Title: My Sweet Prince
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Charlie/Percy
Word Count: 3,061
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Anonymous/casual sex. Weasleycest.
Summary: Disguises, desires, and the crossing of uncrossable lines.
A/N: Written for weasley_fest '08.


Art by thanfiction. Banner by jo_ron.

Original A/N: The title comes from the Placebo song of the same name which I listened to on loop for a while when I was writing the first two thirds of this. Though that song's about heroin (and this fic is not a song fic and has nothing to do with drug use) there were some wonderfully appropriate lyrics that inspired me and set the tone of this story.



+++++

The club was loud, dark and stank of smoke, sweat and spilt alcohol. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and he vacillated between utter shock and horror, and fascination.

In the years following the end of the War, not so much a trickle as a flood of Muggle culture, music and fashion had washed over the Wizarding world. Naturally, what had been so heavily proscribed in the recent past was devoured with an insatiable hunger by magical youth. It had been forbidden; therefore it must be good. Some corners of society held out, but many cashed in on the trend. Very few could afford to ignore it, as it was a way of guaranteeing a profit in the depressed economy.

So, Honeydukes started stocking a range of non-magical sweets, Madam Malkin began designing and producing 'Muggle-inspired' robes (although the Muggle-borns tended to laugh at them) and Flourish and Blotts expanded their Muggle literature from one shelf of 'required texts' for Muggle Studies students to a whole section which included the daily newspapers from most of the world's major cities.

And, there were the clubs, of course.

While many of the older, more conservative Wizarding pubs had introduced rules rejecting patrons who dressed in Muggle clothes, which they called 'indecent', the couple of clubs that had opened actually encouraged Muggle dress, and admitted Muggle patrons as well as magical. Witches and wizards were told to only perform magic discreetly, the bar and security staff were permitted to use basic Memory Charms, and as an additional precaution, all the food and drink served was laced with a small dose of Forgetfulness Draught. It wasn't enough to cause amnesia, but it would mean that anything that was slightly out of the ordinary would be put down by the Muggle patrons to a little too much drink, or a trick of the light.

What light there was, that is. The interlinked rooms were deep and murky with shadow, broken rhythmically by bright pulses of strobe. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

He reached up again with a clammy hand and rubbed his lightly bristled jawline, as if to check the glamour was still in place. He knew he couldn't touch it like that, but he couldn't help it. He felt naked, here. Vulnerable. This wasn't his kind of place, but he couldn't turn and walk away. Instead, his feet carried him through the press to the bar, and against his better judgement, he shouted an order for something potent that he'd heard the twins going on about, once. The imported brandy went down smoothly, then blossomed into a soft explosion in his belly that spread, warming him to his fingertips. It helped.

He wasn't ready to move out into the mass, yet, so he ordered another. And another. The taut wires that kept his posture so upright, held his spine so straight and pressed his lips into a firm line slackened. He leaned, now, one elbow on the bar, and a lazy grin graced his features. He still wasn't comfortable, but he cared far less about it now.

So, when a tanned blonde with muscled arms and an easy smile offered to buy him another, he didn't refuse. That he would have run away from such an obvious offer if he were sober didn't matter. After all, the chance of an encounter such as this was why he was braving this den of depravity in the first place.

"This your first time?" the blonde asked, handing him his drink.

He slopped some of the alcohol over himself. Was he that obvious?

"Your first time here," the blonde clarified, looking slightly amused.

"Oh! Oh, er, no," he lied.

The blonde raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but didn't argue. "It's mine. This wasn't here last time I was in Britain."

"You're not English?" he asked, in surprise. "But you sound..."

The blonde sounded English, but when he tried to narrow it down to a region, he couldn't, for some reason.

"Oh, I am," the blonde replied. "But I live and work overseas. You?"

He felt a simultaneous rush of relief and alarm. Because the blonde wasn't a local, there was little chance this encounter would clash with his work or family life. But he hadn't even thought of a decent cover story, so preoccupied had he been with disguising his appearance.

