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hpkinkfestTitle: Don't You Wake Up Yet, Give Me Some Time
Author:
mervab
Prompt: #135
Kink Showcased: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Percy/Oliver
Summary: You have it bad, a dark thing inside you whispers, and it is like a grave, like a soul-sucking broken, terrible grave that you have fallen inside of and cannot escape, no matter how hard Oliver reaches.
Warning: second pov, angsty angst
Word Count: 3727
Author’s Note: So I discovered the pairing Oliver/Percy a while back and gahhh, I love them so much, I just had to play around with their poor emotions. This was so much fun writing, though it felt a bit short to me. Might make it longer, if If ind the time. Title is from the song Golden Trains, by Justin Nozuka.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended
1.
The bar is musty, the seats are old and cracked. Patrons huddle in their chairs or over their drinks or under their secrets, avoiding all eye contact unless they want to fuck. It’s not a bar you go to for fun; it’s a bar you go to hunt. To run away. You’ve never even bothered to learn the name of it, having wandered in one cold Thursday night, already drunk and already thrown out of your regular habitat.
Thrown out - why? It’s hard to remember the precise reason at this point, seven weeks later, and you bring the fag to your mouth, squinting against the smoke you messily exhale. Probably a fight. You snort to yourself and barely catch yourself before choking on the smoke, reaching down for the firewhiskey at your elbow and taking a quick, warm sip.
You - Percy Weasley - fighting. You imagine how your Seventh Year self would react if he saw you now, all scruffy and rough and haggard under the eyes. A small, crooked smile tugs up one side of your mouth at the idea. The Head Boy you would throw a fit, most likely. Spew a few lines of rules, maybe. Possibly grow enough of a spine to spit in your face.
You’d kill him, if you could. Kill Seventh Year you, to save yourself the trouble of the nine past years.
“You come here often?” comes a voice from beside you and you don’t even bother to turn your head, merely flick your eyes sideways to eye up the low male tenor - and then you straighten in surprise, because it’s not a sleazy pick-up line (not that you’d mind if it was, really) but rather a genuine inquirer, coming from none other than Oliver Wood.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, forgetting his question as you take in the carefully windswept brown hair, the strong shoulders, the concerned brown eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at a match or something?”
“You keep up with Quidditch?” he returns, now looking just the slightest bit sardonic. You wonder why until he looks away with a darkened look and mutters, “Lost.”
“Ah,” you note and then shrug, turning too so that you’re both facing the bar. “George mentioned something about it the other day. That’s the only reason. Don’t feel special.”
You see him glance at you out of the corner of your eye and you purposely pick up your drink, enjoying the burn as it slides down your pale throat. And then - “So why’d you lose?”
“Dunno,” says Oliver, expressionless. “Must be getting old.”
You look at him blankly and stay silent.
“Athletes age faster than everyone else,” he says.
This must be the longest conversation the two of you have ever had, and you’ve only said two goddamn things.
“Think I’ll have to retire soon?” he persists.
“And rid the Wizarding World of its golden star? Witch Weekly will actually have to find a news article or two to take the place of your four page spread.”
Amazingly, he smiles at this. “They could always write about the tragic young failure who drinks himself to death.”
“Is that what you’re doing right now then?”
“Practicing,” he tells you. “Not done just yet. Got a few more games ahead of me, hopefully.”
You fucking hate Quidditch. Hate the pointlessness of it all, hate how repetitive it is - ball, chaser, ball, chaser, keeper, beater, bat, ball, hit, throw, pass, swerve, shout, scream, keeper, fail, hoop, goal, win, rinse and repeat, goddammit - hate how it reminds you of him, hate how everyone in your fucking family was brilliant at it except you. So you say nothing, instead turning back to your drink, and the silence swells forward.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he finally says. “You’re here a lot?”
“No,” you lie.
He hesitates. “I didn’t... know you were the type to come out to bars. Or smoke cigarettes, for that matter. But I guess if it’s not a regular thing -”
“Look,” you interrupt sharply, glancing at him and you stab the fag out on the counter, twisting it down until its out. “I’m not really into the whole get-to-know-you bullshit, Wood. We knew each other in school, barely, and I’d really like to keep it that way, thanks.” Sliding out your chair, you huff, unable to help yourself. Gotta go find yourself a new fucking bar to haunt. And you’d really been getting comfortable in this one lately.
“But - wait - I - I lost,” he falters, looking strangely winded by your movement as if it was the last thing he expected. “I mean - I sort of wanted to get pissed drunk tonight, know what I mean?” He attempts a smile. “We could be - drinking mates.”
