Properly Wood NC-17 by abigail89
Title: Properly Wood
Author: Hysterical Hystorian abigail89
Team: Summer
Prompts: Dopplebeater Defence; Oliver Wood
Pairing/Genre: Ron/Oliver
Rating: NC-17 / Pretty damn naughty on the abigail ‘Naughtiness Scale’
Word Count: 7053
Warnings: AU!!! Fluffy romance. One five-year old boy = cuteness overload. Ron gets hurt, but not badly.
A/N: Many thanks to the mods for the deadline extention. Eternal thanks to my fabulous beta aome who rocks my world and beats my prose into submission. Any stupid mistakes remain mine alone. No money is being made, no disrespect is intended. I’m just letting Ron and Oliver have a little fun.
*~*
Ron groaned and rolled over. Without opening his eyes, he took stock of his body--at least he thought he had a body. A hand floated up from under the covers to touch his face. Stubble. Full lips. Yes, body.
His keen nose detected the most heavenly smell on earth. Coffee. Strong, dark coffee. Dollop of cream and two teaspoons of sugar. His mouth tried to water but he realized then that it was stuffed with cotton. Not literally, but ugh, how much did I drink last night?
Ron tried to open his eyes but for some reason they refused to work. He could feel his lids fluttering. Suddenly he felt a warm finger peel back one crusty eyelid. He found himself looking up into the concerned brown eyes of his godson, James Sirius Ronald Potter.
“Are you okay, Uncle Ron?”
Ron grunted, then cleared his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so,” he said slowly, rubbing a hand over his face now. “Why?”
“You’re still wearing your Quidditch helmet. And a kilt.”
Ron’s other eye shot open. At that moment, the sun chose to shine brightly through the window, blinding him.
“Augh!” He clamped a hand over his face. It was only then he noticed the leather helmet framing his face.
“Mum said to open the curtains. Said it would help you get your arse in gear. What does that mean, Uncle Ron?”
Several words came to mind, all in reference to the cruel woman who had whelped this lovely boy, words that even he in his hung-over, sleep-deprived, half-starkers state knew would not be appropriate for said five-year-old boy to hear.
“Ungh, well-“ he was thinking as fast as a brain stilled by Firewhisky allowed-“first, you shouldn’t say ‘arse’, and I’ll speak to your mum about that. But a gear is something, oh, Merlin, having to do with-um, cars, or machines, I think. I don’t know. Go Firecall Grampa Arthur and ask him about it.”
Ron pushed himself up into an upright position. Jamie held out the very large red mug to him, and Ron took it with the humility and gratitude of a penitent man.
“Thanks. He took a large gulp; it was extra strong. He thought he would perhaps forgive Hermione for her cruelty.
“Dad put a hangover potion in it. But don’t tell Mum,” Jamie said with a giggle. “Da said she wants you to suffer.”
Okay, forgiveness for Hermione was definitely on hold. “Your da is a good man. He should be sainted for this.”
“I don’t think Da would like that much,” Jamie said seriously. “Says he’s already earned enough stars in his crown being your best mate.”
Ron took another large gulp, his mind clearing as more of the potion-brewed to perfection by Harry’s Auror Forensic lab wizards-took effect. “Merlin bless them all,” he muttered.
Jamie sat down beside him. “Why are you so unhappy?”
The question startled Ron. “Why d’you think that?”
“Well, Mum says you get pissed all the time because you-“
“Now, look,” Ron said, turning to face his godson squarely, his head fully cleared. “I do not get pissed ‘all the time’”-he air-quoted Hermione’s words. “In fact, I don’t drink all that much because I am a professional Quidditch player. I have to stay in top form so I can play those matches that go on for days. And when I do drink, it’s to celebrate with my mates when we win, and sometimes to drown our sorrows when we lose, but,” he hastened to add, “we don’t have to get dead pissed to have a good time. It just so happens I was with a bunch of my good mates ‘cause one them is getting married.”
Jamie looked at him skeptically. “I just-I just don’t want you to be unhappy.”
Ron laid an arm across the lad’s slight shoulders. “How can I be unhappy when you’re in my life?”
Jamie gave him a quick hug, but then pushed him away. “I love you, Uncle Ron, but you need a shower. Mum wouldn’t like it if you came to breakfast smelling like the inside of a locker room.”
“Right you are, mate.” He waved the little boy off to go find his breakfast. “Wouldn’t want to offend your mum’s delicate sensibilities, would we?” he muttered mutinously. “Blimey, is there anything of Harry in that boy?”
He pulled off the leather helmet and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. Sleeping in the thing in the dead of summer was never a good idea. He sniffed at the dark leather and held it away. “Phew!” he exclaimed. “Need to give that a good freshening charm.”
He stood and looked down at the colorful, mostly blue kilt wrapped around his middle. It was definitely too big for him; even with the straps buckled in the last holes, the kilt slipped dangerously low on his hips, the top line of his pubic hair springing over the top band. “Thank god I’ve got an arse or I would’ve embarrassed myself last night.”
He thought hard about whose kilt it was. There were a bunch of guys at the pub wearing them, seeing as the pub was in the Highlands. It looked vaguely familiar, but there were several kilts that had dark blue in them. He shrugged, making a mental note to take it to practice with him, and inquire of the whereabouts of his jeans and t-shirt.
Ron entered into the small en suite bathroom. While it lacked a bathtub, it had a cozy shower stall with a large overhead faucet and two torso-level sprays. It was absolute heaven to have the hot water beating on his body after a long match, or a long night of drinking, something that did, in fact, happen on a frequent basis. He stepped in and spun the knobs; the water splashed down on his weary self.
He didn’t drink because he was unhappy; well, not too unhappy. He was happy enough. He had money. He was the reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United. He got enough play time to keep him interested in a Quidditch career, and not too much that it wore him out. He had good mates. He had a good home, even if it was attached to Harry’s house. At least it wasn’t his parents’ or the flat above the Wheezes shop in Diagon Alley. He could come and go as he pleased, and easily fob off Hermione’s pointed comments about his lifestyle; she loved him anyway.
While it was true he drank whatever the outcome of his team’s efforts at matches, and after practices and the individual accomplishments of his teammates, he also drank to forget. Forget that he had no interest whatever in the attentions of the young witches who inevitably followed Quidditch players to pubs and parties. Forget that he lived in a relatively conservative society. Forget he was in love with a teammate, the one who most decidedly paid close attention to the adoring witches around the team.
For years he had admired Oliver Wood from afar. When they’d been at Hogwarts, he was the unobtainable upperclassman, separated by four years, which may as well have been four hundred years. Then there was the social stratum of “Quidditch player” that Oliver and Harry and his brothers belonged to, one that was closed off to mere mortals such as himself. It became better when he made the Gryffindor team in fifth year, and then was instrumental in winning the House Cup for two years running. After the war he was recruited by Quidditch teams all over the England league but decided to follow Harry into Auror training. After five years with the Aurors he’d had enough, even though he’d won a measure of respect.
Only the Chudley Cannons took a chance on an older rookie player. Fortunately, the physical training Ron had had to do as an Auror kept his skills honed and body fit, and he rather easily took up the position. Initially, he was over the moon about actually playing for his beloved Cannons. But he soon learned why they were the worst team in the league: the administration had no clue how to run a team; the coaching staff, many of who were related to the administrators, was crap. Worse, several players connected to Death Eater families had been signed to cheap contracts, and they hassled him, not enough to alert the Aurors, but enough to keep him on his toes. After several years with the Cannons, he bounced around to a few teams and landed the back-up slot with Puddlemere United.
And Oliver Wood’s back-up. Who was a BIG star. And gorgeous. And friendly. And made Ron utterly tongue-tied every time he got around him. Because Ron had fallen truly and madly in love with England’s most famous Keeper.
Ron had been absolutely disgusted with himself during those first few months. He hadn’t been able to put together one coherent sentence in the man’s presence, let alone make a decent save. It was only after a tear-filled, drunken confession to Harry one night that had saved his arse and his career. Harry had told enough clumsy Oliver stories to show Ron that Oliver was not in fact a demi-god, but a very human wizard. That, and Harry had kicked Ron’s arse with a bracing verbal lashing that woke him up. The next day, Ron had been spectacular at practice, and that performance had won him playing time in his first match with PU.
Since then, Ron had fallen into an easy, if not love-sopped, friendship with Oliver Wood. They’d gotten pissed together after matches, sung the Puddlemere United cheering song-badly-together, and taken Puddlemere United to the top of the league. Even though Oliver’s skills were not what they used to be, he was still a much revered player and helluva good bloke. Oliver always bought several rounds of drinks for fans and patrons in the pub after victorious matches. He spoke respectfully to each and every fan who stood outside the stadiums after matches, even when they lost. He visited old wizards in the stands during birthday announcements, sitting next to delighted old men who insisted he meet their children and grandchildren and great-great grandchildren.
And it was Oliver’s attention to children that reduced Ron to a complete mess. The sight of Oliver Wood lying next to a sick child in the small beds at St. Mungo’s, reading or just talking quietly to them, melted Ron’s heart. Ron himself had a great fondness for children, and often brought bags of some of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ more-child friendly products to St. Mungo’s and children’s charities. He visited Hogwarts regularly to teach Quidditch players from all houses how to play more safely. Oliver began accompanying him on those coaching visits, and together they raised the skills of Hogwarts players dramatically. Watching Oliver work with young players and giving enthusiastic encouragement was inspiring. And arousing.
