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Part One: Carpe Puer Ron peered through the light, cold drizzle that blanketed the Quidditch pitch, forcing his numb fingers into a looser grip on his broomstick. The Hufflepuff Chasers were in a neat Hawkshead formation, bouncing the Quaffle among themselves almost too quickly to see. Kirke and Sloper had managed to corral a Bludger, but Ron wasn't going to rely on them for any help; if either one actually managed to hit it without injuring himself or his partner, they'd probably either unseat Harry or concuss Madam Hooch. It almost made him wish for Fred and George back—almost. Ginny made an inspired pass in front of the left wing, breaking the formation, but the lead man shot forward with the Quaffle in the crook of his arm. Ron had just enough time to lock eyes with Zacharias Smith before he lobbed the ball towards the center hoop. Ron kicked it, sharply, rolling awkwardly on his broom to make the reach; it shot upwards at a sharp angle and hit Smith full in the face before dropping directly into Ginny's outstretched arms. Smith favored him with an evil look before following the rest of his teammates across the pitch, after the Gryffindor Chasers. Git, he thought, letting his eyes linger on the way Smith's sodden yellow robes clung to his body. Not a bad arse, though. (Ron no longer paid attention to his libido, as it no longer made any sense. He'd initially feared that he was going insane, possibly some side affect of his tussle with a flying brain in the Department of Mysteries, but Bill assured him that the Order had checked up on that experiment extensively for just that reason. When he found out exactly what Ron was worrying about, Bill had also laughed and suggested some choice magazines with titles like Hot Wand! and Wizards Unrobed. Ron hadn't wanted to know anything more. As long as it didn't start showing an interest in family members or the deceased, he was content to let his "wand" have its head, no pun intended, and he'd deal with the consequences as they, er, arose. Thus far, except for an alarming but thankfully transitory interest in Neville, the strategy had worked just fine, and he wasn't going to meddle with it.) He flicked his fringe out of his eyes as Gryffindor scored and spared a scan around the pitch: Harry and the Hufflepuff Seeker were just shadows against the clouds, and he wished impatiently for the Snitch to show itself. If the match went much longer they'd lose daylight. In the next twenty minutes Hufflepuff made three shots on goal and he blocked two, but as the third one sailed past his outstretched hand and through the hoop, he saw Smith pumping his fist victoriously in the air. He made a similar, though not quite identical gensture, resulting in a sharp whistle from Madame Hooch, but thankfully no penalty. The Quaffle was batted between teams near the Hufflepuff goalposts for a while, and Ron looked around the rest of the pitch just in time to see Harry go into a steep dive. Summerby followed him, and they sped towards the edge of the stands almost neck-in-neck. Ron was confident Harry's Firebolt could win a flat-out race, but then he noticed Jack Sloper careening towards the two Seekers almost drunkly, his bat completely discarded. What the hell is that git doing? He got a good look at Sloper's white, terrified face, and suddenly understood. "Harry! HARRY! LOOK OUT!" The other players hadn't noticed anything, but the spectators had, and were screaming and pointing at Sloper as his broom luched in a horribly familiar way—or familiar to Ron, at any rate, who'd watched Harry's Nimbus do much the same back in first year. Except Sloper's broom wasn't trying to hurl him off, just put him between the Seekers and the Snitch. At the speeds they were flying, that would amount to a pretty loud cruch. He saw a sudden commotion in the stands, Madame Hooch began blowing her whistle frantically, and Sloper's broom righted itself—Summerby tried to peel off, not in time—both Hufflepuff Beaters threw down their bats and tried to intercept Sloper, who couldn't seem to brake properly—and Harry, Harry was focused on the Snitch and nothing else— PRMPH. KRSCH. That was the sound of five Quidditch players crashing into each other, and the stands. Both teams flew over immediately. There was such a tangle of bodies that for a moment all Ron could make out was black and red and yellow robes, interspersed with blue scarves—they'd landed among a group of mostly Ravenclaws. Flitwick and a couple of prefects were already trying to sort people out, though Ron could see somebody's broomstick handly snapped nearly in twain. He glanced at the teacher's box, and saw McGonagall, Snape and Hermione all screaming furiously at Dumbledore, while