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: Arthur Weasley wants to have 'the talk' with his son's new boyfriend, but Zacharias Smith, as we know, isn't the best listener in the world...


The Talk
by switchknife


It's hot here; sweat prickles your neck, and you try to listen to what Weasley Senior's saying, honestly, but it's been two fucking weeks and you haven't gotten laid, and you're only having this 'talk' for Ron's sake anyway.

You lift your hand to wipe the sweat from your brow--spare a sour glance for the Muggle fan on the lounge table, obviously not functioning--and look back at Arthur Weasley, who appears to be catching his breath. 'You see,' he says uncomfortably, voice irritatingly mild, 'we're happy for you, really we are, but perhaps you'd like to take it a little slow--it's only a few months to graduation, and the exams... well, Molly and I always have placed a lot of emphasis on OWLs--after all, Ron wants to be an Auror--'

Fuck this. Weasley Senior, Epitome of Tolerance. You catch sight of a corner of blue shirt--just there, beyond the door, and you know Ron's waiting there, eavesdropping like the proverbial fucking blushing bride--and probably the rest of the Weasley household would be too, if they hadn't been ordered to leave the house.

A sudden image flashes through your mind--Ron, sweaty underneath his faded blue shirt, throat damp and salty and sweet, thighs moist under your hands, kitchen table fogging with the heat of his body.


Now it is too hot in here--and you're getting up, even before you know it, trousers unsticking from your legs as you do. Arthur Weasley looks up at you in surprise. 'If you'll excuse me,' you say abruptly, in that tone you know annoys Ron to no end, 'I'd rather be shagging your son.'

There is a strange gagging noise from beyond the wall--and you wonder if Ron's choking--he probably is--and you're walking out without a backward glance at Weasley Senior, who's sitting in a sort of stunned silence, mouth agape.

You reach the door--feeling your skin cool down even as your pulse heats up--and who cares what they think anyway?--and then you're out, and Ron's there all pale-faced, ears burning, and he's still choking in disbelief as you push him against the wall.

'You--' His mouth works indignantly. 'You--how could you--'

But you shut him up with a kiss, and his mouth's somewhat cool and tastes of iced coffee, the bastard, he probably raided the kitchen while you were in here stewing--and you're aware of Arthur Weasley's hurried footsteps even as you pull away from Ron, panting and more than a little flushed.

'Your room?', you ask--and Ron, nonplussed, nods--and then you're pulling him, sweaty hand in sweaty hand--up the stairs, a burst of incredulous laughter coming from Ron's mouth, up into the hideous room that you know is Ron's, because of all the orange Cannons posters on the wall--and you're pushing him down on the bed, taking off your shirt and helping him out of his, and his eyes are wide and his mouth is wet.

'Zach, what--'


'My father's going to hate you,' Ron gasps as you lick along his throat, and yes, it tastes just like you thought.

'He already does,' you say, smirking against his skin. Your hands glide down the sweat-sheened heat of his body, shoulders-waist-thighs, and he arches under your touch.

'You completely ruined--the--talk--'

'Fuck the talk.'

Ron chuckles. 'Fuck me, you mean.'

'Oh yes. Now. Two weeks, your Dad said--fuck, Ron--'

'Going crazy,' he agrees, eyes hazy with lust, fingers busy at your waistband. 'Told me to wait--think it over--'

'Fuck thinking.'

'Fuck everything.'

'Not your father, though.'


And he's laughing--and the hot air molds to your body like a second skin, and your hand molds to his cock, heavy warm velvet, and he's twisting, moaning, and you give his freckled shoulder a bite.

'No more talks,' you growl. 'No more talks, Ron. You're mine. No one tells me to wait.'

You expect a flash of irritation in his eyes--for him to say how he hates it when you sound so arrogant--but there is only a rising heat, those brown eyes darkening to black, and he reaches up to kiss you. 'No one,' he agrees, voice hoarse--and he pulls you down over him until your mouths meld into a hot slip of tongues, rough and salt and wet, put to much better use than talking. You think of Arthur Weasley, horrified and alone downstairs, and smile.


* FIN *

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