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Everyone knew what went on in the second last stall from the right in the gents at Ilkley Moor Stadium.
Well, in actual fact there were two working theories. One, a particularly stridulous ghoul had taken up residence, or two, it was the epicentre of a multitude of sloppy, anonymous gob jobs. Either way, the result was the same; the bathroom located in the old west stand was generally avoided.
Unless one found themselves curious, that is. About getting their knob wet on another bloke’s tongue. Not ghouls.
Two weeks after Hermione had left him for a second cat and (presumably) men who weren’t lying when they claimed they were somewhat interested in having sex with women (to which he could only say ‘fair enough’), Ron had attended a match between Puddlemere United and the Chudley Cannons at Ilkley Moor. After a breakneck game in which the Cannons were robbed by a referee who was begging for a course of ophthalmology spells, Ron looked to Seamus and Harry on either side of him, and then to the lager in his hand and had a very clear, very deep epiphany he didn’t quite have words for. He’d been itchy in a metaphorical sense for a long while, and he finally knew why. He didn’t really need to change much, he thought, he could do all the things he usually did and also be the kind of bloke who fancied other blokes.
As serendipity would have it, at afters when it had reached the time of night where Seamus had climbed onto a table to sing murder ballads and Harry had started denying he was smoking while a fag bobbed rhythmically on the corner of his lip, Ron had overheard a conversation about the stall.
“–Caught your cousin Everett there before he went off to Berlin, so I did. The lad swore black and blue he’d heard something about a ghoul but if you ask me there’s some funny business going on in that bathroom—”
Perhaps ‘funny business’ would pair well with an epiphany, Ron’d thought. He would straighten out the details later. Hmm. Maybe straighten wasn’t the right word.
He bought season tickets to Ilkley Moor Stadium, despite it not being his team's home ground. When Harry had asked him why he'd shrugged and said ‘won them from a competition in the er—Quibbler’ and scuttled off to the tearoom before he was forced to lie about something else.
Still, it had taken him two-and-a-half months of guilty-yet-thrilling wanks to build up the nerve to even walk by the mysterious door that led to the stall, all the while thinking of how cross he was going to be if it turned out to be a ghoul. Then, last Saturday, he’d had enough lager to throw doubt into the whipping wind and march (read: creep) into the dim bathroom, and knock on the second last stall from the right.
The door opened and a bloke the size of the entire cubicle came into view. Ron was not a small man himself, but one of this man’s biceps was larger than Ron’s entire ginger head. On top of that he was bearded, tattooed and wanking in a slow, arrogant ‘what are you going to do about it’ sort of fashion.
Ron screamed in his head. Where should he look?
He spoke almost entirely to the man’s erect penis. “Er sorry, wrong er—wrong.”
“Not sure I agree with you there, lover.” A drawn out up and down perusal had Ron so overwrought he disapparated (read: sprinted) back the way he’d came.
The past week had involved calling himself a wally and a coward and a wally-coward, fantasising about the very muscly tattooed wizard and his frankly pornographic forearms, and stern mirror talks about how he was going to grow a pair next Saturday and then march into the stall and dangle that pair on muscleman’s chin.
The game between Puddlemere and the Kestrels had been tied at 10-10 for two-and-a-half hours. Ron was a staunch defender of quidditch, but at this point he was rooting for the bludgers. Two and a half hours was ample time to drink too much lager and eat crisps and contemplate what position he’d like to play when the game was buggery (answer: more curious about how tight a pretty boy might feel around his cock, but also easily driven wild by the merest pinky dip into his own hole).
“That’s it!” he said to no one. Harry and Seamus were not there today.
Ron and his tingling nether regions ventured down a lot of stairs and wove around the perimeter of the pitch to the very least convenient toilet in relation to where his seats were. He prayed he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, all the while wondering if the muscly wizard would be gentle with him.
Should Ron ask for his name?
Before he knew it, he was outside the stall-of-intriguing-gay-terrors, scanning a poster warning him to Beware of Sexually Transmitted Spattergroit! with his heart breakdancing in his throat and an overexcited prick which was probably about to be severely disappointed.
Should he knock? He should; it was only polite and he’d been working on his manners lately. But he was also sort of nervous so instead of a knock it was more of a case of caressing his knuckles lightly down the door and then spasming a little. It made almost no noise whatsoever, but apparently the bloke inside the stall had the hearing of a fruit(y) bat, because the door swung open and Ron’s entire life took a swan dive off a cliff into a neverending chasm.
‘Bloke’ was the wrong word for the skinny, pretty, intrusively blond prat leaning against the stall smoking a cigarette. He blinked twice and then laughed in such a way that the sound formed an arrow and hit Ron in the stomach and bollocks simultaneously.
“Really?” Draco Malfoy asked him, or God, or Merlin or whoever was in charge of this whole catastrophe.
