Archive of Our Own

It had started in his seventh year—Marcus’ first seventh year—when Oliver Wood had come back taller and fitter than he was before. Wood had gone from a lanky, pale-skinned, fumbling teenager to a lean-muscled, courageous and charming man. The Gryffindor’s new-found confidence had annoyed Marcus at first. He didn’t understand why Wood all of a sudden looked like he had just stepped right off his broom; his hair windswept and cheeks flushed with excitement. The female population of Hogwarts had noticed too—suddenly the Gryffindor practices were riddled with teenage girls in the stands, giggling and blushing. Marcus only knew because he was there too—to observe their tactics, of course.

At least Marcus was still bigger and stronger than the Gryffindor keeper. More ruthless, too. Wood had always been too fond of rules; playing the game clean and fair.

Wood had found new strategies, too, it seemed and Marcus would always find the younger man with his nose buried in his plays in the school library. As much as he had hated to admit it, the Gryffindor team was improving and with the Potter boy on the team, suddenly Wood seemed like an actual threat. So naturally, Marcus had done the most Slytherin thing—traded his friend in for the promise of new brooms. The offer had come with a snotty-nosed brat, too, but Malfoy hadn’t been half-bad in the air. A little too preoccupied with Potter perhaps, but Marcus had set him straight after his first game.

Wood’s sudden attractiveness had not been groundbreaking in Marcus' sexual awakening. He had always known that he fancied blokes more than girls. It hadn’t helped that the other two quidditch captains—Davies and Diggory—were good-looking, too. Though they were both more pretty in a dainty way where Wood was downright handsome.

For a short period, Marcus had wondered if good looks were meant to go with captaincy. Because he certainly wasn’t going to be Witch Weekly’s bachelor of the week anytime soon. It had made him strangely self-conscious, mostly about his teeth and his crooked nose. The rest of him wasn’t that awful.

So he had sulked for a while. Avoided any necessary confrontations with the Gryffindor, unsure of how to go about his new attraction to the younger man. He was teased about it, too. Higgs and Pucey had not let him forget it. Marcus had thought he’d done a good job of hiding it, but every time he would sneak a glance at Wood across the Great Hall, Higgs' sharp elbow would find its way to his gut. 

“Stop staring, mate,” Higgs would hiss, barely concealing his amusement.

Pucey had been even worse. He was in the same year as Wood and he made sure to get paired off with him for Potions, much to Marcus’ dismay. It meant that occasionally, when Marcus went to meet up with him in the library, Wood would be there. 

They had never really interacted outside of quidditch. It was more silent stares and scoffs that was their main source of communication. Once in a while, Marcus would let his Slytherin side get the best of him and he’d say something like “Shouldn’t you be off working on plays, Wood? Going to need a lot of practice if you want to beat us.” and Wood would flush a delightful shade of red and stomp off.

Wood would respond occasionally, but never with anything memorable. Forever a prime specimen of Gryffindor, noble to a default, he would keep his head high and leave before things got out of hand.

“You should just get it over with,” Higgs had casually remarked one day at breakfast. He had caught Marcus staring again. Marcus had, quite undignified, dribbled porridge down the front of his shirt due to his distraction. It wasn’t like he could help it. The Gryffindor chaser trio—Spinnet, Johnson and Bell—had gifted Wood with muggle jeans. Marcus had never seen a pair before in his life, but the way they hugged Wood’s plump arse had caused all his blood to rush south.

“What?” he had answered distractedly, still unable to take his eyes off Wood across the hall. Wood was talking to Weasley—the prissy, annoying one—with his arms crossed over his chest and a serious expression on his face. Marcus couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but he could only assume it was something about Wood and his relentless training schedule. Weasley was always too concerned about his housemates’ grades, always prodding and reprimanding his fellow housemates.

“Just corner him in the broom shed and get it over with,” Higgs said through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Marcus grimaced—talking with your mouth full was not very Slytherin-like behaviour.

Pucey nodded in agreement with a devilish grin. “Yeah, it’ll take the edge off. Rough him up a little, too.”

Marcus grumbled.

While the prospect of getting physical with Wood was inviting, his father would have his head for such crude behaviour. He was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and would act accordingly. His parents wouldn’t be too happy with him consorting with a blood-traitor either. On the pitch it was different; a little roughhousing was his signature style. But he wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of actually hurting Wood.

It also didn’t sit well with him to force Wood into anything. He wanted Wood to want him, not hate him. He wasn’t some bloody pervert.

When Marcus had failed everything except for Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, his parents had ordered him to redo his NEWTS. It was embarrassing and humiliating to a degree that left Marcus angrier than usual.

Although, it had been quite entertaining to see Wood on the first day of his second-seventh year. Wood’s eyes had met his own across the Great Hall within seconds and there had been nothing more satisfying that day than seeing Wood go through a range of emotions, all obvious and visible on his face.

It looked like Wood was having a stroke. First he had seemed shocked; his face going tomato-red and his eyes wide. Then when Marcus had smirked in response, the younger boy’s brows had narrowed into something unreadable, like he was a bit miffed at the thought of sharing classes with Marcus. At that, Marcus couldn’t help himself and had put on his most feral grin; wolfish and cocky with all his crooked teeth on display, and winked.

That had gotten him quite an interesting response.

Wood had blushed and averted his eyes, looking very put out. Though the pink tinge on his cheek had not faded.

The whole year had ended up being a bit of a blur and he barely had any time to torment Wood. All the Sirius Black business was a nuisance, not that Marcus had paid it much attention. He had spent the year buried in books, trying to redeem his grades. Finding Wood attractive was a complication and Marcus had far too many of those during his second attempt at his final year—between trying to keep his grades wavering between Acceptable and Exceeds Expectations, Marcus had done his best to will his strange crush away.

One memorable encounter with Wood had been when Malfoy—the bleeding idiot—had gotten himself “injured”. Out of respect to the Malfoy family and not wanting to piss off his parents further, he had played along and was told to inform Wood of the rescheduling of their game.

If there was ever something to get a proper reaction from Wood, it was anything related to quidditch. Marcus had thought up a plan for his big confrontation. He wanted to get Wood alone; corner him, so he had nowhere to run and then he would drop the bomb and watch as Wood would spiral into insanity. He knew, of course, that Wood had been training to play against Slytherin; tunnel-visioned as he always got, Wood hadn’t thought to prepare anything for any other team.

Marcus had started by waiting by the broom shed after Gryffindor practice. He knew Wood always took it on himself to gather everyone’s brooms and put the equipment away; that meant Marcus would have a real chance at catching the younger man alone.

He only had to wait a mere three minutes before Wood had shown. His hair was wind-tousled and sticking up in all directions, while his face was blotchy from two hours of relentless playing. Under one arm, he was clutching a crate and the other was wrapped around five brooms at least.

To say that Wood had reacted furiously would be an understatement.

When Marcus had quite imposingly blocked the door to the shed, Wood had seemed annoyed, though slightly intrigued by Marcus seeking him out.

When Marcus then had proceeded to mockingly state that their game was off due to Malfoy’s unfortunate situation, Wood's ears had reddened considerably and he had dropped all of the equipment he was carrying.

“What do you mean the game is off?” Wood had yelled, flailing his arms wildly.

“Just that,” Marcus had cockily replied, crossing his arms defensively. “Malfoy’s injured. You’re playing Hufflepuff instead.”

“That’s not possible.” Wood’s eyes got exceptionally large when he was angry and his brows rose several centimetres on his forehead. “He’s not even really injured! Harry said it was just a scratch!”

“Snape and McGonagall already agreed,” Marcus grinned with all his teeth on display. He didn’t miss how Wood’s eyes flickered to his teeth for a second. Marcus sneered before he continued, “you don’t have a choice.”’

“But we’ve practiced for your tactics,” the younger man seemed defeated; his voice broke and he looked helplessly at Marcus. “Come on now, Marcus. You know that’s not fair,” he pleaded and for a split second, Marcus felt a twinge of regret. He also made a mental note of Wood using his first name—something that had never happened before. It wasn’t like Marcus could just ask Terrence to fill in. Though, Lucius Malfoy probably wouldn’t like that and that meant getting yet another reprimand from his parents.

As always, his Slytherin side won. “Too bloody bad, Wood.” He crossed his arms and put on his best look of indifference. “Can do fuck-all about it.”

Wood fumed at that; sputtering incoherent words and blinking at Marcus like he had ruined his life.

Which to be fair, he kind of had. 

The day Gryffindor lost to Hufflepuff, Marcus had felt a tremor of anguish run through his body at seeing Oliver Wood with teary eyes and a rather dreadful expression. 

At dinner that evening, there were whispers of Wood trying to drown himself in the showers. Marcus only felt a little guilty.

Of course, Gryffindor would end up with the cup anyway, much to Marcus’ dismay. In the end of his second-seventh year, Marcus had watched from the stands as the Gryffindor team hoisted Wood up in the air, while he bawled his eyes out, nose running and all.

Even when Wood cried of happiness, he looked gorgeous. It was all very confusing. So confusing in fact, that Marcus reacted the only way he knew how. Cornering Wood a little outside the pitch, Marcus squared his shoulders and put on his meanest face.

“Bawling like a little girl, are we?” He had said in a nasty tone, hoping to replace the strange feeling in his gut. Getting Wood to lose his cool was a sure way to will away whatever was happening in his stomach.

Wood didn’t react though.

Wood just stared at Marcus through wet lashes with his arms around the heavy cup. He looked starry eyed and dazed and he even had a small smile on his lips. “I finally have the cup,” he whispered like Marcus wasn’t really there and he was talking to himself.

Marcus grunted, “well, I suppose since this is your final year and all—”

“I finally won, Marcus,” Wood spoke, still seeming befuddled. 

Marcus stared. He was a little mesmerised by the use of his first name, but also how Wood’s eyes looked golden in the evening sun. Wood looked positively glowing, his skin flushed with excitement and his eyes wide with joy.

“What do you want? A congratulations? A good ol’ Gryffindor hug and cuddle?” Marcus spat after what seemed like a few minutes. It sounded like he was very disgusted by the thought, though the reality was that he wasn’t at all. He rather liked the idea of feeling Wood’s body against his own.

Wood opened his mouth. His stupid pink lips looked wet and soft and inviting—”If you’re offering,” he said with an earnest look on his face.

“Er,” Marcus uttered. It was one of those moments where his brain had not quite caught up to the moment at hand.

Wood put the cup down at his feet and looked at him expectantly. “It’s our last year at Hogwarts, Marcus. I know we’ve both got reserve positions waiting for us. The least we can do is walk away from here as friends.”

He sounded very mature and sure of himself and Marcus didn’t like it one bit.

Wood opened his arms in a slow gesture, his face void of any emotions. “It’s just a hug. A sort of peace offering, if you will. A gesture of good faith.”

Marcus stepped closer. The idea of touching Wood was tempting. Feeling that firm chest and those toned arms around his body also seemed inviting. Having Wood’s face in the crook of his neck, him breathing hot on his skin, was nearly too much to even think about.

Wood seemed surprised as Marcus neared him slowly and carefully. It wasn’t until he stood directly in front of the young Gryffindor that Marcus had a rather imposing thought. Going in for the hug, Wood leaned in, his brown eyes wide and trusting, while Marcus stood his ground quite stoically, his arms tense by his sides. When Wood’s arms neared his neck, he couldn’t really help himself.

He moved backwards, watching amusedly as Wood stumbled forwards, nearly toppling into him. He didn’t waste any time and let out a loud bark of laughter before he turned on his heel and stalked towards the castle.

“Did you just—did you just bloody trick me?” Wood yelled after him.

Marcus smirked to himself as he walked away. It was a great deal more pleasing to watch Wood embarrass himself rather than giving in to his own desires.

A few years later, Marcus wondered if he would ever get to taunt Wood again. A lot had happened; a war, his parents had passed and Marcus was—after a brief stint out of the country—back in England, playing quidditch. His time with Braga Broomfleet in Portugal couldn’t have been more perfect. He had avoided the war and the hassle of being accused of Dark Arts as well as his parent’s deaths. He never cared for them anyway—being left with the enormous estate however, was a bit of a pain; he’d never realised how much time it took managing investments, properties and land.

