Harry will never, ever get used to this. Not if he lives to be five hundred years old.
Not the way his heart suddenly beats out of time when Ron gets that look in his eye, and he glances nervously at Harry from across the room, and Harry suddenly has trouble breathing.
Not the way Ron's lips feel against his, rough and soft all at once, and hot – hot as his tongue as it slips inside Harry's mouth, strong and wet and far more enticing than it has any right to be.
Not the way his skin sears against Ron's as they pull their clothes off, piece by piece, and press their bodies together, long stretches of hard chest and stomach and thigh.
Not the way Ron's ears still go a bit pink as he reaches for Harry's cock, and wraps long, hot fingers around it before leaning down, bringing his mouth to Harry's groin and breathing hot breath against him.
Not the way Ron's mouth on his cock scatters every conscious thought Harry has – what are we doing, Ron, and how much longer before you don't want to, anymore – to the four winds, until there's nothing left but the delicious press of Ron's tongue against Harry's shaft, and those brief moments when Ron glances up at him, and their eyes meet, and Harry's hammering heart flip-flops in his chest.
Never. Not if he lives to be five hundred years old and they do this every. fucking. day. from now until then.
¤ ¤ ¤
They’ve been at this for two months. Almost. Fifty-nine days, which would be two months if one of those months had been February, so it's close enough, especially since Harry is not actually keeping track. Obviously.
Harry sips his tea as morning light peeks in through the kitchen window, and he doesn't know what he and Ron are doing, exactly, but he does know what they've done, and he finds himself doing the figures in his head.
Fifty-nine days. That comes out to something like a hundred orgasms each. Their daily average has been up and down a bit, over the weeks – down especially from that first week, when they did virtually nothing but fondle each other all the time – but overall, it comes out at just under two per cock, per day. Call it two hundred, total. Probably about a hundred hand jobs, thirty or forty blow jobs. At least another forty or so from that thing where they sort of hump each other and rub their cocks together – there's probably a name for that.
It's a pretty short list, Harry thinks. Lacks a certain... variety. It's better than it was, of course – those hundred or so hand jobs represent something embarrassingly close to the first hundred orgasms, full stop. Harry isn't sure how much more they're going to be able to work themselves up to before they actually have to talk about this, acknowledge what they're doing with more than just fleeting, embarrassed glances during the daylight hours, but he's determined to get in as much as possible before that happens, because talking any of this over is completely terrifying, and he's pretty sure it's all going to come to a grinding halt the moment they try.
And that thought, of them stopping whatever this thing is that they're doing, sends a pang of something Harry doesn't want to think about echoing about in his chest, so he stops thinking about it and goes back to thinking about what else he wants to try with Ron before that happens.
There's a fairly... notable act missing from their list, and Harry isn't fooling anyone – not even his own internal monologue – when he tells himself that it's not that big of a deal. That it's just something they'll do one day, or not, and he needn't spend a lot of time worrying over it.
Never mind that he can't actually think about anything else. Ever.
He honestly tries not to, because it's really bloody distracting, but he can't seem to help it.
He isn't sure if Ron thinks about it as much. Or, at all, even.
Once or twice, when Ron was playing with Harry's balls, one of his too-long fingers got away from him, and slid a bit further back, and Harry just sort of froze, waiting to see what Ron would do. He didn't get to find out, though, because the images of Ron's fingers up his arse thrilled and horrified and mystified him all at once, and he came on the spot.
And the truth is, despite what the reaction of his filthy-minded cock might suggest, Harry finds the entire concept rather terrifying. He's not really sure why. The basic and obvious problem of the size of the tab and the size of the slot must not be too difficult to overcome, he figures, or no one would do it, but it somehow remains utterly daunting.
The less basic and less obvious problem of Ron touching him there, of Ron going inside him, though, sends Harry into a cold sweat, just thinking about it. It's completely terrifying, but somehow Harry still wants it, even though he knows Ron's going to come to his senses all on his own fairly soon, and doesn't need Harry pushing him in that direction with such... serious things.
And maybe he's pathetic, Harry is, sitting here like a bloody bird, counting the days he and Ron have been (not) fucking, and worrying over how serious it all is, but the fact is that he really, really likes what he and Ron have going, and he doesn't want it to stop any sooner than it has to.
