Daily Deviant

Title: ONE MORE
Pairing: Ron/Draco/Blaise
Rating: Explicit
Words: ~1,100
Warnings: voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, anal sex

When Ron returned for his Eighth year, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Sure, some of his mates were joining, enough Gryffindors to fill out a pack, but it wouldn’t be the same. For one, the Castle was still very much in shambles; the front hall and two of the corridors were still reduced to rubble, and several markers had been permanently fixed to the walls, signifying those they had lost in the War. Fred’s own was directly across from Potions, and both Ron and Harry had dropped that class as quickly as a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

And that was the other thing, wasn’t it. He was a war hero now, and for the first time he was finally being seen as more than just a Weasley with red hair, freckles and hand-me-down robes. In fact, he’d spotted quite a few first and second-year students with holes in their clothing, their hair magicked copper and a few had even marked their skin with tiny dots. Young witches waved to him in the hallways, and one even slipped a perfumed piece of parchment into his bag, containing a badly written poem comparing his hair to the red of her heart.

Yes, he was famous now, and for the first time he finally understood why Harry had hated the limelight so much. Everyone stared at him as he walked down the hall, and he couldn’t even sit somewhere boring like the library without someone approaching him. They kept asking questions like, was the Basilisk tooth really that big, or did the locket really burn into his chest, and could they please, please see the scars on his arms from the brains.

Plus he wasn’t quite sure if anyone really liked him for him, and not because of some war wounds and the miserable time he spent in a tent.

At least, when he was in his room with the other eighth year boys, he didn’t have to worry about the screaming spotlight that seemed to follow him anywhere. Especially since he was sharing a space with two Slytherins who really couldn’t care less what a Weasley was doing.

In fact, every night when he returned from playing Exploding Snap in the Common Room with Harry, or listening to Neville prattle on about some new plants in the Greenhouse, Ron would begrudgingly return to his quarters and pull the curtains swiftly around his bedroom without so much as a nod hello to his fellow roommates.

Some nights he’d put up some silencing charms and have a peaceful wank, or eat a mince pie that he smuggled into his pocket. Other nights, like tonight, he’d let the curtains hang loose and listen to the calming sounds of the others snoring. He blamed it on growing up in Burrow, not able to fall asleep without the ambient noise of others around him.

He could tell the difference between Malfoy’s heavy breathing and Zabini’s snoring with ease, just as easily as he could tell that Malfoy wasn’t quite asleep, his breaths light and huffy instead of long and even.

In fact, the more Ron listened, his ear as sharp as an Extendable, the more he was convinced that Malfoy was far from sleeping. Now that he focused, he could hear other sounds as well, a squelch, a sigh, the rustling of blankets under a foot.

What was Malfoy doing? Was he polishing off some pie in his bed as well? Or was it...no, surely the Ferret wasn’t polishing off anything else, not that, not -

And then Ron heard a moan. Another shift of sheets.

A creak, a thump as a foot hit the hard wooden floor and padded across the expanse of a room. Another creak, more shifting of sheets. Another groan. This time lower. Louder.

“Fuck, Draco.” Zabini’s voice carried through Ron’s curtains as smooth as water, and Ron couldn’t help but gasp. He peeked around his curtain just in time to see one of his roommates crawl into the bed of his other one. Blaise’s arse was tilted upward, his pyjama bottoms tucked neatly under his round, firm cheeks, and Ron could barely make out the shape of Malfoy’s toes against the white bedding.

They were facing downward, the tips of his toes touching the flat mattress of his bed, and Ron’s mind fizzled with the thoughts of what was happening beneath his sheets. Was he as naked as his bare feet? Was his arse exposed? Was the head of Blaise’s cock pressed against his hole, or fuck, pressed inside?

Were they fucking in his room? Were they fucking in front of him?

His hand wiggled its way under the seam of his pants and gripped onto his interested cock. His first instinct was to blame the fact that anyone fucking, whether bloke or bird, would be equally as titillating, but Ron knew deep down that the book he acquired from his brother on how to seduce a witch was rubbish when all he wanted to do was beguile a bloke. He blamed Harry, and their nights in the tent, when all he could focus on was his hands and his throat and his arse in those damnable Muggle jeans and the moans that escaped his cot in the middle of the night when he thought Hermione and Ron were asleep.

