Archive of Our Own

It’s no secret that Harry picks up blokes after Quidditch games.

Scratch that, actually. It’s no secret that Harry picks up blokes literally everywhere.

He pulls Ministry blokes at the Leaky on Friday nights. Muggle blokes from sketchy hookup websites during the week. Foreign blokes on holiday, with or without their girlfriends. Harry even picks up blokes at the Burrow. Charlie denies it, but the bite marks on Harry’s neck were a dead giveaway. It was Christmas dinner, for fuck’s sake.

But Harry’s favorite thing—above and beyond seducing Ron’s family members—is shagging blokes after hobby league Quidditch. Harry flirts before matches, then his flying seals the deal. He flies like he’s invulnerable, bursting high into the air and plummeting to the earth, defying every law of Muggle physics. Ron half-expects a minor sonic boom whenever he takes off. Afterwards, sweaty and glowing, Harry takes his latest boy to the Hovering Healers changing rooms. Ron’s seen it happen—well not seen it seen it, thankfully—dozens of times.

It always leaves him with a tight, weird feeling in his stomach, like he’s downed one two many Fizzing Whizbees. Ron ignores it, mostly. If the Curse-Cleaving Comets are playing, Ron just showers afterwards, has a wank thinking about nothing at all, then waits for Harry by the sauna doors. It’s harder when Ron isn’t playing. He has to Apparate home and start on Saturday night dinner all alone.

When Harry returns to their flat, all flushed and glowy and clean from the steamy showers, he brings back a bottle of Firewhisky to add to their growing collection, which eases the sting a little.

Harry always comes home to Ron. To their home, such as it is. To their shabby kitchen and their equally shabby black cat. Harry makes tea, and Ron serves dinner at the coffee table. They share a spliff and curl up on the sofa. And they fall asleep together, legs tangled on the couch in the cool blue glow of the telly, a pile of cat purring on Ron's chest.

It doesn’t matter to him that Harry is queer or that he’s a slag—he is a slag—as long as nothing between them changes.

Today, as a matter of fact, Ron is preparing a special dinner for their flatmate anniversary. It’s sort of also the anniversary of Hermione breaking his heart, but he chooses to focus on the Harry of it all since that’s the silver lining of the whole debacle. Actually, it’s the very best thing that could have happened to him since he’s just so fucking happy here. Harry got him eating healthy and cooking, got him jogging and lifting weights in the mornings, helped him get on a regular sleep schedule, encouraged him to write down the musings he always has in his head, and went along with him to adopt Sergeant Pepper.

So, that’s what Ron is celebrating. Flatmates, best mates, cat dads. These are all the most important things.

So, before the Healers vs. Alchemists match, Ron catches Harry by the arm to remind him. Harry’s bicep is warm and tight beneath Ron’s grip. “It’s our move-in anniversary tonight. Three years.”

“Has it been that long? Really?” Harry’s eyes crinkle. “I keep meaning to kick you out. ‘Fraid I’d starve, though.”

“I’m making lamb biryani from that book you got me. If you pick up that good gin on the way home, I’ve got tonic. Bit of lime.”

Harry pats his cheek. “I’ll be here for an hour or so after the game. Like usual.”

“Can’t come home a bit early today?” Ron swallows. He hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels.

“Got plans. Won’t be long.”

“Alright, mate. Take your time.”

“I’ll get gin and—I could get a cake from Luna’s shop. I’ll pick up a film too. Fancy anything in particular?”

“One of those where they have to outrun a huge fuckoff storm. Or drill to the centre of the earth. Something like that.”

“On it.” Harry pulls him into a tight hug, and Ron presses a kiss to his forehead, just next to his scar. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it.” Ron squeezes him again.

“Oi! You two! Get a fucking room,” Ginny yells. “I’m trying to watch these arseholes butcher my perfectly decent sport.”

Harry flips her two fingers, then disappears into the mass of Hovering Healers, all clapping Harry on the back and punching him in the arm. Ron wonders how many of them he’s fucked.

Ginny shakes her head and tuts at him when he catches up to her, and she berates him all the way to their seats for being a 'poor, sad sap.' Whatever.

Ron’s eyes track Harry during the game. He hovers high above the stadium; seeker today. Malfoy is playing chaser for the Airborne Alchemists and keeps abandoning his position to harass Harry. Cuffs him on the arm, flies up and ruffles his hair.

“What a fucking prick. He’s the reason I hate the fucking Alchemists.”

Ginny huffs. “I just bet he is.”

Ron rolls his eyes. He boos when Malfoy zips by. He huffs and shifts in his seat, and grumbles about the tit being ‘too familiar’ since Harry treated his kid for dragon pox—until Ginny punches him—hard.

“Mate, you’re pathetic.”

“Ow.” Ron scowls and rubs his arm theatrically. “That’s my wanking arm.”

“You’re revolting and pathetic. And jealous.”

“What? Jealous of who?”

Ginny nods at Harry, who’s laughing and hovering next to his blond stalker.

“Why would I be jealous of Harry?”

Ginny gives him a long, assessing look. There’s something hidden in it, but Ron doesn’t know exactly what. “Fred always told me Mum dropped you on your head as a child, and you were never the same after that.”

Ron shifts lower in his seat and crosses his arms. “Lies. Slander.”

“You’re speaking ill of the dead. I won’t have you besmirch his name in this sanctified stadium full of lads Harry has stuck his cock in.”

“He likes it both ways,” Ron says automatically.

“Really weird that you know that.”

“Everyone knows that.” Ron grabs the bag of Fizzing Whizbees Ginny is holding and stuffs one in his mouth. He feels the pop and crackle, trickling down his throat, the sensation joining the lovely burst of joy he gets whenever Harry whizzes by and loops around the stadium.

Ron hisses and yells when Malfoy dips down from his position as the Alchemists’ seeker and barrels after Harry like a hound leaping after a rabbit.

“Malfoy’s alright, you know. Does potions for the Harpies. Best hangover cure in Britain.” Ginny snatches the Fizzing Whizbees back from Ron.

“Like I said, he’s too chummy with Harry.” Ron yells again when he sees Malfoy’s windblown blond mop. “Rubs me the wrong way.”

“I’d bet he’s rubbing Harry in all the right ways.” She puts a Fizzing Whizbee on her tongue and lets it bubble up until she looks like a rabid fox. She sticks out her bright orange, bubbly tongue at Ron. “I’ll bet they rub each other all over after the game.”

“No.” Ron cuts his eyes at Ginny and shifts further down into his seat. “No—he’s not. Not like that. Not with Malfoy.”

“All of the gays and at least a third of the straights have had a go. Harry’s not exactly shy.”

“Why do you know that? Maybe you’re weird.”

“I’m just a gossipy bitch. You” —she gestures to all of him— “have something truly weird going on. I call it like I see it.”

“You can’t see shit. I’m just a good fr—”

“He got it! Look at him go!” Ginny grabs Ron’s shoulder and shakes him, gripping tight enough to bruise. “Go on, Harry!”

“Ow,” Ron says, but he cheers when Harry swoops towards the centre of the pitch, snitch held high above his head as his team swarms around him and hoists Harry right off his broom. The mayhem ends with a half-dozen ordinarily respectable Healers toppling to the ground and aiming Waterspout hexes at one another until everyone is properly soaked and laughing.

Ron pushes through the crowd to find Harry consumed in a crowd of people, all of them touching him. Ruffling his hair, squeezing his shoulder. Everyone is always fucking touching Harry. Since Ron isn’t weird at all about his best mate, he puts on his best smile and waves. “Oi, you wanker! You were brilliant!”

“He was!” Katie Bell, her jersey soaked in water, boots muddy, kisses Harry right on the cheek, and Ron wonders idly if Harry’s pulled her, too. He usually shags blokes, but Ron still hears about an occasional girl and—Merlin.

Harry gives Ron a wave and yells at him, “Thanks, mate! See you at home!”

Fucking Malfoy appears out of nowhere and drapes his arm around Harry’s neck, whispering something in Harry’s ear that makes him smile and flush a deep red just above his cheekbones.

The odd feeling Ron’s had all day crawls through his belly, expanding into him at a cellular level. His eye twitches. Seeing Harry with Malfoy always makes him frown. This has been happening after every game. He’s even seen Harry talking to Malfoy’s kid after training. Merlin’s fucking balls.

Ron’s stomach knots up as the Healers’ team disappears into the other side of the stadium. There’s nothing he can do, really. He tells himself this every time. Harry will be Harry, and that involves shagging anything that moves. Ron’s fine with it—really, really fine. It’s just… Malfoy. The papers all say he left his wife because he’s gay, and he’s always been disturbingly locked onto Harry, even now, so many years after the war.

It’s probably not that. Harry has to be shagging Katie or one of the other Healers. Michael Corner, maybe. He’s tall and good looking and—

Ginny punches him in the shoulder. “Oi. Loser! I’m headed off. Don’t look so much like a kicked puppy. It’s not doing you any good.”

“Like a what?”

Pansy Parkinson, of all people, catches Ginny’s hand and kisses it. “He’ll cotton onto it one day. I have faith.”

Ginny rolls her eyes and waves at Ron before disappearing with Pansy. It’s whatever, as long as she’s happy. Just odd having Slytherins popping up everywhere.

By the time Ron makes it to the Apparition point at the top of the hill, he’s in a foul mood. An even fouler mood than when he saw Malfoy with Harry after the game. Touching him, playing with his hair. Whispering in his ear.

