, sweetheart? Greg is gonna fuck your pretty cunt for me.”
Draco pants and pushes his arse into Greg’s hand. Gods, he really is a fucking slag, how did Harry get so lucky? Draco’s desperate mewls as Greg works his thick fingers inside light up something primal—a gut-deep knowing of how to provide for his partner.
Harry pets the fuzzy blonde leg slung across his lap, perfect as a peach, before hooking his hand under the knee to open Draco’s hips. Greg takes it from there, broad palm pressing the back of Draco’s thigh to expose his entrance before lining up.
Draco stills and sobs, "Oh, fuck, oh fuck," face twisting in pleasurable disbelief as Greg carefully sheathes himself inch by torturous inch.
“What a good slut you are, baby, opening wide for that massive cock." Draco gives a choked whimper. Harry is massaging Draco’s belly, cooing in his ear, in awe of the plump and pliant body in his arms. “Does it feel nice to have that tight cunt so stretched? Bet I could feel Greg’s cock if you weren’t so full of my seed already.”
“Salazar,” Greg grunts as he seats himself and pulls back, fucking into Draco again and again at a slow-burning pace, Draco keening sweetly between them.
Harry’s hand travels to Draco’s cock, stroking it in time with Greg’s thrusts, the head wet and slippery, straining out of the foreskin as Harry runs his palm over it. He noses the sweat-damp hair off of Draco’s temple to place an open-mouth kiss.
“Are you ready to be bred again, sweetheart? Greg’s gonna fill you up so well, he’ll make that pretty pink pussy nice and sloppy.”
These are the words that send Draco careening over the edge; Harry laves the side of Draco’s face—the salt grounding, saliva a claim—as he spills into Harry’s hand and coats both of their bellies in spurt after spurt of come.
The inescapable tension has Greg coming with a choked cry, grunting as he grips Draco’s arse and slams it to his balls, grinding the release in as deep as possible with an obscene squelching sound. Draco shudders and takes it, humming into Harry’s mouth.
Everyone is breathless for a moment, quiet in the comfort of their familiar bodies.
Greg pulls out to collapse on Draco’s other side, Draco rolls onto his back and breathes deeply, Harry reflexively smears Draco’s spend across the baby bump until it’s glistening before reaching down to feel the wrecked, leaking rim. Draco clings to Harry and gasps as he slides three fingers into the scorching velvet heat, clenching in a way that makes Harry's throat ache.
"All better, baby?" Harry removes his hand to wipe Greg's come on the duvet.
Draco smiles, sated. "For now."
Greg distracts from their domestic bliss with a full body stretch that both Harry and Draco shamelessly ogle, then turns on his side and props an elbow to ask a very serious question: “So, Draco’s not gonna get pregnant with my baby now, right?”
Harry and Draco glance at each other then quickly look away to avoid breaking into laughter. Greg is a really good egg, but sometimes the lack of sense cracks through his handsome shell.
The bludgers to the head have not helped over time, either.
Draco takes this one while Harry presses his lips together. “I’m afraid not, Greg. Men can only get pregnant with some very intentional magic that we did not perform today.” Draco uses this as an excuse to feel Greg’s thigh up again, giving it a consoling pat. “You’ll just have to be the fun uncle to Harry’s baby, okay?”
Greg shrugs. “Okay. Sounds good.”
“You know what else sounds good?” Draco sighs. “A shower. You filthy animals messed me up.”
Harry laughs. “Oh shut up, you loved it.”
There’s a heart-soaring softness to Draco’s gaze as he leans in, lips hovering a breath away.
“You’re right.” A thankful press, a tender promise. “I did.”