Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.




"I won't and that's the end of it. Sometimes you are very, very weird."

Draco didn't respond, as he was tying a perfect knot in his cravat. Draco believed in multi-tasking for nearly everything (one reason why he excelled at 69ing), but when tying a tie, one must concentrate. Harry often wondered if Beau Brummell had been a wizard and, if so, he most definitely had been a Malfoy. Several crumpled silver and white-striped cravats lay in sad puddles at Draco's feet.

Emboldened with the knowledge that Draco wouldn't say anything while concentrating on the perfect knot, Harry continued. "Is this something Slytherins muse about at three in the morning? How to have sex in public and humiliate your partner. Bet it only works if you have a Gryffindor as a partner because you'd then give a rat's arse about your humiliation; you'd be too over the moon about theirs. Although anyone wanting to have sex, public or otherwise, with Crabbe or Goyle would have to be completely mental…"

"I am now done with my tie, Harry, so be prepared for a rebuttal." Draco smoothed an elegant hand downward over the front of his cravat and then gave his vest a smart tug. "First of all, public sex is not like taking your dick out and waving it at people. That is simple perversion. There are wards at St. Mungo's for those sorts of miscreants. I am talking about the two of us having sex, surrounded by people, with no one knowing it. After all this time I should know better, but hope springs eternal. You must have some imagination in that plebeian brain of yours. The only people who will know are you and me."

Harry ignored the tingle at his groin.

"In public, but only us knowing."

"Light glimmers. Yes."

"All right. If we can find some discreet coat closet or a room—"

Draco helped Harry into his coat. "Absolutely not. One of us must be visible to the guests. Or both," Draco shrugged. "Double our pleasure, double our fun."

Immediately, Harry thought of Molly Weasley and tried to choke out the word "fun," but it only ended up sounding like a "Fffffff?"

Draco tugged and pulled and twitched trying to get Harry's jacket into some semblance of order. "It's like wrestling with a crocodile. Yes, fun."

"But, but…" and here Harry blushed. "I'm very loud when I come. You know that."

Draco's face, which had been tightening up bit by bit into a full-blown scowl the further this conversation continued, relaxed into a small smile at Harry's blush. He then cupped Harry's chin in his hand and gave him what Harry had named Draco's special kiss. It was almost brotherly. A peck on the forehead and then a brief kiss on the mouth, with enough lip to make Harry glow but not enough to arouse. It took months for Harry to realize these innocent kisses meant very much to Draco. They weren't declarations of passion or desire. They simply said, "I love you." Harry imagined that these kisses were precursors of the kisses they'd give to each other when they were very old.

"Yes, I do know, Harry. A herd of bellowing hippos comes to mind. Part of the fun will be to see how quiet you can be."

Harry reached up to scratch his head and his hand was smartly rapped by Draco's wand.

"I spent four hours devising a spell to conquer your thatch, and I'll be damned if you're going to undo all that hard work with one swipe of that paw of yours."

"Mmmmmn," Harry complained, sucking on the top of his hand. "That hurt."

"Good. It was supposed to. We have a deal."

"No, you're not pulling that la-di-dah Malfoy shit on me. We do not have a deal. I am not having sex with you at Ron and Hermione's wedding. We are ushers, for Christ's sake."

Draco frowned in that controlled way of his, trying to convey dissatisfaction but not produce pronounced lines.

"I don't see why being an usher disqualifies me from having sex. I'd say that sex is the only possible compensation for what I spent on this morning suit; it cost a bloody fortune—"

"Only because you insisted on buying Armani Wizard."

"Kiss my well-clad arse because I refused to go to Hobos R Us for All Your Wedding Needs to buy my suit, like some people I know."

"I must admit you look terribly sexy in it, and if we weren't supposed to be out of the door in five minutes, I'd drop to my knees…"

"Nice save. Potter. I promise to make you come first."




"Going to the loo, be right back," Draco murmured in his ear and darted off in the direction of bathroom.

"Hurry back," Harry called after him. "She's going throw the bouquet any minute."