Ron’s throat tastes like bile. He waves at Ginny before she pops away, and, without thinking, saunters back in the direction of the stadium. Harry could be late for their dinner. Might even forget the cake because he’s fucking someone in the locker rooms. Fucking Malfoy.

Ron turns towards the pitch. His footsteps are automatic as he makes for the changing room. He tells himself it’s because he needs to take a slash, because he wants to catch Harry before he’s buried inside one of his teammates. But his groin jumps with apprehension—no, something more like anticipation—when he pushes the doors open to the palatial locker room.

It’s quiet save for the distant sound of a shower. His heart thumps in his chest; a drumbeat he can feel in his neck, hear in his ears.

The sauna is to the right of the showers, right where the Curse Breakers’ soaking tubs are. That’s where Harry is, if he’s not changing or showering. The few times Harry’s talked about his hookups in front of Ron—usually giving an explicit play-by-play to Ginny—he’s mentioned the sauna.

Eating arse in the sauna. Sucking cock in the sauna. Taking it up the arse in the sauna. Threesome in the sauna. Something called ‘docking,’ also apparently in the sauna.

He shouldn’t. This is a gross invasion of privacy, Ron tells himself as he steps in the darkened hallway, but he ventures forward anyway, wand sliding into his hand. It’s second nature for Ron, casting a disillusionment charm, followed by a Notice-Me-Not. He’ll just glance in, he tells himself. He’ll see if Harry is almost done; see if he should wait outside. That’s all.

The beaded-wet glass door is ajar, and there are sounds breaking through a shoddy Silencing Charm. Cast hastily.

“…love using your mouth.” The voice is low and garbled by the ward, but it’s Harry. Ron knows that voice better than anyone’s. It’ll be with him when he goes to the grave.

On the heels of this statement is a muffled moan, a soft gag and cough, and a murmur nearly drowned out by the hiss of steam billowing through the room, obscured by Harry’s shitty wards. “… my hair. Pull my hair.”

A gasp.

“You’re a slut. Just a pretty whore for your—Jesus Christ—for your whole team. You’d take them all, wouldn’t you? One after the other.”

Another lengthy moan.

“Will you let me fuck you? You will. I know you will. You lost today. You have to let me—oh—you have to let me use you.”

Ron knows what he’ll see when he looks in: someone on their knees for Harry. Sucking him down, drinking him in. Worshipping his cock. Ron’s lower back tenses, stomach drawn up tight. But he feels—hot, too. Like his ears and neck and chest are simmering from the inside.

When he cranes his neck, he sees Harry, head thrown back, eyes closed. Ron can’t see the other bloke from here. And he doesn’t want to. No judgment to Harry, of course. Ron just doesn’t swing that way.

The squelching sounds intensify, and Ron picks apart the silencing wards with quiet ease. He can really hear them now.

“Yeah, put your—put your fingers in.” Harry grunts and curses, then lets out a choked sound of pleasure that echoes off the damp walls.

Ron’s mouth fills with saliva. A little ball of tension forms in his groin; a pleasant pulse follows.

He should go. He should definitely go. He steps back, like he is going to go, but it gives him a better angle. That’s when he sees.

Draco Malfoy, on his knees for Harry, sucking his cock while the other hand works between Harry’s legs. Harry’s face is slack; mouth open, lips wet and swollen. Malfoy is pale as ever, body lithe and muscled, his towel discarded on the floor. His cock is rosy pink, jutting away from his body, long and thick. There are little silver rings in both nipples.

“That was our deal, yeah? Take my cock wherever I put–oh, god.”

Harry must be coming because everything goes quiet for a moment then Harry grunts and bucks his hips. Ron can’t see it but he’s sure he can hear Malfoy’s throat working, swallowing.

Warmth builds around the little ball of tension in Ron’s hips. He doesn’t realise it at first; he’s distracted by Malfoy’s panting, and the dribbles of come on his chin. The way Harry bends and kisses him before hoisting him up and bending him over the bench.

Ron’s half hard. Getting harder. He should really, really leave now. But his breath catches. Harry pries Malfoy’s cheeks apart and spits on his hole—once, twice—and rubs his fingers through the mess.

“Please, I need to come.”

Maybe Ron is hallucinating. Maybe he missed the game entirely, and he’s still asleep on the sofa, his legs tangled with Harry’s, like always. Maybe Harry isn’t actually diving face-first into Draco’s arse, or gripping his thighs, or groaning as he licks. Maybe there’s not spit and come dripping from Harry’s chin. Maybe it’s all an illusion, a fever dream, and Harry’s going to shake him awake any minute—

“Fuck me, will you fuck me—get it hard and fuck me, you coward.” Malfoy’s back arches, and his legs wobble. His cock is red and angry, cheeks flushed. He wipes his sweaty forehead against his arms as Harry licks into him, his noises sloppy and messy and wet.

No, not even his addled mind could provide a hallucination this vivid.

Merlin’s fucking taint, Ron is hard. Straining. The tension sitting in the pit of his abdomen takes on a new form: a wanting, hungry buzzing that tells him to stay. It tells him he could probably get away with a wank. There’s no one else here, and his disillusionment charms were the best in his year at the Curse Breaker Academy.

Harry is squeezing his cock, moaning against Malfoy’s arsehole, making unholy sucking sounds as he gets ready to fuck the most irritating wanker in Britain. And yet. Ron palms his cock, has his hand on his flies when—

Malfoy turns his flushed, sweat-soaked face and grins right at Ron as he reaches back and holds Harry’s head in place. Harry responds with a resounding groan and a jerk of his cock and Ron—

—Ron returns to the world with an adrenaline rush that hits him like an Incendio. He bolts down the hall and flings the door open until he’s panting, hands on his knees, and the locker room and the dripping sweat and spit and come are all behind him.

Outside, the air is crisp and clean, the sky a bright winter-blue, and Ron is heterosexual.

He walks home and puts the whole debacle firmly out of his mind.

***

When Harry returns, he’s flushed and clean-smelling, curls damp. There’s a bite mark, barely visible, just beneath his collar. Malfoy’s lips, his mouth, his teeth.

“Coconut cake.” Harry fishes around in his bag and brings out a tiny cake box. It enlarges with a pop when he slides it onto the table. “And gin!”

The Hendrick’s wobbles ominously as it resizes. Ron watches the bottle. Glances at the bite mark on Harry’s neck.

“What are you—” Harry starts. Then he flushes further and touches the mark with his hand. “Oh. Yeah.”

Ron doesn’t stop staring. He can’t help thinking that it’s a conspicuous location—there to be seen. That fucking wanker.

“Got a bit rough today. You know how it goes.”

Ron does not know how it goes. He hasn’t had a shag in ages. Last one was a one-off with Hermione a year ago, a friendly farewell before she moved onto women. They were never into—well, whatever it was Harry was into with Draco Malfoy and his wet arsehole.

Ron’s cock twitches again. He drags his eyes up to Harry’s face. “Er. Yeah.”

“I can heal it. I just.” Harry presses his thumb to the mark, rubs it back and forth over its surface. “I just like it sometimes.”

Ron just clears his throat and summons the biriyani from the kitchen. “Didn’t even notice.”

Their evening is blessedly typical: dinner, a forgettable film about Muggles fending off sentient sharks, and the two of them, falling asleep on the sofa, a blanket draped across their legs.

As it should be.

***

The walls are thin in their Muggle flat. Ron knows this because sometimes he wakes in the night and hears Harry murmuring to someone, or occasionally, the slapping-thudding sounds of sex.

Ron doesn’t mind it. He’ll take the mild annoyance of Harry’s late night sexcapades since Harry is otherwise a brilliant flatmate. He takes care of their plants and feeds Sergeant Pepper, does all of the Muggle chores Ron can’t be arsed with, and he sends his randy houseguests on their way before Ron starts on breakfast.

So, Ron isn’t surprised that following Wednesday when he wakes just before midnight to voices in the hall.

“… have to be quiet. Silencing spells are shit here.” A laugh and a loud thunk against the wall.

“It’s charming. Two of the most powerful wizards alive, cosied up in a Muggle flat. Are the Witch Weekly rumours true?”

“Oh, you think I’m powerful?”

“I know you are. And Weasley—how’s all of that…” The voices fade out again.

Fuck. Ron’s stomach sinks. Harry should know better than to bring that pointy twit back here.

Harry’s laughter. “… doesn’t see me like that. I told you. Best mates.” The creak of Harry’s door follows, the shuffle of feet across floorboards, the whoof of the bed, a muffled thunk against the wall.

Their voices are low. Ron catches a fragment here and there in between the creaking of bedsprings: yes, right there, inside, too tight, so fucking tight. It’s louder than usual when the fucking starts, like the sound has been amplified. It’s like Ron is in bed with them: the hot panting of breath on his neck, the wet, squelchy noise of licking, the languorous, satisfied moan followed by the tap-tap-tap of hips slapping against the firm bounce of an arse.

Ron’s nipples stiffen; a rush of blood to his cock. Warmth and tightening in his hips. His cock fattens up the louder they get, until it’s so hard it hurts. Obscenely fucking hard; he hasn’t been this hard in months. He gives it a squeeze and thrills at the sensation. It’s been a while; that’s all. The thought of sex, the sound of it.

