Perfect Percy

Shade of Euphoria's prompt: Harry Potter: Percy Weasley/Marcus Flint, delicious.

*This is smut.*

"You're not supposed to be in here." It's a warning Percy Weasley has given many times, in many places – and likely will give again. Everyone deserves a warning before Percy reports them. Hogwart's students seem particularly uncaring to the rules made up by adults that keep the school in order and functioning as it should everyday and year around. As such, they don't often know that such rules exist for any reason, or at all.

That the professors receive so little help from those they teach, who don't seem to want to learn, amazes Percy. So he does what he can to help. If that makes him a 'professor's pet' and 'brown nosier' and 'know it all', well, Percy can live with that until the rest of his would be peers play catch up. Then they'll find that he's important, that he is after all somebody to like. He'll have earned it, not like Harry who has had greatness thrust upon him be being born and living. Not that Percy blames Harry, oh no, envies perhaps, but Percy still respects Harry – he is, rightly enough, magically powerful.

But in the here and now, to his words, Marcus Flint only grins.

"Is that right?" Percy flicks his eyes away, if only because this is the Perfect's bathroom, and Marcus Flint is bathing in it. Under a shimmer of suds he's also very naked. He nods to the wall, and hates that his red hair and fair face flushes so easily, he can see it in the mirror, all that pale skin gone red like fire.

To that blush, Marcus chuckles dark and deep. Like Percy's own brothers, Marcus plays Quidditch - has been playing it ever since he'd been allowed, he is also two years older then Percy. His teeth may be big (the better to bite you with, whispers a wicked thought) but his body is very nicely developed – and it shows. Percy can't help but look, and it's as if Marcus is showing off.

"What are you going to do, Perfect – send me to detention, spank me?" Marcus's eyes go up and down Percy, very deliberately, as if mentally marking all his strengths and weaknesses. Percy can admit he has a short temper, attributed to his red hair, but the fact is Percy hates that while he can get on a broom and play ball with his brothers, he's not allowed to play Quidditch on a school team.

"Get out." Percy snarls, and promptly wishes he hadn't, Marcus obeys him, rising out of the water like a sin. A very certain kind of sin which Percy is experiencing, which takes his breath away, and Marcus like any good predator senses that, and moves in: nothing but bare skin.

"What if I want in?" Marcus breaths against his ears and cheeks, hot, flaming the flames within.

"Want what?" Percy parrots, blinking stupidly up at him, all thoughts dazed and taken, stolen with Marcus's very breath upon him.

"Heh." Marcus touches his cheek, a small brush of pinky on flaming skin, and it's then that Percy makes a move to resist – too late, too late. Marcus has both his wrists clasped in his one big hand, above Percy's head – and he never noticed it. Never wanted to notice, never minded one bit what Marcus was doing to him, going to do to him. He wants it too.

Marcus kisses him, and Percy – already burning – melts.

Marcus has him, holds him against the wall, pinned for Marcus for his – their – own pleasure.

The promise of it is in the thrust of his tongue past Percy's lips, the roughness, and the bristles rubbing his smooth skin raw. That tongue fills up Percy's mouth, fills him up from within, and Percy would choke if Marcus doesn't already knowingly withdraw, then pushes in again, and again, slowly filling him back up. Mouth to mouth, pressed against each other as if to kindle warmth in the cold, he isn't for once cold inside, he wonders how Marcus knew. Percy knows he's moaning and making noises he shouldn't, knows he doesn't want it to stop, doesn't want to be caught like this.

His fingers entangled with Marcus, testing, flexing and straining. He cries out, and Marcus swallows that sound. Slowly chuckles, withdrawing, feeling his task is done. Percy finds himself offering, wordlessly, with a twist of his hips toward Marcus, what he can't say aloud. His own body betraying him, widening his eyes and the length of Marcus is hot and hard against his belly, and Percy wants more.

More then that promise of a tongue down his throat can fill and fit.

"Delicious." Marcus hisses into Percy's ear. As one handed he shoves robes aside, under them are jeans that Marcus unzips and unbuttons, shoving them down Percy's hips, down his thighs, until Percy is trapped in them: right where Marcus wants him to be.

A thigh shoves his legs apart, and Percy rides with it until Marcus's fingers find him, part him, and press inside. His fingers are slick with the oil that Percy hadn't known was in the bath. Percy writhes and twists, but can't escape and doesn't want to – not really.

A kiss steals his breath and all the sounds Percy might make to protest.

His only protest is when those fingers that fit inside him so well, withdraw.

"Hush." Marcus snarls, and shoves into him, fills him up. It's almost too much, too soon, too fast – but Marcus is slow and deliberate and Percy finds his own wicked delight in it. He gasps and moans and neither of them last long at all. Percy doesn't know if he'd want it to, but Marcus kisses his brow and Percy knows better then to protest anything that might happen. There is a future in this, between them.

It rises up, looming, the shape of it yet indefinable.