FIC: Seven Year Itch 1/8 NC-17
Aug. 8th, 2006 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkysparkyTitle: Seven Year Itch
Pairing(s): Ron/Harry, Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ron/Hermione
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparkysparky
Rating: NC-17
Chapter: 1/8
Warnings: Highly graphic sex, het and slash, threesome, bondage, light D/s, spanking
Summary: Harry and Ron are happy. The sex is great. They've been in a committed, fulfilling relationship for years and see no need to change anything. Until they realize they've fallen into a rut and need something to nudge them out of it. And then Hermione stumbles back into their lives. Fresh out of a painful divorce, she needs some comfort and excitement. When she seeks out her two best friends who she hasn't seen or spoken to in seven years, she gets more than she bargained for. They all do.
Disclaimer: I have to deal with the fact that these characters do not belong to me. *SOB*
Word Count: 2,939 (2,939 total)
Updates: Every Tuesday
Chapter One
“Dragon’s balls,” he cursed, as Celestina continued to mourn her charmed-away heart. He didn’t care how painful her broken heart was, it wasn’t something positive to wake up to this early in the morning.
He hit the button again. But her voice still filled the room, her sugary melody almost as irritating as her angsty lyrics.
“What does it take—“
Smack
“—to get you—“
Splat
“—to shut the bloody hell—“
Smash
“—up!”
He rolled out of bed, crouched on the floor, reached for his wand and sent a frustrated Silencio at the thrice cursed object.
Silence. Blissful, rapturous, blessed silence.
Ron dragged himself back up to sit on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “Firewhiskey,” he moaned. “I remember firewhiskey.” Actually he remember a lot of firewhiskey. He also remembered an enormous platter of very spicy—kachos? Dachos? No, that wasn’t quite right. Nachos, he remembered the Muggle term now, loud music and something called…karaoke. Had he actually sung along to a butchered rendition of the Weird Sister’s song I’ll Take a Bite Out of You?
Suddenly he lifted his head and sniffed the air. Coffee.
Naked and running solely on caffeine fumes he trudged down the hall and into the kitchen. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard, doped it up with sugar and had downed half the scalding brew by the time he felt the presence behind him. Very slowly he turned around.
“Hangover?” asked Harry, his voice as silky and lustrous as the amber tie knotted loosely at his throat.
Another dose of caffeine fortified Ron to face Harry’s brilliant green eyes. Those eyes had blinded lesser men. And more than a few women.
Ron gulped another mouthful of coffee and met Harry’s eyes. “This isn’t a hangover.”
Harry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his rangy, compact frame against the doorjamb.
Damn, he looked good, Ron thought. But then, Harry always looked good. Whether, like today, he sported expertly pressed trousers and shirt, a tie and an official Ministry robe hanging by the door waiting to be out on, or ass-hugging jeans and a jumper, Harry always looked put together. With the artfully mussed black hair, square glasses rimmed with gold and his face freshly shaved, Harry looked exactly like what he was—a Very Important Wizard.
If he were anyone else, Ron would have resented the hell out of him. And had, he admitted, in their youth.
“No?” asked Harry. “If it’s not a hangover, then what is it?”
“It’s a manifestation of God’s wrath, visited directly on my skull.”
“You don’t believe in God.”
Ron took another sip of coffee, savoring the heat as it drained down his throat. “Call in the prists—“
“Priests.”
“Yeah, yeah. Call in the priests. I’m about to recant.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t smile. Something was wrong.
But Harry didn’t say anything, just went to the cold cupboard and out a small vial filled with a murky brown potion.
“How about potions? Do you believe in potions?”
Ron hesitated. “Potions?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good potions?”
“The best.”
“Seamus’ Celebrational Cure?”
“With Neville’s secret ingredient. They gave it to me last night, thinking you’d need it this morning.”
Ron snatched the vial up and downed it quickly, washing away the disgusting taste with the last of his coffee. “They’re angels. You’re an angel.”
“Huh.” Harry turned away. “If I’m an angel, what does that make you?”
