You\'re a Keeper, Ron Weasley | By : KohakuShadow Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3263 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I don't own harry potter, nor am I making any money off of it. If I did, it would be MUCH more gay. |
A/N: This fic can be read, if you see fit, as a prequel to 'Stray'. It works just fine on it's own, too, though. Warnings are to the best of my memory, as I wrote this several weeks ago, so if I've forgotten anything, let me know and I'll add it in.
Yes, I have a mailing list. See my profile for details.
You're a Keeper, Ron Weasley
Funny, isn't it? When your life suddenly falls apart before your eyes? At least, after three fire whiskeys burnt down his throat, Ron Weasley thought it was pretty funny, in a bitterly lonely sort of way. What was funny was, while it was happening, when everything was going to shit, he'd thought nothing of it. He just didn't see how things were going to go. In retrospect, he realized things had gone pretty much exactly the only way they could have from the moment he said, 'I don't think I'm going to take the auror exam.'
It seemed like a simple enough sentence. Hermione had been so bloody happy for them that she was constantly shoving his head into books to study, and for once, Ron really didn't much mind. He thought she was probably exactly right, that Harry could get into the Aurors just by showing up, after finishing Voldemort, but that wasn't necessarily true for him. He would just sigh at that, and go back to the infernal studying, but it bothered him; ever the sidekick.
Once that sidekick thought entered his head, it just kept bouncing about. He thought about it a lot, when he was skiving off one of Hermione's brutal study sessions. He'd been 'Harry's friend, Ron' his whole life. Now that they'd left school, it seemed he was just 'Hermione's boyfriend, Ron'. Which was fine, really, for about a week, but when did he just get to be 'Ron'? He felt like he kept chasing after other people, so his entire existence became defined by theirs. And for what? So he wouldn't be left behind? Was that really worth all the fuss he'd been making over it?
So, he'd taken some time to think about this auror shit, and about the war. He sat up one night by candlelight counting the scars on his arms – half a dozen from the Department of Mysteries alone, and then that big one from getting splinched...
He thought about joining the aurors, and all the dangerous things he would be getting into, and all the paperwork he'd have to do, and then he thought, 'Bloody hell, if I'm going to get myself beat about all day, I might as well play Quidditch for a living. At least that'd be fun. I wager it's the only thing I'm really all that good at, anyway.' At least, that's what his sleep-deprived brain, told him. The next morning, about to be ushered off to the exam, he dug in his heels, looked at his two best friends and said, 'I'm not going.' He'd had a good ramble, telling Harry that being an auror suited him brilliantly, that 'you couldn't keep yourself out of trouble if your life depended on it.' He said that with a smile, and Harry had laughed. Hermione didn't look quite so thrilled. Her lips went thin, and she said, 'then what are you going to do, Ron?' in a sort of shrill little voice with her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. He could tell he was in for a lecture no matter what he said, so he'd said, “Dunno, but I wager if I don't figure that out now, I'll never get the chance.”
That was two weeks ago. Hermione hadn't picked a fight with him about it there on the street. She'd turned her back on him, grabbed Harry by the arm, and said, 'Come on, Harry. You're going to be late.'
Harry had looked over his shoulder as she dragged him off, and Ron gave him a bit of a pitying wave, said, “Good luck, mate.”
Harry laughed it off. Hermione came by later and they had a bit of a rout, in which he got whacked about the head several times, but stood his ground until she threw her arms in the air and stormed out. That was pretty much the end of their so-called relationship. Ron was okay with it, really. It was just another one of those times when the fantasy was better than the reality. She kissed alright, but once that was over and done with, he realized he didn't really want to do much else with her. Better to end it because he's a – what had she called him? Ah, right, a 'lazy good-for-nothing', than because he couldn't get it up for her. That would just be humiliating.
And, so, he'd had two weeks to think. Harry'd firecalled once, but was quite busy rushing about doing Harry-ish sort of things, so he'd not seen him yet. Ron assured him though, that everything was just fine, that he didn't care much about the Hermione thing, or the auror thing. Bit funny, really, Ron told himself, that he'd spent all his young life worried about his best friends leaving him behind, only to end up digging his heels in at the end and effectively telling them 'you go on without me.' Harry'd promised to pop by over the weekend, but the Aurors had called him in for his interview, and he'd had to cancel at the last moment.
That's what found Ron sitting in a pub alone, drowning his misery over the fact that Puddlemere United had just smashed his beloved Cannons. Of all the things that had gone wrong in his life of late, rooting for the underdog really did very little for his morale. Worst of it was, a bunch of blokes who'd obviously been rooting for the other side had picked the same bloody pub, and were hooting and hollering, laughing it up. It just made him feel all the more alone. Handsome blokes, though – his drink-muddled brain told him, as he switched off to mead – sneaking an eyeful of one in particular, with broad shoulders and big hands that reminded him a bit of his brother Charlie. Hadn't got a look at his face as yet, but he had quite a fine view, from where he sat, of the man's gorgeous, leather-clad bum.
Ah yes, that was the other thing Ron had had a bit of time to think about. He'd been a bit slow to notice, but he was fairly certain now that he was probably quite gay. He'd always appreciated a handsome bloke, thought he might swing both ways, but having had a few moments to think about the few girls he'd dated in his young life, he realized he fancied the idea of them fancying him, more than he fancied them. On the other hand, if he were to list off every boy at Hogwarts he'd sneaked a furtive glance or two at, he was pretty sure he'd run out of fingers. Toes, too.
