phoenixfest (phoenixfest) wrote in phoenix_flies, @ 2007-11-24 17:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic: quite_grey, fic: r, hp/rw, hp/rw/hg, prompt 51 |
Fest Fic: The Trouble With Bubble-Wrap
Title: The Trouble With Bubble-Wrap
Author: quite_grey
Prompt: #51. Fun with bubble-wrap.
Pairing: H/R, H/R/Hr
Rating: R
Word Count: 3128
Warnings (if any): None
Author's Notes (if any): Sorry this ended up being so late; I blame school, life, and the general state of affairs in America. ;)
Beta: Thanks for the help and moral support, sdk!
Ron’s eyebrows crinkled as he watched Hermione pull a sheet of fat bubbles out of the package that had come by Muggle post earlier that afternoon. The parcel was almost too big to fit properly on her lap, and it was filled to the brim with a heap of—Ron couldn't be sure, but he thought they looked like plastine. No, plastic. Plastic bubbles.
“Your grams sent you bubbles this time?” he asked, tipping his head to the side as Harry picked up the nubby length of plastic Hermione had discarded as she removed another sheet. Hermione’s grams had been sending one crazy package after another to their flat right on the dividing line between the wizarding and Muggle districts, but this box full of bubbles took the cauldron cake.
“It’s just packing material—bubble-wrap—she used it to protect whatever she sent this time, instead of newspaper.” Hermione mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like Crazy old bat as she continued to pile the bubble stuff next to her, on Harry’s lap. Just as her bushy head disappeared half inside the box, Harry squeezed one of the bubbles; it popped with an apparation-like crack! that sent Ron nearly leaping out of his skin. Harry caught his eye with a grin and popped another one.
“Quit it,” Ron said, glaring from where he sat in the overstuffed armchair, a safe enough distance from Harry and Hermione on the couch. He couldn’t quite stave off his innate distrust of Muggle things that made loud noises, even if it was just packing material.
“Or what?” Harry asked, rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over the swell of one of the bubbles, and it took Ron a moment to tear his gaze away and meet Harry’s eyes. Harry had been tormenting him in much the same way with a banana at lunch, only without all the popping.
“Or you’ll need to drag a cushion around with you if you want to sit down tomorrow,” Ron shot back, but his delayed reaction hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Harry’s grin turned rather crooked. “I was kind of thinking the other way around, myself.”
“Letting you bugger me wouldn’t be much of a threat,” Ron replied dryly, and in one swift motion Harry pressed his thumb down, popping the bubble with another sharp crack! Ron started once more, and this time his cock got in on the action, jumping to life in his jeans.
“Knock it off, you two,” Hermione said, emerging from the box with a small, ugly metal container that had a note taped to the side of it. She prodded the box to the floor as she read aloud. “‘My dear Hermione, I want you to have your great aunt Gena’s ashes. You inherited her bushy hair, and her oddly secretive nature. Love, Grams.’”
There was a disturbingly long pause as Hermione read the note again, silently, her lips thinning to a straight white line.
“That’s it!” she exploded, springing to her feet and slamming the urn on the coffee table. “First that broken music box that sounds like it’s playing a funeral dirge, and now this! She’s not going to die tomorrow, she’s not even sixty-five for pity’s sake!”
She stomped her foot in impotent anger; Ron, however, was having no such problems with impotence. Even if Harry hadn't somehow managed to get him hard just by popping bubbles, seeing Hermione in a fit of anger was an instant aphrodisiac now that their rows usually led to rowdy bouts of make-up sex. The knowing glance Harry sent his way didn’t help any, either.
“I’m so tired of this passive-aggressive crap! It’s not like my mum and I don’t go visit her, if she really wanted to ‘bequeath her possessions before it was too late,’ she could just give us whatever she wanted then! But no!” Hermione’s chest was rapidly rising and falling with the force of her rant, and Ron and Harry stood in unison; Ron didn’t miss the prominent bulge in the front of Harry’s trousers, and he nearly snorted. Of course, Harry often got the full benefit of their make-up sex without having to actually get in on the row.
