slumber

Title: One Good Turn (Deserves Another)
Pairings: Ron/Draco
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: R
Summary: Ron thought he was doing Harry a favor.
Warnings: None
A/N: Written as a pinch hit for

ellensmithee at the recently concluded

hpvalensmut fic exchange and originally posted here.

Ron thought he was doing Harry a favor.

***

The fabric of his robes were too thin--when his back hit the wall, its uneven surface scraped against skin, cutting through flesh. He gasped, but not from the way his head hit the wall either.

"Fuck," he swore, fingers digging into carefully ironed trousers, now mussed from abuse. Soft lips trailed kisses against his jaw, warm breath ghosted over his skin, teeth nipped and bit and teased him til he was caught groaning, stomach taut with tension and coiling with anticipation.

"That's the idea," Draco murmured, haughty and smug as he made quick work of Ron's trousers. Ron could feel him smirking against his neck, could feel Draco's cock digging against his thigh.

"What--" he started to say, thinking (with that small part of him that still had the capacity for thought, that is) he ought to say something. A protest, maybe. This is ridiculous. Wasn't it? "What--"

"Shut up," Draco hissed, unzipping Ron's pants and falling to his knees as he yanked them down, and Ron closed his eyes, groaned, sure he just heard the sound of the last of his senses fleeing him.

***

He hadn't wanted to, of course.

When Harry came to him with the file in his hand--and he knew whose file it had been, as well, since it had been passed around often enough--and a look of despair, the kind that had coaxed Ron into all kinds of mishaps, including a year of camping and dozens of near-death experiences (not that he hadn't been glad for them, but that was beside the point!) Ron didn't even try very hard to resist anymore.

He'd gotten to a point in his life when he knew certain things to always be true (he will always have a smudge of dirt on his face the very moment Molly Weasley turns in his general direction, Hermione is always right, including about the divorce--especially about the divorce--and Harry Potter will always succeed in talking him into things) so all he did then was sigh heavily. If he couldn't avoid him he might as well guilt him.

"What is it this time?" he asked.

At least Harry had the grace to look shamed. He even led with an apology. "Sorry," he said, wincing as he held out the file for Ron. "But you're my last shot, here, I swear, or I wouldn't even--"

Ron wrinkled his nose, taking the file from Harry's and leafing through it. "Well, why can't you do it?"

"Because that would go over well," Harry muttered. "Anyway, since Robards left I've just been doing paperwork. There's nothing on the field for me to do."

"What about--" Ron frowned, going through the list of other Aurors in active duty. Montador, Keith, Sharp, Kane, Carcillo... nope, every single one of them have done their time.

Harry must have sensed his thought process as well, because then he nodded knowingly. "Exactly."

Ron groaned. "Do I have to?"

"You're my last hope, Ron."

***

Kingsley Shacklebolt had only been trying to do right by all sides.

Of course it meant not pleasing anyone, but as Hermione had always been keen to point out, his proposed programs--the first of their kind in most instances, controversial in nearly all--were actually incredibly reasonable if witches and wizards only avoided looking at the blasted, oversimplified headlines the Daily Prophet insisted on using.

"He understands we're a small community so why shouldn't he offer everyone a chance to rebuild and to help rebuild when they're able and willing and he's thought to build in all this structure around it?" Hermione had told him as they visited Hogwarts a third time that year, helping pick out the debris and recasting the spells that the Founders once used on the castle.

"Well." Ron scrunched up his face. It had felt like anytime he talked with Hermione he was expected to agree wholeheartedly or argue her down, with proof and reason and ten inches of footnotes and citations. "It's not like you can find any way to shorten that in a way that sounds better than Minister Pardons Death Eaters, can you?"

She'd glared at him then, refused to speak with him the rest of the afternoon, and not for the first time Ron felt rather relieved he didn't have to go home to an extension of that argument later.

***

"You?" Draco Malfoy spat when Ron showed up to meet him. "They sent you?"

"Again, yes. They sent me again." This wasn't the first time they'd been placed together, and Ron was actually quite impressed that Draco had gone through all other available Aurors and made it back to Ron full circle, in less than a year, at that. He wondered if Smith had thought to run a pool on this one. "It's either me or the desk. Got a problem with that, Malfoy, you take it up with Harry."

And Draco must not have, because he shut up quite quickly afterward, shuffling behind Ron as he followed him to the briefing.

The case they'd been given was textbook: simple, easy, a veritable insult to both their expertise and a fact Draco was determined not to let Ron forget.

"Are they joking?" he hissed as soon as they were out of Harry's earshot. "Who the fuck still does this--we're Aurors, not the MLE squad!"

