(no subject)
Title: The Roomate Diaries
Characters: Katie Bell, Marcus Flint, Oliver Wood; Established Marcus/Oliver; Eventual Marcus/Katie/Oliver; various
Rating: R for entire story but the smut doesn't show up til later chapters.
Summary: The three Quidditch lovers move in together and things unfold.
A/N: Ignore all canon! Look at who I'm shipping-I'm messing with a lot of things here people so time, dates, and well facts have no place in this fic. Be fore warned and enjoy! Also, I own nothing. No money is being made from this or any of my stories. I'm just trying to create a fun little world for a few of my favourite characters.
Touched:
The door slammed shut followed by a series of loud and varied expletives and the sound of a broom skidding across the kitchen floor, the metal accessories clinking on the ceramic tiles and she was sure something snapped against the fridge. The now solitary liquor cabinet was opened, the delicate glass doors and squeaky hinges giving it away, and a heavy weight dropped onto the apartment's new leather couch only for the occupant to let out another string of vulgarity. Katie pulled her ponytail tighter, closing her closet and the image of freshly ironed dress robes, not particularly wanting to step out into the living area and greet the surly male.
Puddlemere and the Falcons had had a game today, a game Katie had refused to attend on the grounds of emotional blackmail. Unless she went wearing a stitched together jersey of both teams emblems it would be a lose-lose situation on her part and Katie was not up to choosing sides right now. It was rather amusing. Anyone else would have claimed it was an easy choice: Oliver. It was always Oliver. Right? For some reason Katie didn't want to choose anymore. They were adults; school rivalry was a thing of the past.
Marcus was laying belly-down on the ox blood leather, an entire bottle of vodka on the coffee table with a sticky shot glass beside it. His face was pressed into one of Richard's forgotten chenille pillows, muffled 'fucks' and groans escaping through the side of his mouth. Katie sighed; it must have been a bad loss. How much could the Falcons have lost by to make Marcus try to destroy his own broom? She turned down the temperature on the oven and delicately cleared her throat. Well. Not so delicately. The larger man arched up, startled at the noise, and automatically pressed a hand to his back, a strangled groan torn from his throat.
"What the fuck Katie-"
"Marcus!" the blond moved towards the couch in two quick steps. "What happened?"
". . .goddamn bludger. . ."
Katie narrowed her eyes, watching where the chasers fingers poked into his own back, how he tried to position himself on the couch to avoid putting excess weight on his middle vertebrates. The newly certified personal trainer headed back to the fridge, hauling out a half-full bag of ice, then returned to her impromptu patient.
"Try to stay still Marcus."
"What-Merlin, fuck!"
"Shh, you big baby!"
Katie peeled the hem of Flint's shirt out of his trousers, her cold fingers pushing the sweaty linen up his back as gently as she could, biting back a sympathetic pained hiss as a yellowed bruise came into view. "This is older than one game you git," she shook her head, angry that a so-called professional would leave an injury untreated. Focus, focus. She picked up the bag and laid it slowly upon the mark. "It'll dull the pain."
"Thanks Mother." Katie smacked him in the back of the head. He had no injuries there from what she could see. Ever so gently she assessed his bruise, moving her fingers around the discolouration to see how bad it actually was, and, deeming that while his kidney was unaffected, he probably had had deep tissue bruising as well and should have been going to a physical therapist as soon as it happened.
Sinking one knee into the leather beside his hip, Katie's palms pressed against Marcus' sides, eliciting a sound from the chaser that she couldn't distinguish but-as there were no protests-didn't allow to stop her. His back had pockets of knotted muscle, and as she leaned over, her cool hands kneading slowly into his tanned flesh, Katie wondered how Marcus could fly as well as he did in such a tense state. She had seen both Oliver and Marcus without shirts before-given their history and living arrangements it would have been hard not to-but this was new, and it was difficult for Katie to keep her thoughts under a medical distance this close to her roommate's bare skin. He had several largish freckles clustered together beneath his ribs, and although she refused to stop and map them individually-she couldn't; it wouldn't be right-Katie did spread her hands wide, thumbs angling in to sweep up the expanse of his back. It produced a sharp intake of breath that Katie did interpret as pain this time and automatically lifted her hands from Marcus' skin.
