shocfix (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} shocfix) wrote,@ 2005-05-18 01:00:00 |
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Pickled Egg - H/R - NC-17
Title: Pickled Egg
Author:shocolate
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words: 6700
Rating: NC-17
Written for the first post-DHbestmates_xmas, where I am thrilled to write for the totally wonderful cork.
Betaed bymagicofisis – thank you, darling.
And, OMG, the amazingcork was so squeeful that she drew art for her fic.
Five times.
And I have embedded them in the story and they are very NWS, so you can swoon as you go, and then go and tell her you love her so much, here.
Pickled Egg
.....
I always wondered how long Ron’s cock was.
Well, not always, always.
It used to be just part of the furniture in the dorm, really. I suppose, if I really try to think about it, I felt more affection for it than for Seamus’s or Dean’s or Neville’s, but I’m pretty sure that that is because my best mate was at the far end.
But just how far, that was the question.
I always wondered how long Ron’s cock was, ever since it seemed I pretty much preferred cocks to secret, hidden girly bits, even ones hidden by ginger pubes that I thank my lucky stars I never explored.
And not just because of what that could have done to my friendship with her brother.
The secretness and hiddenness were rather intimidating, and not challenging, like Seamus always insisted. The secretness that challenged and intrigued and maddened me was my boy’s secretness. My boy’s secret, hidden boy-y bits.
Ron has the roomiest foreskin you’ve ever seen, and it drove me mad, trying to work out where the official cock ended.
Short of catching him pulling it back to pee, I couldn’t think of any way to find the end, and that would have been a bit weird, even for best mates, and I was always careful to choose a urinal at least two away from his.
By the time he’d dated and broken up with Hermione, and Ginny had given up on me, and we’d qualified as Aurors, I’d peed two urinals away from him at least six hundred times, which must work out at about… a quarter of a mile away, in total, since I actively started not being near his exposed cock.
Not that your peeing distance away from someone is cumulative, I do know that. I’m just illustrating my state of mind before the First Incident.
The First Incident happened after an evening drinking in a Muggle pub, with Seamus and Neville, Dean being busy with a date. After a few rounds, Seamus, of course, started speculating about just how busy they might be.
“She doesn’t swallow,” he said, mournfully.
We raised various eyebrows.
“I don’t know why Dean bothers,” Seamus said.
“Seamus, that is a horrible thing to say,” I protested.
“Maybe he actually likes her?” Neville suggested.
Seamus waved that away.
“Four dates, and she went down on him, but she wouldn’t swallow,” he said. “Does not bode well for other milestones.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ron said. “Maybe she’ll do anything else he wants, she just doesn’t swallow!”
Seamus wiggled his eyebrows and murmured something about Hermione.
Ron huffed.
“The thing is,” Neville said. “Maybe it’s not that important to him.”
“Says the man who didn’t have penetrative sex until he was twenty,” Seamus said.
“And that has nothing to do with swallowing anything, anyway,” Neville said.
“Well, there’s definitely some penetration going on there,” Ron said.
“A blow job is not penetrative sex,” Seamus protested.
“Seems there are more places you can shove your cock than you allow, Mr Finnegan,” Ron said. “And I’d count them all as penetration.”
“Snatches,” Seamus said firmly.
“And mouths,” Ron insisted.
They both looked at Neville.
“You have to allow arses,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Seamus grunted and they all looked at me.
And I had had too much to drink, and I had never penetrated anyone, but there was something that I had always wondered.
“What’s it called if you could fit the head of your cock inside the other bloke’s foreskin?” I found myself asking.
“Perverted,” Seamus said.
“Frotting,” Neville said.
“What other bloke?” Ron said.
“Um,” I said.
“Seriously, Harry,” Seamus said. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“Well, it’s a sexual… place, isn’t it?” I said weakly.
“Inside. Another. Bloke’s. Foreskin,” Seamus said, enunciating carefully.
“You must admit it’s a sexual place,” Neville said, taking a quick drink when Seamus glared at him.
“I have allowed arses, to account for… things like that,” Seamus said loftily. “There’s no need to make up impossible stuff. It wouldn’t fit.”
“It might,” Ron said.
“Don’t you start,” Seamus complained.
“I reckon I could fit my foreskin around something… extra,” Ron said. “Before I was hard.”
Neville sniggered into his beer and picked up a pickled egg from the table between us.
We all stared at it.
“No problem,” Ron said and I stifled a groan.
“I dare you,” Seamus said. “A large Bushmills Original if you do it.”
“Make that a Black Bush,” Ron said, wiggling his eyebrows, “and you’re on.”
“Well, I canna speak for Dean,” Seamus sniggered.
Ron put his pint down and reached for his zip, and the three of us leant closer – not to get closer to his cock, but to form a wall of shoulders around the table, should anyone try and watch.
I bit my tongue as he freed his cock from his boxers and tugged briskly on the foreskin to stretch it. He held out his hand and Neville gingerly dropped the pickled egg in his palm, careful not to touch him. Ron pulled his foreskin back, until the elusive head of his cock was just visible, and held the egg against the tip. I felt Neville’s shoulder shake with laughter against mine as Ron tried to roll the soft skin forwards over the slippery egg.
“See?” Seamus said. “Load of rubbish.”
“Reckon it’s a two man job,” Ron said calmly, and held the egg out to me.
Neville made a strangled noise, and I found myself automatically reaching out my hand and taking the egg from him.
The luckiest egg in the world.
I held it and seethed at my luck and boggled that I was jealous of an egg, as Ron used both hands to pull his foreskin back down and hold it open like a little bag.
“Pop it in,” he said.
“What?” I asked, my eyes leaving his cock and flicking up to his cheerful face.
“I’ll hold it open, you pop it inside,” he explained.
Utterly lost for words, I held the egg point down between my finger tips and slipped it inside. My fingers barely brushed against his skin and he didn’t flinch, but I felt like I’d been burned and it took every moment of my training not to jump away from him. My hand fell into my lap and Ron cradled the egg and his cock in one large hand as he pointed triumphantly at Seamus with the other.
“Ha!” he said.
“Well, I never knew you had it in you,” Seamus said and Ron snorted and a voice said, “I really do not want to know,” and we all looked up at Dean’s bemused face as he stood over us.
“Large Black Bush,” Seamus said, holding up a tenner.
“That’s personal,” Dean said, twitching the money out of Seamus’s fingers, without his eyes leaving Ron’s bulging foreskin.
“And whatever you’re havin’,” Seamus added and Dean shook himself and wandered off to the bar.
Ron was looking very proud of himself and Seamus was looking grudgingly impressed and my fingers were still tingling, from having brushed against Ron’s cock, and Ron grinned and pointed the blasted thing at me and squeezed the head and tried to shoot me with the egg.
Apparently, an uncut cock does not make a good propulsion device, and the egg plopped out and fell.
And I am an idiot and my Seeker instinct made me dive for it and scoop it up before it hit the floor, and Seamus nearly choked to death with laughter. Ron tucked himself away and zipped up and took his drink from Dean and I put the egg back on the table and Seamus prodded it with a pork scratching
I can’t remember what we talked about, after that, because my mind was full – well, fuller than usual – of Ron’s cock, but we eventually called it a night and stood and sorted out cloaks and gloves and scarves and Seamus led the way out of the pub. Dean followed, complaining about the cold, and Neville wrapped his scarf twice around his neck and I gestured for Ron to go in front of me, and, to my eternal shame, I picked up the abandoned egg and slipped it into my pocket.
.....
Ron and I Apparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place and I hid the egg in my sock drawer and nothing more was said. We both slept late the next day and took a hangover potion and went to the Burrow for Sunday lunch, and things were fine between us.
We went back to work and we worked hard and I had decided I wouldn’t let it effect me and it was really only an issue in the gents.
Could I continue to accumulate peeing distance from his cock, or did I have to start from scratch, having touched it? I wished that there were actual recognised Rules about stuff like that, because making it up as I went along made me very nervous.
We jogged along happily enough, best mates, housemates, partners at work.
Pitiful, queer idiot and gorgeous, sexy redhead.
And I only ever petted the egg when I had opened the drawer because I needed socks, I didn’t take it out and sigh over it.
And I muddled through, until the Second Incident.
It was a good few months before the five of us managed to align our schedules and meet for another drink. Neville was working at Hogwarts and staying over the Easter holidays, and we descended on him, bottles in hand.
After some heated discussion of the appropriateness of getting drunk in the staff quarters – Seamus claiming he could actually feel the one thousand years of spinsterhood and unresolved sexual tension burned into the walls – we ended up sprawled on the grass between greenhouses three and four.
