46. EDIBLE (PG-13) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Edible
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,098
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hypnagogia
Summary: So much at the Burrow is good enough to eat.
A/N: This chapter and the next one will slot in before Fledging, which will become chapter 48. And here I was, thinking I might finish up by 50. I'm probably going to go over. *head desk*
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Monday dawns, and Ron goes back to work. In no time at all, I’m desperately bored. By eleven o’clock, despite my blurred concentration, I’ve already penned letters to Ginny, Hermione and Neville, and read the Prophet twice (laughing long and hard at their article that speculates I’m working undercover in a super-secret Knockturn Alley operation). I’ve even flicked through Witch Weekly a couple of times, though the section on ‘Beauty Tips to Keep Your Man’ makes me boggle, a little. I know I’ve not had much experience with girls, but I doubt the average guy notices or cares if his girl has coordinated her cloak and her shoes, especially as with longer robes, you don’t tend to be able to see their shoes anyway.
I trudge downstairs and offer to help Molly with lunch. In the end, I spend the whole afternoon down there helping to chop strawberries and apples and stewing them to make a thick, syrupy jam. After pouring most of the cooked jam into sterilized jars to set, we break briefly for a cup of tea before beginning almost at once on dinner. I set about making the steamed pudding for dessert, spooning some of the leftover jam in the bottom of the pudding bowl before covering it with the batter, tying the whole lot up neatly and putting it on to cook.
When Ron gets home, Molly and I are both sitting at the table, working our way through yet another cup of tea and discussing differences in magical and Muggle cooking techniques. I am struggling valiantly to explain exactly how to use an egg beater, and planning on buying at least two cheap ones the next time I’m in London; one for Molly and Arthur each.
The moment Ron steps out of the Floo, his nose points up, and he scents the air like a hound, before he spots the two of us sitting at the table in all our flour-smudged, slightly sticky glory. He beams.
“None for you yet, Ron Weasley,” Molly says, before Ron can even open his mouth. “There’s pudding for afters, as you well know, by now. You can wait.”
Ron’s face falls, and he actually pouts. Molly just laughs at him, and when I join in, his lip sticks out further.
“Go on upstairs, and get changed,” Molly tells him. “You too, Harry. You’ve got time for a quick wash before it’s time to eat.”
We trudge obediently up to our room.
“You’ve been all right, then?” Ron asks, as we slip inside and he shuts the door behind us.
I simply turn and slip my arms around his waist, laying my head against his shoulder. He cuddles me gingerly.
“I missed you,” I mumble.
Ron kisses the top of my head, and inhales deeply. “You smell like jam,” he says, with a hint of longing.
“Pudding soon,” I remind him. “I made it, too.”
“Yeah?” he asks. He sounds impressed.
“Yeah.”
“You had fun then, hanging out with Mum?” He sounds a touch disbelieving.
To be honest, I hadn’t realised how much lighter I felt. Molly had poured me my lunchtime potion from the bottle she had stowed in her apron, and I’d drunk it, and we hadn’t even stopped chatting. Rather than focussing on the potion and dwelling on the urge to follow her later and find out where she kept it, I was engrossed in what she was telling me about what it was like when she had learnt to cook from her grandmother; an exacting and impatient woman who demanded every ingredient be measured down to the tiniest fraction of an ounce, and no recipe deviated from in the slightest. Molly and her grandmother had had very different styles and clashed ferociously, to say the least, though I had no doubt that it was from her grandmother that Molly inherited her skill and love for cooking.
“I had a lot of fun,” I say honestly, thinking back on the afternoon.
Ron nuzzles my hair some more, and I wonder idly if he’s about to start nibbling on it. The thought makes me giggle, and I tilt my chin up and meet his mouth with my own.
Long, slow, tantalising kisses ensue. No pressure, no rapid acceleration of pace, just standing close, exploring each other with lips and tongue and the slightest, gentlest hint of teeth. Ron’s hands slide across my back; one curls around my waist, the other drifts up to sit at the nape of my neck. My own hands rest firmly on his hips to begin with, but end up slipping down to cup his arse. He lets out a little moan at that, and I feel the muscles clench and release beneath my fingertips.
Ron pulls me just that little bit closer, and his erection bumps against my stomach. I feel a sudden spike of arousal, and I’m halfway to being hard myself, but right then, we hear Molly calling from downstairs. Both of us let out a groan of frustration.
“Later,” Ron murmurs, giving me a final peck on the lips before pulling away to undress.
By the time later comes, we’re so stuffed with second helpings of dinner and third helpings of pudding that it’s all we can do to climb the stairs and fall into bed, curling around each other, listening to our stomachs gurgling as we fall asleep.
***
An hour later, I wake up screaming.
At least, I think I do.
It isn’t until I’ve lain there for half a minute, frozen, in the dark, my heart pounding frantically, my breath rushing in and out, that I realise Ron is still sleeping peacefully, his arm draped across my chest. Even Ron wouldn’t sleep through me yelling like that.
All in your head, I tell myself, and try and settle back down again.
It feels like I’ve barely closed my eyes when the terror seizes me again, and I wake up with my hands balled in the sheets.
This isn’t going to work, I realise, when I jolt to consciousness a third time.
Taking care not to disturb Ron, I slip from the sheets and go downstairs to make myself a pot of tea. Curling up in an armchair, I drink cup after cup just for something to do. I’d rather do just about anything except lie down in the dark and let my own mind attack me.
I must nod off at some point because in the pre-dawn, when the light outside is cold and blue-grey, I feel Molly’s hands gently tucking a blanket around me.
