(no subject)
Title: "Today"
Author: monkeyflower
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: so not mine. *scoff*
Summary: because friends are a good thing and sometimes everything turns out all right.
Note: not really spoilery. a standalone story. a little different from my usual fare. feel the love!
It feels strange to be here, in this room, at this school, and to not feel like I should be somewhere working on a project with Malfoy, debating a strategic move with Hermione, reporting to the Order. Hogwarts has been my home away from home for seven years, and has been my refuge and sanctuary and safe place for three years longer than that. I am sitting on his bed, touching one of his scarves that has seen better days, and waiting for Harry.
He is in yet another meeting with McGonagall and Snape to debrief. And, I’m guessing, another checkup from Madame Pomfrey. It’s been a week since Harry destroyed Voldemort, and I haven’t seen him for longer than a few minutes in all that time. I miss him. I need to talk to him, to make sure he’s all right. He says he is, that’s what he tells everyone. I need to see for myself.
When the door to our old dorm opens and he walks inside with a tired smile, I feel a low warmth.
"Hi, Ron. I thought you’d be..."
He gestures towards the door, presumably meaning the impromptu gathering in the Great Hall that has been ongoing for seven days. It’s not a celebration... it’s more of a cathartic release. With alcohol. And food. There’s been crying too, but there are plenty of willing embraces and strong shoulders to go around.
"As if I’d be anywhere else, mate. I haven’t seen you in days."
"I’m all right."
He slumps down on the bed next to me. I can feel his weariness like it was my own.
"I’ll go," I say. "I just wanted to..."
"No, don’t." His hand latches around my wrist, and I stare at it. "I’m not tired, exactly. I’m feeling... restless."
His hand tightens on mine, and I look up.
A heartbeat later, my mouth is on his and his lips are parting greedily. I suck on his bottom lip and he gives into the kiss, tilting his head. His mouth is hot and soft and as his fingers find a grip in my hair, he makes needy sounds in the back of his throat.
More, he seems to be saying.
I deepen the kiss, slipping my tongue against his, and draw him into my lap. His shirt is already untucked and my hands easily find bare skin.
Harry gasps at the ceiling, exposing the vulnerable expanse of his neck and I suck at the apex of his throat.
"Ron..." he breathes, tightening his grasp in my hair, lifting his hips and settling his arse against my palms.
I brush back his hair and kiss his temple. I start unbuttoning his shirt. I’ve seen his body before, in pretty much every state of dress and undress. I’ve heard him come, too, the first time in first year, before he learned silencing spells. Still, it’s a thing to be savored, like the last present on Christmas Day, and I take my time.
His chest is bared and belying every shaky breath he takes before I lick one nipple to hardness and bite down on it. Like I’m twisting a key, Harry arches into me, his hands loose and cajoling at the nape of my neck. He moans as I bypass his other nipple, favoring the slight groove of his sternum on which to lavish licks and kisses.
I run a slow hand across the front of his trousers and his moan deepens. He’s hardening already, so responsive. If ever Harry is worried about being desensitized, immune to violence or pleasure, hot or cold, I can tell him for certain that he is wrong. He is alive, damn it.
I unbutton his trousers and slide them past his hips. Again I palm his arousal, and his breath catches.
"On your back, Harry," I say, and his immediate compliance sends shockwaves of lust to my already addled brain. Against the white pillow, his hair makes for an unruly and wild halo. I kiss him again. Our hands meet at the jumble of clothes around his knees and his trousers and boxers meet in a heap on the floor. He wraps his arms around my back and presses me close, breathing quickly.
"Tell me you have lube," I gasp.
He pushes me aside with a smile and rummages in a side drawer while I shirk my own clothing. By the same token, he’s seen me naked and, I’m sure, heard me wanking off in my bed before Fred and George told me about silencing spells, and I feel only a nominal flicker of nervousness as he turns back to me.
"Here," he says, tossing me a tube and lying back again, knees spread invitingly.
I rub his cock with a slippery hand and he melts. Like liquid relaxation, his body becomes pliable, his spine more flexible. He has a solid grip on the pillow with both hands by his head, and his hips move in time with my long strokes. His breathing comes in gasps when I explore his cleft and test the stretch of his arse with one finger.
"Breathe, that’s it," I say, leaning down to kiss those plush lips again.
Three fingers isn’t a problem at all.
I think about taking him this way, with my mouth on his cock and his fingers in my hair, but he has different ideas. He tugs at my hair.
"Ron, I want you..."
Hell. Don’t have to ask me twice. I withdraw my fingers and he turns over, revealing the long slopes of his back. High on his shoulder blades there is an old scar that I’m responsible for, and I lick it slowly, drawing shudders and ragged breaths from him. Was it sixth or seventh year that we’d gotten into an all out brawl at the Burrow? I can’t remember anymore, or why we’d been fighting. I do remember shoving him into the wall, and the small smear of blood that was left on the stones when he came at me again, fists and knees and rage.