And now, standing in the hot shower thinking about Oliver at the team picnic two days before made him hard and bothered. Time had been incredibly good to Oliver. Besides being gorgeous, he was very fit and muscular. He wore his light brown hair a bit longer from his student days, and it waved perfectly in the wind, even when he was just running. That day he’d worn a fitted t-shirt that complimented his green eyes; his jeans were snug and low-slung. Remembering how those jeans had moulded around Oliver’s perfect arse and package made him even harder. He wrapped his hand around his cock, pulling on it deftly. He pictured Oliver in the locker room, naked, his cock and enormous balls bouncing as he walked around congratulating everyone on a well-fought match. He imagined that cock fully erect, jutting proudly from the darker brown thatch of hair surrounding it, sliding into his own willing body. God! If only it were true! Ron pulled frantically on his length, squeezing his balls, and gasped as he came; he groaned as he milked it for every drop, not wanting the shards of his white-hot orgasm to end.
“Uncle Ron! Are you okay?”
Ron’s eyes popped open and he dropped his cock immediately. He wiped the pearly blobs off the shower wall with his hand in quick strikes. “Yeah, hi. I’m fine. What do you want?”
“Um, Mum says you should save some water for the rest of the village. And your breakfast is getting cold.”
Ron cursed inwardly. “Yeah, all right. I’ll be there in a jiffy. Did you save some bacon for me?”
Jamie giggled. “Da had to make some more.”
“Remind me to spank you for being a pig.”
Jamie shut the door with a bang. “And remind me to call that real estate guy. I need to get my own place,” Ron grumbled as he switched off the water.
*~*
Ron Weasley floated in front of the largest Quidditch hoop seated on his Firebolt XT400. He’d only had the broomstick for a month, and was still discovering its limits. So far, he hadn’t found any. In his opinion it had been worth every Knut he’d spent.
Another equally beautiful Firebolt XT400 flew by, this one with tawny tail branches that matched Oliver’s hair. Oliver gave Ron a brilliant smile as he went by, waving jauntily with the bat in his right hand. Today the older man was playing Beater, filling in for John Smythwick-Jones who was still injured from last week’s match against Kenmure Kestrals, though John was sitting in the stands talking animatedly to a reporter.
Ron continued to watch Oliver fly about the pitch. He was an incredibly graceful flyer for a big man. Oliver was perhaps a few inches shorter than Ron, but weighed quite a bit more. His chest, burly even as a fifth year, had filled out, sporting massive pecs. Or, what Ron thought of as ‘massive’, at least compared to himself. Ron was dreaming about running his hands over Oliver’s gorgeous chest, when a shout drew his attention.
“Ron! Look OUT!”
He wheeled around and saw a Bludger coming straight at him. Ron ducked, performing a perfect 360-degree double spin whilst in a dive. However, the Bludger just caught his left hand, grazing the tops of his knuckles. He righted himself, shaking his head to regain his sense of orientation.
“Ron! Are you all right?” Oliver inquired. He flew up beside him and steadied him with his hand to elbow.
“Yeah, I’m fine. No worries,” Ron replied, looking at the bleeding wounds on several knuckles. “Should’ve been paying closer attention.”
“You should have,” Aiden Lynch, head coach of the team, said, pulling alongside them. “What were you thinking, Weasley?”
Ron reddened furiously. “Well, umm…”
“It doesn’t matter, Aiden,” Oliver interjected. “It wasn’t Ron’s fault entirely. I hit the Bludger wrong and it spun off at a wonky angle. He wasn’t expecting it. I’m a crap Beater. You know that, Coach.”
“Actually, you’re not, and you know it. All right, Weasley, get the medi-wizard to look at your hand and then hit the pitch for twenty. You’re done for today.”
“What? Wait! I’m fine!” Ron protested. “It’s nothing. I do worse than this working in the garden.”
Lynch shook his head. “Team policy. If you get caught with wandering attention, you run the pitch.”
Ron turned and flew away silently, face burning under the gaze of his entire team. Wanker!! Look what this - this obsession is doing. You’re blowing it! Career going down the crapper. You’re shit! You’re-“
“Ron!”
He looked over his shoulder to see Oliver catching up to him. “Hey, look. It’s okay. Aidan is going to start you on Saturday against the Cannons. John isn’t going to play for another week; he’s still seeing double when he turns his head too quickly. Not a good thing for a Beater,” Oliver finished with a grin.
Ron was stunned. “He is? So you’re playing Beater?”
Oliver gave a dramatic sigh. “I’m needed. What can I say? It’s a good thing we have two excellent Keepers, eh?”
“Yeah, I’ll say.”
“Look, I’m finished too. Coach doesn’t want me to chance throwing my arm out, so I’m gonna run laps with you. That okay?”
Ron smiled at him. “It’s your funeral.”
Oliver threw his head back, laughing. “You know me too well! Merlin’s balls but I hate to run.”
They landed softly in the grass and removed their protective leathers. Ron sat down to start stretching out in preparation for the run around the pitch. He wasn’t terribly fond of running either, but he’d noticed a huge difference in his endurance, so he tolerated it.
“Can I trouble you to stretch my gluts for me?” Oliver asked.
Ron rolled up onto his hands and knees and crawled over to Oliver, who was lying on the ground. “I’ve been having problems with cramping lately, so I need a good, hard stretch.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Ron lifted Oliver’s stout leg and pushed it towards the man’s chest. The stretchy fabric of the playing trousers pulled tightly along the muscles of Oliver’s leg and, Ron noticed feverishly, the front of his pelvis. Blessed be, but the fabric outlined the unmistakable line of Oliver’s cock; it was long and thick, the head extending to the crease at his thigh. Ron nearly moaned.
“Like that, yeah?” Oliver whispered, his eyes twinkling wickedly. He lifted his hand to touch Ron’s cheek with the tip of one finger.
Ron froze, realizing his eyes were still trained on Oliver’s crotch. “Umm…I think we need to get going.” He dropped Oliver’s leg heavily. He started off at a fast trot.
“Ron, wait!” Oliver called.
Ron’s mind was in a tailspin. Wait...Isn’t he?…I thought…I’m sure Oliver is straight!! But that…that was definitely NOT the reaction of a straight guy! Well…Okay. Maybe he…maybe not entirely straight. Guh! This changes things. Merlin help me, but there just might be a chance for me. Nah, Oliver isn’t gay? Could he?
Still reeling from his revelation, Ron slowed his pace, but did not stop. It took Oliver a minute to catch up to him, and he was huffing when he drew alongside. He nodded at Ron, giving him a tentative grin.
For the next thirty minutes the two men kept up a good pace around the pitch. By the time they finished their laps, both were sweating profusely. The rest of the team had finally landed and were preparing for their run, though it would be shorter.
Ron and Oliver walked to the locker room; the tension around them lay like a wool blanket. Ron’s mind was shooting in several directions. What do I do? Do I ignore him? Play it cool? Say something? Ask him straight up: Are you gay? Say nothing? Merlin, I’m such a tosser!
They entered the locker room. Ron’s area was across the large room from Oliver’s, but as he headed across the floor, Oliver touched Ron’s arm, then wrapped his hand around his wrist. He pulled Ron over to a corner of the locker room. “Ron, I don’t-that is to say, I’m not good at-“ he began.
All of a sudden Ron knew exactly what to do. He dropped his gear and broom, looked at Oliver’s bright eyes and cheeks, and pushed him against the wall, holding onto his biceps.
“You’re good at everything,” Ron whispered, and then he kissed him.
It was as if everything in his life had drawn him to this precise moment: the fumbling with other men in the back of the Flaming Falcon; the faltering relationship with Dennis Creevey; even the one sweet, sex-fueled month with Lee Jordan had prepared him to take the lead, to show Oliver his truest self and the depth of his feelings.
Oliver seemed stunned for just a second before he grabbed the back of Ron’s head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing fumbling or awkward about it. They both knew how to kiss and how to kiss another man. Ron’s mind, screamed, Holy fuck, he is! before it completely shorted out; he felt everything of Oliver’s body: the hard muscles in his arms; the glorious pecs and pebbled nipples that peaked through through the thin fabric of their shirts. Ron’s hands wandered down Oliver’s chest to his flat abs and around his hips, finding and grasping the hardened globes of a well-toned arse. Oliver moaned in his mouth.
“Fuck, it’s been so long,” Oliver whispered, pulling his lips from Ron’s mouth. He dragged them sensuously along Ron’s cheek and jaw, and finding the soft skin beneath his ear. He licked and then suckled the cord the throbbed in Ron’s neck. Ron’s knees gave way, but Oliver caught him in his strong arms. “Got you,” he said, grinning.
The levity broke the block passion had placed on Ron’s brain. “Sorry about that,” Ron said sheepishly. “But yeah, it’s been a while for me, too.”
“What’s wrong with us?” Oliver said, staring intently into Ron’s blue eyes. “We’re both good looking blokes. Nice blokes. Generous blokes. Why is it that it’s been ages since we’ve been laid?”
