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As a general rule, Draco is not fond of mess.
However, as he strolls down the main thoroughfare of the Mediaeval Fayre in Pippingford Park, his husband at his side, Draco is forced to make an exception.
It is quite possible he has never seen anything so attractive—as beautiful—as the mess that is Harry Potter at the Medieval Fayre.
For this occasion, Harry has bedecked himself in a brown shirt with a plunging vee-neck that exposes a generous swath of his bronze, sweat-glistened chest. The rest of his ensemble is made up of baggy black trousers tucked fetchingly into calf-height boots, a thick leather belt, and a red scarf tied around his waist like a sash. His dark curls, gathered at the back of his head in a bun that Draco can only describe as provocative, support a flower crown made from large blue begonias. Pink ribbons trail beguilingly from the rear of the crown, fluttering in the summer breeze.
Harry had insisted upon the flower crown almost immediately upon entering the Medieval Fayre, shoving it crookedly on his head and throwing his arms wide for Draco’s approval. “I’m the King of the Pirate Blokes.”
“You are indeed,” Draco said indulgently, and straightened the crown. For his part, Draco had of course dressed in a doublet with matching cape and hat, light blue hose, and knee-high boots. It had been worth the afternoon they’d spent searching the Manor’s ancestral archives—a suite of dusty rooms so packed with expansion magic and preservation charms that Harry had continuous sneezing fits. If Draco was going to attend a Medieval Fayre, he would not clothe himself in shoddy reproductions. His doublet is not fashioned after the Elizabethan era. It is from the Elizabethan era, protected with care over centuries so that one day—
Harry stumbles over the grass with a cry, the mead in his Viking horn mug sloshing precariously.
Draco catches him, managing to dodge the airborne mead and steady his husband, who turns into his arms like they’re dancing and flutters his eyelashes like a damsel no longer in distress.
“You saved me!”
“I saved myself,” Draco teases, though Harry’s voice, low and rough like that, sends Draco’s blood careening southwards. “How many of those have you had to drink?”
Harry presses a mead-scented kiss to Draco’s cheek, and all of Draco thrills to it. The air seems saturated with magic. It probably is, simply by virtue of Harry being here. The pull to him is so strong it leaves Draco breathless. “Merlin, I dunno. Horns and horns and—yes. I’m so hungry! Yes!”
Draco is nearly swept away by a tsunami of affection. His husband. His husband is perhaps the only person in the world who could forget he is holding an enormous turkey leg dripping with sauce.
“You’ve been hungry,” Draco reminds him, holding his own turkey leg aloft. “You wanted to eat like a mediaeval peasant, remember?”
Never mind that Draco very much doubts that mediaeval peasants ate turkey legs in quite this way. The birds certainly hadn’t been bred for size at that point in history, and the question of whether they had arrived in Britain—
Harry gazes at the turkey leg, his eyes soft. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Draco answers.
“I love you so much more than a turkey leg.” Harry turns his soft gaze on Draco, his eyes going shiny and a bit tearful.
“No crying at the Mediaeval Fayre!”
“Right,” Harry says bravely, blinking hard. “No crying for the pirate king.”
Never mind that Harry is no such thing. No crying for him. Shagging, however…
Draco turns Harry in the right direction and puts a hand on the small of his back. The Mediaeval Fayre is a veritable riot of tents and stalls and at least one open-fronted tavern. A tambourine jingles unceasingly. From somewhere close by, a bawdy cheer goes up. Two children dressed in green tunics and matching hats with long points that flap in the wind sprint across Draco and Harry’s path, loop around them thrice, and tear off again, shrieking at top volume.
Harry’s steps wobble as he concentrates hard on his turkey leg, and Draco presses his hand more firmly into Harry’s back to keep him on his feet. Striking quickly, Harry sinks his teeth into the meat.
“Fuck,” he says rapturously, his mouth full to bursting with turkey. “This is really good, Draco. You should have some.”
But then he’d have to stop watching Harry eat his turkey leg. Harry takes another bite. A bead of sauce escapes his lips, runs down his chin, and lands in the centre of his chest. Oh, what a mess he is, the afternoon glow alighting on Harry as if he is not simply a period-inappropriate pirate-bloke but a filthy angel descended to earth. Draco is gripped with a powerful and urgent need.
“Bollocks,” Harry says around another mouthful of meat. He tucks his sloshing Viking horn into the crook of his elbow and swipes the sauce from his chest.
Draco catches Harry’s hand and brings it to his own mouth. Harry watches, wide-eyed, nearly rapturous, as Draco closes his lips around Harry’s finger and licks the sauce off. He gives a light suckle just to see Harry’s cheeks darken, then releases Harry’s finger with a pop.
