Title: This Charming Man
Warnings: Underage sex, drug use
Disclaimer: These boys are Joanna's.
Notes: Title from The Smiths.
"I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said, 'It's gruesome
That someone so handsome should care.'
Oh, la-la, la-la, la-la, this charming man..." (The Smiths, "This Charming Man")
Sirius is laughing, and Ron thinks he might be as well, but things are so unclear; his head’s swimming and he feels vaguely hot, much higher than he should be from the one joint they’ve shared.
“We were completely stoned – really stupid, yeah? – and James’s got his feet up on the desk and I’d never seen McGonagall so mad before…” He keeps talking, but Ron’s not listening, instead he’s watching the way Sirius’s throat works as he speaks, how his Adam’s apple bobs alluring up and down and – what the fuck? He shouldn’t be looking at Sirius like that.
Ron’s only smoked pot once, last summer, with Charlie when he came home to visit from Romania. He doesn’t really remember it, except that he and Charlie had been shirtless and bare-legged and they’d lain under one of the big oak trees near the Burrow and watched the smoke filter up through the sunlit leaves and he’d felt terribly grown-up.
“Don’t you think we should do something?” Sirius was asking him. “Do something… something… What do people do? I don’t even know anymore,” and he threw his head back and laughed again, that devil-may-care grin on his prematurely lined face. Ron thinks that maybe he can see bits of the young Sirius shining through this cracked façade.
“We are doing something,” Ron replies, grinning idiotically. “We’re getting pissed,” he lifts up the discarded firewhiskey bottle (where the hell did that come from?), “and generally fucked.”
“Now there’s an idea,” Sirius murmurs, and Ron thinks he detects a note of mischief in Sirius’s voice. “Let’s fuck.”
It takes Ron a minute to realize what Sirius has said and another minute to realize he’s not protesting. Sirius leans over him and Ron has a second to think, well, he is a rather handsome bloke, before Sirius is kissing him, and it’s all sticky soft and his breath is sweet and smoky.
Ron breaks the kiss, feeling like he’s coming up after a long time drowning, and he thinks he might be sober. “I’m not bent,” he says.
“Okay,” Sirius says, but he doesn’t move away and his lips are still inches from Ron’s and his chest’s pressing him down against the floor.
“My mum n’ dad are upstairs,” Ron says, but no, that’s not true, they’re back at the Burrow, collecting Ginny and the twins.
“Are they?” Sirius mutters, but he’s not listening.
“So we can’t do this,” Ron says, trying to guide Sirius logically into realizing the Very Bad Thing that they were about to do.
“We can’t do what,” Sirius breathes, and it’s not a question, and his mouth is so fucking close and kissing him wasn’t that bad, was it?
“This,” Ron sighs, and presses his mouth to Sirius’s again, this time participating in the kiss, and Sirius slides a hand around to the back of his neck, twining fingers in his too-long red hair, and his tongue darts out and touches the fullest part of Ron’s lower lip.
Ron gasps and in doing so parts his lips and Sirius takes full advantage, sliding his wet tongue into Ron’s mouth and Ron instinctively touches it with his own. Ron’s snogged girls before and it’s felt pretty much like this only Sirius obviously knows what he’s doing and he’s managed to wrest all control from Ron which shouldn’t be erotic but for some reason it is.
He feels a shift, Sirius is on top of him, all hard angles and heat, and for one terrifying moment Ron can’t breathe at all but then Sirius pushes himself up on his elbows and kisses him deeply and Ron is lost again.
Sirius’s tongue feels so big in Ron’s mouth and it’s so fucking hot. Ron is aware of a thigh between his legs and realizes he’s rocking against it, pushing his hips up and rubbing his cock (which he’s surprised to find is desperately hard) against the solidity of Sirius’s leg.
Sirius flexes his thigh and Ron whines into his mouth; he thinks he can feel Sirius’s matching erection nudging his hip and then Sirius has got his hand down between them and he’s undoing the button of Ron’s jeans.
“No, don’t – What are you doing?” Ron breathes, scrabbling to remove the hand even though just the slight pressure of fingers against his hard-on is enough to make him groan.
