FIC for brummell
For: brummell
From: simons_flower
Title: Five Times Ron Weasley Caught Harry Potter Behaving Questionably (But Only One Mattered)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After disposing of Voldemort, Harry had always found it easy to get what he wanted -- until he discovered the one person that truly mattered liked to play hard to get.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not at all, and I doubt JKR would be pleased with what I've done to Harry.
Genre: romance, humor, UST, RST
Warnings: manwhore!Ron, bondage (sort of), a serial killer, cursing -- it will all make sense, I promise
Author's Note: I know I've pushed the boundaries of your squicks, but I hope I haven't pushed too far. If I have, for that I'm truly sorry and I'll be happy to make it up to you. Thank you to A and M for the review and beta work -- I couldn't do it without you!
Five Times Ron Weasley Caught Harry Potter Behaving Questionably
(But Only One Mattered)
I should have known better than to doubt myself. Yet, given my track record, I'd expected the worst. It's usually what I end up with.
My sigh makes Ron stir. He pulls me against him tightly and murmurs, "Stop thinking and go to sleep."
What else can I do? I close my eyes at my best mate's -- no, lover's -- order and go to sleep.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Eight weeks earlier
I'm a writer. Other than myself, I think the person most surprised by that is Hermione. The baffled expression on her face with every novel I sell -- despite the fact she's my primary editor -- is priceless. What genre do I write? Crime fiction. Shocking, I know.
The writing process I use, though, sometimes causes me problems: I prefer to enact the scenario I want to write about, much like a director blocking a scene. No, I don't murder anyone, but I'm sure the Muggle authorities have me on some sort of watch list for psychotics. Before each new novel, I pay a hacker handsomely to erase my record.
As long as I stay out of the eye of the Wizarding press, my life is content. Not perfect, but satisfactory. Wait, that sounds even worse.
I can lay the blame for my contentment at Ron's feet. Ronald Bilius Weasley, five months older than me, Chief Marketing Officer for his brother's joke business, Quidditch fanatic, and the tall, gorgeous redhead I've been irrevocably in love with for three years.
For quite a while irretrievably straight was part of that litany, but then I accidentally walked into the Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes storeroom to find Ron buggering Oliver Wood.
I was drunk for a week after that. The only good thing to come of the incident -- which Ron doesn't know I saw -- was that I don't drink any longer. Becoming a teetotaler made our first few nights out with our school mates awkward, but a few words from Neville, of all people, stopped the teasing. My friends have no respect for The Saviour of the Wizarding World.
None of that helps me at the moment, though. I'm trying something new with this novel. Normally, I write from the perspective of the Special Investigator. In fact, my Investigator Jack "Devil" Devlin series is fairly popular. Yet for this novel, I've decided to write from the perspective of the serial killer. The first victim was dispatched with ease and has whet my character's appetite.
The second victim is refusing to die and it's driving me mad.
Given that the first victim was his ex, the killer had motivation. I can't seem to find the tipping point for the character to murder a second time, though.
Ron has already poked his head into my office once to tell me he was leaving for his date. I grunted and waved him off.
It's a few hours later that I finally have a burst of inspiration.
The idea pops into my head just as I hear noise in the corridor. Though the grunts and moans give me a fairly strong idea of what's happening, I must look. Stumbling up from my desk -- when did it get so dark? -- I pull open the door to find Ron leaning back against the wall, jeans open, and a young blond bloke sucking on his cock.
Shutting the door quietly, I grab my headphones to blast my killer's soundtrack, Nirvana's Nevermind, into my ears. Then I settle at my computer and write.
Yes, that was the motivation my character needed.
Ron finds me near dawn, writing in my office, the only light coming from the flickering of the computer monitor. He stands in the doorway dressed only in threadbare Chudley orange boxers. He scratches his stomach, yawns and stretches.
My stomach clenches in a hard knot of need when I look over at him. I pull my headphones off.
"You been up all night?" he asks, voice gravelly from sleep or lack of it.
"Yes," I say slowly. "Your companion gone?"
I can see the color rise on his cheeks despite the low light. He nods, then yawns again. Without another word, he turns and closes the door.
Fuck.
Mood destroyed, I save my file and shut down the computer. My protagonist will have to finish his second victim on another day.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
It takes me two days and another of Ron's nocturnal visitors before I can inhabit my character again. I'm halfway through the murder scene before I realize it's not working. Damn.
A glance outside shows me it's dark, something I hadn't noticed because I apparently had turned the lights on at lunch while it was still daylight, thought I don't remember doing so. It's the only time I've risen from the computer today.
A fine current tingles under my skin. Though tempted to wave my wand and turn the lights off, I don't. Last time I tried that, I fried my computer and my backup drive. Hermione laughed at me after patting me on the head when I told her.
Instead, I cross the room. Once the lights are out, though, I understand why the scene wasn't working. My character needs to escalate his crimes slowly. This is the first stranger, the man he's going to kill because he interfered with the killer's object of obsession.
I pace, working the details out in my head.
How would he kill them. Wait, my killer needs a name. I haven't named him yet. I can change it later, but for now he's Bob. Rob? No, Bob. It's unassuming.
I know this will work when I feel my thoughts tumbling over each other like eager puppies.
How would Bob kill this intruder?
I nearly shout in triumph when the idea finally comes to me. I grab my wand and race into my bedroom, glancing briefly at Ron's door and casting a necessary silencing charm -- tonight's companion is noisy. Once in my room, I quickly strip off.
A few more waves of my wand sets the scene: a pair of shackles high on the wall and a small stool underneath. Climbing atop the stool, I cuff my left wrist. Though cuffing both would help me picture the scene, I don't dare for fear my meager wandless magic would fail and leave me hanging on the wall.
Bob has his victim on the wall and is slowly . . . slowly what? Flaying him for daring to touch the object of Bob's obsession.
I twist and turn, imagining the suffering of the victim, imagining how he would suffer and attempt to escape, imagine the pleas, imagine Bob's actions.
I'm so lost in thought that when my bedroom door slams open, I jerk violently, kicking the stool across the room, leaving me hanging by one bloody wrist and dislocating my shoulder.
It's Ron.
Oops.
I can only imagine what the scene looks like to him.
He blanches and backs out of the room slowly, closing the door.
