| Title: | Sport, or, How Percy Weasley Learned to Love Quidditch | Author: | Flora | Rating: | NC-17 | Pairing: | Harry/Percy/Oliver Wood/Draco Malfoy | Summary: | :*Quidditch? “Sir. I’m certain there is something more …pertinent I could be assigned to. Perhaps I could simply work out of the steno pool.”* Percy is not happy with his new job. | Warnings: | | Author's Notes: | This would be my Percyfic, which is for Abbadon, also known as nothingbutfic.
Thanks to lysrouge for going through this and pointing out stupidos and weed-whacking my comma explosion. Errors remaining, dangit, all mine. | Story: |
“I’m. I’ve been. I beg your pardon, sir?” I heard myself stuttering, sputtering and clamped my mouth shut on a stream of objection.
“You’ve been reassigned.”
“But.” I pressed my lips together and mustered a calm and rational argument. “I believe I have been an asset to this office. I enjoy the organizational aspects and the orderliness. I have several projects in various stages of completion, and I anticipate it would be difficult to convey the details to someone else.”
“Surely,” the new Minister said, “You’ve left copious notes.”
“Well. Of course. Of course I have. But never the less, I cannot expect…”
My father’s eyebrows went up. “Percy. Believe me. This is awkward, and your mother will probably do something rash when she learns I’ve discarded my chance to see you every day, but I cannot let the work we need to do be overshadowed by the obvious strain in our relationship. I’ve temporarily reassigned you elsewhere. My hope is that if you continue to pop by here to finish the projects about which you were just expressing your concerns, you and I can work through some of our differences, and then we can speak about your assignment again. My decision, however, is made. We’ve been trying to work around each other for two weeks, and I won’t fail to dismiss someone with whom I apparently am unable to work simply because he is my son.” His face was firm and sad, and I momentarily couldn’t find the light-hearted man who’d laughingly helped me learn to read when I was four and jealous of my brothers and desperate to learn everything. That, more than anything, quelled my willingness to argue my case further.
I swallowed, feeling my face burn and wondering if I looked as much like a six year old as I felt. “Yes, sir. May I inquire where…?”
“Now that, I am sorry about. I asked for any slot equal to or one level above your current. There was exactly one open. It’s in Sport.”
My face had just started calming down, and here it was flaming up again. “Dad! Sorry. Sir! Sport? I know next to nothing!”
“Perce. Mr. Weasley. It’s temporary. Either you’ll come back to work for me, or we’ll keep an eye out for other openings. However, you’re certainly the one out of my children that I know can learn anything from a book. Besides, most of the work you’ll be doing will be based on skills you already have. You’re going to be working to organize a series of nation-wide Quidditch exhibitions toward reforming the league.”
Quidditch? “Sir. I’m certain there is something more …pertinent I could be assigned to. Perhaps I could simply work out of the steno pool.”
He sighed. “Percy. This is pertinent. Please believe me. A lot of people have lost a lot, and morale in our world is horribly low. You and I are unimaginably lucky in how well our family and our livelihood have come through, so perhaps you don’t realize, but it’s very, very pertinent. Please just report there and pitch in.”
I hated the idea of disappointing him in this moment almost as much as I hated having disappointed him enough to have led us here; and I couldn’t do anything about that first, so I turned to gather my materials and make the trek to Sport. --
The war, started in earnest just as Harry turned eighteen, had gone on, dragged on, for nearly two years. The league was decimated as players opted to choose sides and were killed and injured. Fans had been too busy and too distracted to attend games, and receipts had fallen, and eventually the league had gone on extended hiatus. My job here, then, was to end the hiatus and give people, some of them grieving, something fun to focus on once more. I opened the door to the office and walked in.
