A Gift For themightyflynn: Of Brooms and Practice, (Oliver/Marcus)
Author: dudugodudugo
Recipient: themightyflynn
Title:Of Brooms and Practice
Pairing: Oliver/Marcus
Rating: NC-17
Word Count/Art Medium:2495 words
Summary: Oliver Wood is less than impressed by Marcus Flint. Still, that doesn’t stop them from meeting in a broom shed. Oliver Wood/Marus Flint, smut.
Author's Notes: This fic is written for themightyflynn for the 2018 rarepair winter swap. I read a couple of your fics before writing, and hopefully I catered to some of your tastes. Thank you to my beta williamsnickers, who was very adamant that I use the word “cock” and who allowed me to keep my salacious sausage sentences. I am grateful for the laughs and also, very sorry.
---
“Good job today, everyone,” Oliver Wood called out, standing on the Quidditch pitch. Brooms landed around him. “Great work! This concludes the Gryffindor tryouts.”
Harry Potter landed a metre or two away, sweating and ruffled, but smiling. Oliver’s eyes enjoyed the lean muscle, leather quidditch padding, and windswept hair. Though, he tried not to stare at the fourth-year.
“Positions will be announced on Friday before dinner. For anyone who misses the announcement, I’ll also be posting it in the common room. Anyway, brilliant work today, thanks for coming out.”
As Potter passed, Oliver clapped him on the back. “Nice moves,” he said. He might have liked to clap some other things, but that was neither here nor there.
Harry nodded. He and everyone else filed past, off the pitch and towards the locker room. In a minute, Oliver started gathering the abandoned brooms and balls.
He was locking away the last one - a Bludger - when a familiar voice coiled around him. “Find any new Chasers?”
A black boot kicked the Quidditch trunk closed. Marcus Flint loomed over him as Oliver secured the locks.
“Can you get your foot off my trunk?” Oliver asked dryly, looking up.
“Pity, that you’re down a Chaser,” Flint went on, disregarding him. “Doubt you’ll find anyone who can keep up with Bell - not in Gryffindor, anyway.”
With a grimace, Oliver picked up his broom and stood. “Flint,” he acknowledged. “Gryffindor has the pitch reserved another half hour. Or were you sizing up the competition?”
“What competition?” sneered Flint. “As they are, Hufflepuff stands a better chance at the Quidditch Cup. Of course, Slytherin will take it.” He glanced down. “We always take what we want.”
But Oliver ignored him. “You’ll need the trunk for your own tryouts, right?” he asked. “I’ll leave it here, then.”
“No,” Flint quickly interjected, “take it back to the shed. I don’t want your sloppy seconds.”
A long sigh escaped Oliver. “Fine,” he said, and levitated the trunk and brooms to follow him to the shed. For some reason, Flint followed, slithering after him in the autumn grass.
“We’re still putting Mr Malfoy’s Nimbus 2001s to good use,” Flint was bragging. “Some of the best brooms available. Nasty on the turns, but I quite like it.” Oliver tuned him out.
In the distance, the lake came into sight. Oliver vaguely wondered if the other boys were done showering - had soaped themselves up and toweled off, their pink nipples quickly covered by shirts and jackets. For practices, Oliver usually had cleanup be punishment for late arrivers. Pity, that everyone had been on time today. That was the nature of tryouts, to be on time or disqualified.
The broom shed’s door swung open and Oliver neatly stacked the school brooms in one corner. The Quidditch trunk sank into place next to the door.
Someone - probably Snape - had curated a wall for the Nimbus 2001s, which Mr Malfoy had bought en masse a couple of years ago. They were bewitched only to be removed by Slytherin players. An ugly smile spread across Flint’s face as he spotted them, their black handles gleaming in the light.
“Bet you like handling a good broom,” he was going on.
Oliver had had enough. “Any broom depends on the handler,” he ragged, hating the flat-nosed brat. “You don’t need a Nimbus 2001 to be good.”
A toothy grin spread across Flint’s face. “You think you’ve got a good broom, then? Prove it,” he demanded, and the broom shed door locked with them inside.
---
Marcus flicked his wand again and the trunk of Quidditch equipment slid to block it, the only exit. “Alright, let’s see your wand. Unless you’re too scared, Gryffindork,” he challenged, excitement wetting his lips.