Harry sips his tea and tries to stop thinking about it, because, fuck.
¤ ¤ ¤
Ron's got his mouth on Harry's cock, kissing and licking and sucking, and it's brilliant. He reaches a hand down to Harry's balls, rolling and squeezing them in time with his sucking, and Harry's eyes go cross. Ron's fingers slip back a little further, to rub behind his balls, and Harry still can't figure out why that feels so good, why his body is so brilliantly weird.
Then Ron's fingertips slide even further back, into almost-arse territory, and Harry's eyes fly open as he imagines a long finger pressing deep inside him, imagines Ron fucking him with his fingers until Harry comes in his mouth with his fingers still inside him.
Ron's fingers don't quite stop, but don't quite move, either, and Harry wants them to stop and wants them to move and doesn't know what the he bloody well wants, but the fingers in his mind are deep inside his arse, and he loves it.
And he wants that. Now.
And he thinks maybe he should just say so, but the words don't seem willing to connect with his mouth, like even they know they'll sound stupid when he says them out loud, so he settles for pushing his hips up a bit, hoping to encourage Ron's fingers further back, but his timing is terrible and he's pushing up just as Ron is sliding down, and Ron gags on Harry's cock in a pretty major way.
And luckily they've done this enough by now that they both just think it's pretty funny, even as Ron's coughing and Harry feels like a tit, so they're able to get back into the moment pretty easily. But Harry's arse-momentum is totally shot, and while he has no trouble sinking back into the feel of Ron's mouth on his cock, he's relieved when Ron's fingers stay firmly on his balls for the remainder of the proceedings.
¤ ¤ ¤
He decides he needs to try it on his own. So he's in the shower on a lazy Sunday morning, Ron still passed out in bed, and he's determined to get to know his own arsehole a bit better, because maybe demystifying one of his problems will make it easier to work out the other.
He slicks up a finger with shampoo and ignores the idiotic flutter of nerves in his stomach. He reaches back and rubs over his hole, and he doesn't know quite what he expected, but it just feels like he's washing himself.
He tries not to feel ridiculous, because there must be something sexy about this, so he closes his eyes and imagines that Ron's there with him, running a wet hand over his spine as he presses those fingers of his between Harry's arse cheeks, and touches Harry's hole.
Harry's cock jumps as his index finger presses in, just a fraction of an inch. He pulls it out quickly and has to breathe for a moment, before pressing it back in, not quite to the first knuckle. It's odd, but it doesn't hurt and it isn't scary, so he takes another breath and pushes in a bit further, then slides in and out, and the skin of his arsehole is way more sensitive to this sort of thing than he'd have guessed. His cock has noticed, as well.
He presses his finger in a small circle, like he's tracing the inside of his hole, and gasps as the muscle gripping his finger relaxes a little. It feels like it's making room for him, like maybe it's not so opposed to the idea, after all, and Harry finds himself believing that this might actually work.
As the muscle relaxes, he slides his finger in deeper, easily. He pushes it in as far as he can a couple of times, and it's not difficult, but he'd really like some actual lube, he realises, not just shampoo. There isn't any in the shower, of course, but his wand is with his dirty clothes on the floor nearby, so he washes his hand and retrieves it, trying not to get water everywhere.
He conjures some lube, and alternates putting his index finger up his arse with putting his middle finger up his arse, sliding them both in and out, and he feels himself clench and relax around them.
When he tries pressing them both in together, his arsehole is ready for them, and they just slide right in, and he catches himself imagining they're Ron's cock, instead, and his eyes fly open as the moan he accidentally lets loose echoes against the bathroom walls.
He wonders why he's so surprised that he's enjoying this. He looks down apologetically at his bobbing cock, wishing he'd tried it sooner. It's a bit awkward, reaching around like he is, and he contemplates sliding something else up there.
There's nothing nearby but his wand, though, and he figures he'll just end up shooting a spell up his arse, so he just soldiers on, pushing two fingers in and out of his arse as best he can as he wraps his free hand around his cock and pulls himself to a quick, hard climax, and it's bloody brilliant.
¤ ¤ ¤
Harry isn't having a hard time not thinking about Ron fucking him, anymore.
He's given up trying.
His arse is practically singing to him, begging him to get Ron to fuck him, and Harry's mind is in overdrive, desperately trying to work out a way to find out if Ron wants to without scaring him off, and he's continually coming up dry.
