39. DISINTEGRATION (NC-17) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Disintegration
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,455
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Porn. Mild (self) breathplay. Violence. Level Four Tissue Box Alert. You have been warned.
Summary: Ron knows when things started going wrong.
A/N: It's been so long since I've updated properly, and mainly because I knew this was coming. If I say I'm going to fix it, will you not hunt me down and hurt me? Please?
For those who've forgotten what happened in the last chapter, go and read 38. Sleeping Arrangements first. If you're further behind than that, just use the trusty memories links below this sentence.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Making love on the creaky, unstable bed with the bedroom door wide open was the most erotic experience of my life to date. I was completely and utterly under Harry’s power. I had to be still and silent save for soft gasps of air, or he would stop and wait for me to regain control. It was maddening, infuriating and addictive.
When I was close, I virtually stopped breathing altogether, save for a little in-out now and then that was barely audible. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel the urge to moan and pant, and the slight whirl of dizziness as my body cried out for more oxygen. There was a flash of pink tongue as Harry licked his lips, his hand moving over our cocks in a blur.
I came, and it was one of the most intense, all-encompassing orgasms of my life; pulsing right out to my fingers and toes. No sound passed my lips beyond a shuddering exhalation of breath once the initial wave of pleasure had crested and broken over me, but the bed wobbled ominously as my back arched high off the mattress. Harry didn’t slow or stop, thank Merlin, because he was too far gone himself for teasing. Moments later, he bit his lip, choked back a cry, and his come joined my own on my stomach. We cleaned up, giggling and blushing, exchanging kisses and light touches, and lay side by side on the rickety bed for half an hour, dozing, before Mum called us down to dinner.
That day, I loved that bed more than anything I’d ever bought or received as a gift in my whole life.
Less than a month later, I was convinced it was the reason Harry and I were on the verge of breaking up.
***
“I’m telling you, Ron, if you don’t stop slamming those down on the shelf, I’m going to hex you,” George snaps, looking up from counting the till.
I slap the last box down, hard, and glare at him defiantly.
A trace of a smile tickles George’s lips, but his voice is anything but amused. “Are you starting with me, mate? Because you’re going the right way to getting yourself cursed six ways to Sunday.”
“That’d be right, hiding behind your bloody wand. You’ve gone soft if you ask me,” I sneer.
For a moment, George behaves as though he hasn’t heard my blatant goad. He finishes counting the stack of Galleons in front of him, writes a number neatly in the ledger, scoops the money into a leather pouch and locks it away. Then he walks around the counter to stand right in front of me, his hands at his sides, loosely curled.
“You want to say that again? To my face?” he asks softly, his features expressionless.
“I said, you’re a limp-pricked bastard, scared of his own fucking shadow,” I enunciate slowly and carefully.
I feel a dizzy rush, close to euphoria, when his fist smashes into my jaw and pain floods through me. I dive at him, swinging wild punches, missing more often than not, but landing some solid hits. He’s giving as good as he’s getting; probably better. One of us loses our footing and we go down together. I hear the rumble of a shelf falling, dumping stock on the floor, the tinkle of something breaking.
At one point I sink my teeth into the flesh of his neck and he howls, punching me hard in the kidneys in retaliation. I suck in a sharp breath, and the ragged exhale that follows is almost a laugh. There’s something real about the pain, and I relish the blows he lands on me almost more than those I throw at him. This brutal language is one I understand.
Minutes later, the fury has passed, and I’m lying, curled on my side, spitting out blood onto the boards between gulping air.
“Lose any teeth?” George asks, conversationally. He’s winded, too, but he sounds remarkably calm.
I feel around my mouth with my tongue. My lip is split, and there are some jagged holes in the inside of my cheek where I bit it, but apart from that, everything seems intact. I shake my head.
“Good. Feel better?”
I shrug. “Sort of. Not really.”
George sighs. “It’s a start. Come on.” He stands, and pulls me to my feet. His arm around my shoulder is guiding me out the back, towards the stairs that lead to his flat.
“But... but what about...?” I gesture vaguely back towards the scene of destruction that was once our orderly and well-presented shop.
George flaps an unconcerned hand. “We can fix that in the morning. We have more important things to do.”
“Like what?” I ask. As we begin to climb the stairs, it’s obvious that he’s limping a little. A vague memory surfaces; me grinding his foot mercilessly beneath the heel of my boot.
“Well, firstly, I am going to get you drunk on some particularly nasty and cheap alcohol,” George says with some satisfaction. “And then, you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on between you and Harry.”
***
“You think buying a piece of furniture jinxed your relationship?” George asks, as if he wants to be absolutely certain that’s what I meant.
I nod, take another mouthful of the harsh Muggle vodka and try not to grimace. George hadn’t been joking about the “cheap and nasty” part, but it is doing its job very effectively. My jaw and ribs still throb insistently, but I am disconnected from the pain now.
George had kindly offered to heal my lip before we started drinking. Initially, I refused, but when the first sip of alcohol made me yelp and brought tears to my eyes, I let him. He didn’t offer to fix anything else, though. Maybe he understands that right now, I need to hurt.
