Feelings and Other Atrocities

When it becomes apparent to Draco that Ron is much more intent on being a stubborn arse and proving how ace his Locking Charms are rather than being professional and comparing notes about their day working on the case, he goes to his room in lieu of Ron's.



Exhausted still from yesterday's adventures in Tarring Neville as well as from Portkey travel and what had just transpired next door, Draco crawls into bed, slipping between the cool sheets. As he lays there, what little energy he has left begins to dissipate. Lids grow heavy and slowly blink shut; blackness washes over his vision and his breathing begins to shallow. His body grows languid, and he begins to drift away.



Just as sleep starts to settle in, a random image flashes in his head. An image of Ron's cock springing free from the confines of his trousers.



Argh.



Pounding his fist against the pillow, Draco rolls onto his side, screwing his eyes shut. He wants nothing more than sleep, glorious sleep, and how can he fall asleep when–



And there it is again! Another flash of Ron's cock, and he groans, rolling the opposite direction.



Try as he might, and no matter which position he curls up in or how hard he presses his pillow over his head, Draco cannot get rid of the image of Ron's cock from his mind, nor can he stop himself from remembering the feel of Ron's skin under the slide of his tongue.



He must be going mental. This is the only feasible explanation he can devise. Why else would he keep thinking about Ron Weasley's cock? Draco wouldn't be thinking and thinking and thinking and quite possibly obsessing over it because he fancies Ron. Ron with his stupid freckles and his stupid garish hair and his stupid maroon jumpers and his stupid foul, wicked mouth and his stupid eyes that are so big and blue Draco could drown in them and his stupid, fit arse and–



Damn.



Maybe he does fancy Ron.



Sitting up with a jolt, he mutters, "Asps, Pansy. Asps," and contemplates Obliviating himself.



*****



Some time later, Draco wakes from a fitful slumber. A quick hop in the shower does little to rouse him; he has to practically prop his eyelids open to see his way out of the loo, and he keeps yawning, getting on his own nerves. Wrapping a towel tightly around his waist, he pads out to the wardrobe. Pulling another boring tunic-and-trouser set out, he tosses it on the bed. As he shuts the door to the wardrobe, something catches the corner of his eye. On the side table is a scrap of parchment. Curious, Draco takes it up in his hands and scans it. Ron's familiar, messy scrawl informs Draco that he's already left for the day to check out a few more places on his list and requests they meet at Arg-i Karim khani at half-six to discuss their respective findings for the day. The words 'AND BE PROMPT' are underlined and use more ink than the rest of the note combined, and Draco grunts, folding the parchment up and leaving it on the table.



Brilliant. Draco supposes this means he must actually do work-type activities. He has worked with Ron long enough to know that he can only fuck off for so long before Weasley goes off his gourd. Since Draco isn't in the mood to deal with an off-his-gourd Weasley, he'll put in a few hours of actual work today. It annoys him to do it, but he knows he would only be more annoyed with a Weasley tirade, so he'll suck it up for a bit.



Upon getting dressed, Draco selects which places on his list to investigate for the day . The entire list seems more like a tourist itinerary than anything else, and he decides to get what will likely be the most vexing ordeal over with first.



Not only is Persepolis a complete and utter nightmare on account of all the Muggle tourists milling about, but also from the sheer fact that it is located some 70 kilometres northeast of Shiraz. This is terribly inconvenient, and it means Draco must endure yet another taste of mad native driving, as the railway system does not provide a direct route there.



The place of interest in Persepolis, according to Iranian Ministry sources, is the Apadana, the audience hall that had been the biggest building in the ancient city. Draco can't imagine why, though he does put minimal effort into exploring the area, casually running his fingers over the reliefs on the gigantic north and east stairways as he looks nonchalantly around.



