e.lila.beth (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} celeria) wrote,@ 2007-08-12 23:32:00 |
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Fic: All Night (Harry Potter, Harry/Ron, Harry/Ron/Hermione, NC-17)
Title: All Night
Date: June 30, 2005
Words: 3301
Pairing: Harry/Ron, Harry/Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Het
Notes: Written for the June round of the Fantasy Fest, formortegami, who requested: Harry/Ron/Hermione. Ron/Harry already know how they feel. This time Hermione’s out of the loop. Kink/Smut. Year 6 or older. If angsty, happy ending please. Light bondage & spanking okay, if you want. This is ridiculously vanilla, so I hope it's okay.
All Night
He's been thinking about it all night, as he kissed Ron and yanked the curtains shut, as he found the hollow spots above his hipbones and below the notch of his ribs, as he licked the salt from the side of his cock. He's been thinking about it all night, but now, as his fingers tighten in a circle around Ron's thigh and he crawls up the bed, scrubbing at his mouth and looking at Ron's eyes, heavy-lidded with freckles, he's not sure how to say it.
Ron kisses the corner of his mouth, quickly, as if he doesn't want to think about what Harry was just doing with it. He rolls onto his back and puts his hands behind his head, staring at the curtains that are stretched across the top of his bed, making a warm little nest. Harry glances at him and then follows suit. Ron in the dark looks so different from Harry, with thicker, speckled arms and a tuft of red hair under each armpit. Harry tries not to feel self-conscious about his skinny torso and flat stomach.
Ron glances over at Harry briefly, then returns to studying the curtains intently. "We have to tell her," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word like he's twelve again.
He's been thinking about it all night, but Ron was the one to say it. Harry figures he's okay with that. He's sick of being the one with the ideas, ideas that turn out to be wrong. Like the time they thought Snape was going to steal the stone. The time he thought Cedric was just a thick pretty boy. The time he thought Voldemort had Sirius last spring, and his chest tightens.
He's been thinking about it all night, but if Ron says it, it must be true.
Harry makes himself nod. "We have to tell her," he agrees, going for calm and casual, but instead his voice comes out nervous and thin, like air through a pinched hose.
"Think she knows already?" Ron asks, so hopefully that Harry wants to laugh.
He thinks about Hermione, who's probably sitting in the common room right now, with a scroll of parchment and her books, ink flying across her nose and the table. Hermione, who is always giving lengthy lectures on how people must feel and punctuating them with, "You two have the emotional intelligence of an envelope, don't you?" He can't imagine what Hermione will say when she sees them like this, when she finds out what's been going on.
He'd like to say sure, Hermione knows already, but he bets she doesn't. Hermione's not too great with anything that doesn't come out of a book.
He glances at Ron. "We have to tell her," he says again.
Ron nods and rolls over onto his stomach, exposing the planes of his spotty shoulders and the circles of his muscles. It's a long time before Harry hears him breathing evenly, up and down, and realizes that he never answered Ron's question.
* * *
It was all well and good to sound confident and heroic about telling Hermione, but now that it's actually time, now that she's standing there, staring curiously at the way they're sitting side by side on Ron's bed, he feels very non-heroic. Harry clears his throat and nudges Ron to get him talking.
Hermione's got her hands on her hips, and her hair is full of tangles, and with her feet planted wide apart and her skirt brushing her knees, she looks a lot like she did back in first year: annoyed, bossy, and suspicious. "I hope I don't have to say I told you so," she says, shaking her head. One wrinkled curl slides over another. "You two absolutely need to stop spending so much time on the Quidditch pitch and start doing more homework during the week. Harry, you know that Snape only lets the best into his NEWT potions class; McGonagall told you that last spring, don't you remember? And if you're really serious about being an Auror – "
"Hermione – " Ron interrupts, and then looks like he regrets it, because now she's got her attention focused on him.
"And honestly, Ron, I don't think you're much better off, not with how your Transfiguration's been doing lately, I've seen your marks, and they're not – "
"Hermione – " Harry tries this time.
