Nuts and Bolts - H/R - NC-17
Title: Nuts and Bolts
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words: 1900
Rating: NC-17

It is March the 1st.

Ron Weasley is 26-years-old.

Happy birthday, my darling boy.

I cannot believe it is a year since I wrote Cinderella for you last year.

I cannot tell you what an exciting year it has been, Ron!

From the perfection of Half-Blood Prince weekend – who wouldn’t want to read your awesome year six adventures, spend the night with rosina_alcona, and then go and see Ewan McGregor singing and dancing?

Just, um, make a move on Hermione soon, OK? At Bill’s wedding would be nice.

To the perfection of Goblet of Fire – Merlin’s Beard, you were crushing on everyone except for your actual date!

Anyway.

I have never loved a fictional character like I love this boy – and I would never have met any of you if it was not for that love – hear that, empressov?

Also dedicated to ihlanya, for the title – I’m afraid I changed the ship, darling.


Nuts and Bolts
****
Hermione always told me I should think before I speak; before I act.

She's been able to I-told-you-so me less often, lately.

We're grown up now, after all.

We've moved past the rows we had after we broke up, when she'd criticised abso-fucking-lutely everything I said or did.

We have jobs; she is Unspeakable - "An Unspeakable," she'd say, rolling her eyes, and I'd tick 'annoy Hermione' on my 'things to do today' list - and Harry and I play Quidditch.

We have flats; she's engaged to Terry Boot, but they don't live together - he's a Ravenclaw, which figures, but I always thought he was gay - well, he was always staring at me, but it turns out he was after Hermione and was staring at me jealously, rather than lustfully - Hermione says I should learn to pick up on visual clues a tad better.

I share a flat with Harry, and Hermione thinks I mother him too much, but he never had anyone to pick up after him, to cook for him, and he sort of tests me.

So, I tidy up and I don't shout at him for making a mess, and I make his favourite things for breakfast, and he watches me and he knows someone cares.

Hermione hasn't told me I have the emotional depth of a teaspoon for ages.

As far as I know.

I mean, I’ve been sleeping on her couch for a fortnight, and she was sympathetic at first, all, "Ron, what's the matter?"

When I wouldn't talk about it, she got rather snippy, and now she isn't talking to me, either.

I say, 'either'.

I assume Harry isn't talking to me.

I assume he is avoiding me.

I wouldn't know, since I have been avoiding him ever since it happened.

It.

What a small word.

For something so huge.

Not that Harry's bollocks are all that big.

Oh.

Right.

Maybe I should explain.

My practice had finished early and I’d showered and Apparated home, buzzing with energy.

I knew Harry must be home, because the Muggle television in the lounge was on and two gay Scotsmen were burbling something about chintz curtains.

Our curtains are Cannons Orange, by the way.

Anyway.

I assume the noise of the television covered my Apparition, because otherwise Harry would have heard me and stopped.

Stopped what he was doing.

Stopped wanking.

I meandered down the corridor, meaning to get something from my bedroom, and I stopped in his open doorway.

So, it wasn’t entirely my fault.

He should have closed his door.

He was naked.

Well, I’ve seen him naked before – we’ve lived together for nine years.

He was hard.

Well, I’ve seen that on occasion, too, in the morning.

And he’d be pretty crap at wanking if he wasn’t hard!

But. He was lying on his bed, legs spread wide apart, feet planted on the duvet cover.

Now, his bed points towards the door, so this gave me a pretty clear view of things.

And it was Hermione who though the bed would look best there, so it is sort of her fault, too, because I thought the bed would look best by the window, in which case I’d have just seen his top half, and none of this would have happened.

At the time, it was all a blur, but I’ve thought of little else for a fortnight, and this is what happened next.

One hand was running hypnotically up and down his shaft, his thumb running over the head on every second stroke, the other was pinching his nipples. It moved back and forth, from one to the other, pinching and twisting as he pushed off the bed with his feet, thrusting up into his hand.

He was moaning and gasping very quietly and his eyes were closed and his head was tossing back and forth on the pillow, and I just knew he was close.

Knew he was desperate to come.

Knew what would send him over the edge.

And I approached the bed without thinking what I was doing, and I sat beside him and he didn’t notice.

And he whimpered and stroked harder.

And I took his balls in my hand, rolling them gently between my fingers and his eyes flew open and he cried out and came hard all over his chest.

We stared at each other, frozen, for a few seconds, and then he croaked my name as I Disapparated.

And I haven’t seen him since.

I know I can’t live on Hermione’s couch forever.

I know I’ll have to go back to the flat – if only to pick up my things and slink off to the Burrow.

Maybe I’ll do that later, while Harry is out.

This morning Hermione glared at me as she left the flat, threw a towel in my face and snapped, “At least take a shower, today.”

I guess I am getting a bit ripe, so I rummage through her dresser drawers until I find some boxers of Terry’s and I turn knobs and things on her shower until it seems to be running hot enough.

I look at myself in her mirror and get quite a shock, as I look far too thin, and have a horrible, straggly two-weeks worth of beard.

