short H/R fic, "Devotion's Hodiernal Reclamation", adult
At the end of March I shouted out for four prompts for writing exercises, hoping for some unexpected pairings or new thoughts in general. Out of those, until today I'd only written one so far, but now I have a second. I'm incorporating both lena3's request for Harry/Ron and the prompt/ambiance of "Crash & Burn" by Savage Garden (lyrics are here), and writing my inaugural post over at bestmeatsawards, a PWP H/R community modded by my packmate wolfiekins.
I'd had Grand Ideas of trying on a new writing style with this, giving myself permission to write something short so that I could try writing with shorter sentences, with one theme or image or ambiance for the whole fic, and a more pared-down style. In rereading it, I'm afraid that I didn't really get there with this. It still reads like something of mine and you'd know it. Ah well. There are a couple of nice turns of phrases, and it was like putting on a pair of comfy denims to write H/R again.
So! Short, adult, Warfic. Diaphanous hint of plot. Alert for potentially disturbing imagery of other characters depending on how vivid your own imagination is. Many adjectives.
Harry walked into the dim hush of the tent he shared with Ron. The flap sighed shut behind him like a sail bereft of wind. Ron lay on his back, stretched out on his cot, his hands cradling his head. He glanced over to acknowledge Harry's presence, but said nothing, slowly returning his gaze to the ceiling. Perhaps surprisingly, Harry didn't feel slighted. Ron had been like this for days, a husk, or an abandoned nautilus; the myriad chambers were there, but echoed with absence. Wandlessly Harry warded and silenced their canvas bulwark before going to a corner to wash the back of his neck and face with a flannel. He stripped out of his standard-issue slacks and tunic, running his hands through his shaggy nest of hair. Ron continued his meditation on the apex of their tent, the faint coppery whorls on his chest rising and falling as he breathed.
Harry watched him as the minutes passed, knowing the inner turmoil raging deep below Ron's vacant stare. Fred and Neville's deaths - their ambush, and the gruesome way the Death Eaters had displayed their defiled corpses - it had broken Ron, shattering his fury like sparks flying up from poked embers. He'd raged his sense of betrayal at the Order, of the fucking futility of it all, that it wasn't bloody fair and then he'd collapsed inward, imploding under the weight of his anger. Harry knew all of this, and had promised himself with each breath to bring Ron back, to reclaim him without words. They had a mission in the morning, the details and coordinates seared into Harry's mind. Now was all that he had, precious hours to sort through the rubble of his fiery saviour, to mend the gaping, marrow-deep wounds.
After lighting two candles, Harry lay down next to Ron. He let his fingers trace the bronze stubble along Ron's jaw, the freckled topography well-travelled and warm to his touch. Harry's hand caressed further down, settling on the beginning of the persimmon trail that led so enticingly to Ron's groin. When Harry teased under the waistband of Ron's boxers, Ron at last turned to look at him. His eyes harboured nothing- they were flat, leadened seas.
"Harry," he murmured, his voice a surrender. "Look, you don't need to do this. I'm not-"
"I am," Harry stated. "And I need. I need you."
People died in wars; Harry couldn't count on living from mission to mission, moment to moment. Since Ron had moved his battles into the wreckage of his spirit, Harry vowed to show Ron that he meant everything. If Harry's gift was love, he would make certain that Ron was saturated and shielded with it.
Harry leaned in, pressing his lips to Ron's, moaning his gratitude as the warmth of Ron's mouth beckoned him in. As their tongues danced and slid, Harry eased over on top of him, protecting Ron from the treacherous world. He stripped them both of their underwear before lying back down on him, intertwining their fingers and grinding his hard flesh into Ron's thickened cock. Ron's body, and his ruinous field of self, it was Harry's altar. Harry was a supplicant, worshipping and revering this unraveled man. Harry would become living oil, his tongue and fingers, voice and cock a healing salve. He arched against Ron's pelvis, rocking again and again to Ron's helpless groans of pleasure. Hot, papery skin thrust alongside Harry's aching shaft, the friction sublime, building up heat that coiled between his legs.