He turned back to the bar, lest he be caught staring. He could hear the man in the leather pants from here, though. Something about '...only halfway through' and, 'Be serious mates! The Cannons 're one thing, but it's the Magpies next, and they only rank behind by a hair...” Whatever he said after that, that sounded suspiciously like '...extra hour of training in the morning,' was drowned out by laughter around him.
'Sounds like Oliver Wood,' Ron thought. He'd not known him that well – only heard a lot of stories about him from the twins, Charlie, and Harry. His insane training regimens had gone down in Hogwarts history though, he was sure. He remembered Harry grumbling before dawn several times during their time at school as he fumbled about in the dark for his uniform and his broom. The phrase, 'bloody sadist' came to mind most clearly.
Ron didn't mean to spy, but supposed it was par for the course when drinking alone. He didn't catch the first half of what one of the boisterous group said, but he did make out, “...Burn off some of that nervous energy and get another round of drinks!” That was followed by another round of rowdy laughter.
Leather Pants had a few choice words for his friends, which, Ron mused into his mead, sounded a fair bit sweeter with that Scottish lilt. Wait a second! Scottish? Celebrating Puddlemere's victory. Nervous... Fuck! It was Oliver Wood! In leather pants. Ron had just been staring at Oliver Wood's arse. Now, he was walking over here. Ack! Ron knew this was all only happening in his own head, logically, that Oliver wasn't psychic and probably hadn't noticed his arse being ogled at all, but the drink was getting to him and he wondered if there was any graceful way to hide beneath his barstool and escape unnoticed.
His trademark Weasley red hair gave him away. Oliver leaned over the bar right beside him, a bit too close, really. It was crowded, sure; it always was after a game. Ron always liked the crowd, made it a bit less obvious he didn't have anyone to keep him company. Even so, he felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck at the way Oliver leaned right over his shoulder, close enough that he could smell the cedary musk roll off of him, tinged with hints of lime and a bit of nervous sweat. Maybe he was imagining that last bit. He had been eavesdropping a bit on Oliver's conversation, after all. Ron really didn't know if nervous sweat actually smelled any different from the ordinary sort.
Oliver called over the bartender and said, “another round for that rowdy lot,” nodding his head toward his friends. Teammates. Whatever. Ron didn't suppose it mattered. He tried to disappear down the bottom of his tankard, taking a large swig. It didn't manage to disappear him at all – quite the opposite, Oliver turned and watched in awe, wondering when the redhead was going to come up for air. When Ron did, aware of the eyes on him, the elbow leaning on the bar beside his left hand, his blue eyes peered uncertainly at the reserve keeper for Puddlemere United. “Uh...”
“Ron Weasley, right?” Oliver asked amiably. “If I could drink like that, I'd be passed out dead as a doorknob in under an hour!” he grinned. “Oliver Wood,” he held out one of his broom-calloused hands for a shake. “Don't think we ever met, proper, but I hung about from time to time, with your brothers.”
“Uhm, yeah,” Ron answered dumbly. “I remember.”
“Heard from Charlie you took my old post as Gryffindor Keeper once I graduated.”
“Er, yeah, s'pose so...” Ron answered. It was hard to focus. He wished he was a bit more sober, or a bit more drunk – but this in between muddle-headedness did nothing for his confidence and even less for his ability to hold a proper conversation with a handsome quidditch player in leather trousers. He was rater a bit fixated on those trousers, really. He tried not to look too closely at the older man who hovered over him – reserve, sure, but a real professional Quidditch player! He'd always gone weak in the knees for celebrities like that. He'd been mad for Krum once, too – didn't quite realize why, at the time. And, those pants that just screamed, I'm out to seduce something pretty, have way too much to drink, and dance like a whore tonight, left Ron's mouth parched with their indecent fit. The blue t-shirt Oliver wore with them also fit a bit too well not be provocative.
“S'pose, Ron?” Oliver laughed. “Either you did, or you didn't.”
“I did! I mean, I did, but, I rather imagine it may've been a fluke. Best mate as Captain, n'all.”
“Bollocks,” Oliver declared. “Harry'd not've given you the job if you didn't deserve it. If I found out he was that sort, I'd knock him senseless, and he knows it.”
“Only beat out McLaggen by one goal, and I blocked it a bit by accident. Damn near fell of my broom.”
Oliver waved it off. “I fall off my broom at least once a week. Occupational hazard,” he joked. “What're you drinking?”
“Huh? I...mead at t'moment,” Ron blinked, wishing his brain would at least TRY to keep up with his tongue. As it was, the two tangled so much there was no saving him from sounding like a fool. He was fairly certain that this had something to do with the fact that his tongue was trying to hold a normal conversation, while his brain was trying not to think about Oliver's leather trousers, how good his arse looked in them, and what else he was hiding underneath that probably looked just as good.
Oliver waved the bartender over again. “Two meads, if ye'd be so kind?” he drawled. “And my key, before those drunkards talk me into any other foolery tonight.” Even the bartender laughed as Oliver shifted and adjusted said trousers. “Leather bloody chafes, as chance would have it,” he blurted rather tactlessly. “Can't wait to get the fucking things off.”
Ron choked on what was left of his current mead, making rather a mess of the bar in front of him. He sputtered a few incoherent apologies to a mercifully kind-hearted bartender, who simply flicked a skillful wand to clean up the mess, and put two more meads before them.
“Did I say something wrong?” Oliver asked.