Ernie Macmillan and Anthony Goldstein held Draco Malfoy by the arms, wands drawn. It didn't take a genius to work out what had happened. Sloper and Summerby were both standing now, one leaning on the broken end of his broomstick, and one helping to support a third-year girl with a freely bleeding nose. Ron finally spotted Harry, whose glasses had gone; Flitwick helped him to sit up, but he winced and clutched at his ribs. As he did so, he released the Snitch, which flitted placidly away. Ron lingered in the changing room long after everyone else had left, enjoying a hot shower that steamed the numbness from his extremities. Malfoy had jinxed Sloper's broom, of course—not the same one Quirrell had used on Harry, but similar enough. Luna Lovegood had noticed him chanting and, in a rare moment of lucidity, notified the nearest members of the D.A. Harry, one of the Hufflepuffs, and two Ravenclaw fourth-years were staying overnight in the hospital wing, as was Pansy Parkinson, who had gotten partially transfigured into a vole during the ensuing scuffle. There had been no immediate word on the Slytherins' punishments. When he finally willed himself to dress and go back to the tower, he found Zacharias Smith standing in the middle of the Gryffindor changing rooms with his arms folded. "Were you looking at my arse on the pitch?" he asked. Ron blinked, wondering why Smith couldn't have left this for a time when one of them wasn't naked. "What if I was?" "Then next time you can bloody well ask first." Ron processed this. While he was processing it, Smith stepped forward and almost tentatively kissed him—the only time he'd ever known Smith to do anything "tentatively." When Ron caught onto it, however, he kissed back as best he could, leaning into it and tasting rain on the Hufflepuff's lips. Smith made a small, satisfied noise and slid his arms loosely around Ron's neck. This was better than kissing a girl, he decided after a moment, because girls were all so short; Smith wasn't about to give him a crick in the neck. And they fit together quite nicely, no horrible great you-know-whatsits smashed uncomfortably in the way. He ran his tongue along Smith's lower lip, and earned another little nosie, something less than a moan but more than a grunt. Ron discovered that his hands had landed on Smith's hips quite independently of conscious thought. He pulled the Hufflepuff closer, eliminating any space between their bodies, or rather, between his skin and wet yellow Quidditch robes. The coarse, cold cloth was a shocking contrast to the heat of the shower he'd just left, though not an unpleasent one, and it drew a gasp out of him. So did Smith, when he sucked on Ron's lip. Ron slid his hand up Smith's spine and anchored it in his hair, which dripped cold rainwater down his knuckles. "You're freezing," he mumbled through their kiss. Smith pulled away and nuzzled the side of his neck. "Mmmmm. So warm me up." This was too good to be true, according to the rational part of Ron's brain, which was quickly beaten unconscious and shut up in the metaphorical cupboard. This left his libido, which insisted he should shag the boy rotten right there on the floor. Choosing a middle ground, Ron latched onto Smith's mouth with his own and guided the blond backwards, into a very convenient shower stall. Smith gasped when Ron turned the water on, then turned his face into the hot spray with a moan of pleasure that went straight to Ron's cock. He didn't need to ask for help removing his robes. They both nearly slid on the tile floor in the process, but two trainers and a heap of yellow cloth later Ron had a very wet and nearly naked Hufflepuff on his hands. Despite the cold, Smith had only been wearing a t-shirt and boxers under his uniform, both of which were soaked through and clinging in an enjoyable fashion to the smooth lines of his torso. Not to mention the outline of a fairly impressive basket. Ron pinned him against the side of the stall and worked his hands under Smith's shirt, caressing the span of his shoulders and the bumpy path of his spine. The Hufflepuff arched his body into a slick S, leaning into Ron's hands at the same time he rolled his hips forward in a slow, agonizing thrust. A few millimeters of wet cotton provided next to no barrier, and Ron thrust back involuntarily, groaning into Smith's mouth. In the next instant he had his thumbs hooked into the band of Smith's boxers. "May I look at your arse?" he asked, before nipping at the tendon that stood out in his neck. He whimpered and twitched his hips forward again. "Aahhhh…you'd better do more than fucking look…" The boxers came off, and so did the shirt, and then Smith pounced and Ron was the one pressed against the wall. Smith clung to him, wrapping one leg around