Seamus was drinking rather sticky cherry brandy that had almost congealed in the bottle, that he’d pinched from his mam’s cocktail cabinet on his way out of the house, and Dean was teasing him and asking if he was still fourteen. Seamus’s eyes narrowed as he looked around for a target to transfer the mockery onto.
“Still alive, then?” he said, kicking Ron’s ankle.
“Yeah,” Ron said, “why shouldn’t I be?”
“I’m just a wee bit concerned about your combat skills,” Seamus said earnestly.
Ron frowned.
“Highly trained Auror, mate,” he protested.
“I just hope you’re better with your wand in your hand,” Seamus said.
“As opposed to?” Dean asked.
“His wand.” Seamus waggled his eyebrows.
“Go on then, get it over with,” Ron said, sighing heavily.
Seamus tutted.
“I just worry about you in unarmed combat, when you thought you could fire an egg off the end of your willy.”
“Very funny,” Ron said. “I don’t use my cock at work, okay?”
“No concealed weapon, then?” Neville asked.
“How would that even work?” Dean asked, laughing.
Seamus and Neville turned to look at me.
“What?” I asked.
“The whole egg thing was your idea,” Seamus pointed out.
“It was not,” I spluttered. “Neville…. and Ron …”
Ron lay back on the grass, grinning widely, and lobbed a peanut into the air, attempting to catch it in his mouth.
“You’ll choke if that goes down your throat,” I said.
“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Ron muttered, earning a bark of a laugh from Seamus.
“You could probably fire peanuts off your cock,” Neville pointed out, to cover my blushes.
“How?” Dean said.
We all looked from Ron’s groin to his mouth.
“You could…” Neville frowned. “You could point it at your feet and put a peanut on the head and let go.”
“Excellent,” Ron breathed.
“Oh, Ron, don’t,” I begged, as he unzipped.
“This one’ll work,” he said, wriggling out of his jeans. “C’mon Shay.”
“What?” Seamus asked.
“I challenge you,” Ron said.
“To?”
“To see who can catch the most peanuts in their mouth,” Neville said happily. “Excellent.”
Seamus looked trapped, but he couldn’t deny that this was right up his street and he huffed and dropped trou and lay down parallel to Ron, and two urinals apart.
Not that distances are measured in ‘urinals’ in the real world; I know that.
“Well?” Dean asked. “What are the rules?”
“Usual rules,” Neville said. “Fire one peanut at a time, no catching with your hands.”
“You’re on,” Seamus said.
He and Ron pushed their boxers down and started stroking their cocks.
Part of me thought I should look away, but wouldn’t that have drawn attention to the fact that I was watching him wank?
Well, we were all watching him wank, but there was a Purpose and a Drunken Challenge behind it. We were watching Ron’s beautiful, long fingers moving up and down his beautiful, long shaft. Watching that spacious foreskin, sliding back and forth and reveal more and more of the head. He and Seamus were focussed on their cocks, and Dean and Neville were laughing at them, and I was rewriting the Rules on Cumulative Peeing Distance in my head. I would clearly need some new guidelines, after watching him wank.
When he and Seamus were both hard, Neville placed the packet of peanuts between them.
“Right,” he said solemnly. “You will each have five attempts to fire a peanut into you mouth; if scores are tied after five shots, we will go to sudden death.”
Dean laughed out loud, but Ron and Seamus nodded seriously.
They each reached for a peanut, seemingly unconcerned that their fingers tangled inside the packet, and lay flat on the grass. Pushing their erections down, between their thighs, they attempted to balance the ammunition on the head of their cocks, before letting go, and catapulting it into the air.
First attempts were pitiful. The peanut balancing was pathetic and the resulting trajectories wild.
“Useless,” Dean scoffed. “That barely cleared your belly button!”
“This is not as easy as you think,” Ron said, with as much dignity as he could muster as he pushed his cock down with one hand and manipulated his peanut with the other. “We can’t see what we’re doing.”
Seamus grunted as he fumbled his missile.
“I’ve lost me nut down amongst me nuts,” he complained.
“Actually a peanut isn’t a nut, it’s a legume,” Neville said.
“And how is that funny?” Seamus protested.
“Your legume is stuck between your legs,” Ron suggested, muffing another shot. “Fuck.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Neville said. “I reckon that this is a two man job.”
Ron and Seamus turned their heads to frown at each other.
“Nah,” Seamus said. “This is a competitive event, Nev.”
“I don’t mean help each other,” Neville said.
“Then what?” Ron asked.
“What are best mates for?” Neville shrugged.
“Not a chance,” Dean said.
“Aw, c’mon,” Seamus pleaded.
Dean and I looked at each other.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, crawling over to Seamus and straddling his thighs. “C’mon Harry.”
I dared look at Ron.
“Please, Harry?” he said.
“You’re not serious,” I said, dragging myself over to him. “When have I ever asked you for a favour anything like this big?”
“How about all the evil I faced for you?” Ron asked, holding out a peanut.
I snorted.
“You followed me!” I protested, taking it from his beautiful, long fingers, and copying Dean by straddling my best mate. “I’d never ask you to fire peanuts off my cock.”
“Well, that just shows who’s the better friend,” he said, lying back and bucking his hips so his cock jerked between us.
“Right, then,” Dean said. “How about a practise shot, first of all?”
“What?”
“Well, Ron and Seamus were at an advantage,” he said.
“How?” I asked weakly.
“They are used to the… elasticity of their erections,” Dean said. “I’m gonna look like an idiot if I totally misjudge the strength and break a window with the peanut.”
Ron laughed and Seamus visibly preened at this compliment to the strength of his cock.
“One practise shot,” Neville decreed and I clasped my peanut tightly.
“Go on,” Ron said encouragingly.
Dean glared at Seamus’s cock.
“I’m pretty sure you’re his best mate, you know, Nev,” he said. “What with me dropping out of school and everything.”
“You’ll never know how much he missed you,” Neville said firmly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered and I grasped Ron’s cock.
Dean squared his shoulders and copied me, swiftly dropping a peanut on the head of Seamus’s and releasing it.
The peanut arched through the air, and landed on Ron’s chest.
Seamus groaned, and everyone turned to look at me.
I tried hard to detach myself, emotionally, as I pulled it towards me and balanced a peanut on the smooth, warm, velvety upper surface. I tried to get into the competitive frame of mind that this apparently required.
But this wasn’t a Snitch.
It was salty and distracting me with thoughts of leaning down and lapping at Ron’s salty skin and taking him in my mouth.
I breathed deeply and focussed on my task, my eyes flicking back and forth between Ron’s face and cock as I took aim. Holding the head steady, between his thighs, I released it. I wish I could say I shot between Ron’s waiting and parted lips – in more ways than one – but it flew wide and landed by his ear.
“So close,” Ron moaned, as Seamus booed.
Dean took two peanuts and handed me one.
“I hope you’re not knobbling my man,” Ron growled.
“With a sabotaged peanut?” Dean asked, aiming a bit more carefully, but obviously not spending too much time actually handling the equipment, and missing by a mile, once more.
Deciding I was doomed, anyway, I decided to overdo it and I made a great show of pulling Ron’s cock down and sighting along it. Ron, being drunk and competitive and insane, didn’t object to me running my fingers down his shaft, so I didn’t have to explain I was smoothing out the wrinkles in his foreskin to make things more aerodynamic, to justify my behaviour.
“C’mon, Harry,” he said encouragingly. “You can do it.”
Holding his cock in the perfect position, I brushed imaginary debris from the head with my other thumb, making sure my peanut had a smooth launch pad.
“Stop milking it, Potter,” Seamus complained, making a wanking gesture.
“I’m just taking it seriously,” I said, examining my peanut. “Y’know I think this has been knobbled.”
Neville handed me a new peanut and I narrowed my eyes and popped it in my mouth.
“Ewww,” Dean moaned.
“The salt interferes with the trajectory,” I assured him, taking out the glistening peanut and admiring it.
Bizarrely no one seemed to care that I was still holding Ron’s cock, all this time, but I finally rested my peanut in place.
“Cheating,” Seamus complained. “The moistened peanut doesn’t slip off!”
“Not cheating,” Neville ruled. “Dean can suck your nuts, if he wants.”
Ron sniggered and his cock shook and I had to hold it firmly, to avoid dislodging my ammunition, and I was gonna go to hell.
Finally and smoothly, I released my catapult and the peanut flew through the air and hit Ron in the eye, even though he arched beneath me and tried to follow the peanut with a wide open mouth.
And I rolled off of him and wrapped my arms around my bent knees, to hide the bulge in my trousers. The fates really were utter bastards. I’d stroked his cock. He’d arched beneath me. And all in the cause of drunken, bar-snack sporting events.