"Both of you, there's more to life than Quidditch – "
"Hermione!" Ron practically shouts, and Hermione jumps and stops. "That's not what we wanted to talk to you about."
Hermione blinks, then sits down on the bed next to them. Harry has to look past Ron to see the expression on her face. "Oh. Well, I thought – well, you know, that's usually what you need – "
"Yeah, but, uh, not this time." Ron gives Harry a dirty look like he should be saying something.
Harry's not sure what to say. That's his problem, he knows. He can do all the thinking he likes, all the worrying and imagining and picturing how something should go, but when it actually comes time to do something – well, not so good. Sometimes he thinks it's horribly unfair that he's the Boy Who Lived. He became the Boy Who Lived because he lay there and looked up at a face he can't remember. His parents died because they tried to do something.
Hermione's back at Harry, and he gives a little cough. "Uh. Hermione. Well, what Ron and I are trying to tell you is that we're, uh, we're …"
"We're …" Ron fills in.
"We're, um …"
Hermione just sits there looking politely puzzled, a look that changes to less-than-polite suspicion when Ron grabs Harry's hand. "You're what?" she asks, her tone changing. A minute ago she sounded the way she sounds when Ron or Harry is about to add something explosive to a potion. Now she sounds the way she sounds when Ron or Harry has already added something explosive to a potion. "Wait a second. You two are – you two?" she asks, her jaw creaking open.
"Um." Ron drops Harry's hand and looks at his own. That doesn't make Ron look especially heroic, Harry thinks, but looking at his hands means Ron doesn't have to look at Hermione, so Harry does the same.
"You two?" Hermione says again, sounding perilously close to tears. Harry's equal parts horrified and concerned. He has no idea what he's supposed to do with a crying girl, as evidenced by his behaviour with Cho Chang last year. On the other hand, Hermione doesn't sit around on her rear crying all that much. It reminds him of Halloween, their first Halloween together, five years ago.
"I can't believe it," Hermione mumbles, and then she stands up and stomps out of their dorm in a flutter of skirt and robes.
Ron's still looking down at his hands, his head bowed, making a funny angle in the back of his neck. Harry glances over at him. "Well," Ron says, still not looking up, "I guess that went okay."
* * *
They're lying in bed three nights later, listening to the rumble of sleep all around them. Neville is snoring noisily, a raspy hmm-hmm. Seamus tosses and turns until dawn, his covers rustling. Dean is the quietest sleeper, except for when he talks aloud and mumbles things that all have to do with the Muggle world. Only Ron's bed is quiet, because he and Harry are still awake.
"Think she's mad?" Ron asks for what, Harry is sure, is the twentieth time in three days.
"Dunno."
"Think she's upset?"
"Probably."
"Think she's confused?"
"I guess."
"Well, thanks," Ron says, sounding very much like a huffy Hermione.
Harry crosses his arms over the cold round buttons on his pajama top and tries to put some of his thoughts into words. He guesses Hermione's a little mad, a little upset, a little confused, since she's been sitting with Ginny to do her homework and avoiding them in the Great Hall. Hermione's used to being the first and the best and the one with the answer. She's probably sulking because she wasn't the first to figure out what was going on between Harry and Ron.
It's a little too emotional of an explanation for Harry. He feels himself turning back into an envelope. "I guess she's mad," he says unhelpfully to Ron, who is now lying with his back to Harry.
"Hmmph," Ron mutters.
Harry puts his hand on Ron's back, teasing the skin between his pajama bottoms and top. Ron smells like grass and pumpkin juice and crisp winter wind from flying at practice today. His neck tastes sharp and bitter when Harry kisses a freckle right below his hairline.
They both jump when they hear rustling near the bed, and Harry nearly screams when the curtains shift and billow and shape themselves into Hermione.
* * *
He's been thinking about her all night, but he certainly never expected her to turn up here, looking small and cold in her nightgown and bare feet. Awkwardness keeps his mouth hanging open. Common sense makes him smack Ron into moving over in bed.
