It\'s Good to be Captain

Disclaimer: Rowling\'s not this sick, only I am. Therefore I\'m not making money or claiming ownership or anything else that would get me sued.

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It was the smell that first reminded him of where he was and what he’d been doing. It wasn’t the sort of smell that most people might enjoy, but for Marcus Flint he couldn’t think of any better. The mold of the stone walls mixed with the stale smell of unwashed Quidditch uniforms. A crisp breeze seeped through the nearby window, carrying with it the smell of the nearby forest. There was a metallic tinge to it as well, thanks to the antique metal hinges on the lockers and the gilded serpent benches resting just a few feet away from where he was lying. But the cherry on top of the sensory sundae was the scent of salt and sex on the two naked bodies pressed against him.

Draco’s head was pillowed against Marcus’ upper arm, one of his small, delicate hands curled into a ball against his chest. He looked down at the boy as his eyes finally opened, a satisfied smirk stretching across his face. Had he even the smallest speck more of morals, he might have felt a stab of guilt over the previous night’s activities. Draco looked so young and innocent, sleeping the way he was. Marcus half expected him to start sucking his thumb.

Turning his head, his eyes fell to the other body beside him. Adrian Pucey, one of the best chasers he’d ever had on his team. The two of them had been friends since their first year. They thought alike and worked almost in perfect tandem on the pitch. Whatever Marcus’ plan was, Adrian would always be there to back him up. Just like last night.

They’d just had their first game with their new seeker, and had managed to win against Hufflepuff (to Marcus’ surprise – he hadn’t much faith in the boy). Most of the team had already changed and left, but Draco was moving a bit slower than the rest, sore from a nasty hit he’d gotten from a bludger. Marcus gave Adrian a single look across the locker room before advancing on the boy. By the time he’d slammed a hand to the left of Draco’s locker, Adrian was already matching his action on Draco’s right. If things had gone any smoother, one might think it had been an established Quidditch maneuver.

There were a series of quick motions; hands grabbing limbs, lifting a body, stripping some clothing, pressing and pushing and pumping. They met little resistance as both mouths swooped in to taste the sweat on the boy’s body, lapping at his collar bone, his neck, his chest, down the dip in his abdomen and down over his belly. Marcus took the lead, as per usual in all things, with Adrian just below him to set up his shots as needed. Draco had helped to win the game, and so he was rewarded with the first orgasm before he found himself moving again, twisted and turned and finally pressed face-first against the lockers.

There hadn’t been any need for directions. Adrian had stepped up behind Draco, a hand reaching around while another readied the boy for his entry. Marcus pressed his larger form against Adrian’s back, a strong hand encircling both of Draco’s wrists and pinning them above his head. His arm stretched over Adrian’s shoulder, the muscles taut and firm. He waited for Adrian to enter Draco before he thrust himself firmly into the chaser. They moved as a well-oiled machine, with Adrian taking all his cues from Marcus’ motions. Draco’s cries bounced off the locker, echoed about the stone walls, and finally returned with such reverberation that Marcus could have sworn they had a cheering crowd of spectators watching their performance.

Like any of their games, things moved fast and violent. Adrian worked Draco while thrusting, waiting for his moment. He bit his lip, biding his time as Draco’s body tensed and trembled before finally falling limp, taking that moment as his own and finishing deep within the seeker. The pattern was followed and continued back along the line, as Marcus felt Adrian constrict around him, he persisted with his ruthless pounding. There was a final thrust, the final play, and Marcus came with a raspy, grating growl of triumph.

Somehow in their haze, they all found their way to the floor to fall asleep in a semi-organized pile. Marcus was at center (as he preferred to be in any good formation) with Adrian and Draco at either flank… now both soundly asleep from it all.

It was all too easy to think of the world in terms of Quidditch. There were goals, with bludgers zipping into his path, and someone was always trying to take things from him, be that the quaffle or something else nearly as important. He had his friends to back him up against all of his enemies, a driving force of power placed firmly between his legs, and in the end it was winning that truly mattered. But most importantly, on this team, Marcus Flint was always captain.