Ron usually doesn’t consider what Harry is doing with his body; when he hears the telltale moans, he tries to make his mind go blank. Tries in vain to fall back asleep. But he pictures it now, the image so vivid it’s like it’s being telegraphed into Ron’s mind. Harry, on all fours, taking Malfoy’s cock like a dog in heat, grunting like he can’t get enough. Begging. Mouth slack and wet.

If Ron touches himself, no one will know. So, he does, teasing the head, thinking about a tight, wet slide of skin. How it would feel to fuck someone, anyone, again.

Deeper, Harry says, more. Ron knows when Harry comes—he knows that punched-out sound of release; he’s heard it through the walls many times. Malfoy curses; the thudding grows louder, quicker. Ron speeds up, panting, picturing a cock plunging in and out of Harry’s small hole, puckered skin stretched, slick with spit and lube.

Ron strokes himself, marvelling at how it would feel to do that, to invade that snug little space and force it open with his cock, just so he can get off inside of it. Fill it up with thick, white spunk and make it filthy, filthy so he can lick it out and clean it with his tongue—

Ron comes with a shout, and Malfoy follows less than a minute later with a violent moan and a thrust that must launch Harry’s headboard against the wall.

Ron blinks and blinks and stares at the ceiling to the sound of kissing and the rustle of covers. It’s nothing, really, he decides. And, besides, that fucker will be gone in the morning.

***

“Morning, Weasel. Hope we didn’t keep you up.”

Draco Malfoy is standing in their kitchen, stirring a cup of coffee in Ron’s favourite mug. He’s wearing a light pink robe, open to his waist. Below the wink of his navel is a patch of dark blond curls; beneath it, the thick outline of his cock.

Malfoy is in the kitchen—his kitchen—in nothing but a fucking scrap of fabric. Sergeant Pepper is purring at his feet, looking up at him with wide, traitorous eyes.

“What are you—what the fuck.”

“Making coffee. You know how Harry likes it, don’t you? I was going to bring him breakfast in bed before his shift.”

“Breakfast in—what?”

“No time for breakfast.” Harry strides into the kitchen, in the midst of buttoning his shirt. There’s a new bite mark on his neck; this one is deeper, redder. He goes to grab the coffee and Malfoy catches him by the collar and pulls him into a kiss. Harry—who loathes public displays—moans and licks into his mouth; gentle, kittenish. “Mmm. You taste like sex.”

“That’s not the only place I taste like sex,” Malfoy whispers, very fucking loudly. “Come over later, and you can put your tongue anywhere you like. Tell me what I taste like everywhere.”

“Merlin. Yeah. Might do. After my shift.”

“We were going to listen to the Magpies game tonight,” Ron says. There’s a whiny edge to his voice, the sort of tone Percy took with their mum when he wasn’t getting his way.

Harry turns a shade of red Ron has never seen. He ducks his head in Ron’s direction. “Sorry, mate. Erm, I had Draco over. Didn’t—didn’t see you there.”

Malfoy slips his leg between Harry’s thighs and starts sucking on Harry’s neck. Instead of pushing him away, Harry gasps and threads his fingers through Malfoy’s hair.

Draco. What the fuck.

Malfoy nips Harry on the jaw. “I can’t get enough of you. Let me take you to L’Éclat Mystique tomorrow night.”

“I don’t own anything that’s not jeans or Healer robes. That place throws people out if they’re not in formal attire.”

“That can be fixed.” Malfoy kisses Harry again, long fingers playing in the curls at the base of his neck. Horribly, Harry kisses him back and moans into it. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. I’ll put you in a muggle suit and a formal winter cape.”

Harry lets his head thunk against Malfoy’s shoulder. “You’re an irritating fuck,” Harry says fondly. “I’ll think on it.”

“See that you do. I’m ever so eager to do that thing again. You know—”

“In the loo at L’Éclat? That will get us thrown out.”

“Bring your cloak. But you like the idea of getting caught, don’t you?” Malfoy drapes his arms around Harry’s neck. “Slag.”

“You’re a slag.” Harry stares into Malfoy’s eyes, and Malfoy stares back with a stupid smile on his face.

Ron thinks he might sick up, right on the kitchen floor. His kitchen, where he makes stew and curry and scones for the meals he shares with Harry. Where he and Harry cook together and drink Firewhisky and smoke cigarettes.

“I have to go. Getting late.” Harry plants a kiss on Malfoy’s forehead, like Ron doesn’t even exist, like he’s not watching a Muggle horror film unfold in real time. “Tonight?”

“Please.”

Malfoy watches Harry intently as he stuffs toast in his face and gulps down his coffee. When the door falls shut behind him, Malfoy turns to Ron with a wry little smile.

“He’s got the compact arse of a gymnast and the body of a swimmer, don’t you think? The only thing he does with consistency is fly. I’m beginning to think he made a deal with a dark god. There’s simply no other explanation.”

“What?”

“Can’t you see how attractive he is? Or are you that far removed from your own feelings?”

“My what.” Ron thinks of the orgasm that rolled through him last night—and again around four in the morning—when he imagined the narrow grip of Harry’s arse, the promising heat of his mouth.

It was nothing. Just his imagination running wild.

“For Merlin’s sake. You’re thick, aren’t you?” Malfoy laughs, looking Ron up and down. “Nevermind. They did let you finish Hogwarts, much to my surprise. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Then, he smiles that slimy smile. “Do you want this extra coffee? Or you can pop the kettle on and we can have tea. Maybe discuss your history of living with Harry for two years—”

“Three.”

“You’re making my point for me, Weaselby.”

The coffee is heavenly when he tastes it—vanilla, a hint of something cinnamon, a dash of milk. Ron scowls. “You should be going.”

“Mm. I will after I finish my coffee. I’m bringing Harry to Scorpius’ birthday party next weekend, you know. You ought to get used to having me around.”

“He doesn’t date. You’re the flavour of the week, that’s it.” He shoves past Malfoy and grabs a piece of toast.

“Oh, am I? How many blokes have you seen him with twice?”

Ron’s stomach goes cold. “I’m seeing you here now. That’s only once.”

“That wasn’t you, about to wank in the hallway while Harry fucked me with his tongue?” Malfoy smiles. He gives the impression of a big cat, toying with his food. “That wasn’t even the first time. Winner gets a blowjob; we've been doing it for ages. That was the first time Harry fucked me, but I think that’s going to become a tradition. You wouldn’t believe how thick—”

“Leave. Harry’s not here, so get the fuck out.”

“My pleasure.” Malfoy yawns and stretches, arms high above his head. The robe slides open to reveal the pink tip of his cock.

Ron’s mouth fills with saliva.

“My eyes are up here, Weasley.”

Ron stomps back to his room and finishes his coffee in fuming silence. He emerges only when he hears the door thunk closed and bangs around the kitchen loudly, advertising his displeasure to the quiet flat.

***

It’s late when Ron gets home, so he casts a Muffling charm on his feet when he opens the door. But the telly is on, some old crime drama, and Harry’s kneeling on the sofa, with Draco fucking Malfoy stretched out beneath him. Harry’s hand is down his trousers, and Malfoy is moaning softly and bucking his hips every now and again.

“Harry,” he says, then says it again. “Harry, please.”

“Lemme feel you. Gods, you’ve got a perfect cock, sweetheart.”

When Ron hears the telltale sound of a zipper being pulled down, he swallows hard and tiptoes to his room.

He doesn’t close the door—the noise would surely alert them. This isn’t the first time he’s caught Harry in the act. His flatmate is a slag; he’ll fuck anything that moves. Late-night groping goes with the territory. Ron can tolerate and cast a silencing charm on the door—

It’s just—that’s not all it is, is it?

Sweetheart.

Their whispers carry enough that Ron can hear the tone of them, if not the words. The begging edge to Harry’s voice, the warm laugh in return. All of this; followed by stuttering sighs that roll into kisses, and the rasp of skin on skin, clothing falling to the floor.

All the while, Ron putters about his dark room on spell-silenced feet, telling himself that he’s not incredibly horny. Then that the noticeable tenting in his trousers is simply a natural reaction to throaty sighs and the brush of hands on skin, the wet sounds that follow.

Anyone could be out there—could be Hagrid and McGonagall—and Ron would probably get hard. Just like the other night when he’d fantasised about spreading someone apart and sliding inside, pumping his hips, fucking his come into them—his mind had simply supplied that it was Harry beneath him because it was Harry he heard.

It’s just that he hasn’t been touched in so long, hasn’t shared the hitch of breath or the breach of fingers with anyone in ages. Maybe that’s what happens during dry spells; you get a bit gay if your flatmate is penetrating the biggest tosser on the planet. Slipping into the wet heat of his mouth or the vise-like grip of his pretty, round arse—

Ron hears it then. The unmistakable slap of skin on skin and the shocked, almost-pained sounds of pleasure, the telly droning on in the background, the plot of the procedural surely forgotten.

It wouldn’t hurt to look. Get an idea of who’s shagging who this time.

He finds himself at the door before he’s had a chance to think it through, propelled forward by some unknown inertia. It’s Malfoy’s arse he sees first, rising and falling in a gentle rhythm, Harry’s cock disappearing into soft, pale skin. Malfoy’s arse does look soft, soft as any girl’s, and covered in a fine dusting of pale hair. He wonders how much of it is around Malfoy’s hole, if Harry can feel it when he slides his cock inside. What it looks like smeared with lube and—fuck—sticky with come.