Ron tossed his mug in the sink, it to rinse itself and followed his lover into the living room.
As usual the place was a mess. Newspapers and books littered the coffee table, and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat on top of the television. Several stray socks had huddled beneath a bookcase and a stack of unpaid bills waited patiently on the armchair. Somehow a pair of denims has found their way on top of the stereo, hiding it from view. The couch, at least, was free of clutter, but only because all the crap got kicked off it whenever one of them decided to nap there.
Ron leaned against the side of the couch for support. “Huh? What does that mean?”
Harry stood before the CD rack, arms folded, scanning titles. “You were drunk last night.”
“Yeah? So? I seem to recall that happening before.” He brushed a few strands of his long auburn hair out of his eyes. “On occasion.”
“Yeah, well, you were really drunk.”
Already feeling the effects of Seamus’ cure, Ron hopped over the back of the couch and sat down. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I seem to recall spending much of the first few years after Voldemort’s downfall being ‘really’ drunk. You didn’t mind then.”
“That’s because I was ‘really drunk’ too. I didn’t know the difference.”
“Aha!” Ron leaned back and spread his arms wide. “There’s the problem. You didn’t drink enough last night. If you had, then maybe you would have had some fun.”
Harry pulled a CD out, examined it, and stuck it back in the slot. “Somebody needed to stay sober so they could Floo you back home and carry you into bed.”
“You didn’t carry me,” Ron said, feeling defensive. “And since when is this a problem anyway? I’ve lost count of the times I had to clean you up and put you to bed.”
Harry whirled on him. “I was fucking bored last night, okay? Neville and Seamus spent the night snogging in the corner, Dean was busy chatting up random girls, the food was bad, the music was awful, and—“ Harry growled something unintelligible and stalked over to the sliding glass doors. He tugged it open a few inches, allowing a fragrant spring breeze to flirt with his hair.
Ron was feeling disoriented. This wasn’t like Harry at all. “And what? What else?”
“It was like you didn’t even know I was there. You just kept drinking and dancing and singing. I felt invisible.”
“I just wanted to try something different. If you didn’t want to go, you should have said so. And I didn’t intend to ignore you.”
“I did want to go, and I know it was my fault I didn’t want to dance. But by the time we got there, you were too drunk to notice I wasn’t having a good time. Too drunk to care.”
“You’re just mad because I finally dragged you onstage with me.”
“I don’t even want to talk about that.”
Ron sprang up from the couch. “So what? I embarrass you now?”
“Only when you imitate Myron Wagtail and dance like…like…Lavender Brown.”
Ron’s mouth hung open. Lavender Brown? Before he could come up with a response, Harry added, “And for Merlin’s sake, put some clothes on.”
Ron glared at Harry for a moment before swaggering over to the balcony door of their third-floor apartment. He leaned against the glass, facing Harry. “My being naked never bothered you before, either.”
Harry tossed a nervous glance outside, at the three-story walk-up on the other side of the street. “Maybe not, but the neighbors might have a problem with it.”
“I don’t know. I think I look pretty damned good. Quidditch agrees with me.”
Harry’s eyes roamed over Ron, the attempt quick but thorough, and not nearly as discreet as he probably thought/ Harry swallowed thickly, his gaze resting in the general area of Ron’s groin. “You know it does.”
Ron smiled. Hours of flying, doing laps around the field and hundreds of drills kept him toned and fit, and he refused to be ashamed of what he’d worked so hard to attain. “Well, then, let ‘em enjoy the view.”
Ron glanced at the front of Harry’s trousers and added, “You certainly are.”
Harry’s gaze snapped back to Ron’s eyes. “Don’t change the subject. If the neighbors see you, they—“
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, who the hell cares about the neighbors?”
“We care.”
Ron stepped closer. “Do we?”
Harry didn’t retreat. “Of course we do. It took us nearly a year to get the landlords to accept our relationship!”
“Fuck the landlords.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Ron grabbed Harry by the tie and dragged him back into the living room. “Okay, okay, you’ve got a point.”