Harry swallows hard, then turns his head a bit and licks helplessly at the turkey leg. “You’re so bloody hot. I’ve got a massive erection.”
The amount of tambourines in their immediate vicinity seems to have tripled, filling the air with lusty jingles. Draco flexes his hand on Harry’s back. “I want you carnally.”
Harry blinks at him, pupils blown, his full, perfect lips shiny with turkey-leg sauce. “A carnival?”
Cymbals crash together. A trumpet blasts. Hooves thump on the path. Is this what Muggles think a mediaeval ruckus sounded like? Historical accuracy aside, points to the Muggles for enthusiasm.
“Carnally,” Draco says louder.
“Carmel?” Harry asks through yet another faceful of meat.
“Carnally,” Draco shouts. “Sexually. I want to bend you over a—”
Harry startles, the turkey leg wedged firmly into his mouth. “Draco!”
“What?”
“A parade!” Harry cries, and points.
It is a parade, or procession of some sort, and it is nearly on top of them. Draco pulls Harry closer—is there a way off the thoroughfare? Finding no clear path, he steps valiantly in front of his mead-and-turkey-drunk husband and throws out his hand.
“Halt.” People are saying all manner of odd things at this Mediaeval Fayre, and halt is the most period-appropriate thing Draco can remember in the face of the procession.
The procession does not halt. Instead, it engulfs them, swirling around Draco and Harry like they’re a rock parting a river. Two youths in brightly coloured tunics circle them, waving long streamers on sticks. One of the streamers thwaps Draco in the face.
“The king!” one of them calls, and the other echoes, and then a great number of people pick up the cry. “The Summer King!”
“What?” Draco asks, ducking another rogue streamer. “No—you can’t have him. He’s dressed as a pirate-bloke, for M—for God’s sake!”
“You!” one of the youths shrieks. “Him!” He jabs his streamer dangerously close to Draco’s chest. “Him! It’s him!”
Harry laughs behind Draco, the sound muffled by meat.
“Oh, is this funny to you, Potter?” Draco demands, but it is a bit funny. He doesn’t know what’s gone awry with these youths, but they can’t actually mean to—
A lady in white glides out of the procession. Her hair—golden—spills down her back. The procession stops behind her, sun glinting off trumpets and tambourines. It’s deafening.
The two youths in their tunics whirl in front of Draco and drop to one knee, and the lady steps forwards, a crown gleaming in her hands. She balances it in one palm, then reaches for Draco’s shoulder and pushes. He goes to one knee under the relentless pressure of her grip.
“These hose are antique!” Draco scolds, but nobody hears him over the racket.
“The Summer King!” the lady in white proclaims. She sweeps his hat off—how presumptuous!—and drops the crown onto his head. “Long Live the King!”
There is no chant more irresistible than Long Live the King, and the entire procession joins in. Draco gets to his feet and reaches for Harry, but Harry isn’t there. Where has he gone? Pink ribbons flutter in the corner of Draco’s eye. There!
But no—Draco has no time to find his wayward husband. He’s now the king of a procession. It has claimed him as its own, and he has no choice but to be chivvied along at the head, batting aside the youths’ streamers as they wend their way through the Mediaeval Fayre. Everywhere they wend, more people cheer for Draco.
Another glimpse of the ribbons. They are, unfortunately, heading straight towards a pillory. For what? Eating a turkey salaciously? Before Draco can hail Harry, he’s out of sight again.
A few minutes later, the procession prods Draco up the steps of a wooden platform that, thankfully, has a roof to offer shade. It’s set at the side of a grassy field with pennants marking the boundary.
“The King has arrived!” one of the youths bellows, and waves his streamer violently. “Long Live the King!”
The lady in white climbs up onto the platform. In the process of stepping back to make room for her, Draco topples inelegantly onto what appears to be a large, sturdy throne. He hops on top of it, searching the crowd for Harry. Below him, the lady hangs his Elizabethan hat on one of the throne’s decorative posts.
Another chant begins. Draco doesn’t understand it until he does. Joust! Joust! Joust!
“Yes, joust!” he waves his hand in an attitude of approval. Why are they asking him to begin the joust? He’s been King for five minutes.
At Draco’s signal, horses trot onto the field, each ridden by a knight in shining armour. They prance in a circle, the knights holding up their lances to euphoric applause. As two of them take places at opposite ends of the field, Draco grabs one of the youths’ streamers and tugs him closer.
“The man I was with,” he shouts over the noise, a hiccup escaping as well. How many mead horns has he had to drink? Only one, surely! “The peasant with the turkey leg. Where is he?”
