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hp fic: After Midnight (We're Gonna Let it All Hang Out)
Title: After Midnight (We're Gonna Let it All Hang Out)
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1158
Warnings: Pornography. Complete absence of plot.
A/N: Much hate to my brain, for refusing to shut up until I wrote this. Much love to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thysanotus for the once-over.
Um. Stop goggling at the pairing. You read it right.
After Midnight (We're Gonna Let it All Hang Out)
::
He'll have bruises in the morning.
Ron had a growth spurt over the summer, and he gained six inches in half as many months. He's all arms and legs and knees and elbows now; he is wrists peeking past the cuffs of too short sleeves and overlarge feet and hands.
His fingers are long, spidery, though he wouldn't appreciate the comparison, and they curve perfectly around the sharp jut of Harry's hipbones. Harry's skin is heated and sweat-slick, but Ron's hands never slip. He just holds on to Harry tighter, his fingers and thumbs digging, biting, tattooing Harry's skin black and purple and red.
Harry's come once already, in sharp bursts that splattered across the desk, onto a neat stack of Transfiguration essays. The varnished wood is still sticky where the edge cuts a sharp line across his stomach.
His body is slow, sated. He's lethargic and useless, too spent to do much more than lie there and let Ron fuck him. His legs gave out a long time ago, and they are shaky now, weak. The only thing holding Harry up is Ron; Ron's hands at his waist and Ron's legs hot and sweaty behind his and Ron's cock pushing in and out of his arse.
He can feel everything; the air shifting around them, the desk creaking and wobbling underneath him. He can feel every inch of Ron's cock as it slides in and out of his body, Ron's breath hot and thick on the back of his neck, the rough brush of material as Ron's shoved-down trousers scrape the backs of his knees.
Ron's teeth find Harry's skin, and the burst of pain is sharp and sudden over the dull, muted pleasure washing over Harry's body. Ron growls low in his throat, thrusts into him again, bites him again, harder. Ron hisses, Harry's name trapped between his lips and Harry's skin, and Harry moans, his head sagging forward, his cock twitching.
"Ron," he manages. It's choked, broken, forced out of him by Ron's hips slamming into his arse.
Ron replies with his lips, his teeth, his hands, his cock.
"We have to go."
And they do.
It's past midnight, and Filch could be out, or Mrs. Norris, and the cloak is in a heap near the doorway. McGonagall could need something from her office, even at this hour, and Harry doesn't even want to think about how she would react to this, to him bent over her desk with Ron's cock in his arse and a stack of come-spattered essays at his elbow.
"Ron," he tries again. It's almost a whine.
"Not. Yet," Ron grinds out, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Not. Until. You come."
"Can't," Harry says weakly. "Just did."
"Of course you can."
He digs his fingers into Harry's hips and pulls, wrenching Harry back onto his cock, hard and fast. Harry yelps, scrambling for a grip on the desk as his feet leave the ground, and somehow, his cock stirs, hardens.
Ron thrusts again, and again, with his mouth on Harry's neck, sucking, marking, his cock angled just so, hitting Harry's prostate every time. And when Ron reaches around to touch Harry he's hard, even though he doesn't know how, his cock swelling to fill Ron's hand.
He strokes Harry as hard and fast as he's fucking him, his hand in a perfect rhythm with his cock, until his breath hitches and his movements grow erratic. Then he just holds, his fingers curled tightly, his thumb trailing through the fat, white drops on the head, each thrust pushing Harry's cock into his fist.
Harry holds onto McGonagall's desk as best he can and tries to remember how to breathe. It's feels so good it almost hurts; it's too much too soon and his body is still oversensitive. His world has narrowed to Ron's hand and Ron's cock and his vision is already starting to blur.
And he can still feel everything; the smooth wood under his fingertips, Ron's lips grazing his shoulder, Ron's fingernails digging into his skin. And he feels Ron come, a choked moan rasped against the back of his neck and a sudden rush of heat inside him.
Ron hauls Harry around as soon as he slips out of him, kissing him and pushing him back onto the desk, his hand never leaving Harry's cock. He kisses Harry slowly, nipping and sucking at Harry's lower lip, his tongue hot and slick as it works its way into Harry's mouth.