They stood in the middle of the room, Harry’s head tilted up so his face wasn’t lost in Ron’s throat, breath mingling, and blood pumping.
Ron released Harry’s tie and allowed his hands to drift. Through the light fabric of Harry’s shirt, Ron traced the outline of Harry’s pecs, skimmed the ridges of his abs. Like Ron, Harry preferred to get his exercise outdoors, flying, running and playing Muggle football in the park. He also made use of the Muggle gym down the road and worked out several times a week and it showed.
His hands resting on Harry’s belt, Ron whispered, “I don’t fancy shagging the landlords. You know full well who I want to fuck.”
“Is this your answer to everything, Ron?” Harry’s body remained stiff, but the objection was half-hearted and he didn’t move away.
“It works for me.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
Ron’s hand roamed lower, until he brushed across Harry’s zipper. He pressed his palm against the enticing bulge and grinned. “Pull the other one, mate.”
Harry leaned forward and Ron caught a whiff of exotic spices and heavy musk, a scent that was all Harry. “I’m due at the Ministry, Ron.”
“Not for three hours, you’re not. That’s lots of time.”
Harry’s hands were on him now. Strong fingers gripped Ron’s waist, and pulled him closer. The silky fabric of Harry’s shirt brushed Ron’s chest, the cotton of Harry’s trousers rubbed against Ron’s cock. His already substantial erection hardened still more.
Harry’s lips grazed Ron’s ear. “You know,” he said, his breath hot as the blood that pumped through Ron’s veins. Into his cock. “I lied before. You didn’t dance like Lavender Brown.”
Ron sneaked his hand beneath the waistband of Harry’s trousers and felt the other man’s fingers dig more deeply into his skin. Ron touched the base of Harry’s cock and Harry groaned.
“I knew it,” said Ron, as he stroked and teased. “I knew you were making it up.”
Harry’s breathing accelerated, his chest heaving rapidly as Ron drew a line with his tongue down Harry’s throat.
“Actually I was being kind,” said Harry, his voice surprisingly even. “You looked more like an epileptic monkey.”
“What?” Ron’s head snapped up and he was momentarily distracted from his goal. It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was enough for Harry to push him back onto the couch and pin his wrist down.
“Hey!” protested Ron too surprised and aroused to put up a decent fight. “You can’t say something like that and expect to get away with it.”
Harry waggled his eyebrows. “Watch me.” And then he bent his head and took Ron’s cock deep into his mouth.
Ron’s head fell back against the couch. “Sweet Merlin.” He writhed and groaned but Harry’s grip on his wrists only tightened.
Physically the two men were a pretty even match, despite Ron’s half foot and two stone advantage. Harry was stronger than his wiry frame would belie, and their equal strength came in handy for the occasional wrestling match. Or sex game. If Ron had really wanted to, he probably could have dislodged Harry’s hands and freed himself. But why the hell would he want to?
Harry didn’t bother with niceties. His mouth was rough, hard, his tongue eager. Sweat broke out on Ron’s chest, trickled down his belly. Apparently Harry noticed. Suddenly he broke off to lave Ron’s stomach with his tongue. He lapped up the beads of sweat that had pooled in Ron’s navel, and then dragged his tongue back over the flat plane of Ron’s belly toward his cock. The action was slow and torturous, the anticipation agonizingly sweet.
“Dragon’s balls mate,” Ron groaned as his stomach muscles quivered and twitched. “Get on with it already.”
“Greedy, greedy. Patience,” said Harry, “you’re always in such a rush.” His tongue reached the base of Ron’s cock and drew a languid line along its length.
He reached the top, licked away the bead of cum and then, very slowly, took Ron deep again. Harry sucked slowly at first, and Ron relaxed, giving himself over to the sensations. But the respite was brief.
Within minutes, Harry resumed his hard, rapid strokes, and Ron’s fists were clenched to as he fought off a climax that threatened to come too soon.