“Ah, you win,” Dean said, climbing off of Seamus. “That was really close.”
“No, no, no,” Seamus complained. “You can do it!”
“Shay, put it away,” he said, shaking his head. “Face it, Harry’s just a better peanut flicker.”
“Bloody Harry’s fucking unexpected sodding talents,” Seamus muttered.
“Youngest peanut flicker in a century,” Ron crowed, wriggling back in to his boxers. “Well done, mate!”
.....
I was almost proud of myself for not having kept any of the peanuts, and hardly dared admit, even though it was only to myself, that I had sucked on my fingers as I took the peanut out of my mouth. Sucked fingers that had touched Ron’s cock, touched Ron’s cock with fingers wet from my mouth.
I managed to pretty much behave as if I’d forgotten the Incidents.
I knew that straight drunk blokes behave like utter idiots, and then forget all about it. It wasn’t Ron’s fault I was pathetically and desperately in love with him. My boy didn’t deserve some creepy bloke perving over him.
I instituted a strict peeing embargo, and was careful never to go at the same time as Ron. Obviously, he never noticed this, but it helped me feel more in control of the situation. I wasn’t some weak willed, love sick idiot, who couldn’t stop staring at him when he wandered into the kitchen in just pyjama bottoms and reached for things on a top shelf and the curve of his arse was visible.
I never put his special mug on a top shelf.
I hadn’t researched Preservation Charms especially to cast one on Eggbert; it had come up at work.
I decided that naming the pickled egg in my sock drawer wasn’t as weird as calculating Cumulative Peeing Distances, and let myself off for doing it, seeing as I peed alone.
The Third Incident was also drunken, and I was beginning to spot a pattern, but didn’t involve any foodstuffs weirder than couscous, and that was, thankfully, not in a sexual situation.
Hermione came over to dinner, which involved Ron watching and drinking from the bottle of red wine Hermione had opened, as I helped her cook.
Another couple of bottles with the meal left Ron frowning slightly as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip and me aching to leap over the table and suck on that lip as if my life depended on it. Only my slight dizziness and the certain knowledge that I would humiliate myself by sprawling amidst broken crockery and spilt wine stopped me. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention to what Hermione was saying about work, until she suddenly slammed down her glass and pointed at Ron.
“And just when were you going to tell me that Percy is gay?” she demanded.
Ron stopped licking his lip and froze, looking more than a little gormless, but I wouldn’t admit that, even under torture.
“Um, never?” he said.
Her eyes instantly filled with tears.
“I thought you knew me better than that,” she sniffed, grabbing her wine glass and making sweeping gestures to accompany her words. “I am the most tolerant person you know, Ronald Weasley. I have never judged…”
Ron stood and reached for her glass, just as it upended right in her lap.
“Look what you made me do,” she protested. “Ruined. Everything.”
“Hermione,” Ron said solemnly, taking the glass out of her still flailing hand. “If you had given me a chance, before drowning yourself in perfectly good wine, I would have said I wasn’t going to tell you something that I Did. Not. Know!”
She blinked at him.
“Didn’t know?” she asked.
“Uh, no,” he said. “Total bolt from the proverbials.”
I handed her a tea towel and she dabbed at her lap. “Oh,” she said. “I… I’m sorry.”
“Percy doesn’t talk about his love life,” Ron said, refilling her glass and holding it out towards her. “How d’you find out.”
“Oh, Oliver came into the Ministry to take him out,” she said, reaching for it as it slipped through Ron’s fingers and landed on her feet.
“Oliver?” Ron breathed.
Hermione squealed and leapt up and wriggled toes in wine soaked socks. “Oh, that is foul,” she wailed.
“C’mon,” Ron said, standing and reaching for her hand. “I’ll get you something to change into, and you can tell me how my speccy git of a brother landed a professional Quidditch player!”
“You’re just jealous,” Hermione said.
“I’m not jealous of Percy,” Ron said swiftly.
Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “You were jealous when I dated Viktor, and when Harry dated Ginny, and now Percy is dating Oliver, and you’re the only one who hasn’t dated a Quidditch player,” she said.
I blinked at them.
“Uh, Hermione,” I said. “Ron wasn’t jealous of me dating Ginny; Ginny is his sister, remember?”
“No, I meant…” Hermione trailed off and frowned. “I just meant that you have dated a professional.”
“Stop making my sister sound like a prostitute and come and find some traccy bottoms,” Ron said firmly, dragging her from the room.
I sighed as the door closed behind them and started clearing the table.
In an ideal world, Hermione would have meant that Ron was jealous of me dating his sister because he wanted me himself, not because I got to remove a Quidditch uniform with my teeth. Which I had never done, but I was certainly picturing Percy undoing Oliver’s laces.
On the plus side, Ron had seemed impressed, rather than revolted, with Hermione’s news about his brother, although I’m sure he was thinking about match tickets, rather than Oliver’s arse.
But the whole thing was terrifyingly familiar and I could almost hear Ginny screeching at him that he was the only one who had never kissed anybody, and I was afraid to go upstairs, in case he was mysteriously snogging Lavender.
One of the wine bottles was still half-full, so I grabbed it and some glasses and wandered up to the sitting room, to find Ron listening with interest to a Hermione dressed in dry socks and some of my pyjama bottoms.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, fiddling with the crotch of the pyjamas in a rather distracting way, even if I was a flaming poofter. “Everything of Ron’s was far too long, I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, ‘course not,” I said, handing her a glass. “What’s mine is yours, you know that.”
Ron was spellbound by her tale of Percy’s embarrassment at Oliver calling for him at the Ministry and I was watching them fondly and my eyes drifted down Hermione’s pyjama clad legs to her feet.
Dry and warm.
And wearing my socks.
Someone had been in my sock drawer.
But neither of them was acting strangely. Hopefully Hermione wouldn’t realise anything dodgy was going on, and Ron probably didn’t even remember. He certainly wouldn’t guess that I ever told Eggbert how lucky he was, to have touched that beautiful cock.
That Eggbert was my only confidant; the only one who was apologetic about having been pressed up against Ron’s cock.
Who was supportive of the whole Cumulative Peeing Distance Rules thing.
Luckily, the only one who knew I was a sandwich short of a picnic.
I gulped my wine and joined in the speculation about Percy and Oliver.
By the time I’d seen Hermione to bed in a spare room and found her a toothbrush and a towel, all I wanted was a brutal, manly wank and a good night’s sleep. Bloody Ron, with his gorgeous cock and sparkling eyes and crooked grin and casual acceptance of a gay brother.
I wondered what he’d say if he found out that I was screamingly gay for him; I wondered if he’d be quite so accepting.
I wondered why he was sitting on my bed, holding Eggbert.
I closed my bedroom door, behind me, and leant against it, consciously locking my knees to remain upright.
“I’ve been wracking my brains,” Ron said, “and I can come up with three explanations. The most obvious is that it’s an emergency snack, in case you are hungry in the night. Secondly, it could be something to do with work – a fiendishly clever and subtle monitoring device or something. Or, thirdly, it’s the egg I stuck up my cock.”
“Um,” I said wittily.
“Which you could have picked up by mistake, I suppose.” He looked down at the egg and flushed slightly. “And just dropped it onto your dresser with your keys and your Muggle money. Or because…”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Apparently walking to your death was not as frightening as admitting you were in love with somebody.
I crossed the room and sat on the bed, keeping a respectable He’s Going To Kill Me Distance between us, which needn’t be Cumulative, as he’d only kill me the once, and was encouraged by the fact that he didn’t flinch or leap up and run screaming from the room.
But, then again, he’d known about Eggbert for over an hour, and he’d chatted and smiled and asked questions about Percy’s sex life, so what the hell did that mean?
I took a deep breath and my life in my hands.
“Because,” I squeaked.
He looked up at me.
“Because I’m jealous,” I said helplessly.
“Of an egg?” Ron asked.
“Of…” I shrugged. “Where it’s been.”
We looked at each other.
“I’m not much of a… cock bloke,” Ron said, swallowing hard, “but I did wonder where you got the idea from.”
“Neville…”
“Not the egg,” he interrupted. “The… the putting… the cock…”
I groaned.
“You’ve just got such a… it’s so roomy looking,” I said helplessly. “I just want to… to put…”
“Just?” he croaked. “Harry. You just want to put…”
“Fuck, yes.”
His eyes ran down my body and rested on my crotch and I swear I could feel the path they had taken burning slightly, from the intensity of his gaze.
“’Kay,” he said.
“’Kay?”
“Reckon it’ll fit,” he said quietly, putting Eggbert on my bedside table and unbuttoning his jeans.