Marcus was now with the Falmouth Falcons and they were ranked much higher than Puddlemere; Wood’s team. Puddlemere was only seventh in the league which to Marcus was criminally low.

Marcus had played his old rival a few times, but he had not managed to utter one word to the former Gryffindor. The thing was, Wood was a bit of a fan-favourite. It made sense. With his windswept chocolate locks, natural golden highlights, genuine smile and humble attitude, there was never a match where Wood wasn’t completely over-showered with ridiculous chants and squealing women. The times Marcus had tried to catch Wood afterwards, he had been standing in a large swarm of reporters, all asking about his love life and whether he’d take Montrose up on their recent offer or not.

Marcus had only been a little jealous when he learned that the number one team in the league wanted Wood. Though for some strange reason, Wood had opted to stay with Puddlemere.

It was at their fifth match against each other—a mere friendly match, as the tournament was now over, that Marcus managed to get a word in with the now Puddlemere keeper. The weather was absolutely horrendous, a blistering cold, windy afternoon in November and while Marcus had managed to score seven goals against Wood, Puddlemere’s seeker had caught the snitch before their own.

As tradition would have it, the Falcons were obliged to buy the winning team drinks at the local pub in Puddletown. The village—nowhere near what could be defined as a city—was rather bland and devoid of any exciting sights. The pub was also distinctively modest; with old, wooden furniture, a few local drunks and squeaky ceiling candelabras hanging from the ceilings. In short, it was not up to Marcus’ usual standards.

Much to his surprise, Wood showed up, trodding in last behind his team, looking rather disgruntled at having to spend his evening in a dingy pub.

Marcus spent the first hour gathering up his courage—not that he needed it, it was more that Wood appeared to be very obviously ignoring him, which made him hesitant. Surely, Wood would use this opportunity to gloat and boast about his win?

He didn’t.

Instead, much to Marcus’ dismay, Wood sat considerably politely at the end of one of the longer tables, nursing a glass of water, observing his teammates and the Falcons behaving quite undignified. He looked rather neutral, boring even, and that only irked Marcus more. It itched, prickled under his fingertips as he observed his former rival. Why was it that Wood could never loosen up? 

Mustering up his valour, Marcus made his move.

“Of course, you don’t drink,” he sighed dramatically as he plopped down next to the younger man.

“Only during holidays,” Wood replied with a serious look, toasting his glass of water before taking a sip. Again, Wood appeared just as somber and humourless as always, answering the accusation with a genuine answer, instead of bantering with Marcus.

The need to pester Wood didn’t go away, so Marcus continued, putting on his best drawl.

“You never think about anything except Quidditch, do you? You ever do anything else other than flying? Perhaps something else with brooms ?” Marcus licked his lips slowly, making sure to keep his eyes firmly on Wood’s. “Gryffindor’s pretty, little, golden boy,” he added, just for the sake of it.

“I do other things than quidditch,” Wood argued, getting a little flushed.

Ah. He wondered whether it was the innuendo or the pretty part that made Wood flush. He seemed a little flustered, his eyes darting nervously to his team mates who were all oblivious to their conversation.

“You ever… polish your broom, so to speak? Give it a bit of Gryffindor love?” Marcus interrupted with a long pause, smirking devilishly.

“Yes,” Wood replied, then after a brief second, he turned red and almost out of breath, he huffed, “I mean—not, not like that.”

Marcus took a long sip of his ale, making sure to lick the foam from his lips as slowly as he could. Wood’s eyes tracked the motion, his fingers twitching around his glass. Marcus didn’t miss it.

“This is bollocks, Wood,” Marcus then said, looking around the room. “Us pretending.”

“Pretending?” Wood quirked his brow questioningly.

“We’re rivals, aren’t we?” He mused, “Quidditch Times sure had a jolly good time pitting us against each other. Said you don’t approve of my brutish methods.”

“You read that crap?” Wood asked incredulously. “I mean—we don’t have to be. And I don’t. Approve that is.” Wood furrowed a brow and pursed his lips. “We could be… civil, I suppose.”

While he admired Wood’s earnest need for some sort of alliance between them, the prospect of annoying the younger man, making him flush and squirm was far more winning. Wood always had a composed exterior. Whether it was because he was just that good at ignoring taunts or because he genuinely was a pristine example of great sportsmanship, Marcus wasn’t sure.

Sometimes, Wood would give away his irritation, but only just so. Wood would get a twitch in his eye, go red or purse his lips, but he would always manage to keep himself in check which only agitated Marcus further. He wanted Wood to lose it, hit him even! Getting physical would at least mean getting to touch the younger man.

“Civil?” Marcus did his best to speak the word like it was foreign to him. “I think I like our rivalry better.”

Wood scoffed in response and a silence settled between them. “Nothing ever changes with you, Flint.”

“Nor with you,” Marcus retorted, “still as boring as ever.” 

On that note, he got up, casting a glance at Wood. The keeper looked redder than before now with a small twitch in his eye, as if Marcus had insulted him greatly. Marcus smirked crudely and made his way to his team. A satisfactory sense of self-assurance rose in him as he strutted across the bar. At least, he knew how to have a good time.

It was purely by chance that Marcus was invited to the English National Team’s try-outs. He had been wondering when he’d get the chance to see Wood again and, of course, there he was. Standing as serious and ready as ever, with both hands on his hips, smiling cordially at his competitors, shaking their hands and discussing the bloody standings, as if his own team wasn’t losing.

It wasn’t until he laid eyes on Marcus that his expression changed.

“Oh,” he said, his pink lips forming a perfect ‘O’. “Hello Marcus.”

Marcus grunted in acknowledgement, nodding his head. It was too sodding early in the morning for him to come up with any clever remarks.

Their first training session took place on a particularly snowy and windy morning, and all Marcus wanted was to go home to his manor, lie down in front of the fireplace and have a glass of the finest wine from the cellar. By the end of it, his kit was soaked through and his muscles ached from flying for too long on an old broom. Perhaps, he’d even get Libby to trim his nails, too. They were getting a bit too long.

Libby was his best house elf. She’d been with the Flint family for nearly sixty years and Marcus would rather lose the entire staff than lose her. The rest of those bleeding elves were far too occupied with movements such as SPEW which only made dealing with them much harder. Libby on the other hand, was loyal, hardworking and oddly traditionalist for an elf. She would never want her freedom, thankfully.

As Marcus made his way to the apparition point with thoughts of wine and cheese, he walked past Wood and Dominic Currie charming the equipment away, various things flying from here to there. Always a Gryffindor, so helpful and compliant, Wood had offered to help with the clean-up.

“Oi, Wood! How’d you like that bludger I sent your way!” Currie, the chaser for Tutshill Tornados, yelled teasingly. He had pulled a very Marcus-like move, stealing a beater’s bat to send a bludger towards Wood. It hadn’t hit him, though it had gone through the far-right hoop. Usually, Marcus would applaud this type of innovative playing, but for some reason it didn’t sit right with him that the bludger had almost hit the former Gryffindor.

“You’re supposed to put the quaffles through my hoop!” Wood laughed, levitating the quaffles into a net. 

“I’ll put something through your hoop alright,” Marcus muttered mostly to himself as he passed.

“What?” Wood asked after him, seeming a bit outraged. Marcus ignored the way Wood’s white kit clung to his body; soaking wet and nearly see-through.

“Nothin’,” Marcus chirped innocently, already preparing to apparate.

The first three days were a bit uneventful. Marcus thought he was better than all of the other chasers invited. Not a single of them had the same vigour he possessed, nor the talent. He had scored the most and flown the fastest. He was ninety-nine percent sure he would get a spot.

On the fourth day, it was time to try out team dynamics and of course, Wood was on his team. They all took to their quarter of the pitch where the training brooms had been laid out already. 

It took them nearly twenty minutes to agree on a strategy against the other teams. Marcus was as always, fond of unusual plays, and suggested they distract their opponents with a Wollongong Shimmy and sic their beaters on the keeper for easier access to the goal posts.

Wood had disagreed, of course. He wanted them to play safe and had apparently spent the previous evening revising on every single player’s individual tactics. Marcus had most of all wanted to tease him about his lack of a social life, but he has refrained as he didn’t want any implications with his given team. He wanted to win after all.

They were to play using training brooms; the kind that was far too broken and bruised. It wasn’t uncommon. Training brooms were harder to master and a test of true skill. Similar to taming a wild horse, it took an enormous amount of patience.

While Marcus did not consider himself a patient man, he was lucky enough to get a broom that at least obeyed. Unlike Wood, who appeared to be having trouble with a simple command.

Wood growled at his broom. It seemed that it didn’t want to listen. The broom lay flat on the ground, not bothering as much as a twitch at Wood’s “Up”. It didn’t come as a surprise to Marcus; the funding for the National team wasn’t anything to write home about and as such, a lot of their equipment was rather awful.

If he were to make the team, perhaps he’d make a donation. But only if he made it.

“Having trouble with your broom, Wood?” Marcus asked teasingly. “I could probably give you a hand.” 

“Bloody thing won’t listen,” Wood murmured with great annoyance. Then after a good three seconds, his brows narrowed and he scrunched up his face in disgust, clearly getting the underlying tone of innuendo.

“I’d let you ride on my broom,” Marcus drawled, pausing for effect, “but I suppose an innocent Gryffindor like you couldn’t handle that.”

Wood gawked at him with his stupid doe eyes, his pinks lips open in shock. He stumbled a bit backwards. “What?”

Marcus laughed and turned towards the supporting staff before he mounted his broom. “Oi! I think Wood needs a new broom!”

Taunting Wood became a delightful way of passing time. Marcus eventually ran out of broom innuendos, so he spent an embarrassing amount of time each evening coming up with ways to tease the younger man. It was very satisfying—taunting and teasing Wood into losing his cool.

Eventually, Wood would either have to snog him or punch him bloody. Those odds seemed alright and Marcus didn't mind being a little immature if it meant getting Wood hot and bothered.

One morning, Marcus even went for the worst one—it wasn’t particularly clever or original, but for once Wood was the last person to arrive, almost tripping over his own feet to find his spot in the large circle they made.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry, I had—”

“Morning Wood—it happens to the best of us,” Marcus interrupted loudly and everyone erupted into laughter.

With Wood turning beet red and barely able to form a sentence, it had truly been a glorious morning.

Then, there had been the time Marcus had arrived early and found Wood on the pitch, knee-deep in broom oil, trimming the ends of his broom. He hadn’t changed yet and was sitting like a child, crossed legged in a pair of joggers and a jumper on the cold ground.

“Don’t suppose I could get you to polish my broom?” Marcus had quite lewdly questioned, before he followed with, “I hear you’re good with your hands.”

Wood stared at him silently for a long time, before he managed to speak, “Flint—why are you… You know what? Never mind.” Then he got up from the ground quite aggressively and not very gracefully, before he stalked off to the changing rooms. Marcus couldn’t help but notice how his joggers were a little too tight around his bum.

Nothing was more satisfying than the day an owl delivered his National team acceptance letter. Not only had he made it as a starting chaser, he would also be centered; an important position if not the most important one.

They were to play a friendly match against Ireland; a sort of test match to see how well they performed as a new team, but it was also a sly way of getting a whiff of their biggest competition’s tactics.

No one was surprised to say the least, when Ireland absolutely smashed them to bits and pieces. 310 to Ireland against their own mere 130. Marcus didn’t take it well, but then again, he’d been hit in the head with a bludger twenty minutes in, so it brought him a little reassurance that he was not at fault.

Wood, however, looked as if he was in a state of complete and utter pain. His eyes shone with unshed tears and he helplessly plonked down on a bench in the locker room. A few of their teammates tried to reassure him, but Wood did not appear to forget the fiasco, waving them off with annoyance.

“I’m so embarrassed,” he hissed, hiding his face in his hands.

