Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: r_grayjoy
From: eeyore9990

Title: Polly's Juices
Characters/Pairings: Ron/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Anonymous sex, semi-public sex
Other Warnings/Content: None.
Word Count: ~3000
Summary/Description: Ron's utterly bored with the war over and nothing but opening George's new shop in Brighton's wizarding district to look forward to. But anonymous sex with a not-so-stranger could give him a new focus.
Author's Notes: With much love and affection. Deepest thanks and adoration to my lovely beta, who deserves ALL THE COOKIES. :D


Harry, all… both of him, the blurry git, was staring at the sign above the club with something that looked a lot like horror on his face.

"Whassa matter, 'arry?" George asked, obviously noticing the same thing Ron had as he threw an arm around the Harry on the right.

Which was apparently the wrong Harry (or Harry moved, or Harry was never standing there in the first place and was toying with their minds, magically powerful bastard that he was) because George suddenly plummeted forward, only barely managing to catch himself (by the nose) against the bricks of the building that housed the club.

"Polly's Juices?" Harry's voice reflected the horror that still lined his face. "That's… disgusting."

"'S the best club in…" George waved his hand around, his words muffled by the wall he was still leaning against. "Wherever we are."

"Brighton." Ron smiled, proud of himself for remembering such an important piece of information. "'S not very bright though. False advertising, that."

Harry shook his head and waved at the door. "It's night, you berk. Are we ready to go in, then?"

Something white-ish flashed in the corner of Ron's vision, and he turned his head to see… He blinked and narrowed his eyes, trying to focus. "Huh," he murmured. "I guess it's not false advertising at all, then."

"Come on, brother dearest. Time to meet our fortunes in Polly's." George jerked him sideways, making Ron's head spin even as he was steered toward the entrance. All thoughts of anything other than the adventure that awaited them fled Ron's mind.

"Her juices," Ron said, relishing the way the word rolled off his tongue while Harry made gagging noises in the background. "Y'know, I'm thinking we should be worried for our sister's happiness, much as Harry hates the thought of a bird's juices."

"Oh my God, we are not having this conversation out here on the street. Get inside. Now!" Harry pulled open the—garishly pink—door of the club and waved them inside. As Ron walked past, Harry hissed, "And for your information, Ginny's very satisfied. Frequently!"

Ron's stomach lurched at the thought of Harry satisfying his sister, and then lurched again as a powerful wave of unfamiliar magic flowed over, around, and through him. "What the—" He blinked, realising that the timbre of his voice was completely wrong. Forehead wrinkling, he looked up at George, only to see a man with a very bad bleach job staring back at him, George's devil-may-care grin tilting very non-George lips.

"Think I've had enough to drink," Ron said, his voice thready with shock.

"Oy, didn't I mention? There's a reason it's called Polly's Juices. Everyone gets a whole new look when they come in. 'S why it's popular with the rich and famous set."

Considering this for a moment, Ron finally turned his head to the other side, seeking out Harry. The only person there, however, was a woman with short red hair, standing awkwardly in Harry's too-large clothing.

Ron's lips didn't even have a chance to twitch before he and George were clutching each other, attempting to hold themselves up as they doubled over in laughter.

"You're—" Ron spluttered through his howls, "you're like the sister I never had."

"Except for Ginny," Harry grumbled, though his irritation was seriously undermined by the high and breathy quality of his voice.

When Ron collapsed to the floor, he managed to overset George, and they both ended up in a sprawl of unfamiliar limbs. Not even the sting of Harry's sobriety charm could dull their amusement.

---

The pulsing beat of the music thrummed through Draco's veins even as Polly's powerful magic washed over him. Despite the name of the club, Draco knew it was merely a very good series of transformative spells and localized glamour charms that disguised the identity of the club's patrons.

A brief glance into a discreetly placed mirror showed Draco dark hair and lightly coloured eyes. Nice enough looking to pull, but not too showy. Perfect for his needs.

Tugging on the cuffs of his shirt—one of the less desirable side-effects of the club's magic was ill-fitting clothing—Draco scanned those witches and wizards closest to the door. Though the logical part of his mind knew it couldn't possibly be attached to the man he'd come in here searching for, his eye was still drawn to the shock of bright red hair topping a slightly built witch who was standing in too-large men's clothing.

Lips twitching, Draco watched the spectacle the two wizards with her made as they rolled around on the floor laughing like madmen and clutching one another. It was always amusing to see the reactions of newcomers to Polly's.

He stepped to the side, allowing a couple to pass—their hair was still caught mid-transformation, causing the area around their heads to waver in the corner of his vision—as he watched the trio gather themselves and venture deeper into the club proper.

Several different options occurred to Draco as he stood there considering how to approach his target, but the novelty of simply being himself won out. He tracked the trio's progress along the edges of the dance floor, and the corners of his lips tipped up when they stumbled into a (rather suspiciously, in his estimation) vacant table. Shaking his head at them, Draco threaded his way across the dance floor—no skirting for him, thank you very much—slipping through groping fingers and ignoring bids for his attention. He didn't stop until he was leaning over the table, looking directly into the dark eyes of the sandy-haired man who was wearing the cobalt shirt that'd first caught his eye outside the club.

