A CAUTIONARY TALE (R) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: A Cautionary Tale
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,088
Rating: R
Warnings: Boytouching. Furious!Nauseated!Ron.
Prompt: Marmite.
Summary: Harry wants a shower. Ron wants a sandwich.
A/N: Written as an early birthday present for shocolate. It was going to be a ficlet, but it ended up about twice the length I thought it would. This is set in the same era as Tea and Apples, but though it has hints of domesticity, it's more of a smut/crack fic. Any mentions of rimming are purely for shocolate's benefit! It's not one of my kinks.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Prequel Series HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Harry is spooned around me. He’s nuzzling my back, between my shoulder blades, and his fingertips are toying with one of my nipples.
“Join me for a shower?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Hungry,” I mumble. “G’na find somethin’ t’ eat.”
“You’re always eating,” Harry admonishes.
“Gives me stamina,” I say in my own defence. “And I’d never be able to lick your arse till you whimper if I hadn’t eaten so many cornets as a kid.”
“True,” Harry admits grudgingly. “But who’s going to wash my back?”
I know he’s pouting, and I can’t even see his face. There’s a sulky tone in his voice that makes me want to roll over and pin him to the bed, but before I can act on that impulse, my stomach growls ominously.
“I’ll be quick,” I promise instead. “I’ll just grab a sandwich, then I’ll be in there and naked before you have time to miss me.”
“I already miss you,” he counters, petulantly, “and you haven’t even moved yet.”
I turn over, wind my arms around him and lay a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. Then I smile, lovingly, and watch him melt.
“Oh, fine,” he concedes. “Go and fill that bottomless pit you call a stomach.”
I grin, kiss him swiftly on the lips, and slip from the sheets to pad downstairs in bare feet.
I’m humming a little tune to myself as I rummage in the kitchen for condiments when I hear the water start in the bathroom. I used the last of the raspberry jam yesterday, so I’m going to have to be creative and come up with something new and inventive, and that’s always fun.
Right at the back of the cupboard I strike gold - a little brown jar with a yellow lid that I don’t recognise. A quick glance inside when I unscrew the lid reveals a brown paste. Excellent. Mystery jar it is.
I expertly saw off two even slices from the loaf of bread, and spread the brown stuff from crust to crust, thick and even. But I’m not done. There has to be something more, something extra that makes this sandwich special.
And there they are, in a bowl on the countertop. Those luscious, ripe, red strawberries I picked yesterday. My mouth waters and I grab four or five, slicing them up to place carefully on the smothered bread, before closing the sandwich and raising it to my lips to take an enormous bite.
Less than two seconds later I’m coughing and gagging into the sink. I can hear Harry shouting some kind of query, but I can’t respond. Tears are flowing down my cheeks, my nose is running and my throat feels like it’s been scoured with sand.
Harry’s there beside me all of a sudden, his wet hand rubbing my back as I dry-retch. “Water,” I rasp, and after a few clattery clinky noises a glass is filled from the tap, inches from my nose, then nudged gently against my lips to sip at.
“What happened? Are you ill?”
I shake my head, and flap a hand at the floor. Harry presses the glass into my hand, picks up the abandoned sandwich and gives it a tentative sniff. I feel indignant rage start to rise when he giggles.
“Marmite!” he chortles incredulously, peeling back the bread. “Marmite and strawberries!”
“Not…not funny!” I growl.
He’s openly chuckling now. “Couldn’t…couldn’t you smell it?!” he forces out breathlessly.
“Well I wasn’t thinking straight, was I?!” I protest furiously. “I was thinking about what I was going to do to you in the shower.”
“ ‘Was?’ ” he queries, holding his sides as though they pain him.
“You don’t deserve it now,” I spit. “You mock my suffering.”
“Strawberries!” he giggles again. “Just what did you think this was?”
I affect my best posture of injured pride, my arms folded across my chest defensively. “I thought it was that chocolatey stuff you bought once. The stuff you let me eat with a spoon.”
Harry has finally stopped giggling, though he looks far from repentant. “Nutella,” he says. “Well, I guess the jars are a similar shape.” He shakes his head, an amused smile still on his lips.