There was a nice sort of velvet seat where a porcelain bowl might normally be, but in all other ways it was pretty much a toilet. And somehow also a portal to Hades. Hellfire be damned, Ron was frozen solid, and every word he knew, all the words that Malfoy was waiting for, were sizzling away into smoke.
He closed the door. Maybe if he just waited a few seconds and opened it again, it wouldn’t be Malfoy. It didn’t matter that Harry had vouched for him several times with a rating of ‘he’s alright you know’, and he was doing a lot of the Right Things while not blowing his own trumpet about it—Ron Weasley simply didn’t believe in sweeping things under rugs.
Though maybe he could find a way to believe in blowing…trumpets.
He opened the door. Nope. Still Malfoy, with smoke leaking out of his mouth and legs crossed at the ankle.
“We can chalk this up as a mistake,” Ron said slowly, “and never mention it again.”
Malfoy shrugged and vanished his cigarette with a flick of his skinny fingers. “If that’s what you want.”
“Is there another thing to want?”
“You’re an idiot, Weasley, but don’t play dumb. Not in this stall.”
“Alright so how would it work?”
One light eyebrow climbed up his forehead. “This isn’t an anatomy lesson.”
“I know that, you knob. What are you here for?”
“Simplicity.”
Ron’s stomach did a cartwheel.
“You haven’t left yet,” said Malfoy, “so I’m going to ask you to take two steps forward and close the door behind you.”
Ron didn’t know he’d done as he was told until the door clunked closed behind him and Malfoy was extremely, obscenely close, smelling like cigs. He seemed much more delicate than he had once upon a time, all lashes and cheeks, but the old, hard look in his eye had only galvanised.
His voice dropped into a new beguiling register. “Get your cock out.”
Still bossy though.
“Wow.” Ron blinked.
“We’re in a bathroom stall at a quidditch stadium—” As if to prove his point there was an anticipatory cheer which dropped quickly to a disappointed groan from the crowd outside their little perverted universe. “Foreplay consists of closing the door and opening your trousers.”
Malfoy’s wand was out—when did that happen? And with a non-verbal command the two halves of Ron’s fly parted like the red sea before Moses. Merlin—Moses—what was happening? There was absolutely no hiding how hard he still was (read: had been the whole time). If anything, he was harder than ever.
Were all men this easy? Ron thought about it for a second, and conceded that it did seem right.
“You won’t…tell anyone?” Compared to Malfoy’s gravelly voice, his own sounded choked and small.
“Naturally I’ll be inking a Howler to Rita Skeeter with one hand while I wank you off with the other.”
There he is.
Malfoy reached out and cupped Ron’s bollocks without ceremony but with obvious finesse. If cupping bollocks was an activity which could be described as requiring finesse—it didn’t matter when the pressure was just right.
Ron jerked so hard he hit his head against the stall door. “Oh fucking fuck—”
“I think you liked that little story, didn’t you Weasley?”
Fingers walked a teasing path up and up to where his cock was straining to escape its waistband prison, and dove right to it. Just like that. Merlin’s balls, Malfoy was touching his…balls.
“You’ve always had a foul fucking mouth,” he managed.
“Pot kettle black etcetera—” Fingers curled around his shaft. “But really you have no, fucking, idea what my mouth is capable of.” Each word was accompanied by a firm stroke and Malfoy couldn’t really be suggesting he was going to suck Ron off, could he? Well, it seemed plausible, because he was wanking Ron off at present, but still there was an element of the surreal to the whole situation. The quidditch crowd was chanting DEFENCE! as if it mattered at this point and the eye contact was an unbreakable vow promising certain death to the one who blinked.
“Look at your slutty mouth hanging open like that, one little handjob and I’ve got you tamed. I’m almost disappointed.”
“I don’t give a shit, as long as you keep go–oh–oh shit—”
With a groan which was half-disappointment at himself, Ron came hard all through his pants and into the palm of Malfoy’s hand. The crowd let out a collective, despondent ‘OOOH’, probably not at his lack of stamina, but almost definitely at his lack of stamina.
Malfoy extracted his hand and wiped it on Ron’s shirt, which was kind of insulting but then he examined a pearly white drop left on the tip of his index finger and suckled it into his smug, smirking mouth.
“Maybe next time I’ll get more of a taste,” he said, “if you can contain yourself, that is.”
“Er yeah…next time?”
It sounded like a question, but already Ron knew it wasn’t a question at all.
He fumbled for the door latch—wishing he knew how to be cool and wondering if he should ask Bill, or maybe it would be easier to take up smoking—and retreated slowly out of the stall. It was only after two minutes in which he’d bumped into two walls and a disgruntled Kestrels fan that he realised he was still walking backwards.
❇❇❇
Ron was very busy solving crimes and looking good in his Auror robes and his holsters and attending near daily extended Weasley clan festivities, so he only thought about Draco Malfoy for ninety-percent of the next two weeks. As he scrawled his signature on an arrest report he thought of Malfoy’s fingers. Outside the Leaky he ogled the gaggle of smokers and thought of how much sexier Malfoy made such a bad habit look. Like he was sucking on a tiny dick. Was that the point? That was probably the point.