Marcus sighed exaggeratedly, looking down at his mop of tousled, brown hair. “Calm down, Wood. ‘S just a practice match. No one cares.”

“Easy for you to say, you didn’t even play!” Wood exclaimed rather aggressively, before he regained some composure and looked quite guilty. His eyes met Marcus’ own sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m a bit frustrated. How’s your head, anyway?”

“My head?” Marcus may not have done well academically, but he was a quick thinker nonetheless. “Never had any complaints. How’s yours?”

“What?” Wood sat a bit more rigid on the bench now, clearly confused.

“I’d say I’m pretty experienced, I do prefer getting head rather than giving,” Marcus smacked his lips and raised his voice, “but don’t we all?”

An enormous amount of laughter broke out around them and Wood got up from the bench in one quick movement. He looked at Marcus with wide eyes and he sputtered incoherently as he neared Marcus with crossed arms.

“Why do you have to be so—” he cut off with a frustrated look, ignoring the rest of the team who were all still chuckling at Marcus’ joke. Then, without as much as a goodbye, Wood left the changing rooms with a harrumph and a dark scowl on his face.

Marcus shrugged at his teammates who all seemed vaguely amused with Wood’s stuffy attitude. Wood prided himself on his control, that much was certain. He hadn’t even cussed or yelled at anyone after their loss and Marcus, being Marcus, had pushed him too far and yet still nothing groundbreaking. Not even a dirty quip could break his discipline.

Clearly, Wood was not one for crude jokes. 

Marcus wondered what Wood was like in bed. Was he just as jittery and bashful? Marcus knew his own preferences of course. He preferred his partners to be submissive, not afraid of spanking or biting, the occasional dirty talk mixed with a pet name or two. He didn’t care much for looks, knowing he wasn’t a looker himself, but he’d gotten by well in his years. He supposed most of his conquests were also in it for the fact that he was a high-ranking quidditch player, but it didn’t bother him much.

With Oliver Wood however, Marcus was torn between wanting to indulge in Wood’s prudishness and strange squeamishness or wanting to break him out of it. What he would give to hear crude curse words fall from those pink lips, nearly frightened him. It was becoming very clear that sooner or later, he had to act on his desires.

It was at a ministry event for some Quidditch charity that Marcus finally had the courage to let his intentions be known. He had been keeping to shadows for most of the night, moving silently against the walls, ignoring reporters, occasionally stopping for a snack at the lavish tables.

Marcus had been fascinated by the latest phenomenon of muggle cooking that had been introduced to Wizards—cake pops. A small, round cake on a stick, covered in chocolate and colourful sweets. They weren’t half-bad. He would get Libby to learn the recipe.

He munched on one rather barbarically, putting the whole thing in his mouth and sucking it off the stick, while he observed Wood.

Wood appeared to be on his best behaviour tonight. He was dressed in the same dress robes that all players were instructed to wear—in their team colours, respectively—though on Wood’s body it looked much better than on anyone else. The navy silk-lined outer robes looked formidable on Wood. His crisp, white shirt left nothing to the imagination and his blue slacks hugged his lean thighs very well.

For some reason beyond Marcus, Wood had a SPEW badge pinned to his robe and was pointing to it quite excitedly as he chatted with various people. Marcus rolled his eyes. Of course Wood would be a spokesman for such a ridiculous cause.

The entire ordeal was very uneventful. There were many familiar faces; Keaton Flitney, retired chaser for England, Kursten Blijk, german chaser who was now the coach of Tutshill and of course, Karl Wang, the indestructible keeper for Norway was there.

Wood was clearly trying to hold back, eyes wide and hands wringing excitedly in front of him as he chatted eagerly. Wang looked slightly pained at having to endure Wood’s mindless babbling and Marcus had to hold back a chuckle at the sight.

It was rather sweet how Wood fawned over his quidditch idols. With large, doe eyes and a mouth that wouldn’t stop moving, Wood might as well have been thirteen years old again, moonstruck and blind to anyone else.

Marcus had gotten over being starstruck a long time ago. He wasn’t a teenager anymore and soon he would be just as legendary, just as good. Perhaps one day, Wood would fawn over him.

It wasn’t until the actual dinner that Marcus got to interact with the young keeper. The Gryffindor had been playing his part well, striking up conversations with several large sponsors and even going as far as fetching drinks for anyone without. Marcus had only managed to shoot him a few teasing looks, but Wood had done his best not to respond; he had made it very obvious that he was promptly ignoring Marcus. 

As the universe would then have it, when the actual dinner came along Marcus was seated diagonally across from Oliver Wood, straight across from the famous referee Josiah Plunkett, there was some pudgy Ministry official to his left and the businessman and philanthropist, Dewitt Banks, to his right.

Marcus could not help but dislike Banks almost instantly, mostly because there really was no reason to. Perhaps it was because Marcus suddenly felt insignificant and dull. Perhaps it was because of the way Wood smiled, genuinely too, and how it was not meant for him. Perhaps it was because Banks was everything Marcus could never be.

Banks was smart and knew how to keep a conversation going. Words seemed to come so easily for Banks and they all sounded so fancy and eloquent, in a way that Marcus could never express himself. The man sat there, casually leaned back in his chair, talking and smiling as though it was the best thing he could think of. It was very clear that he knew how many people at the table found him attractive.

“So Oliver, ” Banks purred, and Marcus looked up from his plate, narrowing his brows. “Have you taken Montrose up on that offer yet? I dare say you would be a sight for sore eyes in black and white.”

Marcus found himself wanting to state that Wood looked practically good in anything, but he refrained and opted for keeping a neutral face instead. Wood flushed at the compliment and Marcus really wanted to smack Banks for looking so smug. Instead, he shoved a large piece of steak into his mouth and chewed it rather aggressively.

“Er,” Wood glanced nervously at Marcus, who still tried to look indifferent. “I think I’d like to stay with Puddlemere, thanks.”

“Well,” Banks said, smacking his lips, “you’re a sight in blue, too.” And then he winked at Wood.

Wood giggled rather strangely, wrangled and high-pitched, and Marcus couldn’t help but raise a brow at his sudden flustered state. He didn’t think anyone else could manage to get Wood in such a state, but apparently the philanthropist had some alluring power over Wood.

“What’s it to you who he plays for?” Marcus asked Banks quite rudely without preamble, forgetting his manners. It wasn’t exactly how you were supposed to behave at an official event, at least not from what his parents had taught him.

“Calm down, Flint,” Banks laughed. “I was only trying to charm him a little. You are single, are you not?” He tipped his wineglass towards Wood questioningly.

“Oh,” Wood turned beet-red, “well, er—yes, I suppose.”

Marcus froze in his seat. Under Banks’ inquisitive and intense stare Wood appeared to be squirming uncomfortably in his seat. Grasping blindly for his wine, Marcus nearly downed the entire thing when Banks let out a filthy chuckle, low and deep.

“Well, I’m in the market for a new boyfriend and Oliver, you are just gorgeous. I’ve got a box at the upcoming Montrose/Tutshill match—want to come?” Banks suggested, “it’ll just be you and me. No one will disturb us.” He grinned at the end of his sentence, all of his perfect white teeth on display and Wood looked damn near constipation, breaking out into a nervous sweat, flushed skin and all.

In his seat, Marcus almost broke the glass in his hand. 

Anger swirled in his gut. How dared Banks make such a blatant pass at Wood? It was frankly nauseating to watch and it wasn’t as if a private box was that hard to come by. Marcus could easily get one for himself. He snuck a glance at Wood, who in return was looking right back at him with a strange look in his eyes.

“Um,” he began, his brown orbs flickering towards Banks. “I’m not really—er, that is to say I’m very flattered, but I’m not quite ready for anything serious.” Taking a large gulp of his wine, he sheepishly added, “I’m doing very well at the moment. Wouldn’t do me any good with another distraction in my life.”

Banks gave a toothy grin, resembling a great white shark. “That’s alright, Oliver. I’m a patient man.” He cut a neat, little square of his salmon and put it in his mouth, chewing it slowly. “I’ll be at your next match too. Perhaps we can have an innocent pint after? Between friends, of course.”

There was nothing friendly about the way Banks looked at Wood. He looked predatory and scheming, his blue eyes sharp and cool while he smiled in a sickly, sweet fashion. Marcus shoved a whole potato in his mouth to keep himself from interfering and averted his attention towards Josiah Plunkett's conversation about the ministry’s newest regulations on brooms longer than 72 inches.

It was all for show, of course. He was still very much paying attention to Wood and Banks' conversation.

When the formal dinner ended, tables were vanished and a dance floor was spelled to appear. Some band was playing; people were already starting to dance, the crowd growing large, and the bar was nearly full with players and ministry workers alike, all desperately trying to get a drink.

Marcus observed the commotion in a quiet rage.

Dewitt Banks had gotten so much on his nerves that Marcus had left the table when Banks had tried to flirt with Wood yet again. He had gone straight to the bar, ordered himself a Firewhisky and then promptly stalked out onto one of the smaller balconies, observing the party grow wilder through the large glass doors.

Somehow, in the heat of getting away from Wood and the ballroom transforming into a rowdy party, Marcus hadn’t paid much attention to the object of his desires and he was unable to spot him in the growing crowd.

He stood on the balcony and revelled in the cool air calming his skin and felt like he’d much rather go home and shed his formal robes for the soft cashmere set Libby had acquired for him. He would also much rather prefer having Oliver Wood completely starkers in his bed, but as he was scouring the room from his position, the former Gryffindor was nowhere in sight. Perhaps Banks had won him over after all. 

Marcus tried not to let it bother him, but he felt the sudden urge to throw his glass to the ground in a fit, watching as the remains of his Firewhiskey spilled on the grey granite, the amber liquid falling into the grout between the stones. The glass shattered into several large pieces, many of them reflecting the stars in the night sky. Marcus stared helplessly at the balcony tiles and decided that it was better to go home and not think too much about Wood and—

“Are you alright?”

Marcus whipped around so hard, he nearly slipped in the spilled whisky beneath his polished shoes.

Wood stood there, at the other end of the balcony, with his outer robe shrugged off and a pint in his hand. Marcus wasn’t sure how long he had stood there—or how he had even gotten there in the first place without him noticing, but it brought him a tremendous amount of glee (and smugness) that Wood had not gone with Banks home.

“I’m good,” he opted for, keeping his reply curt. 

Wood narrowed his brows and a somewhat ugly expression crossed his features. And then he said, “you don’t seem like you’re good. You seem a bit… pissed off.”

“The falcons are second in the league, I just made the National team and my investments are paying off. Why would I be pissed off?”  Marcus tried, feigning his best offended look.

“I don’t know,” Wood scuffed the front of his shoes against the granite. “Because you thought I had left?”

Marcus said nothing. Instead he watched Wood with sharp eyes and arched a brow as if to say; “and?”

“With Dewitt, er, Banks, that is,” Wood added hurriedly.

A smirk crawled up on Marcus’ lips. Perhaps this was his chance after all. “Why would I be angry about who you sleep with?” He said, looking pointedly away, because Wood had set down his pint on the stone railing and moved far too close. He was a little—but just a little—thrown off by Wood’s proximity.

“Because—you've been flirting with me, I think.” Wood said it with an irritating bluntness. The words were all very matter-of-fact and so typically Wood. It seemed like he had put a great deal of thought into his assumption; as if he had been thinking about it for a while now.

Marcus shrugged casually in response, a little amused by Wood’s tentativeness. “You could say that.”

Wood stared at him, blinking owlishly with his large honey-brown eyes. He looked quite stupid; clearly confounded.

“Cat got your tongue?” Marcus drawled, raising his brow slowly into a high arch, similar to the way his old Head of House had mastered.

Wood shook his head violently. “No! I just— I don’t know why. ”

“What do you mean, why?” Marcus asked, a little perplexed. It was fairly obvious—not just from the many attempts on bagging Wood he had seen happen tonight and apparently also his obvious jealousy, but in addition to that, there was how the press would describe Wood, how more than half Wood’s fan base consisted of desperate, single witches and how Wood was a Golden Gryffindor—it was just that. Anyone with eyes knew Oliver Wood was attractive. Anyone with a heart knew he was infuriatingly good and fair and ridiculously earnest.

