shocfix (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} shocfix) wrote,@ 2005-04-16 01:00:00 |
 |
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Mother Weasley’s Molly House - H/R - NC-17
Title: Mother Weasley’s Molly House
Author:shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron – plus the boys with other pretty boys.
Words: 7000
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JKR, all descriptions of genitalia are fictional, and do not refer to DJR.
Oh, Ron!
My brave, freckled, loyal, funny, loving, devoted, brave SURVIVING boy.
It is your twenty-seventh birthday, sweetheart, and though posting starts today over at thetriatha_ron, I couldn’t not write something for your birthday!
There are no words for how much I adore you – and the LJ fun that you have brought me to – and I cannot believe it is time to write especially for you, again!
Or that in just twenty weeks we will know how you andHarry Hermione Harry Hermione Harry Madam Rosmerta Harry Hermione Harry Hermione Harry Hermione Harry Hermione Harry Hermione I get together!!!
I hope you have a lovely birthday; I hope the Cannons win; I hope Hermione wakes you up with a blowjob and a promise of a chocolate-based dinner eaten off her naked body – and then Floos to work, so Harry can come over with lube and enough Gryffindor ties to tie you to the bedposts!
Betaed by my lovelymagicofisis - see you soon, babe!
Mother Weasley’s Molly House
****
Even before the War, I would never have mentioned my, um, baser tendencies.
No wizard would admit he was queer; you just kept your head down, were careful not to look at anyone in the showers and you found a pretty witch to marry and impregnate.
There were always stories, passed down from year to year, of what had happened to some bloke in another House, caught trying to interfere with a dorm mate. And I had had five brothers, full of scandal, too, although I don’t remember Bill ever saying anything – I guess I wasn’t old enough while he was still alive.
I didn’t feel bad about it or persecuted, not exactly. That was the way things were. With such a small Magical population, babies were important, and shirt lifters weren’t.
Things were even worse after the war, of course, and you can see why, with so many young witches and wizards being killed and the population needing to be topped up, attractive arses were very low on anyone else’s list of priorities.
So I would hold Hermione tight and bury my face in her hair and she filled my arms, and if she never reached the part of my heart that thought of Harry’s wrists and cheekbones and eyes, well, I would never let her know.
And, in a year or two, when we could afford it, I would propose.
She was the only girl for me.
It wasn’t her fault that Harry was the only boy.
Or that there’d been that big scandal in the Prophet when the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation was caught with his male secretary.
Percy had read the article out in a scandalised whisper and my Hermione hadn’t understood, at first, bless her.
“She was in charge of his post?” she asked.
“What?” Percy said, frowning at the interruption.
“I just don’t see that it matters what her duties were,” Hermione said. “As long as they didn’t include sleeping with her boss.”
Percy had spluttered and George had smiled weakly.
But at least it was a real smile, and they were rare since he lost Fred.
“Not his correspondence secretary,” Percy said stiffly. “His masculine secretary.”
“Not all that masculine, I wouldn’t say,” George had muttered and Hermione’s eyes had widened and I’d winced, dreading the ‘oh my god, that’s disgusting’ conversation.
“That is disgusting,” Hermione breathed and it hurt even more than I’d expected.
“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” Percy said. “That sort of unnatural behaviour is dealt with very firmly. Simply not permitted.”
“I don’t mean the behaviour is disgusting, you ignoramus,” Hermione snapped and I gaped at her. “I mean treating people like that for simply loving each other.”
Everyone blinked at her.
“Um… Hermione,” George said. “It just isn’t right. Two blokes… you know.”
“Says who?” she demanded.
“Says all right thinking wizards,” Percy said.
“Says the same people who discriminate against werewolves and enslave house elves,” Hermione snapped. “This is another of the Wizarding World’s oh so charming throwbacks to the eighteenth century that everyone knows about, is it? And why didn’t you tell me?”
She turned on me.
“Um,” I said. Because I’m queer and thought you’d hate me didn’t sound like a good answer.
“Hermione,” Charlie said carefully. “It’s not the sort of thing a bloke’d tell his girl about, is it?”
Hermione snorted.
“Not if he approves of the bigotry, no,” she said.
“Hermione,” Mum asked. “Is it true that Muggles don’t mind it? You know: two men, being together like that? Arthur said they didn’t mind, but I didn’t believe him, what with the whole plug thing.”
Many ginger eyebrows rose, and even I hoped that this wasn’t evidence of Dad putting plugs in the wrong sockets.
But she looked interested, and not a lot had caught her attention since Dad and the others had died, so I looked eagerly to Hermione for her answer.
OK, so her answer had implications for me, too.
“Oh, there are more than enough bigoted Muggles, you don’t have the monopoly on that,” she said. “But most are fair about these things; there are gay clubs and bars, and gay politicians can be open about their sexuality.” She smacked the picture of the disgraced Head of Magical Transportation.
Everyone was still blinking at her, incredulously, except for Mum, who looked fascinated.
“Gay bars?” she asked. “Like somewhere they can go to meet people… meet… lovers?”
“Mother!” Percy gasped.
“Mum, please,” George begged.
“Isn’t it better to have somewhere safe to go, where they won’t get beaten up for chatting someone up?” Hermione demanded.
“No,” Percy said flatly.
Wow, I thought. Somewhere where all the blokes in the room are queer, and you can… you can buy them a drink and they know you’ll… he’ll… wow.
“Is this a new thing, dear?” Mum asked. “A special club, like that?”
Charlie snorted.
“The acceptance is new,” Hermione said “But the meeting places can’t be new, can they? Homosexuality is hardly new.”
“It sounds like a good idea,” Mum said. “Somewhere safe to go, where you won’t get into trouble, or cause a scandal. Where everyone is in the same boat, and you know they’ll keep your secrets.”
Charlie and George were still gawping and Percy choked and I thought rooms full of queer blokes, who won’t punch you.
“In the eighteenth century, they were called Molly Houses,” Hermione supplied helpfully.
Charlie and Mum laughed and Percy looked shocked.
I was more than usually thoughtful as I saw Hermione back to her parents’ house, and I didn’t realise I was in trouble until she started on me.
“You were very quiet today,” she said. “No mocking comments about shirt lifters and dropping the soap in the showers?”
“Hermione! N-no!” I stammered.
“You never told me how homophobic the Wizarding World was,” she pointed out.
“Why would I?” I asked. “You don’t talk about things like that with a girl! And I know how you get about these things, anyway.”
“What things?”
“Elves, werewolves…”
“Prejudice!”
“Look, don’t shout at me, Hermione,” I protested. “I think it’s prejudice, too, or I wouldn’t have said ‘elves’. I do think it’s wrong, but that’s how people are about queers, and I was not gonna tell you the jokes blokes make about shirt lifters. And I don’t make jokes like that, anyway.”
“No, you don’t,” she admitted. “Neither of you do.” She frowned. “How does Harry feel about homosexuality?”
“I don’t know,” I spluttered. “It’s just not talked about.”
“I’m surprised there wasn’t talk about you and Harry, actually,” she said thoughtfully.
“What?”
“Well, living in each other’s pockets like that,” she said, while I blinked helplessly. “I suppose it’s a good thing I was always around.”
“Yeah,” I agreed faintly, giving her a kiss on the cheek and watching her open the door and close it behind her.
My head was whirling as I Apparated back to my flat.
I’m surprised there wasn’t talk about you and Harry, actually.
Merlin.
And the Muggles had queer clubs.
Gay clubs.
I’d have to get used to Muggle slang, if I was gonna try and visit one, and that was a bugger, if you pardon the expression, because when did I ever try anything Muggle without Harry or Hermione’s help?
So, I planned it all very carefully.
During the war, Hermione had taken me to a library and shown me how to use the Muggle Yellow Pages to find a shop we needed, so I dressed in my Mugglest clothes and slipped out of the Leaky Cauldron and into Muggle London and found firstly, a library, secondly, a directory, and thirdly, a gay club not too far away.
Wishing I had someone I could tell about my achievements, I then used my surveillance experience to watch the club for two weekends, until I was sure that the clientele were the right age and that I could dress not too differently.
Harry and Hermione had both noticed I was up to something, as I had put off plans with both and each of them, and they were getting too interested in what I was doing, so it was another couple of weeks before I could get away again.
I made sure I had plenty of Muggle money, dressed carefully and Apparated to an alleyway, beside the club.
Walking into that room was the most amazing feeling. I’m not saying all heads turned round and all jaws dropped; I’m not vain and I know that I’m skinny, red headed and freckled, but I wouldn’t kick me out of bed.
It was just the knowledge that any head that did casually turn in my direction actually was checking me out.
And I was allowed to look at any bloke there, I was allowed to admire shoulders, arms, smiles, arses.
Not out of the corner of my eye and with my head down. And no, they weren’t my Harry, but I knew that that could never be possible.
But they were like me.
They were there to meet people like me.
Meet.
Fuck.
Not that I was ready for that, yet, so I sat at the bar and I watched them drink and dance and flirt.