Ron blinked. “I thought…aren’t you? I thought you were -you know--making it with all those witches,” Ron said.
Oliver laughed. “Not me. I may party with them, but I am the perfect gentleman. I never date fans. At least, that’s what I tell them. Good cover, eh?”
“The best,” replied Ron. “I do the same.”
They stared at each other for a handful of heartbeats before Oliver captured Ron’s lips again. This kiss was even better than first, Ron thought. It was slow and deep; their tongues slid easily around each other. Ron pressed his erection into Oliver’s-god, Oliver was the perfect height. Both his previous lovers had been so much shorter than he. But this was heavenly. He loved feeling the other man’s firm chest and strong arms around him.
The kiss ended perfectly. They were both breathing hard as it did, and Ron touched his forehead to Oliver’s, enjoying the quiet and moment of connection with the person who had occupied his fantasies for so long. Reality was so much better.
“So, let me get this sorted out,” Ron asked while nuzzling Oliver’s cheek. “You don’t really like girls?”
Oliver chuckled, stretched his neck to allow Ron to nip. “I like them well enough. I have four sisters so I like girls enough to spend time with them, buy them drinks, maybe have a snog in a dark corner. But no, I don’t have sex with them. They aren’t what I want.” He moaned as Ron sucked on his ear lobe, then grabbed Ron’s arms and switched places with him, pinning him against the wall. He slowly and deliciously ground his erection against Ron’s. It was amazing. He wanted more than anything else in the world to close his eyes, and come and come and come in Oliver’s arms.
But instead he opened his eyes and realised they were in the locker room and moments away from being invaded by the rest of the team. Oliver must have read his mind because his movements ceased.
They stood in the circle of each other’s arms for a few seconds. “So, what do we do next? Shall we go to someone’s house and have sex?” Oliver asked.
“Umm…not that I’m not up for it, but you know, I’d like to take this slowly. Sounds awfully girly; I mean, that’s what Hermione said when we started going out. And my other relationships that were all about sex didn’t last all that long, so I’d like to try it Hermione’s way, if you don’t mind,” Ron said.
Oliver kissed him soundly. “A proper relationship. I like that. But not tonight, right? Big match tomorrow.”
“And family stuff tonight,” Ron admitted.
“Oh, by the way,” Ron asked, reluctantly stepping back, “are you missing a kilt?”
Once again Oliver chuckled. “Oh, aye, that’s right. It belongs to my cousin. You kept insisting you wanted to see what you looked like in the Wood tartan. It was hilarious.”
Ron stilled, then dropped his head into his hands. “Please tell me I didn’t strip off in front of everyone.”
“No, even though everyone was shouting for you to do it.” Oliver laughed. “I must admit I was sorely disappointed. And no, you did not profess your love for me. Everyone thought you were just trying to honour my cousin.” Oliver pulled his hands from his face and kissed him quickly. “But you did hang off me all evening. I did finally get a clue that you may have feelings for me.”
Ron groaned, this time in despair. “Why am I such a prat?”
“You’re not. You didn’t know I swung that way. I cover it up very carefully, as do you. I should have realized sooner, all those nights in the pubs, singing that stupid song.” Oliver shook his head. “What a couple of wankers we are.”
“Clueless, we are.”
Just as he spoke, the rest of the team clattered into the outer locker room noisily. Ron broke free of Oliver’s embrace and raced for his locker, but not before giving him a brilliant smile. He grabbed a towel and headed into the shower room just as they burst through the door in a wave of noise and energy.
Elated, he showered quickly, dried off, and dressed. He spoke to his teammates who had lockers around his. He turned to pick up his Firebolt, and discovered the missing jeans and t-shirt. He waved at Oliver, who waved back, and then he Disapparated to the Burrow.
*~*
Ron could hardly sleep that night. He was excited and nervous and happy and uncertain. What if he blew it? What if Oliver thought he was a prat after all? He clutched at his head. Stop it! No more ‘What ifs’! Just be yourself. That’s what Hermione always says. Yeah, that worked out so well. Harry likes you, always has. Hell, Harry likes everyone, even Malfoy. Okay, Malfoy isn’t so bad any more. Still…
After a while, Ron got up. He quietly opened the door and padded down the hall to the stairs. As he passed Jamie’s room, he heard the little boy call out to him, “Uncle Ron!”
“Hey, sprog, what you doing awake at this hour?” Ron said, coming into the room, and sitting beside him.
Jamie was still very sleepy, but he crawled into Ron’s lap. “Excited about watching you tomorrow.”
“Can’t stay awake for the match if you don’t get any sleep.” He hugged Jamie tightly.
“You can’t play if you don’t get any sleep.”
“Which is why I’m going to the kitchen to see if I can find some sleep potion your mum keeps in the cabinet. Why don’t you snuggle back down and see if you can sleep some more?”
“Want to go w-with you,” Jamie said, yawning.
“Tell you what, if you’re still awake when I get back, I’ll crawl in here with you.”
“Okay.”
Ron tucked him in, then cast a light warming charm over him to chase off the chill of the night. Jamie sighed and started breathing deeply.
“Excellent.”
Ron slept soundly after taking the potion. However, his traitorous subconscious had been active as he was sticky and uncomfortable when he woke early.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbled, stumbling to the bathroom. “I’m not fourteen any more.”
He crawled back into bed after cleaning up, but sleep was again elusive. Jamie pounded on his door at some ungodly hour, then burst through. “Uncle Ron! Uncle Ron! It’s time to go kick Cannon arse!”
“Language, sprog! And you bet we’re gonna kick the Cannons’ ar-oh, um, collective bottom,” Ron said, sitting up. He grabbed the little boy and hung him upside down by a foot.
“Yay!”
*~*
Ron and Oliver flew laps around the pitch together to the cheers of the crowd below. The match was in a time out for the officials; they were into the fourth hour of play.
“Blodnik’s being a right arse,” Oliver said hotly. “I want so badly to take his fucking head off.”
“He’s never liked me, not even when I played for the Cannons,” Ron said. “His family lost everything after the war because they supported You-Know-Who, though the Ministry was never able to confirm it. Harry told me about it later.”
“I’ll try to protect you better, then,” Oliver said, laying his hand on Ron’s shoulder.
A thrill went through him at Oliver’s touch. “I can take care of myself. Keep McClarin off-balance so he can’t throw that slider through the bottom hoop.”
Ron and Oliver circled lower and lower, until they were level with the section of the stands where Harry and Jamie were sitting. Jamie stood on his seat and waved frantically at him. Ron flew over to the stairs and climbed over the railing. As he did, Jamie came flying at him, and Ron caught him mid-air.
“Whoa, little man! Take it easy!” Ron laughed, hugging him. “What do you think about the match so far?”
“That Beater shouldn’t be hitting the Bludger at you,” Jamie said fiercely.
“That’s part of the game, you know. You have to stay aware of what’s going on all the time. It makes Quidditch exciting.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt!”
Harry walked up and joined them. “Hi, Oliver,” he said cheerfully, shaking his hand. “Good to see you!”
“Same here, Harry. Wow, this is your boy? He’s a lot bigger than when I last saw him. Give me five, man!” Oliver exchanged a high-five with an elated Jamie.
“You need to hit a Bludger at that bad guy. He’s being mean to Uncle Ron,” Jamie said.
“Well, you know, your Uncle Ron knows how to play the game very well. He hasn’t gotten hurt very many times in all the years he’s played,” Harry said. That’s why he’s playing professionally, and I’m not.”
Ron laughed. “When we were at Hogwarts your dad landed in the infirmary at some point during each match he played.
“Hey, it wasn’t that often!” Harry protested. When Ron continued to laugh, Harry snorted. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“That’s not the way I remember it. Go home and ask your mum how many times he got hurt. She’ll know how many times, the dates and the injuries.” Ron gave his godson a hug. “Look, sprog, we gotta go. Cheer loudly for us.”
“Take care, mate,” Harry said, giving Ron’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “Oliver, great to see you. Hope you’ll come around and visit us.” He winked.
Oliver and Ron slowly took off, returning to the pitch where the officials were ready to start the game. Puddlemere formed a huddle around them. “Everyone step lively,” Aidan Lynch warned. “Let’s hold them. And you two”-he looked at Oliver and the other Beater, Ian Fock-“see if you can’t aim a couple of Bludgers at Blodnik to let him know we are not pleased with his play.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, Coach,” Oliver said with an evil grin. “That’s all the permission I need.”
The officials whistled the start of the match, and all the players rose into the air.
Ron hovered in front of the hoops, watching the play at the far end of the pitch and the Bludgers whizzing below him. Blodnik flew by, and tipped the bat at Ron’s head.
“Ya flamin’ pouf! Gonna get you good!” he shouted.
Ron scowled. “I’ll see you in hell, fuckwad!”
Then, Blodnik lowered himself to level with the broomstick and shot up. The other Beater, a bloke Ron didn’t know, met him someways up, and together they looked upwards.
Ron watched them too, and with some consternation, realised what they were up to. They were waiting for a Bludger, which appeared in a few seconds. Together, they spun around; Ron dove, thinking they were getting ready to Dopplebeater him. He flew quickly around the poles of the hoops, and saw they were not aiming for him.
