Oliver Wood/Percy WeasleyRating:
anal, semi-public sexWord Count:
Oliver and Percy go shopping.Author's Notes:
When Percy was little, the only new clothes he ever got were in preparation for school, and even then they would be cheap, far and few between. Most of his things were hand-me-downs from Bill and Charlie, neither of whom really shared his build, and as soon as he’d worn things long enough, they’d inevitably be snatched away to pass down to the twins, who basically ruined everything.
But now Percy has money and no siblings to rifle through his wardrobe, so he can spend the time he likes walking through new, expensive stores. He doesn’t just get to dress himself—he can also dress Oliver
, which is, in a way, even more exciting.
He’s already got one pair of jeans thrown over his arm. Jeans are a Muggle invention, but in Percy’s opinion, Muggles tend to have more versatile stores. Besides, denim has a certain way of clinging to one’s figure. Oliver Wood has a figure decidedly worth clinging to. As Percy slowly combs through the rack of pressed hanging jeans, he runs his fingers over them and imagines what it would be like to feel this fabric stretched across Oliver’s thighs. He pays special attention to the crotch area—which cuts and styling will look best tightly binding down Oliver’s large cock?
He’s no sooner phrased the question that he hears familiar footsteps behind him—they’ve lived together too long for him to not know every footfall. He can smell the rich cologne getting closer, and then he has a tall, thick boyfriend pressing into his back, leaning over to purr, “Found anything I should try on?”
Percy’s lashes flutter. Oliver wraps one arm around him, pro-Quidditch muscles flexing to lock him inside. Oliver subtly grinds his crotch into Percy’s rear, the bulge of his hungry cock undeniable. Percy leans back on instinct, and he’s instantly glad he rolled his sleeves up when they entered the too-hot store; he can feel the exquisite slide of rich fabric along his bare forearms. It’s a suit, he thinks, given where the seams are, as he squirms to determine it without having to turn. Then Oliver flattens into him, making him jut forward into the rack, and Percy has to fight to repress a little moan.
A quick glance of the department shows no others around—an advantage to sectioned-off stores with high shelves and shopping during work hours. Oliver’s hand runs up the knit sweatervest on Percy’s lean form, up to brush along his throat, where his breath is coming fast. He lifts up the pair of jeans already draped over his arm to indicate that they need a change room.
Then another customer wanders in from the neighbouring shoe department, and Oliver steps back, leaving Percy to dizzily pull himself together. While the newcomer sorts through denim khakis on a separate shelf, Percy turns to eye his man.
Oliver spreads his arms like he’s presenting. A tightly fit, caramel suit stretches across his creamy skin, the white button up he came in with near-bursting buttons straining over his broad pecs. Oliver’s the sort of man that looks built to sprawl naked on the cover of PlayWitch, but Percy’s tastes lie more in seeing the right clothes wrapped around him, and Oliver’s good to indulge it.
He looks scrumptious. The wide grin on his face says that he knows it. Percy loops a finger into one of the belt hooks of his trousers and tugs him towards the back of the department, around the change room corner and through to the line of stalls. Whoever’s supposed to mind the section must be out folding clothes or on break, which works just as well for Percy. Throwing an arm over his shoulder, Oliver steers him to the stall in the back, where Oliver’s old trousers and jacket are already in a hasty pile. The jeans Percy picked out are quickly thrown on top of it.
Then Percy’s up against the wall, the shallow bench on one side and the full-length mirror on the other, the door swinging shut behind him. Oliver locks it with a quick flick of his fingers, as easy as catching the Quaffle, honed from too much practice. Percy can enjoy a well-dressed Oliver at home, of course, but there’s few things so exciting as the thrill of a fresh outfit, right off the rack, test driven before they take it home to land in the fuck-me
What Percy’s wearing doesn’t matter as much. Oliver never seems to mind. This is Percy’s fetish; Oliver just gets aroused because he knows he’s getting some. Oliver pins Percy to the back and bends down to grab his knees, scooping them right up while Percy fiddles with his belt. The angle’s awkward but not unmanageable, and soon he’s pushing his trousers and underwear down the hump of his rear, balanced by Oliver’s strength. One more perk to a boyfriend with muscles. Oliver balances him easily, tilts to kiss his mouth and accidentally knocks his glasses askew. Oliver tastes like the coffee they just had, still warm and eager. While Percy reaches for Oliver’s fly, Oliver locks teeth around the bridge of Percy’s glasses, trying to nudge them back into place. It makes Percy have to stifle a gasp—how messy, how crude, how Oliver
—but all their hands are busy so there’s nothing else to do. Sometimes it’s easier to fuck a blurry Oliver with his glasses on the nightstand or a quick vision charm instead, but then they wouldn’t be fully dressed
, and sometimes he likes to be able to see every last pore on Oliver’s face.
When he gets Oliver’s cock out—thick and hard in his hands, already hungry for him—Oliver mutters, “Got your wand?” And Percy nods dimly, reaching one hand back to run down his legs—his wand’s tucked in the first pocket. He only has to grab the end to whisper the right spell, breaking off in a gasp a moment later as it does its job. His channel fills with clean, slick lube, walls stretching to accommodate, kneading open around invisible instruments. It’s a faster, less-fun solution than having Oliver slowly finger him, but there isn’t always time for that, and he’s not quite crude enough to carry lube around in his pocket. Oliver is, but he’s too forgetful. Spells are easier. Percy lets the strange sensations flitter across his face, because he knows Oliver likes his reactions.