"Er... Ministry... ah, government stuff," he floundered. "You probably wouldn't be interested."

"I don't know about that," the blonde purred. "I've found that you boys with your paperwork and Arithmancy books and abacuses are pretty wild in bed."

The blonde was leaning in close, now, reaching up and stroking calloused fingertips across his cheeks, rasping on the stubble he'd so carefully grown to augment his glamour. He was terrified, but he didn't think he'd ever been so instantly aroused.

"Abaci," he corrected, at a loss for anything else to say. The blonde's eyes sparked, and he leaned close. To his own surprise, he met him halfway.

It began as a firm but gentle moving of mouths, but within moments he let his tongue flick out in careful, tentative exploration, and his partner caressed his tongue with his own. The blonde had a broad hand on the back of his head, and another trailed down his back to squeeze his arse. He couldn't help but moan and lean in closer.

"You're gorgeous," the blonde said, breaking away to catch his breath.

His face flushed scarlet, and he was glad of the darkness. He knew the blonde wouldn't have said it, wouldn't be talking to him, kissing him, if it weren't for the glamour. He knew he was plain.

"What's your name, anyway?" the blonde asked.

"Um... Oliver," he said, borrowing the name of his old Year mate.

"I'm Robert," the blonde replied.

Robert's hands were still drifting slowly up and down his body; the fingers of one hand teased up the edge of his shirt and stroked the skin beneath. His eyes sank closed as Robert leaned in again and placed wet, sucking kisses down the column of his neck.

"Want to go somewhere else?" Robert breathed against his ear. He shivered at the hot wash of breath, goosebumps rising on his skin in spite of the warm temperature in the club.

The unfamiliar constriction of the Muggle denim jeans against his erection told him there was no way he wasn't going with Robert. Right now, if possible. But he also knew he didn't want a hasty hand job, most likely in the far from hygienic toilets, surrounded by the flickering of fluorescent lighting and the stink of other men's piss and vomit. It was hardly a turn on, and that wasn't even counting the risk of doing it in public.

"Your place?" he replied.

If Robert was stunned, he recovered quickly, only a flicker of surprise showing before his smile turned slightly predatory. "I've got a room at the Leaky," he answered. "Let's go."

Robert threw a few coins on the bar as a tip, took his hand and led him through the heaving crowd to the alley to Apparate.

+++++

He led the kid, Oliver, out into the brisk cold of the night. He wasn't a kid at all, really, but he acted like one. His tense, frightened-but-enthralled demeanour had drawn him the moment he'd seen him arrive. Other sharks were circling, but he'd warned them off with a glare. His obvious strength and self-confidence had been enough. Virgin meat was tasty, but most didn't consider it worth brawling over. Especially not in London, where there were willing twinks a-plenty for those who liked them young and eager. He wasn't so interested in youth, but eagerness to please and be pleased was delightful, especially in a scene where most became jaded after a year or two.

The clubs in Europe had swelled with newcomers during the War. Though the Death Eaters' main focus had been Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards, they hadn't been particularly kind to those who didn't fit the prescribed mould for their gender, either. Escapees from the British Isles told of savage attacks on queer witches and wizards that the MLE hushed up or simply ignored, of people arrested for no legitimate reason and sent to Azkaban without trial, and of others who simply disappeared. Those who couldn't flee to the continent went into hiding, or hid their orientation by finding a willing partner and arranging a hasty lavender marriage. Sometimes it had worked.

Many witches and wizards in their twenties and thirties were making their first explorations only now, too afraid to dare in the turbulent times just after Voldemort's fall, when crime and violence was rife and the Aurors stretched so thin that only the most brutal of crimes with certainty of successful prosecution were even investigated. Even years after the end of the War, most magical folk, even those who were "out" to family and friends, were careful about who they told, what they did and where they did it. There were laws protecting their rights, now, but they were vague at best.

