Young Adult Friction ~or~ Any Portkey In A Storm

~~~ YOUNG ADULT FRICTION ~~~
~or~
~~~ ANY PORTKEY IN A STORM ~~~

Monday, 14 December, 2009

“Bloody hell,” Harry growls as a trio of owls swoop into his office and alight on his desk, each holding out a leg for him. He unties the tiny parchments and the birds flap back into the corridor while three paper aeroplanes gently land in his inbox.

He checks the huge wall clock hanging over his desk, confirming that it is indeed half-past three. Whoever is sending out memos at this time of day needs to be strung up by their bollocks.

Or tits, whichever applied or was sure to be more painful.

He unfolds the planes, only to find that they're duplicates of the owl messages. “Be glad when the transition from owls to planes is finished,” he grumbles to no one in particular. He tosses the plane messages and slides the parchments underneath his already far-too-large stack of work to be completed before leaving the Ministry for the day.

Anyone who believes that the life of an Auror is filled with non-stop adventure is sorely mistaken.

Lately, the most alarming hazard Harry faces on a regular basis is severe writer's cramp. While it's quite lovely to not have Death Eaters sprouting from every dark corner, it's also extremely dull.

Harry's mobile beeps importantly. He scans the text from Hermione, in which she relays best wishes for his planned anniversary celebration that very evening.

He and Ron have been together for a year now, and he's planning to prepare one of Ron's favourite dishes for dinner. He's also stocked the cool box with Guinness, and he picked up a fresh bottle of Oban whilst on his lunch hour.

He answers her with a text of his own, indicating that all is in order.

If only Ron wasn't so stubborn about the tiny Muggle devices. He adamantly refuses to carry one, despite the fact that a good number of witches and wizards use them nowadays. Clearly Ron hadn't inherited Arthur's fascination with Muggle paraphernalia. Harry intends to solve the problem by presenting Ron with one of the devices as an anniversary gift.

He imagines the wonderful mobile sex they could have had recently if Ron had been a bit less stubborn and already carried a mobile of his own. He adjusts himself, the mere thought of Ron in conjunction with the word “sex” more than enough to send a rush of blood to his cock.

It's been a very long three weeks, and Harry's right hand is cramping a tad more than usual, from more than simply filling out forms.

His mind wanders and he imagines the events that will take place after a nice, relaxing dinner and a few drinks. Perhaps stripping Ron naked and shagging him mercilessly, right there in the lounge before a crackling fire.

Or Ron shagging him. Either way, it was all good. At this point, he'll take it any way it comes.

Once again Harry's cock stiffens, and his hand drifts downward to stroke himself.

“Ron,” he murmurs, and as he closes his eyes, images of a deliciously shirtless, freckled and incredibly fit Ron flood his brain. He slouches in his chair to give his erection more room as his mind's eye drifts down Ron's nicely furred chest and torso. “Merlin.” He rubs his cock more firmly, the dream Ron throttling his own thick erection with meaty hands...

“Hey, hey, mate.”

Harry jumps in his chair, his knees crashing into the lap drawer of his desk. An owl that had landed during his fantasy hoots in alarm and flutters about, sending a stack of parchments to the floor.

“Daydreaming, eh? Hope it was a good one!”

Harry sits up and swivels around in his chair to find Terry Boot peering around his door frame, a vaguely amused expression on his face. “Hullo, Terry,” he stammers, brushing some hair from his sweaty brow.

Well, it would have been a good one if he hadn't been interrupted, that is.

“How's things?” Terry says brightly, scooping up the fallen parchments.

“Same old, same old, I'm afraid.” Harry gestures to his disturbingly large stack of parchments. “On top of everything else, Accounting's requested that I re-submit my expense reports for the last twelve months. In triplicate.”

“I hear your pain, mate,” Terry says, leaning on Harry's desk. “Those number-crunching twats are out of control. I've got to re-file every AQ 54 / 17A I've prepared over the last two quarters simply because I failed to fill them out in the required purple ink.”

“Bureaucracy rules,” Harry sighs, banishing some owl dung from his desktop.

“Hmmm. I've always wondered exactly where that goes," Terry says thoughtfully, referencing the now absent owl leavings.

