Lameos gift for katjad
Title: Life is Like a Box of Bulgarian Bon-Bons
Author/Artist: hildigunnur
Rating: R
Pairing: Viktor Krum/Ron Weasley
Prompt or Summary: katjad requested: Post-Hogwarts, post-war. Ron runs into Krum in Bulgaria, gets trashed and confesses the massive hero-worship thing he had for Krum during fourth year. (More movie-canon than book-canon, but shhh...)
Word Count: ~2600
A/N: Much love to sarka for the beta. katjad, I do hope you like it. I did turn Ron's feelings into something more than hero-worship but that's where the story wanted to go. I've also abused couple of film quotes for humour purposes, you'll probably know them when you see them. Rakia, an alcoholic beverage mentioned in the story, is a traditional Bulgarian plum brandy.
One of the more unpleasant things about being a borderline alcoholic was dealing with the aftermath of disastrous decisions that had been taken on one bender or another.
For instance you might find yourself in a random International Portkey station, more than slightly queasy after all the spinning (and perhaps some alcohol consumption) and completely unable to figure out where in the world you’ve landed. The language the people around you are speaking, sounds like incoherent gibberish and the signs which in normal places say "International arrivals (Please turn left for wand inspection)" are not only in a strange looking language but also written with something that looked normal alphabet upside-down. All because after a bottle of Firewhisky it had felt like a great idea to go and purchase a Portkey to some sunny place with cheap booze because the humdrum of your daily existence was getting you down.
Given all this it wasn’t surprising that the only thoughts Ron was able to form consisted solely of Fuck, fucking fuckity fuck, what the fuck have I done now? and another FUCK! for a good measure. The station had stopped spinning before his eyes but the signs didn’t seem about to make any more sense than they did now.
Neither was it surprising that he’d yelp and had to take a small leap forward when a wand was poked into the small of his back and something that had to be an order was shouted in that unfamiliar foreign tongue.
The person doing the poking turned out to be an official-looking wizard who looked like he was about to hex Ron into next week simply for standing there. After a couple of terror-filled seconds he realised to his relief that the wizard might possibly want to see his wand and passport documents, seeing that he was in an International Portkey station.
After handing said items over he tried to gather his composure, while the wizard inspected the wand and read carefully over the passport.
"Eeenglish, arr you?” said the guard in an oddly familiar accent while scrutinizing the document. "Rronald Bilius Veasleey, is dat your corrrect name?"
Something clicked in his brain. There was a reason the accent was familiar. He was in bloody Bulgaria. How the fuck had he ended up in Bulgaria? While he had been drunk at the time he distinctly remembered asking the travel agent for a cheap Portkey to somewhere sunny with plenty of cheap booze. Wasn’t Bulgaria full of frozen tundra and glaciers? Or at least that’s what he had thought.
"Erm, this might be a silly question but do you think I might get frostbite if I go outside in these clothes?" Ron pointed at his Hawaiian shirt and shorts and looked at the guard who looked confused for a second and then started laughing.
"My Eeenglish is nott verry gud. Dere is perrhapps misunderrstanding, yes. You get no frostbite, sirr. Is summer now."
"How about the glaciers and all that?"
"I do nott underrstand, sirr. Is summer."
"Glaciers, you know, huge capes of ice. Mountains of ice." The guard stared again, confused and then started laughing.
"Sirr, is beach. Is Burgas. No mountains in Burgas. Summer, is warm weather. Your Muggle dress is corrrect."
The guard turned out to be right, of course, because the first thing Ron noticed when he stepped out of the station was the glaring sunshine that stung his bloodshot eyes. As his mouth felt dry and he felt a headache coming on he was quick to find the hotel he’d booked, and it wasn’t long until he was nursing a tumbler of Firewhisky on the rocks in the comfortable, cool hotel bar.
The simple joy of having his drink of choice wetting his throat again and relieving any on-coming headaches didn’t last very long, however. He was in Bulgaria. That fact alone was downright frightening and he didn’t even want to contemplate the real reason why he was panicking worse than before his first Quidditch game.
Ugh, perhaps he shouldn’t have thought about Quidditch.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be in Bulgaria at all.
He finished his drink in one gulp and tried his best to be rational about it.
Bulgaria was a big country, or so he presumed. He was just as likely to meet Viktor Krum in this seedy little hotel bar as he would strolling down Hogsmeade High Street. The fact that he’d landed in Bulgaria on a fluke didn’t mean a thing. No, sir. Not at all.
