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Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Summary: Draco fantasizes about Ron.
Draco has a secret. He keeps it hidden deep in his mind where the glare of others’ laughter and disgust can’t touch it. But it doesn’t stay somnolent; it creeps along the edges of his waking dreams, striking fast when he is most vulnerable to it. A fantasy that twists and writhes behind his eyes as he closes them in the needed solitude that clings to the curtains drawn tight around his bed. It’s him on his knees, like a chastened servant repentant in front of his master, looking up from lowered lashes at the living fire that is Ron Weasley, his mouth open and begging as the flame haired god looming before him grabs his head, and forces him to take. And Draco does so eagerly, grateful to receive such attention from him as he clutches Ron’s hips, feeling the strength and heat emanating from this boy who takes no mercy or pity on him. Nor does Draco want him to. He shivers in perverse pleasure while the flame haired Gryffindor makes him his own, branding him with an iron will as blinding as the midday sun. He wants nothing more than to bow down to the blade edged command spoken to him in an searing tone that would never be heard from Weasley in the real world.
The image bends and Draco is on his stomach on a bed swathed with scarlet silk drapes and gold lined trimming. His clothes are long gone; the only things on his skin are the cool sheets below and scratchy rope stretching his arms above him, binding them to the bedposts. He jumps as a warm hand touches his shoulder and traces a hot trail down his back with the unhurried pace of someone who has all the time in the world to play. Sharp nails tighten on his hip, scratching harshly enough to draw blood. The mattress creaks under Ron’s weight as he climbs between Draco’s outstretched legs. Draco closes his eyes, breathing softly from his mouth as Weasley strokes up his thighs. Draco hisses as Weasley sinks his nails into his flesh and wet heat flows under Weasley’s fingernails. Weasley caresses his face, but Draco isn’t fooled, for the gentle pressure that tugs his head back can turn to ardent fury at any moment. A crimson stained finger brushes against his lips and he opens his mouth to allow it inside. Metallic redness slides along his tongue, bitter sweet. He sucks the finger up to the second knuckle and licks away every trace of blood on it. Weasley observes him with glowing eyes, a devil’s smirk dancing on his mouth. Draco can’t hold such an ardent stare.
After a minute, Weasley pulls out his finger, saying, “Good boy.”
His voice stings like steel cracking bone. Weasley’s hand glides down his spine, warm as glowing embers. There’s no forewarning as two fingers push inside him, cold, hot, Draco can’t be sure. The world is all dizzy and wavering under his body as he’s told what’s to come by those two, no three fingers, or is it the whole hand, in him, taking him already, hitting that spot that makes sparks flash before his eyes. He moans, pulling against the ropes holding him, but this is just teasing, a prelude for the cock that thrusts inside him not a second after the fingers are removed, ripping a jagged cry form his throat and turning him inside out with pain and pleasure and this fire that wants to consume him with the ferocity of Mt. Pele screaming her anger to the pathetic mortals who dare trespass in her domain. Nails dig sharply into his ribs, drawing painful lines of ownership on his skin as a fierce voice growls in his ear, “Mine.” Draco moves his lips, trying to form words around the moans that tumble unceasingly from his mouth with every thrust claiming his body. The only word he has any right to say is wrenched out of throat in a sharp keen. “Yours, yours, always, yours, ahh.” His hands tighten into fists as his whole body tenses up and stretches into a howl of fire and brimstone as he comes. He slumps into the mattress, holding onto the ropes as if they are the only things keeping him in this world. His eyes close tightly as Weasley bites into his shoulder, striping him open with one last thrust that resounds deep inside his soul.
The images fade with the coming of the sun, but they don’t vanish completely. That face, oblivious in its righteous anger, always brings whispers of sensation tumbling back through his blood. But he can’t know what those forbidden touches would really feel like. He can’t say a word. And he hates Weasley all the more for it.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Summary: Draco fantasizes about Ron.