Okay. He'd nearly made it. Four hours and twenty-three minutes into the wedding and no public sex. Granted, he'd had a moment of sheer terror when Draco dragged him to the dance floor for a waltz, but Draco behaved himself. And really, Harry's panic was silly, since Harry still couldn't dance to save his life. Draco was most likely more occupied with keeping his toes from getting broken than surreptitiously grabbing Harry's dick during their stilted one-two-three around the room.

Harry leaned against the box hedge, watching Hermione throw her garter into the crowd. Christ, it was a bloody miracle Seamus could still stand. He gave new meaning to the term "hollow leg."

"Yo, Harry," hailed George, and the twins sidled up to stand on either side of him. "Not interested in catching Hermione's garter are you?"

"Nah," Harry grinned. "Draco would have a bloody fit. If I was out there jostling for the garter, I wouldn't get sex for a month."

"Possessive little bugger—" began George.

"Isn't he?" finished Fred.

"Yeah." Harry grinned even more. He liked that about Draco. That feeling that he was someone to be jealous of. That Draco believed there were legions of people, men and women, dying to get into his pants. Utter bollocks, of course, but anything that massaged Harry's innate insecurities was okay by him.

"Oi! Ron looks like he's itching to smash his fist into Seamus' face. Didn't know you could do that with garters. Left hook gets them every time, Ron," Fred yelled. "Where is that boyfriend of yours?"

"Loooooooooooooooooo," he squeaked, because all of a sudden there was a breeze on his arse. Where there should be pants. Like his pants. FUCK! Harry pressed himself against the hedge to conceal himself. He was going to kill him. Absolutely kill him. No, that would be too kind. He wasn't going to suck him off for a week, no, a fucking year, oh, oh, oh.

Two warm hands cupped his arse, massaged, then cupped again. Evil little bugger was on the other side of the hedge. Carved a fucking hole in it with his wand, removed the seat from his trousers, and was… Loo, my arse. My arse, yeah, my arse.

"You okay—" began Fred.

"Harry?" finished George.

"Fine," he said in a clipped tone, because the hands had left and the flat of Draco's tongue was laving each cheek slowly and thoroughly. Moving closer and closer to… And talking, speaking a word containing more than one syllable was absolutely out of the question.

Privately, he had to admit that Draco's petition for public sex shouldn't have surprised or shocked him as much as it did. And if the bastard hadn't, oh shit, oh shit, yeah, there, right there, been wearing that morning suit, as sexy as all get out, he never would have caved. Well, he didn't cave. He just didn't say no.

A fatal mistake.

Draco was one of those people that unless you said, "Absolutely not. Hell will freeze over before I say yes. NO. FUCKING. WAY!" he'd take it for a yes. Harry should have made it absolutely clear that Hermione and Ron's wedding was off limits. After all, he'd stood firm when Draco wanted them to shave their legs, put on skirts and push-up bras filled with kleenex, and cruise Muggle nightclubs to see if they could pick up blokes.

"You are such a stick in the mud, Harry," Draco complained in disgust, throwing a razor into the bathroom sink with a dramatic flick of the wrist.

"It's not fair, Draco. We have no intention of pulling. How would you like it?" Draco let out a huff. "Sometimes the chase is just as fun."

"Absolutely not. Hell will freeze over before I say yes. NO. FUCKING. WAY!"

"Fine!" Draco huffed again. "That doesn't mean we can't dress up for each other now does it?"

And as Draco slowly massaged shaving cream onto his calves and thighs, those long elegant fingers caressing every muscle, every tendon, Harry realized that this was exactly what Draco had in mind after all.

Slytherin.

Three years with Draco Malfoy had left Harry blase about most sexual practices. Although the whining was nearly constant, in truth Harry's naivete in matters sexual had been a source of great delight to Draco, and it was full speed ahead with "Operation Introducing-and-Subjecting-Harry-to-All-Manner-of-Kinks." Oh sure, Draco would complain, "Why me? Why me?," grumble, "Christ on a raft, Potter, are you telling me that she didn't lick it even once?" and moan, "Will someone save me from the fucking innocence of Gryffindors?" But despite all the grousing, Harry would find himself with a maraschino cherry up his arse, whipped cream rosettes decorating his dick, and a very happy Draco Malfoy having him for dessert.