Just beyond the hall, Draco notices a few locals have set up blankets, on which they peddle their wares. Under the pretense of being interested in rare and strange collectibles, Draco makes his way from vendor to vendor, though none turn out to be very helpful. Once he is satisfied that none of them know anything about 'curious' carpets or a man named Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi, Draco braves public transportation and mad cab drivers to return to Shiraz.



The return trip takes forever, and Draco stops for a quick lunch (rice, fish, and tea sans semi-skimmed, again – truly, how he must suffer for the Ministry of Magic, and it's all Potter's fault) before resuming his scouting.



Shah Cheragh yields nothing of interest regarding the case, and he wastes no time in trekking to Afif-abad Garden. While the royal mansion and the Persian garden on the grounds are intriguing, Draco is not here as a tourist, and so he immediately heads to the historical weapons museum in the lower floor of the main building. He spends a good amount of time interrogating the weapons curator, but the man offers him no information of importance, so Draco leaves for the next destination on his list.



Finding someone at Nasir ol-Mulk Mosque to speak with proves to be difficult, and Draco is very close to throttling a worshiper out of frustration when a small man missing a few teeth taps him on the shoulder and offers assistance. Draco only has to wait a few moments for the man to fetch a list of suppliers of the carpets the Mosque keeps on hand for worshipers in need. Thanking him, Draco gives the man's hand a hearty shake and then turns to the list of suppliers. None of the names or companies match those Draco knows to belong to or associated with Majidi, so he bids the man farewell.



Near the mosque is the Vakil Bazar, another place of interest in the investigation. A vendor by the name of Rasheed Vafa'i is the target at the mosque, and Draco quickly becomes part of the throng wandering through the bazar, intent on finding Vafa'i. At the very least, the man needs to be observed. At the most, Draco may need to question him if there is suspicious activity in his alcove.



The bazar is made up of arched alcoves with wide platforms, and overhead the arches sustain the roof. Just ahead, Draco can see where the east and west bazars diverge from the thick of things; there is a high domed crossing with intricate carvings. Casually moving from alcove to alcove, where small shops are set up, Draco makes note of what each vendor is selling - clay pots, clothing, shoes, spices, jewelry, colourful artwork, sacks of grain, coffers, fabrics, animals, and more. Most of the vendors do not have their names or shops displayed prominently, and so, after browsing the main bazar, Draco becomes impatient and asks a woman selling bolts of colourful fabric where he can find Vafa'i. She directs him to the east bazar, and before long Draco is standing behind an archway opposite of the Vafa'i's alcove, watching shoppers come and go.



Vafa'i, an older fellow with greying hair and round, wire-rim glasses, runs his shop with the help of a fit young man a bit younger than Draco, and Draco suddenly doesn't mind putting in a proper day's work. He has a nice view and he's out of the sun and in the cool shade. It could be worse; Draco could be in a small, hot building chasing after airborne waffle irons and rogue flame-spewing kettles.



Observation, Draco decides, will be the best way to go about things for a time. He will keep a close eye on the man and his helper, and if the opportunity presents itself, he will pretend to be a shopper and ask them a few questions to feel them out.



An opportunity presents itself around tea time, but it is not the one Draco had suspected. Vafa'i hands his assistant a leather pouch and some sort of list. The fellow bows to Vafa'i, hand on his heart, and walks away from the alcove.



This could get interesting.



Pushing himself off the archway that had kept him partially hidden, Draco follows him through the bazar and out to the street. The fellow makes a few stops here and there, presumably paying on Rasheed Vafa'i's bills, placing orders, those sorts of things. The afternoon quickly grows tedious, and Draco eventually begins to ponder whether he ought to return to the bazar to keep an eye on the man himself, but then something catches his eye. The fellow stops in front of a vendor stand at an outside market, a dilapidated stand that is both busy and selling oriental carpets. The carpets alone attract his attention , and he mingles with a group of tourists, pressing closer to the stand. The vendor reaches under a counter, passing a long, leather-bound book to the hands of Vaka'i's fellow. Draco watches as he looks discreetly around before tucking the book up under his tunic.



