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The credit card machine spat out another receipt with that cheerful beep that meant Ron had just spent more than most people made in a month. He tucked it into the overflowing shopping bag dangling from his elbow without looking—Hermione would scold him later for not checking the total, but who cared? His husband's money was basically toy money at this point.
Pansy adjusted Teacup’s rhinestone collar while the chihuahua vibrated with excitement in her arms, tiny claws pricking her cream silk blouse. "You’re spoiling her worse than Draco spoils you," she said, nodding at the pile of designer dog sweaters spilling out of Ron’s other bag. Ron just grinned, tossing his long red hair over one shoulder. "She deserves it. Look at that face." Teacup sneezed, confirming her own perfection.
The limo ride home was a symphony of crinkling tissue paper and Ginny’s dramatic retelling of her latest Quidditch scandal, but Ron barely listened. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless. He could already picture Draco bent over his desk, those ridiculous reading glasses sliding down his nose, ink smudged on his fingers—probably ignoring his third firecall of the evening. The thought made Ron’s stomach twist pleasantly. He loved interrupting Draco’s work almost as much as he loved spending his money.
Draco’s study door was cracked open just enough for Ron to see the slump of his husband’s shoulders under that stupidly expensive cashmere sweater. Teacup wriggled out of his arms and scampered inside, nails clicking against polished hardwood. Draco didn’t even look up.
"Darling," Ron sing-songed, leaning against the doorframe and hiking up the hem of his skirt just enough to show off the lace tops of his thigh-highs. "Miss me?"
The quill stilled. Draco’s gaze dragged up his legs, slow as honey, before landing on his face with that particular molten look that always made Ron’s pulse stutter. "Kitten," Draco murmured, voice rough like he’d been chain-smoking cigars all evening. He tapped the quill against his bottom lip. "Did you buy out all of Diagon Alley again, or just half?"
Ron sauntered forward, swinging the bags deliberately. "Only the half with pretty things," he said, dropping them right onto Draco’s meticulously organized parchments. "Now pay attention to me instead of whatever’s got you scowling."
Draco caught his wrist before Ron could muss his hair, pulling him down into his lap with practiced ease. The chair creaked under their combined weight, and Ron let himself go pliant, draping his arms around Draco’s neck. Up close, he could see the faint shadows under his husband’s eyes—the ones Draco would deny existed if Ron pointed them out. "Long day?" Ron murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Draco’s fingers tightened on his waist. "Longer now that you’re here," he muttered, but the way his thumb rubbed circles into Ron’s hip betrayed him.
Teacup yipped from somewhere near their feet, tiny paws scrambling at Draco’s trousers until he sighed and hoisted her up with one hand. She immediately shoved her face into Ron’s chest, sniffing aggressively at the aftershave he'd drowned himself in. Draco wrinkled his nose. "You smell like a brothel."
Ron grinned, nipping at his earlobe. "Good. Maybe then you’ll actually fuck me instead of pretending to read those boring contracts."
The growl Draco let out was downright feral, and Ron had half a second to revel in his victory before he was being hauled off Draco’s lap and shoved face-first against the desk. Parchments fluttered to the floor as Draco crowded against his back, one hand fisting in his hair while the other slid up his thigh. "You," Draco breathed hot against his neck, "are going to regret that tone."
Ron’s laugh dissolved into a gasp as teeth grazed his pulse point. Teacup whined, abandoned on the chair, but neither of them paid her any mind—not when Draco’s fingers were already hooking into the waistband of Ron’s panties.
The fireplace roared to life behind them with a burst of emerald flames.
Draco hissed against Ron’s throat, fingers tightening possessively in his hair as the fire spat out a crisp parchment envelope that landed neatly atop the scattered contracts. Teacup yipped, darting to sniff at it with her tiny wet nose. Ron barely registered the interruption—too busy arching into Draco’s grip—until his husband stiffened, exhaling sharply through his nose.
“Fuck,” Draco muttered, lips dragging wetly up to Ron’s ear. “Forgot to tell you. Tomorrow night. Spa’s booked out for you. Three hours.”
Ron blinked, dazed. “What—” The hand on his thigh slid higher, squeezing.
“Meeting,” Draco bit out, like the word tasted foul. “After, I’ll treat you. Properly.” His teeth grazed Ron’s earlobe, sending a shiver down his spine. “Assuming you behave.”
