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[FIC] Denial: Harry/Ron
Originally Posted Here on 26 August 2006

Title: Denial
Recipient: legomymalfoy
Author: emiine
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3566
Warnings: Very slight bit of bondage.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JKR.
Notes: legomymalfoy, you asked for, among other things, vulnerable yet not virginal!Harry, seduction and UST and driving each other nuts, canon characterization, light bondage, voyeurism, being caught masturbating, dom!Harry, and happy ending. I hope this’ll do! Thanks to the Divine Miss M for the beta. Without her, I’d be sobbing in a corner right about now.



Harry had tried everything to get his best mate into his bed. And technically, it had worked. Harry had resorted to faking nightmares, but there was Ron, lying next to Harry in his bed, all warm and rumpled and freckly. Snoring. Fully clothed. And apparently clueless as to why Harry had been having so many nightmares as of late.

“Really, Harry,” Ron said at breakfast the next morning, “I dunno what’s with the nightmares. Vol, er, Voldemort’s dead, we won the war, and you haven’t got a damned thing to worry about except whether your housemate’s going to burn the toast in the mornings.”

“Which you have,” Harry pointed out, scraping carbon from his slice with a butter knife.

“’S beside the point, really,” said Ron, only a little bit embarrassed. “Your nightmares are keeping us both up at night.” Ron stood and stretched, his pyjama top riding up to reveal a few inches of pale, freckled skin and a trail of light ginger hair leading down to…

Harry swallowed and blinked as he realized Ron was still talking to him.

“Whazzat, Ron?”

“I said we’re going to have to figure something out. I’m tired of being…well, tired, and I know it helped when I slept in your bed last night, but I’m not really looking to make that a habit. Not that you’re not an attractive bloke, Harry, but sleeping with men’s really not my thing.” Ron chuckled lightly at his own joke and carried his plate to the sink. He pointed his wand at the faucet and a jet of hot, soapy water spurted out with unexpected force, straight towards Ron.

Ron yelped and leaped backwards. He had managed to keep one pyjama leg dry but otherwise became completely soaked. He tore off his shirt and flung it to the floor in disgust, aiming his wand at the sink to stop the water.

Ron stood, shirtless, cross, and dripping, in the middle of the tiny kitchen. Harry could only stare.

Which was not a good thing. Harry stared enough as it was, and Ron was bound to notice eventually.

Rivulets of water dripped from Ron’s body, and his hair began to curl up, a phenomenon which he hated but which Harry adored. He was well soaked. His thin pyjama trousers were plastered to his body, and it was perfectly evident to anyone who might be staring in his general direction that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath them.

Harry had seen Ron naked before, of course, when his towel had slipped a bit as they passed in the hallway or when he’d entered Ron’s bedroom to borrow a pair of socks and caught him dressing or undressing. But seeing Ron in his soaking wet cotton pyjamas was another thing entirely. The fabric clung to his thighs, hugged his hips, and stuck maddeningly to his crotch, where the soft weight of his cock lay cradled against his right thigh.

The butter knife fell from Harry’s hand and clattered onto the table, breaking Harry’s concentration on his inspection of Ron’s…assets.

Which was probably a good thing, as even Ron wasn’t quite that dim.

Harry scrambled up from the breakfast table, gathering his dishes and squeezing past a very naked Ron, who was attempting to mop up the water on the floor with the one dry leg of his pyjama bottoms.

And when the words very naked actually registered in Harry’s mind, he dropped his knife again, this time into the sink along with the rest of the dishes, not caring if they chipped, because Ron was bent double in front of Harry. His freckled thighs were taut and gorgeous, but not half as nice as the pale, copper-flecked arse that sat on top of them, moving side to side as Ron mopped,

Harry moved closer to Ron, practically mesmerised at the sight of his friend’s naked rear. He couldn’t touch…he shouldn’t…and so he bent beside his friend and, with a flick of his wand, vacuumed the water from the floor.

Ron shook his head, damp curls falling into his eyes.

“Yeah, s’pose I could’ve thought of that.” He stood, holding his soaked clothing in front of his crotch, and swept his fringe out of his face. “Reckon I’d better shower, then.”

As Ron headed to the bathroom to shower, Harry collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor. Really, this was getting ridiculous. He and Ron had been living together for two years now. They were grown men, and grown men did not lust after their housemates.

But who could really blame Harry? After all, grown men did not normally parade around the kitchen in soaked pyjamas, either. Or out of them.

Harry sighed, attempting to ignore his arousal. He moved to the sink to wash the breakfast dishes by hand. Sometimes he liked to do things the Muggle way, especially now that he and Ron had their own place. It was theirs, and Harry took pride in it, and it felt good to clean sometimes.