“I don’t know, your majesty!”
“Well, go find him! I need him!”
“Back in a jiffy, your lordship!”
“Your royal highness,” Draco corrects, but the youth is already gone. “You there!”
The other youth spins around. “Yes, your kingly?”
“What on—never mind. I can’t eat this.” Draco holds up his turkey leg, which has miraculously survived the journey. “I need a plate. And cutlery.”
The second youth scampers off. There can’t be fine china at the Mediaeval Fayre.
Can there?
But lo, as if by magic, the youth reappears with a plate and heavy silver cutlery. Draco drops his turkey leg onto the plate and goes at it with manners. And a fork.
Harry was right. It’s very good.
He finishes the turkey leg all too soon.
The jousting commences in earnest. Horses charge across the field at blistering speeds. Lances crash into armour. The crowd gasps. Draco covers his eyes. Why are they hitting each other so hard? If it’s in tribute to period accuracy, then he shouldn’t stop them, but he doesn’t have to watch.
“Here, your majesty!” someone calls.
Draco uncovers his eyes. The streamer-youth he’d sent away helps Harry up the last of the steps to the platform. Draco’s husband has turkey sauce all over his beautiful face, and Draco is jousted into a searing desire to dirty Harry up quite a bit more.
“Hi!” Harry waves, his hands free. It looks as though he’s finished both his turkey and his horn-mead. “I didn’t know you were a king!”
“I’m not a king!”
“Long Live the King!” the youth cries, and then it’s impossible to hear anything. Too many people cheering for Draco. It’s fitting, he supposes. He always has had a kingly quality about him.
“Get over here,” he orders.
“Your Greatness!” Harry makes his way across the platform. He tries to get down on one knee but trips over his own foot and falls into Draco’s lap, giggling.
“You are a peasant, aren’t you?” The warm weight of him sends fervent want through Draco.
“I’m your peasant,” Harry murmurs, and kisses the side of Draco’s neck
“Where were you?”
“Got separated in the crowd.” Harry licks Draco’s neck as if the kiss simply wasn’t enough. “Was in the stocks for a minute. Learned that thing is actually called a pillory. Did you know?”
“Of course I did! Why on earth were you in there? For what offence?” He should’ve stopped and seen to Harry, clearly! What was he thinking, allowing himself to be crowned king?
“Being criminally attractive.” Harry lips land hotly on the corner of Draco’s mouth, and Draco’s cock twitches in his hose.
“I should put you back in there.”
“Maybe you should. I’d be all bent over.”
“Perhaps I’ll bend you over this—” One of the youths leans over the arm of the throne and shoves a flower garland into Draco’s hands. “Just a moment, darling. Royal duties call.”
“What royal duties?”
Draco tips Harry off him. “I have no idea.”
Fortunately, the lady in white does. Draco leans over the railing on the front of the platform and drapes the flower garland over one of the knights, who has apparently won the jousting tournament.
“Godspeed,” Draco tells him, then raps on his helmet, ringing it like a bell.
Then he turns back to the throne and offers his hand to Harry, who takes it, then stands on shaky legs and bends to kiss Draco’s knuckles. “Your Hot-ness.”
Draco’s mouth goes dry. He must have Harry. Immediately.
He abandons his crown on the throne, then gives it a farewell wave. He’ll miss being king. But, once a king, always a king, isn’t that the saying?
There are more tents behind the platform. That’s as far as Draco can bear to go before he pushes Harry up against the side of him and kisses him hard. His husband tastes like mead and sauce and magic. He’s bloody delicious, and Draco’s heart swoops, falling in love all over again.
“Don’t run off again,” he says into Harry’s mouth. “Or I will put you back in that pillory, mark my words.”
“I didn’t run off. The parade got—”
“You stay with me. I want you with me. I’m your husband.”
“Okay, okay! I’ll stay with you.”
“How long?” Draco can’t help pressing his hips into Harry’s. They’re both criminally hard. “For how long, Harry?”
“Forever,” Harry answers, then rolls his hips.
They snog furiously, the noise of the crowd washing over them. Is that more jousting? Draco doesn’t care. Someone else can throw around a flower wreath. The only flower-clad person he cares about is here with him in the narrow space between two tents. It’s only them and a large wooden crate.
His cock nearly bursting with anticipation, Draco turns Harry and bends him over the crate. He kisses Harry’s nape through the pink ribbons, then brushes them aside.
“Draco,” Harry pants.
“Oh, don’t worry, my darling. I’ll have you.”