Hermione yanks the curtains shut behind her and steals most of the blankets for herself, looking petulant. Her feet are icy even though the material of Harry's pajamas, and he shivers and moves closer to Ron. "I'm rather mad at both of you," she announces, glaring with shiny eyes.
"Oh, yeah," Ron says unhelpfully.
"You didn't even tell me," she continues, looking at the Gryffindor crest on the blanket.
She certainly sounds mad, but her head is bowed, her bushy hair falling down across her cheeks. She looks alone, somehow, even though she's less than two feet from Harry. He and Ron are piled up like puppies on half the bed, and Hermione's by herself on the other half, and this bed is really too small to fit two people on one half of it. He reaches out to pat her shoulder. "We told you," he says defensively, which is a really stupid thing to say because she doesn't seem to be listening.
Hermione pushes Harry's hand away impatiently. "What, did you think I'd go to the library to find a book on wizarding homosexuality or something?"
Ron looks so horrified that Harry wonders if he's spotted a spider on the curtain or something. Privately, he thinks that that's the sort of thing Hermione would do – when in doubt, see how many books have been written on the subject – but she seems to expect a no answer. "No," he says.
"It's just – it's just," she shrugs, and this time she's looking at her hands. Harry has never really paid attention to Hermione's hands before, but they're small, with thin, short fingers, smudged with sand and ink and the printing from books. She rests them on the fiery blanket, and they look white against the red background. She doesn't seem to be saying anything else, and Ron's still sitting there with his mouth open and looking somewhat daft, so Harry does the only appropriate thing and yanks her toward them and hugs her awkwardly. He's not used to hugging girls, particularly Hermione. Most of the time he only hugs her when one of them's been injured or something.
She's crying for real now, not just looking like she might. Her cheek is against Ron's chest, so Harry can only feel her shoulders going up and down, like the rhythm of Neville's snores. Briefly he wishes he had a handkerchief or something, like the one Uncle Vernon always carries. It's the only time Harry has wished he were more like Uncle Vernon.
He gives Ron a shove in the ribs, hoping that Hermione doesn't notice. He just wants Ron to hand her a tissue or something, but instead Ron's fingers are curling gently under Hermione's chin, and he tilts up her glassy face and kisses her.
It's not what Harry was thinking of, but her tears stop against Ron's lips.
* * *
He's been thinking all night that this bed is not made for three people, and trying to maneuver themselves and get their clothes off only reinforces that thought. Harry ends up nestling at the foot of the bed and watching Ron undress Hermione, his hands wide and speckled and confident, her legs and stomach and breasts pale as they're unpeeled in the cave of Ron's curtained bed. When he has enough room, he unbuttons his pajama top.
Ron is always quick and serious with Harry, kissing his neck, stroking his back, finding his balls, like he knows what he's doing. Ever since he started sleeping with Ron four months ago, Harry has become more and more sure that Ron doesn't really know as much as he thinks he does, but he doesn't mind. It's nice to have someone not counting on him. He's learned Ron's swift, deep kisses and the short strokes of his hand up and down Harry's shaft.
It's strange to watch Ron straddling Hermione, his fingers slow and uncertain at her face and breasts, his dick half-hard and tilted to the side like it's not sure what to do. And it's even stranger to watch Hermione, who is always the first and the best and the one with the answer, looking hesitant and nervous and even still a little annoyed, as if she's not used to Ron being the first, the one with the answer.
Harry's hand glides over Ron's naked back, his arse, his kneeling legs, and he's surprised to feel a flash of something as Ron leans over and kisses Hermione more forcefully, the way he normally kisses Harry. He's the one left out now, outside the conduct of electricity between Ron and Hermione's naked bodies.
He's not sure what to do, so he plays with the line of freckles decorating Ron's spine, the pale curves of his rear, the shoulders that are tense where he's leaning on his arms. Ron and Hermione are kissing, and Ron's cock is gathering and stiffening over Hermione's stomach. Harry's seen that before, felt Ron grow hard and warm in his hand when it was just the two of them. He's still not sure what it means for Ron to touch Hermione like this, and he's fairly certain at this point that this bed is not big enough for three people, not the way they're situated now, Ron on top of Hermione and Harry unsure of how to reach both of them.
