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HIC: Hermione in Charge (Harry/Ron)

Author: Play “Misty” For Me
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Some people have exciting birthdays; ones we would certainly envy.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: EWE, and just slightly AU (I tweaked the timeline of Deathly Hallows a bit). Voyeurism. Toys, briefly. Food smut. Girl-wanking. Very, very light trio action—as in very light—as in my beta thinks I should take out the warning, because it’s just so LIGHT it almost floats away. OK?. All right, beta dear: it’s out. See Author Notes for anything else you might need to be warned for. And, as you should have realised from the pairing and rating, boys doing lots of things horny boys can do.
Author Notes: I did my best to work in these items from the list of simons_flower’s favourites: scone with clotted cream and jam, popcorn, wet boys!, bare feet, movies, and colour-coding. Many thanks to my beta, M, for comments and suggestions.

(Hermione In Charge)

by—whoops! I almost told you
by Play “Misty” For Me

“Come on, Ron. It’ll be fun.”

“I’d rather stay in and reread my Mad Muggle comics.”

“But this is supposed to be our story. Don’t you want to see what Muggles think magic is like?”

“What do you mean? Muggles don’t know anything about magic.”

“Exactly. But you’ve seen those books that Scottish witch wrote about us and pretended she made up the story? Only she changed a lot of stuff to mislead any Muggles who thought it might be true? And she invented the idea that you would marry Hermione and I would marry Ginny?”

“Yeah. You read me some of the loopier bits.”

“Well, this is one of the films they made from the stories in the books.”

“Can’t you read me more loopy bits?”

“I could. But then you couldn’t see some bloke pretending to be me hugging you. Dripping wet. In his pants. And you know how transparent pants get when they’re wet.”

“Right. Like they’ll show transparent pants in a film.”

“All right. Maybe not transparent. Still wet though. I know you like to see me wet. Maybe this bloke’ll be as gorgeous as I am and you’ll like him in wet pants too.”

He was wavering. I played my ace. “And I read you the part where she had me bare-arsed after Voldemort killed me. I know there won’t be any bits on display, but we might get to see his bum at least.”

“Your bum? On that screen thing?”

“My pretend bum anyway. I mean the real bum of pretend me. Very large. Almost like you were there.”

He had to make a show of reluctance, even though we both knew my enticements had worked. “All right. If you have your heart set on it. But I want that popcorn stuff. In great quantities.”

“Done!” said I.

The pants were not only non-transparent, they were darkish boxers with no hint even of suggestive shapes. In the meeting with Dumbledore the Harry was wearing a sort of tunic or toga thing instead of being naked. Ron pouted at me. I’d promised him salaciousness and not delivered. He glowered at me, or tried to. Ron doesn’t really have a glowery face. “You owe me,” he groused.

Naturally I knew what he meant, but watching myself die—even pretend me dying a pretend death and a non-permanent one in any case and a what’s more it-really-didn’t-happen-quite-like-that death—and seeing myself married to Ginny, what with her non-Ron bits and all; all that had pretty much put me in a mood to ignore the implication. Instead I dragged him to one of his favourite restaurants nearby. One that specialised in what he considered the four basic ingredients in a proper diet: starch, salt, grease, and sugar. It was good strategy: his mind changed its focus from his crotch to his stomach. I didn’t eat all that much—I prefer a little more in the way of meat and veg in my meals. Meat and veg that aren’t deep-fried, that is. But it always is and always has been sheer delight to watch Ron eat. Sort of a human Hoover. Things just vanish from the table, and all the time there’s a look of radiant joy on his face.

Prejudiced? Me? Just because there’s almost nothing my Ron can do that doesn’t mesmerise me unless I make a conscious effort?

The distraction didn’t last forever. We walked, because it was a lovely night and Ron always liked looking in the Muggle shop windows. But by the time we got back to the flat he’d pinched my arse once and spent a lot of time subjecting my left ear to some hot, moist breathing. He didn’t even have to murmur dirty little nothings. My death-cum-Ginny mood had lifted, and it wasn’t the only thing.

We’d hardly got the door closed before he was licking my ear and nibbling on the lobe. My ears are one of my biggest erogenous zones, so he had me going and he knew it. I grabbed his hand and pressed it against the front of my trousers so he could feel just how hard he was making me and how much I wanted him. But as I began rutting against his hand he pulled it away.