Utter. Chaos. That’s what Sport was that first day. It’s not all that surprising, I suppose; half the people who work there have their jobs because they were stars—in Quidditch, often, but some of them in Muggle football and one bloke, American fellow with a Spanish name, had played something called baseball. There might have been other professions represented, but on the whole, they were athletes turned paper-pushers, and not a one of them had the organizational skills I’d learned as a prefect. I started setting up systems immediately, and yeah, they hated me, but my systems worked. Inside of a week we had a broad plan to arrange tryouts for eight teams, players from anywhere in Britain eligible to apply. The teams would travel and practice together for several months, and play a series of seven two-day exhibitions (two games each day) all over the country, with a final tournament at the end. I began soliciting applications immediately, with Seeker and Keeper tryouts first, in early October. I placed an advertisement in the Prophet, of course, but I also called on my brothers; the twins, who had, after all, turned out all right, and who had showed up on my front steps one night a year before and told me I was a stupid fuck to keep shutting everyone out, and they were bloody well putting a stop to it. They’d bulled their way in and set up camp in my sitting room, and, well, it wasn’t comfortable, but it was a start, and we were mostly civil these days. Anyway. They knew everyone and their mother—it’s what happens when one, or in their case, two, are amiable and fun; a skillset I’ve never quite acquired, myself, despite more recent efforts on my part to do so. They had several suggestions for announcement venues, which I followed because despite my ostensible lack of a funny bone, I am widely purported to have an excess of sense and intelligence. In other words, I deferred to their superior knowledge in this arena.
I began receiving owls from all over England the very next day, including some from old friends. The one I read over several times came from my old roommate, Oliver Wood, who simply wrote, “Quidditch, Perce? Can’t wait to see me, then? I’ll be there. Ol.” That joker. The most interesting owl, partly because I’d been under the impression from the twins, who as I’ve said know these things, that they were keeping their somewhat complicated relationship under wraps, came from Harry. It said, “Draco and I will be there, but we think it’s only fair to tell you, we’re a package deal. We’re unwilling to spend long periods apart. If we make different squads, we’ll deal with that after the exhibition period is up, okay? Harry.”
I had better, I thought; begin learning the rules of the bloody game. The basic rules—scoring, position names—that much I certainly had soaked up easily enough, but if I was to be in charge of tryouts and a tournament, it seemed to me I ought to know the whole list of fouls in depth. The lot in my department was no help; they kept trying to explain by way of examples from the great classic games, which is useless to me because the reason I don’t know this is that I’ve never seen the great classic games. Apparently everyone else has, though; there’s quite a market in Pensieve-caught strands, so they all talk at once describing a particular play and I certainly don’t have time to go acquire a copy of each and watch and watch and attempt to deduce the rules that way! So, off to the library, it was, for a solid several days of reading and looking at Pens-clips, just a few, for the finer points. I thought I had it, finally, and I was ready to head off to Scotland. - --
The morning of the tryouts, the twins showed up in my fireplace unannounced. They wouldn’t be trying out, either of them. Fred couldn’t fly any more, of course, with the leg, and because Fred couldn’t, George wouldn’t--those two are funny, how close they are. In fact, one of the few truly civil conversations I had with Dad these last few weeks was about Mum lamenting that they’ll never manage to find the perfect women, because unless they find perfect twins, they won’t think two different women are perfect. Mum’s wrong; their taste is complementary, not identical, but the real question, whether they’ll manage to find complementary women who will both find them appealing is still rather up in the air. - “Fred. George.”
“Hullo,” George said. “We thought perhaps you could use some extra judges.” They both grinned mirror-image grins. “Come on through?”