By the time Ron had downed the next glass he had convinced himself that his best plan would be to stay at the hotel until his return Portkey would be active.
It would take some creativity on his part to come up with a credible story about why he was returning from a sunny holiday all pasty-white. Hermione would be the biggest headache as she would ask him in detail and as she had been everywhere, it would pose a great deal of trouble trying to feed her some cooked-up story.
Sighing, he drained the glass and decided that the chances of running into Viktor sodding Krum would be as low as for Hermione never reading a book again in her life. Really, what were the odds? Viktor Krum was an internationally known Quidditch star, probably swimming in money, women and whatever he might fancy, flying donkeys and opera-singing midgets - those celebrities had some peculiar tastes. Harry, for example, had an affinity of some kind with portable felly-tones which beeped high-pitched music on inappropriate occasions. Krum couldn't possibly be interested in anything here.
Feeling assured, Ron wandered down to the waterfront, looking for a place where he could get a cold alcoholic beverage and lounge in the shade of a parasol while checking out the scenery. Firm arses all round!
Feeling content and the calmest since he'd set foot on Bulgarian ground he sipped his Sex On The Beach, hoping that soon it wouldn't be just a drink to him. He closed his eyes with the maraschino cherry in his mouth, trying to tie a knot on the stem only using his tongue, when something other than his parasol cast a shade over him.
Looking up in anger and ready to shoo off the annoying sun blocker, he felt his jaw drop instead and the neatly tied cherry stem fall out of his mouth.
"Vot haff ve here?"
Ronald Bilius Weasley recognized those slim hips, clad in tight swimming trunks, showing absolutely everything. It wasn't everyday that one of his favourite wank fantasies materialised before him.
He shouldn't have come to Bulgaria.
"You are Ron, Hermionie's friend, right?"
Oh, he was better at pronouncing Hermione's name, she'll be glad to hear that, was the only thing his brain could come up with to counteract the acute panic he was currently feeling.
"You're Ron Veasley, right? I know there vere more off you but you look like him a lot."
Oh shit, he better start saving face or at least put Viktor at ease. It was enough that he was about to die of embarrassment.
"That's me, hullo." He said and his voice sounded pathetically muffled.
"I thought so. Vat are you doing here in Bulgaria?"
If he wasn't mistaken, Viktor was beaming down at him. He tried smiling feebly back but was pretty certain that it must have looked like a horrible grimace, like when you accidentally eat an Earwax-flavoured Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean.
"You alright?"
This was getting worse. Now Viktor sounded concerned.
Act like a bloody grown man. You aren't fourteen year old anymore.
Rising shakily to his feet Ron put out his right hand so as to shake hands with Viktor, but he wasn't having any of that. No, apparently this was the warm and fuzzies hour at this Black Sea beach. Here people hugged some sodding bloke they hadn't met for more than ten years. That was just bloody excellent.
"How are you? Hermionie? Harry? I vish I had more time to travel abroad. I miss England often."
The smile Ron attempted to give Viktor was almost as pathetic as the one before.
"Fine. All fine."
"That's vonderful to hear. Everyone happy?"
He nodded his head, not too keen on uttering more monosyllabic answers, sounding thicker than he actually was.
"You here on holiday?"
Merlin, kill me now.
Not having his prayer answered, the next best thing was to deal with the beast - err, Viktor - head on. Like a man. Down a drink, have a laugh, slap a back.
"Yeah, needed a spot of sun. Been a rainy and glum sort of summer back home. You probably know what I mean. Then there was the lure of the cheap booze and beach life."
Viktor kept beaming and Ron seriously wondered if he was in some sort of competition with the sun.
"I must buy you a drink then. Affter all, you haff come all the way from England. You must tell all what has happened."
And off they went, Viktor with his arm slung around him, chatting about all the things Hermione had divulged in her letters to him and steering him through the narrow streets of the town.
Ron had his conscious mind on auto-pilot, trying his uttermost not to think about any sordid fantasy he might or might not have had about Viktor.
Perhaps that was why he ended up in Viktor's lavish beach house with a glass of some traditional Bulgarian drink that burned all the way down his gullet to his stomach.
"This is rakia, a drink for men. Not like Firewhisky. Too veak."
If Ron would have been sober and his head clear (which was a rare occurrence and usually only achieved for his mother), he might have felt that Viktor's smile had turned a tad bit sinister. But the old familiar numbness of being pissed out of his head was returning fast and it was calming and nice.
This wasn't so bad. Especially if this rakia thing would get him into oblivion fast enough to stop him from blurting out how Viktor's narrow hips had him almost mesmerised or anything else discriminating.