Oliver Wood considered the door.
“Wand? I thought we were talking about my broom,” Wood muttered. He warily drew his wand and leveled it at Marcus.
The duel started a moment later, a growl from Marcus the only forewarning. Neither bowed; they waived propriety in their petty scramble for the upper hand.
Hexes were thrown, but nothing stuck. Finally, a well-placed Expelliarmus threw Marcus against the far wall, where the Slytherin brooms were kept. He steadied himself against them as Wood slid the trunk aside and reached for the door handle.
Marcus snarled. One black broom, a calculated throw, and Wood’s feet caught on the obstacle. Surprised, he fell. Marcus bore down on him.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” he asked salaciously, pinning Wood under the broom. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Wood wrestled for his wand, a half metre out of reach, but groaned as Marcus pressed down his full weight.
His cock, which was now pressed against Wood’s arse, twitched. Marcus knew, as Wood paused and turned his head, that he had felt it as well.
“Let me go,” said Wood firmly.
As soon as Wood buckled under his weight, Marcus wrestled him onto his back.
“I like you under me,” Marcus said as he reached for Wood’s crotch. A promising hardness stirred there, and he explored it with his fingers. “At my mercy. You’re enjoying this, too,” he teased.
A wild look crossed Wood’s face. “You’ll know when I’m enjoying it,” Wood said, clearly bothered, and shoved Marcus off him. The expensive broom clattered onto the floor, but neither noticed.
Against strong arms, Marcus was driven onto his backside. Boldly, Wood climbed atop of him.
He watched as Wood clumsily undid his trousers and, with a tug on his pants, Marcus’ hard cock sprang free. It leaked as Wood rubbed it, his palms calloused and indelicate.
“Put it in your mouth,” Marcus hissed, and pushed down on Wood’s shoulders. “I want to fill your mouth.”
Wood struggled against him. “This? It won’t even reach my throat,” he growled, but Marcus had forced him low enough. He grabbed his cock and pressed it against Wood’s lips until they parted and a tongue poked out in exploration. Then he pushed himself inside, only stopping when he heard Wood gag.
“Suck on me,” he ordered. Wood tried to push away, but Marcus held him. “Come on, come on!”
Wood, in the struggle, lost his hold and gasped. For a moment Marcus felt his head brush the back of Wood’s throat and he trembled, his balls tightening. He watched as his semen dripped out of Wood’s mouth, whose cheeks were flushed red.
As soon as Marcus let go, Wood leaned over and spat at the ground. “Quicker than a first year, you are,” he commented pitilessly, and stood up.
Affronted, Marcus watched the Quidditch captain straighten his jersey and adjust his half-hard cock. With a grim look, Wood bent down and picked up his wand where it had dropped earlier.
“I’ve got enough for another go,” Marcus said without thinking. Wood turned around to assess him, sprawled on the floor with his pants at his ankles. His cock sat between his thighs; a fat, tired breakfast sausage. There was clinical interest in Wood’s eyes.
“The Slytherin team will be here soon to fetch their brooms, won’t they?”
Though he knew it was a rhetorical question, Marcus nodded. “Still, we can manage it.”
Wood thoughtfully rolled his wand between his fingers. “I don’t bottom. Take off your shirt,” he finally said. Marcus obeyed. He spread his legs and waited for Wood to come closer.
A flick of a wand, but not what Marcus was expecting. “Petrificus Totalus,” Wood cast, and Marcus felt his limbs stiffen. He tried to growl, but no sound came out.
“Serves you right to be found like this,” he heard Wood mutter, “pencil dick.” Then the broom shed door creaked and Marcus was alone. As a chill wind touched his skin, Marcus realised the door had been purposefully left open. He lay there, naked, feeling his penis wither even though it couldn’t move.
A few minutes later, he heard nearing voices and then, laughter. He blushed scarlet under the spell.
---
It was a Hogsmeade weekend. Oliver only half-listened to Katie Bell as they walked towards town, too distracted by the Golden Trio three groups ahead. Harry Potter was growing his hair out, and Oliver wondered how it would feel between his fingertips. He imagined himself grabbing it as he shoved his cock up Harry’s toned arse.
“Are you listening?” Katie demanded as they crossed over the train tracks and into town.
