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Ron approaches the bar set up in the Manor’s conservatory and orders a scotch neat.
Whilst he waits, he lifts his camera to peer through the viewfinder, focussing on a linen-draped table set behind the bar. Bottles of Dragon Horde wine stand in tidy rows—a special blend created by Draco himself for Hermione and Theo’s wedding. Ron snaps a few photos.
The bartender levitates Ron his drink, and he sips, savouring the burn. Returning to the UK, and the Manor especially, has been…fucking exhausting. He’s happy to be here, undoubtedly, to stand up for Hermione, to see friends and family, but he’s looking forward to returning home to France with Draco.
Home. With Draco.
A year and four months since hooking up in the Hamptons, and the blond ferret has already tamed his wayward wolfish tendencies.
He snorts—once in disbelief and once in resignation—and points his camera lens at the room. Floating candles cast the conservatory in a golden glow. Iron tables topped with cornucopias overflowing with gilded pumpkins and fall flowers serve as resting spots for wedding guests.
A face suddenly blocks his view. Ron adjusts the focus, and Harry materialises. He grins and gives Ron two fingers. His hair is a mess, and his collar’s undone, just as Pansy likes. And though they won’t openly acknowledge whatever is going on between them, Pansy’s scarlet lipstick on Harry’s collar is, in Ron’s opinion, a mark of ownership.
Harry orders a drink and leans back against the bar to survey the room. “Fucking bizarre to be back here, innit?”
“Mental.”
Off to the right, Hermione laughs with Ginny and Luna and, noticing them at the bar, she heads their direction. Molly waylays her for a moment’s conversation, and then Theo’s great aunts stop her to chat.
The bartender sets an apple spiced rum cocktail near Harry’s elbow.
Ron scrunches his nose. “Ruining perfectly good rum, that.”
Harry inspects the drink’s garnish—a cinnamon stick threaded through an apple slice—and sips. He purses his lips. “Wow, that’s got a bite to it. I like it.”
Ron eyes the mark on Harry’s neck. “Of course you do, you lush.”
“Merlin,” Hermione says, finally shaking Neville’s Gran and approaching, breathless. “They come out of the woodwork for a wedding, don’t they?”
The bartender hands her an apple cocktail. She sips and hums with pleasure. “I adore this drink. Did you know, the apple liqueur is brewed using the Manor’s Envy Black apples? It’s a fascinating method Narcissa devised—oh, piss off the both of you, I see your expressions.”
Ron laughs and clinks his glass against Hermione’s. “Spout facts all you want, Squirrel. It’s proof to us that you’re happy.”
“Happily married.” Harry shakes his head. “Wow.”
“I am. And I do love him. A lot.”
“It’s a good thing, because you’re married.”
“Yes, Harry. Thank you.” Hermione rolls her eyes and gazing around the room, smiles gleefully. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but Malfoy Manor is perfect. Draco really did make my every wish come true. I still don’t know how he managed.”
“Speaking of,” Harry says, “where is Draco? I haven’t seen him since the cake cutting.”
“Dunno.” Ron scans the room. “Around somewhere.”
If Ron feels overwhelmed, it doesn’t compare to Draco’s stress at being back in his ancestral home. Renovations may have made the Manor almost unrecognisable—Draco’s made sure of that—but the bones remain the same, and some skeletons refuse to vacate the closets.
“Well, well,” Pansy says, approaching the bar with Theo on her arm. “Here’s your Slytherin, Mrs Nott. Trade you for a Golden Gryff.” She deposits Theo with Hermione and sidles up to Harry.
Hermione hugs Theo and smiles up at him. “Mrs Nott. I like the sound of that.”
“You should,” Harry says, “because—”
“If you say you’re married, I’ll hex you,” Hermione says.
Theo kisses the tip of her scrunched nose. “We need to save Ginny and Luna from my aunts, Mrs Nott.”
“Somehow I think the opposite may be true.” Hermione deposits kisses on both Harry’s and Ron’s cheeks, collects her drink and her husband, and departs on her rescue mission.
Pansy takes Harry’s apple drink and sips, blanching. “Ugh.”
