Title: Are you game?
Author: mindabbles
Characters/Pairings: Ron/Draco, Luna
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: claustrophilia
Other Warnings: a tiny hint of light bondage
Word Count: 2,600
Summary/Description: Ron is rather vanilla in his tastes. If he wants Draco back, he's going to have to learn the allure of other flavours.
Author's Notes: This is for elizassecret who kicked my ass. Thank you so much to gryffindor_j, who also kicked my ass, for the beta.



"You're rather an idiot about such things, aren't you?" Luna looked at him through wisps of long blond hair, cascading over her face.

"Pft, well, I—" Ron spluttered. His ears burned and he had the feeling he was about to be treated to some uncomfortable Luna-truths.

"So, you agree then."

"I—"

Luna smiled kindly. "You've gone all red. I can help you if you'd like. I think I can guess what happened. It was your fault, so you can fix it if you're not too proud, which I'm a little concerned you are. Never mind. I have faith in you."

"You – what?" Ron can't imagine what she thinks happened, nor can he begin to remember what the hell possessed him the moment before he opened his unusually large mouth and told her that he missed Draco so much it was a physical pain.

"It's nothing to begin stammering over," she said. "It's why I asked you to tea anyway. He would never tell you this, but he's quite miserable as well."

Ron felt a somewhat unsatisfying bolt of righteousness. "What is it I'm supposed to have done then?"

"If you want him back you'll have to accept, no, embrace his kinks." She stirred her tea and tapped the spoon on the side of the cup.

"I – what?" Ron considered Disapparating. "What kink? Kinks?"

"It's part of what went wrong with Hermione, you know. And here you've done the same thing again. We, Hermione and I, honestly thought you would have learned. So did Draco, to be honest."

"You have all talked about this?" Ron squawked, wondering if it was possible to cast a killing curse on oneself. He shook his head trying to rid his brain of the marauding images of that particular conversation.

"Of course," Luna said, looking at him as if he were a slightly dim-witted child. "Who would he talk to?"

"Anyone but you and Hermione? Why not my bloody mother? Christ. How about me, for a start?"

Luna laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "You? Ron, you are a funny one."

"What don't I accept? I haven't a clue what you're talking about." Ron protested.

"Oh. You're worse off than I thought," she said kindly. "You ought to go home and think about it. I'm sure it will come to you."

*

Ron looked in the mirror. He was fairly certain that his ears would never return to their usual shade. He splashed water on his face and jumped at a crash. Draco's absurdly expensive shaving lotion seeped onto the cold floor, shards of pale green, shattered glass shimmering from the tub to the towel warmer.

"Fuck."

Ron grabbed his wand and tidied the mess, sending the shards and the spoiled cream into the bin. The rich, clean scent of the shaving lotion filled the small room.

He gripped the edge of the sink and remembered: the smooth planes of Draco's body warm under Ron's hands; the way he was all haughty confidence, pushing what he needed, until Ron pushed inside and he tipped his head back in surrender – not to Ron, never to Ron, but to their mutual need; the way he opened his mouth, with a barely audible, "Oh," when he came; the way he tucked the blankets around Ron's shoulders after he thought Ron was long asleep.

What the hell had he done?

*

"Help me," Ron said. "I'll do anything."

Luna regarded him with a crooked, quizzical look. "You're back sooner than I expected. Perhaps there is hope for you."

"Go on then, help me." He sat on her sofa, hands gripping his knees.

"Well, first, you admit you were wrong," she said, with a serene smile. "Then you show him you were wrong."

*

Draco went to the same tea shop at the same time, every day.

Ron Apparated around the corner from Draco’s work at 2:57, and waited. At 2:59, Draco pushed open the door to Curios and Curiosities, hung a little picture of an hour glass – the cascading sands of which indicated that he would be back at 3:45 – on the glass and walked three shops down the road to TranquiliTea Tea Shop and Café. Ron marvelled again that Draco would even set foot inside, much less be a daily customer at, a place with such an undignified name.

“It may have been named by someone channelling Sybil Trelawney, but it is the only decent cup of tea outside of my kitchen,” he’d said when Ron told him as much.

Ron waited a moment, picturing Draco ordering the same pot of Darjeeling and Cauldron Cakes with raspberry jam as he did everyday, before going to the shop himself. Draco sat in his usual table, back to the wall near the side window. It could have been his imagination that Draco seemed a bit glum. He didn’t know if he was pleased or concerned about that.

Several strands of Draco's hair had come loose from the tie, hanging across his cheek. So against his customary fastidiousness, this was. Draco sipped his tea, and Ron tried to visualize crossing the shop, throwing himself on his metaphorical wand, and keeping his cool through the inescapable telling off that was to come.