Similar moans were escaping the throats of not one but both of his room-mates, from the same bed directly across from Ron’s own. As Ron gripped his own cock, sliding his hand up and down his length, he stared at the two moving bodies in front of him.

He pulled and twisted as Blaise’s body bobbed up and down, his shadow casting against the wall in a gorgeous arch of light. He tugged as Draco’s moans filled the space, as his gasps filled Ron’s ears.

He crested, spilling all over his hand as Draco called out Blaise’s name as he came, as Blaise’s body shivered and trembled in release.

He wiped his own pleasure haphazardly on the curtains surrounding his bed before tucking back beneath his own sheets, his heart racing as he heard the bed creak. He heard the padding of feet, the sound growing louder as they approached his own mattress.

He saw the curtains pull to the right, letting in the moonlight and the glow outlining Zabini’s chiseled body.

“It takes more than one cock to keep this annoying bastard satisfied, Weasley. Next time, join in, won’t you?”

Title: Ripe Strawberries
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Lily Luna
Rating: Explicit
Words: ~2500
Warnings: incest, infidelity, sex, a bit of character bashing
Summary: It's not wrong if she's the only one who cares about him anyway.

Robards was standing against the wall of the Grimmauld Place ballroom, a champagne glass in his hand and his wand pointed to his throat as his Sonorosed voice poured over the crowd. The Head of the Auror department was talking ad nauseam about how proud he was of Harry and Ginny, top Auror and his famous Quidditch Player wife. How he knew when he attended their wedding just twenty-five years ago that they’d be here, celebrating a quarter of a century of happiness and love. As if he knew them better than Ron. As if he knew them at all.

Ron rolled his eyes. So they’d been married twenty-five years, who cared. He and Hermione had been married almost thirty, had practically been together since they were thirteen years old, and you didn’t see them throwing a damn party about it.

But Ginny loved any opportunity she had to parade around her husband. Ron couldn’t exactly blame her; Harry had always been a bit captivating. Ron wasn’t even into blokes, and he’d still give Harry a whirl if he demanded.

Or asked. Or even gave him the smallest of winks or the barest of whimpers.

And he supposed Ginny did look stunning. Her red hair flowed down her back, curling right above the slope of her arse. Her dress was tight, too tight in Ron’s opinion. Her back bare and exposed to the guests and reporters sitting behind the happy couple, the fabric rippling around her skin, her curves. Ron had grown up watching her body turn from stick to curves, the way her breasts developed until they were practically spilling out of her junior bralets, the way her arse filled out under her hand-me-down robes.

Not that he saw her much these days. She was always running to some event or another, chasing Harry’s robes, chasing after a Quaffle, or chasing after her children. He’d see her at Sunday dinners of course, especially when she brought the whole family around.

He was just protective of his little sister. Maybe a bit too protective, but what older brother wants the world gaping at her gorgeous body? Ron was being a good brother when he stared and noticed how the freckles running down her spine looked like that of a dragon. That was all.

The fact that he wondered if Harry noticed as well, if he dragged his tongue down the intricate pattern when she was riding his huge cock was just misplaced fantasies. It didn’t mean anything.

Nothing.

He gave his wife’s hand a squeeze, as if the motion would somehow turn off the thoughts that were running through his head. Hermione’s face contorted into a small smile, before releasing his hand completely and clapping at the completion of Robards’ boring commentary. As if that man knew anything about Ginny, his own blood, or Harry, his best friend. No one knew them as well as Ron. No one.

“My turn,” Hermione said as she shuffled her notecards, tapping them on the table once she concluded they were still in the correct order. Ron had practically memorized every word of that damn speech already, listening to Hermione read it out loud over and over again until it felt like she was talking about different people completely and not their best friend who they’d known since childhood, or his own flesh and blood.

Ron took a moment to absorb the woman next to him, the same woman that had been by his side for three decades. She was in her brown suit, a constant when she had speaking engagements, her hair in a tight bun. He thought back about how he used to run his fingers through her curls, grip onto those locks as she wrapped her lips around his cock while she looked up at him with her beautiful brown eyes. How long it had been since she’d gotten on her knees for him. Or spread her legs for him. Or looked at him at all.

Now she just seems to look through him as she stood and haphazardly pushed in her chair before walking to the podium. He tried to imagine how her hips were shifting from side to side under her loose-fitting skirt, but he couldn’t. All he could see was boring tweed.

