Pots and Kettles
Title: Pots and Kettles
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC17
Word-count: 2193
Pairings/characters: Seamus/Ron
Summary: Seamus Finnigan needs to keep his cock in his trousers. Really.
Warnings: Sex. Fluff, totally besmirched by horrendously foul language. Boys being boys. Light bondage. An overabundance of wanking. Exhibitionism. Accidental-ish aural voyeurism? Silliness.
Author's notes: This is my harry_holidays pinch-hit for the brilliant gala_apples (seriously, look at the one she wrote! --> When the Word is the Thing - Seamus/Dean and fucking amazing!). Thank you to my lovely beta, prongsxwormtail who worked faster than I thought humanly possible. Ha!
Seamus fucking Finnigan needed to keep his fucking cock in his fucking trousers.
Really.
This was getting ridiculous.
It wasn't just his propensity for taking it out for a spin during History of Magic. That was distracting, but really, Ron thought, it was almost understandable. Seamus's attention span was even shorter than his own, and Ron had caught himself absently palming his own crotch on more than one occasion, his thoughts drifting to places they oughtn't (Like the seat kitty-corner to his. The one where Seamus sat. With his fist curled around the end of his cock, his thumb rubbing back and forth.) So yeah. He got that. Kind of.
But in the dorm?
Unnecessary.
Distracting and unnecessary. And sort of infuriating, really.
Infuriating, of course, because… well, because the sound of Seamus wanking himself senseless was keeping everyone awake. And he didn't care. Actually, come to think of it, every "Oi, Finnigan! Give your bloody pecker a break, would you? You'll tug yourself raw!" or "Try a Silencing charm, you fucking tosser!" only made it worse. Louder. Harder. More… distracting. Right. Distracting.
Ron blamed his dreams on Seamus's fucking nightly wank session. Or sessions, really, because just as Ron would drift off to sleep, he'd start up again. Slap, slap, slap, slap, grunt, slap, mooooooooan. Really. With all of those fucking o's. Loud and long and… on purpose.
And then the sounds would find their way into Ron's dreams, and he'd wake up with a fucking epic hard-on. (Because in his dreams, the sounds were coming from him, and he was making them with Hermione. At least, he was pretty sure. He could never really remember, but that had to be it.) At least he had the fucking courtesy to use a Silencing charm when he took care of it. Which he did. Nobody wants to carry that around with them all bloody night and day, do they?
The amount of wanking that Ron was forced to engage in due to Seamus's obvious depravity was astounding. And probably unhealthy. (Though Seamus didn't seem any worse for the wear. If anything, it was giving him a kick in the arse, because he was as sharp and mouthy as ever, and looked, truth be told, fairly fit. Not that Ron noticed these sorts of things.)
In any case, the perverted little prat needed to put his fucking cock away.
_______________
"Finnigan! Put your fucking knob away!"
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap.
"For fuck's sake, mate, you're going to skin yourself."
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, grunt, slap.
"Fucking poof."
Mooooooooooan.
At this point, the spells would start going up all around the dorm. One by one, Harry, Neville, and Dean would seal their own hangings against the sound. Ron was always a bit dodgy at the particular necessary bit of spellwork, so he never tried, for fear that he'd permanently deafen himself.
Right.
That was precisely why.
Ohhhhhhhhh, fuck.
Ron squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his belly, pressing the pillow over his head. It muffled the sound, but didn’t kill it.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, ohhh, just like that.
The fucker was giving himself a verbal pat on the back. For wanking himself properly. Really. That just happened. That was new. And ridiculous. Ron could not let that one pass.
"Oi, Seamus, you fucking wanker! Stuff it!"
Say it again.
… What?
Did Seamus just reply mid-wank? He did. Ron adjusted his hips, rearranging himself to keep the pressure off of his thoroughly interested erection. He debated responding, biting back on his lip every time his mouth opened. Was it quite normal to converse while having one off? He imagined it probably wasn't.
Slap, slap, slap, slap… Say it again!
Oh, bugger.