Fuck.
A wave of my wand releases me from the shackle, dropping me the foot or so to the ground. I then reset my shoulder, hissing in pain. It will be sore for a few days. I quickly heal my wrist and dress.
"Ron!" I call from my door.
I find him in the kitchen. He pauses in the act of bringing the Firewhisky bottle to his lips.
"I don't want to know, Harry," he mutters and retreats to his room.
Fuck.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Six weeks earlier
Ron didn't talk to me for a week, which was about the same period of time Hermione laughed at me. I told her she was a terrible friend for laughing at my pain, to which she rolled her eyes and told me I needed someone to laugh at me once in a while because I take myself too seriously. I snorted, knowing it was the pot calling the kettle black.
Bob eventually offed his victim, but I haven't yet come up with the third victim and it's beginning to drive me mad once again. Come to think of it, I spend half my time when writing a new novel attempting to keep my characters from driving me around the twist.
My next inspiration finally strikes a few days later when Ron drags me out of our flat and to a club. I had never thought Ron to be the "club type" until I went with him one night. He loves being there because his height, build and hair make him unique, something he doesn't get in the Wizarding world because he's just another Weasley there.
In any case, my inspiration for victim number three comes from a night at Ron's favorite club. Though I'm sure it's not reality, it seems as if every time I look over, Ron is holding court. He's changed his stories to fit into the Muggle world -- football rather than Quidditch -- but the hand motions are the same.
Then an overblown blonde latches onto Ron's arm. He glances down at her, smiles, then continues his story.
Temper rises and, because I'm not controlling it, a light bulb flares dramatically above the bar before dying with a pop. I take a few deep breaths to control myself while the bartender mutters about the damnedest thing he's ever seen.
Ron doesn't even notice.
The blonde twines herself up his arm like a vine until she's in his lap. She gives a triumphant smile to those clustered around Ron. I smile grimly and consider the manner in which Bob can dispose of her.
After paying my tab, I wander out of the club and down the street. Though this isn't the best part of London -- though not the seediest, either -- walking alone is an invitation for trouble. Part of me would welcome a fight right now; the more practical side, which sounds a lot like Hermione, reminds me that I am in a Muggle area and using magic on a Muggle is frowned upon, even for the Saviour.
Loosing a gusty sigh, I Apparate home.
Then I see the rope and my imagination kicks in.
She wanted to be a vine, so how would she like being restrained?
Hermione has told me before that she admires the dedication I have to my studies when it comes to researching my novels. However, I can't help but think she'd merely look askance at me for researching Japanese rope bondage, or shibari.
It takes about an hour to compile enough information to create the wand motions necessary. I practice on a conjured dummy. Good thing, because the first one choked to death by accident, which is not the death I intended, nor do I wish to accidentally kill myself. I'm still not sure how it happened since shibari isn't designed to kill.
Eventually, I have the wand motions down and feel comfortable enough to try it on myself. I keep one forearm free so I can wield my wand, both to tie up and to untie.
Once bound, I lie still on my bed for several minutes.
She'd be feeling panic at not being able to move.
Shifting, I note where the rope tugs, where it burns, where it goes slack, where it rubs.
She'd see Bob with the knife and be ecstatic, thinking he's freeing her . . . only to scream when he traces the lines of the rope with the knife.
Once again, I'm lost in my own imagination and don't hear Ron. The bedroom door opens to reveal Ron, completely disheveled and torn between anger and worry.
Seeing me on the bed trussed like a goose freezes him in the doorway. I would free myself, but the rope and shadows are combining to provide some modesty. His jaw drops as I shift because one of the knots is now digging into my spine. He blinks several times, then backs out of the room and closes the door.
By the time I free myself and at least toss on jeans, Ron is long gone.
Fuck.
I can imagine Hermione now: "Yes, it's embarrassing, but at least he knows how flexible you are now."
Fuck.
I sink onto the sofa and drive my hand through my hair.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Four weeks earlier
"Hermione, he has to think I've lost my mind by now," I mutter.
She murmurs something under her breath, then meets my eyes. "Harry, when it comes to Ron, you have some of the worst luck I know."
Pointing at her, I growl, "You are no help at all."
That brings a smile to her face. She leans back in her chair, rubbing her belly absently. She's six months pregnant with twins. As surprising as my occupation is, I think Hermione's marriage to George was more shocking. Of course, every time I tell her that, she merely rolls her eyes.
With a light groan, she lifts her feet onto the small stool in front of the chair.
"Do you need a foot massage?"
Her grin -- and a shaking of her foot -- answers my question. I settle on the stool and pull her feet into my lap. I've done this many times for her since she's become too big to see her feet, enough that the massage is second nature now.
"How do I fix it, Hermione?"
She moans softly as I rub the tops of her feet down to her toes. As she's progressed in her pregnancy, I've eased back on the pressure I use, tapering down to massaging strokes.
"I don't know if you can, Harry," she murmurs. "Oh, damn, that feels good."
"Should I ask if you have designs on my wife, Harry?" George asks from behind Hermione.
She smiles and tilts her head back for a kiss. I roll my eyes.
"No, I'm just easing her into the news of our affair, George."
He grins the grin that was absent for far too long after Fred's death. "You don't think she'd want to watch?"
I raise my eyebrows while Hermione moans softly. Before I can say anything else, she orders, "Go home, Harry."
"But what about Ron?" I protest.
George is already helping Hermione out of the chair. "Not our problem, mate," he tells me with way too much cheer. "Now leave."
I head out the door, finding it vaguely creepy that I'm part of the reason George and Hermione are having sex (and I can almost feel her slap to the back of my head and hear her snap making love not having sex).
The chill in the air makes me drive my hands deeper into the pockets of my leather jacket. George and Hermione live in a Muggle area not far from where her parents formerly lived. Only their house and garden are warded for Apparition and there's no way I'm walking back there. Therefore, I have about a mile to walk before I'm in the next authorized Apparition zone.
Normally, I don't care if I break that rule. The few times I've Apparated from non-Ministry authorized areas, the Ministry hasn't said a thing. Tonight, the walk serves my purposes, allowing me to think.
