Work Text:
Centuries of dirt caked into the floorboards stared Harry in the face. He would roll over, but then he’d get a mouthful of ginger hair—and probably an elbow to the ribs.
“This is the last time I let Robards convince me to do fieldwork,” he muttered.
The mattress shifted. Rusted springs squealed in his ear—pop. Pain stabbed his hipbone; one of the springs must have broken. Harry grit his teeth and reined in the urge to snap at Ron. It wasn’t Ron’s fault they were stuck in an old hunting cabin in the middle of the woods—no, that was all Robards—but Ron could at least have the decency to stop fucking moving.
The mattress settled. Harry’s hip still throbbed, but he didn’t fancy straining the few remaining springs the sorry excuse for a mattress had left, so he didn’t shift away. If he closed his eyes, he could just barely picture his soft, luxurious bed back ho—
“Is now a bad time to tell you I’m getting divorced?”
Harry’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“Me and Hermione. We’re getting divorced.”
Harry resisted the urge to pinch his eyes. If he did, he’d break more springs. “I thought you already were divorced.”
“No, we were separated. There’s a difference, mate.”
“You want to do this now? Really?” Harry demanded.
The mattress abruptly sagged underneath him to a cacophony of squealing; Ron had shifted again. A new pain stabbed Harry, this time in his thigh.
“I just thought you’d want to know about—”
“Ron,” Harry growled, “so help me Merlin, if you move one more time …”
“I’m just saying, Hermione agrees that we’re officially—” The groaning springs drowned out the rest of the words, because Ron was moving again.
Harry’s patience snapped. He flung himself up to a symphony of squeals and shoved his hands down on either side of Ron’s head. They cratered into the piss-poor mattress, but Harry didn’t care. He lowered his head until their faces were inches apart.
Ron’s eyes widened. His swallow would have been audible, but as Harry was still deafened by the springs, he could only see Ron’s throat move.
“This is what you want, right?” Harry asked him in a low voice, when the noise finally died down. “This is why you keep bothering me when I’m trying to get some fucking sleep?”
“Well, erm, when you put it like that …” The flush over Ron’s freckles revealed his flustered state. “But do you need to be that bloody grumpy about it?”
“Do you want a handie or not?” Harry growled.
“Yes! Sure. A handie is good,” Ron stammered.
“Right then,” Harry muttered and shoved his hand down Ron’s trousers.
“Woah! A bit, er, quick there—ooh … okay … yeah …”
Ron’s eyes slipped half-lidded as Harry got a rhythm going. The springs groaned in time to the motion of his wrist. The dilapidated cabin wasn’t the worst place they’d had sex—no, that had to be the bog—but it was a close second. Despite the mud caked in his hair, Ron didn’t look half-bad splayed out underneath him, Harry begrudgingly thought. The quiet noises in his ear might be helping, too.
Harry brushed their noses together, and Ron’s eyes flew open.
“Spread your legs,” Harry told him, mellower this time.
Ron eyed him past his flushed cheeks.
“You don’t actually want to shag here, do you?” Ron asked between his panting. “Because I gotta say, mate, my knees are already killing me.”
“You really gotta stop calling me mate while we’re in bed,” Harry muttered, though he didn’t slow his wrist movements.
“I could call you crumpet instead—oh fuck, too tight, too tight!” Ron exclaimed, and Harry reluctantly loosened his grip. Ron’s head dropped back to the mattress, and he groaned, “This is the worst hand job I’ve ever got.”
“Got so many of them, have you?”
“More than you.” Ron cracked an eye open and grinned. Harry snorted.
“Come on. I’ll do us both,” Harry said. He nudged Ron’s legs with his knee.
For the first time that day, Ron actually did what Harry told him to do: he spread his legs. Ignoring the ear-splitting noises from the mattress, Harry wasted no time in wrestling his own cock out. When he ground their lengths together, that delicious slide of skin against skin overcame the mood he’d been mired in all day. It felt really fucking good.
“Finally,” Ron groaned.
“Hrnn,” Harry agreed incomprehensibly, having dug his nose into the crook of Ron’s neck. It was better than staring at the broken boards above the mattress.
Squeaking springs and harsh breaths filled the cabin. Harry’s hand flew over their lengths as they rocked together. With the heat of Ron’s cock pressed into his own, it took less time than expected for Harry to reach the brink.
A few more pumps, then stars erupted across his vision. He groaned into Ron’s neck while his hips jerked. His hand wrung the last of his seed from his softening cock, and when he grew too sensitive, he pulled back.
Ron was still hard as a rock.
“Seriously?” Harry moaned.
“It’s not gonna finish itself … mate.”
Harry could strangle Ron, but then he’d have to explain to Robards why they were down an auror, and he’d have to explain to Hermione why Ron had died with a stiffy.
“You owe me so many blowjobs after this,” Harry muttered as he hunkered down and took Ron’s cock in his mouth.
“Now that’s more like it,” Ron groaned after a particularly hard suck. “I deserve it after how cross you’ve been all day. Woulda thought you’re the one getting divorced.”
Harry spit out Ron’s length. His glare could wither stone; unfortunately, the cock in front of him remained stubbornly hard.
“Mind not gabbing about your wife while I’m trying to get you off, yeah?” Harry asked him with far more patience than he knew he had left.
“Ex-wife.”
“Ex-partner if you don’t come in the next five seconds.”
“I don’t think Robards will accept your resigna—oooh Merlin,” Ron moaned as Harry channelled his pent-up ire into increasing the suction around Ron’s cock. “Just like that …”
A few tugs on his drawn-up bollocks, and Ron came like a hippogryph down Harry’s throat. Harry didn’t even mind the taste, because finally, finally, he could attempt to sleep, and Ron would be too languid to aggravate the mattress springs.
Harry leaned back on his heels and wiped his face. He could feel Ron’s gaze linger on his mouth.
“Like what you see?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. There may have been a smirk tugging at his lips.
“You know I do,” Ron said hoarsely, as if he’d been the one with a cock down his throat a moment ago.
“Good thing you’re getting divorced then,” Harry said cheekily. “Maybe you’ll see it more often.”
“That’s the idea,” Ron agreed, as if his marital troubles hadn’t started long before he’d stammered out a flustered proposition to Harry all those months ago.
“Right, well, I’m going the fuck to sleep,” Harry told him. “You better not move an inch until the sun comes up, or I’m kicking you out for the acromantulas to find.”
Ron grimaced. “Did you have to say that right before I close my eyes?”
Harry collapsed beside him; the mattress squealed mournfully like a broken accordion.
“Don’t worry,” Harry yawned, “if there are any, you can hide behind me while I blast them.”
“I’m the one who blasted the boggombats,” Ron muttered.
“I didn’t see them!”
“Get your glasses fixed.”
Harry grumbled, but as there was no further squeaking from the mattress, he let the comment slide. With Ron’s warmth pressed along his side, he finally closed his eyes.
“Did I tell you—”
“No,” Harry said loudly. “Shut up.”
He drifted off to the soothing sound of Ron’s grumbling.