Harry watches Ron lean over Hermione, finding the circles of her nipples with his mouth and the lines of her ribs with his hands. Ron's dick is hard against Hermione's thigh, and it makes Harry aware of his own, thick and the color of a bruise between his legs. He squats back on his thighs and cups it in his palm, the way he has so many times on his own, in his own bed. As he teases the head, the precome fluid coats his thumb with shiny, clear slickness, and after a minute of consideration he leans forward to find Ron's arsehole with his thumb.
Ron makes a short, sharp sound, but his mouth is still on Hermione's breast, and it comes out muffled between their bodies. The little ring of muscle contracts against the intrusion of Harry's thumb, and then it relaxes and Harry pushes the end of his finger inside, and Ron closes dark and tight around him. Ron feels hot and dry, a strange sensation, not that Harry has ever really considered what it would be like to put his fingers up someone else's arse. When Ron relaxes again, he withdraws his thumb and then sticks his index finger in his mouth, coating it and the valleys between his fingers with saliva so that he can spread it along the circle of Ron's hole. This time his finger slides in easier, less dry around his skin, and when Harry finds a funny spot, like a bump inside him, Ron groans against Hermione's skin.
The tip of Harry's dick is slick with his fluids, and he holds his breath as he pushes against the resistance of Ron's arse, easing inside. He rather thinks it would be better to do it quickly, like taking off a plaster, but the pattern of contractions around the head of his cock convinces him otherwise. He slows down, using his spit again to coat the rest of his shaft and Ron's rear again, and then he can't breathe because he's inside and Ron is tight and hot and almost painful with the pressure all around Harry.
Harry has to shift with Ron when he pushes into Hermione, and she gasps, and so does Ron, as however Harry moves seems to be a good thing. It's hard to keep his balance behind Ron because he's moving inside and into Hermione's cunt, and Harry feels strange, because he's able to move much less inside Ron than Ron is in Hermione. Still, he doesn't seem to mind, and Harry's sliding in and out of him just barely, slick and slow, his hands against Ron's back to steady himself. One hand slips down Ron's sweat-flecked back and bumps against Hermione, her breast and shoulder, and it feels strange to be holding Ron between them like this, strange to hear Hermione's gasps and sighs that are so different from any other sound she's made when it's been the three of them.
Ron's still pushing inside Hermione, slower than Harry thinks it's been with him, and he takes his cue from Ron's pace. His hipbones are brushing up against Ron's arsecheeks with each small thrust, and the heat and friction on Harry's dick is almost beginning to hurt when he comes. It's slippery now inside Ron, and he eases out of him slowly, which gives him the opportunity to watch Hermione's closed eyes and rumpled hair and her fingers clutching at Ron's arms as his cock disappears inside her, beneath a tangle of brown pubic hair. Ron's eyes are closed too, and he looks different from any way he's ever looked with Harry: softer, with wrinkles up and down his forehead and gentle fingers on the circles of her nipples. It seems strange that Ron looks so concerned about upsetting Hermione, and then as Harry listens to the sounds that she makes when she comes and listens to the sounds Ron makes, sounds that are different from the ones he makes with Harry, he thinks he understands.
Ron might be an envelope, but he knows how to do stuff.
* * *
For fucking, this bed might be big enough for three people, but for sleeping it's definitely not. Harry offered to go back to his own bed, but Hermione bit her lip and shook her head, and Ron insisted that they could find a way. In the end, they sort of piled themselves, Harry tucked up lengthwise against Ron and Hermione lying half on top of both of them. Harry feels like a puzzle piece in a fire. He moves his head so he can get a breath of cool air and listens to the sounds of Ron and Hermione's sleep, even breathing, snorting snores, soft little sighs that probably mean Hermione's dreaming about parchment.
It's horribly uncomfortable wedged in between his two best friends. Harry considers wriggling away from them, and then he stops, because as tight and warm and sweaty as it is, their bare skin on his is like a comforting hug, when for once none of them is injured.
