Flying Lessons - R/N - R
Title: Flying Lessons
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Ron/Neville
Words: 1900
Rating: R for language

Written for thetreacletart for nevillosity’s Late Bloomer ficathon.

Yeah.

thetreacletart.

I entered the ficathon thinking, “oh, well, I can do funny” – but there is no one who does funny better than thetreacletart, so I am scared!

Anyway.

Betaed, despite it not being part of their original contracts, by the perfection that is magicofisis and the rather shy secret_beta.

And Neville!picked by the awesome bryonyraven, because I really am out of my depth here – and my depth is pretty shallow, let’s face it!

You wanted Ron and Neville flying on brooms.

I have never written a proper Neville!fic before, so let's see how I can stretch myself, shall we?

I will, radically, be writing it from Ron's POV….


Flying Lessons
****
It had taken us a year to track down and destroy just one fucking Horcrux.

And that was without doing anything clever.

It hadn't taken Hermione very long to work out that the real locket was the same sodding, fucking, buggering, arseing, arseing, arseing locket we'd seen at Grimmauld Place.

And, of course, Mundungus Fletcher had pinched it.

And, of course, he'd been released from Azkaban and gone to ground.

Could Harry Potter wander round Knockturn Alley, trying to find someone who'd seen Dung? Not so much.

Could Hermione repeat her legendary undercover performance at Borgin and Burke’s? Only too painfully.

Step forward Ron Weasley, Master of Mystery.

You’d think a supportive girlfriend would be proud that my swearing and table manners helped me blend right in, but no.

So.

I found Mundungus, lost Hermione, can now use six swear words in one sodding, fucking, buggering, arseing, arseing, arseing sentence and have sworn off women.

Mundungus had a list of dodgy pawnshops where he might have off-loaded the locket that was as long as my arm, which is why it took me months to track it down.

But I finally did.

Hermione destroyed it with, thankfully, minimal injury, when it blew up in her face.

And we’d spent the summer searching the rest of the caves along the coast that Harry and Dumbledore had frequented.

If you can frequent a place just the once.

Anyway, that was when the thing that Harry had been dreading happened.

No, not You Know Who; not Death Eaters.

Ginny.

An of-age Ginny Apparated into our camp, her jaw stubbornly set, refusing to go home and insisting on helping us on our Quest.

We’d been expecting it, really, but Harry had given in far too easily. Henpecked. Had he learned nothing from watching my parents together? Or me and Hermione, come to that.

No, actually, that isn’t a lesson I’d be proud to teach anyone. How to completely bollocks up a relationship.

Anyway. We’d been using brooms to search the cliffs, not wanting to draw Death Eaters’ attention by using magic too often or too ostentatiously, so Ginny was actually more use than Hermione, and Hermione went back to Hogwarts to do more reading.

Which was when something really unexpected happened.

Neville arrived one afternoon.

Nervously clutching a broom and vowing his service to Harry like some sort of Medieval thingy.

Knight? Squire?

I dunno and Hermione wasn’t there to ask.

I saw Harry looking at Neville’s broom and I knew what he was thinking.

Neville was the worst flyer we knew – even worse than Hermione.

But we’d underestimated him before, hadn’t we?

I’d almost laughed at his insistence on coming to the Ministry of Magic with us, but the joke had been on me.

Or in me, rather.

I’d sat and giggled on the floor, as Neville followed Harry and faced Death Eaters.

As Neville suffered Cruciatus.

And he’d come back for more a year later.

So, I wasn’t going to let Harry turn him away.

“We’re on our brooms all day, Neville,” Harry said carefully. “How would you manage that?”

“I’ll help him,” I interrupted and everyone stared at me.

“Ron,” Harry said. “When are you supposed to have time for that?”

“When you and Ginny want to be alone,” I shuddered. “I have to do something to keep myself busy.”

Neville had laughed and Ginny had smirked and Harry had given in.

Later that evening, Harry and Ginny were… alone… I don’t want to go into detail.

Anyway, Neville and I went out onto the soft grassy field on top of the cliffs with our brooms.

He had a very stubborn look on his face and I smiled at him.

“I really am crap at this, Ron,” he said, his jaw set.

“Nah,” I said. “You just haven’t had the right teacher.”

He snorted.

“C’mon,” I said, cheerfully, slinging my leg over my own broom. “Mount it.”

He raised an eyebrow and gingerly copied me, kicking off from the ground.

His hands were both wrapped round the handle, white knuckled, and he wobbled alarmingly.

“No, no, no,” I chided, lounging casually on my Cleansweep, holding on one handed. I swooped carefully over to hover beside him and reached out, unfolding the fingers of his right hand with some difficulty.

He huffed and fisted his hand, resting it on his thigh.

“You’re too tense, Nev,” I said. “The broom’ll fight you if you hold on so tight. It’s like… like…” I bit my lip, thinking. “It’s like your cock.”

He choked. “Merlin, Ron,” he laughed.

“No,” I said, grinning. “Work with me here.”

His eyes lit up and he was already looking a bit more relaxed. “OK,” he said, slowly. “I’m listening.”

“OK,” I said. “So, you’re wanking, right?”

“Right,” he said slowly.

“Do you wrap both hands round your cock that tightly?” I asked, reaching forward and grasping my broom as hard as I could. My hands trembled and my knuckles stood out and my broom wobbled and Neville snorted.

“Um, no,” he admitted.

