Ladyfingers - H/R - NC-17
Title: Ladyfingers
Author: shocolate
Pairing: Harry/Ron (plus mentions of Ron/Hermione)
Words: 4548
Rating: NC-17

Happiest of birthdays, my darling oncelikeshari - you are my favourite person to bring down ceilings with, and an absolute pootle to take on my spawn.

*huge hug*

Betaed by the lovely magicofisis and the scrummy auntee_mame.


Ladyfingers
****
Basically, if you weren’t there, you wouldn’t understand.

Wouldn’t understand the Horcruxes, wouldn’t understand the monotony, or the terror, or the terrifying monotony, or the monotonous terror, or seeing Harry dead, or kneeling here with a rather stretched and slightly sore and mysteriously moist arsehole.

I admit it takes a stretch of the imagination, as well as the arsehole, to get from a battle against the forces of evil in a half ruined castle, to kneeling on my own couch and pushing back against Harry as he thrusts inside me, and shushing him because he is moaning between bites across my neck and shoulders and Hermione is asleep in the next room.

I wouldn’t have believed it, if Professor Trelawney, herself, had predicted it.

The cock with the girth to stretch you to just on the verge of pain, and with a slight curve to the left, so the ridge of the head brushes just so against your prostate on every stroke, shall meet you on the Hogwarts Express and nearly get you killed, year after year.

Not that Harry’s cock has ever nearly got me killed; the closest it’s come to that is probably when I burst in on him kissing Ginny, that summer, and she was furious with me – if looks could kill, and all that.

Or when he had me bent over the kitchen table, which collapsed.

Sorry: Ginny.

You’d think she’d be far from okay about Harry’s cock being this deep inside me, but you’d be surprised.

Urgh.

Even while Harry’s lips are on the back of my neck and his hand is sliding over my hip and reaching for my cock, I have to shake myself, mentally, to rid myself of the idea of my sister thinking about Harry fucking me.

What I’d meant to think is that she is absolutely fine about Harry choosing me.

No, actually, what I’d meant to think – what with being in the middle of having utterly filthy sex with him, and everything - is that Harry’s lips are on my neck and his cock is deep inside my arse and his balls are slapping against mine and his fingers are wrapped around my cock and he is groaning my name and muttering so hot, tight, fuckallformeRon.

But I got unfortunately distracted by the thought that Ginny coped really, really well with the way Harry pulled away from everyone but me and Hermione, after, well, you know.

After he died.

Yeah.

She’d smiled a bit wobbly-ly and taken it out rather viciously on the gnomes, but she’s never been anything but supportive of me and Harry.

And Hermione.

Me and Harry and me and Hermione.

Not that that is what happened, at first. At first, I was all about the girly parts.

And how much I loved Hermione, and actually and finally and definitely being together – I’d waited long enough, after all. But the only flexing arse involved was my own, as I buried myself, balls deep, in my Hermione.

My girlfriend.

Fiancé.

Wife.

That took about three years, from take thee to be my bedded girlfriend to take thee to be my wedded wife.

Three years without once arching my back so I push my arse against Harry and his body moulds itself to mine and drops of sweat fall out of his hair and almost hiss against the hot skin on my shoulders.

Three years of Hermione gazing hungrily up at me as I made love to her.

No, make that about three months of making love, before we started experimenting a bit, and I got rather fond of Hermione riding me in a cloud of sweaty hair.

Very sweaty hair, my lovers have.

So, three months of carefully making love, followed by a couple of years of fucking like rabbits, followed by Harry’s eyes.

Not while we were shagging.

Just that he did watch us, the whole time.

Apparently.

Hermione noticed this rather more than I did, but, well, after the year we’d had, it’s not surprising that he wanted to be with us.

And he didn’t go back to Ginny.

But he seemed fine.

Not as good as now, as his hands roam over my body, thumbs brushing my nipples then running down my stomach and stroking my cock, before gripping my hips as his thrusts speed up.

Now he’s at the top of his game.

We both worked hard for those three years, and I went home aching after a day of Auror training – aching with overworked muscles, and aching to cup Hermione’s breasts and bury my face between her thighs as she writhed under my mouth – and Harry went home to wipe his boots and eat Kreacher’s soup.

I suppose I did realise that he didn’t date, and I was a bit worried about him, but I didn’t realise he’d happily writhe under my mouth, too.