Ron's waist and his arms around Ron's neck, squirming into the perfect position for thrusting their erections against one another. The friction was glorious. Ron slid his hands down Smith's back, groping for purchase, and felt more than heard his groan when one of Ron's fingers slipped between his cheeks. Ron shifted so he could support Smith with one arm, then pressed his middle finger firmly into Smith's body. The blond boy shuddered. "Ah…oh, god…fuck…god…fuuuuuck…" He wasn't sure which one of them was talking, wasn't sure it even mattered. They thrust frantically against each other, and with every stroke Smith angled himself backwards onto Ron's finger, almost down to the knuckle. He was so tight and so hard, and Ron could just feel the first electric tingles of an orgasm building in his gut… And then Smith came like a Roman candle, spraying his load all over Ron and the wall, with his face pressed into Ron's shoulder to muffle the yell. Ron growled in frustration, but he left the Hufflepuff pull away and catch his breath a moment. When Smith realized that Ron was still hard, he got a wicked look on his face and planted a quick, sloppy kiss on Ron's mouth. "Want me to take care of that?" "What the fuck do you think?" Smith kissed him on the mouth again, and then on the chin, and then his neck, and his throat, and his collar bone. He kissed and licked a straight line down Ron's chest and belly, and then dropped to his knees and began to administer a businesslike, though enthusiastic, blowjob. Ron stuffed his own fist in his mouth to keep quiet as Smith swirled his tongue around the head, sucked hard, then took it so deep that his nose was nearly buried in the mat of wet red hair at the base. It didn't take much of this treatment before Ron shot, then slid gracelessly to the chilly tile floor, completely spent. Smith coughed and spat down the drain, then leaned against the opposite wall with his knees drawn up. "That was brilliant," Ron said, because he was a little mind-blown and not certain what correct etiquette demanded in these circumstances. "You weren't half bad yourself," Smith said. If he'd been a cat, he'd've purred; as it was, he wore a thoroughly self-satisfied smile that Ron would normally have wanted to punch. "I've just one question, though…" "Hmmm?" "What the fuck were you doing in our changing room?" Smith sighed. "I was cold, frustrated and horny. This—" he gestured around the showers— "is a private fantasy of half the fags in Hogwarts. And you did offer." Ron blinked at him. Smith imitated the hand gesture he'd made on the pitch. By the time Ron had stopped laughing, another, less pleasent thought had occurred to him. "Did you hear what's going to happen to Malfoy?" Smith shook his head, scowling. "Snape was trying to talk Dumbledore out of punishing him at all—something about first offenses—never mind he could've killed someone. Git." "Increadible git." "Sexy git, though." Ron's jaw dropped. "I'm talking about Malfoy, you twit, not…god, that's disgusting." Smith shuddered. Initially Ron found this thought only marginally less unpleasent that Snape; however, as he thought it over, the glimmers of an idea began to form. "Smith? D'you think Malfoy's…well…like us?" "A fag?" Smith snorted. "I don't think a straight boy could be that camp if he tried." The idea began to take shape. "And you said people fantasized about this…" "Well, not this specifically." He pushed the wet hair out of his face, so it lay slicked against his head, rather like the topic of their conversation. "But, you know, the blokes on your team in general. Between you and Potter…." Ron imagined trying to talk Harry into assisting him, and decided he didn't want his best friend to run screaming out of Gryffindor Tower. He focused on Smith instead. "What would you say to a little private revenge on Malfoy?" The Hufflepuff tilted his head back against the wall. "I'm listening." Smith started snickering almost as soon as Ron opened his mouth, and by the time Ron was done outlining his idea the blond boy was howling and clutching his ribs. "Well, never mind it, then," Ron said peevishly, and started to climb to his feet. Smith grabbed his knee and used it to lever himself up off the floor. "No…stop…" He took a deep breath to force his laughter aside. "I think it's brilliant. Also insane and slightly disturbing, of course, but brilliant." Ron blushed slightly at the compliment. "D'you think it'll work?" "Only one way to find out. In the meantime…" He suddenly found his lap full of a Hufflepuff boy. "Fancy a spot of rehearsal?" Part Two: Best Served Hot Draco Malfoy stalked down the corridors in a state of extreme temper. So what if he'd jinxed Sloper's broom? He'd only sped up the inevitable—the moron was infamous for