Author: Mosh Title: High Tide Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks! |
Ron took a deep, satisfying drink of his cocktail as the sun moseyed down to his right. The sea appeared azure in the hazy golden light, stretching like an endless, timeless watercolour painting. He had enjoyed an hour of hard swimming before he'd retired to the nearest beach-front bar for drinks, and his limbs still ached pleasantly from the exertion. England had never felt so far away, which was just as Ron liked it. He hadn't felt so relaxed for a long time, even though there was sand stuck in various places he didn't care to think about too much and his nose was sunburnt. It hadn't just been the aftermath of the war that had spurred him into taking a holiday. It had also been to do with the constant speculation surrounding him and whom he was 'seeing'. As the newly appointed Head of the Auror Department, he was almost always in the limelight. And to think he used to envy Harry. First the rumours had been about him and Hermione. Well, that came as no great surprise. They'd been mistaken for a couple regularly since they were kids - it wasn't anything new. But then had come the Luna Lovegood scandal, shortly followed by the Padma Patil story, and even so far as Pansy freaking Parkinson rumours. As if, he thought sourly. None of it had been true, but that was the papers for you. He was sick and tired of not-quite denying them; sick of pretending to be something he was not. Fed up with trying to find long hair, breasts and small, delicate hands attractive. He had set off from the Ministry with no real plan in mind. Far away was pretty much the only requirement. Preferably somewhere hot and sunny, so unlike the dismal British weather. This is how he'd ended up landing in Antigua, stumbling out of an old grey brick fireplace into the office-cum-shack of the Antiguan International Floo Department. The first thing he'd heard was the steady roar of the ocean in the distance, the faint ring of seagulls calling overhead. Ron had known right then he'd made the best decision to take a break, a fraction of the tension that had been plaguing him around the neck and shoulders seeping straight out of his body. He had spent a blissful week and a half doing absolutely bugger all. Well, unless swimming, buying his family useless trinkets from beachside vendors and getting drunk every evening at the local bars counted. "Looking for a good time, friend?" Ron turned on his stool and almost choked on his drink. He coughed, his eyes watering as he tried to regain control. Malfoy's eyes widened, too, as if he'd just been hexed, and instinctively he reached towards his hip where his wand would have been were it not for the pocketless, skin tight white trousers he was wearing. Trousers that left nothing up to the imagination, Ron couldn't help but notice. "Fuck... Weasley?" he stammered incredulously, his lightly tanned face bleaching of colour. Ron gave him a hard look as he carefully drew his own wand, making a show of it. So this was where Malfoy had been hiding all these years. "If it isn't Britain's Most Wanted. Well, next to Snape, that is. How is the old bastard?" Malfoy ignored the question. Ron didn't really expect him to fall for the not-so-subtle probing about Snape's whereabouts, anyway. Still, it was worth a shot, no matter how lame. Instead, Malfoy said something Ron was not expecting. "I'm not doing any harm here, Weasley. You could just as easily unsee me as drag me back to England. Don't want to cut your little holiday short, do you?" Was Malfoy... reasoning with him? Wonders would never cease. Truthfully? The cheeky bastard had a point. Ron certainly wasn't ready to go back home, not yet, and he couldn't keep Malfoy prisoner here. And damn it, Ron was sick of all his plans always being dashed. He deserved a break. He surveyed Malfoy closely. The other man was, if possible, thinner than when they'd been sixteen. His hair looked incredibly pale against the caramel-brown of his skin. Ron wouldn't have thought it, but a tan suited him; made his features that little bit softer, took off that edge Malfoy had carried around with him throughout school. Ron wondered if he himself looked so perfectly relaxed and normal in this tropical surrounding. He tended to go a vivid, lobster red when out in the sun, then change abruptly milky-white with freckles shortly after. He realised he was staring a little too long and let out an irritated sigh for show. He settled his wand back in the discreet leather holster that was strapped around his hip, flipping his shirt down to conceal it. "Just thank your lucky stars I'm off duty." "Same goes for you." Malfoy once again rubbed his hand over his trousers, as if to make double-sure his wand wasn't there. As if he'd be able to fit much more than a Knut in those things, Ron thought. Malfoy hesitated, seeming unsure of how to proceed. Ron could sympathise. This was undeniably awkward. On