I had vague plans that it was my place to get him out more, once we qualified, and I had wedding plans to mediate between my mum and Hermione, and time passed.

And I stood by Harry’s side as we were awarded our Aurors’ badges, and Harry stood by my side as I married Hermione, and I turned and met his eyes and smiled at him both times, without noticing that his eyes did not leave my face as I turned away.

And I probably would never have noticed, and Harry would never have said anything, but then the oddest thing happened.

Hermione and me were on honeymoon, and we were alone in this romantic cottage and yeah, I admit I missed Harry after about a week, but I reckoned that that was because that was the longest we’d been apart since, well, since I was a total arse and walked out on them.

The odd thing happened while Hermione was going down on me.

Which was far from odd; it was – and still is – one of my favourite things – whether it’s Hermione or Harry doing it.

I was sprawled on a rug in front of the fire, my legs splayed, my head thrown back and my eyes closed. My hands were buried in my wife’s fabulous hair as her head bobbed up and down and her mouth moved on my shaft and my mind was full of incoherent thoughts about her mouth and her breasts and fucking and wet and that is when it happened.

No, I didn’t think of Harry.

Not his mouth or his anything else; certainly not what it would feel like to have his cock slide inside me.

Hermione slid her finger up my arse.

My eyes flew open and I started to protest.

I still don’t know at what.

Partly the fact that her finger was up my arse, and partly the fact that her finger was up my arse, and partly the fact that her finger was up my arse.

Where did my sweet, innocent, virginal Hermione learn to do something like that?

Okay, she wasn’t sweet, innocent and virginal anymore, but she sodding well was when I first got my depraved hands and mouth and dangly bits on and in her, so where had this come from?

But then I was completely distracted by how good it felt.

Not as good as I feel now, having Harry rest his forehead between my shoulder blades and moan my name as he fucks me. Nothing feels as good up my arse as Harry’s cock, but I wasn’t to know that, not yet.

Even Harry’s tongue up my arse, though debauched and intimate and filthy in its own special way, can’t fill me like his cock does.

I only knew that I was blushing as my wife fingered my arse and I came down her throat.

I propped myself up on my elbows and blinked at her as my cock softened in her mouth, and her hair covered her face as she let my cock and her finger slip free.

“Hermione?” I asked.

“Um,” she said, raising her hand to push her hair out of her flushed face, before grimacing at it and reaching for her wand to Tergeo her rogue finger.

“What was…”

“Was that alright?” she asked.

“Where did it come from?” I asked.

“I read about it,” she said.

I laughed weakly and she tutted and shook her head.

“The point is,” she said, “was it good?”

I cleared my throat, nervously.

“Uh… y-yeah,” I stammered. “Actually it was… good… very dirty… forbidden.”

She knelt between my spread thighs, folded her hands demurely in her lap and nodded seriously.

“I thought, well, now we’re married, and, well, I actually don’t know if you ever, but if you, well, had, or did, or even, and especially, wanted to, then, well, maybe I should start to, well.”

“What?” I asked and she sighed.

“You chose me,” she said.

I blinked at her, my naked body and sated cock stretched out between us.

I can’t believe what an innocent idiot I was – or how easily satisfied that poor cock was. Not that Hermione’s mouth isn’t a very welcoming and stimulating environment, but, really, a blow job and one finger up the arse?

What is that compared to how it feels to thrust inside her, while her legs wrap round me, or how Harry prepares me with mouth and fingers, before pressing inside me?

“Chose you? ’Course I did, you daft woman, that’s hardly news – or reason to… with fingers… I chose you when I was about thirteen,” I protested. “What are you talking about?”

“And not Harry.”

“What?” I asked her.

She sighed.

“Not that I ever really thought that anything was going on between you, not unless you were being really insensitive and I was feeling really sorry for myself,” she said. “But he’s, well, he’s Harry, and I know you’d do anything for him…”

“Not allow him access to my arse,” I spluttered, sitting up and coyly covering my cock. “Not that he’d ever… he’s not some… we never…”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“He… watches you,” she said quietly.

I frowned.

“After everything we went through,” I said. “You said it’s not surprising he still needs us.”

“But have you really never wondered what he… needs?” she asked gently.

“He… he needs… we’re the only ones who know what he went through,” I said firmly. “And Harry has his own arse, and is not interested in mine.”