As I said to Hermione, Ron must think I'm cracked by now. Either that or that I have a sideline hobby or occupation as a bondage slut. Part of me wonders if that's such a bad thing because Ron is certainly seeing me in a new light now. When he looks at all, that is -- he's avoided me for a week. I don't realize I'm grinding my teeth until my jaw hurts.
Jaw hurts . . . from what? I stop in the middle of the street and drive a hand through my hair. Hermione complains that prolonged blow jobs make her jaw hurt.
I shudder once, remembering the conversation that led to that revelation -- and gave me the mostly unwanted knowledge about how well the Weasley men are hung. Hermione had then compounded the horror by implying it was the reason there had been seven Weasley children.
I had to tell her I don't want to know how she knows that information.
Ron had asked to be Obliviated.
Jaw hurts from a blow job. But Bob wouldn't do that for someone else.
I start walking again when a face peers out a window at me, glaring. Rather than be mistaken for a burglar casing the neighborhood, I walk.
Who would Bob give a blow job to?
As I reach the Apparition point, I have my epiphany: himself.
My train of thought is derailed when I arrive home and hear Ron's latest conquest urging him on. At least it's a woman -- I shudder in horror at the idea a man could have a voice pitched that high -- because I'm not sure I could handle him with yet another man.
I toss a silencing charm at Ron's door as I pass, though I'm sure it will be broken the first time he opens the door. He's either charmed it to repel silencing charms, or had Hermione do it.
Once in my room, I strip off and begin stretching. As I do, I run scenarios through my mind about Bob's motivation and method, the results of his frustration, and how he would track and kill his next victim. My vertebrae pop as I touch my toes, though my mind is more on where Bob will find this victim, the first that will be completely random.
After another few minutes of stretching, I lie back on my bed. Thinking of Ron, I begin stroking myself and I'm completely hard in no time at all.
Now to figure out logistics.
It takes five minutes and a sprained muscle in my back before I've bent myself into position. Staring at my own cock, I realize that cocks are funny-looking appendages. Of course, usually when I'm this close to a cock, it belongs to another man and the fact it's funny-looking is the last thing on my mind.
Before I can think too much more about it, I open my mouth and suck in the head.
Holy fucking Merlin!
It's all I can do to keep my mouth where it is and not release myself to shout. If I'd known how good this would feel before now, I would have done it long ago.
This could be a problem.
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I slide my mouth further down.
Once again, totally lost in the sensations, I don't hear Ron until he speaks. "Damn it, Harry! Stop putting sil--" He stops dead mid-word as he notices what I'm doing.
Forcing myself not to blush, I release my cock and straighten. And I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me wince at the pain from my strained muscle.
"Was there something you wanted, Ron?" I'm pleased with how even my voice sounds.
He can't seem to raise his eyes above my damp cock until I wrap a hand around myself and stroke once.
He blushes bright red and growls, "No more silencing charms," before slamming my door.
At least that was more embarrassing for him than me.
Right?
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Two weeks earlier
Bob has managed to kill two more people, but the police are closing in. Ron, once again, isn't talking to me. Well, he is talking to me, but not to my face, only to my cock. This should be seen as progress since it keeps him focused on me as a sexual being. It is not progress, though, because it's distracting.
I pace the kitchen while dinner cooks. I would use the microwave, but I accidentally short-circuited that last night with wayward magical energy because I've been so on edge for the last two weeks. That leaves us with the oven and take-out. Well, it leaves me with the oven and take-out. Ron hasn't eaten at home in more than a week because he's been on a date every night, each time with a different woman.
I need to finish this book then seduce Ron. If I don't do both, I'm going to end up in St. Mungo's next to Lockhart.
What the police don't know is that Bob will accidentally kill himself. I know the method, but have to coordinate the logistics: auto-erotic asphyxiation. Of everything Bob has done, this is the first one that makes me nervous.
The flat is quiet as I eat, the only noise the muted sounds of the telly next door. The silence allows me to think. I've done the necessary research, and set up Bob's descent into madness. No longer is his killing spree revenge, but enjoyment.
I mull over what I'm going to write as I clean the kitchen. I then clean the living room, bath, and my room. I don't touch my office -- if I clean in there, I won't be able to find anything -- and contemplate cleaning Ron's room, but decide against it. No reason to torment myself like that.
Finally, I can't put it off any longer. Conjuring a bar across my closet door, I grab it, hanging with all my weight from it, to make sure it supports me. It does, of course. Stripping off, I try to focus on Bob's thoughts. It's not working. I conjure a small stool to stand on and a fleece-lined leather strap. I'm not using rope for this. It takes several more minutes before I'm set up. My cock is anything but hard, so that's a problem.
You walked into a forest to your death. Why is this so difficult?
Because that was necessary and this isn't.
The small stool makes more noise than I expected when I kick it onto its side, forcing me onto my tiptoes and my weight onto the leather strap.
I see stars. The only thing I can think about for the first minute is the lack of oxygen. Though my magic won't allow me to die this way -- I would subconsciously break the bar first -- that fact is difficult to remember when I can't breathe.
Once I stop hyperventilating, things improve.
Then I realize that, while not truly enjoying this, my cock is interested.
I'm concentrating so much on not strangling myself and on working through what Bob would be doing and on his timely, if accidental end, that I don't notice Ron.
"Harry," he whispers, horrified.
He startles me into kicking over the stool, falling down with enough force that, if I weren't magical, I would have hanged myself.
Now I know the full method of Bob's demise.
The bar breaks, though, just as I expected. I fall to a heap on the floor. Blearily, I look up at Ron.
He's now torn between laughing and concern for my mental and physical health.
Shifting so I'm sitting up -- and heedless of my nakedness -- I ask, "What do you want, Ron?"
As he was staring at my cock, he has to look up to meet my eyes. He clears his throat nervously. I raise an eyebrow.
Gruffly, he mutters, "You want to go to the pub?"
I blink. On the one hand, I could stay home and kill Bob. On the other hand, I could go to the pub with the object of my affection.
"Let me get dressed."
Bob can die another day.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Earlier today
Ron has kept a wary eye on me since finding me hanging in my closet. I'm torn between hexing him and slamming him to the wall and kissing him.
The best thing for my mental health, though, is that Bob is dead and the book is finished. Well, the first draft at least. As soon as I sent it to Hermione for editing, I vowed not to think of it at all until I received it back.