“It’ll be okay, Hermione,” Ron said, licking his lips, and Hermione glowered.
“Don't you come near me with your trousers looking like that,” she snapped. “I am not in the mood.”
Ron's face fell and Hermione snatched up the urn from the coffee table. “There's no reason you two can't shag without me, so you can just quit pouting, Ronald.”
“But we like it when you do it with us,” Ron whined with his best hangdog expression.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I'm not a nineteen-year-old boy, and I'm not constantly in the mood for sex, just because the two of you are. I'm going to my gram's to put a stop to this.”
“But-”
“Good-bye! And you better not wait for me to come home, because I'm not going to be in the mood then, either!” And with that, she departed in one of her grandest huffs, leaving Harry and Ron alone in the living room.
Ron sighed, throwing himself onto the armchair. “Why does she have to be like that?” he muttered, gingerly adjusting his erection in his jeans.
“It's the third of the month,” Harry said, still standing next to the couch, absently fingering a row of bubbles as he watched Ron. At Ron's blank expression, he explained, “PMS.”
“Oh, bloody hell.” Ron sank down further in the chair, running a hand through his hair. “Already? Didn't we just go through this?”
Harry shrugged. His green eyes shone with an unruly gleam as he stepped closer to Ron, closing his fist over a section of the bubble-wrap he was holding, and a round of poppoppoppoppops! that sounded like gunfire from a Muggle movie pierced the air.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Ron exclaimed, clutching the the overstuffed arms of the chair as he sat up indignantly, but Harry only offered a smirk in return. A naughty smirk.
“Why does Hermione always have to be here when we fuck?” he asked, stepping closer. He dropped the sheet of bubbles and climbed onto Ron's lap, straddling him as he skated his fingers up Ron's bare arms. “Aren't I enough for you? We both have sex alone with her, but we never do anything just the two of us.”
“I—we-” Ron sputtered; Harry ground their cocks together through their jeans, shoving whatever Ron had been trying to say right out of his head. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled as he grasped Harry tight about the waist.
“See, it's not so bad.” Harry grinned, resting his forearms on Ron's shoulders as he dipped down to suck just beneath his ear, a slow, leisurely suck.
Ron moaned, reaching around to squeeze Harry's denim-clad arse with both hands as he squirmed to press their cocks together again. He thought, fleetingly, that his best friend knew way too much about what turned him on now.
“I know you don't want to bottom because you're still pretending you're straight, except for what you do with me,” Harry murmured, his words moist and warm against Ron's ear as he trailed a hand lazily down Ron's chest, pausing to play with a nipple through the threadbare fabric of Ron's t-shirt. “I know you don't want Hermione to think you're less of a man.”
“Harry-” Ron squeaked, thrusting up against him when Harry languidly rocked his hips.
“But Hermione's not here, is she?” Harry nibbled Ron's earlobe, licked it, sucked it, darted his tongue into Ron's ear—Ron garbled out a lackluster protest even as he moaned again.
“Do you think of me as less of a man because I let you fuck me, Ron?” With a sharp nip at Ron's ear, he drew back, looking Ron full in the face. Harry's cheeks were flushed with the desire radiating headily off him, and he battered Ron's defenses with just a single hungry look; Harry wanted him, badly.
Slowly, Ron shook his head in response to Harry's question. He'd never think of Harry as less of a man because of what they did. Harry was his best friend.
“I want to come inside you.” Harry leaned back, pulling his shirt over his head in one fluid motion before tossing it aside, and Ron couldn't help but touch him, gliding his hands over Harry's pale, skinny chest. He brushed his thumbs against Harry's delicate pink-brown nipples, and his cock jerked in the confines of his trousers when Harry responded with a throaty groan.
“Let me, Ron,” he cajoled, arching into Ron's touch, threading his fingers through Ron's hair, letting out a breathless little sigh as Ron stroked his palms down his sides—basically doing all the things he knew damn well drove Ron crazy.