Ron scoffed, twisting in his grip just enough to glare over his shoulder. “Since when do I behave?” The smirk died on his lips when Draco’s expression darkened—something calculating flickering behind those grey eyes. A thrill shot through him. Oh. Interesting.
The spa smelled like jasmine and money.
Ron lounged in the steaming pool, Pansy braiding his damp hair while Ginny floated on her back nearby. “You’re sulking,” Pansy observed, tugging a lock too hard.
Ron flicked water at her. “Am not.”
Ginny snorted. “He’s definitely meeting someone.”
Ron’s stomach twisted. Teacup whined from her plush doggy bed nearby, sensing his mood. Draco’s secrecy was new. Draco never hid things—not from him. Not unless—
His fingers clenched around the edge of the pool. No. Absolutely not.
The robe Pansy had charmed for him clung deliciously as he stormed out of the spa, Teacup trotting at his heels. The slit rode up to his thighs with every step, gold embroidery glittering under the lamps. Let Draco’s mystery guest see what they were up against.
The restaurant loomed ahead, all polished mahogany and whispered conversations. Ron adjusted the robe’s neckline just so, letting the fabric dip dangerously low. Teacup growled as they reached the private dining room—then froze.
Ron’s breath caught.
Viktor Krum looked up from his wineglass, dark eyes widening. “Ronald.”
Draco’s fork hit the plate with a sharp clink.
"Oh." The syllable dripped from Ron’s lips like spilled syrup—too sweet, too sticky.
Viktor’s gaze flickered from Ron’s exposed collarbones to the way Draco’s knuckles had gone white around his napkin. Teacup let out a high-pitched whine, straining at her diamond-studded leash toward Viktor with the traitorous enthusiasm of a dog who’d just spotted her favorite chew toy.
Draco’s voice was silk wrapped around a blade. “Darling. How… unexpected.”
Ron recovered first, tossing his hair with a practiced flick. “Missed you,” he purred, sauntering forward to drape himself across Draco’s lap without invitation. The robe slithered open further, revealing the lace-edged stockings he’d donned specifically to ruin whatever stuffy business dinner Draco had planned. Viktor’s throat bobbed as Ron deliberately hooked one leg over Draco’s thigh. “You didn’t mention it was Viktor.”
Draco’s hand clamped around Ron’s waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Princess,” he murmured, breath hot against Ron’s temple, “you’re making a scene.”
Ron twisted to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just below Draco’s jaw. “Good.”
Viktor cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “This is… not how I imagined reunion.”
Draco’s grip tightened. Ron could practically hear his teeth grinding. “Oh?” Ron blinked up at Viktor, all faux innocence. “How did you imagine it?”
Viktor’s gaze dropped to Ron’s mouth. “Not with husband watching.”
Draco looked between them. The pieces clicking together. “When… How long…” he growled, fingers twitching against Ron’s hip like he couldn’t decide whether to shove him off or clamp him down harder.
Teacup chose that moment climb up Viktor’s leg and leap onto the table, knocking over a wineglass with a dramatic flourish. Red spread across the linen like blood.
Ron licked his lips, slow. “Sixth year. Durmstrang’s shower stalls.” He tilted his head, watching Draco’s pupils dilate. “You know—after you called me a filthy blood traitor at the Yule Ball?” Draco’s breath hitched. Ron pressed his advantage, shifting deliberately in his lap. “Viktor didn’t care about my blood. Just how loud I could scream.”
The sound Draco made was barely human. Viktor’s chair screeched as he stood, hands raised. “Is not like this—”
“Sit. Down.” Draco’s wand was out before Ron could blink, the tip digging into Viktor’s throat. Teacup yipped, dancing around their feet as the air thickened with magic.
Ron shivered—he’d always loved when Draco got like this. Unhinged. Possessive. His free hand tangled in Draco’s hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. “You,” Ron whispered against his ear, “are not killing my first fuck in front of me.”
Draco’s laugh was jagged. “Planning a reunion, kitten?”
Ron nipped his earlobe. “Only if you watch.”
Draco’s wand hand trembled—not from hesitation, but from the sheer force of whatever curse was burning behind his teeth. Viktor hadn’t moved, but his fingers flexed against the tablecloth like he was mentally measuring the distance to his own wand. Teacup growled, sinking tiny teeth into the tablecloth.
The moment shattered when Ron suddenly gasped, arching as Draco’s free hand slipped under the robe to pinch his nipple—hard. “Behave,” Draco breathed against his cheek, “or I’ll let him see how thoroughly I’ve ruined you for anyone else.” His thumb circled the peaked flesh, coaxing another shudder from Ron even as his wand never wavered from Viktor’s throat.
