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Tradition

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It was a cool, clear twilight over the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, where earlier that day two teams had squared off in the first match of the year. Most were up at the castle, celebrating with the victors, or commiserating with the defeated. But not everyone.

Two adolescents were conspicuously absent. The boys, the Seekers from the rival teams that had faced each other scant hours before, were still at the Quidditch pitch. They rolled around together, grappling with each other under the Quidditch stands, though their wrestling was hardly in line with the inter-House rivalry they were well-known for.

The smaller, scarlet-clad body lay pinned beneath the larger, emerald-clad one, bucking wildly. The larger, blond-haired boy had his hands fisted in the other boy’s hair while his hips ground down frantically. The dark-haired lad was bucking his hips upwards, seeking more and more of that delicious friction. When he couldn’t get quite enough, he slid his hands down the other’s back, bringing his hands to rest on the Quidditch-toned arse. Gripping those lovely handfuls, pulling it down towards him, the Gryffindor Seeker rolled his hips faster, faster.

They fought and tussled, trying to get closer and closer as they chased their release, the grinding of their cloth-covered erections enough to tease, but not to satisfy. Frustrated, they tried to speed their movements even faster--hoping that more pressure, more friction, just plain more would be enough to bring them what they sought so desperately. Finally, the Slytherin Seeker dove in for a vicious kiss, possessing and plundering and biting at the other’s mouth. It was just enough to tip them both over the edge, into the blissful agony of too-much-not-enough that came with release.

They lay there, for a single moment, floating in the afterglow. The blond head resting in the crook of the other boy's neck, scarlet arms thrown over a broad emerald back. Then the moment passed, and they rose to their feet. The Gryffindor grinned lopsidedly, his raven hair sticking up wildly. The blond sneered before walking away briskly. The scarlet figure shook his head before heading off in the opposite direction.

It was their ritual. It was hard, and it was brutal--there was nothing tender about their coupling. Nothing sweet. Only hard and fast and angry and satisfying. It was tradition. And, unbeknownst to them, it was a tradition that their own fathers had begun, many years ago, before they were born . . . and it was a tradition that their own sons would carry on after them.

All they knew, in that moment, was that there was something to be said for finding satisfaction in the arms of their rival.