the one hand, it was Ron's job to intercept rogue Death Eaters. On the other, he didn't want to give up what little freedom he'd been granted. Finally, Malfoy took a step forward, and although he had been unable to mask the flitter of relief that passed over his face when Ron had reholstered his wand, he quickly replaced it with a Malfoy-esque smirk. The only difference from the boy Ron once knew was the decidedly amused edge to his expression. "You know what, Weasley? Everything's easy going here. Nobody talks, no questions asked." He pressed in closer still, and the simple, fluid gesture of it shook something in Ron that he didn't want to think about too closely. "Your point being?" he said. "My earlier offer still stands," Malfoy simply replied, though there was a touch of caution in his tone. He lingered for a moment or two, his shoulder just barely touching Ron's, hot and intentional. Then he turned, walked away, meandering through the small tables and stools dotted around the bar. Ron managed to suffer the deliberate sway of Malfoy's hips all of eight seconds before he was sliding off his stool, dropping change for his drink on the counter. He followed. Just to find out what Malfoy was up to, of course. Shaking white sand from his feet as he led Malfoy inside, Ron wondered if this was such a good idea after all. Malfoy was the enemy still, even if the war was technically over and You-Know-Who had been vanquished. Small pockets of resistance still existed in England - Death Eaters intent on reeking havoc and carrying on their master's work. Malfoy was on the run, wanted by the Ministry - by Ron's own colleagues. Malfoy was considered 'extremely dangerous', for Christ's sake. Ron wasn't scared of him; he figured he knew Malfoy better than that. But he didn't know where Snape was or whether he and Malfoy kept in touch. Snape, as far as Ron was concerned, was the poster child for 'extremely dangerous' now that You-Know-Who was out of the picture. Before he could consider his thought more closely, Malfoy turned him around by the shoulders and pushed him against the front door. It became evident there was to be no going back. Ron thought he should say something. "Um..." If only he had more time to figure out what would be fitting. 'So, you're a prostitute now?' probably wouldn't go down very well, even though it certainly appeared that way. Malfoy shushed him, the moist heat of his breath dusting Ron's lips. "Both off duty, remember?" Ron didn't think it was possible for a Death Eater to be 'off duty', but this - whatever it was - didn't feel entirely risky, just kind of random. Kind of exciting. He was in no fit state to stop it; he hadn't had a decent fuck for as long as he cared to remember and if he could just close his eyes, Malfoy could be anyone. Ron kept telling himself that. Malfoy blurred close, leaning in until Ron could count the almost-white flicks of his eyelashes. Hands tugged at the waist of Ron's shorts, fingers fiddling down inside to learn what Ron liked. The first, breathy curse Ron let out was drowned by Malfoy's tongue. He never thought Malfoy would taste so sweet. It went against everything Ron associated with him. Soon his shorts were open and sliding down over his hips. They were a damn sight easier to step out of than trousers. When Malfoy hastily pulled up his shirt, keeping one fist wrapped firmly around Ron's cock, Ron tensed. "Hmm. How did this happen?" His ice-grey gaze swept all the way up Ron's body. Ron repressed the urge to squirm. "None of your beeswax." Malfoy let out a soft snort. "Fair enough." The curving red line running from Ron's left hip to his right shoulder was a permanent tribute to his fight with Rodolphus Lestrange. Ron wondered if Malfoy had had much contact with the man. He didn't feel like finding out. There was no compunction to skirt around the scar for Malfoy. He quickly dropped to his knees and then ran his lips all the way up in a slow, heated arch until he reached the tapered end, rising as he did so. He laid a curious bite on Ron's neck. The odd gesture of it made Ron shiver with a mixture of confusion and want. Who the hell was this Malfoy? Yes, it'd been a long time since they'd seen each other... Ron couldn't even remember the last time they'd been in the same room. His last memory was much later when Harry had told him about the night on the battlements at Hogwarts. He could clearly recall the following scene in the Great Hall, Crabbe and Goyle sitting huddled together like orphans without Malfoy's smaller frame settled between them. Malfoy released his cock and traced the scar once again, this time with his fingertips, light as a breath. "You always did get off on scars." Malfoy ceased his careful nibble on Ron's neck and looked at him. "Cheap shot, Weasley." Fair enough; it was. But this careful exploring was far too surreal to be wholly comfortable. Ron turned his head, watching Malfoy out of the corner of his eye with a