.Air Pockets.

Author: ThreeSidedOrchid
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warning: some dirty talk and mild breathplay
Summary: PWP. A regular tuesday night for Ron and Draco. Almost.
A/N: Written for merry_smutmas 2007 for Kangeiko. Many thanks, as always, to my beta Bironic.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to JKR and Warner Brothers, not me. I'm not making any money off of this - it is done soley for love of the characters and fun.

"How was it?" Draco asks after a moment, turning away from the door.

Ron shrugs, though Draco can't see it. The motion makes the damp weight of his cloak seem heavier. "It was great," he says then, and it's true. Taking off his cloak is difficult; the thick wool clings to his sweater, and Ron has to struggle to get free. He retrieves the present last, before tossing his cloak over the back of a chair. The chair. Draco's apartment is sparsely furnished, and Ron suspects it is more from necessity than choice. Here there is none of the tinsel and holly of the Burrow, none of the welcoming throws to warm yourself with. Everything has the same dull sheen of the inherently dirty scrubbed clean. Sometimes he wonders how Draco can stand the constant, unyielding air.

Sitting to one end of the sofa, Ron leans his head back, listens to the sound of Draco in the kitchen. There's a book splayed upside-down on the coffee table, spine bowed, pages hidden, looking as if it's always been that way. In his hand, the package crinkles in quiet counterpoint to the pop and crackle of the fire. It's a sad little gift; a curl of golden ribbon, red paper wrinkled from being carried in his pocket. Soft, it sends up a sigh when he squeezes the edges. Ron thinks of hiding it away again, back in the darkness of his pocket.

Something bumps his shoulder, and Ron looks over to see a beer being offered to him. He takes it, holding out the package in exchange.

"What's that?" Draco comes around the couch slowly, his eyes fixed on the present. It's almost amusing, how warily his eyes flick over the gift.

"It's Christmas."

"I didn't think--"

"It's from m'mum."


Ron glances away, tells himself that the heat he can feel rising to his cheeks is from the fire. "She's guessed I'm seeing someone. You won't like it."

"How would you know?"

Draco's arch look as he takes the gift reminds him of Hermione, and so Ron doesn't answer. He leans back instead, sipping his beer as Draco pulls the ribbon from the package.

Invariably, on Christmas morning, Ron's mother says they all look like giddy kids, tearing into their gifts. Draco looks nothing like a kid. There is a breathlessness to him, but it is too tense to be the anticipatory hope of a child.

"I told you," he says, when Draco unfurls the scarf. It's not, thankfully, knit, but squares of fabric stitched together to form fat stripes of gray and pink.

"I like it."

"You don't."

"You're right, it's hideous," Draco hooks the scarf over his neck, "matches my shirt, though."

It's true; Draco's shirt today is a long-sleeved, gray pullover. There's a light shine to it that highlights the slender figure beneath and makes Draco's eyes look bigger -- softer.

"I hate that shirt."

Draco chuckles, and his smile calls Ron a liar. Leaning down, he collects the wrapping paper and ribbon into a ball. A toss, and the ball vanishes at its zenith.


"You're surprised?"

Ron breathes deeply, thinks how he will never get used to this, to the sight of Draco Malfoy coming closer.

"No," he answers, looking up as Draco straddles him. He doesn't say so, but Ron likes the weight of Draco against his thighs.

Lifting the bottle from Ron's hand, Draco leans back to set it on the coffee table. It's an awkward balancing act, but worth it for the way his shirt pulls up. In the firelight, Draco's skin is golden and smooth, a welcome contrast to his own, with its pale galaxy of freckles.

" Such a show-off." He touches lightly, not wanting to push Draco off-balance. His hands trail over the soft, exposed skin. Draco sits up, and Ron follows the path presented, up, beneath Draco's shirt to trace the contours of his finely muscled chest. He likes Draco's nipples best, likes the way they harden with the slightest sweep of his thumbs.

Draco leans forward, arms to either side of Ron's head. The motion creates little pockets of air between them -- warm between their faces and throats, cooler where Draco's shirt curves away from his chest.

"Fuck me," he whispers, nuzzling into the hollow of Ron's throat.

"And always so hot for it." One hand sliding down to curve over Draco's arse, Ron pulls him forward sharply, lifts his own hips, forcing their cocks together through the layers of clothes. "Is this what you're after?"


Then their mouths are together, and Ron forgets this afternoon, forgets the ribbing from his brothers over the 'new bird,' in favor of the pulse of Draco's body against his, the feel of their cocks hardening as they rut against each other and the silky play of their tongues.

He slips his hands beneath the waistband of Draco's trousers, squeezes, smiles when Draco moans into the kiss.

"Little whore, you'll do anything to have a prick in you, yeah?" This, too, comes out in a whisper, spreading rough over the delicate tendons of Draco's throat. It would be louder but, as always, something trips the words in his chest, tries to hold them back.

And, as always, he can feel Draco's shiver before the spoken "Anything."

"I want your mouth."

Draco doesn't hesitate; he slides down to the floor, hands coming to rest against Ron's thighs. Ron spreads his legs, reaching out to stroke his fingers through Draco's hair. He swallows, the sound seeming loud, as Draco begins mouthing the bulge of his cock. It doesn't make sense that this should feel so good. There's no reason the impression of a man's lips and tongue against his trapped prick should make him harder than a woman's mouth.

But it does, achingly so.

Lifting his hands, Draco undoes Ron's trousers - - a button, the slide of a zip, and his prick springs free. Draco opens his mouth, but for a few heartbeats all he does is exhale, sending warmth cascading over the sensitive flesh.

"C'mon, take it."