The completion of the book leaves me at loose ends, though. It's not as if I can attack Ron and molest him. Well, I could, but it would almost certainly not only end our friendship but negate any other relationship.
All of which leads me to asking for Hermione's help once again. I only had to endure an hour of laughter when I shared my plan, so that was an improvement over her previous reactions regarding other ideas. Hermione then shared my idea with George. The only reason I didn't hex her was because she's pregnant.
It doesn't prevent me from hexing George when he shakes handcuffs at me.
Now I just have to wait for Ron to come home. He should be alone, thanks to Neville's cooperation with my plan, but if he isn't, things could become extremely awkward.
Twisting on the bed in an attempt to get comfortable, I grimace at the rope burn I'm giving myself around my wrists. I close my eyes with a sigh. If this doesn't work, I'm not sure what I'll do. Maybe I'll change my name, pretend I'm a Squib, and move to Muggle America.
The front door opens with a bang, startling me. Neville's soothing voice is overlain with Ron's somewhat belligerent tones, implying he's drunk.
At least he's alone -- in this instance, Neville doesn't count.
The door closes, leaving only the sound of Ron muttering to himself.
I had hoped to be eagerly awaiting his arrival, but my nervousness means my cock lies limp against my abdomen.
Ron opens a door in the hall, calling my name, then muttering again when I'm not there. He does that twice more, accounting for all the other doors in the hallway.
Nerves churn in my belly until I feel moments from vomiting -- which is not the portrait of enticement I had hoped to present.
"What the hell?" Ron exclaims from the doorway.
I stare. He's utterly disheveled: his shirt is untucked, he has no shoes and only one sock on, and his hair is as wild as mine.
Fuck, I want him.
"Harry?" He sounds uncertain.
Taking a deep breath, I steel my courage. "I thought I'd show you how I felt about you."
He takes a step into the room before shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. "By chaining yourself to my bed?" His voice rises with each word.
A blush rises on my cheeks. "Um, yes?" He says nothing, merely stares. "To show I'm yours."
When Ron still says nothing, all Hermione's warnings from amidst her laughter echo in my ears. She had warned me Ron wouldn't like this, but I insisted. Damn it all to hell. When will I remember to listen to her?
Ron coughs once, drawing my attention back to him, then tips his head to the side. "Me?"
Now I smile beatifically. He's mine, mine, mine! "You."
He blinks, then returns my smile. Almost before I can process that, he strips off in the doorway. He practically leaps onto the bed, jostling me enough to exacerbate my rope burns. I don't care. Sprawled next to me, as naked as I am, is my best mate and love of my life.
"Ron," I whimper.
He grins wickedly and murmurs my name. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't matter. What matters is his hard cock pressing against my thigh.
I try to twist toward him, but one hand to my chest stops me. I want to curl up and purr under his touch.
"Ron, please," I beg. I've wanted this for too long to draw out this tension.
"Please what?" His hand slips lower, to my stomach, and I moan.
"Please fuck me, Ron." Why, yes, I am shameless.
"You aren't very patient," he pouts.
Glaring, I spit, "Three years." His eyebrows climb to his hairline. "Three years and now you're naked next to me and I'm more than ready."
I have only a moment to see his fierce grin before his mouth descends upon mine. I twist and writhe once again, but this time in an effort to get closer to him.
Instead, he straddles me, pinning me to the bed, rubbing his cock against mine -- which is beyond hard now. His tongue explores every part of my mouth. I only notice he's released my wrists, though I'm not sure when, as he threads his fingers through mine and pins my hands to the pillow next to my head.
Then he trails his mouth down my jaw to my throat.
One long suck of the skin under my ear is all it takes for me to come. Whining, whimpering and moaning, I arch up against Ron, mindless with the need to touch as much of him as possible.
Afterward, as I lay limp and dazed underneath him, he murmurs, "I'll keep that spot in mind." I can only whimper softly. He licks the base of my throat. I whimper again then moan. "You're awfully pliant."
I grunt, trying to work up the energy to wrap my legs around his waist.
He licks the base of my throat.
Fucking hell.
My cock twitches in response like a puppet.
Ron laughs, the sound low and knowing.
Slowly, oh so damn slowly, he traces the cords of my neck with his tongue. That action distracts me enough that I don't notice he's raised my legs, each knee in the crook of an elbow, until a cold lubrication spell fills my arse.
"Now, Ron!" I demand after he makes a motion to stretch me.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I don't mind," I pant. "Just fuck me now."
With the quirk of an eyebrow, he shifts to position himself. I meet his gaze and feel like I'm melting, even as his cock enters me like fire. I can only hold out for so long before my eyes roll back in my head. Once he's fully inside me, he leans forward, bending me in half.
"Ron," I growl. "More."
"More?" He sounds amused. "Aren't you demanding?"
"Yes," I hiss.
Reaching up, I grab the back of his head and pull it down. Before he can say anything else, I kiss him. His cock twitches inside me, making me moan. I can feel his grin even as he deepens the kiss.
His thrusts deepen, driving me beyond distraction. Breaking the kiss, I thrust upward, matching him.
Then he sucks the skin beneath my ear.
Half-groaning, half-yelling his name, I come. He comes shortly afterward, spilling into me with a deep moan of his own.
Panting, he slips out, but doesn't move otherwise. I push him to one side so I can breathe.
I don't know how much time passes, but it's long enough that his silence is becoming unnerving. He pulls me back against him, spooning me. This is fairly disgusting until I manage a wandless cleaning charm.
"So, um," he begins. "What was with all the times I caught you . . ."
I turn in his arms to face him. "Doing things that looked strange?"
He grins. "That's one way of putting it."
"My book."
His brow furrows in confusion before he figures it out. With a short laugh, he growls, "No more. I can't take it."
"Yes, sir. Anything else you'd like me to do?"
He bends and whispers dirty suggestions in my ear, following with, "That's for the rest of the week. Sleep now."
"Yes, sir." I should have known better than to doubt myself. Yet, given my track record, I'd expected the worst. It's usually what I end up with.
My sigh makes Ron stir. He pulls me against him tightly and murmurs, "Stop thinking and go to sleep."
What else can I do? I close my eyes at my best mate's -- no, lover's -- order and go to sleep.
