Young Hearts Spark Fire

~~~~~ YOUNG HEARTS SPARK FIRE ~~~~~


Ron threads his way through the maze of gyrating, pulsing, sweaty men. Strobe lights flash, fog swirls about his feet, and it's all he can do to keep from spilling his Witch's Teat. He holds the bubbling, purple drink above his head as he pushes through the throng of dancers and gawkers, his destination finally in sight.

The narrow corridor at the back of the dance club beckons, still some distance away. He's more than a few minutes late, but he's hopeful that he hasn't missed his rendezvous.

He knew that the Leather Stallion would be crowded on a Saturday night, but he hadn't counted on it being this packed.

He’d just finished an especially grueling shift at St. Mungo's. He was sweating out the final months of his probationary internship, and, if all went well, by September he'd be Ronald Weasley, Junior Healer, Third Class.

Saturday nights could be hit or miss in the Emergency Ward at the hospital, but this particular Saturday had been one for the books.

In addition to the usual wand misfires, curses and potions accidents, there'd been the fallout from a full-on brawl to contend with.

The Glasgow Green Knights had defeated Puddlemere United in a highly anticipated, extremely controversial Quidditch match that would determine which team would proceed to the yearly quarter-finals.

Unfortunately, a good number of fans from each team had decided to tip back a few pints at The Leaky Cauldron; well, more than a few, probably. Predictably, already high tensions coupled with copious amounts of firewhiskey, Muggle beer, Bitter Banshee and whatever else had combined and eventually exploded into a brawl of epic proportions.

Poor Tom had been Petrified in the first minutes of the riot, and not a single patron of The Leaky had escaped without some sort of embarrassing hex or unsavoury curse being cast upon them.

Ron's shift was supposed to have ended at six, but he couldn't very well have left his fellow staff members with their hands so full. They wouldn't have complained, but Ron wouldn't have felt right about not pitching in and doing his fair share to help out. On top of that, the hospital's totally cantankerous Chief Administrator, Shrewsbury Upton, had shown up, barking orders and waddling about like a deranged hippogryff.

It wouldn't have done at all for Ron to have left with that old fart still there.

Working together, they’d all managed to get things under control by seven, and Ron had Apparated home directly from the intensive care ward.

He'd arrived to an empty flat; Harry was nowhere to be found, which wasn't entirely surprising considering how late he'd been. Ron's hours at St. Mungo's were irregular enough to ensure that he rarely if ever arrived home at his appointed time. While most nights it was a matter of minutes, sometimes the delays were hours, as was the case this night, and he certainly didn't expect Harry to hang about their flat, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for him to come home.

So he hadn't been surprised to find Harry gone; it was Saturday night, after all.

He'd showered and dressed in record time, Apparating to the All Saints' district of Diagon Alley.

Most of the trendy wizarding night clubs, restaurants and queer bars had sprung up in the recently gentrified neighborhood, and Ron had felt pretty good about finding exactly what he wanted there. He chose The Stallion as his first stop, as it was most always hopping...the perfect place to uncover a little action, if that's what one were after.

He downs a large swallow of his drink just as the music shifts gears from merely pulsating to completely gyrating. Loud cheers and whoops erupt all around, and one shirtless, sweaty bloke twirls straight into Ron's right arm, sending the remaining contents of his Witch's Teat flying.

“Hey, sorry, luv!” the muscleboy yells out. “I'll buy you another!”

Ron shakes his head, smiling his best smile as he pats at the remains of his drink covering the front of his orange tank top. “No worries! My fault, really.”

Muscleboy twists around, taking Ron in from head to toe and back again. “Here, let me.” He rubs his hand all across Ron's chest, slowly trailing his fingers down Ron's torso. “Oh, you're shirt's drenched. Best to get out of it, yeah?” He grins widely, making to heft the shirt over Ron's head.

“That's okay, really,” Ron insists, firmly clasping Muscleboy's hand to keep it in check.

Muscleboy frowns as if he's bitten into a huge vomit-flavoured Bertie Bott's jelly bean. “Prick! I hate fuckin' gingers, anyway!” He yanks his hand from Ron's and spins away into the crowd.