No, they were aiming for the stands. They were aiming right where Harry and Jamie were sitting.
“NOOO! Fucking bastards!” Ron shouted as he urged his Firebolt upwards.
Too late! The Cannons Beaters smacked the Bludger into the stands.
All Ron could see was Jamie’s face smiling and yelling, and then it turning into one of surprise. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, Oliver flew into Ron’s flight path, yelling. But then the Bludger came flying back from the stands and hit the tail of Oliver’s broomstick. He spun out of control.
Ron was enraged. Without thought, he flew directly at Blodnik, plowing into his pudgy middle, and threw a right hook. “You bastard! You attacked my family!!”
From then on, Ron didn’t really know what was happening, but all of a sudden, he was in a free-fall with Blodnik. He hit the pitch hard, and the world went black.
*~*
The first thing he was aware of was that he was very comfortable. Ron tested his arm, the body part that hurt the worst, and was happy to discover the pain was nothing more than a dull ache. His face, which had received a pummeling, no longer hurt, though the three teeth that had been knocked out were still a bit tender from having been grown back by Denta-Grow. It tasted even worse the Skele-Grow and that was saying something.
He sighed and opened his eyes. He was in his own bed, in his own bedroom. Harry had brought him home after being treated, assuring the team medi-wizard he and Hermione would care for him. He had been in and out of consciousness for a couple of day, he thought, thanks to the combination of pain and sleeping potions Hermione made him take. Wizarding medicine might have healed his shattered arm and sore face quickly, but his body needed sleep and time to feel one-hundred percent again. Ron carefully stretched, testing the rest of his body, and was gratified to feel that nothing hurt too badly.
He sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. No lighthead giddiness. Perfect.
A soft knock at the door caught his attention. “Come on in,” he called.
The door opened and in rushed Jamie, following by Oliver and Harry.
Jamie said nothing as he embraced him. Ron held the little boy closely. “I’m fine, sprog. Really. Look, I even have teeth.” He gave him a wide, cheesy smile.
“I was so scared for you,” Jamie whispered.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything. You have to be tough to play Quidditch, you know.” Ron gave him an extra hug. “How are you, Oliver? Harry only told me you weren’t seriously injured.”
“He’s right. No big deal; just a few bruises that cleared right up. Harry slowed my fall after the Bludger hit me.”
Harry nodded. “My Protego Spell rebounded the Bludger that was headed for us. I cast it to cover the whole stand, and unfortunately, Oliver was so close he took the brunt of it.”
“I’ve very glad you did that, Harry,” Oliver said, ruffling Jamie’s hair. “I wasn’t sure I could reach it in time.”
“The good news,” Harry said, “is that Blodnik has been fined and suspended for the rest of the season. The Dopplebeater Defence is a dodgy move, but illegal when used on the stands.”
“How did he know you were there? Did he see me talking to you?” Ron turned white.
“No. He saw me while he was flying past. I should’ve been more diligent,” Harry said, disgusted. “I thought I had things sorted with him.” Harry put his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “This had nothing to do with you.”
Ron breathed out in relief. “I’m so sorry.”
“No harm done, except to you two, of course,” Harry replied. “And now, my son, it’s time for your bath and I do believe I owe you a story.”
“Make it two, and you’ve got a deal,” Jamie chirped.
Oliver roared with laughter. “Aye, lad! That’s the way to drive a bargain.”
“Don’t encourage him. He’s already too smart for me,” Harry said. “Come on.”
Jamie gave Ron a sweet kiss on the cheek, then put his arms around Oliver’s neck and gave him a kiss, too. Harry gave them a knowing wave, ushered Jamie out, and closed the door firmly behind him; the lock snicked shut.
“Hey, how did you rate an uncle kiss?” Ron asked, pulling Oliver down into the covers with him.
“Ah, well,” Oliver said, hugging Ron close,” I’ve been here for a while.”
“A while?”
“A few days. Hermione very kindly put me in the guest room. Jamie and I have been spending a lot of time together. What a great kid! Smart-whew! Well, seeing as he’s Hermione’s - yeah, what did I expect. And Harry, he’s been so good about -“
“Oliver?”
“Um, what?”
“Stop talking.”
And then Ron smothered him with a kiss. It was hot and wet and fantastic. They quickly shucked their clothing, and literally sighed as their bare skin touched. Oliver rolled Ron over onto his back, grinding his erection into Ron’s hip. Ron bucked, creating delicious friction between them.
“Thought you wanted a proper relationship,” Oliver panted, sucking on Ron’s ear lobe.
“Well, I figure,” Ron said, wrapping his hand around Oliver’s hard length, “we’ve been going out for a while now.”
“A while?” Oliver was doing something delightfully wicked to the tip of Ron’s cock.
Ron moaned. “Yeah. You know, going to the pub. Buying rounds for everyone. Running laps around the pitch. Going to the Weird Sisters concert last month.” His hips undulated, his cock sliding piston-like in Oliver’s fist.
“We went as a team,” Oliver said, pressing his chest to Ron’s.
“Details. Shut up and fuck me.”
“God, yes.” Oliver disentangled himself from Ron limbs and rose up on his knees. “Lube?”
Ron reached under his pillow for his wand. “Accio lube!”
A small tube of lube flew into Oliver’s hand. “Excellent.”
“You’re wasted as a Beater. Should’ve been a Seeker,” Ron said, lifting his knees. “Come on.”
“No Seeker, me,” Oliver said as he liberally coated his fingers. “But a lover, oh, yes.”
Oliver finger circled Ron’s entrance, then slid in comfortably. Ron enjoyed the burn he’d not felt in some time. Oliver lovingly eased the opening, kissing Ron deeply, making him squirm in delight. Finally, Oliver was satisfied he wouldn’t hurt him, he placed Ron’s legs on his shoulders.
“You have the longest legs,” Oliver said in wonder. “Not many men would still be on the bed with them on my shoulders.”
“Don’t wanna hear that. Do it. Now.”
Oliver pressed in, slowly, gradually. Ron was in heaven. He opened his eyes wide, not wanting to miss the look of bliss that crossed Oliver’s handsome face. Their eyes met and they smiled.
“’s nice,” Oliver said softly. “Really nice.”
“Would be nicer if you moved,” Ron said.
Oliver moaned and started moving his hips faster; Ron took hold of his own cock. Ron could see Oliver was already close, his face contorted in a moue of pleasure-pain of impending orgasm. Ron knew he wouldn’t last long; he flexed his muscles in time with Oliver’s rhythm and in seconds, Oliver gasped loudly. Ron nearly cheered as his own orgasm crested; it sang loudly through his body, nerves vibrating with pure energy.
Oliver collapsed over Ron’s body; a bead of sweat dripped off his forehead. Finally, Ron gathered up enough brain cells to speak. “Not that it wasn’t brilliant, because it was, but I don’t think I was quite ready for that just yet. Think I’m a little dizzy.”
Oliver rolled off of him and held him close. “It’s all right. We have loads of time, this being a proper relationship and all. Do you want me to get you more of the potion?”
“Nah, I think I just need to go back to sleep.” He yawned. “’m sorry.”
“Shhh. I’m not going anywhere,” Oliver said. And in a second, Ron was fast asleep.
*~*
The next morning, Ron woke up early, refreshed and happy. He looked over at the expanse of lovely hot, naked Oliver beside him and grinned. He got up, showered, and took time shaving the Muggle way, with a razor and cream. It felt so much better than with a wand, and enjoyed doing it when he had the time.
When he entered the room, Oliver was gone. But lying on the bed was the Wood kilt. He picked it up and smiled.
“It’s yours.”
Ron looked at far side of the room. Oliver, wrapped in his dressing gown, was leaning by the window. “Mine?”
“Yeah. I’d like for you to wear it to my cousin’s wedding. As my date.”
“Your date?”
“Yeah, you know, proper relationship and all.”
Ron grinned. “I’d love to. C’mere.”
Oliver sauntered over, dropping the robe as he walked, his cock hard and ready. Ron reached up and pulled him down onto the bed, kissing him. “I think I like this proper relationship thing,” Ron said.
All of a sudden, there was a frantic knocking at the locked door. “Uncle Ron! Uncle Oliver!
Oliver and Ron hopped out of bed and quickly pulled on t-shirts and track pants. “Ready for him?” Ron asked.
Oliver nodded, grinning widely. Ron flopped onto the bed and lazily cast Alohamora!, which opened the lock and the door. Jamie flew in and landed in Ron’s arms, giggling. “Uncle Ron, Da says it’s a perfect day! Let’s go flying!”
Ron grabbed his godson and lifted him overhead. “Good morning to you too, sprog. Well, we need to get dressed, eat some breakfast, get our shoes on…”
“Okay, okay,” Jamie said, his brown hair flopping as he dangled over Ron. “Hurry up!” Ron lowered him to the bed. He jumped off, and scampered away.
Ron looked over at Oliver, who was laughing. “But first, I need my own place.”
“Plenty of room at mine, if you don’t mind living in Glasgow,” Oliver said in between kisses.
“I think that would be proper,” Ron said, as he pulled Oliver into his arms. “But first, we have some flying to do.”
