Nightmare

Title: Stormy Night. Chapter Two.
Author: Rina
Email: rina762003@hotmail.com
Rating: Mature readers only.
Warning: Slash (Boylove) Sexual situations.
Pairing: Ron/Harry
Disclaimer: The characters contained within do not belong to me and I make no profit whatsoever from this story. I do it for the love of ginger boys everywhere!
Summary: Ron’s on a mission to erase Harry’s nightmares...And they're not so innocent anymore.
Author’s Note: Please forgive me for how long it’s been since I’ve updated. Busy life, you know. I sincerely appreciate all your fabulous comments and honestly, they motivate me to keep working on this fic and making it as good as I possibly can. So, if you reviewed my last chapter, thank you! Hope you enjoy this one. I certainly did... ;)


***

In the last chapter:

Circling a spot just under Harry’s jaw with his thumb, Ron whispers enticingly to the second boy, “Do you want me to make you forget?”

“Please,” Harry breathes desperately, tilting his head to the right in a yielding and compliant gesture. “Make me, Ron. I don’t want to remember anymore.”

Harry’s complete and willing submission fills Ron with a heady sense of anticipatory triumph and he vows to himself that he will not leave Harry’s bed until he has accomplished what he promised to do.

***


Getting right to it, Ron curls one of his hands around the side of Harry’s throat, feeling a rapid pulse beating just under the alabaster skin, a little faster than normal. When he starts kissing the other side with his full, soft lips, sucking tantalisingly at random places, Harry exhales shakily, surrendering himself to the much-needed affection that he is receiving; grateful for the relaxing effect that Ron’s ministrations are having on his tense muscles. Well, most of his muscles. There’s one particular muscle that isn’t softening; in fact, quite the opposite but that’s not surprising considering how out of control his hormones are these days. Besides, going by the way his neck is being passionately snogged, that’s probably just the reaction Ron is aiming for.

Doing exactly what Harry suspects, Ron touches the tip of his tongue to the other male’s throat, instantly rewarded by the abrupt arching of Harry’s agile body and the fast hiss of air he drags in. Gently tipping Harry’s head back, Ron slowly licks up over the bump of his exposed Adam’s apple, tasting the saltiness of his friend’s skin. Ron’s tongue leaves behind a cool track of wetness in the night air and Harry groans with his eyes closed, seeing nothing but blurry red flashes behind his eyelids every time lighting strikes outside the windows.

Pausing for a moment, Ron inquires quietly, “Nice?”

“Mmmm.” Harry is starting to feel drugged, his blood thickening and heating in his veins, making him heavy and languid, not wanting to move or speak, only to sit there in giddy bliss.

Taking advantage of his mate’s easy acquiesce, Ron slides his hand up the back of Harry’s t-shirt, across his spine and reaching his shoulder blades, rubbing in slow circles over the smooth skin, delighting in the deep sigh his actions generate, the knotted up muscles there loosening gradually under his palm. Still planting kisses on Harry’s neck, Ron brings his hand around to the side of the brunette’s trim waist, slipping his fingers under the front of the cotton material he’s wearing, over a taut, flat stomach and up to an equally taut chest, brushing over a male nipple and causing Harry to jolt with the unexpected erotic shock of it.

Tugging at the shirt between him and Harry’s tempting body, Ron asks in a whisper, “Can I take this off you?”

“Mmm,” Harry murmurs again dreamily, absolute clay in Ron’s hands, permitting the other boy to do whatever he pleases because it all feels so tremendously good. It’s been ages since they’ve touched each other; he’d almost forgotten what it felt like, how amazing Ron can make him feel. It’s as though Ron’s fingers touch not only his flesh, but burn right though his bones to his soul , his heart, petting it, stroking it, feeding it, making it come alive again when for so long it’s been lying dormant and defeated, beaten and crushed by the relentless harshness of this life. Ron’s touch makes him feel like a human being again instead of a ghost; it reminds him that he has emotions other than misery or anger, good emotions such as need and want and craving, hope and love and trust. And right now he’s feeling all those towards his copper-headed friend plus fifty-six other ones all mingling together in a drunken haze of desire.

Grasping the hem of the unwanted t-shirt, Ron lifts up and pulls it off, over Harry’s head and down his arms, revealing all that perfect skin, unmarred by freckles like Ron’s, the frequent bursts of lightening accenting the pure milky whiteness of his flesh and the firm contours of his biceps and chest, tapering down to slim hips and a tight, muscled belly.

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron remarks with reverence in his tone. “You’re bloody beautiful, you know that?”