“Ron?” I breathed. “You can’t do this.”
He kicked off his jeans and boxers and sat in the middle of my bed, legs crossed, cock nestling in comfy looking red pubes.
“C’mon,” he said, hauling his t-shirt off over his head and making all sorts of muscles move in his lanky body. “This is your fantasy.”
“I can’t,” I said. “You can’t do this.”
He gave me a level look, eyes half closed. “Harry, I’m not just humouring you, I promise,” he said. “We can get on to my fantasies next.”
“So, you’re… you’re not just…” I swallowed.
Shifting onto his hands and knees, he reached over the edge of the bed to snag his jeans and his cock swung beneath him and I bit my lip and moaned.
“Here,” he said, taking something from a pocket and throwing it at me.
I caught it, automatically, and frowned at it.
It was a clear, plastic key ring.
With a peanut embedded in it.
I looked up at him.
“It’s the one you sucked,” he said, his ears blushing.
I yelped and pounced on him, bearing him backwards onto my bed and crawling on top of him.
“You kept the peanut?” I murmured, looking down into his happy face. “Why didn’t you tell me you kept the peanut?”
“Because I felt like an idiot!” he said.
“You… you utter….”
I bent and kissed him and felt dizzy as my whole world shifted around me, and he kissed me back.
Fuck, he kissed me back. His very long and very naked limbs wrapped around me and he kissed me back and I ground down against him and he bit my lower lip and laughed at my gasp of pleasure.
“Good to know,” he said. “But you have too many clothes on.”
I reluctantly slithered off of him and our hands tangled as they ripped my clothes off and soon I was kneeling between his spread legs and cupping his face as his hands rested on my thighs and we kissed and kissed and kissed and it was Ron and he was so naked and he was kissing me.
“C’mon,” he said, wriggling closer.
“What?” I asked.
“The cock thing,” he said, patting the duvet between his legs and grinning widely.
“Really?”
“It’s what you want to do, yeah?”
“Are you sure we should try that straight away?” I said.
“Absolutely,” he said firmly, as I sat in front of him and flung my legs over his. “The sooner we make you happy, the sooner we can make me happy.”
“But if you don’t want to…”
“Harry,” he interrupted, pushing his foreskin down his semi. “Stop fretting. I’m pretty sure that sex is supposed to be fun.”
I laughed and took my cock in hand and pulled back my own bog standard foreskin and pressed the head of my cock against his.
I could come from just saying those words, and I had to breathe out, hard, through my teeth, as Ron carefully rolled the velvety skin over me.
It felt fantastic; warm and scary and safe and far better than the words inside another bloke’s foreskin could possibly convey.
And it was my Ron.
And I hardened fully and had to wriggle backwards, to allow for the extra length.
And Ron wrapped his hand around the heads of our cocks and wanked us, his soft skin sliding over mine and I bit my lip and whimpered.
His hand moving on his cock obviously wasn’t his every fantasy come true, but he hardened, too, and I was gradually pushed out, and soon it was just his hand on my cock.
Just his hand.
Ron’s gorgeous, long fingered hand, running up my cock from root to tip, then tip to root, down his.
With a cry, I surged onto my hands and knees and straddled him; pushing him back on the bed, I tangled our legs together and hooked my feet under his knees and he laughed and pinned my feet and I pressed my cock against his and thrust hard.
He swore colourfully and reached for me and I grabbed his hands and held them above his head as I flexed and ground against him, each stroke dragging my cock and balls the length of his, until my thighs were trembling and I closed my eyes and buried my face in his hair and whispered his name as I came.
Then he easily freed his hands and wrapped his arms around me and I pulled my wobbly legs up under me and huddled over his body, my softening cock nestled against his.
And I never wanted to move, ever again.
And I wanted Dementors to flood into the room, because my new happiest thought would power the world’s greatest Patronus.
Ron’s hands ran up and down my back as I clung to him and he gentled my shaking body as I caught my breath, but I soon became very aware that he was gently thrusting up at me, his cock slipping through my come and brushing against my own.
Hauling myself up onto my elbows, I peeled my eyelids open and looked down at him.
“So, you’re… not much of a cock bloke?” I croaked.
“No,” he said seriously, as his large hands cupped my arse and spread my cheeks and a fingertip pressed against my… my.
Well, my arsehole.
And, while I’m perfectly aware I should probably refer to it, poetically, as my ‘entrance’, well, let’s face it, it’s my ‘exit’.
Formerly a purely functional exit, whose greatest pleasure had never been more than a really satisfying… number two, but which now seemed to consist of all the nerve endings in the world.
“D’you ever…?” Ron raised his eyebrows significantly.
“D’w’I ever what?” I gasped, squashing the part of my brain that was asking how I could have a conversation with someone whose left hand was fondling my arsehole.
It’s Ron, I told my squeamish self.
“D’you ever touch yourself, here, when you wank?” Ron asked.
“No,” I gulped, hypnotised by his circling fingers. “I… I don’t think I could reach.”
“Oh, you could,” he assured me. “You could reach deep inside.”
I think I blushed.
“How d’you even…” I huffed. “D’you… don’t you scratch yourself with a fingernail?”
Ron held up his right hand to show two missing fingernails.
I snorted with laughter and then groaned as he sucked on them, rather suggestively, before reaching behind me and pressing into me with a fingertip.
I gaped down at him, hardly daring to hope he had a list of Rules of Cumulative Anal Penetration. He watched me carefully as he fucked me with his fingers and I shamelessly crawled forward a bit so he could reach better.
“Arse man,” he groaned, both fingers hooked inside me as his cock sprang free from between us and joined his fingers between my cheeks. “Total arse man, Harry.”
“Really?” I gulped.
He nodded. “Can I?”
“’Course,” I said, agreeing to anything, especially anything that felt as good as his fingers up my arse.
His face lit up with such a joyous smile and I knew I would be making whispered offers of anal sex to him in the most inappropriate of situations, just to trigger that smile.
He withdrew his fingers and I scrambled off him and said, ‘um.’
He sat up and kissed me and I melted into him and he effortlessly manipulated me onto my hands and knees and I didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed at kneeling with my arse on display.
Not when he knelt behind me and pressed kisses down my spine; not when his huge hands cupped my cheeks and squeezed; not when he parted them with his thumbs; not even when he bent and touched my hole with his tongue.
Honest to god.
His tongue.
My arsehole.
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, only you can’t, because he’s mine; you will have to make do with an inferior tongue. I make no claims about the standard of my arse.
So. Ron touched me and I made a noise that would be humiliating in any other circumstances, although the effect it had on Ron would make it worth my while making the same noise at Sunday lunch at the Burrow, just to see how quickly he would drag me from the room.
He actually growled, his tongue flickering against my sensitive skin and I arched my back, opening myself up to him.
And that tongue and his fingers (and a dollop of lube from who knows where) probed and stretched and had me gibbering and begging, and only for Ron could I kneel with my cheeks spread, pleading to be fucked.
And he held me open and I finally learnt, in breathtaking detail, just how long his cock was, as it inched into me, stretching me to just this side of pain. I cried out and his hands soothed me and he murmured filthy words into my ear and he filled me to the tips of my toes.
I tried to catch my breath and my hands clawed at the sheets and I whimpered pitifully.
He laughed and started moving; building up a clumsy rhythm as I hindered matters by writhing under him. He covered my body with his and his glorious weight pressed me flat on the bed and his hands closed over mine and he muttered, “fuck, Harry.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Fuck Harry!”
He buried his face in my hair and I pushed my arse back at him as he bucked on top of me, each stroke filling me and pinning me to the mattress like a pin through a butterfly.
All too soon he cried out and stilled, his hot breath thundering in my ear as his cock throbbed inside me.
“Told you,” he murmured, kissing my neck.
“Hmmm?” I asked.
“Told you sex s’posed t’be fun.”
So, the Third Incident was the last one I needed to count.
I no longer monitored Cumulative Peeing Distance, and a pickled egg wasn’t the only person who knew about the rules on Cumulative Peeing Distance. Ron was all for peeing shoulder to shoulder, and a maximum peeing distance of a foot, and he was very patient as I learnt to relax and believe this.
It took some time and arguments, and a few drafts, but we finally agreed on the rules of Cumulative Frotting Distance and that Cumulative Frotting was a lot more fun than Cumulative Peeing. Basically, a thrust of cock against cock was twelve inches, and cock against anything else was just six. Anal and oral not counting at all, despite Ron’s attempts to have Internal Frotting recognised as an event, if not a sport in its own right.