I accepted their generous offer and Flooed to their shop so we could all walk together up the hill. -
We had to move a bit slowly, though Fred was really getting around quite well now, and by the time we arrived at Hogwarts there was quite a crowd at the ruined pitch where we were symbolically holding these trials. It was not yet publicly known that while the teams toured, we would be rebuilding this along with the rest of the school, that the final tournament would be here in the restored stadium on the restored grounds where Harry had finally won the damn war; though we would be building temporary extra seating and concessions. Actually, the pitch itself was fine, although the grandstand was charred and most of the seating and half the changing rooms unusable. The twins settled in one of the sections still able to hold their weight, and the three of my staff serving as judges were already waiting in another. I set up my table quickly and began assigning numbers to candidates, simultaneously issuing instructions to the other members of my staff making up the rest of the teams for the purposes of trials. Things kept getting confused though; apparently my instructions weren’t clear, and I began to get frustrated, but just then, the twins appeared once more, taking over the number-assignment process wordlessly. I climbed on my broom and took off to sort things in the air.
What? I can fly. Well, even. I just don’t play.
I saw Harry swapping numbers with some dark-haired girl so he and Draco would fly together, and I chuckled. As long as everyone’s numbers and names matched up, it didn’t matter much, and the two of them certainly did have some history as far as being competitive together.
Once I was only concentrating on the one thing it didn’t take long to get things sorted, and then the first pair of Seeker contenders rose into the air. One of them was the dark girl Harry had swapped with and she seemed quite good. The other aspirant was… well, he might he a good chaser, but he was clearly not ready to play as Seeker, even with this lot of aging teammates. The girl got to the Snitch first, a trial Snitch unable to leave a relatively confined area for all but the first go, on five of five tries, and I signaled everyone down to switch for another pair. Harry and Draco were our third pair, and very evenly matched, splitting two to two before getting tangled together as Harry caught it for the fifth time. Trials went on for a good three hours before we had it narrowed down to twenty, and then the Seekers were turned loose for lunch whilst we looked at Keepers.
We reconvened at two with everyone, this time to play, watching both Keepers and Seekers at once. Again, Harry swapped around so he would pair up with Draco, and again, the twins clearly had the paperwork under control. The two of them, and Oliver, who had made the cut for Keepers, all would go in the last set. The three of them sprawled and chatted off to the west on the lawn, Draco leaning on one elbow along Harry’s side, Harry faced the other way, leaning back on Draco’s bent knees, and Oliver on Harry’s other side facing Draco. They laughed a lot, and I tried not to watch them to the detriment of the contestants on the pitch now. Finally their turn arrived. Again, they mounted their brooms and kicked off, and mutated, before my eyes, from partners to adversaries with astonishing speed. I landed to watch this time and sat with my brothers, broom still in my hand.
“Holy… those two just can’t play easy, can they?” Fred said.
I found myself really laughing with my brothers. “Yes, and you two never had a competitive bone in you?”
“Well yes, but we didn’t compete against each other!” George interjected.
“True, that. Sharing the one brain between you makes that nigh onto impossible, I should think.”
“Hey! None of that, you git,” Fred said.
“Snot.” There wasn’t much action overhead; Harry tended to stay high and watch, and Draco had evidently learned to do the same. Both of them were scowling fiercely in concentration as they peered about, circling each other in an intricate dance that I know I couldn’t have performed with that kind of grace had my life depended upon it.
Fred looked at George. “Look! Big Head Boy resorting to name-calling!”
“Snots, plural, then. I have had occasion, a time or two, to restrict my vocabulary based on the listening audience.”
George smirked. “Fred, I do believe we’re being insulted! By this prat!”
I looked down from the two boys floating overhead searching for the Snitch, and glanced from twin to twin. “Prat? Let’s talk about vocabulary then, shall we? I’m nearly certain I’ve heard you use more derogatory terms than that before. Wanker used to be a favorite, did it not?”
They stared at me. “Bugger. I do have a life, you know. I’ve lived away from home for several years now. Every now and again, I do speak with other individuals. I’m familiar with all sorts of words and concepts Percy the Head Boy would never have mentioned.”
Fred grinned. “Such as ‘bugger,’ for instance?”
“That’s one—oh fuck!”