slight frown. "Have you got any lube?" Malfoy asked, slipping Ron's shirt off fully before pulling up his own t-shirt, the fabric disturbing his hair for a moment so it feathered around his face, making him look younger than he was. "Um... no." Shit. "Good job I have some, then," Malfoy said with a smirk, smoothing his hair back into place with both hands. Ron stared at him incredulously. "How the hell can you fit anything extra in those?" His eyes were drawn once again to the tight white trousers. His cock responded with a twitch at the sight of the mound pushing tightly against the front. Christ, that had to be painful. Malfoy stepped back, making sure Ron had a good view. He bent over slowly, hitching up the left leg of his jeans. From inside his boot he drew out a small vial, and when he straightened he looked very smug with himself. "I can't fit anything extra in these things," he said. "But I don't need to." "Huh," was all Ron had to say to that. He had to stop himself from grinning. Malfoy backed across the floor, towards the bed, staring at Ron the whole time. Ron, stark naked and strangely not that fussed about it, followed after a moment. He wanted more contact, even if it was contact with Malfoy. Just... more of that stroking, more of that mouth, wicked, confusing thing that it was. He was sure that had they been back in England, so close to all the awful things that had happened over the last couple of years; had they met in a familiar place, under grey British skies like the ones flowing overhead during the battles, they wouldn't be doing this right now. They'd probably have their wands at each other's throats, curses burning on their tongues, seeing nothing but red. But here... Ron and Malfoy could have been on a different planet. There was nothing familiar about it, nothing anchoring Ron to the past. It was strange, Ron mused, how someone changed when taken out of their natural environment. The sun-bleach of Malfoy's hair, the bronze sheen of his skin, the long, smooth-looking slope of his body, the sand that clung to him in places like white glitter, made him at the same time Draco Malfoy and yet inexplicably not. Ron was sure he hadn't had that much to drink. Malfoy's jeans, as it turned out, came off surprisingly easy, considering how tight they were. Malfoy himself, as it turned out, was a very pleasant surprise underneath them, all nicely proportioned and gently defined muscle. Still on the slim side, but not unhealthily so. He didn't have scars like Ron, just an endless plane of unmarred skin that used to be milk-white, but was now soft brown-sugar tinted. He was hard, his nice-looking cock arching up with need, darkening further with anticipation. "Here." Malfoy threw the vial at him. Ron caught it, letting the brittle bottle settle in his palm. He stared down at it for a moment. "You do know what to do with that, don't you?" "Yes," he said defensively. "Then get on with it." Demanding bastard. At least that hadn't changed. Malfoy turned, leaning over and bracing both hands on the mattress. Christ alive. For all the care needed for something like this - Ron hadn't done it for a fair while, after all - he wanted nothing more at that moment than to sink right in deep and just hold there. Malfoy's arse was undeniably very fuckable; smooth and a little paler than the rest of his body, presented unabashedly to Ron - for Ron. Tight as hell, too, Ron soon learned. Far better than any fist. Malfoy gave the odd sway of his hips as Ron got him ready, but whether to slow Ron down or speed him up Ron had no idea. He settled for taking care and going at his own pace, regardless of the hot throb of his prick, which he insistently smoothed between Malfoy's thighs as he prepared him, not enough friction to get him off, but enough to let his pleasure steadily build. Malfoy moved as soon as he deemed himself ready, crawling a little way up the bed so Ron's fingers slipped out of him. He looked back over his shoulder for a second, his grey eyes fierce, pupils wide, saying it all without saying a word. There was nothing left to do but kneel one knee on the bed, keeping his other foot on the floor for balance. Ron reached out and pulled Malfoy backwards by the hips, hearing the faint swish as his legs slid against the covers. There was a little noise of anticipation and Malfoy lowered his head, raising his hips higher still. Ron almost asked, 'Are you sure?' but realised that would've been stupid and earned him some mocking. Malfoy couldn't have been more clear. The slight apprehension was most likely to do with who it was, not what they were doing. Ron bit his lower lip and angled his cock toward Malfoy's perfect pink hole shining slick with lube. He wetted it further with his own pre-come, tracing a few circles around the muscle. The shudder Malfoy gave in response was heady. Starting to push in, Ron quickly recalled just how naturally resistant men were. Malfoy keened as the head of Ron's