Oliver, being a Ministry employee, no doubt had to be doubly careful. Though it wasn't supposed to happen, sudden "early retirements" still occurred. Usually the "retirees" were confirmed bachelors or spinsters, though occasionally married witches and wizards were quietly asked to leave, as well. He'd heard tell of a Code of Conduct clause in their employment contracts that in roundabout legalese required of them that their behaviour outside office hours reflect the family values promoted by the Ministry. Though they didn't forbid homosexuals from working there, they were expected to keep their 'abnormality' behind closed doors.

He tugged Oliver around the corner into the designated Apparition spot, pulled him close and kissed him firmly. Oliver was taller than him, but he didn't seem it, right now, curling in towards him, his kisses inexpert but enthusiastic, his fingertips pressing firmly into the flesh over his ribs.

"We have to go," he heard himself whine when they broke for air, "or I'm going to lose control and fuck you right here." Oliver trembled in his arms, his eyes large with lust, disbelief and a hint of fear.

"I'm a bit drunk," Oliver confessed, almost solemnly, another long, hot kiss later.

"I'll take you," he offered. "Hold on."

Oliver wrapped his arms around him. There was crushing darkness, then they were outside the night door of the Leaky Cauldron. He muttered his password, and the door clunked open.

They climbed the narrow staircase single file. The walls were so close that two people passing would have had to turn sideways. The winding corridor above twisted around and seemed to double back on itself, before he stopped in front of an oak door, darkened with time, labelled '21'. (It stood between 4 and 39.) Another whispered word, and the door swung wide.

There was a glowing fire in the grate, so he left the lamps unlit. They didn't need bright light after all, and he thought the shadows might relax the novice. He shed his shirt unselfconsciously and scratched absently at the nest of hair in the centre of his chest. There was a sharp intake of breath from behind him, but he didn't look up. He unbuckled his belt and drew it out quickly from the loops, then unbuttoned the waistband and eased down the zipper. Only then did he look back.

Oliver was standing only a step or two away from the closed door, fully dressed, his posture tense and startled. His eyes were enormously wide, and his mouth was gaping open.

"Come here," he said, holding out his hand.

After a moment's hesitation, Oliver moved close enough to take his hand. He took a step closer, until they were standing toe to toe. Keeping eye contact, he moved their joined hands down his body, over his muscled torso, his abdomen, and finally, into the gaping fly of his jeans.

"Oh," Oliver gasped, his fingers fluttering against the hardness they found, swathed in thin cotton.

"See? Not so scary," he murmured reassuringly.

Oliver wet his lips with a flick of his tongue, and he felt himself twitch in Oliver's grasp. He had no control over it. He just couldn't help but imagine those lips stretched around the head of his cock, that soft, dark, shoulder-length hair falling in a curtain over his groin as Oliver sucked with increasing skill.

Oliver's fingers tightened and gave him a tentative rub, and he hummed his approval. He removed his hand, leaving Oliver to fondle him, and shuffled closer to nuzzle Oliver's neck.

"That's good," he breathed. "Don't stop."

+++++

He was touching another man. Robert's cock was firm and thick in his grasp, radiating a damp, dangerous heat through the cotton. Every now and then it moved a little on its own, or Robert's hips gave a bit of a jerk as though he were holding himself back.

Robert was undressing him. It took him a minute or so to notice, so caught up was he in the enormity of the taboo that he was breaking by stroking another man's cock, and then, all of a sudden, a jolt passed through him when Robert bent and sucked his bare nipple to fullness. He hissed sharply through his teeth, and squeezed his hands convulsively. Robert moaned aloud, and the sound went straight to his cock. It was just as well, then, that Robert had just deftly unbuckled his belt and was easing a hand down into his pants.

Rough, calloused fingers slid straight down inside his underwear, and when they brushed the head of his cock, his hips bucked alarmingly and he let out a sharp cry as he tried not to come on the spot.

