Fulfilment In You

Note:
Written for the HP Kink Fest over at LiveJournal with the prompt
'wanking'.

Fulfilment
In You

Oh, fuck
it.

I’ve got one hand
on the door and both feet still in the cramped hallway of the highest
level of the Burrow. Ron’s not noticed that I’m here, but
then he wouldn’t. He’s got his eyes closed.

And his hand on his
cock.

His very large,
beautifully red and slightly soggy-tipped cock.

No, really. Fuck it.

By some chance of utter
luck which never normally graces me, I pull the door back without it
making a single sound. He really should lock it.

But then, Ron doesn’t
care. He doesn’t know I’m here, watching him in his most
private of moments. He doesn’t know that I can see the way his
bliss is written in the lazy parting of his lips, or that his tongue
keeps batting against his teeth. It looks like he’s licking
something. Bugger it; I want to know what, or who, he’s
licking in his mind.

The thin, ratty Chudley
Cannons t-shirt that he insists on wearing, even though it’s
two sizes too small, is riding up his belly, revealing a dense trail
of fur which leads from his navel to the blazing thatch which is so
striking against his creamy skin that my mouth goes dry.

I’m lying to
myself, of course. My mouth went dry the second I opened the door and
found my best friend making love to his hand. I know I should shut it
again and leave, but it’s almost as if the nerves have been cut
to my left hand, the one which could clasp around the handle and shut
it completely. My right hand, however, has other ideas.

Somehow, it’s
ended up plunged into my pants, wrestling my own cock. How did that
happen?

Ron shifts on the bed
with a little moan, canting slightly into his hand, pressing the
swollen flesh into his palm for better friction. Maybe he needs a bit
of spit?

My spit… I’d
willingly give it.

Swallowing I see his
free hand rise and land on his chest; Ron starts rubbing his nipples
through his t-shirt. Oh, hell. His hair is back off his face,
trailing to his shoulders. It’s gotten long, and Molly's on at
him to cut it. Thank fuck Ron’s not yet grown out of his need
for rebellion.

The day those silky
waves hit the floor, I’ll give myself away. Because I’ll
have to steal one to keep, as creepy as that is.

I’ve thought
about him like this. Of course, I think about us doing other stuff,
too, which normally involves my cock, his mouth and my hands tied
above my head, but that’s neither here nor there. No, I think
about Ron the most as he is, with one skilled hand working his prick,
his eyes closed and his mouth open.

I remember the first
time I was treated to this like it was yesterday. I’m sure if
they looked they’d find it burned onto my retinas. I’m
seriously not complaining.

We were at Hogwarts,
and thinking of the setting puts a deeper blush on my face than the
one which is already there, from watching him now. He was in
his four-poster, unaware that he had left his curtains on my side
open at waist-level. He kicked back the covers, and I saw his hand
creep into his too-small maroon pyjama bottoms and begin to fondle
his cock.

My mouth was dry then,
too. The bottoms slipped down his narrow hips and he saluted with his
cock to the canopy. The little moan that accompanied the stretch, I
remember, nearly had me undone then and there.

I watched him through
to his completion, and by the time he spilt over his hand, I was
hooked. From that night on, even though I hadn’t seen Ron’s
face, I was obsessed with the thought of him wanking, and what he
might look like as he did it.

A moan drags me out of
the past. I’m stupid. Why am I thinking about that when I’ve
got the present in front of me, and I can see his bloody face? I’m
an idiot.

His face is everything
I imagined, and more.

I can’t decide
what I like best though. Possibly his eyelashes, the way they’re
sort of fluttering, which sounds girly, but he’s Ron. Those
broad shoulders and toned arms, his deliciously flat belly –they
could never be feminine. If it does make him that way, then fine. It
suits him.

I might like his lips
more. They’re full, reddened, and I see why as his teeth
--which aren’t that terrifying brilliant white, but that kind
of lesser, slightly yellowed shade which says ‘this person
isn’t perfect, but, that makes him perfect anyway’-- bite
into his bottom lip and tug it around as he works at his cock.

His hand is speeding
up; I have to fight back my moan of protest. When he comes, I will
have to run, shut the door and pretend I didn’t watch.

“Oh, yesssss…”
Ron suddenly hisses, and his jaw drops for his lips to form a perfect
‘o’ of desire.

I want to put my tongue
between them. Thinking of it causes a shattering throb in my own
groin, and I’m suddenly sweating.

Ron abruptly moves, his
knees are crooking upward, and his feet are flat to the bed, though
his legs are still wide apart. He has such very long legs.