Which was slightly difficult as Viktor was curious about everything.
What had Hermione been writing him about all these years? Only her bloody work?
He almost snorted; he should have known that was something she would do. She saw Viktor as someone who liked her professionalism. Whether that was true or not only Viktor knew, but at the moment he appeared rather starved for gossip.
So Ron rattled off everything about the offspring of his siblings, down to their birth weights, the number of sensationalist tabloid articles linking Harry to some floozy or other and other tidbits about his nearest and dearest. When he was somewhere in the middle of a tale about the first time Bill's and Fleur's oldest flew on a broomstick Viktor refilled his glass for third time or so, then took his hand and looked him in the eyes.
"I vant to hear about you, Ron Veasley. You haff not told me about you."
It was as clear as a sodding vial of Veritaserum that he should have turned back home at the Portkey station. Now he was way out of his depth and being this soused he wouldn't be able to lie his way out of a bag.
"Err … there isn't much too tell. I write about Quidditch for The Daily Prophet and do the odd review for Which Broomstick, you know, nothing that interesting. Not something a famous person like you would like to hear about."
"No, what do you say; 'quite the contrary'?"
"Really, I can't imagine that …"
"Vat about your love life?"
Bugger. Shit. Fuck. Motherfucking fuck.
"My love life?" His voice was embarrassingly squeaky.
"Yes, I'm very interested."
Certain that his face had just turned a bright shade of fuchsia, he looked down into his nearly empty glass. He definitely needed more to drink.
Trying very hard not to divulge anything discriminating, he began rambling about old girlfriends, venturing far enough back as to describe Lavender's clingy ways in detail. As he was in full force describing that tacky Christmas present and all the nicknames she used to give him with theatrical gestures, Viktor cleared his throat.
"It sounds like you've been … what do you English say … celibate since before you turned twenty. You are talking about old conquests. What about now?"
"Now what?" Ron replied, trying his best to feign innocence while wondering whether he could manage a very drunken Apparation without splinching himself.
"What is it that you are hiding?"
Come on, Ron, you've bested dark wizards. Managing not to tell Viktor Krum how you feel should be easy. Just concentrate on not saying it.
Concentrating during activities other than playing chess had never been one of his strong suits. Being completely off one's tits was a killer on the concentration and just generally mixed everything up into a big jumble, so in reality he had no idea what exactly would come out of his mouth.
And what came out was something he hadn't seen, even in his most embarrassing nightmares; like the ones where he pranced around with an aubergine up his arse on a crowded Quidditch pitch, singing Celestina Warbeck songs.
"Viktor, you've bewitched me, body and soul."
The words hung in the air like the smell of unwashed underpants.
Ron clutched his wand, ready to Apparate, splinching be damned as it couldn't be worse than have Viktor beat him into a bloody pulp. Either way his body parts would undoubtedly be strewn across Bulgaria.
How mind-boggling wrong he was.
There was no splinching and there was no bloody pulp. There were body parts though, being rubbed against each other, and not all of them Ron's.
For one, there was a hard cock prodding his hip, somewhat thicker than his own, and there was a tongue currently thoroughly exploring his mouth. Both those things were attached to the rock-solid body belonging to Viktor, now pressing into his.
They stumbled around the lounge room, ripping shirts off and pulling hard at each other's shorts, accidentally flicking the other with the drawstrings.
"Ooh … you liked to …," Viktor huffed, not finishing his question before slamming Ron into a wall. It was quite all right as Ron answered the question by grinding into him.
The sex was frantic and loud like an over-zealous Quidditch spectator. The pictures on the walls came crashing down as Viktor apparently felt compelled to treat him like a dusty carpet in a need of a good beating.
It matched and fulfilled about a quarter of all the fantasies he'd had since he first laid his eyes on Viktor.
There was more grunting and moaning than when the Ministry of Magic put a ban on the recreational use of magical herbs.
There was more hair-pulling and biting than on your average Veela family reunion.
Viktor saw fit to crush him so hard against the wall that it was like horde of rampaging Erumpents charging into him.
And Ron came so hard that it was like his brains had exploded and were now decorating the wall in lieu of the paintings that had crashed to the floor.
It was bloody fantastic.
Slumped on the floor, resting his back against the wall, cradling Viktor between his legs, feeling like he had single-handedly secured the Chudley Cannons the title of the Best Team of the Century, he made a mental note to send a thank you note and maybe to throw in a complimentary bottle of rakia to someone in England.
