drabbles for the triatha_ron
Over at ron_tries_het, we have been having a sort of informal, drabble writing, team bonding thing, using Ron and the seventy plus available women.

It’s supposed to be a ‘what happens in ron_tries_het stays in ron_tries_het' type thing, but I wanted to dazzle you all.

These are the pairings I have written so far…


Ron/Penelope Clearwater and Fleur Delacour
Ron stumbled out of his jeans, flopped back onto his bed and closed his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning.

He wasn’t really all that drunk, not drunk enough to make Hermione angry, even if it was the night before their wedding.

He listened to the familiar sounds of the Burrow settling around him and let a part of his mind think about the wedding – scary – being married – scary – and having sex – fantastic.

The door opened and closed and he didn’t crack an eyelid, assuming it was Harry, having been drained dry already by his baby sister.

When a soft hand slipped inside his boxers he managed a sigh and a half-smile; Hermione hadn’t been able to keep her hands off him, for all her ‘bad luck to see each other tonight’ guff.

Well, he’d keep his eyes closed, then – there wasn’t a tradition that it was bad luck to grope each other, was there?

His boxers were slid down his legs and the hand and – oh, Merlin – a mouth returned to his cock. He hummed appreciatively and it took a moment to realise that his shirt was being unbuttoned.

One hand on his shaft – two unbuttoning his shirt – one, oh, slipping between his cheeks. Just how many hands did Hermione have?

He opened his eyes to see Penny frowning with concentration at his buttons, and Fleur’s hair spread out – oh, sweet Merlin, thank you, but why? – over his lap.

“Meep?” he managed to squeak.

“Hush,” Penny said, bending to pay attention to his nipples. “Weasley family tradition, all your brothers’ wives.”

“But where are Bill and Percy?” he asked tentatively.

“Wiz Hermione,” Fleur muttered throatily, before her throat returned to its task and his brain short-circuited.



Cho Chang, Lavender Brown and Millicent Bullstrode
Ron returned to consciousness to find his wrists and ankles tied firmly to the posts of his four poster bed and his naked cock being flicked by a bored fingernail.

“Can’t I molest him yet?” Lavender pouted, sitting cross legged by his hip, one hand supporting her glum face, the other flicking him back and forth.

“No, not yet,” Cho Chang said, coming into view on the other side of the bed. “Not until I have Harry.”

“What is going on?” Ron demanded, looking back and forth between the two girls.

“Oh, you won’t catch Harry,” Lavender said. “You can share mine, c’mon.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“You were the worst boyfriend in the history of the school,” Lavender said, now using both hands to stand his poor cock up and pouting when it collapsed again.

“No. He wasn’t,” Cho said firmly. “Which is why we need Harry here, to compare.”

No, not Harry! He’d have to get Cho to join in – anything to protect his Harry.

“Maybe you could show Lavender how it should be done, then, Cho,” he said, as flirtatiously as possible.

Cho pouted prettily and ran a finger down his chest.

“Are you saying it was Lavender’s fault?” she asked, pinching a nipple.

“Um,” anything for Harry, right? “Yeah, she… she didn’t understand me. I know you could do better.”

Cho’s pretty frown was interrupted by the door slamming open and Ron was torn between hopes of rescue and dreading it was Harry, putting himself in danger.

It turned out to be a furious looking Millicent Bulstrode, clutching a ripped velvet cloak to her huge and heaving bosom.

“What is it, Millicent?” Lavender asked, spellotaping Ron’s cock to a lollipop stick and trying to prop it upright.

“Draco got away,” Millicent wailed.

Lavender sighed loudly.

“Come and play with mine, then,” she said generously.

Millicent came over to the bed and blinked mournfully down at him.

Cho twisted his nipple; Lavender cupped his balls.

“Acid pop!” Millicent said happily, bending to engulf the cock and the sweet in her wide mouth.

Ron screamed as her saliva hit the acid.



Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones and Eleanor Branstone
They stepped through the door, into the Hufflepuff common room, and Hannah and Susan’s eyes swept the room.

Excellent, they were alone.

“C’mon, gorgeous, there’s no one else here,” Hannah said breathlessly, crossing to the couch in front of the fireplace and swiftly shedding her robe.

“Maybe he’s shy?” Susan said, dropping her own robe on the couch and pressing herself up against Hannah’s back, her hands cupping the other girl’s breasts and lifting them to present them to their shy visitor.

“’M not shy,” Ron said, swirling Harry’s cloak away and ripping his own clothes off frantically so he could bury his face in Hannah’s cleavage.

Hannah sighed happily, winding her fingers in his bright hair.

Susan stepped back and sat on the couch, parting her legs and patting the cushion between her thighs encouragingly.

Ron knelt between her legs and inhaled greedily.

He reached out and ran his finger between her folds, frowning with concentration.

“Here,” he said, grasping her by the hips and tugging her arse forward, so it reached the edge of the couch.

Susan raised an eyebrow.

Leading Hannah by the hand, he positioned her in front of her best friend, turned her round and sat her carefully in Susan’s lap.