Then he's gone, he's on his knees, that tongue swirling over Harry's balls. He licks a wet trail up the underside of Harry's cock, flicks his tongue over the head and swallows him down, sucking Harry into his mouth and taking him down his throat in one smooth motion.
Harry's whole body jerks at the searing wet heat of it, his fingernails scraping roughly across the top of desk as Ron's throat muscles shift and move over the head of his cock. Ron reaches up, his fingers pressing more bruises into Harry's skin, pulling Harry closer, urging him to thrust and fuck his mouth.
And Harry does, as much as the odd angle and his tired body will allow, rocking his hips forward, pushing his cock deeper into Ron's mouth, so deep he doesn't know how Ron can breathe.
Harry can feel his orgasm creeping up on him, pulling at him. His body goes taut, reaching and straining for release, and he snags a hand in Ron's hair, pulling hard, forcing Ron to take even more of his cock.
One of Ron's hands leaves Harry's hip, smoothing over his thigh, then dipping down. Ron swirls a teasing finger around Harry's entrance, still warm and slick with his own come. He slides two inside, thrusting once, twice, and Harry comes, hard and thick and straight down Ron's throat.
Harry moans low and hoarse when Ron swallows around him, his whole body convulsing with each pull of Ron's mouth. When he can breathe again, see again, he drags Ron up for a kiss, and he can taste himself there, salty and bitter on Ron's lips and tongue.
McGonagall's desk clock says it is well past one, and Harry tries to make his lazy muscles move. This late, Filch and Mrs. Norris are the least of their worries. Hermione has an odd way of knowing when they've been out, and what they've been on about, and one of her withering lectures would chase away the liquid warmth coursing through him.
He sorts out his trousers, then locates his robe, pulling it over his head quickly. He casts a cleansing spell on the desk, but when he points his wand at the Transfiguration essays, Ron stops him with long, freckled fingers on his arm.
"Leave it," he says, with a wry smile.
Harry glances at the essay on top, the one that got the worst of it, and snickers.
It's Malfoy's.
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1158
Warnings: Pornography. Complete absence of plot.
A/N: Much hate to my brain, for refusing to shut up until I wrote this. Much love to
thysanotus for the once-over.Um. Stop goggling at the pairing. You read it right.
::
He'll have bruises in the morning.
Ron had a growth spurt over the summer, and he gained six inches in half as many months. He's all arms and legs and knees and elbows now; he is wrists peeking past the cuffs of too short sleeves and overlarge feet and hands.
His fingers are long, spidery, though he wouldn't appreciate the comparison, and they curve perfectly around the sharp jut of Harry's hipbones. Harry's skin is heated and sweat-slick, but Ron's hands never slip. He just holds on to Harry tighter, his fingers and thumbs digging, biting, tattooing Harry's skin black and purple and red.
Harry's come once already, in sharp bursts that splattered across the desk, onto a neat stack of Transfiguration essays. The varnished wood is still sticky where the edge cuts a sharp line across his stomach.
His body is slow, sated. He's lethargic and useless, too spent to do much more than lie there and let Ron fuck him. His legs gave out a long time ago, and they are shaky now, weak. The only thing holding Harry up is Ron; Ron's hands at his waist and Ron's legs hot and sweaty behind his and Ron's cock pushing in and out of his arse.
He can feel everything; the air shifting around them, the desk creaking and wobbling underneath him. He can feel every inch of Ron's cock as it slides in and out of his body, Ron's breath hot and thick on the back of his neck, the rough brush of material as Ron's shoved-down trousers scrape the backs of his knees.
Ron's teeth find Harry's skin, and the burst of pain is sharp and sudden over the dull, muted pleasure washing over Harry's body. Ron growls low in his throat, thrusts into him again, bites him again, harder. Ron hisses, Harry's name trapped between his lips and Harry's skin, and Harry moans, his head sagging forward, his cock twitching.
"Ron," he manages. It's choked, broken, forced out of him by Ron's hips slamming into his arse.