*~*
Author: Hysterical Hystorian abigail89
Team: Summer
Prompts: Dopplebeater Defence; Oliver Wood
Pairing/Genre: Ron/Oliver
Rating: NC-17 / Pretty damn naughty on the abigail ‘Naughtiness Scale’
Word Count: 7053
Warnings: AU!!! Fluffy romance. One five-year old boy = cuteness overload. Ron gets hurt, but not badly.
A/N: Many thanks to the mods for the deadline extention. Eternal thanks to my fabulous beta aome who rocks my world and beats my prose into submission. Any stupid mistakes remain mine alone. No money is being made, no disrespect is intended. I’m just letting Ron and Oliver have a little fun.
*~*
Ron groaned and rolled over. Without opening his eyes, he took stock of his body--at least he thought he had a body. A hand floated up from under the covers to touch his face. Stubble. Full lips. Yes, body.
His keen nose detected the most heavenly smell on earth. Coffee. Strong, dark coffee. Dollop of cream and two teaspoons of sugar. His mouth tried to water but he realized then that it was stuffed with cotton. Not literally, but ugh, how much did I drink last night?
Ron tried to open his eyes but for some reason they refused to work. He could feel his lids fluttering. Suddenly he felt a warm finger peel back one crusty eyelid. He found himself looking up into the concerned brown eyes of his godson, James Sirius Ronald Potter.
“Are you okay, Uncle Ron?”
Ron grunted, then cleared his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so,” he said slowly, rubbing a hand over his face now. “Why?”
“You’re still wearing your Quidditch helmet. And a kilt.”
Ron’s other eye shot open. At that moment, the sun chose to shine brightly through the window, blinding him.
“Augh!” He clamped a hand over his face. It was only then he noticed the leather helmet framing his face.
“Mum said to open the curtains. Said it would help you get your arse in gear. What does that mean, Uncle Ron?”
Several words came to mind, all in reference to the cruel woman who had whelped this lovely boy, words that even he in his hung-over, sleep-deprived, half-starkers state knew would not be appropriate for said five-year-old boy to hear.
“Ungh, well-“ he was thinking as fast as a brain stilled by Firewhisky allowed-“first, you shouldn’t say ‘arse’, and I’ll speak to your mum about that. But a gear is something, oh, Merlin, having to do with-um, cars, or machines, I think. I don’t know. Go Firecall Grampa Arthur and ask him about it.”
Ron pushed himself up into an upright position. Jamie held out the very large red mug to him, and Ron took it with the humility and gratitude of a penitent man.
“Thanks. He took a large gulp; it was extra strong. He thought he would perhaps forgive Hermione for her cruelty.
“Dad put a hangover potion in it. But don’t tell Mum,” Jamie said with a giggle. “Da said she wants you to suffer.”
Okay, forgiveness for Hermione was definitely on hold. “Your da is a good man. He should be sainted for this.”
“I don’t think Da would like that much,” Jamie said seriously. “Says he’s already earned enough stars in his crown being your best mate.”
Ron took another large gulp, his mind clearing as more of the potion-brewed to perfection by Harry’s Auror Forensic lab wizards-took effect. “Merlin bless them all,” he muttered.
Jamie sat down beside him. “Why are you so unhappy?”
The question startled Ron. “Why d’you think that?”
“Well, Mum says you get pissed all the time because you-“
“Now, look,” Ron said, turning to face his godson squarely, his head fully cleared. “I do not get pissed ‘all the time’”-he air-quoted Hermione’s words. “In fact, I don’t drink all that much because I am a professional Quidditch player. I have to stay in top form so I can play those matches that go on for days. And when I do drink, it’s to celebrate with my mates when we win, and sometimes to drown our sorrows when we lose, but,” he hastened to add, “we don’t have to get dead pissed to have a good time. It just so happens I was with a bunch of my good mates ‘cause one them is getting married.”
Jamie looked at him skeptically. “I just-I just don’t want you to be unhappy.”
Ron laid an arm across the lad’s slight shoulders. “How can I be unhappy when you’re in my life?”
Jamie gave him a quick hug, but then pushed him away. “I love you, Uncle Ron, but you need a shower. Mum wouldn’t like it if you came to breakfast smelling like the inside of a locker room.”
“Right you are, mate.” He waved the little boy off to go find his breakfast. “Wouldn’t want to offend your mum’s delicate sensibilities, would we?” he muttered mutinously. “Blimey, is there anything of Harry in that boy?”
He pulled off the leather helmet and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. Sleeping in the thing in the dead of summer was never a good idea. He sniffed at the dark leather and held it away. “Phew!” he exclaimed. “Need to give that a good freshening charm.”
He stood and looked down at the colorful, mostly blue kilt wrapped around his middle. It was definitely too big for him; even with the straps buckled in the last holes, the kilt slipped dangerously low on his hips, the top line of his pubic hair springing over the top band. “Thank god I’ve got an arse or I would’ve embarrassed myself last night.”
He thought hard about whose kilt it was. There were a bunch of guys at the pub wearing them, seeing as the pub was in the Highlands. It looked vaguely familiar, but there were several kilts that had dark blue in them. He shrugged, making a mental note to take it to practice with him, and inquire of the whereabouts of his jeans and t-shirt.
Ron entered into the small en suite bathroom. While it lacked a bathtub, it had a cozy shower stall with a large overhead faucet and two torso-level sprays. It was absolute heaven to have the hot water beating on his body after a long match, or a long night of drinking, something that did, in fact, happen on a frequent basis. He stepped in and spun the knobs; the water splashed down on his weary self.
He didn’t drink because he was unhappy; well, not too unhappy. He was happy enough. He had money. He was the reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United. He got enough play time to keep him interested in a Quidditch career, and not too much that it wore him out. He had good mates. He had a good home, even if it was attached to Harry’s house. At least it wasn’t his parents’ or the flat above the Wheezes shop in Diagon Alley. He could come and go as he pleased, and easily fob off Hermione’s pointed comments about his lifestyle; she loved him anyway.
While it was true he drank whatever the outcome of his team’s efforts at matches, and after practices and the individual accomplishments of his teammates, he also drank to forget. Forget that he had no interest whatever in the attentions of the young witches who inevitably followed Quidditch players to pubs and parties. Forget that he lived in a relatively conservative society. Forget he was in love with a teammate, the one who most decidedly paid close attention to the adoring witches around the team.
For years he had admired Oliver Wood from afar. When they’d been at Hogwarts, he was the unobtainable upperclassman, separated by four years, which may as well have been four hundred years. Then there was the social stratum of “Quidditch player” that Oliver and Harry and his brothers belonged to, one that was closed off to mere mortals such as himself. It became better when he made the Gryffindor team in fifth year, and then was instrumental in winning the House Cup for two years running. After the war he was recruited by Quidditch teams all over the England league but decided to follow Harry into Auror training. After five years with the Aurors he’d had enough, even though he’d won a measure of respect.
Only the Chudley Cannons took a chance on an older rookie player. Fortunately, the physical training Ron had had to do as an Auror kept his skills honed and body fit, and he rather easily took up the position. Initially, he was over the moon about actually playing for his beloved Cannons. But he soon learned why they were the worst team in the league: the administration had no clue how to run a team; the coaching staff, many of who were related to the administrators, was crap. Worse, several players connected to Death Eater families had been signed to cheap contracts, and they hassled him, not enough to alert the Aurors, but enough to keep him on his toes. After several years with the Cannons, he bounced around to a few teams and landed the back-up slot with Puddlemere United.
And Oliver Wood’s back-up. Who was a BIG star. And gorgeous. And friendly. And made Ron utterly tongue-tied every time he got around him. Because Ron had fallen truly and madly in love with England’s most famous Keeper.
Ron had been absolutely disgusted with himself during those first few months. He hadn’t been able to put together one coherent sentence in the man’s presence, let alone make a decent save. It was only after a tear-filled, drunken confession to Harry one night that had saved his arse and his career. Harry had told enough clumsy Oliver stories to show Ron that Oliver was not in fact a demi-god, but a very human wizard. That, and Harry had kicked Ron’s arse with a bracing verbal lashing that woke him up. The next day, Ron had been spectacular at practice, and that performance had won him playing time in his first match with PU.
Since then, Ron had fallen into an easy, if not love-sopped, friendship with Oliver Wood. They’d gotten pissed together after matches, sung the Puddlemere United cheering song-badly-together, and taken Puddlemere United to the top of the league. Even though Oliver’s skills were not what they used to be, he was still a much revered player and helluva good bloke. Oliver always bought several rounds of drinks for fans and patrons in the pub after victorious matches. He spoke respectfully to each and every fan who stood outside the stadiums after matches, even when they lost. He visited old wizards in the stands during birthday announcements, sitting next to delighted old men who insisted he meet their children and grandchildren and great-great grandchildren.
And it was Oliver’s attention to children that reduced Ron to a complete mess. The sight of Oliver Wood lying next to a sick child in the small beds at St. Mungo’s, reading or just talking quietly to them, melted Ron’s heart. Ron himself had a great fondness for children, and often brought bags of some of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ more-child friendly products to St. Mungo’s and children’s charities. He visited Hogwarts regularly to teach Quidditch players from all houses how to play more safely. Oliver began accompanying him on those coaching visits, and together they raised the skills of Hogwarts players dramatically. Watching Oliver work with young players and giving enthusiastic encouragement was inspiring. And arousing.