He’s steaming
towards his orgasm and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
Most of me doesn’t want to, because I want –no, need
to see the moment when he loses it. Ron is beautiful when he loses
control, in both anger and excitement, but it’s still
contained. He doesn’t want to stand out, to draw attention to
himself because, when they’re your emotions, it hurts when
someone laughs. It’s rare to see him unconfined at either end
of the spectrum, as hot headed as he is. I want to know if his orgasm
face tops it all.

I know it will.

I think it’s
because, when you’re alone, and you’re touching yourself,
you really don’t care what anybody thinks of your reactions. I
think that’s why I’m so hot over him wanking. Because Ron
seems like the type to have hang-ups; I know he hates his height –he
thinks it makes him stick out. He wants more muscle, or to simply
fill out, because he feels too skinny. He idolises Charlie and his
stocky strength. He’s never told me this as such, but reading
between the lines is so easy for me when it comes to him.

So, wanking, he’s
free. He doesn’t care about the faces he pulls, or his moans,
because nobody else will know about them. If he whimpers in
desperation, nobody’ll hear it. If he has kinks he can think
about them for free without judgement; it’s all him, just doing
his thing in a personal liberty I will never be able to share with
him. Maybe that’s what makes this so fucking hot to me.

He’d probably be
mortified if he knew I was here, watching him bring himself off. The
guilt doesn’t make me close the door on my fetish, though.

He’s groaning
now, gently moving his hips back and forth as he pumps. His cock is
so fucking big. It’s a family thing. I’m not a serial
pervert –Fred and George were just really brazen in the showers
after Quidditch.

And Charlie, well.
Everyone saw his personals the day that he went in for the snitch in
an impromptu orchard match, slipped off his broom to do a Sloth Grip
Roll and didn’t realise he’d forgotten to put his belt
on. I think that, barring Molly, I was the reddest-faced there. That
man has a fine arse.

Ron is still going at
his standard-sized Weasley cock, but his face is redder. There’s
a blush on his cheeks, creeping down his neck. His belly is bouncing
with his pants; I’m sorry, but it’s just screaming out
for a lick, or a tickle, or maybe both. With him tied down and
writhing. And then, I’d lick from tip to base of that long,
standard-sized Weasley cock, and taste him. I’d taste him until
he was screaming.

Shit, he’s nearly
there. His pulls are getting more erratic and his toes, which are
long and stupidly soft-looking on the underside, are curling and
releasing in strange shapes as they clutch at the bed covers. One big
toe suddenly points upwards as the rest of his toes coil down and
then –ohmyfuckingGodricyes!

He’s been moving
throughout, but now he’s completely frozen, with his mouth open
and his fist clenched near the top of his cock. His knuckles are
white, and just one second more passes before his dick erupts,
spurting cream over his fingers. Some lands on his belly –I
take it back, oh Merlin’s arse I take it back: now
that belly is screaming out to be licked.

I don’t know what
my hand’s doing in my pants, is it still moving? Am I still
breathing? Who cares?!

Ron’s face is all
that matters. His freckles seem stronger on the flushed skin, he’s
biting his lip again.

“Unnnnnggghh.”

His hips buck with the
moan, his fingers release, and then so do I, with a thrumming heart.
My orgasm grabs me around the throat, tearing up any dignity I’ve
managed to keep; I’m just so tense that it’s a burning
gush into my frantic hand, I can’t help my gasp of shock.

My very loud
gasp of shock.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck
fuck fuck.

Looking up, though,
Ron’s eyes are still blessedly shut and he’s slumped
properly into the corner he’s been sitting in, his back in the
join between walls and his arse on the bed. Ron normally falls asleep
after a session like that. I should leave now whilst I have my
chance.

Ron groans again
–deeply and throatily enough to sound like he’s been
fucked twice over, rough and hard, rather than just having had a
solitary wank in his childhood bedroom.

With his own perving
voyeur at the door. My face grows hot with guilt and I find that the
nerves in my arm have been miraculously reconnected; I reach out,
close my fingers around the handle and pull it to. I expertly turn
the knob so the catch slides back into the lock, so that it doesn’t
make a noise as it clips into place in the frame as I finally close
the door.

Releasing the knob
silently, I feel like a creep. Maybe I am.

But Ron’s just
made my day. He’s sated and happy; I’m sated and sticky
and in definite need of a change of pants.

And he was
perfect. More than I hoped for. God, I love him.

-fin-