This is how you repay me? - H/R - R
Title: This is how you repay me?
Author: shocfix
Pairing: unrequited!Harry/Ron, Ron/Hermione
Rating: R
Word Count : 2200

Happiest of happy birthdays to my beloved maple_mahogany, who is simply edible.

Looked over by my lovely Q – many thank yous, sweetheart.


This is how you repay me?
****
I can’t remember any great moment of epiphany; I didn’t leap off Ginny’s lap and snatch my hand back from under her shirt and swear off women. Ginny is a fantastic kisser; taught me everything I know, I admit it.

And even a queer bloke can be fascinated by the consistency of breasts. I suppose it gradually occurred to me that I was fascinated, rather than aroused, by their squidginess.

And that wanking didn’t just turn me on because of the obvious, but because it was all about the cock.

I tentatively let myself focus on the word.

Cock.

It was hard and strong and made me… want.

Want what?

I surprised myself by what I wanted one to do to me, actually. Because they’re really versatile, once you start reading up on things.

I looked round the room, when we were in the Leaky Cauldron.

There were cocks everywhere.

Mine was being squashed by the lapful of Ginny Weasley I hadn’t sorted out, yet.

Nev’s was pointed firmly at the bar, and a Hannah Abbott in lower cut blouses that the Hogwart’s uniform had ever allowed.

I assume it was, anyway, as he wore robes, and I couldn’t really see.

Seamus was confusing. I am pretty sure he was a hundred and fifty percent straight, but he clung to Dean like a drowning man to a lifebelt. No one teased him about how much he’d missed his best mate; soon he’d stop starring at him and smiling like an idiot, and we’d be able to fix him up with a girl.

And soon Ginny would be available.

But, either way, his cock wasn’t visible. He wore baggy, low slung jeans, like a refugee from an early Boyzone video, and I couldn’t make out an outline, even when he cupped his crotch.

Dean was much more helpful. His tight jeans covered an interesting bulge. I regretted the years of not realising how gorgeous cocks were, the years when Dean wandered happily naked around the dorm, while I turned away. I wracked my brains, trying to picture the bulge, uncontained.

Strangely enough, his balls seemed to have made a big impression on my subconscious mind.

My own cock started to take an interest and Ginny wriggled in my lap and kissed me on the cheek.

“Not here,” I said, my hands at her waist to keep her still.

“Not here,” she muttered mutinously. “Not at school, not at your flat, not at Hermione’s birthday party, not at the Burrow at Christmas. Just where can we do it?”

She finished with a bit of a screech and everyone looked at us.

“For fuck’s sake,” I said. “Not now!”

Clambering out of my lap, she stood over me.

“Now works just fine for me,” she said. “I’m sure all our friends wonder why we’re not shagging.”

Amidst an embarrassed chorus of ums and nos and a yes from Seamus, I sat and spluttered pitifully at her.

“Why. Not,” she said loudly.

“I… I don’t want to,” I muttered.

Her mouth fell open and her hand swung back, almost in slow motion, before cracking back across my face.

I swore and Dean caught her hand before it could reach the proverbial other cheek, and Hermione leapt up and stood between us and Ginny hissed “that’s it, Harry Potter, it is over,” and collapsed, sobbing, into Hermione’s arms, and Neville helped support her into the Floo and Dean pulled Seamus to his feet and dragged him away and I slowly raised my eyes.

Ron was sitting opposite me, blinking rapidly and frowning.

I squared my shoulders, waiting for the protective, big brother speech.

Ron continued blinking.

“Well?” I said, finally.

“What?”

“What happened to the protective, big brother speech?”

Ron snorted.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asked weakly. “I trusted you, Harry, and this is how you repay me? Refusing to fuck my sister?”

“Ah.”

“You’ve really never…” He trailed off.

“Never,” I said.

“And you’re really broken up?” he asked.

“Upset?”

“Not you’re broken up,” he said. “The two of you. Are an ex-couple.”

I nodded. “I think it’s best,” I said.

He nodded. “So, d’you… need to get drunk?”

“You’re not gonna go after Hermione and help Ginny?” I asked hopefully.

“Ginny is slapping people and crying,” Ron said. “Hermione can cope with her. I’m gonna take care of my best mate. His girl just dumped him.”