A certain travel agent.
Author/Artist: hildigunnur
Rating: R
Pairing: Viktor Krum/Ron Weasley
Prompt or Summary: katjad requested: Post-Hogwarts, post-war. Ron runs into Krum in Bulgaria, gets trashed and confesses the massive hero-worship thing he had for Krum during fourth year. (More movie-canon than book-canon, but shhh...)
Word Count: ~2600
A/N: Much love to sarka for the beta. katjad, I do hope you like it. I did turn Ron's feelings into something more than hero-worship but that's where the story wanted to go. I've also abused couple of film quotes for humour purposes, you'll probably know them when you see them. Rakia, an alcoholic beverage mentioned in the story, is a traditional Bulgarian plum brandy.
One of the more unpleasant things about being a borderline alcoholic was dealing with the aftermath of disastrous decisions that had been taken on one bender or another.
For instance you might find yourself in a random International Portkey station, more than slightly queasy after all the spinning (and perhaps some alcohol consumption) and completely unable to figure out where in the world you’ve landed. The language the people around you are speaking, sounds like incoherent gibberish and the signs which in normal places say "International arrivals (Please turn left for wand inspection)" are not only in a strange looking language but also written with something that looked normal alphabet upside-down. All because after a bottle of Firewhisky it had felt like a great idea to go and purchase a Portkey to some sunny place with cheap booze because the humdrum of your daily existence was getting you down.
Given all this it wasn’t surprising that the only thoughts Ron was able to form consisted solely of Fuck, fucking fuckity fuck, what the fuck have I done now? and another FUCK! for a good measure. The station had stopped spinning before his eyes but the signs didn’t seem about to make any more sense than they did now.
Neither was it surprising that he’d yelp and had to take a small leap forward when a wand was poked into the small of his back and something that had to be an order was shouted in that unfamiliar foreign tongue.
The person doing the poking turned out to be an official-looking wizard who looked like he was about to hex Ron into next week simply for standing there. After a couple of terror-filled seconds he realised to his relief that the wizard might possibly want to see his wand and passport documents, seeing that he was in an International Portkey station.
After handing said items over he tried to gather his composure, while the wizard inspected the wand and read carefully over the passport.
"Eeenglish, arr you?” said the guard in an oddly familiar accent while scrutinizing the document. "Rronald Bilius Veasleey, is dat your corrrect name?"
Something clicked in his brain. There was a reason the accent was familiar. He was in bloody Bulgaria. How the fuck had he ended up in Bulgaria? While he had been drunk at the time he distinctly remembered asking the travel agent for a cheap Portkey to somewhere sunny with plenty of cheap booze. Wasn’t Bulgaria full of frozen tundra and glaciers? Or at least that’s what he had thought.
"Erm, this might be a silly question but do you think I might get frostbite if I go outside in these clothes?" Ron pointed at his Hawaiian shirt and shorts and looked at the guard who looked confused for a second and then started laughing.
"My Eeenglish is nott verry gud. Dere is perrhapps misunderrstanding, yes. You get no frostbite, sirr. Is summer now."
"How about the glaciers and all that?"
"I do nott underrstand, sirr. Is summer."
"Glaciers, you know, huge capes of ice. Mountains of ice." The guard stared again, confused and then started laughing.
"Sirr, is beach. Is Burgas. No mountains in Burgas. Summer, is warm weather. Your Muggle dress is corrrect."
The guard turned out to be right, of course, because the first thing Ron noticed when he stepped out of the station was the glaring sunshine that stung his bloodshot eyes. As his mouth felt dry and he felt a headache coming on he was quick to find the hotel he’d booked, and it wasn’t long until he was nursing a tumbler of Firewhisky on the rocks in the comfortable, cool hotel bar.
The simple joy of having his drink of choice wetting his throat again and relieving any on-coming headaches didn’t last very long, however. He was in Bulgaria. That fact alone was downright frightening and he didn’t even want to contemplate the real reason why he was panicking worse than before his first Quidditch game.
Ugh, perhaps he shouldn’t have thought about Quidditch.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be in Bulgaria at all.
He finished his drink in one gulp and tried his best to be rational about it.
Bulgaria was a big country, or so he presumed. He was just as likely to meet Viktor Krum in this seedy little hotel bar as he would strolling down Hogsmeade High Street. The fact that he’d landed in Bulgaria on a fluke didn’t mean a thing. No, sir. Not at all.
By the time Ron had downed the next glass he had convinced himself that his best plan would be to stay at the hotel until his return Portkey would be active.