Viktor’s nostrils flared as the scent of Ron’s arousal mixed with the spilled wine. “Is true then,” he murmured, eyes locked on the way Ron’s hips jerked involuntarily against Draco’s thigh. “He owns you.”
Draco’s smile was all teeth. “Every scream.” He finally lowered his wand, but only to slide it up Ron’s inner thigh, making him whimper. “Every scar.” The wood caught on lace, tearing the stocking with a sound that echoed obscenely in the tense silence. “Every—”
“Enough.” Viktor’s chair toppled as he stood abruptly, his face a storm of conflicting emotions—nostalgia, arousal, something dangerously close to regret. His gaze flickered between Ron’s flushed skin and Draco’s possessive grip before settling on the ruined wine stain between them. “I should go.”
Ron’s laugh was breathless. “You haven’t had dessert.” He ground down harder on Draco’s lap, relishing the sharp intake of breath it earned him. Viktor’s hands clenched at his sides, tendons standing out starkly. Ron knew that look—the same one Viktor had worn when he’d backed him against those damp shower tiles all those years ago, torn between devouring him and bolting.
Draco’s fingers tightened in Ron’s hair, forcing his head back to expose his throat. “Stay,” he purred, watching Viktor’s pupils dilate as he traced Ron’s pulse with his tongue. “Unless you’re afraid to see what he looks like when he comes on my fingers.”
Viktor took a half-step back, then froze as Teacup darted between his feet, nearly tripping him. The absurdity of the moment hung heavy—three grown wizards and a trembling chihuahua in a standoff over decade-old grudges and fresh lust. Ron arched into Draco’s touch, deliberately letting the robe gape open further. “Scared, Vitya?” he taunted, using the old nickname just to watch Draco’s jaw twitch.
Viktor exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers twitched toward the door, then stilled as Draco suddenly hauled Ron off his lap and onto the table in one fluid motion. Wine-soaked linen clung to Ron’s thighs as Draco spread him open right there between the silverware, uncaring of the audience. Viktor’s resolve visibly crumbled when Draco leaned down to bite the inside of Ron’s knee, murmuring, “Let him watch, princess. Let him see what he lost.”
Ron moaned, high and desperate, as Draco’s hand disappeared under the robe. Viktor swayed forward—then back—his breath coming faster now. The war in his eyes was delicious.
Draco took his time. His fingers traced lazy circles on Ron’s inner thigh, avoiding where he wanted them most, just to hear him whine. Teacup whimpered from the floor, ignored. The entire restaurant might as well have vanished; all that existed was the press of Draco’s hips against the table, the wet drag of his lips down Ron’s sternum, the way Viktor’s fists clenched every time Ron gasped.
“Still watching?” Draco murmured against Ron’s ribs, nipping the delicate skin there. Ron arched, knocking over a water glass. The crash made Viktor flinch. “Good,” Draco purred, finally—finally—sliding two fingers into Ron’s mouth. “Suck.”
Ron obeyed, swirling his tongue around the digits, coating them thoroughly. He locked eyes with Viktor as he did it, remembering how those same fingers had once shoved into him in a broom closet, quick and rough. Draco withdrew his fingers with a pop, trailing saliva down Ron’s chin before slipping them lower. “Remembering what you taught him?” Draco asked Viktor, pressing in knuckle-deep without warning. Ron cried out, hips jerking. “Or should I remind you?”
Viktor made a choked noise. His gaze flickered between Ron’s writhing form and Draco’s smirk. Ron reveled in it—the heat of Draco’s touch, the weight of Viktor’s stare. Every thrust of Draco’s fingers was deliberate, slow, twisting just so to make Ron sob. Every glance at Viktor was a challenge: Look what you can’t have.
Teacup yipped again, pawing at Viktor’s shoe as if sensing his inner turmoil. Draco chuckled darkly, curling his fingers inside Ron, making him clench around them. “He likes an audience,” Draco mused, watching Viktor’s Adam’s apple bob. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” His free hand tangled in Ron’s hair, forcing him to meet Viktor’s gaze as Draco added a third finger. “Tell him, kitten. Tell him who you belong to.”
Ron’s vision blurred. The stretch burned—perfectly, wonderfully. “D-Draco’s,” he panted, back bowing off the table. “Only—ah!—only ever yours.”