"I said stuff it!" Ron pulled the pillow harder against his head, needing desperately to say it (Why? Who the fuck knew?), but, at the same time, not quite sure he wanted Seamus to hear.
What sort of a thing was that to want to hear whilst wanking, anyway? Stuff it? Not too sexy.
Slap, slap, slap. Get your pretty little arse over here and I'll stuff it somewhere for you. Slap, slap, slap. Where do you want it?
His voice was all… tight and breathy and…
"Shut the fuck up!"
That's right. Ohhh, fuck. Talk to me.
As quietly as he could, Ron spat into his hand. Eyes shut, pyjamas yanked down to his knees, face buried in the duvet, he brought himself off in a furious frenzy as Seamus's breathing turned shallow and loud. He bit a hole into his sheets when he came, Seamus's steady litany of Jaysus fucking Christ, ohhhhhh fuckkkkkk buzzing through his head.
It was the first time in Ron's Hogwarts wanking career that he forgot the Silencing charm.
_______________
Seamus pinched the lit end of his fag between his bare finger and thumb and tossed it at Ron as he walked in from the Quidditch pitch.
Ron looked up and glared. At least the bastard was fucking dressed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"What for?"
Seamus shrugged, and then he fucking grinned with his fucking dimples, and Ron wanted to punch him in his freckly jaw. But he didn't. How would he possibly explain that one? Oh, the fucking tosser's been making me listen to him jerk off every night, and then last night he started talking to me in the middle of it, and now I'm sort of cheesed off because I shot six fucking litres of come into my sheets and had to root through the mess looking for my wand to clean it up? No, that would certainly not be well done.
"Right. Well, sod off, then."
"Right." Seamus tugged at his tie, which was draped loose and undone around his neck, and didn't move. Of course he didn't.
"Right. Later, then." Ron shook his head as if to clear it, then took a step towards the changing room, but Seamus's wiry arm shot out and caught him around the wrist. "What?"
"You say one word to me tonight after everybody else is quiet, and I'm coming in there, you randy little fuck. And I'm going to tie your big, goofy hands to the bed and flatten you." And then he winked. Fucking winked. And lit another fag. And loped off, like he'd just asked what time the fucking game was tomorrow.
_______________
The One Word turned out to be please. As in, please stop saying my fucking name every time you come.
Which Seamus had done twice by 1:30am. Twice and loudly. And Ron felt pretty bloody proud of himself, because he was managing rather well to ignore his pounding cock and his dry breathing and his tight, burning, hammering chest.
But Ron's mouth had been known to get him into trouble before - much like Seamus's, actually - and it was just a fucking miracle of Seamus's anatomy (or a voice-amplification charm, maybe) that he even heard it.
Please.
It was embarrassing. And squeaky. And it absolutely was not meant to draw Seamus, naked and rosy and hard (and big - not that… okay, he did look on purpose, but just because he was curious, and it's normal to be a little curious; even Hermione said that), crawling out from his hangings… but it did.
Fucking promise-keeping Gryffindors.
The mattress squeaked, and Ron knew what was coming. He pulled the elastic waist of his pyjamas tight, jammed his hands under his arse, and eyed his wand with a mixture of need and doubt. Briefly, of course, because Seamus's bed was directly across from his, and Seamus was quick and cat-like and was through Ron's bedcurtains before Ron could even swear at him.
Through the bedcurtains and straddling his hips.
"Since you asked so nicely…" was all he said, and then he was lying flat, grinding against Ron's belly and thrusting his tongue into Ron's mouth like he was trying to fucking eat him.
It was at this point that Ron noticed Seamus wasn't actually naked. He was wearing that fucking untied tie, and Ron noticed because his hands (big and goofy as they were) had come up of their own volition and closed around the back of Seamus's neck. "You fucker," he muttered - or, tried to mutter; muttering is a difficult thing, even for Ron Weasley, Master of the Under-the-Breath-Insult, when there is a tongue tracing one's teeth with enthusiastic abandon - and Seamus just laughed. Laughed, like this was fucking Exploding Snap and Ron had just gotten a faceful of sparks.
