Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-one: learning [the rules I] (early December 1992.)

This isn't turning out exactly the way I intended it to, Oliver Wood thought, but then, since when did I ever manage to keep to the plan when dealing with Marcus Flint?

Closing large brown eyes, he winced, and thanked whatever Gods that existed that his face was in shadow, pressed against the cold brick wall of the broom shed, so that Marcus wouldn't see the small allowance to the pain he was feeling. At least it wasn't all pain, and he had to admit that it was beginning to feel quite enjoyable, what with Marcus' grazing against his prostrate with every thrust. Not that he'd ever tell Marcus that, of course.

He'd come to the broom shed to find some sort of respite from the fear and suspicion that was haunting the school, thick and heavy like fog. At first Oliver had thought the attack on Filch's cat had been payback from an angry student, and dismissed the words written on the wall as a prank to point the finger somewhere else. Except that no-one had proudly claimed responsibility, and the teachers were taking it far too seriously. When someone as level-headed as McGonagall took this seriously - and she had been in the War! - then Oliver knew it was time to scream like a girly-boy, and accept the fact that major shit was going down. He'd gone to the shed during one of his free periods before lunch, because as Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor House, it was partly his responsibility to attend to the school's somewhat crap collection of old brooms, and make sure they were in serviceable condition for anyone who needed to borrow them. Oliver remembered somewhat grimly when Madam Hooch had informed him of the duty, and taught him R.H.I.P: Rank Has Its Privileges. He didn't exactly see what kind of privilege sorting through piles of twigs was, but he also knew far better than to contradict the school's flying coach.

Marcus Flint had been there when he arrived, and the two had shared a glare before Oliver started working in silence. The silence didn't last how long, however - it never could, not between them, they who had a rivalry that made what existed between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter look like a pale, sickly thing. Before long, they were sniping at each other, and admittedly Oliver could remember that he started it, although the exact words escaped his memory.

It had been reassuring - that despite the fact half the school was quaking in fear, he could still get a rise out of Marcus Flint, and feel his blood rage in turn. Upon reflection, it probably hadn't been the best thing to compare Marcus' manhood to one of the twigs he was using to fix a broom with, not when they were both on edge: because a moment later Oliver had found himself pressed against the wall like this, and Marcus grinding his hips against him in a way that left no doubt as to the size of Marcus' 'twig.'

Oliver had always known he'd been interested in blokes, and he'd known it since he'd fooled around with Cedric Diggory behind this very shed near the start of the year. Cedric had been slightly pissed at the time, and like a typical Hufflepuff, he hadn't known how to say 'no', but he'd come to realise that his interest was merely a passing phase, and told Oliver rather firmly that nothing more could come of a few clumsy fumblings. That wasn't a problem. The problem was he was getting aroused by Marcus, and painfully so.

It was embarrassment more than anything else: here he was, caught between the wall and the young man standing behind him, trousers lying around his ankles, and Marcus bloody Flint was giving him the best fuck of his life. He somehow had thought the Slytherin would be rougher, considering his usual lack of tact or consideration, but Marcus had taken great pains to prepare him for the intrusion, with slickened fingers and tongue, and Oliver had been too busy groaning to complain. Then when Marcus had held onto his hip, and slid slowly within him, Oliver had gritted his teeth, and refused to give the other the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt.

After a few moments, Marcus had pulled out slowly and pushed back in with a similar tortuous pace, causing every nerve of Oliver's body to scream like fire, and at first he'd felt like cursing Marcus for causing his eyes to burn with almost tears. But he'd soon realised that this slow, deep rhythm allowed his body greater time to adjust to the fucking, and it was the closest thing Marcus could probably be to considerate.

The older student swivelled his hips just so, and Oliver groaned loudly before he could stop himself, his entire body wanting to melt against the wall and just enjoy the experience. He could almost see the sneer implied in Flint's caustic tone. "Enjoying yourself too much to speak, Wood?" Marcus asked, bending his head to kiss the back of Oliver's neck oh-so-gently, and Oliver shuddered.

"More like I'm too bored," Oliver retorted panting, although he had to eat his words on Marcus' return thrust, one hand sliding under his shirt to deftly play with a hard nipple.

"You were saying?" the Slytherin teased, licking along the back of Oliver's neck.