“Nice to meet you, too!” Ron yells, sending his empty glass to the bar. He's bumped about by other dancers as he charms his shirt dry. He sighs, pushing his way through the throng with renewed vigour.

He's had a right shite day, and there's only one thing that he wants, no, needs, to ease the pain.

He finally reaches the entrance to the back hallway just as another song begins, this one a slow Muggle tune. The strobes die immediately, and the entire club is plunged into relative darkness. Ron turns around, facing the dance floor. The next instant, a mug floats to his right hand, gently bumping his fingers.

Ron glances to the packed bar, and one of the shirtless barmen nods and gestures to him, indicating that someone has paid for his next round. He grips the mug of green liquid, hefting it high. The barman waves, and Ron downs the Bitter Banshee in a single gulp.

The potent liquor burns a delicious trail all the way down to his gut, and Ron sends the mug sailing back to the bar.

He backs up to lean against the wall, the alcohol quickly working to dull his senses. He'd only eaten a few pieces of toast for breakfast and no lunch or tea, so the nearly immediate effect wasn't a shock. The two drinks have done their job, as Ron feels nicely buzzed yet still firmly in control. That's just how he likes it, although in all honesty, he rarely manages to successfully walk that fine line between giddy and stupid.

Tonight would be a good night, he tells himself.

The slow dance ends abruptly, the club's light show blazing up to full force in an instant. Ron laughs out loud and the crowd on the dance floor undulates almost as one, as if a single being, hellbent on nothing but total, complete hedonism.

Ron turns to navigate the dimly lit back hall. Hedonism has its advantages, and he is certainly in the mood to partake of same.

The only light is provided by a few red light bulbs, the hall is rather narrow, made especially so due to the fact that each wall is lined with an assortment of patrons. Some were clearly on their own, watching, searching, waiting, whilst others are obviously involved.

With each other.

Intimately.

The thrum of the dance floor fades somewhat as Ron makes his way further down the passage, past the singles, past the couples, past the lavs filled with blokes sucking and fucking and sucking and those waiting to be fucked and sucked.

The occasional hand reaches out and caresses his arse or the front of his tight denims.

That's all well and good, but at the moment, Ron has other ideas.

The hallway turns sharply to the left, and as Ron threads his way past a bloke on his knees, he finally has his goal in sight.

A seemingly endless set of doorways splays out on either side of the corridor before him; Ron smiles at the effect, as previous experience reminds him that in fact, there are only eight doors ahead, four to a side. Pretty good charm, that.

The music from the dance floor has faded to a dull thump thump thump, and Ron finds the vibration of it incredibly arousing. He feels perfectly buzzed, at once calmed but also exhilarated.

“Yeah,” he says to no one in particular as he scans the doorways, looking for something, anything.

The first two doors are closed, the telltale red glow around the door frames indicating that the spaces beyond are occupied. He glances in an open door, and the chunky, naked bloke inside eyes Ron from head to toe. The guy leans back in a rickety looking chair, stroking his semi-hard dick and beckoning with eyes nearly dripping with lust. Desire. Need.

Ron winks at the fellow and moves on.

His heart leaps in his chest as he spies something tacked to a door frame of the second to the last entry on his left. He walks over to it, his cock stirring in his denims. He trails a finger over the frayed and well-handled Quidditch card; even though it's worn, it's a beauty.

And rare, to boot.

“Chauncey Biddlebaum,” Ron breathes as he plucks out the tack and pockets the card. “Fuckin' perfect.”

He pushes open the door and enters the cramped booth. It's barely large enough to swing a cat about in, and smells vaguely of skrewt dung and doxy piss. Clearly not likely sources of the aromas, but considering the venue, definitely possible.

And there's also something else hanging in the air far more intriguing.

Ron slams the door, and a feeble overhead bulb suspended on a bare wire flickers on, illuminating the crudely finished booth. Layer upon layer of flat black paint covers the cheap plywood walls. Even in the dim light, Ron can make out a layer of cobwebs and grime covering each corner. He'd hate to see the space in the bright light of day...

...that was a good one, he muses, sniggering to himself. His cubby probably hadn't seen daylight since Godric Gryffindor took it up the arse on the front lawn of Hogwarts all those centuries ago.