He vacillated wildly between trying to convince himself those five strange, sticky minutes did not happen, and screeching in his own head that the words next time had been served and returned. That was basically a binding contract. Malfoy owed him a gob job. He was an auror and that was the law.
There was an upcoming must-win clash kicking off at 3:33 on Saturday afternoon (even Ron could admit wizards took whimsy too far sometimes) at Ilkley Moor. As far as Ron knew, Malfoy didn't support the Harpies or Puddlemere—neither did Ron really, even though his sister was in the former’s starting line up—but he didn't know of any other stadium with a stall like The Stall and sport was secondary to oral sex on the day’s priority list.
For twenty-eight minutes Ron did a very good impression of a Man Watching Quidditch. If the sounds of the crowd were anything to go by, it did seem to be a very exciting game for everyone spectating who wasn't currently distracted by their Very Gay Thoughts.
Harry—his best friend who had the audacity to be sitting next to him to watch the game—kept nudging him every time Ginny touched the quaffle.
He couldn't take it any more. He had to know.
“Gotta go,” he told Harry. “Er—lager.”
“Eh? But you're already holding a full—”
Whatever nonsense Harry was about to say was drowned out by the pounding of Ron's feet as he sprinted down down down along around—doubled back because he took a left instead of a right—and into the old west stand. Truthfully, it was all a bit derelict, but he didn’t really care, he was going to that bathroom and if Malfoy wasn’t already there he was just going to wait. And probably (read: definitely) wank.
In the bathroom, a light was flickering in a horror movie sort of way, and someone was moaning, also possibly in a horror movie sort of way. Why had he ever let Hermione introduce him to Stanley Kubrick?! Until.
Ron froze on the spot.
“Like that—fuck—fuck—don’t be shy, I know you can take it all.” An endless, drawn out groan-growl followed this pronouncement.
Oh.
“Ah fuck! Yeah, you’re a dirty boy.”
Oh.
Either the ghoul was gay or the stall was occupied.
A terrible thought slammed into him like a skrewt blasting off. If the stall was occupied—maybe Malfoy was with another bloke? The tattooed bloke? The voice definitely wasn’t Malfoy’s posh arsehole drawl—the one that could peel paint and stroke gently across his skin all at once. So maybe Malfoy was the one who the other bloke knew could take it all. And he didn’t really know how this all worked, but he knew Malfoy was not supposed to be having it off with anyone but him, and if he was going to take a whole cock, it was going to be his.
So what now? Should he knock? Try to join? Hmm, that seemed like the kind of thing an intermediate-level gay wizard might do, and he wouldn’t admit this out loud, but he was more of a novice at this stage. And he was annoyed, yeah, if Malfoy didn’t wait for him but he was also very aroused. He could wank. He was probably going to have to, lest he return to Harry with tented trousers and no lager at all.
Out in the open (of the derelict, illicit bathroom), Ron slowly slid his hand into his pocket—
“What the devil are you doing Weasley, you little slag?” A hot whisper melted into his ear.
“AHH.” He nearly jumped out of his skin, and whirled to see Malfoy looking at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Pipe down or bring your pipe in here lover,” came a strained voice from the stall, before words became moans again.
It looked like there were any number of insults Malfoy was considering throwing at Ron, but he was also scanning slowly up and down his body, lingering over the unsubtle double bulge of his cock and the hand which had been in the process of reaching for it. An age passed before he shrugged a sexy little ‘yeah alright then’ sort of shrug, raised his index finger perpendicular to his lips, seized Ron by the front of the Harpies jersey he’d worn so Ginny wouldn’t get all huffy, and dragged him into a stall.
A stall, not The Stall. This stall had a urinal in it. Other people were fucking in The Stall, and they could hear every slapping, shaking, growling second of it which was definitely weird, but also definitely arousing.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Malfoy beat him to it by slapping a hand over his lips.
“No talking.”
Did he whisper it or simply mouth it, leaving Ron’s mind to fill in the blanks with a command as crisp as a cold apple. Great, he didn’t want to talk to Malfoy. He had nothing to say to Malfoy that couldn’t be said by placing a hand on the top of his head and shoving him down to his knees on a wet stone floor.
Their fellow bathroom-users had reached crescendo.
“Oh Merlin fuck I’m going to come right in your tight arse, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—”
“Please daddy, fill me up—oh yeah!
Malfoy was smirking up at the reaction he was failing to suppress, as if he wasn’t the one on his knees, and Ron felt blood rush to his ears and his cheeks. Where was all this blood coming from? His cock was so hard he could probably shape diamond with it. Once again he wished the rules of hooking up semi-anonymously and definitely illegally in stadium bathrooms were written down somewhere. Was it a competition between stalls? Should he call Malfoy daddy?
