Chapter Text
The morning after the wedding of Ginny Weasley & Pansy Parkinson - June 2013, Somewhere In Berkshire
Melodious birdsong and an uncovered window woke Ron disgustingly early the day after his sister’s wedding. He blinked bleary eyes into his pillow and took stock of himself with grim efficiency. The verdict was instantaneous: severely hungover, due to the pounding headache, a mouth that tasted like the dregs of a whisky barrel, and the silky slide of a very insistent cock nudging against his lower back.
He froze, closed his eyes, and let the events of the previous evening flash through his mind in increasing disturbing wonder.
Ginny, looking dazzling, head thrown back in laughter as everyone piled on to the dancefloor. Angelina teaching Fleur a highly inappropriate Quidditch chant, cigar hanging from cherry-red lips. Harry having some sort of oddly flirtatious argument with Malfoy by the buffet, gesturing wildly whilst holding a slice of quiche. Cormac McLaggen loudly stating that he could finish off the three aniseed shots left on the tray George brandished, but only managing two before he’d slid Ron the last.
Filmy regret and liquorice coated his teeth, along with the realisation that it had been that very shot that had tipped him over the edge from happy-drunk to my-sister-has-gotten-married-and-I’m-still-very-single drunk.
Ron groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow, the movement making him very aware of two things simultaneously. First, he was not in his own bed inside the North London semi he shared with Harry. Second, the body stretched along the mattress behind him, warm and solid and breathing steadily against his shoulder, appeared to belong to someone very much suggesting a round of morning sex, if the way they were still making very small thrusting movements against him was anything to go by.
A quick sweep of his hand over himself confirmed that yes, underneath the overstuffed duvet, he was very much stark bollock naked, and that his own cock seemed to have had its interest piqued by the constant nudging.
“Oh, fucking hell,” he muttered into the pillow, squeezing around the base and trying to will it into calmness.
A low chuckle stirred the air near the back of his neck, and Cormac Sodding McLaggen’s voice said, “That doesn’t sound like the reaction of a bloke who had a great night.”
Right. Absolutely fucking brilliant. Out of an entire wedding party consisting of half the wizarding world, three quarters of the nation’s Quidditch players, and a third of his old classmates, of course he’d hooked up with the biggest tosser of the lot.
He gave a resigned sigh. “Did I have a great night? I don’t actually remember enough to know whether I did.”
“Now that—” Cormac said, pausing to yawn mid-way through, “—is a personal insult.”
He punctuated that statement with a firmer press of his cock against Ron’s coccyx.
“Merlin, McLaggen, put that bloody thing away. I’m hanging out my arse here.”
“I could be hanging out your arse in just a sec—”
Ron performed a move far more athletic than anything he’d been able to muster in the months since turning the ripe age of thirty-three, and lurched away from Cormac’s hold, rolling himself over the edge of the mattress. He landed with a thud on a soft, sage carpet, realised he was far too banjoed for such athletic manoeuvres, and promptly lay there waiting to die.
A bird tweeted loudly outside the window. Cormac rustled the sheets above his head. Ron wondered if he had the chops to Apparate straight out of this unknown place without splinching a bollock.
“You all right down there?”
“Mm,” Ron called back. “Top notch.”
Maybe he wouldn’t miss the left one. Did you really need two balls? He made a mental note to ask Hermione if he survived the next ten minutes. He’d also probably need to ask for advice on what to do the next time he had some weird sort of existential crisis at one of his sibling’s weddings, because getting bladdered and pulling the nearest available fitty probably wasn’t a good coping mechanism.
More rustling and shifting about, followed by the squeak of mattress springs. Cormac’s unfairly attractive face popped into view, and Ron tried to look passively at the insufferable self-satisfied grin flashed down at him.
“You look a bit peaky,” Cormac said.
“Cheers,” Ron said. “You also look like shit.”
Cormac didn’t, and he knew it. He smirked, shoulder muscles flexing as he ran a hand through sandy waves, and ran an appraising eye over Ron’s supine body.
“There’s a part of you looking peakier than the rest,” he said, gaze lingering on Ron’s groin.