“Nothing,” Sirius mumbles into his neck, “Just making you more comfortable.” And Ron knows better, but he still lets him ease down the zip and palm his cock through his damp cotton underwear. Ron shifts a little to give Sirius better access and Sirius sighs appreciatively. “Mm… You’re so hard,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Ron says, breathless, and he lets Sirius touch him, through his underwear, and he feels guilty but also defiant. In a sudden movement, he pushes his hips up hard and tugs his denims and pants down over his hips, forgetting to mind his erection and dragging the elastic of his underwear over the sensitive flesh painfully. He yelps, but Sirius’s hand is instantly there, touching his bare cock, soothing and murmuring, “Easy,” and it’s skin on skin and no one has ever touched Ron there (except maybe his mother, he thinks, when he was little and she was giving him a bath or something, and then he wonders why on earth he’s thinking of his mother while Sirius Black is getting him off).
He lets Sirius play with him, and it feels so good, and why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he feel good? Ron always puts others first – puts Harry first – and he’s been an afterthought or second best his entire life; not charming like Bill, not good at Quidditch like Charlie, not clever like Percy, not even funny like the twins, but here he is, being wanked by Sirius Black, and maybe Sirius is drunk or thinking of someone else, but Ron doesn’t care, and in this moment, he gives himself up entirely to the selfish pleasure of Sirius’s calloused palm and wicked fingers.
“Christ, you’ve got a fantastic cock,” Sirius mutters, his voice hoarse, and Ron feels a spike of heat low in his belly at the compliment.
“Yeah?” Ron asks, and Sirius nods, his head on Ron’s shoulder, watching the slow, dry motion of his hand and Ron’s cock as they move together.
“D’you like this?” Sirius asks, thumb coming up to tease back Ron’s foreskin, revealing the rosy tip, wet with a trickle of precome. He teases the slit, and Ron groans his approval, his toes curling into the carpet. “Can I suck it?”
“What?” Ron gasps, not sure he heard right. Sirius grins, then kisses Ron’s neck, sucking a little on his skin. He tilts his head up so as to whisper right into Ron’s ear, but first he licks the tender earlobe and nips at it gently.
“I guess what I should have said is, may I suck this?”, he asks, squeezing Ron’s cock for emphasis. Ron groans. Just hearing the words from Sirius is about to send him over the edge.
“Um,” he mutters, unsure and finding it difficult to concentrate with Sirius sliding the side of his thumb back and forth over the incredibly sensitive slit in the head of his cock. “I don’t think I can last,” he finally whispers, and Sirius chuckles.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I want to taste you.” Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Besides, I bet you can get it up again right away.”
Ron doesn’t think he’s acquiesced, but Sirius gives him a smile and backs down his body, pausing to nuzzle at his left nipple through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, pulling it into a tight, itchy point. Sirius pauses when his head’s hovering above Ron’s erection, which is an angry red, straining against his belly.
The pause stretches out until Ron can’t stand it. “Just fucking do it,” he blurts, and Sirius laughs, a real laugh and not the carefully practiced bray which always reminds Ron that one really does forget how to laugh in Azkaban.
Ron moans when Sirius touches his warm, wet tongue to the tip of his erection and he jerks his hips up involuntarily, banging Sirius in the lips. “Careful,” Sirius grunts, but dips his head back down to continue tasting Ron, this time holding the base of his cock with his right hand to keep him still.
Sirius’s tongue travels all over Ron’s penis, bathing his shaft with saliva and feather-light licks that have Ron squirming and sighing. With his left hand, Sirius cups Ron’s balls, lightly rolling them between his fingers. Ron yelps, and Sirius looks up at him. “Too much?” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand.
“I’m just, er… sensitive,” Ron gasps. Sirius replaces his warm palm, this time, just gently supporting Ron’s full, taut balls. Ron’s surprised at how erotic this is; he feels incredibly vulnerable with Sirius’s hand in such an intimate, delicate place.