Abruptly Harry released his wrists, reached around and thrust two fingers into Ron’s ass and that was all it took. Ron came; arching his back and pumping himself dry as the ecstasy poured through him, and out through his cock. Harry’s fingers continued to twist as he greedily swallowed Ron’s cum. He held Ron firmly, taking him far back in his throat until, drained and spent, Ron collapsed back onto the couch.
Harry sat back on his haunches and watched him. His green eyes danced with mischief and unsated desire. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. “You taste like firewhiskey.”
“Firewhiskey, Right. Of course I do.” Ron sucked in a deep breath and studied his lover. “You can’t wear that shirt to work now.”
Harry glanced down himself and shrugged. “Oh well. Too bad cleaning charms do a pants job on cum stains. I—“
Ron leaned forward, grabbed the shirt in both hands and wrenched it apart, sending buttons flying and exposing the smooth flesh that he so desperately needed to see.
“Hey!” Harry protested. “This thing’s designer. Do you know how much it cost? I—“
Ron leaned forward, braced his shoulders on Harry’s thigh and stood up, Harry coming with him. He headed down the hall with Harry slung over his shoulder toward the bedroom.
“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?” The irritation in Harry’s voice was overshadowed by the laughter.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“But why not in the living room?” Harry’s hands found Ron’s ass and squeezed.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“An idea?”
They reached the bedroom and Ron threw Harry onto the bed. Harry just lay there, panting, his slender chest glistening with sweat, his cock straining at his fly.
Ron crawled onto the bed, sat between Harry’s thighs and grabbed his tie. He wrapped it once around his palm and pulled until Harry was sitting up and their mouths were just a breath apart.
“How many ties do you own?” Ron asked, his eyes focused on Harry’s.
“Umm…fifteen maybe?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Why?”
Ron waggled his eyebrows. “I think it’s time we put them to good use.”
“What does that mean?”
“Pick out four you think you can part with and I’ll show you.”
***
Harry sat bolt upright in bed and cast a worried glance at the clock. A discarded tie covered the face and Harry had to fling it aside to see the time.
He breathed a sigh of relief, and flopped back on the pillows. He hadn’t slept as long as he thought, and still had an hour before he was due at the Ministry for a meeting with the other department heads. He was mulling over what he needed to tell him about his own department, when a loud snort from the other side of the bed demanded his attention.
He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at the man beside him. He smiled and shook his head. Ron slept like he did everything else—with gusto. His long, wavy hair was fanned out across the pillow, his arms and legs flung wide. Ron had a knack for taking up almost three-quarters of the available space on the bed, and his snores could rattle the windows at fifty paces. He worked hard, played harder, his rugged physique and deeply bronzed skin, attesting to just how much time and energy he devoted to his passions. He gave his all in every situation, and he never turned his back on trouble. Or on a friend.
Barring a few post-war one night stands, and one catastrophic stab at marriage for Harry, they had been together almost ten years and Harry had never once regretted his decision. They were good together. They were best friend, and Merlin knew the sex was fantastic.
So what was going wrong?
Harry knew he’d overreacted the night before, but he didn’t know why. He also didn’t know why they’d been arguing more lately, picking fights over everything from which brand of coffee they should buy, to escalating fights about bills.
He lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as he considered the events of the past few months. Had something changed and they just couldn’t see it? If so, how did they figure out what it was, and when they did, what did they do about it?
But the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that nothing had changed.
Everything in their relationship was exactly the same as it had been a year ago. Two years ago. Five years ago.
And then it hit him. At last he knew exactly what was wrong. How could they have missed it? How could they have been so blind?
He closed his eyes and groaned. Now, if only he could figure out what to do about it.
Sneak peak of next week's episode:
Maybe she’d give herself a few days to get reacquainted with London, and with the British magical world. And then, when she was more comfortable, she’d look them up.
Yes, that was what she’d do, Hermione decided. She at least needed to let them know she was back in the country, and after that, it would be up to them if they wanted to reaffirm their friendship.
She would fortify herself with a snifter or two of forty year old cognac, and take the plunge.
These weren’t men to be taken lightly.