And so days pass as if nothing has changed, and Ron still comes to Harry at night, and it's still brilliant, and they still don't talk about it, and Harry really, really wants to know if Ron wants to try fucking him, but by the time he's ready to ask, they've both already come all over the duvet and Ron is snoring against Harry's pillow, and Harry can't understand how Ron doesn't seem to be thinking about this, when it's the only thing Harry can think about.
So he watches Ron sleep until he drifts off himself, trying not to think about what it's going to be like when they stop doing this, and he dreams about Ron fucking him, slow and strong and deep, and then fast and hard and hot, and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep himself under control.
And then it's one evening after work, and they're at the the pub with Hermione, where they've agreed to meet Neville and Luna and Seamus and whoever the fuck else, Harry isn't sure, and he has no idea why he's agreed to this, because how the hell is he supposed to socialise when he can't think about anything at all that isn't Ron's cock up his arse?
They're early, the three of them, and they're halfway through their first pints when Hermione gets up to the go to the bathroom, and no one else is around, and Harry apparently left his sanity behind at the office, because he just turns to Ron and says, "Do you ever think about fucking me?" like he's asking about the latest Quidditch results.
Ron chokes on his beer and has a coughing fit for at least thirty seconds, and it's agonising, because Hermione could come back or the others show up at any moment, and Harry really needs an answer.
"Sorry, what was that?" Ron finally manages to squeak out, face bright red.
"I think you heard me!"
"Just—um." He furrows his brow. "I'm sorry, did you just ask me if I ever think about... it, with you?"
Harry nods. "Yeah. I mean, we already. You know." Ron's ears are so red it looks painful as he manages a nod, and Harry knows his own face isn't far behind.
Harry glances back to the door to the women's loo, then to the front door to the pub, before continuing, staying his nerves as best he can, "But do you ever think about... more?"
Ron stares at him, blinking at strange intervals before he says, "You serious?"
Harry tries to breathe and manages a small, "Um, yeah," before his embarrassment overtakes him completely, because, shit, he shouldn't have said anything, it is too much, and now Ron's going to think he wants some soppy sodding love affair instead of whatever this is, and, fuck, he should have just kept his mouth shut.
But then Ron says, "Only all the bloody time," and Harry gasps for breath and makes a sound vaguely resembling "What?"
"S'pretty much all I ever think about. At work, at home, at the pub," he gestures around guiltily. "I'm pretty much only ever thinking about what it's going to be like when we—if we... you know."
Harry stares. "Why didn't you say?"
Ron shrugs, the flush in his face creeping down his neck. "Didn't know how to bring it up. S'kinda awkward."
Harry can't stop staring at him.
¤ ¤ ¤
When Hermione returns from the bathroom, she's greeted by two half-empty beers, a few Galleons tossed on the table, and a rather confused-looking Neville.
¤ ¤ ¤
Harry's mind is a whirlwind of arousal and shock and relief and terror, and his entire body is on fire with it, jittery with it. He and Ron trip their way into Ron's bedroom, leaving a trail of cloaks and shirts and shoes behind them, and Harry is thumbing at the button of his trousers, but his fingers won't cooperate as his thoughts chase each other around inside his head, because he finally said it, and Ron didn't run away, and Ron wants to do this, and they're going to bloody well do it, and he's still struggling with the button when Ron pushes him down onto the bed and climbs on top of him.
Harry loses his breath and forgets about his button when Ron presses against him, grinding his erection down onto his hip, and leaning his head down so that his breath comes hot and moist against Harry's ear.
They lie there for a moment, Harry struggling to breathe and Ron pinning him to the bed, before Ron brings his mouth to Harry's. Harry opens up and welcomes Ron's tongue, and falls so deeply in to the hot, wet feel of it that the voices in his head have just about stopped screaming about cock and arse and Ron wanting it and oh god don't let him change his mind, after, when Ron pulls back and gives him an embarrassed smile.
"So, uh," Ron says. "Do you wanna just—or, should we—what do you wanna do first?"
"I wanna just. Yeah," Harry says. "Want you to."
