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One question.
One seemingly innocuous question from Harry was all it took to unravel Ron's good mood.
"Ron, why do you floo to and from Malfoy Manor every other night?”
Ron had been dreading this day. He’d thought he'd been so careful, thinking up increasingly complex excuses for his absences—cookery courses, overtime and fictitious acquaintances, going so far as to record every one in a private diary lest he muddle the details. The web he'd spun had been growing more precarious of late as he'd turned down offers to pub nights with friends in favour of a self-help seminar.
It was a complex question that Harry posed, one that inevitably led to more questions that Ron couldn't bring himself to answer.
How did he explain that night six months ago when it had all started? A broken heart, a dark club full of writhing bodies and too much testosterone. He'd gone to sate his curiosity and found an old enemy, and he hadn't been able to look away.
Draco—’Malfoy’, then—had been blood in the water. One taste and Ron's primal instincts took over. His smirking face atop that sweat-slick body, shirt unbuttoned to the stomach, had been a siren call, a challenge.
Ron had given in without much fight at all.
“Er…,” Ron replied to give him time to think.
Harry had only looked mildly bemused, but every second the silence stretched, his brows contracted into an accusing frown.
“How’d you find out?” Ron asked.
“The Floo repairwizard gave me a list of all the comings and goings. You know I ended up in Hertfordshire yesterday when I tried to get to the office. You've been wearing it out with how much you're using it.”
“Well—”
“Don't try to distract me, why have you been visiting Malfoy?”
Instead of sitting opposite Harry where he could be glared at, Ron retreated to the kitchen, which was absolutely not running away from the conversation, he was just parched. Not a lie, since his mouth had become as dry as old parchment.
Harry followed him, the fact he was still in his Auror blacks after work not the least bit intimidating.
“Tea?” Ron offered.
“Ron!”
“Alright, alright. I've been…keeping an eye on him. Dodgy bloke, you know.”
Ron flicked his wand to boil the kettle. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms and taking an intense interest in the cheap beige linoleum that covered the floor.
“And you just…went straight through his Floo did you?” Harry asked, and Ron winced.
Apparently he'd not been quite as ready for this day as he'd previously thought. Too much time spent daydreaming about his visits to the manor and not enough spent considering all the consequences.
So Ron admitted something close to the truth. “We’re friends…”
The kettle started vibrating, clicked off, steam pouring into the cramped kitchen. Probably why Ron was feeling so hot all of a sudden. When he chanced a look up at his best friend, Harry was blinking rapidly.
“Friends? Ok…that's good,” he said.
Ron pounced on the chance to elaborate, cementing yet another lie. “Yeah. I mean he's lonely, you know. Felt a bit sorry for the bloke, being all cooped up in there, what with the whole wizarding world hating his guts.”
He turned to hide the blush creeping onto his face, summoning teacups from the cupboard, milk from the fridge and a couple of teabags from the pantry. His wandwork was sloppy.
“Yeah, it's been long enough,” Harry said. “How did that happen then?”
Ron shut his eyes, beating back images of Draco grinding on him to the thump of bass; an electric thrill of self-destruction.
“Met him in Diagon one day and…y’know, just how most friendships start.” Which was furthest from the truth as possible, but Ron wasn't up to describing how Draco had gotten him hard on the dancefloor and swaggered off, leaving Ron to follow like a puppy begging for treats.
“Well maybe you should invite him out with us,” Harry suggested.
Ah.
Well Ron didn't have an excuse for that, couldn't even think past all the jumbled thoughts of Draco’s reaction to this debacle. That one night had led to another, and then they started to enjoy each other’s company beyond the intense fucking. Late nights chasing each other through the hedge maze to then collapse into bed, playing wizard’s chess instead of sleeping, trading secrets in the dark. Ron had come alive again.
But they'd agreed to be private about their meetings, and that included divulging their association even to close friends.
“Good idea,” Ron mumbled, pouring milk into the teacups.
Harry, deadpan, muttered, “You haven't put the water in yet.”
Ron looked down at the teabags drowning in half an inch of milk. It seemed an appropriate visual for what might happen to Ron the next time he saw Draco.
He made a mental note to hex the Floo repairwizard into next week and grabbed the kettle, hand shaking.
~
Thankfully no limbs were dismembered as a result of Ron's confession to Draco. Oh, he was annoyed—lips pressed thin, that cute scowl that Ron used to find infuriating—but there was something akin to relief in the sag of his usually stiff shoulders.