And I sipped my beer and I watched them talk and kiss and pair up and slip into the gents.
And I even had a drink and a chat with a bloke named William, and he touched the back of my hand and I jumped and spilt my drink and excused myself and Apparated home, alone and aroused and terrified.
But I went back.
And, on my third visit, William kissed me.
And on my fifth he took me into the gents and knelt at my feet and sucked me off.
And the next day I broke up with Hermione.
“Why?” she asked, gazing up at me with big, sad eyes and breaking my heart.
“I’ve changed,” I said. “I’m not who I was at school, and I can’t be who you want me to be.”
“Where do you go all the time?” she asked. “Is there someone else?”
“No,” I said. “Not yet. But there is the possibility of someone else, and I don’t cheat.”
And she cried and I held her as she cried, but I knew I had done the right thing.
Which is what I told Harry, when he turned up to shout at me.
“Are you insane?” he shouted. “You love her.”
“But I’m not in love with her,” I said.
He snorted.
“How could you hurt her like this?” he asked.
“I’m not who she thinks I am.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I have never done what I want with my life, and you, of all people, should understand that, and I want a chance to try. And I don’t want to live in this grotty flat and save for another two years before I can afford to marry Hermione.”
“Then what do you want?” he asked. “What is so important that you’d need to give up Hermione to do it? And if it’s that important, then I should help you. What do you want?”
I tutted, but my heart ached.
What if I’d said, kiss me, hold me, take me in your mouth?
But I didn’t.
I said, “I’m working that out for myself,” and he put a bracing, best mate’s hand on my shoulder and I wanted him desperately.
The months passed and I repaired my friendship with Hermione, and I tried other clubs and I gave my first blowjob, to a bloke called Gabriel, who wore more eye make up than any girl I’d ever known, and who held my head in his hands and hissed as he fucked my mouth.
And I even had a couple of actual dates with William, but we didn’t really have anything to talk about; I couldn’t talk about work or Quidditch, I didn’t understand when he talked about Muggle jobs and films and television shows.
And my life was maybe half way to what I wanted.
Because I wanted the drinks and kisses and blowjobs in the familiar surroundings of the Wizarding World, and I was terrified at the thought of trying to find them, until they landed, quite literally, in my lap.
I was at my original club, where I was even recognised as something of a regular, and the cutest arse I’d ever seen, in the tightest trousers, sprawled across my lap and I automatically reached out to touch it before automatically snatching back my hand, before realising I was in a gay club and running my hand over it, appreciatively.
“At least buy a bloke a drink,” a voice said, and the arse untangled itself and sat up to reveal it was attached to a familiar face.
“Ron!”
“Uh, Terry,” I stammered. “Um. It’s not… I’m…”
He arched a very sceptical eyebrow.
“I think you are and it is,” he said solemnly. “But I am hardly in a position to tell anyone, now am I?”
And I blushed and bought him a drink and we found a table and sat down.
And it was fantastic.
There I was, dressed to the nines, drinking and flirting with a good looking guy, and talking about Quidditch and bitching about the Ministry.
And it seemed the easiest thing in the world to invite him back to my flat – something that was impossible with Muggles – and I collapsed onto my couch, tugging off his impossibly tight trousers and sliding down between his legs to take him in my mouth and sprawling naked, afterwards, to let him repay the compliment.
Even if it was horribly embarrassing to have to hurry him back into his trousers the next morning and pop him in the fire, because Harry was due for breakfast.
“Potter?” Terry asked, hopping on one foot as he tugged his trousers on. “Really? Haven’t seen him for ages.”
“Very funny, Terry,” I said, pressing the rest of his clothes into his arms. “Meet us for a drink sometime – in proper trousers - but don’t meet us for breakfast!”
Terry laughed and stole a breathless kiss and swirled away, leaving me just enough time to shower the scent of sex off me and change into something less gay before Harry arrived with fresh bread and juice, because he knew my housekeeping skills.
And it wasn’t exactly being unfaithful to Terry for me to sit at breakfast and let a part of me imagine it was Harry who’d spent the night, and stayed for breakfast, but it was stupid of me to let my mind wander to dragging Harry back to bed again, afterwards, until he had to clear his throat significantly to get my attention.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “Nothing wrong – just a bit… distracted.”
“Any… explanation for the love bite on your neck?”
“Where?” I gasped, my hand flying to my throat.
Harry nearly fell off his chair, laughing. “Nowhere,” he said. “But your guilty behaviour says it’s not for the want of trying.”
“Very funny,” I complained.
“So,” he said. “When do I get to meet her?”
I grunted.
“It was just a thing,” I said. “Not a meetable thing.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Poor girl. What would your mum say if she knew you were having one night stands?” he mused.
But it wasn’t a one night stand.
I saw quite a bit of Terry, over the next few weeks.
Yes, including his face as he came, his arse as I slid my cock into it, his cock as it jerked and spat in my hand.
We both knew it was just a thing, but it was wonderful to have someone we could be totally open with.
“This is good,” I said one afternoon, letting his balls slide from my mouth and looking up from where I lay, between his legs.
“My balls thank you,” he said, unsubtly thrusting into my face.
I laughed.
“No, I mean sex plus Quidditch,” I explained, idly wanking him as I spoke.
He hauled himself up on his elbows and looked at me.
“When did I have sex and Quidditch without noticing it?” he asked.
“I mean,” I said, “that the blokes we meet in Muggle clubs may be very talented with their tongues, but they don’t know their Cobbing from their Flacking.”
Terry snorted. “I don’t remember warning you for excessive use of elbows during sex.”
“It’s just a shame,” I continued, “that there isn’t some sort of gay Wizard’s club.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked at me.
“What if I said there was?” he asked.
I sat up, abruptly, my hand stilling on his shaft.
“What d’you mean?” I squeaked.
“There’s a place,” he said. “Members only – new blood has to be Side-Alonged in by a member and vouched for.”
“What sort of place?” I asked.
“A club,” he said. “Food, drink, men, bedrooms – for the use of.”
“Why haven’t you taken me there?” I pouted.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted. “The thing is, you will see people there that you’ll recognise, and you’ll have to be utterly discreet.”
“I can be discreet!”
“Not only at the house – you’ll see them in the future and you will have to be like a rock. No reaction.”
“So?”
“So I know you!” Terry laughed. “You blush and you squeak and you are not discreet!”
“Please,” I begged him. “I want to go somewhere where all the men are gay and love Quidditch!”
He rolled his eyes.
“Pleeeeeeeeese, Terry,” I pouted, bending to lap at the head of his cock.
“Fine,” he said, collapsing back onto my bed. “Tomorrow night. I’ll take you tomorrow night.”
Once Terry had adjusted my wardrobe, he held my arm tightly, reminded me that discretion was key and Side-Alonged me away.
We reappeared in a tiny room, containing a table with some rather sad flowers on it and a door with a peephole in it at eye level.
Terry wrapped on the door and the peephole swung open.
“Password?” a voice asked.
“Molly House,” Terry said firmly, and I remembered Hermione’s lecture about eighteenth century gay bars.
“Lovely, dear,” the hidden voice replied and the door swung open to reveal my beloved mother. “Welcome to the Molly House.”
“Mum?” I squeaked.
“Discretion,” Terry murmured.
“Discretion about the other customers,” I scoffed. “Not about my mother working here!”
“Are you really a customer, Ronnie?” Mum asked, looking up at me, wide-eyed, and then down my rather billowy robes, slashed to show my shirtsleeves underneath, which Terry had assured me were the latest thing. “Well, yes, you must be, if Terry has vouched for you. Well. This is a fine way for your mother to find out, I must say.”
I boggled.
“Don’t give me that,” I complained. “Why is my mother working in a brothel?”
“It’s not a brothel,” she snapped, grabbing me by the ear and hustling me down a hall and through a doorway into – the kitchen at the Burrow.
“What?” I squeaked.
“It’s not a brothel, and I don’t work here,” she said, with great dignity. “It is a private club, where my gentlemen can meet in perfect safety. And I am the owner.”
“Mum!” I wailed.
“Well,” she said. “The Burrow was far too big, for just me, so I had the new entrance constructed, for my customers, and had the bedrooms refurbished.”
I looked up at the ceiling.
“There are men having sex in my old room?” I gasped.
She frowned thoughtfully.
“Not at the moment,” she said. “Would you and Terry like to take it?”
“No, we wouldn’t!” I shouted. “If we wanted to have sex in my room, we’d have stayed at my flat!”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, young man,” she said. “You’re not so old that I can’t box your ears!”
I gaped at her.
“How does a respectable widow even go about setting up a brothel?” I demanded.
“It. Is. Not. A. Brothel. I sell food and drink and I rent out rooms, how is that any different from the Three Broomsticks?”
“They don’t rent rooms by the hour,” I muttered.
“Actually, they do,” she said calmly. “Apparently Muggle gay clubs are all loud music and complicated drinks with suggestive names,” she went on. “But what my gentlemen want is home cooked food, the Quidditch on the wireless and a place to meet other gentlemen like themselves.”