He's sure he'll be awake all night, but that's his last thought before he falls asleep.
fin.
Title: All Night
Date: June 30, 2005
Words: 3301
Pairing: Harry/Ron, Harry/Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Het
Notes: Written for the June round of the Fantasy Fest, for
mortegami, who requested: Harry/Ron/Hermione. Ron/Harry already know how they feel. This time Hermione’s out of the loop. Kink/Smut. Year 6 or older. If angsty, happy ending please. Light bondage & spanking okay, if you want. This is ridiculously vanilla, so I hope it's okay.All Night
He's been thinking about it all night, as he kissed Ron and yanked the curtains shut, as he found the hollow spots above his hipbones and below the notch of his ribs, as he licked the salt from the side of his cock. He's been thinking about it all night, but now, as his fingers tighten in a circle around Ron's thigh and he crawls up the bed, scrubbing at his mouth and looking at Ron's eyes, heavy-lidded with freckles, he's not sure how to say it.
Ron kisses the corner of his mouth, quickly, as if he doesn't want to think about what Harry was just doing with it. He rolls onto his back and puts his hands behind his head, staring at the curtains that are stretched across the top of his bed, making a warm little nest. Harry glances at him and then follows suit. Ron in the dark looks so different from Harry, with thicker, speckled arms and a tuft of red hair under each armpit. Harry tries not to feel self-conscious about his skinny torso and flat stomach.
Ron glances over at Harry briefly, then returns to studying the curtains intently. "We have to tell her," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word like he's twelve again.
He's been thinking about it all night, but Ron was the one to say it. Harry figures he's okay with that. He's sick of being the one with the ideas, ideas that turn out to be wrong. Like the time they thought Snape was going to steal the stone. The time he thought Cedric was just a thick pretty boy. The time he thought Voldemort had Sirius last spring, and his chest tightens.
He's been thinking about it all night, but if Ron says it, it must be true.
Harry makes himself nod. "We have to tell her," he agrees, going for calm and casual, but instead his voice comes out nervous and thin, like air through a pinched hose.
"Think she knows already?" Ron asks, so hopefully that Harry wants to laugh.
He thinks about Hermione, who's probably sitting in the common room right now, with a scroll of parchment and her books, ink flying across her nose and the table. Hermione, who is always giving lengthy lectures on how people must feel and punctuating them with, "You two have the emotional intelligence of an envelope, don't you?" He can't imagine what Hermione will say when she sees them like this, when she finds out what's been going on.
He'd like to say sure, Hermione knows already, but he bets she doesn't. Hermione's not too great with anything that doesn't come out of a book.
He glances at Ron. "We have to tell her," he says again.
Ron nods and rolls over onto his stomach, exposing the planes of his spotty shoulders and the circles of his muscles. It's a long time before Harry hears him breathing evenly, up and down, and realizes that he never answered Ron's question.
* * *
It was all well and good to sound confident and heroic about telling Hermione, but now that it's actually time, now that she's standing there, staring curiously at the way they're sitting side by side on Ron's bed, he feels very non-heroic. Harry clears his throat and nudges Ron to get him talking.
Hermione's got her hands on her hips, and her hair is full of tangles, and with her feet planted wide apart and her skirt brushing her knees, she looks a lot like she did back in first year: annoyed, bossy, and suspicious. "I hope I don't have to say I told you so," she says, shaking her head. One wrinkled curl slides over another. "You two absolutely need to stop spending so much time on the Quidditch pitch and start doing more homework during the week. Harry, you know that Snape only lets the best into his NEWT potions class; McGonagall told you that last spring, don't you remember? And if you're really serious about being an Auror – "
"Hermione – " Ron interrupts, and then looks like he regrets it, because now she's got her attention focused on him.
"And honestly, Ron, I don't think you're much better off, not with how your Transfiguration's been doing lately, I've seen your marks, and they're not – "
"Hermione – " Harry tries this time.
"Both of you, there's more to life than Quidditch – "
"Hermione!" Ron practically shouts, and Hermione jumps and stops. "That's not what we wanted to talk to you about."
