Author: Mosh Title: Touching Someone Else Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks! |
Ron's hand is hard to focus on as it works Harry's cock until it's slick with the sweat from his palm, and Harry is moaning, arching his hips off the bed for more. He looks like he's torn between pain and nirvana; squinting, tears of desperation forming at the corners of his eyes, mouth open, panting in gasps of "I-I'm going... to... come..." but he's wincing too, as if it hurts. Ron strokes him harder, faster, come on, come on, come ON Harry, nothing but the slapping of damp skin and quick grunts of effort. Harry swears suddenly, so Ron stills his hand, but Harry swears even louder at that, and hot come shoots across Ron's fingers and wrist. Ron watches with open fascination at the way Harry's cock twitches against his palm - it's so weird, so different from the way his own does when he wanks himself. And how Harry's hips keep jerking up like he's possessed, unable to control it. Finally, Harry lets out a long, deep moan, sinking against his pillows. Ron releases Harry's cock, lying down on the bed beside him, waiting. Nothing happens. Ron cranes his neck to glance down at his own angry-red hard-on; Harry's fingers curled around it loosely, unmoving. Ron wriggles his hips a bit, annoyed because Harry always loses concentration and stops after he's come. He's always the sodding first to come, too. Ron continues to wait... and wait... and wait... and somehow, that familiar swell of frustrated arousal grows oddly satisfying. Ron decides, after a brief moment of deliberation, to give Harry a minute or two to calm down, and doesn't prompt him into moving just yet, figuring release will be all the sweeter the longer he leaves it. He relaxes against Harry's mattress for a moment, closing his eyes, concentrating on the dull throb of his prick, the tightness of it, the gentlest of touches from Harry's fingers that isn't enough to make him move, but is nice all the same. It feels good. Harry shifts beside him, letting go slowly. Ron sighs, opening his mouth to speak - he's about ready now, he wants Harry to reciprocate- But he's suddenly wrenched from his thoughts when a strange, slick heat closes around the head of his cock. What the hell? Ron yelps, looking down to where Harry is kneeling over his groin, sucking him in slowly - oh fuck! Ron watches as his prick slides into Harry's mouth, or is that Harry's mouth sliding down over his prick? Ron almost screams, but instead his hips buck up - he hadn't meant to do that! - and he feels Harry draw back a little so as not to be choked. "Harry!" Harry flashes his eyes at Ron - not long enough to read the expression on Ron's face, apparently - then works his tongue around the head of Ron's cock, sliding it down to the base, then back up - and how the fuck is he doing that? And again with his tongue! "Oh my God! Harry!" And Harry sucks. Hard. Sucks again. Licks. Sucks again. Moans. "Fffuck!" Ron feels like he's been hit in the stomach by a Bludger; he's knocked back against the pillow as his orgasm tears out of him in violent bursts, straight down his best friend's throat. His legs seize up, spine arched because it's so good and wrong and Harry's still licking him - oh God! - Harry is licking him throughout, wave after wave, lick-stroke-lick-stroke; Ron collapses like his bones have turned to boiling liquid. Breathe. He can't form speech yet, so he lies panting, his throat suddenly feeling raw. Finally, finally, Harry moves away, coughing quietly. When Ron comes back to himself, breathing slowed, tension drained out of his system, he feels vaguely sick. His insides twist and turn and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to quell the pain in his lungs and the lurching of his stomach. The mattress dips to his right. "I'm sorry, Ron... I thought you... I mean, I just wanted to see what it- I'm so sorry." "S'okay," Ron grates out. He rises from Harry's bed unsteadily, making his way across the deathly silent dorm room to his own. The other boys haven't come up for bed yet, thankfully. Ron climbs into his cold sheets, pulling the blankets up around his chin. "I just thought that..." Harry begins, nothing but a strained voice in the darkness. "Because we, you know, touch each other... you'd want to... you know, go further..." Ron feels awful. After a long spell of debating what to say, he manages, "It was just wanking. It wasn't supposed to be anything else." He hears Harry's bedsprings creaking quietly as he shifts. "So why the fuck do we wank each other if it doesn't mean anything?" Ron closes his eyes, trying to keep his tone measured. "Because it feels better when someone else does it. It's not... not a gay thing, or anything. As long as we're both doing it at the same time and not thinking about it." "So you don't think about me when you touch me?" Pause. Ron thinks - he really does think about this. But the only honest conclusion he can find is: "No." The room remains silent. Ron imagines the minutes ticking painfully into hours, until he finally hears Neville, Dean and Seamus return, climb into their beds, and whisper goodnight. Though not to Ron's surprise, neither he nor Harry are able to reply. ~Fin~ |
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