Harry scrubbed plates and cups and forks and as he did so, he mentally catalogued all the ways he’d tried to get Ron to notice his interest.

There was the time he’d attempted to make dinner, which had resulted in disaster when he’d accidentally tipped a jar of mustard seeds into the soup and hadn’t noticed, and Ron, who was horribly allergic to mustard, had been red and puffy for days.

He’d taken Ron to a club, but Ron was in a foul mood and hadn’t wanted to dance. He only stood by the wall pouting into his drink while Harry gyrated wildly on the dance floor.

The time Harry had bought Cannons tickets for Ron, only to have Ron fall ill the day of the game, was one of the most frustrating examples of plans gone wrong. “What sort of stupid twenty-year-old man gets dragon pox, anyway?” Ron had complained, scratching at the spots amongst his freckles.

Then there was the incident with the watermelon, which neither man had ever mentioned again. Harry was almost fine with that, though he wasn’t sure if Ron even remembered it, they’d been so drunk.

Harry finished the dishes and set to drying them with one of the tea towels Molly had provided when she had helped Harry and Ron set up house. He carefully stacked the plates and cups in the cupboard, and laid the silverware in the drawer. Figuring he’d given Ron enough time to finish his shower, Harry decided it was time for his own.

But when Harry entered the bathroom without knocking, he ran directly into a dripping wet Ron, who’d just emerged from the shower. The force of their collision knocked Ron back against the shower door, and their heads and chests and knees bashed together.

As did their groins, but there was no way Harry was even going to let himself think consciously of that fact.

“Harry!” Ron gasped, clutching at his towel.

Harry began to apologize, but Ron cut him off.

“I know I’m gorgeous, Harry, but you might try a little subtlety next time.”

Harry tried his very best to look anywhere but at Ron’s freckled skin, glowing pink from the heat of the shower, but the trouble was that there was rather a lot of it and the bathroom was exceedingly small and, it seemed, growing smaller by the second.

The two men danced around each other. Harry averted his eyes and concentrated on finding the shower (which had been right there a moment ago, he was sure) and Ron wrapped his small towel tighter around his waist and finally escaped, making a hasty exit to his bedroom.

In the shower, Harry closed his eyes and willed himself not to think about Ron.

Don’t think about his pink and white and freckled skin. Don’t think about his long legs dripping water onto the bathmat. Don’t think about his hair, all damp and smelling of soap.

But the trouble with telling yourself not to think of something is that you inevitably end up picturing it in greater detail than before.

And Harry did.

He thought about Ron’s skin, warm and blushing from the hot water, and wondered which parts would be smooth and which would be rougher. He thought about Ron’s fiery hair and how very much he wanted to grab fistfuls of it whilst kissing Ron hard on the mouth. He thought about Ron’s long legs, covered in coppery freckles and coarse ginger hair, and he wondered how well his own would tangle with them.

He didn’t think about Ron’s cock. He didn’t get that far. At the moment Harry pictured his legs entwined with Ron’s longer ones, he jerked his own cock hard and came, spattering all over the glass of the shower door, doing his very best not to call Ron’s name out loud.

Harry was so overcome by the force of his orgasm that he didn’t hear the scuttling sound outside the bathroom door. He didn’t hear a door slam close by, and he certainly didn’t hear the groan of a mattress as someone collapsed upon it. All Harry could hear was his heart beating loudly in his ears.

He slowed his breathing and aimed the shower spray at the mess he’d made. Calmer, he finished his shower, shaved, and cleaned his teeth, still willing himself not to think of Ron.

Feeling much better (don’t think of his naked arse in the middle of the kitchen) Harry exited the bathroom, passing the closed door of Ron’s bedroom on the way to his own. He dressed quickly in worn jeans and the Cannons shirt that Ron had given him for his last birthday. Harry was of the opinion that the bright orange shirt made him look sickly, but Ron smiled whenever he wore it, so maybe it didn’t matter.

Harry sighed and tossed his damp towel onto his rumpled bed, where twin pillow indents only served to remind him of the fully-clothed, perfectly innocent night he and Ron had just spent together.

Harry wanted to scream. He’d tried everything short of actually physically throwing himself at Ron. Well, scratch that. Intentional or not, that was exactly what had just happened in the bathroom, wasn’t it? And Ron had been Ron. The idiot had only made a joke about not liking men.

Harry paused.

Ron really made those jokes rather often.

After Harry’s disastrous attempt at dinner, Ron hadn’t been able to go to work for two days, and he’d joked that Harry only wanted Ron all to himself at home.

When they’d gone to the club together, Ron, in one of his famously horrible moods, had only made a snide comment about the half-dressed men moving closely together on the dance floor.