Viktor took a step forward, then another, until he stood close enough to feel the heat radiating off Ron’s trembling body. His hand hovered near Ron’s hip, not touching—not daring. Draco’s grin was vicious. “Go on,” he taunted, twisting his wrist just so. Ron screamed. “Touch him. See what happens.”
Viktor’s fingers brushed Ron’s thigh—just as Draco crooked his fingers and Ron came with a wail, spilling over Draco’s hand and the ruined tablecloth. The sound Viktor made was pure agony.
Draco withdrew his glistening fingers slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact with Viktor as he brought them to his lips. The first lick was obscene—long and savoring, his tongue curling around his own knuckles. "Mmm," Draco hummed, pupils blown wide. "Tastes even sweeter when he’s showing off for you."
Ron shuddered, legs still splayed shamelessly wide. His chest heaved, the robe hanging off one shoulder, exposing the dark hickies Draco had sucked into his collarbone earlier. Viktor’s gaze dropped to them, then lower—to where Draco’s free hand was already pushing the robe apart further, exposing the flushed, wet mess between Ron’s thighs.
Draco’s smile was all teeth. "Changed your mind about leaving?" He didn’t wait for an answer before dragging Ron to the edge of the table by his hips and dropping to his knees. The first hot swipe of his tongue along Ron’s oversensitive cleft wrenched another cry from him—higher, shattered. Draco’s hands dug into Ron’s thighs, spreading him wider as he licked deeper, moaning into him like he was starving.
Ron’s fingers scrambled for purchase on the tablecloth, knocking silverware to the floor. "F-fuck—Draco—!" His back arched, toes curling. Viktor’s breath hitched audibly, his own fingers twitching toward his belt.
Draco paused just long enough to glance up, Ron’s arousal glistening on his chin. "Problem, Krum?" he purred, before diving back in with renewed enthusiasm, his nose pressed tight against Ron’s skin.
Viktor swayed forward another step, close enough now that Ron could smell the sandalwood of his cologne—the same one he’d worn at seventeen. The familiarity sent another jolt through him, his hips stuttering against Draco’s mouth. Draco growled, biting the soft flesh of Ron’s inner thigh in warning before lapping at him again, deeper, wetter.
Ron’s head fell back, his moans unfiltered and loud. The restaurant had to be hearing this. He didn’t care. Let them listen. Let them all know exactly whose husband he was.
Viktor’s hand finally landed on Ron’s knee, tentative at first, then tightening as Draco sucked a fresh bruise into Ron’s skin. "You—" Viktor’s voice was rough, strained. "You are demon."
Draco laughed against Ron’s flesh, the vibration wringing another broken sound from him. "And yet, you’re still here," he murmured, before sealing his mouth over Ron’s entrance again, drinking him down like a man possessed.
Ron’s fingers found Viktor’s wrist, clinging. He didn’t push him away.
Draco noticed immediately. His tongue stilled, lips pressed flush to Ron’s throbbing flesh. A silent question. Ron tightened his grip—yes—and Draco’s exhale was hot against his skin before he resumed, slower now, deliberate. Worshipful.
Viktor made a wounded noise when Ron dragged his hand up, pressing it against his own throat. “Feel it,” Ron gasped, arching as Draco’s teeth grazed his perineum. “How hard I’m—” The words dissolved into a moan as Draco’s thumb circled his rim, pushing in alongside his tongue. Viktor’s fingers flexed against Ron’s pulse, his own breathing ragged.
Draco pulled back just enough to speak, his voice wrecked. “Touch him properly or fuck off.”
Viktor’s hesitation lasted only a second before his free hand slid up Ron’s thigh, calloused fingertips skimming the lace of his ruined stocking. Ron whimpered, hips jerking—straight into Draco’s waiting mouth. The dual sensation was overwhelming: Draco’s tongue fluttering inside him, Viktor’s thumb brushing his nipple through the sheer robe. Teacup’s frantic yips barely registered over the wet, filthy sounds Draco was making between his legs.
Viktor’s breath hitched when Ron suddenly came again, his entire body seizing. Draco didn’t let up—licking him through it, swallowing every drop as Ron sobbed above him. Viktor’s grip on his throat tightened instinctively, and Ron’s vision whited out at the edges, pleasure cresting into something sharper.
Draco finally sat back on his heels, lips swollen and glistening. His gaze locked onto Viktor’s hand still wrapped around Ron’s neck. “Mine,” he reminded softly—but the possessiveness was undercut by the way his own fingers trembled where they gripped Ron’s hips.