“I, n-no, nothing,” Ron croaked. No, nothing at all 'wrong'. It was just that now his jeans were starting to chafe a bit around the crotch, as he thought of several ways to get Oliver out of those leather trousers, all of which, he was sure, went far more smoothly in his head than they ever would in reality.
Ron stared at Oliver's lips moving, but honestly, after Oliver talking about how his bloody trousers chafed and he'd be glad to be rid of them, there wasn't another thing the man could say tonight that would make it past the ambient noise of the bar into Ron's muddled head. He tried to listen though. Oh, he certainly tried. “Sorry?” he asked.
“Oh, sod it,” Oliver declared suddenly. He grabbed Ron by the cheeks and planted quite a kiss on his mouth.
Ron's eyes went wide in shock, his pulse raced, and he blinked owlishly up at the quidditch player as if he really had no capacity to process what had just happened.
“Not much good for subtlety,” Oliver explained, hands dropping onto Ron's shoulders. “But you're cute, and I have a room upstairs that I fancy I can find a better use for than sleeping, if you're willing.”
“I..! You...!” Ron's face turned the color of his hair. “Th--....”
“I'm a fair enough shag, I swear,” Oliver insisted. “Unless you've got someone waiting at home?”
“Not unless you count the doxies,” Ron blanketed. “I just...you're rather a bit frank, you know?”
“Tactless,” Oliver answered just as frankly. “So I'm told. Life's too short to mince words, yeah? I heard that you're not with Granger anymore. Heard it was a fine mess you got yourself into with that girl.”
Ron swallowed a lump in his throat, willed the pixies in his gut to stop running riot. A shag with Oliver Wood? Tactless or otherwise, the man was a prize, even if only for a night. He tried not to wince at the mention of Hermione. A 'fine mess' really was just the way to describe it, and he didn't want to think about it.
He was pretty sure he grimaced anyway, from the way Oliver cupped his chin in his calloused hand and tilted it up. The pixies in his gut fluttered madly.
“She threw you away, but she's still got you tethered, you git. Fuck her stupid, mugglish rules. If you want to fly, then break the chains. You're a wizard; your feet only need to be on the ground if you want 'em there.” Oliver forced another greedy kiss on Ron's mouth that Ron couldn't help melting into. He clung to the older wizard's biceps, trying to will that little Hermione-voice in his head that told him all the things he couldn't do – like follow a man he barely knew upstairs for a one-off – to bugger off.
“Have a few more drinks on me,” Oliver said against Ron's mouth. “When you've got enough liquid courage in you, I'll be in room twelve, trying to get my arse out of these trousers and remember what breathing feels like. It's bound to be right comical to watch, be a shame if you missed it.”
Ron felt the body heat slip away, watched that fine arse slowly disappear around the bar and up the stairs, moistened his lips thinking of how much he'd love to just grab a handful of it and squeeze...
“Something stronger, then?” the bartender asked, startling Ron out of his reverie as he took away the tankard of mead Ron didn't remember drinking.
“Yeah,” Ron answered, feeling unexpectedly parched. “Something that'll knock some sense into me, and get me off my arse before he finds someone else to help him out of his trousers.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender laughed, and Ron found himself looking down into a shot glass of lime green liquid with a curl of pink steam tumbling out the top of the glass, creating a thin layer of smoke that obscured his view of the black marble bar.
“Liquid courage, huh?”
“Nothing braver,” the bartender smirked. “It'll either get you off your arse, or knock you off your stool trying. Either way, you'll get some perspective.”
XXXXXXXXXX
Ron wasn't sure what was in that shot glass, and was fairly certain that he never wanted to know. He was sure, at least, that it caused temporary amnesia. He remembered knocking it back. It had such a kick that, well, somehow he clocked his head under the lip of the bar. He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but he knew there were probably several witnesses downstairs who could tell him if he was so inclined as to make an arse of himself, marching back down to ask. That seemed a bit counter-productive, really as he found himself in the upstairs hallway.
“Sorry, sorry, wrong room,” he slurred apologetically for what he was sure was at least the third time. He was seeing double a bit, and had knocked on several doors that he thought had read twelve at first. He'd interrupted his fair share of half naked wizards and witches. As he fancied being half naked with a wizard soon, he really had to get himself squared away. His nervousness about Oliver's proposal forgotten, he was now only mildly irate that he couldn't quite see straight, and couldn't find the right bloody room. “Fuck me,” he groused, rubbing at his blue eyes.
“Was hoping to, if you'd get your arse in here.”
Ron spun about, losing his footing to confirm that yes, his equilibrium was completely shot. His head throbbed. He should have just worked up his nerve the old-fashioned way – with rum. He might stand some hope of remembering what was happening, or at least be able to walk in a reasonably straight line.
Oliver's wonderfully calloused hand reached out and caught him by the elbow before he could crumble to the ground completely. He fell against the older man's bare chest. “Y'smell so good...” Ron slurred.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Weasley,” Oliver laughed, spinning Ron into the room and kicking the door shut behind him. “Even if you're a slovenly drunk, making such a racket going up and down the hallway,” he teased. “Let's get you some water first, yeah, and a Sober Up with a Pepper Up chaser.”
“Jus' th' water, n' something for a headache, if ye've got,” Ron replied. “I'll be alright once the room stops spinning. Sober me up too much, and I might chicken out.”
“Don't say it like that,” Oliver said, pouring a glass. “I might take it personal.”