You stare at each other for a moment with Oliver looking almost hopeful and then your lips tip down and you shove your hands into your rough jacket, hunching your shoulders just slightly as though bracing yourself against a sharp wind. “Find someone else.”
You’re turning when you see it - a flash of red hair, a disapproving glance - and you freeze, staring in the far corner for a moment before shaking your head and walking away, resolving never to come back to this particular bar ever again.
2.
“Perce - Perce, someone’s asking for you,” comes a voice and then George peeks his head into the backroom, his eyes immediately landing on you as they’ve done for so long now. He has gone from hunting out his twin to hunting out you and it is a terrible burden, knowing you will always be the wrong person. Still, it is a burden you willingly carry for George and you get to your feet, pushing away a box of unmentionable items. “Ah - the new line,” George grins, spotting the movement. “Like it?”
You snort. “Can’t wait till Mum hears about it. That’ll be a right thrill.”
George colours. “Oh - er -”
You pause next to him in the doorway and arch an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“She er... already....”
“Knows?”
“Reserved a few products for her own - er - personal use.”
“Oh - fucking hell -” you give George a disgusted look, one he returns with another grin (fuck but that’s still disarming sometimes) and you move past him, moving into the front room with an indifferent look pasted on your face. Until -
“Hey,” says Oliver Wood, standing at the counter.
You stare at him and then glance back to where George has now disappeared and then look back. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here - um... I’m just - we won the next game,” Oliver offers, looking uneasy.
You stand there.
“And... it seems like... maybe you were a good luck charm?” he says, looking down and then back up at you with something glinting in his eyes. “So I was wondering if you wanted to go out for drinks sometime.”
You stare at him long enough for the silence to grow heavy and then give him a flat stare. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
Turning to go, you only make it a step before - “Just - just, you know, I can’t get you out of my head,” says Oliver desperately and slowly you pivot around to stare at him once more. “It’s just -” He’s abashed now and you wonder if you’ve ever once seen an abashed Oliver Wood in all seven years of sharing a dorm together. “That sounded stupid, I know, but it’s sture. Just some drinks, yeah? It can’t do any harm, can it?”
“Everything can do harm,” you tell him, and you turn and you walk away and when you next see George it’s almost as if there is someone else in his familiar eyes and you shudder and purposely stare at his missing ear, struggling to ground yourself.
3.
When it happens, it is abrupt, it is fast, it is hard and brutal and his breath is hot in your ear as he rams into you again and again, his body hovering over yours, hands on either side of your face as he lowers his mouth to your neck and presses an opened-mouth kiss there.
“Fuck,” he groans, and he pushes harder into you, the hastily prepared hole screaming its protest as his cock slides deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips. It is the Quidditch practice that keeps him so in shape and now you slide your hands down his ribs, memorizing the feel of each one before your hands brush down his stomach. He sucks in a harsh breath and then he’s kissing you, his hips slowing to a treacherous tease as he explores your mouth with all the intentions of a lover.
You hate it.
You didn’t come to him for love - you didn’t come here to feel his hands skate tenderly up your sides, you didn’t come here to feel his gaze soak you up like you are the only oxygen he’s had for months. You don’t want to feel like a god, you don’t want his wide gaze and sweet kisses and his hair beneath your fingers and you certainly don’t want his hips to circle like they’re doing now, searching for your sweet spot. You didn’t come here searching to join bodies with someone for the sake of fucking love - you came here to be conquered, to be fucked and taken, to have your problems ripped from you until you are nothing and can think nothing and can feel nothing.
Ripping your mouth from his, you purposely tighten around him, arching up so that your cock drags against his stomach, smearing pre-come. “Goddamn it, Oliver, fuck me,” and the sound that comes out of his mouth is lightning to your spine, it is the water to your wilting flower, and he moves, fuck, he moves.
He cries out when he comes, a broken sound that makes you want to capture his lips with yours again, if only so that you can suck that noise out of his mouth and keep him from making it ever again - or maybe so that you can bring it into your chest and carry it with you everywhere, yes, that sounds like a better idea - but you simply close your eyes and let it wash over you, moving your hips with a tiny whimpering noise. He keeps moving, his hand wrapping warmly around your cock, and it is only a few more thrusts until you’re coming too, a wave of exhaustion hitting you immediately after.
The bed sinks down as he lays down quietly next to you and you both simply stay like that for a moment until you force your eyes open, shifting to the side of the bed and fumbling for your jeans.