Harry can feel Ron take a quick breath on top of him. "Right, OK. Good." Ron licks his lips, and his ears flush a deeper shade of red. "I, um. I'm not actually sure what to, um. I've got, you know, stuff, but I don't know—do I just... do it?"
Harry feels an odd surge in his chest, excitement or relief or affection, he's not sure, but he has to fight the urge to laugh. "S'OK, I, uh, I did a little... practising, to sort of... work it out, a bit."
Ron's eyebrows shoot up. "Practising?"
"In the shower," Harry says, feeling his face flush. "With my fingers."
He can see Ron think about it, watches his face go slack with something Harry hopes is good. "You used your fingers?" he says. "On yourself?"
Harry swallows and nods. "Was pretty brilliant. Been wanting you to do it ever since."
Ron nods eagerly, and Harry can't decide if he wants to laugh again or moan his frustration when Ron rolls off of him to retrieve a small tube from the bureau by his bed. "Will this work?" Ron asks.
Harry shrugs and nods as Ron comes back, helping Harry get his trousers off and then sitting on his knees next to Harry's hips and looking at Harry for direction. "Just... put some on your fingers and... do it," Harry says, thinking there's probably more to this, like they're supposed to... kiss more, or something, but he really just wants to get down to it, now that they're finally here.
Ron seems game for diving right in, too, if the speed with which he opens the tube and squirts a sizeable dollop of clear, shiny goo onto his fingertips is any indication. He looks at Harry again, less for instruction and more for permission, and Harry just nods. Ron scoots in closer to Harry's leg as he lifts and spreads his knees to give Ron access, and Harry's heart is beating near top speed as Ron reaches over his leg and presses a cool, slippery fingertip between his arse cheeks.
And then Ron's touching him, there, and it's awkward and embarrassing and brilliant, once Ron drags his gaze up to Harry's face, offering a shy smile that Harry can't help but return as he pushes back against Ron's finger, wanting him inside before either of them thinks about this too much.
Ron rubs over Harry's opening a few times, tripping a million eager nerves Harry only recently discovered he had, and wearing an expression that's something like amazed or awed or maybe even hungry, Harry isn't sure.
"S'good, Ron. You can... put it in, if you'd like."
Ron looks up at him, swallowing visibly. "I—yeah. OK." And then the blunt tip of Ron's index finger is pressing against Harry's hole, too gently, at first, and then with a bit more pressure, until Harry feels him slide inside.
Ron's finger is inside him, and it's brilliant. It feels odd, of course, and Harry's glad he practised this, so he knew a bit what to expect, and now Ron's long, sinful finger is inside Harry's arse.
Ron slides his finger in a bit further, then pulls back, his knuckle passing over Harry's arsehole a few times, earning a gasp and then a groan, when he wriggles it around.
"Try another," Harry says, "and then two together at once."
"Yeah. Just, take your time."
"You'll say if it's too much?"
Harry nods, so Ron nods and swallows and focusses on his task, withdrawing his finger from Harry and replacing it with another, and Harry feels himself relaxing around it, wanting more. And he gets it, as Ron presses his two fingers in together. He pushes them in as far as they'll go, and they feel bigger and longer than Harry's own did, and Harry feels too full with them in there, but the feeling subsides as Ron pushes them in and out, and wiggles them against Harry's insides.
Harry tries not to moan as Ron picks up speed, falling into an easy rhythm, and Harry's hips start to cant in time against Ron's hand.
Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind, he's wondering why the hell they took so long to get to this, when they're clearly naturals, what with Ron's finger-fucking him like a bloody champ, and Harry loving it so much. His whole body is electric with how much he loves it, pulsing with the drag and friction of Ron's knuckles through his hole.
He loves it, and he wants more, and he still can't stop thinking about Ron's cock, and if there was ever a time to just bloody well say so, it's now, so, "Want it," he manages, grunting.
Ron looks up at him, curious and unsure even as he's panting from how much he loves how much Harry loves this.
And Harry still can't quite say it, which is ridiculous, but Ron's still sitting right next to his hip, so he reaches down and wraps his fingers around Ron's rigid cock, earning himself a sound from Ron that's somewhere between a yelp and a groan.
"Want it," Harry says again, and Ron nods as he pulls his fingers out of Harry's arse.
Harry lies on his back and watches Ron squeeze some more lube onto his fingers, and then rub it over his cock, leaving it shiny and glistening and utterly ready to be buried in Harry's arse.