Bondage, spankings, cross-dressing, all this Harry could now look on with not entirely manufactured aplomb. Was it better to be spanked with a paddle versus a hand (ooooh, flat of the palm every time). Pleats on skirts (knife-pleats an absolute mustflat of the stomach juxtaposed to frisky cock flattening out the pleats). Blindfolds during bondage more of a turn on, like, knowing what was coming, or the anticipation (ann-tii-cii-paaaa-tionnnn, Harry would croon).

But rimming.

All that blase just took a fucking hike when it came to rimming. Just thinking about it made him blush. Just thinking about it made his arse twitch and flex. He loved it. He loved it more than getting sucked off. It reduced him to sobbing, cursing, begging, and blithering on in a language that didn't even have English as a base. It shattered him every time. And Draco knew this. Knew that Harry's normal bleats and roars and curses during rimming would drown out the entire horn section of Queen's Guard playing Rule Britannia.

Bastard. Bastard. But Harry couldn't help but shove his arse even further into the box hedge because more, he needed fucking more. Despite his near incoherence, he retained enough mental acuity to decide that it would be a cold day in hell before Harry's lips even so much as said the word blow job (Draco's kink of choice), never mind them wrapping them around Draco's cock and suckiiiinnnnggg…

"Ever see yourself getting married, Harry?" asked Fred.

The tongue stopped. Draco laid his cheek against one of Harry's cheeks, and Harry could feel the infinitesimal beginnings of stubble on Draco's face as he rubbed his cheek back and forth across the plane of his arse.

All Harry could manage was a tight shrug and a muffled, "You?"

"Hardly—"

"Likely."

Harry let out an "Oh," not because he really gave a rat's arse about Fred and George's matrimonial woes, but because now the flat of Draco's tongue was swiping his cleft as a hot hand fondled his balls.

"Kind of hard to find someone who does the twin thing. Not that Fred and I are picky. Blokes. Birds…"

"Oh?" Harry gasped, not because Fred and George made Draco's kinks look Sunday school classes, but because Draco's hand had snaked up to pull languidly on Harry's cock. Harry had a moment of complete panic, thinking, "Jesus, am I still wearing pants?" He was afraid to look down in case…but he had to…oh thank Christ. He still had the front of trousers; it must just be the back that was missing. Fucking hell, Draco's tongue was thrusting in time with the pull of his hand. Kill kill kill kill there kill right right kill there fuckingkillyouDracoMalfoypleasepleaseplease…

"Get one, get the other. Know what I mean?" George sniggered.

"T.M.I.," Harry ground out.

"Yo, Hermione, put some muscle into it," yelled Fred.

Harry opened his eyes. When had he closed them? Hermione was teasing the crowd, pretending to throw the bouquet, then not. Lavender and Pavarti were shrieking. As usual.

"And if you think a threesome is nigh impossible to negotiate, mate—"

"A foursome? Think we'd died and gone to heaven—"

"Fred's got a thing for blonds. Me, brunettes. Think Draco would be willing—"

"To share?"

That got a sharp bite on his left cheek.

"Not. Bloody. Likely." Harry grunted out the words. Which earned him a gentle kiss and a squeeze to his dick.

"Too—"

"Bad," sighed George. "Bet he's really a great fuck. Bet he's got—"

"Loads of imagination."

Draco paused, waiting for Harry to respond.

"You have NO idea." And now Harry was really going to strangle Draco because he'd stopped, because Harry really wanted that tongue back inside him, thrusting, that mouth sucking on him, and that hand fisting him.