“Percy,” he says softly. “Please don’t - please.”
You stop, shoulders hunched and feet just barely brushing the floor from the position you’re in. “I can’t,” you say, voice hoarse.
He’s quiet for a moment until: “I know what today is. For you, I mean.”
You’re silent.
“I just... I just want you to know -”
“That you’re here for me?” you sneer and now you’re moving faster, hunting down the clothes he ripped off you earlier. Pants, hanging from the dresser; socks, buried under a pile of books; self-worth, somewhere below the bed. “That you fucking understand? Save it.”
“You’re not the only person that lost someone, Percy,” he says softly and you’re up and whirling around and glaring at him so furiously it’s a wonder he’s not melting into the bed. “Look, I just want to help. I - I know this is the anniversary of his death, but, Percy, how long are you going to keep shoving this down? You can’t ignore it forever -”
“Yes, I fucking well can,” you snarl, and how have you become this? Your life was all one big plan, always working towards the future and researching and working to become the greatest you could but now you’re nothing but a graveyard and why did Fred have to die and why does Oliver Wood have to look at you with so much bloody pity in his eyes?
He sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist and his eyes so large. “You can - you can keep this as just fucking if that’s what you want -”
“It is,” you cut in harshly. He looks so small in the middle of the bed, so unlike what he appears to be in public, all tall and handsome and strong and capable. But he is just as much of a mess as you are, perhaps more so because he’s coming to you for comfort, so what can that possibly say about him, and he is fragile sometimes and unsure of himself and confused when you sneer at him, as though he can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to become this to you when he is so much to so many other people. Turning away, you stare blank-eyed out the window, struggling not to memorize the sound of his breathing behind you. “If you want something more, go find someone else.”
“I don’t. I won’t, Percy.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“You’re... Percy, fuck, you don’t even see it, do you?”
What is he talking about? And you hate that you don’t understand him, don’t understand this, what this is and what he wants from you and you hate being so goddamn lost so instead you finish pulling your clothes together, pausing in front of the mirror to stare at steely brown eyes that for a brief second don’t look like yours at all, look like another pair of Weasley’s eyes and they’re sad and endless and you blink hard and then Disapparate, wanting to get as far away as possible from the past and the present and your impossible confusing blinding future.
4.
“Percy! Percy - hey, yeah, hey,” says a voice, breathless as he catches up to you and you turn, disarmed to see Harry Potter wearing a bad haircut and his shoulders still sloped as though he still carried the burden of the Wizarding World. “What are you doing here?”
“Just... shopping,” you say, blinking at him behind your glasses and then glance down at the bags in your hands before back up to him. “For George, you know. Just thought I might...” you trail off, not knowing how much he knows.
But the look in his eyes says he does, that he understands how George puts so much of himself into forgetting Fred that sometimes he forgets himself as well and sometimes he forgets the simple things, like how to feed himself and to remember to buy toilet paper. “Yeah, let me know if you need any help with that. Listen... you want to go out for lunch sometime? We could go now, if that’s fine with you.”
“Sure,” you say, bemused but willing, and nod along with all his suggestions until finally you’re both sitting across from each other in a small cafe just outside of Diagon Alley, tea and a danish for you and a sandwich with chips for him. “So,” you finally say when the conversation on Ron and Hermione’s pregnancy has finally dwindled down and something weighs between the two of you. “Was there something specific you wanted to talk about, or...”
“Percy,” says Harry and he stares down at his hands, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just - look, this is probably none of my business, but I just happened to run into Oliver Wood the other night and he was in pretty bad shape. We got to talking and -”
“You’re right,” you say and now you’re ice cold, burning cold, struggling not to melt and wash away. “That is none of your business, Harry.”
“Right, right,” he says hastily but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t leave. “I just... I know you think that it could only ever be... casual between you two and honestly, if someone had told me that Percy Weasley and Oliver Wood would ever be anything, I’d be one of the most surprised bastards out there.”
You snort, and he looks briefly encouraged.
“But when he was talking about you,” and now he looks up, eyes a hard green that you’ve seen aimed at you once or twice and had hoped would never be in your direction again, “he meant it, Percy, he really did. You confuse the hell out of him and maybe that’s what he likes so much,” here is a wry smile, mixing easily with the tousled hair to show you that Harry Potter is not the boy you first met so long ago. “Oliver’s used to getting everything he wants and now you’re here, this...”
