Game On
by Silvia

"Are you in or are you out, " Oliver says, beneath his breath and twisted under this tongue, because that is how Oliver thinks.

He sees the sweeping arc of the Quaffle hurling towards the stretch of his arm, and it will beat him or it won't, and it will score or he will block, and there aren't two ways about it.

Oliver doesn't deal in halves, and he reaches before he thinks.

He wanted and it came out of nowhere, but Oliver is used to that and opens his mouth and slides down to his knees. His hands are shaking. The stone floor is cold, like nobody has ever been here, but Harry's been everywhere - all the kids say so - and they only thunder and rumble and tell you not to come because they know you will.

Marcus knows, maybe, and Marcus isn't stopping him.

In Out In Out In  bubbles in his blood and loops in his head, and he waits poised for movement with his palms flat upon Marcus' thighs, palms thwapping and fluttering because he will win or he will lose, and he's not yet sure which will be which.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Marcus shifts his weight and shuffles back a step, and Oliver follows, and Marcus lets him, and that's as in as it gets. Oliver breathes in chunks of stale, forbidden floor air, cold and thick, and pushes fabric up to Marcus' stomach and Marcus pins it there. He's slow about it.

Oliver is quick but clumsy, and he whispers something that he doesn't think and can't hear, fingernails scraping against grass stained robes, stained and sour like his own. The zipper's under there, and slippery in Oliver's grip. It stutters down, and only then does he remember that he never does anything right the first time, never, but it's too late and there's the thick silken warmth nudging at his lips and the sound of near panicked breath clouding above his ears.

And if he 'takes one to the head', at least he can laugh about it later.

Cock rubbing over his tongue, and that sounds so odd echoing in his mind, like something that happens to somebody else, except it's happening to him and he finds that he likes it. He's in, he's in, he was in when he caught Marcus' wrist and said, "Hey, do you want-" and didn't finish but didn't have to. He knows why they're not supposed to be up here.

He's the captain, right, and it's his job to know what his boys do. Those boys.

"You think you're so-" Marcus mutters and bites it off, a low hollow sound in his chest that Oliver can feel, and he wonders what he is and what he is not - maybe Marcus knows, and won't tell him, and isn't that just like him - because there are no grays for Oliver, so he's something.

"You're, yeah," Marcus says, kind of choked, so maybe Marcus agrees. He's pushing the soft head of his cock over the roof of Oliver's mouth, and it's as if Oliver's skin is peeling back, folding over itself, goosebump by overturned goosebump.

There's a galloping heartbeat tapping over his tongue, stretching his mouth, echoing the thump in Oliver's chest. The beat goes fuzzy as his brain goes fuzzy - warm and languid waves crashing inside of his head. Thump, thump, and his lungs are shuddering, begging, but his mouth is so open and nice, and there's a brushing against the back of his throat that makes the waves smooth out silk and hotter, and he's not ready to draw back just yet.

He breathes little pulls through his nose and his fingers scrabble at the floor, like he can dig up oxygen from the cracks. He can't.

He can feel the lights flicker out behind his eyes, diced with red.

His lungs hitch and his heart stammers and the sharp taste settling deep on the back of his tongue grows thick. present. there. His throat closes around it, and then his mouth is empty, and then Marcus is just standing above him, hand still in Oliver's hair.

Short, bitten down fingernails scratch at Oliver's scalp and he thinks he can hear them. It sounds like fall, wind, and leaves. He's two touches from touch and go, and Marcus scratches as Oliver lays a hand down to press roughly against the juddering, needy pulse of his own cock, and it's just that easy. It's like clockwork.

Marcus' hand glides from back to front, to cup over his mouth, and it stays after Oliver's rough grunt is gone and the blood that was rushing has spread out and settled smoothly in his veins. Marcus' hand presses tight against Oliver's lips, and his neck is turned towards a window Oliver hadn't noticed.

Pieces of brooms and boys skitter by the opening, game robes flapping in the wind. 

"You could never beat me," Marcus says, and tucks his hands in his pockets.

Oliver watches the thick crane of Marcus' neck, dusk playing against his cheekbones.  "We have."

Marcus laughs. "Not one on one," he says, and closes the door behind him.

return