Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: Harry/Ron smut, written as a New Year's present for Icarus.


All In A Day's Work
by switchknife


Light barely makes it past the curtained windows, and he responds to the warmth of Harry's mouth with tired kisses, barely opening his eyes to the dawn. Harry's body is uncomfortable and familiar above him, hot and breathing, and he feels the ridged scar along Harry's thigh brush his groin softly.

'Too early for this,' he murmurs when Harry's mouth finally parts from his, sticky and unwilling.

'Hmmm,' Harry says, his own eyes dark and sleepy. Ron thinks of moving away, because he has work in a few hours, even if the great Captain Potter only has Quidditch training in the evenings--but Harry's hands are so warm, and his thigh's right there, and Ron's already half-hard...

The sheets rustle quietly as they find their rhythm, Harry moving gently back and forth against Ron's cock, thigh brushing it again and again until it hardens slowly, small prickle of hairs against the smooth hardness. Ron's eyelids droop heavily. His fingers find the nape of Harry's neck and stroke the moist skin there, even as he raises his own thigh to offer Harry some relief. Harry presses against it, letting out a slow rumbling moan, and his jaw tastes of smoke and stubble when Ron runs his tongue along it.

The room is heavy with the sound of their breaths, deep and steady, punctuated by the occasional moan when Harry's thigh presses just a little too harsh. Ron gives up thinking, letting his head roll back on the pillow. The old bed creaks beneath them. The sheets are warm under him, Harry's body so warm above--and it almost feels like he's in a cradle, being rocked gently, back and forth back and forth back and forth, and his cock aches with a sort of suppressed, joyous ache until Harry moves again, up and away from Ron's thighs, leaving a glistening trail of pre-come, and nestles his cock against Ron's.

'Ah,' Ron says, simple and quiet, and lifts his hips.

'Yes,' replies Harry. His palm, Quidditch-calloused and rough, moulds to Ron's shoulder as he lifts himself--and then he thrusts, forwards wet and hard and sweet, until Ron's moving too, mouth slack and hot and gasping, and they're an indistinguishable tangle of pale limbs, one set scarred, the other freckled--and Harry's back is far too slippery under his fingers, and he can't get traction. Harry's tongue is in his mouth, filling it hot and bitter, and Ron sucks on it as though it were a cock.

'Mmmph,' says Harry, which Ron takes to mean 'I'm coming', and soon he is, hot and slow and pulsing, wet and familiar against Ron's thighs.

There are a few panting moments, Harry's hair damp on his shoulder, before Harry's hand finds his cock--curling knowingly around the base. He strokes easily, lazily, and Ron knows he's going to come a long time before it actually happens, his prick leaking and spitting into Harry's slick fingers, his hips beginning to roll in that inevitable, inexorable rhythm. He feels his orgasm approaching from a distance, like a rolling wave, and it takes only a few more strokes of Harry's hand, strangely cool on the heat of his cock, before Ron's coming too--pushing up and tensing as he spurts, and he feels Harry's mouth smile against his before he falls back to the bed.

His head feels dizzy and light--sex having woken him up good and proper, as usual. Bloody Ministry hours--he barely gets any rest anyway. Ron sighs, feeling Harry reach across him to wipe sticky fingers on the sheets--and he's almost relieved now to be able to get back to sleep.

'Too old for this,' he mumbles, or thinks he does, but Harry's nuzzling into his neck, face unshaven and rough, and that familiar arm is pulling him close, and he feels the sheets spell themselves clean even as Harry mumbles the charm, voice hoarse and hot in Ron's ear.

The room descends into silence again. Ron can hear the ticking of the clock, distant and slow, and the rustling of the sheets as Harry settles down behind him. Probably only an hour or so before the alarm rings.

Oh well. Ron lets his eyes drift close as Harry's breath, warm and slightly sour, brushes his shoulder. Might as well get some sleep.


* FIN *

Please review here, or e-mail switchknife.