“No! I...! No, don't,” Ron blushed, only now realizing Oliver was in naught but his pants – a pair of well-fitted black boxer-briefs that left very little to the imagination. He tried not to stare, but it was quite a sight. “I mean, shit, Oliver. A bloke would have to be mental not to take you up on't.”
Oliver pushed Ron down to sit on the bed, and thumbed open a bottle of headache remedy, tilted it down Ron's throat. Ron gagged on the taste, but immediately found a glass of water at his lips. He took a long swallow. “You almost didn't,” Oliver reminded him.
“Yeah, well, I'm a fair bit mental,” Ron answered. The throbbing faded, his vision straightened out and his ears stopped ringing. He was still sure to be clumsy as a troll, but his stomach tied in knots as he got a good look at the nearly naked keeper sitting all too close beside him.
“Well, I guess all Weasleys are,” Oliver quipped. “Part of the charm, though.” He put Ron's water aside. “Now, about that shag...”
“Fuck yes,” Ron exhaled the words. Getting a good look at the man told him he'd be crazy not to take him up on it. He was a prize - those big hands, strong chest, and of course, that incredible arse was still on Ron's mind. He was burly and all man – just the sort that made Ron's hormones run rampant – not quite so burly as Charlie, and without the podge, but a fair bit similar in build, really. Much nicer to look at, Ron thought, than the lean, gangling limbs he and Bill shared. Bill seemed comfortable enough in his own skin, but Ron didn't have enough confidence to be so suave about what the hand of fate had dealt him. As Oliver's strong hand rested on his waist, as his lips came down to attend to his jaw, Ron felt embarrassed about the body he had stowed away under his baggy t-shirt and two-day old jeans. He couldn't imagine what Oliver saw when he looked down at him like that, but it must not be all that bad, because the man slid his hand up under Ron's shirt and ran it across his flat stomach.
“You sure?” Oliver asked.
“You're not serious! I knocked my arse out of a barstool on your account, and made a right fool of myself going door to door up here, and you think I'm not sure?”
Oliver grinned. “Well, you're a bit pissed. Feel like I'm taking advantage, is all.”
“You are,” Ron blurted. “But it doesn't bloody matter, not tonight.”
“Alright, but tomorrow, you're not allowed to blame it on me if you regret it. I gave you every chance to change your mind,” Oliver said. “It's not at all my fault if I'm just too sexy to resist,” he grinned.
“It is,” Ron answered, lifting his arms as Oliver pulled his t-shirt off and dropped it to the floor. “You and your leather trousers.”
Oliver laughed heartily. “They're not even mine,” he admitted. “I lost a wager I had no business getting involved in; the leather trousers are my punishment for getting rat-arsed and giving the underdog more credit than they turned out to be due.”
Ron thought to ask about that, but got distracted by the way Oliver's tongue felt on the shell of his ear, the way his hand felt running along his thigh. For a man who wanted a shag, he sure was taking his sweet time about it. It felt good though, like he was being doted on and spoiled rotten. He couldn't remember the last time he felt that way, but he got the impression he'd been hip-high and Honeydukes candy was involved.
Oliver's lips found his own, kissing him deeply, and wiped out Ron's meandering thoughts. He curled his arms around the keeper's shoulders. Even if he was working for the enemy, the way he kissed certainly made up for it.
Oliver's at first meandering pace seemed to speed up when his hands found the button of Ron's jeans; he rid the Weasley of those fast enough, dragging his tongue across Ron's nipple on the way down. Ron groaned. “Getting a bit eager,” he tried to tease, but his voice came out harsh and he found he had scarcely breath enough in his lungs to speak.
“What can I say? Weasley men are hot,” Oliver retorted, leaning down over Ron for a softer kiss. “And isn't it just my brilliant dumb luck that I landed the pick of the litter?” He kissed Ron's pliant lips again.
Ron laughed into it. Pick of the litter, indeed.
“Don't laugh,” Oliver laughed right back, the skin beside his eyes wrinkling with the broad grin on his face as he leaned over the redhead. “It's true.”
“If it's so true, why are you laughing, then?” Ron retorted, propping himself up on his elbows. His cock twitched at the way Oliver's eyes traced his torso when he moved that way, like the man just couldn't help enjoying the view. 'As if!' Ron thought.
“Because you are, you dolt, and laughter is contagious,” Oliver retorted. “And, because you're off your arse drunk, and I'm a glutton for punishment.”
Ron wanted to ask what he meant by that, but Oliver didn't give him the chance to ask. He kissed him passionately again, and slid his hand down over Ron's crotch. It was a bit clumsy, really, but it was more than skilled enough for Ron – his hormones went wild, feeling that big hand cupping the bulge of his boxers. He tried to tell himself he was only a little bit drunk, just enough to get his Gryffindor nerve off the ground, but he knew Oliver was right – he'd had way too much to drink to try to hold a lucid conversation, least of all when there was a gorgeous quidditch player pulling his pants down his thighs and exposing him completely.
Situated between Ron's legs, kneeling at the foot of the bed, Oliver let out a low whistle. “You really are something, aren't you?” he mused.
“Whazzat?” Ron started to say, and gasped when that calloused hand – oh, how he was starting to love callouses! - wrapped around his heat and gave him a good stroke. Bare flesh to bare flesh, Ron's body shuddered. He could barely see straight, but he didn't need to see to know that this was exactly what he needed tonight.