With a short bow, the fellow leaves the vendor stand, and Draco stays on his trail. The fellow weaves in and out of streets and alleyways. The longer he walks, the more Draco wonders if the fellow might be on to him and is trying to get him lost.



The buildings are less commercial now and more residential. Darting down a narrow passageway between two houses, the fellow turns left and ducks into a nondescript house, one that looks nearly identical to every other one on the row. Fishing an Extendable Ear from a pocket, Draco tosses one fleshy end toward the door. Placing the other in his ear, he crouches below a window, his body hidden from passers-by courtesy of a short, fat cypress tree.



Pressing closer to the wall, he adjusts the Extendable Ear and waits.



"Hello?" This is followed by muffled noises, as though the fellow is walking around the house. "Hello?"



A second voice says, "In here," and Draco's pulse quickens. It could be nothing, or it could be something very, very important.



More muffled noises, and then, "Ah, there you are, Arya Bij–"



"Do not speak my name, boy," the second voice interjects, and Draco would stand up and crow if it wouldn't give him away.



"My apologies, sir. I have something for you from Habib Qashqi by way of Rasheed Vafa'i."



"Yes, you do." There is a brief pause, during which Draco figures the fellow is handing over the ledger. "That will be all."



Footsteps sound and Draco scrambles to tug the Extendable Ear away from the door. Shoving it hastily in a pocket, he stands up and feigns walking up to the door of a house a few buildings down, waiting until the fellow has disappeared before going back to the house. Cautiously, Draco enters it, wand held out in front as he stands in the doorway. Performing a preliminary sweep for Dark Magic and assorted jinxes with his wand, he waits to move until his wand shoots white sparks, signaling the house is clear. He is just about to enter the front room when he remembers the blasted Ministry protocol for raids: a witch or wizard shall not perform a raid alone unless circumstances are extreme and urgent. Like your partner being an incompetent arse and not showing up, for example.



Fucking Ministry protocol.



Mouth setting into a thin line, Draco backs out of the house and heads to Arg-i Karim khani. As soon as he gets there (a death-defying cab ride and a sprint later), Draco stops the first person he sees to ask for the time.



Squinting at his wristband, the man says, "Six-forty-three."



Draco's jaw drops. "Are you sure?"



"Yes, it says so right here. See?" The man shows Draco his wrist, and Draco groans.



Terrific. He's late, and Weasley clearly isn't here. "Thanks," Draco says, not sounding at all appreciative as he runs to hail another cab.



When Draco arrives at Homa Hotel, the clock in the lobby reads 6:59; he can practically feel Ron's ire from upstairs.



"Sir! Sir, you have a message from a Mister Weas–"



"Leave it, Navid," Draco calls to the man behind the desk, dashing to the lift. "Come on, come on," he grumbles, punching the numbers harder than necessary.



As soon as the lift grates open, Draco shoots out like a rogue Firebolt. Weasley's door isn't locked, and Draco lets himself in.



"Weasley," he says, then pauses to suck in a great big breath.



Stepping out of the loo, Ron looks up from fastening the button on his zip. His eyes meet Draco's and immediately his expression grows stormy.



"Fuck off, Malfoy."



Draco holds up a hand. "Excuse me?"



"You'll be taking a Portkey back to London tomorrow, Malfoy. The Department of Wizarding Affairs will be receiving post from me tomorrow. I've recommended they terminate you. All I'm waiting on is for the post owl to show up, and it's done."



Draco gapes at him for a moment, and then crosses swiftly to him. His eyes narrow. "You're joking."



"I'm not," Ron says flatly. "You're shite at your job and I'm tired of picking up the pieces."



"I told you, I can do my job and do it right, Weasley. I simply choose not to do so."