"I'm sor-"
"Don't."
Katie hadn't seen it happen, but her patient's hand was now firmly locked under her knee, pressing her leg into the couch, his knuckles a breath away from caressing the back of her jean-clad thigh. A shiver coursed though her as she fought to remain still, glancing from Marcus' shadowed face to the arm that disappeared beneath her line of vision to his bared flesh pinked from her ministrations. Katie swallowed and held her breath, fingers drawn back to his skin uncertainly. Marcus, for his part, seemed to be taking very controlled inhalations, and his hand was demanding, holding her leg, thumb pressing into the muscle of her calf. Katie removed he bag of ice. She moved the displaced condensation with three fingers, barely applying any pressure now, and moved the water like an artist on canvass, pressing down only when she reached those freckles.
She looked up to meet Oliver's bemused stare as he came in through the door, broom in hand and sports bag over his shoulder. Katie pulled herself away from the couch with a startled shake and widening eyes, hastily dusting off her hands but not knowing why.
"Oliver!" she smiled over-brightly. "How-how was the game?"
Oliver shut the door with his foot, his smile turning into a knowing smirk as he caught a glimpse of Marcus' head on the end of the couch. He dropped the bag next to his lover's to be tended to after his shower and butterbeer, and then leaned his Nimbus 2005 beside the door.
"Fine Katie," Oliver pulled her into a hug, kissing her loudly on the forehead, listening amusedly to Marcus' blind grunts. "Though if ya want to give someone a massage it should be me. I'm the one who lost ya know." Katie blinked, eyebrow rising, then looked between the two players.
"Oh."
"Aye. Even after that eighty point penalty Marcus gave us, Teague managed to catch the snitch before Hendrickson."
"Penalty?" Katie stepped away towards the oven. The lasagne needed to come out and Oliver really shouldn't be touching her right now.
"Aye!" he dragged out the affirmative and Katie could hear his fingers drumming happily against the leather. "It isn't everyday that a chaser steals his own beaters club and hits a bludger into the crowd."
"What?!" Katie looked aghast. "Marcus, what were you thinking?! Someone could have been seriously hurt!" But he was already lumbering off the couch, ignoring Oliver's manic grin, and poking his shirttails back into his trousers.
"I'll be in the loo."
Katie's lips thinned as she unconsciously pressed a clenched fist into the countertop, her cheeks flushing; Oliver wasn't to be persuaded and reached out to chuck her chin, his grin stuck in place. She ripped off her oven mitts and nearly threw them on the counter.
"Leave me a plate; I'm going for a jog."
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The blue porcelain was slick underneath his meaty hands but Marcus' grip was solid in his anger, his stance one of a beaten dog as he hunched over the bathroom sink, droplets of freezing water splattering onto the spotless surface from his chiselled face. His breathing was steady-the only thing he could control at the moment-and he watched blankly as puff spots of steam appeared and disappeared with each exhalation. What had he been thinking? What the fuck had he been thinking?
Marcus ignored the knocking.
He slowly brought his head up to stare bleakly into the circle mirror, pupils not distracted by the burnished gold frame. He could still feel her and if he concentrated he was sure he could recreate the movements of her cool fingers, the gentle push of her breath falling down as she investigated his body. Investigated. Ha! That was a bloody fucking laugh. She was trying to do something nice. . .only Ms. Bell never really had to try did she. She just was. And what had he done? No Katie, keep your goddamn hands where they are. Keep pressing, just like you've been taught. And Oliver. Oliver.
"Marcus. Marcus! Open the bloody door ya twat!"
He swallowed thickly, reaching for a hanging terrycloth to scrub briefly across his face that unfortunately smelled of Katie's subtle cucumber and aloe soap. Christ. Flicking the nub lock, he twisted the handle to see a far too amused Oliver Wood. "What the hell was that all about?!" Marcus did the only thing he could: he dragged his former schoolmate into the bathroom with him. Marcus' palm-the same palm that had manhandled Katie minutes before-cupped the back of Oliver's neck roughly, practically pulling the smaller man into his mouth.
This was where he belonged. Oliver was his rock, had actually made him feel something other than bitter hate during seven years of boredom and fear, had accepted Marcus back into his life after seeming longer years of silence and competition and awful, awful words-and what had Marcus done?
