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Summary
The first time Potter had said: harder, more, meaner—meaner, Malfoy, fuck, I thought you’d be— until Draco was, exactly, whatever he wanted him to be. Draco could fit any shape it took to keep two hands devout between Potter’s shivering, spread legs.
“What do you want?” Draco asks again.
“I dunno,” Potter says for the second time, smirking, like he’s already gotten everything he wants, to keep folded and glowing under his tongue.