Ron had left the flat after proclaiming (very loudly) that he was going to ‘check on’ Draco, and Harry had just grunted and reminded him of the invitation. As if Ron could forget.
“Honestly I thought Potter would have figured it out by now,” Draco was saying.
He beckoned Ron from where he'd been pacing in front of the hearth in case he had to make a quick exit. Ron slithered on to the horribly firm sofa, slinging an arm around Draco's shoulder. The furniture creaked in protest as if it sensed who sat there.
Ron hated Malfoy Manor. The ostentatious show of wealth around every corner, the memories that accompanied its very existence. But he endured it, for Draco. This was his home, after all, as much as Ron's pokey little two bed flat he shared with Harry.
“Hey, I can be stealthy,” Ron said. “He only found out because of the Floo.”
“Any criminal worth his salt would know to purge the records.”
Ron smirked. “Am I a criminal for wanting to see my boyfriend?”
Draco always blushed when he called him that. As if on cue, he watched as goosebumps appeared on Draco's neck, trailed by a pretty pink hue. Ron traced its path with a finger, featherlight, revelling in the way Draco shivered under his touch.
“So I take it we’re making this public, then?” Draco asked, doing his best to keep his voice level.
“‘This’?”
“Our relationship.”
“Actually I told him we're…friends…,” Ron said, still fascinated with the elegant lines of Draco's neck.
“Ah.”
Well, that stern rebuke had killed the mood. Ron eyed Draco's profile. He seemed to be doing a good job at ignoring Ron entirely.
“I thought we agreed to be private.”
“Hm.”
Ron hated those one word answers. They made him babble, and babbling was never good.
“Anyway he wants me to invite you out with everyone next week. I couldn't really say no, that would’ve looked suspicious—but we can just sort of act like we're friends for a few hours and then they'll back off. Probably.”
“And who, exactly, is everyone?”
Ron grimaced. “It’s our monthly meetup at the Leaky Cauldron. So erm, Harry, Ginny, George, Seamus—,” Ron counted on his fingers and Draco's eyes grew wider with every name “—Dean and Neville.”
“I can't think of anything worse,” Draco said. “Except if Granger was on that list.”
Ron shook his head. The mention of Hermione no longer sparked the same ache it once had, mostly thanks to Draco. “They're my friends. I swear they'll be nice. You get to enjoy my company, after all.”
Ron nuzzled his face in the crook of Draco's neck in an attempt to placate him, but he was still huffing and scowling.
“C’mon, it'll be fine,” Ron pleaded, nibbling at his ear.
He was pretty sure that last exhalation of Draco's had been something needy rather than annoyed. Ron slid his hand up his thigh and confirmed it.
“I can feel you smiling, stop it,” Draco hissed. “I'll come but only because you've left me no choice.”
Ron gave his stiffening cock a squeeze and swallowed Draco's moan.
There'd be time for forgiveness later.
~
A few days later Draco arrived at Ron's flat for the very first time. It should have been a more monumental occasion, instead all of Ron's energy was spent maintaining a farce.
Ron had shaken Draco's hand at the hearth and a little bit of him had died inside.
Still, it was best Draco had time to acclimate to Harry before they head for dinner. The two men hadn’t crossed paths in months, and when they had it was generally a begrudgingly civil affair.
Ron now watched Draco with all the apprehension of socialising a particularly aggressive chihuahua.
“Potter,” Draco said by way of greeting, until Ron elbowed him in the ribs. “Harry.”
“Hi, Draco.” Harry stuck out his hand and they shook.
Ron almost shed a tear.
“So, er, shall I give you the tour?” Ron asked.
Truthfully he could have given a tour of their flat by standing in the living room and pointing at various doors. It was small even by London standards, but Ron liked it. There was a touch of home about it; squashy armchairs and his mum's knitted blankets strewn about, odd trinkets and Quidditch paraphernalia. He was suddenly wary of what Draco thought of his home life.
“I'll do it,” Harry said with a hint of a smile. “Kitchen’s just through here.”
Ron waited in the living room and fidgeted. He heard the stilted small talk, but at least they were trying to put old enmity to rest. Harry showed Draco the bathroom, gestured vaguely to the bog whilst asking about Draco’s career. Draco followed Harry into the kitchen and stared at the pile of used teabags on the counter whilst he inquired as to Harry’s relationship with Ginny.
