The Earth Moved - H/R - NC-17
Title: The Earth Moved
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words : 1700
Rating: NC-17

Happiest of birthdays to the luminous florahart.

Unbetaed, because I wrote it yesterday, when a couple of your Interests caught my eye…


The Earth Moved
****
I guess Harry never had a chance to get the hang of shagging and stuff.

He’d bloody well better not have.

Not when Ginny was fifteen.

‘Cos then we went off on our sodding Quest, and there just wasn’t the opportunity.

OK, for Harry.

I admit I may have taken a few opportunities; a few liberties.

Here and there.

But me and Hermione didn’t outlast the war, and she has her own place and a high-flying career and a string of Ravenclaw boyfriends who work at the Ministry.

I work at the Ministry, too, but in Games and Sports, where things are much more laid back, and where the witches and occasional wizard I date are more the secretaries than the Unspeakables.

And Harry, much as he wanted to come back and be normal, well, he didn’t come back to Ginny.

It was a bit late, by then. She’d finished school, and was working for the Arrows. I know she was pleased to see him, but he didn’t like the high publicity atmosphere of a professional Quidditch set-up, and he didn’t try and push into her circle of friends and too many admirers.

So, he shared a flat with me, and he was training to be an Auror, and I had a bet with Neville that he was still a virgin.

Harry.

Not Neville.

Neville, strange as it may seem, was very popular with Hufflepuff birds.

Anyway.

Neville had always been very protective of Harry; always stood up for him, even to me.

And, somehow, this included standing up for his, well, sexual prowess, too. It gave me an image of a miniature Neville, marching into battle beside Harry’s erection, brandishing his tiny sword.

I’d had an excellent evening at the Leaky Cauldron just the other night, when Neville was adamant that Harry could be having a perfectly private and decorous sex-life, without bringing anyone home to the flat and have them parade around in their underthings at the breakfast table the next morning, making everyone blush.

Ah.

OK, so Neville crashed on our couch occasionally, after a night out, and he had been startled awake by an almost naked Sue; by Annie, digging for her bra amongst the couch cushions; by Matilda, brining him a cup of tea, so he shouldn’t have screamed.

And, once, by Terry.

Anyway, Neville’s point was that poor old Harry was a nice bloke, and he had to face my young ladies far too often, and he was quite sure that Harry was getting his leg over and not flaunting it.

I’d bet him a Galleon that Harry got his leg neither over nor under anyone.

Although we hadn’t worked out how I was gonna be able to claim on our bet, as neither of us wanted to actually ask Harry about it.

‘Cos we didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable.

‘Cos my point wasn’t that Harry couldn’t get his leg over; it was that he still hated all the Boy-Who-Lived crap, and he just couldn’t be that vulnerable with anyone.

And I almost hoped I was right.

Because I didn’t like the thought of Harry being that vulnerable with anyone.

Except me.

Which was the problem.

I’m a selfish bastard, who happily flooed home with whoever I was seeing, or who had caught my eye; I sprawled in my bed the following morning, listening to them chatting in the kitchen, knowing that poor Harry was cooking breakfast for them.

While I pictured him, wearing nothing but the frilly apron my mum had given us, leaning over the table and serving me my breakfast, while I pinched his arse.

I’m such a selfish sod.

Who had reached the point of no return.

Or, rather, I’d wandered into the lounge one morning, freshly showered, and found I’d reached the point of Neville fiercely whispering, “Look, I know you just don’t want to think of him with anyone else, but if you don’t stop shagging everyone who smiles at you, and making Harry miserable, not only am I gonna tell him about the bet, but I’m gonna tell him that you want him all for yourself!”

You could have knocked me down with a fwooper feather.

“Neville!” I’d squeaked.

He’d glared at me and I’d had the grace to blush.

“Sort it out, Ron,” he’d said, as he avoided looking down Kerry’s cleavage as she leant towards Harry for a refill of her coffee cup.

So, Neville had Apparated home, I’d found the rest of Kerry’s clothes and kissed her on the cheek and popped her into the fire, and I’d turned to look for Harry.

He was in the kitchen, wearing a horrible t-shirt and too loose tracksuit bottoms, and looking rumpled and utterly gorgeous

And he was cleaning up after breakfast.

The breakfast he’d cooked for my hungover mate and the girl I’d brought home.

I am such an arse.

“Harry?” I said, leaning in the doorway.