It’s hard to believe I believed that, especially when Harry is so hard and so deep inside me. And it’s really strange to think that it was my pure and angelic wife who realised it. Well, she didn’t realise just how much Harry wants my arse; and hopefully she hadn’t given it much detailed thought at the time. But, however much he loves sucking me, or having me lying over him and frotting against his aching cock; however gorgeous he looks when he is lying beneath me and I am pounding him into the mattress and his eyes are locked on mine.

It’s the look on his face, as soon as he touches arse.

The way his eyes light up as his hand slips down my cock and over my balls and between my cheeks; the possessive growl as I pull my knees up to my chest and he spreads my cheeks and touches me with his tongue. That first, broad, claiming stroke, accompanied by fingers digging hard into my flesh, makes my heart ache.

Yes, I wondered about arses, and Harry, and Harry and arses, after my dear wife put the idea in my head and the finger in my arse. I looked at him and saw a sexual as well as a work partner.

I might have realised, all by myself, how dependent he was on me. And I might have enjoyed a fulfilling heterosexual sex life, with nothing but Hermione’s fingers up my arse – she still hasn’t used her tongue, but that is fine, that is mine and Harry’s and that is more than fine.

But Hermione had laid it out before me.

As she slid a ladylike finger inside me, as she sucked my cock.

I thought of Harry.

I thought of Harry’s fingers.

I thought of Harry’s cock.

Now, Harry grabs my hips firmly and slides back, the entire length of that wonderful cock stretching me, until the head is poised just inside. He pauses and I hear his laboured breathing and he moans my name as he surges back inside me and I laugh with joy at what an unimaginative idiot I had been.

Yes, I’d thought of Harry’s cock. And my arse. And, having had had nothing but a dainty fingertip inside me, I had no idea how it would feel when Harry fucked me.

Owned me.

I’d never thought of anything going up my arse until Hermione tried it, and I’d never been aware of Harry’s cock as anything more than the thing Harry peed with, or the thing that had better not have been up my sister, until Hermione drew my attention to it.

And I’d never have done anything about it, either.

If Hermione hadn’t told him, I’d be asleep in that bedroom, right now, clinging to the edge of the mattress as my very pregnant wife sprawled in her nest of pillows.

I’d never have had my Harry rest his forehead between my shoulder blades and press kisses into my skin as he stroked my cock and hissed through his teeth as he tried to hold back his climax until I was spasming around him.

I know he is close, so I spread my knees and try to thrust into his hand and back onto his cock, and I remember our first time.

Strangely enough, it had been when we were first trying to get pregnant, and Hermione was three days late, and Harry was due for dinner, and a cheerful Hermione nipped into our bedroom, to change.

Bizarrely, she came back out in a tight black dress and a bad mood.

Harry and I were sitting in the lounge and had opened beers, and she Accioed one for herself and I’d frowned and said, “but what about…”

“My period started,” she’d interrupted.

Harry had blushed and clutched his bottle so hard his knuckles had glowed white, and it’s so strange to think of him as embarrassed by bodily functions, especially as he has started to speed up again and his cock is stretching me to the point of blissful pain.

I wasn’t sure if I should comfort Hermione, for our failure, or Harry, for his embarrassment.

“So I can drink what I like,” she’d said defiantly. “And you may as well get drunk, Ron, because you’re not getting any, tonight.”

I’d only recently been subjected to a bit of a lecture on my assumption that ‘getting any’ meant ‘me inside her’, and had known better than to point out that any other method of ‘getting any’ wouldn’t do much for the ‘baby making’. If Harry hadn’t been there, I hope I would have said something supportive about all the other ways we could be intimate, and I hope it wouldn’t have come out as, “you can still go down on me.”

But I didn’t have a chance, because she hadn’t finished embarrassing us.

“Except, of course, you can finally sleep with Harry.”

She waved away our stunned silence, with a dismissive hand.

“You both want to, and this is probably perfect timing,” she said, taking a swallow of her beer and standing up. “I think I’ll just have an early night, with a hot water bottle.”

She kissed me on the cheek and left the room.

Harry still hadn’t spoken and the silence was getting louder and louder and it took every ounce of my Gryffindor courage to finally look at him.

He was deathly white.