"Can't honestly say I've given it serious thought."

"Well, wherever it ends up, I simply can't wait until those owls are totally phased out. Filthy birds.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Terry? I'm a bit overwhelmed here.”

“No, no, just popped in on my way to requisition a few purple inkwells. Say, isn't the Great Freckled One due back soon?”

“He should arrive at the International Portkeys within the hour, as a matter of fact.”

“They had a smashing exhibition tour,” Terry says excitedly. “Didn't miss a single match. The Bats are red hot, eh? Can you believe how handily they destroyed the Toyohashi Tengu? And those Moutahora Macaws were hapless as well, if I don't say so myself.”

“Well, both are rather new teams, so I wouldn't place too much stock in those wins.” This was the third year running that Ron's team, the Ballycastle Bats, had participated in a Quidditch exhibition tour of Asia and Oceania. It was a gruelling three weeks, but Ron adored it nonetheless. “If you want to talk about an important win though, just look at how well they played against Wollongong.”

Terry nods. “Too right, too right. The Bats surely taught the Warriors a lesson. Ron should be quite proud. Well, best be off now. Give Ron my best when you see him. Don't stay on too late with that paperwork.”

“No worries there, Terry. Cheers.”

Terry salutes and disappears into the crowded corridor just as another pair of aeroplanes make a landing.

The last three weeks had literally dragged for Harry, seeming more like three hundred.

Even though they'd been sharing a flat and a bed for only a year, Harry found that he missed Ron's presence far more that he'd thought possible. He tended not to sleep very well with Ron absent from their bed, in spite of the fact that he didn't have to fight for the bedclothes. Ron's an unrepentant cover monger, but Harry found that he misses even that. He's also gotten so used to cooking for two that he doesn't remember how to prepare meals for only one.

The most vexing problem is...well, suffice it to say there are many other qualities of Ron's that he misses, not the least of which is Ron's delicious Quidditch-toned body, his incredibly talented tongue, and of course, his lovely, thick cock.

The weight of Ron's absence has grown so vexing during the last week that Harry's now wanking to Ron's two year-old centrefold from Quidditch Stars Unrobed! each morning before leaving for the Ministry.

Which isn't an undesirable activity to engage in by any means. Quite healthy. Gets the blood pumping, and as Hermione once said, Merlin bless her, most beneficial for good prostate health.

Overall, though, a rather poor substitute for the genuine article.

Thankfully the Quidditch tour's finally over, and with any luck, he'll be able to complete most of his paper work and arrive at their flat before Ron is able to be processed through Customs and Floo home.

Harry takes a deep breath and dives into his parchments. He's immediately so engrossed in his work that he almost doesn't notice the change of colour of the flames in his tiny hearth.

“Harry? H...ry? C.n .ou h..r m.?”

Someone's definitely attempting to firecall him, but the connection is terrible. Harry can barely make out what the person's saying, let alone decipher the totally distorted face bobbing in the green flames.

“Hello? Who's there? I can barely hear you!”

The flames change hue, from deep forest green to fluorescent lime. They flare high for a moment before returning to a more reasonable intensity. The floating face clears up a great deal, and Harry can see that it's Ron.

“Can you hear me now?” Ron asks.

“Yeah, much better. Where are you? Surely not Heathrow.”

Ron shakes his head. “Still in Sydney.”

“Sydney? Wasn't your Portkey scheduled to activate over an hour ago?”

“Well, yeah, but—” Ron's head dissolves to almost nothingness as the flames surge and attempt to hold the connection.

“Ron? Ron, are you still there?”

Ron's head materialises again, a bit less focused this time. “Listen, I don't know how long this connection will hold. I'm not sure when we'll be able to Portkey, either. Some bloody typhoon's decided to change course, and it's shut down all teleporting for at least twenty-four hours.”

Harry slumps to the floor. “Twenty four hours?”

“At a minimum. The Aussies have pretty strict rules regarding—” Ron's head disappears a moment, only to pop back, even less focused than before. “Harry, I'm sorry. I know it's our anniversary and all that, and I can't wait to get home and strip you nak—” Ron fades away once more.