Harry starts to shake his head, thinking no, he’s not, but Ron won’t have any of that, insisting, “You are. All right?” Not giving his modest chum any more time to protest, Ron places his hands on Harry’s shoulders, beginning to press him backwards into the mattress.

“Lie down for me.”

Obeying the order, Harry lets himself fall back onto the bed, recognizing with a small measure of terror that he’s half naked and all that stands between his very private parts and Ron is a flimsy pair of pyjama bottoms. Staring up at the taller teenager with saucer-like eyes, he gulps and stammers, “What...what do you want me to do now?”

“I want you to stop looking so sodding scared,” Ron chastises. “I’m not gonna hurt you, twat.” Throwing the first boy a faintly insulted look, he gets up, locating the opening to the curtain around the bed. “Wait here. I gotta get something before we go any further.”

For a frighteningly thrilling minute Harry wonders if Ron is getting a condom and he’s not sure whether to be extremely relieved or extremely disappointed when the tall seventeen year old comes back with a brown paper bag, the sort he usually hides under his bed, stuffed with sugary treats for midnight snacking. Looking at it, Harry experiences a strange sense of déjà vu.

Out of the sack Ron produces a caramel-coloured candy with a “W” embossed on the top of it in what looks to be yellow icing. With an impish glint in his eyes, Ron holds it up for Harry to view. “Know what this is?”

“Another Truth Toffee?” Harry guesses.

Grimacing in remembrance of what the last one did to him – despite how it got him and Harry together - Ron mutters, “No, thank you. Not touching those again. Bleeding dangerous, they are.”

Knowing that mischievous twins Fred and George have created hundreds of vastly different types of enchanted sweets – some with good side effects, some bad - Harry probes, “Well, what is it, then?”

Sounding excited, Ron announces, “This little beauty is called a Dragon’s Breath. Watch this. You’re gonna love it.”

Kneeling on the bed, Ron pops the sweet into his mouth, angling his head to the side as he sucks on it, waiting for the right moment when the magic takes effect. For a few seconds, all he tastes is caramelised sugar but when he feels his tongue sizzling, Ron parts his lips and sucks in a big breath, letting it out along with a huge fiery blaze that he aims towards the ceiling, away from anything that might catch alight, like curtains, or Harry’s hair. For an instant, dazzling orange light fills the room. A wave of heat hits Harry’s face and chest as he witnesses real, deadly flames billowing out of Ron’s mouth like one of those fire-breathers you see at carnivals. It’s spectacular! If he weren’t already pressed into the bed, he’d be knocked back by the sheer force of the blistering inferno. The roaring plume dissipates just as suddenly as it appeared, sending the room into near darkness again. Ron hastily pats his ginger mane to make sure it didn’t get singed and checks to see if his eyebrows are still there, which, thankfully, they are. He belatedly hopes his blazing display didn’t wake any of their school friends but no irritated shouts or demands of explanation are hurled his way so he assumes they’re all still sleeping. And if anyone’s not sleeping, they’re probably huddled up under their blankets, too petrified of the mighty storm to wonder what Harry and Ron are doing at this late hour of the night or why it smells like burnt toffee in here. Besides, the constant noise of the wind, rain and thunder plus the flashing of lightning should have adequately covered up any unusual audio or visual that may have escaped the screened confines of this particular bed.

Still reeling from the impressive show, Harry blinks quickly, trying to remove the dancing yellow spots from his vision and then he realises that he’s not seeing things; the spots are really there, twinkling points of light hanging in the air just above Ron’s head, some kind of residue from the spell.

Grinning widely, Ron enthuses, “Brilliant, yeah? And these leftovers-” Here he indicates to the floating pinpoints – “Fred and George tried to get rid of them but I think they look wicked.”

As if he’s catching butterflies, Ron reaches up and carefully captures the sparks with both hands, gathering them into a small cloud and moving them down to Harry’s face. When he takes his hands away, the lights stay there and Harry smiles in enchantment as they dive and twirl in front of his eyes like glowing motes of dust or miniature fireflies.