Harry blinks at it, a moment, and it seems to blink back, before he looks up at Ron, who's looking down at Harry nervously. "OK?" Ron says.
"Yeah," Harry says, nodding, and Ron looks relieved.
"How should we... be?" Ron asks.
Harry's not sure how well it would work, bending himself near in half as he would have to, so he swallows and turns onto his stomach, pushes himself up onto his knees. "Is this all right?" he asks, and Ron's answer is an appreciative whimper.
His hand is large and warm on Harry's lower back as he positions himself, an anchor or a buoy or maybe both, and Harry is suddenly thinking about just how much he stands to lose, here, if Ron freaks out afterwards.
And he thinks maybe he should – but he can't, because the head of Ron's cock is there, nudging Harry open, pushing into him, and there's no turning back, and Harry's so bloody relieved he almost laughs. He flinches as Ron's head stretches him wide, but then he's in, sliding easily the rest of the way, with Harry as thoroughly slicked up as he is. Ron's balls are resting against the curve of Harry's arse, and Harry's desperately full of Ron's cock, and it's brilliant.
Ron doesn't do anything else, right away, and Harry can't speak, so he just pushes back a little, urging him to start moving.
Ron does. Slowly, at first, he pulls back, then presses in again, starting a series of short, shallower thrusts, until Harry pushes back harder, wanting more, and soon they're both thrusting in earnest, sweating and grunting and gasping as their bodies slap against each other.
And it's perfect, even as Ron gets overzealous and messily slips out of Harry's arse more than once, and they're complete rubbish at keeping any kind of synchronised rhythm going.
It's exactly how Harry imagined it, even if there are a million little things that Harry never thought of, couldn't have thought of, like the way Ron's hands are gripping at his hips, slipping for the sweat and surely bruising him in their effort to keep hold. Or the way he gives up on his hips and slides a hand round to Harry's stomach, pulling him back, closer, and then slides it down to Harry's cock, and Harry's done for.
Ron's hand is on his cock for less than a stroke, and Harry comes apart, shooting all over the bed.
He has a moment to think that he should be embarrassed by how quickly that happened, but Ron goes stiff and comes behind him only a moment later. Ron collapses over Harry's back, and Harry falls down over his knees awkwardly.
They just lie together, panting, with Ron draped over Harry and his cock still in his arse, for some immeasurable amount of time, and Harry's too far gone to think about any of it.
Eventually, he starts to lose feeling in his legs, which are bent up beneath him. He nudges Ron off of his back, and his arsehole twinges a bit, as Ron slips free, but it's a good sort of hurt, because Ron wanted to fuck him, and then he did, and they're both still here.
They stretch out next to each other on the bed, panting in rhythm.
"Ron?" Harry whispers, before he can talk himself out of it.
"I—um. I like this. With you." Ron looks at him. "Not just this—I mean, all of it. And I... I don't want to stop."
Ron's quiet for a moment. "Are we stopping?"
"No. I mean, I—I didn't know what you wanted." Ron's still looking at him, and Harry's glad it's dark.
A large, warm hand comes to rest on Harry's bare chest, and his own sweaty hand is wrapped around it before he can stop it.
Ron doesn't say anything, just rubs his thumb against Harry's fingers until Harry falls asleep.
¤ ¤ ¤
"So, I was thinking," Ron says around a mouthful of toast, "if there's anything else you wanna, you know... try, you should say so, cause..." Ron's ears are a little pink, and when he manages to look up and meet Harry's eye, Harry's stomach flips right over inside him.
He has to set down his coffee to keep from spilling it, but he smiles. "Definitely," he says. "And you, too."
Ron nods, and Harry watches his throat work as he swallows. "Actually," Ron says, "I was wondering if, um, you might want to try, um," he clears his throat, "sixty-nining? Next Wednesday?"
Harry blinks. "Next Wednesday? That's... specific."
"Well, yeah, 'cause Wednesday's—" Ron stops, and his face goes red.
"Wednesday's what?" Harry prompts.
"Sixty-nine days," Ron mumbles. "Since we. You know."
Harry feels his grin in his chest before it reaches his face.
"Give or take," Ron mutters.
"I'll be sure to put it on the calendar," Harry says, and he can't stop smiling.