A Day Off - H/R - NC-17
Title: A Day Off
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words : 1450
Rating: NC-17

Written for lameos_maximus for the lovely satindolls, who bunnied as follows :-

Pairing: Ron/Harry
Bunny: Ron seduces Harry...Involve a pond or swimming pool=bonus points

Betaed, terribly kindly, by my darling belovedranger.


A Day Off
****
I don’t want you to think I hadn’t cared about Ginny.

It only lasted a few weeks, but they were easily the most normal weeks of my life, and the thought of her was enough to keep me going when the three of us set off on our quest.

Our quest.

I’m very careful about that.

I got one hell of a lecture from Hermione when I called it my quest.

Seems the three of us were in this together.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

‘Course, I didn’t expect things to last this long.

Nearly three years.

If you’d asked me then, at the funeral, where we’d be in three years time, I would have been way off.

Yeah, it had taken Ron and Hermione more than two years to get it together, but I’d have pictured them married by now.

And I didn’t really picture myself as neglected, or anything.

Mainly because I pictured myself as dead.

I couldn’t be with them, in their cottage with roses round the door, so I’d end up sacrificing myself for them, and they’d name their firstborn after me.

I never pictured them breaking up.

But those two years of dancing round their feelings were followed by two years of passionate arguments and passionate sex, until they burnt out.

And I’m not pleased, or anything.

I guess I was a bit jealous of them.

Having someone.

But I didn’t want them to be heartbroken.

Luckily, the heartbroken didn’t last long, and the last year or so has been the three of us.

As close as ever.

Sort of.

Because, some time in the past three years.

Some time, between the pain and the death and the danger and sleeping with my head under my pillow to block out the sound of Ron and Hermione having sex.

Somewhere I had lost the picture of Ginny in my head.

It’s probably only to be expected, what with seeing him every day.

But the read hair in my head is shorter, the freckles are more numerous, and the hand I picture touching me can wrap right round my cock, in a way that Ginny certainly never did.

Not that I’m saying she did anything like that.

‘Cos Ron’d kill me.

But, last night, when we destroyed Ravenclaw’s brooch, all I could think about was Ron.

And, when the piece of Voldemort’s soul writhed and screamed and exploded; when Ron whooped and threw his arms round me; when I could justify my racing heart and sweaty palms as reactions to the danger we’d been in, and not to Ron’s hand in my hair, his breath on my neck.

Well, I’m sure it’s only natural, what with seeing him every day.

So, today, Hermione had gone to Hogwarts, with a desperate need to research Helga Hufflepuff, leaving Ron and me with a rare day off.

It was hot and we were sweaty, and there was a mountain stream that took an abrupt left turn at a deep, rocky pool and Ron suggested we go swimming, the bastard.

Now, I’m a crap swimmer, and it’s been more than five years since we last swam together.

So, there I was, sitting on a large rock, undoing my trainers, with images of the Second Task in my head.

With the fear that I’d lose him to the mermaids getting all mixed up with the fear that I’d lose him on this quest.

And the fear that I’d lose him if he knew how I felt.

When, suddenly, there were a huge pair of bare feet on the rock, by my thigh.

I could no more have flown without a broom than stop myself from looking up.

Up the freckled shins, with a dusting of red hair.

Past the knees that used to be knobbly and grazed.

Up the strongly muscled thighs, that used to be so skinny and coltish.

To the balls and cock, so casually cushioned in soft, red pubes, and so tantalisingly at my eye level.

“C’mon, Harry,” he said cheerfully, nudging me with a naked hip and setting his cock swinging.

“Yeah,” I muttered, flushing.

And, with a boyish cry that sounded more like my old Ron than this naked Adonis, he jumped into the pool.

Which left me with a dilemma, as I removed trainers and socks and t-shirt.

An erection.

An erection that would totally humiliate me, should I follow his example, and strip, naked.

And what possible reason could I give for swimming in my boxers?

I took off my jeans and sat back down on my rock, entranced by the sight in front of me.

The vision.

Of Ron, floating on his back.

I’d spent months fighting the freckled images in my head, and now look at him.

How was I supposed to not be in love with him, when he took such good care of me, and looked like that?

“Come on,” he insisted and I flinched as he swam over and tugged on my foot. “Swim with me, Harry.”

He hauled himself up onto the bank and sat beside me.

Naked.

Wet.

Glistening.

And wet.

With streams of water running down his body and soaking my rock.

And my boxers.

“You’re getting me all wet,” I complained and he tutted.

“That is the whole point,” he said and leapt up to stand on the rock, once more.

Water was dripping out of his hair and hitting me, and I ached to touch him, and I ached because I couldn’t.

He squatted down and took my hand and I didn’t know where to look.

Squatted.

I swear.

And it wasn’t really his fault I was so flustered, and he must never, ever know.

So, I let him haul me to my feet.

“Come on,” he said and jumped back into the pool.

My only chance of hiding my erection was to make it into the pool while he was underwater, so I stripped off my boxers as quickly as possible, dropped my glasses onto my pile of clothes, and jumped.

The water was gloriously cold and my cock did not enjoy it, and I had lost my erection by the time I kicked back to the surface.

Gritting my teeth and vowing I could swim with him without humiliating myself, I squinted and looked around for him.

As one of six brothers, with no modesty or sense of personal body space, he appeared behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, and pushed me under.

I came up, spluttering, shook my hair out of my eyes and tried to glare at him, but he was close enough that I could see his eyes sparkling, and I snorted. “What was that for?” I demanded.

“It’s called playing, Harry,” he said, grinning widely. “Don’t be such a grump.”

“I don’t like playing naked,” I complained, and the prat wriggled his eyebrows.

“Oh, Harry,” he said, swimming even closer. “Playing naked is best of all.”

I swallowed and backed away from him, until I found myself in neck deep water, and with my back up against the sheer, rocky wall.

“I can’t think of anything I enjoy more than playing naked,” he said, following me and putting one hand on either side of me, trapping me against the bank.

I could feel his body heat, through the cold water, and my traitorous body swayed towards him.

And then I was so close I could see the drops of water on his eyelashes and I licked my lips, nervously.

“What are you doing?” I said quietly.

“What d’you want me to do?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine.

“This isn’t fair,” I whispered.

“I’m not playing anymore, Harry,” he said and leant closer.

He stopped, his lips an inch from mine. “Is this what you want?” he asked.

“Fuck, yes,” I gasped and closed the gap.

His mouth was under mine as he took a final step forward, pinning me against the rocks and rubbing up against me.

And my traitorous cock awoke, once more.

Traitorous?

I nearly laughed.

Nothing about my body’s reaction could be called traitorous, anymore.

Not when Ron’s cock was pressed up against and at least as hard as mine.

Not when Ron was sucking on my tongue and moaning and thrusting against me.

Not when Ron was biting my neck and murmuring my name and coming between our bodies in a warm, white cloud.

Not when Ron’s large hand finally wrapped right round my cock and wrung a screaming climax from me.

If you’d asked me then, at the funeral, where we’d be in three years time, I would have been way off.