Hermione blinks, then sits down on the bed next to them. Harry has to look past Ron to see the expression on her face. "Oh. Well, I thought – well, you know, that's usually what you need – "
"Yeah, but, uh, not this time." Ron gives Harry a dirty look like he should be saying something.
Harry's not sure what to say. That's his problem, he knows. He can do all the thinking he likes, all the worrying and imagining and picturing how something should go, but when it actually comes time to do something – well, not so good. Sometimes he thinks it's horribly unfair that he's the Boy Who Lived. He became the Boy Who Lived because he lay there and looked up at a face he can't remember. His parents died because they tried to do something.
Hermione's back at Harry, and he gives a little cough. "Uh. Hermione. Well, what Ron and I are trying to tell you is that we're, uh, we're …"
"We're …" Ron fills in.
"We're, um …"
Hermione just sits there looking politely puzzled, a look that changes to less-than-polite suspicion when Ron grabs Harry's hand. "You're what?" she asks, her tone changing. A minute ago she sounded the way she sounds when Ron or Harry is about to add something explosive to a potion. Now she sounds the way she sounds when Ron or Harry has already added something explosive to a potion. "Wait a second. You two are – you two?" she asks, her jaw creaking open.
"Um." Ron drops Harry's hand and looks at his own. That doesn't make Ron look especially heroic, Harry thinks, but looking at his hands means Ron doesn't have to look at Hermione, so Harry does the same.
"You two?" Hermione says again, sounding perilously close to tears. Harry's equal parts horrified and concerned. He has no idea what he's supposed to do with a crying girl, as evidenced by his behaviour with Cho Chang last year. On the other hand, Hermione doesn't sit around on her rear crying all that much. It reminds him of Halloween, their first Halloween together, five years ago.
"I can't believe it," Hermione mumbles, and then she stands up and stomps out of their dorm in a flutter of skirt and robes.
Ron's still looking down at his hands, his head bowed, making a funny angle in the back of his neck. Harry glances over at him. "Well," Ron says, still not looking up, "I guess that went okay."
* * *
They're lying in bed three nights later, listening to the rumble of sleep all around them. Neville is snoring noisily, a raspy hmm-hmm. Seamus tosses and turns until dawn, his covers rustling. Dean is the quietest sleeper, except for when he talks aloud and mumbles things that all have to do with the Muggle world. Only Ron's bed is quiet, because he and Harry are still awake.
"Think she's mad?" Ron asks for what, Harry is sure, is the twentieth time in three days.
"Dunno."
"Think she's upset?"
"Probably."
"Think she's confused?"
"I guess."
"Well, thanks," Ron says, sounding very much like a huffy Hermione.
Harry crosses his arms over the cold round buttons on his pajama top and tries to put some of his thoughts into words. He guesses Hermione's a little mad, a little upset, a little confused, since she's been sitting with Ginny to do her homework and avoiding them in the Great Hall. Hermione's used to being the first and the best and the one with the answer. She's probably sulking because she wasn't the first to figure out what was going on between Harry and Ron.
It's a little too emotional of an explanation for Harry. He feels himself turning back into an envelope. "I guess she's mad," he says unhelpfully to Ron, who is now lying with his back to Harry.
"Hmmph," Ron mutters.
Harry puts his hand on Ron's back, teasing the skin between his pajama bottoms and top. Ron smells like grass and pumpkin juice and crisp winter wind from flying at practice today. His neck tastes sharp and bitter when Harry kisses a freckle right below his hairline.
They both jump when they hear rustling near the bed, and Harry nearly screams when the curtains shift and billow and shape themselves into Hermione.
* * *
He's been thinking about her all night, but he certainly never expected her to turn up here, looking small and cold in her nightgown and bare feet. Awkwardness keeps his mouth hanging open. Common sense makes him smack Ron into moving over in bed.
Hermione yanks the curtains shut behind her and steals most of the blankets for herself, looking petulant. Her feet are icy even though the material of Harry's pajamas, and he shivers and moves closer to Ron. "I'm rather mad at both of you," she announces, glaring with shiny eyes.