Hmm. No.
It had been too long of another one of those staring competitions where Ron’s stomach did weird things trying to only half-acknowledge how pretty Malfoy was, and Malfoy seemed to be daring him to do something but it was over and above a sex something.
Ah well. He definitely didn’t have enough blood supplying his brain to puzzle it out and Malfoy was pulling open Ron’s trousers and dragging down his pants, but he really wasn’t doing all of it fast enough so Ron stepped in.
Outside a door squeaked open and clunked closed. Inside Ron slid his hand down to cup the nape of Malfoy’s neck, where the hair was shorter but no less soft. Somehow he knew what was coming next.
Malfoy spat on his cock. Ron let out a shaky exhale.
“Don’t be gentle with me.”
Ron had the perfect answer for once, and the rock hard means to enforce his hardish will. “No. Talking.”
The first touch of sharp tongue to the flared head of his demanding prick rearranged the cosmos. There was a lot wrong with whatever the fuck he was doing, but a second lick down a raised vein, and a third, perfectly wet lick down the underside and somehow he discovered and forgot the meaning of life. Oh well, it didn’t matter—nothing mattered except tilting that sharp chin up and stroking with his thumb in a clear signal that it was time to open wide. Malfoy did—it turned out he could be cooperative when there was a cock on offer—revealing a new view white teeth and a slick pink tongue.
Minding his manners, Ron took it ever-so-slow and fed his cock an inch at a time into Malfoy’s open mouth. As he earnt his first little throat bobbing gag he made to withdraw, but Malfoy wasn’t having it—he surged forward off his toes, wrapping a hand around to cup Ron’s arse cheeks. Without words he was asking for more of the same treatment and Ron was reminded he didn’t want it gentle.
Which made it all very simple. He’d never given himself permission to let loose before—he’d always focused on being considerate, and pleasing his partner. Obviously, with the infidelity on Hermione’s part and the homosexual…ness on his that strategy had been a bust, and this was Malfoy, and Malfoy was taking him so deep that the tip of his pointy nose was brushing over his lower belly.
He bit the back of his own wrist to keep his groan in check, and let himself fuck. He was not gentle, he was wild, and nearly unhinged as he stuffed himself through those smirking lips, and pulled silken hair. This was proper, true lust. Confusing, messy, covered in drool. Was Malfoy enjoying this? Did Ron even care?
Yeah, he found he did care. And yeah, Malfoy did seem to be having a good time—Ron shifted his notice away from the slide of his red flesh through rosy lips to witness the hand Malfoy did not have curled around the back of his thigh rubbing frantically at his own cock. Oh Gods, that was even more sexy. This couldn’t get more sexy. Even with the urinal there. In fact, the urinal was just adding to the overall naughtiness. He would never look at urinals or flickering lights the same way again. This was going to be a problem.
Malfoy was moaning. His eyes were heavy and his face was flushed. How long had it been? Hopefully a respectable amount of time because Ron was going to come and there was nothing anyone, even if Voldemort returned right here right now, could do about it. Usually he would ask where he should aim, usually he would default to something like sexual politesse but there wasn’t really a question about what was going to happen and how this was going to go.
Using strands of hair which might drive him towards lunacy, he hauled Malfoy off his cock with a pop and dragged his head back. Watch Me. It didn’t need to be said.
The first spurt was a line parallel to a very faint, too meaningful yet almost imperceptible scar across from jaw to cheek. The second landed in his hungry, gaping mouth. The third across his lips. Shit, he was still going.
No talking, don’t yell. He could only think profanities and oaths and confused metaphors. His cum was on Malfoy’s tongue and rolling down his cheek and his breath was about to tear his chest wide open.
He decided to fuck politeness like he’d fucked Malfoy’s face, and occupy this strange domineering role and be the kind of bloke who got to decide things like whether or not his lover got to come too. Maybe he didn’t know the rules, but his body filled in the blanks the closet left behind. He wrenched Malfoy to his feet and took hold of his wrist to prevent him from taking his liberties he hadn’t been granted. He replaced it with his own, but instead of taking up the rhythm, he squeezed.
“Look at you,” he said huskily. It felt too dangerous to finish the sentence, and somehow less dangerous to do a thing he was almost certain was against the rules he didn’t know.
With one hand on Malfoy’s cock, and the other cuffed around his neck, Ron pulled him in for a kiss that was far more gentle than a former death eater tasting of cum and cigarettes deserved. He felt an immediate jerk of surprise, and an intent to draw away—he wouldn’t allow it. He used his extra pounds and inches to press their mostly clothed, messy bodies together, and made Malfoy suck on his tongue.
Yep, being gay was fucking boss.