As Hermione tapped the mic and began her speech, Ron felt itchy. The collar on his robes was suddenly too tight, the room suddenly too hot, too small, too crowded. He had to get out of there.

He stood, his chair making a screeching noise across the wooden floor as he pushed it back. Ron waved his hand in some barely-there apology for the noise, made eye contact with a familiar face and headed out the back door.

On instinct, Ron found his way to the library down the hallway. He spent a lot of time in that room in particular, as it had not only a wizarding chess set, but also the most luxurious leather recliners. He’d often found himself sneaking in for a kip between meals, enjoying the quiet and privacy of the room.

That’s where she found him the first time.

She had just turned seventeen, home for the winter hols, and Ron had dissuaded her as much as he could.

But she was persistent like her mother, and eventually Ron couldn’t resist.

After all, she was of age. Perfectly legal and in charge of her own body. The fact that it reminded him of his little sister had nothing to do with it.

He leaned back in the merlot-coloured recliner, enjoying the quiet in the book-filled room when he heard the snick of a door open and then close.

Ron smelled her before he even saw her. Strawberry shampoo and vanilla conditioner, the same combination of hair potion that her mother used. Her hair was just as long but had a mind of its own, a child of both Harry’s tangled mess and Ginny’s soft curls. When she’d bounce up and down her hair would spring right along with her, dancing through the air in soft, tight ringlets.

She often wore it magicked straight, the same way Hermione potioned her hair when she attended the Yule Ball, but when she was freshly showered, or attending a fancy soiree, she’d wear it down, all fiery tresses surrounding her porcelain face.

It was the face he was looking at now, so young and fresh and innocent, and yet so familiar as if he’d been staring at it since age eleven in the passenger car on a train.

“Hi Uncle Ron,” Lily Luna grinned as she placed her hands on each of his knees. “Saw you leave when Aunt Hermione was talking.”

“Yep,” Ron nodded, trying to sound casual and cool, and not as if the sound of her saying Uncle was doing anything to his netherregion.

She hadn’t always had that effect on him. When little Lils was younger, he used to carry her around on his shoulders, laughing at her giggles.

If she hadn’t made the first move, he would have never touched her. Wouldn’t have even considered it. But if his cock is what made her happy, who is he to deny his niece’s desires?

But now. Well, now it had already happened. And had happened so many times since. So what was the harm of it happening again? While everyone he knew was sitting just yards away.

“I don’t blame you. Her speech was sooooo boring,” Lily Luna rolled her eyes before pulling her dress up off the floor. It was a soft pink, tulle around the base of the skirt, and when she hiked it up to her thighs and nestled onto Ron’s lap, he was sure he saw a bit of burgundy on her shoes.

Did she realise how much she looked like Hermione right now? All smiles and happiness and pink as she shook her hips around Ron’s thighs? Did she know how much she was playing with Ron’s emotions, how much he was craving that time, that life? When he was the hero, and not just a side-character to a Minister and an Auror and a famous Quidditch Player. And a Dragon Tamer and a Curse Breaker?

And who was Ron, anyway? Manager at his brother’s store, a stand-in for someone else.

But in this library, he was more. He was an Uncle, a friend, a confidant for his Lils. She talked to him, trusted him. They had a relationship closer than she had with any of her other uncles. Her Uncle Ron was special to her.

He reminded himself of that as he pulled the straps off her shoulders, kissing the small indentations they had made in her soft shoulders. She sighed, arching her back as the dress fell to her waist, revealing her black lace strapless bra, her tits practically spilling over the seams.

Hermione used to wear bras like that, all lace and colours. Now she wore tans and whites, her bouncy breasts bound by structure and pragmatism.

Ron groaned, his hands instantly grasping onto the fabric that clung to her breasts, yanking the lace down and down until it joined the rest of her dress around her flat stomach. She arched more, heaving her now bare breast towards the direction of Ron’s lips. He didn’t hesitate, pulling one nipple in between his teeth while the other was surrounded by his pinching fingers.

She grinded against him, the silk surrounding her cunt pressed against his sleek trousers as she rode his thigh. His hands dropped from cupping her breasts to slipping under her dress, kneading her arse and slipping a finger under the barely-there strings of her knickers.