When they returned to Ron some thirty seconds later, he was just glad there’d been no curses exchanged. A weight lifted from his shoulders at the sheer possibility of a life without open warfare.
“Right. Shall we be off, then?” Ron asked.
Everyone nodded their agreement.
They only had to swivel to reach the Floo again. Harry grabbed the little terracotta pot—lifted from the Burrow's garden shed—and offered the first handful to their guest.
But Draco was busy appraising Ron. “Are you going like that?” he asked.
Ron did a quick sweep of his outfit; jeans, a t-shirt and flannel shirt—usual pub attire. No doubt Draco had spent hours preening and coaxing every strand of hair into place but he knew Ron's habits by now, understood how little he cared for fashion and grooming beyond a shower and spritz of whatever was on hand.
Draco was nervous.
“What’s wrong with it?” Ron asked.
“Nothing, I just thought you might want to…nevermind.”
Draco picked at some lint on Ron's collar and tried to smooth out the wrinkles, and Ron let him, offering a lopsided smile like an apology for his crumpled attire.
Harry watched this interaction with fascination.
Their first destination was a curry house both Ron and Draco enjoyed, though Draco had never actually stepped foot in the place. Ron, Harry and their friends had made the restaurant a second home for pre-pub dinners and post-pub hangover cures, the cheerful owner welcoming them with open arms and depositing them as far away from other diners as possible.
It wasn't flashy by any stretch of the imagination, with its dated wallpaper and cheap plastic tablecloths. The food was delicious though, which was what really mattered—that and the place's willingness to put up with the rowdy group.
Everyone was already seated by the time Ron, Harry and Draco arrived. Even Dean who made a habit of being fashionably late.
Draco was the shiny new toy, except every one of them already knew him. What they couldn't predict was how Draco would react to being in their company, and how he'd changed in the years since school. Their expressions were a mixture of careful curiosity, trying to be welcoming but on their guard.
Ron couldn't blame them.
It was Ginny who spoke first. She greeted Harry with a kiss to the cheek as he sat down next to her, then locked her eyes upon Draco.
“So you've corrupted my brother into thinking you're a decent human being.”
Ron, who was used to her shit, stuck his middle finger up at her and sat down in his usual seat facing the restaurant, wall at his back. It took a moment for him to realise that Draco wasn't attached to his hip.
“Is that what passes for manners around here?” Draco drawled. “She's terrifying, Potter, I can't see the appeal.”
Ron pulled Draco by the shirtsleeve into his seat before a complimentary papadum could be thrown at his head.
But they were both laughing. Somehow, being insufferably rude to one another had broken the ice.
“Charming,” Seamus said. “Now, I need a drink if I'm going to get through tonight.”
“You always need a drink, Seamus,” George said, reaching across the table towards Draco. “Alright? Welcome to the chaos.” They shook hands.
Ron breathed a sigh of relief, went to fling an arm around Draco before correcting himself. As it turned out, Ron had absolutely no idea how to act around Draco in public, friend or otherwise. He wanted to touch him, all the bloody time. His hand would gravitate towards Draco's spine, the urge to trail his fingers upwards, to tangle them in those silky strands, ripe for pulling.
So he tried to act like he would with Harry, which was a strange state of mind to find oneself in.
“You know I don't have any Muggle money,” Draco said whilst perusing the menu.
Ron leaned in, feigned pointing to an item on the menu and whispered, “Don't worry princess, I've got you.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Draco hissed, but the twitch of his lips gave him away.
“Not what you said last ni—”
“Ron, pass us the menu will you?” Ginny interrupted.
Draco handed it over and waited patiently whilst the group pretended to choose their food, as if they didn't end up ordering the same thing every time. Ron got his usual order of beef madras, Draco a butter chicken. They ordered their own naan instead of sharing so as not to arouse suspicion. The habits they'd accumulated were surprisingly hard to break in company.
“Tastes better eating it on my bedroom floor,” Draco muttered so only Ron could hear.
The ‘after sex’ was implied.
Ron grinned. “That's just because you like the show.”
Draco was dragged into conversations ranging from Neville's appointment at Hogwarts (civilised) to Dean's latest hookup (not so civilised) and in between the repartee they laughed together and shared private jokes. Draco noticed how Seamus lost his appetite around that point and leaned in to whisper in Ron's ear, his trusted confidant. He was sharp, witty, everything Ron had hated and come to love.