❇❇❇
Waiting three weeks for his next trip to The Stall was pure torture. He hadn’t left behind all his dignity in the west end gents at Ilkley. Just a little droplet of it, like a forgotten glob of spend on a wet stone floor. He only thought about Malfoy ninety-eight percent of the time, and he’d come out to his mum in the interim, which earned him a hug, a ‘we’ve always known’ (someone should’ve told him!) and a long, apparently relevant lecture on his sloppy carrot julienning spellwork.
The Cannons were actually playing Puddlemere this week, conditions were utterly perfect, and Ron was dressed head-to-toe in very subtle orange. He should be excited about the game, and the fact that the Cannons were on fire with a massive two-game winning streak. But he was mostly excited about wanking Malfoy off and asking him to lick his fingers after.
The Cannons were not even slightly winning, which made his decision to slip away from Seamus after an hour of game play much easier. Seamus didn’t seem to notice, owing to focusing his omnioculars across the pitch at a certain Pansy Parkinson who he’d developed a recent, ill-advised, and definitely not reciprocated obsession with. Why was everyone so into Slytherins lately? There were plenty of other wizarding fish in the magic sea, surely.
Anyway, Ron had Malfoy’s cum-smothered face in his mind as he wove and dodged his way west. He’d gotten his hair properly cut, left his stubble in place and worn nice cologne, which didn’t mean anything, because he just knew Malfoy was going to comment on his outfit, rather than the fact he looked like a fitty, if he did say himself.
When Ron entered the bathroom, he knew he wasn’t alone. All the stalls lay open, except for the second last door on the right. But he noticed there was a round hole spelled into the wood, right in the O of Spattergroit and another, larger, down below. Oh, Ron and his cock liked this game. He tiptoed closer, closed his right eye and leaned in to take a peep.
The stall was indeed occupied, but not by Malfoy. The tattooed wizard was back—maybe he was a Cannons fan?—and his forearms were flexing as he worked himself over and over and over.
“Sorry!” Ron yelped.
Why the fuck was he apologising? The holes were clearly there on purpose, and this wanking wizard with his rippling trapezius obviously wanted other blokes to use the holes to watch and also wank and then probably do a little poking. Yelling sorry was not sexy nor smooth.
“I mean—not sorry, you’re doing top notch job, mate. Nice forearms and er—cock.”
With that horror, Ron ran.
The problem was, or rather had become, where once he’d wandered into The Stall looking for cock, now he was seeking out a very specific cock and the pretty wizard attached to it. He’d not got a proper look at it last time, and the past several weeks of stake outs had involved a lot of his mind galloping off, trying to picture which way it might curve, and how blond Malfoy was below deck.
He sprinted back up the stairs, hearing a legion of Cannons fans scream as O’Reilly equalised.
He plonked down in his seat next to Seamus and plucked the lager out of his hand.
“Sorry, got lost.”
“...So I see,” a deep voice (not an Irish one) said.
Ron blinked up into the intimidatingly beautiful face of Blaise Zabini and when he looked away sharpish he found himself staring at a rather confused Malfoy, who was also beautiful, but Malfoy was beautiful like a bird, where Zabini was beautiful like a well-aimed haymaker.
“I think you’re in the wrong seat, Weasley,” Malfoy drawled. “And you look like a satsuma.”
He was actually in the wrong stand, but they didn’t need to know that. Oh Merlin’s pants this was a disaster. Did he accio himself to Malfoy through sheer force of will? Abort! How could he extract himself? A dive off the side to the pitch below surely wouldn’t kill him. It was only, what, fifty or so feet? Any resulting injury would be less painful than being blinked out while still for some reason drinking his pilfered beer.
“Sorry to disappoint, lads. Must go. Gotta piss.”
Ron ran again, but the funny thing was, he heard Malfoy say something like, “yeah me too.” Which was deeply unsubtle, and then he had the distinct, pins and needles over the cock feeling that Malfoy was following him—though probably with a bit more grace.
In case he wasn’t imagining things, he did not return to his real seat. He led Malfoy back to the bathroom, but not The Stall because by now there was a wizard in a pointy hat plastered against the door, obviously making use of the second hole. He pulled Malfoy into the stall that had become theirs because he didn’t know the rules but he could make them, and silenced incoming sounds, and muffled outgoing ones.
“That’s not really the point of all this, you know. There’s a community aspect to it—quid pro cum.”
“I don’t care,” said Ron, suavely, in his opinion. “I want you all to myself.”
Malfoy got a funny look on his face, and smoked a little harder. Ron wasn’t very good at facial expressions, or else he might have figured out much earlier that Hermione was getting shagged senseless after yoga class by none other than Greg Goyle. Ron could begrudgingly admit Greg was probably reformed and also fit, but honestly, did no one else even remember the war?
Malfoy, his enemy, blinked. He looked tired. Was he okay? And when did Ron’s hands settle on his waist?
Don’t do it. Don’t ask. “Have you been thinking about me?” Ron, this strange version of Ron, anyway, leaned in to lick Malfoy’s neck.
“Once or twice,” Malfoy replied.