His hand finds mine and he laces our fingers together.
I remember lying beside him in the long grass, both of us gasping for breath. Me, bleeding from a split lip, and turning my head just enough to see his shaggy black hair out of the corner of my eye.
"Please," he says, shifting his hips against mine.
I slick myself and, with one hand at his belly, press into his arse. Slow, and so hot, and tight.
"Good?" I say, incapable of anything beyond a one word excuse for a query.
He tightens his death grip on the pillow, and somehow by extension his body’s death grip on mine, and gasps, "More, god..."
His hips are flush with mine, and it feels so good I can barely breathe. He is on his elbows and knees and trembling with every breath, and the nape of his neck looks so vulnerable. I run my hands up and down his sides, pulling our bodies into a rhythm. I already know his body so well-sometimes I can tell if he’s coming down with a cold even before he does-and yet, this... this is...
"God, Ron..."
It’s terrifying and so good and I already love him so much, how could I possibly...
...but I do, I really do...
I stroke his cock, a few strokes is all he needs, and there is warm wetness on my hand and his belly, and his whole body goes taut and he moans and I’m coming and there are rockets going off in my head and sometimes I forget that he knows me just as well and oh, how he likes to remind me...
There is a stripe of sunlight across my face.
Morning, then, when we finally rouse. Harry is tousled and sleepy-eyed and wrapped around me. We are both sticky-Harry a little more so, ha-and smelly and neither of us want to move just yet.
"Hello," he says, and kisses me. His mouth is swollen and bitten and there is a quality of weight to his body against mine that is a testament to his comfort of just being here. It makes me happy.
Eventually, though, I have to get up and wash the stickiness at least superficially off. I need a shower. Maybe we could share one. Maybe we could go for a fly after breakfast. Maybe he will let me eat grape jelly off his stomach. Maybe we could lie in the sun and he will let me hold him for hours, till he is tanned and I am freckling across my nose. I don’t want to hope too much too soon but it is impossible not to. Voldemort is gone, Harry is finally free, and I know there will be dark days to come, I am not always so dense. But today... maybe today is one of those other days.
With a deep breath to quell the disparaging thoughts, I go back to the warm bed and sit on the edge of it.
"So, Harry... what do you want to do today?"
He sits up, and the sheets cling to him like a lover would. He yawns and his back cracks and he messes up his hair some more as he stretches. He blinks thoughtfully and the stripe of sunlight that is coming in through the window warms his bare shoulders.
"I don’t know," he says, and smiles.
The End
Author: monkeyflower
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: so not mine. *scoff*
Summary: because friends are a good thing and sometimes everything turns out all right.
Note: not really spoilery. a standalone story. a little different from my usual fare. feel the love!
It feels strange to be here, in this room, at this school, and to not feel like I should be somewhere working on a project with Malfoy, debating a strategic move with Hermione, reporting to the Order. Hogwarts has been my home away from home for seven years, and has been my refuge and sanctuary and safe place for three years longer than that. I am sitting on his bed, touching one of his scarves that has seen better days, and waiting for Harry.
He is in yet another meeting with McGonagall and Snape to debrief. And, I’m guessing, another checkup from Madame Pomfrey. It’s been a week since Harry destroyed Voldemort, and I haven’t seen him for longer than a few minutes in all that time. I miss him. I need to talk to him, to make sure he’s all right. He says he is, that’s what he tells everyone. I need to see for myself.
When the door to our old dorm opens and he walks inside with a tired smile, I feel a low warmth.
"Hi, Ron. I thought you’d be..."
He gestures towards the door, presumably meaning the impromptu gathering in the Great Hall that has been ongoing for seven days. It’s not a celebration... it’s more of a cathartic release. With alcohol. And food. There’s been crying too, but there are plenty of willing embraces and strong shoulders to go around.
"As if I’d be anywhere else, mate. I haven’t seen you in days."
"I’m all right."
He slumps down on the bed next to me. I can feel his weariness like it was my own.
"I’ll go," I say. "I just wanted to..."
"No, don’t." His hand latches around my wrist, and I stare at it. "I’m not tired, exactly. I’m feeling... restless."
His hand tightens on mine, and I look up.
A heartbeat later, my mouth is on his and his lips are parting greedily. I suck on his bottom lip and he gives into the kiss, tilting his head. His mouth is hot and soft and as his fingers find a grip in my hair, he makes needy sounds in the back of his throat.
More, he seems to be saying.
I deepen the kiss, slipping my tongue against his, and draw him into my lap. His shirt is already untucked and my hands easily find bare skin.
Harry gasps at the ceiling, exposing the vulnerable expanse of his neck and I suck at the apex of his throat.
"Ron..." he breathes, tightening his grasp in my hair, lifting his hips and settling his arse against my palms.
I brush back his hair and kiss his temple. I start unbuttoning his shirt. I’ve seen his body before, in pretty much every state of dress and undress. I’ve heard him come, too, the first time in first year, before he learned silencing spells. Still, it’s a thing to be savored, like the last present on Christmas Day, and I take my time.
