2 : Middles
Title: Middles
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter / Ron Weasleys
Prompt: Middles
Word Count: 600
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: Written for fanfic100 and posted at harryron.

The one hundred stories are inspired by Broke Back Mountain.

Ron looks back on one hundred memories of his life with and without Harry.

Enjoy.


Middles
****
At first nothing changed during the day.

We worked hard. We talked like always.

Each evening we washed the grimier places we could see, we made something to eat and we sat and talked.

And then.

Each evening Harry was suddenly in my arms, his hands trembling and his mouth needy.

His mouth sucking on my collarbone as he thrust against my thigh.

He really needed this. Needed this release. And he clenched his jaw and breathed harshly as he forced his knee between my legs and ground against me.

And me? I always took care of him. But always in the dark.

Until one afternoon in September.

We had stripped down to our shorts and had been cleaning out the old chimney. We were filthy; covered head to toe in soot.

Harry stood there, the sweat dripping out of his hair and down his neck, leaving paler tracks in the soot, and I couldn't take my eyes off of him.

He ran a sweaty hand over his grimy face and laughed. "I think this'd come off in the river," he said, before striding down the bank, cheerfully stripping off and wading in.

I stood there, watching him. Watching the sun shining through the sodding leaves like the biggest cliché you have ever seen. Bloody dappled. Bugger.

He laughed up at me and splashed me and the drops of water hit my grimy chest like pale freckles and I stripped off and joined him in the river. The air was thick with oh-my-buggering-fuck-what-is-going-to-happen, but Harry didn't seem to notice.

He splashed me again as I drew closer, then ran his hand over my shoulder and down my arm. I stood stock still, trying not to breathe as he calmly washed me. So this was just daytime best mates stuff?

I was offended.

I didn't have any right to be offended.

I didn't really want him to fancy me, did I?

Should I touch him? I knew how he felt in the dark. If I even washed the soot off him, I'd put pictures to those images burnt into my skin.

And next time I touched him in the dark, I would be able to see his muscles moving under my hands.

"Give us a hand?" he said turning round. He was running his own hands over his arms and chest, and clearly wanted me to wash his back.

I reached out and touched him.

And lost my mind.

I ran my hands down his back and stepped closer and reached around to caress his chest as I kissed his shoulder.

"Ron?" he whispered. "What are you doing?"

What the fuck did he think I was doing?

I was kissing his neck, like I had been doing for weeks.

I was pressing up against him, rubbing my erection against him. Finding he lifted easily in the water.

I dragged him deeper into the river and lifted him, turning him in my arms and holding him tight.

He was shaking, with cold or anger or nerves or passion, I couldn't tell, so I kissed him.

He gasped and kissed me back, desperately, looping his arms round my neck and wrapping his legs around my waist.

I cupped his arse in both hands and pulled him against me, pressing our cocks together. He weighed almost nothing in the fast flowing water and I braced my legs and thrust against him, feeling his fingers digging into my shoulders, hearing him moan into my neck, feeling our climaxes spurt warm between our bodies.

Sinking lower in the water, I held him, as the river washed away our sweat and soot and seed.


Middles - art.

My Big Damn Table.