He didn’t try to take off the rest of her clothing; there was never enough time to fully open Lily Luna up like he wanted to. If he had the time, and the space, he’d hold her down by her ankles, watching as she squirmed naked under his gaze. He’d use his mouth until she was trembling, until she was moaning his name, and then and only then would he give her what she craved.

But they didn’t have that luxury, and certainly not when half the wizarding world was listening to his wife finish the twenty-minute speech she’d penned about how perfect Harry and Ginny were, when she was secretly so bitter it wasn’t her sitting next to the Golden Boy. As if Ron didn’t know he was just an understudy to the Boy Who Lived. And at work to the Boy Who Didn’t.

Ron forced himself to push those thoughts aside as Lily reached her delicate hand into the front of his trousers, fishing out his swollen cock from the undone zip. He barely had a chance to pull the small strip of silk to the side as she positioned herself and sank down on his hardened length.

“Oh, fuck,” Ron groaned as Lily Luna settled herself on his lap, her ankles crossing over his knees, the tips of her heels pressed against his legs. She giggled, giving him a look of surprise at his use of profanity, before shifting forward and placing a kiss on his nose.

When she leaned back, Ron couldn’t help but look into her eyes, bright and soft and green like her father’s. He pressed his feet flat to the floor and canted his hips, thrusting into her as she rocked back onto her heels.

The found a steady pattern, Ron filling her from below, Lily Luna rocking back and forth as the recliner held them close, so close. He couldn’t look away from her eyes, even as she began to pant, even as he moved a hand to grip her bouncing tits, the other one still firmly on her arse as she rode his length.

Even as her head tilted back and her eyes closed, and her hand dipped below the layers of her dress and found her cunt, even as she rubbed herself, bucking against him with abandon.

“Tell me,” she whined as she fucked herself on her Uncle’s cock.

He didn’t have to ask what she wanted to hear. She had told him so many times before.

Ron knew that feeling. Wanting to be older, to be wiser, to be anyone else but himself.

“You’re prettier than her,” he groaned as she increased her pace. “Smarter than her.”

Lily Luna had been confessing her entire life how much she wanted to be like her mother when she grew up. How she wanted to fly fast, faster even, join the team when she was a First Year like her father, not Fourth like her mother. How she wanted to be Head Girl like Lily, not just Prefect like Hermione. She was constantly comparing herself to others, pushing herself to accomplish things sooner, better.

“You fly better than, unnnh, better than your father, and he flies better than your, oh fuck, better than your mother ever has.”

“Yes, yes, please, faster,” Lily Luna cried out so loudly that Ron threw his hand over her mouth, worried the guests down the hall would hear.

“Fuck,” Ron pulled her body closer so that her nipples dragged across his chest as she snapped her hips. “And your arse, my gods Lils, do you know how hard it is to concentrate when I see you walk into a room?”

He could feel her moan against the backs of his fingers as she came, slamming her hips forward as she convulsed around him. He held her close, his fingers digging into her supple skin, and for a moment he wondered if it would bruise, if she’d be changing later and Ginny would see the tiny marks of Ron’s fingertips embedded in her daughter’s skin.

He rammed into her three more times before he was spilling inside of her tight cunt, biting his bottom lip so hard as he came. His head fell to her bare shoulder and he breathed in her scent once more, strawberries and vanilla and just a hint that was pure Lily Luna, his lovely niece with all of her lovely curves.

The reprieve was short-lived. Within moments, Lils had pulled off his lap, her knickers and dress adjusted to cover her supple mounds, a hand through her curls in an attempt to tame them. Ron tucked himself back within his trousers and pulled himself off of the recliner, just as he heard clapping down the hallway.

She left first, a quick wink over her shoulder before the door fastened closed. In his head, Ron began to count.

500 numbers later, Ron emerged from the library, his hair straightened and his robes wrapped tight around his shoulders. When he returned to his table towards the front, he gave Hermione a half-hearted smile.

“Where were you,” she hissed as her eyes remained focused on the last speaker of the evening, Ginny’s coach for the Harpies.

Ron casually shrugged and wiped the corner of his mouth in innocence. “Better food in the back.”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes, and leaned back in her chair with her arms folded around her waist. Ron looked at her, and then past her to another table, where his niece was sitting, beaming, and looking directly at her favourite Uncle.

Ron couldn’t help but smile.