They thought I was taking the conversation to its logical conclusion, but really, I’d just looked back up into the sky in time to see both Harry and Draco streak off after the Snitch and crash, hard, into one another. They were falling and I grabbed my broom to try to get to them, and then everything went crazy. They were conscious and somehow locked together. Oliver was chasing them to the ground to help, looking …quite concerned. I was coming up from under. And then they sprang apart and plummeted individually although both brooms were slowing them and Ol and I winged each other, and fuck that hurt; which I said quite loud, causing the men working under me to stare because damn it, I do use those words occasionally, but not at work for heaven’s sake. And then I landed and Harry and Draco were both limping and I wasn’t sure what was wrong with my shoulder. Oliver seemed to be all right, though, and the twins had jumped in again—much more reliable than I’d ever given them credit for, those two—and got everyone else all sorted; apparently there was additional crashing overhead as everyone panicked at once. It is now on my to-do list to develop a specific protocol for various possible Quidditch accidents, because if there is one already extant, clearly no one knows it.
Any road, Fred told Oliver to take our bunch to the Gryffindor changing rooms, which were still relatively intact, while they took Larson, Willett and MacConnach over to the Hufflepuff one. George had my broom and was zipping off to the school proper get a mediwizard for those three, who really were quite banged up. He took off with a funny little wink at Fred—and I’m not ashamed to say the look on Fred’s face as George kicked off will probably give me nightmares—who picked up his crutch and started steering his troop to their changing rooms. I told the rest to go on back to the office and start doing the paperwork; we’d seen everything we needed to, when it came to it, and followed Ol and the other two idiots around the back of the pitch.
They got there way before me, limps and all—Harry and Draco seemed not to be all that injured, just bruised and sore and sprained. Oliver was favoring his right side, I could see now. And I felt like someone was twisting a knife into my right shoulder socket as I tried to drag my arm along behind me. I nearly concluded it would hurt less to just go ahead and remove the arm, because then it wouldn’t be hanging so. Plus, then I would have an excellent excuse to really hate this sport for the rest of my life. It seemed like I ought to be able to hold the damned thing up with my other arm, somehow, but when I tried to do that, well that was just excruciating. So I walked on, slower and slower, and when I got there, Oliver was just coming back for me, having taken off most of his gear and carrying his wand in his left hand. "Oi, Perce. Here." He took the weight of that arm and supported it, and I must have looked relieved because if anything his concern became greater. He hustled me in through the outer door and into the locker area, holding my arm gently until he could sit me down on the floor, summoning a pillow to go under my elbow on the bench. “Just dislocated, I expect,” he said, his brogue softening the J and elongating the O as he murmured near my ear. “Ah. No, there’s this. There we go.” He managed to kill the pain quickly, and did something to my shoulder and oh! That was so much better! The relief was short-lived; it still hurt like hell, but it was better by a degree of magnitude, I supposed.
When Oliver set and bound my collarbone, I found myself leaning into his uninjured side for support—it hurt like anything—and he wrapped his arm around me. I leaned in further, despite tender tissues that hurt, because leaning felt good, and when the bone started to knit it felt …I suppose fuzzy isn’t something one can feel inside one’s own skin, but it’s the best I can do. Effervescent, perhaps. Dizzying and warm, and the discontinuation of the sharp hot pain was such that my stomach lurched from the change. I leaned and clung, my nose nearly brushing his throat.
I felt bad. I’d assumed for years that Ol was maybe not too bright, with only sports on the brain, but here he was performing relatively complex healing charms without a hitch. Given I knew Harry and Draco both were not stupid, and neither were the twins, I began to consider that my general opinion of Quidditch players might have been based on assumption rather than fact. Damn.
It was probably nearly two minutes before I managed to speak. Whereupon, I of course focused on the academic- git that I am.
“Ol?”
“Perce?”
“Why do you know how to set a clavicle?”
“It’s no’ hard, really. Just a matter of attention to the details, keeping things lined up right and proper and casting a handful of spells.”
“Right. Not hard. But why did you learn?”