“Well—”

“I’d like to shag you,” Marcus interrupted then, stating the obvious, too tired with the pace of the conversation already. “You know; fornication, screwing, boinking, doing the deed and all that stuff. Fucking.” He left out the part where he wanted to corrupt him, break him, own him and in his darkest fantasies, hurt him a little too. Wood probably wouldn’t take it very well.

The Puddlemere keeper reddened considerably at the crude admission and then proceeded to sputter incoherently. “I— What?”

“You’re fit,” Marcus said bluntly.

Wood gaped stupidly, clearly gobsmacked, his plump bottom lip just hanging there, begging for Marcus to taste it.

Which was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

“But why would you—”

In one swift motion, Marcus wrapped his right arm around his waist and speared the fingers of his left hand into the brown locks he had wanted to touch for so long. Pulling Wood fiercely to him, he claimed his lips in a bruising kiss, effectively cutting off his words. 

Wood went stiff at first, too shocked to respond, but after only a second or two, he melted into Marcus’ broad frame and sighed into his mouth, closing his eyes.

It wasn’t exactly what he’d thought it would be. Wood was nowhere near the fireball he was on the pitch. Instead, Oliver Wood was a mixture of slow and cautious in his kissing. He trembled slightly and followed Marcus blindly, only daring to open his lips with a gasp after Marcus bit down on his lip.

Kissing Wood was so overpowering and addictive that Marcus could only squeeze the younger man tighter to himself. After a few long moments, he reluctantly pulled away from the kiss and panted deeply, their breath mingling in an invisible dance. Eyes still closed, Wood whispered breathlessly. “Okay."

“Okay, what?” Marcus asked. He hadn’t asked a question.

“Let’s shag,” Wood breathed, opening his eyes and Marcus had to suck in a sharp breath at the way his brown orbs almost were black with want.

It turned out to take fifteen minutes to convince Wood that Marcus’ place would be better for their rendezvous. Wood had insisted on his own flat, though Marcus thought that if this were to be his only chance, he’d like it to be in his own bed where he would remember it forever. He had managed to argue that while Puddlemere surely paid Wood enough, Marcus had a far more extravagant home, complete with house elves to give him whatever he desired which had appeared to pique an interest in the brunette.

When they had then apparated into his foyer and Libby had greeted them, Wood had taken another fifteen minutes to introduce himself to the house elf, who had looked rather shocked at being addressed in such a polite manner. Wood asked her about her chores, questioned her about whether Marcus treated them with dignity or not, whether he provided them with proper quarters and whatnot, which had made Marcus interfere with controlled self-restraint. He didn’t want to cause himself any trouble with his childhood rival, not now that he finally had a chance. He dismissed Libby with a stern tone and gave Wood a light shove towards the grand staircase.

“I only wanted to make sure they’re alright,” Wood complained, nearly tripping over the stairs.

“You think I torture my elves? What good would that do?” Marcus asked incredulously, walking up the stairs behind the keeper. “It would only make them worth less,” he added under his breath.

“What?” Wood turned at the top of the stairs with a thunderous expression.

“Nothin’,” Marcus said with a fake cheer, stepping up to meet him. Feeling tired with Wood’s concern for his houselves, he reeled the keeper in for another kiss, making sure to keep his mouth occupied as he maneuvered them towards his quarters.

It all happened rather fast. 

One second, they were kissing, shoving each other against every surface in the manor, hands fisting into each others clothing, tearing and tugging, clothes flung across the hallway for his elves to pick up, and the next, they were stumbling into the bedroom, both naked, both nearly out of breath.

However, the moment they neared Marcus' large four-poster bed, the atmosphere changed and it was as if time had slowed down considerably. Marcus had to lean back on his haunches to take in the sight in front of him.

Wood laid in his bed, naked as the day as he was born, all perfect creamy skin with an interesting flush spreading slowly from his neck and down his chest. Marcus stroked Wood’s thighs with his calloused fingertips for a long time. Wood had very soft skin for man. His skin was oddly pretty, too, with all the freckles and the little brown moles that were scattered across his body.

As it turned out, Wood seemed nervous. He flushed a lot under Marcus’ gaze and bit his lip so much it had turned cherry red. He kept averting his eyes or closing them whenever Marcus stroked his own cock, like it was all too much to look at—as if Marcus was too overwhelming a sight or maybe, just not what he wanted to see.

Marcus decided he'd make Wood more comfortable. He knew his own face wasn’t anything to write home about. Even though it clenched in his heart to think about it, who was he to judge Wood if he wanted to imagine someone else? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done that himself. He had spent countless of shags imagining Wood after all.

If this was his only chance at fucking Oliver Wood, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it and he sure wasn’t about to throw it away just because the keeper didn’t want to look at his ugly mug.

“Turn around,” Marcus said then, not recognising his own voice. It sounded a bit like he had something lodged in his throat. Wood merely nodded in response, moving onto all fours with trembling arms. 

The sight alone was intoxicating. Having Wood present himself in such a crude manner without so much as a word of protest, did funny things to Marcus’ gut. Deciding that the obedience should not go unrewarded, Marcus let his hand inch over the younger man’s skin, caressing and massaging his shoulders, before moving downwards, greedily running his hands over every bit of skin exposed.

He watched as the younger man shivered with sensation before moving the soft touches to the small of his back, every sweep of the expanse applying a bit more pressure until Wood was arched, his perfect, plump arse up for Marcus’ pleasure. Something possessed him, right then and there, to lean over Wood, placing a hot, wet kiss on the back of his neck that drew out a gasp from the younger man. 

Murmuring a lube charm against skin there, Marcus fingers became coated with slick. He made sure to warm up his fingers, rubbing them against each other, not missing how Wood exhaled harshly when his thumb swiped over the rim of the pink hole.

He circled it with the pad of his thumb, slow and precise, revelling in the panting it produced from the brunette. When he pushed the tip of his finger in, Wood actually mewled, back arching and arse pushing further back. Taking it as his cue, Marcus thumbed Wood open, in-out-in-out, working the fat joint of his thumb in softly, and opened his mouth over the knob at the base of Wood’s neck. “You alright?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded strained, nearly strangled.

Marcus withdrew his thumb.

Wood whined; high and needy, before he craned his neck with much effort, looking up at Marcus with watery eyes, pupils blown wide and his lips red from biting. Marcus smirked, a childish move, but he had to remember that he was in charge; the goal was getting Wood to react properly.

“What?”

“I—I want more,” Wood gritted through clenched teeth, closing his eyes and turning his head back so Marcus couldn’t see his face properly.

A little annoyed at being denied Wood’s beautifully flushed face, Marcus felt the sudden urge to take. 

Giving in to his urges, he hurried through another lube charm, this time pointed directly at Wood’s rosy hole. Marcus didn’t waste time and Wood mewled when he shoved two fingers in without much care, watching with hungry eyes as they moved in and out, making wet noises. Wood trembled as he struggled to lift his upper body and Marcus couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips as he continued to twist his fingers, searching for Wood’s prostate.

"Do you want me to fuck you like this until you come?" Marcus asked in a low voice.

Wood didn’t answer, just moved his hips in circles, thrusting softly back against Marcus’ fingers. Marcus made sure to flutter his fingers lightly over Wood’s prostate, trying to goad a response from him.

"Do you, Wood?" He pressed harder against the nub.

Letting out a groan, Wood’s arms suddenly collapsed and he buried his face on the bed, bracing himself as he held his arse in the air, thrusting harder back against Marcus’ fingers. The sheets muffled his quiet gasps as his hand slipped down and grasped his own cock, stroking it as Marcus’ rough fingers fucked him at a steady pace.

“If only Puddlemere could see you now,” Marcus breathed, trying to keep his commentary teasing, though his voice quavered with overwhelm, “ready to get fucked by me, a Falcons chaser.” As he removed his fingers, Wood let out a groan of protest, canting his hips and trying to follow Marcus’ hand. It was intoxicating watching Wood lose his composure. The younger man was clearly trying not to come undone; stubbornly grunting and muffling his own gasps. Marcus guided his aching cock to the plump arse, sliding the wet tip along the length of the crevice, searching for a reaction.

“Yeah,” Marcus breathed, still in awe of the sight in front of him. He had Oliver Wood, keeper for Puddlemere United, on all fours with his legs spread, Marcus’ cock sliding along the wet crack, writhing in his bed, in Flint Manor.

Wood turned his head, his hand still working at his cock, his breath erratic and harsh. Marcus’ cock slid against Wood’s slick arse, the tip occasionally catching the pink opening. 

“Please,” Wood begged then, breathy and desperate, and Marcus marvelled at the slip-up. Wood had caved in, given in to his want. He could only be a gentleman and obey. The tip of his cock would do, he thought, before he slid in completely, his member engulfed in the warm, wet heat.

He paused to look down between them, pulled nearly all the way out and admired their connection. Wood’s arsehole looked like it wanted more, clutching at the not-enough of Marcus’ cock head, teasing at the lip of foreskin. Everything glistened with lube and the sight was breathtaking.

Wood breathed raggedly, his fingers clenching harshly around the sheets, and then he let out a whimper, before he moaned Marcus name in protest. He was clearly trying his hardest not to beg again.

Marcus felt invincible at seeing Wood in such a broken state and without further delay, he thrust back into Wood’s heat with great force, working up a harsh rhythm of hard thrusts and well-aimed strokes against Wood’s bundle of nerves. He felt nearly animalistic and a sense of possessiveness overcame him and his fingers clenched harsly at Wood’s hips, marking the skin there with blue and purple bruises.

“Look at you,” he breathed, running his mouth, not having any control of what came out, “so good, so fucking fit. Merlin, your arse. ” Marcus thrusted particularly hard to emphasise his point, and Wood let out something between a moan and a whimper. “You like that? Yeah? Going to fuck you so bloody good, going to cum in that tight arse—”

At those words, Wood clenched down on his cock with a loud cry and Marcus’ nearly tipped forward at the sudden overwhelming sensation. “Fuckin’ hell, Wood.”

Soon his bedroom was filled with sounds, skin slapping on skin, obscene moans and whimpers as well as the occasional squelch. Marcus could barely contain himself; he made sure that Wood knew how good he looked, how bloody infuriating he was, how tight his arse was and Wood responded beautifully, completely devoid of any control. The keeper moaned and gasped and actually begged for more and it was all completely filthy; the round, faint jiggle of Wood’s sweet arse, the way every stroke and push was followed by Wood’s loud keens—it was everything Marcus had ever wished for. 

It may have been the case that Marcus would never admit it in public, but Oliver Wood was exceptionally beautiful. 

It was the morning after and Wood looked dishevelled; his hair stuck up in various directions, far more messy than when he’d been flying and his lips were puffy and red from harsh kisses. He was sleeping quite peacefully, looking younger than he was, snuggled against Marcus’ side. He had never noticed it before, but Wood had a fine layer of freckles dusted across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He slept completely silently and Marcus found himself momentarily transfixed by the younger man’s placidness.

Feeling rowdy, Marcus instigated what he hoped would be another round of filthy shagging. Starting with his pale neck, Marcus placed an open-mouthed, slick kiss there, sucking at the skin fervently, letting his hands move down the smooth planes of Wood’s stomach. Wood murmured in response, letting out a soft gasp, but only stirred a little. Marcus smirked against the skin of his collarbone, before he started nipping at the skin and let his thumbs swipe over the perky nipples on display. That got him a delicious moan in response and Wood definitely was awake now as he made room for Marcus to move between his legs.

In the quiet morning, he continued his exploration with eagerness, occasionally stopping to admire the marks he left, how good they looked on Wood’s pale skin—

“Wait!”

“What?” Marcus murmured distractedly. There was a lovely red mark on Wood’s neck from last night. He wondered briefly what it would be like to cover the entire body before him with marks. Perhaps a little ambitious, but he liked the idea of marking Wood for his own.

