ginger_lust (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ginger_lust) wrote2010-03-01 09:08 am
ginger_lust) wrote2010-03-01 09:08 am
Entry tags:
March 1st Fic: This Gorgeous Thing by l3petitemort (Ron/Seamus) NC-17
Title: This Gorgeous Thing
Creator:l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Seamus/Ron
Warnings/content: lack of plot, language, drunkenness, seatbelt bondage, and road-head?
Word Count: 5248
Summary: This is why he agrees, then, to drive the car.
Notes: Thank you to my fantastic beta,starstruck1986, for your sharp eyes, deft hands, encouragement, and especially your brit-picking. You're marvelous. And thank you, lovely mods, for taking this thing on! So much fun! It felt great to write something porn-y and not angsty for a change!
Prompt: At the side of the everlasting why, is a yes, and a yes, and yes. E.M. Forster
Seamus has a lovely throat.
And that's probably the firewhiskey talking – though Ron hasn't had much; just a glass and a half, because he's here in Ireland for Auror training (who knew?), and he doesn't want to fuck it up, and firewhiskey turns him into a colossal fuck-up, so he's just lightly pissed, nothing serious – but it's the truth.
His throat is lovely.
Long and pale and fragile-looking, and there's a scar along the left side that pulls taut when he throws his head back into a laugh, which is exactly what he's doing. Seamus is laughing, because Seamus has drunk to the point of tottering on his stool, unbalanced and loud and bare-throated and pretty.
Oh, he's pretty. Girl-pretty in this weirdly low pub-light, amber in his hair – the colour of firewhiskey, actually – and pink in his cheeks, slope-shouldered, long-lashed, skinny as fuck (like always) but now he's soft. His edges are rounded-off or blurry or something, and maybe Ron has had more to drink than he thought – has he been sipping off the top of Harry's without realizing it? – because he doesn't remember Seamus looking like this.
When he closes his eyes and calls him up, he sees him spindly and sharp, his Third Year self; either that, or a gory post-war mess, bleeding from his chin and his arms and his hip and everywhere, with hunted-looking eyes, holding one of his teeth in the palm of his bloody, dirty, raw-looking hand.
But not now.
One year down the line, and here he is, halfway to whole. Scarred to shite, but aren't they all? And Seamus looks good in them, yeah? Yeah. He does. And this is stupid, because Ron has been staggeringly arseholed before – more in the course of his Auror training than he ever thought possible, honestly; much worse off than he is now – and he has never once wanted to reach out with his fingers and trace Harry's lightning bolt like the way he wants to touch that line that cuts the skin on Seamus's lovely, lovely throat.
The laugh that comes out of it is so big, too, and Ron has learned to appreciate laughter. It used to be the easiest thing in the fucking world, but it got harder and more precious, like a diamond, as time went on. And then the fucking Battle of Hogwarts snuffed it out: snuffed Fred out, and Tonks, and Colin fucking Creevey – all that fucking laughter, gone like it Splinched itself away in the time-lapse – and he feels like he's had to relearn it all. And he has. It hasn't been easy, but Seamus is making it look easy, and it's bubbling out of his throat like it isn't something he's had to fucking fight for, though Ron knows that it is.
And Ron sees the Lion in him now more clearly than he ever has; hears it roaring through Seamus's laugh, which he can recognize as an act of bravery equal to staring down the Carrows for nine fucking months.
This is why he agrees, then, to drive the car.
Harry, who is just a little more sober than Seamus, claps him on the back and says, "Ron can drive it! Did a bang-up job second year, didn't you? Flying that shite all the way into Hogwarts!"
That sends Seamus pitching forward on the stool, smack into the bar, and he opens wide again with his lovely throat and roars. "I remember it!" he howls, and Ron does, too; remembers it with a pinch in his chest and a buzz in his ears, and it was fucking spectacular.
This car, however, doesn't fly. It's Muggle through-and-through, and it's Seamus's father's, red and low to the ground and open-topped. It goes on the road. Seamus likes cars. He had pictures of them tacked all over the fucking dorm; he used to make Dean draw them for him, back when Ron is sure he and Dean were shagging when they thought everyone else had gone to sleep. He has a licence, he says; a Muggle licence, which means he's allowed to drive it without going to prison.
Only he can't, because he's so shitfaced he can hardly stand up, let alone keep a car on the road. Even with a licence, Harry says he'll go to prison if he drives that way. And Ron reckons that he bloody well should, because he isn't fit to operate his zip at the moment.
That's when Harry volunteers Ron, and Seamus – who has to get the car back tonight, mind you, before his da has a bloody conniption – thinks it's brilliant, and Ron, who is expending all of his energy on keeping his hands to himself and off of Seamus's throat, just nods and nods and nods, because he remembers flying and being twelve and laughing until his stomach burned.
So he says sure, he can follow directions, and sure, he can steer, and there is nothing Ron can't do right now – nothing he won't do, maybe, to keep Seamus's face cracked wide open like that, with the poorly-mended tooth-bit showing like a fucking Order of Merlin, First Class in the right side of his girl-pretty mouth.
When they walk outside, there it is: redder than Seamus's cheeks, redder than Ron's hair, all shiny in the strange silver light from the moon, and it's nothing like the Anglia. Nothing at all. It's new-looking, curvy and expensive, like the ones on the wall at Hogwarts. Seamus stumbles a little and almost pitches into it, squinty-eyed, and then he kisses his fingers and presses them to the hood. "Pretty, in't she?" he asks, but he's looking at Ron like maybe he's talking about him instead.
Ron nods and thinks that there is no way this gorgeous thing is going to obey him. He'll tell it to go right and it'll slide left with a cheeky grin, or he'll say stop and it will take them crashing through the walls of some irreplaceable ancient castle, the way the Anglia wound itself through the malicious branches of the Whomping Willow.
Why?, he asks himself when Seamus puts his bum right over the door without opening it and tumbles into the passenger's seat. Why? again when Seamus leans clumsily over the center and gropes for the inside handle until he grabs it with a pop! and it stutters open against Ron's thigh. A third Why? when Ron leans in to inspect things and Seamus – still laughing, still surprisingly fit in the new light, which sharpens him a bit and makes him gleam – reaches out with his bony hands and clutches at the sleeve of Ron's shirt, tugging him until he goes along and sits his arse in what he thinks might be a leather seat.
He asks a lot of Why?s and doesn't answer them, but he does this shite anyway, because doing shite anyway is sort of how he operates, isn't it? His whole life he's been doing shite anyway, and sometimes it's a good idea and sometimes it's fantastically bad, but either way, he seems to come out of it all right. And this is a favour. Good karma, Hermione would say, whatever the fuck karma is. But if it's good, he wants it, and as Seamus leans back and props his trainers up on the dash, Ron can't help but think: good.
