Title: Jock
Author: emiime
Characters: Percy and Oliver
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence
Themes/kinks chosen: Underwear
Word Count: 1023
Summary: Percy makes a mistake.
Author's notes: I love happy boyslash as much as the next person, but this month I decided to go a bit more realistic. Thanks to the lovely mariamme for cheerleading.

Percy couldn't help it. It was right there. Oliver wasn't usually such a slob; that was one of the things Percy appreciated about him. But Oliver had been in a foul temper after Quidditch and had just thrown his things on the floor and stomped off to the showers without a word.

Percy didn't think it was a particularly good sign that Oliver had come back to the dormitory to have a shower rather than have one with the team as he usually did. But surely the water and soap and steam (Percy tried not to picture Oliver soaping himself up) would calm Oliver down and they could still make a decent evening of it, the two of them.

For the moment, though, there was the matter of Oliver's underwear. Or, more precisely, his…hmm. Percy supposed that was what they called a jockstrap, though he'd never seen one before.

He paused, considering. That was probably bad. At his age, he should know what a jockstrap looked like. But it wasn't as if he'd ever had a reason to wear one, so, really, it was understandable and not weird at all.

He hoped.

Percy put his Potions textbook aside and stood, stretching, then paused to listen. The water was still running. And the jockstrap was lying within two feet of Percy's bed. He had time to inspect it. Purely in the name of scientific exploration, of course.

It was damp. That was Percy's first impression. It had been lying in a tangle, and Percy smoothed it out and laid it on his quilt. His cock twitched in his pants, but he ignored it. This was scientific, he reminded himself, not sexual.

But his prick wouldn't stop twitching, and the shower was still running, and Percy could smell the bloody thing now, could smell pure, concentrated Oliver, and he whimpered. He couldn't help himself.

He pressed the heel of his hand against the bulge in his trousers and whimpered again. Maybe he'd just undo his trousers, just to get a little relief. Oh…yes. That was better. Mmm. He'd just hold his erection for a moment, just squeeze it a bit. Just calm himself down a little, just relieve some of the pressure that was building inside him.

He wasn't going to toss off. He wasn't. His prick just needed a little breathing room. He just needed to—

"Percy, what the fuck?"

Percy shrieked. Like a bloody girl. He tossed Oliver's jockstrap onto the floor and scrambled to do up his trousers and stammered out a stuttered explanation. Oliver was dripping wet, a towel slung loosely around his waist, and he crossed the room in three strides. He stooped to pick up his jockstrap and threw it in Percy's face. It bounced off and landed, damp and tangled again, on the quilt.

"Fucking pervert. What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"

"I don't—I've never—" was all Percy managed before Oliver hit him.

"Never been caught, you mean," Oliver growled. Percy couldn't answer. He held his specs in one hand and his face in the other. His nose was bleeding, dripping through his fingers. He didn't dare reach for his wand to stop it—didn't dare leave his face unprotected. Why couldn't Oliver use a spell like a normal person? There were hot tears in Percy's eyes from the force of Oliver's blow, and he blinked them back. The last thing he needed was one more reason for Oliver to be disgusted with him.

"Come on, then," said Oliver, "Why don't you fight back?"

"Fuck you," Percy muttered through his fingers.

Oliver laughed. "Fuck you, Perce," he said, and Percy looked up at Oliver's blurry form. "Maybe I should tell Penny what a perverted little queer her boyfriend is."

Something snapped inside Percy and he sprang to his feet. "You won't tell her anything," he spat. Before he realised what he was doing, he had shoved Oliver with the hand that had been holding his face, leaving bloody fingerprints on Oliver's chest. Oh, god. There was no time to think about touching Oliver's bare, wet chest, though. Oliver swung his fist back for another blow. Percy ducked and slammed into Oliver with the force of his whole body. It wasn't enough to knock Oliver down, but Percy surprised him, knocked him backwards a couple of steps.

He cringed, waiting to be hit again. He couldn't escape it, he realised, as rational thought began to return from whatever corner of his brain it had retreated into. His wand was across the room. With it, he could hex Oliver's stupid Quidditch jock arse into oblivion, but without it, he was just a scared, skinny schoolboy who used to have a friend in the boy who was now going to beat him into a pulpy mess on the dormitory floor.

But Oliver paused.

"Leave my shite alone," he spat. He looked down at his chest and swiped at the bloody fingerprints there, then took the towel from his waist and rubbed them off.

"I'm sorry," Percy managed. He crept backwards to his bed and groped behind him until his hand landed on his specs. He jammed them onto his face. Oliver stood there, naked, his towel in one hand.

He tossed it at Percy. "Clean yourself up," he said, and he turned away.

It was like a punishment, Percy thought, having to wipe his nose and the rest of his face with the towel Oliver had used to dry all his most private bits.

Oliver stepped into a pair of striped boxer shorts and crossed the room again, leaning into Percy.

"Just leave my shite alone," he said, "And I won't have to hit you again."

Percy nodded.

"We can still be friends," said Oliver, but his teeth were gritted and it was apparent it took a great deal of effort for him to say it. "But if you need to get off, you get off with Penny. Not with my underwear. Not with me. Got it?"

Percy nodded again. "Got it," he said, trying not to shake.

"Good. Now go wash your face. You missed a spot."