Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Oliver thinks about his relationship with Marcus Flint and gets distracted from the task at hand: Winning a Quidditch game.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe all belongs to JK Rowling, I just borrow the guys. I make no money with this and I just do it because it’s fun and lets me think I’m creative.
Dedication: To krissi2, for being the Marcus to my Oliver (RP wise) and because she introduced me to British TV shows (thanks so much) and because I still owe her another story and I’m just not getting it finished. But here we go, Marc/Oli for the great K2.
Major thanks again to rospberry, for being my Beta (and a damn good one!)
You bite your lip as you walk; the gesture is the only thing that indicates that something is bothering you. You keep your gaze straight ahead, focusing on the crowd up on the stands, which is cheering you on, instead of thinking about the pebble in your shoe, poking into the heel of your foot with every step you take on the soft grass that covers the Quidditch field.
You extend your hand and grab that of Marcus Flint, giving it a firm squeeze, which is instantly returned with such force you fear your hand might never be the same, and you raise your eyes to look at him, his trademark sneer greeting you.
It’s like a slap in the face, a rather brutal one. It’s only been a few hours since you last saw him, though this situation was completely different.
It had been just the two of you in an abandoned classroom late at night. It hadn’t been the first time, just one of many meetings. Marcus had been leaning over you with a dirty grin on his face, even though you couldn’t quite concentrate on that because there had been his rough hand, his calloused fingers stroking your cock.
You swallow as you feel that same hand let go of yours and you need a second to remember where you are: standing in the middle of the Quidditch pitch with hundreds of eyes on you.
Marcus raises a thick brow a bit and then just turns away, climbing onto his broom. You do the same, heart still racing in your chest. Another thing that reminds you of last night. The pressure in your chest makes it hard for you to stay on the broom.
In your head you’re in that classroom again, lying on your back on an old desk with Flint towering over you. Your chest had felt just the same, like your heart was going to make it explode in a second. You could only guess that he was feeling the same way, by the way his breath was coming in short pants and he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he tried to make you believe.
When you push your broom from the ground to take position in front of the hoops, you have to bite your lip again to suppress a gasp because that damned pebble is poking your foot again.
The pain is nothing compared to the one Marcus always introduced you to when you were alone, the pain you felt any time he entered you because he thought of preparation as something he just had to do and which he never wasted too much time on.
You can see his face right in front of you and for a moment you wonder if you’re just imagining it until you hear the stadium speaker announce the first ten points for Slytherin and Marcus is flying back to his teammates.
You had been too absorbed in memories to hear Madam Hooch’s whistling and then Marcus had scored a goal. Soft curses fall from your lips and you try to stay focused on the game, which is hard, with the way Marcus’ hands moved over his broomstick and those thoughts still nagging relentlessly at the back of your mind.
The rest of the game is a mixture of memories and trying to catch the Quaffle, trying to avoid Bludgers and barking orders at your teammates. You’re glad to feel the ground under your feet again when it’s over, until you take the first step and there’s that pebble again, or still.
You follow the team to the changing rooms, staring at your feet intently, as if it would get you rid of that stone in your boot that’s sending waves of sharp pain up your spine.
For a moment you swear you hear Flint's voice, but when you turn you can’t see anyone but Harry walking behind you. He shoots you a smile, still happy because your team won the game. Your mind must be playing tricks on you again. You mutter a quiet curse because your foot is really starting to hurt and because you want Marcus Bloody Flint out of your head.
Or maybe not. You don’t mind him in your head but thinking about him just makes you think about what’s there between the two of you.
With a quiet sigh you allow memories of cold dungeons and heated kisses enter your mind, thoughts of sweaty skin and strong arms that pull you close. You think of pain, induced by his teeth and hands not that pebble beneath your foot.
That’s all Marcus is for you, that and so much more. He’s the man who holds complete control over you, the man you think of at night, alone in your bed with your hand down the front of your pajama bottoms. He’s the one you think of when people around you talk about love.
For you, love isn’t just holding hands and sharing sweet kisses. Your love for Marcus is special, it’s all chapped lips, bruises and passionate kisses that leave you gasping for air, your lungs burning. Your love is aching hands and sore knees from kneeling, both scraped open because he’s never gentle when he takes you.
Marcus is that pebble in your shoe, hurting you with every step, but you still do nothing to get rid of it because then you’d be missing something.