It would take some creativity on his part to come up with a credible story about why he was returning from a sunny holiday all pasty-white. Hermione would be the biggest headache as she would ask him in detail and as she had been everywhere, it would pose a great deal of trouble trying to feed her some cooked-up story.
Sighing, he drained the glass and decided that the chances of running into Viktor sodding Krum would be as low as for Hermione never reading a book again in her life. Really, what were the odds? Viktor Krum was an internationally known Quidditch star, probably swimming in money, women and whatever he might fancy, flying donkeys and opera-singing midgets - those celebrities had some peculiar tastes. Harry, for example, had an affinity of some kind with portable felly-tones which beeped high-pitched music on inappropriate occasions. Krum couldn't possibly be interested in anything here.
Feeling assured, Ron wandered down to the waterfront, looking for a place where he could get a cold alcoholic beverage and lounge in the shade of a parasol while checking out the scenery. Firm arses all round!
Feeling content and the calmest since he'd set foot on Bulgarian ground he sipped his Sex On The Beach, hoping that soon it wouldn't be just a drink to him. He closed his eyes with the maraschino cherry in his mouth, trying to tie a knot on the stem only using his tongue, when something other than his parasol cast a shade over him.
Looking up in anger and ready to shoo off the annoying sun blocker, he felt his jaw drop instead and the neatly tied cherry stem fall out of his mouth.
"Vot haff ve here?"
Ronald Bilius Weasley recognized those slim hips, clad in tight swimming trunks, showing absolutely everything. It wasn't everyday that one of his favourite wank fantasies materialised before him.
He shouldn't have come to Bulgaria.
"You are Ron, Hermionie's friend, right?"
Oh, he was better at pronouncing Hermione's name, she'll be glad to hear that, was the only thing his brain could come up with to counteract the acute panic he was currently feeling.
"You're Ron Veasley, right? I know there vere more off you but you look like him a lot."
Oh shit, he better start saving face or at least put Viktor at ease. It was enough that he was about to die of embarrassment.
"That's me, hullo." He said and his voice sounded pathetically muffled.
"I thought so. Vat are you doing here in Bulgaria?"
If he wasn't mistaken, Viktor was beaming down at him. He tried smiling feebly back but was pretty certain that it must have looked like a horrible grimace, like when you accidentally eat an Earwax-flavoured Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean.
"You alright?"
This was getting worse. Now Viktor sounded concerned.
Act like a bloody grown man. You aren't fourteen year old anymore.
Rising shakily to his feet Ron put out his right hand so as to shake hands with Viktor, but he wasn't having any of that. No, apparently this was the warm and fuzzies hour at this Black Sea beach. Here people hugged some sodding bloke they hadn't met for more than ten years. That was just bloody excellent.
"How are you? Hermionie? Harry? I vish I had more time to travel abroad. I miss England often."
The smile Ron attempted to give Viktor was almost as pathetic as the one before.
"Fine. All fine."
"That's vonderful to hear. Everyone happy?"
He nodded his head, not too keen on uttering more monosyllabic answers, sounding thicker than he actually was.
"You here on holiday?"
Merlin, kill me now.
Not having his prayer answered, the next best thing was to deal with the beast - err, Viktor - head on. Like a man. Down a drink, have a laugh, slap a back.
"Yeah, needed a spot of sun. Been a rainy and glum sort of summer back home. You probably know what I mean. Then there was the lure of the cheap booze and beach life."
Viktor kept beaming and Ron seriously wondered if he was in some sort of competition with the sun.
"I must buy you a drink then. Affter all, you haff come all the way from England. You must tell all what has happened."
And off they went, Viktor with his arm slung around him, chatting about all the things Hermione had divulged in her letters to him and steering him through the narrow streets of the town.
Ron had his conscious mind on auto-pilot, trying his uttermost not to think about any sordid fantasy he might or might not have had about Viktor.
Perhaps that was why he ended up in Viktor's lavish beach house with a glass of some traditional Bulgarian drink that burned all the way down his gullet to his stomach.
"This is rakia, a drink for men. Not like Firewhisky. Too veak."
If Ron would have been sober and his head clear (which was a rare occurrence and usually only achieved for his mother), he might have felt that Viktor's smile had turned a tad bit sinister. But the old familiar numbness of being pissed out of his head was returning fast and it was calming and nice.
This wasn't so bad. Especially if this rakia thing would get him into oblivion fast enough to stop him from blurting out how Viktor's narrow hips had him almost mesmerised or anything else discriminating.