“Course I am,” he insisted, tearing his eyes away. He turned to look at Katie with a serious expression. “I’ve got a few ideas for our first game. I’ll run the lot of you through them at our next practice.”
“Right.” She sounded unimpressed. “Well, I’m off to meet Angelina. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks in a couple of hours. You still owe me a Butterbeer!”
Then she hurried ahead, towards the far end of town. Oliver took his time, peaking into the shop windows and admiring their displays. He didn’t have any plans here, but it beat staying inside the castle.
“Oi, Gryffindork,” a voice called out. Oliver looked around to see three Slytherins lounging on a stone wall. “Our friend, Marcus, wants a chat with you.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Oliver called back, but they were already drawing their wands.
“No need to be polite. We insist.” Oliver recognised the Slytherin Beater as he pointed at an alley just ahead. “Off we go, then, don’t make a scene.”
Flint was waiting for them in the alley, hidden behind some produce boxes. He smiled when he saw Oliver, his sharp teeth turning it into a snarl.
“How are we today, Oliver?” Flint asked, and shoved him through to an abandoned shop. It might have been a stable once, for the inn that was nearby. Oliver retreated to the far wall as Flint carefully closed the door and warded it. The other Slytherins remained outside, standing guard.
“Fine, thanks. And yourself?” Oliver drew his wand from its holster.
Flint noticed the movement, but let him. “That was a nasty trick you played on me,” he went on. Oliver watched him, but Flint never raised his wand, the stuffed up fool. “I’ll have to teach you better.”
The words rolled around in Oliver’s mind. “Or we could forget about the whole lot of it,” he offered.
“Can’t.” With a swift motion, Flint pulled his shirt over his head. Then he toed off his shoes and unbuckled his belt. From the far wall, Oliver watched him. Something in him became interested.
“You’re going to fuck me,” ordered Flint.
Carefully, Oliver approached him. “I could make you come again, and then leave you like before,” he warned.
“You want to fuck my arse more, I’ll bet.” There was a leering confidence in Flint as he puffed his chest out. “I bet you’re hard right now, thinking about it.”
It was true, but Oliver did not want him to know that. Chest to chest, he was a hand taller than Flint. Still, like any respectable Slytherin, Flint met his gaze and held it.
Then Oliver felt hands on his stomach and a warm mouth on his throat. He leaned down to kiss Flint - hard lips crushed against his own. He turned his head and Flint’s hands boldly slipped under his shirt. Cold fingers pressed against his fevered skin, one hard nipple, then the other. Oliver wanted to tell him to get on his knees, but didn’t.
“Get on all fours,” he said instead.
Flint awkwardly pulled off the rest of his clothes and dropped to his hands and knees. He was panting, Oliver noticed, as he tugged on himself. Oliver’s own cock twitched in response.
It only took a moment to lower his pants and kneel on the old wooden floor. Oliver pressed himself against Flint’s crack, using his hands to spread the cheeks wider.
Flint groaned. “Put it in,” he demanded, one hand stroking himself feverishly.
It was tight. Flint grabbed his wand to cast a lubricating spell, but it didn’t make the fit any more forgiving. Oliver bit his lip as he slowly pressed himself inside. When he couldn’t see his length anymore, he grabbed a hold of Flint’s hips.
“I’m going to fuck your arse until it’s raw,” Oliver said, remembering the taste of Flint’s come. He made a small thrust and, in reply, Flint rasped in pain. Then he pulled himself out halfway and thrust in again.
Flint leaned forward to stabilise himself, and with Oliver’s next prod, lost hold of the ground. Oliver grimaced and looked down at his bared cock. Then, he grabbed the short brown hair and pulled it until Flint whimpered.
“You can’t stop touching yourself long enough to stay upright?” he demanded, shoving himself back in. The muscles in Flint’s arse squeezed him. “You’re a slag, is what you are.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” Flint growled, his head hung as he focused on his cock.
The fingers in Flint’s hair tightened, and Oliver gave a measured thrust with his hips. “I’ll fuck you hard as you like... if you beg for it.”
It took only a moment. For all his mettle, Flint was still young. He’d probably just gotten his first wet dream, the way he was going off. Oliver had already fucked three of his yearmates.
“Wood, please.”
“Louder for your friends outside,” Oliver insisted. His penis swelled impossibly.