But Draco didn't immediately start up again with the arse banquet. No, he held Harry's hips with both hands and mouthed something into the small of Harry's back, his lips wet, his breath hot; Harry knew what it was. His name. Then Draco finished it with a chaste kiss. And Harry almost forgave him for today's shenanigans, because this innocent gesture in the midst of this terribly kinky, the most kinky thing they'd ever done, was a reminder. This is love, Harry. I'm making love to you. I might be rimming you in a crowd of people, at the wedding of your two best friends, with the perverted-arse twins on either side of you. But still. I'm making love to you and don't forget it.

Harry relaxed into Draco's hands, and Draco nuzzled against Harry's back before starting back up with his sexual assault.

No one had predicted it would last this long. The constant fights, the arguments (Draco was a lamp thrower), the sulks (Harry was a pouter). The nadir was the day Draco humiliated Harry in an Auror meeting. It'd been a particularly brutal month. Raid after raid, with Harry at the forefront of most of them. Shacklebolt had Harry up on the roster yet again, and Draco went ballistic. In front of a room full of forty other Aurors, he said in a deadly Malfoy-esque snarl that would have done his fourteen-year old self proud, "You put Potter on that raid and you're signing the death warrants of any idiot stupid enough to go out with him. The man's fucking exhausted. Couldn't even get it up last night. And if he can't get it up with me…" The trail-off implying that anything short of a corpse wouldn't have a problem getting a hard on having sex with Draco Malfoy.

"Jesus, Draco," Harry exploded.

Draco ignored him. "He needs to be put on leave for two weeks. The other Aurors and my sex life will thank you."

Harry had never been so embarrassed in his entire life. Although it was common knowledge they were living together, did that give that fucking sod the right to announce to all and sundry Harry's sexual inadequacies? He stormed out of the room and tried to Apparate home. So that he could pack Draco's things, no, too good for him. He'd find some mud, jump in it, stomp all over Draco's ridiculously expensive clothes, and then throw everything out the window. Unfortunately, his magic was so wonky that he couldn't even Apparate. The fact that Draco was right incensed him even more. He Flooed home, only to find Draco already there, which put Harry in a right-old sulk for three days, whereby Draco did his part by aiming a nearly constant barrage of lamps in Harry's direction, only stopping to sleep and shower. That's the thing about having a wand. A quick Reparo and you had fresh ammunition.

It didn't stop until Draco shouted at him, "You utter pillock. How dare you pout and jeopardize…this. Us." Draco waved his arms around to indicate their living room, their life.

"You utter bastard," Harry shouted back. "How dare you parade our sex life in front of everyone."

Draco narrowed his eyes. A bad sign.

"Are you telling me that you care that Shacklebolt knows we do each other up the arse? Because I'm telling you right now, I could give a flying fuck what anyone, anyone thinks about our sex life. A flying fuck, Harry." This was said in a calm voice, much to Harry's shock, because eye narrowing was usually the pre-cursor to projectiles being hurled in Harry's direction. "We won't even mention your pathological need to act the hero even though you knew your magic was really off. That I might have gone on that mission with you. Aside from my lily-white arse getting killed, what about Weasley? The Death Eaters could have had a three for three. All three of us getting AK'd because you couldn't admit you were tired. That's another argument. I want to know. And be careful how you answer, Harry. I'm halfway out the door already. Are you embarrassed by us?" Draco then put his wand down on the table and cuffed his hands behind his back.

It had never gotten down to this level. This raw. Ever.

What did Draco mean to him? He'd never termed what they had a relationship, because it wasn't like anyone's relationship that he knew of. Yes, they were living together, but there the similarity ended. Ron and Hermione weren't throwing lamps at each other, nor were they cross-dressing and spanking each other. Early on in their affair, Harry had eased his arse into a chair—the previous night had been very lively—and Ron asked him what for? "You and Draco been spanking each other again?" "Uh, yeah," Harry replied, somewhat surprised that Ron would be so forthright about it. Then he realized too late that Ron had been joking. When Harry obviously had not. It was six weeks before Ron would look Harry in the eye.