“Ron?” Harry stares at the flames, which flicker for a few moments before returning to their usual colour. “Damn.” He returns to his chair as another owl lands on his desk. “Typical.”

He unties the latest memo but the owl remains perched, staring at him almost knowingly.

“What do you want? Not too happy about joining the unemployment queue, I suppose.”

The large tawny hoots emphatically before fluttering out into the corridor.

“Shit. Ruddy typhoon.” He shuffles the parchments on his desk, sliding the topmost one to the centre of his blotter. “No point in rushing now, I suppose.”

He inks a quill and begins to write. At least he'll clear his desk, even if the only thing waiting for him at home will be one very worn copy of Unrobed!.


~~~~~~~;@ ~*~ @;~~~~~~~


“And with that,” Harry sighs, “I do believe I'm finished.” He carefully places the last parchment on the neat stack ready for delivery the next morning. He leans back in his chair and stretches, his neck and shoulders stiff from hours of shuffling paper. The minute hand of his wall clock ticks to straight up eight as he watches. He looks over to the tawny, which had flapped back into his office some time ago and is perched on the edge of his inbox. “Time to call it a night, don't you think? Go on, off to the Owlery, then.”

The tawny cracks open one eye and hoots contentedly. It closes its eye and shifts about a bit, clearly intent to remain right where it is.

Harry stands and shrugs into his leather jacket. He charms out all the lights save the small lamp on his desk, and still the tawny doesn't move. “Fine, sleep here if you want.” He bends down and slides his wastebasket to the side of his desk and just below where the owl's perched. “Please put it in there, yeah?”

The tawny cracks open its other eye, stares him down, and hoots noncommittally.

“I'm serious. If there's any mess on this desk in the morning, I'll personally see to it that you spend your last days at the Ministry working with the courier pigeons.”

The tawny stares some more before closing its eye and slightly swivelling its head away from him.

Harry charms out the desk lamp, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Brilliant.” Somehow, being adopted by the most disgruntled owl in the Ministry was terribly fitting. The perfect end to a fantastically disappointing day. As he waits for the lift to arrive, he wonders if there just might be some remaining owl treats at the bottom of a drawer in the pantry at home.


~~~~~~~;@ ~*~ @;~~~~~~~


Harry slams the door to their flat and falls against it, wondering how much worse his day could get.

Apparently the private Floo Network was down for scheduled maintenance, which meant that he couldn't Floo directly home from the office. Unfortunately, the public network was clearly in need of attention, as he'd stepped from a hearth in Cardiff rather than The Leaky Cauldron, his intended destination.

After several further floo attempts, the closest he could get to home was Islington. It had then taken him some minutes to locate a dedicated Apparition point, finally arriving at their block of flats in West Diagon at quarter nine.

“Fuck me.” He sheds his leather, not bothering to hang it up. He kicks off his boots and takes two steps before stopping in his tracks. “What the—”

The flat is definitely not as he'd left it earlier that morning.

He'd sort of let the housekeeping slide over the last weeks, intending to tidy up just before Ron had returned. But now, the flat is totally spotless, everything clean, dusted and just so. Dozens of candles, set on the mantel and side tables, cast a warm, flickering glow. A fire crackles away in the hearth, and he catches the scent of his favourite sandalwood incense in the air.

A huge bouquet of red roses fills a vase at the centre of the coffee table.

Harry feels a smile spread across his face as he plucks the card from the roses. He laughs, deciphering Ron's familiar yet nearly illegible scrawl.

“Gotcha.”

“You ginger bastard.” Harry turns to see Ron cloaked in shadow, leaning against the doorway to their bedroom.

“You should've seen the look on your face, mate.” Ron levitates a tumbler of Oban to Harry.

Harry snags the scotch. “The Floo nonsense...that was you too?”

“Nah. Heard about the outage on the wireless while I was cleaning up the flat. Can't take credit for it, although I'd like to.” Ron steps into the light, raising his own tumbler. "Stayed late pushing parchments, eh?"

"I didn't believe I had any reason to rush home," Harry replies, hefting his own glass.

Ron smiles, clearly pleased with himself. “Happy anniversary, Harry.”