injuring his own teammates. And, besides, it wasn't as if anyone had died or anything. It was their own faults Potter and the rest hadn't had the sense to get out of the way. But no, the stupid Mudblood and her blood-traitor cronies had thrown fits, and now he was stuck in detentions with McGonagall for the rest of the term, he'd lost all his Hogsmeade priviledges, and his prefect's badge to boot, which meant he couldn't even entertain himself by tormenting first-years. Someone in the school was obviously out to get him. These angstful musings were interrupted by a Stunner, from behind. When he came to—or, more likely, was revived—he was acutely aware of several things. The most important of the list were that he was naked, and that he was tied up. Or, more precisely, he was tied down, to a sprawling bed with thick, midnight blue sheets and heaps of puffy pillows. There were stands of dribbling candles and a few sputtering torches for light, but they were concentrated near the bed, leaving the far reaches of the room thick in shadows. Draco couldn't think immediately of any room in the castle which may have been taken from a Gothic romance novel, which added another issue to his list: he did know where he was. Or, for that matter, who had brought him here. The answer to the last question snickered somewhere in the far corner, and Draco tensed. "Who's there?" he called. "Come out and show yourselves." That snicker again. A vaguely familiar voice said in a taunting tone, "Call me crazy, Malfoy, but you don't seem to be in any position for issuing orders." Draco squirmed, trying to raise his head haughtily; all he managed to do was pull the bonds on his wrists tighter, restricting the flow of blood to his hands. "Look, you can't do this to me," he said coldly anyway. "Funny, it looks like we already have." That was a second voice, and it was definitely familiar, although Draco was a bit too preoccupied to place it. He licked his lips and looked frantically around, but neither his wand nor his clothes were anywhere in sight—not that he could have reached them if they had been. "Whoever you are, I'm warning you, my father—" The rest of his sentence was lost in a groan of disgust. "You're thinking of your father at a time like this?" the second, more familiar voice said incredulousy. "Kinky bastard, isn't he?" the first one said. "Pervert, more like it." "I am not a pervert!" Draco yelped angrily. Then, a bit too late, "Or kinky!" Laughter. "Could've fooled us." Draco growled, fighting a thrill of panic in his chest. He was in control of the situation. He was, he was, he was. "For the last time, either show yourselve or I'll—" "Hex us?" asked Second Boy. "Nice try, Malfoy, you haven't got a wand." "Or, rather," said First Boy, finally stepping into the light, "the wand you've got, however impressive it is, wouldn't be too useful for magic." This statement was mostly lost on Draco, as he was too busy getting indignant. The boy now leaning against one post of the bed was a Hufflepuff, Zaccheus or Zebulon or something Smith. A Hufflepuff! He, Draco Malfoy, had been blindsided and assaulted by a fucking Hufflepuff! It was almost too outrageous to be borne. And not only had this impertinant twit kidnapped him, but he had the audacity to stand smirking at the foot of the bed and look positively edible in a collared shirt the color of a Galleon. It was utterly intolerable. Smith only smiled while Draco fumed wordlessly, a deliberate insult. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded finally, although his tone was less outraged than he wanted, and more panicked. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" "At the moment, nothing," said the second boy, stepping up behind Smith. "In a moment, you." Indignation, anger and outrage all vanished in a heartbeat as Draco lost his breath. Ronald Weasley stood behind Smith, and if the Hufflepuff looked good enough to eat, this Gryffindor looked good enough to worship. Draco had spent a great deal of time and energy rationalizing his unfortunate lust for Harry Potter's sidekick—it was irrelevant, it was a base physical impulse, it was no different than being attracted to a total stranger and it wasn't his, Draco's, fault that he, Weasley, was bloody gorgeous. These feats of logic allowed him to wank in peace many a night, but they provided no refuge for him now. The husk in Weasley's voice, the patch of throat and bone visible through his open collar, and the appraising blue eyes that leisurely skimmed his exposed flesh stripped away Draco's rage and left nothing but desire (and sheer blind panic) in their wake. As though fully aware of what he'd accomplished, Weasley—Ron—smiled slightly, and processed to snog Smith. He wrapped his arms around the