prick stretched and edged inside; he pushed back suddenly and Ron had to stop, let out a curse, take in a breath. He gripped Malfoy's hip even harder, willing him not to try that again. It would be too embarrassing to come before he'd even started moving. It was easier thereafter. Malfoy's body seemed to slowly open up for him, even though he was still so fiercely hot and grasping, like liquid fire gloved around Ron's desperately hard prick. He gave a short, shallow thrust, watching Malfoy's back arch with the movement. "Fuck... Weasley..." On the second roll of Ron's hips Malfoy shoved himself backwards, both of them choked momentarily with the intensity of it. "Too much... ohh..." Ron didn't answer - couldn't answer, just picked up an unsteady rhythm, letting his head fall forward to watch the long curve of Malfoy's back, the way his spine rippled with each stroke. The harder he fucked Malfoy the more Malfoy seemed to clench around him, like he knew what wonderful torture it was. The bastard had a filthy mouth, too, issuing a hushed stream of obscenities and orders for Ron to go faster, to not fucking hold back. As if Ron could. He found himself obeying Malfoy's ragged pleas, thrusting so hard now there was a steady 'thump' as his hips connected with Malfoy's taut backside. The blond grew so breathless he fell silent, and only panted as Ron drove into him a couple more times before stopping suddenly. His orgasm was more intense than any he'd had in a long time, drawn out and much more satisfying. The thunder in his ears sounded like the crashing of the sea outside, his cock jerking deep in Malfoy's pretty arse, pulsing with the rapid release of tension. He vowed to never let himself go so long between fucks again. He took a moment to draw in needed breath and then stepped back carefully, letting go of Malfoy. Ron stood just a pace behind him, watching the blond turn over on the bed. His cock was a violent red, bobbing above his stomach as he shifted to look up at Ron from under a sweaty, untidy fringe of loose hair. "Lie down." Ron was about to tell him he didn't take orders but, looking at Malfoy's needy cock, he started to feel guilty for not seeing to him. He sat on the bed next to Malfoy and pushed himself a little way up, eventually lying back against the soft, heated sheets. He was aware of the bed shifting, of skin brushing his, of Malfoy straddling him, moving up until his knees were at either side of Ron's shoulders. Ron opened his eyes, staring up as Malfoy stroked his reddened cock. If he hadn't just had the greatest orgasm he could recall, Ron would've no doubt been hard just from the sight of Malfoy; eyes closed and wet mouth open, creamy thighs trembling as he let out those deep, rasping moans. Ron tilted his head back to catch the first few pearly strands of come, heat beating down onto his face and neck. He gasped along with Malfoy, clutching Malfoy's hips so hard his knuckles turned white. When Malfoy fell silent he wriggled out of Ron's hold. Ron didn't look, but felt the rush of Malfoy's breath on his chin before the lick came, a quick flash of heat on his skin. Malfoy's tongue curled up past Ron's mouth - just missing it - to his cheek, cleaning off his own semen. There, he stopped and pulled back. Well, that was a first. Not exactly nice, but... different. Ron scrunched his nose up. "You need to shave." 'You need to start acting like the Malfoy I know - knew,' Ron thought in reply. 'Or I could get used to this.' "Hm," he said aloud. He didn't expect Malfoy to stay. In fact, he was pretty sure he didn't want Malfoy to stay, considering. When the bed moved, Ron ignored it, instead listening to the shuffling as Malfoy went over to the door and collected his clothes. He knew that if he opened his eyes and looked at him, caught Malfoy's stare, he'd have to say something. He would really rather not, since there was nothing to say. 'Thanks for the shag. I still hate you, by the way. Try not to kill anyone, eh?' Ugh. No. Apparently, Malfoy felt the same, for soon the door opened and Ron caught the whoosh of the ocean beating against the shore a way down the beach. A few minutes later he ventured to look. The door was still ajar. Malfoy was gone. He wasn't sure if he was pleased about that or not. Then again, the way in which Malfoy had approached him... none of it made sense. He stabbed at the bottom of his glass with the little umbrella decoration, frowning, when he caught scent of a familiar deodorant. Moments later there was a voice at his ear. "Looking for a good time?" Malfoy left out the 'friend' part he'd used the previous night. Not that it mattered. A mere twenty minutes later they were crashing through the door to Ron's chalet, attached at the mouths, chests, hips, rutting furiously against each other. It was easier to think of it as a random holiday fling, rather than a sexual relationship with Malfoy. It was getting much easier to fathom; they were both there, both