Seeing Harry smile causes Ron’s own mouth to turn up at the corners and he gazes lovingly at his dark-haired friend lit up by the amber radiance of the sparkles. Harry has grown up so much in the last couple of years; it’s been astonishing to watch. When Ron first met him, he was a wide-eyed little boy in spectacles with round, chubby cheeks. Well, he still has the same pair of spectacles – currently sitting beside his pillow - but his overall appearance has altered dramatically. All the puppy-fat has melted from his face, revealing the most incredible bone structure Ron has ever seen. Harry’s cheekbones alone are mesmerising in their angular gauntness and his chin and jaw line are sharply defined, the soft fuzz that used to cover them now black stubble that needs to be shaved off every day. His lips are wide and firm and his nose is straight and aristocratic. It’s not a boy’s face any longer; it’s a man’s. And his body...unmistakably that of a mature male. Harry hasn’t sprouted quite as tall as Ron but he’s got enviable tone and strength from playing Quidditch and all the rigorous training required to prepare for matches. He’s lean, fit and athletic, like a greyhound. When Harry’s not aware of it, Ron often stares at his friend’s chest and arms and the way his shirt pulls tightly over them, outlining the sculpted flesh beneath. Now, however, Ron doesn’t have to hide his admiring glances. He can look all he bloody well wants.

The lazily whirling pricks of light above Harry’s face are casting shadows into every line and curve of his torso; the corrugated ribs at his sides, the six individual muscles packed together at his stomach - just discernible under the skin around the shallow dent of his navel, the masculine plane of his pecs, the deep hollow in the middle of his collarbone. The pyjama pants sit just below the slight jut of his hips, another shape swelling underneath the flannel fabric - the shape of something distinctly hard and distinctly male - and something that Ron hopes to be quite familiar with by the end of the night. He lingers over his best friend’s alluring figure, feeling lust rising in him like a fever. He’s wanted Harry terribly for over two years, ever since they hit adolescence. Every month that passed just made him want Harry more, even when Harry was being nasty to him. Hell, especially when Harry was being nasty to him. His heart belongs to Harry Potter, always has, and every night Ron dreamt of being able to touch him, to gaze at him this way. He almost can’t believe Harry’s letting him do it now and is not going to let a precious second go to waste. When he finally drags his eyes away from the intriguing hardness at Harry’s groin and travels leisurely back up to his face, he finds Harry looking at him – not the sparkles - and Ron blushes slightly, knowing that he’s been caught staring like the horny teenage boy that he is. But Harry doesn’t seem cranky at all. He just seems surprised that anyone would find him that attractive.

Determined to fix Harry’s low self esteem problem once and for all, Ron crawls up closer to his shirtless partner. “Touch it,” he invites, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s wrist and lifting his hand. The first teen’s eyes go very round as he glances nervously at Ron’s crotch.

“No, not THAT,” Ron hurriedly assures his worried companion. “I mean this.” He raises Harry’s hand up higher to the cluster of lights still hovering in the air.

“Go on. They don’t sting.”

Tentatively, Harry pokes a finger into the spinning collection of golden twinkles. They bump and swirl against him, harmless and tickling. He puts his whole hand into the glittering mass and his eyebrows lift at the peculiar feeling creeping over the skin on the back of his hand and his palm, somewhat like pins and needles, but on the outside. And warm, too.

“Feel it?” Ron asks, his eyes bright with eagerness. Nodding, Harry waves his fingers through the small embers, finding them rather lovely to touch, the pleasant prickling seeming to spread into his wrist and up to his elbow. With a plan in mind, Ron removes Harry’s hand, placing it back onto the mattress beside him. The smaller boy observes Ron in wary curiosity as he nudges the minuscule glimmers together and pushes them down to Harry’s bare chest, against his skin. Holding a lungful of oxygen in suspense, Harry gradually lets it out in relief as the same sensation that swept up his arm climbs over his torso, invigorating and stimulating. Softly, Ron blows air into the centre of the sparks and they instantly get more animated, moving faster and glowing brighter, vibrating with a low hum. Harry exclaims out loud as they bounce into his nipples, zipping over the tender flesh and leaving electrical tingles wherever they go.

If Ron’s aim is to make Harry forget his problems it’s working rather effectively because Harry is too busy noticing all his nerves popping into vibrant life to worry about things that have happened or might happen in the future. The skin across his chest is buzzing; the effervescent dots of luminescence creating chills that reach up into his neck and back down his spinal cord, causing him to shift on the bed and bite his lip – partly in high-strung expectation and partly to stop himself from moaning too loudly. He watches with half-closed eyes as Ron leans down, pursing his lips and blowing onto the flickering cloud, sending it skittering down his tummy, spreading the sparkling into his lower abdomen and around the sides of his waist. He feels his stomach muscles tightening as the lively lights race around his belly-button, dipping into it, licking him with points of warmth. When Ron grasps the elastic waist of his pyjama pants, Harry stiffens, staring at the bigger boy in apprehension, his pulse thudding erratically behind his breastbone. Ron looks at him questioningly, silently asking permission, asking for Harry’s consent before he does anything else.

