Conduit

Stroke, stroke, dab.

Stroke, stroke, dab.

A parting of the lips. The slightest hint of tongue to tip.

Wetting it. Tasting it.

Two pairs of eyes fluttered closed.

Two chests rose, fell, and then rose again.

Stroke, stroke, dab.

One let out a shuddering gasp before shifting in his seat.

Stroke, stroke, --

“Something the matter, Weasley?” Tilting his head, a shock of white-blond fringe fell in Draco’s eyes. His quill hovered over the inkwell.

“No,” Ron breathed.

“Good.” A slow, knowing smirk curved Draco’s mouth. “Shall I read you the latest bit?”

Ron shook his head. He could wait until Draco was done. Patience was not a virtue, particularly not one of his virtues, but by Merlin Ron could wait. It was better that way.

“Suit yourself.”

Dab.

Stroke, stroke.

The door opened before Draco could dip his quill once again. Ron half-stood in his seat, wand brandished. When he saw the familiar head of messy hair, he tucked the wand back in his half-open robe.

“’lo,” Harry murmured, giving Ron a smile that would have melted a witch’s knickers off before draping himself about Draco’s back. “’n hullo to you, Malfoy,” he added, mouthing the nap of Draco’s neck.

“Hello, Potter,” Draco said calmly, dabbing the quill once more.

“What’s this, then?” Harry said lazily, peering over Draco’s shoulder. “Another piece for Quiddi-- Oh, bugger me.”

“Rather forward today, are we?” Draco set the quill down, smoothing the parchment so Harry could have a proper look.

Although Ron thought there was absobloodylutely nothing wrong with Harry being forward today, let alone any day of the week, he was slightly disappointed Harry had interrupted his ‘Watch Malfoy Do Naughty Things With Quill and Ink’ show.

“This is—this is—“ Harry started, attempting to classify Malfoy’s writings.

“Dead sexy,” Ron supplied, moving to Draco’s side.

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly.

“It’s erotica.” Draco sniffed, leaning back in his chair.

“Dead sexy, like I just said.” Ron dropped his robe to the floor.

“Yeah,” Harry said again, green eyes gleaming.

“You two are hopeless and terribly uncultured,” Draco said haughtily.

Ron snorted.

Harry slowly removed his specs, setting them atop Draco’s scroll of parchment. His hands clasped Draco’s shoulders for a moment before sliding sinfully slow down his chest. “You forgot fantastic shags.”

“And then some.” In one quick, smooth motion, Ron hauled Draco out of his seat. The chair made a loud clattering noise as it came to rest on the ground.

And then.

And then.

Parchment and quill and inkwell on the floor.

Ink spilled and pooled on tabletop, staining skin with each thrust toward the sturdy structure.

Three bodies entwined, slick with sweat and silver ink and sanctuary.

How they became thee three didn’t mattered. What did matter was that they worked. Against all odds and reason and sanity, they worked.
They trusted.

Ron’s hands curled tightly over the edge, fingers digging into the underside of the table every time Harry thrust forward, filling him. Thighs trembled and strained and ached, yet Ron would not surrender to it, to them, to anything. With each rocking motion, with each grunt Ron became whole because the circuit became complete.

Over and over again.

Electricity crackled. Conducted. Traveled.

Harry was the conduit, taking from Draco and passing to Ron and vice versa.

Ron could feel the heat of Harry’s breath against his back, could feel the burn of a brand on his hips. He would have bruises in the shape of Harry’s hands there come morning. A mark. A sign of ownership. Of belonging.

But he didn’t belong only with Harry.

“Please,” Ron murmured, wrenching one hand off the table. He groped blindly behind him, fingers stuttering first against Harry’s arm before being stilled by a strong grasp.

“Yes,” Malfoy hissed, and a quick shudder ran through Ron’s entire body from the sound of his voice alone.

Closing his eyes, Ron’s head fell back against Harry’s shoulder as Draco’s fingers encircled his cock.

Stroke, stroke, swirl.

Ron sighed, melting against Harry.

Harry chuckled, angling up against Ron and thrusting hard.

Draco cursed, and then Ron gave up trying to be aware of every little movement. It was all rushing forward – colours, lights, sounds, smells (inksexsweat), tastes – and he could surrender now. He was aching, every last bit of him. Draco’s hand alternately pulled and caressed him while Harry held fast to Ron’s hips as he arched and then tensed inside him.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Silence.

And then came the end and beginning of things.

When breath was recovered, they remained connected, conducting.

“Well,” Harry said mildly. Ron grinned, then let out a strangled cry as Harry’s tongue laved the sweat that had collected between his shoulder blades.

“Well,” Ron agreed, head falling onto the tabletop, silvery ink seeping and mingling with sweat-soaked ginger hair.

Draco said nothing, resting his cheek against the back of Harry’s shoulder. Harry, in turn, did the same to Ron.

Transmitting.

Transforming.