Flint looked back and gave him a grimace of pain. “Move already!” he angrily called out. “Fuck me like I’m your woman. Slag, whatever.”
Oliver thrust hard, frenzied, gripping Flint’s reluctant arse with white knuckles. Then he pushed himself as deep in as he could, his balls weighty and tight. Marcus gasped at the violence of it, his back shuddering. There, Oliver shut his eyes as he came.
As he pulled out, he saw some of his come on the dirty floorboards. More dribbled from Flint’s arse, and there was a suctioned pop as it released him. Oliver glanced down at his own cock, still intact, and cast a strong cleaning charm.
“I liked it better when you were sucking me off,” Flint admitted as he sank onto the floor. He rolled onto his back, looking haggard, and breathed in large gulps of air.
Oliver tucked his wand away. “Got to give as good as you get,” he commented as he stood up and straightened his clothing.
A moment later Flint was still lying there, starkers and unmoving. By now he had closed his eyes.
Oliver knelt down and gently brushed two fingers over his lips. Then he slid them past the thin lips and large teeth, pushing them in and out. Flint’s eyes flicked open and he met Oliver’s gaze.
“Petrificus Totalus,” teased Oliver, and Flint’s eyes widened until he realised it was a joke. There was no laughter in his expression, but Oliver was unbothered by that. “You’re an alright Chaser, but a natural Beater, Flint.”
With a grunt, Flint grabbed Oliver’s jacket and dragged him down. “Again,” he said, his voice husky.
Recipient: themightyflynn
Title:Of Brooms and Practice
Pairing: Oliver/Marcus
Rating: NC-17
Word Count/Art Medium:2495 words
Summary: Oliver Wood is less than impressed by Marcus Flint. Still, that doesn’t stop them from meeting in a broom shed. Oliver Wood/Marus Flint, smut.
Author's Notes: This fic is written for themightyflynn for the 2018 rarepair winter swap. I read a couple of your fics before writing, and hopefully I catered to some of your tastes. Thank you to my beta williamsnickers, who was very adamant that I use the word “cock” and who allowed me to keep my salacious sausage sentences. I am grateful for the laughs and also, very sorry.
---
“Good job today, everyone,” Oliver Wood called out, standing on the Quidditch pitch. Brooms landed around him. “Great work! This concludes the Gryffindor tryouts.”
Harry Potter landed a metre or two away, sweating and ruffled, but smiling. Oliver’s eyes enjoyed the lean muscle, leather quidditch padding, and windswept hair. Though, he tried not to stare at the fourth-year.
“Positions will be announced on Friday before dinner. For anyone who misses the announcement, I’ll also be posting it in the common room. Anyway, brilliant work today, thanks for coming out.”
As Potter passed, Oliver clapped him on the back. “Nice moves,” he said. He might have liked to clap some other things, but that was neither here nor there.
Harry nodded. He and everyone else filed past, off the pitch and towards the locker room. In a minute, Oliver started gathering the abandoned brooms and balls.
He was locking away the last one - a Bludger - when a familiar voice coiled around him. “Find any new Chasers?”
A black boot kicked the Quidditch trunk closed. Marcus Flint loomed over him as Oliver secured the locks.
“Can you get your foot off my trunk?” Oliver asked dryly, looking up.
“Pity, that you’re down a Chaser,” Flint went on, disregarding him. “Doubt you’ll find anyone who can keep up with Bell - not in Gryffindor, anyway.”
With a grimace, Oliver picked up his broom and stood. “Flint,” he acknowledged. “Gryffindor has the pitch reserved another half hour. Or were you sizing up the competition?”
“What competition?” sneered Flint. “As they are, Hufflepuff stands a better chance at the Quidditch Cup. Of course, Slytherin will take it.” He glanced down. “We always take what we want.”
But Oliver ignored him. “You’ll need the trunk for your own tryouts, right?” he asked. “I’ll leave it here, then.”
“No,” Flint quickly interjected, “take it back to the shed. I don’t want your sloppy seconds.”
A long sigh escaped Oliver. “Fine,” he said, and levitated the trunk and brooms to follow him to the shed. For some reason, Flint followed, slithering after him in the autumn grass.
“We’re still putting Mr Malfoy’s Nimbus 2001s to good use,” Flint was bragging. “Some of the best brooms available. Nasty on the turns, but I quite like it.” Oliver tuned him out.