“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “That sounds… perfect, really. Muggle clubs are a bit scary.”
“Well, then,” she said. “I’m glad you approve.”
I let that pass.
“How did you get all this set up in the last six months, anyway?” I demanded.
“Oh, Hermione has been very helpful,” she said. “Both with advice about the Molly House and with making contact with my customers.”
“Making contact?” I squeaked. “How does she do that? And how could Terry just bring me here, without warning me? I’m gonna kill him.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Mum admonished gently. “We have a mild Fidelius on the place – Hermione’s work – and Terry could do no more than warn you to be discreet.”
I gave up.
The women in my life were running a gay brothel. A charming, homely gay brothel.
“Come on now,” Mum said. “Go through to the lounge and see if Terry is still free. There’s the Puddlemere match on the wireless later, and I always get a good crowd when Oliver is playing. There’s roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for dinner and, seeing as you’re here, I’ll warm up some treacle tart and whip up some custard for afters.”
“Right,” I said weakly, getting to my feet.
“Good boy,” Mum said, pulling my head down and kissing me on the cheek.
I slunk down the hall, into the lounge of my childhood home. I don’t know what I was expecting, but all Mum had done was enlarge it and squeeze in extra battered couches, set at angles around the fireplace, the wireless and between several low tables.
There were men there, and two were even half in each others’ laps, but it wasn’t a scene of debauchery, especially considering what I’d seen at Muggle clubs.
Terry was on a couch with a handsome, older man who was running his hand up and down Terry’s arm as they talked. Terry looked up and met my eye, whispered something and came over to me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t say anything.”
“I know,” I sighed. “Mum explained. You go back to your… friend.”
“Will you be OK?” he asked.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “There’s the Quidditch, and Mum’s making custard.”
“Maybe you’ll hook up,” he said brightly. “There’ll be quite a crowd, once the match starts.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “Not in my mother’s house – I’ll just chat about the Quidditch.”
So I found an armchair near the wireless, where I could see the door and watch the men arriving, talking, eating, flirting, pairing off and disappearing upstairs.
Terry had gone up, but I recognised a couple of faces from work, who blinked when they saw me and nodded solemnly, and I was talking to a tall skinny guy, who supported Puddlemere, when the door next opened.
My eyes automatically flicked up and barely registered a huge bloke who filled the doorway and was half turned to talk to someone behind him, but then he bent to kiss someone else on the cheek and the bloke behind him stepped into the room.
And it was my Harry.
Well, it was a Harry, because what would my Harry be doing in a gay brothel? Even a charming, homely one, run by his adopted mother, who had forgotten to mention this extra detail to me.
His eyes locked on mine and the colour drained from his face. I stood up and he took half a step towards me and I felt my magic fizzing under my skin. Then his friend turned back to him and said something with a broad smile. Getting no reaction, he frowned and raised his hand to Harry’s face, running his thumb over his cheekbone.
My Magic flared and the glass in his other hand exploded, fragments flying everywhere and cutting the hands thrown up swiftly in front of various faces.
Except for Harry’s, because he still hadn’t moved, and a shard of glass cut his lip and his tongue peeped out to touch it as the blood ran down his face.
My mum appeared in the doorway, looking murderous.
“What was that?” she demanded.
Everyone except Harry was looking at his large, wine and glass splattered friend.
“Ronnie?” Mum said, eying me nervously. “What happened?”
I was still looking at Harry like he was a mirage and she finally huffed, Reparoed the glass, healed various cuts and pushed Harry out into the hall.
She glared pointedly at me and I was pulled helplessly out of the room, not knowing whether my feet had rebelled against me, or my mum had Accioed me.
Harry and I were still gaping at each other and Mum closed the door behind her and cleared her throat.
“Yes, well, it’s all very surprising, I’m sure,” she said. “And this is poor Ronnie’s first visit, as well. But you’re going to have to sort this out away from my other gentlemen and my wine glasses.”
Neither of us moved.
“Right,” she said briskly. “You go up to Ron’s room and you talk this through. I’m not having tension like this in the family, and I’m not compromising the Molly House by having either of you storm off in a bad mood.”
“My room?” I echoed, finally looking at her.
“It’s not being used,” she said. “Seems like a good idea to clear the air up there.”
“And what’ll we owe you for using it?” I asked and received a smack on the back of my head.
“Do not get fresh with me,” Mum said. “I want you both to sort this out. Go on.”
She shooed us towards the stairs and we climbed, zigzagging up the house. I was half on autopilot and half watching Harry’s arse climbing ahead of me. There were no noises from the bedrooms we passed. Hermione must have put industrial strength Silencing Charms on the walls.
Each door had a plaque with a colour on it, I assume so the ‘gentlemen’ could be told ‘go and fuck in the Blue Room’ and, we reached my old room, at the top of the house, to find it was now ‘Orange’.
Well, I hardly wanted them to be told, ‘go and fuck in Ronald’s Room’ did I?
Harry pushed open the door, revealing a much larger room than I’d been used to, with a double bed with heavy drapes and a table with a decanter and glasses on it.
He crossed and poured two large drinks and held one out to me.
I closed the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed. I blankly watched him sigh, sip his own whiskey and walk over to stand before me, offering me my drink.
I looked at his hand.
How many times had I seen Harry’s hands?
Even wrapped around a glass, like this.
And now I was picturing them wrapped around something else, and that was something I wasn’t allowed to do. Or was I?
My best mate was apparently flamingly queer, and promiscuous enough to go to gay clubs.
Why weren’t we shagging already?
He turned away and put the drinks down. “Ron?” he said.
I looked up at him and tried to look at him as a stranger, meeting in a bar. I’d always thought he was gorgeous, but that was because of the being madly in love with him thing. I wondered how well he did.
“Ron?” he repeated. “Are you OK?”
“Shall we fuck, then?” I asked, undoing my robes.
“What?” he spluttered, taking a step backwards.
“I’m not that dreadful a prospect, surely?” I said, kicking off my shoes and dropping my trousers. “Were you hoping to pull something better?”
“Stop it,” he said. “Please.”
“Isn’t that why we’re here?” I asked, standing in just a billowy shirt and socks.
“No,” Harry protested. “I was gonna listen to the match.”
“You could have done that at home,” I said, hopping as I took off my socks. “You could have done that at my place. But you came here, with… what’s his name again? The McClaggan clone?”
“Thomas,” Harry said.
“Boyfriend?” I asked, stepping out of my boxers.
“No, not really,” Harry said. “Just a friend. And put those back on.”
“A friend?” I scoffed. “A friend you came here with!”
“What is your problem?” he shouted. “You’re here, too, aren’t you? Who did you come with?”
“Terry,” I muttered.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Boot?” he said. “Boyfriend, is he?”
“No,” I said. “He’s a good fuck.”
“Really, Ron,” he said sadly, “what’s wrong?”
“Apart from the fact that my best mate is queer and goes to a brothel run by my mum?” I shrugged. “Nothing.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked small and miserable.
“I couldn’t tell you about the Molly House,” he said.
“I know,” I said, waving that away. “Mum said; Hermione Fideliused it.”
“And I couldn’t tell you I was gay, because I didn’t want to… disappoint you.”
I grunted.
“And to be fair,” he said. “You didn’t tell me, either.”
“It’s not the same thing,” I said, sitting beside him and making sure my shirt covered my lap.
“What?” he said. “How is it not the same?”
“You grew up in the Muggle world,” I said. “Which can’t be as anti-queer as the Wizarding World, so you can’t find it as hard to tell people.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, because I don’t have to live with the Boy Who Lived crap, do I?”
“I’ve been trying things out in Muggle clubs,” I said. “And I met Terry in one and tonight is the first time I’ve done anything like this around other wizards, and what happens? My mother is running the place, and my best friend is one of her paying customers!”
“I don’t pay,” he said.
“Why not?” I demanded. “This is her only source of income!”
He sighed. “I don’t pay, because I paid for all this.” He gestured at my restructured room.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I moaned, flopping back across the bed. “Hermione designed it and you paid for it and my mum runs it. And no one told me.”
“Ron, that just isn’t fair,” he protested. “If any of us had known you were gay, don’t you think you’d have been the first person we invited here?”
“Yeah, well, maybe,” I admitted.
“And cover your lap,” he added, nodding at my cock, which was looking as sad and deflated as the rest of me and had flopped across my thigh.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and we both looked at it.
“Why should I?” I asked. “It’s not like you haven’t seen one before.”
“Very funny. Put it away.”
“See, the thing is,” I said, “either (a) you’re not interested in my cock, in which case it shouldn’t bother you, or (b) you are interested and you’re a slut and don’t care who’s on the other end of it. Either way, I may as well leave it out.”
I looked up at him and his eyes were hard and his jaw was set.
“What?” I asked.
“Those are my only two options, are they? I’m not interested or I’m a slut? No other choices?”
“What other choices?” I asked.
“No, fine, you’re right,” he muttered. “I’d better pick (a), then, you’re angry enough already.”
“What other choices?” I repeated and he snapped.