“Fucking wreck,” you cut in, looking disparaging. “He deserves better. Deserves someone who doesn’t fall to pieces any time someone mentions a twin or a joke or the month of fucking June.”
There is pity in his eyes. “Maybe he needs this, Percy. Maybe he’s searching for someone just as wrecked as he is to help him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Love rarely does.”
And when did you start getting advice from a teenager wearing glasses? Only, you suppose, he isn’t much of a teenager anymore and he’s been through so much more than you can imagine. Out of all the people you’ve been around, who you’ve opened up with enough to admit your problem to, this is perhaps the man who should complain the most and instead he’s helping you, trying to gentle push you in the right direction.
But you can’t accept it.
“I’ve told him a thousand times, Harry, if he wants something else, he should look somewhere else. I can’t give it to him. I’ve... I’m not... ready for something like that. I don’t think I ever will be.”
He looks sad. “Percy, we all miss Fred but -”
Your hands tighten warningly around the table.
“But he wouldn’t want this to consume your life, mate. He’d want you to find someone you can be better with. Oliver could be that for you, if you let him.”
When you look out the window, it has started raining without you even realizing it and you close your eyes for a moment, wondering where Fred might be, wondering if he is in the rain at this moment as well, wondering if he is just as sad as Harry Potter is and wondering if maybe, just maybe, Oliver could fix you.
5.
“Tell me what it is,” you tell Oliver one day after sex as the sun streams down over his tanned chest and he lazily draws pictures on your skin. “Tell me why you kept coming back after that first time.”
That first time - when you were pissed drunk in a bar and he came into your booth and smiled at you and told you about his game and wouldn’t bugger off no matter how much you tried until he was drunk too and the sex had been sloppy and fast and in the bathroom. You would’ve thought a famous Keeper would be too good for bathroom sex but now you know that this famous Keeper in particular doesn’t think he’s too good for anything.
“You’re...” he has that lazy smile on his face that you hate and love at the same time, the smile that has been carved into your memory a thousand times over. “You’re so goddamn weird sometimes, Percy, Merlin, I love it so much.”
“Hmph,” you say, wondering if you should be offended.
He laughs and rolls over until he’s pressed on top of you and can wrap his arms around you, sleepily nuzzling your neck. “You kept apologizing to me, that first time. I’ve never had someone apologize to me after giving me such an amazing blowjob. And I kept seeing your eyes as you sucked me off, Merlin,” and you feel him grow the slightest bit hard, despite the fact that you’ve had sex twice today.
“But before that,” you remind him. “At the shop. You said you couldn’t get me out of your head.”
“That’s because I couldn’t,” he agrees and kisses your collarbone. “The way you looked, with that cigarette and whiskey... I’d never seen you in that light before. But you also looked as though you didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought and in my industry... that’s rare. And I wondered what’d changed you.”
“Well, you know that now,” you mutter.
He lifts his head up, eyes piercing yours and you squirm beneath him, hating the intimacy building between you two. “Percy, when are you going to stop being ashamed of yourself around me?”
“I don’t know.” It slips out; you grit your teeth afterwards.
“Because I’ve done some pretty bad things in my time, you know that, right?”
“Like what?”
“Like sex with people I don’t know the names of.”
“Been there.”
“Like illegal potions.”
“Yep.”
“Like pissing into my manager’s firewhiskey and watching him down it.”
You pause incredulously and he flashes you a dangerous grin that you love. “God, I hate you,” you tell him.
He laughs and then kisses you. “You heal me, Percy, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t like it at all, I really don’t.”
“I know you don’t,” he smiles and Fred is there in the curve of his smile and Fred is there behind the glint of his eyes and Fred is the reason why tomorrow morning you will wake up silently and walk out by yourself and ignore this beautiful man for weeks on end and Fred is so fucking disappointed.
And you are disappointed too.
But not as disappointed as Oliver will be when he wakes up tomorrow. There is a cruel sense of justice in that. You have it bad, a dark thing inside you whispers, and it is like a grave, like a soul-sucking, broken, terrible grave that you have fallen inside of and cannot climb back up no matter how hard Oliver reaches and how much you climb the fucking rope, you have it bad - but Oliver has it worse, and that makes you delirious.
“Kiss me,” he whispers.
You kiss him.
Author:
mervabPrompt: #135
Kink Showcased: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Percy/Oliver
Summary: You have it bad, a dark thing inside you whispers, and it is like a grave, like a soul-sucking broken, terrible grave that you have fallen inside of and cannot escape, no matter how hard Oliver reaches.