“Not so fast, Potter,” he said. “You think I’ve forgotten? I said you owe me, and I meant it.”

I reached up to nibble his throat with my lips. “What do you want, Ron?”

“There was a definite promise of wet, transparent pants. I expect you to deliver.”

I was quite sure that the prospect of transparency had been clearly quashed, but I wasn’t about to argue now.

“Get going. Strip. And if you haven’t got y-fronts on now, you’ll just have to go change. I want clinging, form-fitting transparency.”

I was, so it took less than a minute to undress to suit him. The shape of my erection was clear, stretching out the cotton on the left side, and a fairly large wet patch had already formed where I’d been leaking. Ron had a greedy little grin on his face, and he tugged at his crotch to get his own hard-on into a more comfortable position.

“Into the shower with you. My patience is wearing thin, you welsher.” He gave me a shove to get me started down the hall.

His language may have been more than a little unfair, but since his eventual goal was so enticing I didn’t object. I adjusted the water temperature and climbed into the tub. We’d come up with a rather clever charm (if I do say so myself) that kept the water from the shower from splashing into the room, so there was no need for a curtain and Ron had an unobstructed view as I got drenched. My hair flattened and water dripped down my face. And more to the point, especially as far as Ron was concerned, my pants gained a large degree of transparency. And clinginess, and form-fittingness. All as ordered. My black bush made a dark shadow, and the shape of the head of my cock was distinctly revealed. Ron was all but drooling.

“Stick your hand in,” he directed. “Hold it. Stroke it.”

I followed instructions, caressing my prick as he gazed raptly. He swallowed noticeably and opened his flies. One hand slid into his shorts to fondle his own erection, the other slipped under his shirt and started to rub slow circles on his belly.

His voice was getting a little hoarse as he said, “Enough. Into the bedroom.” As we left the loo, his hand went down into my soggy briefs to cup my arse. “You promise me wet hunky blokes,” he breathed into my ear. “You promise me bums. You promise me dicks. And what do you deliver? Midgets in boxers, midgets in togas. Not good enough, mate, not nearly good enough. Your punishment is only beginning.” And we stepped into the bedroom.

I came to a dead stop. Ron bumped into me and then stopped as well. Sitting calmly in the chair by the side of the bed was Hermione.

“Oh,” I squeaked. “Is it the nineteenth already?”

I suppose that needs a little explanation. Back when we were out in the woods somewhere on our Horcrux hunt, Hermione was off searching for mushrooms or berries or whatever was in season. We were supposed to be doing that too, but instead we were in the tent searching for something else. Orgasm. Well, she came back a little earlier than we’d expected, and found us stark bollock naked and me doing my best to swallow Ron’s cock. Ron started to wilt and we both started to babble; but Hermione calmly put down her basket and said, “Don’t stop. This can be my birthday present.”

The two of us, needless to say, had been rather too horny to notice it was the nineteenth of September. And we didn’t really take her too seriously until she grabbed a chair, hiked up her skirt, and stuck a hand into her knickers.

“Go on, Harry. I think Ron needs a little encouragement to get hard again, and you can hardly suck him properly until he is.”

Ron and I exchanged a what-the-fuck glance, but I started using my lips and tongue, and he did get hard, and I did suck him properly, and soon he was coming. And from the sound of it, so was Hermione.

And the next thing we knew we were giving a command performance on the nineteenth of every month. Once in a while she’d run a hand over whatever arse was handy; rarely we’d help out by giving her tits a little attention; a few kisses might sneak in here or there. But mostly she’d watch and wank while Ron and I went at it. (Is it still wanking if a girl does it?)

Actually, we kind of got into it. Maybe it would have been creepy with anyone else—but this was Hermione, with whom we’d shared everything else in our lives.

This month though, we’d sort of lost track of the calendar. And not only was it the nineteenth, it was September. And on her birthday Hermione got to direct the action. Ron’s plans for dripping me in my sodden y-fronts were therefore superseded. We both said happy birthday and awaited instructions.

She extended a piece of parchment towards each of us. “I have a few requests for the next month or two. Just suggestions, of course, since it won’t be my birthday; but I’d like you to consider them. Ron, your roles are in green, and Harry’s in blue.

“In the meantime, for this month, I’m in the mood for toys.”

She produced a very intimidating double dildo.