He drew back from Ron, who panted his discontent. Harry soothed him with kisses soft and dry as dandelion wisps. He Accio'ed a phial of oil he'd begged off from Dean, the smell of sage and patchouli wafting up from his hands as he poured the precious fluid into his palms.
"I love you," Harry whispered, kneeling above Ron's groin as he drizzled the fragrant slick drops onto Ron's freckle-burnished skin.
Ron seemed rapt in Harry's attentions, soaking in the erotic salve as Harry smoothed oil around Ron's peaked nipples. Ron made wounded, hungry sounds when Harry circled and flicked at the nubs, pressing his steely erection against Harry's arse. Harry bit down on his lower lip as he teased Ron, raising and lowering slightly so Ron's cock skimmed the crevice between his arsecheeks.
"Harry," Ron exhaled, the raw need in his tone frissioning lust across Harry's skin. Harry took in the flush to Ron's cheeks; his pulse roared in his ears as passion flickered to life in the impassive depths of Ron's eyes. With the fervour of a zealot, he reached again for the oil, ensnaring Ron's full attention before pouring more of the decadent drops onto his own cock. Ron's erection twitched under Harry's feral gaze while Harry smeared the abundant slickness around his own prick. He positioned himself at Ron's puckered skin, a devotee ready to unite with his beloved. Ron's eyes grew wide at the persistent nudging of Harry's cockhead - they'd not had the luxury of time for full-out sex very often, and Harry had only done this once before - but Harry knew instinctively that Ron needed to let him in. He, Harry, was the balm to soothe and re-knit; to be deep within Ron, damage could be repaired.
Harry envisioned an innocent grass snake, imagined it unfurling and speaking of sunlight and warm rocks, its tongue flickering lazily in the air. Liquid syllables poured from Harry's tongue as he professed his adoration to Ron, his respect and gratitude, his love and fidelity.
"Harry yours only love " Ron moaned as his body relaxed against the intrusion.
Harry bathed Ron in Parseltongue, his hands at Ron's sides, grasping at the thin cotton sheet. Ron stared wildly at him, eventually pushing back against Harry to meet his thrusts. He took his wilted cock in hand, pulling on it until it again surged into his palm. Ron's other hand reached up to hold the back of Harry's head, bringing him closer until he was panting against Harry's lips. The sibilants of Harry's lauds cascaded into Ron's mouth and Ron licked ravenously at Harry's lips as though he could taste their meaning.
All at once Ron's eyes snapped shut.
"Harry," he said raggedly before his release pulsed between their stomachs. The warm fluid smeared into Harry's abdomen as Ron slowed his motions on his spent cock.
Harry could feel his own orgasm building up from the back of his thighs, the molten heat concentrating in his balls until it thundered out of him. It felt both strange and sacred, his release pooling deep in Ron's body. Once Harry had caught his breath, he carefully uncoupled them and sagged bonelessly on his lover. Ron grunted and insinuated his hand between them, moving his softening erection so it wasn't pressed uncomfortably by Harry's hip. Harry laid his head sideways so he could nuzzle the side of Ron's neck. He felt drained, and lacking in purpose; he felt distressingly like a nineteen year old wizard who was exhausted by fighting but wasn't ready to die.
In the threshold of silence between the profound and mundane, Ron spoke softly against his temple.
"Love you, too. I feel loads better. And it wasn't just the sex."
A low laugh huffed in Harry's throat. He listened to Ron's heartbeat, snaking his arm up so he could hold on to Ron's wrist.
"You're never alone, y'know," Harry said into Ron's collarbone.
Ron shifted them over slightly so they lay on their sides. He yawned, pulling Harry closer to him.