“I would think one tart would appreciate the other,” Ron says, lifting his glass to hide his grin.
Pansy takes his drink and drains the scotch. She hands it back, ignoring Ron’s affronted scoff. “Ok, Golden Boy,” she says to Harry. “Let’s dance.”
Harry scrubs the back of his head. “Erm, I’m not very good—”
Pansy grabs the bowtie hanging loose at Harry’s collar. “It’s not a question. Oh, and Weasel”—she tosses a devious grin over her shoulder as she drags Harry away—“you’re welcome.”
Ron shakes his head. “What…?” A flash of blue at the corner of his eye captures his attention. Draco’s Borzoi Patronus trots gracefully through the crowded room and sits at Ron’s feet.
Ron squats down. “Whatcha got, Butch?”
“Bring me”—Draco’s voice, harried and agitated, emanates from the canine—“a fucking, what is it, pomme-cannelle, putain de merde. That vile spiced apple monstrosity. Fuck.”
That’s…different. The French wasn’t entirely unexpected, but the request for Narcissa’s signature cocktail was mildly concerning.
Ron collects the drink and a slice of cake and, levitating them to trail behind him, follows Butch towards double glass doors at the back of the room. The doors open into the orangerie—home, ironically, to two dozen apple trees in large ceramic planters. The trees are the originals Narcissa had planted after Lucius was incarcerated. She thought it a fitting middle finger to the Malfoy legacy—Lucius hated apples. After her death, Draco had the trees moved here and magically preserved.
Butch weaves between the trees. His glow illuminates branches heavy with apples, bowing to brush rounded leaves against Ron’s cheeks as he’s led deeper into the darkened room.
Off to the left, tall windows along the outside wall reveal the cutting garden. In the distance, fir trees reach to black out the stars twinkling in the autumn night sky.
Ron’s chest loosens, and he takes the first deep breath since their arrival in Wiltshire a week ago. Ron decides he loves this room; it reminds him of France, of the vineyard, minus the grapes, of course. Home. The air smells of apples, damp stone, and old magic laced with the faint aroma of Draco’s cologne, the fancy shit from Paris.
Just ahead, Butch stops and sits, nose lifted to receive a pat from his owner.
Ron raises his camera, zooming in on Draco. In the dim lighting, Butch’s glow highlights Draco’s patrician features. He stripped his suit jacket to his waistcoat and carelessly rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows.
Ron’s magic scratches pleasantly along his spine, rolling over to expose its wolfy belly.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Draco says, smirking. He snaps his fingers; Butch vanishes.
Ron levitates the drink to Draco. He vanishes the apple slice and cinnamon stick garnish with a wrinkled nose and swallows a mouthful, emptying half the glass.
“That bad, huh?”
Draco waves away Ron’s concern and, in the same arching gesture, casts a Concealment Charm and Muffliato. The conversational buzz in the conservatory mutes to a hum.
“It’s been a long day, and I’m just…”
Ron hangs his camera on a tree branch and eats the cake, watching Draco as he paces and noting his flushed face and erratic breaths. His hair is mussed in the back as if he’s run his fingers through it. He’s agitated, sure, but less irritated and more…uncomfortable, maybe? He looks completely fuckable.
“Horny?” Ron chuckles. Draco’s glare holds more heat than vitriol. “Oh fuck,” Ron says. “You are.”
“Don’t mock,” Draco says flatly. He finishes the cocktail and vanishes the glass and Ron's cake. “And take off your trousers.” He grabs Ron by the belt and pulls his body close.
Ron’s skin tingles with a rush of blood to his extremities. “Who’s mocking? I’m fucking delighted. You know how fit you look in that poncy waistcoat? I may or may not have rubbed one off in the bathroom earlier.”
“Heathen,” Draco rasps, his hands clutching, roaming.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what brought this on?”
“Before the first course serving”—Draco squeezes Ron’s biceps—“Pansy called the Slytherins aside”—he strokes warm fingers at the curve of Ron’s throat—“a private hiss-hiss rendezvous to give us our grooms-wizards gifts.” He gropes Ron’s arse. “And then Blaise, the cunt, insisted that we all have a shot from an evil green bottle of some foul liquid I swear was the devil’s piss, and things got…interesting.”
