Heels and Hearts

The flat in London was quiet—just the wireless humming away in the kitchen. Ron sat cross-legged on the sofa, laptop balanced on his knees, the only light spilling from a dusty lamp. Harry was out meeting Hermione for drinks, which meant Ron had the place to himself and could finally browse without feeling like a creep.

He never told anyone about his habits. Not exactly dinner conversation, especially with your ex or your Auror partner who also happens to be the Chosen One. But Ron had needs, and post-war reconstruction left him with loads of free time and zero romantic entanglements.

The site was magical—privacy charms, moving images that felt almost real, a search function that understood the appeal of a certain shade of red hair. He’d bookmarked it weeks ago. Tonight he scrolled half-heartedly, not really looking for anything, when a thumbnail stopped him cold.

Blond bloke, athletic, confident. Back to the camera. The way he laughed over his shoulder made Ron’s fingers freeze on the keyboard. He clicked.

The man turned around.

Ron’s heart stopped.

It was Harry. Not a look-alike, not Polyjuice—Harry. Black hair, green eyes, the scar faint in the low lighting. Just black boxers and that lazy, reckless grin Ron had seen a thousand times before a Quidditch match or a stupidly brave stunt.

Ron’s mouth went dry. He watched, frozen, as Harry lounged on a bed, talking to someone off-camera. The audio was muffled, but he caught: “…new here, but I’m learning fast. I like being watched.”

The angle shifted. Ron slammed the laptop shut.

His heart pounded. Face hot. Hands shaking in the dark.

*That was Harry. My best mate. Porn star.*

Maybe he was wrong—illusion, jinx, something. He opened the laptop again, watched another thirty seconds. No doubt. The way Harry tilted his head, the mole behind his ear, the way he laughed with his whole body.

He slammed it shut again, harder.

He needed to think. Or not think. Definitely a Butterbeer.

By the time Harry came home—around ten, smelling of Firewhisky and Hermione’s perfume—Ron had worked himself into a weird, agitated calm. He sat on the sofa, arms crossed, laptop on the coffee table like a guilty secret.

“Alright, mate?” Harry tossed his jacket on the armchair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worse,” Ron muttered. Then louder: “Harry, I need to ask you something. Promise not to hex me.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. He dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa, pulling off his glasses to rub his eyes. “That sounds ominous. What’d you do, break my Firebolt again?”

“No.” Ron took a breath. His ears burned. “I was on a website. An adult website. And I saw you.”

Silence stretched. Harry put his glasses back on, face unreadable. “Saw me doing what, exactly?”

“You know what.” Ron’s voice cracked. “In a video. With no clothes on. And other people.”

For a long second, Harry didn’t react. Then he let out a low laugh—surprised, not mocking. “Oh. That.”

“‘Oh, that’? That’s all you’ve got?” Ron’s voice rose. “You’re a bloody porn star, Harry! How long? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry leaned back, arms crossed. He looked more amused than defensive. “About six months. Started after Auror training. Needed something that was just for me, you know? Nothing to do with the war or my name or what people expect.”

Ron stared. “And you chose *porn*?”

“I like it.” Harry shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I like the attention. Feeling wanted. And I’m good at it.”

The words hit Ron weird. He’d heard Harry talk about the war, his childhood, his fears—never with this casual, open confidence. He seemed almost proud.

“Does Hermione know?” Ron asked, quieter.

“No one knows. Except the people I work with. And now you.” Harry held his gaze. “You going to tell anyone?”

“No, of course not.” Ron scrubbed his face. “I just… I don’t get it. You’re Harry Potter. You could have anyone.”

“I don’t want anyone.” Harry’s voice went soft. “I want to feel like I’m more than a scar and a prophecy. In those videos, I’m just a bloke who’s good at making people feel good. That’s enough.”

Something loosened in Ron’s chest. He thought about all the times Harry had been shoved into the spotlight, painted as hero or martyr. The idea of him choosing something so ordinary—so human—made a strange sort of sense.

“Alright,” Ron said slowly. “If that’s what you want… I’m behind you.”

Harry smiled wider. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ron hesitated. “But if you need help—like, prep or whatever—I could, I dunno, help.”

Harry laughed. “What, you offering to be my makeup artist?”