"Close, are you?" Robert asked, a little breathily.

He bit his lip, hard, and nodded, sure he was blushing a brilliant crimson in shame.

Robert just chuckled. "Let's take the edge off then, hmm?"

Robert turned him about, walked him backwards to the bed and pushed him, so that he toppled onto his back across the mattress. In no time, his shoes, socks and trousers were gone, stripped from him with startling efficiency. "What are you...?" he began.

Robert had removed his own clothing, and was kneeling down on the floor, between his spread thighs. Robert's expression was full of mischief and lust, and as Robert snaked a hand up to grasp the erect cock in front of him, he suddenly realised what was about to happen.

"Oh... oh! Mmph..." He bit into his own hand to stop the stream of profanity that threatened to emerge all at once. He was so close, so close already, but Robert's tight grip around the base of his cock was keeping his orgasm at bay, for now. It was unbearable. His hips lifted off the bed in time with that wonderful, talented mouth, and what should have lasted only a handful of seconds was drawn out for minutes, until his whole body was vibrating with need.

"Ready?" Robert murmured, through reddened lips, and before he had a chance to reply, Robert swallowed him down deep, releasing that grip to squeeze his balls gently. The climax that resulted was enough to make his vision grey out, and leave him as weak as a kitten. Robert climbed up onto the bed beside him and kissed him, long and languorously.

"I want to fuck you," Robert whispered in his ear, in a voice so deliciously raw with need that he didn't even feel fear, just a flutter of renewed arousal.

"Yes," he agreed, and submitted meekly to Robert positioning him on the bed on his back, with his legs on Robert's shoulders. A muttered series of charms, protection, lubrication, preparation, and he felt his body stretched and slickened and open.

"You're sure?" Robert asked. He could feel the tip of Robert's cock just brushing at his entrance, and he was surprised at his own eagerness to begin.

"Please," he begged. "Please fuck me." The unfamiliar crudity on his tongue felt more foreign than the cock pushing slowly and firmly into him, and his deep groan was not a sound of pain, but an expression of joy at the feeling of completion. How could it be that he, of all people, had been less than whole his entire life, simply through lack of another wizard's cock up his arse?

Robert bent him double, more than double, it seemed, as Robert's hips came to press against his arse. He grabbed on to Robert's forearms automatically, and what he felt on one of them made him tense.

"Whoa," Robert murmured soothingly. "You've... you've got to try...try and relax a bit."

"What's this?" he asked, his fingers tracing a too-smooth patch of skin.

"Oh, that," Robert said, his laugh breathless, but nonetheless now sickeningly familiar. "Occupational hazard. Burn scar. Must be ten years ago, I got that one. I don't even notice it any more." Robert's arms trembled in his grasp. "Are you ready for me to move?"

Percy looked up into the face above him, and knew that they had passed the point of no return long ago. "Yes. Move."

+++++

When he woke early the next morning, the wizard who'd called himself Oliver had already left. He really wouldn't have minded sleeping in, but his body clock was still on continental time, so lying in past six o'clock was more or less impossible.

He peered into the tiny mirror, wondering if he could get away without shaving, and decided with a sigh that he couldn't. As he slid the charmed razor over his soaped skin, he noticed, with a smile of satisfaction, the still-crimson crescents of the bite mark on his neck. He'd better hide that, at least, before he showed up. His other siblings would probably just nudge him and laugh, but he didn't think he could stand the whole family gathering with Percy sniffing repeatedly in disapproval.

Ah, well. If he got through dinner without getting too pissed to Apparate, he knew exactly what he'd do. He'd come back to London, go to that club, find Oliver and ask for another go. He hadn't had such a wild, passionate fuck in years.

Whistling cheerfully, Charlie set off for the Burrow to surprise his mother for her birthday.

Tags: angst, charlie/percy, gift!fic, nc17, smut
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