“I played professional Quidditch for several years, love. If you come to the ground, they make you go see the medical staff and you miss half the game. No fun, that. So at Puddlemere we all practiced the basic charms to kill the pain and knit bones. In the air, if we could.”
“That’s …psychotic!”
“A bit, possibly. Did you ever stay up all night working on a piece of legislation, losing sleep, forgetting to eat, perhaps?”
“Well. But that was.”
“Important?”
“Er. Right.”
“If I tell you how, do you think you might could patch me up? Or should I go see if the mediwitch is done across the way?”
“Oh! I forgot.” I felt my face heat. How rude could I be? Leaning on him and asking questions like that. I sat up, and he pulled his practice jumper over his head.
He was beautiful. I mean, he was always beautiful, but when I was seventeen I didn’t really think about, you know, that. Plus, and I’m a bit ashamed to admit this, even if I did notice, just a tiny bit, I was too busy thinking him not up to my standards.. Here, now, he was all smooth muscles; so smooth, such brown skin and browner flat nipples and I forgot, momentarily, that I was supposed to be… right, fixing …what? Then he turned and gods! The whole right side of his ribcage, from waist to armpit, looked as though it had been massaged with ripe blueberries.
“Ol! Oh!”
“It’s no’ so bad, Perce. I cast a pain charm before I even hit the ground. Though it is wearing off a bit, and presently I’ll need another.”
“I’ve no bloody idea how to fix you, though. Bruises, I certainly patched up many times—you’ve met the twins.”
“Who do you think gave me the brilliant idea about mid-air healing in the first place?”
“Of course. I expect they charge you royalties.”
“Nae. Not those two. Business is business, but teammates is teammates, love.”
“And brothers are brothers. Yes.” I felt my eyes lose focus behind my spectacles as I thought about my brothers again. Next week, I was definitely patching things up with Mum and Dad. Shite. Patching things up. “But get on with telling me what you need me to do.”
He calmly described and demonstrated, and told me how to feel for breaks in his ribs. The bruised flesh was hot to the touch, and he winced, but told me what to look for, and how to fix it, and I set two ribs to healing and started the bruises washing away, and then.
I don’t know how to explain what happened next. I don’t know how to explain what came over me. That is, I do know: sudden uncontrolled lust. But even as I leaned in to kiss the bruised flesh I marveled at that lack of control. And then once my lips touched the ridge of one sore rib, I needed to touch them all, to nuzzle along and between and across, and it never occured to me he might not want me to do that, and then he hooked a finger under my chin. “Perce?”
“Oliver?”
“Tha’s better than the spell, love, if you mean to continue.” And he whispered something that pulled the remaining pain out of my shoulder and chest, then again at himself while I watched, watched his torso unbruising and limbering, watched those flat brown nipples peak before my eyes. He set his wand down, then, and reached for me with both hands and set to work running his lips along the repaired trapezius muscle at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and demonstrated how the relief of the spell paled in comparison to the feeling of a simple wet tongue drawing circles and patterns.
I do believe in the maxim, begin as you mean to go on, so really, what was my choice?
A thought occurred to me suddenly, even as my skin tightened and my head fell back of its own accord. I struggled between the impulse to ask the burning question and the instinctive blind need to do whatever was needful to make that not stop, ever. Fortunately, circumstance allowed for both; the question answered itself as a bare fraction of my attention was diverted by a moan in the shower area. From my vantage point—I confess I had completely ignored that area of the room up to this point, and all I’d heard had been running water--I could see a very pale bare backside, or rather, a part of one, a lovely curve of white against red tile, pressing out of my line of sight and returning time and again as shoulders above flexed and held, apparently braced against the tiles out of sight. I decided it must be Draco I could see, although with the head bent forward at the neck, I couldn’t be sure. In any case, I was now clear on two things: first, I was no longer curious as to where they were, and second, I felt no need to be concerned over Oliver’s unbelievable lips working their way up under my chin, along my jaw, lips on my earlobe sucking and nipping until I could not help but pull back in order to dive right back in and mirror that amazing action, sucking his perfect lobe between my teeth, biting down gently, feeling my highly interested cock leap in response to both my own suckling and his breathed “fuck!” in response.