Which is strange, because Ron's never looked at Seamus and thought anything of the sort before. But then, he's never seen Seamus at two-thirty in the morning through half-pissed eyes in the passenger's seat of a car before, either, all languid limbs and loose spine and silveryshiny flecks in his hair. It makes Ron's whole body feel hot. It isn't the summer air. It's strange. Bizarre, even. But good. And good works. Good is a nice break from the demands of Auror training, at least, and Merlin knows Ron could fucking use that.
So he fumbles with the keys – which he has to pull out of Seamus's tight pocket, and he can feel the heat underneath his hands; talk about good, he thinks briefly before they come free in his hand and Seamus laughs again – and sticks them into the ignition. Underneath them, the engine roars; another lion. It startles Ron and makes him jump a little, which sends Seamus off.
It's rather slow-going, and a lot of it involves Seamus sitting too close and poking at controls with intelligent but stunted fingers, but they get onto the road. Ron feels nervous but a little invincible, maybe, sort of like he used to when he and Harry would get themselves into a mess and escape with their lives and without detention. It’s something that's so deep in his muscle memory that it makes him grin widely, almost as a reflex, and Seamus's voice – which is getting a little clearer, maybe, but is still rounded-off and desperately merry – is oddly right, saying left and turn and you drive like me grand-mam!
Then the road starts to straighten out, and Ron's got the hang of it. His foot feels okay there, resting on the accelerator, and the steering here is simple; small corrections one way or the other, just to keep them cruising along. The air feels good, too. Like flying. Maybe this isn't so different, then. Maybe Harry was right.
And just as he's pondering that, Seamus's fingers – still intelligent, still a bit clumsy – are at the waist of his jeans, and he almost sends them flying into the shoulder as they brush against the bare skin of his belly.
"Easy," Seamus says, and Ron can hear the smile in his voice, and it soothes his crazy thudthudthudding heart enough that he pulls straight again, his knee starting to shake against the steering wheel. "Easy," he says again, and Ron wants to what the fuck?! at him, but he doesn’t.
Because from the corner of his eye, he can see that scar on his neck and the line of his cheekbone and the just-like-butter smile on his face. And he's so calm Ron can practically feel it coming off of him like heat: content and liquid and a yes against the why.
Everything slows down and speeds up all at once, which is just another thing to add to the list of impossible things that have happened since midnight, and Ron sucks back his nonexistent gut to let Seamus pop the button. Then he slouches backward, bowing himself a bit, as Seamus's hand slips into the waist of his pants. Keeping them on the road is going to be impossible, too, but that's all right. Impossible works, apparently, and Seamus must be more sober than he seems, because he's taken them here, probably the only place in all of Ireland with a wand-straight road. Maybe Seamus should've been a Ravenclaw, Ron thinks, and it's the last thought he has before his nerves burst into life.
Seamus's mouth is the most brilliant thing Ron has ever had on his body. Ever. It's as soft as it looks, and slipperyhot, heated up from the firewhiskey and his lovely, warm throat, and Ron is rock-hard so fast that it makes him dizzy and causes him to jam his foot dangerously against the accelerator. The engine surges a warning, and he feels Seamus laugh around him, a gorgeous vibration, and he knows there are a thousand fucking ways that this could go wrong. Terribly wrong. Fabulously, un-fixably, deadly wrong, but they have both survived a war and watched people and buildings and hearts hexed to ashes, and a blow job on the motorway hardly stacks up.
So Ron minds his foot and his hands, tries to hold everything steady – that's him; the steady-holder – as Seamus sets to work, slow and wet, sucking on his cock until he's so hard that he aches. He knows what he's doing, too; he's probably done this a thousand times, but Ron tries to push that out of his head, because this is the only thing he wants to exist right now. This: Seamus's hand braced against the side of his cock so that he's got his own thumb in his mouth, too, rubbing Ron's foreskin back and forth, slow slow slow and gentlesogentle because Ron's so fucking hard and it's tight and Seamus doesn't want to hurt him. This: a swipe of his tongue along the underside that makes Ron's knee jerk and the engine rev, which makes Seamus laugh, hot little puffs of air that feel gorgeous. This: Seamus, wicked and brazen and impulsive, the way he was before the war cut a jagged chunk out of his soul.
His hair keeps brushing against the skin of Ron's belly, and it tickles, and Ron is biting his lip and fighting to keep his eyelids open, because all he wants to do is squeeze them shut and come down Seamus's pretty throat, laughinglaughinglaughing, but he knows that might kill them both. So he holds on, battling with his own body, which is buzzing and humming and sparking and beating itself senseless from the inside out.
Just when Ron doesn’t think he can take it anymore, when he's about to say fuck it and slam on the brakes and come, Seamus drags his fingers over Ron's thigh and sits up, disheveled and bruised-lipped and sloppy. "Pull over," he says, grinning, and leans back against the seat. He slings an arm over Ron's shoulder and puts the other hand on the wheel as they slow, and Ron is still panting and half-mad, and the bulge at the front of Seamus's trousers makes it worse.
He doesn't know what to do with it, really, but he doesn't feel as nervous as he thought he would – if he'd ever thought about this sort of thing, which he truthfully hadn't – because Seamus is just making this so fucking easy. They glide across the line and pull into the darkness, and Seamus leans over, his knuckles brushing Ron's slippery cock, and kills the headlights.
Then he's in Ron's lap, tight, because the steering wheel is squishing them together. And he feels lovely. He's squirmy and warm, and he's pressing down hard, the rough fabric of his jeans a heady mix of good and ouch. Up close, even in the dark, his skin looks like a roadmap; it's criss-crossed with fine little scars that intersect and parallel. They're shallow and well-healed, and when Ron finally gives in and brings his fingertips up to trace them, they're surprisingly soft. He thinks too late that maybe this is an arsehole move; that maybe Seamus might be sensitive about them or something, but he doesn't seem to mind. He follows Ron's hand with his mouth, sticking out his tongue to lick Ron's palm and the space between his thumb and index finger, and then he trades it for Ron's lips.
His kiss is big. That's a stupid way to describe a kiss, but that's the best-fitting word. He kisses big, with a wide-open mouth that is laughing and hungry. Ron kisses back, and he isn't tentative at all. There are plenty of things that he has learned in his short life – at least, he likes to think so – and one of them is that if you are going to snog (which they clearly are), you do it right. So he does it with enthusiasm. He sucks Seamus's tongue – his quick, whiskey-tart tongue – and bites his lower lip hard enough to get some resistance, but not enough to break it open. By the time Seamus starts rolling his hips in that universal give-me-more rhythm, they are tangled in each other's hair, teeth bumping, noses brushing, gasping like a pair of drowning men.