And you have no idea how hard it is to argue with him when he thrusts deep into your arse and murmurs, “Are you sure we can’t call this Internal Frotting?”
Title: Pickled Egg
Author:
shocolatePairing: Harry/Ron
Words: 6700
Rating: NC-17
Written for the first post-DH
bestmates_xmas, where I am thrilled to write for the totally wonderful cork.Betaed by
magicofisis – thank you, darling.And, OMG, the amazing
cork was so squeeful that she drew art for her fic.Five times.
And I have embedded them in the story and they are very NWS, so you can swoon as you go, and then go and tell her you love her so much, here.
I always wondered how long Ron’s cock was.
Well, not always, always.
It used to be just part of the furniture in the dorm, really. I suppose, if I really try to think about it, I felt more affection for it than for Seamus’s or Dean’s or Neville’s, but I’m pretty sure that that is because my best mate was at the far end.
But just how far, that was the question.
I always wondered how long Ron’s cock was, ever since it seemed I pretty much preferred cocks to secret, hidden girly bits, even ones hidden by ginger pubes that I thank my lucky stars I never explored.
And not just because of what that could have done to my friendship with her brother.
The secretness and hiddenness were rather intimidating, and not challenging, like Seamus always insisted. The secretness that challenged and intrigued and maddened me was my boy’s secretness. My boy’s secret, hidden boy-y bits.
Ron has the roomiest foreskin you’ve ever seen, and it drove me mad, trying to work out where the official cock ended.
Short of catching him pulling it back to pee, I couldn’t think of any way to find the end, and that would have been a bit weird, even for best mates, and I was always careful to choose a urinal at least two away from his.
By the time he’d dated and broken up with Hermione, and Ginny had given up on me, and we’d qualified as Aurors, I’d peed two urinals away from him at least six hundred times, which must work out at about… a quarter of a mile away, in total, since I actively started not being near his exposed cock.
Not that your peeing distance away from someone is cumulative, I do know that. I’m just illustrating my state of mind before the First Incident.
The First Incident happened after an evening drinking in a Muggle pub, with Seamus and Neville, Dean being busy with a date. After a few rounds, Seamus, of course, started speculating about just how busy they might be.
“She doesn’t swallow,” he said, mournfully.
We raised various eyebrows.
“I don’t know why Dean bothers,” Seamus said.
“Seamus, that is a horrible thing to say,” I protested.
“Maybe he actually likes her?” Neville suggested.
Seamus waved that away.
“Four dates, and she went down on him, but she wouldn’t swallow,” he said. “Does not bode well for other milestones.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ron said. “Maybe she’ll do anything else he wants, she just doesn’t swallow!”
Seamus wiggled his eyebrows and murmured something about Hermione.
Ron huffed.
“The thing is,” Neville said. “Maybe it’s not that important to him.”
“Says the man who didn’t have penetrative sex until he was twenty,” Seamus said.
“And that has nothing to do with swallowing anything, anyway,” Neville said.
“Well, there’s definitely some penetration going on there,” Ron said.
“A blow job is not penetrative sex,” Seamus protested.
“Seems there are more places you can shove your cock than you allow, Mr Finnegan,” Ron said. “And I’d count them all as penetration.”
“Snatches,” Seamus said firmly.
“And mouths,” Ron insisted.
They both looked at Neville.
“You have to allow arses,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Seamus grunted and they all looked at me.
And I had had too much to drink, and I had never penetrated anyone, but there was something that I had always wondered.
“What’s it called if you could fit the head of your cock inside the other bloke’s foreskin?” I found myself asking.
“Perverted,” Seamus said.
“Frotting,” Neville said.
“What other bloke?” Ron said.
“Um,” I said.
“Seriously, Harry,” Seamus said. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“Well, it’s a sexual… place, isn’t it?” I said weakly.
“Inside. Another. Bloke’s. Foreskin,” Seamus said, enunciating carefully.
“You must admit it’s a sexual place,” Neville said, taking a quick drink when Seamus glared at him.
“I have allowed arses, to account for… things like that,” Seamus said loftily. “There’s no need to make up impossible stuff. It wouldn’t fit.”
“It might,” Ron said.
“Don’t you start,” Seamus complained.
“I reckon I could fit my foreskin around something… extra,” Ron said. “Before I was hard.”
Neville sniggered into his beer and picked up a pickled egg from the table between us.
We all stared at it.
“No problem,” Ron said and I stifled a groan.
“I dare you,” Seamus said. “A large Bushmills Original if you do it.”
“Make that a Black Bush,” Ron said, wiggling his eyebrows, “and you’re on.”
“Well, I canna speak for Dean,” Seamus sniggered.
Ron put his pint down and reached for his zip, and the three of us leant closer – not to get closer to his cock, but to form a wall of shoulders around the table, should anyone try and watch.
I bit my tongue as he freed his cock from his boxers and tugged briskly on the foreskin to stretch it. He held out his hand and Neville gingerly dropped the pickled egg in his palm, careful not to touch him. Ron pulled his foreskin back, until the elusive head of his cock was just visible, and held the egg against the tip. I felt Neville’s shoulder shake with laughter against mine as Ron tried to roll the soft skin forwards over the slippery egg.
“See?” Seamus said. “Load of rubbish.”
“Reckon it’s a two man job,” Ron said calmly, and held the egg out to me.
Neville made a strangled noise, and I found myself automatically reaching out my hand and taking the egg from him.
The luckiest egg in the world.
I held it and seethed at my luck and boggled that I was jealous of an egg, as Ron used both hands to pull his foreskin back down and hold it open like a little bag.
“Pop it in,” he said.
“What?” I asked, my eyes leaving his cock and flicking up to his cheerful face.
“I’ll hold it open, you pop it inside,” he explained.
Utterly lost for words, I held the egg point down between my finger tips and slipped it inside. My fingers barely brushed against his skin and he didn’t flinch, but I felt like I’d been burned and it took every moment of my training not to jump away from him. My hand fell into my lap and Ron cradled the egg and his cock in one large hand as he pointed triumphantly at Seamus with the other.
“Ha!” he said.
“Well, I never knew you had it in you,” Seamus said and Ron snorted and a voice said, “I really do not want to know,” and we all looked up at Dean’s bemused face as he stood over us.
“Large Black Bush,” Seamus said, holding up a tenner.
“That’s personal,” Dean said, twitching the money out of Seamus’s fingers, without his eyes leaving Ron’s bulging foreskin.
“And whatever you’re havin’,” Seamus added and Dean shook himself and wandered off to the bar.
Ron was looking very proud of himself and Seamus was looking grudgingly impressed and my fingers were still tingling, from having brushed against Ron’s cock, and Ron grinned and pointed the blasted thing at me and squeezed the head and tried to shoot me with the egg.
Apparently, an uncut cock does not make a good propulsion device, and the egg plopped out and fell.
And I am an idiot and my Seeker instinct made me dive for it and scoop it up before it hit the floor, and Seamus nearly choked to death with laughter. Ron tucked himself away and zipped up and took his drink from Dean and I put the egg back on the table and Seamus prodded it with a pork scratching
I can’t remember what we talked about, after that, because my mind was full – well, fuller than usual – of Ron’s cock, but we eventually called it a night and stood and sorted out cloaks and gloves and scarves and Seamus led the way out of the pub. Dean followed, complaining about the cold, and Neville wrapped his scarf twice around his neck and I gestured for Ron to go in front of me, and, to my eternal shame, I picked up the abandoned egg and slipped it into my pocket.
Ron and I Apparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place and I hid the egg in my sock drawer and nothing more was said. We both slept late the next day and took a hangover potion and went to the Burrow for Sunday lunch, and things were fine between us.
We went back to work and we worked hard and I had decided I wouldn’t let it effect me and it was really only an issue in the gents.
Could I continue to accumulate peeing distance from his cock, or did I have to start from scratch, having touched it? I wished that there were actual recognised Rules about stuff like that, because making it up as I went along made me very nervous.
We jogged along happily enough, best mates, housemates, partners at work.
Pitiful, queer idiot and gorgeous, sexy redhead.
And I only ever petted the egg when I had opened the drawer because I needed socks, I didn’t take it out and sigh over it.
And I muddled through, until the Second Incident.
It was a good few months before the five of us managed to align our schedules and meet for another drink. Neville was working at Hogwarts and staying over the Easter holidays, and we descended on him, bottles in hand.
After some heated discussion of the appropriateness of getting drunk in the staff quarters – Seamus claiming he could actually feel the one thousand years of spinsterhood and unresolved sexual tension burned into the walls – we ended up sprawled on the grass between greenhouses three and four.
