Pretty!Percy attacked, and I was willing to finally type this—if only to halt (for a time) the images of Percy in… compromising situations.
My first Harry Potter fanfic. Wow. I hope it goes well.
I' m pretending that this whole war business and family-problem shit doesn't happen so quickly. Also, I seek to justify some of Percy's stuffiness.
Chris Rankin made over-achieving look sexy as hell.
Read, review, repeat. Long live WEASLEYS!
-Viva
There are plenty of things that no one knows about Percy Weasley.
No one knows that he and Oliver Wood used to hide underneath their bedcovers in first year, reading Martin Miggs comics. Ollie was the only one who really read them; Perce was content just to lie next to him, holding his wand over the pages properly so the lumos! would illuminate each glossed page. Second year, Percy got his glasses, The Horned Beast as Oliver was wont to call them. This, combined with his horrid mood at finding that The Twins had actually set foot in a library to hex his shampoo to turn his hair purple (and conveniently 'forgotten' the counter-curse) made Percy lose his first and only true friend at Hogwarts, snapping at Oliver that if he would actually pay bloody attention to what was going on in Transfiguration, he wouldn't have ended up with a rather droopy cream-coloured rose instead of the drinking glass they were assigned to form.
Years later, Percy remembers that he had told Oliver a few days before that incident that his favorite flower was a white rose.
No one knows that since he developed his odd habit of using garters, as opposed to the usual mild sticking charm, to hold up his knee-length socks, his legs eventually stopped growing hair, leaving his slender things and slim claves pale and gleaming.
No one knows that to relieve the ever-building stress of his Ministry job, he's taken to escaping for random weekends into Muggle London, so often that he's known by reputation as the wide-eyed beauty in the blue leather pants, red hair coiffed in a remarkably haphazard version of La Roux, his lips trembling as he dances, all willowy limbs and free-hearted—his glasses add to his charm. At least until he stumbles back into his living room, alone, showering until the glitter that somehow got all over his face is down the drain.
No one knows that he's grown to love coffee more than tea, that he takes it black in his usual post-waking attire, a dress shirt and no undergarments, the shirttails barely covering the surprisingly luscious curve of his arse. He sits at the rickety table in his kitchen, smiling down at the other early-risers, working people, bakers and shopkeepers and Aurors, telling himself that when he's made Minister of Magic, he will provide each of them will a well-balanced breakfast. Probably eggs and sausage with toast like his mum would make him on those mornings when he didn't just stay holed up in his room…
No one knows that while he is undoubtedly averse to the idea of actual… coupling with the boy, he has a hunch (one that is correct, no matter the bad blood between them) that the sight of Draco and himself—no, a Polyjuiced version of him, in the act of ultimate carnality would be spectacular, all pale skin and gleaming eyes, rosebud lips and miles of leg. Occasionally he sees the boy, in his father's hypnotic grey eyes, and has to remind himself that the place and time for arousing thoughts is neither here nor now.
No one hears his soft whimpers that reverberate in the sickeningly small bathroom of his flat (which he can barely afford) as his feet hang out of either side of the clawfooted tub. He briefly remembers casting a silencio! out of habit, from growing up with plenty of children in the house to going to school with plenty of blokes in the room. No one watches his slender fingers wrap around his rosy cock, pulling in slow, determined movements (so as not to slosh too much water onto the floor) until his body is taut like a bowstring, all lithe muscling and rapid exhalation—his irises swallowed by black, high smudges of color on his cheeks, mouth slick and warm. No one is there to witness the ferocity in which he climaxes, jerking forcefully into his fist before lazily extracting himself from the tub and sliding between his simple cotton sheets, placing his glasses on his nightstand.
No one knows that on warm summer nights, he remembers a lovesick boy with wavy ginger hair, who was both fascinated and repulsed by his potions master in fifth year. He remembers the hair on the back of his neck raising while on his prefect rounds, being roughly acknowledged by a voice like dark chocolate laced with cyanide. Vivid flashes of his years with Severus Snape go through his head until he settles for the instance he likes the best. He's graduating from Hogwarts, trying to keep his smile plastered on when he really wants to do nothing more than start bawling and beg Dumbledore not to make him go back home.
Snape pulls one of his 'undetectable ambush' tricks and brusquely shakes his hand in the corridor, mumbling something about a 'bright future, as long as you don't foul it up with that ridiculous Gryffindor-bullheadedness'. Percy remembers looking into the onyx depths of those eyes, wanting to be so very Gryffindor that he would dare to kiss those thin, pale lips. Instead, he musters a 'thank you' and then blushes to the roots of his hair when, as if in slow motion, Snape is raising his shaking hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to slender fingers, then making an exit with a flourish-and-snap of black robes and slightly elevated walking speed.
No one knows that Percy is still a blusher. Every time he goes to Madame Malkin's, she croons over his measurements, praising his slim waist and neck, writing odes to his somewhat broad shoulders, composing sonnets to his unbelievably long legs. His cheeks are rosy when Molly convinces him to come home for minutes at a time (only when no one else is there), wrapping him in her loving arms and reminding him to find a nice witch, or wizard (she is a mother, she knows these things) so she can have her grandbabies. He blushes when his baby brother, Ron, shows up unannounced in his Floo, catching Percy writhing his hips and singing (quite well, with his warm tenor) to a La Roux CD he plays in a stereo he bought on one of his escape nights.
No one has seen Percy in the shower, water running in rivulets down his back, gathering at the dip above his arse before sliding down the two fingers he's rocking back and forth in his pucker. No one knows he's still a virgin at twenty-two, that the closest he's ever come to sex would be when he was accosted by a very attractive, very forward blonde man who had encountered the teen in this particular bookshop too many times to keep count. All he'd done was squirm against that broad chest, and whimper a bit before the man came and abandoned him in one fluid move.
No one knows that even now, looking as debauched and edible as anything, he still secretly believes that people tell themselves it's okay to use him. That the braniac should be grateful to even be acknowledged sexually, what with his pureblood-traitor family and chronic neurosis. He knows this is what they tell themselves, but has yet to decide whether it is true or not.
No one knows that his first time will be in the house where he grew up, in a room he barely ever saw, much less spent time in. He will blush, because he is delectable and gorgeous and being told so, his skin gleaming in the moonlight. His lover will remark that he won the draw with genes, his freckles are lightly dusted across his nose, and there are no more, only soft creamy thighs and a long neck that smells like vanilla. They will kiss gently, and both of them will shake with the electricity of it, of lips that were so often pursed in concentration but are now softwetslick and delicious, breath sweet as he moans into his lover's mouth.
No one knows that his tears at his first breaching will be kissed away swiftly, and that the look on his face when his prostate is nudged will be something that his lover will come to over, and over, and over again… his long legs, another body part his lover takes delight in, running broom-calloused hands down smooth skin, will be wrapped around the other boy's torso, that his constant writhing will cause them both to unravel quickly. Percy sleeps soon after, and his lover cradles him in equally long arms, bidding good night to the shocked/aroused photo of his best friend who just watched him do this.
No one knows that Percy is sensuous, and will roll his hips obscenely, his stunning legs now folded on either side of his lover's narrow hips, that when he arches his back and squeezes, they both see stars. They will even have sex on Percy's old rickety kitchen table, in creaks and groans under Percy's scant weight, so his lover takes him into his arms again and turns him so his chest is to the wall, pounding into his arse slowly and methodically, loving the haze that will come over Percy's eyes—which are becoming a blue-violet as he continues taking those Clear Eye draughts that he can finally afford.
No one knows any of this.
Only Ron.
And he is the only one who will ever know.