Ron’s ears went scarlet. “I wasn’t—I mean, if you need someone to do your nails or buy condoms or something, I could do that. For a mate.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than he meant. Harry looked at him with an expression Ron couldn’t read—curious, appreciative, maybe something more.

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said. “That means a lot.”

They didn’t talk about it again that night. Over the next few weeks, the offer became a standing thing. Ron found himself going with Harry to Diagon Alley, standing awkwardly outside the apothecary while Harry picked up supplies. He learned to do a basic glamour for Harry’s scar when the cameras required it—spells that smoothed the lightning bolt into faint pink lines. He even painted Harry’s toenails once, deep burgundy, because Harry said the production wanted him to wear heels for a scene.

“Heels?” Ron repeated, sitting on the bathroom floor, brush in hand.

“Yeah, stilettos. Sexy, right?” Harry grinned, wiggling his toes as Ron applied the polish.

Ron’s mouth went dry. He’d never thought about Harry in heels before. The image that formed—long legs, arched feet—was disturbingly appealing. He cleared his throat. “Right. Sexy.”

Harry laughed, low and warm. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s cute.”

Ron concentrated on the nail polish, his hands steadier than he felt. The domesticity of it—him kneeling at Harry’s feet, touching his bare skin—did something to his insides. He’d been ignoring the tension for weeks, telling himself he was just being a good mate. But the truth was, he couldn’t stop thinking about that video. About the way Harry looked, so free and beautiful, with that cocky smile.

He finished the last nail and capped the bottle. “There. All done.”

Harry examined his feet, flexing them. “Perfect. Thanks, Ron.”

“Anytime.”

They looked at each other, and the room grew thick with something unspoken.

---

It happened on a Thursday evening, a week later. Harry had filmed that afternoon and came home exhausted, hair still damp from a shower. He collapsed on the sofa next to Ron, who was reading a Quidditch magazine.

“Long day?” Ron asked.

“Long, good day.” Harry stretched, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of tan skin. “Did a scene with a bloke who wore a blindfold the whole time. Kept telling me I had a great arse.”

Ron snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Harry’s eyes snapped to his, surprised. Ron froze, magazine slack in his hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine.” Harry’s voice was soft. He turned toward Ron, tucking one leg under himself. “You think I have a great arse?”

Ron swallowed. Heart hammering. “Yeah. I mean—you’re fit, Harry. You know that. Must hear it all the time.”

“Not from you.”

The simple honesty broke something in Ron. He put the magazine aside and met Harry’s eyes. “I think about it. That video. I think about you. More than I should.”

Harry didn’t look away. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “How much more?”

“Too much.” Ron’s voice cracked. “I think about you in those heels. About what you’d look like bent over the back of this sofa. I think about—”

“What?” Harry prompted, leaning closer.

“Fuck me.”

The words burst out, raw and desperate. Ron’s face went scarlet. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, so blunt. But it was out now, hanging between them.

Harry’s breath caught. For a long moment, he just stared. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “Alright.”

Ron’s brain short-circuited. “What?”

“You heard me.” Harry shifted, sliding off the sofa to kneel in front of Ron. He reached out and placed his hands on Ron’s knees, pushing them apart. “You said ‘fuck me.’ I’m saying yes.”

Ron could feel his pulse in his throat. “I didn’t mean—I mean, I did, but I thought you’d—”

“That I’d what? Turn you down?” Harry’s thumbs traced circles on the inside of Ron’s thighs. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something, Ron. I’ve been hoping.”

“Hoping?” Ron’s voice was a whisper.

“Yeah.” Harry leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Ron’s knee. “I like you. I’ve always liked you. And if you’re offering…”

Ron’s hand came down to cup Harry’s jaw, tilting his face up. Harry’s green eyes were dark, pupils wide. “You want me to top you?” Harry asked.

“I want you to do whatever you want,” Ron breathed. “I want you to take me.”

Harry’s smile turned wolfish. He stood, pulling Ron up with him. “Then get on the bed. And take off your clothes. Slowly.”

Ron obeyed, fingers fumbling with his own buttons. Harry watched, unblinking, as Ron stripped down to his boxers. The air was cool on his skin, but he felt hot all over.