Which, Ron supposed, he kind of had.
A faceful of sparks and eyelashes and lips (soft like a girl's, which was not at all suitable for a bloke like Seamus, who had a filthy mouth and wanked in front of Professor Binns, if that daft ghostly twat would ever fucking look up), and a mouthful of ashy, hot breath laced with something tangy and alcoholic.
Ron suddenly remembered Seamus's threat and made a move to grab the tie. Seamus seemed to have some practice at this, however, and he was quick to snatch it back one-handed, sliding it through Ron's desperate, reaching grip. All the while still immobilizing Ron with his motherfucking tongue.
No. Seamus had definitely done this before.
"Behave, you bastard," Seamus said, his voice a little mad and a lot amused, and wouldn’t you know it.
Ron fucking did.
He was clearly outmatched here. Outmatched and hard and… well, Seamus didn't exactly seem put-off, did he? He was obviously (very obviously) ready for another go.
So they went.
And Ron wasn't exactly sure what two blokes did in these kinds of situations, so he let Seamus tie up his hands and do all the work. The work consisted of Seamus gripping their cocks together in his bony hands, slicked up with his own spit and sweat, and jerking them hard and fast and loud, hollering like his fucking banshee boggart, while Ron watched.
As it turned out, Ron really liked to watch. He liked the curl of Seamus's belly as he rolled his hips, the bob of his Adam's apple, the funny little tic in the muscle of his left eye. He liked the scar in the inside of his elbow and the joint of his shoulder. He liked the way he blew his hair out of his sweating face and smiled down, half-cocked and a little dangerous, from his perch.
Yep. Ron, quite decidedly, preferred the view of Seamus from underneath.
It took all of two and a half minutes before Ron's head flew back and his wrists pulled the knotted tie tighter and his balls drew up and his belly tightened and he came a fucking bucket over Seamus's hands.
Panting, chafed-wristed and overly sensitive, Ron grunted in protest as Seamus absolutely did not stop. Post-orgasmically, Ron discovered that Seamus was a fuck-ton heavier, but just as interesting to look at.
"Open your mouth," he ordered through hitching breaths, and suddenly Ron knew exactly what blokes did in this type of a situation; or, at least, blokes like Seamus.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. Through gritted teeth (or, at least, as gritted as he could make them in his slumping, sated state), he muttered "No fucking way."
"Open, you bloody sky pilot!"
Ron laughed.
He couldn't help it.
Fucking sky pilot? What the bloody hell was that?
He laughed, and he opened his mouth, and Seamus jammed two fingers of his left hand in so fast that Ron almost bit them off in surprise. "Hold still, you're gonna like it," he said, and his voice was doing that breathy thing again, all fragile-sounding and weird, and suddenly Ron was sort of curious.
Which was a bloody good thing, it turns out, because suddenly there were fingers and fucking knuckles almost in his throat, and Seamus shifted his weight and gripped his cock and came.
Salty and bitter and hot and thick, and there was that moan that opened up like a secret door, and the whole thing was a mess. Fucking filthy. And brilliant, actually. Filthy and brilliant, and to top it all off, there was his mouth again, licking at Ron's face: lips and teeth and chin, like an eager little puppy, sucking off his own fucking come.
"Finnigan, you fucking dirty bastard."
"You're the one who said please."
"Right. Please untie my fucking hands, yeah? Fucking poof."
"Pots and kettles, Weasley. Pots and kettles and all that shite." Seamus grinned and reached up blindly, fumbling for the knot. It was too tight, and he was too tired, so he reached over for Ron's wand and cut the fucking thing in half.
_______________
"Oi, Weasley! Could you keep your lips off of that Irish fucker's prick for five fucking seconds, please? Least let me catch a fucking kip?"
"Shut your cunting mouth, Thomas, or I'll fucking fill it up!"
"You wish, Finnigan!"
Slap, slap, slap, slap, grunt, slap, mooooooooan.
(It had become a lot less important, suddenly, Ron mused, for Seamus fucking Finnigan to keep his fucking cock in his fucking trousers.)