Then Draco is, moist lips touching down, spreading, pulling Ron's cock into the glorious heat of his mouth. Draco has never been one for subtlety and teasing, not in this. He works his tongue in broad strokes, taking Ron deeply.

"That's it. So good --" Ron says, watching the way Draco's body follows the slide of his mouth, up and down, "eager bitch." Draco looks up at him without stopping. A contented hum vibrates down Ron's length. "You were born for this, to suck my cock, bet you'd let me take you anywhere, my slut."

Draco moans and the sound is so wanton that it forces a gasp from Ron, sends his hips up in a reflexive thrust. He grabs Draco's hair, pushing him down, pumping himself into that sweet mouth for a few, harsh strokes before pulling out.

" Enough. "

They watch each other, breathing hard. Draco's lips are wet, swollen, and still close enough that they tease the tip of Ron's cock when he exhales. He catches the glitter of mischief in gray eyes a second before Draco sweeps his tongue out, curving it beneath the head of Ron's cock.

Ron growls and grabs Draco's chin as something fierce and dark flares inside him. Taking his prick in hand, he brushes it across Draco's lips, up onto his cheeks, smearing pre-come over flawless skin.

"You look perfect with my come on you," he says, sinking down to his knees beside Draco, pushing the table aside. "Does it make you hard?" Leaning forward, he licks the edges of Draco's mouth, tasting himself on the man's skin.

He doesn't hear Draco's yes but feels it, shaped against the side of his mouth.

"'Course it does, dirty little cocksucker."

Already Draco is bent before him again. His mouth works over Ron's chest, hands preceding him, lifting Ron's sweater for access. There isn't a lot of room, in the space between the table and couch, but they don't need much for the exploration of hands and mouths over flesh. Easy enough, in the space of a few feet, to strip the shirts from each other. Easy enough for Ron to unzip Draco's trousers, to free the slender cock and gather it into his palm next to his own. He holds them together as they both pump into his fist, pricks sliding against each other.

"C'mon, c'mon, slut, that's it." The words get thicker, rougher. Still, they fall so easily from his lips that Ron is only vaguely aware of his litany. He hears them, in a way, through Draco's reactions -- the scratch of his fingers down Ron's back, the quickening of his breath.

"Turn around." Ron pushes at Draco's hips, guiding him to turn, then extends the motion, sliding Draco's trousers and pants down. It isn't the most elegant of movements, but they manage to get Draco naked quickly enough. When Draco leans forward, retrieving his wand, Ron untangles the scarf from the pile of their shirts.

"Accio nim oil."

Setting his wand on the table with a clack , Draco leans back into Ron's arms. Both of them moan, pushing against each other as Ron's cock settles against Draco's arse.

Ron catches the potions vial as it sails in but sets it aside. He lifts the scarf instead, looping it around Draco's neck.

Picking up the oil again, Ron uncorks it with his teeth. He spills it over his cock, shivering as the cold liquid drips down. A quick push of the cork back into place, and he tosses the vial aside.

Gathering both ends of the scarf into his fist, Ron pulls Draco back with gentle pressure until he can press his lips to Draco's throat just above the taut fabric. With his other hand, he positions himself at Draco's entrance, slicking the oil over himself with the briefest, most clinical of strokes. A tug on the scarf and Draco gasps, his eyes closing.

"'m gonna fuck you now."

Ron sinks into him slowly, guiding Draco back with a hand on his stomach and the steady pressure of the scarf at his throat. "So tight." He kisses Draco's shoulder. "So hot."

Draco's mouth is open, breath escaping in short gasps. Ron watches him carefully as he begins to thrust. He watches Draco's fingers claw against the tabletop each time he pushes in, watches the flutter of pale lashes and the flush of red spreading over his cheeks.

Words fail him then, as friction begins to build. His litany weakens, and then falls silent, as Draco's breathing becomes harsher, his gasps more desperate. Ron lets the scarf go. Draco's inhalation is so loud it is almost a cry. But the details begin to deteriorate then, or perhaps everything becomes details, because all Ron knows is the curve of Draco's hips against his palms, the taste of sweat-slick skin and the heat and pressure of Draco around him.

Draco comes first. When he does, it does not seem such an earth-shattering thing. He arches back, head against Ron's shoulder. Whatever noise he might make is closed in his throat, bound up in the tensing of his muscles.

It does not seem such an earth-shattering thing, and yet it wrenches something in Ron, sends him over the edge as well. He curls both arms around Draco, holding him against his chest as he comes. Trying to silence his own scream against Draco's skin only makes it seem louder, makes it feel as if his body is going to shake apart with the next pulse, the next breath, the next sound.

Ron opens his eyes. Draco is quiet, still pressed against him, his chest pushing Ron's arms out in a slow, steady rhythm. He pulls out carefully, conscious of the ache in his own knees and thighs, feeling the slight tremor of Draco's. With an awkward maneuvering of limbs, they manage to get back up on the couch, lying together. Draco's back is to his chest, their arms and legs tangled together out of the necessity of space.

"I didn't think you'd be here, tonight."

"It's Tuesday," Ron answers.

"It's Christmas."


The fire has died down, embers simmering quietly in the hearth.

"Does your family know?" Draco asks, after a moment.

"About you?" This incredulous, because he'd thought the answer clear.

"About you."

"No," he says, trying to ignore the way something in his chest clenches at the question. "Does yours?"

Draco turns over, so that he is looking up at the ceiling, Ron's arm falling across his chest.

"No." He glances at Ron, then back to the ceiling. "My father would have called having a drink with you slumming it. He'd have no word for this."

Ron thinks he should say something, even opens his mouth to respond. But he doesn't have an answer, and in the end he lays his head against Draco's shoulder and stays silent.



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