Hannah smiled and leant back, parting her legs and hooking them outside Susan’s as Susan’s arms came round her and squeezed her breasts.

“There,” Ron said happily, admiring the view. “I told you I could go down on you both at the same time.”

He leant closer and buried his face between Susan’s thighs, thrusting his tongue inside her and then running it in a broad stroke over her click and up to Hannah’s, which he sucked on lightly.

“I always heard you were the great strategist,” Hannah whimpered, tipping her head back onto Susan’s shoulder and squawking as she saw Eleanor Branstone in the shadows of the girls’ staircase, wide eyed and rubbing her own nipples desperately.



Glenda Chittock and Katie Bell
Ron was really nervous about appearing on The Witching Hour, because Glenda Chittock was something of a legend and his mum’s favourite, but he’d just been signed by the Cannons and he and Katie had been invited to the WWN studios, to talk about Quidditch in the post-War Wizarding World.

Glenda was old enough to be his mum, but a bit better preserved, and had been friendly and chatty, and now they were about to go on air.

“With me today,” she said into her something-magic-a-phone, “are Katherine Bell and Ronald Weasley, the two newest signings by the Chudley Cannons in an attempt to kick start their first post-war season. Katherine, how have the older Chasers been treating you?”

Katie started talking and Glenda kicked off her shoe and placed her stockinged toes between Ron’s legs, massaging his cock as she nodded and smiled at Katie’s answer.

Ron blushed and bit his tongue, knowing any sound he made would be broadcast to the nation – to his mum!

He looked desperately at Katie and mouthed, ‘help!’ but Katie just shrugged and whittered on about the Cannons’ set up and swallowed audibly as Glenda leant forward and undid her Cannons uniform, letting her breasts spill out and running a fingertip over one pink nipple.

“Ronald,” Glenda said brightly, coughing to cover the sound of her unzipping Ron’s trousers. “You’re a life long Cannons fan, aren’t you?”

Ron managed to answer while Glenda knelt between his legs and lapped at the tip of his cock. For all he knew, he was reciting the Cannons’ stats from 1834.

“And I believe you played together, at school?” Glenda asked Katie, with a significantly arched eyebrow on ‘played together’, as she moved to kneel before the wide-eyed girl.

Katie stuttered an answer as Glenda tugged Ron down beside her, by the cock, and nodded at Katie’s left breast before sucking on her right.

Ron shrugged and dipped his head to Katie’s left nipple.

He was gonna have to warn Hermione about this – she was supposed to be on The Witching Hour next month, talking about werewolf segregation.

Actually, being the only one knowing Hermione was talking about Ministry statistics for infection after attacks while Glenda suckled on her breasts was pretty cool.



Gabrielle Delacour
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Ron muttered, rubbing his temples and staring desperately into the middle distance.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, slinging his dress robes over the back of the chair beside his catatonic best mate, handing him a drink and sitting down.

Ron looked blankly at the glass that had appeared in his hand and necked it swiftly, smoke bursting from his ears.

“Harry!” he said. “Oh, Harry!”

“What is wrong?” Harry said carefully.

“I was all prepared,” Ron moaned. “I knew Hermione would be furious with me if I drooled over Fleur, and I knew Fleur would be just perfect in her wedding dress and I’ve been so careful not to look directly at her.”

“Like an eclipse?” Harry asked.

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry. You haven’t looked at Fleur, check.”

“But I just humiliated myself,” Ron moaned.

“Fleur’s mother?” Harry guessed. “Yeah, I just dribbled all over her; she was very nice about it.”

“No,” Ron said shortly.

“Then who?”

“Gabrielle,” Ron said in a very small voice. “Hermione just caught me fawning over an eleven year old girl!”



Melinda Bobbin
Ron put his foot down at the idea of Harry asking after Mundungus up and down Knockturn Alley, and he’d promised to be careful and he’d put up his hood and strolled into more bars and dodgy shops than his mother would ever forgive him for.

In a branch of Bobbin’s Apothecaries, his casual enquiry was met with a sharply raised eyebrow from the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

“Who wants to know?” she asked, smoothing back her tidy but greying hair.

“I’m a friend of his,” Ron said carefully. “I need him to get hold of something for me.”

She reached for his hand and turned it over, running her fingers along the lines in his palm.

“Maybe, if you show me just how good you are at getting hold of something for me,” she purred. “I will be able to find our Mister Fletcher.”

“Um,” Ron said intelligently. “What do you need?”

“You,” Melinda Bobbin said, opening her robes and bringing his hand up to cup her drooping breast.”

“Oh, bugger.”

“Maybe later.”



Hermione Granger and Marietta Edgecombe
Marietta slid her hand into her knickers and stifled a moan.

The two Gryffindor prefects were standing close together, in the shadows behind the statue of Roger the Shrubber, but she could see that Hermione Granger’s skirt being lifted and could hear her giggle as her knickers were dragged down her legs and she stood on one foot to step out of them.

