Disclaimer: So not mine. This is from the movies, not the books. I just can't get my head around fanfic from a book. Not sure why…
Pairing: Wood/Flint
Rating: NC-17
Otherstuff: I had no intention of ever writing in this fandom. Good intentions, road to Hell, yadda yadda. This is not how I always see Wood - but even Gryffindors have dark corners.
---------------------------
LOSER TAKES ALL
by Teand
----------------------------
They both want to play professionally one day. Everyone knows it. Scouts have started coming to the school to watch the games. It's more of a coup if he makes it because, after all, the teams need three Chasers for every Keeper but still...
The bet starts as a way to make the game back into a personal challenge instead of the almost desperate showcase of their skills it has become. To add a little heat back into cold calculation.
***
"Wood? I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, Potter." With practiced ease, he layers sincerity onto his smile. "You can't be expected to catch the snitch every game."
"I know, it's just..."
"It's just losing to Malfoy. I understand." And he did. None better. Probably better than Potter did. Definitely better than Potter did. They were still kids.
Give them four or five years.
***
Still in his uniform, he climbs a spiral staircase and stands outside a door no one else ever seems to open. He suspects that Hogwarts allows parts of itself to be found when needed.
Funny that a building knows him better than he knows himself.
Actually, not funny at all.
He dries damp palms on the edge of his robe, pushes the door open, turns, and locks it with a spell only one other person can work.
"What took you so long?"
"Sorry." His heart pounds so loudly he can barely hear his own voice.
"Turn the hourglass."
Strangely, he has no trouble at all hearing Flint.
***
Nine or ten. He's lost count. Waves of pain/pleasure sizzle through his body. As much as he wants to, and he's pretty sure he does want to, he can't stop himself from lifting his ass to meet the belt.
Flint laughs. Strong fingers close over one of the welts and pinch. He thinks he cries out but he isn't sure.
Another flurry of blows; no rhythm, no chance to anticipate, only the tidal wave of pure physical feeling roaring through him, washing away a thousand expectations and leaving nothing behind but Oliver Wood.
Then a hand in his hair and swirl of green and grey. His face buried in Slytherin colours. His mouth full of thick, hard cock. He sucks desperately. Whimpers as he's yanked away.
"Beg me."
He's already on his knees. "Please."
"Say my name so I know you mean it."
"Please, Marcus."
Then his elbows are on the floor, his ass in the air, and rough thumbs stretch him open. He isn't so much fucked as ridden. He gasps and fights for breath as Flint slams into him so hard he feels blood well up around the fingernails digging into his hips.
He doesn't recognize the noise he's making.
***
The sand is in the bottom of the hourglass and he's alone in the room.
He lifts himself carefully out of the puddle he's been lying in and even more carefully puts his uniform back on. He feels empty, purged. The healing spell that will numb the pain down to a dull ache is for later; he wants to hold this feeling as long as can.
Locking the door behind him, he thinks that at least the twins will be out of the showers by now and he won't have to listen to them dissecting the game. What should have been done. What wasn't done. What he hadn't done. What they would have done in his place.
We'll get them next time, they'd say.
And he'd agree.
No one can accuse him of losing on purpose.
Yet.
--end--