From: simons_flower
Title: Five Times Ron Weasley Caught Harry Potter Behaving Questionably (But Only One Mattered)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After disposing of Voldemort, Harry had always found it easy to get what he wanted -- until he discovered the one person that truly mattered liked to play hard to get.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not at all, and I doubt JKR would be pleased with what I've done to Harry.
Genre: romance, humor, UST, RST
Warnings: manwhore!Ron, bondage (sort of), a serial killer, cursing -- it will all make sense, I promise
Author's Note: I know I've pushed the boundaries of your squicks, but I hope I haven't pushed too far. If I have, for that I'm truly sorry and I'll be happy to make it up to you. Thank you to A and M for the review and beta work -- I couldn't do it without you!
Five Times Ron Weasley Caught Harry Potter Behaving Questionably
(But Only One Mattered)
I should have known better than to doubt myself. Yet, given my track record, I'd expected the worst. It's usually what I end up with.
My sigh makes Ron stir. He pulls me against him tightly and murmurs, "Stop thinking and go to sleep."
What else can I do? I close my eyes at my best mate's -- no, lover's -- order and go to sleep.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Eight weeks earlier
I'm a writer. Other than myself, I think the person most surprised by that is Hermione. The baffled expression on her face with every novel I sell -- despite the fact she's my primary editor -- is priceless. What genre do I write? Crime fiction. Shocking, I know.
The writing process I use, though, sometimes causes me problems: I prefer to enact the scenario I want to write about, much like a director blocking a scene. No, I don't murder anyone, but I'm sure the Muggle authorities have me on some sort of watch list for psychotics. Before each new novel, I pay a hacker handsomely to erase my record.
As long as I stay out of the eye of the Wizarding press, my life is content. Not perfect, but satisfactory. Wait, that sounds even worse.
I can lay the blame for my contentment at Ron's feet. Ronald Bilius Weasley, five months older than me, Chief Marketing Officer for his brother's joke business, Quidditch fanatic, and the tall, gorgeous redhead I've been irrevocably in love with for three years.
For quite a while irretrievably straight was part of that litany, but then I accidentally walked into the Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes storeroom to find Ron buggering Oliver Wood.
I was drunk for a week after that. The only good thing to come of the incident -- which Ron doesn't know I saw -- was that I don't drink any longer. Becoming a teetotaler made our first few nights out with our school mates awkward, but a few words from Neville, of all people, stopped the teasing. My friends have no respect for The Saviour of the Wizarding World.
None of that helps me at the moment, though. I'm trying something new with this novel. Normally, I write from the perspective of the Special Investigator. In fact, my Investigator Jack "Devil" Devlin series is fairly popular. Yet for this novel, I've decided to write from the perspective of the serial killer. The first victim was dispatched with ease and has whet my character's appetite.
The second victim is refusing to die and it's driving me mad.
Given that the first victim was his ex, the killer had motivation. I can't seem to find the tipping point for the character to murder a second time, though.
Ron has already poked his head into my office once to tell me he was leaving for his date. I grunted and waved him off.
It's a few hours later that I finally have a burst of inspiration.
The idea pops into my head just as I hear noise in the corridor. Though the grunts and moans give me a fairly strong idea of what's happening, I must look. Stumbling up from my desk -- when did it get so dark? -- I pull open the door to find Ron leaning back against the wall, jeans open, and a young blond bloke sucking on his cock.
Shutting the door quietly, I grab my headphones to blast my killer's soundtrack, Nirvana's Nevermind, into my ears. Then I settle at my computer and write.
Yes, that was the motivation my character needed.
Ron finds me near dawn, writing in my office, the only light coming from the flickering of the computer monitor. He stands in the doorway dressed only in threadbare Chudley orange boxers. He scratches his stomach, yawns and stretches.
My stomach clenches in a hard knot of need when I look over at him. I pull my headphones off.
"You been up all night?" he asks, voice gravelly from sleep or lack of it.
"Yes," I say slowly. "Your companion gone?"
I can see the color rise on his cheeks despite the low light. He nods, then yawns again. Without another word, he turns and closes the door.
Fuck.
Mood destroyed, I save my file and shut down the computer. My protagonist will have to finish his second victim on another day.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
It takes me two days and another of Ron's nocturnal visitors before I can inhabit my character again. I'm halfway through the murder scene before I realize it's not working. Damn.
A glance outside shows me it's dark, something I hadn't noticed because I apparently had turned the lights on at lunch while it was still daylight, thought I don't remember doing so. It's the only time I've risen from the computer today.
A fine current tingles under my skin. Though tempted to wave my wand and turn the lights off, I don't. Last time I tried that, I fried my computer and my backup drive. Hermione laughed at me after patting me on the head when I told her.
Instead, I cross the room. Once the lights are out, though, I understand why the scene wasn't working. My character needs to escalate his crimes slowly. This is the first stranger, the man he's going to kill because he interfered with the killer's object of obsession.
I pace, working the details out in my head.
How would he kill them. Wait, my killer needs a name. I haven't named him yet. I can change it later, but for now he's Bob. Rob? No, Bob. It's unassuming.
I know this will work when I feel my thoughts tumbling over each other like eager puppies.
How would Bob kill this intruder?
I nearly shout in triumph when the idea finally comes to me. I grab my wand and race into my bedroom, glancing briefly at Ron's door and casting a necessary silencing charm -- tonight's companion is noisy. Once in my room, I quickly strip off.
A few more waves of my wand sets the scene: a pair of shackles high on the wall and a small stool underneath. Climbing atop the stool, I cuff my left wrist. Though cuffing both would help me picture the scene, I don't dare for fear my meager wandless magic would fail and leave me hanging on the wall.
Bob has his victim on the wall and is slowly . . . slowly what? Flaying him for daring to touch the object of Bob's obsession.
I twist and turn, imagining the suffering of the victim, imagining how he would suffer and attempt to escape, imagine the pleas, imagine Bob's actions.
I'm so lost in thought that when my bedroom door slams open, I jerk violently, kicking the stool across the room, leaving me hanging by one bloody wrist and dislocating my shoulder.
It's Ron.
Oops.
I can only imagine what the scene looks like to him.
He blanches and backs out of the room slowly, closing the door.
