Halrloprillalar (prillalar) wrote,

HP Fic: Next Time (Marcus/Oliver)

Birthday fic #3. Quidditch boys. It's been a while.

Next Time by Halrloprillalar
Harry Potter, Marcus/Oliver, 1000 words, NC17.
"How do you want it this time?"

NB: Non-con.

Thanks to kestrelsan for beta. [ also posted to pornish_pixies ]

Someone grabs him from behind, an arm tight around Oliver's neck, cutting off his breath. Oliver claws at it, tries to pull free. But he's off-balance and choking, dragged backwards and swung into the dark.

A door slams. Oliver sucks air into his body. He scrambles to his feet, bangs against a table, manages not to fall. He fumbles his wand out of his robes just as the light comes on.

Marcus knocks it away. It clatters on the stone floor, rolling somewhere that Oliver can't see.

"Flint." Oliver sets his feet, raises his fists. His heart pounds, ready to fight, ready to run.

"We're not here to fight."

"Well, I'm not going to help you with your homework."

Marcus blinks slowly. Then he hits Oliver across the face, an open-handed slap that sends Oliver sprawling.

Oliver's cheek burns. He staggers up and Marcus knocks him down again. This isn't Quidditch. Marcus is bigger, heavier, crueller. Oliver can't beat him, not like this.

Marcus hauls Oliver up by the collar of his robes, tosses him face down over a table. Oliver is cold inside, guts cramping, breath sticking in his throat. "What do you want, you bastard?"

"You say that every time." Marcus throws his weight on Oliver, pulls his head back by his hair.

Oliver struggles but it only presses the table edge hard into his belly. Marcus is so hot, so heavy. "Every time?"

"Every time." Marcus pushes a handkerchief at Oliver's mouth, twisting Oliver's hair until he opens up and lets Marcus stuff it inside. "You just don't remember it."

Oliver bucks and rocks, but he can't shake Marcus, can't get out from under him. Marcus has been using the handkerchief for more than wiping his filthy snot. It's stiff with jizz and it starts to soften against Oliver's tongue. He can taste it, filthy Flint's filthy come, and he tries to push it out of his mouth.

Marcus cuffs him. "Leave it or you'll wish you had." He pulls Oliver's hands behind his back, wraps a cord around them. Oliver feels it tighten and knot itself.

"How do you want it this time?" Marcus says. Oliver's balls are trying to climb back into his body, his bum puckering tighter than an old maid sucking lemons. Marcus leans back, there's a rustle of cloth, and then his hands are under Oliver's robes.

There are calluses on Marcus's palms, broomstick calluses, just like Oliver's. They scrape up Oliver's thighs, pulling his robes along with them. Then Marcus yanks down Oliver's pants. "Lift your foot," Marcus says and Oliver does.

Oliver's skin is goosepimpling, his knees are buckling. His stomach churns and he wonders if he'll be sick, if he is, if it will make him gag. Marcus is behind him, but Oliver can't see where. Waiting is like a high sharp note growing higher and sharper, up and up to an impossible pitch.

A beetle crawls across the floor. Oliver stares at it, watches it climb a chair leg, slide down, crawl back up.

Marcus kicks Oliver's legs apart.

Oliver gasps into the handkerchief. Marcus laughs. He grabs Oliver's hips, presses close, rubs his cock against the cleft of Oliver's bum, butts it up against Oliver's balls. Oliver clenches his hands into fists. His shoulders are aching now, his wrists are sore under the rope.

The beetle is on the chair seat, waving its feelers back and forth, back and forth. Marcus shoves his cock inside Oliver and Oliver chokes down a scream.

The table creaks. Marcus grunts. Oliver hurts, sharp, then dull, then sharp again. He looks for the beetle, but his vision is blurred. He closes his eyes and tears leak through the lids.

Flint, Marcus Flint, is fucking him, violating him, pushing his dirty cock up inside of Oliver, and Oliver is taking it.

"You know you like it," Marcus says and slaps Oliver's bum. "You always like it."

"Please," Oliver says, but around the handkerchief, it's just a cry. "Please."

Marcus pulls out all the way and that is almost as bad as going in. He yanks Oliver off the table, pushes him to the floor. Oliver looks up and Marcus comes all over his face.

Then Marcus laughs. His voice is rough, obnoxious. He smears the jizz across Oliver's cheek. He pulls the sodden handkerchief away and shoves two massive fingers into Oliver's mouth.

Oliver sucks without being told, sucks off Marcus's come, keeps on sucking until Marcus pinches his lip and pulls away.

"You dirty little queer," Marcus says and Oliver can't answer back. Marcus frees Oliver's hands. "Clean yourself up."

Oliver steps into his pants, turning half away. He wipes his face with the handkerchief, fastens his robes. Then he faces Marcus.

"Until next time, eh, Wood?" Marcus's grin is more than half a sneer, but that's no different than it ever is. He raises his wand. "Obliviate!"

There's a flash of light. When it dies down there are spots in front of Oliver's eyes.

"Fuck off, Wood," Marcus says. "if you don't stop harassing me, I'll have something done about it." He bangs the door behind him.

Oliver draws a deep breath. He picks up the handkerchief from the table beside him. He presses it to his face.

Marcus's charms never work.

Oliver slides to the floor, pulls up his robes. He thinks about Marcus's cold, flat eyes, how they follow him in the classroom, in the corridors. He feels the ache inside of him, the burn on his wrists, remembers the warm splatter on his face. Dirty little queer. He comes into the handkerchief.

His wand is underneath a bookcase. He fishes for it and wonders how long he will have to wait until next time.

On the way out, he steps on the beetle.
Tags: fic, harry potter, marcus/oliver
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