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC17
Word-count: 2193
Pairings/characters: Seamus/Ron
Summary: Seamus Finnigan needs to keep his cock in his trousers. Really.
Warnings: Sex. Fluff, totally besmirched by horrendously foul language. Boys being boys. Light bondage. An overabundance of wanking. Exhibitionism. Accidental-ish aural voyeurism? Silliness.
Author's notes: This is my harry_holidays pinch-hit for the brilliant gala_apples (seriously, look at the one she wrote! --> When the Word is the Thing - Seamus/Dean and fucking amazing!). Thank you to my lovely beta, prongsxwormtail who worked faster than I thought humanly possible. Ha!
Seamus fucking Finnigan needed to keep his fucking cock in his fucking trousers.
Really.
This was getting ridiculous.
It wasn't just his propensity for taking it out for a spin during History of Magic. That was distracting, but really, Ron thought, it was almost understandable. Seamus's attention span was even shorter than his own, and Ron had caught himself absently palming his own crotch on more than one occasion, his thoughts drifting to places they oughtn't (Like the seat kitty-corner to his. The one where Seamus sat. With his fist curled around the end of his cock, his thumb rubbing back and forth.) So yeah. He got that. Kind of.
But in the dorm?
Unnecessary.
Distracting and unnecessary. And sort of infuriating, really.
Infuriating, of course, because… well, because the sound of Seamus wanking himself senseless was keeping everyone awake. And he didn't care. Actually, come to think of it, every "Oi, Finnigan! Give your bloody pecker a break, would you? You'll tug yourself raw!" or "Try a Silencing charm, you fucking tosser!" only made it worse. Louder. Harder. More… distracting. Right. Distracting.
Ron blamed his dreams on Seamus's fucking nightly wank session. Or sessions, really, because just as Ron would drift off to sleep, he'd start up again. Slap, slap, slap, slap, grunt, slap, mooooooooan. Really. With all of those fucking o's. Loud and long and… on purpose.
And then the sounds would find their way into Ron's dreams, and he'd wake up with a fucking epic hard-on. (Because in his dreams, the sounds were coming from him, and he was making them with Hermione. At least, he was pretty sure. He could never really remember, but that had to be it.) At least he had the fucking courtesy to use a Silencing charm when he took care of it. Which he did. Nobody wants to carry that around with them all bloody night and day, do they?
The amount of wanking that Ron was forced to engage in due to Seamus's obvious depravity was astounding. And probably unhealthy. (Though Seamus didn't seem any worse for the wear. If anything, it was giving him a kick in the arse, because he was as sharp and mouthy as ever, and looked, truth be told, fairly fit. Not that Ron noticed these sorts of things.)
In any case, the perverted little prat needed to put his fucking cock away.
_______________
"Finnigan! Put your fucking knob away!"
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap.
"For fuck's sake, mate, you're going to skin yourself."
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, grunt, slap.
"Fucking poof."
Mooooooooooan.
At this point, the spells would start going up all around the dorm. One by one, Harry, Neville, and Dean would seal their own hangings against the sound. Ron was always a bit dodgy at the particular necessary bit of spellwork, so he never tried, for fear that he'd permanently deafen himself.
Right.
That was precisely why.
Ohhhhhhhhh, fuck.
Ron squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his belly, pressing the pillow over his head. It muffled the sound, but didn’t kill it.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, ohhh, just like that.
The fucker was giving himself a verbal pat on the back. For wanking himself properly. Really. That just happened. That was new. And ridiculous. Ron could not let that one pass.
"Oi, Seamus, you fucking wanker! Stuff it!"
Say it again.
… What?
Did Seamus just reply mid-wank? He did. Ron adjusted his hips, rearranging himself to keep the pressure off of his thoroughly interested erection. He debated responding, biting back on his lip every time his mouth opened. Was it quite normal to converse while having one off? He imagined it probably wasn't.
Slap, slap, slap, slap… Say it again!
Oh, bugger.