“And did you wank over me?”
“Once or twice.”
“Did you come?”
“Yeah.”
“And what was in your head when you spent yourself all over your sheets alone?”
Ron had no proof Malfoy was alone. He definitely had been engaged to a witch somewhere along the line, but it suited him much better to believe he had ruined Malfoy for all others the second he touched his penis.
“I let you fuck me. But you begged me first.”
Ron wanted to take his time, but he knew it was a luxury they didn’t have. Seamus still probably hadn’t noticed Ron was gone, but a look over his shoulder at Blaise had revealed a shrewd gaze and Ron was pretty sure this needed to stay a secret. In the interests of efficiency, he shoved his hand down Malfoy’s pants.
“I think you should beg me. Your cock is already dripping at the thought.” He smeared wetness around, and dived deeper to brush a finger in a question against his hole.
“It’s wet—” He swirled and enjoyed the little flutter of Malfoy’s lashes. “Did you get yourself ready for me?”
“I don’t know why you’re still talking.”
He had a solid point, and Ron skipped quite a few steps he might’ve liked to linger over until he had Malfoy bent over, palms against the wall. With a sure grip around his own cock, he reached around for Malfoy’s and wondered if this was how Gods feel. The Ancient Greek ones who were all fluid about sexuality with the swan shagging and so on, not the smitey, intolerant ones.
What now?
There was an arsehole which was begging for his attention, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised Malfoy had clearly taken some time to make everything back there pretty and perfect but it fit, he thought, and the real surprise was his own volition to take a knee and taste it.
The sounds the invasion of his tongue pulled from Malfoy were worth the daring a hundred times over, and suddenly he was the kind of man who ate arse and he loved it so much, he was probably going to come over it.
Malfoy was whimpering and Ron didn’t think, replacing tongue with one finger, two, circling and opening the way for what he really, really, really wanted to do. Probably forever. This was a wet dream. He was dead and in a bizarre homoerotic afterlife. Oh well, that wasn’t important.
What was important was the next question he was going to ask.
“Can I fuck you?”
“Yes,” Malfoy muttered.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
“There’s no other reason I would show you my back, Weasley.”
“Well, I think you might have to ask me nicely.”
A pause. An intake of anticipatory breath.
“Please.”
“Ask better.”
“I need your cock inside me. Please.”
“Hmm…”
At his faux-hesitation, Malfoy started to straighten and Ron couldn’t have that, so he spread a hand between bony shoulder blades, and nudged knees wider. Knock knock.
It was a mind fuck, and a fuck fuck, he pushed into a place so warm and so tight and so perfectly right everything he knew about himself was erased for a moment, and he wasn’t cross about it. He sighed as each inch sank in, and he wanted to be careful, but Malfoy was moving back onto him as if to remind him he wasn’t here to make gentle love.
And nor was Ron. The fucking thing definitely made sense—everything else still felt far beyond his reach.
He breathed out an elongated ‘fuck’ and meant to say something gruff and sort of complimentary, but he came out with,
“Your arse—is the best arse.”
With his head hanging, Malfoy laughed, and it was bubbly and bright rather than astringent and cruel, but Ron sought about fucking him harder anyway, hoping he might forget the slip. He knew he wasn’t destined to last, and even though the stadium and wizarding Britain at large had melted away, this wasn’t a lazy Sunday morning between that first contemplative coffee in bed and brunch with the lads.
Malfoy came first, all over himself, with a delicious whimper Ron was going to store up for later wankspection, and he was exceptionally glad he’d decided on a muffliato because that noise belonged to him alone.
His whole body was covered in sparks, and he found Bossy Ron again.
“I’m going to come inside you,” he panted, spreading lovely pale cheeks wider. “And you’re not going to get rid of it. You’re going to sit in your seat, and feel it while you watch the Cannons take the win.”
“Yes, oh shit—do it. Do it.”
He did, once again with a force and volume he had no idea he could summon but that he was definitely smug about. And maybe they were overstayers, but he lingered before he pulled out, stroking absently down fine clothes and knobby spine. And when his spend started to drip, he lingered over that too. It was a great day for the wank bank.
The problem came when Malfoy straightened his clothes, turned to face him, and lit a cigarette. The brief flare of flame in grey eyes was like a roundhouse kick and there was stuttering sensation inside (probably his breath and definitely not his heart because tender hearts do not belong in bathroom stalls).
Malfoy allowed smoke to leak from his mouth into his nose. How the fuck was that so attractive?
And now what? He was in the way of the door, so he probably needed to move, or say something. Truthfully he did need to piss, but doing that with Malfoy here seemed like an expert-level gay kind of thing. Hmm. How did one lean sexily? Somehow the buggery seemed simpler.
“That was nice,” he managed.
Nice?! Why wasn’t there a window? He needed to toss himself out of it.
But Malfoy said, “Yeah. You’ve been a pleasant surprise.”
