The Little Games We Play (Ch. 1)

( Every character in this story is a legal adult over the age of 18 )

The Little Games We Play 

Chapter 1

It was a shitty night at the Burrow. The air was muggy and thick, causing sweat to roll down the middle of his back. His face was bright red, and it wasn’t just because he was hot. Ron Weasley paced in circles in his cramped bedroom, both feet lightly pattering in the Chudley Cannons socks he had received last Christmas. From the other bed, Hermione’s light snoring drilled through his skull in uneven, mouth-breathing waves. He thought about waking her up just to start an argument and maybe end up having sex after all.

Sadly, he knew he was shit at it, and she hated how he kept begging. He’d read in one of Hermione’s Muggle magazines that you’re not supposed to ask more than three times in a night. He always lost count. Hermione kept her pyjamas buttoned high, and even when she caved, she’d lie there like it was a study break. She didn’t even pretend to moan anymore. Ron didn’t even blame her. He wasn’t exactly packing heat down there, and his stale moves were clumsy at best. Every time he tried to be more “attentive,” she’d make that noise that annoyed him so much. It was an exasperated cluck of the tongue that sounded more than a little pitying. 

It was one of those months when the Burrow became a Weasley flop house. Everyone was home for a “family summer.” Percy and his annoying wife were in his old room, Ginny was in hers, and Bill and Fleur were sleeping in his old bedroom. Charlie was still in Romania, though he planned to visit in a few weeks. George was out of town on business, but he’d be back in a couple of days. Hermione kept saying how lucky they were. She said they were blessed to have this many Weasleys in the old house. She said it was a time for joy. Ron figured it was a load of bollocks. She hadn’t spoken to him for three hours.

He couldn’t sleep. His mind was all over the place, and they kept going back to all those old thoughts that continued to haunt him. He wondered how long it would be before Hermione began looking elsewhere to scratch the itch that he couldn’t take care of. Ron knew exactly who she’d turn to first. Harry had spent the better part of two days making Ginny scream while everyone pretended not to hear it. Even the ghoul in the attic was quieter than Harry and Ginny. Hell, Harry and Ginny weren’t even dating, and yet, she spread her legs any time he even looked at her. It frustrated him to no end. Ron tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. He was fine … his relationship was fine. He just needed to blow off steam before he started tossing pillows.

He slipped downstairs and found the kitchen empty except for a sink full of Ginny’s dirty dishes and the lingering scent of Fleur’s perfume. The house was never truly asleep. There was always someone getting up to go to the bathroom or to go downstairs for a cup of water, but tonight it was strangely quiet. Ron slipped out of the back door and went to the broom shed. He took out the old Cleansweep and ran his palm down the chipped handle. He didn’t bother with shoes. He just swung his pajama-clad leg over the handle and kicked off.

The night air was foggy and humid, and it wasn’t long before his face was covered with a thin sheen of dampness. He flew fast and hard, banking sharply around the orchard and skimming the branches. His heart sped up, and his hands got sticky on the handle. It wasn’t Quidditch, but it was close enough, and it shut off the annoying loop of thoughts in his brain. He pushed higher, arcing toward the house, and scanned the upper windows for signs of life.

Bill had said something about a nightcap when he took his wife back to their room. Their bedroom light was still on, which obviously meant they were still awake. Ron thought about flying over to the window and knocking, maybe just for a chat, or asking Bill to sneak out for a broom race. Bill always made things sound easier, even when he was quietly judging Ron for living at home and working a dead-end Ministry job. Ron couldn’t stand the idea of another hour staring at the ceiling, so he steered the Cleansweep up and hovered just below Bill and Fleur’s window.

He didn’t mean to peek. He was just planning to knock, just as he’d done a million times before, but now it felt desperate, and maybe a little pathetic. The room was mostly dark, except for a lamp on the bedside table. There was movement behind the half-drawn curtain. It was frantic, and a shape rocked the bed with insane, single-minded force. Ron thought it was Bill, and for a second, he grinned, ready to tease him in the morning for his stamina.