Seamus was drinking rather sticky cherry brandy that had almost congealed in the bottle, that he’d pinched from his mam’s cocktail cabinet on his way out of the house, and Dean was teasing him and asking if he was still fourteen. Seamus’s eyes narrowed as he looked around for a target to transfer the mockery onto.
“Still alive, then?” he said, kicking Ron’s ankle.
“Yeah,” Ron said, “why shouldn’t I be?”
“I’m just a wee bit concerned about your combat skills,” Seamus said earnestly.
Ron frowned.
“Highly trained Auror, mate,” he protested.
“I just hope you’re better with your wand in your hand,” Seamus said.
“As opposed to?” Dean asked.
“His wand.” Seamus waggled his eyebrows.
“Go on then, get it over with,” Ron said, sighing heavily.
Seamus tutted.
“I just worry about you in unarmed combat, when you thought you could fire an egg off the end of your willy.”
“Very funny,” Ron said. “I don’t use my cock at work, okay?”
“No concealed weapon, then?” Neville asked.
“How would that even work?” Dean asked, laughing.
Seamus and Neville turned to look at me.
“What?” I asked.
“The whole egg thing was your idea,” Seamus pointed out.
“It was not,” I spluttered. “Neville…. and Ron …”
Ron lay back on the grass, grinning widely, and lobbed a peanut into the air, attempting to catch it in his mouth.
“You’ll choke if that goes down your throat,” I said.
“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Ron muttered, earning a bark of a laugh from Seamus.
“You could probably fire peanuts off your cock,” Neville pointed out, to cover my blushes.
“How?” Dean said.
We all looked from Ron’s groin to his mouth.
“You could…” Neville frowned. “You could point it at your feet and put a peanut on the head and let go.”
“Excellent,” Ron breathed.
“Oh, Ron, don’t,” I begged, as he unzipped.
“This one’ll work,” he said, wriggling out of his jeans. “C’mon Shay.”
“What?” Seamus asked.
“I challenge you,” Ron said.
“To?”
“To see who can catch the most peanuts in their mouth,” Neville said happily. “Excellent.”
Seamus looked trapped, but he couldn’t deny that this was right up his street and he huffed and dropped trou and lay down parallel to Ron, and two urinals apart.
Not that distances are measured in ‘urinals’ in the real world; I know that.
“Well?” Dean asked. “What are the rules?”
“Usual rules,” Neville said. “Fire one peanut at a time, no catching with your hands.”
“You’re on,” Seamus said.
He and Ron pushed their boxers down and started stroking their cocks.
Part of me thought I should look away, but wouldn’t that have drawn attention to the fact that I was watching him wank?
Well, we were all watching him wank, but there was a Purpose and a Drunken Challenge behind it. We were watching Ron’s beautiful, long fingers moving up and down his beautiful, long shaft. Watching that spacious foreskin, sliding back and forth and reveal more and more of the head. He and Seamus were focussed on their cocks, and Dean and Neville were laughing at them, and I was rewriting the Rules on Cumulative Peeing Distance in my head. I would clearly need some new guidelines, after watching him wank.
When he and Seamus were both hard, Neville placed the packet of peanuts between them.
“Right,” he said solemnly. “You will each have five attempts to fire a peanut into you mouth; if scores are tied after five shots, we will go to sudden death.”
Dean laughed out loud, but Ron and Seamus nodded seriously.
They each reached for a peanut, seemingly unconcerned that their fingers tangled inside the packet, and lay flat on the grass. Pushing their erections down, between their thighs, they attempted to balance the ammunition on the head of their cocks, before letting go, and catapulting it into the air.
First attempts were pitiful. The peanut balancing was pathetic and the resulting trajectories wild.
“Useless,” Dean scoffed. “That barely cleared your belly button!”
“This is not as easy as you think,” Ron said, with as much dignity as he could muster as he pushed his cock down with one hand and manipulated his peanut with the other. “We can’t see what we’re doing.”
Seamus grunted as he fumbled his missile.
“I’ve lost me nut down amongst me nuts,” he complained.
“Actually a peanut isn’t a nut, it’s a legume,” Neville said.
“And how is that funny?” Seamus protested.
“Your legume is stuck between your legs,” Ron suggested, muffing another shot. “Fuck.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Neville said. “I reckon that this is a two man job.”
Ron and Seamus turned their heads to frown at each other.
“Nah,” Seamus said. “This is a competitive event, Nev.”
“I don’t mean help each other,” Neville said.
“Then what?” Ron asked.
“What are best mates for?” Neville shrugged.
“Not a chance,” Dean said.
“Aw, c’mon,” Seamus pleaded.
Dean and I looked at each other.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, crawling over to Seamus and straddling his thighs. “C’mon Harry.”
I dared look at Ron.
“Please, Harry?” he said.
“You’re not serious,” I said, dragging myself over to him. “When have I ever asked you for a favour anything like this big?”
“How about all the evil I faced for you?” Ron asked, holding out a peanut.
I snorted.
“You followed me!” I protested, taking it from his beautiful, long fingers, and copying Dean by straddling my best mate. “I’d never ask you to fire peanuts off my cock.”
“Well, that just shows who’s the better friend,” he said, lying back and bucking his hips so his cock jerked between us.
“Right, then,” Dean said. “How about a practise shot, first of all?”
“What?”
“Well, Ron and Seamus were at an advantage,” he said.
“How?” I asked weakly.
“They are used to the… elasticity of their erections,” Dean said. “I’m gonna look like an idiot if I totally misjudge the strength and break a window with the peanut.”
Ron laughed and Seamus visibly preened at this compliment to the strength of his cock.
“One practise shot,” Neville decreed and I clasped my peanut tightly.
“Go on,” Ron said encouragingly.
Dean glared at Seamus’s cock.
“I’m pretty sure you’re his best mate, you know, Nev,” he said. “What with me dropping out of school and everything.”
“You’ll never know how much he missed you,” Neville said firmly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered and I grasped Ron’s cock.
Dean squared his shoulders and copied me, swiftly dropping a peanut on the head of Seamus’s and releasing it.
The peanut arched through the air, and landed on Ron’s chest.
Seamus groaned, and everyone turned to look at me.
I tried hard to detach myself, emotionally, as I pulled it towards me and balanced a peanut on the smooth, warm, velvety upper surface. I tried to get into the competitive frame of mind that this apparently required.
But this wasn’t a Snitch.
It was salty and distracting me with thoughts of leaning down and lapping at Ron’s salty skin and taking him in my mouth.
I breathed deeply and focussed on my task, my eyes flicking back and forth between Ron’s face and cock as I took aim. Holding the head steady, between his thighs, I released it. I wish I could say I shot between Ron’s waiting and parted lips – in more ways than one – but it flew wide and landed by his ear.
“So close,” Ron moaned, as Seamus booed.
Dean took two peanuts and handed me one.
“I hope you’re not knobbling my man,” Ron growled.
“With a sabotaged peanut?” Dean asked, aiming a bit more carefully, but obviously not spending too much time actually handling the equipment, and missing by a mile, once more.
Deciding I was doomed, anyway, I decided to overdo it and I made a great show of pulling Ron’s cock down and sighting along it. Ron, being drunk and competitive and insane, didn’t object to me running my fingers down his shaft, so I didn’t have to explain I was smoothing out the wrinkles in his foreskin to make things more aerodynamic, to justify my behaviour.
“C’mon, Harry,” he said encouragingly. “You can do it.”
Holding his cock in the perfect position, I brushed imaginary debris from the head with my other thumb, making sure my peanut had a smooth launch pad.
“Stop milking it, Potter,” Seamus complained, making a wanking gesture.
“I’m just taking it seriously,” I said, examining my peanut. “Y’know I think this has been knobbled.”
Neville handed me a new peanut and I narrowed my eyes and popped it in my mouth.
“Ewww,” Dean moaned.
“The salt interferes with the trajectory,” I assured him, taking out the glistening peanut and admiring it.
Bizarrely no one seemed to care that I was still holding Ron’s cock, all this time, but I finally rested my peanut in place.
“Cheating,” Seamus complained. “The moistened peanut doesn’t slip off!”
“Not cheating,” Neville ruled. “Dean can suck your nuts, if he wants.”
Ron sniggered and his cock shook and I had to hold it firmly, to avoid dislodging my ammunition, and I was gonna go to hell.
Finally and smoothly, I released my catapult and the peanut flew through the air and hit Ron in the eye, even though he arched beneath me and tried to follow the peanut with a wide open mouth.
And I rolled off of him and wrapped my arms around my bent knees, to hide the bulge in my trousers. The fates really were utter bastards. I’d stroked his cock. He’d arched beneath me. And all in the cause of drunken, bar-snack sporting events.