If I’d know how pale he could go, I would have realised that he wasn’t actually dead after You Know Who killed him.

“She… emotional,” he croaked. “She wants you to follow her and give her a cuddle.”

That was certainly my out. I could blame my hormonal wife and scurry after her. Or I could tell the truth.

I did my best.

“Are you saying she’s not right?” I muttered. “Hermione’s always right.”

I could see a pulse beating in his temple and his eyes were skittering over my body and avoiding my face.

“Harry,” I said. “Look at me.”

His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched and he looked straight at me.

“I love Hermione,” I said.

“I know that!”

“And I would never cheat on her.” I ignored him as he shook his head violently. “But you…”

“Me?”

“The three of us are…” I huffed as I tried to put it into words. “Fuck, we’re barely two whole people, put together, are we? I know there’s something missing for me without Hermione, and there’s something missing for me without you, too.”

He nodded sadly. “I miss you so much,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel like this about anyone else. But you’re… straight. You’re married.”

“She knows how much you mean to me,” I said. “She… uh, she told me, actually.”

He snorted. “You didn’t know, until she told you?”

“How is that different to anything else?” I joked. “She… she just made me look at you differently.”

“How?” he whispered.

“By… sticking her… ladyfingers up my arse,” I said.

Harry choked.

“She reckoned she should give me… um… what you could,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “But it turned out I’d never thought about it. Before.”

“And now?”

“All the time,” I said. “And with so much more than… ladyfingers.”

“It’s impossible to have a serious conversation with you, you know that?” he said. “Are you really telling me you want to… you know… without the vegetable images.”

“See?” I said. “Serious isn’t easy. Am I supposed to beg for your throbbing manhood?”

We looked at each other.

I got up, puffed a deep breath out through my teeth and walked over to him, where he sat on my couch. This couch; this very couch that I brace my hands against the back of as Harry starts his preclimax babbling.

His nervous eyes had looked up and met mine as I knelt at his feet.

“This isn’t about being… straight…. or… not,” I said. “This is about you. There’s no other bloke I fantasise about.”

I could feel him trembling to stop leaning towards me and I moved closer and pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth. That first touch of his lips should have made me realise how big a step we were taking, as kissing felt strangely intimate. I had never fantasised about his mouth, but I just sighed and pulled him closer and deepened the kiss. I can’t believe my mind had been no further, but I honestly hadn’t considered kisses, before.

Impossible to believe, now, on an evening that Harry’s kisses are dotting my shoulders, and Harry’s lips have been wrapped round my cock, and Harry’s tongue has been up my arse, but I had thought of kissing as something to do with Hermione – I’d dreamt of Harry moving in mysterious ways, but always kneeling over me, kneeling behind me.

But Harry’s lips were moving under mine and Harry was whimpering and Harry’s hands came up to cup my face and I tried hard not to think of him kissing my sister and maybe that is why I only fantasised about Harry and my arse – because Harry had never had anything to do with Ginny’s arse.

I hope.

I pulled back to look at him, and his eyes were closed and his lips were parted and I couldn’t believe how much I loved him and I hope he felt the same way and I was sure he wouldn’t risk everything for a quick shag on Hermione’s couch.

“You’ve thought about this, too,” I said, my hands sliding up his jeans clad legs and my thumbs pointing at an interesting bulge.

“Oh, just for ever,” he said, dragging his eyes open and running a fingertip across my bottom lip.

I honestly thought I knew every expression on that face, but I had never seen him so giddy and I gladly pulled him into my arms and we kissed and touched and unzipped and soon we were naked and he was grinding his cock against mine and his cock was far thicker than Hermione’s ladyfingers and I swallowed nervously.

Now, tonight, we are on the same couch and it’s the same cock and the same arse, but there was no nervousness, no clumsiness. Just getting home late from work and finding Hermione was already asleep and not being able to keep our hands off each other. And we haven’t had time, recently, for anything more than a quick, mutual wank, so, when Harry’s hands slid down and cupped my arse, well, I got naked in record time.

It seems strange to remember just how nervous I was as I turned onto my hands and knees and Harry’s fingertips trailed down my spine and I shivered and his hands cupped my arse and I tried hard to relax, knowing he was finally going to touch me, that he would open me with his fingers.