“Yes,” I breathed back.
He stopped, stilled, turned to me to bring our lips level together, speaking against me, his lower lip just pulling at mine as it moved with the words. “Yes, Perce? Yes, what?”
“Yes, this,” I dipped my head a bit and tugged at that lovely full lip. “Yes this,” I rapped at the knee armor on his upraised knee. “Yes this,” I slid my hand up that leg to that beautiful firm belly, dipping into the perfectly round navel on my way to the lovely nipple above the lovely hip.
“Perce.” He was so serious, now. His eyes didn’t laugh, as they sometimes had, as they had earlier. His lips left mine, pulled back to look me clear in the eye. He thought, of course, I couldn’t have meant what I meant, and on balance, it was a rational thought. When had I ever demonstrated interest in him, in Quidditch players and the gear I’d somehow never noticed made a man look like a direct bloody descendant of a medieval knight in shining, if plastic, silver armor? When, for that matter, had I ever put forth real, discernible evidence I liked boys?
Not that it was news to me, of course. But, well, Minister Fudge had made statements on many occasions which led me to believe such preferences would not be well received, and it’s not as if there were lovely boys lined up round my block, now, was it? And to boot, I’d certainly never indicated an interest in what was before me: a muscular, brown bloke with lovely abdominal definition and perfect heart-shaped delts. Everyone, including me, had assumed I would go for the bookish sort. Well. I’d have been wrong. Or I had broader tastes than anticipated.
“Ol.” I repeated as I’d done earlier. “Yes. This.” I reached up for his wrist to capture it and bring his hand down onto my now-more-than-interested cock, and he groaned as I matched his hand with my own on him.
He thrust up into my hand but didn’t relax a bit. “Perce?”
“Ol.”
“Where are…” I cocked my head toward the shower and he turned to crane over his shoulder. “Oh. Oh fuck.”
“Or something,” I allowed, feeling my face twist into a smirk. A smirk! I’d spent no few hours in front of a mirror training that expression away—it was neither becoming nor respectful, after all—and never the less, here I was smirking at the man whose cock I was fondling. I concluded Oliver, or in any case, Oliver, in this situation, made me completely lose control.
“…Percy, did you just …make a joking reference to sex?”
“May I tell you a secret?” I think he’d have nodded yes regardless of his preference, because I was shamelessly sliding my hand lightly up and down the ridge through his trousers. “I do in fact have desires and fantasies and even—“ I lowered my voice and whispered right against his ear, “wet dreams.”
“And have I been prominent in these desires, these dreams?” Damn, the burr on that R, in prominent and again in desires and dreams, made me shiver.
“Specifically? Not waking ones, so much. I wouldn’t have thought you were …willing. Sleeping ones? Sometimes you’re the star.”
“Willing is no’ the word, love.”
I considered pressing for a more accurate description, but thought I mightn’t like the answer, so I returned my lips to his ear, down his throat, onto that lovely chest, pausing there, caught in the dilemma of which nipple to suckle at first. Again, my problem was solved for me, though this time not to my satisfaction. “Oliver? Percy?”
I leaned back away from Oliver and probably drove him quite insane as I couldn’t quite decide whether to snatch my hand back or keep it where it was resting on his pulsing cock. “Harry.” I tried to use the tone I’ve cultivated, the competent, completely reliable Percy tone, but what I actually managed more closely resembled a squeak. I felt my face heat again, knowing it was mottled-embarrassed red this time, rather than pleasant-hot-flushy pink, but there was nothing to be done.