And now, standing in the hot shower thinking about Oliver at the team picnic two days before made him hard and bothered. Time had been incredibly good to Oliver. Besides being gorgeous, he was very fit and muscular. He wore his light brown hair a bit longer from his student days, and it waved perfectly in the wind, even when he was just running. That day he’d worn a fitted t-shirt that complimented his green eyes; his jeans were snug and low-slung. Remembering how those jeans had moulded around Oliver’s perfect arse and package made him even harder. He wrapped his hand around his cock, pulling on it deftly. He pictured Oliver in the locker room, naked, his cock and enormous balls bouncing as he walked around congratulating everyone on a well-fought match. He imagined that cock fully erect, jutting proudly from the darker brown thatch of hair surrounding it, sliding into his own willing body. God! If only it were true! Ron pulled frantically on his length, squeezing his balls, and gasped as he came; he groaned as he milked it for every drop, not wanting the shards of his white-hot orgasm to end.
“Uncle Ron! Are you okay?”
Ron’s eyes popped open and he dropped his cock immediately. He wiped the pearly blobs off the shower wall with his hand in quick strikes. “Yeah, hi. I’m fine. What do you want?”
“Um, Mum says you should save some water for the rest of the village. And your breakfast is getting cold.”
Ron cursed inwardly. “Yeah, all right. I’ll be there in a jiffy. Did you save some bacon for me?”
Jamie giggled. “Da had to make some more.”
“Remind me to spank you for being a pig.”
Jamie shut the door with a bang. “And remind me to call that real estate guy. I need to get my own place,” Ron grumbled as he switched off the water.
*~*
Ron Weasley floated in front of the largest Quidditch hoop seated on his Firebolt XT400. He’d only had the broomstick for a month, and was still discovering its limits. So far, he hadn’t found any. In his opinion it had been worth every Knut he’d spent.
Another equally beautiful Firebolt XT400 flew by, this one with tawny tail branches that matched Oliver’s hair. Oliver gave Ron a brilliant smile as he went by, waving jauntily with the bat in his right hand. Today the older man was playing Beater, filling in for John Smythwick-Jones who was still injured from last week’s match against Kenmure Kestrals, though John was sitting in the stands talking animatedly to a reporter.
Ron continued to watch Oliver fly about the pitch. He was an incredibly graceful flyer for a big man. Oliver was perhaps a few inches shorter than Ron, but weighed quite a bit more. His chest, burly even as a fifth year, had filled out, sporting massive pecs. Or, what Ron thought of as ‘massive’, at least compared to himself. Ron was dreaming about running his hands over Oliver’s gorgeous chest, when a shout drew his attention.
“Ron! Look OUT!”
He wheeled around and saw a Bludger coming straight at him. Ron ducked, performing a perfect 360-degree double spin whilst in a dive. However, the Bludger just caught his left hand, grazing the tops of his knuckles. He righted himself, shaking his head to regain his sense of orientation.
“Ron! Are you all right?” Oliver inquired. He flew up beside him and steadied him with his hand to elbow.
“Yeah, I’m fine. No worries,” Ron replied, looking at the bleeding wounds on several knuckles. “Should’ve been paying closer attention.”
“You should have,” Aiden Lynch, head coach of the team, said, pulling alongside them. “What were you thinking, Weasley?”
Ron reddened furiously. “Well, umm…”
“It doesn’t matter, Aiden,” Oliver interjected. “It wasn’t Ron’s fault entirely. I hit the Bludger wrong and it spun off at a wonky angle. He wasn’t expecting it. I’m a crap Beater. You know that, Coach.”
“Actually, you’re not, and you know it. All right, Weasley, get the medi-wizard to look at your hand and then hit the pitch for twenty. You’re done for today.”
“What? Wait! I’m fine!” Ron protested. “It’s nothing. I do worse than this working in the garden.”
Lynch shook his head. “Team policy. If you get caught with wandering attention, you run the pitch.”
Ron turned and flew away silently, face burning under the gaze of his entire team. Wanker!! Look what this - this obsession is doing. You’re blowing it! Career going down the crapper. You’re shit! You’re-“
“Ron!”
He looked over his shoulder to see Oliver catching up to him. “Hey, look. It’s okay. Aidan is going to start you on Saturday against the Cannons. John isn’t going to play for another week; he’s still seeing double when he turns his head too quickly. Not a good thing for a Beater,” Oliver finished with a grin.
Ron was stunned. “He is? So you’re playing Beater?”
Oliver gave a dramatic sigh. “I’m needed. What can I say? It’s a good thing we have two excellent Keepers, eh?”
“Yeah, I’ll say.”
“Look, I’m finished too. Coach doesn’t want me to chance throwing my arm out, so I’m gonna run laps with you. That okay?”
Ron smiled at him. “It’s your funeral.”
Oliver threw his head back, laughing. “You know me too well! Merlin’s balls but I hate to run.”
They landed softly in the grass and removed their protective leathers. Ron sat down to start stretching out in preparation for the run around the pitch. He wasn’t terribly fond of running either, but he’d noticed a huge difference in his endurance, so he tolerated it.
“Can I trouble you to stretch my gluts for me?” Oliver asked.
Ron rolled up onto his hands and knees and crawled over to Oliver, who was lying on the ground. “I’ve been having problems with cramping lately, so I need a good, hard stretch.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Ron lifted Oliver’s stout leg and pushed it towards the man’s chest. The stretchy fabric of the playing trousers pulled tightly along the muscles of Oliver’s leg and, Ron noticed feverishly, the front of his pelvis. Blessed be, but the fabric outlined the unmistakable line of Oliver’s cock; it was long and thick, the head extending to the crease at his thigh. Ron nearly moaned.
“Like that, yeah?” Oliver whispered, his eyes twinkling wickedly. He lifted his hand to touch Ron’s cheek with the tip of one finger.
Ron froze, realizing his eyes were still trained on Oliver’s crotch. “Umm…I think we need to get going.” He dropped Oliver’s leg heavily. He started off at a fast trot.
“Ron, wait!” Oliver called.
Ron’s mind was in a tailspin. Wait...Isn’t he?…I thought…I’m sure Oliver is straight!! But that…that was definitely NOT the reaction of a straight guy! Well…Okay. Maybe he…maybe not entirely straight. Guh! This changes things. Merlin help me, but there just might be a chance for me. Nah, Oliver isn’t gay? Could he?
Still reeling from his revelation, Ron slowed his pace, but did not stop. It took Oliver a minute to catch up to him, and he was huffing when he drew alongside. He nodded at Ron, giving him a tentative grin.
For the next thirty minutes the two men kept up a good pace around the pitch. By the time they finished their laps, both were sweating profusely. The rest of the team had finally landed and were preparing for their run, though it would be shorter.
Ron and Oliver walked to the locker room; the tension around them lay like a wool blanket. Ron’s mind was shooting in several directions. What do I do? Do I ignore him? Play it cool? Say something? Ask him straight up: Are you gay? Say nothing? Merlin, I’m such a tosser!
They entered the locker room. Ron’s area was across the large room from Oliver’s, but as he headed across the floor, Oliver touched Ron’s arm, then wrapped his hand around his wrist. He pulled Ron over to a corner of the locker room. “Ron, I don’t-that is to say, I’m not good at-“ he began.
All of a sudden Ron knew exactly what to do. He dropped his gear and broom, looked at Oliver’s bright eyes and cheeks, and pushed him against the wall, holding onto his biceps.
“You’re good at everything,” Ron whispered, and then he kissed him.
It was as if everything in his life had drawn him to this precise moment: the fumbling with other men in the back of the Flaming Falcon; the faltering relationship with Dennis Creevey; even the one sweet, sex-fueled month with Lee Jordan had prepared him to take the lead, to show Oliver his truest self and the depth of his feelings.
Oliver seemed stunned for just a second before he grabbed the back of Ron’s head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing fumbling or awkward about it. They both knew how to kiss and how to kiss another man. Ron’s mind, screamed, Holy fuck, he is! before it completely shorted out; he felt everything of Oliver’s body: the hard muscles in his arms; the glorious pecs and pebbled nipples that peaked through through the thin fabric of their shirts. Ron’s hands wandered down Oliver’s chest to his flat abs and around his hips, finding and grasping the hardened globes of a well-toned arse. Oliver moaned in his mouth.
“Fuck, it’s been so long,” Oliver whispered, pulling his lips from Ron’s mouth. He dragged them sensuously along Ron’s cheek and jaw, and finding the soft skin beneath his ear. He licked and then suckled the cord the throbbed in Ron’s neck. Ron’s knees gave way, but Oliver caught him in his strong arms. “Got you,” he said, grinning.
The levity broke the block passion had placed on Ron’s brain. “Sorry about that,” Ron said sheepishly. “But yeah, it’s been a while for me, too.”
“What’s wrong with us?” Oliver said, staring intently into Ron’s blue eyes. “We’re both good looking blokes. Nice blokes. Generous blokes. Why is it that it’s been ages since we’ve been laid?”