“Could we—could we eat something?”

“You want to have lunch?” Marcus asked and then, a little shocked, he added, “with me?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly eaten since yesterday's dinner,” Wood said with a hard stare. “I do have a meal plan to follow, you know. Three-thousand calories a day to be exact, preferably consisting of healthy choices. ”

Marcus made a mental note—it seemed that Wood was the type to keep up with the faff of playing professionally. He’d get Libby to prepare a healthy breakfast for Wood, next time. Not for himself though. Marcus didn’t see the point in counting his calories; a full English was his preferred choice.

“Alright then,” he said, heaving himself off the bed and off of the warm body. “Get dressed, Wood. We’ll have lunch.”

Marcus took Wood to The Golden Goose. He knew it was a bit extravagant for a Sunday lunch, but it was all very worth it to see Wood’s eyes nearly fall out his head when they entered. The interior was horribly tacky and over the top, nearly every decorative item gold or bejewelled, but the food was the main attraction; always tasting of perfection itself. Marcus had had his house-elves try to replicate their dishes many times and always without luck.

Wood didn’t utter a word until they were seated, not even when Ruben Goldbark, the owner of the establishment, greeted Marcus by first name and with an affectionate hug. Marcus smirked as he took his seat across from Wood.

“Do you come here often, then?” Wood asked, his eyes darting around to no doubt take in the various high-ranking Ministry officials and celebrities that sat around them. Lunch at The Golden Goose was no cheap affair after all, and Marcus knew that at least here, they would never be bothered by pestering journalists or rabid quidditch fans.

“Yes, of course,” Marcus drawled. “I’ve invested in this place. Can’t say I like the interior much, but the food’s good.”

“And you come here with… dates?”

“Occasionally,” Marcus lied. He had in fact never brought anyone here, afraid that they would read too much into it. He also didn’t want to sully his good reputation as a businessman. Goldbark was a family man and it was better he saw Marcus in the same way. Of course, he couldn’t let Wood know that. It was better that Wood thought of this as routine, just so Marcus wouldn’t embarrass himself and acknowledge that he’d been attracted to him since his seventh year.

Wood nodded absently before he hid his face behind the menu, looking over the various dishes.

“Don’t bother, I already told Mr. Goldbark we’d take the three-course lunch.” Marcus reached across the table and snatched the menu from Wood’s hands, annoyed with Wood’s hiding.

“Three courses?” Wood exclaimed in shock, “are you mad?”

“Didn’t you say you needed the calories and whatnot?”

“Yes, but three courses—for lunch?” Wood seemed very sceptical.

Marcus grinned; a full-blown, crooked teeth on display, all wolfish and full of mischief. “Now, now, Wood. You, of all people, should know it takes a lot of food to keep being this size.” He made an emphasis by lifting his arms and clasping his hands behind his head, knowing full well that his shirt was just tight enough to show off his biceps.

Wood’s eyes were drawn to them, of course, another flush spreading across his cheeks. He cleared his throat awkwardly, before he spoke hesitantly.

“If I hadn’t…” Wood bit his lip and Marcus distractedly watched it redden under his teeth. “If I had said yes to Dewitt, would you have interfered?” His large eyes watched Marcus curiously.

Marcus paused. He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have risked his reputation like that by making a scene, but he couldn’t tell Wood that. It wouldn’t do him any good to do so, so instead he opted for an arrogant reply. “I knew you weren’t going to say yes.”

It was a lie. He had been incredibly hacked off with Banks for flirting with Wood all night and it was mostly due to his own jealousy of the philanthropist. On paper, Banks was a much better man; handsome, famous, charitable and everything a golden boy like Wood would like. He had, in fact, been terrified that Wood would give in to the other man’s charm.

Wood frowned. “What do you mean you knew?”

Marcus felt another grin grow on his face. “He doesn’t have the… rougher touch you require, does he? It’s not really a secret that you Gryffindor lot like a good pounding once in a while,” Marcus paused longer than necessary and took in the sight of Wood’s now beet-red face. “Look Wood, we both know you like it rough. I can provide that.”

Wood didn’t say anything. Instead he looked like he’d been caught red handed, his eyes wide with shock and his cheek flushed with embarrassment.

The lunch was a fantastic idea. It had mostly consisted of Marcus making several dirty jokes about their food and enjoying the way Wood would splutter and look around as if anyone had heard. For someone who had been sceptical of a three course lunch, Wood had finished his plates off rather cleanly.

Their dessert arrived; a dark, chocolate ice cream infused with Fire Seeds, topped with salted caramel and Spellbinding Nuts and Wood looked positively ecstatic at the dessert, clearly giving away that he had a sweet tooth.

Wood indulged himself happily, finishing his own dessert before Marcus had even had three spoonfuls of his own. Feeling generous, he pushed his plate towards Wood. He wasn’t one for sugary things anyway.

Wood beamed at him at the gesture before he lowered his gaze, sighing around another large scoop of chocolate ice cream and Marcus had never felt more jealous of a bleeding spoon. It didn’t take long for him to be fed up with watching Wood’s lips suck provocatively on a spoon—even if it wasn’t on purpose.

Wood’s stupid doe eyes flew wide open when Marcus reached up and closed his fingers around his on the spoon, sliding it with slowness out between the pouty lips. 

“Stop fuckin’ around with that,” Marcus muttered as his gaze followed the motion. Wood licked his lips as Marcus withdrew the spoon from his lips, and Marcus couldn't help the groan that escaped him.

“Are you—is this getting you off?” Wood exclaimed, sitting back in his chair and raising a brow.

“Well, ‘s not like you’ve put those pretty lips ‘round my cock yet,” Marcus replied with the dirtiest grin he could muster. 

Wood let out a nervous laughter; high-pitched and broken, while his eyes shifted anxiously around the room, like he was afraid someone would hear their conversation.

“Well?” It was rather amazing getting Oliver Wood all squirmy and fidgety. Marcus put the spoon in his own mouth, brazenly pulling it in and out slowly, mimicking the action they were discussing.

“Stop it,” Wood hissed, his face entirely red. He looked a bit like he was having an allergic reaction.

“Are you up for it?” Marcus prompted, purposely keeping his tone teasing and devilish, only so he could enjoy the sheer embarrassment on Wood’s face. “I certainly am,” he added with a chuckle, putting the spoon on the table and gesturing towards his growing crotch that was luckily hidden under his napkin.

“Marcus!” Oliver reprimanded in a hushed whisper, clearly embarrassed. “Merlin’s pants! We’re in public!”

Much to Marcus’ surprise, Wood didn’t leave after lunch. Instead, he stood rather awkwardly in front of the restaurant, shuffling his feet and staring at the pavement timidly as if Marcus was supposed to say something. Marcus, being a man of a few words, stood quite still and stoic, observing Oliver Wood grow redder and redder under his gaze. Could it be that Wood wanted to indulge him in more of his fantasies? Or maybe Marcus had been that good.

Or perhaps Wood just wanted to get off.

“You want to come back to mine, then?” He tried because if there was any chance of getting his childhood rival on his knees, he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Wood nodded silently, the tips of his ears looking nearly fuchsia.

Not bothering with more conversation, Marcus grabbed a hold of the brunette’s arm and apparated them both back into his bedroom. He didn’t give the younger man any time to get used to the horrendous tug of apparition after eating such a heavy meal, and proceeded to push him towards the bed with force.

“Show me,” Wood breathed as his legs hit the edge of the four-poster bed. Much like at school, Wood looked so bloody earnest, as if he was eager to learn, eager to please even. 

Marcus nodded dumbly and grabbed Wood’s hand, guiding it down to his erection. “Concentrate, Wood.” His voice felt oddly honey-thick and there was a strange buzzy feeling in his head.

Wood gave a short nod, curt and rather resolute, his hand stroking Marcus’ cock slowly through his trousers. He sat down on the edge of the bed, unfastening Marcus’ fly. He eased the fabric over Marcus’ cock, watching the skin constrict as the cool air touched it. He simply stared for a long moment, closing his eyes as Marcus’ hand settled on the nape of his neck, caressing slightly before applying pressure. Without a word, the keeper’s mouth wrapped around Marcus’ prick, bathing it in humid heat.

Marcus’ body stiffened, the hard muscles of his legs tightening as Wood’s hot mouth moved over him as his hands roamed up and down the back of his thighs. The younger man moaned, his hands moving up to Marcus’ arse and squeezing the flesh there and Marcus’ hips involuntarily rocked forward, thrusting his cock deeper into Wood’s pretty mouth. Marcus hadn’t expected Wood to be this brilliant, but there he was, sucking cock like his life depended on it.

Wood’s lips tightened as he pulled back, circling the slick head as his tongue slid along the slit. His hand replaced his mouth, sliding along the length of Marcus’ erection as he looked up.

“Am I—is it good?” He asked with large brown eyes looking up at Marcus through long lashes. It was a bit overwhelming and Marcus’ eyes rolled towards the back of his head.

“Fuck, Wood—” Marcus couldn’t concentrate. “Yeah, ‘s good, fuck yes—”

Wood’s pink lips slipped over the head of his cock again, tongue dabbing at the slit to taste the drops of precum that had formed. Marcus let out a low moan, his fingers tangling into smooth, brown locks of hair. He tugged at the roots, letting Wood work over his length, over and over.

It didn’t take long. One second Wood had relaxed his throat and the next, Marcus felt his cock nudge at the back of Wood’s throat, the next he came in a violent burst. 

He had made the mistake of looking down again and had seen Oliver Wood looking up at him with a determined look on his face—much like the look he always sported on the pitch, creased brows and pure dedication. It was a far too overwhelming sight. Even after, when Marcus yanked Wood up by the front of the shirt and shoved a hand rather aggressively down his pants, Wood looked at him with large, dark eyes and a panting, pretty, red mouth while Marcus wanked him off. 

There was something in Marcus’ gut that clenched happily at the sight. Wood was so easy, so pliant and like putty in Marcus’ hands, he did what he was told and with no resistance.

On rare occasions, Marcus would make an appearance at The Seeker’s Spot, a famous quidditch bar in London. It was only during the season he would go and only if he was accompanied by his teammates or friends. This particular night, he was accompanied by Higgs who was only back in Britain for a few days to oversee a bit of business.

It was a pleasant night, not too many people crowding the bar yet, so Marcus revelled in having a nice corner booth, a good pint and a surprisingly ‘adult’ conversation with his old mate. Somewhere in their conversation, the subject of Marcus’ love life had come up and he had not been able to keep off the smugness on his face. He had pompously and boastingly explained that finally, after many years, he had managed to snag Oliver Wood himself and that they had been shagging for three months now.

Higgs held a self-satisfied look of his own and toasted his pint in congratulations. “Well done, Flint,” he smirked, “I always knew you’d man up and do something about Wood. When’s the big announcement, then?”

“Announcement?” Marcus repeated in confusion.

“Well, you’re not one for sharing,” Higgs gave him a pointed look. “Eventually, you’ll become… Well, boyfriends, I suppose. Unless you’re just going to have your fun and leave him ruined for someone else.”

Marcus paused, setting his lager down in contemplation. 

He hadn’t given it much thought if he was being honest. He definitely didn’t like the idea of Oliver being fucked by other men and he was one hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t ever score anyone as enticing as Oliver, not to mention anyone as invested in quidditch. They hadn’t spoken much during their many encounters—usually their time together consisted of Marcus teasing Oliver about Puddlemere’s horrifying results and then a round of vigorous fucking would follow.

Oliver always stayed and slept over too, but Marcus, being a busy man, never got to indulge much in having morning sex as he was often fully booked. If the keeper had something against it, he never said. Oliver was, in fact, rather quiet, dazed and wide-eyed most of the time—except in bed, of course.

In bed, Oliver Wood was everything he wasn’t on the pitch. Seeker Weekly and the Prophet wrote about him as if he was Merlin’s gift to quidditch; vocal, relentless, assertive and had far more experience beyond his years. In Marcus’ bed, Oliver was vocal still, but it wasn’t the well-thought practice speeches he had once heard, no—when Marcus had his hands on the brunette, it was more a stream of incoherent words, a mixture of babbling and moaning, as well as the occasional ‘please’.