Ron’s breathing comes fast. His wits are dim—addlepated, that's what they call that in the field. Under normal circumstances, Ron can counterspell an Unforgivable at ten paces with his eyes closed, but he couldn’t summon his wand right now. Everything in his brain has been replaced by the thick stretch of Harry’s cock, and the dimpling of Malfoy’s arse where Harry grips him, Malfoy’s fluttery breathing as he rides Harry like he's the latest racing broom.

Draco Malfoy. Just like a stray curse to the fucking head.

Ron doesn’t even realise that his hand is in his pants until his groin fills with the hum of arousal, the head of his cock so sensitive it sends a static-like shock to his core. Fuck it. He shoves his pants down and gets a better grip, squeezing his shaft, running his fingers up the vein on the underside, playing with his foreskin until he’s that same aching hard he was last time.

Last time.

It’s just his dry spell, he thinks as he summons lube. Could be anyone fucking, and he’d watch. Not just Harry’s powerful legs and Malfoy’s round arse, pink and puffy and split open. Ron slicks himself; doesn’t even use a silencing spell. It’ll be quick, he knows. With the sounds they’re making and the way Harry is fucking up into Malfoy, so fast Malfoy’s arse is jiggling. Harry is loud, so loud, and Ron strokes himself in time with their fucking. He wonders what it would be like to try to fit his dick in alongside Harry’s. The obscene heat, the packed-in slide, the sensation of Harry’s spunk spurting out and covering Ron’s cock.

Pleasure hits him like a burst of heated lightning. His eyes roll back, and an electric shiver simmers through his thighs and into the hot-hard length of his cock. The sound of a satisfied moan reaches his ears just as his cock jerks and the first white splatter hits the wall. It must be one of them, but Malfoy is still bouncing, and Harry’s legs are still thrusting up, up, up. Another long, loud moan, and Ron realises it’s him; he’s the one caterwauling like he’s in heat, stroking himself through his orgasm and coming so hard his ears are ringing when the last spurt lands on the floor next to his feet.

An icy slip of dread hits him square in the belly. But Harry is still fucking, and Malfoy is still being fucked, and that doesn’t change when Ron closes his door and murmurs a cleaning spell. They stop after Ron climbs into bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. Good. That’ll be it for tonight, and Ron can consider all sorts of questions in the morning.

Harry’s door opens and closes, and he hears the sounds of kissing and the creak of Harry’s bed springs before he falls into a fitful sleep.

***

The next time he sees Malfoy, it’s after another all-night fuckfest that kicked off in the kitchen. He came home to see Harry bent over the counter, Malfoy’s fingers buried inside of him, arm moving slowly back and forth. Harry’s moans had gotten so loud that Sergeant Pepper had startled awake and ran across the kitchen, yowling like someone set her tail on fire. Ron nearly tripped over her, and Malfoy had turned and winked at Ron, cock poking out of the treacherous pink robe. Ron had stumbled into his room and slammed the door for a furtive wank and an evening of staring at the ceiling while Malfoy fucked the living hell out of his best mate. He’d opened his door at one in the morning to scratching from his traumatised cat and more moaning, this time from Malfoy.

“Good morning, darling,” Malfoy says when Ron shuffles, bleary-eyed into the kitchen.

Ron is silent when he pours himself a cup of Malfoy’s coffee. It’s aggravating, how good it is. The sodding git just watches him, leaning against the counter, wearing a Gryffindor red shirt and a pair of tiny black briefs. He smells like he’s just been fucked. Ron studiously avoids eye contact.

Ron is about to wander off to his room with his cinnamon-vanilla coffee when Malfoy stops him, long fingers on his arm.

“It’s foolish to deprive yourself.”

Ron stares at Malfoy’s hand until it falls back where it was, next to Malfoy’s slutty hip, his long thigh covered in all that fine, blond hair. It takes a moment for the words to actually sink in.

“I’m picking up a breakfast roll on the way to work.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes.

“What.”

“You’re a muppet, Ronald.”

Ron scowls. “You’re a fucking muppet, Malfoy. Why are you worried about my breakfast?”

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you—”

“Him. Harry. He’s a magnificent fuck, and he’ll do whatever you ask. He even let me—well.” Malfoy pauses and takes a dainty sip from his mug, apparently revelling in Ron’s discomfort. “I rather think your sensibilities are too delicate. Your freckles are far less attractive when you’re pale like that.”

“I don’t want—we’re not—that’s not what we are. And I’m not—I haven’t.” Ron’s face feels like it does when Bill pinches his cheeks: sore, hot, skin pulled too tight. “I can’t help but see you and Harry fucking because it’s happening all the bloody time.”

“I don’t do anything without intention. When you see us fucking, it’s because I want you to.”

“What the fuck? Why?”

Malfoy comes close and looks at him darkly, like he might shove him. Or something else, something more dangerous. Instead he pats Ron on the cheek. “You’re a beautiful idiot.”

Malfoy saunters towards Harry’s bedroom, the shirt riding up and exposing his round little arse. Fucking hell.

“Hey that’s my shirt.” Ron clenches his fist.

“Oh, is it?” Draco brings the collar to his nose and sniffs. “It does smell a touch more masculine than Harry. He smells like lilac and lime, from his hair potion.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Ron’s cock makes itself known with a needy little pulse.

“Don’t you?”

“I want it back. It’s mine.”

Malfoy starts stripping, tugging the hemline up to reveal the thatch of blond fuzz below his navel. “Have it back, then. Did you know I have nipple rings?”

Ron has wondered several times what they’d taste like—cold metal or warm, pebbled skin. Or both. “No. Didn’t know that—and I don’t. Want to know that.”

Fucking hell. It’s like all of Ron’s thoughts have been corrupted and replaced with burgeoning homosexuality. But is it burgeoning, really? It may have burgeoned many years ago. In the showers when he caught a glimpse of Harry’s belly hair. In the tent after he’d seen Harry’s cock, hard, in the night and listened to him wank. He’d had to wake Hermione up and—

“I’ll show you. They’re silver.” Malfoy fingers the hem of his shirt, lifts it higher.

“What! No!” Ron adjusts his body so there’s no evidence that he’s rapidly getting hard. “Just give the shirt back later. When you’re here next.”

“Two nights with Scorpius, then back at the weekend. I’ll leave after a very long shower and a wank, I think. Ta.”

Malfoy flounces into Harry’s room, door groaning shut behind him.

Ron sighs and sits down heavily at the kitchen table. He groans when he tastes the coffee. Fucking gods. It’s so good.

He buries his head in his hands.

***

It gets worse from there.

Malfoy is basically living in their flat when he’s not with his small blond clone. If it was only Malfoy’s presence, Ron would be fine. Eventually. Harry’s had a few actual relationships, and Ron has tolerated them all well enough.

Malfoy is different. Harry calls him sweetheart. Lets Malfoy wear his favourite jersey. Cooks with him, brings him breakfast. Malfoy had even talked Harry into going to the ballet; had bought him a suit and had Ron take pictures.

They’d looked so good together, smiling at one another, Malfoy pecking him on the cheek; Harry in a charcoal suit and a black shirt, Malfoy in a much louder shade of blue, with a waistcoat accentuating his slim figure, a silk cravat around his long neck.

Even Sergeant Pepper likes Malfoy, and she never even shows herself to anyone apart from Harry and Ron.

It’s like Harry and Malfoy… fit. In a way Ron had maybe never fit with anyone. He thought he’d found comfort with Harry, maybe a bit of joy. Even if Ron didn’t have a girlfriend, he had his best mate. Now he’s got his best mate and the worst person he’s ever known—and it’s really quite shit.

Worst of all, the fucker keeps making Ron coffee and toast in the morning. Last week, he’d left Ron a plate of eggs under a warming charm. He’s not sure what Malfoy’s game is, but he fucking hates it.

“You should join us tonight.” Malfoy appears at his side like a pale, unwanted phantom.

“What.” Ron is at the sink washing up after Malfoy’s most recent experiment with carbonara. It was decent, but a crime had been committed against his dishes. Fucker.

“You. Should join us. We’re getting stoned and watching a stupid film.”

“Drugs are illegal,” Ron says automatically. He sends a dish hurtling towards a cupboard; it lands with a resounding clank.

“I know you do them. All sorts of naughty things, all with Harry.”

“Yeah. Harry is the operative word. With you, drugs are illegal.”

“Harry would like for us to get along. I’d like that, too.” Draco leans against the counter inches away from Ron. He smells like Harry’s detergent, his shampoo. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. But I’m highly” —he looks Ron over from head to toe— “adaptable.”

Ron’s got less than zero experience with men, but he’s lived long enough to know what that look means. The Ron of two months ago would have ignored it, or in Malfoy’s case, might have shot a quick hex to the thigh. Right now, though, as Harry appears from his bedroom with wet curls and a bare chest and the dimpled smile that makes Ron’s heart squeeze so hard it might simply quit beating, as Malfoy smirks and openly leers at Ron’s arse, Ron goes lightheaded and wobbly. He grits his teeth and tries to swallow the anticipation—not just because he’s almost certainly bisexual and that’s quite a lot to realise in the span of a few days—but also because—he can’t lose this. He can’t lose Harry.

Malfoy must sense… something in Ron’s demeanor because his features soften a fraction—in his precisely pointy way. “Harry wants you. Has always wanted you in some capacity. And I want him to have what he wants.”

Ron watches as Harry pulls on Ron’s Gryffindor shirt, the one Draco nicked from him. He doesn’t respond to Draco because his eyes won’t leave Harry. His mouth goes dry.