Fuck.
A wave of my wand releases me from the shackle, dropping me the foot or so to the ground. I then reset my shoulder, hissing in pain. It will be sore for a few days. I quickly heal my wrist and dress.
"Ron!" I call from my door.
I find him in the kitchen. He pauses in the act of bringing the Firewhisky bottle to his lips.
"I don't want to know, Harry," he mutters and retreats to his room.
Fuck.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Six weeks earlier
Ron didn't talk to me for a week, which was about the same period of time Hermione laughed at me. I told her she was a terrible friend for laughing at my pain, to which she rolled her eyes and told me I needed someone to laugh at me once in a while because I take myself too seriously. I snorted, knowing it was the pot calling the kettle black.
Bob eventually offed his victim, but I haven't yet come up with the third victim and it's beginning to drive me mad once again. Come to think of it, I spend half my time when writing a new novel attempting to keep my characters from driving me around the twist.
My next inspiration finally strikes a few days later when Ron drags me out of our flat and to a club. I had never thought Ron to be the "club type" until I went with him one night. He loves being there because his height, build and hair make him unique, something he doesn't get in the Wizarding world because he's just another Weasley there.
In any case, my inspiration for victim number three comes from a night at Ron's favorite club. Though I'm sure it's not reality, it seems as if every time I look over, Ron is holding court. He's changed his stories to fit into the Muggle world -- football rather than Quidditch -- but the hand motions are the same.
Then an overblown blonde latches onto Ron's arm. He glances down at her, smiles, then continues his story.
Temper rises and, because I'm not controlling it, a light bulb flares dramatically above the bar before dying with a pop. I take a few deep breaths to control myself while the bartender mutters about the damnedest thing he's ever seen.
Ron doesn't even notice.
The blonde twines herself up his arm like a vine until she's in his lap. She gives a triumphant smile to those clustered around Ron. I smile grimly and consider the manner in which Bob can dispose of her.
After paying my tab, I wander out of the club and down the street. Though this isn't the best part of London -- though not the seediest, either -- walking alone is an invitation for trouble. Part of me would welcome a fight right now; the more practical side, which sounds a lot like Hermione, reminds me that I am in a Muggle area and using magic on a Muggle is frowned upon, even for the Saviour.
Loosing a gusty sigh, I Apparate home.
Then I see the rope and my imagination kicks in.
She wanted to be a vine, so how would she like being restrained?
Hermione has told me before that she admires the dedication I have to my studies when it comes to researching my novels. However, I can't help but think she'd merely look askance at me for researching Japanese rope bondage, or shibari.
It takes about an hour to compile enough information to create the wand motions necessary. I practice on a conjured dummy. Good thing, because the first one choked to death by accident, which is not the death I intended, nor do I wish to accidentally kill myself. I'm still not sure how it happened since shibari isn't designed to kill.
Eventually, I have the wand motions down and feel comfortable enough to try it on myself. I keep one forearm free so I can wield my wand, both to tie up and to untie.
Once bound, I lie still on my bed for several minutes.
She'd be feeling panic at not being able to move.
Shifting, I note where the rope tugs, where it burns, where it goes slack, where it rubs.
She'd see Bob with the knife and be ecstatic, thinking he's freeing her . . . only to scream when he traces the lines of the rope with the knife.
Once again, I'm lost in my own imagination and don't hear Ron. The bedroom door opens to reveal Ron, completely disheveled and torn between anger and worry.
Seeing me on the bed trussed like a goose freezes him in the doorway. I would free myself, but the rope and shadows are combining to provide some modesty. His jaw drops as I shift because one of the knots is now digging into my spine. He blinks several times, then backs out of the room and closes the door.
By the time I free myself and at least toss on jeans, Ron is long gone.
Fuck.
I can imagine Hermione now: "Yes, it's embarrassing, but at least he knows how flexible you are now."
Fuck.
I sink onto the sofa and drive my hand through my hair.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Four weeks earlier
"Hermione, he has to think I've lost my mind by now," I mutter.
She murmurs something under her breath, then meets my eyes. "Harry, when it comes to Ron, you have some of the worst luck I know."
Pointing at her, I growl, "You are no help at all."
That brings a smile to her face. She leans back in her chair, rubbing her belly absently. She's six months pregnant with twins. As surprising as my occupation is, I think Hermione's marriage to George was more shocking. Of course, every time I tell her that, she merely rolls her eyes.
With a light groan, she lifts her feet onto the small stool in front of the chair.
"Do you need a foot massage?"
Her grin -- and a shaking of her foot -- answers my question. I settle on the stool and pull her feet into my lap. I've done this many times for her since she's become too big to see her feet, enough that the massage is second nature now.
"How do I fix it, Hermione?"
She moans softly as I rub the tops of her feet down to her toes. As she's progressed in her pregnancy, I've eased back on the pressure I use, tapering down to massaging strokes.
"I don't know if you can, Harry," she murmurs. "Oh, damn, that feels good."
"Should I ask if you have designs on my wife, Harry?" George asks from behind Hermione.
She smiles and tilts her head back for a kiss. I roll my eyes.
"No, I'm just easing her into the news of our affair, George."
He grins the grin that was absent for far too long after Fred's death. "You don't think she'd want to watch?"
I raise my eyebrows while Hermione moans softly. Before I can say anything else, she orders, "Go home, Harry."
"But what about Ron?" I protest.
George is already helping Hermione out of the chair. "Not our problem, mate," he tells me with way too much cheer. "Now leave."
I head out the door, finding it vaguely creepy that I'm part of the reason George and Hermione are having sex (and I can almost feel her slap to the back of my head and hear her snap making love not having sex).
The chill in the air makes me drive my hands deeper into the pockets of my leather jacket. George and Hermione live in a Muggle area not far from where her parents formerly lived. Only their house and garden are warded for Apparition and there's no way I'm walking back there. Therefore, I have about a mile to walk before I'm in the next authorized Apparition zone.
Normally, I don't care if I break that rule. The few times I've Apparated from non-Ministry authorized areas, the Ministry hasn't said a thing. Tonight, the walk serves my purposes, allowing me to think.