So what did they have? Fantastic sex. Horrible fights, although the number of them and, if Harry thought about it, the intensity of them were decreasing over time. It had started out as a comfort fuck. The night his mother had been killed, Draco had appeared in the doorway to Harry's room, the smell of Firewhiskey so potent Harry could smell it on him from ten feet away ("So Potter," Draco slurred, "You have the orphan thing down pat. Care to give me some pointers?"). From there it had morphed to fuck buddies ("You sex-mad tosser, come here"), to a mumbled request to move in ("Uh, Malfoy, like maybe you want to stay? Like move in, maybe. Sometime.), to this.

Harry crossed the room and teased Draco's hands from behind his back. Threading his hands through Draco's hands, he brought them up to his lips and kissed the insides of both wrists.

"No, I'm not," he stated. "You're right. I was wrong."

"I need you too, you know," Draco whispered. Harry brought him close, could feel the heat of Draco's blush, what it cost him to say that.

"Yeah, I know," Harry murmured back, and all of a sudden he knew why this worked. One man with an incredible need to love, loving a man with an incredible need to be loved.

"Sometimes I…I…" Harry heard uncertainty, so rare for Draco. "I don't know what you're thinking. You're not exactly the most brilliant conversationalist, you know. A distinct character flaw, Potter. One of many I might add." The characteristic bravado was belied by a forehead burrowing into Harry's shoulder.

Harry could feel it, physically feel it as they tumbled over an imaginary line from lover to mate. And as he tumbled he said, "I promise to say everything I think during sex."

That had been two years ago, and true to Harry's word he screamed, cried, and made declarations of love at the top of his lungs.




Which is why this was so fucking maddening.

"Jesus, Hermione, throw that fucking bouquet so we can get home by Christmas," bellowed Fred.

"Mum heard you," sniggered George. "You're in for it."

"I'll blame Harry. Then she can't do anything to me. Sun shines out of Harry's arse as far as Mum's concerned."

Nothing was currently shining out of Harry's arse because it was full of Malfoy tongue. And his dick was being caressed by a Malfoy palm, and he wanted, oh, he wanted to scream, to moan, to praise, to curse, and all he could do was stand there grinding his teeth down to the nubs. Be a bloody miracle if he had any teeth left. He was close, so close, Hermione, please, please, please throw the bouquet, the bouquet, the…the…the…

"Yeah, she's finally going to—"

"Do it."

"Ready, Draco?" asked Fred.

This only partly registered with Harry because there was so nearly there and…

"One, two, three. NOW!" chimed the twins in unison.

Draco sucked and pulled hard on Harry's dick.

"Thank Merlin!" Harry roared, vaguely aware that Fred had one elbow, George the other, and Draco had a grip on his dick and one hip, which he supposed was holding him upright because the orgasm rendered him completely boneless.

The twins kept their grip on his arms as he floated back down to earth. He leaned against Fred, his head flopping over onto Fred's shoulder.

After a couple of minutes, he forced his eyes open at a particularly large roar of the crowd. Ron was looking in his direction, concerned.

Then George yelled, "Too much champagne, Ron. Go on. We'll see him to rights."

Ron gave Harry a little wave, and Harry mouthed, "I love you, mate," hoping Ron would understand him, and they disappeared.

"All right, Harry?" asked Fred.

Harry nodded, too tired to speak. Sleep. He just wanted to sleep.

"All right, Draco?" asked George.

A deep chuckle came from the bushes behind Harry. Strong hands grabbed both hips, and Harry felt the whoosh of his stomach as Draco Apparated them home.




"Don't fall asleep on me yet, Harry."

Draco had undressed him, put him to bed, crawled in after him, still dressed in his morning suit. A hand brought Harry's hand to Draco's erection, and they began jerking Draco off together.

"You broke your promise back there. Didn't hear a word," said Draco with a sly whisper.

"Didn't. Couldn't," mumbled Harry, trying desperately to stay awake.

"Now. Tell me now."

"Love you. Love you so much, you evil bugger. You drive me mad. Love the feel…"

"Yes, Harry. That's it. That's what I need to hear."




Fin