He stood, patted me on the shoulder and went over to the bar. After something of a cross-examination from Hannah, it seems he was allowed to buy a bottle of Firewhiskey, and he returned to our table with two glasses.

He sat down and smiled encouragingly and.

Ron.

There’s a reason I didn’t mention Ron, when considering cocks.

Not just that I actually do know what his looks like, after six years at school, one in a tent, one at work and in our flat.

I’m casually interested in Neville’s cock, and Seamus’s and Dean’s; rather more so in Oliver’s.

I would throw myself at his feet and worship Ron’s.

Ron’s cock.

Ron’s. Cock.

Not that it’s particularly long, although it would certainly hit the spot; not that it’s particularly thick, although I’ve tried wrapping my hand around a variety of household items, trying to get my grip right. It snuggles into crisp red pubes, on a cold morning. It swings vigorously if he chases you in the changing room, after a shower. It has an unextraordinary amount of foreskin, a healthy colour and rather gorgeous balls. It dresses to the left.

And.

It’s attached to my boy.

My beautiful, devoted, hot tempered, lazy, hard working, passionate, gentle, utterly heterosexual boy.

You should see him with Hermione. He is so happy. He so deserves to be happy. If there’s one thing I went through all that crap for, it’s so Ron can be happy.

The way he smiles at her.

I love his smile.

His hands.

His eyes.

Him.

I love him.

I’m an idiot.

Yes, I do think I deserve to be happy, too. Yes, it’d have to be with a bloke. No, I don’t know any gay blokes; I haven’t… investigated, yet.

There is very little point.

Why should I fancy some bloke, just because he likes cocks?

How could I not love Ron, just because he doesn’t?

After half the bottle, he was looking utterly gorgeous, slightly blurred, slightly concerned and rather determined.

“So,” he said. “She’s water under the bridge, right? It didn’t work, but you were a ‘plete gentleman about it, and that’s brilliant, ‘cos I can still like you best. So. We need to get you right back on the broom, right?”

“Not yet,” I pleaded.

“Pffffrttt,” he said. “You deserve it. So.”

“So?”

“What d’you like?”

“Like?”

“Fancy.”

I gulped.

“Stuff,” I said vaguely. “The usual stuff. Mouths and eyes and… stuff.”

He rolled his beautiful eyes and his perfect lips pouted.

“You like… Quidditch players,” he said, counting off on his gorgeous, long fingers. “Athletic birds, not bookworms, yeah?”

“Athletic,” I echoed.

“Quidditch players. Prrffttt. Everyone has seen them all hot and sweaty and passionate. Bookworms. You don’ know what you’re missing.” He blinked me into focus and pointed at the one of me he felt might be after his bird. “And you’re not gonna find out.”

“’Kay,” I said faintly.

“Next,” counting off his forefinger and middle finger together, and I had had such fantasies about what those long fingers could do to me, “not all… pretty pretty and girly. Never fell for Fleur, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said, my eyes on his fingers, wondering just why I’d been so unsusceptible to Fleur’s pretty.

“Someone who makes you laugh, of course,” he said.

“Of course,” I said weakly.

“Someone who doesn’t care about the Chosen One crap,” he said hotly.

“Oh, yes please!”

“Well, there you go,” he said, with a crooked smile. “Not too much to ask for, not for my Harry.”

I knocked back my far-too-manyth whiskey and blinked back tears.

“Prob’ly not tonight, though,” he said. “’S a bit late to find anyone, tonight.”

“Prob’ly.”

“We OK?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“You’re not all can’t-stand-the-sight-of-me, ‘cos of my bloody sister, are you?”

“Utterlutely not,” I said emphatically, shaking my head and making the room swim. “You? You’re… you. We’re… everything more than just your bloody sister.”

He nodded solemnly and clasped my hand.

“Utterlutely,” he echoed. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

“Yes, please,” I whispered, but he didn’t notice.

He pulled me to my feet and drew my arm over his shoulders, to support me; we stumbled through the Floo and the whiskey hit us harder and we collapsed on the couch, panting, a tangle of limbs, Ron’s face buried in my neck, his breath puffing hotly against my skin, his arm that wasn’t ‘round my waist draped across my lap, an inch from the cock that was straining to be closer to him

“D’you wanna go further?” he asked.

I squeaked.