Warning: second pov, angsty angst
Word Count: 3727
Author’s Note: So I discovered the pairing Oliver/Percy a while back and gahhh, I love them so much, I just had to play around with their poor emotions. This was so much fun writing, though it felt a bit short to me. Might make it longer, if If ind the time. Title is from the song Golden Trains, by Justin Nozuka.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended
Don't You Wake Up Yet, Give Me Some Time
or
Five Times Fred is Disappointed
or
Five Times Fred is Disappointed
1.
The bar is musty, the seats are old and cracked. Patrons huddle in their chairs or over their drinks or under their secrets, avoiding all eye contact unless they want to fuck. It’s not a bar you go to for fun; it’s a bar you go to hunt. To run away. You’ve never even bothered to learn the name of it, having wandered in one cold Thursday night, already drunk and already thrown out of your regular habitat.
Thrown out - why? It’s hard to remember the precise reason at this point, seven weeks later, and you bring the fag to your mouth, squinting against the smoke you messily exhale. Probably a fight. You snort to yourself and barely catch yourself before choking on the smoke, reaching down for the firewhiskey at your elbow and taking a quick, warm sip.
You - Percy Weasley - fighting. You imagine how your Seventh Year self would react if he saw you now, all scruffy and rough and haggard under the eyes. A small, crooked smile tugs up one side of your mouth at the idea. The Head Boy you would throw a fit, most likely. Spew a few lines of rules, maybe. Possibly grow enough of a spine to spit in your face.
You’d kill him, if you could. Kill Seventh Year you, to save yourself the trouble of the nine past years.
“You come here often?” comes a voice from beside you and you don’t even bother to turn your head, merely flick your eyes sideways to eye up the low male tenor - and then you straighten in surprise, because it’s not a sleazy pick-up line (not that you’d mind if it was, really) but rather a genuine inquirer, coming from none other than Oliver Wood.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, forgetting his question as you take in the carefully windswept brown hair, the strong shoulders, the concerned brown eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at a match or something?”
“You keep up with Quidditch?” he returns, now looking just the slightest bit sardonic. You wonder why until he looks away with a darkened look and mutters, “Lost.”
“Ah,” you note and then shrug, turning too so that you’re both facing the bar. “George mentioned something about it the other day. That’s the only reason. Don’t feel special.”
You see him glance at you out of the corner of your eye and you purposely pick up your drink, enjoying the burn as it slides down your pale throat. And then - “So why’d you lose?”
“Dunno,” says Oliver, expressionless. “Must be getting old.”
You look at him blankly and stay silent.
“Athletes age faster than everyone else,” he says.
This must be the longest conversation the two of you have ever had, and you’ve only said two goddamn things.
“Think I’ll have to retire soon?” he persists.
“And rid the Wizarding World of its golden star? Witch Weekly will actually have to find a news article or two to take the place of your four page spread.”
Amazingly, he smiles at this. “They could always write about the tragic young failure who drinks himself to death.”
“Is that what you’re doing right now then?”
“Practicing,” he tells you. “Not done just yet. Got a few more games ahead of me, hopefully.”
You fucking hate Quidditch. Hate the pointlessness of it all, hate how repetitive it is - ball, chaser, ball, chaser, keeper, beater, bat, ball, hit, throw, pass, swerve, shout, scream, keeper, fail, hoop, goal, win, rinse and repeat, goddammit - hate how it reminds you of him, hate how everyone in your fucking family was brilliant at it except you. So you say nothing, instead turning back to your drink, and the silence swells forward.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he finally says. “You’re here a lot?”
“No,” you lie.
He hesitates. “I didn’t... know you were the type to come out to bars. Or smoke cigarettes, for that matter. But I guess if it’s not a regular thing -”
“Look,” you interrupt sharply, glancing at him and you stab the fag out on the counter, twisting it down until its out. “I’m not really into the whole get-to-know-you bullshit, Wood. We knew each other in school, barely, and I’d really like to keep it that way, thanks.” Sliding out your chair, you huff, unable to help yourself. Gotta go find yourself a new fucking bar to haunt. And you’d really been getting comfortable in this one lately.
“But - wait - I - I lost,” he falters, looking strangely winded by your movement as if it was the last thing he expected. “I mean - I sort of wanted to get pissed drunk tonight, know what I mean?” He attempts a smile. “We could be - drinking mates.”
You stare at each other for a moment with Oliver looking almost hopeful and then your lips tip down and you shove your hands into your rough jacket, hunching your shoulders just slightly as though bracing yourself against a sharp wind. “Find someone else.”