Ron, boneless and spent, barely managed to lift his head. Viktor’s pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving. The front of his trousers strained visibly.
Draco smirked. “Still leaving?”
Viktor exhaled sharply through his nose. His thumb stroked Ron’s jaw once—gentle, almost apologetic—before he stepped back, adjusting his coat with jerky movements. “Is better this way,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
Draco hummed, rising to claim Ron’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. Ron tasted himself on Draco’s tongue—bitter and sweet. When they parted, Viktor was already at the door, shoulders tense.
Ron caught his wrist again. “Vitya.”
Draco nodded towards Viktor’s crotch. "Do you want it in your mouth, Kitten? One last time...
The words slithered into Ron's skin like a curse—hot and branding. His hole clenched instinctively around Draco's fingers still buried inside him, still twisting, still cruel. Draco's smirk was a blade against his throat, his free hand fisting in Ron's hair to yank his head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat to Viktor's ravenous gaze. "Because..." Draco's breath ghosted over Ron's lips, grey eyes locked onto Viktor's trembling form, "...you will never speak to him again. Never look at him again. Do you understand?"
Ron's breath hitched as Viktor nodded—too fast, too eager—his fingers already fumbling at his belt. The rasp of the zipper was obscenely loud in the charged silence, Teacup's whimpers forgotten beneath the table. Ron's tongue darted out instinctively, wetting his bottom lip as Viktor's cock sprang free—thick and flushed, the head already glistening. Draco's fingers curled inside him in warning, pressing against his prostate just hard enough to make him gasp.
"Beg him," Draco murmured against his ear, the hand in his hair tightening. "Beg for it like you did in sixth year."
Ron's voice cracked on the first syllable. "V-Vitya, please—"
Draco's fingers twisted deeper, cutting him off with a choked moan. Viktor's grip on his own cock was white-knuckled, his other hand braced against the table beside Ron's hip—close enough that Ron could feel the heat radiating off him, but not touching. Not yet.
The silent question hung between them—Viktor's dark eyes flicking between Ron's wrecked expression and Draco's smirk. Was Draco really allowing this? The fingers inside Ron curled again—punishment and permission all at once. Draco's breath was hot against Ron's temple when he finally spoke: "One last time, Krum. Make it count."
Viktor groaned—half relief, half desperation—as he fisted his cock, nudging the flushed tip against Ron's slack lips. The scent was achingly familiar—sandalwood and sweat—and Ron's tongue darted out instinctively, catching the first salty bead before Viktor could even press forward.
Draco's fingers stilled inside Ron—a silent command—as Viktor finally pushed in. The stretch burned differently than Ron remembered; slower, thicker, more deliberate. Viktor's choked gasp when Ron hollowed his cheeks was worth the burn. Draco's nails bit into Ron's hip—marking, claiming—as Viktor's cock hit the back of his throat.
Ron gagged—just once—before relaxing, letting Viktor slide deeper until his nose pressed against coarse curls. The angle was awkward with Draco still knuckle-deep inside him, but Viktor's broken curses made up for it. Draco chuckled darkly against Ron's neck. "Remember how to swallow, princess."
Viktor's fingers tangled in Ron's hair—not pulling, just holding—as he began rocking shallowly. Draco's free hand crept up to Ron's throat, fingers pressing just enough to feel each bob of his head. Ron moaned around Viktor's cock—the vibrations wringing a filthy groan from Viktor—and Draco rewarded him by dragging his fingers out slow before plunging back in.
The dual sensations were overwhelming—Viktor's cock stretching his mouth, Draco's fingers stretching his hole—and Ron's hips jerked uselessly against empty air. Draco tutted, biting Ron's earlobe. "Patience, kitten."
Viktor's thrusts grew erratic, his grip tightening in Ron's hair. The silence stretched—heavy with aftershocks—until Draco's zipper broke it. Ron's breath hitched at the metallic whisper, knowing what came next. Draco pressed flush against his back, still fully clothed—just the heat of him, the ridge of his belt buckle biting into Ron's spine.
"Turn him," Draco murmured against Ron's neck.
Viktor obeyed, twisting Ron on the table until his knees hooked over Viktor's shoulders, Draco looming behind. The first slick press of Draco's cock against his used hole wrenched a sob from Ron's throat.
Viktor's thumb brushed Ron's bottom lip—gentle now, almost apologetic—before pushing back in. Ron's jaw ached, drool dripping down his chin as Viktor set a brutal pace.