Oliver wasn’t particularly relentless in the same fiery way that he was on a broom. Instead he was more intense in an emotional way, raw and unfiltered and oddly timid at times too. Never hesitant, though. Whether it was about trying new things or letting Marcus have his way with him; spanking and biting amongst other things, Oliver took it, accepted it and often played along so beautifully it nearly broke Marcus’ heart to see his former rival completely lose all boundaries.

The only thing Oliver wasn’t, in their heated encounters, was assertive. Marcus had nearly lost his cool several times at how submissive Oliver could be in bed. Not particularly insecure or jittery, but he was, even after three months, still bashful and gentle—as if Marcus made him nervous.

In all honesty, Oliver was rather perfect and it would only pain him to see him with someone else. Marcus supposed he did have to make a move at some point, though he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. For all his teasing and taunting, for all his scheming and childish jokes, he had never considered what to do when everything else had gone smoothly. 

Mostly because he never thought he would succeed in the first place.

“Never mind then,” Higgs snickered and eyed something behind Marcus. “He’s here with Davies now.”

Marcus turned in his chair and followed Higgs' gaze.

Oliver had indeed walked into the now busy pub. He was surrounded by a few of his Puddlemere teammates and Marcus watched with hawk eyes as Roger Davies, the former captain of Ravenclaw, greeted him with a bear hug. They both laughed at something that Marcus couldn’t hear, but it was apparently so funny that Oliver whacked Davies playfully on the arm in a motherly, sort of reprimanding gesture. It all looked far too intimate to Marcus.

“Earth to Flint,” Higgs voice bore a tone of amusement and Marcus hated the way he was being read so easily. “Going to stake your claim on loverboy or not?”

Marcus grunted rather caveman-like in response, before he scooted back his chair and stood in a swift movement.

He made it to Oliver in only four long strides and he had barely managed to open his mouth before Oliver spotted him and broke out into a large smile, his eyes a little too wide and bright.

“Marcus!” he giddily said and Marcus didn’t miss how his brown eyes raked over his form. Libby had taken the liberty of ordering him a new set of dress-robes—they were far too formal for The Seeker’s Spot, but Higgs had always been a bit of a fancy dress type of bloke, so he’d thought it’d be best to humour him.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a match tomorrow?”

Marcus nearly cringed out loud at his own words. He sounded like a worried hag, a nagging housewife, a no-good, meddling—

“You remembered,” Oliver replied with a small, fond smile and Marcus mentally reeled in his previous thoughts. Perhaps this was a step in the right direction. Less teasing, more remembering dumb little things. (As if he wouldn’t have known, even if they weren’t shagging.)

“Forgot about you two,” Davies broke in with a large grin not unlike the kind that Gilderoy Lockheart always bore. “Must say I’m surprised.”

Marcus ignored it. Did Davies know? How much had Oliver told him? It didn’t even matter, really. All he could focus on was how close the two were standing and how Davies looked at Oliver with a fond look. As if they were close.

“Well anyway,” Davies continued, his good mood not at all sullied by Marcus’ silence, “we just came for one pint and then we’ll be going. Wood won’t miss his match tomorrow, you have my word.” He winked in what probably meant as a cheeky, but friendly gesture, but to Marcus it appeared rather arrogant and mocking, as if Davies thought Marcus was being overprotective.

“Where are you lot goin’?” Marcus asked with narrowed brows. The other Puddlemere players were already sitting down at the bar and he didn’t like that Davies was insinuating that he and Oliver were to go somewhere alone. In private. Where they could be doing anything.

“Just thought Wood wanted to have a quick play. It’s a Tutshill tradition—meet a rival player, ask them for a one-on-one. Stumbled into Wood outside, so I have to oblige.” Davies laughed. His teeth were all perfectly aligned and his blue eyes twinkled. Then, he put his arm around Oliver who in return leaned into it. “It’s usually one-on-one, but we’re all old mates, Flint, so if you want to—”

Something hot and poisonous coursed through his blood and Marcus felt the sudden urge to hex the both of them. Too many emotions flitted through his mind and he purposefully shoved his way between them, ignoring the way they both stared after him confusingly. Stalking back to the apparition point he had arrived from, he aggressively waved his wand and apparated with a crack.

Later, as Marcus was lounging in his parlour, tormenting his house elves with ridiculous requests, his fireplace flared to life at an unfortunate time. He had just been about to see if they were able to produce a re-enactment of his previous game, just for sport. His house-elves all disappeared with various ‘pops’ as the flames grew brighter, all too knowing of Marcus’ temper at having his privacy invaded. Marcus grunted at the interruption, not keen on having to engage in any type of conversation whatsoever.

“Flint?” said a tentative voice. “You there?”

While Marcus knew the soft-spoken voice, he still asked, “Wood, is that you?”

“Yes, of course. Can I come by?” Oliver inquired in a rather serious tone.

Marcus didn’t bother getting up from the chaise lounge, instead he opted to stay put, revelling in Oliver having sought him out on his own. “Is Davies with you?” he demanded to know, still furious with Oliver for leaving with Davies. Davies with his ridiculously charming smile and mischievous blue eyes. 

The fire flared up and Oliver stepped out and onto Marcus’ Persian rug. “No, why would he be?”

Marcus grunted, casting a glance at the brunette. “No reason.”

Oliver was no longer in his kit. He was wearing a fuzzy-looking jumper with a large ‘O’ and muggle jeans, looking much younger than he was. His hair was a little damp too and it alerted Marcus to the fact that he had showered which only made his mood worse.

“Washed off Davies’ spunk before you came here, then?” Marcus drawled, feeling inexplicably rude and he didn’t even bother packing in the jealousy and the hurt that sprung from his words.

“What?” Oliver whispered, his voice gravelly low.

“You heard me,” Marcus gritted, sitting up confrontationally and uncrossing his legs.

“You’re joking,” The former Gryffindor’s tone was now flat and he looked angry. “You’re not seriously insinuating that—”

“Just don’t want to shag a slag, that’s all,” Marcus spat, gripping his own thighs so hard his knuckles turned white. It was a horrible thing to say and he knew that, deep down, but it was the truth. Somewhat. He had been with slags after all, he just didn’t think Oliver would be one. 

Oliver frowned before his expression turned sour. “You think I’m sleeping with other men?”

Marcus shrugged as indifferently as he could.

"No," Oliver scoffed, making a face. "He’s not my type."

"What's your type then?" Marcus retorted eagerly, genuinely curious.

"Well, blokes like you, I suppose,” he said, quite bluntly though there was a pink tint on his cheeks.

Marcus paused, a little stunned and overwhelmed too. He hadn’t really considered that Wood actually found him attractive.

“Are you sleeping with other men?” Oliver asked softly, his voice a little shaky. His eyebrows knitted together while he chewed on his bottom lip.

Marcus snorted. “Don’t be daft, Wood. Between the Falcons, the National team and tending to the Flint Estate? As if I’d have the time.”

“Same for me, I suppose. I just went for a pint with the team and then Roger appeared out of nowhere,” Oliver explained unnecessarily as if Marcus wanted to hear more about it. He continued his explanation by running a hand through his damp hair. “Then he went on for, Merlin knows how long, about traditions—you know what I mean, all those ridiculous rituals. Pre-match and post-match pints, strategy switching, swapping kits,  one-on-one—”

“Yeah, I get it, thanks,” Marcus interrupted drily. He had engaged in a few of those himself, though one-on-ones had always been an excuse to fuck. Perhaps Wood didn’t know that. It did please him a little at the thought of Davies thinking he was going to get his cock wet, only to actually have to play against Oliver.

“Roger’s sweet. Kind too,” Oliver babbled on, “it’s not like he hasn’t tried. He got a bit handsy in the dressing room, but I told him off. I even told him about—”

Upon hearing that Davies had indeed tried to make a pass at Oliver, Marcus stood up vigorously, knocking down a side table on his way to the younger man who broke off in a whimper before Marcus engulfed him in an unforgivingly harsh kiss.

His hands acted on their own accord; they tugged at damp, chocolate locks, shoved at lean shoulders and manhandled the warm body into moving towards the sofa, not stopping until they both tumbled onto the sofa in a heap of tangled limbs. The anger was swirling at the base of his spine, making the kiss he initiated rough and unforgiving. His teeth nipped at Oliver's lips, tongue pressing over teeth and his hand held his chin firm in place as he moved between the long legs and rutted against the growing bulge in Oliver’s faded jeans.

Marcus felt the need to possess and he could barely make out Oliver’s cut-off sentences, only catching fragments of “—you ridiculous man” and “I’d never do anything with—” while he bit and sucked brutally at the pale neck exposed to him.

He allowed himself a brief pause to mutter a “shut up” against the keeper’s lips, before he caught them between his own, letting his overgrown teeth tear at the plump bottom lip. Marcus fished out his wand expertly during their kissing and vanished the ugly jumper, the muggle jeans as well as the crisp, white boxers Oliver seemed to favour.

Ignoring the brief shudder that the former Gryffindor let out at being exposed to the cool room, Marcus didn’t waste any time before he turned him rather forcefully onto his stomach and lifted Oliver onto all fours, before he sat kneeled behind him and admired the view of the soft bum, the lean thighs as well as the purple bite mark Marcus had given him a few days earlier, sitting in stark contrast again the porcelain skin on the top left of Oliver’s back. Oliver let out a low whine, pushing his arse back experimentally and Marcus allowed him a firm smack, echoing into the parlour and bouncing off the walls. He had yet to rim him and the Puddlemere star had yet to ask, so perhaps it would make a fitting punishment for toying with his emotions and making him feel as if he was inadequate compared to Roger Davies of all people.

Oliver keened at smack; it was something Marcus had learned early into their agreement was a particular favourite of his. If only he had known that during their years at Hogwarts. Then he would have made sure to make accidental bum lashings a thing. 

Feeling impatient, Marcus knocked his legs wider, then dropped to his knees between them, hands firm on Oliver’s rounded buttocks. He spread them, digging his fingers deep into the muscle, thumbs bracketing his hole, the wrinkled skin fluttering sweetly as Marcus inspected it.

“You ever had anyone down here?” Marcus asked bluntly. If Oliver had, he would most likely regret asking, but a tiny voice inside him knew that from the way that Oliver fidgeted and squirmed under his gaze, there was no possible way he had done this before.

“No,” Oliver whispered and Marcus took that as his cue.

He trailed kisses down the base of Oliver’s spine, nipping his cheeks as he continued lower. When he reached the crease of Oliver’s buttocks, he leaned in to lick down his crease from his tailbone to his sac and Oliver moaned and trembled, cheeks clenching against Marcus’s hands. Oliver’s hips undulated back and forth as he tried to scoot his legs out even more to aid Marcus in his quest, and Marcus chuckled quietly. 

He flattened his tongue and lapped over Oliver’s crease, from perineum to the top of his cheeks; firm and steady licks. Oliver yelped and bucked, his spine arching and Marcus liked that so much he did it again and again; long, solid laps over Oliver’s spread crack, adding more pressure there because Oliver gave a harsh whine at it. 

He mouthed at the spot, working Oliver’s taint with a steady jaw and unyielding lips, barely aware of the ache of his own erection, because Oliver’s whines had lowered, deepened, the sounds on the edge of a wanton moan now. Oliver splayed his thighs wider, dropping his entire front so that only his arse was up as he buried his face in the sofa, clenching the fabric harshly in his hands.

When Marcus dragged his tongue down and latched his mouth around Oliver’s hole, wet from his saliva, Oliver’s hips rose and jerked and he haltingly started undulating against Marcus’s face. Marcus groaned his approval and prodded Oliver’s hole with his tongue, pushed it inside past Oliver’s clenching rim. He curled it against the soft tissue of his inner muscles and tightened his grip on Oliver’s arse. Then Oliver cried out, startled and alarmed, “Marcus, fuck! ”

Oliver Wood swearing was such a rare occurrence, Marcus had to pause and look up.