Draco looked up. Ron had stood there too long.

Draco gave him a look of such cold indifference that it took his breath away. It had been a year since he'd looked at him like that, or a month if you counted the incident at the Leaky Cauldron, but this time, Ron believed that Draco really meant it.

"You look like a cod fish." Draco rolled his eyes.

"At least you're speaking to me," Ron said, his new mantra don't bite, don't bite, don't bite echoing in his head. He crossed the room to stand next to Draco's table.

"No I am not," Draco said.

"You just did," Ron said. He smiled, going for the crooked smile Draco had once told him, in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness that Ron will always remember, he found charming.

"Now you look like a constipated cod fish. And would you mind? You're blocking the draught." Draco spread raspberry jam liberally over a Cauldron Cake.

"Malfoy –" Ron began. Little bolts of anger whizzed through his chest. Draco licked raspberry jam from the corner of his mouth and raised an eyebrow at Ron. A tendril of silky hair fell over one eye.

Don't bite, don't bite, don't bite.

"Can I sit?" he asked, gesturing at the empty chair.

"You could sit, but, no. You may not," Draco said, and Ron told himself he could see through the imperious arsehole act. He could see that this was Draco hurt. That's what Luna had said. Don't bite. Admit you were wrong.

Ron pinched his thigh hard. "Draco. I was wrong," he said, the words thick on his tongue.

"Let's call the Prophet," Draco said in a bored voice. "It is a red letter day."

Ron bit the tip of his tongue, squeezing it between his front teeth. Don't bite. Don't bite. Draco's eyes darted to Ron's mouth and something – longing – flickered over his face.

"I am sorry and I was wrong."

Draco blinked. Ron had surprised him, he could see as much.

"To which the myriad possibilities are you referring?" Draco asked, recovering himself.

People were beginning to stare at Ron hovering at the side of Draco's table, while Draco sniped and sipped his tea.

"Let me show you," Ron said. He reached out as if to touch Draco's shoulder, but stopped short. He couldn't bear it if Draco flinched away.

"Lack the vocabulary to explain it?"

"Let me show you," Ron said again. Draco leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, eyeing Ron expectantly. "Not here. There's...it's too open here."

Draco's eyes flashed. This time Ron knew it was longing. "What are you saying, Weasley?"

Ron reached down and grabbed Draco's hand. He didn't flinch away.

*

He could hardly turn around. The store cupboard at the back of TranquiliTea was the size of, well, a store cupboard. Ron breathed in the earthy, tea-scented air, and fought back his own – mild, it was mild – hatred of tiny, tiny spaces.

"What are we doing, Weasley?" Draco's voice was brittle and edgy, irritation tinged with arousal.

"What does it look like?" He was supposed to show him, but the infuriating git wouldn't shut up. He locked the door and cast a diversion charm. Hopefully the proprietor had at least enough tea under the front counter for twenty, no thirty, minutes on a quiet afternoon.

"If you're trying to prove that you understand you were wrong, you're doing an abysmal job," Draco muttered. He somehow managed to turn away from Ron without injuring either of them, until he was facing the shelves stacked with boxes of tea.

Ron pressed his cheek against Draco's hair, inhaling the clean, familiar scent. Draco didn't move away, but then he couldn't, really. He ran his hands cautiously down Draco's sides. He was trembling. Ron leaned closer, chest to Draco's back, groin to arse.

"I am sorry," Ron whispered into Draco's hair, and Draco arched back. Ron slid his hands up Draco's body, over his stomach and the slight swell of his chest. Draco's breathing was ragged and uneven and his seemed to radiate heat.

"I'm beginning to believe you," Draco whispered, his head falling back onto Ron's shoulder.

Ron undid the belt of Draco's robe and slipped it from his shoulders, letting it hang for a moment on Draco's arms, pinning them to the side. He bent his head and kissed the pulse in Draco's neck, groaning softly at the feel of Draco's soft skin under his lips.

"Can you move?" Ron asked, pressing against Draco's back.

"I could move, but I won't."

Ron could hear the smile – finally a smile – in Draco's voice and the pressure of Draco's arse on his hard cock was delicious and promising.

"How 'bout now?" Ron asked again, sliding Draco's robe the rest of the way off and grasping Draco's wrists in his hands.

Draco let out a long, long moan. "No," he said on a breath.

"Good," Ron growled in his ear, and he wrapped an arm around Draco's waist as he felt his knees buckle.

"Show me," Draco said, grabbing Ron's hand and pressing it to the front of his fine, wool trousers.