He grabbed my hand and held it against his groin, where something hard and hot pushed back into my palm.
“How about (c) I think about your cock when Thomas is inside me?” he growled.
I blinked at him.
“Me?” I asked.
“Of course, you,” he whispered. “Who else?”
“Oh, Harry,” I murmured.
“So, how could I ever tell you?” he asked, flinching and dropping my hand.
I swallowed and stroked him through his robes, my own cock stirring.
“Don’t,” he said, trying to move away from me, but I moved with him and ended up leaning over him and cupping his erection, which thrust up against my hand, despite its owner’s doubts. “You don’t mean it. Not me.”
“’Course I mean it,” I protested. “Don’t you know who you are?”
He looked wary and annoyed.
“I don’t need any Chosen One crap, Ron,” he said.
“What?” I said. “No. Idiot. You’re my Harry, you’re my favourite person in the world, aren’t you?”
“I don’t need any favours,” he complained, his eyes losing focus as I stroked him.
“Not a favour,” I said, throwing a leg across him and pressing my cock against his. “Mad about you.”
“Me?” he echoed.
“Of course, you, you git,” I whispered. “Who else?”
His eyes locked on mine and his hand slid between our bodies and wrapped around my erection and I groaned.
“But not here, Harry,” I whispered. “Please.”
He held my cock tight and lifted his face towards me and I bent for a kiss, and he Side-Alonged us away as our lips met.
I’m sure it was supposed to be ever so romantic, but we landed half on and half off his bed, and I fell off and he was still holding my cock, which felt like he’d snapped it off.
“Oh, fuckfuckfuck,” I whimpered, both hands clutching my wounded privates.
Harry looked over the side of the bed.
“Ron, I’m so sorry,” he said, slithering over the edge and kneeling by my side, hands flailing in front of him and finally settling on my parted thighs.
“You broke it,” I whined.
“I didn’t” Harry said. “Don’t be a baby, let me see.”
I self-consciously removed my hands and Harry reached out to stroke me.
“Everything happens to me,” he pouted. “I wait years to touch your cock and then I break it.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed.
“Maybe you could… kiss it better?” I suggested, with a pained leer.
Harry sniggered and helped me to my feet.
We sat on the bed and he leant against my shoulder. “Shall we try again?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course,” I said, leaning forward and brushing my lips against his. “But be gentle with me.”
He laughed and moved in for another kiss, holding me in place by a double handful of my billowy shirt as he sighed into my mouth.
I ran my tongue along his parted lips and his hands tightened as he pushed me back against the pillows. My own hands came up and undid his robes, laughing as I pushed them down his arms and he got tangled up as he wouldn’t let go of my shirt.
“Stay there,” he said firmly, before leaping up to undress.
“Lose the shirt,” I said, dragging mine off over my head and settling myself more comfortably and spreading my legs.
He climbed back onto the bed and crawled between my thighs and I leant up, stealing another open mouthed kiss.
“We really doing this?” he murmured.
Were we? This wasn’t an anonymous blowjob in a club; it wasn’t even experimenting with Terry.
This was my Harry and I wouldn’t be able to give him up, afterwards. But I wasn’t ready for a Talk.
“Talk later,” I decided, cupping his arse and pulling him hard against me.
“Oh, god,” he moaned. “Oh, Ron!”
“Sounds just about right,” I said as his cock slid alongside mine.
He laughed and thrust again and his arse flexed in my hands with each stroke and I stared down, between our bodies, and watched.
Watched his cock.
Felt his cock.
Harry’s cock. His beautiful, achingly hard cock.
I’d dreamt about that cock.
After a few strokes he stopped moving and I looked up to find him watching me with one quizzical eyebrow raised.
“You’re drooling,” he pointed out.
I shook myself. “That’s really your cock,” I said stupidly.
He laughed. “Uh, yeah.”
“I love your cock,” I said.
“It’s, um, very fond of you, too, Ron,” he said. “Can we fuck now?”
“God, yes please.”
He laughed again and took his weight on one elbow, wrapping his other hand around our cocks and surging against me.
Over and over.
As he buried his face in my neck and my hands ran up his back and I wrapped my arms and legs around him and held him hard against me and marvelled at the armful of writhing Harry Potter I had been gifted with.
Until he sunk his teeth into my collar bone and groaned as he came between us.
And then I marvelled at how heavy he was, and how I still needed to come.
“Harry,” I whined and he sniggered.
Letting his body slip off of mine and land on a hip bone, he pinned me down with a thigh thrown across mine and ran a fingertip up the length of my erection. It slid easily through his come that had splattered over me and I whined again.
Leaning in for a kiss he slid his tongue between my lips and started stroking me – echoing the rhythm as his tongue fucked my mouth.
I thrust up into his hand and sucked hard on his tongue with every stroke, and soon my seed spilt over his clever fingers.
“Wow,” he whispered, squeezing my cock as I trembled with aftershocks.
“Wow,” I murmured, pulling him closer and letting myself drift as he curled up against my side. “Wow, Harry.”
But he wasn’t boneless and satisfied against my side – he was rubbing a reawakened cock against my hip and pressing kisses into my skin.
“Hmmm,” he sighed.
I dragged my eyes open and watched him nuzzle and murmur and nibble his way across my chest until his mouth closed on a nipple.
“Mmmm,” he moaned, coming up on hands and knees and nudging my legs apart to kneel between them.
His hands ran down my body, thumbs brushing across my nipples, fingers zigzagging down my ribs, palms splaying over my hipbones as he pressed me down into the mattress.
He smiled as he petted and stroked me and I parted my legs further and laughed as his hand automatically slipped between them.
He looked up at me, a heated look in darkened eyes and I swallowed.
“Can I?” he asked. “Please?”
I’d never bottomed for Terry, but there was no question of me saying no.
“’Course,” I muttered, watching a predatory smile bloom across his face.
“’Course,” he echoed, moving forward and kissing me as his fingers slid between my cheeks.
I sighed into his mouth as he wandlessly produced warmed lube and a fingertip pressed inside me.
“Is this OK?” he asked, crooking his finger and reaching for that spot that Terry had been rather fond of.
“Fuck yes,” I hissed.
If I’m being honest, I was rather fond of it, too, and Harry massaged it until I was holding myself open for him and begging for his cock.
And he sucked on my bottom lip as his cock breached my body and bit me as he slid fully inside me.
Part of me wondered why the hell hadn’t I tried this before, while part of me was pathetically glad I’d ‘saved myself’ for Harry.
Because it wouldn’t have felt that good with anyone else. With anyone else part of me would be wondering why their cock was up my arse, with Harry I was watching his beautiful face contort with joy and pain as he spilt inside me and I loved him.
When I woke, his hair was tickling me and his face was buried in my neck.
I tightened my arms around him and sighed happily; stretching carefully I enjoyed the places that ached.
The places that Harry had made ache.
“Morning,” he croaked.
“Morning,” I echoed.
“Are we gonna talk about this?” he asked.
“This what?”
“This!” He rubbed his morning wood against my thigh.
I sighed.
“Why do we have to talk about it?” I asked. “We’re not Hermione.”
He flexed his fingers and ran them down my chest.
“I know we’re not,” he said. “But I really don’t want any misunderstandings.”
I grunted.
“Is this just experimenting, or are we together?”
I looked down into his serious face.
“Can blokes do that?” I asked. “Be together?”
“I don’t see why not!” he said indignantly. “I don’t want to experiment with random blokes anymore, not if there’s you.”
“Nor do I,” I said, bringing a hand up to touch his cheek.
He smiled and leant into it.
“So, no more dancing with strange blokes in clubs?”
“No. I don’t dance, anyway.”
“No more anonymous blowjobs in bars?” he said.
“No, Harry.”
“I get exclusive use of this?” he stroked my cock.
“Yes, Harry.”
“And what about the Molly House?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s a good place to go and listen to the Quidditch.”
“Hmmm.”
“And it’s about the only place we can go and cuddle up together on a big squishy couch and have a meal and a chat with friends,” he said.
“It is a good concept, I give you that,” I admitted. “But it’s still run by my mum and Hermione.”
“Well, you can’t avoid it for ever,” he pointed out. “You left your clothes there, last night!”
“You could get them for me,” I pouted.
“And why would I do that?” he laughed.
“’Cos you’ve debauched me,” I complained. “I was a good boy until I met you!”
“Are you saying I debauched you at age eleven?” he asked and I sniggered.
He smiled up at me.
“I was alone until I met you,” he said.
“You’ll never be alone again,” I promised, leaning down and kissing him.
****
A Molly house is an archaic English term for a tavern or private room where homosexual and transgender males could meet each other and possible sexual partners. Found in most of the larger cities, Molly houses were a precursor to the modern gay bar.
The most famous of these was Mother Clap's Molly house in the Holborn area of London. In the 18th century, homosexual males in England were prosecuted under sodomy laws for which the penalty was death by hanging. The court records of their trials are the main documentary evidence of such establishments that survive today. On the 9th of May 1726, three men (Gabriel Lawrence, William Griffin and Thomas Wright) were hanged at Tyburn for sodomy.
