|When you cry...
||[Sep. 8th, 2008|03:42 pm]
Quidditch Pitch Love
Title: When you cry…
Rating: PG/PG-13 [violence, some blood and language]
Summary: And true beauty does lie in the eye of the beholder, or in Marcus case it lies in his hands…
A/N: For the amazing and funny krissi2 as a thank you for our awesome RP SL, for the fanfic she wrote me and for making me laugh so much. <3
An endless thank you for my Beta rospberry, you helped me a whole fucking lot :D
Marcus Flint was, as everyone in Hogwarts knew, a passionate Quidditch player, a Chaser to be more precise. He was thickly built, very muscular and tall, which resulted in most people respecting him just because he was strong. Another reason was that he was on the Slytherin team and everyone respected the players.
It gave Marcus a feeling of power, and Marcus loved power even more than he loved Quidditch. He also loved a challenge, something that required some hard work. To Marcus Flint hard work was anything that let him show off his strength and power.
When he laid his eyes on Oliver Wood for the first time the boy didn’t catch his attention. He didn’t present a challenge for Marcus. Or at least that was what Marcus thought, until Oliver blocked one of his shots at their first game against each other.
When he had seen the small, skinny boy Marcus had laughed when heard he was going to be on the Quidditch team, even more so when he heard he’d be the Keeper. He had thought it was going to be easy to get his shots through the hoops, but Oliver had caught his first shot perfectly.
So Marcus had been wrong with his first impression of perfect, little Oliver.
But he was convinced the others were wrong as well. They were wrong with what they thought about Oliver: he couldn’t comprehend why anyone would consider Wood ‘handsome’ or even ‘hot’. To Marcus, Wood was nothing more than average, if anything.
He had never given a damn about looks, not his own or those of anyone else. Marcus Flint did not care when his hair looked greasy or when his clothes didn’t fit perfectly to his well-toned body. If they were loose, they just made him look even bigger than he was which he quite appreciated.
So Marcus had been wrong when he said he didn’t care about looks.
But that was just because he really hadn’t cared. Until one night, when he had Wood pinned against a wall, blood running from the corner of his mouth as well as a split lip, one eye blue and swollen enough to make the younger one squint. Wood’s always so well kept hair was a complete mess, the short, brown strands all askew from Marcus yanking at them.
Though what really caught Marcus' attention was the wet shimmer in Wood’s brown eyes.
“Are you crying, Wood?” he asked, smirking as he brushed a hand over Oliver’s cheek, making the boy flinch.
Marcus knew dinner was waiting for him and so was his team. He usually never cared to be around Wood for longer than necessary, just long enough to beat him up a little and he had already done that.
So Marcus had been wrong when he said Wood wasn’t worth his time.
But he just couldn’t tear his eyes from Oliver’s red face; a single tear was rolling down his cheek. It was simply captivating, breathtaking even. He didn’t have too much time to dwell on the view as Oliver started squirming ferociously and tried to shake Marcus off.
Wood stared back at him with wide, wet eyes as more tears ran down his reddened cheeks. He whimpered desperately. "Say something...move...Flint...," he choked out. It must have been hard to breathe with Marcus' large, calloused hand wrapped around his neck and Flint's hot breath that ghosted over his face.
Flint finally snapped back into reality when Wood spoke to him. He could see Wood's moist eyes wide with fear and his whole body trembling. Marcus knew Oliver's body must be aching and he finally let go of him, stepping back with an evil smirk.
"You're such a wimp, stupid Gryffindor," he hissed before he disappeared, leaving Oliver alone in the dark corridor.
All night, Marcus couldn't get Wood's face out of his head. It had been just beautiful with the tear trails glistening the light of the torches that lined the walls of the castle.
He sat up straight, opening his eyes with a soft groan. He ran a hand through his short, greasy hair and frowned at the darkness. Marcus Flint had never called anything beautiful. Marcus Flint did not care about looks.
So maybe Marcus had been wrong when he said he didn't care about looks and maybe he had been wrong when he said he never called anyone beautiful.