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered as a damp sweat broke out across his forehead. “Harry-”
“I want to feel you the way you feel me.” Harry scratched his nails lightly over Ron's scalp, slid his hands down to brace himself on Ron's shoulders as he rolled his hips so seductively. Ron would have been embarrassed by his girly mewl, brought on by the agonizing friction of Harry's cock against his own, but he was too busy fumbling to unsnap the fly on Harry's jeans.
“Yes,” Harry hissed as Ron unzipped him, reaching into the open front of Harry's boxers to find his cock and give it a swift, harsh pull. “Yes, Ron—want you-”
Ron couldn't take another second of sitting there fully dressed while Harry writhed half-naked in his lap like some shameless vixen. Seizing Harry's arse with a desperate squeeze, Ron hauled them up off the chair, nearly slipping on the bubble-wrap that popped! beneath his foot as he stumbled toward the guest bedroom—the nearest room with a bed.
Harry hit the mattress with a bounce and tore off his round glasses as Ron yanked his shirt over his head, mussing his hair as he hurriedly tried to get himself naked. Harry was faster about wiggling out of his jeans and pants, though, and he jumped to his feet, pushing Ron’s hands away from his fly as Ron started in on his own jeans. With a rough grope of Ron's erection through the denim, Harry grinned up at him, then undid Ron's trousers and peeled them down along with his boxers. Ron gladly kicked the lot aside.
“So hot—can't wait—fuck, Ron,” Harry rasped, excitement clear in his voice, in the way he frantically pawed Ron's chest and stomach and arse, in the insistent press of his hard cock against Ron's thigh. He attached his mouth to Ron's ear once more, sucking noisily as he kneaded Ron's arse with both hands, then played his fingers featherlight over the cleft, spreading Ron's cheeks as his middle finger crept close to Ron's arsehole.
“Harry!” Ron's Harry-induced stupor of arousal evaporated fast with that one probing touch between Ron's arse cheeks, and he scrambled out of Harry's grasp, his face on fire and his cock pulsing wildly.
Harry's brow knitted in confusion, and he took a step toward him. “Ron?”
“I don't—I don't want to do that!”
“What?” Harry stared at him, his expression turning to a caricature of disbelief. “But—I thought...”
Ron paced a short circuit back and forth across the floor in front of Harry, running both hands through his hair as he tried to get a handle on himself. This was Harry, his best friend, asking him to—and they'd done everything else two blokes could do, and Harry let him—why couldn't Ron just let Harry bugger him?
A quick glance in Harry's direction told him that Harry was still looking at him, disbelief fighting now with hurt and embarrassment.
Ron stopped pacing. “Harry, mate, you know I care about you—you and Hermione both, and what we have together, but-”
“But what?” Anger flared over Harry's features. “It's alright for you to fuck me, because I'm the poof? I like having sex with Hermione just as much as you do, you know, and just because I wasn't afraid to admit that I had feelings for you when Hermione had that talk with us-”
Harry broke off, nearly panting with emotion as he sat down heavily on the bed, his hands clenched to tight fists on his knees as he glared at the floor.
Bloody fucking hell.
Tentatively, Ron crossed to the bed and sank down beside him; Harry stiffened when their knees touched, but he didn't pull away. Ron racked his brain for something, anything to say, some reason he could give Harry, but he didn't have one. All he knew was that some part of him was afraid of what it would mean, if he did what Harry wanted him to do.
“We don't have to tell Hermione,” Harry said, his voice cracking, his eyes never leaving the floor. “We wouldn't have to do it with her, or even all the time when it was just us-”
He laughed, a bitter, wrenching sound. “What am I even talking about? We never do anything just us.”
Ron swallowed back a thick, foreboding fear. “We could start...even if we don't do that, I mean...I like doing stuff with you, Harry.”
“Brilliant. That makes me feel loads better.” Harry laughed his bitter laugh again, and Ron's heart fell when Harry finally looked at him. Ron turned his own gaze to the safety of the floor.
“I'm sorry,” he mumbled, tensing his fingers against his thighs. “I don't know—I don't know why it scares me.”
Harry sighed wearily beside him. “I don't want you to do anything you don't feel comfortable doing,” he said, and a peek from Ron found Harry scrubbing his fingers over his closed eyes.