Harry and Draco, both naked as the day they were born, stood over us, grinning wickedly. They matched differently than my brothers—opposites inverting precisely around a point rather than through the glass of a mirror, I suppose—but damn if they didn’t have that same grin, the one I persistently expect the twins to patent, down to a science. Or an art; looking at them, I think I might have had to go with art.
“Feel free to hate this idea, and we’ll go back to what we were doing in the next room,” Harry began. “But, well, we saw, and then we spoke a bit, and got to thinking, perhaps—“
“Potter, you could take fifteen minutes to crack an egg. We’re all healed. You look like…” his eyes roamed down Oliver’s chest, then turned to me. “from what I see, so are you. Anything that still needs major work?”
I shook my head, completely conflustered as to where this was going. What? Conflustered is a perfectly valid representation of my state of mind just then, and if there isn’t a word that suits precisely, I think it is right well my job to make one.
“So we thought perhaps we could all play together, instead of in pairs.”
Oliver’s cock seemed to think that was an excellent idea. I, well, this was going to be more or less all-new for me, regardless. And I had to admit they weren’t terribly difficult to look at. I nodded.
“Lovely,” Harry said, grinning. He sat on Oliver’s other side as Draco slid soft cool hands up under my jumper to pull it over my head. He moved slowly, clearly aware of the soreness remaining in my shoulder, then soothed there with a wet kiss, tongue remaining, tracing a path much like the one Ol had run with his lips earlier. I found my eyes closed though I didn’t recall having closed them, so I opened them, to watch Harry running his lips down the perfect center of Ol’s chest.
I think my senses overloaded right about here, because suddenly I couldn’t quite remember how to breathe, and then all three of them were standing—well, kneeling—over me. Apparently, breathing is not only pleasant, but also important. They slowed down, then, all three of them touching me, caressing, and I spent an absurd amount of energy remembering to inhale regularly and exhale in between as fingers—Ol’s rough ones and Harry’s square warm ones and Draco’s absurdly soft ones—touched and tickled, my belly, my hipbones, my thighs; as tongues, all pink and wet and gently rough curled around my nipples, my earlobes, my own tongue. Somehow they communicated between themselves without words—it seemed to involve wrinkled noses and arching eyebrows and the occasional dropped kiss from one of them to another—because there’s no way it was coincidence they way they all moved in tandem like that, standing me surrounded, unsliding trousers and unpulling kneepads in smooth strokes and desperate tugs.
And then I was on my feet, in socks and spectacles, and for the tiniest moment none of them touched me as they performed more of their astonishing eyebrow communication before Harry, exactly my height, put his hand to my face and pulled us together, pulling my lower lip between his teeth for extended nibbling until I heard myself whimpering, dignity be damned, for more. But then, there were so many mores I might have been wanting by then, it was hard to say what, precisely, I meant. I might have meant, Draco, I want deeper into your mouth; because whilst Harry was nibbling, Draco was dropping down between us, teasing me yet, taking just the very tip of my cock in his mouth and swirling his tongue with vigor—my knees would have buckled had Oliver not been propping me up a bit, but still, I wanted more there, too. And then there was Oliver.
Ol stood behind me, his chest burning hot against my back, and when he murmured a spell I’d seen in my reading but never exactly used before, I heard myself groan again before he ever got round to pressing a finger, just the one, into me, a sensation both strange and perfect and nevertheless nowhere near enough, and then I was whimpering at all three of them, unable to clarify of which I wanted more—all of them, damn it! And none of them willing to assume I meant him.
Somehow, I had to find a way to be more clear. I backed away from Harry, who tried to follow but effectively tripped over Draco. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard and tried to explain. “I want. This is absurd. I can’t even tell you what I want. More. Of. That. All of that.” I opened my eyes and turned to Oliver’s face just over my shoulder. “Am I being greedy?”
Draco answered. “Yep. Not to worry. We’ll get it out of you.”