"I said stuff it!" Ron pulled the pillow harder against his head, needing desperately to say it (Why? Who the fuck knew?), but, at the same time, not quite sure he wanted Seamus to hear.
What sort of a thing was that to want to hear whilst wanking, anyway? Stuff it? Not too sexy.
Slap, slap, slap. Get your pretty little arse over here and I'll stuff it somewhere for you. Slap, slap, slap. Where do you want it?
His voice was all… tight and breathy and…
"Shut the fuck up!"
That's right. Ohhh, fuck. Talk to me.
As quietly as he could, Ron spat into his hand. Eyes shut, pyjamas yanked down to his knees, face buried in the duvet, he brought himself off in a furious frenzy as Seamus's breathing turned shallow and loud. He bit a hole into his sheets when he came, Seamus's steady litany of Jaysus fucking Christ, ohhhhhh fuckkkkkk buzzing through his head.
It was the first time in Ron's Hogwarts wanking career that he forgot the Silencing charm.
_______________
Seamus pinched the lit end of his fag between his bare finger and thumb and tossed it at Ron as he walked in from the Quidditch pitch.
Ron looked up and glared. At least the bastard was fucking dressed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"What for?"
Seamus shrugged, and then he fucking grinned with his fucking dimples, and Ron wanted to punch him in his freckly jaw. But he didn't. How would he possibly explain that one? Oh, the fucking tosser's been making me listen to him jerk off every night, and then last night he started talking to me in the middle of it, and now I'm sort of cheesed off because I shot six fucking litres of come into my sheets and had to root through the mess looking for my wand to clean it up? No, that would certainly not be well done.
"Right. Well, sod off, then."
"Right." Seamus tugged at his tie, which was draped loose and undone around his neck, and didn't move. Of course he didn't.
"Right. Later, then." Ron shook his head as if to clear it, then took a step towards the changing room, but Seamus's wiry arm shot out and caught him around the wrist. "What?"
"You say one word to me tonight after everybody else is quiet, and I'm coming in there, you randy little fuck. And I'm going to tie your big, goofy hands to the bed and flatten you." And then he winked. Fucking winked. And lit another fag. And loped off, like he'd just asked what time the fucking game was tomorrow.
_______________
The One Word turned out to be please. As in, please stop saying my fucking name every time you come.
Which Seamus had done twice by 1:30am. Twice and loudly. And Ron felt pretty bloody proud of himself, because he was managing rather well to ignore his pounding cock and his dry breathing and his tight, burning, hammering chest.
But Ron's mouth had been known to get him into trouble before - much like Seamus's, actually - and it was just a fucking miracle of Seamus's anatomy (or a voice-amplification charm, maybe) that he even heard it.
Please.
It was embarrassing. And squeaky. And it absolutely was not meant to draw Seamus, naked and rosy and hard (and big - not that… okay, he did look on purpose, but just because he was curious, and it's normal to be a little curious; even Hermione said that), crawling out from his hangings… but it did.
Fucking promise-keeping Gryffindors.
The mattress squeaked, and Ron knew what was coming. He pulled the elastic waist of his pyjamas tight, jammed his hands under his arse, and eyed his wand with a mixture of need and doubt. Briefly, of course, because Seamus's bed was directly across from his, and Seamus was quick and cat-like and was through Ron's bedcurtains before Ron could even swear at him.
Through the bedcurtains and straddling his hips.
"Since you asked so nicely…" was all he said, and then he was lying flat, grinding against Ron's belly and thrusting his tongue into Ron's mouth like he was trying to fucking eat him.
It was at this point that Ron noticed Seamus wasn't actually naked. He was wearing that fucking untied tie, and Ron noticed because his hands (big and goofy as they were) had come up of their own volition and closed around the back of Seamus's neck. "You fucker," he muttered - or, tried to mutter; muttering is a difficult thing, even for Ron Weasley, Master of the Under-the-Breath-Insult, when there is a tongue tracing one's teeth with enthusiastic abandon - and Seamus just laughed. Laughed, like this was fucking Exploding Snap and Ron had just gotten a faceful of sparks.
