Love : Passion

Love

a marcus/oliver passion

> ~ <

You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood . . . blood screaming inside you to work its will.

- Spike, "Lover's Walk, BtVS"

The first type of love pounced on Oliver Wood when he was shagging Marcus Flint.

Marcus's hands ran through Oliver's coffee tresses, yanking his head back violently and their moist mouths met, tongues mingling like life itself. Sweat dripped from their bodies, and they panted and gasped for air before collapsing on each other, basking in the soft afterglow. Oliver rested in Marcus's ruggedly muscular arms, pulling him in for another intense kiss but Marcus bit down on Oliver tongue as Oliver slipped it into his mouth, drawing blood.

Oliver abruptly pulled away, the bitter taste of metallic blood staining his taste buds. He pursed his lower lip, gnawing on the inside as he gazed at Marcus with hurt in his eyes.

Fuck, Wood was always a wuss,

Marcus thought. He grunted something incoherent to Oliver's ears and left the golden-red sheets. Oliver shared a dorm with Percival Weasley, Head Boy and pompous bigot. The place sickened Marcus --it was far too warm and welcoming, and he preferred the isolation of the cool dungeons. Reaching for his green, silver-trimmed robes without making eye contact with Oliver, he threw them over his shoulders, hastily buttoning them as Oliver propped himself up on an elbow, staring.

Oliver couldn't remember a time when he hadn't loved Marcus. And over the years, while Marcus had hardened into a callous bastard and sought to hurt Oliver through every Quidditch game, the love that Oliver felt deepened. He needed Marcus, which he was ashamed to admit to all except Percy, who always nodded and left to shag Penelope Clearwater. And although there was nothing except sexual frustration between the two Quidditch captains, Oliver knew that Marcus needed him, as well.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Marcus grumbled, scowling.

Oliver started and brought his eyes from Marcus's chiselled chest to his black eyes. "I was hoping you'd stay tonight. You always rush off, like you have somewhere else to be," Oliver said, his voice squeaking slightly and embarrassment darkening in his cheeks. His hands fumbled with each other on his lap, and eventually he began twisting and yanking his bed sheets as he reddened under Marcus's gaze.

Marcus laughed, and the derisive sound caused Oliver to wince and his hands to stop. "And let me guess, you were hoping for a bit of after-sex cuddling where we'd talk about our feelings and hopes for the future? Lay off me, Wood, we're not a bunch of Muggle breeders."

Oliver frowned and swallowed, the taste of blood and Marcus still lingering in his mouth.

"You're expecting too much, Wood," Marcus continued, running a hand through his grubby black hair, slicking it back with its natural grease.

"Or maybe you're afraid because I'm the only one who understands you," Oliver said softly as he pulled himself from the red sheets, wrapping them around his waist. He stood before Marcus, several inches shorter than the Slytherin, and ran the index finger of his shaking right hand down the centre of Marcus's chest.

Marcus violently grabbed Oliver's hand and twisted it back. Oliver yelped, his wrist threatened to shatter, but he should have expected as much. It was selfish of Oliver to believe that he was the only one with insight into the small mind of Marcus Ares Flint. Marcus furrowed his thick eyebrows and released Oliver with a shove; he landed on the bed.

"You understand nothing, Wood," Marcus spat venomously. "I'm not here because I have feelings for you; I'm here because, at the moment, it suits my fancy." He flashed Oliver the trademark, crooked grin of all Slytherins.

Oliver glared, his deep brown eyes reduced to slits. "I don't know why I even bother," he sighed. "I shouldn't be spending my nights with the likes of you. I'm better than that." Dejectedly, he sat back down on the feather-mattress of his bed and cocked his head back towards Marcus.

The smirk on Marcus's face never faltered, never even flickered. As Oliver hugged his pillow, great satisfaction entered Marcus's tone as he said, "You're as good as I make you, Wood." And with that he turned to slip out of the dorm and back into the Slytherin dungeons. Oliver watched him go with relentless longing and frustration, but he knew that this was the only sort of love he was ever going to get from Marcus, but somehow, this was okay.

It was still love.