Harry doesn’t say yes out loud, but something in his face must have said so because Ron begins pulling the material down over his hips, slowly, giving Harry ample opportunity to halt him if he feels uncomfortable in any way. Harry stays perfectly still, wanting this and fearing it at the same time yet he doesn’t try and stop the redhead from undressing him. As the pyjama bottoms slip down to his knees, Harry is painfully aware of how utterly naked he is now and how embarrassingly erect he must be but Ron doesn’t look at him with anything but awe and admiration, struck once more by Harry’s remarkable beauty; the male part of him perfectly formed and proportioned, the shadowy thatch at the juncture of his thighs matching the ones under his arms – midnight black against his moonlit-white skin. Reverently, Ron slides the flannel fabric down towards Harry’s feet, sweeping his palms over the other boy’s lean legs as he goes, savouring the supple texture of his skin and the sparse dark hair covering his calves. The tenderness in Ron’s caressing hands dispels most of Harry’s uneasy anxiety, and he forces himself to stop hyperventilating or thinking negative thoughts. This is Ronald Weasley, his best friend in the entire galaxy and someone who would never cause him harm or make fun of him in any way. Nervous as he might be, Harry has wanted this just as much as Ron and he dearly needs whatever is going to happen next.

Discarding Harry’s pyjamas at the foot of the bed, Ron turns his attentions to the tiny twinkling stars that are still drifting over the brunette’s belly, delivering a puff of air that propels them southwards, through the dark patch of fuzz to the place Ron hasn’t even touched yet. The sparkles swarm upon Harry’s manhood, energetically skimming over and around his intimate flesh, shimmering in the dark and letting Ron see the astonishment and pleasure that takes over the second seventeen year old’s face, his mouth dropping open and his pupils dilating, his cheeks darkening with rising heat. Wanting to see if he can make Harry lose control without even laying a finger upon him, Ron blows again on the iridescent particles, stirring them up, his actions intensifying the tingling to an ultra-sonic level so that Harry nearly swears, shuddering hard at the exquisitely delicious feelings rocketing through his body.

Very much aroused himself, Ron is closely watching the scene, fascinated with Harry’s primal reactions as the magical specks of amber light continue to whirl and spin around his maleness, teasingly, as if with a life of their own, as if they too are trying to drive Harry wild. They are just about succeeding because Harry is moving and writhing restlessly on the bed, stomach rigid as stone and chest heaving, face set into an expression of intent concentration. He is bunching up the covers in his fists and making needy, impatient noises halfway between a whimper and a sob. Even Ron, who’s never been shagged before, knows that this is how someone looks right before they’re about to...

The sparkles suddenly die out, fading into nothing.

“Bugger,” Ron curses in the dark.

Panting, Harry lifts his head up to see that the source of all those good feelings has indeed disappeared and he growls in his throat, disappointed, not to mention exceedingly hot and bothered. He was almost there. Almost. He’s never been so bloody frustrated in his life.

Having used them previously, Ron knew beforehand that the remnants of the Dragon’s Breath spell were only temporary but he was hoping they’d last long enough to accomplish what he intended with them. Never mind. Luckily, he has a back up plan. A sheet of silver lightning illuminates Harry’s nude body and the solid male organ lying heavily on his abdomen, the very symbol of his unfulfilled desire. Without hesitation, Ron reaches over and wraps his fingers around it, amazed at how thick and swollen it is, nearly burning in his hand and throbbing with its own pulse, beating in time with Harry’s heart. Again without hesitation, he bends down - his eye-length fringe falling onto Harry’s stomach - and licks along the velvety underside of his shaft before taking the tip into his mouth, rolling his tongue around its intriguing smoothness. He’s never done this before but he’d overheard Fred and George talking about the act and how excellent it felt so he figured Harry would like it too. He thought right judging by the way the brunette boy is gasping and twisting underneath him as if he can’t stand the indescribably intense sensation yet wants more of it at the same time. Buoyed by the mightily positive response he’s getting, Ron engulfs more of what’s in his mouth, starting to suck, lightly at first and then with more pressure, tasting something sweetly sticky that seeps onto the back of his tongue.

With speedily increasing alarm, Harry knows he will erupt in a few short seconds and if he’s not careful, he could end up choking his best friend which is not something he wants to happen.