Ron blinked. “I thought…aren’t you? I thought you were -you know--making it with all those witches,” Ron said.
Oliver laughed. “Not me. I may party with them, but I am the perfect gentleman. I never date fans. At least, that’s what I tell them. Good cover, eh?”
“The best,” replied Ron. “I do the same.”
They stared at each other for a handful of heartbeats before Oliver captured Ron’s lips again. This kiss was even better than first, Ron thought. It was slow and deep; their tongues slid easily around each other. Ron pressed his erection into Oliver’s-god, Oliver was the perfect height. Both his previous lovers had been so much shorter than he. But this was heavenly. He loved feeling the other man’s firm chest and strong arms around him.
The kiss ended perfectly. They were both breathing hard as it did, and Ron touched his forehead to Oliver’s, enjoying the quiet and moment of connection with the person who had occupied his fantasies for so long. Reality was so much better.
“So, let me get this sorted out,” Ron asked while nuzzling Oliver’s cheek. “You don’t really like girls?”
Oliver chuckled, stretched his neck to allow Ron to nip. “I like them well enough. I have four sisters so I like girls enough to spend time with them, buy them drinks, maybe have a snog in a dark corner. But no, I don’t have sex with them. They aren’t what I want.” He moaned as Ron sucked on his ear lobe, then grabbed Ron’s arms and switched places with him, pinning him against the wall. He slowly and deliciously ground his erection against Ron’s. It was amazing. He wanted more than anything else in the world to close his eyes, and come and come and come in Oliver’s arms.
But instead he opened his eyes and realised they were in the locker room and moments away from being invaded by the rest of the team. Oliver must have read his mind because his movements ceased.
They stood in the circle of each other’s arms for a few seconds. “So, what do we do next? Shall we go to someone’s house and have sex?” Oliver asked.
“Umm…not that I’m not up for it, but you know, I’d like to take this slowly. Sounds awfully girly; I mean, that’s what Hermione said when we started going out. And my other relationships that were all about sex didn’t last all that long, so I’d like to try it Hermione’s way, if you don’t mind,” Ron said.
Oliver kissed him soundly. “A proper relationship. I like that. But not tonight, right? Big match tomorrow.”
“And family stuff tonight,” Ron admitted.
“Oh, by the way,” Ron asked, reluctantly stepping back, “are you missing a kilt?”
Once again Oliver chuckled. “Oh, aye, that’s right. It belongs to my cousin. You kept insisting you wanted to see what you looked like in the Wood tartan. It was hilarious.”
Ron stilled, then dropped his head into his hands. “Please tell me I didn’t strip off in front of everyone.”
“No, even though everyone was shouting for you to do it.” Oliver laughed. “I must admit I was sorely disappointed. And no, you did not profess your love for me. Everyone thought you were just trying to honour my cousin.” Oliver pulled his hands from his face and kissed him quickly. “But you did hang off me all evening. I did finally get a clue that you may have feelings for me.”
Ron groaned, this time in despair. “Why am I such a prat?”
“You’re not. You didn’t know I swung that way. I cover it up very carefully, as do you. I should have realized sooner, all those nights in the pubs, singing that stupid song.” Oliver shook his head. “What a couple of wankers we are.”
“Clueless, we are.”
Just as he spoke, the rest of the team clattered into the outer locker room noisily. Ron broke free of Oliver’s embrace and raced for his locker, but not before giving him a brilliant smile. He grabbed a towel and headed into the shower room just as they burst through the door in a wave of noise and energy.
Elated, he showered quickly, dried off, and dressed. He spoke to his teammates who had lockers around his. He turned to pick up his Firebolt, and discovered the missing jeans and t-shirt. He waved at Oliver, who waved back, and then he Disapparated to the Burrow.
*~*
Ron could hardly sleep that night. He was excited and nervous and happy and uncertain. What if he blew it? What if Oliver thought he was a prat after all? He clutched at his head. Stop it! No more ‘What ifs’! Just be yourself. That’s what Hermione always says. Yeah, that worked out so well. Harry likes you, always has. Hell, Harry likes everyone, even Malfoy. Okay, Malfoy isn’t so bad any more. Still…
After a while, Ron got up. He quietly opened the door and padded down the hall to the stairs. As he passed Jamie’s room, he heard the little boy call out to him, “Uncle Ron!”
“Hey, sprog, what you doing awake at this hour?” Ron said, coming into the room, and sitting beside him.
Jamie was still very sleepy, but he crawled into Ron’s lap. “Excited about watching you tomorrow.”
“Can’t stay awake for the match if you don’t get any sleep.” He hugged Jamie tightly.
“You can’t play if you don’t get any sleep.”
“Which is why I’m going to the kitchen to see if I can find some sleep potion your mum keeps in the cabinet. Why don’t you snuggle back down and see if you can sleep some more?”
“Want to go w-with you,” Jamie said, yawning.
“Tell you what, if you’re still awake when I get back, I’ll crawl in here with you.”
“Okay.”
Ron tucked him in, then cast a light warming charm over him to chase off the chill of the night. Jamie sighed and started breathing deeply.
“Excellent.”
Ron slept soundly after taking the potion. However, his traitorous subconscious had been active as he was sticky and uncomfortable when he woke early.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbled, stumbling to the bathroom. “I’m not fourteen any more.”
He crawled back into bed after cleaning up, but sleep was again elusive. Jamie pounded on his door at some ungodly hour, then burst through. “Uncle Ron! Uncle Ron! It’s time to go kick Cannon arse!”
“Language, sprog! And you bet we’re gonna kick the Cannons’ ar-oh, um, collective bottom,” Ron said, sitting up. He grabbed the little boy and hung him upside down by a foot.
“Yay!”
*~*
Ron and Oliver flew laps around the pitch together to the cheers of the crowd below. The match was in a time out for the officials; they were into the fourth hour of play.
“Blodnik’s being a right arse,” Oliver said hotly. “I want so badly to take his fucking head off.”
“He’s never liked me, not even when I played for the Cannons,” Ron said. “His family lost everything after the war because they supported You-Know-Who, though the Ministry was never able to confirm it. Harry told me about it later.”
“I’ll try to protect you better, then,” Oliver said, laying his hand on Ron’s shoulder.
A thrill went through him at Oliver’s touch. “I can take care of myself. Keep McClarin off-balance so he can’t throw that slider through the bottom hoop.”
Ron and Oliver circled lower and lower, until they were level with the section of the stands where Harry and Jamie were sitting. Jamie stood on his seat and waved frantically at him. Ron flew over to the stairs and climbed over the railing. As he did, Jamie came flying at him, and Ron caught him mid-air.
“Whoa, little man! Take it easy!” Ron laughed, hugging him. “What do you think about the match so far?”
“That Beater shouldn’t be hitting the Bludger at you,” Jamie said fiercely.
“That’s part of the game, you know. You have to stay aware of what’s going on all the time. It makes Quidditch exciting.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt!”
Harry walked up and joined them. “Hi, Oliver,” he said cheerfully, shaking his hand. “Good to see you!”
“Same here, Harry. Wow, this is your boy? He’s a lot bigger than when I last saw him. Give me five, man!” Oliver exchanged a high-five with an elated Jamie.
“You need to hit a Bludger at that bad guy. He’s being mean to Uncle Ron,” Jamie said.
“Well, you know, your Uncle Ron knows how to play the game very well. He hasn’t gotten hurt very many times in all the years he’s played,” Harry said. That’s why he’s playing professionally, and I’m not.”
Ron laughed. “When we were at Hogwarts your dad landed in the infirmary at some point during each match he played.
“Hey, it wasn’t that often!” Harry protested. When Ron continued to laugh, Harry snorted. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“That’s not the way I remember it. Go home and ask your mum how many times he got hurt. She’ll know how many times, the dates and the injuries.” Ron gave his godson a hug. “Look, sprog, we gotta go. Cheer loudly for us.”
“Take care, mate,” Harry said, giving Ron’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “Oliver, great to see you. Hope you’ll come around and visit us.” He winked.
Oliver and Ron slowly took off, returning to the pitch where the officials were ready to start the game. Puddlemere formed a huddle around them. “Everyone step lively,” Aidan Lynch warned. “Let’s hold them. And you two”-he looked at Oliver and the other Beater, Ian Fock-“see if you can’t aim a couple of Bludgers at Blodnik to let him know we are not pleased with his play.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, Coach,” Oliver said with an evil grin. “That’s all the permission I need.”
The officials whistled the start of the match, and all the players rose into the air.
Ron hovered in front of the hoops, watching the play at the far end of the pitch and the Bludgers whizzing below him. Blodnik flew by, and tipped the bat at Ron’s head.
“Ya flamin’ pouf! Gonna get you good!” he shouted.
Ron scowled. “I’ll see you in hell, fuckwad!”
Then, Blodnik lowered himself to level with the broomstick and shot up. The other Beater, a bloke Ron didn’t know, met him someways up, and together they looked upwards.
Ron watched them too, and with some consternation, realised what they were up to. They were waiting for a Bludger, which appeared in a few seconds. Together, they spun around; Ron dove, thinking they were getting ready to Dopplebeater him. He flew quickly around the poles of the hoops, and saw they were not aiming for him.