Alright, okay, okay…what was he supposed to do with that? It was a compliment, but surprise indicated low expectations and—why the fuck did he want Malfoy’s approval? He didn’t. He didn’t. Malfoy was a pretty boy to fuck, and exercising some residual demons was probably part of the whole thing. It was unwise to examine it too closely.
“Do people know about you?” Ron blurted.
Light eyebrows pinged up, but Malfoy didn’t miss the meaning. “Some people. People I trust.”
Well, Ron knew now, but it wasn’t about trust. This was a secret categorised under mutually-assured destruction. Though it wasn’t particularly mutual, he was the auror and Malfoy was a posh lad. He could see the Daily Prophet headlines now.
Auror? More Like WHOREr: Inside Weasley Wild Loo Escapades
And yet, maybe it was about trust. Maybe there was a lot of trust tracing along cracked tiles and wetting the floor in the gents in the old west end stand. It just wasn’t a very traditional kind of trust.
“Does Zabini know?”
“Yeah. Jealous?”
Extremely. “Not at all, tell him to floo me sometime.” Wow, where did that come from?
“He’s straight.”
“Pity.”
“Maybe I’ll floo you instead,” Malfoy said.
It was a bombarda of a line. Chunks of confusion and terror were flying everywhere.
“Are you messing?”
Malfoy shrugged. “I’m open to more of what we’ve been doing, but perhaps on a chair? Or even in a bed if we’re feeling really mental.”
“Are you…asking me out?”
“No, I’m propositioning you. Merlin Weasley, I knew you were thick but this is—”
“But you’re—and I’m—and no, we couldn’t.”
They hadn’t been conducting a heart-to-heart by any stretch of the imagination, and Malfoy had maintained his dead annoying cool calm and cunty thing the whole time, but he suddenly closed up like a clam. He tossed his half-finished smoke on the ground with a hiss, and turned his heel on it.
“Yeah, what was I thinking? Get out of my way.”
“No I—no no no.” AAAH. “Actually yeah, it’s probably a bad idea. Let’s go with that.”
There followed the most awkward shuffle as Malfoy skirted around him and left with haste. Ron finite’d his silencing spells, just to punish himself with the click of retreating footsteps.
And then he took a very glum, very philosophical piss.
❇❇❇
It had been two months. Ron had attended four games he had no stake in, and haunted the west end loos. In an ironic twist, it turned out he was the ghoul all along.
He did tandem wank with the tattooed wizard once, and it was hot, and thrilling, and he did end up asking the bloke’s name (Wentworth—he wasn’t expecting that). But he felt sort of squirmy after and only felt better when he went home and wanked over Malfoy instead of doing paperwork. Then he felt worse again.
Everything got even shittier when his mum’s acceptance stretched to trying to play matchmaker via random dinner guest rotations. She hadn’t outed him, and was simply guessing who she thought might bend the same way as her youngest son, but she was transparent all the same. Ernie Macmillan, who was so similar to Percy even considering pecking him on the lips felt incestuous, was the last straw.
He cornered Molly in the kitchen, “Mum, I’m not ready for a big thing about all this, yeah? I just want some time to figure it all out.”
“They’re just dinner guests, Ron, there’s nothing wrong with engaging in conversation to ‘figure it out’. What else could you possibly mean by that?”
What Ron meant, and had discovered about six seconds after sitting back down in his seat post-shagging Malfoy (don’t forget the rimming!), was that he wanted to fuck Malfoy on a chair and in a bed, and watch him smoke a cigarette. And kiss him again. And then see what came after.
He was categorically not going to tell his mother about his latest epiphany.
There was only one person he needed to tell this to, but that wasn’t quite as easy as it might seem. Malfoy and Ron’s circles didn’t really overlap without Ilkley Moor. Though Seamus seemed to be defying the odds and making some headway with the terrifying Pansy Parkinson. Ron had avoided asking about it because he kept showing up to work covered in scratch marks and a dopey grin and the less he knew about that whole situation the better, but at work on Tuesday he did some subtle digging.
“Oi, Seamus, you’re shagging Parkinson now, yeah?”
Seamus looked out the window wistfully for a moment. “Shaggin’s no’ the right word for it. It’s more like going ten rounds with a pantheress and then maybe you get a ride at the end if you’re not already in St. Mungo’s.”
“Great. Thanks for that, I just—does she still hang out with Malfoy?”
“I think so, yeah,” Seamus’ bright sky eyes narrowed to mischievous slits. “Why?”
“I just want to ask him something about er—a case.”
“Which case?”
“The er—” Ron cast his eyes around. “The dustbin er—window—strangler case.”
“Was that at briefing? I was runnin’ late—I’ve never heard of no strangler.”
“Yeah, erm, nothing to worry about.”
“Except the stranglin’.”
“Yeah.”
“Right, so, Pansy said she’d be in the top box for the semi final this weekend with the other snakes, so—”
“Cheers mate!”
