Knickers

In the 1998 season, the Chudley Cannons finally broke their century old losing streak by coming out on top in the Quidditch Leagues. The entire wizarding world cheered the underdogs, taking it as symbolism for their victory over Lord Voldemort just a few months before.

Or, rather, the entire wizarding world minus one Bill Weasley. Bill instead cursed his own tongue, wishing that he had promised to eat his boots or hat, or anything other than this. When Ron had grown excited over the Cannons’ chances, Bill had said, with most of the Order as witnesses, “Ronnie, darling brother, if the Cannons win the League in my lifetime, I’ll do a pole-dance in girls’ knickers.”

Which was how he found himself muttering and wriggling into a pair of silky lavender knickers. It was not the first time Bill had cursed his own imagination, and it likely wouldn’t be the last, but it was doomed to be the most embarrassing. He checked himself in the mirror, and he sighed. The underwear bulged obscenely, and so he reached in to adjust, ignoring the way the silk slid against his hot skin; this was hardly the proper situation for that sort of thing.

Once he was satisfied that his bits weren’t too obviously lumping up the knickers, he found the matching bra. He struggled with that for a moment – he’d taken plenty off, but he’d never put one on – then adjusted. The thing looked awkward on his wide shoulders and broad, flat chest. He knew some men got their jollies out of this sort of thing, but he certainly couldn’t understand how. It was uncomfortable, and really, Bill looked absolutely nothing like a woman, even with his bits tucked away as they were.

Bill sighed and finally slipped his feet into tight high heels, and he wobbled as he straightened. This was going to be the worst night of his life, he just knew. He took one last swig of vodka before he went out, hoping it would steady his nerves; instead, it made him splutter and cough. So much for that.

The jeers started the moment he opened the door. He walked into the parlor of the Burrow, and he glared at all of them. They had erected a large pole right in the center, so that he had to walk between members of his audience to get to it. Someone slapped his arse, and he turned, startled, only to find that it had been Tonks. She was the only woman who had remained for this, and she was leering at him, oddly enough.

He reached the pole, then looked around at all the laughing faces. Of course Ron was there, with Harry and a handful of their school friends. Charlie and the twins sat nearby; Charlie was red in the face and holding his stomach already, laughing hard enough to be heard over everyone else. Bill flashed Ron and Charlie his two fingers, then decided to try to ignore whoever else may be there. This was humiliating enough without having to see faces.

The music started shortly thereafter, and it was some up-tempo number by The Weird Sisters, something throbbing and low. Bill sighed, supposing he should get this over with as painlessly as possible. The whole room reeked of alcohol, and Bill really wished he had some more for himself. He ground against the pole with the beat, feeling utterly ridiculous – particularly when Charlie howled, leading others in a round of catcalls and whistles. Bill was going to murder him, even before he murdered Ron and cut out his own tongue.

He hooked his knee around the pole and did a spin, which actually went over well enough. When he heard Charlie shout something about Bill having done this before, he pulled one of his shoes off and chucked it at him. He kicked the other off, and he thought he saw Tonks catch it, but he went back to his dancing.

At one point he stopped, unfastening the bra and twirling it by the strap around his finger, though the gesture lacked any enthusiasm on his part. Then he let it sail over the heads of his audience. They crowed their amusement, and Bill wore a glare for anyone whose eyes he might meet. He rubbed himself against the pole again, humping it lewdly, then flicked out his tongue, rubbing it up the metal with a sneer for everyone laughing at him.

Finally, finally, the last strains of the song played, and he stopped abruptly, folding his arms over his bare chest. He showed Ron and Charlie, and now the rest of the crowd, his two fingers again, then took his bows and stormed back to the washroom to change back into his clothes. His path was marked by bursts of rowdy laughter, and he received a pinch. This time, it was not Tonks, but he couldn’t point out the culprit.

He slammed the washroom door behind him and glowered at himself in the mirror for a moment. He was surprised when it opened behind him, letting in Remus, who looked rather flushed from laughing and who had a dreadful smirk on his face. Bill had seen him in the audience, watching intently, and the thought made him grit his teeth.

“What do you want?” Bill snapped, then sighed. Remus was only there for the fun; no need to murder him, too.

“You left your brassiere,” Remus said, thrusting the shiny purple material at him. Bill grabbed at it, embarrassed. “And I want to tell you I enjoyed your performance.”

Bill glared. Remus’ lips twitched. “You’re not funny, Lupin,” he said. He was never going to live this down, not even after he was dead.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Remus said, and he sounded sincere. Good acting – Bill at least had to give him credit for that. Remus wasn’t meeting his eyes, though. Instead he was staring at Bill’s chest, at the silver hoops in Bill’s nipples, at his stomach. Oh. Bill cleared his throat, and Remus met his gaze, eyes burning brightly.

“Oh,” said Bill, to break the silence, then dropped the bra and reached for Remus. He kissed him, tasting the alcohol on his tongue, and Remus pressed Bill back against the sink. He felt a hand on him, rubbing the silk against his flesh, and he wanted to writhe against him. Remus’ other hand slid down his chest, and the man pulled his mouth away, staring down at Bill. “You can touch them, you know,” he finally said, trying not to buck against that hand, though his cock was still trapped painfully.

“No, I can’t,” Remus said, though he was looking longingly. “Silver.” Oh. Yes, that. But then Remus pushed him onto the edge of the sink and slid downward, and Bill didn’t much care whether or not Remus could touch his nipples, because Remus’ lips were tracing the outline of his cock through the silk. Bill leaned back, arching into that mouth. Remus pulled away, looking up to say, “Touch them yourself,” before he went back to his teasing.

Bill leaned back against the mirror, fingers twisting at his own nipples, tugging at the rings. Remus watched him, his mouth still working wonders, though it wasn’t enough any more. Bill lifted his hips when Remus went to pull the knickers down, then that mouth was sucking him down, farther and farther into his throat, and Bill arched again, hand shooting down to find his balance. The tap turned and Bill yelped as cold water suddenly flowed down the small of his back.

Remus kindly turned it off again, humming his laughter around Bill’s cock. Bill leaned back, staring at the ceiling, and just before he came, he had the presence of mind to wonder whether gold hoops or black knickers should be his next investment.