Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s raining outside, and the drops are making it through the forest canopy, so there’s no point leaving the tent to forage or practise.

Hermione’s busy Scourgifying the pot they cooked last night’s miserable dinner in when Ron catches her eye and doesn’t, for the first time since he came back, look away immediately. He holds her gaze steadily, hopeful and daring, pupils dilated the way Harry had seen first seen when Hermione had swept past Ron on Krum’s arm back in fourth year.

Hermione stares back, incredulous for a spell, as Ron bites his lip in a very obvious fashion, totally unsexy save to the right audience. Her wand slips a little from her grasp, then she puts it away and rolls her eyes. “Oh, all right. Get over here.”

Ron’s on her before either she or Harry can react, kissing her with fervour and already whipping her hoodie off as she gasps and goes for his T-shirt. Harry grins and lies back in his shabby little tent bed. He reckons Ron must be starving for it, having been ‘away’ from the two of them for so long; it wasn’t as if Bill and Fleur were celibate just because some annoying git was spending a sorry Christmas at Shell Cottage in the adjacent room (Ron was quite explicit retelling Harry in undertones the exact things he’d heard through the wall). The speed with which he’s got Hermione on the floor is proof enough of how bad he wants it. Her. Them.

“Cushioning Charm, Ronald,” Hermione says, sighing, but Harry’s waved his wand and done it already, peering over the edge of his mattress. Ron diligently toppled them over close enough so that Harry can see the wet patch on Hermione’s jeans, smell it, dark and fragrant, between her legs. He imagines her clenching on nothing inside and slides a hand under his own trousers as Ron settles atop her and goes through what Harry and Hermione call his ‘routine’, running his hands all across every clothed and unclothed inch of Hermione’s body, feeling her curves and bumps and dips over and over, fitting her small tits into his palms. Hermione clutches at him. She must have been aching for it, long before Ron made sheep’s eyes at her, for her to soak through the denim, maybe since Harry snogged her for fifteen leisurely minutes in the morning.

“Fuck… fuck,” Ron mumbles. He meets Hermione’s lips again and sinks comfortably into the kiss for a minute before her hands on his belt jolt him to action and he sits up to get it off. Harry smirks and waves his wand once more; the trousers and Hermione’s jeans slip off and relocate with a faint whoosh to their makeshift laundry basket. Hermione glances over Ron’s shoulder; Harry’s smirk fades. He tilts his head, indicating his own hand, and Hermione’s eyes glitter with satisfaction as she sees him wanking to her and Ron.

Ron pulls out his cock from his pants and strokes it, turning halfway round to Harry and giving him a good view of it in profile, long and flushed and dripping with precome. “Thought about you all the time,” he tells them hoarsely, looking from one to the other. “Can’t believe I — I was so stupid and I just —”

“Shut up,” Harry mutters, nudging at his tip with his thumb. Now’s not the time to talk about Ron leaving — he came back, which is what matters, and he started this round of make-up sex so he might as well see it through to the end, and Harry and Hermione (though she won’t admit it yet) forgave him the instant he saved Harry’s life at the lake, anyway.

Hermione reaches for Ron and silently pleads with him, spreading her legs. Her panties, pale blue everywhere but over her cunt, are utterly ruined from her wetness. Ron rubs her hard over them with two fingers, going the whole length from fourchette to clit and back thrice just the way she likes before dragging them aside and tucking those fingers inside her. Harry shivers. “You like that, ’Mione?” he asks, noting that Ron can’t bring himself to speak, not right after Harry gave his not-quite order.

“Yes,” Hermione gasps, bucking upwards. She’s bare, completely, so that it’s all visible when she wants it to be, pink-red slash between her lovely legs, to Harry and Ron so utterly sublime. Her one and only vanity these horrible days, this, done in the name of monthly convenience but really for Ron’s ravening eyes. Harry had helped her do it last week even though Ron hadn’t been there to appreciate it; smoothed Essence of Aloe over her reddened, swollen skin on the outside and licked her all better inside as she wept and not from the stinging. And then they’d danced and danced to Muggle music, and wondered what would become of their broken hearts.

