Foreign Hands
by Laura Smith

During the war, Ron saw death. Death was everywhere, like a blanket covering the landscape, tucked around them and surrounding them in blood and flesh and black rivers of fire. He touched death every day for almost a year, felt it in his bones and his own blood, felt it pounding inside him, waiting to be released with a quickly aimed curse, a poorly deflected Unforgivable. Damn. Now that is one kickass opening paragraph.

But it never came.

Now, the war's over and everyone that died is still dead and their bodies are lost in the mud and in ashes that are scattered, Death Eaters and Order Members and everyone between and beyond, all mixed together in a pyre that still has not gone out. He mourns his friends and his loved ones, all of them that have died and mourns the ones that still live because they're all different, not the people he knew before.

Just like he's different.

He finds her on the corner where she's been every night for the past month. He's walked by on his way home from work, never looking in her direction, but looking all the same. He sees her leaning and plying her wares and he wonders what it would be like. He thinks about all the rites and rituals of everyday life and wonders how it would feel to be free.

He hasn't been free since that first day on the train, when he and Harry became friends. When he met Hermione. When his life started and his childhood ended. He shakes his head, his hair too long, ginger locks framing his face as he crosses the street, not looking at her, feeling her eyes on him.

"I've seen you."

Her accent is thick, cockney. She's not pretty, but not far from it. Her eyes are too widely spaced, her nose slightly crooked. Her mouth is wide and for a second, he imagines it wrapped around his cock. He shivers imperceptibly and meets her gaze.

"Have you?"

"Ev'ry night, don't I? You walk by like you're somebody. Makes a girl notice."

"I didn't realize..."

"You don't though, do ya? Why'd you notice a girl like me?"

"A girl." He smiles and circles her slowly, careful to keep from seeming too predatory, too proprietary. "A working girl?"

"That's why you stopped, love."

He stops circling in front of her and regards her, no emotion in his face. "It is, isn't it?"

"I don't come cheap."

He laughs at the pun and shakes his head. "Like you said, I'm somebody. I don't want cheap."


She leads him to a hotel, fairly upscale, and he pays the fees without question. He fingers the change in his pocket, separating sickles from pence and galleons from pounds just by the feel. She walks to the lift and he follows, his eyes sweeping the room. There are people in the bar, chatting and smoking and drinking. He's enthralled with them, staring at their lives until the doors slide shut noiselessly and the car carries them up higher and higher and higher.

She walks off into the hallway and he follows her, observing her. She sways her hips like she knows he's watching and her skirt makes the same soft swish as wizard robes. Her heels are high and accentuate the curve of her legs and, from behind, she's prettier than she is from the front and for the first time, his cock twitches and he thinks about what it would be like to shove her face down in the pillow and take her from behind, his cock pounding inside her, his body pressed against her smooth, round ass.

She stops at a doorway and slides the key through the machine on the outside of the door. He watches in strange fascination, never quite able to keep the surprise of every new Muggle thing off his face. She grins at him, her teeth mostly straight, slightly yellow, lipstick traces staining them a strange pink. "Fix me a drink?"

He nods and lets the door swing shut, moving to the small bar. There are tiny bottles and he marvels at them for a second before pouring whiskey in glasses and handing her one. "Whiskey?"

"Why not?" She tosses it back and drops the glass on the bed, drops of liquid draining out and staining the comforter. He sips his slowly and watches as she smiles at him, her hands reaching behind her back and slowly unzipping her skirt.


She smiles wider at his rough voice and slows her pace, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet room. Ron continues sipping his drink, watching through narrowed eyes as she finally finishes, wriggling slowly, sexily, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

She's wearing a garter belt and thigh high stockings, no panties and her skin is almost white. The stockings are a stark black against her pale skin, highlighting the vivid pink of her sex. She's clean-shaven and he's almost disappointed. There's something rough about sex with someone when their flesh and hair cling to you, coated in sweat and sex and come, both of you unable to completely separate, liquid cementing you together.

She unbuttons her shirt like a strip tease and he takes another drink, letting it burn down his throat. It's mild compared to firewhiskey, but the heat still keeps him focused. Three buttons and she stops, pulling the fabric aside to show him a hint of a black bra, the material sheer, the darker skin of her areole just visible before she pulls the shirt back to cover it, repeating the gesture with the other side.

Ron grunts softly, setting his glass on the bar. She finishes with the shirt and shucks it off, tossing it toward him. He ignores it and lets it fall to the floor at his feet. Her lower lips slides out in a pout and she steps forward to touch him. He shakes his head and slides a finger under the garter belt. "Take it all off."