With my new, brave resolution to sneak home and pinch my stuff, I decide to spruce up a bit, so I use Hermione’s razor to shave and plenty of her flowery shampoo-body-wash-stuff under the shower.

I dry off roughly and put on Terry’s boxers, sniggering at the thought that Harry used to tell me Terry was looking at my arse, and then sobering when I think of Harry again.

Sighing, I grab another towel and start towel-drying my hair as I wander back into Hermione’s lounge.

So, the first clue that I have that I am no longer alone, is a voice saying, “Oh!”

I pull the towel down, to find Harry sitting on my bed…. my couch… Hermione’s couch.

“Oh,” I say, cleverly, hovering nervously in the middle of the room, dressed in just black silk boxers.

Harry stands and takes a step towards me, a hand outstretched, but it falls to his side when I just stare at him.

But I don’t know what to say. I know he hasn’t come here to shout at me, but I don’t know what to say.

The last time I saw him, I caressed his balls, for fuck’s sake!

So I say, “I’m sorry,” even though that is only half-true. I am so sorry I’ve spoiled things between us, because he’s, well, he’s Harry, and what will I do without my Harry.

But I’m not sorry I saw him like that; saw him that vulnerable, saw him come. And I’ll never see it again, but I have had two lonely, self-indulgent weeks to realise that that was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

And he says, “Why?”

“Why what?” I reply. “Why am I sorry?”

“Why did you do it?” he asks in a very small voice.

“You… I… you needed to come,” I say, unexpectedly, and flush.

He blinks at me. “Um,” he says. “Thanks?”

I half-laugh and take a step towards him. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I miss you.”

“Hermione says you’re in love with me,” he says.

We stare at each other.

“Oh,” I say. “And that would be…”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Good?” he asks tentatively.

“Hermione is pretty good at these things,” I say carefully.

“She came over, made me shower, and then dragged me back here,” he says.

“She made me shower, too,” I say.

We look at each other some more.

“I didn’t say a word about it to Hermione,” I say. “How does she know what happened?”

“I told her,” he says.

“Everything?” I ask weakly.

He shrugs again. “I needed to know what to do,” he says, by way of what I consider to be a completely inadequate explanation.

“Everything?” I repeat. “What did you say?”

He flushes. “That you caught me wanking, and you touched me.”

“Harry!” I gasp. “She… you… that’s…”

“That you caught me wanking and thinking about you, and you touched me and I came,” he interrupts.

“Harry!” I gasp. “You… that’s…”

He steps closer. “Is that OK?” he asks.

I drop the towel I had been clutching to my chest and reach for him; his eyes run over me, stopping on the black silk boxers.

“She said you’d run away because you thought you’d done something dreadful,” he says quietly, coming to stand before me. “But it was something wonderful.”

I nod feverishly and he stands on tiptoe and kisses me softly.

“I didn’t know,” I say stupidly and he tips his head to one side, inquisitively.

“How I felt,” I explain.

“You mean how I felt,” he says.

“Um, that too,” I say. “But mainly how I felt.”

He laughs gently and takes my hand, leading me to the couch.

We sit and kiss awkwardly for a few moments, but I can feel him trembling from the effort it takes not to push me any further, and I lie back, pulling him against me.

And he explodes.

His hands and mouth and whispered words are everywhere, and this time I am the vulnerable one, and he is fully dressed.

He caresses me, eager hands stroking my face, neck, hands, moving lower, his mouth following.

I have thought of this for just two weeks, and it is clear that he has given it a great deal of thought for far longer.

He maps out my body and I am sprawled on the couch and he is kneeling between my legs, his eyes on those black silk boxers that are far too tight, so my cock is straining against the button and my balls are peeping out of one leg.

“They’re Terry’s,” I say stupidly and he laughs.

“Your balls?” he asks, running his fingers up my thigh.

“No!” I choke. “Don’t start that again.”

He smiles and his eyes darken and I watch him pop the button and release my cock with a hungry look on his face.

Yeah, hungry, because he bends and takes me in his mouth.

He looks up through his fringe as he sucks me and, fuck, I have never seen anything so erotic, and I stroke his hair and his face, and he is watching me carefully as I start to come apart, because, just as I am reaching for my climax, he cups my balls and milks it from me.

He crawls up my body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses and I shake in his arms as I come back down to earth.

He kisses my face and I finally manage a deep breath and I look up at him.

“Fuck, Harry,” I say. “That was perfect.”

He smiles. “It seems that Hermione was right, again,” he says.

“I usually hate it when she’s right,” I say.

He smirks and bites his lip. “Wanna know what she said?” he asks, pushing my hair back out of my sweaty face.

“Do I?” I ask.

He laughs. “Don’t get huffy,” he warns. “She said it was typical Ron to finally make your move and then run away.”

I grunt.

“Actually,” a giggle escapes between his pursed lips and I raise an eyebrow. “Actually, she said it was ‘typical that Ron touches your nuts and bolts’.”