"Oh, yeah," Ron says unhelpfully.
"You didn't even tell me," she continues, looking at the Gryffindor crest on the blanket.
She certainly sounds mad, but her head is bowed, her bushy hair falling down across her cheeks. She looks alone, somehow, even though she's less than two feet from Harry. He and Ron are piled up like puppies on half the bed, and Hermione's by herself on the other half, and this bed is really too small to fit two people on one half of it. He reaches out to pat her shoulder. "We told you," he says defensively, which is a really stupid thing to say because she doesn't seem to be listening.
Hermione pushes Harry's hand away impatiently. "What, did you think I'd go to the library to find a book on wizarding homosexuality or something?"
Ron looks so horrified that Harry wonders if he's spotted a spider on the curtain or something. Privately, he thinks that that's the sort of thing Hermione would do – when in doubt, see how many books have been written on the subject – but she seems to expect a no answer. "No," he says.
"It's just – it's just," she shrugs, and this time she's looking at her hands. Harry has never really paid attention to Hermione's hands before, but they're small, with thin, short fingers, smudged with sand and ink and the printing from books. She rests them on the fiery blanket, and they look white against the red background. She doesn't seem to be saying anything else, and Ron's still sitting there with his mouth open and looking somewhat daft, so Harry does the only appropriate thing and yanks her toward them and hugs her awkwardly. He's not used to hugging girls, particularly Hermione. Most of the time he only hugs her when one of them's been injured or something.
She's crying for real now, not just looking like she might. Her cheek is against Ron's chest, so Harry can only feel her shoulders going up and down, like the rhythm of Neville's snores. Briefly he wishes he had a handkerchief or something, like the one Uncle Vernon always carries. It's the only time Harry has wished he were more like Uncle Vernon.
He gives Ron a shove in the ribs, hoping that Hermione doesn't notice. He just wants Ron to hand her a tissue or something, but instead Ron's fingers are curling gently under Hermione's chin, and he tilts up her glassy face and kisses her.
It's not what Harry was thinking of, but her tears stop against Ron's lips.
* * *
He's been thinking all night that this bed is not made for three people, and trying to maneuver themselves and get their clothes off only reinforces that thought. Harry ends up nestling at the foot of the bed and watching Ron undress Hermione, his hands wide and speckled and confident, her legs and stomach and breasts pale as they're unpeeled in the cave of Ron's curtained bed. When he has enough room, he unbuttons his pajama top.
Ron is always quick and serious with Harry, kissing his neck, stroking his back, finding his balls, like he knows what he's doing. Ever since he started sleeping with Ron four months ago, Harry has become more and more sure that Ron doesn't really know as much as he thinks he does, but he doesn't mind. It's nice to have someone not counting on him. He's learned Ron's swift, deep kisses and the short strokes of his hand up and down Harry's shaft.
It's strange to watch Ron straddling Hermione, his fingers slow and uncertain at her face and breasts, his dick half-hard and tilted to the side like it's not sure what to do. And it's even stranger to watch Hermione, who is always the first and the best and the one with the answer, looking hesitant and nervous and even still a little annoyed, as if she's not used to Ron being the first, the one with the answer.
Harry's hand glides over Ron's naked back, his arse, his kneeling legs, and he's surprised to feel a flash of something as Ron leans over and kisses Hermione more forcefully, the way he normally kisses Harry. He's the one left out now, outside the conduct of electricity between Ron and Hermione's naked bodies.
He's not sure what to do, so he plays with the line of freckles decorating Ron's spine, the pale curves of his rear, the shoulders that are tense where he's leaning on his arms. Ron and Hermione are kissing, and Ron's cock is gathering and stiffening over Hermione's stomach. Harry's seen that before, felt Ron grow hard and warm in his hand when it was just the two of them. He's still not sure what it means for Ron to touch Hermione like this, and he's fairly certain at this point that this bed is not big enough for three people, not the way they're situated now, Ron on top of Hermione and Harry unsure of how to reach both of them.