You’re turning when you see it - a flash of red hair, a disapproving glance - and you freeze, staring in the far corner for a moment before shaking your head and walking away, resolving never to come back to this particular bar ever again.
2.
“Perce - Perce, someone’s asking for you,” comes a voice and then George peeks his head into the backroom, his eyes immediately landing on you as they’ve done for so long now. He has gone from hunting out his twin to hunting out you and it is a terrible burden, knowing you will always be the wrong person. Still, it is a burden you willingly carry for George and you get to your feet, pushing away a box of unmentionable items. “Ah - the new line,” George grins, spotting the movement. “Like it?”
You snort. “Can’t wait till Mum hears about it. That’ll be a right thrill.”
George colours. “Oh - er -”
You pause next to him in the doorway and arch an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“She er... already....”
“Knows?”
“Reserved a few products for her own - er - personal use.”
“Oh - fucking hell -” you give George a disgusted look, one he returns with another grin (fuck but that’s still disarming sometimes) and you move past him, moving into the front room with an indifferent look pasted on your face. Until -
“Hey,” says Oliver Wood, standing at the counter.
You stare at him and then glance back to where George has now disappeared and then look back. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here - um... I’m just - we won the next game,” Oliver offers, looking uneasy.
You stand there.
“And... it seems like... maybe you were a good luck charm?” he says, looking down and then back up at you with something glinting in his eyes. “So I was wondering if you wanted to go out for drinks sometime.”
You stare at him long enough for the silence to grow heavy and then give him a flat stare. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
Turning to go, you only make it a step before - “Just - just, you know, I can’t get you out of my head,” says Oliver desperately and slowly you pivot around to stare at him once more. “It’s just -” He’s abashed now and you wonder if you’ve ever once seen an abashed Oliver Wood in all seven years of sharing a dorm together. “That sounded stupid, I know, but it’s sture. Just some drinks, yeah? It can’t do any harm, can it?”
“Everything can do harm,” you tell him, and you turn and you walk away and when you next see George it’s almost as if there is someone else in his familiar eyes and you shudder and purposely stare at his missing ear, struggling to ground yourself.
3.
When it happens, it is abrupt, it is fast, it is hard and brutal and his breath is hot in your ear as he rams into you again and again, his body hovering over yours, hands on either side of your face as he lowers his mouth to your neck and presses an opened-mouth kiss there.
“Fuck,” he groans, and he pushes harder into you, the hastily prepared hole screaming its protest as his cock slides deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips. It is the Quidditch practice that keeps him so in shape and now you slide your hands down his ribs, memorizing the feel of each one before your hands brush down his stomach. He sucks in a harsh breath and then he’s kissing you, his hips slowing to a treacherous tease as he explores your mouth with all the intentions of a lover.
You hate it.
You didn’t come to him for love - you didn’t come here to feel his hands skate tenderly up your sides, you didn’t come here to feel his gaze soak you up like you are the only oxygen he’s had for months. You don’t want to feel like a god, you don’t want his wide gaze and sweet kisses and his hair beneath your fingers and you certainly don’t want his hips to circle like they’re doing now, searching for your sweet spot. You didn’t come here searching to join bodies with someone for the sake of fucking love - you came here to be conquered, to be fucked and taken, to have your problems ripped from you until you are nothing and can think nothing and can feel nothing.
Ripping your mouth from his, you purposely tighten around him, arching up so that your cock drags against his stomach, smearing pre-come. “Goddamn it, Oliver, fuck me,” and the sound that comes out of his mouth is lightning to your spine, it is the water to your wilting flower, and he moves, fuck, he moves.
He cries out when he comes, a broken sound that makes you want to capture his lips with yours again, if only so that you can suck that noise out of his mouth and keep him from making it ever again - or maybe so that you can bring it into your chest and carry it with you everywhere, yes, that sounds like a better idea - but you simply close your eyes and let it wash over you, moving your hips with a tiny whimpering noise. He keeps moving, his hand wrapping warmly around your cock, and it is only a few more thrusts until you’re coming too, a wave of exhaustion hitting you immediately after.
The bed sinks down as he lays down quietly next to you and you both simply stay like that for a moment until you force your eyes open, shifting to the side of the bed and fumbling for your jeans.
“Percy,” he says softly. “Please don’t - please.”
You stop, shoulders hunched and feet just barely brushing the floor from the position you’re in. “I can’t,” you say, voice hoarse.