"I. . .upset the balance." Marcus pushed his forehead against Oliver's, irritated that all the brunette could do was laugh and lick his abused lips.
"Is that what we're calling her now?" Marcus hissed and pushed his way out into the living room, grabbing the neglected vodka bottle and taking a vicious swig; muggle alcohol burned. He was less than consoled when the sound of urinating filtered out the bathroom door. And more laughter.
"I know ya better than ya think Marcus," the Scottish git called out. "I know yer not cheating on me-" the toilet flushed, taps were turned on, and Marcus' jaw tensed, shame flooding his face. "-and ya ought a know I won't be leaving ya for indulging in something we both want."
"And what the bloody fucking hell would that be?!" Marcus roared, throwing his shot glass to shatter on the front door, shards screeching across the floor. Oliver appeared in the bathroom doorway, a towel held lightly around his lean hips, an eyebrow raised at Marcus' frustrated angry breaths.
"Katie left us dinner. Clean up that mess then get yer arse in here."
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Ankle, knee, hip joint. Lower back, shoulder blades, elbows, pumping fists.
Katie had gone for a jog, but before she had even made it down her street the asphalt was a blur beneath her blue-eyed gaze. Sneakers beat the pavement like a drum as the witch made a full run-inhale; exhale-and her entire body absorbed the punishment. A headache was building as her ponytail pulled incessantly downward; nails bit into the palms of her hands as if trying to tear away tainted skin; her lungs and throat were on fire. She didn't want to stop and she wanted to scream.
What the hell had she been thinking? Oliver was her friend, and then he had to come home from a lost game to find her feeling up his boyfriend?! Katie was disgusted with herself and disgusted with the idea that there were probably dozens of more freckles she could have counted if given more time. A frustrated growl slipped though her lips and she picked up the pace. She could do this for a long time; she had spent years on Hooch and Oliver's drills, then more years in professional training-Katie Bell could run all damn day if she wanted! Houses and muggle vehicles had no meaning; pedestrians on the sidewalk got out of her way, murmuring disparaging remarks about football dykes thinking they owned the streets.
Katie had to get away from men. And she wanted-no. Katie Bell needed a hug.
Characters: Katie Bell, Marcus Flint, Oliver Wood; Established Marcus/Oliver; Eventual Marcus/Katie/Oliver; various
Rating: R for entire story but the smut doesn't show up til later chapters.
Summary: The three Quidditch lovers move in together and things unfold.
A/N: Ignore all canon! Look at who I'm shipping-I'm messing with a lot of things here people so time, dates, and well facts have no place in this fic. Be fore warned and enjoy! Also, I own nothing. No money is being made from this or any of my stories. I'm just trying to create a fun little world for a few of my favourite characters.
Touched:
The door slammed shut followed by a series of loud and varied expletives and the sound of a broom skidding across the kitchen floor, the metal accessories clinking on the ceramic tiles and she was sure something snapped against the fridge. The now solitary liquor cabinet was opened, the delicate glass doors and squeaky hinges giving it away, and a heavy weight dropped onto the apartment's new leather couch only for the occupant to let out another string of vulgarity. Katie pulled her ponytail tighter, closing her closet and the image of freshly ironed dress robes, not particularly wanting to step out into the living area and greet the surly male.
Puddlemere and the Falcons had had a game today, a game Katie had refused to attend on the grounds of emotional blackmail. Unless she went wearing a stitched together jersey of both teams emblems it would be a lose-lose situation on her part and Katie was not up to choosing sides right now. It was rather amusing. Anyone else would have claimed it was an easy choice: Oliver. It was always Oliver. Right? For some reason Katie didn't want to choose anymore. They were adults; school rivalry was a thing of the past.
Marcus was laying belly-down on the ox blood leather, an entire bottle of vodka on the coffee table with a sticky shot glass beside it. His face was pressed into one of Richard's forgotten chenille pillows, muffled 'fucks' and groans escaping through the side of his mouth. Katie sighed; it must have been a bad loss. How much could the Falcons have lost by to make Marcus try to destroy his own broom? She turned down the temperature on the oven and delicately cleared her throat. Well. Not so delicately. The larger man arched up, startled at the noise, and automatically pressed a hand to his back, a strangled groan torn from his throat.