"This is my table."

Ron Weasley—and it was a fucking shame that the glamours had changed his eye color because it must be stunning against that shirt—blinked up at Draco from where he was sprawled haphazardly on a chair, a smile as sloppy as his posture curving his lips. "Funny how we managed to miss the plaque with your name carved on it."

"Come on, guys, let's just find somewhere else to sit." The witch's voice was as grating on Draco's nerves as the person under the transformation—not even Polly's magic was enough to change Potter into someone more interesting, apparently. Nor his atrocious taste in eyewear.

"You know, if you wanted to dance with me, all you had to do was ask," the blond, who had to be one of Ron's multitude of brothers, said as he grabbed for Draco's elbow. A delicate curl of his upper lip and a wordless stinging jinx took care of the anonymous Weasley sibling's presumption.

"Somehow I don't think it's you he's after, Georgie-boy."

"How do you know he's a he?" Potter asked, obviously pitching his voice so that the sound of the club's music would drown it out to all but Ron. His abysmal timing, however, ensured that the question came screeching out just as the last note of the music died away.

Draco winced, then turned his head to look straight at Potter. "I'm fully capable of wanking—to orgasm—in my current form. Could you say the same?"

"In this form? I could have multiples!" Potter hissed, leaning forward in what he surely thought to be a threatening manner, but which only served to show off his braless state.

Flicking his fingers, Draco yawned. "That's a no then, is it?" Turning back to Ron, he continued as if he hadn't been so rudely interrupted, "Well? Are you going to vacate my table or should we work out a deal?"

"What sort of deal? Not that I'm agreeing that this is your table or anything like that, but… I'm curious about what it is you really want."

"What makes you think that getting my table back isn't my main goal?"

"Instinct."

---

Ron knew he probably shouldn't find this situation as hilarious as he did, but something about the whole night just had a rosy, humorous glow to it. And he desperately needed a reason to laugh.

"Who do you usually share this table with?" he asked the wizard who'd intruded on their night, his gaze drawn to the way the light caught on the Malfoy crest engraved in his cuff links. Gotcha.

"People I've fucked." The blunt words were obviously carefully chosen to shock; instead, they merely pricked Ron's interest. And Ron wasn't sober enough to dull the voice in his head that was urging him to play along.

"Oh well, in that case…." Turning to George, Ron grinned and waved at his drink. "Watch this for me, will you? I'll be back in a minute. Maybe less."

"Nah, Mum'd murder me if she found out I let you go off with a dodgy type for a quickie in a club. Especially one like this."

"Dodgy type?" Ron considered Draco, enjoying the fact that he was fully aware of Draco's identity while his own remained a secret. "A little poncy, maybe, but this is Brighton. Can't be too picky, can we?"

"Why start now?" The dry delivery was perfect. The casual perusal of a manicured hand was a touch over-the-top, however.

Ron's grin stretched into a full smile, and he stood, waving a hand toward one corner of the dance floor—and the shadowy recesses beyond. "After you."

"Ron—" Harry stepped in front of him (blocking his view of Draco's still-fine arse, the bastard), but in his current form, he was no match for Ron. Not that he really was in his normal state, either, but when he looked like a random cousin, Ron found him that much easier to ignore. Especially when he was stopping Ron from doing something that might light a spark in his currently boring existence.

Life without a war was so bloody dull.

"I'm a big boy," Ron said, lifting Harry out of the way. Squeezing Harry's waist gently, Ron looked down and winked once to let Harry know he appreciated the concern—he just wasn't going to heed it. "I'll be fine."

"You're still fucking drunk is what you are," Harry called after him as Ron threaded through the crowd, searching for a face he could only half-remember.

---

Draco glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see Ron pushing through the mass of bodies.  "Should I be flattered?" he asked, using a privacy spell to push the words directly into Ron's ear. 

Obviously startled, Ron spun toward him, that crooked grin stretching his borrowed mouth.  "And here I was thinking that I'm the one who's flattered.  But I'm also curious." Stepping closer, Ron lifted one hand, trailing his fingers along Draco's lapel.  "What's a bloke like you doing picking up strangers in a place like this?"

"Everyone's a stranger at Polly's." Draco asked, his words coolly amused even as he panicked inside.  Surely Ron didn't know...  Of course not.  What was he thinking?  No disguise was as good as a simple step inside Polly's.

Ron's grin tipped up at the opposite corner until he was staring at with a purely sensual smile that made the breath catch in his throat.  "Sometimes you want to go where no one knows your name, eh?" 

As soon as the last word was out of his mouth, a flailing dancer collided with Ron, bumping him forward into Draco.  Part reflex, part want had Draco reaching out and holding Ron against him.  It wasn't what he truly needed—these bodies were all wrong for that—but it would have to be enough.

And really, the lust that was flowing through him at the simple knowledge that it was Ron Weasley he was grinding against told Draco that it didn't really matter whose bodies they borrowed.