Ron is in love with Harry. He’s in love with Harry. The same way he’s always been in love with Hermione—it’s just that all of Ron and Hermione’s edges got filed away, polished into something smooth and strong, with no more room for the fire they’d shared as teenagers. Ron told Harry he didn’t think he’d fall in love with anyone like that, ever again.

That wasn’t a lie, so much as a half-truth. Ron was already in love when Harry brought him here. When he wrapped Ron in his favourite red blanket and coaxed him into making Sunday dinners and filling out a cat adoption application. When Harry picked out her stupid bloody name. Ron doesn’t even like the Beatles.

Ron feels a bit like he’s hovering somewhere above, looking down on the scene, seeing himself seeing Harry. Harry saunters towards him in slow motion.

“Don’t mind if I—erm, borrow this?” Harry plucks at the Gryffindor shirt, exposing a slice of his midriff.

“It’s all—” Ron clears his throat and tries not to topple into the counter. “All yours, mate.”

“Draco says you’re joining us. That you wanted to watch—”

The dryness in Ron’s mouth grows until he feels like he’s swallowing a ball of hot sand. “Oh, I—erm. I don’t—I shouldn't.”

“The film.” Malfoy slinks his hand onto Ron’s shoulder and squeezes. “Ron was saying he’d like to get to know me better. With you. Since I’m sticking around.”

Harry looks between the two of them, brows drawing together. “What were you actually talking about?”

“Nothing,” Ron says, at the same time as Malfoy says, “The film,” over-pronouncing the word—fill-um—and squeezing Ron’s shoulder again. “Weasley said he’d make dessert, and I’ll roll us a spliff. I’ve a few secret ingredients that should loosen all of us up.”

“Oh, yeah. Erm. That’d be great.” Harry’s throat bobs. There’s a touch of sweat beading on his forehead.

Ron opens his mouth to say something, anything, to ask if Harry had any say in coordinating this, or if Draco fucking Malfoy is railroading them into some demented threesome because he heard Ron tossing off at three in the morning. Several times. While Ron watched them fuck.

Because he’s in love with Harry. And Harry’s—Ron isn’t sure what Harry is.

What a bloody mess.

Draco swans off to and makes a racket Summoning his box of illegal activities and meticulously rolling a joint. His pink tongue darts out and he mumbles about assuming Ron and Harry consent to his mix of Ministry-grade ingredients.

Sergeant Pepper appears and makes circles around Malfoy’s legs, her purr like a motor starting. Traitorous feline.

Ron is left staring at Harry, and Harry at Ron. The tips of Harry’s ears are red, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Rocks back on his heels. “I’m glad you’re joining us.”

Thoughts and images fly through Ron’s mind at an alarming rate. Mostly images of Harry in compromising positions, Malfoy servicing him, opening him, fucking him, sucking his cock. But this is, he reminds himself, just a film and dessert and Malfoy’s lewd implications. It doesn't mean Harry wants any of this with Ron.

“Me too.” Ron chews on his lip. “I’ll, erm, put something together for dessert.”

Harry smiles the smile that makes Ron feel a little like he’s going to sick up. Maybe in a sort-of-good way, but also in a terrible-awful way.

It all starts out normally, like Ron is just a friend, tagging along on a stay-at-home date. Like Ron is a comfortable afterthought, sitting on one end of the sofa while Malfoy practically crawls inside of Harry: an arm draped around Harry’s neck, ankles twined together, fingers in his dark curls. Ron brings out a cake that he made the day prior—chocolate with raspberry and coconut—and Malfoy ostentatiously lights a joint and takes a long drag. The film is something ridiculous that involves time travel and a malfunctioning hot tub. Ron mostly huffs and rolls his eyes, then tries to get the cat’s attention. She resolutely ignores him in favour of pawing at a pink toy mouse Malfoy had brought for her. Bribery; it figures.

The film is much funnier when he takes a puff of whatever drugs Malfoy rolled up together. Gillyweed, definitely; cannabis, too, all mixed up with something that makes Ron feel glittery and sensitive all down his spine. The telly has a hazy blue aura, and Ron laughs and drops his head back against the sofa. The cake is creamy and heavenly, and the beers Malfoy produces from his bag are ice cold and bear expensive-looking labels. It’s all on the up and up; no sign of the awkward proposition that Ron will definitely refuse. Probably definitely.

Ron sinks into the couch and closes his eyes and lightly floats in that well-buzzed but not-truly-pissed sort of way. His mouth tastes like coconut and raspberry, his skin all at once fuzzy and liquidy. Harry’s arm curls around his shoulder, and the comfort that he’s always felt with Harry mixes with the buzzy-heady feel of a warm palm on his shoulder. The sound of the film bleeds into the background, and the purring of Sergeant Pepper rumbles from her cat tree, the one Ron and Harry built together. Outside, cars pass; rain patters against the window. Harry does smell like lilac and lime. Fingers dip into the hair at Ron’s nape, and he lets out a sigh. Tingles hit the top of his spine and trickle through him, lighting up the pathways of nerves through his arms, down his flanks, a storm of sensation settling beneath his belly and taking root in his hips.

He could have this forever—just this. And always be happy.

There’s a song in the background of the film, something Ron almost recognizes. Then: the low drone of talking. A rustle of fabric, the rearrangement of a blanket, Harry’s fingers curling into Ron’s hair again. When the sound of kissing filters into Ron’s thoughts, he blinks blearily; it’s not the telly.

“... but you know we shouldn’t.”

“He’s asleep. Besides, he’s watched us fuck half a dozen times. I told you.”

“I know. He probably doesn’t want—”

“You’re a beautiful idiot, just like him.” The sound of kissing, again; a pleased hum thrums beneath Ron’s skin. “I only want you to have what you want. So you’ll keep me as your mistress.”

“You’re my boyfriend. Don’t be ridiculous.” More kissing, followed by Harry’s soft moans that signify sex, and the unzipping of someone’s flies.

“You’re so gorgeous, Harry. You deserve everything you want. And I’ll get it for you.”

Ron’s gut twists with jealousy, and he blinks open his eyes. Harry’s hand is still on his neck, still playing with his hair. He’ll lose this touch if he moves—but he’ll lose what’s left of his dignity if he stays. Malfoy is just rubbing it in his face that Harry belongs to him now, that Ron’s time in the sun is over. He blinks again. If he looks, he won’t be able to unsee it. The pleasure and—worse than that—what might be love. One of them might say it. And Ron will evaporate or bury himself beneath the floorboards and never speak to Harry again.

The brush of skin on skin invades his thoughts. Harry gulping like he’s trying to keep quiet. “Fuck, Draco. Really. I shouldn’t have my cock out on the—fuck.”

“You like it. Look how hard you are. Such a show off.”

“But Ron—” Harry’s hand grips the back of his neck, nails digging in. Merlin, his touch.

“He wants you just as much as I do. I’d wager my entire inheritance he’s got fifteen years of pent-up lust to work out. Plus, he likes watching.” More soft kissing sounds, followed by Harry’s answering sighs. “Don’t you, Weasley?”

“He’s asleep,” Harry whispers.

“You’re a precious moron, Harry. You’ve been clawing at Weasley’s neck for the past five minutes. And dear Ronald is sporting a massive erection.”

Harry groans, and Malfoy starts stroking him again, calling him a good boy and then an exhibitionist slut. A twisting, coiling pressure builds in Ron’s gut, cock throbbing at Malfoy’s words, at the ungodly hot sounds Harry is making. He feels like he’s swallowed a load of George’s questionably legal fireworks and tossed a lit match down his throat for dessert. Still, he doesn’t move. Can’t.

“Drop the act, Weasley. Do something, you stupid ginger twat. Or I’ll fuck him for you, and come all over your—”

“Shut the fuck up, Draco. Ron, are you—”

The fireworks fizz and pop in his gullet; they rise in his throat. So. Ron does the only thing he can think of and blinks his eyes open and stretches.

“Gods, that spliff really took me out.” He looks ahead at the blue screen of the telly, still buzzing with the drugs and booze and the heat of Harry’s hand, now on his shoulder. He avoids the fact of Harry’s cock, which he does desperately want to see. But he—he shouldn’t. “I should be getting to bed so you can fuck each other to death.”

Just as he goes to get up, still studiously avoiding eye contact, Harry grabs his arm and squeezes. “Ron, wait. I’m sorry you’ve been—seeing a lot of. Well.”

He does look at Harry now. He’s pulled a blanket over his obvious stiffy. Malfoy’s hand is beneath the blanket, clearly holding Harry’s cock. Because he’s a massive fucking arsehole and the worst person in the known universe.

“Ron likes it,” Malfoy drawls. “He loves it. From the very first time he spied on us in the sauna. And he’s wanted you a lot longer than—”

“Draco, I told you to shut the fuck—”

The first firework bursts in Ron’s brain; bright fizzes of colour and sound replace all of his rational thoughts. He wonders vaguely if there was something like Veritaserum in that joint because the words bubble up, and his heart and mind and body all know that the truth will be a glorious relief.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rasping. And Gods, it’s bliss. His cock gives a strange twitch, almost like the word itself is erotic. “Yeah, I saw you.” He looks at Harry, full on now. At the glasses askew on his nose, the pout of his wet lips, the wild spirals of his sex hair. “I watched.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s voice is light and breathy.

“Yeah. I, erm, I watched a few times.”