“You actually eat that stuff?!” I point at the offensive little pot still open on the counter.
Harry shakes his head. “No. I don’t like it, but a lot of people do. Dean must have left this behind, last time he came to stay.”
“How does he have any tastebuds left?” I ask, working my tongue into all corners of my mouth, trying to exorcise the dreadful, salty residue.
Harry gives me a wry smile and quirks an eyebrow. “Well, it’s concentrated. Muggles and Muggleborns only use a tiny little bit, normally with a fair bit of butter. If they spread it a quarter of an inch thick and used half a jar on one sandwich, they’d probably be gagging over a sink too.”
“If I ever find who made that…that atrocity,” I say, aiming an accusing finger at the Marmite, “I’ll kill him.”
“Marmite’s been around for a hundred years, Ron. He was a Muggle. He’s probably already dead.”
“Good,” I say venomously. “He deserves it.”
Harry steps close to me and slips his arms around my waist. “You all right now, then?” he asks gently, looking up at me.
“Yes. Not that you care,” I mutter. I’m still annoyed that he laughed so much, but it’s hard to be cranky when there’s a naked, damp Harry pressed up against me. My body is reminding me, not so subtly, of that fact.
“You’ve got to admit, it was pretty funny,” Harry says, wiggling a little closer.
“Maybe for you,” I hiss, my traitorous hips giving a little thrust.
“Well, yes,” he smirks, after planting a kiss on my still-salty lips. “Now, I’m cold. Are you coming for a shower with me, or not?”
“Maybe,” I say, grudgingly, my hands squeezing that beautiful arse.
“If you’re a good boy, then maybe I can even find you something you do like to eat,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief, before turning and walking back to the bathroom. I follow in his wake, shedding my boxers as I go, determined to make it long and slow and drawn out. Before I let Harry come, I make him beg and plead and apologise for every giggle. I’ve had my revenge…or so I thought.
“Strawberries…” Harry whispers, teasingly, as get to my feet.
<- Apples c@r Suspicion ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,088
Rating: R
Warnings: Boytouching. Furious!Nauseated!Ron.
Prompt: Marmite.
Summary: Harry wants a shower. Ron wants a sandwich.
A/N: Written as an early birthday present for shocolate. It was going to be a ficlet, but it ended up about twice the length I thought it would. This is set in the same era as Tea and Apples, but though it has hints of domesticity, it's more of a smut/crack fic. Any mentions of rimming are purely for shocolate's benefit! It's not one of my kinks.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Prequel Series HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Harry is spooned around me. He’s nuzzling my back, between my shoulder blades, and his fingertips are toying with one of my nipples.
“Join me for a shower?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Hungry,” I mumble. “G’na find somethin’ t’ eat.”
“You’re always eating,” Harry admonishes.
“Gives me stamina,” I say in my own defence. “And I’d never be able to lick your arse till you whimper if I hadn’t eaten so many cornets as a kid.”
“True,” Harry admits grudgingly. “But who’s going to wash my back?”
I know he’s pouting, and I can’t even see his face. There’s a sulky tone in his voice that makes me want to roll over and pin him to the bed, but before I can act on that impulse, my stomach growls ominously.
“I’ll be quick,” I promise instead. “I’ll just grab a sandwich, then I’ll be in there and naked before you have time to miss me.”
“I already miss you,” he counters, petulantly, “and you haven’t even moved yet.”
I turn over, wind my arms around him and lay a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. Then I smile, lovingly, and watch him melt.
“Oh, fine,” he concedes. “Go and fill that bottomless pit you call a stomach.”
I grin, kiss him swiftly on the lips, and slip from the sheets to pad downstairs in bare feet.
I’m humming a little tune to myself as I rummage in the kitchen for condiments when I hear the water start in the bathroom. I used the last of the raspberry jam yesterday, so I’m going to have to be creative and come up with something new and inventive, and that’s always fun.
Right at the back of the cupboard I strike gold - a little brown jar with a yellow lid that I don’t recognise. A quick glance inside when I unscrew the lid reveals a brown paste. Excellent. Mystery jar it is.
