Pairing: Lee/Marcus.

Rating: R.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: Sexualized violence and professional Quidditch, a few years in the future.

It might not have been the best idea, admittedly, to shout, "Slytherin in possession -- no, wait, watch it slip out of his slimy fingers!" during the finals, but. Four years of game side announcing and taking the piss and whistles and jeers and being untouchable.

And you know what Muggles say about teaching a dog new tricks.

Though, actually, Lee can't quite remember. But he's -- just off the top of his head, you understand -- suddenly guessing that the dog up and dies, because it slipped, oh yes, and a Slytherin is always a Slytherin, oh yes, except this Slytherin now has a thicker neck and thicker hands and three years pro, and Lee was rounding the bleachers but took a wrong turn. A very wrong turn.

The wrongest.

"Marcus Flint. Fancy that!" and he's trying for cheerful, until Flint says, "You're fucking dead," and then Lee is trying for the hole he can spy over Flint's shoulder, to the right.

Inky black gap of under-the-bleachers-and-straight-out-towards-center-field-and-people safety, and he darts towards it. Winces as his bones creak and seem to snap like elastic, a firm hand at his elbow.

"Look, I can tell you've had a very bad day--"

"It's getting better."

"-- so I'll just be going about my business."

"You're scared," Flint remarks, cold and serious and almost like a threat.

Except of course he's scared, back brought flat against warm, rough wood and sweating.

Lee considers that the mark of a well-organized mind, at least in this situation, so he will be scared, thank you very much. He will also breathe remarkably fast, and work very hard at not having heart failure at the promising, young age of twenty-one. He will be calm. Calm like Perificus Totalus.

"And to think the word is that you're slow, and. And I shouldn't have said that."

"No," Marcus agrees conversationally, "Probably not."

"Shouldn't have said that," he nods eagerly, "and shouldn't be here, for I'm expected, you see. George'll be--"

"Waiting," Marcus says, and the word hangs between them and stretches like the Every Expanding Taffy that the twins had stuck in his hair the morning before the sixth year Yule Ball, and he hates the stuff, hates it, and this is not Angelina Johnson to impress.

This is a fist slamming upwards into his stomach and pushing air and spit from his mouth, and dampness out around his eyes.

"All, uh, All right," he says (sort of coughs, really), because what else is there besides no, please, no, stop, stop, and that's so bloody stupid, as Flint will never stop, ever, if that's what you tell him.

It's about making sounds to prove he can, since he would bet that Flint isn't hearing fuck all about now, face skewed up and pressed against Lee's cheek and breathing on him -- thin and biting smell of steeped too long tea sliding over his face and crawling under his collar. Something old, with a touch of oil and lemon.

Pain tight in his gut, tingling and hot, and Lee shifts around it, shifts into the hand clutching at his waist, the mouth sliding towards his ear. On it. In it, nasty wet slide and then out, drawing a strange sound from someone that could very possibly be him, except goosebumps have been raised all over his skin, and he could swear they've spread along his mouth -- he can feel it, swollen and itching. Too heavy to move.

Beads of sweat on his upper lip, and that itches too. Lee wipes at it -- instinct -- and then Flint has his wrist (too tight, bones grinding into each other) and there's a lick, and it's like he's clean and yet so fucking dirty.

He's filthy, and his pulse is juddering, and Flint is hissing, "And next time, yeah?"

"Yeah," Lee gasps, lungs like piping hot coals. "Yeah, uh. What?"

"You keep your mouth," Flint's thick thumb screwing into his throat, "shut."

And he wants to know, 'Would you touch me again?' but he doesn't say it, thank Merlin that he doesn't say it, and the thumb is lifted and he gulps around the space it left.

A jaunty smile, "You keep that in mind," and Flint is turning towards the team showers.

And he won't, he really won't, because that's the type of thing that drives a person insane, and. And Lee thinks Quidditch, as a sport, may be terribly overrated. He thinks Enchanted Croquet may be more his speed, come to think of it. He thinks he should be looking into some introductory manuals at this very moment.

He thinks Marcus Flint shouldn't be peering back over his shoulder like that, teeth flashing white and predatory in the sun.