“More like every time,” Draco says. “And wanked yourself raw—”

“Draco, I swear to Merlin—”

The truth explodes, all at once, in the centre of Ron’s chest, deep in his animal brain, and down the taut, straining length of his cock. “I liked it,” he says, shivering. And then, “I really liked it. I thought about it after. I like men. Probably.”

“The realisation of the century.” Draco squeezes Harry’s cock beneath the blanket, and Harry startles and groans and grips Ron’s arm even harder.

“You’re such a dick.” Harry hisses, and his eyes flutter shut.

“But I’ll just—I’ll go sort myself out—” Ron stands again because he vaguely thinks that’s the right and proper thing to do, but Harry’s hand slips down to his wrist. Everything is still fuzzy and dreamy, like the room has been dusted with a light coat of glitter, and Harry’s hand is warm and reassuring, a perfect pressure on his skin.

“Is it me that you like?” Harry is vague and blissed out and as wide-eyed as Sergeant Pepper on catnip, but his eyes are locked on Ron’s.

The look on Ron’s face must be a sight as well because Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, and his glasses slip down even more. “I’m asking because—that’s what Draco keeps saying. And I didn’t even know you liked blokes and—”

“Yeah.” Ron clears his throat. Fuck it. He can blame it on the drugs in the morning. “Yeah, I like watching because it’s hot. And because it’s you.”

“Then you should stay.”

Ron’s eyes flick to Harry’s lap. The blanket has shifted so that Draco’s fingers are visible. A slice of Harry’s belly, less muscular than the rest of him because of Ron’s cooking, covered in a tantalising smattering of black hair. And just the very tip of his hard, jutting cock.

“S’not a great idea. Your—you’ve got a boyfriend. Um. It’s not just sex.” Ron swallows. Somewhere in the building, the pipes creak. Water flows. “Not for me.”

“Oh, Weasley. Haven’t you gotten the point yet?” Draco’s hand starts to move again, and Harry lets out a shocked huh sound. His eyes roll back. “I like showing off my things.” The blanket slips, and Ron can see it all now. The thick base, the shiny head, the oil on Draco’s long fingers. “And I like seeing them used and appreciated.”

“Draco, you should—oh, fuck—stop talking—” Harry lets out a keening sound.

“Harry’s a poor little orphan, you see—”

“Fuck you, Draco.” Harry is practically writhing now, bucking into Draco’s hand. A pretty dark flush stains his cheeks and ears.

“—and he thrives on attention. Doesn’t he deserve it? Besides” —Draco strokes him faster, like he’s trying to milk the come from him right before Ron’s eyes— “you two are practically married. Might as well reap your rewards.”

“Fucking” —Harry grunts— “don’t like it when you talk about me like I’m not here—”

“Yes, you do, love.”

“Ron.” Harry grabs Ron’s hand and tugs. His eyes are imploring; limitless green. “Stay. I want you.”

It’s inevitable, the draw to Harry; it always has been. No matter how stupid or reckless or dangerous, he’d always let Harry take him by the hand. So it’s easy to choose this, to justify flopping onto the squishy couch next to Harry. Ron lists into Harry’s side, and Harry makes the sweetest noise.

Malfoy is wanking Harry steadily, smirking at Ron with that irritating mouth. The impudent twist of it. “Took you long enough.”

Ron is about to quip back, but he thinks the language centre of his brain has officially stopped working. Harry is fucking, slow, into Malfoy’s fist, whining, with each movement, but his eyes are on Ron.

Harry’s fingers slide up Ron’s shirt, skim his waistband. “Ron, I need—please.”

Ron could still bolt; there’s still time to retreat from this and hide from his feelings for a little while longer, at least. But he’s so hard, and Harry’s so gorgeous, with his pretty wet cock and full, parted lips, and Malfoy’s long fingers working him.

“C’mon,” Harry says. “Show it to me. I want to feel it.”

In the space of a second, Ron manages a wordless unbuttoning charm, and Harry shoves down Ron’s pants just enough so his cock springs free. Ron makes an agonized noise—and then Harry’s touching him, and Ron’s eyes are fluttering with the pleasure of it. Those deft fingers, so skilled in healing, so quick with spellwork, are wrapped around Ron’s cock, thumb tugging his foreskin back, nail grazing his slit.

“Very good,” Malfoy says, like he’s praising a class of small children and not two grown men with their cocks out. “You’re doing so well, both of you.”

“Tosser,” Ron chokes out, but the second syllable comes out thin and reedy because—because Harry’s hand is on his cock, and it’s all he’s ever wanted. It’s clumsy and quick and rough but it feels like lift off. Ron is close—so close his body burns—when Harry’s hand goes slack and Ron is left reeling.

But when he blinks, he sees why Harry has left him hanging. Malfoy is kneeling, tugging off Harry’s trousers and pants, tucking himself between Harry’s legs. “You’ve got a front row seat this time, Weasley. And I’m a magnificent performer.”

Then he kisses the tip of Harry’s cock and sucks him down in one swift move, swallowing showily. Harry’s mouth goes slack, his hand immediately in Malfoy’s hair, like this is a well-trod path. Ron is hit again with that cold slip of jealousy—his own sort of Malfoy-related muscle memory—but it’s different because he’s here on purpose, an invited guest. With a fucking front row seat.

Ron’s cock is straining hard—he was only a few strokes away from coming, which is weird and wild because Ron—Ron isn’t a teenager. He’s thirty-two. Well paid. Saving for a house. He doesn’t come from a touch.

But it’s Harry. And he swears he could finish just like this, with Harry’s hand resting on his thigh, his fingers flexing as Malfoy sucks him. The posh, blond git has been a thorn in Ron’s side most of his life, and now, he’s practically living in Ron’s flat, sucking his best mate’s cock right in front of him. He’s a walking, talking virus, a scourge upon the earth in tight jeans—and he’s watching Ron as he licks and sucks and splutters on Harry’s cock, eyes grey as a storm and terribly amused.

And Ron’s not mad about it at all.

“Don’t go,” Harry mumbles, and he grabs Ron’s shirt, dragging him in close.

“Don’t know where I’d go seeing as I live h—” All of the air in Ron’s lungs exits his body in a rush because Harry pulls him in and kisses him.

Harry’s lips are so soft, pillowy and plush and already swollen from kissing Malfoy. Softer than a bloke’s lips have any right to be. Harry’s tongue is velvety when he licks into Ron’s mouth, and he tastes of fruit and sugar and coconut. Harry flings his glasses aside and kisses Ron deeper, hungrier, thumb brushing tenderly across his cheek. He moans into Ron’s mouth and gasps and bites; all the while, Malfoy sucks, cheeks hollowed, like blowjobs are a new Olympic sport, and he’s desperate to make Britain’s premier team.

Harry’s breathing turns to gasps, and his bare thighs tremble, all covered in goosebumps. Malfoy grabs Ron’s hand and puts it on Harry’s thigh. Ron squeezes and squeezes and kisses Harry for all he’s worth. And then Harry’s breathing changes; his thigh twitches beneath Ron’s hand.

Harry’s orgasms are a common household occurrence—Ron’s heard hundreds of them: slapping hips and muffled cries, midnight wanks on the other side of the wall, slippery shower fucks, and the squelching sounds of the fleshlight Ron found in Harry’s drawer the bathroom and hasn’t stopped thinking about since. He’s heard it all. But he’s never tasted Harry’s pleasure, swallowed every sigh, felt the tense and release of his jaw and the scrape of his teeth as he holds Malfoy’s head still and fucks into the hollow of his throat, as he presses in and bucks hard and cries out against Ron’s lips.

Malfoy swallows, a wet clicking sound, then splutters and releases Harry’s cock. It jerks, its shadow dancing in blue telly light, and Harry grunts as he takes himself in hand and covers Draco’s face—his lips, his chin, the side of his long, straight nose—and says, “Christ, Draco, my god. Ron—don’t stop—kissing me.”

Ron doesn’t stop because this feels like truth, too. The nearness of Harry, his citrus-floral shampoo and the sharp woody scent of his favourite cologne, the slip of his curls between Ron’s fingers, and Harry’s hand on his cock again.

Harry squeezes the base of Ron’s cock. “This time, I want to watch you.”

Ron can’t do anything but make a muffled sound against Harry’s lips. He’s sure he’d say yes to anything in this state, but he’s not at all sure what Harry’s asking until—until he feels hands on his thighs, pulling off his trousers, his pants. Until he sees Harry spitting in his hand and feels the wet vise-grip of Harry’s fist. What follows is a series of still images: a flash of blond hair, a shirt tossed aside, two silver rings in petal-pink nipples, and Draco Malfoy in nothing but black silk briefs, kneeling between Ron’s legs with a smug turn to his lips and come still smeared on his chin.

“Open up,” Harry says, and Ron barely registers the words. He’s too busy staring at Malfoy, who opens his mouth obediently. “Now suck.”

Ron’s eyes stay locked on the drop of come on Draco’s chin. It’ll be easier not to blow his load right away if he has a focal point, but the thought is lost when tender, wet heat envelops his cock, when the head of his dick butts against the top of Draco’s mouth, when it settles in his throat and he swallows around it. The contents of Ron’s mind is replaced with tight, sucking heat, and Harry’s hand up his shirt, on his nipples, feeling his muscles, scratching through his body hair. And, gods, Draco is loud, groaning and swallowing and bobbing his head like he wants nothing more than to choke on Ron’s dick.