It was not easy, contorting his body in the miniscule space, yanking off shirts, pulling at trousers. They'd both lost a button or two before Draco muttered, "idiot," and stripped them both off with a tiny flick of his wand.

Draco's skin was sun-warmed silk, smooth and luscious. Ron's fingers traced over his back and arms, touched his arse and thighs. They were so essentially together and there was nothing else, no other place his body nor his lips could go, but on Draco's skin.

He got it. It wasn't about hiding. It wasn't about being ashamed of Ron or feeling guilty about being with him. It wasn't about all of many things he'd assumed when he tried to analyse this thing Draco needed.

"I want you," Ron murmured in Draco's ear.

"Oh God," Draco gasped. "Yes."

He raised his hand to Draco's lips and Draco spoke the words of a spell. Ron kissed along the shell of Draco's ear, pulled the soft lobe between his lips.

"Mmm," Ron sighed as he slicked the cool lube onto his cock. He reached around and held Draco's cock lightly in his slippery fingers.

"Come on," Draco growled, thrusting into Ron's fist.

"So you can move," Ron said. He slid his cock into the cleft of Draco's arse. "Move then," he said, closing his eyes as he felt the perfect embrace of Draco's body around his cock. Draco rocked back and the head of Ron's cock nudged his balls; he thrust again into Ron's hand, and Ron's cock glided along his cleft.

Ron slowed, moving until the head of his cock pressed against Draco's tight entrance. He circled his hips slowly, pressing his cock against the ring of muscle. Stroking Draco's cock lightly, just enough to keep him on edge, never enough to push him over, he kept up the gentle pressure, small circles, working just the very tip of his cock inside. Draco's head fell back on Ron's shoulder, his lips parted and his long hair cascading over Ron's shoulder. Ron pushed a little deeper and Draco's body started to open to him.

"Fuck me," Draco demanded. "Fuck, just fuck me."

Achingly slowly, Ron pressed in. "Christ," he groaned as the head of his cock breached Draco's arse. "So tight, so close."

"Move," Draco said. His finger's curled around the shelf in front of him and he pushed back as much as the tight space allowed.

"Okay, yeah, just," Ron stammered, and he fully entered Draco, sliding his cock in until Draco's arse pressed against his abdomen. "Not gonna last," he said, pulling back out as far as he could, until his arse hit the cupboard door and he stopped with a jolt.

"You...that's as far as you can go," Draco said, ragged breaths after each word.

Ron pushed back inside Draco's gorgeous body. "Yeah."

"Do that again," said Draco and Ron saw his knuckles white on the shelves. He reached to pin Draco's wrists in one large hand, holding him still. He pulled out and hit the wall behind him. Draco whimpered and Ron nearly came. "Faster," Draco said.

He fucked Draco faster and harder and the doors and walls kept them snugly together. Draco shuddered and Ron grasped his cock, stroking in time with their fucking.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Ron said, desperate and spiralling out of control. He squeezed the head of Draco's cock and Draco tensed, tightening around Ron's cock. "Yes, fuck, Draco," Ron moaned. He splayed his other hand on Draco's stomach pulling him so tightly against him he thought they'd fuse, until he came, cock pulsing deep inside Draco. He kept stroking, and as he came back to this place, he realised his hand was sticky and Draco's cock was softening in his fingers.

"Thank you," Draco said, still panting, his skin still burning. Ron nuzzled the crook of Draco's neck, his arm wrapped around his waist, holding him just a moment longer.

"I missed you," Ron said. Their breathing calmed and Draco reached for their clothes.

"Of course you did," said Draco. He tossed Ron's pants and trousers over his head, back to Ron. "Who wouldn't?"

Ron laughed. "You're bloody brilliant. Don't go changing."

Draco made a soft huffing sound and helped Ron with his robes.

"And here, what are you doing talking to Luna about our sexual problems?" Ron finally asked the question that had been going through his head all last night – when he wasn't thinking about his plans and wanking.

"Your sexual problems, Weasley," Draco said. He waved his hand vaguely at Ron's grimace. "Oh, all right. All your other friends are Gryffindors. I knew she'd be the only one who'd actually be able to form the words to tell you what you'd done wrong."

"What? You planned that?" Ron stood, gobsmacked, although given how long as he'd known Draco, he realised, there really was no excuse for that.

Draco pushed open the door, cast a Notice Me Not and slipped out of the shop. Ron just tried to keep up in his wake. The light outside was blinding after the dark store room.

"It worked didn't it?" Draco shrugged. He turned, about to Disapparate, and smiled. "I'm going home. You are welcome to come along. And Weasley? I know she told you not to bite. For future reference, don't take that literally."

"What?" Ron squawked as Draco disappeared with a pop.