"What the fuck Katie-"
"Marcus!" the blond moved towards the couch in two quick steps. "What happened?"
". . .goddamn bludger. . ."
Katie narrowed her eyes, watching where the chasers fingers poked into his own back, how he tried to position himself on the couch to avoid putting excess weight on his middle vertebrates. The newly certified personal trainer headed back to the fridge, hauling out a half-full bag of ice, then returned to her impromptu patient.
"Try to stay still Marcus."
"What-Merlin, fuck!"
"Shh, you big baby!"
Katie peeled the hem of Flint's shirt out of his trousers, her cold fingers pushing the sweaty linen up his back as gently as she could, biting back a sympathetic pained hiss as a yellowed bruise came into view. "This is older than one game you git," she shook her head, angry that a so-called professional would leave an injury untreated. Focus, focus. She picked up the bag and laid it slowly upon the mark. "It'll dull the pain."
"Thanks Mother." Katie smacked him in the back of the head. He had no injuries there from what she could see. Ever so gently she assessed his bruise, moving her fingers around the discolouration to see how bad it actually was, and, deeming that while his kidney was unaffected, he probably had had deep tissue bruising as well and should have been going to a physical therapist as soon as it happened.
Sinking one knee into the leather beside his hip, Katie's palms pressed against Marcus' sides, eliciting a sound from the chaser that she couldn't distinguish but-as there were no protests-didn't allow to stop her. His back had pockets of knotted muscle, and as she leaned over, her cool hands kneading slowly into his tanned flesh, Katie wondered how Marcus could fly as well as he did in such a tense state. She had seen both Oliver and Marcus without shirts before-given their history and living arrangements it would have been hard not to-but this was new, and it was difficult for Katie to keep her thoughts under a medical distance this close to her roommate's bare skin. He had several largish freckles clustered together beneath his ribs, and although she refused to stop and map them individually-she couldn't; it wouldn't be right-Katie did spread her hands wide, thumbs angling in to sweep up the expanse of his back. It produced a sharp intake of breath that Katie did interpret as pain this time and automatically lifted her hands from Marcus' skin.
"I'm sor-"
"Don't."
Katie hadn't seen it happen, but her patient's hand was now firmly locked under her knee, pressing her leg into the couch, his knuckles a breath away from caressing the back of her jean-clad thigh. A shiver coursed though her as she fought to remain still, glancing from Marcus' shadowed face to the arm that disappeared beneath her line of vision to his bared flesh pinked from her ministrations. Katie swallowed and held her breath, fingers drawn back to his skin uncertainly. Marcus, for his part, seemed to be taking very controlled inhalations, and his hand was demanding, holding her leg, thumb pressing into the muscle of her calf. Katie removed he bag of ice. She moved the displaced condensation with three fingers, barely applying any pressure now, and moved the water like an artist on canvass, pressing down only when she reached those freckles.
She looked up to meet Oliver's bemused stare as he came in through the door, broom in hand and sports bag over his shoulder. Katie pulled herself away from the couch with a startled shake and widening eyes, hastily dusting off her hands but not knowing why.
"Oliver!" she smiled over-brightly. "How-how was the game?"
Oliver shut the door with his foot, his smile turning into a knowing smirk as he caught a glimpse of Marcus' head on the end of the couch. He dropped the bag next to his lover's to be tended to after his shower and butterbeer, and then leaned his Nimbus 2005 beside the door.
"Fine Katie," Oliver pulled her into a hug, kissing her loudly on the forehead, listening amusedly to Marcus' blind grunts. "Though if ya want to give someone a massage it should be me. I'm the one who lost ya know." Katie blinked, eyebrow rising, then looked between the two players.
"Oh."
"Aye. Even after that eighty point penalty Marcus gave us, Teague managed to catch the snitch before Hendrickson."
"Penalty?" Katie stepped away towards the oven. The lasagne needed to come out and Oliver really shouldn't be touching her right now.
"Aye!" he dragged out the affirmative and Katie could hear his fingers drumming happily against the leather. "It isn't everyday that a chaser steals his own beaters club and hits a bludger into the crowd."
"What?!" Katie looked aghast. "Marcus, what were you thinking?! Someone could have been seriously hurt!" But he was already lumbering off the couch, ignoring Oliver's manic grin, and poking his shirttails back into his trousers.