He had found his ex-girlfriend beautiful after he had broken up with her and had almost regretted his decision. It had been in the break between Potions and Herbology class, and he had been in quite a hurry when he told her he couldn’t waste potential Quidditch training time with her.
But when she started crying and trembling, he had almost forgotten about his next class and just stared at her till she turned around and ran off: he was so caught up in the beautiful sight.
Though he couldn’t work out what she and Oliver had in common when it came to looks. Wood had neat, short, brown hair and hers had been long and black, reaching between her shoulder blades. Wood’s eyes were a deep shade of brown and she had pale blue eyes. Maybe it was because they were both smaller than him, but Wood was rugged in comparison to the skinny girl Marcus had dated.
He just couldn’t figure it out. The longer he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. So Marcus decided to find out what had made Wood look so beautiful that evening.
From then on he stared at the Scottish Keeper on every available occasion: during classes, when they had a game, or even a few times during Gryffindor’s practice sessions, in the corridors or in the Great Hall.
But all of a sudden Wood was just average again, nothing that caught Marcus' attention. He was the same boy Marcus had seen so many times before.
Marcus wondered what had been different about them. Most of the time he found neither of the two appealing.
One day it suddenly hit him, or more so Wood’s fist hit him right in the face. He was launching himself at Marcus and he was crying again.
And, Merlin, he looked beautiful.
Marcus leaned close to him; the whole scene was erotic in a quite weird way. Wood looked like he was in some kind of post-orgasmic state as he stood in front of Flint, who could only stare at him in utter amazement.
Oliver was panting harshly and his breath hit Marcus' face. His heart was racing and Marcus' could feel it beating against his broad hand on Wood’s heaving chest. Wood’s face was flushed, and Marcus was close enough to feel the heat radiating from it.
So Marcus had finally found his own definition of beautiful.
To Marcus, broken limbs were beautiful. Dark bruises were beautiful. Red blood oozing from fresh wounds was beautiful. Lips only looked kissable to him when they were swollen and split, maybe even red with blood.
The first time he kissed Wood was after a game Slytherin had lost. He had caught Wood by the changing rooms and pinned him against a wall. By then he was an expert at that. He knew just how to hold Wood in place with his body weight and just where to position his knee so the other couldn’t escape.
Wood had been surprised, Marcus could tell by the shaky gasp his rival let out. The other’s lips hadn’t looked what would be ‘kissable’ after Marcus' own definition. They were pale and chapped from all the hours spent outside training in the cool air.
Marcus had been determined to change that. To hurt him – make him beautiful. In that moment Flint had been God: able to shape Wood any way he pleased, to make Wood just what he wanted him to be – a crying, bleeding mess that could only be called ‘beautiful’.
His aim was to hurt Wood; it seemed like the only way to make him beautiful. Hurt him enough to make him cry just like he had the other day.
His hand curled around Wood’s throat and gripped it tightly, causing Oliver to gasp in shock and pain. Marcus had used the chance to force his tongue into Wood’s mouth, exploring it thoroughly. He really wasn’t a gentle kisser; he couldn’t have been even if he tried.
When Oliver tried to close his mouth, Flint had bitten his lower lip roughly. Oliver had winced from surprise when he could taste the unique flavour of blood on the tip of his tongue. Marcus swallowed as he tasted the blood and sucked eagerly on Oliver’s lower lip, drawing more blood from the fresh wound.
Oliver had stopped fighting; in fact, his hands were fisted in the front of Marcus' robes, tugging on them slightly. He emitted something close to a moan of pleasure, and when Flint cupped his cheek he found it slightly damp beneath his calloused fingers.
The realization sent a shiver down his spine and he deepened the kiss, smearing the thick blood along their mouths.
When he broke the kiss to breathe, Marcus' own lips were bruised and he was breathing harshly through his nose as he examined Oliver. The other was still clinging to his robes as if he was afraid to fall when he let go.
That moment Marcus knew he was the only one who’d ever see Oliver’s true beauty because Marcus was the only one able to MAKE Wood beautiful.