He’s quiet for a moment until: “I know what today is. For you, I mean.”
You’re silent.
“I just... I just want you to know -”
“That you’re here for me?” you sneer and now you’re moving faster, hunting down the clothes he ripped off you earlier. Pants, hanging from the dresser; socks, buried under a pile of books; self-worth, somewhere below the bed. “That you fucking understand? Save it.”
“You’re not the only person that lost someone, Percy,” he says softly and you’re up and whirling around and glaring at him so furiously it’s a wonder he’s not melting into the bed. “Look, I just want to help. I - I know this is the anniversary of his death, but, Percy, how long are you going to keep shoving this down? You can’t ignore it forever -”
“Yes, I fucking well can,” you snarl, and how have you become this? Your life was all one big plan, always working towards the future and researching and working to become the greatest you could but now you’re nothing but a graveyard and why did Fred have to die and why does Oliver Wood have to look at you with so much bloody pity in his eyes?
He sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist and his eyes so large. “You can - you can keep this as just fucking if that’s what you want -”
“It is,” you cut in harshly. He looks so small in the middle of the bed, so unlike what he appears to be in public, all tall and handsome and strong and capable. But he is just as much of a mess as you are, perhaps more so because he’s coming to you for comfort, so what can that possibly say about him, and he is fragile sometimes and unsure of himself and confused when you sneer at him, as though he can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to become this to you when he is so much to so many other people. Turning away, you stare blank-eyed out the window, struggling not to memorize the sound of his breathing behind you. “If you want something more, go find someone else.”
“I don’t. I won’t, Percy.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“You’re... Percy, fuck, you don’t even see it, do you?”
What is he talking about? And you hate that you don’t understand him, don’t understand this, what this is and what he wants from you and you hate being so goddamn lost so instead you finish pulling your clothes together, pausing in front of the mirror to stare at steely brown eyes that for a brief second don’t look like yours at all, look like another pair of Weasley’s eyes and they’re sad and endless and you blink hard and then Disapparate, wanting to get as far away as possible from the past and the present and your impossible confusing blinding future.
4.
“Percy! Percy - hey, yeah, hey,” says a voice, breathless as he catches up to you and you turn, disarmed to see Harry Potter wearing a bad haircut and his shoulders still sloped as though he still carried the burden of the Wizarding World. “What are you doing here?”
“Just... shopping,” you say, blinking at him behind your glasses and then glance down at the bags in your hands before back up to him. “For George, you know. Just thought I might...” you trail off, not knowing how much he knows.
But the look in his eyes says he does, that he understands how George puts so much of himself into forgetting Fred that sometimes he forgets himself as well and sometimes he forgets the simple things, like how to feed himself and to remember to buy toilet paper. “Yeah, let me know if you need any help with that. Listen... you want to go out for lunch sometime? We could go now, if that’s fine with you.”
“Sure,” you say, bemused but willing, and nod along with all his suggestions until finally you’re both sitting across from each other in a small cafe just outside of Diagon Alley, tea and a danish for you and a sandwich with chips for him. “So,” you finally say when the conversation on Ron and Hermione’s pregnancy has finally dwindled down and something weighs between the two of you. “Was there something specific you wanted to talk about, or...”
“Percy,” says Harry and he stares down at his hands, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just - look, this is probably none of my business, but I just happened to run into Oliver Wood the other night and he was in pretty bad shape. We got to talking and -”
“You’re right,” you say and now you’re ice cold, burning cold, struggling not to melt and wash away. “That is none of your business, Harry.”
“Right, right,” he says hastily but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t leave. “I just... I know you think that it could only ever be... casual between you two and honestly, if someone had told me that Percy Weasley and Oliver Wood would ever be anything, I’d be one of the most surprised bastards out there.”
You snort, and he looks briefly encouraged.
“But when he was talking about you,” and now he looks up, eyes a hard green that you’ve seen aimed at you once or twice and had hoped would never be in your direction again, “he meant it, Percy, he really did. You confuse the hell out of him and maybe that’s what he likes so much,” here is a wry smile, mixing easily with the tousled hair to show you that Harry Potter is not the boy you first met so long ago. “Oliver’s used to getting everything he wants and now you’re here, this...”
“Fucking wreck,” you cut in, looking disparaging. “He deserves better. Deserves someone who doesn’t fall to pieces any time someone mentions a twin or a joke or the month of fucking June.”
There is pity in his eyes. “Maybe he needs this, Percy. Maybe he’s searching for someone just as wrecked as he is to help him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Love rarely does.”