So, I gave them a chance to shag Harry and Ron – aren’t I generous?
Title: Mother Weasley’s Molly House
Author:
shocfixPairing: Harry/Ron – plus the boys with other pretty boys.
Words: 7000
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JKR, all descriptions of genitalia are fictional, and do not refer to DJR.
Oh, Ron!
My brave, freckled, loyal, funny, loving, devoted, brave SURVIVING boy.
It is your twenty-seventh birthday, sweetheart, and though posting starts today over at the
triatha_ron, I couldn’t not write something for your birthday!There are no words for how much I adore you – and the LJ fun that you have brought me to – and I cannot believe it is time to write especially for you, again!
Or that in just twenty weeks we will know how you and
I hope you have a lovely birthday; I hope the Cannons win; I hope Hermione wakes you up with a blowjob and a promise of a chocolate-based dinner eaten off her naked body – and then Floos to work, so Harry can come over with lube and enough Gryffindor ties to tie you to the bedposts!
Betaed by my lovely
magicofisis - see you soon, babe!Mother Weasley’s Molly House
****
Even before the War, I would never have mentioned my, um, baser tendencies.
No wizard would admit he was queer; you just kept your head down, were careful not to look at anyone in the showers and you found a pretty witch to marry and impregnate.
There were always stories, passed down from year to year, of what had happened to some bloke in another House, caught trying to interfere with a dorm mate. And I had had five brothers, full of scandal, too, although I don’t remember Bill ever saying anything – I guess I wasn’t old enough while he was still alive.
I didn’t feel bad about it or persecuted, not exactly. That was the way things were. With such a small Magical population, babies were important, and shirt lifters weren’t.
Things were even worse after the war, of course, and you can see why, with so many young witches and wizards being killed and the population needing to be topped up, attractive arses were very low on anyone else’s list of priorities.
So I would hold Hermione tight and bury my face in her hair and she filled my arms, and if she never reached the part of my heart that thought of Harry’s wrists and cheekbones and eyes, well, I would never let her know.
And, in a year or two, when we could afford it, I would propose.
She was the only girl for me.
It wasn’t her fault that Harry was the only boy.
Or that there’d been that big scandal in the Prophet when the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation was caught with his male secretary.
Percy had read the article out in a scandalised whisper and my Hermione hadn’t understood, at first, bless her.
“She was in charge of his post?” she asked.
“What?” Percy said, frowning at the interruption.
“I just don’t see that it matters what her duties were,” Hermione said. “As long as they didn’t include sleeping with her boss.”
Percy had spluttered and George had smiled weakly.
But at least it was a real smile, and they were rare since he lost Fred.
“Not his correspondence secretary,” Percy said stiffly. “His masculine secretary.”
“Not all that masculine, I wouldn’t say,” George had muttered and Hermione’s eyes had widened and I’d winced, dreading the ‘oh my god, that’s disgusting’ conversation.
“That is disgusting,” Hermione breathed and it hurt even more than I’d expected.
“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” Percy said. “That sort of unnatural behaviour is dealt with very firmly. Simply not permitted.”
“I don’t mean the behaviour is disgusting, you ignoramus,” Hermione snapped and I gaped at her. “I mean treating people like that for simply loving each other.”
Everyone blinked at her.
“Um… Hermione,” George said. “It just isn’t right. Two blokes… you know.”
“Says who?” she demanded.
“Says all right thinking wizards,” Percy said.
“Says the same people who discriminate against werewolves and enslave house elves,” Hermione snapped. “This is another of the Wizarding World’s oh so charming throwbacks to the eighteenth century that everyone knows about, is it? And why didn’t you tell me?”
She turned on me.
“Um,” I said. Because I’m queer and thought you’d hate me didn’t sound like a good answer.
“Hermione,” Charlie said carefully. “It’s not the sort of thing a bloke’d tell his girl about, is it?”
Hermione snorted.
“Not if he approves of the bigotry, no,” she said.
“Hermione,” Mum asked. “Is it true that Muggles don’t mind it? You know: two men, being together like that? Arthur said they didn’t mind, but I didn’t believe him, what with the whole plug thing.”
Many ginger eyebrows rose, and even I hoped that this wasn’t evidence of Dad putting plugs in the wrong sockets.
But she looked interested, and not a lot had caught her attention since Dad and the others had died, so I looked eagerly to Hermione for her answer.
OK, so her answer had implications for me, too.
“Oh, there are more than enough bigoted Muggles, you don’t have the monopoly on that,” she said. “But most are fair about these things; there are gay clubs and bars, and gay politicians can be open about their sexuality.” She smacked the picture of the disgraced Head of Magical Transportation.
Everyone was still blinking at her, incredulously, except for Mum, who looked fascinated.
“Gay bars?” she asked. “Like somewhere they can go to meet people… meet… lovers?”
“Mother!” Percy gasped.
“Mum, please,” George begged.
“Isn’t it better to have somewhere safe to go, where they won’t get beaten up for chatting someone up?” Hermione demanded.
“No,” Percy said flatly.
Wow, I thought. Somewhere where all the blokes in the room are queer, and you can… you can buy them a drink and they know you’ll… he’ll… wow.
“Is this a new thing, dear?” Mum asked. “A special club, like that?”
Charlie snorted.
“The acceptance is new,” Hermione said “But the meeting places can’t be new, can they? Homosexuality is hardly new.”
“It sounds like a good idea,” Mum said. “Somewhere safe to go, where you won’t get into trouble, or cause a scandal. Where everyone is in the same boat, and you know they’ll keep your secrets.”
Charlie and George were still gawping and Percy choked and I thought rooms full of queer blokes, who won’t punch you.
“In the eighteenth century, they were called Molly Houses,” Hermione supplied helpfully.
Charlie and Mum laughed and Percy looked shocked.
I was more than usually thoughtful as I saw Hermione back to her parents’ house, and I didn’t realise I was in trouble until she started on me.
“You were very quiet today,” she said. “No mocking comments about shirt lifters and dropping the soap in the showers?”
“Hermione! N-no!” I stammered.
“You never told me how homophobic the Wizarding World was,” she pointed out.
“Why would I?” I asked. “You don’t talk about things like that with a girl! And I know how you get about these things, anyway.”
“What things?”
“Elves, werewolves…”
“Prejudice!”
“Look, don’t shout at me, Hermione,” I protested. “I think it’s prejudice, too, or I wouldn’t have said ‘elves’. I do think it’s wrong, but that’s how people are about queers, and I was not gonna tell you the jokes blokes make about shirt lifters. And I don’t make jokes like that, anyway.”
“No, you don’t,” she admitted. “Neither of you do.” She frowned. “How does Harry feel about homosexuality?”
“I don’t know,” I spluttered. “It’s just not talked about.”
“I’m surprised there wasn’t talk about you and Harry, actually,” she said thoughtfully.
“What?”
“Well, living in each other’s pockets like that,” she said, while I blinked helplessly. “I suppose it’s a good thing I was always around.”
“Yeah,” I agreed faintly, giving her a kiss on the cheek and watching her open the door and close it behind her.
My head was whirling as I Apparated back to my flat.
I’m surprised there wasn’t talk about you and Harry, actually.
Merlin.
And the Muggles had queer clubs.
Gay clubs.
I’d have to get used to Muggle slang, if I was gonna try and visit one, and that was a bugger, if you pardon the expression, because when did I ever try anything Muggle without Harry or Hermione’s help?
So, I planned it all very carefully.
During the war, Hermione had taken me to a library and shown me how to use the Muggle Yellow Pages to find a shop we needed, so I dressed in my Mugglest clothes and slipped out of the Leaky Cauldron and into Muggle London and found firstly, a library, secondly, a directory, and thirdly, a gay club not too far away.
Wishing I had someone I could tell about my achievements, I then used my surveillance experience to watch the club for two weekends, until I was sure that the clientele were the right age and that I could dress not too differently.
Harry and Hermione had both noticed I was up to something, as I had put off plans with both and each of them, and they were getting too interested in what I was doing, so it was another couple of weeks before I could get away again.
I made sure I had plenty of Muggle money, dressed carefully and Apparated to an alleyway, beside the club.
Walking into that room was the most amazing feeling. I’m not saying all heads turned round and all jaws dropped; I’m not vain and I know that I’m skinny, red headed and freckled, but I wouldn’t kick me out of bed.
It was just the knowledge that any head that did casually turn in my direction actually was checking me out.
And I was allowed to look at any bloke there, I was allowed to admire shoulders, arms, smiles, arses.
Not out of the corner of my eye and with my head down. And no, they weren’t my Harry, but I knew that that could never be possible.
But they were like me.
They were there to meet people like me.
Meet.
Fuck.
Not that I was ready for that, yet, so I sat at the bar and I watched them drink and dance and flirt.
And I sipped my beer and I watched them talk and kiss and pair up and slip into the gents.
And I even had a drink and a chat with a bloke named William, and he touched the back of my hand and I jumped and spilt my drink and excused myself and Apparated home, alone and aroused and terrified.