It is by far the best snog of Ron's entire snogging career, which is fairly extensive, if he's going to be honest. It's delicious. Another stupid word for a kiss, but that's what it is. Seamus is just liquor and heat and hard-on, and his shirt has ridden up over his belly so that they are skin-on-skin, and Ron can't believe he isn't coming yet, especially when Seamus reaches between them and curls his fist back around Ron's cock and just holds it there, squeezing to the tempo of their tongues and rocking himself into it.
Ron is just starting to rock back, trying to lift his hips under Seamus's wiry weight, when out of nowhere he plummets backwards and Seamus goes with him, laughing and catching his teeth against Ron's chin as the seat falls flat. Ron jerks in surprise but Seamus just keeps laughing, pulling Ron's hand sideways to feel the lever that's rocketed them out straight.
"What the hell are you doing?" Ron mutters, his own laugh – breathless and shaking – coming out through his chest where Seamus's hands are now firmly planted.
Seamus doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. It soon becomes apparent what he's doing, and what he's doing is undressing them both. Ron's clothes fight back, but Seamus is nothing if not perseverant, and he has Ron's shirt over his head and on the back seat in record-setting time. Ron wriggles to help, and his fingers tangle with Seamus's and with the fabric, and they're both laughing now, pulling and tugging and maneuvering until their bodies are bare and together at the hips, where Seamus is kneeling in a straddle over Ron.
When Seamus finally kicks out of the leg of his jeans, his heel hits the horn, and the blare makes them both leap and laugh. Ron feels that familiar rush of detention and danger and it makes him even harder, which he hadn't thought was possible. His belly is sticky with precome – his own and Seamus's, too, which also gives him a funny little thrill – and he's watching Seamus's throat again, that pretty, scarred thing, catching the weird shimmers of moonlight that sneak down through the trees. In this light, their skin matches: pale and translucent, the exact same shade, dotted with freckles that, in the sun, are different colours, but here, twin-tans.
It's strange to say it, but the sameness is a comfort in the middle of this oddly-bent night. It's almost like he's with one of his brothers, safe and familiar, if it weren't for the whole being-naked-and-hard-and-dripping thing, and Ron closes his eyes and basks in it for a second.
He doesn't have long, though, because Seamus shifts his weight and suddenly his body heat is gone. Ron looks up in time to see Seamus balancing himself with one knee on the gearstick and the other on the seat, hips up, trying to roll Ron onto his belly.
Something flutters in Ron's ribs and he wonders briefly if this might be a terrible, terrible idea, but Seamus looks so relaxed and graceful and feline – not like Crookshanks, though; more like the Lion he is – that Ron can't bring himself to protest. In short order, he's glad, because when Seamus settles back down, he's using his mouth again.
Lips everywhere, tongue and spit and Seamus's vaguely scratchy chin, and it's fantastic. Seamus traces Ron's spine like he's counting the bones; bites the blades of Ron's shoulders and sucks bruises like hearts into them; smiles against the skin along Ron's ribcage and laughs against the expand-contract-expand of his breath, faster and faster. Seamus's cock is kissing him, too – stupid phrase again, stupid stupid stupid and brilliant – against his thigh and his arse and his back, leaving wet streaks that don't have time to get cold because Seamus presses his hot mouth against them and cleans them up.
Ron shudders and wishes he could see it, but when he turns his head to the side he just catches flashes of movement and shadow and skin, blurry like an avant-garde photograph. The shadow descends suddenly, and Seamus's body is pressed over his, matched up limb for limb (though the match is not exact; Ron is longer everywhere, and Seamus's shoulders are broader, despite their fragile appearance.)
With a laugh and nothing else, Seamus pulls Ron's hands over his head, and Ron is too curious to argue. A few seconds later, Seamus is fumbling clumsily with the safety belts that have buried themselves in the cracks of the back seat, yanking them out and wrapping them around Ron's wrists, looping them over and over.
"What the hell?" Ron asks for the second time tonight, his nerves suddenly under a Tarantallegra.
"Relax, Auror Weasley," Seamus grins into his ear, his breath hot and fierce. "I'm not gonna nick yer cunting wallet."
"No, I didn't…I mean, it's empty anyway…" Ron starts to respond, his face suddenly tingling with a furious blush, but Seamus slips a finger into his mouth to silence him.
Ron sucks and hums, a little surprised, and Seamus just whispers, "Relax, relax."
Ron does. It's absurdly easy, considering the fact that he's flat on his stomach and naked in a Muggle automobile with his wrists bound and his wand missing – absolutely, one hundred percent not protocol. But it's Seamus: brave, bold, warm Seamus with his battle-scars and pretty throat, with his half-pissed voice and aftershave-sweat smell, with his sinewy body and rollicking laugh, and Ron has never been happier to be breaching code.
It gets even better when Ron recognizes the familiar sound of a Disillusionment Charm and its cool-water drip across his skin, and he hopes vaguely that it includes the car and not just them, but really, he can't be arsed to care all that much. Not now. Not with Seamus's finger tracing the points of his teeth all slow-like, like he's searching for something there, and Seamus's hot, hard cock tucked against his spine, and Seamus's mouth smiling into his hair, inhaling deep like pub-stink is the greatest fucking thing around.
When Seamus starts to move again, it's lazy and languid, like they've got all night. Maybe they do. His hips slide up and down, and his cock presses down, and Ron can't help but move a little, too; relieve the pulsing-singing-aching pressure of his own erection by frotting shamelessly against the seat. Briefly, he wonders what come might do to the leather interior, but he decides in under a second that it's nothing magic can't fix.
After a moment, though, he freezes, because Seamus sits up a bit and reaches for his wand again. Ron cranes his neck sideways trying to see, but it's all very strange; everything sort of blends together – the Disillusionment thing, he remembers – and all he can catch are snatches of motion. It's weird, but not half as weird as the warmish, wet sensation that suddenly spreads across his arse. It occurs to him what Seamus means to do now, and his muscles all clench tight in response.
This has all been lovely – all of this skin and mouth and smiling stuff – but that? Not on, he wants to say, and he starts to – he opens his mouth and everything – but Seamus must have felt the way his body responded, because he's huffing a laugh and running his warm hands over Ron's back, reassuring him. "'M not gonna stick it in there, boss. What kind of bloke do you think I am?" Then he's laughing again, this time at himself, and some of the tension disappears from Ron's stomach and he smiles a bit, too.