wanting sex, an undeniable attraction that only ran skin-deep. What Ron liked most about it was that there were no questions, no promises, nobody around to see them and spread rumours, just like Malfoy had said the first night. That suited Ron perfectly, as he wasn't great at the relationship thing anyway, judging by his numerous past failures. They barely spoke. Another good thing. It would've been all too easy to wind each other up. The only communication was with lips and teeth, hands and cocks, the odd growl here, the odd curse there. When Malfoy sat atop him and proceeded to lower himself onto Ron's erect cock while firmly stroking his own, Ron almost regretted that they disliked each other. After that, as Malfoy rose up and fell in time to the waves beating against the shore outside, Ron didn't think anything at all. Damp sheets and the vague, lingering taste of Malfoy's breath was the last thought in Ron's mind just before he fell asleep, as the chalet door clicked shut, and he found he was too contented to care. Even more surprising, Ron realised he hadn't thought about England at all in the past week. Not once. Incredible. "Dunno. Soon, I suppose." A weight he'd managed to put aside reappeared, one that hung over him - had been hanging over him for the last couple of years. He desperately missed his friends, his remaining family. But as for the rest of it? His job, his colleagues, the media, the state of the Wizarding World... he didn't want to think about it. "Hm," was all Malfoy said in reply, a non-committal sound. "Gonna miss me, Malfoy?" Ron teased, more to ease his own growing tension. "I'll miss your dick." Ron shifted the pillows under him for more comfort. "I'll miss your arse." They lay silently through the early hours, Ron unable to sleep. It had been all too easy to get used to the blissful Antiguan paradise, but Malfoy had reminded him that such dreams didn't last forever. In the golden light of morning, Malfoy rose and silently dressed. He gave Ron a quick glance in acknowledgement before he left, snicking the cabin door shut quietly behind him. It was a long time before Ron managed to pinpoint what was so starkly different about that morning. For the first time, Malfoy had stayed all night. He didn't see Malfoy again after that. Ron wasn't sure why, but he had the feeling Malfoy was deliberately avoiding him. He couldn't figure it out. It would've been nice for one last fuck before he left. He pointedly ignored the heaviness settled in his stomach, that odd sense of loss, regret maybe. He kept telling himself there was nothing to regret. For all that had happened over the past week, he'd enjoyed himself. In the end, his room charm had run out and he knew if he renewed it people back home would start to worry. He had told them he'd be home by the 27th, plus he had long over-due paper work to sort out at the Ministry. Not only that, Charlie's birthday was fast approaching, and the nursery for Bill and Fleur's baby still wasn't ready, even though Ron and Harry'd had a good month to sort it out. Although it was dreadfully tempting to give in to the pull of the ocean and the undercurrent of the gentle sun at twilight, he knew he couldn't stay any longer. He shrank his luggage after a hasty packing session, and headed for the Travel Quarters on the outer edge of the beach park. There, he caught the first available Floo to England, stepping out at the Ministry, where he got a connection to The Burrow. Hermione dropped her book on the sofa and launched herself at him when he arrived back home. "Congratulations!" she said brightly. "Um... what for?" She beamed at him. "You're an uncle." "What?" "Fleur gave birth to a baby boy only last night. We've sent owls, but I guess it doesn't matter now - so glad you're back!" But... Fleur wasn't due yet. Ron was sure it was to be an August birth. Hermione seemed to catch his confusion. "He's two weeks premature, but doing well." "Oh," Ron said, finally letting it sink in. He was an uncle. Uncle Ron! "That's great news!" He was swiftly ushered upstairs to change, then had a sandwich shoved into his hands before being pushed out of the front door by Hermione. She was almost as bad as mum, he thought fondly. And although the news was wonderful, and he had been so looking forward to being back around his friends and family again, Ron couldn't shake the irrational feeling that Antigua wasn't thousands of miles away, but millions. The back of the card was blank but for his name and address. The picture on the front was of a white, sunny beach, palm trees scattered at one side, the sea a rich, tempting blue. Ron put it on the pinboard in his room and didn't tell anyone who it was from. The others suspected he'd met a woman while on holiday, and continuously teased him about it. It didn't matter. He laughed it off. But his eyes were often drawn to it as he lay in bed at night. ~Fin~ |
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