“Or,” I smirked, “do you sprawl comfortably, one hand round your shaft, teasing it with your thumb?”

“Ron!” he gasped, scandalised, but unable to stop laughing.

I shifted my weight back a bit, slid my fingers closer to me and flew a little higher; holding my broom lightly in my left hand, I pressed down with my thumb, for all the world like I was running it across the head of my cock, and I swooped back down to his side.

“Well?” I said.

He was staring at my hand.

“Ahem,” I coughed.

“Yeah,” he said, tearing his eyes away and looking up at me.

“Go on, then,” I said. “Show me.”

He laughed, slightly hysterically, but squared his shoulders, flexed his fingers and wrapped them round his broom.

“Gently does it,” I murmured as he pulled it towards him and bobbed upwards. “Excellent,” I said. “And again.”

Side-by-side, we pulled gently on our shafts and floated higher and higher.

The wind caught us a bit and Neville wobbled erratically. “Hold it steady, Nev,” I called. “You don’t have to come yet, hold it steady and take a breather.”

Neville shook his head and threw me a narrow-eyed look. “And how am I supposed to fly in mixed company?” he complained.

I sniggered.

“Shall we try going down?” I asked.

“What are you trying to do to me?” he laughed.

“Relax you,” I said innocently. “Now, just a little pressure from your thumb.” I swooped lower.

“Wait for me,” he said, following unsteadily.

“Not too hard,” I called.

“No,” he muttered. “I know. Just run my thumb over the head. Fuck, Ron, you’re insane.”

I laughed and circled beneath him as he wanked himself towards the ground.

“How d’you do that?” he called and I bobbed up beside him again.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Go in circles.”

I waggled my eyes, suggestively. “It’s all in the thighs, Nev,” I said and he blushed. Actually blushed. “Lean left, press with your right thigh, you’ll move left.” My eyes fell to his lap. To the not inconsiderable bulge in his jeans. I hurriedly leant right and circled him again.

I don’t know if he’d noticed me noticing, but he manfully leant left and followed me.

We spiralled down, towards the ground, and I wondered what would happen when we landed.

I had never been so aware of the ridiculous phallic object clasped between my thighs, and of the way I stroked it and controlled it.

And of the banter and innuendo we’d thrown back and forth for the past hour.

And that Neville had given as good as he’d got, and was windswept and flushed from the flight – and the sex talk.

And that he was hard.

And so was I.

Oh.

Well, there was the whole ‘sworn off women’ thing.

I hadn’t done anything about it, not even when I’d been offered in Knockturn Alley.

But this was different.

This was Neville.

Which made it good-different, because he was a mate, and not scary, and had considerably more fingers and less warts than the hand that had clasped my wrist in Knockturn Alley - and bad-different, because he was a mate, and if I bollocksed it up with him, too, then Harry would kill me.

I reached the ground and flopped onto the grass, discarding my broom. Neville was manfully following me and I watched him come in for his landing.

Too late, I realised that I hadn’t advised him on how to land, and he pulled up abruptly, catching his feet in the turf and collapsing in a heap by my side.

“Ow,” he moaned, disentangling himself from his broomstick and rubbing his ankle.

“Aw, sorry,” I said, sitting up, one knee raised to hide anything going on in my boxers, and, without really thinking, reaching for his ankle and manipulating it carefully. “No bones broken, I don’t think,” I said, nervously, wondering how to pull my hands away from his without looking like an idiot.

But he moved first, sitting back and taking his weight on his hands, leaving me caressing his ankle. “You could have mentioned coming in to land,” he pointed out.

Somehow he had turned the table on me, and I flushed at the word ‘coming’.

“Ah, well, sorry,” I muttered.

I finally stopped touching him and he stretched his legs out in front of him, gingerly rotating his foot.

“Well?” I asked.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Unorthodox, but brilliant. You should teach flying when this is all over.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I can see parents letting me coach their little darlings like that!”

“You can see why Madam Hooch never got the basics across,” he pointed out.

I laughed. “And why it didn’t work when I tried to teach Hermione!”

His face fell. “Hermione said you’re not together, anymore,” he said, quietly.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“Can I ask what happened?” he asked.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“Sorry…”

“No,” I interrupted. “It’s OK. Hermione… she… I… she’s been brilliant, all this year, and she is not going to let the war change her. She, um, didn’t like how ruthless I had to be to get hold of something in Knockturn Alley – thought I’d changed too much. I thought she was being too sensitive about it; that we have to do whatever is necessary.” I shrugged.

“Well,” he said. “Maybe when it’s all over, maybe you’ll need some sensitive again.”

I snorted. “Quite possibly,” I said. “But…” Oh, sod it, what’s the use of being a Gryffindor, if not for moments like this. “I’ll be on the lookout for a sensitive wizard, rather than a sensitive witch.”

A ringing silence.

Bugger.

I finally looked up at him.

He was grinning like a madman.

“Nev?” I said.

“Well,” he said. “I don’t like to blow my own trumpet, but I’m pretty sure that that’s me.” He leant closer.

“Or Dean?” I said, watching his tongue dart out and moisten his smiling lips.

“Nah,” he whispered, an inch from my mouth. “You’re not gonna want Ginny’s cast-offs.”

I snorted.

His lips covered mine for a moment, and then retreated. “Is this OK?” he asked, suddenly more Neville-like, and I relaxed.

“Very OK,” I smiled, leaning in for another kiss. “And maybe I could blow your trumpet for you.”