Then Seamus takes one finger and traces it down the cleft of Ron's arse, and it slides smooth and wet, and Ron stiffens again, but it's more like he's stopping to concentrate, to have a feel and see how it goes, and it's not too terrible, really. Just one finger, sliding up and down, and Seamus is rocking a little again, his cock against Ron's thigh. "Not gonna arse-fuck you, Weasley," he snorts again, but a bit more gently. "Not unless you want me to."
Ron can hear the grin wrapped around his voice, and he knows that Seamus is taking the piss – he knows him well enough to recognize the tone – and relaxes further, even arching a bit into it, surprised at how not-gross and rather nice that finger is, really. Seamus shifts, then, and Ron can feel his cock pressing against the spot where his finger was. "Shhh," Seamus says, then uses two fingers to prise Ron's arse apart, just a bit.
Ron freezes again, his muscles all going rigid as Seamus's cock suddenly replaces his finger in between. Seamus's hands feel broad and big and hot on Ron's back, and they squeeze a little, and in the quiet Ron can hear the change in Seamus's breathing as he shifts and starts to rock a bit. Ron bites his lip, and he doesn't realize that he's holding his breath until it starts to escape of its own volition through his nose, shaky and nervous-sounding.
In the dark, they just breathe and breathe and breathe, and it's the only sound for a little while. Ron starts to relax a little once his body realizes it can trust Seamus, and it doesn't hurt. Not at all. Of course, he's not actually in, just sliding up and down between, all hot friction and slipperiness, and when he starts to get a rhythm down – nice and slow, but deliberate and purposeful, just like the way he kisses – Ron discovers that his body is doing its own thing again, responding and arching and wriggling a little back into it. He can't do as much as he'd like, not with his hands all tied-up, but he gets his hips going, and every time he brings them back down, he rubs against the seat and his heart feels like it's getting bigger and bigger and bigger in his chest. Opening back up, or making room for something, maybe.
Seamus goes quiet, and he starts moving faster, and Ron knows what that means. He feels his own muscles tighten a bit in response, and he suddenly wishes more than anything that he could see it. He wants to see Seamus's face: see his pretty throat open and his scar pull tight; see the curl of his mouth and the twitch in his eyes; see what it looks like when he loses that last bit of casual control. Ron squeezes his eyes shut and tries to picture it instead, reaching back as much as he can with his shoulders and making a neat little alley between them, practically fucking inviting Seamus to come right there – but he doesn't.
Instead he stops, his breath strange and shuddering, and lifts his weight. Ron stills, puzzled, his cock pounding against his belly, his shoulders still pulled back. "Come on," Seamus says, his voice suddenly fragile, and pats frantically at the outside of Ron's thighs. "Up."
Ron's head is too fuzzy and hot to do anything but obey, so he tucks his knees up as much as he can. Moving out of his way, Seamus hits the horn again, and the blast of it makes them both jump. Laughter rolls through their bellies at the same time, and Ron thinks he's so fucking close he might just laugh himself into an orgasm, and it might be the most fantastic thing he's ever felt. The belts tighten at his wrists as, unthinking, he tries to cover his mouth, and the jolt makes him laugh harder.
Seamus is still guffawing as he reaches between Ron's thighs and takes his cock in one warm, hard-palmed hand. He leans into Ron, his chest tight against Ron's arse, all contorted and strange as he strokes hard. Less than a minute later, Ron is shaking with the effort of not coming all over Seamus's wrists and fingers and hands – he doesn't want to, not yet; this night is too good to finish so fast – and Seamus's breath is ragged, his cock dripping all over Ron's leg, and their mouths have both gone silent again.
Finally, it's the noise that does it. Seamus strokes up, and he leans into Ron's leg with this little whimpering noise like he needs something, like he'd be begging a little if he could make words right now, like there's this problem Ron can fix for him, and that's it. Every muscle pulls tight and snaps like elastic, and Ron comes, and his heart comes up into his mouth, and Seamus holds onto him like he's keeping him from floating away. Ron's own noise is surprised-sounding, which doesn’t make any sense at all, or maybe it does, because if you had told him he'd be coming all over Seamus's hot-knuckled fist earlier in the evening, he would have been more than surprised. But he isn't really surprised now, though he sounds it.
Ron's knees give out from under him and he falls into his own spunk on the seat with a weird slapping sound, Seamus following him forward and leaning across his back. Their skin is sticking together with sweat, and Ron is sticking to the maybe-leather seat, and it's all very warm and close and… sticky, but really, it's nothing compared to Seamus's orgasm, which takes about three rough frots against the left side of Ron's arse and feels like it covers his entire back. And the noise that comes with it – that one – almost gets Ron fucking hard again. It's this growly thing, yanked straight from his belly and pulled over something rough inside his throat, and it's not a sound Ron had ever imagined Seamus could make.
Panting, Ron makes some weird sound of his own in response as he feels Seamus's head fall against his shoulder and his teeth bite down there, hot air puffing through his nose. Seamus smiles around the bite almost immediately and sets his chin over the spot.
Ron is smiling, too. Smiling huge and goofy into the sweaty seat, feeling the air buzz around his body and Seamus's breath against his skin, somehow both harsh and soft and sort of tickly.
Neither of them move for a while, and it's only when the air starts to feel cold that Ron speaks. "Seamus?" he mumbles, the sound all garbled from his slackened mouth.
"Mmm?" Seamus answers.
"Your neck."
"What?"
"I like your neck."
Ron can feel Seamus's mouth open against his back, can feel his tongue all heavy and wet when he huffs a laugh. "Thanks. That's a new one."
Ron pauses briefly before he speaks again. "...Seamus?"
"Hmmm?" Seamus's sweaty head tilts sideways, and Ron can feel his ear like a funny suction cup.
"Why haven't we done this before?"
Seamus laughs again, this time slow and full and still a little pissed-sounding, and it's just as gorgeous as that Lion-laugh from earlier. "Because you're a bloody heterosexual, Weasley. Remember?"
"Oh." Ron thinks on that for a moment and decides that he never actually called himself one thing or the other. So it's not like he's changed his mind. It isn't like he lied to anyone. "Am I?"
He feels Seamus's sharp elbow dig into him as Seamus props himself up. "Doesn't matter, really, does it?"
And then Ron is warm again, his thoughts like fire crackling through his bones, and he says, "No. I guess it doesn't."
"Do you want to do it again?" Seamus asks, as blunt as he has always been, baldly charming and just fucking lovely.