But I went back.
And, on my third visit, William kissed me.
And on my fifth he took me into the gents and knelt at my feet and sucked me off.
And the next day I broke up with Hermione.
“Why?” she asked, gazing up at me with big, sad eyes and breaking my heart.
“I’ve changed,” I said. “I’m not who I was at school, and I can’t be who you want me to be.”
“Where do you go all the time?” she asked. “Is there someone else?”
“No,” I said. “Not yet. But there is the possibility of someone else, and I don’t cheat.”
And she cried and I held her as she cried, but I knew I had done the right thing.
Which is what I told Harry, when he turned up to shout at me.
“Are you insane?” he shouted. “You love her.”
“But I’m not in love with her,” I said.
He snorted.
“How could you hurt her like this?” he asked.
“I’m not who she thinks I am.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I have never done what I want with my life, and you, of all people, should understand that, and I want a chance to try. And I don’t want to live in this grotty flat and save for another two years before I can afford to marry Hermione.”
“Then what do you want?” he asked. “What is so important that you’d need to give up Hermione to do it? And if it’s that important, then I should help you. What do you want?”
I tutted, but my heart ached.
What if I’d said, kiss me, hold me, take me in your mouth?
But I didn’t.
I said, “I’m working that out for myself,” and he put a bracing, best mate’s hand on my shoulder and I wanted him desperately.
The months passed and I repaired my friendship with Hermione, and I tried other clubs and I gave my first blowjob, to a bloke called Gabriel, who wore more eye make up than any girl I’d ever known, and who held my head in his hands and hissed as he fucked my mouth.
And I even had a couple of actual dates with William, but we didn’t really have anything to talk about; I couldn’t talk about work or Quidditch, I didn’t understand when he talked about Muggle jobs and films and television shows.
And my life was maybe half way to what I wanted.
Because I wanted the drinks and kisses and blowjobs in the familiar surroundings of the Wizarding World, and I was terrified at the thought of trying to find them, until they landed, quite literally, in my lap.
I was at my original club, where I was even recognised as something of a regular, and the cutest arse I’d ever seen, in the tightest trousers, sprawled across my lap and I automatically reached out to touch it before automatically snatching back my hand, before realising I was in a gay club and running my hand over it, appreciatively.
“At least buy a bloke a drink,” a voice said, and the arse untangled itself and sat up to reveal it was attached to a familiar face.
“Ron!”
“Uh, Terry,” I stammered. “Um. It’s not… I’m…”
He arched a very sceptical eyebrow.
“I think you are and it is,” he said solemnly. “But I am hardly in a position to tell anyone, now am I?”
And I blushed and bought him a drink and we found a table and sat down.
And it was fantastic.
There I was, dressed to the nines, drinking and flirting with a good looking guy, and talking about Quidditch and bitching about the Ministry.
And it seemed the easiest thing in the world to invite him back to my flat – something that was impossible with Muggles – and I collapsed onto my couch, tugging off his impossibly tight trousers and sliding down between his legs to take him in my mouth and sprawling naked, afterwards, to let him repay the compliment.
Even if it was horribly embarrassing to have to hurry him back into his trousers the next morning and pop him in the fire, because Harry was due for breakfast.
“Potter?” Terry asked, hopping on one foot as he tugged his trousers on. “Really? Haven’t seen him for ages.”
“Very funny, Terry,” I said, pressing the rest of his clothes into his arms. “Meet us for a drink sometime – in proper trousers - but don’t meet us for breakfast!”
Terry laughed and stole a breathless kiss and swirled away, leaving me just enough time to shower the scent of sex off me and change into something less gay before Harry arrived with fresh bread and juice, because he knew my housekeeping skills.
And it wasn’t exactly being unfaithful to Terry for me to sit at breakfast and let a part of me imagine it was Harry who’d spent the night, and stayed for breakfast, but it was stupid of me to let my mind wander to dragging Harry back to bed again, afterwards, until he had to clear his throat significantly to get my attention.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “Nothing wrong – just a bit… distracted.”
“Any… explanation for the love bite on your neck?”
“Where?” I gasped, my hand flying to my throat.
Harry nearly fell off his chair, laughing. “Nowhere,” he said. “But your guilty behaviour says it’s not for the want of trying.”
“Very funny,” I complained.
“So,” he said. “When do I get to meet her?”
I grunted.
“It was just a thing,” I said. “Not a meetable thing.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Poor girl. What would your mum say if she knew you were having one night stands?” he mused.
But it wasn’t a one night stand.
I saw quite a bit of Terry, over the next few weeks.
Yes, including his face as he came, his arse as I slid my cock into it, his cock as it jerked and spat in my hand.
We both knew it was just a thing, but it was wonderful to have someone we could be totally open with.
“This is good,” I said one afternoon, letting his balls slide from my mouth and looking up from where I lay, between his legs.
“My balls thank you,” he said, unsubtly thrusting into my face.
I laughed.
“No, I mean sex plus Quidditch,” I explained, idly wanking him as I spoke.
He hauled himself up on his elbows and looked at me.
“When did I have sex and Quidditch without noticing it?” he asked.
“I mean,” I said, “that the blokes we meet in Muggle clubs may be very talented with their tongues, but they don’t know their Cobbing from their Flacking.”
Terry snorted. “I don’t remember warning you for excessive use of elbows during sex.”
“It’s just a shame,” I continued, “that there isn’t some sort of gay Wizard’s club.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked at me.
“What if I said there was?” he asked.
I sat up, abruptly, my hand stilling on his shaft.
“What d’you mean?” I squeaked.
“There’s a place,” he said. “Members only – new blood has to be Side-Alonged in by a member and vouched for.”
“What sort of place?” I asked.
“A club,” he said. “Food, drink, men, bedrooms – for the use of.”
“Why haven’t you taken me there?” I pouted.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted. “The thing is, you will see people there that you’ll recognise, and you’ll have to be utterly discreet.”
“I can be discreet!”
“Not only at the house – you’ll see them in the future and you will have to be like a rock. No reaction.”
“So?”
“So I know you!” Terry laughed. “You blush and you squeak and you are not discreet!”
“Please,” I begged him. “I want to go somewhere where all the men are gay and love Quidditch!”
He rolled his eyes.
“Pleeeeeeeeese, Terry,” I pouted, bending to lap at the head of his cock.
“Fine,” he said, collapsing back onto my bed. “Tomorrow night. I’ll take you tomorrow night.”
Once Terry had adjusted my wardrobe, he held my arm tightly, reminded me that discretion was key and Side-Alonged me away.
We reappeared in a tiny room, containing a table with some rather sad flowers on it and a door with a peephole in it at eye level.
Terry wrapped on the door and the peephole swung open.
“Password?” a voice asked.
“Molly House,” Terry said firmly, and I remembered Hermione’s lecture about eighteenth century gay bars.
“Lovely, dear,” the hidden voice replied and the door swung open to reveal my beloved mother. “Welcome to the Molly House.”
“Mum?” I squeaked.
“Discretion,” Terry murmured.
“Discretion about the other customers,” I scoffed. “Not about my mother working here!”
“Are you really a customer, Ronnie?” Mum asked, looking up at me, wide-eyed, and then down my rather billowy robes, slashed to show my shirtsleeves underneath, which Terry had assured me were the latest thing. “Well, yes, you must be, if Terry has vouched for you. Well. This is a fine way for your mother to find out, I must say.”
I boggled.
“Don’t give me that,” I complained. “Why is my mother working in a brothel?”
“It’s not a brothel,” she snapped, grabbing me by the ear and hustling me down a hall and through a doorway into – the kitchen at the Burrow.
“What?” I squeaked.
“It’s not a brothel, and I don’t work here,” she said, with great dignity. “It is a private club, where my gentlemen can meet in perfect safety. And I am the owner.”
“Mum!” I wailed.
“Well,” she said. “The Burrow was far too big, for just me, so I had the new entrance constructed, for my customers, and had the bedrooms refurbished.”
I looked up at the ceiling.
“There are men having sex in my old room?” I gasped.
She frowned thoughtfully.
“Not at the moment,” she said. “Would you and Terry like to take it?”
“No, we wouldn’t!” I shouted. “If we wanted to have sex in my room, we’d have stayed at my flat!”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, young man,” she said. “You’re not so old that I can’t box your ears!”
I gaped at her.
“How does a respectable widow even go about setting up a brothel?” I demanded.
“It. Is. Not. A. Brothel. I sell food and drink and I rent out rooms, how is that any different from the Three Broomsticks?”
“They don’t rent rooms by the hour,” I muttered.
“Actually, they do,” she said calmly. “Apparently Muggle gay clubs are all loud music and complicated drinks with suggestive names,” she went on. “But what my gentlemen want is home cooked food, the Quidditch on the wireless and a place to meet other gentlemen like themselves.”
“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “That sounds… perfect, really. Muggle clubs are a bit scary.”
“Well, then,” she said. “I’m glad you approve.”
I let that pass.