During Ron’s bout with the dragon pox, he’d attempted to make both of them feel better about missing the Cannons game by telling Harry he really didn’t care to spend the whole afternoon watching sweaty, muscular men ride broomsticks anyway.

And, of course, there was that evening with the watermelon…

“No,” Harry admonished himself. He didn’t want to think of firm, juicy watermelon flesh sliding coolly around…no, no, no. Harry forced himself instead to remember more of Ron’s suspicious jokes. What was it Hermione always said? Denial was the first sign, or something like that.

And it had to be true, if Harry’s own experience was anything to go by. He’d denied and denied his feelings for Ron, dating girl after girl and pretending they just didn’t meet what he professed to be his very high standards. He’d refused to admit, even to himself, that the only reason they didn’t meet his standards were that his Number One Requirement For Shagging Harry Potter was that you had to be Ron Weasley.

And when Harry finally had, in a sloppy, drunken confession, blurted to Hermione that he wanted nothing more than to have his best mate in his bed for the rest of his nights, she’s only sighed and rolled her eyes at him and said it was about time he realized it, because she’d known it for ages.

Frighteningly, she’d also told him that he needed to tell Ron, and soon, before Harry drove himself completely mental.

Harry had expressed to Hermione in very definite terms that Ron was most certainly and undeniably straight, bedding a very attractive girl with very large breasts, and describing in intense and unnecessary detail each and every one of their sordid exploits to Harry every morning.

Although, come to think of it, Ron did talk about his cock quite a lot during those self-glorifying tales.

That was it. There was no way Ron could not be gay. Or bisexual. Or…something.

Harry wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing. He threw open his bedroom door, marched determinedly down the hall to Ron’s, and rapped loudly. Ron opened the door after a moment, flushed and breathless.

“What were you just doing?” demanded Harry.

Ron was taken aback. “If you must know, I was tossing off, but I don’t see where that’s any of your business, mate.”

Harry advanced on Ron, jabbing an index finger into his chest.

“Tossing off? To what?”

Ron smacked Harry’s finger away and stood his ground.

“None. Of. Your. Business!” he repeated, scowling, the flush creeping up higher on his cheeks.

Harry realized he was going to have to try an even more direct tactic, and he stretched himself to his full height, drew a deep breath, and finally asked the question he’d wanted—no, needed—to ask Ron for ages.

“Ron. Do you like. Er. Are you. Ah. That is to say. Doyouthinkyoumightbequeer?”

Ron blinked his big blue eyes.

“Come again, Harry?”

When Ron used the words “come” and “Harry” in the same sentence, it set something off inside Harry’s gut, a feeling that travelled quickly downwards to his cock and straight up into his throat. He barrelled into Ron, slamming him down on the bed and kissing him forcefully.

Ron twisted away, gasping.

“HARRY! Harry, STOP! Listen! I dunno what you think you’re doing, but I am not gay! And nor are you!”

“We’re something,” Harry replied, and smashed his mouth again to Ron’s open one, darting his tongue inside and pressing his whole body down onto Ron’s. Ron pushed upwards on Harry’s chest, shoving the smaller man off of him.

“I. Am. Not. Gay!” he said again, with slightly less conviction this time. “I’m really not. Harry, you’ve seen the birds I pull. I dunno what put it into your head that I might go for blokes, but I don’t. I’m not gay. I’m really not.”

But his hands hadn’t left Harry’s chest, and a single finger strayed to the neck of Harry’s Cannons shirt.

“I’m not,” Ron repeated.

The finger looped under the neckline of Harry’s shirt, a bitten fingernail scraping roughly against Harry’s collarbone.

“Then stop,” Harry said simply, and Ron’s finger abruptly stopped moving against his skin.

“I’m not,” Ron almost whispered.

“What are you, then?” Harry could feel Ron’s rough finger still pressing against his collarbone, not moving but very definitely there with a soft sort of pressure that was far too arousing if Ron was going to keep saying he wasn’t queer.

Ron didn’t answer, only averted his eyes, casting a glance around the bedroom for something, anything to look at besides Harry’s face. He settled on a pair of tattered old trainers in the corner and spoke to them.

“I’m not gay.”

“So you said.”

“I…I liked that, though. When you. Did. The. Um.”

“This?”

And Harry kissed Ron again, softer this time. After a moment, Ron kissed back hesitantly.

Harry pulled away. Ron’s cheeks were still flushed, his eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open just the slightest bit, showing white teeth behind cracked pink lips. Ron’s eyes fluttered open and he drew a shaky breath.

“That, yeah,” he replied, looking worried.

“All right, then.”

And Harry fell upon Ron, kissing him hard again, pressing his lean body into the mattress. He was hard, and as he ground himself onto Ron, he realized that Ron obviously hadn’t finished his earlier wanking session, because so was he.