Harry watches Ron lean over Hermione, finding the circles of her nipples with his mouth and the lines of her ribs with his hands. Ron's dick is hard against Hermione's thigh, and it makes Harry aware of his own, thick and the color of a bruise between his legs. He squats back on his thighs and cups it in his palm, the way he has so many times on his own, in his own bed. As he teases the head, the precome fluid coats his thumb with shiny, clear slickness, and after a minute of consideration he leans forward to find Ron's arsehole with his thumb.
Ron makes a short, sharp sound, but his mouth is still on Hermione's breast, and it comes out muffled between their bodies. The little ring of muscle contracts against the intrusion of Harry's thumb, and then it relaxes and Harry pushes the end of his finger inside, and Ron closes dark and tight around him. Ron feels hot and dry, a strange sensation, not that Harry has ever really considered what it would be like to put his fingers up someone else's arse. When Ron relaxes again, he withdraws his thumb and then sticks his index finger in his mouth, coating it and the valleys between his fingers with saliva so that he can spread it along the circle of Ron's hole. This time his finger slides in easier, less dry around his skin, and when Harry finds a funny spot, like a bump inside him, Ron groans against Hermione's skin.
The tip of Harry's dick is slick with his fluids, and he holds his breath as he pushes against the resistance of Ron's arse, easing inside. He rather thinks it would be better to do it quickly, like taking off a plaster, but the pattern of contractions around the head of his cock convinces him otherwise. He slows down, using his spit again to coat the rest of his shaft and Ron's rear again, and then he can't breathe because he's inside and Ron is tight and hot and almost painful with the pressure all around Harry.
Harry has to shift with Ron when he pushes into Hermione, and she gasps, and so does Ron, as however Harry moves seems to be a good thing. It's hard to keep his balance behind Ron because he's moving inside and into Hermione's cunt, and Harry feels strange, because he's able to move much less inside Ron than Ron is in Hermione. Still, he doesn't seem to mind, and Harry's sliding in and out of him just barely, slick and slow, his hands against Ron's back to steady himself. One hand slips down Ron's sweat-flecked back and bumps against Hermione, her breast and shoulder, and it feels strange to be holding Ron between them like this, strange to hear Hermione's gasps and sighs that are so different from any other sound she's made when it's been the three of them.
Ron's still pushing inside Hermione, slower than Harry thinks it's been with him, and he takes his cue from Ron's pace. His hipbones are brushing up against Ron's arsecheeks with each small thrust, and the heat and friction on Harry's dick is almost beginning to hurt when he comes. It's slippery now inside Ron, and he eases out of him slowly, which gives him the opportunity to watch Hermione's closed eyes and rumpled hair and her fingers clutching at Ron's arms as his cock disappears inside her, beneath a tangle of brown pubic hair. Ron's eyes are closed too, and he looks different from any way he's ever looked with Harry: softer, with wrinkles up and down his forehead and gentle fingers on the circles of her nipples. It seems strange that Ron looks so concerned about upsetting Hermione, and then as Harry listens to the sounds that she makes when she comes and listens to the sounds Ron makes, sounds that are different from the ones he makes with Harry, he thinks he understands.
Ron might be an envelope, but he knows how to do stuff.
* * *
For fucking, this bed might be big enough for three people, but for sleeping it's definitely not. Harry offered to go back to his own bed, but Hermione bit her lip and shook her head, and Ron insisted that they could find a way. In the end, they sort of piled themselves, Harry tucked up lengthwise against Ron and Hermione lying half on top of both of them. Harry feels like a puzzle piece in a fire. He moves his head so he can get a breath of cool air and listens to the sounds of Ron and Hermione's sleep, even breathing, snorting snores, soft little sighs that probably mean Hermione's dreaming about parchment.
It's horribly uncomfortable wedged in between his two best friends. Harry considers wriggling away from them, and then he stops, because as tight and warm and sweaty as it is, their bare skin on his is like a comforting hug, when for once none of them is injured.
He's sure he'll be awake all night, but that's his last thought before he falls asleep.
fin.