“How did you get all this set up in the last six months, anyway?” I demanded.
“Oh, Hermione has been very helpful,” she said. “Both with advice about the Molly House and with making contact with my customers.”
“Making contact?” I squeaked. “How does she do that? And how could Terry just bring me here, without warning me? I’m gonna kill him.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Mum admonished gently. “We have a mild Fidelius on the place – Hermione’s work – and Terry could do no more than warn you to be discreet.”
I gave up.
The women in my life were running a gay brothel. A charming, homely gay brothel.
“Come on now,” Mum said. “Go through to the lounge and see if Terry is still free. There’s the Puddlemere match on the wireless later, and I always get a good crowd when Oliver is playing. There’s roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for dinner and, seeing as you’re here, I’ll warm up some treacle tart and whip up some custard for afters.”
“Right,” I said weakly, getting to my feet.
“Good boy,” Mum said, pulling my head down and kissing me on the cheek.
I slunk down the hall, into the lounge of my childhood home. I don’t know what I was expecting, but all Mum had done was enlarge it and squeeze in extra battered couches, set at angles around the fireplace, the wireless and between several low tables.
There were men there, and two were even half in each others’ laps, but it wasn’t a scene of debauchery, especially considering what I’d seen at Muggle clubs.
Terry was on a couch with a handsome, older man who was running his hand up and down Terry’s arm as they talked. Terry looked up and met my eye, whispered something and came over to me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t say anything.”
“I know,” I sighed. “Mum explained. You go back to your… friend.”
“Will you be OK?” he asked.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “There’s the Quidditch, and Mum’s making custard.”
“Maybe you’ll hook up,” he said brightly. “There’ll be quite a crowd, once the match starts.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “Not in my mother’s house – I’ll just chat about the Quidditch.”
So I found an armchair near the wireless, where I could see the door and watch the men arriving, talking, eating, flirting, pairing off and disappearing upstairs.
Terry had gone up, but I recognised a couple of faces from work, who blinked when they saw me and nodded solemnly, and I was talking to a tall skinny guy, who supported Puddlemere, when the door next opened.
My eyes automatically flicked up and barely registered a huge bloke who filled the doorway and was half turned to talk to someone behind him, but then he bent to kiss someone else on the cheek and the bloke behind him stepped into the room.
And it was my Harry.
Well, it was a Harry, because what would my Harry be doing in a gay brothel? Even a charming, homely one, run by his adopted mother, who had forgotten to mention this extra detail to me.
His eyes locked on mine and the colour drained from his face. I stood up and he took half a step towards me and I felt my magic fizzing under my skin. Then his friend turned back to him and said something with a broad smile. Getting no reaction, he frowned and raised his hand to Harry’s face, running his thumb over his cheekbone.
My Magic flared and the glass in his other hand exploded, fragments flying everywhere and cutting the hands thrown up swiftly in front of various faces.
Except for Harry’s, because he still hadn’t moved, and a shard of glass cut his lip and his tongue peeped out to touch it as the blood ran down his face.
My mum appeared in the doorway, looking murderous.
“What was that?” she demanded.
Everyone except Harry was looking at his large, wine and glass splattered friend.
“Ronnie?” Mum said, eying me nervously. “What happened?”
I was still looking at Harry like he was a mirage and she finally huffed, Reparoed the glass, healed various cuts and pushed Harry out into the hall.
She glared pointedly at me and I was pulled helplessly out of the room, not knowing whether my feet had rebelled against me, or my mum had Accioed me.
Harry and I were still gaping at each other and Mum closed the door behind her and cleared her throat.
“Yes, well, it’s all very surprising, I’m sure,” she said. “And this is poor Ronnie’s first visit, as well. But you’re going to have to sort this out away from my other gentlemen and my wine glasses.”
Neither of us moved.
“Right,” she said briskly. “You go up to Ron’s room and you talk this through. I’m not having tension like this in the family, and I’m not compromising the Molly House by having either of you storm off in a bad mood.”
“My room?” I echoed, finally looking at her.
“It’s not being used,” she said. “Seems like a good idea to clear the air up there.”
“And what’ll we owe you for using it?” I asked and received a smack on the back of my head.
“Do not get fresh with me,” Mum said. “I want you both to sort this out. Go on.”
She shooed us towards the stairs and we climbed, zigzagging up the house. I was half on autopilot and half watching Harry’s arse climbing ahead of me. There were no noises from the bedrooms we passed. Hermione must have put industrial strength Silencing Charms on the walls.
Each door had a plaque with a colour on it, I assume so the ‘gentlemen’ could be told ‘go and fuck in the Blue Room’ and, we reached my old room, at the top of the house, to find it was now ‘Orange’.
Well, I hardly wanted them to be told, ‘go and fuck in Ronald’s Room’ did I?
Harry pushed open the door, revealing a much larger room than I’d been used to, with a double bed with heavy drapes and a table with a decanter and glasses on it.
He crossed and poured two large drinks and held one out to me.
I closed the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed. I blankly watched him sigh, sip his own whiskey and walk over to stand before me, offering me my drink.
I looked at his hand.
How many times had I seen Harry’s hands?
Even wrapped around a glass, like this.
And now I was picturing them wrapped around something else, and that was something I wasn’t allowed to do. Or was I?
My best mate was apparently flamingly queer, and promiscuous enough to go to gay clubs.
Why weren’t we shagging already?
He turned away and put the drinks down. “Ron?” he said.
I looked up at him and tried to look at him as a stranger, meeting in a bar. I’d always thought he was gorgeous, but that was because of the being madly in love with him thing. I wondered how well he did.
“Ron?” he repeated. “Are you OK?”
“Shall we fuck, then?” I asked, undoing my robes.
“What?” he spluttered, taking a step backwards.
“I’m not that dreadful a prospect, surely?” I said, kicking off my shoes and dropping my trousers. “Were you hoping to pull something better?”
“Stop it,” he said. “Please.”
“Isn’t that why we’re here?” I asked, standing in just a billowy shirt and socks.
“No,” Harry protested. “I was gonna listen to the match.”
“You could have done that at home,” I said, hopping as I took off my socks. “You could have done that at my place. But you came here, with… what’s his name again? The McClaggan clone?”
“Thomas,” Harry said.
“Boyfriend?” I asked, stepping out of my boxers.
“No, not really,” Harry said. “Just a friend. And put those back on.”
“A friend?” I scoffed. “A friend you came here with!”
“What is your problem?” he shouted. “You’re here, too, aren’t you? Who did you come with?”
“Terry,” I muttered.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Boot?” he said. “Boyfriend, is he?”
“No,” I said. “He’s a good fuck.”
“Really, Ron,” he said sadly, “what’s wrong?”
“Apart from the fact that my best mate is queer and goes to a brothel run by my mum?” I shrugged. “Nothing.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked small and miserable.
“I couldn’t tell you about the Molly House,” he said.
“I know,” I said, waving that away. “Mum said; Hermione Fideliused it.”
“And I couldn’t tell you I was gay, because I didn’t want to… disappoint you.”
I grunted.
“And to be fair,” he said. “You didn’t tell me, either.”
“It’s not the same thing,” I said, sitting beside him and making sure my shirt covered my lap.
“What?” he said. “How is it not the same?”
“You grew up in the Muggle world,” I said. “Which can’t be as anti-queer as the Wizarding World, so you can’t find it as hard to tell people.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, because I don’t have to live with the Boy Who Lived crap, do I?”
“I’ve been trying things out in Muggle clubs,” I said. “And I met Terry in one and tonight is the first time I’ve done anything like this around other wizards, and what happens? My mother is running the place, and my best friend is one of her paying customers!”
“I don’t pay,” he said.
“Why not?” I demanded. “This is her only source of income!”
He sighed. “I don’t pay, because I paid for all this.” He gestured at my restructured room.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I moaned, flopping back across the bed. “Hermione designed it and you paid for it and my mum runs it. And no one told me.”
“Ron, that just isn’t fair,” he protested. “If any of us had known you were gay, don’t you think you’d have been the first person we invited here?”
“Yeah, well, maybe,” I admitted.
“And cover your lap,” he added, nodding at my cock, which was looking as sad and deflated as the rest of me and had flopped across my thigh.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and we both looked at it.
“Why should I?” I asked. “It’s not like you haven’t seen one before.”
“Very funny. Put it away.”
“See, the thing is,” I said, “either (a) you’re not interested in my cock, in which case it shouldn’t bother you, or (b) you are interested and you’re a slut and don’t care who’s on the other end of it. Either way, I may as well leave it out.”
I looked up at him and his eyes were hard and his jaw was set.
“What?” I asked.
“Those are my only two options, are they? I’m not interested or I’m a slut? No other choices?”
“What other choices?” I asked.
“No, fine, you’re right,” he muttered. “I’d better pick (a), then, you’re angry enough already.”
“What other choices?” I repeated and he snapped.
He grabbed my hand and held it against his groin, where something hard and hot pushed back into my palm.
“How about (c) I think about your cock when Thomas is inside me?” he growled.