Or maybe he just thinks it’s only fair that I remain a bit bruised up after picking a fight with him and trashing the shop.
“Er...why?” George asks, his brow slightly furrowed.
“’Cos everything’s been buggered up since then,” I answer. “’Cept for the buggering bit. We haven’t done that yet.” I absently note the half-wistful, half-annoyed tone of my own voice, and the fleeting wince that flickers across my brother’s face before he takes another swallow of his own drink.
“D’you think it’s cursed, or something?” George asks.
“It’s not that I’ve been pressuring him or anything. I haven’t even asked,” I lament, staring down morosely into my empty glass.
George takes it upon himself to pour both of us a hefty refill.
“I mean, it’s not like I expect to bugger him, or anything, but I wouldn’t mind it if he-”
“So, the bed,” George cuts in, his voice slightly pained.
“Everything’s gone wrong since we bought it. After the first few days, I mean, ‘cos they were pretty incredible.”
“What’s gone wrong? Besides no buggery,” George adds, hastily.
I slump further in my chair. “He’s not around at all, and when he is, we hardly talk. It’s like he doesn’t want to be near me; like he can’t stand to be in the same room.”
“Are you sure you’re not just reading too much into things and beating yourself up a bit?” George asks gently. “Hasn’t he been working a lot, lately?”
“He’s always working,” I complain. “He doesn’t do anything but work. He gets up an hour before I do, and he comes home well after tea and falls straight into bed.”
“Maybe he’s just stressed,” George suggests. “Have you talked to him? Asked him what’s wrong?”
“Loads of times. He keeps saying he’s fine, every time. Last time I asked he got really angry at me, shouted at me, told me to stop bloody well hassling him.” I take a deep shaky breath. “Whenever I reach for him, he’s got some excuse. The last few times I’ve kissed him, he’s pulled away, glared at me, and told me he’s too tired. I wasn’t even trying to start anything.” I down the last half of my glass of vodka in one swallow, then stare at the floor for a long moment.
“I don’t remember the last time he made me tea, or smiled at me like he meant it. Like he loved me.” I look up, and George is watching me, his eyes soft and sad with sympathy behind the bruises.
“He’s going to leave me, Georgie,” I whisper.
Saying the words out loud makes it real. Real like my aching ribs, like the cuts inside my mouth from my brother’s fist.
George holds me close and murmurs nonsense to me while I sob on his shoulder.
<- 38. Sleeping Arrangements c@r 40. Apprehension ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,455
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Porn. Mild (self) breathplay. Violence. Level Four Tissue Box Alert. You have been warned.
Summary: Ron knows when things started going wrong.
A/N: It's been so long since I've updated properly, and mainly because I knew this was coming. If I say I'm going to fix it, will you not hunt me down and hurt me? Please?
For those who've forgotten what happened in the last chapter, go and read 38. Sleeping Arrangements first. If you're further behind than that, just use the trusty memories links below this sentence.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Making love on the creaky, unstable bed with the bedroom door wide open was the most erotic experience of my life to date. I was completely and utterly under Harry’s power. I had to be still and silent save for soft gasps of air, or he would stop and wait for me to regain control. It was maddening, infuriating and addictive.
When I was close, I virtually stopped breathing altogether, save for a little in-out now and then that was barely audible. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel the urge to moan and pant, and the slight whirl of dizziness as my body cried out for more oxygen. There was a flash of pink tongue as Harry licked his lips, his hand moving over our cocks in a blur.
I came, and it was one of the most intense, all-encompassing orgasms of my life; pulsing right out to my fingers and toes. No sound passed my lips beyond a shuddering exhalation of breath once the initial wave of pleasure had crested and broken over me, but the bed wobbled ominously as my back arched high off the mattress. Harry didn’t slow or stop, thank Merlin, because he was too far gone himself for teasing. Moments later, he bit his lip, choked back a cry, and his come joined my own on my stomach. We cleaned up, giggling and blushing, exchanging kisses and light touches, and lay side by side on the rickety bed for half an hour, dozing, before Mum called us down to dinner.
That day, I loved that bed more than anything I’d ever bought or received as a gift in my whole life.
Less than a month later, I was convinced it was the reason Harry and I were on the verge of breaking up.
***
“I’m telling you, Ron, if you don’t stop slamming those down on the shelf, I’m going to hex you,” George snaps, looking up from counting the till.
I slap the last box down, hard, and glare at him defiantly.
A trace of a smile tickles George’s lips, but his voice is anything but amused. “Are you starting with me, mate? Because you’re going the right way to getting yourself cursed six ways to Sunday.”
“That’d be right, hiding behind your bloody wand. You’ve gone soft if you ask me,” I sneer.
For a moment, George behaves as though he hasn’t heard my blatant goad. He finishes counting the stack of Galleons in front of him, writes a number neatly in the ledger, scoops the money into a leather pouch and locks it away. Then he walks around the counter to stand right in front of me, his hands at his sides, loosely curled.
