“Would you care to repeat that, Mr. Flint”

“If you want. You asked me how I’d like to stand outside the door and I asked you how you’d like to suck my balls.”

That’d been how it started. Percy had never in his entire life witnessed such insubordination to a member of the teaching staff. And to Professor McGonagall no less!

He’d only been in fourth year and Professor McGonagall had allowed him to miss a Quidditch lesson to sit in with the year above, assuring him he was set to do great things with transfiguration one day. Percy had felt ashamed of secretly just being pleased he wouldn’t have to go through another humiliating hour of not being able to play Quidditch to even a first years standard. Before that day, Percy remembered it had been a Tuesday, he’d never spared much attention to Marcus Flint. He’d no reason to. Everyone knew of Flint, he was Quidditch captain after all, but Flint being a year older and a Slytherin their paths had never crossed.

After that day Percy found himself hard pressed to think of anything but Marcus Flint. He’d thought of Flint at supper, knowing he was serving detention with Mr. Filch for his cheek. He’d thought of Flint in lessons, imagining what people would say if he were to say that, in the same casual drawl Flint seemed to have mastered so well. He’d thought of Flint throughout the summer holidays, wondering if the boy’s parents knew of his behaviour and if they did were they as unconcerned about it as his family were of his own conduct.

Back at school Flint continued to haunt his every waking moment. Percy told himself that he didn’t take the long route to Arithmancy simply to catch a glimpse of the rugged beater; he simply preferred the scenery on that side of the castle. And he was just protecting Penny when he took her turn to patrol the dungeons, the thought that Flint was sleeping or talking, or, sweet Merlin, showering mere meters away had absolutely no effect on him. By spring Percy had been forced to admit, at least to himself, that he was unhealthily obsessed with the older boy. By now thoughts of Flint had intruded into his dreams too. At night he imagined Flint’s sport calloused fingers trailing over his chest and down his abdomen and lower… and of Flint’s mouth on his lips and on his neck and everywhere until Percy would wake up breathless and sticky, and completely unable to move due to the tangled mess of his bedclothes.

Percy watched Marcus in the dinner hall, pulse quickening as the other licked his desert spoon, mesmerised by the way his Adams apple bobbed with each swallow, imagining the older boy swallowing something else entirely. He watched Marcus at Quidditch practice even though he ought to be revising and could be severely reprimanded by Madam Hooch for ‘spying’ on the Slytherin team. Huddled in the stands he’d ignore such thoughts and concentrate on how elegantly Marcus moved through the air, the way his summer Quidditch robes rode up to reveal an expanse of creamy thigh. And when Marcus caught him watching as the other boys trailed towards the changing rooms his knees shook so violently he almost collapsed, and he would have if Marcus hadn’t grabbed him by the front of his school robes and warned him not to tell Oliver any of their new formations. He’d been shocked that he’d never thought of telling Oliver before but when he’d seen him later the memory of Marcus’ breath on his cheek had rendered him incapable of speech anyway.

When Marcus failed his exams and got put back a year Percy could stand it no longer and kissed him. In the corridor outside the transfiguration classroom at dinner time when anyone could have seen and he didn’t even care. Marcus had kissed back wetly, pushing his tongue into Percy’s mouth and trailing those hands under his shirt until he couldn’t see straight or draw breath or think of anything but Marcus.

Marcus had whispered in his ear “how’d you like to suck my balls” and Percy had gone over the edge right there, while Marcus smirked and did something wicked to the side of his neck. Percy had taken Flint’s hand and dragged him to prefect’s bathroom, grinning as he murmured over his shoulder,

“How would you like to repeat that, Mr. Flint?”


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