"That's a big fat lie, Malfoy. You're just shite, and you can't–"



"If I'm so shite, why did I find out where Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi is–"



"I don't," Ron says scathingly, "want to hear it. You'll just make excuses like always and I'm fucking tired of your wheedling and your manipulating and your lazy-arsed–"



Draco cannot take this anymore. Ron needs to shut up and he needs to shut up now before Draco takes to hexing his bollocks off. Propelling himself forward, Draco crushes Ron against the loo door, attacking Ron's mouth with his own. Applying pressure, he forces Ron to open his mouth and slips his tongue inside the warm cavern, sliding urgently against his. For all the flailing Ron did when Draco slammed him against the door, he gives up the fight rather quickly, his hands grabbing onto Draco's face, kissing back with an intensity that makes a fire light in Draco's groin.



Ron must have felt it, because he squirms beneath Draco for just a second before freezing, pulling back so quickly that his head bounces with a THUMP off the door. "'m not a poof," he rasps, and Draco snakes a hand down between them to grab at his crotch.



"You are. If you weren't, you would've had me reassigned two days ago."



For a long moment there is absolute and utter silence as Ron lets this sink in, and then his head falls forward, face pressing against the side of Draco's neck. "Fuck," he mumbles. "She was right. She was–"



If he weren't so hard and didn't want to touch Ron so badly, he would ask who 'she' is and what she'd been right about (though he did figure the 'she' had to be about Granger), but he doesn't.



"It's all right, Weasley." Narrowing his eyes, Draco gives him a squeeze. "I won't hold it against you." Grinding his hip long and hard against Ron's, he adds, "Unless you ask nicely."



"Oh fuuuuu–hold it, hold it," Ron whimpers suddenly, sounding relieved and turned on all at once, and Draco is only too pleased to oblige, sliding a leg over Ron's. Up and in, Draco arches slowly against him. Ron groans, and Draco's breath quickens as his lips and teeth and tongue forge a path from the hollow of Ron's throat to the sweet spot just below his ear and down to his mouth again. Ron moans into Draco's mouth, his hands skittering down over Draco's belly and up under his tunic.



"That's it," Draco breathes hotly against his ear. "Touch me there. Yes. Fuck."



Ron's hand thrusts into Draco's cotton trousers, fingers carding through the course hair to move lower still, and Draco thinks it might not be possible to get harder than he is right now. His cock positively aches and Ron is so fucking slow to move that it's killing him–



"Weasley."



"Yeah."



Fucking shit.



Ron's thumb flicks over the head of his cock, then lightly circles it and presses against the slit, making Draco's lungs rattle and a low moan surfaces from practically his toes.



"That's good," Draco mumbles, then bumps Ron's hand away, parting Ron's thighs with a nudge of his knee. "Let me in."



Settling back against the wall, Ron stares at Draco, and for one, brief moment, they smile. The moment is a fleeting one, and as soon as it is long gone, Draco attacks Ron's trousers, hauling them down, shoving his pants down a bit as well. He could see the tip of Ron's cock, the shining head, peeking up against the elastic waistband, and his brain nearly short circuits. "Shit, Weasley," he gasps, pistoning his hips against Ron's. "You're– you're–"



"Ahhh." Weasley grabs a handful of his hair and wrenches Draco against him. Their mouths meet fiercely, messily,

demandingly as their hips roll and their cocks bump one another.



"Can't– have to– nnnnnngggggghhhh–"



Draco isn't sure who was making all the noise, but he doesn't care. Grunting, he pushes Ron's pants out of his way and takes hold of both their cocks in his hand. His hand isn't slick enough, but he doesn't give a toss. His cock is swelling, Ron's feels so fucking good next to his, and he has to– yesssssss. Ron's hand joins his, and together they develop a jerky sort of rhythm, moving up and down and squeezing together. A tight, whitehot sensation begins to pool in his groin, and he loves every damned minute of this.



"M-Malfoy–" Weasley gasps, and Draco pulls back, teeth rattling.



"Weasley," he chokes, "you have to–"



"Shut. Up."