I blinked at him.
“Me?” I asked.
“Of course, you,” he whispered. “Who else?”
“Oh, Harry,” I murmured.
“So, how could I ever tell you?” he asked, flinching and dropping my hand.
I swallowed and stroked him through his robes, my own cock stirring.
“Don’t,” he said, trying to move away from me, but I moved with him and ended up leaning over him and cupping his erection, which thrust up against my hand, despite its owner’s doubts. “You don’t mean it. Not me.”
“’Course I mean it,” I protested. “Don’t you know who you are?”
He looked wary and annoyed.
“I don’t need any Chosen One crap, Ron,” he said.
“What?” I said. “No. Idiot. You’re my Harry, you’re my favourite person in the world, aren’t you?”
“I don’t need any favours,” he complained, his eyes losing focus as I stroked him.
“Not a favour,” I said, throwing a leg across him and pressing my cock against his. “Mad about you.”
“Me?” he echoed.
“Of course, you, you git,” I whispered. “Who else?”
His eyes locked on mine and his hand slid between our bodies and wrapped around my erection and I groaned.
“But not here, Harry,” I whispered. “Please.”
He held my cock tight and lifted his face towards me and I bent for a kiss, and he Side-Alonged us away as our lips met.
I’m sure it was supposed to be ever so romantic, but we landed half on and half off his bed, and I fell off and he was still holding my cock, which felt like he’d snapped it off.
“Oh, fuckfuckfuck,” I whimpered, both hands clutching my wounded privates.
Harry looked over the side of the bed.
“Ron, I’m so sorry,” he said, slithering over the edge and kneeling by my side, hands flailing in front of him and finally settling on my parted thighs.
“You broke it,” I whined.
“I didn’t” Harry said. “Don’t be a baby, let me see.”
I self-consciously removed my hands and Harry reached out to stroke me.
“Everything happens to me,” he pouted. “I wait years to touch your cock and then I break it.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed.
“Maybe you could… kiss it better?” I suggested, with a pained leer.
Harry sniggered and helped me to my feet.
We sat on the bed and he leant against my shoulder. “Shall we try again?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course,” I said, leaning forward and brushing my lips against his. “But be gentle with me.”
He laughed and moved in for another kiss, holding me in place by a double handful of my billowy shirt as he sighed into my mouth.
I ran my tongue along his parted lips and his hands tightened as he pushed me back against the pillows. My own hands came up and undid his robes, laughing as I pushed them down his arms and he got tangled up as he wouldn’t let go of my shirt.
“Stay there,” he said firmly, before leaping up to undress.
“Lose the shirt,” I said, dragging mine off over my head and settling myself more comfortably and spreading my legs.
He climbed back onto the bed and crawled between my thighs and I leant up, stealing another open mouthed kiss.
“We really doing this?” he murmured.
Were we? This wasn’t an anonymous blowjob in a club; it wasn’t even experimenting with Terry.
This was my Harry and I wouldn’t be able to give him up, afterwards. But I wasn’t ready for a Talk.
“Talk later,” I decided, cupping his arse and pulling him hard against me.
“Oh, god,” he moaned. “Oh, Ron!”
“Sounds just about right,” I said as his cock slid alongside mine.
He laughed and thrust again and his arse flexed in my hands with each stroke and I stared down, between our bodies, and watched.
Watched his cock.
Felt his cock.
Harry’s cock. His beautiful, achingly hard cock.
I’d dreamt about that cock.
After a few strokes he stopped moving and I looked up to find him watching me with one quizzical eyebrow raised.
“You’re drooling,” he pointed out.
I shook myself. “That’s really your cock,” I said stupidly.
He laughed. “Uh, yeah.”
“I love your cock,” I said.
“It’s, um, very fond of you, too, Ron,” he said. “Can we fuck now?”
“God, yes please.”
He laughed again and took his weight on one elbow, wrapping his other hand around our cocks and surging against me.
Over and over.
As he buried his face in my neck and my hands ran up his back and I wrapped my arms and legs around him and held him hard against me and marvelled at the armful of writhing Harry Potter I had been gifted with.
Until he sunk his teeth into my collar bone and groaned as he came between us.
And then I marvelled at how heavy he was, and how I still needed to come.
“Harry,” I whined and he sniggered.
Letting his body slip off of mine and land on a hip bone, he pinned me down with a thigh thrown across mine and ran a fingertip up the length of my erection. It slid easily through his come that had splattered over me and I whined again.
Leaning in for a kiss he slid his tongue between my lips and started stroking me – echoing the rhythm as his tongue fucked my mouth.
I thrust up into his hand and sucked hard on his tongue with every stroke, and soon my seed spilt over his clever fingers.
“Wow,” he whispered, squeezing my cock as I trembled with aftershocks.
“Wow,” I murmured, pulling him closer and letting myself drift as he curled up against my side. “Wow, Harry.”
But he wasn’t boneless and satisfied against my side – he was rubbing a reawakened cock against my hip and pressing kisses into my skin.
“Hmmm,” he sighed.
I dragged my eyes open and watched him nuzzle and murmur and nibble his way across my chest until his mouth closed on a nipple.
“Mmmm,” he moaned, coming up on hands and knees and nudging my legs apart to kneel between them.
His hands ran down my body, thumbs brushing across my nipples, fingers zigzagging down my ribs, palms splaying over my hipbones as he pressed me down into the mattress.
He smiled as he petted and stroked me and I parted my legs further and laughed as his hand automatically slipped between them.
He looked up at me, a heated look in darkened eyes and I swallowed.
“Can I?” he asked. “Please?”
I’d never bottomed for Terry, but there was no question of me saying no.
“’Course,” I muttered, watching a predatory smile bloom across his face.
“’Course,” he echoed, moving forward and kissing me as his fingers slid between my cheeks.
I sighed into his mouth as he wandlessly produced warmed lube and a fingertip pressed inside me.
“Is this OK?” he asked, crooking his finger and reaching for that spot that Terry had been rather fond of.
“Fuck yes,” I hissed.
If I’m being honest, I was rather fond of it, too, and Harry massaged it until I was holding myself open for him and begging for his cock.
And he sucked on my bottom lip as his cock breached my body and bit me as he slid fully inside me.
Part of me wondered why the hell hadn’t I tried this before, while part of me was pathetically glad I’d ‘saved myself’ for Harry.
Because it wouldn’t have felt that good with anyone else. With anyone else part of me would be wondering why their cock was up my arse, with Harry I was watching his beautiful face contort with joy and pain as he spilt inside me and I loved him.
When I woke, his hair was tickling me and his face was buried in my neck.
I tightened my arms around him and sighed happily; stretching carefully I enjoyed the places that ached.
The places that Harry had made ache.
“Morning,” he croaked.
“Morning,” I echoed.
“Are we gonna talk about this?” he asked.
“This what?”
“This!” He rubbed his morning wood against my thigh.
I sighed.
“Why do we have to talk about it?” I asked. “We’re not Hermione.”
He flexed his fingers and ran them down my chest.
“I know we’re not,” he said. “But I really don’t want any misunderstandings.”
I grunted.
“Is this just experimenting, or are we together?”
I looked down into his serious face.
“Can blokes do that?” I asked. “Be together?”
“I don’t see why not!” he said indignantly. “I don’t want to experiment with random blokes anymore, not if there’s you.”
“Nor do I,” I said, bringing a hand up to touch his cheek.
He smiled and leant into it.
“So, no more dancing with strange blokes in clubs?”
“No. I don’t dance, anyway.”
“No more anonymous blowjobs in bars?” he said.
“No, Harry.”
“I get exclusive use of this?” he stroked my cock.
“Yes, Harry.”
“And what about the Molly House?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s a good place to go and listen to the Quidditch.”
“Hmmm.”
“And it’s about the only place we can go and cuddle up together on a big squishy couch and have a meal and a chat with friends,” he said.
“It is a good concept, I give you that,” I admitted. “But it’s still run by my mum and Hermione.”
“Well, you can’t avoid it for ever,” he pointed out. “You left your clothes there, last night!”
“You could get them for me,” I pouted.
“And why would I do that?” he laughed.
“’Cos you’ve debauched me,” I complained. “I was a good boy until I met you!”
“Are you saying I debauched you at age eleven?” he asked and I sniggered.
He smiled up at me.
“I was alone until I met you,” he said.
“You’ll never be alone again,” I promised, leaning down and kissing him.
****
A Molly house is an archaic English term for a tavern or private room where homosexual and transgender males could meet each other and possible sexual partners. Found in most of the larger cities, Molly houses were a precursor to the modern gay bar.
The most famous of these was Mother Clap's Molly house in the Holborn area of London. In the 18th century, homosexual males in England were prosecuted under sodomy laws for which the penalty was death by hanging. The court records of their trials are the main documentary evidence of such establishments that survive today. On the 9th of May 1726, three men (Gabriel Lawrence, William Griffin and Thomas Wright) were hanged at Tyburn for sodomy.
So, I gave them a chance to shag Harry and Ron – aren’t I generous?