Oliver laughed again. Ron thought that hearty laugh was at least half the charm of him. The other half was his incredible body, and there was at least forty percent for personality, and a good ten percent was how much the man loved quidditch. His muddled thoughts didn't bother with silly things like math, or he might have realized that there was something wildly off about those numbers. The only numbers he cared about at the moment were one and five – one cock, and five fingers stroking it and, oh fuck! He'd forgotten all about the other five, running up the inside of his thigh, with the smooth, polished wood of a wand nestled between them, and two lips, sliding in to kiss a tender path up the other thigh.
Ron clutched the sheets and failed to repress a whimper. The way Oliver worshiped his body made his spine tingle and his palms sweat.
“I was just saying that it's my lucky night,” Oliver replied at last, planting a kiss to Ron's pelvis. “But, as much as I'd like to tease you all night, I don't think there's much point in torturing myself to do it.”
Ron watched as Oliver pulled away and slipped out of those tight black pants. He wasn't self-aware enough at the moment to realize he'd licked his lips, or shifted against the mattress impatiently, but Merlin the man was perfect to Ron's eyes. If someone carved a statue of Oliver and told Ron that he was a deity, and worthy or worship, at this particular moment, he would be hard pressed to argue. Ron could only stare – trying to reconcile the burly body with the baby face, and the sweet, yet intense eyes. It seemed impossible that so much sexy and so much cute could reside in the same person. He could see that, clearly, they did. It was either that, or his drunken imagination was playing quite an elaborate trick on him. Regardless, he sat up as Oliver returned to his side and pulled the man down to the bed with him.
Oliver landed with a thud and a curse ready on his lips. “Warn a bloke, would you?” he complained, but he obviously didn't mean it, because that sweet chuckle that had Ron so enchanted was quick to follow the complaint.
“How would I have any fun if I did?” Ron replied, grinning. It felt so good, having a reason to smile again.
“I can think of a few ways,” Oliver answered, eyes twinkling with mirth. “At the moment, they've all to do with my cock, mind.”
Ron laughed into another kiss. It was miraculous how easily Oliver laughed, and how easily he pulled laughter from Ron's lips. Hermione scarcely ever laughed at all. It had made Ron rather forget a bit, that being with someone was supposed to be fun. It wasn't supposed to make you go prematurely gray(alright, to be fair, it was only one gray hair, and he'd probably had it half his life and never noticed), or stress about stupid shit like table linens, and whether or not you bothered to fold your pants before stuffing them into the wardrobe. It was supposed to be like this – with laughing and snogging and being naked, and not making a fuss about being naked or about all the little things you couldn't hide when you were.
And, it was about a sexy bloke wanting to stuff him like a pastry and fill him with cream. Ron blushed at his own perverse analogy, but oh, how he wanted that! It felt filthy to want it, like there was surely something wrong with him to feel that way, but he wanted it all the same. He wanted to be able to admit he wanted it without feeling like a filthy pervert – a handsome bloke with calloused hands to laugh with, and talk about quidditch with, and shag. If it wasn't a one off it would be a dream come true. Even as a one off it was still brilliant. He thought maybe he could admit it now. He needed to admit it, to stop chasing girls he only wanted because they wanted him first. He couldn't go on the way things were.
“Hey,” Oliver said, cupping his cheek. “What's that serious face for, out of the blue?”
“Sorry,” Ron answered. “ 's not you. Really, I mean, shit, how can it be, you're perfect.”
“Far from,” Oliver answered. “Flattered though. Something you want to say?”
Ron smiled at the gesture. “Not a bloody thing that matters more than that flagpole you've got stabbing my hip,” he said.
Oliver laughed again. “Fair enough,” he said. “Shag now, talk later. As long as we've got our priorities.” He kissed Ron's jaw. “Roll onto your stomach for me, yeah?”
Ron didn't have to be asked twice. Cornish pixies ran riot in his stomach as he rolled away from Oliver. He didn't know what to do with his head and hands, so he rested his head on his arms and watched the older man. There was something about the way Oliver looked at him that made his spine tingle. There was a softness to it as he gave pause, ran one of those wonderful hands down Ron's back, from his shoulders to the curve of his arse.
“You really are something alright. Always knew you were cute, never realized you'd grow up to be so bloody sexy, though,” Oliver blurted.
Oliver seemed to have a way of blurting out all manner of random things, as though he forgot how to censor himself when he thought, and he made Ron feel beautiful. Ron didn't know how to say any of that without looking a fool, but Oliver interrupted him again, not requiring a reply.
“Right then, let's get on with it, yeah? Sort of, trying to savor the moment,” he gave an awkward little chuckle. “Trying not to rush, but 's a bit of a challenge, when you're all...” He made a vague hand gesture and finally fell speechless as he leaned in over Ron and dragged the tip of his wand down the cleft of his arse, whispering the proper incantation against the soft skin behind Ron's ear.
Ron moaned as the spell curled its way into him – warm, wet, persistent, and just a little greasy. It felt brilliant. Oliver's tongue was on his ear again. Wand abandoned on the bedding, his hand rested neatly against the curve of Ron's spine.
“S'pose what I'm getting at is that I rather fancy you. You've been on my mind since Charlie rambled about how you fell out with Granger. I'd been thinking I ought to ask him to introduce us, next time he's about, but then I turned around to order a second round, and there you were at the bar, looking right depressed. I couldn't believe my luck. First I find out I'm bumped up from the reserves while Hunt is nursing a broken leg, which makes the leather trouser joke a bit less painful, and then I turn around, and the bloody things got painful all over again, in quite a different way, if you understand my meaning.”