And he held my cheeks apart and my heart raced and Hermione had only ever slid her fingers under and into me and Harry was looking at me and I was sure he would change his mind, and he’d stammer an apology and I actually thought the first puff of his breath across my arse was him about to admit he couldn’t go through with it.

And that first, broad, claiming stroke of his tongue made my brain melt.

His tongue.

Harry had given this a lot of thought.

Harry wasn’t just trying to ignore what his fingers were doing, as long as it felt good for me; Harry wasn’t just trying to ignore what his fingers were doing, as long as he stretched me enough to be able to get his cock inside me and take his pleasure.

Harry could see and… and taste what he was doing and Harry’s mouth was hot and wet and his tongue swirled in hypnotic circles and where the hell had he found out about it? Fuck, I was an idiot. It took Hermione to read up on arses in the first place, and introduce me to a whole new world of neglected nerve endings, but this. Had he read about it? Where had he read about it?

Was he making it up as he went along? What could he possibly be getting out of burying his face between my cheeks and lapping like a cat until I felt the tip of his tongue press inside me and I cried out and he slipped a fingertip in, instead, and he murmured words into my skin as he kissed and licked and prepared me with tongue and fingers?

It still hurt, the first time.

My head was reeling with the thought of what he had already done to me and what was coming next, and I was as ready as I’ll ever be, but his cock is so much bigger than the least ladylike of fingers and he clumsily pressed inside me and it stretched and burnt and I gasped and he groaned and I tried to relax and accept him inside my body, and I heard his preclimax babbling for the very first time, as he lasted all of thirty seconds.

I smile now, remembering how apologetic he’d been; about hurting me, about coming so soon, about shagging me on my couch, with my wife asleep in the next room. And I’d shushed him and held him and kissed him, not caring where his tongue had been.

And I’d walked naked with him to our spare room, knowing he should not be allowed to go home, alone, and I’d lain with him and he’d touched me and I’d come for him, and I’d left him asleep and slipped into bed with Hermione.

And it worked.

He moved in with us, and Hermione enlarged the spare room. He had his own space, and sometimes I slept with him. And sometimes I slept with Hermione. And he was very patient, through all the baby making sex, and he was rewarded, through all the exhausted first trimester lack of sex.

And he was stunned, by all the second trimester sex everywhere.

And now, Hermione is huge and exhausted and awkward and fills our bed with pillows, and I have been sleeping with Harry, and we could have staggered those few yards to his bed, before ravishing each other, but there is something magical about shagging on this couch. And our girl isn’t miserable and hormonal and crying herself to sleep in the bedroom. She is miserable and hormonal and about to explode with my child and change all of our lives, forever.

So, before we are a family, and too sleep deprived to shag on the couch, we tumbled onto it, Harry’s hands swiftly unzipping my trousers and sliding down the back and cupping my arse and Harry’s mouth biting its way down my neck and we had ripped off our clothes and Harry had grabbed a convenient jar of Vaseline off the coffee table, and I had laughed and said there was something to be said for stocking up on baby supplies and Harry had made me promise not to tell Hermione that he had used her child’s nappy cream as he slid two fingers up my arse and stretched me.

And now we are both so close, and, even though Hermione rolls her eyes at the idea of simultaneous orgasms, and doesn’t see the point, I can hear Harry’s babbling move up a gear and I know I only have to stroke myself a couple of times and I come and my whole body shakes and my arse muscles squeeze around him and his rhythm breaks down completely as he comes with a final thrust and a fuckRonloveyoufuckhotsohotsotightmine.

And we collapse in a heap and I moan as his cock slips out of me and he presses a kiss to my shoulder and mutters something incomprehensible and we reach for various articles of clothing and I walk gingerly to the loo and tidy myself up. Harry goes in to check on Hermione and tucks her in and I peer into the larder, wondering if it’s worth scrambling some eggs for supper. I have just lit the flame beneath a frying pan when he comes into the kitchen and puts his arms round me from behind and rests his cheek on my shoulder.

“She okay?” I ask.

“She’s huge,” he says. “Are you sure that babies come out through her… girl parts?”

I turn and kiss him.

“You aren’t this coy with the words during sex,” I say. “And girl parts are dead stretchy; a year ago I wouldn’t have believed the things that would fit in an arse.”

He laughs.

“Stretchy,” he agrees. “Though not as hot as your arse.”

“That’s because you have me pressed up against the cooker.”