It’s difficult to get down to the pitch, always is, especially on games where they’ve won and the Puddlemere fans are deafening themselves with their cheers. Percy pushes past them anyway, and some deliberately step out of the way, probably recognizing him from magazine covers and one too many wrong stories in the Prophet. A few even look at him with jealousy, but Percy pays them no mind. He makes his way down the stands, around the twisting stairs that let out on the grass, while every one else stays to watch the after-game shows and quiver with excitement. Percy has better ways to celebrate.
There’s security around the pitch, of course, but they let him right through as the players exit the field, dragging their brooms and some still waving. Oliver’s one of them. He’s grinning so hard it looks like the sun’s shining right out of him, and that only gets bigger when he sees Percy waiting for him. The rest filter into the change rooms a few throwing Percy a friendly smile on the way, but Oliver takes a detour to catch Percy first. He strolls right up and tosses both arms around Percy’s thinner frame, jerking him forward into strong arms with the rigid broom hard against his back. Oliver kisses him so fiercely that it’s dizzying, and for one quick second, Oliver’s mouth is all Percy knows.
Then the roars of the stands come back to him. His ears are ringing. He can’t help but wonder how many people are watching them instead of the dancing mascots. Oliver pays no mind to it, or the wrong mind, anyway—he’s got one set of fingers sliding into Percy’s hair and the other trying to grab his ass around the broom’s handle. He can feel the thick bulge in the front of Oliver’s trousers, grinding into him with each twist of the kiss, rutting into him and coaxing him to hardness to meet it. Crowds always have that effect on Oliver, and it was one thing when they were young and fooling around in public bathrooms and behind bushes, but the crowds Puddlemere’s games draw are huge, and they’re right out for everyone to look down and see.
Percy has to break the kiss first, even though it’s always hard to pull away from Oliver, even harder when he’s panting and sweaty and smells like pure sex. With Oliver still tightly holding onto him, Percy mutters, “Not here...”
Oliver wants it right here, and Percy knows it, but not quite enough to jeopardize his dream career. Oliver nods like he’s too heady to talk, kisses Percy again and Apparates them right off the field.
The next thing Percy knows, he’s in darkness, his back shoved up against a post and the broom gone—sent home, maybe? He doesn’t get a chance to look around and see, because Oliver’s on him again, flattening him against the pole. It’s wooden, he thinks, or at least the other beams he can make out over Oliver’s shoulder are. He has to put his hand on Oliver’s forehead to hold him back, looking up at the wooden slats high above them and the fabric coverings the light’s just barely straining through. They’re under the stands. The roar of the crowd is still in Percy’s ears, the entertainment still going on. It’s not exactly what Percy expected, but he also wonders why they haven’t done this before.
“Better?” Oliver asks, husky and ready. Percy relinquishes, nods his agreement and lets go, so Oliver can smash right back into him. Oliver’s hands are everywhere, and Percy lets himself return the favour. Oliver tugs at Percy’s sweater, rolls it up his stomach and unclasps his jeans, and Percy just runs his hands along Oliver’s taut muscles and squeezes through the uniform, loving it all. He wanted Oliver back when they had nothing, but now that Oliver’s a pro-Quidditch player, Percy enjoys it all the more. Oliver’s lips leave his mouth to run down his jaw, teeth scraping along his neck, and then Oliver murmurs the familiar spell that makes Percy’s body loose and wet. He tries to stifle his gasp, but the noise above them drowns it all out. He’s not even sure which of their wands Oliver grabbed, but it doesn’t matter. Percy’s ready, and Oliver feels so hard that Percy’s almost worried he won’t last.
Oliver fumbles too much, and Percy gets hungry for it. He lunges in, knocking Oliver right down—Oliver’s always had better balance in the air than on the floor. His back hits the grass, and he grunts, but his keeper’s padding has him safe. Percy climbs right down on top of him to straddle his waist, pluck at the lacing of his trousers and open him right up. Percy finds Oliver leaking a small stain onto his boxers that Percy shoves away. Oliver’s hands fly to Percy’s hips, tugging down his jeans, and Percy didn’t bother wearing underwear because he knew this would happen, one way or another. He just thought they’d make it home first. It doesn’t matter and it’s worth it. He holds himself in place, ready to sink down, and catches Oliver’s ecstatic face first. This is all his favourite things, wrapped up in one.
Percy pushes down, takes Oliver right inside him, cries out and has to clamp his hands over his mouth. Oliver holds him steady, dragging him slowly down while his walls flutter around Oliver’s thick cock. The spell worked, always does for him, but it’s still a shock and nearly overwhelming, so much of Oliver at once, hot and hard inside him. He sinks down in little thrusts until he’s flat against Oliver’s hips, trembling around Oliver’s cock.
Oliver spares one glance to the makeshift ceiling, where the silhouettes of fans are dancing in the hazy light. Then he looks right back at Percy and mumbles thickly, “I fucking love you.”
“Love you too,” Percy moans, too incoherent for any more. He leans forward to put his hands square on Oliver’s chest, digging right into the padding, leaning all his weight onto Oliver. Oliver takes it, grunts, squeezes Percy’s hips and bucks up, giving Percy another cry to swallow. Before Oliver can hump him again, Percy does it first, lifting up to slam back down, take Oliver in and clench around it, then again, at a different angle, and on the third, he finds the perfect one. Every bounce after that aims right there, and the pleasure floods right to the ends of his fingers.
Oliver’s delicious. He’s big and strong and fucks like a dream, but he loves Percy too, and it never hurts, and he looks at Percy like he’s so in love that he can’t stand it. He rocks up to meet Percy’s thrusts, the two of them moving together in a hurried rhythm, both flushed and too eager from the joy of the game. Oliver just looks so good on his broom and feels even better, filling Percy up with thrust after thrust and a wealth of erotic noises, moans and gasps and the lewd slapping of their flesh. He’s slick with sweat around his temples and easily the most handsome creature Percy’s ever seen. And he’s all Percy’s. The crowd gets him hard, but it’s Percy he looks at now. It’s Percy he’s going to spill inside and Percy he’ll go home with.
Percy still finishes first, fast and giddy and wild the moment Oliver locks a hand around him—he has to shoot his own hands over his mouth again to keep in his scream. His hips keep slamming into Oliver, and Oliver keeps bouncing him up, pumping his cock out to ruin Oliver’s uniform. Percy’ll be the one to clean it, anyway. He rides it all out, humps Oliver’s hand and whimpers to an end, until he’s fading and clenching hard to force Oliver to follow.
The whole ride knocks his glasses askew, and he fixes them just in time to see Oliver’s beautiful face contorted in pleasure. He grits his teeth, trying to hold it in, but Percy can feel the intensity inside him. He stays on, taking it, shivering to milk it out, until they’re both panting hard and spent, still attached and not parting.
When Percy recovers enough to form the words, he mutters, “We should get back.”
But Oliver just answers, “Let’s go outside first, so everyone can see my fucked-senseless boyfriend.” Percy snorts, but Oliver grins like he’d really love to.
Careful with his hips, Percy leans down, Oliver still inside him. Oliver leans back, ready for a kiss, while Percy Apparates them home.