“I reckon I c’n reach my bed without throwing up,” he said, sitting up and looking at my flushed face. “But I c’n ‘bandon you here, if that’s what you want.”

“You,” I said.

“Me, what?” he said, reaching up to straighten my glasses.

“What I want,” I said sadly.

“Nah,” he said. “You want boobs.”

“I really don’t,” I said. “Not on the list. I want things that are lower down.”

He blinked.

“Girls have stuff lower down,” he said weakly. “Good stuff.”

I shuddered.

“Me?” he asked.

“S’nothing wrong with your bloody sister,” I said. “But she’s not you.”

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said dismissively.

“’Course it matters,” he spluttered. “You can’t announce something like that and brush it away.”

“But it’s not gonna happen,” I said. “I jus’… that’s why. You don’ need boobs to be you…”

“I… like boobs,” he said.

“I know.”

“Even hand me down ones,” he said.

I frowned and blinked him into focus. He looked earnest and sad, but not revolted.

“Hermione has han’ me down boobs?” I asked faintly.

“No,” he snorted. “I mean I got han’ me down… magazines, from my brothers, that prob’ly must have been Bill’s, orig’nally, and the birds in them were prob’ly old enough to be my mother, by the time I wanked over them, and I still really, really liked their boobs.”

“Old boobs?”

“Not old,” he scoffed. “Still all… perky, even if the poor women’d been squeezing them for fifteen years.”

“Ouch,” I said.

“But,” he said, “even though I knew those boobs were all saggy in real life, I could still get one off the wrist, just like that.”

He snapped his gorgeous could-not-be-less-interested-in-my-arse fingers.

“Good proof,” I said approvingly. “You like birds. Def’nitely.”

“But what we gonna do about you?” he asked sadly.

“Nothing!” I said. “Jus’ don’t get me drunk again, so I tell you horrible things.”

“’Snot completely horrible,” he said. “I just don’t really know what to do.”

I shrugged.

“I could ask Hermione,” he said.

“If she’d… let you?”

“No,” he said. “What you’re s’posed to say, when your best mate’s a shirtlifter.”

I rolled my eyes.

Which hurt.

“She wouldn’ ‘pprove,” I said.

“Hermione?” he scoffed. “She loves causes.”

“OK,” I said. “(a), I am not gonna be her next cause, and secon’ly, I mean she’d tell us off for sayin’ ‘shirtlifter’, and three, there ’snothing you can say. You’ll just have to cope, an’ I’ll be good, and I won’t… touch you, or anything.”

“She won’ let me stop touchin’ you,” he said firmly.

“What?”

“You weren’t touched ‘nuff, as a kid,” he said. “Hermione is big on us touchin’ you.”

“Oh,” I said, looking down at his hands. “I don’ want you to feel you have to.”

“Look,” he said earnestly, patting my hand. “I don’ begin to understand why you’d wanna… access my family jewels… but I reckon I’m grown up enough to deal with it.”

“Right,” I said faintly. “You’re dealing very well.”

“It’s not my first time,” he admitted.

“Doing what?” I asked, wide eyed.

“Telling a bloke I think of arses as a one way street.”

“Good lord,” I said. “Who made a pass at you?”

“Terry Boot,” he said. “Randomest conversation ever; one minute we’re talking about me playing Keeper at school, next he’s all innuendoish about hoops and scoring… and wriggling his arse at me.”

“Oh,” I said weakly.

“Told him he was barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “Easy to get rid of him, but he’s not you, and I’m not gonna get rid of you. You’re you.”

“Right,” I said. “Good.”

“Though, of course,” he said. “If there was any bloke I could… you know… it’d be you, and not Boot.”

“Thank you.”

“An’ even Hermione’s arse, I only use to hold onto, while…” he nodded significantly. “So, we know where we stand, yeah?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said firmly. “Together as ever, but I’m gonna have to take the piss out you about being bent, no matter how much Hermione hates it.”

“Wouldn’t ‘spect anything less,” I said.

He nodded firmly.

“Right,” he said. “I’m gonna go to bed. You gonna lie here an’ watch me walk away?”

“I thought I might,” I said, sprawling on the couch.

He Accioed a blanket and tucked me in.

“At least you’ve got good taste,” he threw over his shoulder, as he left the room, arse wriggling.