"I know. I guess I " Ron paused, nudging at Harry so he could pull up the blanket to cover them. "I wanted to forget."
Harry nodded. He'd had nightmares of burying Ron, of watching him be killed in front of him. He had no doubt that Ron had been plagued by the same horrifying visions.
"Just don't forget this."
I'd had Grand Ideas of trying on a new writing style with this, giving myself permission to write something short so that I could try writing with shorter sentences, with one theme or image or ambiance for the whole fic, and a more pared-down style. In rereading it, I'm afraid that I didn't really get there with this. It still reads like something of mine and you'd know it. Ah well. There are a couple of nice turns of phrases, and it was like putting on a pair of comfy denims to write H/R again.
So! Short, adult, Warfic. Diaphanous hint of plot. Alert for potentially disturbing imagery of other characters depending on how vivid your own imagination is. Many adjectives.
Harry walked into the dim hush of the tent he shared with Ron. The flap sighed shut behind him like a sail bereft of wind. Ron lay on his back, stretched out on his cot, his hands cradling his head. He glanced over to acknowledge Harry's presence, but said nothing, slowly returning his gaze to the ceiling. Perhaps surprisingly, Harry didn't feel slighted. Ron had been like this for days, a husk, or an abandoned nautilus; the myriad chambers were there, but echoed with absence. Wandlessly Harry warded and silenced their canvas bulwark before going to a corner to wash the back of his neck and face with a flannel. He stripped out of his standard-issue slacks and tunic, running his hands through his shaggy nest of hair. Ron continued his meditation on the apex of their tent, the faint coppery whorls on his chest rising and falling as he breathed.
Harry watched him as the minutes passed, knowing the inner turmoil raging deep below Ron's vacant stare. Fred and Neville's deaths - their ambush, and the gruesome way the Death Eaters had displayed their defiled corpses - it had broken Ron, shattering his fury like sparks flying up from poked embers. He'd raged his sense of betrayal at the Order, of the fucking futility of it all, that it wasn't bloody fair and then he'd collapsed inward, imploding under the weight of his anger. Harry knew all of this, and had promised himself with each breath to bring Ron back, to reclaim him without words. They had a mission in the morning, the details and coordinates seared into Harry's mind. Now was all that he had, precious hours to sort through the rubble of his fiery saviour, to mend the gaping, marrow-deep wounds.
After lighting two candles, Harry lay down next to Ron. He let his fingers trace the bronze stubble along Ron's jaw, the freckled topography well-travelled and warm to his touch. Harry's hand caressed further down, settling on the beginning of the persimmon trail that led so enticingly to Ron's groin. When Harry teased under the waistband of Ron's boxers, Ron at last turned to look at him. His eyes harboured nothing- they were flat, leadened seas.
"Harry," he murmured, his voice a surrender. "Look, you don't need to do this. I'm not-"
"I am," Harry stated. "And I need. I need you."
People died in wars; Harry couldn't count on living from mission to mission, moment to moment. Since Ron had moved his battles into the wreckage of his spirit, Harry vowed to show Ron that he meant everything. If Harry's gift was love, he would make certain that Ron was saturated and shielded with it.
Harry leaned in, pressing his lips to Ron's, moaning his gratitude as the warmth of Ron's mouth beckoned him in. As their tongues danced and slid, Harry eased over on top of him, protecting Ron from the treacherous world. He stripped them both of their underwear before lying back down on him, intertwining their fingers and grinding his hard flesh into Ron's thickened cock. Ron's body, and his ruinous field of self, it was Harry's altar. Harry was a supplicant, worshipping and revering this unraveled man. Harry would become living oil, his tongue and fingers, voice and cock a healing salve. He arched against Ron's pelvis, rocking again and again to Ron's helpless groans of pleasure. Hot, papery skin thrust alongside Harry's aching shaft, the friction sublime, building up heat that coiled between his legs.