“Good girl,” Ronald Weasley murmured and there was the sound of a zip being undone and his trousers hit the floor, weighted down by the belt with the Cannons buckle that Marietta had stared at in DA meetings, trying to work out which fold of material in his trousers was filled with his cock.

His hands cupped Hermione’s bottom and he muttered, “I love your arse,” and he lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist and it was pretty obvious what was being filled with his cock, now, and Marietta slid two fingers deep inside herself and thrust hard, each time Ronald’s pale buttocks flexed and drove forward.

She really should tell on them, it wasn’t allowed, but she wasn’t a sneak.



Mrs Flume and Elladora Guffy
Ron first noticed the woman in Zonko’s.

Not just because she was beautiful, or large breasted, or blue haired, but because women in their forties didn’t usually buy Nose Biting Teacups and Puddle Powder.

He paid for his own purchases and idly followed her out of the shop. She must have kids, he thought.

Yes, she walked smartly up to Honeyduke’s and pushed the door open. Well, he could do with a Frog, so he followed her, and his hand was on the doorknob when the Open sign in the window flashed and changed to Closed.

How could they be closed, when they had a customer?

Mrs Flume must have been in the back and not noticed her come in.

He pressed his face up against the glass and peered into the shop.

Mrs Flume was greeting the gorgeous woman and taking her cloak from her.

And her robes.

And, yes, those were some impressive breasts, that Mrs Flume was stroking, but then her own were spilling out of her robes and the lovely blue head was bending over them.

Ron looked both ways, up and down the street, checking no one could see as he slipped his hand inside his robes and grasped his aching cock tightly.

Mrs Flume led her visitor into the back room and Ron whimpered at the sight of two rounded arses walking away.

Stroking himself firmly, to stiffen his resolve, he slipped into the shadows beside Honeyduke’s.

By the time he found a window to the back room, Mrs Flume was lying spread legged on a divan and the beautiful stranger was sprinkling Puddle Powder between her parted thighs and she was dripping wet and Ron moaned and ran his thumb over the tip of his cock and vowed to buy some Powder and have a serious talk with Hermione.

Mrs Flume arched off the couch as her visitor bent and lapped at her glistening folds and Ron frowned as her blue hair spilled across the other woman’s lap and obscured the view, but her glorious arse rose into the air as she sucked and he could see blue curling pubes and he bit his lip and stroked himself faster.

Mrs Flume’s eyes grew wide as her friend reached for a Nose Biting Teacup and held it to her dripping sex, catching the shimmering liquid.

Oh, fuck, they weren’t going to drink from it, surely? Not when the cup would attach itself firmly to your nose and…

No, they weren’t going to drink from it.

The blue haired woman pressed the edge of the teacup between Mrs Flume’s legs and it came to life and closed over her clit, sucking hard as she writhed and whimpered and Ron came over his fist.



Lily Evans
The dreams started on our first night in a tent in the garden of Harry’s house at Godric’s Hollow.

Intense green eyes and a voice whispering the word, ‘cup’, over and over.

Well, Harry talked about little else but Hufflepuff’s Cup, as we searched the ruins, so I didn’t think any more of it.

I didn’t mention the dreams, because Harry’s voice whispering like that, plus the passionate look in his eyes, made me wake with a raging erection every morning, and, well, that’d be a bit hard to explain.

By the first time a hand touched me, I was so aroused that I moaned his name and grabbed the hand and held it to my cock and gasped, “Cup that, Harry!”

Well.

How was I supposed to know it was his mum, trying to tell us where Hufflepuff’s Cup was hidden?



Arabella Figg
Ron had put his foot down and told his mum he was going with Harry, to his aunt’s house.

His mum had let him, as long as he Flooed from Arabella Figg’s house, every evening, so she knew they were OK.

He dawdled along the strange, Muggle street, hands in his pockets, in no hurry to reach the cat and doily filled house, and in no hurry to return to the horrible Dursleys, the grim best mate and the totally confusing female.

He rang the doorbell and it was opened in a gust of cabbage, by a flustered looking Mrs Figg, who whirled away, back to her kitchen, slippers flapping.

He trailed after her and she waved a vague hand at the fireplace while returning to her cabbage emergency at the stove.

Ron took off his jacket, folded it and knelt down, threw in a pinch of Floo Powder and stuck his head in the flames.

“The Burrow,” he said and his mother’s anxious face was instantly before him.

“You’re late, Ronnie,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I just set out late.”

He adjusted his knees on his folded jacket, settling in to hear his mother’s list of worries and advice, nodding and agreeing in all the right places.

She didn’t notice him gasp as he felt a hand run over the curve of his arse.

“Every morning,” he said to his mum, with a slight catch in his voice. “You know Hermione’ll make sure we eat right.”

His mother was off again and he managed to nod and smile and ignore the fact that his jeans were being undone and slid down his thighs.

Warm, cabbagy air hit his arse and his cheeks were pulled apart.

“Yes, Mum, we’re going to Diagon Alley for our fittings tomorrow,” he squeaked as a tongue ran repeatedly over his entrance.

He couldn’t decide if he hoped it was one of the cats.