“That okay?” Ron nods, and Sirius returns his attention to Ron’s cock, wrapping his mouth around the head and licking all around it, paying special attention to the sensitive tip.
Then Sirius sucks, and Ron practically growls, grating out a low “fuck” as Sirius slides his mouth down, then back up, sucking and licking at the underside, then back down again. Ron knows he can’t take much of this, and he can’t decide what to do with his hands; he so desperately wants to touch Sirius’s hair but isn’t sure if Sirius will want that as well.
The hand touching his balls moves back a bit and pushes at that little patch of skin behind the sac and Ron’s experimented here while wanking but fuck, it’s never felt this good before and Sirius gives one particularly enthusiastic slurp and he’s coming, and coming, and coming, and it feels like heaven.
He remembers belatedly that he should have warned Sirius, but it’s too late now and nothing can halt the flood of semen that erupts violently from his cock into Sirius’s mouth. Ron vaguely feels Sirius swallowing around him, continuing to suck with diminishing force until Ron can’t take it anymore, he’s just too sensitive post-orgasm and the continued stimulation hurts.
He pulls himself from Sirius’ mouth and lies panting, looking up at the elegantly coffered ceiling of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. He looks down his body and notices with a sort of scientific interest that Sirius is jerking himself off, body hunched over itself protectively. Ron thinks maybe he ought to help, but he can’t move and so he looks away, feeling oddly like he’s intruding on a private moment.
He hears Sirius finally gasp, and then there’s silence.
Ron feels vaguely dirty and he's aware that he's still wet and that Sirius has just sucked him off on the parlor floor and he shifts awkwardly, embarrassed. He tugs his pants back up, tucking himself in carefully because his cock feels practically raw and he wonders if he'll be sore later.
He's trying not to meet Sirius's eye, but still sees him fishing in his discarded jacket pocket as he retrieves a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shakes two out and lights them both in his mouth with his wand then gives one to Ron, not offering, leaving no room for refusal.
"Takes the edge off," Sirius mutters, and then grins sort of sheepishly at Ron, but his hand is trembling as he brings the fag to his lips. Ron's feeling sick and he tries to tell himself it's from the weed, but he can't help wondering what the fuck he's supposed to do now. He thinks there must be protocol for situations like these, but if there is, he doesn't know it.
Ron's studying his own freckled fingers to avoid looking up when suddenly Sirius's hand comes into his visual field and he starts but Sirius just touches the side of his face gently, rubbing the pad of his thumb against Ron's cheek.
"Hey," Sirius murmurs, and the soft caress is good, comforting, and Ron leans into it a little, still not looking Sirius in the eyes. "You want to just forget about this?”
Ron nods, just slightly, against Sirius’s hand, and Sirius withdraws it, sighing. “That’s probably a good idea. But,” he leans in until his lips are just barely at Ron’s ear and Ron shudders, his body still responsive post-coitally. “Thanks. That was the best time I’ve had in a while.”
Ron thinks of Sirius in Azkaban, Sirius on the run, Sirius hiding in a cave, eating rats as Padfoot, Sirius trapped in this mausoleum of a house and he chuckles, managing, “That’s not saying much.”
Sirius laughs again and tousles Ron’s hair, a fatherly gesture that’s somehow soothing in its averageness. “You should probably go shower,” he says. “You look a bit rough. Besides, your mum’ll have my head if she knows I even let you go near any sort of cigarette, not to mention the whiskey.”
And so they do forget it, or at least pretend to, and Sirius never mentions what Ron’s mind refers to as “The Thing.” But Ron doesn’t forget it, and the memory keeps cropping up when he doesn’t want it to, like when seeing Sirius tilt his neck back to drain the last dregs from his teacup makes him hard at the breakfast table, or how he feels hot whenever he sees Sirius smoking.
But a few weeks later Hermione arrives, then the Order, and finally, Harry, the return of the prodigal son, and once again, Ron is just the best mate of the Boy Who Lived.
But when Ron’s helping Harry flush Doxies out of an antique cupboard in the parlor one morning and Sirius catches his eye and winks, Ron decides he doesn’t mind quite as much as he used to.
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