Series: Anything You Can Do (15/20)
Title: Anything You Can Do (15/20)
Episode: #15 - Weathermen Predict a Snowstorm in Hell
Story Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Disclaimer: The characters of Harry Potter aren't mine. I just like making them shag each other. A lot.
Summary: Two it-boys, a botched love potion and Draco Malfoy really isn't endeared by Ronald Weasley. Really.
Notes: An on-going Ron/Draco, that'll be updated every other day.
Link:
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Anything You Can Do (15/20)
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Draco had never really considered sex with Ron Weasley before this event. Not eagerly, at least.
Sure he was handsome for an idiotic blood traitor and maybe Draco considered his hot-headedness rather sexy in its own way but he never really thought of actively having hot, sweaty, mind-blowing sex with the man.
However, after actually having said hot, sweaty, mind-blowing sex with said man (twice), Draco would have to say that for someone as addled as Weasley so clearly was, he was one hell of a lay.
Weasley had grabbed Draco’s ankles and thrown them over his freckled shoulders and Draco heard noises coming out of himself that he never even knew he could make. He had thrown back his head and arched his entire body, his hips constantly moving in tandem with the redhead’s as his ankles tightened behind his neck. The pain was exquisite but sharp enough to make him curse at Weasley in five different languages and his breathing came in such hard pants that he was sure his lungs had collapsed somewhere along the way.
Those octopus arms did themselves proud and Draco’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he thrust himself against the redhead’s surprisingly skilled fingers.
“Merlin’s balls, Weasley…” he had remembered babbling in the midst of his orgasm, his toes looking remarkably pale buried in bright red hair.
“No, yours, actually,” Weasley had quipped back, twisting his wrist to punctuate the fact and all Draco could do was make a “nggggh” sort of noise and wonder where all these stars had suddenly come from.
It had all culminated in a rather sweaty, sticky mess and Draco, who abhorred all things sweaty, sticky and messy on principle, found that maybe he had found the one act that made them more bearable (Weasley’s primal scream of “I love you!” at the ceiling notwithstanding).
Lying on the dusty floor afterwards and dozing on Ron’s shoulder, Draco blearily blinked up at the candle dripping on the now cold turkey and wondered when hell had frozen over.
“You okay, love?”
“Weasley, stop calling me ‘love’,” Draco had wanted to snap but it came out as a lazy drawl. “It’s putting me off the sensational sex we just had.”
“We made love,” Ron corrected and snuffled into Draco’s neck before the blond could gag at his disgusting choice of words.
A pair of large, calloused fingers ghosted over his ribs and Draco really didn’t know why he was holding his breath.
“Weasley, this was fucking, no more, no less,” he said coldly, sitting up on his elbows to look Ron directly in the eye. “You were easy to take advantage of and I am a horny Slytherin. Now where the hell is my underwear?”
Getting to his feet, Draco stretched a crick in his back, completely comfortable in his own nudity as he went on a hunt for his socks.
Clothes were half-torn and haphazardly strewn about the kitchen and Draco felt a little smirk tugging at his mouth when he remembered exactly how his boxers and ended up in the gravy boat.
Ron, tousled and looking thoroughly shagged, watched him with misty eyes that rivalled Luna Lovegood’s in size.
“I know you care about me really.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Weasel,” Draco retorted with an easy sneer, idly picking up what was left of his trousers. “The day I care about an insignificant pauper like you is the day that my hair is a mess.”
“Your hair is a mess now,” Ron returned brightly and Draco glowered at him.
“Weasley,” he gritted out, a hand on his hip. “Firstly, my hair is never a mess. Secondly, I would never fall in love with you. Even if my survival depended on falling in love with you or having my genitals ripped off and eaten by manticores, I still wouldn’t fall in love with you. Does that permeate into your tiny, trollish little mind?”
Ron blinked back at him a little dully before a huge grin overtook his mouth.
“You DO care about me!”
Restraining himself from banging his head against the wall, Draco picked up the nearest ornament and hurled it at Ron. When the redhead caught it easily in his outstretched hand, Draco growled with fury.
“I’m taking a shower,” he snarled, grabbing the remains of his robes before slamming the door to the bathroom.