In an instant, they're a tangle of limbs on the bed, the mattress squeaking under them as Ron arches up against Draco.



"I have to fuck you now," Draco whispers, and Ron responds by burying his tongue in his mouth. Draco can feel Ron's tongue glide over the strong ridges of his teeth, sliding against the soft underside of his lip, pushing back against his cheek and then in to tangle with Draco's tongue.



Sliding a hand up under Ron's arse, Draco sucks his tongue into his mouth and then asks, "Is that a yes?"



"Yes, Merlin, Godric, Salazar, fucking Celestina Warbeck that's a fucking yes," Ron gasps, and Draco grins wickedly, his cock twitching with anticipation.



"Then in the name of Merlin, Godric, Salazar, and fucking Celestina Warbeck, I'll fuck you."



Not bothering to ask Ron if he has any lube, Draco licks the palm of one hand and spits on it. He has to think disgusting thoughts - McGongall naked, Slughorn in lace knickers, Snape in a frock - to stop himself from coming as he spreads the saliva over his cock. He can feel the weight of Ron's stare on him, and it's all he can do not to just shove himself inside straightaway.



"Bring your knees up to your chest and hold them," he instructs, and then slowly pushes one finger, then two, and finally three. Ron clenches his arse around the intrusion, but soon relaxes and lets out a moan. He feels soft and hot and velvety against Draco's fingers, and Draco moans a little himself as he strokes his fingers inside the tight channel.



"C'mon," Ron grunts, and Draco, desperately needing release, pulls his fingers out. Positioning himself at Ron's entrance, he digs his fingers into Ron's hip, pulling him closer, then holding his cheeks open. Yes, he sodding does fancy Weasley, and he'll fuck him and not feel remotely guilty about it. Sucking in a breath, Draco pushes forward. He slips, misses, and curses, then tries again. He bites down on his lip hard as he breaches Ron, his cock enveloped by constricting heat. Ron arches against him and Draco grunts, rolling his hips and fucking him as fast and as deep as he can.



His cock throbbing, that whitehot sensation in his groin grows more and more intense. The pressure becomes unbearable, and he hears a cry – probably his own, but he can't be certain – as his cock begins to spurt and he shatters against Ron's body.



Draco slumps against Weasley for a long moment before gathering enough energy to pull his softening cock out. Flopping onto his back beside Weasley, he makes a satisfied, contented sound before flinging an arm over his face.



"Malfoy?"



"I was just balls-deep in your arse, Ron," Draco says slowly. "I think we can use first names now." Ron. It feels rather odd to actually be saying it now, but strangely satisfying, in a way not unlike the shag itself.



"Draco."



"Yeah?" Draco lolls his head toward Ron's, staring over at his flushed skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat.



"This doesn't mean I'm not sending my post off when the owl arrives."



Draco snorts and wraps a hand around Ron's limp cock. "Will you listen to what I have to say now, or do I have to extract a limb?" Ron's cock twitches beneath his fingers, and Draco smirks. "I'll take that as 'do tell, Draco'."



Ron exhales slowly, nodding.



Giving Ron the shortened version of events, Draco explains how he followed Vafa'i's fellow to a house where he's fairly certain Majidi is either living or using as a headquarters of some sort. "...have to contact that pillock Salimpour, of course, but first thing tomorrow we can head out there and–"



"Draco."



A small shiver of a thrill races up and down Draco's spine hearing Ron say his name. "Yeah?"



"Sorry for being a complete bastard a bit ago. I should've– I reckon you chose to do your job today, and I just want to say 'good show'."



Draco considers this for a moment, and then shrugs. "It's quite all right. I'm fully aware how horrid I am, and I like it this way." Rolling to his side, he props himself on one elbow and looks down at Ron. "In fact, you're pretty fucking horrid yourself, so we're even." A beat, and then a slow, wicked smirk curves his mouth. "Well, except for the small matter of you owing me a blow and a shag."



THE END.