As Oliver rambled, he kissed down Ron's neck and over his shoulders, made a place for himself between the redhead's knees.
Ron offered no resistance when his hips were lifted, arse forced up in the air. He bit his lip, tried to unmuddle his brain enough to really process what was happening. He scoffed. “I'm not a girl, you don't need to tell me you fancy me, just over a shag,” he answered, taken aback by the need in his own voice. It would be nice though, if Oliver really did fancy him. It would be something to look forward to in the morning, so for tonight, he decided to pretend it was true.
“An' you don't need to tell me what I do and don't need to tell you, to protect yourself from the chance of maybe getting hurt again,” Oliver retorted with an uncharacteristic scoff. “ 't's why it's called a chance, Ron, because you're meant to let it be and see where things lead.”
Undone by the serious conversation when a gorgeous man was poised at his bottom, Ron decided now was not the time to be picking a fight. “As long as it leads to you burying yourself in me soon, I've got no cause to complain,” he answered impatiently. How much longer was Oliver going to make him wait? At this rate, he'd be sober before the shag, and as much as he'd drunk tonight, sober was still a long way off.
“Well, yeah, that rather was the plan,” Oliver laughed again, his temper fading as quickly as it had kicked up. “So shut up and stop distracting me.”
Ron could hear the grin on his voice at that statement. “Stop being so easily distracted,” he quipped back.
“Stop being so distracting, then. I don't know whether to focus on the part of you that's adorable, or the part that's sexy.”
“Focus on whichever part makes you want to shag me, git.”
“That's both,” Oliver declared. “But, you do have a point. You look incredibly shagable just now.”
“Yeah, well, do something about it, then.”
“Shh!”
“Be veewy vewwy qwiet,” Ron quoted an old muggle cartoon Harry had showed him a while back. The joke was lost on Oliver, but it was just as well. “Nevermind,” he said, and sucked in a breath as he felt those calloused hands pull open his cheeks, the blunt end of his cock nudge against his hole. Ron forgot how to breathe as the thick rod slid into him. He moaned, but the noise sounded far away, and he didn't realize it was him until it was too late to stop it. It felt...oh! But it was good! It was so good, to have a man push into him like this, to be possessed like this...Oh Merlin, it was wonderful! They'd only just begun, only that first push and slip, and Ron's mind spun. The tight knot between his shoulders that he hadn't realized was there suddenly uncoiled, and the ever-present tension in the back of his neck vanished. Oliver's grip on his hips was firm, and his thrusts short and sharp. Ron could hear the man panting over him, but it was moot. He was too lost in the excitement of the moment, the enjoyment of a thing he'd forbidden himself from having for far too long. He'd deemed it weird and wrong, and he wasn't sure how he got that idea in his head, but suspected it had something to do with catching his two elder brothers snogging in the garden on Bill's first holiday visiting home after he took the job in Egypt. He'd never said anything, but the memory always tied his stomach up in knots. It had little to do with Charlie and Bill kissing, and a fair bit to do with the erection he'd had from watching them. And then, when Bill's hand had slid down over Charlie's arse...well, Ron had run off in a panic before he could see a second more of what they were up to, but he was pretty darn sure it wasn't degnoming.
Since then, he'd convinced himself that fancying other boys was just plain wrong. He wouldn't even let himself look at another man and think he was attractive. He'd had a few slips in school, mind – once under the bleachers with Seamus. Okay, twice... And, there was that time at the Quidditch World Cup... So, three times...or so... There had also been a bit of snogging and groping out by the greenhouse with Justin once, which was awkward and clumsy, and they both agreed to pretend it had never happened. His first time gone all the way was in the changing area with Roger Davies after Ravenclaw had destroyed Slytherin, though. Actually, come to think of it, this seemed to be the first time he was having at it with another man and there was a bed involved. Hell, it was the first time he was having at it with a man on purpose. The rest of them somehow just sort of...happened. That got his nerves going. 'I have no bloody idea what I'm doing. He's certainly noticed by now. Must have...'
Oliver moaned, proving to Ron that his worries were pointless. He gave up the train of thought, enjoying the harsh breathing of the man above him, the way his hands felt on Ron's hips. The slap of his hips against Ron's arse created such a perfect rhythm between them, that it left Ron, inebriated as he was, completely insensible. He moaned and begged, but wasn't quite aware of doing so. What he was aware of was the passion, how good it was, how Oliver seemed to respond instantly to his every desire. He didn't quite realize that was because he was voicing those desires so freely.
When Oliver pulled him upright into his lap and began thrusting energetically into him from below, one hand on Ron's cock, the other wrapped about his waist, his mouth mumbling incoherently against Ron's throat, and that sensitive little spot behind his ear, Ron was lost. The world went white, his body stiff. He convulsed, came violently, and collapsed in Oliver's strong arms as the older man convulsed himself, holding Ron tight, mumbling words that Ron couldn't make heads or tails of as he released himself deep within the redhead.
They fell to the bed, limbs tangled, lips still eager for contact. Or, so the latter would seem, from the way Oliver continued to pepper kisses across Ron's mouth, the way Ron – spaced out as he was – instinctively responded to those kisses, curled in closer to the older man who was holding him so tightly, and dragged his tongue across Oliver's lips before Oliver had the chance to beg that entry from Ron. Oliver was quick to deepen the kiss at that request, sliding his tongue past Ron's lips.