Ron, however, was too busy extricating Draco’s boxers from the gravy and giving them a dreamy sniff to heed his dramatic exit.
previous episode - next episode
Episode: #15 - Weathermen Predict a Snowstorm in Hell
Story Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Disclaimer: The characters of Harry Potter aren't mine. I just like making them shag each other. A lot.
Summary: Two it-boys, a botched love potion and Draco Malfoy really isn't endeared by Ronald Weasley. Really.
Notes: An on-going Ron/Draco, that'll be updated every other day.
Link:
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Anything You Can Do (15/20)
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
previous episode - next episode
Draco had never really considered sex with Ron Weasley before this event. Not eagerly, at least.
Sure he was handsome for an idiotic blood traitor and maybe Draco considered his hot-headedness rather sexy in its own way but he never really thought of actively having hot, sweaty, mind-blowing sex with the man.
However, after actually having said hot, sweaty, mind-blowing sex with said man (twice), Draco would have to say that for someone as addled as Weasley so clearly was, he was one hell of a lay.
Weasley had grabbed Draco’s ankles and thrown them over his freckled shoulders and Draco heard noises coming out of himself that he never even knew he could make. He had thrown back his head and arched his entire body, his hips constantly moving in tandem with the redhead’s as his ankles tightened behind his neck. The pain was exquisite but sharp enough to make him curse at Weasley in five different languages and his breathing came in such hard pants that he was sure his lungs had collapsed somewhere along the way.
Those octopus arms did themselves proud and Draco’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he thrust himself against the redhead’s surprisingly skilled fingers.
“Merlin’s balls, Weasley…” he had remembered babbling in the midst of his orgasm, his toes looking remarkably pale buried in bright red hair.
“No, yours, actually,” Weasley had quipped back, twisting his wrist to punctuate the fact and all Draco could do was make a “nggggh” sort of noise and wonder where all these stars had suddenly come from.
It had all culminated in a rather sweaty, sticky mess and Draco, who abhorred all things sweaty, sticky and messy on principle, found that maybe he had found the one act that made them more bearable (Weasley’s primal scream of “I love you!” at the ceiling notwithstanding).
Lying on the dusty floor afterwards and dozing on Ron’s shoulder, Draco blearily blinked up at the candle dripping on the now cold turkey and wondered when hell had frozen over.
“You okay, love?”
“Weasley, stop calling me ‘love’,” Draco had wanted to snap but it came out as a lazy drawl. “It’s putting me off the sensational sex we just had.”
“We made love,” Ron corrected and snuffled into Draco’s neck before the blond could gag at his disgusting choice of words.
A pair of large, calloused fingers ghosted over his ribs and Draco really didn’t know why he was holding his breath.
“Weasley, this was fucking, no more, no less,” he said coldly, sitting up on his elbows to look Ron directly in the eye. “You were easy to take advantage of and I am a horny Slytherin. Now where the hell is my underwear?”
Getting to his feet, Draco stretched a crick in his back, completely comfortable in his own nudity as he went on a hunt for his socks.
Clothes were half-torn and haphazardly strewn about the kitchen and Draco felt a little smirk tugging at his mouth when he remembered exactly how his boxers and ended up in the gravy boat.
Ron, tousled and looking thoroughly shagged, watched him with misty eyes that rivalled Luna Lovegood’s in size.
“I know you care about me really.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Weasel,” Draco retorted with an easy sneer, idly picking up what was left of his trousers. “The day I care about an insignificant pauper like you is the day that my hair is a mess.”
“Your hair is a mess now,” Ron returned brightly and Draco glowered at him.
“Weasley,” he gritted out, a hand on his hip. “Firstly, my hair is never a mess. Secondly, I would never fall in love with you. Even if my survival depended on falling in love with you or having my genitals ripped off and eaten by manticores, I still wouldn’t fall in love with you. Does that permeate into your tiny, trollish little mind?”
Ron blinked back at him a little dully before a huge grin overtook his mouth.
“You DO care about me!”
Restraining himself from banging his head against the wall, Draco picked up the nearest ornament and hurled it at Ron. When the redhead caught it easily in his outstretched hand, Draco growled with fury.
“I’m taking a shower,” he snarled, grabbing the remains of his robes before slamming the door to the bathroom.
Ron, however, was too busy extricating Draco’s boxers from the gravy and giving them a dreamy sniff to heed his dramatic exit.
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