Oliver kisses him again and murmurs against his lips, “You’re so pretty.” Percy chuckles, squeezing Oliver’s cock for a reward. He gets an appreciative groan and a quick buck into his hand. Just as Percy opens his mouth again, Oliver shakes his head and hisses, “No silencing spell this time.” Percy nods, even though Oliver’s usually loud and he’s not much better. The thrill of getting caught is it’s own excitement. He grips onto Oliver’s hips with his thighs, lifting up to help position himself.
It’s another difficult angle, but worth every second. Percy guides Oliver’s shaft to his dilating hole, pushes forward to suck the tip inside himself, gasps and has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He takes just enough to know it’ll stay, and then he lifts his arms to wrap around Oliver’s shoulders, holding tightly on.
Oliver kisses him harder, full on lips and tongue-on-tongue, using it to swallow both their screams as he slams his hips forward. Percy’s back knocks against the wall, Oliver’s cock pushing straight into his ass, eased along and instantly enveloped. Percy clenches to hold him, shivering in delight—Oliver’s big
, long, and he knows just what to do with it. A few shallow, in-and-out thrusts and he finds the perfect spot, making Percy tremble and moan into his mouth, trying to buck back against him. The expensive suit beneath Percy’s fingers adds to the eroticism, makes Percy harder inside his own pants, still trapped. He doesn’t want to bother pulling himself out. He likes the pressure of feeling caged and the sin of staining his clothes. Better yet, he likes taking Oliver
, all the way at once, magic stifling any shot of pain or discomfort: it’s just a perfect fit.
Grinding in, Oliver adjusts. He leans forward, as much as he can, pinning Percy up, trapping his weight so that there’s no room to fall. His arms stay hooked beneath Percy’s knees, but he shifts so he can run his hands down Percy’s ass, squeeze his cheeks and spread them open. Percy’s whimper is still caught in Oliver’s mouth; their lips never go far from one another. Percy’s already over hot. He runs one hand through Oliver’s cropped brown hair, the other slithering along the perfectly-tailored shoulder seam, sucked against Oliver’s meaty bicep like it was stitched right on. When he tilts his head, he can see both their side-views in the mirror, and he admires the long, trim lines the suit gives Oliver. It transforms him into a businessman: a professional, delivering a service. Percy’s the client. His own clothes are clean, prissy, high-end but not as formal, and that designates Oliver as the boss. Percy’s ravenous mind flitters through a dozen fantasies—him a meager assistant, satiating his employer’s needs; a lonely stranger, purchasing a top-notch escort for the night; the son of some unnamed investor, being bribed into a good word on a business deal. He watches the jacket splay along Oliver’s broad shoulder blades, and he knows this one will be going home with them. Oliver looks too good in it. But Oliver looks like a God in most things.
Oliver catches Percy’s gaze and brings him back to focus. Oliver nudges his face around so that Oliver
fills his vision, his mouth sealed over as Oliver grinds home, jutting forward to claim him in fast, hard strokes that make him reel. Percy gives up fondling the clothes and just clings to them for support, wracked with one brutal thrust after another. The pattern builds and crescendos, and Percy shoves his hips hard against Oliver’s stomach for the final peak. The pressure’s enough, and he spills inside his pants, the orgasm rushing through him. If Oliver weren’t swallowing it, he’d be screaming, but Oliver keeps kissing him, messy and slick and wet, fucking him right through it, while Percy’s body clenches wildly around Oliver’s cock.
A few thrusts later and Oliver follows, while Percy’s still puttering out. He feels the familiar rush of Oliver’s seed inside him, and it’s his turn to kiss away Oliver’s cries. He takes the shallow ruts that follow, until Oliver stills and his mouth breaks away. They both gasp for air. The changing room’s become stifling, Percy’s clothes glued to him with sweat. Oliver takes a minute to pull out. They’re both left panting. But the door doesn’t extend all the way down, so Percy doesn’t want to sink to the floor.
He relies on Oliver’s strength to keep him up. Oliver leans into him, crushing him against the wall, using their weight to keep everything together, and Percy locks his shoes over one another, so even when Oliver’s arms fall, his grip on Oliver’s waist stays strong. He can feel the lube and Oliver’s cum leaking down his channel, but he needs a few minutes to come back to himself.
Eventually, he reaches for his wand. A quickly muttered spell dries him out again, dries them both of sweat, though it can’t take away the adrenaline and the general musk of sex. Before they detangle, Oliver mutters, “This one’s a ‘yes’?” He’s grinning broadly; he’ll take anything that gets him more sex. Percy nods and tries not to laugh at how cute his boyfriend is. Then he’s helped down to the floor, sore but manageable. He glances aside at the jeans, thinking they might have to wait another day.
He hikes up his trousers and tucks Oliver back in. Then he leaves to put the jeans away before Oliver can strip to change back: a whole other show.