His chest is bared and belying every shaky breath he takes before I lick one nipple to hardness and bite down on it. Like I’m twisting a key, Harry arches into me, his hands loose and cajoling at the nape of my neck. He moans as I bypass his other nipple, favoring the slight groove of his sternum on which to lavish licks and kisses.
I run a slow hand across the front of his trousers and his moan deepens. He’s hardening already, so responsive. If ever Harry is worried about being desensitized, immune to violence or pleasure, hot or cold, I can tell him for certain that he is wrong. He is alive, damn it.
I unbutton his trousers and slide them past his hips. Again I palm his arousal, and his breath catches.
"On your back, Harry," I say, and his immediate compliance sends shockwaves of lust to my already addled brain. Against the white pillow, his hair makes for an unruly and wild halo. I kiss him again. Our hands meet at the jumble of clothes around his knees and his trousers and boxers meet in a heap on the floor. He wraps his arms around my back and presses me close, breathing quickly.
"Tell me you have lube," I gasp.
He pushes me aside with a smile and rummages in a side drawer while I shirk my own clothing. By the same token, he’s seen me naked and, I’m sure, heard me wanking off in my bed before Fred and George told me about silencing spells, and I feel only a nominal flicker of nervousness as he turns back to me.
"Here," he says, tossing me a tube and lying back again, knees spread invitingly.
I rub his cock with a slippery hand and he melts. Like liquid relaxation, his body becomes pliable, his spine more flexible. He has a solid grip on the pillow with both hands by his head, and his hips move in time with my long strokes. His breathing comes in gasps when I explore his cleft and test the stretch of his arse with one finger.
"Breathe, that’s it," I say, leaning down to kiss those plush lips again.
Three fingers isn’t a problem at all.
I think about taking him this way, with my mouth on his cock and his fingers in my hair, but he has different ideas. He tugs at my hair.
"Ron, I want you..."
Hell. Don’t have to ask me twice. I withdraw my fingers and he turns over, revealing the long slopes of his back. High on his shoulder blades there is an old scar that I’m responsible for, and I lick it slowly, drawing shudders and ragged breaths from him. Was it sixth or seventh year that we’d gotten into an all out brawl at the Burrow? I can’t remember anymore, or why we’d been fighting. I do remember shoving him into the wall, and the small smear of blood that was left on the stones when he came at me again, fists and knees and rage.
His hand finds mine and he laces our fingers together.
I remember lying beside him in the long grass, both of us gasping for breath. Me, bleeding from a split lip, and turning my head just enough to see his shaggy black hair out of the corner of my eye.
"Please," he says, shifting his hips against mine.
I slick myself and, with one hand at his belly, press into his arse. Slow, and so hot, and tight.
"Good?" I say, incapable of anything beyond a one word excuse for a query.
He tightens his death grip on the pillow, and somehow by extension his body’s death grip on mine, and gasps, "More, god..."
His hips are flush with mine, and it feels so good I can barely breathe. He is on his elbows and knees and trembling with every breath, and the nape of his neck looks so vulnerable. I run my hands up and down his sides, pulling our bodies into a rhythm. I already know his body so well-sometimes I can tell if he’s coming down with a cold even before he does-and yet, this... this is...
"God, Ron..."
It’s terrifying and so good and I already love him so much, how could I possibly...
...but I do, I really do...
I stroke his cock, a few strokes is all he needs, and there is warm wetness on my hand and his belly, and his whole body goes taut and he moans and I’m coming and there are rockets going off in my head and sometimes I forget that he knows me just as well and oh, how he likes to remind me...
There is a stripe of sunlight across my face.
Morning, then, when we finally rouse. Harry is tousled and sleepy-eyed and wrapped around me. We are both sticky-Harry a little more so, ha-and smelly and neither of us want to move just yet.
"Hello," he says, and kisses me. His mouth is swollen and bitten and there is a quality of weight to his body against mine that is a testament to his comfort of just being here. It makes me happy.
Eventually, though, I have to get up and wash the stickiness at least superficially off. I need a shower. Maybe we could share one. Maybe we could go for a fly after breakfast. Maybe he will let me eat grape jelly off his stomach. Maybe we could lie in the sun and he will let me hold him for hours, till he is tanned and I am freckling across my nose. I don’t want to hope too much too soon but it is impossible not to. Voldemort is gone, Harry is finally free, and I know there will be dark days to come, I am not always so dense. But today... maybe today is one of those other days.
With a deep breath to quell the disparaging thoughts, I go back to the warm bed and sit on the edge of it.
"So, Harry... what do you want to do today?"
He sits up, and the sheets cling to him like a lover would. He yawns and his back cracks and he messes up his hair some more as he stretches. He blinks thoughtfully and the stripe of sunlight that is coming in through the window warms his bare shoulders.
"I don’t know," he says, and smiles.
The End