As I said to Hermione, Ron must think I'm cracked by now. Either that or that I have a sideline hobby or occupation as a bondage slut. Part of me wonders if that's such a bad thing because Ron is certainly seeing me in a new light now. When he looks at all, that is -- he's avoided me for a week. I don't realize I'm grinding my teeth until my jaw hurts.
Jaw hurts . . . from what? I stop in the middle of the street and drive a hand through my hair. Hermione complains that prolonged blow jobs make her jaw hurt.
I shudder once, remembering the conversation that led to that revelation -- and gave me the mostly unwanted knowledge about how well the Weasley men are hung. Hermione had then compounded the horror by implying it was the reason there had been seven Weasley children.
I had to tell her I don't want to know how she knows that information.
Ron had asked to be Obliviated.
Jaw hurts from a blow job. But Bob wouldn't do that for someone else.
I start walking again when a face peers out a window at me, glaring. Rather than be mistaken for a burglar casing the neighborhood, I walk.
Who would Bob give a blow job to?
As I reach the Apparition point, I have my epiphany: himself.
My train of thought is derailed when I arrive home and hear Ron's latest conquest urging him on. At least it's a woman -- I shudder in horror at the idea a man could have a voice pitched that high -- because I'm not sure I could handle him with yet another man.
I toss a silencing charm at Ron's door as I pass, though I'm sure it will be broken the first time he opens the door. He's either charmed it to repel silencing charms, or had Hermione do it.
Once in my room, I strip off and begin stretching. As I do, I run scenarios through my mind about Bob's motivation and method, the results of his frustration, and how he would track and kill his next victim. My vertebrae pop as I touch my toes, though my mind is more on where Bob will find this victim, the first that will be completely random.
After another few minutes of stretching, I lie back on my bed. Thinking of Ron, I begin stroking myself and I'm completely hard in no time at all.
Now to figure out logistics.
It takes five minutes and a sprained muscle in my back before I've bent myself into position. Staring at my own cock, I realize that cocks are funny-looking appendages. Of course, usually when I'm this close to a cock, it belongs to another man and the fact it's funny-looking is the last thing on my mind.
Before I can think too much more about it, I open my mouth and suck in the head.
Holy fucking Merlin!
It's all I can do to keep my mouth where it is and not release myself to shout. If I'd known how good this would feel before now, I would have done it long ago.
This could be a problem.
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I slide my mouth further down.
Once again, totally lost in the sensations, I don't hear Ron until he speaks. "Damn it, Harry! Stop putting sil--" He stops dead mid-word as he notices what I'm doing.
Forcing myself not to blush, I release my cock and straighten. And I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me wince at the pain from my strained muscle.
"Was there something you wanted, Ron?" I'm pleased with how even my voice sounds.
He can't seem to raise his eyes above my damp cock until I wrap a hand around myself and stroke once.
He blushes bright red and growls, "No more silencing charms," before slamming my door.
At least that was more embarrassing for him than me.
Right?
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Two weeks earlier
Bob has managed to kill two more people, but the police are closing in. Ron, once again, isn't talking to me. Well, he is talking to me, but not to my face, only to my cock. This should be seen as progress since it keeps him focused on me as a sexual being. It is not progress, though, because it's distracting.
I pace the kitchen while dinner cooks. I would use the microwave, but I accidentally short-circuited that last night with wayward magical energy because I've been so on edge for the last two weeks. That leaves us with the oven and take-out. Well, it leaves me with the oven and take-out. Ron hasn't eaten at home in more than a week because he's been on a date every night, each time with a different woman.
I need to finish this book then seduce Ron. If I don't do both, I'm going to end up in St. Mungo's next to Lockhart.
What the police don't know is that Bob will accidentally kill himself. I know the method, but have to coordinate the logistics: auto-erotic asphyxiation. Of everything Bob has done, this is the first one that makes me nervous.
The flat is quiet as I eat, the only noise the muted sounds of the telly next door. The silence allows me to think. I've done the necessary research, and set up Bob's descent into madness. No longer is his killing spree revenge, but enjoyment.
I mull over what I'm going to write as I clean the kitchen. I then clean the living room, bath, and my room. I don't touch my office -- if I clean in there, I won't be able to find anything -- and contemplate cleaning Ron's room, but decide against it. No reason to torment myself like that.
Finally, I can't put it off any longer. Conjuring a bar across my closet door, I grab it, hanging with all my weight from it, to make sure it supports me. It does, of course. Stripping off, I try to focus on Bob's thoughts. It's not working. I conjure a small stool to stand on and a fleece-lined leather strap. I'm not using rope for this. It takes several more minutes before I'm set up. My cock is anything but hard, so that's a problem.
You walked into a forest to your death. Why is this so difficult?
Because that was necessary and this isn't.
The small stool makes more noise than I expected when I kick it onto its side, forcing me onto my tiptoes and my weight onto the leather strap.
I see stars. The only thing I can think about for the first minute is the lack of oxygen. Though my magic won't allow me to die this way -- I would subconsciously break the bar first -- that fact is difficult to remember when I can't breathe.
Once I stop hyperventilating, things improve.
Then I realize that, while not truly enjoying this, my cock is interested.
I'm concentrating so much on not strangling myself and on working through what Bob would be doing and on his timely, if accidental end, that I don't notice Ron.
"Harry," he whispers, horrified.
He startles me into kicking over the stool, falling down with enough force that, if I weren't magical, I would have hanged myself.
Now I know the full method of Bob's demise.
The bar breaks, though, just as I expected. I fall to a heap on the floor. Blearily, I look up at Ron.
He's now torn between laughing and concern for my mental and physical health.
Shifting so I'm sitting up -- and heedless of my nakedness -- I ask, "What do you want, Ron?"
As he was staring at my cock, he has to look up to meet my eyes. He clears his throat nervously. I raise an eyebrow.
Gruffly, he mutters, "You want to go to the pub?"
I blink. On the one hand, I could stay home and kill Bob. On the other hand, I could go to the pub with the object of my affection.
"Let me get dressed."
Bob can die another day.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Earlier today
Ron has kept a wary eye on me since finding me hanging in my closet. I'm torn between hexing him and slamming him to the wall and kissing him.
The best thing for my mental health, though, is that Bob is dead and the book is finished. Well, the first draft at least. As soon as I sent it to Hermione for editing, I vowed not to think of it at all until I received it back.