“Balls!” he yells out, flopping down on the uncomfortable bench screwed into one wall.

Ron closes his eyes for a moment, the seemingly far-away thrum of music strangely hypnotic. It's rather stuffy in his cubby, so he un-tucks his tank top and runs his right hand over his definitely sweaty belly.

He can sense the worries of his day draining away; he exults at how totally twisted, yet oddly appropriate it is that he can find release in such a cramped, smelly cubicle. Yeah, way too perfect.

He un-buttons the snap and shoves his hand down the front of his tight denims, teasing the head of his hardening cock and taking deep breaths with each and every pass of his fingers.

He slouches down on the bench to allow himself better access, curling his long fingers about his fat erection.

Ron hears distant throb of the dance music; of muffled moans from the other cubicles; of soft wumps and dragging scratchy sounds from Merlin-knew-where.

It's all good, it's all fine as he leans back still further, his head lolling about like some sort of rag doll's. He fumbles with the zip of his denims, releasing his aching hard-on. He strokes himself with increasing speed, his breathing becoming more and more laboured.

He's about to lose himself in his ministrations when a sharp thump! jolts him from his reverie. He opens his eyes and attempts to sit up; the game's on, he wasn't too late, and it appears that he needn't go solo after all.

A panel slides aside, revealing a small, round hole in the plywood wall directly opposite Ron's bench. He can make out a dim light beyond, and perhaps, maybe, a shadowy form moving about in the next cubicle.

He rouses himself to a roughly standing position, the combination of his grueling workday and the potent liquors whipping his mind to an almost euphoric state. He absently frets that he'll pay the piper in the morrow...

...but all worries instantly dissolve as the shadow next door moves toward the opening in the cubby.

With his free hand his shoves his denims and pants down with a single motion.

Ron fondles his still hard dick, languidly massaging the base whilst paying plenty of attention to his balls. He steps forward, crouching slightly so as to properly line up his cock with the hole in the wall.

His aim is slightly off, and the head of his cock bounces off of the top of the hole; he giggles and stumbles forward, his forehead banging against the plywood. It wouldn't do at all to get splinters in his prick. That's a good one, he muses: wood in his wood. He giggles again, adjusting his position to try again.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, finally able to shove his erection through the rough cut hole. He braces himself, his left forearm flat against the wall as he pushes his hips against the wall of his cubicle. He withdraws his right hand from his dick so that he can extend as much of it as possible into the next booth.

There's a pause, a seemingly infinite one, and for a moment, Ron thinks that he's been played. Or is it the liquor? Maybe...

...but then...

“Yeah, that's it!” he says, shuddering involuntarily as something warm, wet and willing tickles the head of his cock. The next instant, his entire length is engulfed in a pocket of velvety hotness, a teasing, suckling, wondrous entity seemingly devoted to one thing and one thing only: pulling his brain out through his cock.

Ron bucks as he's laved and sucked with increasingly reckless abandon; unseen teeth graze the underside of his now hyper-sensitive erection. He presses against the wall harder, attempting to expose as much of his dick as possible, to present as much of himself as he can. The delicious mouth pulls and worships him, lips, tongue and teeth all working in a pleasurably perverse synchronicity.

A familiar warmth begins to build deep within him, and Ron's hips slowly begin to rock back and forth, almost of their own volition. The heat blossoms, builds, grows, and his breaths become shorter, more raspy.

Ron groans and gibbers, the heat from his groin spreading up and out, a fever with only one cure, one release.

With the last remaining shred of rational thought, he pulls his blissfully tortured cock from the hole and falls to his knees. Throttling himself with his right hand, he swirls his thumb around the head of his cock, spreading the pre-come as far as it will go.

He leans against the wall, waiting, waiting for what seems to be eons. The thread-like scars entwined about his forearms are on fire. It's as if every freckle on his entire body is now super sensitive...

...and then there it is.

He watches as the fat cock pokes its way through the hole...and Ron instantly takes it in his mouth, pulling and sucking and licking as best he can.

His brain is suddenly too damn muzzy, too tired or too full of Witch's Teats, and he curses himself whilst trying to suck the glorious dick and fist his own erection all at the same time.