“How interesting?”
“It’s all a blur.” Draco runs his hands over Ron’s chest. “And I may have blacked out a bit.” He dives his hands between them to palm Ron’s crotch.
Ron’s hips judder forward. “Fuck, Malfoy.”
“That’s the idea, Weasley.”
Ron glances toward the open doors, mostly hidden by the trees. Shadows of bodies shift in the wavering candlelight beyond. The orangerie is empty; they are alone—and concealed, and muted—but anyone could walk in at any moment.
“It’s risky.” And reckless and hot as fuck. Ron’s cock twitches and hardens against Draco’s palm.
Draco gives him a squeeze. “You like that.” He grabs the back of Ron’s neck and draws their lips to within a whisper. “You really are a brute.” He grinds his stiff cock into Ron's hip crease.
Ron kisses the corner of Draco’s mouth. “Hiss-hiss Slytherin rendezvous, devil’s pisswater, you were saying?”
“Apparently, I made use of Pansy’s gift.” He loosens his belt and the top button, and guides Ron’s hands to slip beneath the waistband of his trousers.
“Are you—” Ron rears back, astonished. “Are you not wearing any pants?”
The sliver of concern that slices through Ron’s desire dissipates as Draco forces Ron’s fingers into the valley between his arse cheeks. Ron inches his fingers deeper, slipping over a slick warmth. Lubricant? His fingertips graze something hard.
“A plug,” he says breathlessly.
Draco’s hum is a borderline purr. “Hiss hiss.”
“Fuck.” Ron tugs Draco closer to more easily probe soft skin stretched taut around hard metal. He taps the rough domed cap, and Draco bites back a cry, scrabbling to grab hold of Ron’s neck, his collar, the hair at his nape. Fuuuuuck. Ron’s knees nearly buckle. He hugs Draco tightly, partly to support Draco’s trembling body, but partly so as not to collapse himself.
Judging from what Ron can feel, the plug is large. And faceted, maybe capped with a gem. Knowing Pansy, it’s garish and lewd and plays right into every fantasy Ron’s ever had.
Ron must thank her later with an Hermes scarf or a villa in France.
“Not that i’m not completely fucking out of my mind wanting you right now,” he says, “but what the fuck, Draco? You’ve been wearing this since dinner?” That explains Draco fondling his inner thigh under the table earlier.
Draco glowers. “I didn’t exactly plan to insert a plug up my arse before the minted courgette crostini.”
“You mean, it’s not on your detailed and colour-coded wedding planning document?”
Draco runs his hands up into Ron’s hair and clutches it in a tight fist. “Yes, it’s right next to ‘Crucio a ginger weasel in the orangerie.'”
Ron pushes against the plug in retaliation. Draco grips Ron’s hair tighter, smothering his moan against Ron’s neck.
“Why didn’t you remove it?”
Draco pants, squirming. “It’s…charmed.” He averts his disgruntled face. “Only to be removed by the person whose name you chanted whilst inserting it.”
“Well, fuck,” Ron says, grinning stupidly. “Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”
“Ferme ta putain de gueule,” Draco says, spat with surprising poshness for one with a plug up his arse. “Shut the fuck up and fuck me, you utter twat.”
Ron stills. “Me. Fuck you?”
“Yes.”
The thing is the two of them have brilliant sex, earth-shattering, even, and Ron’s no more surprised about that than anyone. But Ron is, as Draco teasingly but accurately says, la grosse bite , and penetration has been unattainable. Although, Ron did bottom that one time during that trip to Mexico. Tequila is dangerous; he ate the worm and then was railed by his boyfriend. Twice. So, win-win.
And Draco…well. He’s a proper tight-arse, figuratively and literally. A piece of coal shoved up there would result in a diamond.
“Maybe we should go to our room where we can prep more—”
Draco’s already shaking his head. “Here. Now.”
“Or your old bedroom upstairs—”
“Ronald Bilius Weasley, you fuck me right now with that gargantuan freckled dick or I swear to all the gods and demons and Salazar Slytherin himself that I will set all of Mother’s apple trees aflame and burn this fucker to the ground.”