“That’s so fucking hot.” Harry repeats it like he can’t believe this is happening— “That’s so fucking hot” —like Harry thinks he’s somehow lucky, like Ron being here is good and right and something he wants. Ron relaxes into it, sinks back, threads his fingers through Malfoy’s fine hair. He might as well enjoy the strangest night of his entire fucking life.

Ron’s climax is a slow build with the buzz of drugs in his system; each plateau sends waves of warmth through his body. It feels like the slow lift of a breeze, speed and intensity increasing, whipping around him and in him and bursting into a long-lasting, heated spiral as his cock jerks and pulses and fills Malfoy’s mouth. He swallows it all down, moaning. Like a whore.

Malfoy sits back with a satisfied look on his face and licks his lips. “I want you to fuck me with it next time.”

Ron blinks. His mouth is hanging open, he realises belatedly; he can feel the wet tip of his tongue against his bottom lip. He’s not even able to process fuck me with it next time before Malfoy is on his lap, cock hard in his lacy knickers.

“I need to get off.” Malfoy wiggles on Ron’s thighs and plants a salty, bitter kiss on his lips.

Ron’s hand is inside the silky fabric before he fully knows what he’s doing, what step he’s taking, the unspoken questions he’s answering by feeling Malfoy’s cock and cupping his balls, tugging them. It doesn’t matter now. There’s no walking this back. Malfoy kisses him again, sloppy and biting, and he ruts against Ron’s hand like an animal; no grace or form to it.

“Fuck, fuck. There. Tighter.” Malfoy finds an angle and keeps at it. Harry’s hard again, jerking himself, and all Ron can think is that he wants his mouth on it. Wants Harry’s taste in the back of his throat before he goes to sleep. Wants to watch Malfoy fuck Harry open so Ron can slide inside Harry’s well-used hole and fill it again.

Malfoy makes a choked noise and jerks his hips. Ron's hand is suddenly warm and wet, come wicking into the silk. Harry aims his cock at Malfoy’s pants and comes with a shout; milky-white ropes coating the fabric, splattering on Ron’s wrist. They’re all panting, heaving deep breaths, as they come back down to earth.

Malfoy grins and laughs and kisses Harry, nearly falls when he goes to get up. The twitty little schemer is loose and languid, kissing Harry and ruffling Ron’s hair as he aims cleaning spells at himself and the sofa and throws a blanket over Ron’s half-hard cock. “Have some dignity, Weasley.”

“Fuck you.” Ron gives him the finger, then yawns and settles back into the sofa. Harry is sprawled out next to him, and he hoists his legs onto Ron’s lap.

Malfoy smirks the whole time he’s getting dressed, like he’s played a brilliant hand and won the whole pot of Galleons. It’s annoying. Ron hates that he thinks it’s sort of cute; all that ridiculous swagger. He supposes Malfoy comes by it honestly at this point. He’s the head Alchemist at the Ministry, he looks like a Muggle swimsuit model, and Harry Potter is his bloody boyfriend.

“Fine,” Ron says, nonsensically, like he’s finally accepting something. He’s too hazy to know what it is, just now. Something about Malfoy, he reckons, and his hands and his mouth and his pretty, round arse. He’ll sort it out tomorrow.

“Draco. Where’re you going?” The words sound forced out of Harry’s near-comatose body.

“I’ve brunch with Stori and Mother and Scorpius tomorrow. Unlike the two of you, I have responsibilities. So, Ron” —Malfoy flicks him in the middle of the forehead— “take care of Harry while I’m gone. If you turn him against me, I’ll end you. They'll never find your body.”

Ron rubs his forehead. “I’ll take that under advisement. Wanker.”

Malfoy leans down and kisses Harry, long and thorough, then swans out of the flat. It takes him a moment to realise that he’s wearing Ron’s shirt and Harry’s jeans.

“Let’s go to bed,” Harry says with a yawn. As if tonight were normal. As if it were any other film night at the Potter-Weasley flat.

Ron grumbles and ties the blanket around his waist before making for his room. Harry wanders in after him and climbs into Ron’s bed, wrapping himself in Ron’s sheets and falling asleep before Ron is even done cleaning his teeth.

***

Morning filters in, as it always does. Rays of sunlight pool at the foot of the bed. Sergeant Pepper crept in sometime during the night; she’s bundled up in Ron’s favourite chair, purring in her sleep. This morning is the same as any other, except it’s entirely different as well. Ron is different, his world shaped into something new, with Harry asleep beside him. He supposes it’s not all that surprising, that Harry should be the one to excavate this long-hidden piece of him, drag it into the light, and make it real.

Ron watches him for a while: the rise and fall of his chest, its dark curls, the outline of his splendid, round arse, hidden beneath the sheets. The twitch of his full mouth, the curve of his ear, the dips and valleys of his muscles, the breadth of his shoulders.

Harry stretches and turns over, eyes blinking open. “I can feel you watching me.”

“I like looking at you,” Ron says, because it’s true, and he might as well be honest. The truth doesn’t feel like it did last night, like he’s sailing on a sea of bliss when he says it, but it feels good. And he reckons it’s the right thing, if he can keep Harry like this, in their flat, in the quiet of their Sunday mornings.

Harry’s answering smile is a thing of beauty. “You can touch me, too. Wherever you like. Whenever you like.”

“Is that real? It’s not just—not just when you’re smoking Malfoy’s spliffs—or just when you fancy a shag—”

“I always fancy a shag.” Harry rolls over and stretches, the sheets bunching up at his waist, revealing the vague outline of his cock.

“I mean.” Ron reaches out, tentative, and brushes his knuckles down the centre of Harry’s chest. “I’m not just second place.”

Harry catches his hand and brings it to his lips. He presses kisses along the back of Ron’s hand, then flips it over and kisses the soft inner skin of his wrist. “I’ve fancied you for ages. Draco was a surprise.”

“Mate. It’s really not that surprising.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “That’s what Gin said. I pride myself on being extremely surprising. You’re both wrong.”

“So I’m—I’m something to you. We both are.” Ron blinks. His head swims a little with the aftereffects of the sugar and the beer and the questionably legal substances.

“You’re both everything to me.” Harry takes Ron’s hand and moves it lower, over the small curve of his belly, until their hands are dipping beneath the sheets, and Harry’s hard cock is beneath his fingers. “This is what you do to me. I’ve been taking it out on every eligible Quidditch player in London for three years. I think about you half the time I’m fucking someone.”

Ron’s breath catches. No, he was wrong. The truth is better, even, than it was last night. Holding this evidence of Harry’s wanting in his palm, hard and vital.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Mate.” Ron laughs. “You’re fucking filthy.”

“I am.” Harry lets his legs fall open.

It’s clumsy at first: Harry pulling him in and knocking his elbow against Ron’s chin, Ron’s shaking hand when he thumbs Harry’s nipple, the strange sensation of their cocks side by side when Ron settles over him. But Harry kisses him, throws a leg over Ron’s back. Their cocks slide together, and the base of Ron’s spine heats up, the feeling growing and expanding. A shift, and it feels—Harry feels right.

Harry’s other leg wraps around Ron’s waist, thick thighs bracketing him, Harry’s heels on the small of his back. They kiss, Harry whining into his mouth, threading his fingers through Ron’s hair. Harry’s teeth sink into his lips, his tongue into Ron’s mouth.

“Please.” Harry kisses a path along Ron’s jaw. “I want you inside me.” Harry takes Ron’s hand and places it between his legs, so that Ron’s fingertip settles on the tensed pucker of his hole.

“Oh. Oh—you want—” Ron’s voice catches, and he breathes out, shaky and slow. “You want me to fuck you.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

That dark blush is back on Harry’s cheeks, the same he’d worn when Draco sucked his cock. His eyes are big and so—genuine Ron forgets to breathe, has to force himself into steady breaths so he can in fact push his cock inside Harry and spill tucked up in the wet-hot core of him.

“I’ve never—not this way.” Ron lets his hand slide lower, two fingers against Harry’s entrance. It’s so warm, tender, skin delicate and responsive.

“It’s just like fucking a girl.” Harry’s breath hitches, and he pushes against Ron’s finger. “You just need to stretch me out.”

“Fuck. It’s so small, Harry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. It’ll stretch. I can—” Harry spits on his fingers and touches himself, gets Ron’s fingers wet. “I can take two cocks at a time.”

“Merlin’s tits.” Ron spreads spit over Harry’s rim, worries at it until it twitches and opens—just a little. “You’ve done that?”

“Course I have.”

“Fuck me. That’s so—” Ron tries to wrap his brain around the image of Harry, stretched open, filled; the idea of him, tight around Ron, Malfoy’s cock sliding against his.

“Slutty?”

Ron laughs and kisses Harry, for the thrill of it, the heat and soft, pulling need of his lips. Because he can. Because Harry wants him to. Wants him. “Hot. It’s so fucking hot, mate.”

Harry’s dark nipples are hard, and Ron kisses one, then the other, as his finger works against Harry’s hole. Wordlessly, Harry summons a palmful of shimmering lube, then drizzles it over his cock and Ron’s fingers, more between his cheeks.

“Might need a lot,” Harry says, nibbling Ron’s lip. “You’re big.”

Harry squeezes his cock, slicking lube along its length and rounding his palm over the tip, so Ron can rub into it and sigh.