Pairing(s): Ron/Harry, Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ron/Hermione
Author:
sparkysparkyRating: NC-17
Chapter: 1/8
Warnings: Highly graphic sex, het and slash, threesome, bondage, light D/s, spanking
Summary: Harry and Ron are happy. The sex is great. They've been in a committed, fulfilling relationship for years and see no need to change anything. Until they realize they've fallen into a rut and need something to nudge them out of it. And then Hermione stumbles back into their lives. Fresh out of a painful divorce, she needs some comfort and excitement. When she seeks out her two best friends who she hasn't seen or spoken to in seven years, she gets more than she bargained for. They all do.
Disclaimer: I have to deal with the fact that these characters do not belong to me. *SOB*
Word Count: 2,939 (2,939 total)
Updates: Every Tuesday
Chapter One
“Dragon’s balls,” he cursed, as Celestina continued to mourn her charmed-away heart. He didn’t care how painful her broken heart was, it wasn’t something positive to wake up to this early in the morning.
He hit the button again. But her voice still filled the room, her sugary melody almost as irritating as her angsty lyrics.
“What does it take—“
Smack
“—to get you—“
Splat
“—to shut the bloody hell—“
Smash
“—up!”
He rolled out of bed, crouched on the floor, reached for his wand and sent a frustrated Silencio at the thrice cursed object.
Silence. Blissful, rapturous, blessed silence.
Ron dragged himself back up to sit on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “Firewhiskey,” he moaned. “I remember firewhiskey.” Actually he remember a lot of firewhiskey. He also remembered an enormous platter of very spicy—kachos? Dachos? No, that wasn’t quite right. Nachos, he remembered the Muggle term now, loud music and something called…karaoke. Had he actually sung along to a butchered rendition of the Weird Sister’s song I’ll Take a Bite Out of You?
Suddenly he lifted his head and sniffed the air. Coffee.
Naked and running solely on caffeine fumes he trudged down the hall and into the kitchen. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard, doped it up with sugar and had downed half the scalding brew by the time he felt the presence behind him. Very slowly he turned around.
“Hangover?” asked Harry, his voice as silky and lustrous as the amber tie knotted loosely at his throat.
Another dose of caffeine fortified Ron to face Harry’s brilliant green eyes. Those eyes had blinded lesser men. And more than a few women.
Ron gulped another mouthful of coffee and met Harry’s eyes. “This isn’t a hangover.”
Harry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his rangy, compact frame against the doorjamb.
Damn, he looked good, Ron thought. But then, Harry always looked good. Whether, like today, he sported expertly pressed trousers and shirt, a tie and an official Ministry robe hanging by the door waiting to be out on, or ass-hugging jeans and a jumper, Harry always looked put together. With the artfully mussed black hair, square glasses rimmed with gold and his face freshly shaved, Harry looked exactly like what he was—a Very Important Wizard.
If he were anyone else, Ron would have resented the hell out of him. And had, he admitted, in their youth.
“No?” asked Harry. “If it’s not a hangover, then what is it?”
“It’s a manifestation of God’s wrath, visited directly on my skull.”
“You don’t believe in God.”
Ron took another sip of coffee, savoring the heat as it drained down his throat. “Call in the prists—“
“Priests.”
“Yeah, yeah. Call in the priests. I’m about to recant.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t smile. Something was wrong.
But Harry didn’t say anything, just went to the cold cupboard and out a small vial filled with a murky brown potion.
“How about potions? Do you believe in potions?”
Ron hesitated. “Potions?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good potions?”
“The best.”
“Seamus’ Celebrational Cure?”
“With Neville’s secret ingredient. They gave it to me last night, thinking you’d need it this morning.”
Ron snatched the vial up and downed it quickly, washing away the disgusting taste with the last of his coffee. “They’re angels. You’re an angel.”
“Huh.” Harry turned away. “If I’m an angel, what does that make you?”
Ron tossed his mug in the sink, it to rinse itself and followed his lover into the living room.