“I just wanted to make you feel the way you make me feel, when you're—doing that.” The coaxing tone of the living room was conspicuously absent from Harry's words as Harry dropped his hand, darting a glance at Ron before sliding his gaze to the floor again. “You make me feel so good, and it's not the same when I just pull you off or go down on you.”
“What are you on about? You always make me feel good, you're bloody brilliant at blow-jobs—even better than Hermione.” Hastily, Ron added, “Er, don't tell her that, though.”
Harry laughed; it was a very quiet laugh, but there was only a hint of that awful bitterness to it. “Well, I'm glad I beat her out at something besides Quidditch and Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Ron frowned. Those seemed like loaded words, the kind that came with a hidden meaning, the kind Hermione was always using.
“Harry,” he began slowly, “you know that when we're—doing things, me and you and Hermione—you know that I like getting to do them with you as much as I like getting to do them with her, right?”
After a long moment, Harry answered, very unconvincingly, “Yeah. Of course I know that.”
“No, I really do.” Ron turned toward Harry, his knee bumping Harry's thigh; reluctantly, Harry looked up from the floor, meeting Ron's gaze with doubtful eyes.
“Honestly, I do!” Ron exclaimed. “You're brilliant at giving head, and a great kisser, and-” He felt his cheeks going red hot, but went on. “And fuck, Harry, do you have any idea how—how tight you are? Plus you're my best mate, you know me better than anyone, and, well, I love you, you know?”
Ron didn't think he'd ever actually said those three words to his best friend; Hermione, sure, but not Harry. They felt sappy on his tongue, and he rushed to go on. “You must know that! I wouldn't be with you if I didn't, no matter how gung-ho Hermione was about the three of us getting together; I wouldn't share her with just anyone, you know. I mean, you share her with me, too, but—you know what I mean!”
All at once Ron realised that Harry was grinning at him like he'd just won a million Galleons, and he closed his mouth with a snap. “Shut it,” he said, suddenly distracted by a constellation of freckles on his knee.
“I didn't say anything,” Harry replied, and Ron could tell just by his voice that he was still grinning like a fool.
“I don't bloody well care,” Ron muttered, giving him a dirty look, but Harry just kept grinning at him in response.
“Ponce,” he mumbled, poking Harry in the chest.
“Takes one to know one,” he shot back cheerfully, slinging his arm around Ron's shoulder.
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Ron elbowed Harry lightly in the side, but Harry only squirmed closer, leaning in to give Ron's ear a teasing lick.
“Prat,” Ron sighed, his eyes falling closed as Harry started kissing his way along his jaw, though his erection had gone limp at some point during the course of their argument.
“Harry.” Ron's voice rumbled out totally on its own, without any input at all from his mind, and Ron was surprised to hear himself say, “Not yet, but...someday. You can...you know.”
Slowly, Harry sat up from where he'd begun sucking Ron's Adam's apple, and Ron's stomach swam with nerves as he opened his eyes to meet Harry's.
“Really?” Harry asked, his gaze rapt on Ron's face, and, bracing himself, Ron nodded.
“Brilliant!” Harry threw his arms around Ron, pulling him into a messy kiss, nearly bowling Ron over backward as he swung a leg over Ron's lap to straddle him once more. Ron floundered, scrabbling for a good grip on Harry's hips as he simultaneously lost himself in their frenzied kiss.
After a lot of sloppy tongue-wrestling, Harry finally released Ron's mouth, wiggling his hips in search of friction. “You're soft,” he murmured, looking down between them, and Ron followed his gaze, his tongue sneaking out in search of the taste of Harry on his lips.
They were both mostly soft, but Ron was sure they could take care of that right quick.
“Not for long,” he returned huskily, running his hands over Harry's smooth back.
“Should I get the bubble-wrap?” Harry asked, his voice laced with teasing as he tweaked Ron's nipple.
“Git.” Ron silenced any rebuttal from Harry with a lazy, penetrating kiss, drawing Harry down atop him as he fell back against the mattress.