Ron ran, else he’d have to start strangling people to corroborate his terrible cover story.
❇❇❇
This was a truly terrible plan.
Ron did not support the Wasps or the Falcons, and he did not want either of them to win the league this year. Somehow the Cannons were in the other semi alongside the Bats, and yet here Ron was having spent almost his entire savings on snooty top box tickets on the wrong game, at the wrong stadium, and even though he was doing it to force an encounter with Malfoy so he could suggest further shagging, he’d bought a very confused Harry tickets too so he didn’t have to go alone. He would have a wingman, he just couldn’t know anything about the plan of attack (NB: there was no plan of attack). Though Harry too now knew he was gay and took it with a shrug and a blink and a ‘yeah that fits. You alright?’
There was gay, and then there was gay for Malfoy. Well, he wasn’t exclusively gay for Malfoy, but he kind of was. It was complicated.
Less complicated than how to pull off a suave, sexy, nonchalant, totally random rendezvous when Malfoy was surrounded by his friends who were less friends than they were medieval implements of torture wearing cashmere.
The top box was quite shit, on the whole. A house elf served them champagne instead of lager, the dinky food seemed to have been hit with a powerful shrinking curse and a caviar curse, the view was categorically not worth the money he’d paid, there was none of the comradery that could be found in the ruck and sweat of the lower stands and he couldn’t bloody sit still. He watched absolutely no quidditch, because the game wasn’t being played on the back of Malfoy’s head.
A player collided with the middle hoop and either died or was grievously injured—a time out was called and Theo Nott slipped out of the seat beside Malfoy.
“It’s now or never,” Ron muttered to himself.
“Eh?” Harry said, half out of his seat, probably worried about the fate of the Falcon’s beater.
“Just gotta er—Malfoy, you know.”
“I really don’t.”
He had no time to explain. If he waited even a second longer he was going to lose his nerve and his nerve was little more than a broken piece of straw in the first place.
He slid in beside Malfoy with his heart in his ears and his stomach on the pitch below.
“Hi.”
“What the fuck are you doing, Weasley?” Malfoy hissed.
Undertones it was.
“Quite a few people are staring, which I don’t think either of us want, so—” Ron pulled out a piece of paper upon which he’d scribbled his address, placed it on Malfoy’s lovely knee and lowered his voice until it was close to non-existent, but he didn’t miss it when Malfoy leaned in, ever-so-slightly.
“I want to hang out, if you want to hang out, and that can involve whatever you want it to involve.”
Before Malfoy could offer any input of his own, Pansy arrived.
“Get out of my seat, Weasley.”
“Nott was sitting here.”
“And I was sitting there before him. Off you go.”
Ron stood. Hoping.
“When did you get so fit, Weasley? That’s rude. When I’m done with Finnigan, you should present yourself to me. Actually, I might keep him around, but I don’t think getting off with you would be a deal breaker. He’s a proper slut,” she concluded fondly.
“Er—”
Malfoy’s placid expression called for new, high-risk tactics.
“I like wizards—men—you know, in a gay way.”
“Oh.” She tilted her head. “That fits. You should fuck Draco then.”
AAAAH?
“Down, Pansy,” Malfoy finally saw fit to interject. He looked up at Ron. “Are you done being a pillock?”
“I’d like to say yes, but odds aren’t very good that there isn’t more pillocking on the horizon.”
“I know you can be decisive when you want to be. Anyway, shush now, play is resuming.”
Ron returned to his seat, having no idea how that whole conversation went and feeling like a plate full of an unidentifiable, bland yet wobbly substance.
Harry leaned closer, but he wasn’t very good at whispering.
“What was that all about?”
“Just had to clear something up.”
“And?”
Ron shrugged and slugged back a lot of champagne.
“Do you fancy Malfoy?”
Ron shrugged again, but with a little angular head action so Harry knew it was a maybe not an I don’t know.
Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Been there, mate.”
It was a viscous, breakneck game of quidditch—the best kind—fought mainly with the quaffle. The seekers and the snitch seemed to be missing in action, and two hours passed with plenty of spectacle, a truly eyewatering number of injuries and no sign of the end in sight.
Ron nipped to the top box gents which was an unusual combination of clean and dry, and it smelt of sage and disposable income.
He was washing his hands when he saw a fellow ghoul in the mirror behind him. The ghoul was pretty, and pale, and under the exterior which was polished until it gleamed tonight (metaphorically, but his robes were quite silky) he appeared to be a smidge nervous.
He didn’t say anything before he glided across the threshold of appropriate distance, and kissed lightly—a question. Harder—a challenge. With a lot of tongue—an answer.
As quietly as he’d come he left, and Ron lifted his fist to his face looking at a top box ticket stub with match details and branding transfigured into contact details and a message which made his heart soar like a quaffle across the pitch, and his cock tingle like a fizzing whizbee.
Don’t make me wait too long.
x Draco