“Stop,” Harry begs in panic, grabbing a fistful of Ron’s hair in warning. “Ron, stop. I can’t...I’m going to...”

Raising his head and licking his glistening lips, Ron urges, “It’s okay. I can handle it.”

“But you shouldn’t...”

“I want to make you feel good, Harry.” Ron gazes at him persuasively and hungrily. “Please. Just let me.”

Too close to the gates of heaven to argue any further, Harry drops his head back onto the pillow and dizzily shuts his eyes, drawing in a ragged breath of air as Ron’s gorgeous lips enclose him once more, pleasuring him, worshipping him, sliding up and down his hardened sensitised flesh and coating him with wetness, slippery tongue circling around and around, bringing him higher and higher...

“Oh...” Harry tenses all his muscles, beginning to burst from the inside out. “Oh, Ron. Ohh...Ohhh...” His moans get longer and breathier until he arches up off the bed, hands clenched in the other boy’s red-gold locks, spilling his essence into Ron’s coaxing mouth with waves of rapture that roll through him from head to toe, powerful and crashing, like the thunder that rumbles and booms outside in the storm, shaking the entire school building. Intermingled with Harry’s climax is a combination of devastating grief at all the irreplaceable things he has lost in his life and brilliant joy at what he’s only just beginning to discover here in his bed with Ron – the incredible closeness they could share if they were lovers instead of just friends. In a sudden sweeping rush, Harry realises how much he’s missed Ron – how much he’s needed him, needed this – and besieged by the intensity of the moment, he can’t help sobbing, letting out all his bottled-up pain and sorrow and allowing the sweet, strong pulsing sensations to flood his body and soul, cleansing and pure and healing.

Experiencing Harry’s emotional outpouring as if it were his own, Ron groans encouragingly in his throat and doesn’t pull away once, not even when Harry unthinkingly lifts his hips up in the midst of his orgasm, pushing in deeper. He just keeps swallowing the swift surges of liquid until they stop and Harry sinks weakly back onto the bed, his belly and thighs throbbing with aftershocks. Lifting his head, Ron kisses Harry’s stomach, rubbing his cheek against the soft, ebony fur that runs down from the other boy’s navel, immensely gratified to have given Harry such extreme enjoyment and completion. Ron’s own needs don’t matter; he is perfectly content to have done this simply for Harry; to show him that he is worthy of happiness in spite of all he has suffered in the past, in spite of what anyone else may have done to him or said to him. To show Harry that he’s beautiful and wanted and needed, at least by one person in this cruel, callous world.

Spent and trembling, Harry lays there, the tears drying on his flushed cheeks, stunned by the strength of the release Ron gave him and the feeling of complete, deep love and acceptance that came with it. He doesn’t want to open his eyes in case this has all been a wonderful dream but when he feels Ron climbing up the bed to lie beside him, Harry knows it really did happen and he bashfully looks over at the other young man, wanting to say so much to him but not knowing how or where to start.

Ever patient and understanding towards his conflicted companion, Ron reaches over and wordlessly brushes the damp hair off Harry’s forehead, revealing the jagged scar beneath; a permanent reminder of unspeakable violence and tragedy. That scar can seem repulsive and frightening to some people but not to Ron because it’s an integral part of Harry – like the emerald colour of his eyes - and Ron adores him just the way he is. To reaffirm this, he bends down and presses his lips to that zigzag crimson mark, the tender, soothing token sweetened with a poignant gentleness that causes Harry’s chest to ache. For the first time in his troubled life, Harry feels cherished. Treasured. Special. Nobody has ever been this nice to him before, this loving and genuinely giving, without expecting anything at all in return. The ecstatic heights of physical and spiritual fulfilment that Ron has taken him to is a gift that nobody else has ever given him or could ever give him.

“Feel better now?”

At Ron’s caring query, Harry nods, unable to express enough thanks for what the other boy did for him.

“Good.” Ron gives him a quick smile and then turns solemn again, pondering more important issues. “Do you want to have a chat?”

***

Another author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is nice to get. I am currently writing the next part and in it Ron will be the one getting naked. Oh, yes. Much raving about freckles and stuff! But I must warn you right now that it will probably be another month before it's finished because A. I have a full time job with not a lot of spare time and B. I'm working on another totally unrelated fic as well so I have to divide my attention between them both to keep two sets of fans happy. Oh, why do I do this to myself? :( But anyway. Just know that I'm not forgetting about you and I definitely will post another chapter - it might be a while before you get it, that's all. Please try to be patient and I promise you it will be worth the wait.

Gingers Rule!! :D