"Reckon so," Ron answers. Answers truthfully, at that. "But could you maybe untie me first? I can barely drive this thing with my hands, forget trying to do it with my arse."
( Please proceed to Ginger Lust on LJ to leave a comment! )
Creator:
l3petitemortRating: NC-17
Pairing: Seamus/Ron
Warnings/content: lack of plot, language, drunkenness, seatbelt bondage, and road-head?
Word Count: 5248
Summary: This is why he agrees, then, to drive the car.
Notes: Thank you to my fantastic beta,
starstruck1986, for your sharp eyes, deft hands, encouragement, and especially your brit-picking. You're marvelous. And thank you, lovely mods, for taking this thing on! So much fun! It felt great to write something porn-y and not angsty for a change!Prompt: At the side of the everlasting why, is a yes, and a yes, and yes. E.M. Forster
Seamus has a lovely throat.
And that's probably the firewhiskey talking – though Ron hasn't had much; just a glass and a half, because he's here in Ireland for Auror training (who knew?), and he doesn't want to fuck it up, and firewhiskey turns him into a colossal fuck-up, so he's just lightly pissed, nothing serious – but it's the truth.
His throat is lovely.
Long and pale and fragile-looking, and there's a scar along the left side that pulls taut when he throws his head back into a laugh, which is exactly what he's doing. Seamus is laughing, because Seamus has drunk to the point of tottering on his stool, unbalanced and loud and bare-throated and pretty.
Oh, he's pretty. Girl-pretty in this weirdly low pub-light, amber in his hair – the colour of firewhiskey, actually – and pink in his cheeks, slope-shouldered, long-lashed, skinny as fuck (like always) but now he's soft. His edges are rounded-off or blurry or something, and maybe Ron has had more to drink than he thought – has he been sipping off the top of Harry's without realizing it? – because he doesn't remember Seamus looking like this.
When he closes his eyes and calls him up, he sees him spindly and sharp, his Third Year self; either that, or a gory post-war mess, bleeding from his chin and his arms and his hip and everywhere, with hunted-looking eyes, holding one of his teeth in the palm of his bloody, dirty, raw-looking hand.
But not now.
One year down the line, and here he is, halfway to whole. Scarred to shite, but aren't they all? And Seamus looks good in them, yeah? Yeah. He does. And this is stupid, because Ron has been staggeringly arseholed before – more in the course of his Auror training than he ever thought possible, honestly; much worse off than he is now – and he has never once wanted to reach out with his fingers and trace Harry's lightning bolt like the way he wants to touch that line that cuts the skin on Seamus's lovely, lovely throat.
The laugh that comes out of it is so big, too, and Ron has learned to appreciate laughter. It used to be the easiest thing in the fucking world, but it got harder and more precious, like a diamond, as time went on. And then the fucking Battle of Hogwarts snuffed it out: snuffed Fred out, and Tonks, and Colin fucking Creevey – all that fucking laughter, gone like it Splinched itself away in the time-lapse – and he feels like he's had to relearn it all. And he has. It hasn't been easy, but Seamus is making it look easy, and it's bubbling out of his throat like it isn't something he's had to fucking fight for, though Ron knows that it is.
And Ron sees the Lion in him now more clearly than he ever has; hears it roaring through Seamus's laugh, which he can recognize as an act of bravery equal to staring down the Carrows for nine fucking months.
This is why he agrees, then, to drive the car.
Harry, who is just a little more sober than Seamus, claps him on the back and says, "Ron can drive it! Did a bang-up job second year, didn't you? Flying that shite all the way into Hogwarts!"
That sends Seamus pitching forward on the stool, smack into the bar, and he opens wide again with his lovely throat and roars. "I remember it!" he howls, and Ron does, too; remembers it with a pinch in his chest and a buzz in his ears, and it was fucking spectacular.
This car, however, doesn't fly. It's Muggle through-and-through, and it's Seamus's father's, red and low to the ground and open-topped. It goes on the road. Seamus likes cars. He had pictures of them tacked all over the fucking dorm; he used to make Dean draw them for him, back when Ron is sure he and Dean were shagging when they thought everyone else had gone to sleep. He has a licence, he says; a Muggle licence, which means he's allowed to drive it without going to prison.
Only he can't, because he's so shitfaced he can hardly stand up, let alone keep a car on the road. Even with a licence, Harry says he'll go to prison if he drives that way. And Ron reckons that he bloody well should, because he isn't fit to operate his zip at the moment.
That's when Harry volunteers Ron, and Seamus – who has to get the car back tonight, mind you, before his da has a bloody conniption – thinks it's brilliant, and Ron, who is expending all of his energy on keeping his hands to himself and off of Seamus's throat, just nods and nods and nods, because he remembers flying and being twelve and laughing until his stomach burned.
So he says sure, he can follow directions, and sure, he can steer, and there is nothing Ron can't do right now – nothing he won't do, maybe, to keep Seamus's face cracked wide open like that, with the poorly-mended tooth-bit showing like a fucking Order of Merlin, First Class in the right side of his girl-pretty mouth.
When they walk outside, there it is: redder than Seamus's cheeks, redder than Ron's hair, all shiny in the strange silver light from the moon, and it's nothing like the Anglia. Nothing at all. It's new-looking, curvy and expensive, like the ones on the wall at Hogwarts. Seamus stumbles a little and almost pitches into it, squinty-eyed, and then he kisses his fingers and presses them to the hood. "Pretty, in't she?" he asks, but he's looking at Ron like maybe he's talking about him instead.
Ron nods and thinks that there is no way this gorgeous thing is going to obey him. He'll tell it to go right and it'll slide left with a cheeky grin, or he'll say stop and it will take them crashing through the walls of some irreplaceable ancient castle, the way the Anglia wound itself through the malicious branches of the Whomping Willow.
Why?, he asks himself when Seamus puts his bum right over the door without opening it and tumbles into the passenger's seat. Why? again when Seamus leans clumsily over the center and gropes for the inside handle until he grabs it with a pop! and it stutters open against Ron's thigh. A third Why? when Ron leans in to inspect things and Seamus – still laughing, still surprisingly fit in the new light, which sharpens him a bit and makes him gleam – reaches out with his bony hands and clutches at the sleeve of Ron's shirt, tugging him until he goes along and sits his arse in what he thinks might be a leather seat.
He asks a lot of Why?s and doesn't answer them, but he does this shite anyway, because doing shite anyway is sort of how he operates, isn't it? His whole life he's been doing shite anyway, and sometimes it's a good idea and sometimes it's fantastically bad, but either way, he seems to come out of it all right. And this is a favour. Good karma, Hermione would say, whatever the fuck karma is. But if it's good, he wants it, and as Seamus leans back and props his trainers up on the dash, Ron can't help but think: good.
