Soft and rough, firm and gentle.
Harry loves to feel their hands on his bare skin. Hermione’s hands are soft, her palms smooth, her fingers lightly gliding across his body. Her touch is firm, though, and her blunt nails often scratch him when she gets excited. Charlie’s hands are rough, his palms cracked, his long fingers caressing Harry’s body. His touch is gentle, though, and he often soothes as he strokes.
Charlie kisses like Hermione touches: firm and thorough. Charlie says everything with his kisses and his touch, whereas Hermione says everything with whispered words and hungry eyes. Her kisses are consuming, gentle and rough at the same time in a way that he can’t explain. She is sensual and beautiful.
Charlie touches her and Harry sees himself, sees the love and desire in every brush of long fingers against her skin. Their hands roam when they kiss, and Harry watches, knowing he is fortunate to witness their intimate moments, to be included in this special relationship. It makes no sense to anyone else, but they don’t care.
They move against him, Charlie’s hand on his cock and Hermione’s hand on his hips. With them, he lets go and allows them to consume him. He takes and he gives, touching them tenderly but often leaving bruises on pale skin, on freckled skin, kissing them thoroughly with a hint of desperation and passion that they free within him.
There is something selfish about wanting to be between them. It was Charlie and Hermione before it became Charlie, Hermione, and Harry. There are times he wonders if he belongs, if they include him due to pity or obligation, but he closes his eyes and feels their hands on him and knows why he is there. They need him just as he needs them.
He belongs with them.
The End