Quidditch Match Deborah Peters

A/N: This piece contains almost-graphic slash (thank Merlin for euphemisms) and words that still cannot be said on prime-time. Share and enjoy.

Percy's concentration on the textbook on his desk was finally broken by the sudden slamming of the door to his dorm room and the accompanying appearance of a handsome, muscular boy, the kind of boy that is invariably accompanied by a saxophone riff in certain kinds of movies. The boy, his hair damp from an extended shower, shuffled over to the bed on the opposite side of the room and flopped down on his back, covering his face with crossed arms.
Percy had the sudden temptation to run across the room to tickle the gloomies right out of the other boy, but instead took off of his glasses and polished them with his tie. Without turning around, he asked in a rhetorical sort of way, "Something bothering you, Oliver?"
Oliver's voice, from under his arms, was muffled. "Piss off."
Percy put his glasses back on and said, tentatively, "I... saw the match, this afternoon."
Oliver groaned and rolled over so that his back was to Percy.
Percy turned around in his chair. "It seemed to me that you and your boys played very well, all things considering. Potter in hospital and all. Some of your plays were quite brilliant, really. But then, I don't really know anything about Quidditch."
Oliver suddenly rolled over to give Percy a stern look. "No, you don't," he said simply, and rolled back over.
Percy sighed, rising to his feet and compulsively straightening his tie. "Oliver," he said, hesitantly walking over to his roommate's side of the room, "I mean it. And—Potter is the best player on the team—yourself excluded, of course. For God's sake, he's your Seeker, isn't he?"
"A good captain," Oliver said darkly, his back to Percy, "should be able to make up for extenuating circumstances."
Percy sat down gingerly on the side of Oliver's bed. This tender gesture was all too much for Oliver, who, besides wanting to prevent further awkward prose, was feeling rather randy at the moment, having just lost a Quidditch match, which as we all know is the gayest sport in existence, next to wrestling. Without batting an eye, as the expression goes, Oliver rolled over, sat up, and batted his eyes at Percy, thereby ruining the aforementioned expression. Damn.
For his part, Percy was intrigued by this turn of events. Why did Oliver keep rolling over, and why did he seem to have developed a nervous tic (something completely different, as it turns out, from a nervous tick, which although is an amusing mental image is unrelated to this story completely). In any case, Percy simply couldn't help himself from leaning over to his roommate and kissing him on the lips. When this kiss was over, Percy was looking at his roommate with an expression of uncertainty, one which ended when Oliver grabbed Percy's shoulders, lay him on his back, and kissed him like a motherfucker, if motherfuckers were in the habit of kissing teenaged boys instead of fucking mothers.
As it was obvious from his glasses and compulsive tie-straightening, Percy was a supreme example of a sexually repressed tightass (this time the literal meaning does apply, as Percy's ass had not yet been loosened, nor will it be any time soon; keep in mind that it is his ass that may or may not be eventually loosened, as opposed to his bowels, because a story in which Percy's bowels are loosened is somewhat less than arousing). As such a person, he had not often found himself in such a position (much to his chagrin), but fortunately for Oliver, Percy did not find the situation unappealing. Rather, Oliver found a rather intriguing aspect of Percy's physique pressed faintly against Oliver's Quidditch-firmed stomach through Percy's neatly pressed trousers. Oliver decided that the best way to eradicate the situation would be to remove Percy's trousers entirely, so that the intriguing aspect of Percy's physique could be firmly pressed into Oliver's Quidditch-firmed stomach. Oliver, a captain with strategy always in mind, was not one to rush things, however, so a few more half-hours were spent exploring the parts of the body not sheathed in trousers (the sword metaphor of having a sheath, of course, only really working for one particular organ). Eventually, of course, all good things must come to a climax, and Oliver's hands worked around from the back of Percy's trousers to the front, where they had some difficulty working the opening mechanism due to a distortion of the usual shape of the front of the trousers. The struggle to unzip Percy's trousers resulted in quite a bit of "accidental" contact with what lie beneath Percy's trousers (although, in all fairness, it was no longer lying there), and so by the time Oliver got them undone, Percy was as well, or so Oliver imagined, breathily asking Percy for all sorts of appraisals of his well-being that inevitably met with a "yes," until they were, quite suddenly, answered with a "No!"
Percy's eyes snapped open and he slapped Oliver's hand away while gently pushing the other boy off of him. "Oliver," he said, one hand lingering on Oliver's shoulder, "You—you don't know what you're doing."
Oliver pushed Percy's hand aside and pinned him against the bed. "Yes, I do," he said, covering Percy's collarbone with kisses, "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Percy's first thought was that, for an allegedly straight boy, Oliver certainly did know exactly what he was doing, but after a few more minutes, Percy's logic prevailed over his lust, and he once again pushed Oliver away.
Oliver had not previously imagined that Percy would be one to play hard-to-get, but since Percy seemed to enjoy pushing him around, he decided to go with the flow and launch himself at his roommate once more.
"Oliver, stop!" Percy said, authority skulking into his voice a little too late. When Oliver didn't (stop, that is), Percy pushed him away again, but this time rolled with it, so that Oliver wound up on the floor beside the bed.
"Now, look," Oliver said in his best Quidditch captain voice, "it's one thing if you like it rough, but don't bloody throw me on the floor. I have enough bruises from today's match."
Oliver attempted to climb back into the bed, but Percy stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. "Oliver," he said softly, "you're too upset to know what you're doing. If we keep at this, you're going to regret it."
Oliver frowned. "I'm going to regret it? Just me—not you?"
Percy's mind raced for a response, reached the two hundred meter mark, grabbed a Dixie cup of water, and pulled a hamstring. "Well—you know—I..." he trailed off. "I've always... you don't... I mean, you're... Oliver?"
Oliver suddenly stood. "I think I'll sleep in Potters' room tonight, seeing as there's an empty bed, with him in hospital." He looked at Percy for a long moment. Percy looked hopefully up at his roommate. "Oliver?" Oliver slowly moved his hand towards Percy's face. Percy leaned sideways into Oliver's touch, but promptly fell over, as Oliver had reached past him to grab the pillow off of the bed. By the time Percy had righted himself, Oliver had left the room. Percy lay back in Oliver's bed, his eyes closed tightly, an unreadable expression on his face. After a moment, his eyes snapped open, and he walked to the desk on the other side of the room, sat down in front of the textbook, and resumed his reading. Every so often, footsteps would be heard in the hallway, and his head would snap up to look at the door. Each time, though, he went back to reading.