"You pay by the hour, love."

"All of it." His voice brooks no argument. "Slow."

She unhooks the thigh highs first and he watches her fingers. They shake a bit as she undoes the clasps, her breathing shifting, hitching. He can smell the scent of her arousal and his cock moves again, pushing against his black slacks as he thinks about her wanting him.

She turns around and bends over to take off the stockings, and her ass is just as he imagined. He lifts his hand and lets his fingers trail over the curve, just brushing the edge of the crevice and reveling in her gasp. He hardens at the sound, his cock beginning the slow, soft throb that he yearns for, pulsing hotly against the silk of his boxers.

She stands and undoes the garter belt and there's a pile of black on the floor. She turns and unhooks her bra at the same time and she's standing before him, naked, her eyes full of hunger. Anger. He can tell she wants to be the one in charge, wants to be clothed and guiding this. But they both know it's his money before it's hers.

He lets his palm brush over her hard nipples as he cups her breast, weighing it gently. "You want to make me happy, don't you?"

She starts at the words, her eyes flying to his. They're still hard but there's an underlying nervousness. "You pay me, love, and I'll make you anything you want."

"On the bed."

"However you want me."

Ron undoes his pants, kicks them off in a pile with his shoes and his boxers. He peels off his socks, his dress shirt wrinkled at the bottom where it's been tucked in all day, his tie slightly askew.

Her eyes on are on his cock and he can practically see the questions in their murky depths. He shows her the condom as he pulls it from his shirt pocket, basks in her sigh of relief. He kneels on the edge of the bed and spreads her legs with his hands. Her body opens easily, her flesh too used to hide anything from him. "On your knees."

She nods and does as he says, turning over. Her ass is high in the air and his hips jerk. His cock is leaking, drops of moisture on the tip, spilling over just like the whiskey from her glass. He slides the condom on his cock and stares at her ass for the longest time. It's firm and muscular and smooth, seems like it should belong to some professional who spends all her time in the gym, to some Quidditch player who's spent years on the broom.

He runs his hands over her ass, kneading it, massaging it. She's moaning softly, thrusting back against his gentle touches. Her breath comes in soft pants, off kilter due to her position. Her head is turned sideways on the pillow, her arms at her sides, her ass up in invitation. She spreads her legs a bit more and arches her back, letting him know she's ready, she's waiting.

She wants him.

Ron pushes his cock inside her without preamble, burying it to the hilt. He can feel the slightly rough hairs that surround his cock rasping against her skin as he grasps her hips and simply holds himself deep inside her. She gasps again, whispers something under her breath, offers up a prayer. He's thick and hard and long. He once told Hermione it was the one thing he had better than anyone else in his family. She'd barely managed to get her agreement out as she'd come in great, sobbing gasps, her tight channel almost too small for him, her body vice-like as he'd pumped his orgasm into her.

They're moving and panting and he's disconnected from it all. Her breathing is rapid and erratic and painful, but she's begging him. For more. For mercy.

His hips move of their own accord and he pushes into her relentlessly, mindlessly seeking relief. She's moaning and making noises he's almost sure are pleasure. His hands leave her hips; leave behind dark marks that are already becoming bruises. He unties his tie, listening to fabric whistle against fabric as he frees it from his collar. He reaches down with one hand and slides it over her stomach. He rests back on his heels and pulls her with him, leaning her into him.

He groans in her ear, telling her she's so hot, so wet, so tight, and she's shaking and shivering and begging him to stop and not to stop and it's so big and my God, it's never been this big, this hard, this deep and he's almost sure she's going to scream. He bucks his hips forward and she falls toward the bed, her hands moving out to catch her, never quite making contact as the tie pulls tight and it's wrapped around her throat and getting tighter.

She fights him even as her body continues moving over his cock and he's even harder now that she's struggling, and she's coming around him and trying to breath, her nails scratching at his skin, at the tie and he realizes offhandedly that it's his old school tie and the color looks amazing against her skin.

She spasms again and again, orgasm after orgasm. He rides them, pushing deeper, his own orgasm elusive until she stops shuddering and he comes, roaring silently, releasing the tie and her all at once. She falls to the bed, not breaking her fall with her hands. Her skin has changed, darkened and the tie looks less attractive so he pulls it free, pulls himself free. She's tight around him, even as used as she is, even with her muscles relaxing. He stares down at her, curiously, watching, wondering.

Ron felt death for a year, touching it and letting it touch him. He held people as they died, he watched them fall. He knew death.

But he'd never dealt it.

Until now.


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