"Oh, just shut up and fuck me," Oliver grumbled, and he had to admit, he didn't mind hearing Marcus' low chuckle in return. Even better, the Slytherin obliged, slowly bringing himself to orgasm, his hands running along the smooth skin of Oliver's chest, stroking the light musculature as he continued kissing and licking the back of Oliver's neck.

"You know, Wood," he said, almost casually, "I always thought you'd be a decent fuck."

"Compliments from a Slytherin?" Oliver wheezed. "Next you'll be telling me the world's about to end."

"No, that'll happen if I tell you I like you," Marcus responded, still fucking Oliver slowly, and Oliver was amazed at the control he displayed. He was breathing quickly, and hard, but it didn't show in his voice.

"This is just your way of finally beating me, I know it," Oliver chuckled, and clamped his arse down around Marcus' cock, determined to get some of his own back. "Seeing as how we thrash you in Quidditch."

Marcus did groan, Oliver was pleased to hear, but responded by biting down on Oliver's left earlobe, and that was annoyingly enjoyable. "You only started beating us since you got Potter on your team, Wood - I distinctly remember kicking your arse every other year."

"And now you're fucking it," the other snapped back angrily. "And dammit, can't you call me Oliver? Or is shagging me senseless not enough justification for a first name basis amongst you Slytherins?"

Marcus laughed, and Oliver could almost feel it. "While you're at it, you could jerk me off as well, you know," he continued, feeling somewhat left out of the loop, uncomfortable with Marcus' easy dominance of him. Not that Oliver liked it, or anything.

There was a wet pressure in his ear as Marcus gently tongued it, exploring the curve, and Oliver forgot how to breathe, his entire body reaching near completion, caught between the glorious bursts of pain/pleasure from his arse and the hot fire of Marcus' tongue. "I'm fucking you so deep you'll come without me having to touch that cock of yours, Oliver," Marcus whispered huskily, and Oliver came right there, thrashing in Marcus' arms, seed splattering against the brick wall, his arse clamping down naturally around Marcus buried within him, and a hoarse groan tore itself from his throat.

Marcus shuddered a few seconds later, his orgasm coursing through him, and into the other man, the stimulation a bit too much to bear. He collapsed weakly against Oliver's back and held him for a few moments, gently stroking arms and shoulders, resting his head against the Gryffindor's back before he pulled out with a slick sound. When Oliver found the strength to turn round again, he found Marcus dressed again, and back working on the brooms.

"So," he began, picking up his trousers from around his ankles, unsure exactly what rules of post-sex etiquette he was supposed to follow.

Marcus looked up at him, hands busy threading through a rather shoddy broom. "So what? I fucked you, it was good, you want us to hold hands now?"

Oliver pressed his lips together, and fought the overwhelming temptation to punch Marcus' lights out. "Not exactly," he replied thinly, returning to his own seat. "I just thought...if you get lonely, or something...I mean there's all kinds of shit going on now, and it's kinda scary...." He trailed off under Marcus' cool gaze.

"You scared, Wood? Guess you would be, seeing as you hang round with Mudbloods and all."

"Yeah, I'm scared," Oliver spat, rising to loom over the other man, "because this thing is scaring some very powerful people shitless and I'm not so thick-headed that I can't see that!" He spreads his hands wide, and then curled up the fingers into fists, evidence of his frustration. "I'm hardly asking for a date - I don't even like you. I just thought that maybe, it might be a little less terrifying..."

"If you had someone to 'distract' you every now and then?" Marcus completed the sentence for him, looking distinctly unconvinced, even when Oliver nodded, dumbly. He stood up suddenly, and Oliver stepped back a few steps, all too aware of that piercing blue gaze upon him but there wasn't exactly much room to manoeuvre in the cramped shed. Which meant that Marcus got right in his face, and then he reached out, twisted his hand in Oliver's robes, and pulling him forward to kiss him, using his tongue to mimic in Oliver's mouth what Marcus' cock had done so recently to Oliver's arse.

Stepping back, a broad grin on his face, he winked at the younger student, and made his way to the door. "It's lunch," he said by means of explanation, and left, leaving a very confused Oliver Wood in his wake.

That's the thing about playing with Marcus, Oliver remembered. You learn the rules he plays by, you know them, use them, and then he just breaks them to spite you.