Harry goggles at his bondmate, who's barefoot and wearing his Ballycastle warm-up robe. He can see hints of Ron's bare chest and belly through the unfastened robe, and he's also sporting his fingerless bat gloves and leather arm bracers. Harry downs his Oban in a single gulp, the potent scotch setting a fire in his stomach to match the one smouldering in his groin.

Ron finishes his own drink and rounds the sofa to stand just to the side of the fireplace. “I thought it might be nice for you to get your hands on the real thing rather than just a ruddy old centrefold.”

“How do you know—“

“Mate, that magazine of yours looks like it's been mauled by a herd of horny teenagers.”

Harry attempts to set his tumbler on the coffee table, but misses. He moves to Ron, who's obviously starkers under his robe. He catches a glimpse of Ron's heavy cock, barely nosing its way through the folds of the robe. “Damn, but I've missed you,” he says as he threads his arms inside the warm-up robe to grasp both cheeks of Ron's deliciously firm and slightly fuzzy arse. Ron's tangy musk coupled with the scent of his worn Quidditch leathers and the incense is nearly intoxicating.

“Me too.” Ron tilts Harry's head up, capturing his lips in a covetous kiss.

Harry moans as Ron's stiffening cock presses against him. Three weeks without this was clearly far too long. “Next year, you're taking me with you.”

“Bugger next year.” Ron pulls Harry in close, kneading his arse with abandon.

Harry melts into Ron, relishing the feeling of Ron's surprisingly soft skin beneath his fingertips. It never ceases to amaze Harry how such a huge, furry bloke can feel so bloody silky. He thrusts his tongue into Ron's mouth, sliding both hands all over Ron's muscular lower back and shoulders. He breaks the kiss, the sensation of Ron's thick stubble against his cheek deliciously familiar.

“C'mon,” Ron growls, grabbing Harry's tie and pulling him to their bedroom. “I'm gonna shag you into next week.”

“Brilliant,” Harry gasps, fumbling with his belt and then the button and zip of his trousers.

Ron releases the tie, igniting several candles and an oil lamp with a flick of his hand. “Hurry it up. Don't want to keep this waiting, do you?” He sheds his warm-up robe and it puddles on the floor.

“Merlin,” Harry murmurs, drinking in every inch of his lover's naked body. In addition to the gloves and bracers, Ron's wearing his lower leg guards as well. Harry's eyes stray down to Ron's bare feet and travel upward, over the nicked and aged leathers and Ron's nicely muscled thighs. One of Ron's hands trails up the centre of his defined but slightly rounded abs.

Harry gulps as Ron flexes his nicely toned pecs. His cock twitches in his trousers, and if he's not careful, he'll come before he even gets them off.

Ron grins and strokes his fully erect cock, tilting his head back and licking his lips in a thoroughly lewd manner.

Harry fusses with the buttons of his shirt, and when they don't respond quickly enough, he simply tears it open, loose buttons plinking to the carpet. It surprises him just how much it turns him on when Ron poses and flexes. He's also grown accustomed to the way Ron barks orders in the bedroom, especially when he uses that commanding Quidditch voice of his. He loves it when Ron takes control, more so than he'd ever thought possible. After years of constantly being looked up to for a course of action, it's a most welcome, not to mention exhilarating, change.

He hops toward Ron, pulling off his socks and shoving down his boxers. His fully erect prick points to Ron as a compass needle indicates north. He watches Ron work his gorgeous dick a moment before sliding both hands around Ron's hips.

“Yeah, there it is,” Ron says huskily. He encircles Harry's erection and pulls on it firmly. “Such a nice, big prick to be hung on such a slim fellow.”

Harry pushes his hips into Ron's hand, whimpering in a most unmanly fashion.

“So you want to be fucked, do you?”

Harry nods, never taking his eyes from Ron's. “Yeah.”

Ron squeezes Harry's cock. “Yeah, what?” he says silkily.

“I want you to fuck me. Into next week.”

Ron leans down to nibble at Harry's bottom lip. “Brilliant.” He fingers Harry's thin, black tie with his free hand. “I like it when you leave this on.”