“Harry, I’m—” Ron’s hips catch and shake, and Merlin, he’s hanging on by a thread. Ready to push and push and shoot into Harry’s hand. “Gods, I’m going to come before—before I even get inside you.”

“Don’t—not yet. I want it here.” Harry’s hand slips down, one finger curling into his hole.

Ron puts his finger next to Harry’s, lets Harry push it in. It’s hot and visceral, blood pumping against his fingers, muscles loosening, expanding. Somewhere in the mess of it, Harry jams a pillow beneath his hips and offers himself to Ron—and Ron dips his fingers in like he’s always done this, like he’s been parting Harry’s legs since they were fifteen, slipping inside of him in the dark of their dorm room, silencing spells on the bed curtains.

He’s two fingers deep; the sound of his wet slide into Harry’s hole mingles with Harry’s pleased sounds— there! curl your fingers and oh! —until Harry’s a quivering mess. It’s three fingers now, slipped in one knuckle at a time, and Ron has the thought that he sort of can’t believe—of all the things they’ve done together, they’d never done this. Cock hard and ready, pressing against that puffed, wet rim, Ron thinks vaguely that he’s always wanted to be right here—and he’s now certain that he always will want to be right here—and he’s so hopeful Harry won’t break him, won’t break his heart—the head pops in and Ron holds it there, shaking, Harry’s body clenching hot around him.

“C’mon, fuck me while I’m still young!”

Ron pushes inside, slow, trembling, his abdomen tight, tension held in his thighs and back and hips because he doesn’t want to hurt Harry. He’d hurt Millicent Bulstrode during one of his many breaks with Hermione, and this is different than fucking a warm-slick cunt—he’s out of his depth. Even as Harry relaxes and opens, there are still a few muscles protesting, trying to push Ron back out.

But it’s the best fuck he’s ever had and he’s only two-thirds of the way inside.

“How’sit?” Ron grunts and plants a hand next to Harry’s head.

“Big” —Harry gulps for air and grabs Ron’s arm— “thick. I need more. Give me—”

“I’ll give you all of it.” Ron breathes out and shoves himself all the way inside. It’s so tight that he can’t think; his mind narrows to the joining of their bodies, his hips pressed to Harry’s arse, the pump of blood and the constriction of muscle around his aching, ready cock.

Harry kisses him hungrily, groaning, pulling Ron’s lip between his teeth, heels digging into the small of his back. “Move, you should—oh. My god.”

Ron’s done it without thinking—pulled back and shoved himself back in. Pleasure sings through his hips, coils at the base of his spine. Toes tingling, twitching. He tries to think of the Falmouth Falcons seeker’s scores from the last six games—the last ten—anything to separate him from the blissful, narrow heat of Harry’s arse, the glide in and out, the glossy sheen of lube on his cock. Harry’s rim stretched, his balls drawn up, Harry’s cock hard and wet and tight in his thick fist. Harry.

“Harry—Harry.” He says it helplessly, tenderly, on a loop as his hips fall into a rhythm and chases the whole-body high of tight and deep and more.

Harry kisses him—doesn’t stop kissing him, breathes into his mouth and makes punched-out noises—unh, unh, unh—with each thrust. It is different from being with a girl; Harry is solid and compact, his lines long and straight, his edges sharper. Tighter, too, or—just different in its tightness, snug and velvety. It’s too much, too good, and the line between the hanging on and the spilling warmth of release gets thinner and thinner.

“Harder.” Harry sounds half-mad, wholly desperate. “I’m so—close, I’m close.”

“I can’t—I’ll come—fuck.” Ron pants into Harry’s mouth, delirious.

“Yeah?” Harry’s hand is wet and frantic on his cock. “Then do it.”

Their bodies stick together with sweat, peeling apart when Ron adjusts, sliding back together when he grabs the headboard. The friction of Harry’s body hair against his is maddening and electric—and yes—the drive to go harder is right there, in the motion of his hips and the beat of need at the base of his cock. Hips pulled back, back tensed, Ron slams into him and, finally, lets himself chase it for real, driving into Harry with deep, hungry thuds.

“Like that!” Harry’s body seizes, heels digging into Ron’s back, and he comes, splattering on his furred belly and chest. It’s a wet mess of sweaty bodies and soft, thorough kisses after that, Ron’s hips slapping against Harry’s arse, Harry’s fingers buried in his hair, pulling.

Ron closes his eyes and—for a moment—thinks of flying, the lift and rise of it, the stomach swoop before the dive, the near-absurd weightlessness of it. That’s what it’s like, being inside Harry, pleasure twisting and twirling up until Ron feels like he’s taking flight.

When Ron looks down at Harry, with his body all fucked out and his belly covered in come, his lips wet and parted, it hits him; an all-at-once jolt that feels like a dive into freefall. He grips the pillow next to Harry’s head and groans, shivering as he spills and spills. Vaguely, he thinks that he forgot to ask Harry if he could come inside him, but there’s no pulling out now. His toes curl, and his fingers flex in the sheets. And he pours out and out and out until he collapses on top of Harry, boneless and sweaty and tingling all over.

Harry shoves him and pinches his side and complains about not being able to breathe until Ron slips out, hissing, and gathers Harry in his arms.

Harry kisses him again, languid and easy, like it’s always been like this, like maybe it has been for Harry the whole time. That’s the part Ron can’t wrap his brain around; that he was living inside all this wanting, never realising he was part of it.

Ron huffs and reaches for his wand to clean them up. A hint of nervousness kicks up in his stomach; Harry’s eyes are tracking him. That shocking green.

Harry catches his hand when he lifts his wand. “Just my chest.”

Ron’s eyebrows shoot up, but he does the spell, and Harry hums happily when Ron’s magic hits him. Then, he turns over, and Ron sees the wet shadow between his arsecheeks. “I’ll be all ready for you after breakfast.”

“Merlin’s tits.” He squeezes one of Harry’s arsecheeks. “You’re a slag.”

“You like it.”

“I love it,” Ron says without thinking. And then, swallowing against a spiky pain in his throat: “I really love it.”

“Now this arse is yours.”

It feels normal, this back and forth between them. It feels true. He thinks about sorting it into all the True Things about Ron at Thirty-Two: he lives in a Muggle flat in London, he’s a bloody brilliant Curse Breaker, he has a cat named Sergeant Pepper, and he’s in love with his best mate.

It’s mental. Absolutely mental. And it’s also—not. It’s the morning after, and Harry hasn’t let him go. Which feels real and true to Harry, like their lives were always leading to this. To him and Harry here, and maybe—to him and Harry and Malfoy, as well.

For the first time in weeks, Malfoy isn’t here, loitering in their kitchen in Ron’s stolen shirts, making stupidly good coffee, or smirking like he knows all of Ron’s secrets before Ron even knows them himself.

The prospect of Draco’s return—of the inevitable gloating and crowing and teasing—doesn’t even feel bad. It feels—well, it feels sort of exciting. New. Like an unwrapped toy on Christmas afternoon. A new thing to explore—with Harry.

It feels like Malfoy is supposed to be here, messing up dishes and fucking Harry over the counter, kneeling between his thighs in skimpy knickers. Giving Ron that ludicrous smirk.

Still, there’s a leap of anxiety, a nagging bit of dread that it’ll all blow up. That they’ll try, and Ron will eventually be cast to the side. Unwanted, a third wheel. A houseguest in his own home.

Harry shifts beside him, nuzzling into his chest. “Mm. You’re thinking too loud for a Saturday morning.”

Ron swallows. He thinks about lying. Thinks about deflecting. Thinks about saying something stupid and avoiding this whole thing entirely.

Instead, he lets out a slow breath and says, “Malfoy orchestrated this whole thing. And now we’re all—” Ron gestures between the two of them. “We’re all. Or—are we—”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Yeah. You’re catching on. We’re all.”

“We’re all what, though? I’ve never. I don’t know anyone who—”

Harry shrugs, still lazily wrapped around Ron, still pressing way too close for Ron to be able to think properly. “We’ll figure it out. I love you, and I love him. And I want to watch you shag each other senseless while I wank in the corner like a perverted creep.”

Ron swallows. His jaw aches like he’s shoved a pile of sugar in his mouth. He touches his forehead to Harry’s. “Go back to that first thing.”

“Oh. I love you. There.” Harry smiles. “Was that the thing?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure that was the thing. We can talk about the shagging, too.”

“You’re interested in both of those things?”

“Both the love and the shagging. Correct.” He trails a finger down the length of Harry’s arm, traces a vein on his wrist. His stomach leaps. He’s going to fuck Harry again. Today. Imminently. And Harry will love it, love him, and make all of his wonderful noises for Ron. Then he'll shag Harry's boyfriend. On Tuesday. Or Wednesday, maybe. After Quidditch training.

“You’re happy, yeah?” Harry's lips brush, light, across his cheek.

“Yeah. Now we get to have orgasms on the same side of the wall.”

Ron grins. He plays with Harry’s hair for a while and holds him, and it’s sweet and warm and close. His mind drifts, and, yeah, he decides he’s good with this. It makes him feel hot and needy to think about fucking Malfoy, or watching him fuck Harry. Or, really, any one of the limitless combinations they could create. There’s just one thing—

“Does Malfoy like Muggle disaster films?”

“What?” Harry laughs. “No. Not really.”

“That’s just for us, then.”

“Yeah. That’s just for us.” Harry kisses him, and Ron’s hand slides back to his arse and squeezes.

“Alright, then. I’m all in.”