Hufflepuff from behind and lowered his lips to the slightly shorter boy's face. Smith turned and caught the kiss, deepening it quickly, while he arched his body forward into Ron's roaming hands. Ron trailed his lips down the side of Smith's face and neck, and Smith rolled his head back, and gasped as long, freckled fingers found his nipples through his shirt. Draco shut his eyes at that point and turned his face away—he would've crossed his legs, if he could've, but as he was tied down there was nothing he could do conceal the slow rising of his penis. Think of something unsexy, anything—giant squid, house elves, McGonagall in a red satin teddy…Weasley in a red satin teddy…oh, fuck…. The way Smith moaned and gasped was definitely not helping…. Quite suddenly he felt the mattress dip and quiver as a warm body stretched out over his own. He opened his eyes and found Smith leering at him, their noses bare inches apart. "What's the matter, Malfoy? It's not like you weren't enjoying the show…" The Hufflepuff reached down and stroked Draco's half-mast erection, and when Draco yelped Smith lowered his head and thrust his tongue into his mouth. Surprise number sixteen billion for the evening: Smith could kiss. His lips were firm, demanding, and he seemed quite intent on sampling the taste of Draco's tonsils; that, plus the almost gentle friction of Smith's fingers against his cock, broke down the last vestiges of Draco's resistance. In spite of everything else, he was horny, and if these two wanted to bring him off, he wasn't going to stop them. He'd have to be mad to… "Zach…" Weasley said warningly, breaking the two blonds out of their hormonal haze. "Remember the deal." Smith smiled ruefully. "Of course. My apologies." Draco made an icoherent noise of protest as Zach peeled himself away and climbed off the bed, onto the floor. He crawled in front of Weasley, and the two of them carefully positioned themselves for Draco's viewing pleasure. Then Smith, all business, opened Ron's trousers and teased out a seriously intimidating cock. Draco barely had time to admire it before the Hufflepuff opened his mouth and started to suck it in, going deeper by gentle degrees and causing Weasley to gasp in the most wonderful of ways. Draco found himself jealously imagining a double switch of their positions, with Weasley on his knees and Smith…well, pretty much anywhere else in the world. Even if the boy could give a Dementor some serious competition. Suddenly Ron snarled, a feral sound that summoned all of Draco's attention. Weasley's eyes were clouded over, but his lips were curled, and with an unexpected ferocity he grabbed hold of Smith's hair and fucked his mouth. The Hufflepuff didn't seem disconcerted in the least; he moaned deep in his throat, which only served to goad Ron more. In that moment, Draco only wanted to switch positions with one person, and that was the boy on his knees. Weasley suddenly jerked away, and his eyes bored straight through Draco's head. "You want to do this, don't you." Draco was too pie-eyed and desperate to lie. Weasley pulled his trousers off and climbed onto the bed, planting his knees just under Draco's outspread arms. He leaned forward and grasped the headboard, and there it was, a red-fringed monster ready for the taking. Draco licked his lips once and craned his head forward, taking perhaps a third of it at once. Ron instantly bucked forward hard enough to make Draco gag. It took a moment before he could recover and relax enough to take it any deeper, but the moment he did Ron started fucking him, and he could taste Weasley back to his tonsils, along with a clashing flavor that must've belong to Smith. He could smell it and taste it and feel it, and he would probably be hoarse as hell after this but good god, was it ever worth it. He was dimly away of his legs being cut loose, raised and parted; then he felt a hot tongue probing between his cheeks, against his anus. He yelped, nearly choked, and caused Ron to break his rhythm with a garbled curse. This new stimulation was nearly overwhleming, and he could feel himself approaching the point the no return, hovering on the edge of release, and fighting not to cross it yet. Though his legs were cramped and his feet were alive with pins and needles, he managed to raise his hips and rock onto Smith's face even as he angled his head forward to meet Ron's every thrust. And then it stopped, immediately and completely. Ron pulled away and rolled off the bed, and Zach drew away and let Draco's aching legs drop to the matress. He groaned his frustration aloud, but the other boys ignored him as they bent their heads together a moment, whispering as they exchanged quicked kisses and caresses. At some point a wand changed hands. Draco swallowed