But then the shadow moved, just enough for Ron to see a shock of messy black hair. There was no doubt as to who it was, and it definitely wasn’t Bill. It was Harry, and bent over the mattress with legs splayed wide open, was Fleur Delacour. Fleur Weasley, Ron reminded himself … Bill’s fucking wife! Her knees braced on the edge, and her head was thrown back. Her beautiful face was twisted in ecstasy. Ron almost lost his grip on the broom.

It was Harry fucking Fleur. He was fucking her hard. Ron could see the blur of his thrusts. He could see how Fleur’s back arched and ass clenched. Ron saw how Harry’s hands gripped her waist like he owned it. Fleur made noises no woman in the Burrow had ever made. They were high-pitched, hot, and wild, and one thing was perfectly clear. She loved every second of it. 

Ron hovered by the window, paralyzed by the sight. It was so much worse than he’d imagined, and all his insecurities inflated to a nightmarish size. Even from here, Harry looked bigger and better than him in every way. The pleasured squeals and moans coming out of Fleur’s mouth sounded genuine, like it was impossible to fake it with a cock of that size battering her insides. 

The next time the bed dipped, Ron caught a perfect view of Fleur’s face. It was flushed pink, and her sweaty hair stuck to her cheek. Harry said something, his voice muffled but urgent, and Fleur answered with a string of demands so obscene that Ron’s ears burned.

Ron hovered at the window, his heart beating a hundred times a second while his shirt soaked through with a cold sweat. He felt like he’d slammed straight into a Bludger, the force of what he was seeing knocking every thought out of his head. Harry’s naked ass flexed and pumped in perfect rhythm. Harry then manhandled her into a new position. Fleur was a mess of pale limbs and platinum hair, her body twisted half off the mattress. The sheet bunched under her like a crumpled white flag. Fleur had surrendered, and Harry was claiming his prize. 

Harry had her folded in half with her knees to her chest and her bare feet dangling in the air. He was driving into her, hard and unyielding, each thrust making the bed groan and the headboard hammer the wall. Fleur’s hands were above her head, desperately clutching at the pillow. Her knuckles were white from her fierce grip. She didn’t look like herself. Fleur looked like a different creature. Her mouth was open, her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and her face was flushed all the way to her ears. She was making noises that Ron had never heard from Hermione, and he knew that Fleur’s lustful wails of pleasure would haunt his fantasies from now on. 

Harry said something in a low, rough voice. Ron couldn’t hear it, but Fleur’s reply was absolutely filthy. Her accent turned every vowel into a moan. She grabbed the back of Harry’s neck and yanked him down to her, wrapping her legs around his back. It pulled her body tighter, stretching her so wide that Ron wondered if she might break. He could see everything. Fleur’s pussy was slick and pink, and her swollen lips clung to Harry’s cock every time he pulled out, like her cunt was refusing to let go. His huge shaft glistened with milky streaks of her cream, and her arousal was smeared over both of them, making their skin look shiny and wet.

The sound of their rutting was obscene. Her pussy was wet and squelching, and the slap of skin on skin was punctuated by Fleur’s hoarse, desperate gasps. She never stopped talking. Every word was a plea or a curse or a wild, hungry demand. “Plus fort … more … fuck me, ‘arry … don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t … ahh!” The next thrust cut her off, and she cried out, her fingers clawing his back while her nails dug half-moons into his flesh. Fleur’s breasts bounced with every move. They were perfect and round, and her stiff, light pink nipples brushed up against Harry’s chest when he bent low enough to suck on them.

Ron tried to make himself look away, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even blink. He felt his own cock twitching in his trousers, and every nerve in his body was tuned to the rhythm of Harry’s thrusts. He pressed his face closer to the glass. He wanted to see everything. He wanted to be Harry. He wanted to be anyone other than himself right now.