Which was slightly difficult as Viktor was curious about everything.
What had Hermione been writing him about all these years? Only her bloody work?
He almost snorted; he should have known that was something she would do. She saw Viktor as someone who liked her professionalism. Whether that was true or not only Viktor knew, but at the moment he appeared rather starved for gossip.
So Ron rattled off everything about the offspring of his siblings, down to their birth weights, the number of sensationalist tabloid articles linking Harry to some floozy or other and other tidbits about his nearest and dearest. When he was somewhere in the middle of a tale about the first time Bill's and Fleur's oldest flew on a broomstick Viktor refilled his glass for third time or so, then took his hand and looked him in the eyes.
"I vant to hear about you, Ron Veasley. You haff not told me about you."
It was as clear as a sodding vial of Veritaserum that he should have turned back home at the Portkey station. Now he was way out of his depth and being this soused he wouldn't be able to lie his way out of a bag.
"Err … there isn't much too tell. I write about Quidditch for The Daily Prophet and do the odd review for Which Broomstick, you know, nothing that interesting. Not something a famous person like you would like to hear about."
"No, what do you say; 'quite the contrary'?"
"Really, I can't imagine that …"
"Vat about your love life?"
Bugger. Shit. Fuck. Motherfucking fuck.
"My love life?" His voice was embarrassingly squeaky.
"Yes, I'm very interested."
Certain that his face had just turned a bright shade of fuchsia, he looked down into his nearly empty glass. He definitely needed more to drink.
Trying very hard not to divulge anything discriminating, he began rambling about old girlfriends, venturing far enough back as to describe Lavender's clingy ways in detail. As he was in full force describing that tacky Christmas present and all the nicknames she used to give him with theatrical gestures, Viktor cleared his throat.
"It sounds like you've been … what do you English say … celibate since before you turned twenty. You are talking about old conquests. What about now?"
"Now what?" Ron replied, trying his best to feign innocence while wondering whether he could manage a very drunken Apparation without splinching himself.
"What is it that you are hiding?"
Come on, Ron, you've bested dark wizards. Managing not to tell Viktor Krum how you feel should be easy. Just concentrate on not saying it.
Concentrating during activities other than playing chess had never been one of his strong suits. Being completely off one's tits was a killer on the concentration and just generally mixed everything up into a big jumble, so in reality he had no idea what exactly would come out of his mouth.
And what came out was something he hadn't seen, even in his most embarrassing nightmares; like the ones where he pranced around with an aubergine up his arse on a crowded Quidditch pitch, singing Celestina Warbeck songs.
"Viktor, you've bewitched me, body and soul."
The words hung in the air like the smell of unwashed underpants.
Ron clutched his wand, ready to Apparate, splinching be damned as it couldn't be worse than have Viktor beat him into a bloody pulp. Either way his body parts would undoubtedly be strewn across Bulgaria.
How mind-boggling wrong he was.
There was no splinching and there was no bloody pulp. There were body parts though, being rubbed against each other, and not all of them Ron's.
For one, there was a hard cock prodding his hip, somewhat thicker than his own, and there was a tongue currently thoroughly exploring his mouth. Both those things were attached to the rock-solid body belonging to Viktor, now pressing into his.
They stumbled around the lounge room, ripping shirts off and pulling hard at each other's shorts, accidentally flicking the other with the drawstrings.
"Ooh … you liked to …," Viktor huffed, not finishing his question before slamming Ron into a wall. It was quite all right as Ron answered the question by grinding into him.
The sex was frantic and loud like an over-zealous Quidditch spectator. The pictures on the walls came crashing down as Viktor apparently felt compelled to treat him like a dusty carpet in a need of a good beating.
It matched and fulfilled about a quarter of all the fantasies he'd had since he first laid his eyes on Viktor.
There was more grunting and moaning than when the Ministry of Magic put a ban on the recreational use of magical herbs.
There was more hair-pulling and biting than on your average Veela family reunion.
Viktor saw fit to crush him so hard against the wall that it was like horde of rampaging Erumpents charging into him.
And Ron came so hard that it was like his brains had exploded and were now decorating the wall in lieu of the paintings that had crashed to the floor.
It was bloody fantastic.
Slumped on the floor, resting his back against the wall, cradling Viktor between his legs, feeling like he had single-handedly secured the Chudley Cannons the title of the Best Team of the Century, he made a mental note to send a thank you note and maybe to throw in a complimentary bottle of rakia to someone in England.
A certain travel agent.