Title: My Little Girl
Author: emiime
Characters: Percy/Oliver
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, crossdressing, copious amounts of whisky, vaguely insane Oliver.
Kinks chosen: Gender-bending
Word Count: 1040
Summary: Oliver doesn't fuck men.
Author's notes: So, this contains not one, but two things I don't like and therefore never write: bottom!Percy and crossdressing. I have no idea where this came from. ♥ to the mods for letting me post on a different day from my regular since I fail at deadlines.

Percy doesn't like it, but Oliver doesn't know that.

Percy gets off simply because it's Oliver fucking him, Oliver's cock buried in his arse, Oliver's skin sweat-stuck to Percy's own. Percy doesn't get off on silk knickers. He doesn't come from Oliver's cooing nicknames, My sweetheart and My little girl. Percy's wanted Oliver for so long, and he'll be a girl if he has to, he'll be whatever Oliver needs him to be, he'll wear the lacy little things Oliver picks out for him, just to have Oliver in his bed, in his flat, in his life.

It doesn't matter that Percy doesn't like what he has to become when they fuck, because Oliver's gripping his hips and grunting and soon Oliver will come inside him, and that's all Percy wants, that's all he's ever wanted.

No, that's a lie. He wants Oliver to stay in the bed afterwards, too, long enough for Percy to peel the sodden knickers from his softening cock and drop them on the floor, long enough for Percy to slip on his glasses and become Percy again, long enough for an embrace, a kiss, a touch.

But he won't. Oliver's in the bathroom, washing up and brushing up, before Percy's even come down from his orgasmic high. Percy does peel off the knickers, but he doesn't drop them on the floor. Instead, he pads to the hamper and drops them in, then wipes the come from himself with a towel he keeps for this purpose. That goes in the hamper, too. He'll do laundry in the morning.

"Hey. Ol." Percy's put on his dressing gown—a masculine dressing gown, maroon and dark gold—and he puts his arms around Oliver from behind as Oliver finishes brushing his teeth.

Oliver grunts a question that sounds like What's up and meets Percy's eyes in the mirror.

"…nothing," Percy says lamely, and he kisses Oliver's bare shoulder and goes to make himself some tea.

---

"I don't fuck men."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't fuck men," Oliver repeated. He picked up a photo of Percy's family from the end table and studied it, then set it back down again. "I don't know what you expect is going to happen, Perce, but I don't have sex with blokes."

"I didn't expect—"

"So forget it."

Percy nodded. "Right."

There was a silence. Percy carried two tumblers and a bottle of whisky to the table, then sat. Oliver joined him after a moment.

"It's just—why were you buying me drinks, Ol? Why did you have your—" Percy paused, uncorked the whisky bottle, splashed some into each tumbler. "Why was your hand on my knee?" he continued, staring into his glass. His voice was rough and his thoughts were spiralling out of control. He forced himself to stop, to wait for Oliver's answer.

"Why did I come back here?" Oliver was drunk already; there was no doubting that. Percy was hardly sober himself.

"That, too."

Oliver shrugged and picked up the other tumbler of whisky from the table. He downed half of it in one go, then walked around the table and took Percy's chin in his hand, tilting it upwards and studying Percy's face.

"You'd make a pretty girl," he said, and Percy just sat there, stunned.

---

"Put them on," Oliver urges, and Percy lifts a pair of knickers from the pink box. "Not those. The lacy ones. You like lace."

"I do. I like lace," Percy replies, and he's glad the bedroom's just dark enough that Oliver can't see the blush that confirms Percy's lie. Not that Oliver's looking at his face, anyway. He's watching the pretty knickers in Percy's hands, watching them slide over slim, freckled hips.

They fuck, Oliver pushing the knickers aside to slick Percy's arsehole and push in.

"My sweetheart," he whispers against Percy's curls, against his sweat-damp neck. "My little love."

Oliver thrusts gently at first, as if Percy will break like a china doll, then speeds up as he grows more excited and less reverent. He'll tear the knickers, Percy thinks, and this is not an unprecedented event in their bedroom.

"Tell me you love my cock," Oliver commands, and Percy does love Oliver's cock, and he tells him so, keeping his voice light, almost feminine. Oliver likes it that way.

---

When Percy's parents came for dinner, they remarked on how nice the boys kept their flat.

"Not bad for a couple of bachelors," Oliver said with a hearty laugh, and he poured a scotch for Percy's dad. Percy went into the kitchen and stood at the counter for a moment and tried to collect himself. He wanted to tell them he was in love, wanted to tell them the second bedroom was just for show, but he couldn't, wouldn't, or he'd lose Oliver. He knew it. So he pasted on a smile and ate pot roast and carrots with his family and his lover and he talked about work and he pretended everything was as normal as it could possibly be.

His mum helped him with the dishes and his father and Oliver talked over more scotch and Percy thought that Oliver probably liked it this way. Girls talking nonsense in the kitchen, men talking Quidditch in the sitting room.

Later that night, Oliver had a brand new pair of knickers waiting for his sweet little girl.

---

Oliver's breath is whisky-warm again on Percy's neck.

"You're my little girl, aren't you? My sweetheart."

Percy nods and thrusts back, wanting Oliver's cock deeper inside him.

"Say it."

Percy whimpers.

"Fucking hell, say it." Oliver's close to coming. Percy can tell by the urgency in his voice, by the way his breath catches, by the way he grips Percy's slim hips harder, harder.

"I'm your s-sweetheart," Percy hisses through clenched teeth, "I'm y-your—"

"Little," insists Oliver.

"Your little girl," Percy says, and it's almost a whisper, and he's rewarded for the words he hates to say with Oliver's triumphant groan, with the warmth of Oliver's semen flooding his arse.

When Oliver comes, so does Percy, spurting over his hand and biting his lip until he tastes iron.

"Stay," he murmurs, but Oliver's already halfway down the hall.