A Trifle

by Kass

his story was written for the "Ambrosia" challenge at pornish_pixies. The characters aren't mine; I'm just borrowing them for a moment.

Many thanks to Justine and Sihaya Black, both of whom beta'd this though it's not their usual cup of tea!

It hit him at dinner like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Okay, maybe it had been there before, but he'd been doing a damned fine job of pretending it wasn't. And he would have continued doing, too, if the House-Elves in charge of the Great Hall hadn't gone so overboard with the pudding.

That night it was trifle, layers of berries and custard and whipped cream and cake soaked with something that tasted like rum but Hermione pointed out probably wasn't. The bowls looked like crystal, and kept refilling themselves, so Ron kept piling more onto his plate.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Hermione said.

"Don't care," was Ron's reply, though it came out more like, "mmphn't mmmph," because his mouth was full. He grinned at Harry; Harry grinned back. Ron's mouth was smeared with strawberry, and there was a smudge of cream at one side of his chin.

"You've got," Harry began, meaning to tell Ron to lick the cream away. Except then it occurred to him that somebody else could lick the cream away. Like, say, him.

Suddenly Harry was hard as a broomstick. Achingly hard. Uncomfortably hard. His voice failed.

"Mm?" Ron raised an eyebrow.

"You look a mess," Hermione said, finishing Harry's sentence. Ron shrugged and ate another bite, looking blissful.

Harry's face felt hot. He shoved a spoonful of trifle into his mouth, to mask the fact that he couldn't talk, but that proved the wrong idea. It was so creamy and so rich on his tongue that it only made matters worse.

He knew he was staring at Ron. He couldn't seem to stop. Any second now Ron was going to notice.

Fortunately, Hermione chose that moment to start prattling about their Transfigurations homework. Harry wasn't sure whether she had noticed his silence and wanted to cover it, or whether she was actually that interested in turning stones into edible fruits, but he was glad of her interruption either way.

Harry wasn't sure how he survived the rest of the evening. He willed his erection to go away, somehow, but once he climbed into bed it was back.

To make matters worse, Ron picked that night to wank off. And forgot to cast the modified silencio they'd all mastered in second year. Which meant Harry was stuck listening to heavy breathing and to Ron's jerky motions moving bedclothes about. Making it all too easy to imagine what was going on in the next bed over.

Seamus was sound asleep, or faking it convincingly: his snores were about as obnoxious as usual. Neville's breathing was even. Dean was snoring faintly. Which meant it was just Harry and Ron lying awake, each with prick in hand.

Harry was paralyzed. If he cast silencio on his own bed, he'd lose the sound of Ron. If he didn't cast it, he was afraid to do more than grip himself, for fear Ron would hear him and know...

...Know what, exactly? That he was masturbating?

No. It was worse than that.

The truth that shamed him was, he wanted to do it along with Ron. Even if he were discovered, Ron wouldn't know that’—but Harry would, and did, and the awareness twisted inside him. It wasn't right to be thinking this way about his best friend.

He wasn't meant to wish it were his hand on Ron's prick. To want Ron's hands fisted in the sheets, to want to palm his way down Ron's erection and see how it felt. Maybe smoothing the way with a fistful of the trifle Ron had so eagerly eaten at dinner. (At the thought of it, slick and creamy under his hand, Harry bit his lip. Hard.)

He wanted Ron to be going at him the way he'd gone at the pudding. Like he couldn't eat his fill in a lifetime.

He imagined Ron grinning at him, pushing his hair back with one sticky hand, and slathering (Harry quivered) a great spoonful of trifle over Harry's groin. Only to bend his head and open his lips and lick...

Harry bit back an embarrassing sound, struggling to keep from coming, realizing belatedly that the room had gone suddenly silent. He'd been lost in his fantasy, and either Ron had finished off or had heard him trying not to breathe, because everything was quiet, even Seamus' snores had abated --

No, he was being paranoid; they were all breathing like sleepers do, and Ron's mattress was still creaking. Thank God; no one had heard him.

Harry's heart was racing, but the fear of discovery hadn't softened his prick any; it was still hot in his hand. He closed his eyes.

Berries and custard and cream: the colors of Ron's hair and skin. Behind Harry's closed eyelids bloomed an image of Ron, naked, prick rising from a thatch of strawberry hair. Of decorating Ron's body with the berries and custard, rubbing them into a swirling mess across his belly. He wouldn't have freckles there, it never saw sun --

And in Harry's mind now were all the places on Ron's body that never saw sun, and the image of dripping trifle and licking its trail, making Ron squirm, making Ron moan, making Ron’—making him’—making him come, the way Harry was coming, right now, sweet and messy and all over himself --

The next night Harry ate his way through roast beef and potatoes, bored with savory. Waiting, though he didn't want to admit it, for a sweet.

Which proved to be a chocolate gateau.

"Aww," Ron said, though he helped himself to an extra-large slice all the same. "I was hoping for trifle again."

"So was I." Harry felt wistful.

Hermione gave him an odd look, which he ignored.

"I rather liked the trifle," he said.

(969 words)

The End