By the time they all moved onto the Leaky Cauldron, after having left a sizeable tip for the enduring patience of the serving staff, every one of them was already well on their way to drunk.
Ron was full of curry and in high spirits, until they opened the pub’s door. Strangers and friends alike turned to watch Draco when they walked in, scrutinising every movement. Ron was thankful for Harry's presence then, as if he exuded some sort of authority over the group. Nobody would say a bad word to Draco, not when Harry was there.
This somehow pissed Ron off more. He'd rather confront anyone who had a problem with Draco's presence than endure their whispering and disdainful stares.
They wove through the crowd to the far side of the room, furthest away from the crush at the bar. As was tradition, each witch and wizard presented their wand and their guest chose one at random without looking. Draco plucked Harry’s wand from the pile and everyone roared gleefully.
“What did I just do?” Draco asked, dumbfounded.
“Harry’s getting drinks tonight,” Neville said with a grin.
Harry stomped off towards the bar and returned ten minutes later with two trays laden with pints of ale and firewhiskey shots.
As usual, the night devolved into chaos quickly. Harry and Ginny snogged far too much whilst Ron and George tried to tear them apart. Seamus tried to rope Neville into a drinking contest, which the latter flat out refused, and Dean—well, to Ron’s dismay, Dean appeared to be flirting with Draco. Not that Draco reciprocated, which only made Ron want to gloat.
By midnight, the pub was at capacity, heavy with the scent of alcohol and sweat. Merlin’s tits, it was hot. It didn’t help that Ron’s body temperature rose a full degree just by looking at Draco, his cheeks painted a rosy pink that reminded Ron of his di—
No, best not think about that.
Ron pulled off the shirt he wore over his t-shirt, discarding it on a nearby bench whilst Dean and Harry chanted ‘strip! strip! strip!’ and only then did any of the addled patrons have the lucidity to cast a cooling charm on the place. A rush of cool air encased Ron’s body. Even Draco, who refused to even roll up his sleeves, sighed in relief.
But Ginny appeared to be too busy glaring to appreciate the magic.
“What—is that?”
She appeared at Ron’s side quicker than he’d ever seen her move off the Quidditch pitch and poked him hard on the neck.
“Ow! What the hell was that for?” Ron squawked.
“Ohh, Ickle Wonnikins has a lovebite!” George said, and Ron’s stomach plummeted. “Or ten.”
Ron had forgotten about those, and judging by Draco’s wide eyes, he had too. What a night that had been. The memory was enough to leave him half-hard.
“Draco do that?” Seamus joked.
Ron rolled his eyes in what he hoped was nonchalance. “Fuck off. He wishes.”
Everyone but Draco laughed.
Over the course of the next half an hour, Draco’s mood turned sour, seething in the space between quips. He didn't look at Ron if he could help it and kept his distance whilst the minutes dragged by. For the first time that night they were worse than friends. When Ron couldn't take it anymore, he brushed the base of Draco's spine in a silent apology, but he stiffened under Ron's touch and swivelled around with eyes alight with fury.
“I think I best be off. It was…thank you for having me.” Draco winced as if it had hurt him to admit it but the sincerity was clear. He did well to hide the coldness in his speech, only meant for Ron.
“Bye, Draco!” Dean said brightly, sloshing his drink everywhere.
Everyone offered a friendly goodbye, and by all accounts it had been a successful invitation into the group. Except Ron himself had fucked up immensely. A decision had to be made between Draco's retreating form and his friends.
It took a mere second’s consideration before Ron fled.
“Wait! Draco!”
Draco made it halfway across the pub before Ron grabbed his arm. He squirmed, but Ron's grip was iron—he wasn't going to let him leave, not like this.
“What?” Draco spat.
“What's wrong? Was it the thing about the lovebites? I was probably a bit harsh wasn't I?” Ron gave a little chuckle which Draco did not return or even acknowledge.
“Oh that was just the icing on the cake. The mere thought of having me touch you—I’ve never seen you so ashamed. You've made it abundantly clear how little you want me here, now let go or I'll hex you.”
Ron’s chest contracted, heart stammering. “What the bloody hell are you on about? I'm not…Draco, I'm not ashamed. Of course I want you here.”
“And yet.” Draco gestured towards where Ron’s friends were gathered, all staring at the confrontation.
Ron turned away from them and focused his full attention on Draco. “I swear, I thought you wanted this. When we first started—”
“That was months ago. You've just kept me your dirty little secret because it suits you. Has it occurred to you that I might feel differently since I fell…well, never mind.”