Behind him, Draco sheathed himself in one excruciating thrust, the burn bordering on pain.
Ron screamed around Viktor's cock, back arching off the table.
Draco's hands bracketed his hips, fingers digging into the bruises he'd left earlier. "Take it," he growled, snapping his hips hard enough to rattle the silverware.
Ron's vision blurred—overstimulated, oversensitive—but he couldn't stop writhing between them. Viktor's groans grew ragged, his fingers tightening in Ron's hair warningly. Draco chuckled darkly, palming Ron's leaking cock with a slick hand. "Going to come again, kitten? While he's still in your mouth?"
Viktor's hips stuttered. Ron tasted salt, felt the twitch against his tongue—"Моето слънце," Viktor gasped—rough, reverent—and Ron's spine arched clean off the table as pleasure detonated through him. The Bulgarian endearment unlocked something primal, dragging a sob from his throat as he came untouched.
Draco's grip tightened, milking him through it as Viktor spilled down his throat. Ron swallowed instinctively, tears streaking his cheeks—just like sixth year, just like those stolen moments between classes when Viktor would murmur praises in his native tongue against his skin.
Draco's thrusts turned punishing, his teeth sinking into Ron's shoulder as he chased his own release. "Say it," he snarled against sweat-damp skin. "What did he say?"
Ron's voice was wrecked. "My sun. He called me his sun—"
Draco's hips jerked erratically. "Mine," his fingers clamping around Ron's throat just as Viktor's thumb brushed the tears from his cheekbone. The contrast was devastating—Draco's bruising grip versus Viktor's tender touch—and Ron shattered between them, his body convulsing as Draco buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. Hot spend flooded his abused hole, Draco's teeth locked in his shoulder like a claim.
Viktor withdrew slowly, his softening cock dragging obscenely against Ron's swollen lips. Draco's breath came in ragged bursts against Ron's nape, his fingers loosening incrementally around his throat. The silence stretched—heavy with sweat and spilled wine—until Teacup's frantic whining broke it.
Viktor cleared his throat, adjusting his trousers with unsteady hands. His gaze flickered between Ron's limp form and Draco's possessive sprawl over his back. "I should—"
"Go," Draco finished, voice rough. He didn't move, still sheathed inside Ron, their sweat-slick skin sticking together.
Viktor hesitated, reaching out to tuck a damp curl behind Ron's ear. Draco's growl was instantaneous, his hips jerking warningly. Viktor's hand dropped. "Dobre nosht," he murmured—goodnight.
Ron's fingers twitched against the ruined tablecloth. "Stay for coffee," he rasped, the words scraping his raw throat.
Draco's laugh was dark, his teeth grazing Ron's pulse. "Greedy thing." He finally pulled out, the slick sound making Viktor's jaw clench. "Run along, Krum. Before I remember how I'd like to kill you."
Viktor's lips quirked. He leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to Ron's mouth—just out of Draco's reach—before straightening his coat.
The door clicked shut with finality, sealing away the remnants of their shared past.
Draco exhaled sharply against Ron's nape, lips tracing the fresh bite marks he'd left. "Do you have any idea," he murmured, "how much replacing this will cost?" His fingers trailed through the spilled wine, the shattered glass, the mess of ruined silverware—then smeared it deliberately across Ron's heaving stomach.
Ron smirked, stretching like a satisfied cat beneath him. "Less than the robe you ripped off me last Christmas at that gala." He hooked a leg around Draco's hip, sticky with sweat and spend. "Or the chandelier in Milan."
Draco's chuckle vibrated against his spine. He nipped Ron's earlobe—sharp—before sliding off the table to survey the wreckage properly. Teacup immediately leapt into his arms, licking wine from his fingers with frantic devotion. "At least someone appreciates my finances."
Ron rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. The robe—what remained of it—pooled around his waist, exposing the darkening bruises on his thighs. "Worth every penny," he purred, watching Draco's gaze darken as it lingered on the bite marks between his legs.
Draco set Teacup down carefully before stalking back to the table. His fingers tangled in Ron's curls, tilting his head back. "And what," he breathed against Ron's swollen lips, "exactly did I purchase tonight?"
Ron's grin was all teeth. "Proof." He arched into Draco's grip, throat bared. "That no matter how many shower stalls Viktor fucked me in..." His fingers walked up Draco's chest, tracing the undone buttons of his ruined shirt. "...I'll always scream loudest for you."
Draco's kiss tasted like victory—and the faintest hint of Viktor's sandalwood lingering between them.