He drew back from Ron, who panted his discontent. Harry soothed him with kisses soft and dry as dandelion wisps. He Accio'ed a phial of oil he'd begged off from Dean, the smell of sage and patchouli wafting up from his hands as he poured the precious fluid into his palms.
"I love you," Harry whispered, kneeling above Ron's groin as he drizzled the fragrant slick drops onto Ron's freckle-burnished skin.
Ron seemed rapt in Harry's attentions, soaking in the erotic salve as Harry smoothed oil around Ron's peaked nipples. Ron made wounded, hungry sounds when Harry circled and flicked at the nubs, pressing his steely erection against Harry's arse. Harry bit down on his lower lip as he teased Ron, raising and lowering slightly so Ron's cock skimmed the crevice between his arsecheeks.
"Harry," Ron exhaled, the raw need in his tone frissioning lust across Harry's skin. Harry took in the flush to Ron's cheeks; his pulse roared in his ears as passion flickered to life in the impassive depths of Ron's eyes. With the fervour of a zealot, he reached again for the oil, ensnaring Ron's full attention before pouring more of the decadent drops onto his own cock. Ron's erection twitched under Harry's feral gaze while Harry smeared the abundant slickness around his own prick. He positioned himself at Ron's puckered skin, a devotee ready to unite with his beloved. Ron's eyes grew wide at the persistent nudging of Harry's cockhead - they'd not had the luxury of time for full-out sex very often, and Harry had only done this once before - but Harry knew instinctively that Ron needed to let him in. He, Harry, was the balm to soothe and re-knit; to be deep within Ron, damage could be repaired.
Harry envisioned an innocent grass snake, imagined it unfurling and speaking of sunlight and warm rocks, its tongue flickering lazily in the air. Liquid syllables poured from Harry's tongue as he professed his adoration to Ron, his respect and gratitude, his love and fidelity.
"Harry yours only love " Ron moaned as his body relaxed against the intrusion.
Harry bathed Ron in Parseltongue, his hands at Ron's sides, grasping at the thin cotton sheet. Ron stared wildly at him, eventually pushing back against Harry to meet his thrusts. He took his wilted cock in hand, pulling on it until it again surged into his palm. Ron's other hand reached up to hold the back of Harry's head, bringing him closer until he was panting against Harry's lips. The sibilants of Harry's lauds cascaded into Ron's mouth and Ron licked ravenously at Harry's lips as though he could taste their meaning.
All at once Ron's eyes snapped shut.
"Harry," he said raggedly before his release pulsed between their stomachs. The warm fluid smeared into Harry's abdomen as Ron slowed his motions on his spent cock.
Harry could feel his own orgasm building up from the back of his thighs, the molten heat concentrating in his balls until it thundered out of him. It felt both strange and sacred, his release pooling deep in Ron's body. Once Harry had caught his breath, he carefully uncoupled them and sagged bonelessly on his lover. Ron grunted and insinuated his hand between them, moving his softening erection so it wasn't pressed uncomfortably by Harry's hip. Harry laid his head sideways so he could nuzzle the side of Ron's neck. He felt drained, and lacking in purpose; he felt distressingly like a nineteen year old wizard who was exhausted by fighting but wasn't ready to die.
In the threshold of silence between the profound and mundane, Ron spoke softly against his temple.
"Love you, too. I feel loads better. And it wasn't just the sex."
A low laugh huffed in Harry's throat. He listened to Ron's heartbeat, snaking his arm up so he could hold on to Ron's wrist.
"You're never alone, y'know," Harry said into Ron's collarbone.
Ron shifted them over slightly so they lay on their sides. He yawned, pulling Harry closer to him.
"I know. I guess I " Ron paused, nudging at Harry so he could pull up the blanket to cover them. "I wanted to forget."
Harry nodded. He'd had nightmares of burying Ron, of watching him be killed in front of him. He had no doubt that Ron had been plagued by the same horrifying visions.
"Just don't forget this."