As usual the place was a mess. Newspapers and books littered the coffee table, and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat on top of the television. Several stray socks had huddled beneath a bookcase and a stack of unpaid bills waited patiently on the armchair. Somehow a pair of denims has found their way on top of the stereo, hiding it from view. The couch, at least, was free of clutter, but only because all the crap got kicked off it whenever one of them decided to nap there.
Ron leaned against the side of the couch for support. “Huh? What does that mean?”
Harry stood before the CD rack, arms folded, scanning titles. “You were drunk last night.”
“Yeah? So? I seem to recall that happening before.” He brushed a few strands of his long auburn hair out of his eyes. “On occasion.”
“Yeah, well, you were really drunk.”
Already feeling the effects of Seamus’ cure, Ron hopped over the back of the couch and sat down. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I seem to recall spending much of the first few years after Voldemort’s downfall being ‘really’ drunk. You didn’t mind then.”
“That’s because I was ‘really drunk’ too. I didn’t know the difference.”
“Aha!” Ron leaned back and spread his arms wide. “There’s the problem. You didn’t drink enough last night. If you had, then maybe you would have had some fun.”
Harry pulled a CD out, examined it, and stuck it back in the slot. “Somebody needed to stay sober so they could Floo you back home and carry you into bed.”
“You didn’t carry me,” Ron said, feeling defensive. “And since when is this a problem anyway? I’ve lost count of the times I had to clean you up and put you to bed.”
Harry whirled on him. “I was fucking bored last night, okay? Neville and Seamus spent the night snogging in the corner, Dean was busy chatting up random girls, the food was bad, the music was awful, and—“ Harry growled something unintelligible and stalked over to the sliding glass doors. He tugged it open a few inches, allowing a fragrant spring breeze to flirt with his hair.
Ron was feeling disoriented. This wasn’t like Harry at all. “And what? What else?”
“It was like you didn’t even know I was there. You just kept drinking and dancing and singing. I felt invisible.”
“I just wanted to try something different. If you didn’t want to go, you should have said so. And I didn’t intend to ignore you.”
“I did want to go, and I know it was my fault I didn’t want to dance. But by the time we got there, you were too drunk to notice I wasn’t having a good time. Too drunk to care.”
“You’re just mad because I finally dragged you onstage with me.”
“I don’t even want to talk about that.”
Ron sprang up from the couch. “So what? I embarrass you now?”
“Only when you imitate Myron Wagtail and dance like…like…Lavender Brown.”
Ron’s mouth hung open. Lavender Brown? Before he could come up with a response, Harry added, “And for Merlin’s sake, put some clothes on.”
Ron glared at Harry for a moment before swaggering over to the balcony door of their third-floor apartment. He leaned against the glass, facing Harry. “My being naked never bothered you before, either.”
Harry tossed a nervous glance outside, at the three-story walk-up on the other side of the street. “Maybe not, but the neighbors might have a problem with it.”
“I don’t know. I think I look pretty damned good. Quidditch agrees with me.”
Harry’s eyes roamed over Ron, the attempt quick but thorough, and not nearly as discreet as he probably thought/ Harry swallowed thickly, his gaze resting in the general area of Ron’s groin. “You know it does.”
Ron smiled. Hours of flying, doing laps around the field and hundreds of drills kept him toned and fit, and he refused to be ashamed of what he’d worked so hard to attain. “Well, then, let ‘em enjoy the view.”
Ron glanced at the front of Harry’s trousers and added, “You certainly are.”
Harry’s gaze snapped back to Ron’s eyes. “Don’t change the subject. If the neighbors see you, they—“
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, who the hell cares about the neighbors?”
“We care.”
Ron stepped closer. “Do we?”
Harry didn’t retreat. “Of course we do. It took us nearly a year to get the landlords to accept our relationship!”
“Fuck the landlords.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Ron grabbed Harry by the tie and dragged him back into the living room. “Okay, okay, you’ve got a point.”
They stood in the middle of the room, Harry’s head tilted up so his face wasn’t lost in Ron’s throat, breath mingling, and blood pumping.