They shared those intense, passionate kisses for several minutes before thought found its way back into Ron's head. The first thought he had was, perhaps predictably, 'Kissing is brilliant.' It may not have been the most intelligent of thoughts to have, but it was quite apt, under the circumstances. Oliver was a brilliant kisser. Ron felt no desire to stop the kissing whilst he took stock: they were pressed tightly together, Ron's release cooling between them and sure to go sticky in short order, Oliver's strong hand had quite a firm grip of Ron's bum. Ron found himself startled most, perhaps, when he realized that he'd been idly toying with Oliver's nipple for the past several minutes. He decided not to stop right off – the meager sounds issuing from Oliver's throat were really rather charming. Ron wasn't quite sure if that had more to do with the nipple play, or with the fact he, apparently, had his thigh wedged between the other man's and was rubbing it against his recently spent groin with every breath either of them took that made Oliver make such sounds, but Ron rather fancied those sounds either way.
When they finally stopped for air – and an overwhelming exhaustion from their recent activities – Oliver smiled at Ron, brushed his ginger hair away from his sweat damp brow. “Girl was mad. You're a keeper, in more ways than one, I'd wager,” he managed around a yawn.
Ron blushed. He thought, at that moment, that he'd rather like to be kept for a change. “You're mental,” he answered, because it was the only thing he could say that wouldn't make him sound either prissy or stupid.
“Been told that before,” Oliver answered lazily. “But I mean it all the same. You fancy maybe meeting up with me again some time, starting off sober next time?” That didn't, of course, imply that they would stay sober, but if they were going to get pissed, he apparently would rather they do so together than apart.
Ron blinked rather owlishly at the burly man who seemed intent on not letting him go for what was left of the night, or at least until he had an answer. “You're serious?”
“I'm always serious,” Oliver blanketed, but smiled anyway. “Even when I'm joking, I'm serious. Your brother always told me that.” He chuckled a bit at some childish memory or other. “What do you think of it, then?”
Ron's blush brightened and he nodded what he grudgingly had to admit was a shy sort of nod. It made him feel foolish – to think so little of shagging the man, but get embarrassed when he suggested a proper date, but before he could berate himself for it overmuch, Oliver kissed him again, softly this time.
“Brilliant!” the Keeper declared. “We'll talk about it in the morning, yeah? I'm dog tired, and there's a game on again tomorrow. I'm playing first string, on account of Hunt busted up his leg in the stupidest bloody way possible, and the healers think that's reason enough to keep him off the pitch for the next several games, even though you don't much need your leg from the knee down to fly proper, and a half decent shield charm ought be enough to keep any bludgers from getting the best of him. But, apparently, I'm not a healer, so my opinion doesn't count.”
“You'll get to play though, yeah? That's good.” Ron chuckled. Oliver really was a bit mad when it came to Quidditch, but it was cute, in a reckless sort of way.
“Yeah, s'pose so,” Oliver answered. “Just don't much feel like I've earned it yet. I mean, Puddlemere's a brilliant team, maybe I'm not brilliant enough. Maybe I'll make a mess of things. I'd feel awful for letting everyone down. I'll have to squeeze in an emergency training session in the morning.”
Ron saw that manic gleam in Oliver's eye that everyone always told him about. He could very nearly see the mad training regimen the man was sure to put himself through right before what would be a big game for him, and laughed. “You're just nervous, you git.”
Oliver turned to a different subject entirely. “Hey, I hear the Cannons' Keeper is planning to retire with what's left of his dignity. You should try out.”
“You're barking,” Ron replied tersely. He knew his favorite team lost more games than they won, but he still got annoyed when someone bad-mouthed them. It was only the afterglow that kept him from properly defending his team, and demanding Oliver take back his smart remarks. They were true, anyway. It had been a particularly devastating season.
“Look at it another way. You can't possibly do any worse,” Oliver pressed, oblivious that the way Ron's nose wrinkled had less to do with the prospect of trying out for a professional Quidditch team, and more to do with the painful reminder of how Puddlemere had utterly wiped the floor with his beloved Cannons tonight.
Ron suddenly slapped Oliver upside the head. “Go to sleep before I kick your arse,” he groused. “They had a bad night.”
“All of their nights are bad nights these days,” Oliver quipped. “Sorry, Ron, but it's true. You know it is.”
“Doesn't mean you have to rub it in,” Ron sulked.
“Well, when your beloved Cannons manage to beat my team, then you can rub it in all you like, fair enough?” Oliver laughed.
Ron wanted to be sour about it. He'd been rooting for the underdog his entire life. He imagined that had something to do with him being the underdog his entire life, but it was hard to stay mad with that twinkle in Oliver's eyes, and that gorgeous body pressed against his own, and the soft, playful kisses Oliver kept dropping along his jaw to soften the verbal blows he continued to dish out. He wanted to mind. He really did, but he knew it was a losing battle.
“Don't sulk at me like that,” Oliver complained. “You're only angry because you know it's true. The Cannons' Keeper is at least half blind, their beaters couldn't hit the side of a barn. A decent offense is the only thing keeping them afloat. I'm saying they'd be mad not to take you on, if you decided to try out, so don't pout at me. I'm trying to compliment you.”
“You've never even seen me play. Git,” Ron scoffed, though that backhanded bit of flattery did help Oliver's case, if he was honest. The idea of being on a professional Quidditch team had been a fantasy he'd carried around most of his life, especially since Charlie joined the Gryffindor team and turned out to be such a brilliant seeker. He used to joke that it was in the blood. Fred and George, of course, would tease him that that bit of Weasley blood skipped his clumsy arse. Percy would just turn his nose up at the entire affair. Bill would tell him he was a late bloomer, when he was about to get his two knuts in.