“You want to say that again? To my face?” he asks softly, his features expressionless.
“I said, you’re a limp-pricked bastard, scared of his own fucking shadow,” I enunciate slowly and carefully.
I feel a dizzy rush, close to euphoria, when his fist smashes into my jaw and pain floods through me. I dive at him, swinging wild punches, missing more often than not, but landing some solid hits. He’s giving as good as he’s getting; probably better. One of us loses our footing and we go down together. I hear the rumble of a shelf falling, dumping stock on the floor, the tinkle of something breaking.
At one point I sink my teeth into the flesh of his neck and he howls, punching me hard in the kidneys in retaliation. I suck in a sharp breath, and the ragged exhale that follows is almost a laugh. There’s something real about the pain, and I relish the blows he lands on me almost more than those I throw at him. This brutal language is one I understand.
Minutes later, the fury has passed, and I’m lying, curled on my side, spitting out blood onto the boards between gulping air.
“Lose any teeth?” George asks, conversationally. He’s winded, too, but he sounds remarkably calm.
I feel around my mouth with my tongue. My lip is split, and there are some jagged holes in the inside of my cheek where I bit it, but apart from that, everything seems intact. I shake my head.
“Good. Feel better?”
I shrug. “Sort of. Not really.”
George sighs. “It’s a start. Come on.” He stands, and pulls me to my feet. His arm around my shoulder is guiding me out the back, towards the stairs that lead to his flat.
“But... but what about...?” I gesture vaguely back towards the scene of destruction that was once our orderly and well-presented shop.
George flaps an unconcerned hand. “We can fix that in the morning. We have more important things to do.”
“Like what?” I ask. As we begin to climb the stairs, it’s obvious that he’s limping a little. A vague memory surfaces; me grinding his foot mercilessly beneath the heel of my boot.
“Well, firstly, I am going to get you drunk on some particularly nasty and cheap alcohol,” George says with some satisfaction. “And then, you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on between you and Harry.”
***
“You think buying a piece of furniture jinxed your relationship?” George asks, as if he wants to be absolutely certain that’s what I meant.
I nod, take another mouthful of the harsh Muggle vodka and try not to grimace. George hadn’t been joking about the “cheap and nasty” part, but it is doing its job very effectively. My jaw and ribs still throb insistently, but I am disconnected from the pain now.
George had kindly offered to heal my lip before we started drinking. Initially, I refused, but when the first sip of alcohol made me yelp and brought tears to my eyes, I let him. He didn’t offer to fix anything else, though. Maybe he understands that right now, I need to hurt.
Or maybe he just thinks it’s only fair that I remain a bit bruised up after picking a fight with him and trashing the shop.
“Er...why?” George asks, his brow slightly furrowed.
“’Cos everything’s been buggered up since then,” I answer. “’Cept for the buggering bit. We haven’t done that yet.” I absently note the half-wistful, half-annoyed tone of my own voice, and the fleeting wince that flickers across my brother’s face before he takes another swallow of his own drink.
“D’you think it’s cursed, or something?” George asks.
“It’s not that I’ve been pressuring him or anything. I haven’t even asked,” I lament, staring down morosely into my empty glass.
George takes it upon himself to pour both of us a hefty refill.
“I mean, it’s not like I expect to bugger him, or anything, but I wouldn’t mind it if he-”
“So, the bed,” George cuts in, his voice slightly pained.
“Everything’s gone wrong since we bought it. After the first few days, I mean, ‘cos they were pretty incredible.”
“What’s gone wrong? Besides no buggery,” George adds, hastily.
I slump further in my chair. “He’s not around at all, and when he is, we hardly talk. It’s like he doesn’t want to be near me; like he can’t stand to be in the same room.”
“Are you sure you’re not just reading too much into things and beating yourself up a bit?” George asks gently. “Hasn’t he been working a lot, lately?”
“He’s always working,” I complain. “He doesn’t do anything but work. He gets up an hour before I do, and he comes home well after tea and falls straight into bed.”
“Maybe he’s just stressed,” George suggests. “Have you talked to him? Asked him what’s wrong?”
“Loads of times. He keeps saying he’s fine, every time. Last time I asked he got really angry at me, shouted at me, told me to stop bloody well hassling him.” I take a deep shaky breath. “Whenever I reach for him, he’s got some excuse. The last few times I’ve kissed him, he’s pulled away, glared at me, and told me he’s too tired. I wasn’t even trying to start anything.” I down the last half of my glass of vodka in one swallow, then stare at the floor for a long moment.
“I don’t remember the last time he made me tea, or smiled at me like he meant it. Like he loved me.” I look up, and George is watching me, his eyes soft and sad with sympathy behind the bruises.
“He’s going to leave me, Georgie,” I whisper.
Saying the words out loud makes it real. Real like my aching ribs, like the cuts inside my mouth from my brother’s fist.
George holds me close and murmurs nonsense to me while I sob on his shoulder.
<- 38. Sleeping Arrangements c@r 40. Apprehension ->