Ron released Harry’s tie and allowed his hands to drift. Through the light fabric of Harry’s shirt, Ron traced the outline of Harry’s pecs, skimmed the ridges of his abs. Like Ron, Harry preferred to get his exercise outdoors, flying, running and playing Muggle football in the park. He also made use of the Muggle gym down the road and worked out several times a week and it showed.
His hands resting on Harry’s belt, Ron whispered, “I don’t fancy shagging the landlords. You know full well who I want to fuck.”
“Is this your answer to everything, Ron?” Harry’s body remained stiff, but the objection was half-hearted and he didn’t move away.
“It works for me.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
Ron’s hand roamed lower, until he brushed across Harry’s zipper. He pressed his palm against the enticing bulge and grinned. “Pull the other one, mate.”
Harry leaned forward and Ron caught a whiff of exotic spices and heavy musk, a scent that was all Harry. “I’m due at the Ministry, Ron.”
“Not for three hours, you’re not. That’s lots of time.”
Harry’s hands were on him now. Strong fingers gripped Ron’s waist, and pulled him closer. The silky fabric of Harry’s shirt brushed Ron’s chest, the cotton of Harry’s trousers rubbed against Ron’s cock. His already substantial erection hardened still more.
Harry’s lips grazed Ron’s ear. “You know,” he said, his breath hot as the blood that pumped through Ron’s veins. Into his cock. “I lied before. You didn’t dance like Lavender Brown.”
Ron sneaked his hand beneath the waistband of Harry’s trousers and felt the other man’s fingers dig more deeply into his skin. Ron touched the base of Harry’s cock and Harry groaned.
“I knew it,” said Ron, as he stroked and teased. “I knew you were making it up.”
Harry’s breathing accelerated, his chest heaving rapidly as Ron drew a line with his tongue down Harry’s throat.
“Actually I was being kind,” said Harry, his voice surprisingly even. “You looked more like an epileptic monkey.”
“What?” Ron’s head snapped up and he was momentarily distracted from his goal. It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was enough for Harry to push him back onto the couch and pin his wrist down.
“Hey!” protested Ron too surprised and aroused to put up a decent fight. “You can’t say something like that and expect to get away with it.”
Harry waggled his eyebrows. “Watch me.” And then he bent his head and took Ron’s cock deep into his mouth.
Ron’s head fell back against the couch. “Sweet Merlin.” He writhed and groaned but Harry’s grip on his wrists only tightened.
Physically the two men were a pretty even match, despite Ron’s half foot and two stone advantage. Harry was stronger than his wiry frame would belie, and their equal strength came in handy for the occasional wrestling match. Or sex game. If Ron had really wanted to, he probably could have dislodged Harry’s hands and freed himself. But why the hell would he want to?
Harry didn’t bother with niceties. His mouth was rough, hard, his tongue eager. Sweat broke out on Ron’s chest, trickled down his belly. Apparently Harry noticed. Suddenly he broke off to lave Ron’s stomach with his tongue. He lapped up the beads of sweat that had pooled in Ron’s navel, and then dragged his tongue back over the flat plane of Ron’s belly toward his cock. The action was slow and torturous, the anticipation agonizingly sweet.
“Dragon’s balls mate,” Ron groaned as his stomach muscles quivered and twitched. “Get on with it already.”
“Greedy, greedy. Patience,” said Harry, “you’re always in such a rush.” His tongue reached the base of Ron’s cock and drew a languid line along its length.
He reached the top, licked away the bead of cum and then, very slowly, took Ron deep again. Harry sucked slowly at first, and Ron relaxed, giving himself over to the sensations. But the respite was brief.
Within minutes, Harry resumed his hard, rapid strokes, and Ron’s fists were clenched to as he fought off a climax that threatened to come too soon.
Abruptly Harry released his wrists, reached around and thrust two fingers into Ron’s ass and that was all it took. Ron came; arching his back and pumping himself dry as the ecstasy poured through him, and out through his cock. Harry’s fingers continued to twist as he greedily swallowed Ron’s cum. He held Ron firmly, taking him far back in his throat until, drained and spent, Ron collapsed back onto the couch.