Which, Ron supposed, he kind of had.
A faceful of sparks and eyelashes and lips (soft like a girl's, which was not at all suitable for a bloke like Seamus, who had a filthy mouth and wanked in front of Professor Binns, if that daft ghostly twat would ever fucking look up), and a mouthful of ashy, hot breath laced with something tangy and alcoholic.
Ron suddenly remembered Seamus's threat and made a move to grab the tie. Seamus seemed to have some practice at this, however, and he was quick to snatch it back one-handed, sliding it through Ron's desperate, reaching grip. All the while still immobilizing Ron with his motherfucking tongue.
No. Seamus had definitely done this before.
"Behave, you bastard," Seamus said, his voice a little mad and a lot amused, and wouldn’t you know it.
Ron fucking did.
He was clearly outmatched here. Outmatched and hard and… well, Seamus didn't exactly seem put-off, did he? He was obviously (very obviously) ready for another go.
So they went.
And Ron wasn't exactly sure what two blokes did in these kinds of situations, so he let Seamus tie up his hands and do all the work. The work consisted of Seamus gripping their cocks together in his bony hands, slicked up with his own spit and sweat, and jerking them hard and fast and loud, hollering like his fucking banshee boggart, while Ron watched.
As it turned out, Ron really liked to watch. He liked the curl of Seamus's belly as he rolled his hips, the bob of his Adam's apple, the funny little tic in the muscle of his left eye. He liked the scar in the inside of his elbow and the joint of his shoulder. He liked the way he blew his hair out of his sweating face and smiled down, half-cocked and a little dangerous, from his perch.
Yep. Ron, quite decidedly, preferred the view of Seamus from underneath.
It took all of two and a half minutes before Ron's head flew back and his wrists pulled the knotted tie tighter and his balls drew up and his belly tightened and he came a fucking bucket over Seamus's hands.
Panting, chafed-wristed and overly sensitive, Ron grunted in protest as Seamus absolutely did not stop. Post-orgasmically, Ron discovered that Seamus was a fuck-ton heavier, but just as interesting to look at.
"Open your mouth," he ordered through hitching breaths, and suddenly Ron knew exactly what blokes did in this type of a situation; or, at least, blokes like Seamus.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. Through gritted teeth (or, at least, as gritted as he could make them in his slumping, sated state), he muttered "No fucking way."
"Open, you bloody sky pilot!"
Ron laughed.
He couldn't help it.
Fucking sky pilot? What the bloody hell was that?
He laughed, and he opened his mouth, and Seamus jammed two fingers of his left hand in so fast that Ron almost bit them off in surprise. "Hold still, you're gonna like it," he said, and his voice was doing that breathy thing again, all fragile-sounding and weird, and suddenly Ron was sort of curious.
Which was a bloody good thing, it turns out, because suddenly there were fingers and fucking knuckles almost in his throat, and Seamus shifted his weight and gripped his cock and came.
Salty and bitter and hot and thick, and there was that moan that opened up like a secret door, and the whole thing was a mess. Fucking filthy. And brilliant, actually. Filthy and brilliant, and to top it all off, there was his mouth again, licking at Ron's face: lips and teeth and chin, like an eager little puppy, sucking off his own fucking come.
"Finnigan, you fucking dirty bastard."
"You're the one who said please."
"Right. Please untie my fucking hands, yeah? Fucking poof."
"Pots and kettles, Weasley. Pots and kettles and all that shite." Seamus grinned and reached up blindly, fumbling for the knot. It was too tight, and he was too tired, so he reached over for Ron's wand and cut the fucking thing in half.
_______________
"Oi, Weasley! Could you keep your lips off of that Irish fucker's prick for five fucking seconds, please? Least let me catch a fucking kip?"
"Shut your cunting mouth, Thomas, or I'll fucking fill it up!"
"You wish, Finnigan!"
Slap, slap, slap, slap, grunt, slap, mooooooooan.
(It had become a lot less important, suddenly, Ron mused, for Seamus fucking Finnigan to keep his fucking cock in his fucking trousers.)