Draco’s nostrils flare with each heaving breath. He looks fervent and determined, like the dragon he is, and Ron’s going to fuck him. Bloody hell, he’s going to fuck Draco’s brains out.
Finally.
In the time it takes for Ron to reinforce the Concealment Charms and add another layer of Silencing Charms, Draco’s removed his trousers and tossed them aside. The belt buckle clangs against the stone floor—a celebratory chime that sends an anticipatory shiver through Ron.
“Eager are we?”
Draco plunks his hands on his hips. His erect cock, peeking out from between the open flaps of his button-up oxford, bobs.
“Less talking, more fucking.”
“So bloody bossy,” Ron mutters, sinking to his knees at Draco’s feet. Draco’s wearing the cashmere socks Molly knitted for him, held snug around his calves by sock garters.
It’s the most random thing, socks, but Ron is oddly touched.
And so fucking hard it hurts.
He slides his hands under Draco’s shirttails and, clutching his hips, takes Draco’s cock fully into his mouth, until his nose presses into Draco’s pelvis.
“Fuck!” Draco grabs Ron’s hair, scratching his nails against Ron’s scalp.
Ron slides his hand between Draco’s legs. His middle finger slips easily between Draco’s buttocks, and he again finds the plug. He presses and simultaneously sucks Draco’s cock on the flat of his tongue, revelling in the weight of it, and the taste of musky sweetness that is uniquely Draco. Draco undulates his hips, exhaling breathy moans with each thrust into Ron’s mouth.
“Fuck, I’m…close,” Draco gasps.
Ron releases Draco’s cock and rests his forehead against his belly, taking a moment to calm his breath, to press down against his own stiff cock over his trousers to temper the throb coursing through him.
“Merlin,” he says. “The sounds you make.”
“Wait until you hear how I sound when you fuck me.”
Ron slaps Draco’s thighs and forces Draco to spread his stance. He ducks between Draco’s legs, twisting his face up to nibble the soft flesh behind his balls, and then slides further back until he’s sat facing what is quite honestly the best arse on the planet. He skates his fingers up the front of Draco’s thighs, raising goose-flesh. The freckle at the back of Draco’s knee receives an open mouth kiss before Ron pays proper deference to The Bam—that delightful curve where the hamstring meets the bum—nuzzling lips and raking teeth.
“And now to get a proper look at the prize,” he says, giddy like it’s Christmas morning and he’s about to open his presents.
And in a way…he is.
“About bloody time,” Draco huffs. He bends at the waist and braces his hands on the edge of a ceramic planter.
“Cheeky fucker.”
Ron rises to his knees and smacks Draco’s arse, and again twice more, pinking the skin so it resembles the shiny red flesh of a Malfoy Envy Black. He presses his thumb into the beauty mark in the centre of Draco’s arsecheek, infatuated, always, by how the skin dimples beneath his touch. He spreads Draco’s cheeks and stops breathing.
An emerald-coloured stone glints in the low light, stretching Draco’s hole. Within the stone, a gold snake rests, eyes glinting red.
“Fuck, Draco."
The snake within the stone wiggles in a slow, sinuous dance.
“Sometime this century would be nice,” Draco moans, shifting his hips. “Fucking hell, say my name again.”
“Draco.”
The plug rotates.
“Ungh,” Draco cries, his body writhing in synchrony with the slithering snake. Ron whispers Draco’s name again and again. The plug edges out, centimetre by centimetre, until it drops onto the stone floor with a clang.
Ron places his forefingers to meet his thumbs, creating a viewing window framing Draco’s pink twitching flesh. He considers summoning his camera.
“Are you waiting for a formal invitation?”
“I dunno, I was hoping it would ‘ass’ me to come in.” Ron winks at Draco’s eye roll and rises to his feet, ignoring the pain in his knees, because what are a few bruises when faced with a delectable apple bottom, open and willing?
He unzips his trousers and yanks his pants beneath his balls. His cock springs free, and he has to grab the base of his shaft, hard. Fuck, he’s going to blow his load before he even gets to feel Draco from the inside.