Oliver nodded and Harry pulled my chin back toward him with a single crooked finger to grin at me and push his sliding glasses back up his nose. “More of all of it?” He had my balls in his hand now, and Draco had returned to his previous ministrations and Oliver had, too. I found my vocabulary completely gone, abandoned in a rush as the only word still in my brain was a single imperative: fuck.
I said it aloud, and Merlin, they complied. Draco moved; spun on the balls of his feet—not on his knees, that one, which made me snicker even in the moment. Oliver pulled his hand away and Harry led me—had me by the balls and used the advantage, calling a hasty “Accio!” for his wand and an expert transfiguring charm to change a bench before pushing me down on my back on the new-made bed, or actually not so much a bed as a tall cushioned surface that looked rather like a changing room bench, but this might have been no time to be particular. He dragged my arse right to the edge, feet and legs hanging just for an instant until Draco pushed up my knees and set his hands outside my hips, returning to his previous activity with even greater enthusiasm than before while Harry flopped down next to me and went back to work on my swollen lips, my sensitive earlobes, the pulse in my throat I could hear and practically taste as it throbbed against his lips. I could hear Oliver a few feet away, and I couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing, but then in an incredibly athletic maneuver—thank gods for Quidditch players—he slipped into Draco’s place without a hitch, and Draco crawled up to lie next to me, opposite Harry, as Oliver pressed his cock against my opening.
“All right, there, Percy?”
So all right. Unbelievably all right. I managed to convey this somehow, although I’m virtually sure I was nonverbal by this point, as Draco had once against taken my cock into his mouth and Harry was, I don’t know what Harry was doing, and I was stretching, stretching as Oliver pressed and pushed and slid.
My repertoire of expletives and interjective words does not have a big enough word for anything that went on from here, and I’m not inclined to over-repeat a single word if I can help it, so I fear my exposition will be a pale reflection of actual events if I try. I could simply put it like this: I’ve heard people talk about seeing stars, about feeling like their skin might actually explode, about forgetting to breathe—I’d already met that response and I evidently hadn’t learned a thing—and I’d always thought this was hyperbole. Nice, sure. It’s not like I’d never wanked off and felt my balls squeeze and my cock thrum, but really, I’d never been anywhere near all that overblown description, and I didn’t quite believe it.
This language needs some bigger words, because really, the problem is that no description in English would convey it all.
Oliver was all the way in me, then, and I thought I wanted more and less and then he pulled away and pressed ahead and on the way back in he hit? rubbed? pressed? something inside me that sent me spiraling toward the edge in an absurd hurry, thrusting into Draco’s very willing mouth; feeling Harry lapping and caressing and then I was yelling without ever having intended to make a sound, and Oliver was pounding into me and Draco was swallowing and Harry was watching and oh. Fuck.
Oliver pulled out of me slowly and helped me move to a more comfortable position before collapsing between Harry and me. My shoulder was throbbing again now, sore, but his head resting on my chest felt so good I didn’t have it in me to make him move. I felt his eyelashes tickling my chest and I opened my eyes to see what he was looking at; I hadn’t realized until that moment that Harry had got up and come round to where Draco had stood up off the bed, the two of them kissing and rubbing together harshly, frantically, against the locker doors. Draco hoisting himself up, bracing his back against the metal to wrap his legs around Harry’s hips and slide down onto his cock, so ready I could see him leaking, dripping from here even though my glasses had got off to somewhere; and in all of thirty seconds they were both yelling, too, before they shuddered and stilled and separated to collapse back onto the bed.
Somehow I doubted this was what my father had in mind when he assigned me to Sport. I thought I might have to rescind my application for a transfer back.
“Oliver?”
“Perce?”
“I hope you don’t think this will guarantee you a spot on a team.”
Oliver propped up onto his elbow to look into my face. “You’re joking, then?”
“Yes, Ol. I’m joking.”
“Good.” He put his head back down and conjured a blanket big enough for the four of us. | E-Mail the Author: | roller2816@hotmail.com |
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