Harry sat back on his haunches and watched him. His green eyes danced with mischief and unsated desire. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. “You taste like firewhiskey.”
“Firewhiskey, Right. Of course I do.” Ron sucked in a deep breath and studied his lover. “You can’t wear that shirt to work now.”
Harry glanced down himself and shrugged. “Oh well. Too bad cleaning charms do a pants job on cum stains. I—“
Ron leaned forward, grabbed the shirt in both hands and wrenched it apart, sending buttons flying and exposing the smooth flesh that he so desperately needed to see.
“Hey!” Harry protested. “This thing’s designer. Do you know how much it cost? I—“
Ron leaned forward, braced his shoulders on Harry’s thigh and stood up, Harry coming with him. He headed down the hall with Harry slung over his shoulder toward the bedroom.
“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?” The irritation in Harry’s voice was overshadowed by the laughter.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“But why not in the living room?” Harry’s hands found Ron’s ass and squeezed.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“An idea?”
They reached the bedroom and Ron threw Harry onto the bed. Harry just lay there, panting, his slender chest glistening with sweat, his cock straining at his fly.
Ron crawled onto the bed, sat between Harry’s thighs and grabbed his tie. He wrapped it once around his palm and pulled until Harry was sitting up and their mouths were just a breath apart.
“How many ties do you own?” Ron asked, his eyes focused on Harry’s.
“Umm…fifteen maybe?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Why?”
Ron waggled his eyebrows. “I think it’s time we put them to good use.”
“What does that mean?”
“Pick out four you think you can part with and I’ll show you.”
Harry sat bolt upright in bed and cast a worried glance at the clock. A discarded tie covered the face and Harry had to fling it aside to see the time.
He breathed a sigh of relief, and flopped back on the pillows. He hadn’t slept as long as he thought, and still had an hour before he was due at the Ministry for a meeting with the other department heads. He was mulling over what he needed to tell him about his own department, when a loud snort from the other side of the bed demanded his attention.
He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at the man beside him. He smiled and shook his head. Ron slept like he did everything else—with gusto. His long, wavy hair was fanned out across the pillow, his arms and legs flung wide. Ron had a knack for taking up almost three-quarters of the available space on the bed, and his snores could rattle the windows at fifty paces. He worked hard, played harder, his rugged physique and deeply bronzed skin, attesting to just how much time and energy he devoted to his passions. He gave his all in every situation, and he never turned his back on trouble. Or on a friend.
Barring a few post-war one night stands, and one catastrophic stab at marriage for Harry, they had been together almost ten years and Harry had never once regretted his decision. They were good together. They were best friend, and Merlin knew the sex was fantastic.
So what was going wrong?
Harry knew he’d overreacted the night before, but he didn’t know why. He also didn’t know why they’d been arguing more lately, picking fights over everything from which brand of coffee they should buy, to escalating fights about bills.
He lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as he considered the events of the past few months. Had something changed and they just couldn’t see it? If so, how did they figure out what it was, and when they did, what did they do about it?
But the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that nothing had changed.
Everything in their relationship was exactly the same as it had been a year ago. Two years ago. Five years ago.
And then it hit him. At last he knew exactly what was wrong. How could they have missed it? How could they have been so blind?
He closed his eyes and groaned. Now, if only he could figure out what to do about it.
Sneak peak of next week's episode:
Maybe she’d give herself a few days to get reacquainted with London, and with the British magical world. And then, when she was more comfortable, she’d look them up.
Yes, that was what she’d do, Hermione decided. She at least needed to let them know she was back in the country, and after that, it would be up to them if they wanted to reaffirm their friendship.
She would fortify herself with a snifter or two of forty year old cognac, and take the plunge.
These weren’t men to be taken lightly.
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Date: 2006-08-11 09:38 am (UTC)Cant wait to see more of this fic, looking forward to next Tuesday.