Which is strange, because Ron's never looked at Seamus and thought anything of the sort before. But then, he's never seen Seamus at two-thirty in the morning through half-pissed eyes in the passenger's seat of a car before, either, all languid limbs and loose spine and silveryshiny flecks in his hair. It makes Ron's whole body feel hot. It isn't the summer air. It's strange. Bizarre, even. But good. And good works. Good is a nice break from the demands of Auror training, at least, and Merlin knows Ron could fucking use that.
So he fumbles with the keys – which he has to pull out of Seamus's tight pocket, and he can feel the heat underneath his hands; talk about good, he thinks briefly before they come free in his hand and Seamus laughs again – and sticks them into the ignition. Underneath them, the engine roars; another lion. It startles Ron and makes him jump a little, which sends Seamus off.
It's rather slow-going, and a lot of it involves Seamus sitting too close and poking at controls with intelligent but stunted fingers, but they get onto the road. Ron feels nervous but a little invincible, maybe, sort of like he used to when he and Harry would get themselves into a mess and escape with their lives and without detention. It’s something that's so deep in his muscle memory that it makes him grin widely, almost as a reflex, and Seamus's voice – which is getting a little clearer, maybe, but is still rounded-off and desperately merry – is oddly right, saying left and turn and you drive like me grand-mam!
Then the road starts to straighten out, and Ron's got the hang of it. His foot feels okay there, resting on the accelerator, and the steering here is simple; small corrections one way or the other, just to keep them cruising along. The air feels good, too. Like flying. Maybe this isn't so different, then. Maybe Harry was right.
And just as he's pondering that, Seamus's fingers – still intelligent, still a bit clumsy – are at the waist of his jeans, and he almost sends them flying into the shoulder as they brush against the bare skin of his belly.
"Easy," Seamus says, and Ron can hear the smile in his voice, and it soothes his crazy thudthudthudding heart enough that he pulls straight again, his knee starting to shake against the steering wheel. "Easy," he says again, and Ron wants to what the fuck?! at him, but he doesn’t.
Because from the corner of his eye, he can see that scar on his neck and the line of his cheekbone and the just-like-butter smile on his face. And he's so calm Ron can practically feel it coming off of him like heat: content and liquid and a yes against the why.
Everything slows down and speeds up all at once, which is just another thing to add to the list of impossible things that have happened since midnight, and Ron sucks back his nonexistent gut to let Seamus pop the button. Then he slouches backward, bowing himself a bit, as Seamus's hand slips into the waist of his pants. Keeping them on the road is going to be impossible, too, but that's all right. Impossible works, apparently, and Seamus must be more sober than he seems, because he's taken them here, probably the only place in all of Ireland with a wand-straight road. Maybe Seamus should've been a Ravenclaw, Ron thinks, and it's the last thought he has before his nerves burst into life.
Seamus's mouth is the most brilliant thing Ron has ever had on his body. Ever. It's as soft as it looks, and slipperyhot, heated up from the firewhiskey and his lovely, warm throat, and Ron is rock-hard so fast that it makes him dizzy and causes him to jam his foot dangerously against the accelerator. The engine surges a warning, and he feels Seamus laugh around him, a gorgeous vibration, and he knows there are a thousand fucking ways that this could go wrong. Terribly wrong. Fabulously, un-fixably, deadly wrong, but they have both survived a war and watched people and buildings and hearts hexed to ashes, and a blow job on the motorway hardly stacks up.
So Ron minds his foot and his hands, tries to hold everything steady – that's him; the steady-holder – as Seamus sets to work, slow and wet, sucking on his cock until he's so hard that he aches. He knows what he's doing, too; he's probably done this a thousand times, but Ron tries to push that out of his head, because this is the only thing he wants to exist right now. This: Seamus's hand braced against the side of his cock so that he's got his own thumb in his mouth, too, rubbing Ron's foreskin back and forth, slow slow slow and gentlesogentle because Ron's so fucking hard and it's tight and Seamus doesn't want to hurt him. This: a swipe of his tongue along the underside that makes Ron's knee jerk and the engine rev, which makes Seamus laugh, hot little puffs of air that feel gorgeous. This: Seamus, wicked and brazen and impulsive, the way he was before the war cut a jagged chunk out of his soul.
His hair keeps brushing against the skin of Ron's belly, and it tickles, and Ron is biting his lip and fighting to keep his eyelids open, because all he wants to do is squeeze them shut and come down Seamus's pretty throat, laughinglaughinglaughing, but he knows that might kill them both. So he holds on, battling with his own body, which is buzzing and humming and sparking and beating itself senseless from the inside out.
Just when Ron doesn’t think he can take it anymore, when he's about to say fuck it and slam on the brakes and come, Seamus drags his fingers over Ron's thigh and sits up, disheveled and bruised-lipped and sloppy. "Pull over," he says, grinning, and leans back against the seat. He slings an arm over Ron's shoulder and puts the other hand on the wheel as they slow, and Ron is still panting and half-mad, and the bulge at the front of Seamus's trousers makes it worse.
He doesn't know what to do with it, really, but he doesn't feel as nervous as he thought he would – if he'd ever thought about this sort of thing, which he truthfully hadn't – because Seamus is just making this so fucking easy. They glide across the line and pull into the darkness, and Seamus leans over, his knuckles brushing Ron's slippery cock, and kills the headlights.
Then he's in Ron's lap, tight, because the steering wheel is squishing them together. And he feels lovely. He's squirmy and warm, and he's pressing down hard, the rough fabric of his jeans a heady mix of good and ouch. Up close, even in the dark, his skin looks like a roadmap; it's criss-crossed with fine little scars that intersect and parallel. They're shallow and well-healed, and when Ron finally gives in and brings his fingertips up to trace them, they're surprisingly soft. He thinks too late that maybe this is an arsehole move; that maybe Seamus might be sensitive about them or something, but he doesn't seem to mind. He follows Ron's hand with his mouth, sticking out his tongue to lick Ron's palm and the space between his thumb and index finger, and then he trades it for Ron's lips.
His kiss is big. That's a stupid way to describe a kiss, but that's the best-fitting word. He kisses big, with a wide-open mouth that is laughing and hungry. Ron kisses back, and he isn't tentative at all. There are plenty of things that he has learned in his short life – at least, he likes to think so – and one of them is that if you are going to snog (which they clearly are), you do it right. So he does it with enthusiasm. He sucks Seamus's tongue – his quick, whiskey-tart tongue – and bites his lower lip hard enough to get some resistance, but not enough to break it open. By the time Seamus starts rolling his hips in that universal give-me-more rhythm, they are tangled in each other's hair, teeth bumping, noses brushing, gasping like a pair of drowning men.
