There was nothing unusual with Draco Malfoy waking up in the arms of company, so he didn’t immediately panic. Something was off about it, though, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he was loathe to move his head from the firm pillow of a chest, pale and smooth under his cheek, without remembering at least part of the night before.
And then there was a low, rumbling growl of a yawn and Draco suddenly realized, yes, the person he was sprawled across was male, and that was definitely new.
Still. He wasn’t one to automatically freak out about things. Well, all right. He was really good at freaking out, actually, but the situation probably required more finesse than screeching the male person out of his bed, since the bloke felt big, and Draco was rather attached to his features as they were.
A wide palm slid up his unclad thigh – really, how could he have let that happen? – calloused and warm on his skin, so he pulled up and away to tell the man to back off as politely as possible, only to find himself staring down at Ron Weasley. Ron fucking Weasley.
“What the hell?”
Ron’s hand slipped over an arse cheek, squeezing lightly in time with a sleepy grin. “Morning to you, too.”
“What are you doing in my bed? What are you doing naked in my bed?” Draco demanded, reaching behind him to bat Ron’s grip away with little success.
“I won you,” he answered smugly. “And this is my bed.”
“You won… me…” And suddenly it all came rushing back. The wager. The stupid wager with Pansy and Potter, and Vincent making a complete arse of himself. His attempt to get as drunk as wizardly possible – which had apparently worked. Though the results seemed the exact opposite of what he’d been going for. “I can’t believe you, Weasley,” he hissed, and he would’ve crossed his arms in an indignant pout if they hadn’t been the only things keeping his bare chest off Ron’s bare chest. “You took advantage of me! And why the hell don’t I have a bloody hangover so you’d at least be a blurry mess of red to me right now, and I’d have the added pleasure of puking all over you!”
Ron, to Draco’s everlasting ire, chuckled. And then he wriggled his hips closer, wrapped his hands over Draco’s upper arms, and tugged him down on top of him again. “My brothers are geniuses.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco snapped, holding himself rigid, nose only inches above Ron’s and eyes locked. The man’s eyes were nearly navy and looked soft and amused, and Draco wondered where the fuck all the enmity between them had gone.
“Means you had enough of their new Have An Excellent Morning liquor to fell a graphorn. And you’re certainly having an excellent morning,” he purred, and the novelty of a Weasley purring in his ear, coupled with those velvety, appealing, flirting irises, caused Draco to pause and momentarily take stock of his body.
His cock, it seemed, adored the redhead, was plump along the cradle of his pelvis.
He rocked his hips experimentally, and his breath hitched as he wrung a funny little mewl from Ron, and damn it. That little noise was possibly the hottest thing he’d ever heard in his life. “Weasley,” Draco gasped in a last ditch protest, moving into him again, thrusting against Ron’s return lift and twist. “I’m straight.”
“Oh yeah,” Ron’s fingers curled over the soft edges of his shoulder blades, thumbs smoothing the tense rippling of muscle as Draco arched his back, “I know.” He licked the blond’s lower lip, then settled his open mouth at his throat, high up, tongue flat on his pulse.
“So,” Draco struggled to form words, head tipped back and panting, “very,” his erection slid along Ron’s in a slow, firm drag, “straight.”
“Right,” Ron said, and Draco thought the distinct lack of mocking in his voice was testament to how much the redhead wanted him, since the idea – right then – of Draco being interminably straight was way past laughable and mired firmly in ridiculous.
With Ron’s wide pink lips nipping a path along his collarbone, though, Draco didn’t much care.
“Let’s,” Draco started, and Ron hooked a leg around his calf, rolling them so his larger frame draped over him, “yes.”
“Okay,” Ron agreed, and Draco wasn’t exactly sure what he was agreeing about, but then his mouth opened over his, tongue sweeping over his teeth and licking inside, and the blond’s hands came up to grip Ron’s hair, tilting his head to clash harder and deeper and there was sucking involved, of all sorts, and Draco thought Ron was really above par at kissing. Way above par. He might even compliment him on it later.
“God,” Draco broke off, breathing heavy and wet. Ron smelled, tasted, just like vanilla and cinnamon, when by all rights both of them should’ve stank like burnt dog hair. Weasley’s brothers really were geniuses.
A full body shiver visibly coursed its way up through Ron, and the redhead touched his forehead to Draco’s, a low murmur of, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” slipping like fond whispers past his lips. And then he worked a hand between them, sweat making the going easy for normally blunt, roughened fingers, enclosing around both their cocks, pressing them more firmly together and jerking up; a slow, hot wank that pooled even more tingling warmth at the base of Draco’s spine, the curve under his abdomen, and, for some inexplicable reason, the arch of his feet.
It was unbelievable, how very not straight Draco was. How had he not realized that before?
He didn’t much like the mess, though, and as both their breathing slowed to just above sleep-steady, and Ron was no longer a sexy press of flesh, but a heavy, boneless mass weighing him down, he pinched the redhead’s side viciously and snapped – though it lacked much of his customary sneer – “I don’t recall our wager having anything to do with sex, Weasley.”
Ron lurched to the side with a tired groan. “Servitude. Sex,” he said, voice muffled by a pillow. “Same thing, Malfoy.” His head popped up, hair mussed adorably – and that thought nearly made Draco want to stab a spork in his eye, but he was far too sated to give a serious fuck – and his grin was wide as he went on, “Unless you want to wash my socks.”
“I’m not a common house-elf,” Draco huffed, and he didn’t bother to protest when Ron maneuvered him closer, dragging the sheet up to settle at their waists before curling his arms around him.
Ron yawned nosily into Draco’s hair, then said, “Good,” in a low hush.
Sighing, the blond’s eyes drooped closed. A week at Weasley’s mercy; if he remembered correctly, that was the forfeit of the lost bet.
He wondered idly how he could finagle something a bit more permanent, what angle he could work, and when the sleepy, errant, insanely inappropriate thought didn’t immediately set the bed to flame, he figured it might be worth it to find out.