several times and prepared to voice his desire that one of them get his fine pale arse back on the bed and bring him off immediately, but paused when Smith stripped off his shirt and trousers. The nude Hufflepuff managed, with some gymnastic effort, to crawl behind Draco without dislocating either of the Slytherin's shoulders and they settled against each other. Draco, almost unconsciously, rubbed his back against Smith's rock-hard cock, eliciting a deep-throated chuckle from the other boy. A slim hand stroked his chest before settling on one peaked nipple and twisting. "Impatient, aren't you?" Draco had to bite down a growl, because this was too little stimulation in exactly the wrong place, and he felt he either had to come or pass out. But then Ron was on top of him, demanding all his attention. The redhead rolled his wand—the wooden one—between his fingers, then placed it at the swollen pucker Zach had been attending to moments before. Draco didn't quite make out the incantation, but he could feel the effect as something cool and slippery oozed the wrong way into his body. He squirmed, and felt Zach rock against him out of pure instinct. Then Ron's lips closed over his, and Draco groaned and tried to rub his aching cock against Ron's. But the Gryffindor stayed just out of reach, although he absolutely had to be as desperate as Draco was. Instead he positioned Draco's legs just so, and Smith held them from behind, so Draco was just as immobilized as he'd been earlier, just in a different position. That didn't seem to be much of a problem, however, when he felt Ron's fingers pushing into him, properly finishing the job Smith had started. He thrust onto them as best he could with the weight of one boy on top of him and the solid grip of another holding him from behind. It felt good in spite of the pain, it felt wonderful, but it wasn't…fucking…enough… "Sing it." "Eeeurrrraahh?" He was too close for this kind of shit! Weasley's eyes bored into him again. "Sing it, or we leave now." No. He was joking. This could not be happening. All this…for that? Draco laughed, a slightly deranged sound that trailed off to a whimper as Weasley probed the most sensitive spot on his body with agonizing gentleness. Who's going to know? he thought, squirming out of instinct. Who the hell are they going to tell? Draco inhaled as deeply as he was able. "Weasley is my king, Weasley is my king, that's why Slytherins all sing, Weasley is my fucking GOD!" Because Weasley was in him, just that quickly, and he seemed to touch off the world's longest orgasm with just that one hard thrust. Draco wasn't certain what else he may have screamed, but he was certain that none of it was very complementary. When it was over, he was too exhausted to move; too exhausted to do much, in fact, except slump over against Smith and half-listen to Weasley's ragged breathing. He was already half-asleep when they shifted him aside and cut the bonds on his numb and aching arms; the last thing he remembered was a gentle kiss on his temple and Smith's voice, too pleased for his own good, whispering "Sleep tight." And he did. Part Three: Happy Endings Ron came down to breakfast exceedingly late the next morning. "What're you grinning about?" Harry asked. "Nothing at all. How's the ribs?" "Fine...dunno why Pomfrey was so dead-set on keeping me." "It's for your own good." Ginny's eyes went wide. "Is that a hickey?" Zach came down to breakfast exceedlingly late the next morning. "Oi, Smith, where were you all night?" Ernie asked. "I could give you detention for out-of-bounds, you know." "Yeah, and then I'd have to kill you." Zach replied cheerfully. Susan rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't mind him, Smith, he's mad with power." "I resent that!" "You resemble that." "Is that a hickey?" Draco came down to breakfast exceedingly late the next morning. "Draco…" Blaise Zabini hesitated for a moment, then leaned in closely and dropped his voice. "Why are you wearing a sack on your head?" "Shut. Up." Though his scowl was concealed, there was no mistaking the intent in his slightly-muffled voice. Draco commenced to eat in surly silence, delicately passing bacon and toast underneath his burlap disguise. Despite the excellent eye-holes, he did not see Smith or Weasley, and thus did not see the significant look that passed between them, or the wands in their hands. "Evanesco!" No one was quite sure who said it, but the effect was clear: the sack dissolved, clearly exposing the words that were printed across Malfoy's face in permanent purple ink: WEASLEY IS MY KING Harry choked on his cereal and stared first at the Slytherin fleeing the Great Hall, and then at his friend. "What did you do?" he demanded. Ron smiled. "You wouldn't want to know." |