“Ah, you win,” Dean said, climbing off of Seamus. “That was really close.”
“No, no, no,” Seamus complained. “You can do it!”
“Shay, put it away,” he said, shaking his head. “Face it, Harry’s just a better peanut flicker.”
“Bloody Harry’s fucking unexpected sodding talents,” Seamus muttered.
“Youngest peanut flicker in a century,” Ron crowed, wriggling back in to his boxers. “Well done, mate!”
I was almost proud of myself for not having kept any of the peanuts, and hardly dared admit, even though it was only to myself, that I had sucked on my fingers as I took the peanut out of my mouth. Sucked fingers that had touched Ron’s cock, touched Ron’s cock with fingers wet from my mouth.
I managed to pretty much behave as if I’d forgotten the Incidents.
I knew that straight drunk blokes behave like utter idiots, and then forget all about it. It wasn’t Ron’s fault I was pathetically and desperately in love with him. My boy didn’t deserve some creepy bloke perving over him.
I instituted a strict peeing embargo, and was careful never to go at the same time as Ron. Obviously, he never noticed this, but it helped me feel more in control of the situation. I wasn’t some weak willed, love sick idiot, who couldn’t stop staring at him when he wandered into the kitchen in just pyjama bottoms and reached for things on a top shelf and the curve of his arse was visible.
I never put his special mug on a top shelf.
I hadn’t researched Preservation Charms especially to cast one on Eggbert; it had come up at work.
I decided that naming the pickled egg in my sock drawer wasn’t as weird as calculating Cumulative Peeing Distances, and let myself off for doing it, seeing as I peed alone.
The Third Incident was also drunken, and I was beginning to spot a pattern, but didn’t involve any foodstuffs weirder than couscous, and that was, thankfully, not in a sexual situation.
Hermione came over to dinner, which involved Ron watching and drinking from the bottle of red wine Hermione had opened, as I helped her cook.
Another couple of bottles with the meal left Ron frowning slightly as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip and me aching to leap over the table and suck on that lip as if my life depended on it. Only my slight dizziness and the certain knowledge that I would humiliate myself by sprawling amidst broken crockery and spilt wine stopped me. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention to what Hermione was saying about work, until she suddenly slammed down her glass and pointed at Ron.
“And just when were you going to tell me that Percy is gay?” she demanded.
Ron stopped licking his lip and froze, looking more than a little gormless, but I wouldn’t admit that, even under torture.
“Um, never?” he said.
Her eyes instantly filled with tears.
“I thought you knew me better than that,” she sniffed, grabbing her wine glass and making sweeping gestures to accompany her words. “I am the most tolerant person you know, Ronald Weasley. I have never judged…”
Ron stood and reached for her glass, just as it upended right in her lap.
“Look what you made me do,” she protested. “Ruined. Everything.”
“Hermione,” Ron said solemnly, taking the glass out of her still flailing hand. “If you had given me a chance, before drowning yourself in perfectly good wine, I would have said I wasn’t going to tell you something that I Did. Not. Know!”
She blinked at him.
“Didn’t know?” she asked.
“Uh, no,” he said. “Total bolt from the proverbials.”
I handed her a tea towel and she dabbed at her lap. “Oh,” she said. “I… I’m sorry.”
“Percy doesn’t talk about his love life,” Ron said, refilling her glass and holding it out towards her. “How d’you find out.”
“Oh, Oliver came into the Ministry to take him out,” she said, reaching for it as it slipped through Ron’s fingers and landed on her feet.
“Oliver?” Ron breathed.
Hermione squealed and leapt up and wriggled toes in wine soaked socks. “Oh, that is foul,” she wailed.
“C’mon,” Ron said, standing and reaching for her hand. “I’ll get you something to change into, and you can tell me how my speccy git of a brother landed a professional Quidditch player!”
“You’re just jealous,” Hermione said.
“I’m not jealous of Percy,” Ron said swiftly.
Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “You were jealous when I dated Viktor, and when Harry dated Ginny, and now Percy is dating Oliver, and you’re the only one who hasn’t dated a Quidditch player,” she said.
I blinked at them.
“Uh, Hermione,” I said. “Ron wasn’t jealous of me dating Ginny; Ginny is his sister, remember?”
“No, I meant…” Hermione trailed off and frowned. “I just meant that you have dated a professional.”
“Stop making my sister sound like a prostitute and come and find some traccy bottoms,” Ron said firmly, dragging her from the room.
I sighed as the door closed behind them and started clearing the table.
In an ideal world, Hermione would have meant that Ron was jealous of me dating his sister because he wanted me himself, not because I got to remove a Quidditch uniform with my teeth. Which I had never done, but I was certainly picturing Percy undoing Oliver’s laces.
On the plus side, Ron had seemed impressed, rather than revolted, with Hermione’s news about his brother, although I’m sure he was thinking about match tickets, rather than Oliver’s arse.
But the whole thing was terrifyingly familiar and I could almost hear Ginny screeching at him that he was the only one who had never kissed anybody, and I was afraid to go upstairs, in case he was mysteriously snogging Lavender.
One of the wine bottles was still half-full, so I grabbed it and some glasses and wandered up to the sitting room, to find Ron listening with interest to a Hermione dressed in dry socks and some of my pyjama bottoms.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, fiddling with the crotch of the pyjamas in a rather distracting way, even if I was a flaming poofter. “Everything of Ron’s was far too long, I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, ‘course not,” I said, handing her a glass. “What’s mine is yours, you know that.”
Ron was spellbound by her tale of Percy’s embarrassment at Oliver calling for him at the Ministry and I was watching them fondly and my eyes drifted down Hermione’s pyjama clad legs to her feet.
Dry and warm.
And wearing my socks.
Someone had been in my sock drawer.
But neither of them was acting strangely. Hopefully Hermione wouldn’t realise anything dodgy was going on, and Ron probably didn’t even remember. He certainly wouldn’t guess that I ever told Eggbert how lucky he was, to have touched that beautiful cock.
That Eggbert was my only confidant; the only one who was apologetic about having been pressed up against Ron’s cock.
Who was supportive of the whole Cumulative Peeing Distance Rules thing.
Luckily, the only one who knew I was a sandwich short of a picnic.
I gulped my wine and joined in the speculation about Percy and Oliver.
By the time I’d seen Hermione to bed in a spare room and found her a toothbrush and a towel, all I wanted was a brutal, manly wank and a good night’s sleep. Bloody Ron, with his gorgeous cock and sparkling eyes and crooked grin and casual acceptance of a gay brother.
I wondered what he’d say if he found out that I was screamingly gay for him; I wondered if he’d be quite so accepting.
I wondered why he was sitting on my bed, holding Eggbert.
I closed my bedroom door, behind me, and leant against it, consciously locking my knees to remain upright.
“I’ve been wracking my brains,” Ron said, “and I can come up with three explanations. The most obvious is that it’s an emergency snack, in case you are hungry in the night. Secondly, it could be something to do with work – a fiendishly clever and subtle monitoring device or something. Or, thirdly, it’s the egg I stuck up my cock.”
“Um,” I said wittily.
“Which you could have picked up by mistake, I suppose.” He looked down at the egg and flushed slightly. “And just dropped it onto your dresser with your keys and your Muggle money. Or because…”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Apparently walking to your death was not as frightening as admitting you were in love with somebody.
I crossed the room and sat on the bed, keeping a respectable He’s Going To Kill Me Distance between us, which needn’t be Cumulative, as he’d only kill me the once, and was encouraged by the fact that he didn’t flinch or leap up and run screaming from the room.
But, then again, he’d known about Eggbert for over an hour, and he’d chatted and smiled and asked questions about Percy’s sex life, so what the hell did that mean?
I took a deep breath and my life in my hands.
“Because,” I squeaked.
He looked up at me.
“Because I’m jealous,” I said helplessly.
“Of an egg?” Ron asked.
“Of…” I shrugged. “Where it’s been.”
We looked at each other.
“I’m not much of a… cock bloke,” Ron said, swallowing hard, “but I did wonder where you got the idea from.”
“Neville…”
“Not the egg,” he interrupted. “The… the putting… the cock…”
I groaned.
“You’ve just got such a… it’s so roomy looking,” I said helplessly. “I just want to… to put…”
“Just?” he croaked. “Harry. You just want to put…”
“Fuck, yes.”
His eyes ran down my body and rested on my crotch and I swear I could feel the path they had taken burning slightly, from the intensity of his gaze.
“’Kay,” he said.
“’Kay?”
“Reckon it’ll fit,” he said quietly, putting Eggbert on my bedside table and unbuttoning his jeans.