It is by far the best snog of Ron's entire snogging career, which is fairly extensive, if he's going to be honest. It's delicious. Another stupid word for a kiss, but that's what it is. Seamus is just liquor and heat and hard-on, and his shirt has ridden up over his belly so that they are skin-on-skin, and Ron can't believe he isn't coming yet, especially when Seamus reaches between them and curls his fist back around Ron's cock and just holds it there, squeezing to the tempo of their tongues and rocking himself into it.
Ron is just starting to rock back, trying to lift his hips under Seamus's wiry weight, when out of nowhere he plummets backwards and Seamus goes with him, laughing and catching his teeth against Ron's chin as the seat falls flat. Ron jerks in surprise but Seamus just keeps laughing, pulling Ron's hand sideways to feel the lever that's rocketed them out straight.
"What the hell are you doing?" Ron mutters, his own laugh – breathless and shaking – coming out through his chest where Seamus's hands are now firmly planted.
Seamus doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. It soon becomes apparent what he's doing, and what he's doing is undressing them both. Ron's clothes fight back, but Seamus is nothing if not perseverant, and he has Ron's shirt over his head and on the back seat in record-setting time. Ron wriggles to help, and his fingers tangle with Seamus's and with the fabric, and they're both laughing now, pulling and tugging and maneuvering until their bodies are bare and together at the hips, where Seamus is kneeling in a straddle over Ron.
When Seamus finally kicks out of the leg of his jeans, his heel hits the horn, and the blare makes them both leap and laugh. Ron feels that familiar rush of detention and danger and it makes him even harder, which he hadn't thought was possible. His belly is sticky with precome – his own and Seamus's, too, which also gives him a funny little thrill – and he's watching Seamus's throat again, that pretty, scarred thing, catching the weird shimmers of moonlight that sneak down through the trees. In this light, their skin matches: pale and translucent, the exact same shade, dotted with freckles that, in the sun, are different colours, but here, twin-tans.
It's strange to say it, but the sameness is a comfort in the middle of this oddly-bent night. It's almost like he's with one of his brothers, safe and familiar, if it weren't for the whole being-naked-and-hard-and-dripping thing, and Ron closes his eyes and basks in it for a second.
He doesn't have long, though, because Seamus shifts his weight and suddenly his body heat is gone. Ron looks up in time to see Seamus balancing himself with one knee on the gearstick and the other on the seat, hips up, trying to roll Ron onto his belly.
Something flutters in Ron's ribs and he wonders briefly if this might be a terrible, terrible idea, but Seamus looks so relaxed and graceful and feline – not like Crookshanks, though; more like the Lion he is – that Ron can't bring himself to protest. In short order, he's glad, because when Seamus settles back down, he's using his mouth again.
Lips everywhere, tongue and spit and Seamus's vaguely scratchy chin, and it's fantastic. Seamus traces Ron's spine like he's counting the bones; bites the blades of Ron's shoulders and sucks bruises like hearts into them; smiles against the skin along Ron's ribcage and laughs against the expand-contract-expand of his breath, faster and faster. Seamus's cock is kissing him, too – stupid phrase again, stupid stupid stupid and brilliant – against his thigh and his arse and his back, leaving wet streaks that don't have time to get cold because Seamus presses his hot mouth against them and cleans them up.
Ron shudders and wishes he could see it, but when he turns his head to the side he just catches flashes of movement and shadow and skin, blurry like an avant-garde photograph. The shadow descends suddenly, and Seamus's body is pressed over his, matched up limb for limb (though the match is not exact; Ron is longer everywhere, and Seamus's shoulders are broader, despite their fragile appearance.)
With a laugh and nothing else, Seamus pulls Ron's hands over his head, and Ron is too curious to argue. A few seconds later, Seamus is fumbling clumsily with the safety belts that have buried themselves in the cracks of the back seat, yanking them out and wrapping them around Ron's wrists, looping them over and over.
"What the hell?" Ron asks for the second time tonight, his nerves suddenly under a Tarantallegra.
"Relax, Auror Weasley," Seamus grins into his ear, his breath hot and fierce. "I'm not gonna nick yer cunting wallet."
"No, I didn't…I mean, it's empty anyway…" Ron starts to respond, his face suddenly tingling with a furious blush, but Seamus slips a finger into his mouth to silence him.
Ron sucks and hums, a little surprised, and Seamus just whispers, "Relax, relax."
Ron does. It's absurdly easy, considering the fact that he's flat on his stomach and naked in a Muggle automobile with his wrists bound and his wand missing – absolutely, one hundred percent not protocol. But it's Seamus: brave, bold, warm Seamus with his battle-scars and pretty throat, with his half-pissed voice and aftershave-sweat smell, with his sinewy body and rollicking laugh, and Ron has never been happier to be breaching code.
It gets even better when Ron recognizes the familiar sound of a Disillusionment Charm and its cool-water drip across his skin, and he hopes vaguely that it includes the car and not just them, but really, he can't be arsed to care all that much. Not now. Not with Seamus's finger tracing the points of his teeth all slow-like, like he's searching for something there, and Seamus's hot, hard cock tucked against his spine, and Seamus's mouth smiling into his hair, inhaling deep like pub-stink is the greatest fucking thing around.
When Seamus starts to move again, it's lazy and languid, like they've got all night. Maybe they do. His hips slide up and down, and his cock presses down, and Ron can't help but move a little, too; relieve the pulsing-singing-aching pressure of his own erection by frotting shamelessly against the seat. Briefly, he wonders what come might do to the leather interior, but he decides in under a second that it's nothing magic can't fix.
After a moment, though, he freezes, because Seamus sits up a bit and reaches for his wand again. Ron cranes his neck sideways trying to see, but it's all very strange; everything sort of blends together – the Disillusionment thing, he remembers – and all he can catch are snatches of motion. It's weird, but not half as weird as the warmish, wet sensation that suddenly spreads across his arse. It occurs to him what Seamus means to do now, and his muscles all clench tight in response.
This has all been lovely – all of this skin and mouth and smiling stuff – but that? Not on, he wants to say, and he starts to – he opens his mouth and everything – but Seamus must have felt the way his body responded, because he's huffing a laugh and running his warm hands over Ron's back, reassuring him. "'M not gonna stick it in there, boss. What kind of bloke do you think I am?" Then he's laughing again, this time at himself, and some of the tension disappears from Ron's stomach and he smiles a bit, too.