With that slip of the tongue, Draco stilled and his anger dissipated. He looked away, anywhere but at Ron.
“Bloody hell, you love me,” Ron whispered.
He couldn't hold back the urge to touch him now, to pull him by that annoyingly starched collar and wrap a hand around his waist. Draco didn’t even try to squirm out of his grip this time, long fingers entwining in Ron’s t-shirt.
“Shut up, Weasley,” he hissed.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
Fuck it, Ron thought before kissing Draco in full view of the pub. There were gasps and whooping, some sighs of disappointment. He didn't much care, being so utterly giddy and the right amount of tipsy, and Draco didn't pull away, just melted in Ron’s arms. The feel of him was so familiar now; the way their lips moved in perfect synchronisation, hips slotting together like they'd always meant to fit.
When Ron came up for air he couldn't help but laugh—relief flooded his body amongst a haze of contentment.
“I swear I haven't kept you a secret because I'm ashamed of you,” he murmured.
Draco smirked. “Yes, I gathered that from your tongue down my throat but thanks for the clarification.”
The pub had more or less returned to its usual hum as people gave the couple privacy. All except Ron's stupid friends who were still wolf-whistling and in some cases crudely reenacting the kiss. So Ron did what any mature adult would do and slung an arm around Draco's shoulder, using his free hand to make a rude gesture towards the imbeciles. Then he whispered in Draco's ear. “Let me grab my shirt and we'll go home. I mean, to yours. If you want me?”
“Hurry up, I'm eager for you to make it up to me tonight.”
That delicious visual stuck in Ron's brain, he jogged over and snagged his shirt from under Harry's leg. “Got to go.” His eyes gave a quick sweep of his stunned friends. “See you in a few weeks, yeah?”
“We're not going to talk about whatever the hell that was?” Ginny all but screeched.
“Pretty self-explanatory, I'd say,” Harry chuckled.
George: “Called it.”
Neville: “Yeah it was pretty obvious.”
Ron gawped at them all in turn. “Liars.”
Harry stood and clapped him on the back. “The moment he started to fuss over your clothes, I knew you'd fucked.”
“You’ve been making eyes at each other all night,” George added, a slight grimace on his face.
“I saw you grabbing his arse at one point,” Dean said.
Ron shrugged. “It's a nice arse.”
Dean nodded somberly, and Ginny made a gagging sound. With that, Ron extricated himself from his dear friends. He had apologies to make elsewhere.
~
Ron stumbled into Malfoy Manor hot on Draco's heels, pinning him to the wall before the Floo flames had extinguished in the hearth. Both were panting heavily, already hard and pulling at each other’s clothes.
“Not here. Fuck. The portraits,” Draco said.
“Please,” Ron mumbled, tugging at Draco’s shirt.
He stilled a moment later. On second thought, Ron didn’t quite fancy old Cygnus Malfoy watching as he defiled his great nephew. They ran up the stairs like a pair of giddy schoolchildren.
Once in Draco’s bedroom, Ron resumed his frantic grinding against Draco’s hip.
Sex by way of an apology had been a stalwart of their relationship so far. If Ron were honest, some of the best had been when they’d still been intensely angry at each other, but he didn’t want to punish Draco tonight.
Ron intended to worship him.
“You owe me,” Draco panted, apparently having the same idea.
Ron grinned and dropped to his knees. Draco’s belt fell to the floor with a clatter, trousers pooling around his knees not long after. Ron worked quickly, desperate for a taste.
A delicate kiss on Draco’s hip and then Ron took his cock into his mouth with a wanton moan. Fingers tangled in Ron’s hair, tugging gently, then a little less gently. Ron gave head like a starving man, alternating twirling his tongue and sucking until Draco whimpered—Ron’s favourite sound.
“Stop. Stop! Fuck, Ron.”
Draco’s cock fell from his mouth with a wet pop, Ron grinning up at him. “God, I want you to come.”
Ron himself was shaking with want, his own erection straining against too-tight jeans. He flicked open the top button and zipped down his fly, groaning with relief. Draco looked down at him with hooded eyes, giving another tug on his hair that sent a shiver down Ron’s spine.
“And I want your cock inside me when I do.”
Ron all but dragged Draco onto the bed.
“What do you want? Anything, I’ll do it,” Ron said.