“Ron?” I breathed. “You can’t do this.”
He kicked off his jeans and boxers and sat in the middle of my bed, legs crossed, cock nestling in comfy looking red pubes.
“C’mon,” he said, hauling his t-shirt off over his head and making all sorts of muscles move in his lanky body. “This is your fantasy.”
“I can’t,” I said. “You can’t do this.”
He gave me a level look, eyes half closed. “Harry, I’m not just humouring you, I promise,” he said. “We can get on to my fantasies next.”
“So, you’re… you’re not just…” I swallowed.
Shifting onto his hands and knees, he reached over the edge of the bed to snag his jeans and his cock swung beneath him and I bit my lip and moaned.
“Here,” he said, taking something from a pocket and throwing it at me.
I caught it, automatically, and frowned at it.
It was a clear, plastic key ring.
With a peanut embedded in it.
I looked up at him.
“It’s the one you sucked,” he said, his ears blushing.
I yelped and pounced on him, bearing him backwards onto my bed and crawling on top of him.
“You kept the peanut?” I murmured, looking down into his happy face. “Why didn’t you tell me you kept the peanut?”
“Because I felt like an idiot!” he said.
“You… you utter….”
I bent and kissed him and felt dizzy as my whole world shifted around me, and he kissed me back.
Fuck, he kissed me back. His very long and very naked limbs wrapped around me and he kissed me back and I ground down against him and he bit my lower lip and laughed at my gasp of pleasure.
“Good to know,” he said. “But you have too many clothes on.”
I reluctantly slithered off of him and our hands tangled as they ripped my clothes off and soon I was kneeling between his spread legs and cupping his face as his hands rested on my thighs and we kissed and kissed and kissed and it was Ron and he was so naked and he was kissing me.
“C’mon,” he said, wriggling closer.
“What?” I asked.
“The cock thing,” he said, patting the duvet between his legs and grinning widely.
“Really?”
“It’s what you want to do, yeah?”
“Are you sure we should try that straight away?” I said.
“Absolutely,” he said firmly, as I sat in front of him and flung my legs over his. “The sooner we make you happy, the sooner we can make me happy.”
“But if you don’t want to…”
“Harry,” he interrupted, pushing his foreskin down his semi. “Stop fretting. I’m pretty sure that sex is supposed to be fun.”
I laughed and took my cock in hand and pulled back my own bog standard foreskin and pressed the head of my cock against his.
I could come from just saying those words, and I had to breathe out, hard, through my teeth, as Ron carefully rolled the velvety skin over me.
It felt fantastic; warm and scary and safe and far better than the words inside another bloke’s foreskin could possibly convey.
And it was my Ron.
And I hardened fully and had to wriggle backwards, to allow for the extra length.
And Ron wrapped his hand around the heads of our cocks and wanked us, his soft skin sliding over mine and I bit my lip and whimpered.
His hand moving on his cock obviously wasn’t his every fantasy come true, but he hardened, too, and I was gradually pushed out, and soon it was just his hand on my cock.
Just his hand.
Ron’s gorgeous, long fingered hand, running up my cock from root to tip, then tip to root, down his.
With a cry, I surged onto my hands and knees and straddled him; pushing him back on the bed, I tangled our legs together and hooked my feet under his knees and he laughed and pinned my feet and I pressed my cock against his and thrust hard.
He swore colourfully and reached for me and I grabbed his hands and held them above his head as I flexed and ground against him, each stroke dragging my cock and balls the length of his, until my thighs were trembling and I closed my eyes and buried my face in his hair and whispered his name as I came.
Then he easily freed his hands and wrapped his arms around me and I pulled my wobbly legs up under me and huddled over his body, my softening cock nestled against his.
And I never wanted to move, ever again.
And I wanted Dementors to flood into the room, because my new happiest thought would power the world’s greatest Patronus.
Ron’s hands ran up and down my back as I clung to him and he gentled my shaking body as I caught my breath, but I soon became very aware that he was gently thrusting up at me, his cock slipping through my come and brushing against my own.
Hauling myself up onto my elbows, I peeled my eyelids open and looked down at him.
“So, you’re… not much of a cock bloke?” I croaked.
“No,” he said seriously, as his large hands cupped my arse and spread my cheeks and a fingertip pressed against my… my.
Well, my arsehole.
And, while I’m perfectly aware I should probably refer to it, poetically, as my ‘entrance’, well, let’s face it, it’s my ‘exit’.
Formerly a purely functional exit, whose greatest pleasure had never been more than a really satisfying… number two, but which now seemed to consist of all the nerve endings in the world.
“D’you ever…?” Ron raised his eyebrows significantly.
“D’w’I ever what?” I gasped, squashing the part of my brain that was asking how I could have a conversation with someone whose left hand was fondling my arsehole.
It’s Ron, I told my squeamish self.
“D’you ever touch yourself, here, when you wank?” Ron asked.
“No,” I gulped, hypnotised by his circling fingers. “I… I don’t think I could reach.”
“Oh, you could,” he assured me. “You could reach deep inside.”
I think I blushed.
“How d’you even…” I huffed. “D’you… don’t you scratch yourself with a fingernail?”
Ron held up his right hand to show two missing fingernails.
I snorted with laughter and then groaned as he sucked on them, rather suggestively, before reaching behind me and pressing into me with a fingertip.
I gaped down at him, hardly daring to hope he had a list of Rules of Cumulative Anal Penetration. He watched me carefully as he fucked me with his fingers and I shamelessly crawled forward a bit so he could reach better.
“Arse man,” he groaned, both fingers hooked inside me as his cock sprang free from between us and joined his fingers between my cheeks. “Total arse man, Harry.”
“Really?” I gulped.
He nodded. “Can I?”
“’Course,” I said, agreeing to anything, especially anything that felt as good as his fingers up my arse.
His face lit up with such a joyous smile and I knew I would be making whispered offers of anal sex to him in the most inappropriate of situations, just to trigger that smile.
He withdrew his fingers and I scrambled off him and said, ‘um.’
He sat up and kissed me and I melted into him and he effortlessly manipulated me onto my hands and knees and I didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed at kneeling with my arse on display.
Not when he knelt behind me and pressed kisses down my spine; not when his huge hands cupped my cheeks and squeezed; not when he parted them with his thumbs; not even when he bent and touched my hole with his tongue.
Honest to god.
His tongue.
My arsehole.
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, only you can’t, because he’s mine; you will have to make do with an inferior tongue. I make no claims about the standard of my arse.
So. Ron touched me and I made a noise that would be humiliating in any other circumstances, although the effect it had on Ron would make it worth my while making the same noise at Sunday lunch at the Burrow, just to see how quickly he would drag me from the room.
He actually growled, his tongue flickering against my sensitive skin and I arched my back, opening myself up to him.
And that tongue and his fingers (and a dollop of lube from who knows where) probed and stretched and had me gibbering and begging, and only for Ron could I kneel with my cheeks spread, pleading to be fucked.
And he held me open and I finally learnt, in breathtaking detail, just how long his cock was, as it inched into me, stretching me to just this side of pain. I cried out and his hands soothed me and he murmured filthy words into my ear and he filled me to the tips of my toes.
I tried to catch my breath and my hands clawed at the sheets and I whimpered pitifully.
He laughed and started moving; building up a clumsy rhythm as I hindered matters by writhing under him. He covered my body with his and his glorious weight pressed me flat on the bed and his hands closed over mine and he muttered, “fuck, Harry.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Fuck Harry!”
He buried his face in my hair and I pushed my arse back at him as he bucked on top of me, each stroke filling me and pinning me to the mattress like a pin through a butterfly.
All too soon he cried out and stilled, his hot breath thundering in my ear as his cock throbbed inside me.
“Told you,” he murmured, kissing my neck.
“Hmmm?” I asked.
“Told you sex s’posed t’be fun.”
So, the Third Incident was the last one I needed to count.
I no longer monitored Cumulative Peeing Distance, and a pickled egg wasn’t the only person who knew about the rules on Cumulative Peeing Distance. Ron was all for peeing shoulder to shoulder, and a maximum peeing distance of a foot, and he was very patient as I learnt to relax and believe this.
It took some time and arguments, and a few drafts, but we finally agreed on the rules of Cumulative Frotting Distance and that Cumulative Frotting was a lot more fun than Cumulative Peeing. Basically, a thrust of cock against cock was twelve inches, and cock against anything else was just six. Anal and oral not counting at all, despite Ron’s attempts to have Internal Frotting recognised as an event, if not a sport in its own right.
And you have no idea how hard it is to argue with him when he thrusts deep into your arse and murmurs, “Are you sure we can’t call this Internal Frotting?”
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