No, they were aiming for the stands. They were aiming right where Harry and Jamie were sitting.
“NOOO! Fucking bastards!” Ron shouted as he urged his Firebolt upwards.
Too late! The Cannons Beaters smacked the Bludger into the stands.
All Ron could see was Jamie’s face smiling and yelling, and then it turning into one of surprise. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, Oliver flew into Ron’s flight path, yelling. But then the Bludger came flying back from the stands and hit the tail of Oliver’s broomstick. He spun out of control.
Ron was enraged. Without thought, he flew directly at Blodnik, plowing into his pudgy middle, and threw a right hook. “You bastard! You attacked my family!!”
From then on, Ron didn’t really know what was happening, but all of a sudden, he was in a free-fall with Blodnik. He hit the pitch hard, and the world went black.
*~*
The first thing he was aware of was that he was very comfortable. Ron tested his arm, the body part that hurt the worst, and was happy to discover the pain was nothing more than a dull ache. His face, which had received a pummeling, no longer hurt, though the three teeth that had been knocked out were still a bit tender from having been grown back by Denta-Grow. It tasted even worse the Skele-Grow and that was saying something.
He sighed and opened his eyes. He was in his own bed, in his own bedroom. Harry had brought him home after being treated, assuring the team medi-wizard he and Hermione would care for him. He had been in and out of consciousness for a couple of day, he thought, thanks to the combination of pain and sleeping potions Hermione made him take. Wizarding medicine might have healed his shattered arm and sore face quickly, but his body needed sleep and time to feel one-hundred percent again. Ron carefully stretched, testing the rest of his body, and was gratified to feel that nothing hurt too badly.
He sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. No lighthead giddiness. Perfect.
A soft knock at the door caught his attention. “Come on in,” he called.
The door opened and in rushed Jamie, following by Oliver and Harry.
Jamie said nothing as he embraced him. Ron held the little boy closely. “I’m fine, sprog. Really. Look, I even have teeth.” He gave him a wide, cheesy smile.
“I was so scared for you,” Jamie whispered.
“Oh, it wasn’t anything. You have to be tough to play Quidditch, you know.” Ron gave him an extra hug. “How are you, Oliver? Harry only told me you weren’t seriously injured.”
“He’s right. No big deal; just a few bruises that cleared right up. Harry slowed my fall after the Bludger hit me.”
Harry nodded. “My Protego Spell rebounded the Bludger that was headed for us. I cast it to cover the whole stand, and unfortunately, Oliver was so close he took the brunt of it.”
“I’ve very glad you did that, Harry,” Oliver said, ruffling Jamie’s hair. “I wasn’t sure I could reach it in time.”
“The good news,” Harry said, “is that Blodnik has been fined and suspended for the rest of the season. The Dopplebeater Defence is a dodgy move, but illegal when used on the stands.”
“How did he know you were there? Did he see me talking to you?” Ron turned white.
“No. He saw me while he was flying past. I should’ve been more diligent,” Harry said, disgusted. “I thought I had things sorted with him.” Harry put his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “This had nothing to do with you.”
Ron breathed out in relief. “I’m so sorry.”
“No harm done, except to you two, of course,” Harry replied. “And now, my son, it’s time for your bath and I do believe I owe you a story.”
“Make it two, and you’ve got a deal,” Jamie chirped.
Oliver roared with laughter. “Aye, lad! That’s the way to drive a bargain.”
“Don’t encourage him. He’s already too smart for me,” Harry said. “Come on.”
Jamie gave Ron a sweet kiss on the cheek, then put his arms around Oliver’s neck and gave him a kiss, too. Harry gave them a knowing wave, ushered Jamie out, and closed the door firmly behind him; the lock snicked shut.
“Hey, how did you rate an uncle kiss?” Ron asked, pulling Oliver down into the covers with him.
“Ah, well,” Oliver said, hugging Ron close,” I’ve been here for a while.”
“A while?”
“A few days. Hermione very kindly put me in the guest room. Jamie and I have been spending a lot of time together. What a great kid! Smart-whew! Well, seeing as he’s Hermione’s - yeah, what did I expect. And Harry, he’s been so good about -“
“Oliver?”
“Um, what?”
“Stop talking.”
And then Ron smothered him with a kiss. It was hot and wet and fantastic. They quickly shucked their clothing, and literally sighed as their bare skin touched. Oliver rolled Ron over onto his back, grinding his erection into Ron’s hip. Ron bucked, creating delicious friction between them.
“Thought you wanted a proper relationship,” Oliver panted, sucking on Ron’s ear lobe.
“Well, I figure,” Ron said, wrapping his hand around Oliver’s hard length, “we’ve been going out for a while now.”
“A while?” Oliver was doing something delightfully wicked to the tip of Ron’s cock.
Ron moaned. “Yeah. You know, going to the pub. Buying rounds for everyone. Running laps around the pitch. Going to the Weird Sisters concert last month.” His hips undulated, his cock sliding piston-like in Oliver’s fist.
“We went as a team,” Oliver said, pressing his chest to Ron’s.
“Details. Shut up and fuck me.”
“God, yes.” Oliver disentangled himself from Ron limbs and rose up on his knees. “Lube?”
Ron reached under his pillow for his wand. “Accio lube!”
A small tube of lube flew into Oliver’s hand. “Excellent.”
“You’re wasted as a Beater. Should’ve been a Seeker,” Ron said, lifting his knees. “Come on.”
“No Seeker, me,” Oliver said as he liberally coated his fingers. “But a lover, oh, yes.”
Oliver finger circled Ron’s entrance, then slid in comfortably. Ron enjoyed the burn he’d not felt in some time. Oliver lovingly eased the opening, kissing Ron deeply, making him squirm in delight. Finally, Oliver was satisfied he wouldn’t hurt him, he placed Ron’s legs on his shoulders.
“You have the longest legs,” Oliver said in wonder. “Not many men would still be on the bed with them on my shoulders.”
“Don’t wanna hear that. Do it. Now.”
Oliver pressed in, slowly, gradually. Ron was in heaven. He opened his eyes wide, not wanting to miss the look of bliss that crossed Oliver’s handsome face. Their eyes met and they smiled.
“’s nice,” Oliver said softly. “Really nice.”
“Would be nicer if you moved,” Ron said.
Oliver moaned and started moving his hips faster; Ron took hold of his own cock. Ron could see Oliver was already close, his face contorted in a moue of pleasure-pain of impending orgasm. Ron knew he wouldn’t last long; he flexed his muscles in time with Oliver’s rhythm and in seconds, Oliver gasped loudly. Ron nearly cheered as his own orgasm crested; it sang loudly through his body, nerves vibrating with pure energy.
Oliver collapsed over Ron’s body; a bead of sweat dripped off his forehead. Finally, Ron gathered up enough brain cells to speak. “Not that it wasn’t brilliant, because it was, but I don’t think I was quite ready for that just yet. Think I’m a little dizzy.”
Oliver rolled off of him and held him close. “It’s all right. We have loads of time, this being a proper relationship and all. Do you want me to get you more of the potion?”
“Nah, I think I just need to go back to sleep.” He yawned. “’m sorry.”
“Shhh. I’m not going anywhere,” Oliver said. And in a second, Ron was fast asleep.
*~*
The next morning, Ron woke up early, refreshed and happy. He looked over at the expanse of lovely hot, naked Oliver beside him and grinned. He got up, showered, and took time shaving the Muggle way, with a razor and cream. It felt so much better than with a wand, and enjoyed doing it when he had the time.
When he entered the room, Oliver was gone. But lying on the bed was the Wood kilt. He picked it up and smiled.
“It’s yours.”
Ron looked at far side of the room. Oliver, wrapped in his dressing gown, was leaning by the window. “Mine?”
“Yeah. I’d like for you to wear it to my cousin’s wedding. As my date.”
“Your date?”
“Yeah, you know, proper relationship and all.”
Ron grinned. “I’d love to. C’mere.”
Oliver sauntered over, dropping the robe as he walked, his cock hard and ready. Ron reached up and pulled him down onto the bed, kissing him. “I think I like this proper relationship thing,” Ron said.
All of a sudden, there was a frantic knocking at the locked door. “Uncle Ron! Uncle Oliver!
Oliver and Ron hopped out of bed and quickly pulled on t-shirts and track pants. “Ready for him?” Ron asked.
Oliver nodded, grinning widely. Ron flopped onto the bed and lazily cast Alohamora!, which opened the lock and the door. Jamie flew in and landed in Ron’s arms, giggling. “Uncle Ron, Da says it’s a perfect day! Let’s go flying!”
Ron grabbed his godson and lifted him overhead. “Good morning to you too, sprog. Well, we need to get dressed, eat some breakfast, get our shoes on…”
“Okay, okay,” Jamie said, his brown hair flopping as he dangled over Ron. “Hurry up!” Ron lowered him to the bed. He jumped off, and scampered away.
Ron looked over at Oliver, who was laughing. “But first, I need my own place.”
“Plenty of room at mine, if you don’t mind living in Glasgow,” Oliver said in between kisses.
“I think that would be proper,” Ron said, as he pulled Oliver into his arms. “But first, we have some flying to do.”
*~*