Title: Reasons to Love
Rating: PG-13
Warning: DracoRon slash.
Disclaimers: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
Author's note: Draco and Ron have been going at it like bunnies all night in my head. So spew. Pffft.
Reasons to Love
Weasley. It seems I've committed an unspeakable sin of sorts, loving you. Yes, loving you. It's strange how I didn't so much fall in love with your loud and obnoxious self as I strolled and skipped towards it. Unwillingly, may I add.
Malfoy and Weasley, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N--- No.
You confuse me, so very very much. Why is it I love you? Why is it I claim to love you? Why is it that when I think about you, my tummy gets just a little bit swirly and fluttery, almost like a thousand trembling sparkly butterflies quivering together? Why is it that when I brush against you in the corridors (not intentionally at all, at all, just maybe accidentally-on- purpose) I can feel the heat from your skin and when you turn upon me, snarling, spitting, gleaming white teeth bared, all I can do is lean forward, close enough to feel your breath misting, close enough that all it takes is one little push from behind either one of us, and sneer?
Why is it that when I sit in the Great Hall and watch you eat, in the most indecent way ever, do you remember that morning when we were having sausages for breakfast, stupid Weasley, ravenous, starving, have you ever eaten before as a matter of fact? Why is it when I sit there and watch you eat, jaws working, lips red, tongue flitting around curves to lick the spoon clean, all I can think of is a very different use to that mouth?
Why, why is it when I sit in there and watch you chomp away at your Honeydukes treats, tongue sneaking out and above to catch a bit of chocolate stain, face twisted in that ecstatic face one shouldn't get from eating sweets, and I bet there's just a bit of a breathy moan bubbling in your throat just there... Why is it my head swims and I stop thinking and the blood rushes down to an area I really don't want it to, why is it I have to stumble up, catch my breath and make excuses, and race to the boys' restrooms?
Why is it I love you? What is it that is so special about you, a Weasley, dirt-poor third-rate wizard with nothing to offer, that would make Draco Malfoy gay and apparently in love?
I have to admit, I think about it too long, too hard. I could delude myself into thinking it's physical, because Weasley, you are one really hot – ... can't even say it. You don't quite fall into that category.
But it would be simple, if I could just say I love you because of your sparkling eyes that drew me in from the moment I saw them or your lust-worthy looks that makes every boy's groin ache. But I don't. Your eyes aren't anywhere near sparkling. They are a muddy chocolate brown, not even a particularly interesting shade. There are no glimmers of gold in them, no marvellous hidden depths that will pull me in and make pink sparks flow from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes. Neither are your looks so fantastically sexy that every boy would trip over himself begging for your wonderful self to shag him.
Why do I love you? I could've gone and fell for Potter (we'd make the front page, complete with erotic pictures and all), but instead I'm stuck loving you.
Loving you because... you are Ron Weasley. You are The Sidekick. You are the weasel, the comic relief, the second best.
Loving you because you are the thin, gangly one with flaming red hair. The one who is not so much freckled as he is one big freckle with skin in between. The one wearing hand-me-down robes that fit too well in all the right places.
The one who chokes and sputters when insulted and turns red in a most unbecoming way, whose curses backfire and ricochet onto himself. The one who leaps to defend the most unworthy friends and ends up getting hurt instead, who gets angry, passionate and hurls himself, all thin long limbs at me, like a wild animal of some kind, biting, clawing, scratching.
The one whose lips make me wonder what it would feel like if I could press up against it viciously, tongue pushing, teeth clashing, fighting fighting fighting that fight for dominance. The one whose skin I want to touch, licking, biting, scraping, if I could just rake my nails against it as our hips buck together in rhythm, ecstasy, desire. The one whose voice induces delicious shivers down my spine, one I want to hear screaming my name, so loudly it'll be hoarse the next morning, screaming my name as I thrust him over the brink and he falls and falls and falls...
...
Oh.
I see now.
You've gone and captured yourself a Malfoy, stupid Weasel.