Our Daily Sins

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Our Daily Sins -- Part Two: Our Daily Bread
By: Romantic Puck

Percy'd refused to be taken to the infirmary, weakness or not. If Oliver and the rest of the Quidditch team had been fine, then there was no way that the prefect was going to make a spectacle of himself by admitting how pathetic he was.

He'd stayed in his room, throwing a patch onto his cheek to curb the bleeding, switched clothes, taken a nap, and then woken himself up early in the morning to finish his assignment on torture.

It was difficult for him to concentrate-- the room was still spinning, and his head throbbed, but refused to admit it and head down to the infirmary. It was just the Whomping Willow-- not only had the Quidditch team been fine, but Harry and Ron had survived it earlier in the year, during their ridiculous stunt with their father's car.

And there was no way that Percy would let people think that he, the prefect and model brother, was more incompetent than the youngest son in the family.

So he stubbornly scrawled the remaining inches on Fligarb the Horrible's ability to rend skin from flesh with public whippings.

His hand was shaking in a patch of fresh morning light; class-time snuck closers as he sat at his desk, sight swimming and his mind taking in nothing but the sharp throb of his cheek, and the pounding of his head.

Vision fading, Percy's head slid down the arm that had been propping it up on the desk--

Blue eyes craned to take in the goblin behind him, who was standing proudly on a stool, whip in hand. “Apologize,” he insisted, for a third time.

Shaking his head, Percy adamantly grunted, “Hardly.” He hadn't done anything wrong. He'd just done his duties-- Oliver was the one who had broken the rules.

“If you won't admit that you're too weak, then you'll deal with the whip,” Fligarb said. Laughter filtered around Percy, eyes peering out of hooded cloaks in the dim light, reaching a feverish pitch when the whip slashed through his flesh.

Arching his back, Percy gurgled a shout of pain, back screaming as wetness slipped down, and Fligard resumed his demands.

The hooded forms in the shadows moved, something Percy saw well between tear-stained and clouded eyes-- they undulated and shuddered on-top of one-another, and it occurred to him that only one pair of eyes were watching him from each duo in the shadows.

Sharp, icy needles rode down his spine, and one of the dark forms detached from the orgy in the shadows to extend his hand to the aching, pained, whipped man.

Shuddering, Percy jerked awake to someone tugging on his arm. The movements were setting his head on fire, working in tangent with Oliver's voice to displace the phantom back pain from the dream. Regardless, he realigned his back, tilting his throbbing head to look at Oliver, making sure to keep his pants (and humiliating erection) hidden beneath the desk.

“Yer late for class,” the dark-haired boy reminded him. His eyes were questing, and Percy said a quick prayer to Athena, hoping that he hadn't been gasping out loud during his dream.

Thanking Oliver for the warning, he insisted that the Captain get moving, so he wouldn't get anyone in trouble by being late himself. Nervously he watched the dark-haired boy make his way out of the doorway, then stumbled onto his bed the moment the doorway was clear.

The redhead despised missing classes, but he knew that he was in no state to listen to lectures on torture methods-- not after that dream, at least. His pants strained while he yanked on the bed curtains; slipping back against his dark and lumpy pillow he tried to slow his breathing and recall just what image had been so exciting.

Swiftly one hand removed the bandage on his pale, stained cheek, while the other unbuttoned his pants and slid below his tattered boxer-briefs. Tentatively his right hand explored his cheek's shallow gouge, while the rest of him twisted in bed to gain better access to his hopeful erection.

The movements hurt his head, and the sudden rush of nausea made him pause for a minute, removing his hands to stare mindlessly at the crimson tears that held his fingers and body so entranced.

This wasn't like him, Percy knew, as the blood from the cut stained his fingers and the searing pain shivered down his spine. But his slippery needs won out, and he thrust his penis into his hands, straining and gasping to the thrum of his wound.

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Struggling against drooping eyelids, Percy's pale hands shoved his bag over a slumped shoulder while he strode towards the door. The redhead was already forming an easy lie to hand over to Professor Binns-- he never skipped class, so the ghost was likely to believe anything Percy said.

The prefect hated lying like this, but what was he supposed to say? “I'm dreadfully sorry, Professor. If you would understand, I had a personal issue that needed some taking care of---” No, that wouldn't work.

Or, worse yet, it would. And Percy would be too embarrassed to tell the truth.

It was the reason he and Penny were sneaking around behind everyone's backs-- he didn't want his family to ruin things for him, to show off his weaknesses.

And so Percy would be damned if he made a point of placing the situation onto the examination table for them to pick apart.

The stairs gave way beneath his shaky legs, and he stumbled over the bottom four steps and into the Common Room. He didn't commonly touch himself during the day-- or at all, really. It was uncouth and uncalled for, but desperate times had called for desperate measures. And he had to get rid of his erection if he had hoped to make it to classes at all that morning.

Or so he told himself, as he careened towards the entrance-way and came face-to-face with his younger twin brothers.

“What're you doing here?” Fred asked, immediately stepping in front of something that Percy was sure couldn't be anything positive.

Suspicion arched along Percy's face, straining at his freshly-replaced bandage. “I was finishing some duties, but what are you two doing here?”

“Duties, sure. Perfect Percy would never skip class.”

“I am not avoiding my classes, not that it's any of your business. What are you doing, and what is that thing?” As expected, Fred ignored his question, shoving whatever it was (and Merlin, Percy prayed that he hadn't heard the thing 'meow') into his bag and swiveling towards the portrait hole.

George, always the observant one, halted when the portrait swung open for Fred, spilling light into the darkened door-way.

“Oi, what happened to your face?”

Flushing, Percy's hand shot away from his prefect's badge and up towards his cheek. “None of your business.”

“'ey, Fred, get a look at this. Ickle Percy cut himself --”

Leaning in, Fred's eyes strained for a moment, before laughing along with George, who'd turned to join him outside the portrait-hole. “Probably cut himself kissing his badge,” Fred said.

“Or kissing a picture of himself,” George laughed, voice falling away as the portrait swung shut behind him, sealing Percy's flushed and enraged face in the darkness.

How dare the twins make fun of him? So he got injured, so what?

Percy's family should care that he got hurt-- though at the same time, he was glad that Oliver hadn't had the chance to tell them what had really happened yet. The more private, the more personal, the better.

Memories of his dreams shivered through his tired form as he hiked his bag up, stepping towards the portrait hole. He'd given Fred and George enough time to clear out, and now he could make his way down to the lies awaiting him on a lower floor.

End of Part Two --- Feedback Helps Me Burn the Midnight Oil!