He concentrates as best he can...can Aurors do this any better? he wonders, trying not to giggle as he continues to suck and lave and stoke...

The heat within him has waned slightly, but suddenly blazes anew. The dick in his mouth thrusts more firmly and quickly with each pass, almost as if it were in tune with his own burgeoning passion.

And then it becomes too much; Ron sucks in a deep breath as the heat erupts out of him, his release spurting through his clenched fingers and adding to the collection of dried pleasure already coating the wall.

The pounding cock in his mouth shudders, then stops. The next instant, Ron's mouth fills with a salty load; he instinctively gags, but forces himself to swallow. The spent dick attempts to withdraw back through the hole, but Ron pulls and sucks on it with renewed vigour, swirling his tongue about the softening shaft.

Ron then releases his unseen partner, slumping to the floor and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

He basks in the afterglow, his blissed-out brain wanting nothing more than to roll over and sleep.

He takes deep breaths, attempting to clear his head.

He murmurs a cleansing charm as he slowly rises to his feet, fumbling with the zip and snap of his denims.

“Could use a mirror,” he grumps, running his fingers through his tangled hair. “No matter.”

The thump thump thump of the dance floor intrudes once again, as does the now overwhelming stench of spunk and piss.

“Bleah,” Ron says, grasping the latch and yanking open the door of the booth. “What a shithole.”

He steps out into the narrow corridor, barely stepping out of the way as a pair of sweat-drenched, shirtless blokes shove past him and into the booth.

“It's all yours,” he quips as the door slams.

Ron tries to remember if they've any Madame Ciara's Hangover Powder at the flat when...

...the door to the next booth opens and Harry steps out, his hair even more wild than usual. His cheeks are completely flushed and he's fiddling with the zip of his black leather trousers.

“Here, let me,” Ron breathes, stepping in and covering Harry's fingers with his own.

“Damn leathers. Ruddy zip's always been a problem on these.”

Ron pushes Harry's fingers away and easily pulls up the zip. “Seems okay to me.”

Harry snorts and snakes an arm about Ron's waist. “Thanks.”

“No worries.” Ron plants a kiss on Harry's forehead. “And thank you. You were awesome, mate.”

“Pretty hot yourself, Weasley.”

Ron throws an arm about Harry's shoulders. “Yeah, I am, ain't I?”

“Absolutely.” Harry leans in to nibble at Ron's ear. “How was Mungo's?”

“Fine, until the victims of another Quidditch brawl showed up a half-hour before I was supposed to leave.”

Another pair of blokes pushes past them, both men totally oblivious to anyone else on the planet.

“Uh, how about we head for home,” Harry suggests, watching as the two fellows commence to snog each other.

“Definitely. We've gotta be at The Burrow at half-eleven, remember?”

Harry palms his forehead with his free hand. “Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot.”

Ron laughs as they make their way through the crowd surrounding the dance floor. “Seems as you did forget.”

“Yeah, too right.”

“I was a bit worried that since I was so late-”

Harry waves a hand. “I put up a ward around the door to Chauncey's booth that would only respond to your touch.”

“Clever, Potter, very clever.”

“Thanks. I thought so.”

Ron nods to the bouncer stationed at the front doors as they pass by. “But you put a tack hole through the blinkin' card.”

Harry tugs Ron to a stop and turns him around. “Sorry about that. I'll spell it right, okay?”

“Forget it. I like it the way it is.” He leans in and presses his lips to Harry's. “Rather ingenious of you to owl the clue to St. Mungo's, if I may say. ”

Harry chuckles. “I hoped you'd get it straight off.”

Ron pulls Harry close. “C'mon, Harry. I'm not that thick.”

“Well, part of you is,” Harry breathes, sliding a hand over Ron's crotch.

“You're a right pervert, you are,” Ron whispers as he kisses Harry again. “But honestly, how could I not know what you meant by 'Biddlebaum's glory hole'?”

Harry shrugs. “It was a calculated risk.”

“Very calculated,” Ron replies. “Puts me to shame, though. How am I gonna top this? With only two weeks to figger somethin' out?”

“You'll come up with something,” Harry purrs, holding Ron tight as he Apparates them away to their flat.

~~~ fin ~~~