We tried, we really did. Hermione could get in it for us, but she couldn’t keep us from falling over. We attempted every conceivable position, and some inconceivable ones, and the results ranged from impersonal at best to downright painful. As far as Ron and I were concerned, floppy pricks equalled a flopped experiment.

Finally Hermione gave up.

“I expected great things from that. It was the only thing I brought with me.” She sounded disconcerted. Hermione and disconcerted really don’t belong in the same sentence. But it didn’t last long.

“Those things on your lists!” She dashed out of the room. Ron and I were bewildered, as so often when dealing with Hermione.

In a few minutes she was back, juggling bottles and cutlery and I don’t know what else. “Harry: on your back. Ron, move away for a bit.”

With Hermione it was always a case of not asking why, just doing or dying. I stretched out on the bed, Ron stepped away. Hermione flicked her wand to secure my wrists to the headboard. She reached over and removed my glasses, then picked up a large jar and a table knife and began spreading clotted cream all over my torso and thighs. With her fingers, she put a few dabs on my ears, and then gently slathered more on my dick.

Strawberry jam followed. Finally she produced a scone and crumbled it over the top of everything.

“All right, Ronald,” she said with a grin. “Dig in.”

Her grin was only one of three in the room. Ron needed no second invitation. He was on his knees between my legs in nothing flat. The first thing he did though was to swipe a little of the cream and jam from my thighs to spread on my bare feet. I wouldn’t say he has a foot fetish as such, but he does like to get his mouth on my freshly washed feet. This was just too much temptation. His tongue slid along my arches and cleaned my instep. Each toe in turn was sucked into his mouth and carefully licked until the cream was gone.

When he was finished with my feet he moved on up my thighs. Nibbling up crumbs with his lips. Lapping up jam. Slurping up clotted cream. I’m sure I don’t need to mention that as he finished my thighs and cleaned up the crease between leg and trunk he completely ignored my rigid cock.

He moved to one side of me to work up from groin to throat. Pointed tongue working at my sensitive nipple long after the food was gone; and a little nip at the end. Long, long sweeping strokes from collarbone to chin line. I felt like I was about to explode.

And then he started all over again at the other side.

I’m not saying I did, mind you; but there’s a possibility that I might have been crying from frustration. I don’t know how Ron continued so calmly. He had to be at least as hard as I was, and had been for just as long. But there he was, slowly licking and nibbling and biting his way along my body as if… As if I don’t know what, but certainly not as if he were leaking pre-cum as steadily as I could see he was.

And sharing neither my frustration nor Ron’s sang-froid, I could hear Hermione panting and moaning. I was sure she’d come at least twice before Ron finished with my neck.

Then he straddled me. My cock made momentary contact with his arse. Rarely. Frustratingly. His was slippery along my chest.

He licked delicately at my right earlobe, gathering the cream Hermione had spread there. I moaned. I arched my body, trying for some friction for my prick; but he just shifted his bum away from me and ran his tongue all over the ridges of my ear.

The next ear. All right: I was crying. I whimpered, “Please, Ron, please,” but he paid no attention. Leisurely attention to one of the most sensitive spots on my body while I bucked and twisted to no avail.

My forehead. My temples, where the cream and jam were salted by my tears. My nose. My chin. And finally he was in range: I latched onto his lips as if I’d been starving. I sucked his tongue into my mouth to taste the jam and cream. I searched his teeth and gums for more of that flavour. And then I pulled back to lick his face clean of what he’d accumulated during his feasting.

Then he sat up. “I’m not done yet, mate.” He moved back down between my thighs and contemplated the one part of me he hadn’t tasted.

I could already feel my orgasm coiled in my bollocks and in my hips and knees. “I won’t last,” I whispered.

His teeth flashed in a glorious grin. “If you could I would have done a very bad job.”

He gave one lick up the underside of my cock and I exploded. Cum shot all over my belly and chest, and things looked even fuzzier than no specs could account for. For an instant I forgot how to breathe.



He moved up to stretch himself over me. “I’m not going to last long either,” he said, rutting against me. He was right. Two strokes and he went tense. He shuddered, gaspingly, and then collapsed on me, just barely remembering to catch some of his weight on his elbows.

“I love you, Ron.”

A kiss, as sweet as clotted cream and jam, and as leisurely as all his licking.

“I love you too, Harry.”

We turned our heads to the side where Hermione sat gasping and looking dazed and sweaty. And we chorused, “Love you too, Hermione.”

I can’t help but wonder what suggestions she has on her list for next month.


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