“Hey,” he said. “The toast is stone cold, but there’s still some coffee, if that’s what you’re after.”

“No,” I said carefully. “That isn’t what I’m after.”

“I could get you something else, if you like,” he offered, prodding at the greasy frying pan with his wand, and leaving it to bubble in the sink.

“Yes, you could,” I said.

He looked round and smiled. “What d’you fancy?” he asked, flicking his wand and sending the jars and bowls from the table to the worktop.

I almost laughed; his straight lines were so spot on.

“You,” I said, simply.

His eyebrows shot up. “Me?” he echoed.

“You,” I said, pushing away from the doorframe and walking towards him.

He licked his lips nervously and took a step backwards, before being blocked by the kitchen table.

“Ron?” he whispered.

“I am such an arse,” I said, and his eyes flickered down my body.

“I bring home all these random witches, and I don’t even have the energy or the manners to entertain them in the morning, and I expect you to do it, and that is just not good enough.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, now backed right against the table. “I’m making breakfast, anyway.”

I shook my head. “But I should care enough to actually get out of bed in the morning.”

“You’re just,” he struggled for a word. “Well… worn out, from the night before,” he laughed, nervously.

“And you never are,” I pointed out, leaning closer and putting a hand on either side of him, trapping him. “You never bring anyone home.”

“I could,” he said swiftly.

“But you don’t,” I said, taking a final step, that would have brought our bodies together, had Harry not hopped up onto the table.

I pushed against his knees and they parted, allowing me to stand between them, bringing my hands up to rest on his thighs.

“I don’t,” he agreed. “They’re not…” his eyes moved over my face.

“Me,” I whispered, leaning closer.

He made a sad little noise. “Ron, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Seducing you,” I said firmly, pressing a kiss to the very corner of his mouth.

He flushed. “Look, just because I don’t… I mean, I could… you don’t have to feel sorry for me, just because it’s so easy for you.”

I shook my head. “You’ve got that the wrong way round,” I said. “It’s only easy for me because they’re not you; no commitments, no complications. But it’s you I want.”

He blinked owlishly behind his glasses.

He frowned.

“But, why?” he said.

“Because I know you better than anyone; because you know me; because you make breakfast for strange women; because you’re looking at me like I’m insane; because if I don’t make a move today, Neville is gonna hex me; because you’re gorgeous, even in a hideous tracksuit – seriously, I have to take you clothes shopping.”

He laughed.

“Please, Harry,” I said.

He stopped laughing. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, biting his lip.

“Just… let me,” I whispered and he nodded and I kissed him.

Just soft, closed mouth kisses, with his hands closing hard around my forearms, to keep me in place, and my thumbs tracing circles on his thighs.

Until his head tipped back and his mouth opened and I drank him in.

He was shaking under my hands and I tried to sooth him, but he was frantically dragging his shirt off, and then mine.

“Harry, Harry, slow down,” I whispered.

“Can’t,” he gasped, lowering his face onto my shoulder. “I’ve wanted this for ever.”

And he sunk his teeth into my collarbone and I gave up.

Gave in.

I tugged on his blessedly loose tracky bottoms as he wriggled out of them, and wrapped my hand around a very willing cock, that practically leapt into it.

And he cried out and his eyes flew to mine and he lay back on the table, legs parted, looking too tempting for words.

I kicked my way out of my jeans and pushed his legs further apart, leaning over him; hooking one knee over his thigh, I brought our cocks together.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasped, reaching for me.

I wrapped one hand round our erections, held onto the far edge of the table with the other, and started to thrust against him.

He had one hand in my hair, holding on tight as he kissed me, the other grabbing my arse, and pulling me onto him with every stroke.

By the time he jerked beneath me and his come splashed across my fingers, I had pretty much decided that he was never making breakfast for anyone but me on this table.

By the time I watched his face as he came and go slack with joy afterwards, I had pretty much decided we were never leaving the flat again.

By the time I drove against him and my own climax sped through me, I was pretty much expecting the most fabulous orgasm of my life.

And I cried out and fell forward, collapsing against him.

And collapsing the table.

The legs buckled and spread and we fell to the floor, poor Harry taking my full weight on top of him.

“Fuck,” he gasped.

I propped myself up on an elbow amongst the wreckage and looked down at him.

“The earth moved, Harry,” I managed, trying to catch my breath.

He laughed. “Can you promise that’ll happen every time?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I laughed. “I’ll do my best.”