Oliver was looking back at him, eyes wide and face red, lips swollen as though he’d been biting them, and his body arched like a cat, back muscles tight and flexing like his arsehole had been around Marcus’ tongue. 

Marcus could only do what he did best; he smirked arrogantly, pleased with the lewd expression on the younger man’s face, before shoving his face harder into Oliver’s crack and forcing his tongue as far up Oliver as it would go. He found what he was looking for easily, the edge of the swollen, hidden bundle of nerves. 

He fucked Oliver deep with his tongue, flicking at his prostate the best he could with the tip of it, mindless of the drool coating his chin, because then, out of nowhere, Oliver came, his whole body tensing and shaking violently. He cried out Marcus’ name once and went nearly silent but for soft gasps, his arse convulsing around Marcus’ tongue.

Marcus pulled his tongue out and looked up again to see Oliver slumping forwards against the sofa awkwardly, with no apparent strength left in his body. Oliver’s face was dazed and far-gone, but when Marcus made to move off the sofa, a hand reached backwards and tugged at the roots of Marcus’s hair.

“Marcus,” he breathed, shifting his hips, presenting himself wantonly. Marcus’ chest felt too tight for his lungs as Oliver licked his lips. The younger man raised himself on his elbows again. “More.”

Had he been a better man, Marcus would have complied and fucked him with all his might. Instead, Marcus tauntingly smiled, borderline cruel, and pushed off the hand in his hair. “Haven’t you got a match tomorrow?”

“What?” Oliver asked breathlessly, getting up on his knees rather wobbly and turning around to face him.

“Can’t have you on a broom with a sore arse, now can we?” Marcus tutted, “want you to win after all, so we’ll play in the finals. So I can beat you. Again.”

Oliver stared at him blankly as a red flush started to form on his face. “You—how can you…? Don’t you want—”

“No, ‘s alright,” Marcus gestured to his own forgotten erection and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa. “I’ll take care of this on my own.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. He did in fact want Oliver to win and mostly so he could beat him again. He also just happened to remember that he was supposed to be punishing the keeper for his pint and “one-on-one” with Davies. He couldn’t just give in to what Oliver wanted. How was he supposed to keep him interested then?

Oliver dressed rather clumsily and agitatedly while Marcus sat calmly and watched, occasionally palming himself through his trousers. Oliver’s arse had been rather red from Marcus’ stubble and the backs of his thighs bore marks of where Marcus had held him during the tongue-fucking. He couldn’t help but squeeze his erection as Oliver bent over and picked up his boxers, exposing his loose and wet hole for Marcus to see. He barely even noticed that Oliver was muttering furiously.

“—why can’t you just give me what I want, you bloody oaf!” Oliver turned towards him with a thunderous expression. 

Marcus raised a brow lazily and kept his hand still for the moment. “What was that?”

“Oh, forget it. Perhaps the rumours were true,” Oliver’s eyes burned like fire, “you must be part troll to be this daft!”

“What?” Marcus wasn’t sure why Oliver was so incredibly hacked off and he didn’t take it lightly to be called a troll as it reminded him of his younger days at Hogwarts. “Care to repeat that, Wood? ”

“You heard me!” Oliver looked furious, his lips pressed into a thin line and then, before Marcus could grab a hold of him, he walked right into the fireplace and flooed away.

Oliver had blocked his Floo. Marcus only knew because he had tried, shortly after the keeper had left, to follow him home, but the fire had died out rather abruptly and it could only mean Marcus wasn’t meant to follow him.

So instead, Marcus spent his evening in a rather sulky mood. At least he could take comfort in the fact that Oliver hadn’t slept with Davies. It also brought him a little joy that he had managed to get Oliver off before he had left in anger. It was all very confusing. Perhaps Oliver was just mad because he hadn’t fucked him, but then again, that still didn’t explain why he had become so grim all of sudden.

Marcus was mostly just perplexed with it all. There was no reason to bring up the nickname he had loathed for the entirety of his childhood.

It stung a little—and it also made him feel oddly annoyed with himself for making Oliver so angry. He’d thought it’d be funny to push him though it wasn’t very satisfying at all, especially when it meant Oliver wouldn’t talk to him.

Just as he was about to go to bed, content from a long soak in the bathtub, Libby popped into his bedroom with eyes as wide as saucers. “Sir, sir!” she cried, waving her tiny arms frantically, “Libby tried to stop them, but Dippy, Polly and Tibby let him in!”

Marcus put his bathrobe back on with haste and pulled out his wand, apparating to the foyer, ready to take on the intruder with all his might. 

When he then saw who it was, he felt a little ridiculous for not having thought of the only person it could be.

It was Oliver, of course. Standing in his clothes from earlier with a rather fond expression as Dippy, Polly and Tibby stood around him in a circle, all looking up at him with large smiles. Marcus watched as Oliver handed them a scrap of paper with something written on them and thanked them generously for letting him in.

“How the fuck did you get in, Wood?” Marcus spat with dismay, even though the evidence was crystal clear. Getting past the wards and elaborate traps around Flint Manor could only be done with house-elf magic and he didn’t like it at all that his elves apparently trusted Oliver enough to defy their master.

“I’m part of SPEW, remember?” Oliver said dismissively, “I’ve taken the matter into my own hands and I’ve already found places where they can work for money. You just need to free them.”

Marcus scoffed. “So you just expect me to free them?”

Oliver crossed his arms defensively and straightened up: he looked nearly regal, intimidating even and Marcus found himself thinking that a confident Oliver Wood looked just as good as a nervous one. 

“Yes,” he replied with a firm voice. “You will if you want to keep seeing me.”

“That’s the deal?” Marcus laughed bitterly, “I get my cock wet in exchange for losing three house-elves that've been with my family for generations? Not a very good deal.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Oliver sighed exaggeratedly and crouched down to be at eye level with the elves that were all clutching his trouser legs desperately. “How about Marcus and I talk by ourselves for a minute? I promise I won’t leave without you.”

The elves looked a bit sceptical, but they all nodded furiously and disappeared shortly after with little ‘pops’ and Oliver stood up again and looked at Marcus expectantly.

They stood in silence for a good while, both just staring at each other and Marcus felt a bit self-conscious all of sudden, standing there in his bloody bathrobe, naked underneath. Oliver’s posture changed after a few minutes and he looked defeated, his shoulders slumping and his expression gave away his apparent disappointment.

“I just need to know,” he said quietly, “do you like me at all? Or was it just some trick? Just wanted to have your way with me, then?”

Marcus felt tongue-tied and as if his body was made of stone. He wanted to tell him, yes, he did like him, had in fact since his seventh year—the first one, even—but none of the words would come out and he didn’t know why. 

“I like you,” Oliver continued, wringing his hands nervously in front himself, “I thought it was obvious from the start. I thought that maybe you liked me too when you got jealous about Roger, but then you—I just don’t understand! Do you like toying with my emotions? I mean, what you did earlier isn’t really something I would let just anyone do to me. I thought it meant something...”

Marcus’ brain blanked out for a few minutes, too distracted to think of anything else but this man, who was standing so brazenly, so intrusively in his foyer. It wasn’t until Marcus caught the sight of Oliver’s eyes—his pretty, honey-brown eyes, big and vulnerable—that everything seemed to fall into place.

“I’ve always fancied you,” Oliver finally said, after several moments of silence, his voice falling to nearly a whisper. “Even at Hogwarts. Didn’t realise that all your teasing meant you had an interest too. Then when you approached me,” he let out a sigh, clenching and unclenching his hands with jittery movements, “I thought I might as well, I mean—you’re very attractive, good at quidditch too, and I didn’t know if I would ever get another chance.”

If there was ever a time for Marcus to open his big mouth and say something, this moment would have been it. Though his Slytherin snark and general brashness did not seem to work at the current time. The fact that Oliver Wood had referred to him as attractive did not go unnoticed either, because he knew he wasn’t. His harsh features had always been something people avoided to comment on.

“I haven’t—I hadn’t really tried much before you,” Oliver shakily confessed, while Marcus was either having a heart attack or an aneurysm. His whole body felt very tense and jelly-like at the same time. “I didn’t really, er, explore, so to speak.”

Marcus actually gaped, his jaw hanging open cartoonishly. That, he hadn’t expected. Oliver was a good looking man—the kind of man that anyone with eyes would like to get a piece of, regardless of sexuality, quidditch team or social standing.

“Quidditch,” the keeper sheepishly added, shrugging as if it was a reason enough.

“What do you want then?” Marcus asked hoarsely, as if he was parched and hadn’t had anything to drink for years. He swallowed thickly, preparing himself for the answer he knew would come.

In retrospect, he might have known somewhere deep down that his feelings were reciprocated. Oliver had been far too easy to sway over; Marcus hadn’t even considered what would have happened if his proposition had been rejected. He supposed he probably would have gone back to meaningless shags, perhaps gone in the footsteps of his ancestors and found himself a witch to produce an heir with. Not that it had ever been a priority, but it wasn’t like anyone other than Oliver had ever taken his fancy.

As he looked at the younger man, he felt a peculiar feeling overcome him. Oliver Wood stood in his foyer with his chin up, much like on the field, looking very determined and rather gorgeous.

“I’m yours, Marcus. No one else's,” he spoke with a firm tone, his previous nervousness gone which was good, really, because Marcus was still struggling to keep his head on straight, overwhelmed with just the way Oliver was looking at him.

“I want—” Oliver broke off, seemingly with frustration because his brows narrowed, “I want you to talk to me . And I know you said you’re not shagging others, but I want to be one hundred percent certain. I mean, you were at the pub with someone else too. And er,” he looked down at his feet, “maybe we could do other things than shagging?”

Marcus raised a brow and Oliver was quick to throw up his hands. “I mean—I don’t mind the shagging. I just thought, er, maybe you could come to my matches? And I could come to yours. We can still shag—”

“I get it,” Marcus interrupted, his hands itching to reach out and touch.

“I mean,” Oliver had apparently found something interesting in the ceiling of the foyer, because his eyes were fixated on something far above Marcus’ head, “I, er, I don’t mind the,” his voice lowered considerably, “dirtier bits of it. I suppose I do like… um, a rougher touch as you said. It’s just that—”

“Wood!” Marcus yelled before he corrected himself sheepishly, “Oliver, I mean.” Oliver’s mouth snapped closed when he heard his first name being uttered out loud. “I get it. No teasing you outside of bed, but plenty of it in bed, yeah?”

Oliver rolled his eyes at the insinuation and probably also very daft way of putting it. Marcus cleared his throat and tried again, “I meant,” this prompted a stern look from Oliver, “what I meant to say was… No toying with your, er, feelings.”

“Yeah,” Oliver breathed and stepped closer, “that’s—that’s better.”

“Alright then,” Marcus said and then he didn’t really know what was supposed to come next.

The whole moment felt very outlandish to him and his heart drummed so hard he nearly felt it in his fingertips, so instead he stood awkwardly and waited for whatever was supposed to happen.

What happened next, wasn’t what he expected however.

“Fuck me,” Oliver whispered harshly then, his nostrils flaring, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. He sounded so worked up that he almost appeared breathless. The words, crude and filthy as they were from his mouth, sounded oddly intimate and far too weighted for whatever it was that was happening. 

Marcus’ eyes widened and he couldn’t help the small groan that fell from his lips. There it was; Oliver Wood using the word “fuck”. It would surely ruin him forever to think of his pink, pouty lips parting to use such a dirty word. 

And then, without further ado, Oliver stepped closer, too close, and his hand reached out, between the folds of his bathrobe and Marcus’ head jerked down and he felt the warm silk of Oliver’s hand around his cock, pulling it out with a firm grip. Not daring to meet the warm gaze, Marcus instead watched as Oliver worked him into full hardness; ready to use, ready for whatever the younger man wanted.

And how could he deny him?

He didn’t bother with undressing himself, or Oliver, no, instead he waved his wand, banishing all of their clothes. Oliver gasped, his hand still grasped around Marcus’ cock. Marcus smirked, “best let go of that.”

