For @aibidil & @2jinkx because Harry with a squishy tummy deserves all the love!
Draco thinks back to all the ways he’s touched Harry. Of them being nineteen and kissing, his hand sliding underneath Harry’s jumper to touch his thin waist, still skin and bones from the war. They had been terrified of everything and everyone, both of them all hard angles and unsure hands. The sheer want seeping through his heart and threatening to drown him. It had been the best thing he’d ever known.
He thinks of being twenty-two and sinking into Harry on the night they moved in together, of Harry’s tanned skin aglow in the moonlight on their bed. Harry had arched and writhed beneath Draco, his body filled out from the war but still taut from Auror training. Draco had loved all that skin and muscle on display for him, moving for him.
He thinks of being twenty-nine. Of Harry pressing into him in their garden at midnight insisting Draco was going to turn thirty with a bang, and a bang it had been. No desperation just the skilled, calloused hands of a lover who knew his body better than he knew his own.
He thinks of making love in the dark of night, not being able to see but still knowing where to touch, of cold tea and warm kisses in the morning over hurried breakfasts and of nights falling asleep in front f the hearth with his head pooled in Harry’s lap because they’re both too tired for anything more than listening to the wireless.
But this, nothing compares to this.
Nothing compares to the way Draco feels as he wraps his arms around Harry watching the flex of muscles in his back as he does, sinking into him as deep as he can go until he doesn’t know where he ends and Harry begins.
He grabs onto the soft flesh of Harry’s stomach from behind, his fingers anchoring into the body he knows so well; into the stomach that is now soft from lazy Sundays spent sleeping the day away curled around each other instead of training, or nights spent watching Harry’s eyes light up in delight as he serves himself a second helping of treacle tart for dessert as if he will get in trouble, still all youthful exuberance despite the gray now seeping into the tips of his hair by his eyes.
Draco lets his fingers dig into the softness of Harry’s frame, overwhelmed with lust not just by the movement of Harry’s body or the sounds he makes, but from the tangible evidence beneath his fingers of the life they have lived and he thinks that yes, this is the best yet.