The completion of the book leaves me at loose ends, though. It's not as if I can attack Ron and molest him. Well, I could, but it would almost certainly not only end our friendship but negate any other relationship.
All of which leads me to asking for Hermione's help once again. I only had to endure an hour of laughter when I shared my plan, so that was an improvement over her previous reactions regarding other ideas. Hermione then shared my idea with George. The only reason I didn't hex her was because she's pregnant.
It doesn't prevent me from hexing George when he shakes handcuffs at me.
Now I just have to wait for Ron to come home. He should be alone, thanks to Neville's cooperation with my plan, but if he isn't, things could become extremely awkward.
Twisting on the bed in an attempt to get comfortable, I grimace at the rope burn I'm giving myself around my wrists. I close my eyes with a sigh. If this doesn't work, I'm not sure what I'll do. Maybe I'll change my name, pretend I'm a Squib, and move to Muggle America.
The front door opens with a bang, startling me. Neville's soothing voice is overlain with Ron's somewhat belligerent tones, implying he's drunk.
At least he's alone -- in this instance, Neville doesn't count.
The door closes, leaving only the sound of Ron muttering to himself.
I had hoped to be eagerly awaiting his arrival, but my nervousness means my cock lies limp against my abdomen.
Ron opens a door in the hall, calling my name, then muttering again when I'm not there. He does that twice more, accounting for all the other doors in the hallway.
Nerves churn in my belly until I feel moments from vomiting -- which is not the portrait of enticement I had hoped to present.
"What the hell?" Ron exclaims from the doorway.
I stare. He's utterly disheveled: his shirt is untucked, he has no shoes and only one sock on, and his hair is as wild as mine.
Fuck, I want him.
"Harry?" He sounds uncertain.
Taking a deep breath, I steel my courage. "I thought I'd show you how I felt about you."
He takes a step into the room before shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. "By chaining yourself to my bed?" His voice rises with each word.
A blush rises on my cheeks. "Um, yes?" He says nothing, merely stares. "To show I'm yours."
When Ron still says nothing, all Hermione's warnings from amidst her laughter echo in my ears. She had warned me Ron wouldn't like this, but I insisted. Damn it all to hell. When will I remember to listen to her?
Ron coughs once, drawing my attention back to him, then tips his head to the side. "Me?"
Now I smile beatifically. He's mine, mine, mine! "You."
He blinks, then returns my smile. Almost before I can process that, he strips off in the doorway. He practically leaps onto the bed, jostling me enough to exacerbate my rope burns. I don't care. Sprawled next to me, as naked as I am, is my best mate and love of my life.
"Ron," I whimper.
He grins wickedly and murmurs my name. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't matter. What matters is his hard cock pressing against my thigh.
I try to twist toward him, but one hand to my chest stops me. I want to curl up and purr under his touch.
"Ron, please," I beg. I've wanted this for too long to draw out this tension.
"Please what?" His hand slips lower, to my stomach, and I moan.
"Please fuck me, Ron." Why, yes, I am shameless.
"You aren't very patient," he pouts.
Glaring, I spit, "Three years." His eyebrows climb to his hairline. "Three years and now you're naked next to me and I'm more than ready."
I have only a moment to see his fierce grin before his mouth descends upon mine. I twist and writhe once again, but this time in an effort to get closer to him.
Instead, he straddles me, pinning me to the bed, rubbing his cock against mine -- which is beyond hard now. His tongue explores every part of my mouth. I only notice he's released my wrists, though I'm not sure when, as he threads his fingers through mine and pins my hands to the pillow next to my head.
Then he trails his mouth down my jaw to my throat.
One long suck of the skin under my ear is all it takes for me to come. Whining, whimpering and moaning, I arch up against Ron, mindless with the need to touch as much of him as possible.
Afterward, as I lay limp and dazed underneath him, he murmurs, "I'll keep that spot in mind." I can only whimper softly. He licks the base of my throat. I whimper again then moan. "You're awfully pliant."
I grunt, trying to work up the energy to wrap my legs around his waist.
He licks the base of my throat.
Fucking hell.
My cock twitches in response like a puppet.
Ron laughs, the sound low and knowing.
Slowly, oh so damn slowly, he traces the cords of my neck with his tongue. That action distracts me enough that I don't notice he's raised my legs, each knee in the crook of an elbow, until a cold lubrication spell fills my arse.
"Now, Ron!" I demand after he makes a motion to stretch me.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I don't mind," I pant. "Just fuck me now."
With the quirk of an eyebrow, he shifts to position himself. I meet his gaze and feel like I'm melting, even as his cock enters me like fire. I can only hold out for so long before my eyes roll back in my head. Once he's fully inside me, he leans forward, bending me in half.
"Ron," I growl. "More."
"More?" He sounds amused. "Aren't you demanding?"
"Yes," I hiss.
Reaching up, I grab the back of his head and pull it down. Before he can say anything else, I kiss him. His cock twitches inside me, making me moan. I can feel his grin even as he deepens the kiss.
His thrusts deepen, driving me beyond distraction. Breaking the kiss, I thrust upward, matching him.
Then he sucks the skin beneath my ear.
Half-groaning, half-yelling his name, I come. He comes shortly afterward, spilling into me with a deep moan of his own.
Panting, he slips out, but doesn't move otherwise. I push him to one side so I can breathe.
I don't know how much time passes, but it's long enough that his silence is becoming unnerving. He pulls me back against him, spooning me. This is fairly disgusting until I manage a wandless cleaning charm.
"So, um," he begins. "What was with all the times I caught you . . ."
I turn in his arms to face him. "Doing things that looked strange?"
He grins. "That's one way of putting it."
"My book."
His brow furrows in confusion before he figures it out. With a short laugh, he growls, "No more. I can't take it."
"Yes, sir. Anything else you'd like me to do?"
He bends and whispers dirty suggestions in my ear, following with, "That's for the rest of the week. Sleep now."
"Yes, sir." I should have known better than to doubt myself. Yet, given my track record, I'd expected the worst. It's usually what I end up with.
My sigh makes Ron stir. He pulls me against him tightly and murmurs, "Stop thinking and go to sleep."
What else can I do? I close my eyes at my best mate's -- no, lover's -- order and go to sleep.