Ron replies with his lips, his teeth, his hands, his cock.
"We have to go."
And they do.
It's past midnight, and Filch could be out, or Mrs. Norris, and the cloak is in a heap near the doorway. McGonagall could need something from her office, even at this hour, and Harry doesn't even want to think about how she would react to this, to him bent over her desk with Ron's cock in his arse and a stack of come-spattered essays at his elbow.
"Ron," he tries again. It's almost a whine.
"Not. Yet," Ron grinds out, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Not. Until. You come."
"Can't," Harry says weakly. "Just did."
"Of course you can."
He digs his fingers into Harry's hips and pulls, wrenching Harry back onto his cock, hard and fast. Harry yelps, scrambling for a grip on the desk as his feet leave the ground, and somehow, his cock stirs, hardens.
Ron thrusts again, and again, with his mouth on Harry's neck, sucking, marking, his cock angled just so, hitting Harry's prostate every time. And when Ron reaches around to touch Harry he's hard, even though he doesn't know how, his cock swelling to fill Ron's hand.
He strokes Harry as hard and fast as he's fucking him, his hand in a perfect rhythm with his cock, until his breath hitches and his movements grow erratic. Then he just holds, his fingers curled tightly, his thumb trailing through the fat, white drops on the head, each thrust pushing Harry's cock into his fist.
Harry holds onto McGonagall's desk as best he can and tries to remember how to breathe. It's feels so good it almost hurts; it's too much too soon and his body is still oversensitive. His world has narrowed to Ron's hand and Ron's cock and his vision is already starting to blur.
And he can still feel everything; the smooth wood under his fingertips, Ron's lips grazing his shoulder, Ron's fingernails digging into his skin. And he feels Ron come, a choked moan rasped against the back of his neck and a sudden rush of heat inside him.
Ron hauls Harry around as soon as he slips out of him, kissing him and pushing him back onto the desk, his hand never leaving Harry's cock. He kisses Harry slowly, nipping and sucking at Harry's lower lip, his tongue hot and slick as it works its way into Harry's mouth.
Then he's gone, he's on his knees, that tongue swirling over Harry's balls. He licks a wet trail up the underside of Harry's cock, flicks his tongue over the head and swallows him down, sucking Harry into his mouth and taking him down his throat in one smooth motion.
Harry's whole body jerks at the searing wet heat of it, his fingernails scraping roughly across the top of desk as Ron's throat muscles shift and move over the head of his cock. Ron reaches up, his fingers pressing more bruises into Harry's skin, pulling Harry closer, urging him to thrust and fuck his mouth.
And Harry does, as much as the odd angle and his tired body will allow, rocking his hips forward, pushing his cock deeper into Ron's mouth, so deep he doesn't know how Ron can breathe.
Harry can feel his orgasm creeping up on him, pulling at him. His body goes taut, reaching and straining for release, and he snags a hand in Ron's hair, pulling hard, forcing Ron to take even more of his cock.
One of Ron's hands leaves Harry's hip, smoothing over his thigh, then dipping down. Ron swirls a teasing finger around Harry's entrance, still warm and slick with his own come. He slides two inside, thrusting once, twice, and Harry comes, hard and thick and straight down Ron's throat.
Harry moans low and hoarse when Ron swallows around him, his whole body convulsing with each pull of Ron's mouth. When he can breathe again, see again, he drags Ron up for a kiss, and he can taste himself there, salty and bitter on Ron's lips and tongue.
McGonagall's desk clock says it is well past one, and Harry tries to make his lazy muscles move. This late, Filch and Mrs. Norris are the least of their worries. Hermione has an odd way of knowing when they've been out, and what they've been on about, and one of her withering lectures would chase away the liquid warmth coursing through him.
He sorts out his trousers, then locates his robe, pulling it over his head quickly. He casts a cleansing spell on the desk, but when he points his wand at the Transfiguration essays, Ron stops him with long, freckled fingers on his arm.
"Leave it," he says, with a wry smile.
Harry glances at the essay on top, the one that got the worst of it, and snickers.
It's Malfoy's.