<- 45. Renascence c@r 47. Meditation ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,098
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Hypnagogia
Summary: So much at the Burrow is good enough to eat.
A/N: This chapter and the next one will slot in before Fledging, which will become chapter 48. And here I was, thinking I might finish up by 50. I'm probably going to go over. *head desk*
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Monday dawns, and Ron goes back to work. In no time at all, I’m desperately bored. By eleven o’clock, despite my blurred concentration, I’ve already penned letters to Ginny, Hermione and Neville, and read the Prophet twice (laughing long and hard at their article that speculates I’m working undercover in a super-secret Knockturn Alley operation). I’ve even flicked through Witch Weekly a couple of times, though the section on ‘Beauty Tips to Keep Your Man’ makes me boggle, a little. I know I’ve not had much experience with girls, but I doubt the average guy notices or cares if his girl has coordinated her cloak and her shoes, especially as with longer robes, you don’t tend to be able to see their shoes anyway.
I trudge downstairs and offer to help Molly with lunch. In the end, I spend the whole afternoon down there helping to chop strawberries and apples and stewing them to make a thick, syrupy jam. After pouring most of the cooked jam into sterilized jars to set, we break briefly for a cup of tea before beginning almost at once on dinner. I set about making the steamed pudding for dessert, spooning some of the leftover jam in the bottom of the pudding bowl before covering it with the batter, tying the whole lot up neatly and putting it on to cook.
When Ron gets home, Molly and I are both sitting at the table, working our way through yet another cup of tea and discussing differences in magical and Muggle cooking techniques. I am struggling valiantly to explain exactly how to use an egg beater, and planning on buying at least two cheap ones the next time I’m in London; one for Molly and Arthur each.
The moment Ron steps out of the Floo, his nose points up, and he scents the air like a hound, before he spots the two of us sitting at the table in all our flour-smudged, slightly sticky glory. He beams.
“None for you yet, Ron Weasley,” Molly says, before Ron can even open his mouth. “There’s pudding for afters, as you well know, by now. You can wait.”
Ron’s face falls, and he actually pouts. Molly just laughs at him, and when I join in, his lip sticks out further.
“Go on upstairs, and get changed,” Molly tells him. “You too, Harry. You’ve got time for a quick wash before it’s time to eat.”
We trudge obediently up to our room.
“You’ve been all right, then?” Ron asks, as we slip inside and he shuts the door behind us.
I simply turn and slip my arms around his waist, laying my head against his shoulder. He cuddles me gingerly.
“I missed you,” I mumble.
Ron kisses the top of my head, and inhales deeply. “You smell like jam,” he says, with a hint of longing.
“Pudding soon,” I remind him. “I made it, too.”
“Yeah?” he asks. He sounds impressed.
“Yeah.”
“You had fun then, hanging out with Mum?” He sounds a touch disbelieving.
To be honest, I hadn’t realised how much lighter I felt. Molly had poured me my lunchtime potion from the bottle she had stowed in her apron, and I’d drunk it, and we hadn’t even stopped chatting. Rather than focussing on the potion and dwelling on the urge to follow her later and find out where she kept it, I was engrossed in what she was telling me about what it was like when she had learnt to cook from her grandmother; an exacting and impatient woman who demanded every ingredient be measured down to the tiniest fraction of an ounce, and no recipe deviated from in the slightest. Molly and her grandmother had had very different styles and clashed ferociously, to say the least, though I had no doubt that it was from her grandmother that Molly inherited her skill and love for cooking.
“I had a lot of fun,” I say honestly, thinking back on the afternoon.
Ron nuzzles my hair some more, and I wonder idly if he’s about to start nibbling on it. The thought makes me giggle, and I tilt my chin up and meet his mouth with my own.
Long, slow, tantalising kisses ensue. No pressure, no rapid acceleration of pace, just standing close, exploring each other with lips and tongue and the slightest, gentlest hint of teeth. Ron’s hands slide across my back; one curls around my waist, the other drifts up to sit at the nape of my neck. My own hands rest firmly on his hips to begin with, but end up slipping down to cup his arse. He lets out a little moan at that, and I feel the muscles clench and release beneath my fingertips.
Ron pulls me just that little bit closer, and his erection bumps against my stomach. I feel a sudden spike of arousal, and I’m halfway to being hard myself, but right then, we hear Molly calling from downstairs. Both of us let out a groan of frustration.
“Later,” Ron murmurs, giving me a final peck on the lips before pulling away to undress.
By the time later comes, we’re so stuffed with second helpings of dinner and third helpings of pudding that it’s all we can do to climb the stairs and fall into bed, curling around each other, listening to our stomachs gurgling as we fall asleep.
***
An hour later, I wake up screaming.
At least, I think I do.
It isn’t until I’ve lain there for half a minute, frozen, in the dark, my heart pounding frantically, my breath rushing in and out, that I realise Ron is still sleeping peacefully, his arm draped across my chest. Even Ron wouldn’t sleep through me yelling like that.
All in your head, I tell myself, and try and settle back down again.
It feels like I’ve barely closed my eyes when the terror seizes me again, and I wake up with my hands balled in the sheets.
This isn’t going to work, I realise, when I jolt to consciousness a third time.
Taking care not to disturb Ron, I slip from the sheets and go downstairs to make myself a pot of tea. Curling up in an armchair, I drink cup after cup just for something to do. I’d rather do just about anything except lie down in the dark and let my own mind attack me.
I must nod off at some point because in the pre-dawn, when the light outside is cold and blue-grey, I feel Molly’s hands gently tucking a blanket around me.
<- 45. Renascence c@r 47. Meditation ->