Truth be told Ron agreed completely, but something about Draco made him want to disagree with everything. "They wouldn't give it to us unless it made better sense that Aurors handled this."

Draco only snorted. "They just want to keep me busy so I wouldn't be tarnishing their precious reputation," he all but spat. "A first year could pull this off blindfolded."

"It's not that bad," Ron said with a roll of his eyes. And anyway, he thought, the more simple missions they were given, the more successes they can claim. The better Draco's record looked, the faster he could be rid of him. "Pretty sure you need eyes to make sure this drop doesn't happen."

"Pretty sure you don't," Draco shot back.

For the record, Draco was wrong. Eyes were, in fact, needed, and of course it had to have been at the precise moment when neither of them was looking--too busy snipping at each other over what to do when the dragon egg smuggler showed up--that they were seen.

And then things went to hell.

***

He'd been sucked a thousand (okay, maybe a hundred--or close to a hundred? Often enough, at least) times before, sometimes even by men too.

But there was something different with Draco bloody Malfoy kneeling down in front of him, taking his cock into his mouth, pale pink lips wrapped around his girth. There was nothing delicate about the way he sucked--it was nothing at all like the little laps Hermione's tongue made, or the gusto with which that guy at the club hollowed his cheeks and made as though to swallow him whole.

No, Draco Malfoy was not at all like that. He gave head with deliberation, made sure each swipe of tongue against vein, that every graze of teeth on him, was a carefully calculated effort to draw Ron closer to orgasm.

Ron tangled his fingers against fine blond hair, tugging insistently to urge him on. Draco swatted his hand away, kept his thumb pressed against Ron's hip, and just as Ron was beginning to wonder where Draco's other hand was he felt it cupping his balls, fingers feather-light and teasing.

"Merlin, Malfoy--" he started to say, and then Draco squeezed. "Fuck."

***

He had no idea how they got away. He had no idea how they still had their limbs intact. There had been that initial blast of a blood-red curse, the sound of someone screaming, and then Draco's fingers digging into his skin. The next thing he knew he was stumbling along an uneven road, Draco cursing as he scuffled along beside him.

He heard the distinct Pop! of Apparition and suddenly Draco was pulling him back, wand out and at the ready, lips a thin, grim line as he countered each curse with hexes of his own.

Ron didn't look at him again, his own focus on the grip on his wand, anticipating the movement of their attackers, mentally filing away everything he knew he'd be writing up a report on later--IDing the wizards, noting anything else that could be handy afterward--

"What are you doing?" Draco snarled, deflecting a spell aimed at Ron with another of his own.

"Where the fuck did that come from?"

"Behind you!"

Ron ducked, a cutting curse missing him by inches. He swore, the next word out of his mouth a counterjinx that sent his attacker tumbling forward.

"Jellylegs, Weasley? Really?"

"Worked, didn't it?"

"Hardly--Diffindo!"

Ron gritted his teeth, gripped his wand. This was going to be a fucking long report.

***

Ron was certain they would be at each other before the night was through. (He would be right, of course, but not in the way he thought.) An Incarcerous (whose was up for debate) found its target, the smugglers were apprehended, detained, and after Sally from Records took one look at them they were allowed to leave the more detailed version of their report until the morning.

Because here's the thing: for all the glamor of an Auror badge the job was usually mind-numbingly mundane. The last time Ron remembered feeling that much terror he was slipping into the Chamber of Secrets looking for a basilisk fang. He had almost forgotten how it felt, the way blood pounded through his veins like a constant drum, a rhythmic reminder of living. His entire body tingled with the excitement, he was sure he looked as manic as he felt, and the truth of the matter was he'd have gone off at the smallest of triggers.

But as soon as they stepped outside, from the warmth of the charmed Ministry offices to the slap of bone-chilling winter air on their skins and the bustle of the London evening, the first words out of Draco's mouth hadn't been some backhanded insult.

"Merlin do I need a bloody drink."

His words frosted in the air before him. He slipped his hands deep in the pockets of his robes and his lips, Ron noticed, quivered the slightest of bits.

He supposed then that he hadn't been the only one affected by the encounter.

"Leaky?"

***

Draco's lips were thin and pink, pursed and tight until Ron grabbed him by the collar of his robes and crushed his mouth to his. Then his lips were soft and pliant, then greedy and urgent. He felt fingers curling against his shirt, digging into his waist as Draco leaned his entire weight against him, the hard press of his prick unmistakable even through all their clothing.

"My place or yours?" Ron gasped once Draco pulled away, lips swollen and completely fuckable.

"Do I look like I give a shit? Anywhere that's out of here," was all he said, so Ron grabbed him by the hand and popped them out of there.

***

Ron owed Harry a favor.