---

It was dangerous. It was undeniably stupid. But more than that, it was something Ron had been missing desperately from his life. The thrill of doing something that seemed destined to end in disaster.

It was amazing.

Ron was so used to his partners being shorter than him that he instinctively lowered his head to whisper, then had to cover his mistake with a nip at the spicy-scented juncture of neck and shoulder. "Here?" he murmured. "On the dance floor? In the middle of all these strangers?"

"Fuck." It was a hiss, a bare breath of sound, but it went straight to Ron's cock.

"You like to put on a show, don't you? Act like you're better than everyone else, but when push comes to shove, you want to be just as dirty as anyone." Ron tugged, pulling their bodies closer. A slow roll of his hips, though completely out of step with the rapid beat of the music that pulsed around them, was just enough to make those pale eyes go dark with arousal. "I could do it, you know. Fuck you right here, make a spectacle of you. But that's not what I want."

---

"What—" Draco coughed, clearing his throat. "What do you want?"

"I want to take you over there," Ron jerked his chin toward a corner where the shadows seemed just a bit darker than anywhere else in the club, "pull these trousers down, get my hands on your cock, and make you forget…everything. I want you to know that at any time, anyone could stumble onto us with you like that… but I want it to be a tease more than a promise. Because out here? It's just a sideshow. Over there? You're my main attraction."

Draco groaned, lust pounding through him until he could taste it on the back of his tongue. They'd been standing in the middle of the dance floor not dancing long enough to have drawn a few dirty looks, but no one was really paying them any attention. Too many "sideshows" were distracting the other patrons from their little flirtation.

Ron's hand on his cock… Fuck. Yes, he wanted that. Now.

"Let's go," Draco said.

---

The bump and grind of writhing bodies pushed Ron against Draco, his clothing-covered cock sliding deliciously against Draco's arse, before the press of people pulled them apart again as they made their way to the corner. Once they were there, Ron kept going, walking forward until they were crammed into the darkest of the recesses, the shadows wrapping around them in a way that could only be attributed to magic.

The music set the pace—frantic, pulsing, screaming—and Ron was as good as his word. They'd barely hit the back wall before his hand was wrapped around a hard cock, his tongue being sucked into a hot mouth, smothering the sounds that he could feel vibrating against his teeth.

It was fast and rough, but not enough. Ron groaned; his cock ached. A twitch of his thumb solved one problem, but presented him with another.

Hand jobs or blow jobs? Frottage or fucking?

Then the choice was taken away from him.

---

Draco's mind became a buzzing blank as soon as Ron's hand wrapped around him. There was some fumbling, the brush of knuckles against the underside of his cock, and then the overheated slap of another cock against his as his trousers disappeared with a rather clumsy banishing spell.

That's when he went a little… wild.

His fingers dug into Ron's shoulders as he lifted his legs, winding them around a waist that sat a few inches too low for satisfaction, but just high enough to meet the need riding him. Ron's cock slipped too low, brushing against the parted cheeks of Draco's arse. Draco's back arched and a scream ripped from his throat when Ron's cock bumped against his hole, nudging the over-sensitive flesh but not giving him the stretching burn that he craved.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Can't." A bite to his ear cleared Draco's head enough for him to hear the whispered, "Too close."

Dropping his head back against the wall, Draco rolled his hips, his hand joining Ron's on his cock and twisting. If Ron was too close, Draco was already flying over the edge. As the first pulse of his release coated his hand, Draco reached down, awkwardly shoving it between their bodies to feel the slide of Ron's—not Ron's—cock between his fingers.

It was perfectly imperfect. It wasn't the snarling hate-filled thing it should have been—would have been if Ron had known who he was—and it wasn't blue eyes boring into him while red hair fell over Ron's forehead. But it was hot and sweaty and completely stripped of any sort of romance. It was a club fuck and for that it was everything Draco needed.

Rolling thrusts, sharp bites, and the too-fast beat of the music overwhelmed the moment. Draco's arse, the wall, and his trousers became spattered with come as Ron's movements went jerky then still.

Teeth marks that wouldn't leave bruises dotted Draco's shoulder before Ron pulled back, his muscles twitching under Draco's hands.

"Again." The word was rough, almost sounding forced. Whether it had be a question or a statement, Draco couldn't say, but he did know one thing. Coming all over Ron Weasley without Ron knowing it was Draco who'd done it was less satisfying than it should have been.

Legs sliding to the ground, Draco grimaced. Without knowing where his trousers had been banished to, he could only transfigure his shirt into a set of loose-fitting robes to cover himself. "You give me too much credit."

"I meant later. I want to do this again later. You and me, not this…." Ron waved his hand between them, seemingly mindless of the fact that his cock was still hanging out of his trousers.

The words tasted bitter on his tongue before he even said them. "If you can find me, you can have me." It was the best exit line he'd ever delivered.

---

Slightly dumbfounded at how abruptly that had ended—and hoping it was simply this new body that was responsible for how quickly he'd come—Ron watched Draco Malfoy disappear into the crowd.

And then he smiled.

Tonight he'd luxuriate in the afterglow because tomorrow the war—his war—was back on.