Harry mumbles something unintelligible as Ron releases his dick. He buries his head into Ron's chest, then falls to his knees. He grabs the base of Ron's cock with one hand, swirling his tongue around the swollen head.

Ron gasps and digs his fingers into Harry's mop of hair. “Not part of the game plan.”

Harry swallows Ron's shaft, sucking with desperation, but Ron smoothly pushes him away.

“Get up and grab some wood,” Ron commands, easily hoisting Harry to his feet.

Harry nods, trailing a finger down the centre of Ron's chest and belly before turning away and bending down to place both hands on the low dresser opposite the foot of the bed. He spreads his legs and looks to his left, catching their reflections in the mirrored doors of their wardrobe. He watches as Ron summons a tube of lube from their nightstand and squeezes a huge dollop of the unguent into his palm.

Ron looks into the mirror and slathers the lube all along his cock. “You like to watch me, don't ya, you pompous desk jockey?”

“Oh yeah.” Harry shudders as he stares at the mirrors, the muscles of Ron's thighs and arse flexing with each stroke. One hand strays down to his own aching prick, grasping and pulling on it in concert with his mate.

Ron steps in and pushes Harry's legs further apart with his foot, so much so that Harry is forced to release his dick and renew his two-handed grip on the dresser.

Ron teases the crack of Harry's arse with the head of his cock, one hand on Harry's hip as he moves into position. “I've missed you,” he says, finding Harry's hole and thrusting his entire length inside with a single, swift stroke.

“Fuck!” Harry cries out as Ron ploughs into him, both of Ron's big hands now clamped onto his hips.

Ron drives his cock into Harry relentlessly, his balls slapping Harry's arse.

Harry struggles to keep his eyes on the mirrors as Ron takes him, revelling at the vision of his lover, so fluid and focused, so intense. The burning sting of Ron's initial intrusion morphs into golden ecstasy, and he squeezes his arse against Ron's thrusting cock, completely surrendering to him. He watches as Ron throws his head back, shoulder length ginger locks tangled with sweat, the muscles of Ron's neck and shoulders taut and in sharp relief. His own hands, slippery with sweat, threaten to loose their grip on the dresser.

“Gods!” Ron groans as he abruptly ceases his pummelling, his prick fully embedded in Harry.

Harry responds by clenching around Ron still tighter as Ron's release fills him.

Ron falls forward, pressing his chest to Harry's back. He nibbles at the base of Harry's neck and then withdraws, breathless. “Circe's tits, you're awesome,” he gasps.

Harry turns to face Ron, squeezing out some lube. “So are you,” he breathes, quickly stroking himself to completion, his come spurting through his fingers and splattering Ron's belly.

“I love how you look when you come,” Ron says, stripping off his Quidditch leathers.

“Yeah? Well, I love how you look after you've thoroughly shagged me.” He loosens his tie and tosses it away.

Ron embraces him, Harry responding in kind, jumping up and wrapping his legs around Ron's hips.

“Is someone randy enough for another go?” Ron sniggers, walking backward and falling into the mattress.

“Maybe later,” Harry replies, completely sated and feeling rather boneless. He untangles himself from Ron and scoots to a comfortable position, nestling back into the mass of pillows at the head of the bed.

Ron snuggles up to him, planting a trail of kisses along Harry's collarbone. “We should probably clean up,” he says dreamily.

Harry pulls him in tight. “Nah. Just hold me.”

Ron sniggers. “We're all sticky.”

“I like it sticky.”

“You're quite the perv, Harry.”

“I know.”

“So you liked my little surprise, then?”

He strokes Ron's hair. “Certainly outdid yourself this time. Really had me going.”

“After how you set me up on my birthday, I thought it only fitting.”

He kisses Ron's forehead. “So, I suppose it's back to me now.”

“I think you'll have a hard time besting this one,” Ron says around a yawn.

“Oh, I dunno. We pompous desk jockeys can be rather imaginative when the need arises.”

“Pervy and imaginative. I like it. Happy Anniversary, mate.”

“And many more,” Harry says, charming out the candles.


~~~~~~~;@ ~fin~ @;~~~~~~~