His first attempt at a lubrication spell fails; he flubs the words in his eagerness. And nervousness. He realises his hands are shaking. Fuck fuck fuck. A well of emotion—embarrassment, fear, lust, affection—bubbles in his gut. He wants this, fuck he wants this, but…he doesn’t want to hurt this man.
The irony smacks him like a bludger to the head, because long ago, a lifetime ago, he did want to hurt this man. They had been boys then, and now…now all he feels is—
Suddenly, his palm is wet with pooled lubricant. Draco peers at Ron over his shoulder, eyes a stormy grey, his magic slicing through Ron’s doubts and fears.
“Steady on, Weasley.”
Ron holds Draco’s gaze as he slicks up his cock and moves to align himself with Draco’s hole. The tip easily breeches the muscle—miraculously, thank fuck. Draco’s mouth slackens, and he arches his back, pulling Ron’s cock further inside.
Ron’s head lolls back, eyelids fluttering. “Bloody hell, you feel—”
“Good,” Draco gasps. “Fantastique.”
Ron’s hips buck, and he slides deeper into tight, all-encompassing heat.
“Fuck, merde, fuck!” Draco hangs his head. He grasps the planter’s edge so tightly his knuckles whiten. A deep blush bleeds up his neck from his collar into his hairline. “Slowly, you big brute.”
“Sorry,” Ron says, though he’s not sorry at all, he’s awestruck and a little bit out of his mind. He reaches to lay his hand flat on Draco’s belly. Through Draco’s sweat-slick skin, he can feel his cockhead on his palm.
“I can feel myself in you.”
“Fuuuuuck.” Draco pushes back, bearing down on Ron’s cock, taking him fully inside.
Heat floods Ron’s body, an undulating wave that urges him to move. He grabs Draco’s hips and thrusts until Draco’s body quakes with the force of it. Draco’s cursing now, a litany of garbled French punctuated with English, impossibly posh, even whilst taking Ron’s dick.
And take it he does. Ron watches his cock slide in and out of Draco’s body.
“So good."
It looks good, fuck, it feels good, better than anything he’s imagined. His magic sparks, blending with Draco’s, howling in his veins like a wolfpack on the hunt. The trees within their protective magical bubble begin to shake and shudder. Ron finds his rhythm, chasing the burn that builds deep in his belly. So good, so good.
“You’re so fucking good.”
“Ungh!” Draco comes suddenly, his ejaculate hitting the stone floor. He clenches around Ron’s cock so hard, Ron’s balls tighten and he climaxes.
“Fuck!”
Apples snap free from the tree branches and rain down around them as Ron humps erratically through his orgasm, until his skin prickles, and he withdraws. The moment his softening cock slips out, Draco falls to his knees, still hanging onto the side of the planter. His back heaves with his laboured breaths.
Ron cleans them both with a hasty spell and squats to collect Draco in his arms, hugging him from behind, harbouring him in the vee of his legs. He surveys the fallen apples littering the floor.
“How do you like them apples, eh?”
Draco groans. He rests his head on Ron’s shoulder. “Your cock,” he pants, “is—”
“Massive,” Ron offers. “Magical. Massively magical.”
“Mine.”
Ron kisses his neck, his jaw, his ear. “I am yours, yeah?” And he is, undeniably, undoubtedly Draco’s. His voice trembles with the truth of it.
Draco turns his head, piercing Ron with eyes sharp as steel, searching. Ron holds his gaze, unwavering. An ache builds in his chest. It expands and compresses his lungs until he can hardly breathe. Draco plants his lips firmly against Ron’s. The kiss softens, then heats, lips parting and tongues melting together.
A throaty laugh from the conservatory pierces their protective bubble. Pansy and Harry stumble into the room. She pushes Harry against the wall and dives into his neck.
“So much for an easy escape.” Ron sighs, thankful for the silencing charm. From the looks of it, Harry is being quite vocal.
“You know,” Draco says. “We could just scarper to our room.” He indicates the back of the orangerie with a lift of his chin. “There’s a door right there.” He picks up an Envy Black from the floor and takes a juicy bite.
Ron summons the emerald-tipped plug and twirls it in his fingers. His grin grows to match Draco’s.
“Hiss hiss.”