Then Seamus takes one finger and traces it down the cleft of Ron's arse, and it slides smooth and wet, and Ron stiffens again, but it's more like he's stopping to concentrate, to have a feel and see how it goes, and it's not too terrible, really. Just one finger, sliding up and down, and Seamus is rocking a little again, his cock against Ron's thigh. "Not gonna arse-fuck you, Weasley," he snorts again, but a bit more gently. "Not unless you want me to."
Ron can hear the grin wrapped around his voice, and he knows that Seamus is taking the piss – he knows him well enough to recognize the tone – and relaxes further, even arching a bit into it, surprised at how not-gross and rather nice that finger is, really. Seamus shifts, then, and Ron can feel his cock pressing against the spot where his finger was. "Shhh," Seamus says, then uses two fingers to prise Ron's arse apart, just a bit.
Ron freezes again, his muscles all going rigid as Seamus's cock suddenly replaces his finger in between. Seamus's hands feel broad and big and hot on Ron's back, and they squeeze a little, and in the quiet Ron can hear the change in Seamus's breathing as he shifts and starts to rock a bit. Ron bites his lip, and he doesn't realize that he's holding his breath until it starts to escape of its own volition through his nose, shaky and nervous-sounding.
In the dark, they just breathe and breathe and breathe, and it's the only sound for a little while. Ron starts to relax a little once his body realizes it can trust Seamus, and it doesn't hurt. Not at all. Of course, he's not actually in, just sliding up and down between, all hot friction and slipperiness, and when he starts to get a rhythm down – nice and slow, but deliberate and purposeful, just like the way he kisses – Ron discovers that his body is doing its own thing again, responding and arching and wriggling a little back into it. He can't do as much as he'd like, not with his hands all tied-up, but he gets his hips going, and every time he brings them back down, he rubs against the seat and his heart feels like it's getting bigger and bigger and bigger in his chest. Opening back up, or making room for something, maybe.
Seamus goes quiet, and he starts moving faster, and Ron knows what that means. He feels his own muscles tighten a bit in response, and he suddenly wishes more than anything that he could see it. He wants to see Seamus's face: see his pretty throat open and his scar pull tight; see the curl of his mouth and the twitch in his eyes; see what it looks like when he loses that last bit of casual control. Ron squeezes his eyes shut and tries to picture it instead, reaching back as much as he can with his shoulders and making a neat little alley between them, practically fucking inviting Seamus to come right there – but he doesn't.
Instead he stops, his breath strange and shuddering, and lifts his weight. Ron stills, puzzled, his cock pounding against his belly, his shoulders still pulled back. "Come on," Seamus says, his voice suddenly fragile, and pats frantically at the outside of Ron's thighs. "Up."
Ron's head is too fuzzy and hot to do anything but obey, so he tucks his knees up as much as he can. Moving out of his way, Seamus hits the horn again, and the blast of it makes them both jump. Laughter rolls through their bellies at the same time, and Ron thinks he's so fucking close he might just laugh himself into an orgasm, and it might be the most fantastic thing he's ever felt. The belts tighten at his wrists as, unthinking, he tries to cover his mouth, and the jolt makes him laugh harder.
Seamus is still guffawing as he reaches between Ron's thighs and takes his cock in one warm, hard-palmed hand. He leans into Ron, his chest tight against Ron's arse, all contorted and strange as he strokes hard. Less than a minute later, Ron is shaking with the effort of not coming all over Seamus's wrists and fingers and hands – he doesn't want to, not yet; this night is too good to finish so fast – and Seamus's breath is ragged, his cock dripping all over Ron's leg, and their mouths have both gone silent again.
Finally, it's the noise that does it. Seamus strokes up, and he leans into Ron's leg with this little whimpering noise like he needs something, like he'd be begging a little if he could make words right now, like there's this problem Ron can fix for him, and that's it. Every muscle pulls tight and snaps like elastic, and Ron comes, and his heart comes up into his mouth, and Seamus holds onto him like he's keeping him from floating away. Ron's own noise is surprised-sounding, which doesn’t make any sense at all, or maybe it does, because if you had told him he'd be coming all over Seamus's hot-knuckled fist earlier in the evening, he would have been more than surprised. But he isn't really surprised now, though he sounds it.
Ron's knees give out from under him and he falls into his own spunk on the seat with a weird slapping sound, Seamus following him forward and leaning across his back. Their skin is sticking together with sweat, and Ron is sticking to the maybe-leather seat, and it's all very warm and close and… sticky, but really, it's nothing compared to Seamus's orgasm, which takes about three rough frots against the left side of Ron's arse and feels like it covers his entire back. And the noise that comes with it – that one – almost gets Ron fucking hard again. It's this growly thing, yanked straight from his belly and pulled over something rough inside his throat, and it's not a sound Ron had ever imagined Seamus could make.
Panting, Ron makes some weird sound of his own in response as he feels Seamus's head fall against his shoulder and his teeth bite down there, hot air puffing through his nose. Seamus smiles around the bite almost immediately and sets his chin over the spot.
Ron is smiling, too. Smiling huge and goofy into the sweaty seat, feeling the air buzz around his body and Seamus's breath against his skin, somehow both harsh and soft and sort of tickly.
Neither of them move for a while, and it's only when the air starts to feel cold that Ron speaks. "Seamus?" he mumbles, the sound all garbled from his slackened mouth.
"Mmm?" Seamus answers.
"Your neck."
"What?"
"I like your neck."
Ron can feel Seamus's mouth open against his back, can feel his tongue all heavy and wet when he huffs a laugh. "Thanks. That's a new one."
Ron pauses briefly before he speaks again. "...Seamus?"
"Hmmm?" Seamus's sweaty head tilts sideways, and Ron can feel his ear like a funny suction cup.
"Why haven't we done this before?"
Seamus laughs again, this time slow and full and still a little pissed-sounding, and it's just as gorgeous as that Lion-laugh from earlier. "Because you're a bloody heterosexual, Weasley. Remember?"
"Oh." Ron thinks on that for a moment and decides that he never actually called himself one thing or the other. So it's not like he's changed his mind. It isn't like he lied to anyone. "Am I?"
He feels Seamus's sharp elbow dig into him as Seamus props himself up. "Doesn't matter, really, does it?"
And then Ron is warm again, his thoughts like fire crackling through his bones, and he says, "No. I guess it doesn't."
"Do you want to do it again?" Seamus asks, as blunt as he has always been, baldly charming and just fucking lovely.
"Reckon so," Ron answers. Answers truthfully, at that. "But could you maybe untie me first? I can barely drive this thing with my hands, forget trying to do it with my arse."
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