Halrloprillalar   hal@prillalar.com   http://prillalar.com/

January 27, 2004

RATING: R.

FANDOM/SPOILERS: Harry Potter. Books and movies.

SUMMARY: Peter/James. What boys do.

DISTRIBUTION: Archive anywhere. Email forwarding allowed.

DISCLAIMER: Rowling, not me.

NOTES: For the HP Flashficathon.


SPECTATOR SPORT
by Halrloprillalar - hal@prillalar.com

Peter watched James fly, listened to the crowd cheer. James scored
a goal just as the Slytherin Seeker caught the Snitch. The game was
over and Gryffindor had won. Slytherin slunk off in defeat while
the Gryffindors hoisted James onto their shoulders. Peter waited.
And when the crowd had dispersed and the team had gone, James came
to Peter and put his hand on Peter's face, stroking his thumb along
the jawline. "I want you," James said, "now."

James pushed Peter against a wall, breathed hot breath down onto
his face. "Someone will see us," Peter said.

"I don't care," James said. "Do you?" And Peter's answer was
swallowed up in the kiss.

James worked Peter's robe open, slid warm hands across Peter's
chest, then down to press against his cock. Peter shivered.

"Merriman's Hand and Body Moisturizer? I swear by Thistledown
Herbal Lotion myself," James said.

Peter jumped. He opened his eyes and there was James, head through
the gap in the curtains, looking at Peter. And there was Peter,
lying on his bed with his hand wrapped around his cock. His heart
was pounding, urging him to get up and flee the room, but he didn't
move a muscle. His cock, though, was slipping through his grasp as
the blood rushed up to his head. His skin burned, like he'd been
slapped.

"I suppose a wank is more interesting than the Hufflepuff-Slytherin
match." James pulled the curtains open further and flopped down
beside Peter, yanking the pillow over so he could claim half of it.
"But everyone is there. I only came back to get Padfoot's overcoat,
the whinging bastard." The bed wasn't big enough for two and even
when Peter squirmed over, their thighs still pressed together.

Peter could feel his face burning. He fumbled with his pants and
his robe, trying to cover himself before James could see that he
was getting hard again.

"Don't let me interrupt," James said. "What were you thinking
about?"

Peter wanted to die. He had no answer to that question; he'd never
be able to make up something convincing on the spot. "Shouldn't you
get back to the match?"

"I left him my coat. And Slytherin are already ahead 80-nil." James
stretched and the bed shifted. "How about Emily Grant? The tits on
her ... imagine getting your hands on those. And I hear it doesn't
take much to get past the imagining stage with her. Or Maddy
Hamilton. I'd like to give her one."

Peter turned his head very slightly, just enough so he could look
at the side of James's face, at the pale skin and black hair and
the glasses slipping down his nose. Peter wanted to run his finger
from the corner of James's eye down to the corner of his mouth and
over the stubble on his chin.

"Did you see that book of Byng's? Fabulous pictures. Girls going at
it together and all." James started to stroke himself through his
robes. "Where's that lotion, then? I'll race you."

Peter handed over the bottle. James slicked up and went to it and
there was nothing Peter could do but follow. James kept talking,
about this girl and that girl, about more pictures in Byng's dirty
dogeared book. And Peter closed his eyes to slits and watched
James.

He watched James's hand moving on his cock. Peter imagined what it
would feel like, hot and heavy, the delicate skin soft against his
palm. He wanted, more than he had ever wanted anything, to reach
out and push James's hand away, to wrap his own fingers there and
stroke and stroke and stroke while James shuddered and moaned,
there in Peter's bed. He even thought that James might let him do
it. But Peter couldn't, he just couldn't, and the knowledge made
him so sick he couldn't come.

James didn't seem to notice. James talked about girls and pumped
his cock and spattered his t-shirt when he came, head thrown back
and breath pulled out of his lungs, silent for all of thirty
seconds.

"Yuck," he said, and wiped his sticky fingers on Peter's bed
sheets. "Oh, fuck, Padfoot's going to kill me." He pulled his robes
closed and swung his legs off the bed. "Coming to the match?"

"No," Peter said.

James shrugged and loped off. Peter listened until he heard the
dormitory door slam. Then he twitched the curtains closed again and
lay back. There was black hair on his pillow and the air still
smelled like James.

He closed his eyes but he couldn't see James fly.


F I N I S

Halrloprillalar   hal@prillalar.com   http://prillalar.com/