Now, Hermione just moans in frustration. “That’s quite enough, Ron, get inside me already, just —” She breaks off as Ron draws out his fingers with a slick squelch and holds them out to Harry, who cranes forward and closes his mouth around the sweet, familiar tang of Hermione, nearly falling off the bed. Hermione gasps again and wraps her legs around Ron’s waist, pressing his cock into herself. It’s been a while and Ron really is rather large, so Harry rests a hand on the small of Ron’s back and slows him down whilst he inexorably slides home. Hermione’s arms are outstretched towards Harry, and Ron, beaming now, hooks his fingers into Harry’s cheek, making it bulge the way it does during their blowies sometimes.

“Our Hermione needs more, Harry, c’mon,” he says. He smears spit from his hand all over Harry’s lips and chin, entertaining Harry’s tongue slipping out to lick at it a bit more, and then takes hold of his T-shirt collar and tugs. Harry snorts and follows, drunkenly stumbling off his mattress and joining them on the floor of the tent opposite Ron, near Hermione’s head. Tenderly he brushes her hair into place so that it won’t catch on anything and hurt her.

Hermione instantly takes out his cock from his trousers — even upside-down, she’s a talented one — and starts jerking him off, mouth open to catch flecks of his precome. Her heaving chest is still covered by her bra, so Harry sneaks his fingers beneath the underwire and pulls upwards, letting her tits spill out, nipples rosy and peaked and pointing into the air, shaking from the increasing speed and force of Ron’s fuck. Harry can’t help himself — he rubs her nipples hard with the heel of his palms. Hermione whimpers and arches her back for more; delighted, Harry does it again and again, going at her with fingers next, then nails, then, leaning down, his teeth.

“I’m going to —” Hermione nearly screams into Harry’s skin. “I’m — I’m coming, I’m coming, Ron, Harry —” And she does, she does, with great big gushes of translucent wet and a little milk-white stream, all over Ron’s lap. Ron pushes in as deep inside as he can and comes off, too, both of them close to crying, kissing again and again over Harry’s relentless pinching and plucking of her pillowy tits.

Harry slows down, a grin on his face as Hermione sobs and then lightly smacks Ron, who says something apologetic to her and brushes his lips against hers once again. “Patched it up, then?” he says, shuffling backwards, grabbing hold of his cock, still hard. “Merlin knows I couldn’t have stood a second more of your anger, ’Mione.”

Hermione smiles mischievously at him. “Not quite done with it all,” she says, happier than ever, and even as Ron’s pulling out of her carefully, she starts fondling her clit. “What are you waiting for, a written invitation?”

Ron laughs at him for that as he rearranges himself; Harry mockingly makes a face at him, to which he retaliates by throwing an arm around Harry and bringing him in for a snog. They both taste of Hermione, and now, of each other, too. “Missed you loads, mate,” Ron says against Harry’s mouth.

“Yeah? Missed you more, you great prat,” mumbles Harry, sucking on Ron’s tongue and eagerly swiping past the seam of his lips. “All the time.”

“All the time,” Ron repeats, the same words as before. “All I thought about was getting back to you both. Harry, I — I really do —” he stops, flushing as red as his hair. Harry thinks he knows what he’s trying to say. Ron’s never really been good at this expressing-your-feelings lark.

“Us too,” he cuts in, so Ron doesn’t have to say it before he’s ready. “So much.”

“So very much,” Hermione echoes, eyes shining. Harry grins down at her and fucks in with a single thrust, making her go slack with pleasure again. Ron holds Hermione open for Harry, and between their attentions she inevitably comes twice more before Harry’s done. And if they spend an hour further licking their spend out of a twitching, shuddering Hermione and laving it all over her nipples and into her and each other’s mouths —

That’s only the done thing, really, when it’s love and it’s them. When they’re sure, now, that everything will be all right.