He meant it. If Draco had wanted him on all fours, barking, he’d have been the best damn dog he knew how. Thankfully (or not, Ron would have to examine that particular train of thought), Draco asked for something much simpler.
“Make me yours.”
His, yes Ron could do that. Draco would fight him at every turn of course but he'd had practice making his boyfriend pliant. He started slowly, suppressing his own desire to concentrate on lavishing Draco with attention. Easier said than done—once Draco's body lay naked before him, Ron could barely control the feral urge to take him then and there.
Rough hands over smooth, alabaster skin; lips tracing edges, whispering worship to every contour. Sometimes Ron felt unworthy of his pampered prince, but then Draco would arch his back and sigh his name and Ron knew he'd never had anyone make him feel so good.
He played with Draco, adoring every inch of his body, except those Draco needed. Ron smirked as he nipped at sharp hip bones, watching the twitching, leaking mess he'd made of Draco's cock.
“You going to come without me touching you?” he asked, a smirk plastered on his face.
Draco pulled hard on Ron's hair. “I thought you were meant to be apologising, not fucking toying with me.”
“I'm making my way up to it. Turn over for me?”
Draco gave him that delicious little scowl but rolled onto his stomach, face tilted sideways upon his arms. Those storm-grey eyes never left Ron's.
“I love it when you do as you're told,” Ron teased, pressing gently onto Draco's lower back.
“Just fuck me already,” Draco whined.
His bare arse was there, legs spread, so very willing. Ron finally—blessedly—took himself in hand, gave himself a squeeze and pressed his head to Draco's entrance.
“There?”
Draco gripped the bed sheets tightly and moaned, pressing backwards.
Ron just tutted, letting his length slide between Draco's cheeks, a gentle rocking of his hips enough to give some relief from the self-imposed torment. “I'm not going in without prepping you, don't worry.”
“I swear to fucking God, Weasley—”
“Enough of the lip, Draco.” Ron scrambled over to the bedside table for a bottle of lubricant, spreading a sizeable amount where it was needed. He wasted no more time—because frankly, he wasn’t capable of waiting another minute—and slipped a finger inside. Draco pushed his hips back. A second finger and he was basically fucking Ron's hand.
“Fuck, you really want it don't you?” Ron said, head muddled with want.
“Hurry up.”
“Magic word.”
Draco groaned into the pillow. “Please.”
Gripping Draco's hips hard, Ron slid inside him. Slowly. Agonisingly slowly. Just a couple of inches to give him a taste, his grip remaining firm to stop Draco from taking matters into his own hands. Ron wasn't cruel, he just loved it when Draco begged.
And oh, how he begged then.
Ron was flush against his arse when Draco let out the first whimper. Slow thrusts drew more intoxicating sounds from him, and Ron was losing his resolve.
“What are you?” Ron whispered, barely keeping up the torturously slow tempo.
He thrust a little deeper, spread his legs and pushed a little lower, until Draco’s whimpers jumped up a full octave.
“I—ah—fuck…”
Ron persisted. “Not an answer. C’mon princess.”
“Your—boyfriend.”
Ron groaned in pleasure against Draco's skin and finally relented, fucking him in earnest.
It had been worth the wait, and knowing that Draco was no longer a secret made it that much sweeter. The sex was feral, but somehow tender, emotion bubbling in Ron as much as the coiling tension where their bodies collided. He wouldn’t last long, but neither would Draco if the tears streaking his face were any indication.
Ron lowered his body to press his chest to Draco’s back, one arm holding his weight which shook the closer he came to his peak.
“You're mine,” Ron gasped.
Draco cried out, his entire body convulsing as he came, pulling Ron over the edge with him. Ron made an unholy mess of Draco and the bed sheets, smothering him with sloppy, breathless kisses until they were spent. Finally, Ron’s arm gave out, his body growing limp with exhaustion.
He pulled Draco onto his side so he was flush to his chest and just lay there for a while, coming down from the high. They breathed together, ragged and gasping; Ron's hand splayed against Draco's chest to feel the rise and fall, the furious pounding of his heart.
“You really love me, then?” Ron asked, planting a kiss on Draco's neck. The salt tang of sweat was nectar on his tongue.
“Is that a serious question?” Draco sighed.
Mussed hair tickled Ron's nose but he didn't let go. “Yeah.”
The post-sex haze was one of the rare occasions when Draco really let his guard down. No sarcasm, just raw emotion.
“Yes, I love you.”
“Bloody brilliant.”