Draco has a secret. He keeps it hidden deep in his mind where the glare of others’ laughter and disgust can’t touch it. But it doesn’t stay somnolent; it creeps along the edges of his waking dreams, striking fast when he is most vulnerable to it. A fantasy that twists and writhes behind his eyes as he closes them in the needed solitude that clings to the curtains drawn tight around his bed. It’s him on his knees, like a chastened servant repentant in front of his master, looking up from lowered lashes at the living fire that is Ron Weasley, his mouth open and begging as the flame haired god looming before him grabs his head, and forces him to take. And Draco does so eagerly, grateful to receive such attention from him as he clutches Ron’s hips, feeling the strength and heat emanating from this boy who takes no mercy or pity on him. Nor does Draco want him to. He shivers in perverse pleasure while the flame haired Gryffindor makes him his own, branding him with an iron will as blinding as the midday sun. He wants nothing more than to bow down to the blade edged command spoken to him in an searing tone that would never be heard from Weasley in the real world.
The image bends and Draco is on his stomach on a bed swathed with scarlet silk drapes and gold lined trimming. His clothes are long gone; the only things on his skin are the cool sheets below and scratchy rope stretching his arms above him, binding them to the bedposts. He jumps as a warm hand touches his shoulder and traces a hot trail down his back with the unhurried pace of someone who has all the time in the world to play. Sharp nails tighten on his hip, scratching harshly enough to draw blood. The mattress creaks under Ron’s weight as he climbs between Draco’s outstretched legs. Draco closes his eyes, breathing softly from his mouth as Weasley strokes up his thighs. Draco hisses as Weasley sinks his nails into his flesh and wet heat flows under Weasley’s fingernails. Weasley caresses his face, but Draco isn’t fooled, for the gentle pressure that tugs his head back can turn to ardent fury at any moment. A crimson stained finger brushes against his lips and he opens his mouth to allow it inside. Metallic redness slides along his tongue, bitter sweet. He sucks the finger up to the second knuckle and licks away every trace of blood on it. Weasley observes him with glowing eyes, a devil’s smirk dancing on his mouth. Draco can’t hold such an ardent stare.
After a minute, Weasley pulls out his finger, saying, “Good boy.”
His voice stings like steel cracking bone. Weasley’s hand glides down his spine, warm as glowing embers. There’s no forewarning as two fingers push inside him, cold, hot, Draco can’t be sure. The world is all dizzy and wavering under his body as he’s told what’s to come by those two, no three fingers, or is it the whole hand, in him, taking him already, hitting that spot that makes sparks flash before his eyes. He moans, pulling against the ropes holding him, but this is just teasing, a prelude for the cock that thrusts inside him not a second after the fingers are removed, ripping a jagged cry form his throat and turning him inside out with pain and pleasure and this fire that wants to consume him with the ferocity of Mt. Pele screaming her anger to the pathetic mortals who dare trespass in her domain. Nails dig sharply into his ribs, drawing painful lines of ownership on his skin as a fierce voice growls in his ear, “Mine.” Draco moves his lips, trying to form words around the moans that tumble unceasingly from his mouth with every thrust claiming his body. The only word he has any right to say is wrenched out of throat in a sharp keen. “Yours, yours, always, yours, ahh.” His hands tighten into fists as his whole body tenses up and stretches into a howl of fire and brimstone as he comes. He slumps into the mattress, holding onto the ropes as if they are the only things keeping him in this world. His eyes close tightly as Weasley bites into his shoulder, striping him open with one last thrust that resounds deep inside his soul.
The images fade with the coming of the sun, but they don’t vanish completely. That face, oblivious in its righteous anger, always brings whispers of sensation tumbling back through his blood. But he can’t know what those forbidden touches would really feel like. He can’t say a word. And he hates Weasley all the more for it.
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r/d is love.
al xxx
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really.
awesome.
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That's the good thing about fantasies; they don't have to be realistic. I think Ron would be a little freaked out if he found out about this (not like Draco would ever admit it, anyway).
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That's exactly what I was aiming for. I kinda wanted to make Ron a living embodiment of fire.
Thank you so much for the comment.
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Me liked. Am braindead now.
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branding him with an iron will as blinding as the midday sun
Amazing line. Everything was amazing. I felt the smut, not only read it, but felt it...does that make sense. Loved it all. This is going into my favorites...thank you so much for sharing this, it was a wonderful journey.
Hannah