Prompt: smell (#27)
Rating: PG-13 for language, kissing, and suggestiveness.
Word count: 1200
Warnings: May cause nausea or vomiting upon consumption. If you are allergic to fluff, please do not proceed. If symptoms do occur, follow with angst and/or smut fic.
Summary: ONE-SHOT. Harry likes the way Ron smells when he comes back from the Burrow: familiar and dusty and a little bit sweet.
Beta: Thank you to nova33 for overall feedback and ScarletVampyre for the Brit pick.
A/N: Written for my Harry 100quills prompt table.
Harry likes the way Ron smells when he comes back from the Burrow: familiar and dusty and a little bit sweet. His hands smell like food usually, and Harry can almost hear Mrs. Weasley telling her youngest son that he’s getting too thin, and she can see his ribcage through his jumper, and are you boys eating alright? She worries about Harry too, which is why she always sends something home for him. Sometimes it’s just a treacle tart or cinnamon pastry, and sometimes it’s half of a walnut pie. Once it was an entire plate of warm cranberry scones with a serving of fresh jam and clotted cream on the side. Harry thinks sometimes that it’s a wonderful thing living with Ron, if only for the food.
One afternoon, Ron comes home smelling of baked goods, but he’s not holding anything and Harry frowns, disappointed despite himself.
“Have a good time?” he asks as Ron walks into the kitchen.
Ron nods and rubs a speck of flour from the tip of his nose. “Mum sends her love. She says she’ll send some pie later.”
“Pie,” Harry echoes, and draws in a deep breath. “Apple?”
Ron nods. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“I can smell it…” Harry steps forward and takes Ron’s hand in his, bringing it up to his nose. “Your fingers smell like apples.”
Ron blinks. “I promised her I would help,” he replies, almost defensively.
Harry leans forward and licks the pad of Ron’s index finger, sliding the whole thing into his mouth. The callused underside is rough against Harry’s tongue, but it tastes sweet and a kind of tangy, like cider. He releases the finger from his mouth and looks up to see Ron staring down at him through his eyelashes, lips parted just slightly.
“Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” he says firmly.
“Promise?” says Harry, and Ron nods.
“Definitely,” he answers, and closes the distance between them in a single step.
Harry likes the way Ron smells when he gets home from work: hot and sweaty and faintly of explosives, probably the illegal kind. He paces the length of the bedroom as he strips off his uniform, dropping his work shirt on the chair and his socks onto the floor. He’s usually complaining about George or customers (but mostly George, the git), and even his words smell like fire.
“…said that the reason I don’t get my wages yet is because he’s been too busy to balance the books. Busy! Like everyone doesn’t know he’s spending all his time with Lee at the pub!” He tosses his belt onto the bed and reaches for the button of his trousers.
Harry stands from his desk chair and reaches down to pick a sock up off of the floor. “You’ve still got some money left from last week’s wages, don’t you?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point,” Ron grumbles as he shuffles out of his trousers. “I was supposed to get paid today. What if I had needed it, huh?”
“Then we would have gone down to the pub and dragged him back to the office to write it for you,” Harry replies mildly.
Ron grunts, but doesn’t say anything.
“What did you do today?” asks Harry, coming up behind him as he tosses the trousers onto the bed. “Anything fun?”
Ron scoffs, clearly still irritated, though Harry can see his resolve melting away. “Received in a shipment of exploding playing cards and nearly got my thumb blown off. A barrel of laughs, that was.”
“Mmmm…” Harry hums sympathetically, and presses his body flush against Ron’s back, wrapping his arms lightly around his middle. “You smell good,” he murmurs against the nape of his neck.
Ron snorts, but doesn’t shake him off. “Smell like fireworks, probably.”
Harry nudges his nose against a lock of Ron’s hair and licks a bead of sweat from the skin of his neck. Ron shivers.
“Let me at least shower first,” he pleads unconvincingly.
Harry ignores him and plants a kiss on the knob of his spine. Meanwhile his fingers find the waistband of Ron’s boxers, threatening an invasion.
“You can shower with me,” Ron says pointedly when Harry’s hand slips lower.
Harry presses his nose against Ron’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and faded shower soap and just the faintest bit of washing powder. “Nah, I like you just like this.”
Harry likes the way Ron smells when Harry wakes him up in the morning: warm and clean and heavy with sleep. Clean because he smells like the sheets, which it turn smell of washing powder, and warm because he’s been burrowed under the covers for at least an hour longer than Harry, who can’t help but wake up at dawn, even when he doesn’t have work.
“I’m up,” Ron mutters lazily into his pillow, but his eyes are clenched shut and he’s clutching the quilt like it’s a life raft, knuckles white from the effort.
Harry grins and slips under the covers next to him. “No, you’re not.”
“Mmmm,” Ron murmurs irritably, and then one eye snaps open. “Harry, it’s Saturday!” he exclaims.
“So leave me alone, you git!” He pulls the sheets closer to his chest and scoots closer to the edge of the bed, away from Harry.
Harry leans in and presses his face against the curve of Ron’s neck, breathing in the scent of sleep. “I made breakfast,” he whispers into Ron’s ear.
“Later,” Ron moans.
Harry twines his leg under Ron’s, pressing a cold foot against Ron’s calf, and Ron jumps about half a mile into the air.
“Bloody hell!” He pulls away from Harry sharply, glaring at him over his shoulder. “Get those things away from me!” he threatens.
Harry ignores him. “I made tea,” he whispers, drawing close again. “And eggs and bacon…”
Ron shuffles away again; he’s so close to the edge of the bed that it looks like he’s hanging on by his fingernails.
“…and sausages,” says Harry, leaning in so that he can whisper directly into Ron’s ear.
Ron pulls away just slightly, and the only thing that keeps him from falling off the bed is Harry’s arm wrapped around his middle. He pulls him back to the centre of the bed, and Ron turns to face him.
“Wanker,” he says bitterly. “Waking me up at arse o’clock on the morning talking about sausage. Can’t you just let me sleep?”
“No,” says Harry, brushing a lock of hair from Ron’s forehead. “I want you to come have breakfast with me.”
Ron sighs. “Better be good sausage, not Saveloy like last week.”
“It isn’t, I promise.”
“Good,” says Ron, and leans forward to press his mouth against Harry’s. When he pulls away, he licks his lips and looks up at him with sleep-hooded eyes. “You taste like toast.”
“Mmmhmm,” says Harry. “And marmalade.”
“Wanker,” Ron huffs affectionately, and pulls him in for another kiss. This time it’s sharp, with nip of teeth and jagged edges, and Harry sighs and pushes him back against the pillow, breakfast momentarily forgotten in the lingering scent of Ron’s shampoo and mint-flavored toothpaste, because Harry loves the way Ron smells in the morning.
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