And when did you start getting advice from a teenager wearing glasses? Only, you suppose, he isn’t much of a teenager anymore and he’s been through so much more than you can imagine. Out of all the people you’ve been around, who you’ve opened up with enough to admit your problem to, this is perhaps the man who should complain the most and instead he’s helping you, trying to gentle push you in the right direction.
But you can’t accept it.
“I’ve told him a thousand times, Harry, if he wants something else, he should look somewhere else. I can’t give it to him. I’ve... I’m not... ready for something like that. I don’t think I ever will be.”
He looks sad. “Percy, we all miss Fred but -”
Your hands tighten warningly around the table.
“But he wouldn’t want this to consume your life, mate. He’d want you to find someone you can be better with. Oliver could be that for you, if you let him.”
When you look out the window, it has started raining without you even realizing it and you close your eyes for a moment, wondering where Fred might be, wondering if he is in the rain at this moment as well, wondering if he is just as sad as Harry Potter is and wondering if maybe, just maybe, Oliver could fix you.
5.
“Tell me what it is,” you tell Oliver one day after sex as the sun streams down over his tanned chest and he lazily draws pictures on your skin. “Tell me why you kept coming back after that first time.”
That first time - when you were pissed drunk in a bar and he came into your booth and smiled at you and told you about his game and wouldn’t bugger off no matter how much you tried until he was drunk too and the sex had been sloppy and fast and in the bathroom. You would’ve thought a famous Keeper would be too good for bathroom sex but now you know that this famous Keeper in particular doesn’t think he’s too good for anything.
“You’re...” he has that lazy smile on his face that you hate and love at the same time, the smile that has been carved into your memory a thousand times over. “You’re so goddamn weird sometimes, Percy, Merlin, I love it so much.”
“Hmph,” you say, wondering if you should be offended.
He laughs and rolls over until he’s pressed on top of you and can wrap his arms around you, sleepily nuzzling your neck. “You kept apologizing to me, that first time. I’ve never had someone apologize to me after giving me such an amazing blowjob. And I kept seeing your eyes as you sucked me off, Merlin,” and you feel him grow the slightest bit hard, despite the fact that you’ve had sex twice today.
“But before that,” you remind him. “At the shop. You said you couldn’t get me out of your head.”
“That’s because I couldn’t,” he agrees and kisses your collarbone. “The way you looked, with that cigarette and whiskey... I’d never seen you in that light before. But you also looked as though you didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought and in my industry... that’s rare. And I wondered what’d changed you.”
“Well, you know that now,” you mutter.
He lifts his head up, eyes piercing yours and you squirm beneath him, hating the intimacy building between you two. “Percy, when are you going to stop being ashamed of yourself around me?”
“I don’t know.” It slips out; you grit your teeth afterwards.
“Because I’ve done some pretty bad things in my time, you know that, right?”
“Like what?”
“Like sex with people I don’t know the names of.”
“Been there.”
“Like illegal potions.”
“Yep.”
“Like pissing into my manager’s firewhiskey and watching him down it.”
You pause incredulously and he flashes you a dangerous grin that you love. “God, I hate you,” you tell him.
He laughs and then kisses you. “You heal me, Percy, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t like it at all, I really don’t.”
“I know you don’t,” he smiles and Fred is there in the curve of his smile and Fred is there behind the glint of his eyes and Fred is the reason why tomorrow morning you will wake up silently and walk out by yourself and ignore this beautiful man for weeks on end and Fred is so fucking disappointed.
And you are disappointed too.
But not as disappointed as Oliver will be when he wakes up tomorrow. There is a cruel sense of justice in that. You have it bad, a dark thing inside you whispers, and it is like a grave, like a soul-sucking, broken, terrible grave that you have fallen inside of and cannot climb back up no matter how hard Oliver reaches and how much you climb the fucking rope, you have it bad - but Oliver has it worse, and that makes you delirious.
“Kiss me,” he whispers.
You kiss him.
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no subject
Date: 2013-02-16 01:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-16 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-16 08:00 pm (UTC)I LOVED THIS
Perfection.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-18 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-22 03:26 pm (UTC)Percy! Percy - hey, yeah, hey
I don't know quite why this is so perfectly Harry, but it is! I knew it was Harry before I'd read the rest of the sentence. :D
God, I hate you
Oh, I have such a kink for "I hate you", especially when it's like this, and it really means "I love you but it's complicated". Wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2013-02-24 04:27 pm (UTC)