“Don't have to,” Oliver answered, stumbling over a yawn. “You've got Keeper written all over you. I know these things.”
“You're lying.”
Oliver smiled lifting his hand to pinch the air between his thumb and forefinger. A little bit. “Never mind it,” he said. “You're more than you think you are, Ron. You'll never know how much more, though, if you don't pull yourself out of your comfort zone and try some new things, though. You quit the auror training, yeah?”
“How did you?!!” Ron sighed, realizing. “Charlie has a big mouth.”
“He's worried about you 's all,” Oliver said. “I just mean, if that's not for you, you should try something different on. Figure out what fits.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “You're awfully chatty after sex,” he groused.
“After? What do you mean after?” Oliver quipped, offering Ron a huge grin. “I'm just catching my breath.”
“How can you, if you won't shut up?” Ron laughed a little. He really couldn't help it. Oliver might have a big mouth, but it was a rather nice mouth, all the same. He'd already forgiven the man for bashing the Cannons – chalking it up as an occupational hazard – when Oliver said, “Well, shut me up then.”
Ron didn't know how he found the new swell of energy, but Oliver aroused the competitive streak in him, he supposed, and he accepted the challenge, pulling the man down for a smoldering kiss.
XXXXXXXXXX
Ron awoke in the morning to a vicious hangover, every muscle in his body aching, and some rather loud crash coming from the loo. He groaned and brought a hand to his throbbing head . “Bloody hell, Oliver, what's all the racket?” He squinted against the pre-dawn darkness. There was a golden halo through the window, but the sun hadn't really risen yet.
Oliver rushed from the bathroom, half-shaved with his hair dripping wet. “Sorry Ron, I woke up late.” He disappeared again and, once properly shaved, returned. He knelt by the bed and gave Ron a quick kiss. “You made me oversleep. Now I'm late for my special morning training. It's all the more important today.”
Ron smiled at the memory of last night, and Oliver's excess energy. He knew 'special morning training' just had to be something that Oliver did on his own, he was certain the rest of the team would have nothing to do with his obsessive training regimen. He remembered how much the twins used to complain about it. More than that, he was remembering, at the moment, how Oliver had complained that they 'really ought to get some sleep' even as he was kissing his way down Ron's flat stomach, but how, when Ron threw that back at him when Oliver was impaling him for the second time, Oliver claimed that sleep was 'entirely overrated, by comparison'. It really had been a brilliant night, and easily the best shag of his life. He knew that by how his body felt, but honestly, it was hard to remember the details past his throbbing headache. Now it was morning, his wished he'd skipped that last shot, which he was seriously paying for now. Oliver was eagerly trying to pull him from the bed and convince him to follow him to the nearest pitch for some intensive one-on-one training, but there was just no way Ron was straddling a broom, or anything else, in this condition.
“Nngh, you're mental. Stop pulling my arm before I've even had my morning cuppa...” he groaned, relenting only enough to sit up, and groaning at the way the room spun when he did.
“Fine, fine,” Oliver sighed. “You Weasleys really are a bunch of lazy louts when it comes to training,” he groused, letting go of Ron to scramble for his shirt.
“That's because we don't need it.” Ron knew that was a blatant lie, but just couldn't quite resist egging Oliver on for some reason.
“Says you,” Oliver replied. “But someone told me he all but fell of his broom in tryouts back at Hogwarts. I wonder who that was...hmmm...”
Ron threw a pillow at the back of Oliver's head. It missed, but only because that was the exact moment that Oliver chose to bend over to retrieve his shoes from beside the dressing table. The older man returned, kissed Ron again. “Jesting aside, I really do have to be off, Ron. I'll owl though, absolutely. You still at the Burrow?”
“Ah, no not really. I visit oft enough, but I've a flat back 'round the Winding Bridge, few blocks off Diagon Alley. Number 2. Up the 2nd floor,” Ron yawned.
“Number 2. That's off the Old Mill, yeah? Near on the muggle part of town.”
Ron nodded.
“Easy enough to remember,” Oliver answered. “We'll meet up again soon, provided I don't die, or anything.” He grinned at his own joke.
“Don't die,” Ron sulked at him, pulling him down into a kiss. “Resurrecting people, I've on good authority, is messy business.”
“Mmn, do my best,” Oliver answered, and only managed to pull himself away after several more kisses. “Get some more sleep, yeah? You look a bit ragged, you know?”
“Who's fault is that, then?” Ron retorted.
“Well, whoever it is, he must be a bloody handsome bloke,” Oliver joked, skidding out the door and slamming it shut just before the other bed pillow could connect.
Ron flopped back on the pillowless bed, curled his fingers behind his head, and thought back on the night. To be honest, he'd already forgotten most of the details. But, he did very clearly remember Oliver's arse in leather trousers, and the way the man looked down at him, and a general impression of the most brilliant shag he'd ever had, and he remembered clearly how those strong, broom-calloused hands curled around his body. He'd never much fancied letters. Sitting down to write them was always a chore, though he liked receiving them well enough. But, if Oliver actually owled, he knew he would make an exception. Quidditch aside, the man was a keeper, and if he was to be kept at all, then Ron wanted to be sure he was the one doing the keeping.
~The End~
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