Harry reached between them and thumbed Fleur’s clit with practiced ease. Fleur arched off the bed, one leg trembling as her toes curled into the air. She was gushing now, and more fluid leaked out with every slam of Harry’s cock. The tip bulged against her belly, and it was so deep that Ron thought it might split her open. Harry lifted her hips and hammered in, once, twice, three times. Every thrust of his cock was followed by a perverted squelch of her fluttering pussy. Fleur howled out an honest, feral sound that shot through Ron and made his balls ache with desperate need.

Then Harry pulled out slowly, letting Fleur’s pussy gape wide and drip down her thighs. The taut, pink lips stayed open, twitching obscenely. Harry flipped her onto her belly and lifted her ass high into the air. He pushed her knees open wide, spreading her body so he had access to everything. Fleur’s tight asshole winked at Ron. Fleur shuddered, her whole body spasming with aftershocks of an orgasm. Ron’s mouth was dry. He watched as Harry stroked his cock, aiming it at Fleur’s cunt, but then … “Oh, shit,” Ron said with surprised eyes, his voice a whisper. Harry guided the head higher and pressed it against her tight, puckering hole.

Fleur whimpered, and she bit down on the pillow to keep from being too loud. Harry patiently and relentlessly pushed until the head of his cock mashed against the tiny ring. It looked impossible. There was no way Fleur would be able to take that monster into … that hole, Ron thought as he licked his dry lips. Ron saw it start to open. He saw the tight muscle give way, and he saw the head slip in. Fleur’s eyes rolled back, and she cried out, “Oui, oui, oh fuck!”

 Harry started to fuck her there. He started off slowly, and then thrust harder and faster, making Fleur claw the sheets and babble in broken English and French. Ron was shaking. He felt filthy, rotten with envy, and harder than he’d ever been in his life. He pressed one hand into his groin and just watched as Harry pounded into Fleur’s ass. Her pussy was still leaking, and her body trembled with every stroke. The wet slap of his balls against her pussy was louder now, rhythmic and perfect. Harry’s hands were tight on her hips, his fingers dimpling the pale, perfect flesh.

Fleur’s orgasms hit like a ton of bricks. Ron could see it, the way her muscles tightened, and her breath stopped. Then she pleaded as Harry never let up and never slowed. Every time Fleur begged for more, Harry gave her exactly what she wanted, until she was a squealing, gasping mess on the mattress. Her tits shook with every thrust, her pink nipples crinkled, hard, and glistening with sweat.

Harry started to lose rhythm, his body tensing, and his jaw clenched. Fleur screamed again, her hands scrabbling for his ass as she tried to pull him deeper. Harry pounded her pussy a few more times, and then he buried himself to the base, shuddering. Fleur moaned like a whore, her asshole stretched tight around the base of Harry’s cock. Ron could see the spasms in Harry’s back as he filled Fleur’s ass with his cum.

They stayed like that, shuddering and stuck together, for a long minute. Then Harry pulled out slowly, and a creamy trickle of his seed followed, leaking down and dripping over the length of her pussy. Fleur looked wrecked and beautiful. Her face was flushed, her eyes glazed, and there was a sheen of sweat on her brow.

Harry flopped beside her, panting. Fleur rolled onto her side and kissed him passionately, and their tongues tangled with no shame at all. Fleur clung to him like she couldn’t bear to let go.

Ron jerked back from the window. He was sweating through his shirt and shaking so hard he nearly slipped from the broom. He felt sick, furious, and insanely jealous. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to hex Harry, or Fleur, or maybe Bill for allowing this to happen. He wanted to tell Bill and watch as he cursed Harry into oblivion. He’d never hated Harry more for betraying his brother. 

He crashed to the ground and stumbled toward the house. His cock was still throbbing, and his hands were balled into fists. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He only knew that everything was fucked, and there was no going back.

The Little Games We Play

Inside the bedroom, Bill Weasley sat in the shadowed corner, half-hidden by the wardrobe. His hand was wet and sticky on his own cock, and his eyes were locked on Fleur’s flushed, ruined ass and Harry’s broad, sweaty back. His wife giggled and threw her leg over Harry’s lap. As she sank down on his long, throbbing cock, Bill came quietly for the second time that night, with a shudder and a crooked, satisfied smile.