Ron grabbed the nearest thing to hand and draped it nonchalantly over his annoyingly perky cock.
Cormac’s smirk deepened. “They’re my boxers.”
“I know,” Ron said primly, and closed his eyes again, settling back into the carpet as if he was staying for the foreseeable.
There was silence, although Ron presumed Cormac was still meerkating over the side of the bed as he couldn’t hear any movement. Thought confirmed when Cormac said brightly, “Swear it’s getting harder. I could do something about that—”
“No,” Ron cut in. “I’m fine. Just ignore him and he'll go away.”
Cormac huffed a laugh. “All right. If round two’s not on the cards, I’m just going to—”
The mattress springs groaned as he moved about, and then Ron heard the mutter of a charm and the distinct wet-crackle of a lubed-up hand slicking over what Ron could only assume was Cormac’s cock. He dreaded to think what was happening if it wasn’t his cock.
“You’ve got to be having a laugh,” Ron said, eyes flicking open to stare up at the artex ceiling. “You are not—”
“You’re welcome to join.”
“I’m not—no—Merlin—” Ron pushed himself to a very wobbly sit. “I need to go.”
“Already?”
Ron looked sideways. Cormac did indeed have his cock in one hand, his head pillowed by his other arm, and was stretched out gloriously naked atop of the duvet. He looked—
Nope.
Ron was not going to think about what Cormac looked like.
His own cock unfortunately didn’t get the message, and gave a traitorous twitch at the sight of Cormac’s well-defined stomach muscles and the quickening fist that revealed a glistening, weeping head.
“Fuck,” Ron groaned, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. His head was killing; he needed a hangover potion quicktime. The twee floral decorations of the bedroom did not help the wave of nausea. “Where even are we?”
“B&B next to the wedding,” Cormac said. “You wouldn’t go to yours.”
Ron snorted, thinking of Harry’s reaction to Cormac sauntering through their house. “Absolutely not.”
“Well it was either here or the bogs, and as insistent as you were, I didn’t really fancy it up against a urinal.”
Ron spluttered. “I wouldn’t—”
He paused. A flash of a memory, of hauling Cormac into the men’s and shoving him against the sinks, seared its way across his brain. He screamed internally.
“—I really need to go.”
Another flash, of ripping Cormac’s shirt open and rolling his tongue over a peaked rosy nipple. The buttons had pinged off in all directions. One winked at him atop the chest of drawers now, taunting.
“You already said that,” Cormac said, amused. His hand was still working himself over, and he was still staring at Ron’s mid-section. “Taking them as a souvenir?”
Ron glanced down. Cormac’s boxers hung over his eager prick.
“I’d probably like to be Obliviated, actually,” he said.
Cormac laughed, surprisingly, and then bit down on his bottom lip, like he was holding back a moan. His hand stilled for a beat, and then quickened again. Ron suddenly found it very difficult to look away, and then he realised Cormac had said something to him that had gotten lost in the frankly pornographic scene before him.
“Eh?”
“I said I’ll have them back, then.”
Ron blinked, taking a moment to catch on, and then he pulled Cormac’s pants away from his dick and tossed them on the bed. He was, once again, in his birthday suit, pretending that the way Cormac was looking at him wasn’t doing anything to stoke his ego.
Cormac tilted his chin. “You sure—”
“Bye, McLaggen. Let’s completely erase this from our memories and never speak of it again,” Ron said firmly, and then with as much coolness as he could manage in his fragile state, he scooped up the pile of dress robes that looked like they may be his, held them in front of his cock, and shuffled to the door.
He had his hand on the knob, exit in reach, when he heard the shaky exhale and rough curse slice through the air behind him. He would, under no circumstances, be turning around.
“Fuck, Weasley.”
Ron turned.
Cormac lay panting, splatted with his own salt, eyes hooded as they looked back at Ron.
“Nice arse, mate,” he said, and then had the gall to wink, the bastard.
Ron turned again, opened the door, and scarpered, only managing to bump into two giggling guests as he shimmied his way to the Floo as fast as one can when making a very naked walk of shame, holding their crumpled clothes over a raging boner.