Harry reaches for something, but his hands land on the edge of the crate and clench tight as Draco shoves down his trousers and pants.
It’s too much. Harry’s too beautiful. Draco drops to his knees, uncaring of his hose. He casts a few quick, wandless charms, and then he spreads Harry open and puts his tongue to work.
Harry’s thighs shake. His knees give out. He scrabbles at the crate, moaning loud enough to be heard by Draco, but not by anyone else. Silencing Charms, et cetera. Harry’s hole clenches under Draco’s tongue, opening little by little until Harry’s begging aloud and Draco’s cock is begging in his hose.
But he is a gentleman and a king, so he will not rush this.
Not much.
He stands and coats his fingers with lube, lost in the sight before him. Harry, his trousers down around his calves, caught on his boots, arching his back and gasping prettily for Draco as he slides one finger into his husband, then two.
Harry curses incoherently, wiggling his hips back towards Draco, who has no more patience.
He pushes his hose out of the way and notches himself to his husband and enters.
“You’re exquisite,” Draco says. “You’re bloody perfect.”
“Criminally—attractive—”
“That, too.”
And criminally tight, and hot, and as Draco sinks into him, criminally welcoming. He bends himself completely over Harry and licks a bead of sweat off the ridge at the top of his spine.
A commotion arises on the thoroughfare in front of them, but Draco doesn’t care. He is in what the Muggles would call heaven. Harry thrusts back against him. This is better than kingship and crowds cheering and a crown. This is everything.
Draco reaches between Harry’s legs, his hand only just fitting between Harry’s body and the crate, and wraps his hand around Harry’s shaft.
It’s not strokes Harry likes when he’s so close, and Draco’s entire chest heats and throbs with the intimate knowledge that his husband likes a firm grip, that’s all—Draco’s firm grip—and he’ll—
Go over the edge, tightening deliciously on Draco as he paints the side of the crate with his release. Tambourines jingle and jingle and jingle anew. Pots and pans clang forcefully. A trumpet blasts.
Harry’s orgasm brings Draco off, too, pulling him along like the only dance partner he ever wants in his life. Pleasure darkens his vision. His ears ring. The air is pure and sweet and fresh, and every nerve is alive with this moment.
He drops over Harry, covering him, and shudders out the last of his release into Harry’s body.
The ringing in his ears doesn’t subside.
That’s because it’s not only his ears.
“Where is the king?” someone shouts.
Draco licks Harry’s naughtily exposed shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Harry breathes. “But—”
“No buts.” Draco pushes himself up right and stands Harry up with him, his arms around Harry’s waist. Never mind that Harry’s dick is out. It’s covered by the crate, and Draco wants a cuddle. He’ll have it.
Harry leans against him, twisting to bury his face in Draco’s shoulder. “Draco—”
“Shh.”
A procession—the same procession?—clatters into the thoroughfare ahead of them. The youths wave their streamers like they’re going into battle.
“The king!” one cries. “Where is the king?”
Next, the lady in white rides by in a litter carried by four men in matching livery. Draco looks upon the scene fondly. He was king, once. He had walked in that same procession. He could be king again anytime.
Horses follow after, led by their knights. One horse pulls to the side of the thoroughfare and lowers its muzzle to the grass on the other side of the crate.
“There you go,” the horse’s knight says. “Not the best grass you’ve ever had, I’m sure, but—”
He breaks off in midsentence, his eyes rising inch by inch until he’s staring right through Harry and Draco, his mouth hanging open.
“Er…” Harry fits himself closer to Draco’s chest. “I think they’ve found you.”
The horse whinnies, shuffling a bit to the side. It bumps into the knight, who does not appear to notice.
“Nonsense.” Draco kisses Harry’s cheek. “I cast a Silencing Charm. And a Notice-Me-Not.”
“Did you? Because I think this knight might’ve noticed us.”
“Yes! Of course I did.” But…had he? Draco distinctly remembers intending to cast the charms, but whether he had actually done so is nowhere to be found in his mind. “Upon further review, I might not have cast them.”
The knight sucks in a breath. “Guards!” he shouts. “Public indecen—”
“Silence!” Draco shouts over him. “By order of the king!”
The knight drops to one knee, his armour clinking.
Draco leans down and pulls Harry’s trousers up, then hastily puts himself back in order.
“Wait,” the knight says from the other side of the crate. “That bloke can’t really be the king. There’s—”
“Run,” Draco whispers.
He and Harry tear off through the Mediaeval Fayre hand-in-hand, laughing themselves to tears. They leave Draco’s short-lived royalty behind without an ounce of regret. The Summer King is no more. Long live Harry Potter’s husband!