"I'll be in the loo."
Katie's lips thinned as she unconsciously pressed a clenched fist into the countertop, her cheeks flushing; Oliver wasn't to be persuaded and reached out to chuck her chin, his grin stuck in place. She ripped off her oven mitts and nearly threw them on the counter.
"Leave me a plate; I'm going for a jog."
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The blue porcelain was slick underneath his meaty hands but Marcus' grip was solid in his anger, his stance one of a beaten dog as he hunched over the bathroom sink, droplets of freezing water splattering onto the spotless surface from his chiselled face. His breathing was steady-the only thing he could control at the moment-and he watched blankly as puff spots of steam appeared and disappeared with each exhalation. What had he been thinking? What the fuck had he been thinking?
Marcus ignored the knocking.
He slowly brought his head up to stare bleakly into the circle mirror, pupils not distracted by the burnished gold frame. He could still feel her and if he concentrated he was sure he could recreate the movements of her cool fingers, the gentle push of her breath falling down as she investigated his body. Investigated. Ha! That was a bloody fucking laugh. She was trying to do something nice. . .only Ms. Bell never really had to try did she. She just was. And what had he done? No Katie, keep your goddamn hands where they are. Keep pressing, just like you've been taught. And Oliver. Oliver.
"Marcus. Marcus! Open the bloody door ya twat!"
He swallowed thickly, reaching for a hanging terrycloth to scrub briefly across his face that unfortunately smelled of Katie's subtle cucumber and aloe soap. Christ. Flicking the nub lock, he twisted the handle to see a far too amused Oliver Wood. "What the hell was that all about?!" Marcus did the only thing he could: he dragged his former schoolmate into the bathroom with him. Marcus' palm-the same palm that had manhandled Katie minutes before-cupped the back of Oliver's neck roughly, practically pulling the smaller man into his mouth.
This was where he belonged. Oliver was his rock, had actually made him feel something other than bitter hate during seven years of boredom and fear, had accepted Marcus back into his life after seeming longer years of silence and competition and awful, awful words-and what had Marcus done?
"I. . .upset the balance." Marcus pushed his forehead against Oliver's, irritated that all the brunette could do was laugh and lick his abused lips.
"Is that what we're calling her now?" Marcus hissed and pushed his way out into the living room, grabbing the neglected vodka bottle and taking a vicious swig; muggle alcohol burned. He was less than consoled when the sound of urinating filtered out the bathroom door. And more laughter.
"I know ya better than ya think Marcus," the Scottish git called out. "I know yer not cheating on me-" the toilet flushed, taps were turned on, and Marcus' jaw tensed, shame flooding his face. "-and ya ought a know I won't be leaving ya for indulging in something we both want."
"And what the bloody fucking hell would that be?!" Marcus roared, throwing his shot glass to shatter on the front door, shards screeching across the floor. Oliver appeared in the bathroom doorway, a towel held lightly around his lean hips, an eyebrow raised at Marcus' frustrated angry breaths.
"Katie left us dinner. Clean up that mess then get yer arse in here."
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Ankle, knee, hip joint. Lower back, shoulder blades, elbows, pumping fists.
Katie had gone for a jog, but before she had even made it down her street the asphalt was a blur beneath her blue-eyed gaze. Sneakers beat the pavement like a drum as the witch made a full run-inhale; exhale-and her entire body absorbed the punishment. A headache was building as her ponytail pulled incessantly downward; nails bit into the palms of her hands as if trying to tear away tainted skin; her lungs and throat were on fire. She didn't want to stop and she wanted to scream.
What the hell had she been thinking? Oliver was her friend, and then he had to come home from a lost game to find her feeling up his boyfriend?! Katie was disgusted with herself and disgusted with the idea that there were probably dozens of more freckles she could have counted if given more time. A frustrated growl slipped though her lips and she picked up the pace. She could do this for a long time; she had spent years on Hooch and Oliver's drills, then more years in professional training-Katie Bell could run all damn day if she wanted! Houses and muggle vehicles had no meaning; pedestrians on the sidewalk got out of her way, murmuring disparaging remarks about football dykes thinking they owned the streets.
Katie had to get away from men. And she wanted-no. Katie Bell needed a hug.