“Lie down,” Harry ordered, soft but firm. Ron lay back, heart pounding. Harry climbed on after him, straddling his hips. Still fully dressed—jeans, t-shirt, socks—the contrast made Ron feel exposed in the best way.

Harry leaned down and kissed him. Deep and demanding, a press of lips and tongue that left Ron gasping. Harry’s mouth moved to his jaw, his neck, teeth grazing his collarbone.

“I want you in heels,” Ron rasped.

Harry pulled back, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

“I want to watch you.”

Harry grinned and slid off the bed. He rummaged in his wardrobe and came back with a pair of black stilettos—tall, sleek, deadly. He stepped into them with practiced ease, heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

Ron’s breath caught. Harry stood there, half undressed, feet arched in the shoes, his posture transformed. Powerful. Dangerous. Impossibly beautiful.

“Like what you see?” Harry asked, turning in a slow circle.

“You have no idea.”

Harry walked back to the bed, each step deliberate. He knelt on the mattress, heels digging into the sheets, and crawled up Ron’s body. The heels brushed Ron’s thighs—hard leather on soft skin—and he shivered.

Harry lowered his mouth to Ron’s stomach, kissing down to his navel, then lower. Ron’s hands tangled in Harry’s hair. “What are you doing?”

“Paying you back,” Harry murmured against his skin. “For all the help. For being my mate. For saying ‘fuck me’ like you meant it.”

Ron didn’t have words. Just a groan as Harry’s mouth worked its way down, teasing, tasting. The heels pressed into the bed on either side of Ron’s hips, anchoring him.

When Harry finally took him in his mouth, Ron arched off the mattress, crying out. Too much and not enough. Harry was skilled—confident, knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to pull away. Ron bucked helplessly, fingers twisted in black hair.

“Harry,” he gasped. “Please. I want—I need—”

Harry released him with a wet pop and looked up, lips red. “What do you need?”

“You,” Ron said. “Inside me. Please.”

Harry smiled—soft, fond, hungry. He turned, presenting his arse to Ron, the heels still on. “I need you to prep me first. I want to feel you.”

Ron’s hands shook as he reached for the lube Harry handed him. He slicked his fingers and pressed them into Harry, who sighed and pushed back against him. The trust in that simple act made Ron’s chest ache.

“I’ve got you,” Ron whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Slowly, carefully, he worked Harry open, watching his body respond—the shiver down his spine, the clench of his muscles, the little gasps Harry couldn’t suppress. When Harry was ready, Ron withdrew his fingers and positioned himself.

“Ready?” he asked.

Harry looked over his shoulder, green eyes bright. “Fuck me, Ron.”

Ron pushed in. The sensation was blinding—hot, tight, perfect. Harry moaned, dropping his head to the pillows, his heels digging into the sheets for leverage. Ron set a slow rhythm at first, learning the curve of Harry’s body, the way he moved.

The heels clicked against the headboard as Harry braced himself. Ron reached around and gripped Harry’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. Harry keened, his walls fluttering around Ron.

“Harder,” Harry gasped. “I can take it.”

Ron obliged, driving deeper, faster. The room filled with their breathing, the slap of skin, the rhythmic ticking of heels against wood. Harry came first, with a cry that was half laugh, half sob, spilling over Ron’s fingers.

The sight of him—undone, beautiful, wearing those ridiculous heels—pushed Ron over. He buried himself deep and let go, a rush of heat and relief washing through him.

They collapsed together, panting. The heels clattered to the floor as Harry kicked them off, and Ron wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close.

For a long while, neither spoke. Ron pressed his lips to the back of Harry’s neck, tasting salt.

“So,” Harry said eventually, voice rough. “That happened.”

“Mm.” Ron tightened his arms. “And I want it to happen again. A lot.”

Harry twisted in his grasp to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I don’t care if you make porn, Harry. I just want to be the one you come home to.”

Harry’s eyes went bright. He leaned in and kissed Ron, soft and sweet. “You already are.”

They lay there, tangled together, as the London night deepened around them. Outside, a car honked. Somewhere, a window opened. Inside the flat, only warmth and the steady beat of two hearts.

Ron smiled against Harry’s hair. “I still think you should let me do your nails more often.”

Harry laughed. “Deal.”

They fell asleep like that—legs entwined, breath synchronizing, a new beginning carved out of a very unexpected discovery.