I expertly saw off two even slices from the loaf of bread, and spread the brown stuff from crust to crust, thick and even. But I’m not done. There has to be something more, something extra that makes this sandwich special.
And there they are, in a bowl on the countertop. Those luscious, ripe, red strawberries I picked yesterday. My mouth waters and I grab four or five, slicing them up to place carefully on the smothered bread, before closing the sandwich and raising it to my lips to take an enormous bite.
Less than two seconds later I’m coughing and gagging into the sink. I can hear Harry shouting some kind of query, but I can’t respond. Tears are flowing down my cheeks, my nose is running and my throat feels like it’s been scoured with sand.
Harry’s there beside me all of a sudden, his wet hand rubbing my back as I dry-retch. “Water,” I rasp, and after a few clattery clinky noises a glass is filled from the tap, inches from my nose, then nudged gently against my lips to sip at.
“What happened? Are you ill?”
I shake my head, and flap a hand at the floor. Harry presses the glass into my hand, picks up the abandoned sandwich and gives it a tentative sniff. I feel indignant rage start to rise when he giggles.
“Marmite!” he chortles incredulously, peeling back the bread. “Marmite and strawberries!”
“Not…not funny!” I growl.
He’s openly chuckling now. “Couldn’t…couldn’t you smell it?!” he forces out breathlessly.
“Well I wasn’t thinking straight, was I?!” I protest furiously. “I was thinking about what I was going to do to you in the shower.”
“ ‘Was?’ ” he queries, holding his sides as though they pain him.
“You don’t deserve it now,” I spit. “You mock my suffering.”
“Strawberries!” he giggles again. “Just what did you think this was?”
I affect my best posture of injured pride, my arms folded across my chest defensively. “I thought it was that chocolatey stuff you bought once. The stuff you let me eat with a spoon.”
Harry has finally stopped giggling, though he looks far from repentant. “Nutella,” he says. “Well, I guess the jars are a similar shape.” He shakes his head, an amused smile still on his lips.
“You actually eat that stuff?!” I point at the offensive little pot still open on the counter.
Harry shakes his head. “No. I don’t like it, but a lot of people do. Dean must have left this behind, last time he came to stay.”
“How does he have any tastebuds left?” I ask, working my tongue into all corners of my mouth, trying to exorcise the dreadful, salty residue.
Harry gives me a wry smile and quirks an eyebrow. “Well, it’s concentrated. Muggles and Muggleborns only use a tiny little bit, normally with a fair bit of butter. If they spread it a quarter of an inch thick and used half a jar on one sandwich, they’d probably be gagging over a sink too.”
“If I ever find who made that…that atrocity,” I say, aiming an accusing finger at the Marmite, “I’ll kill him.”
“Marmite’s been around for a hundred years, Ron. He was a Muggle. He’s probably already dead.”
“Good,” I say venomously. “He deserves it.”
Harry steps close to me and slips his arms around my waist. “You all right now, then?” he asks gently, looking up at me.
“Yes. Not that you care,” I mutter. I’m still annoyed that he laughed so much, but it’s hard to be cranky when there’s a naked, damp Harry pressed up against me. My body is reminding me, not so subtly, of that fact.
“You’ve got to admit, it was pretty funny,” Harry says, wiggling a little closer.
“Maybe for you,” I hiss, my traitorous hips giving a little thrust.
“Well, yes,” he smirks, after planting a kiss on my still-salty lips. “Now, I’m cold. Are you coming for a shower with me, or not?”
“Maybe,” I say, grudgingly, my hands squeezing that beautiful arse.
“If you’re a good boy, then maybe I can even find you something you do like to eat,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief, before turning and walking back to the bathroom. I follow in his wake, shedding my boxers as I go, determined to make it long and slow and drawn out. Before I let Harry come, I make him beg and plead and apologise for every giggle. I’ve had my revenge…or so I thought.
“Strawberries…” Harry whispers, teasingly, as get to my feet.
<- Apples c@r Suspicion ->