Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit - H/R - NC-17
Title: Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron/???
Words : 1000
Rating: NC-17

All myrafur’s fault – total crack.


Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit
****
It was a fabulously hot summer, and Ron and I were sprawled in our living room, taking it in turns to cast cooling charms.

“’s’hot,” Ron murmured, flicking his hair off his face. “Is there any juice left?”

“Nope,” I murmured, watching a drop of sweat roll down his neck.

“Beer?”

“Nope.”

“’s there anything cool in the kitchen?” he pouted.

“There’s a watermelon,” I said.

He frowned at me. “Why d’you buy a watermelon?” he asked.

“I didn’t mean to,” I admitted. “It was half price.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugged, raising his wand. “Accio Watermelon. Fuck!”

Watermelons are huge and heavy, and this one hit him like a bludger.

I rolled my eyes at him.

“Not funny, Harry,” he complained, lifting his shirt to look for damage.

I swallowed, audibly.

“Well,” he said, pulling the watermelon onto his lap. “How d’we open it?”

I eyed him closely.

“What?” he asked, rubbing his nose, in case there was a smut on it.

“Um,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t really like watermelon,” I said.

“Then why buy one?” he asked.

“There was this thing,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“In a Muggle magazine.”

The other one joined its fellow.

I sighed. “This bloke,” I said. “He, um, bored-a-hole-in-a-watermelon-and-fucked-it.”

He blinked at me.

“And, it, well, it always fascinated me. I mean,” I rambled on. “It sounds cold, but I guess it is self-lubricating….”

“Excellent!” he interrupted.

I sighed with relief. “You don’t think I’m sick?” I asked.

“’course I do,” he grinned. “But it sounds worth a try – and we’re not getting laid by anything female.”

He twirled his wand and used it to bore a hole, about an inch and a half in diameter, through the thick, green rind.

We peered into the hole for a while.

Then Ron stuck a finger in and I shifted awkwardly in my seat.

“It squooshes up ever so easily,” he said, frowning slightly.

“So?” I shrugged.

“Well, it’s just,” he flushed faintly and continued in a ridiculously nonchalant voice. “Whoever goes first is gonna pretty much smoosh it to pieces. How about we bore another hole, on the other side?”

I looked at the watermelon.

It was probably eleven inches in diameter.

My cock measures six and one-quarter inches, erect.

Unless Ron is severely under endowed, and willing to let another bloke know this, we are not going to be able to keep to our own hemisphere.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sounds like the fairest way.”

Ron nodded seriously, and bored another hole. Directly opposite the first one.

He is probably just being symmetrical, I told myself. He hasn’t realised what’ll happen.

“So,” he said, admiring his handiwork. “Where should we do this?”

“Kitchen,” I said. “The juice will get everywhere.”

“Yup,” he said, hoisting it under one arm and heading for the kitchen.

I trailed after him, to find him stripping swiftly.

He caught me blinking stupidly at him. “I don’t want the juice all over my clothes,” he said reasonably, standing stark-bollock naked and erect, beside the teapot covered with his mother’s knitted cosy.

I clumsily undressed, coyly half-hiding my erection as I approached.

“Right,” Ron said briskly, lifting the melon once more and holding it at groin level, between us.

Trying to only look at his hands, I moved closer and slid my fingers between his, taking my share of the weight.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, quickly removing one hand to position his cock and slide forward, halfway into the fruit.

“’kay,” I said, following suit.

With all hands back on the melon, his fingers gripped mine and he pushed forward.

“Well?” I asked.

“Cold,” he said. “But, uh, wet. Go on, Harry.”

I took a deep breath and drove my hips forward. I met some resistance on my first stroke, and repeated the manoeuvre, driving further in on every stroke as the flesh gave way.

Ron was matching my rhythm, giving me resistance to push against.

I was trying very hard not to watch his cock driving into the hole, trying to concentrate on the feeling of the melon pulping and warming around me.

And then it happened.

We broke through and our cocks touched.

“Fuck,” Ron gasped, freezing in place.

“Sorry,” I muttered, ridiculously.

I chanced a look up into his face.

He was staring at me, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted.

My thighs were trembling with the effort of keeping so still, and I was just about to withdraw, when he moved.

Against me.

He pulled back and surged against me, his cock brushing mine through the scarlet juice.

“Ron?” I whispered, as a little voice in the back of my head shushed me.

“Shush,” he muttered, thrusting against me once more.

“Fuck,” I groaned, finally moving.

We drove into the melon over and over again, our cocks rubbing together on every stroke, our fingers entwined.

“Fuck, Harry,” he gasped. “Gonna come.”

I looked up at his face as he arched hard against the rind, cracking the hole with the force of his thrust.

His head was thrown back, the muscles in his neck straining, his eyes tightly closed, his teeth clenched.

He cried out and I felt something hot flood the cavity we had created and cover my cock.

His knees half buckled and I saw him make an effort to lock them; I picked up my pace, revelling in the feel of Ron’s come surrounding me and warming the bruised flesh of the fruit.

Reaching my climax, I doubled over on my final stroke and my come joined his.

Clumsily sinking to our knees, with the melon between us, we both withdrew, breathing heavily.

My cock was streaked with the red and white juices.

“Um,” I said, looking up at him, dreading a negative reaction.

“Fuck,” he gasped, blinking down at me. “Well, I never thought that this was how you’d find out.”

“Find out?” I asked, mentally crossing my fingers, arms, eyes, legs and toes.

“Well,” he laughed. “I wondered how to tell you that I was gay, but, um, d’you think this is where the word ‘fruit’ comes from?”