Oliver appeared to understand what would come next, as he let go in favour of grasping Marcus’ shoulders tightly. Within a split-second, Marcus had apparated them to his bedroom.

Wasting no time, Marcus shoved the younger man on the bed, pouncing on him. He seized Oliver's mouth in a rough kiss that forced him to lie back against the pillows, curling his hand around Oliver's jaw and licking into his mouth, impatient and hungry. Marcus nipped at his plump bottom lip and swallowed down the little noises Oliver made, desperately rutting against him.

Their rutting didn’t last long before Oliver shoved him off with a smirk of his own. Marcus, very much confused at being pushed onto his back, stared at the brunette with large eyes. Oliver had never taken charge before and now that it was happening, Marcus felt a wave of lust overcome him.

“Go on then,” he rasped, letting his eyes take in the glorious miles of pale skin, the freckles and moles that all seemed to be so meticulously placed. The way Oliver looked, straddling his thighs, stroking his cock with an eager hand, made his heart ache and Marcus could only bite back a moan when Oliver reached behind himself, preparing himself for the act of becoming one.

The way Oliver looked was much different from usual. Although they had fucked plenty of times, this Oliver, this assertive, sure-of-himself Oliver, was a fresh breath of air and Marcus stared, dumbfounded and lost, as he watched Oliver guide his prick to his opening with such a happy, delighted look, as if all he wanted was this, Marcus, them together.

“Marcus,” he moaned, taking him in, his hands flat on Marcus’ chest for balance. He stopped when Marcus’ prick was all the way inside him, his hips rocking back and forth, eyes flickering shut like he was savouring it and a small smile tugged on his lips. 

Marcus’ head span.

“That’s it,” he murmured, right hand cupping Oliver’s face, stroking a thumb over his cheek in what he hoped would be perceived as affectionate. Oliver nodded enthusiastically, leaning into his touch and Marcus felt a rush of heat flood through him.

Oliver moved slowly, rising up, dropping down. He gasped whenever Marcus’ cock brushed his prostate, looking everso fucking pretty, so beautiful doing it. Marcus bucked his hips, making Oliver bounce on his cock, taking in the little shocked whimpers Oliver let out on every thrust, as if the sensation was new every time. 

Marcus touched him everywhere, hands groping desperately at his thighs, his arse, his chest. Oliver’s arms shoke with the effort of holding himself up and he grunted with effort, making Marcus smirk.

“Alright there?” Marcus drawled, thumbing at a pink nipple. Oliver nodded shakily, gasping. It was clearly not effortless, riding Marcus like there was no tomorrow.

“Yes, yes,” he gave a quiet gasp on his descent before continuing, “I can manage.”

Marcus hummed as his hands slid down Oliver’s body and settled on his hips, just holding them as Oliver bounced up and down. Marcus grinned before he fucked up into him, meeting him with every grind down. Oliver let out a shocked moan that tapered into a whine, his eyes hooded and his hands desperately grabbing behind him for support.

Oliver leaned back, palms flat against the bed, before he moved again, up and down, faster and more sporadic. He whined on each grind, gasping, quiet and breathy. Merlin, Oliver nearly looked like a common whore, rutting desperately and moaning obscenely!

“Bloody hell,” Marcus panted. “You look like a fucking tart, taking my prick like that—” Not bothering to hide his lust for this Oliver, he groped harshly at Oliver’s arse, squeezing and kneading, making the younger man's hips stutter desperately.

Oliver whined, high in his throat, clearly liking the crude words. “Marcus, yes, yes,” he moaned and it sounded like music to Marcus’ ears. Oliver continued, flushed all over, spasming and clenching around him, his pre-come drizzling down his cock and hitting Marcus’ stomach.

Sensing that Oliver was close to coming, Marcus’ arms wrapped around Oliver’s waist, pulling him down against him so they were chest to chest. Marcus’ hips snapped up, his feet firmly planted on the bed, and he thrusted deeper, his cock rubbing against the swollen nub of Oliver’s prostate. A shocked cry left Oliver’s lips at the new angle and he buried his face in Marcus’ neck, letting him have his way.

Marcus rolled his hips in deep circles inside of Oliver, while the keeper let out shuddering sobs, his cock leaking all over Marcus’ stomach.

“Tell me,” Marcus demanded, not even bothering to specify his request, knowing that the younger man would know. His hand slipped down Oliver’s back, the muscles rippling beneath the sweat-slick flesh, to where his prick moved in and out of the wet entrance.

“C’mon,” Marcus urged, finger rubbing at Oliver’s wet rim, making him keen. “Tell me.”

“Yours,” Oliver moaned into his neck, his voice shaky. “I’m yours, only yours—”

The words sent a jolt of arousal through him. He would never get tired of hearing Oliver say it. He would want to hear that for the rest of his life. Marcus’ blood blazed beneath his skin at Oliver’s hungry moans. Just for him, Oliver was like this. Just Marcus, only Marcus would ever see him like this.

“I’m—” Oliver moaned, his sobs mixed with the wet sounds of Marcus’ cock sliding in and out of him. Sweat dripped down Marcus’ skin as he fucked up into him, fast and brutal, pounding into Oliver’s shaking body.

“Go on,” Marcus breathed, “c’mon—”

Oliver rocked back against weakly, pleading, “I need—please, I want—”

Marcus Flint would never be able to deny Oliver Wood a fucking thing if he pleaded like that every time. “Fuck,” he moaned, smacking Oliver’s arse firmly, loving the yelp it produced from Oliver’s lips.

Marcus knew he was close. He squeezed the rounded arse roughly, well-knowing of the bruises that would form later, then spanked him again. Oliver’s responding sob was wrecked and desperate, nearly making Marcus come at just the sound. It didn’t take more than three well-placed smacks, loud and echoing in his bedroom, before Oliver cried his name and came all over his stomach.

Marcus groaned at the channel tightening around him; the wet heat and Oliver’s little gasps hot against his skin were all too much. He came seconds later, his whole body tensing while Oliver sighed contently, clenching hard around his cock, greedily trying to hold him in. Marcus let his arm surround the warm body on top of his as he came down from his high, listening as Oliver’s breathing slowly matched his, measuredly falling into his own rhythm of inhales and exhales. 

At some point, when he could feel Oliver drifting off, little puffs of air leaving his lips and branding his neck hotly, skin sticking to his own and his hair tickling Marcus’ ear, Marcus gave the younger man a soft, affectionate squeeze, letting a heavy slumber overcome him.

When Marcus woke, he grimaced at the sticky, clammy feeling: body fluids, dried cum and a warm body half-draped across his. Grabbing his wand from the nightstand, Marcus muttered a cleaning charm, his throat dry from the previous night.

Oliver, with one hand on Marcus’ chest and one leg curling around Marcus’ own leg, stirred. His head that rested on Marcus’ shoulder lifted and Marcus watched intently as his long, dark eyelashes fluttered as he woke.

Oliver’s eyes were different that close. They were more honey-brown with little flecks of dark brown splattered around his irises. His pupils were large and dilated and Marcus felt like he was looking through them, right into Oliver’s soul that burned bright and fiery; unruly and warm, comforting and strangely scary at the same time.

He swallowed thickly, feeling dumbfounded and speechless. Nothing could prepare him for the feeling that overcame him. It was a numb, sort of confused feeling. All he had ever wanted was to corrupt Oliver Wood; trick him, taunt him, tease him and wreck him and have him all to himself and now that it was happening, the younger man staring up into his own eyes with a mixture of curiosity, happiness and weariness, he felt tongue-tied and dazed.

“Good morning,” Oliver whispered quietly, a soft smile on his pink lips.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Morning,” his voice cracked a little, but his answer made Oliver lean up and kiss him softly.

It was nothing like their usual kisses. It was delicate and chaste, only a brush of lips, but the underlying emotion to it felt like a cold breeze on a summer’s day—soothing, refreshing and just what he needed.

They lay there for the remainder of the morning, not talking, just caressing each other and well, Marcus supposed it was snuggling. Oliver appeared to be blissfully far gone, his hands travelling over every inch of skin on Marcus’ body, exploring the many scars it held from his childhood and from quidditch and then lastly, Oliver wrote his own name with the tips of his fingers on Marcus’ chest, so light-handed and subtle that Marcus nearly didn’t pick up on it.

He only broke the silence when it seemed like Oliver was about to fall asleep, his head lulling dangerously to the side and his breathing slowing down considerably. “Oi,” Marcus said rather unromantically, “you’ve got a match later, you idiot.”

Oliver groaned and twisted off to the side before he turned around again with a slow stretch. His amber eyes twinkled mischievously and then he let out a small laugh. “I promised I wouldn’t leave until you freed the elves.”

Oh.

They were back to that again. 

Marcus had completely forgotten about that.

“You’re joking,” he said flatly instead. He didn’t understand why it was so bloody important.

“No! I promised them,” Oliver gestured wildly to emphasise his point, “I won’t leave until you free them. I’m a man of my word, Marcus. Sod quidditch, if so be it.”

“Sod quidditch indeed. Stay,” Marcus grinned, “then I’ll have you here forever and I don’t have to free the sodding elves. And by missing your match, you’ll get kicked off and then you’ll have to stay with me. For the money, of course.”

“Fine,” Oliver sat up, the duvet slipping off of him, and Marcus watched as he stood up in all his naked glory and took his wand in his hand. “Then I’ll leave and I’ll never come back unless you free them.”

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” Marcus muttered, mostly to himself.

“What was that?” Oliver was clearly, very deliberately, putting on his clothes as slowly as possible, trying to get his way. All that glorious, pale, freckle and mole riddled skin being covered up didn’t sit well with Marcus.

“For fuck’s sake,” he bellowed, practically jumping out of the bed. He snapped his fingers aggressively, not caring that he was completely starkers. His elves had taken care of him as an infant anyway, so there wasn’t anything there they hadn’t seen already. Oliver, on the other hand, shrieked in a comparatively girlish way while he covered his private parts desperately with his hands and the three house-elves that appeared didn’t seem to care one bit that he was only wearing a Weasley jumper.

“Mr. Wood! Mr. Wood!” they cried, seemingly in some form of worship and Marcus grew more annoyed. He had never mistreated them—not in a cruel way at least—and it bothered him immensely that just because Oliver had offered them a place to be employed for money, he was now their bloody saviour.

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed under his breath. He didn’t miss the smug look Oliver sent his way. “Listen up, you fucking wankers—” Oliver barked his name in reprimand, “er, elves. I, your master, Marcus Thaddeus Flint, free you.”

Dippy, Polly and Tibby stared at him with large eyes.

“...you have to represent them with clothing, Marcus.”

“Well, it’s a bit fucking ironic that I’m naked then, isn’t?” Marcus snapped as he looked around him for anything to give the ruddy little creatures. 

“Merlin’s beard,” Oliver intervened, “aren’t you a wizard?” He waved his wand on a plaid on the bed and diffindoed it into three equally sized pieces, all while still covering his cock with the fluffy jumper. Then he transfigured them into three little dresses, never mind that Dippy was technically a male elf, and levitated them towards Marcus who snatched them out of the air with a sour expression.

“Alright, I free you lot,” he handed out the dresses with as much dignity as he could while Oliver watched intently, “now leave my fucking house, so I can shag him silly.”

The three elves cheered and thanked him far too many times than necessary and Oliver, the sap, looked as if he was near tears and Marcus bit back a snarky comment. At least this way, he wouldn’t be losing Oliver anytime soon.

“Go see Mr. Ollivander about that job,” Oliver tried to discreetly wipe a tear from his face, “I’ll come see you tomorrow.” 

The elves finally disappeared and Marcus wasted no time tackling Oliver to the floor and pinning him underneath his body.

“You’re mine now, Wood,” he teased, rolling his hips suggestively.

“I always was, Marcus, you dolt.”

And if anyone would ever ask Marcus what the way to Oliver Wood’s pants (and heart) was, he would tell them not to bother, because they’d had to have a foul mouth, a drive that only a quidditch player could possess and three house-elves to spare.