This had to be a dream. Harry pulled out of the incredible kiss to realize where he was. He looked wildly around the room to verify that, yes, he was indeed here in his own house, in the real world. And he looked down to verify that, yes, there was a very flushed and very hard Ron Weasley underneath him, panting and grinding his erection back up onto Harry’s.

Oh, god.

“Ron,” Harry finally managed, “Is this all right?”

“Harry,” said Ron, his eyes closed tightly and his breathing erratic, “Don’t talk. Just—don’t.” He grabbed Harry’s neck with his hand and brought it down to meet his kiss once more.

Harry thought he wouldn’t mind not talking for now, not if this were the alternative. Ron’s mouth was warm and wide on his own and Harry deepened the kiss, darting his tongue inside Ron’s mouth and tangling them together. He took both of Ron’s hands in his own as they kissed and brought them up above Ron’s head and held them tightly. Ron struggled in Harry’s grip, but not enough to break it, which he could’ve done easily if he chose. Ron was much stronger than Harry, and Harry knew it, and he realised something that might make this okay with Ron.

“Do you like that?” he whispered incredulously in Ron’s ear, tightening his grip on Ron’s thin wrists. Ron hesitated and then nodded, his eyes clenched shut.

“Hold on, then,” said Harry, and fumbled for his wand in his jeans. “Incarcerous,” he whispered, and thick ropes bound Ron’s wrists to the iron bedposts.

Ron’s eyes flew open as Harry cast the spell, and he couldn’t react quickly enough to avoid being tied to the bed.

“What the bloody hell—“ he managed, before Harry was upon him again.

“You said you liked that,” Harry whispered, and Ron groaned and gave in to Harry’s kiss, pulling hard against the ropes.

“Tell me if you like this.” And Harry was kissing his way down Ron’s neck, pushing his t-shirt up and out of the way, kissing freckled skin down, down, down until he hit a spot that made Ron gasp and jerk away suddenly.

“Ticklish!”

“Sorry.”

Harry reached the fine line of ginger hair he’d admired not an hour ago and he breathed deeply, inhaling the dizzying scent of Ron’s clean skin. He unfastened Ron’s jeans and reached just under the waistband of his pants, sliding a fingertip over the soft, sensitive skin there.

“Harry! Please, Harry, please just—“

“I thought you didn’t want to talk, Ron,” Harry teased.

“Nnnnngh!” Ron pulled hard on the ropes again, thrusting up towards Harry, who tugged Ron’s jeans down to his ankles, effectively trapping his legs together.

Harry ran his hands up Ron’s legs and into his boxers, teasing the crease where Ron’s thighs met his groin with the very tip of his nail. The coarse hair there was warm and damp with sweat, and Harry ran his fingers through it and finally onto Ron’s straining cock, causing Ron to gasp aloud again.

Harry grinned. Ron was at his mercy. Ron. Ron was letting Harry stroke his cock and caress his balls, letting him swipe a thumb over the precome on the very tip of his cock and smear it down the shaft. Ron was gladly straining against the ropes binding him to the bedposts as Harry tugged down his pants and licked his erection once, twice, before engulfing as much of it as he could manage with his mouth. Ron was thrusting up, up, as Harry hollowed his cheeks and sucked and sucked until Ron was coming, coming in Harry’s mouth, straining and pulsing and grunting loudly and gracelessly as he shot down Harry’s throat.

The two men both collapsed, Ron back onto the bed, his hands still bound to its posts, and Harry onto Ron’s lap, his cheek pillowed against Ron’s thigh. Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared through half-lidded eyes at the softening cock—Ron’s cock—that he’d had in his mouth only moments before.

Harry didn’t want to fall asleep like this, breathing puffs of hot air onto Ron’s freckled thigh while Ron lay motionless and silent on the bed above him. He struggled to his feet and gazed down at his best mate.

Who was sound asleep and snoring.

Harry allowed himself to fall, exhausted but still ragingly erect, onto Ron’s small bed, and in the battle between sleep and orgasm, sleep won out rather quickly. The last thing Harry remembered doing before closing his eyes was unbinding Ron’s wrists.

Harry awoke to noontime birdsong and the feeling of hot breath on his neck. He turned over and saw that Ron was just waking, too.

“Hey,” Harry said quietly, unsure of Ron’s reaction.

“I’m not gay, you know,” said Ron in Harry’s ear.

“Mmmmhmm,” Harry mumbled, still half-asleep. “I know.”

“I think I could manage this, though,” said Ron, curving an arm around Harry’s chest.

Harry relaxed into the embrace.

“Manage what? Sleeping with men?”

“No,” replied Ron, “Not with men. Just you.”