In the distance, the lake came into sight. Oliver vaguely wondered if the other boys were done showering - had soaped themselves up and toweled off, their pink nipples quickly covered by shirts and jackets. For practices, Oliver usually had cleanup be punishment for late arrivers. Pity, that everyone had been on time today. That was the nature of tryouts, to be on time or disqualified.
The broom shed’s door swung open and Oliver neatly stacked the school brooms in one corner. The Quidditch trunk sank into place next to the door.
Someone - probably Snape - had curated a wall for the Nimbus 2001s, which Mr Malfoy had bought en masse a couple of years ago. They were bewitched only to be removed by Slytherin players. An ugly smile spread across Flint’s face as he spotted them, their black handles gleaming in the light.
“Bet you like handling a good broom,” he was going on.
Oliver had had enough. “Any broom depends on the handler,” he ragged, hating the flat-nosed brat. “You don’t need a Nimbus 2001 to be good.”
A toothy grin spread across Flint’s face. “You think you’ve got a good broom, then? Prove it,” he demanded, and the broom shed door locked with them inside.
---
Marcus flicked his wand again and the trunk of Quidditch equipment slid to block it, the only exit. “Alright, let’s see your wand. Unless you’re too scared, Gryffindork,” he challenged, excitement wetting his lips.
Oliver Wood considered the door.
“Wand? I thought we were talking about my broom,” Wood muttered. He warily drew his wand and leveled it at Marcus.
The duel started a moment later, a growl from Marcus the only forewarning. Neither bowed; they waived propriety in their petty scramble for the upper hand.
Hexes were thrown, but nothing stuck. Finally, a well-placed Expelliarmus threw Marcus against the far wall, where the Slytherin brooms were kept. He steadied himself against them as Wood slid the trunk aside and reached for the door handle.
Marcus snarled. One black broom, a calculated throw, and Wood’s feet caught on the obstacle. Surprised, he fell. Marcus bore down on him.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” he asked salaciously, pinning Wood under the broom. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Wood wrestled for his wand, a half metre out of reach, but groaned as Marcus pressed down his full weight.
His cock, which was now pressed against Wood’s arse, twitched. Marcus knew, as Wood paused and turned his head, that he had felt it as well.
“Let me go,” said Wood firmly.
As soon as Wood buckled under his weight, Marcus wrestled him onto his back.
“I like you under me,” Marcus said as he reached for Wood’s crotch. A promising hardness stirred there, and he explored it with his fingers. “At my mercy. You’re enjoying this, too,” he teased.
A wild look crossed Wood’s face. “You’ll know when I’m enjoying it,” Wood said, clearly bothered, and shoved Marcus off him. The expensive broom clattered onto the floor, but neither noticed.
Against strong arms, Marcus was driven onto his backside. Boldly, Wood climbed atop of him.
He watched as Wood clumsily undid his trousers and, with a tug on his pants, Marcus’ hard cock sprang free. It leaked as Wood rubbed it, his palms calloused and indelicate.
“Put it in your mouth,” Marcus hissed, and pushed down on Wood’s shoulders. “I want to fill your mouth.”
Wood struggled against him. “This? It won’t even reach my throat,” he growled, but Marcus had forced him low enough. He grabbed his cock and pressed it against Wood’s lips until they parted and a tongue poked out in exploration. Then he pushed himself inside, only stopping when he heard Wood gag.
“Suck on me,” he ordered. Wood tried to push away, but Marcus held him. “Come on, come on!”
Wood, in the struggle, lost his hold and gasped. For a moment Marcus felt his head brush the back of Wood’s throat and he trembled, his balls tightening. He watched as his semen dripped out of Wood’s mouth, whose cheeks were flushed red.
As soon as Marcus let go, Wood leaned over and spat at the ground. “Quicker than a first year, you are,” he commented pitilessly, and stood up.
Affronted, Marcus watched the Quidditch captain straighten his jersey and adjust his half-hard cock. With a grim look, Wood bent down and picked up his wand where it had dropped earlier.
“I’ve got enough for another go,” Marcus said without thinking. Wood turned around to assess him, sprawled on the floor with his pants at his ankles. His cock sat between his thighs; a fat, tired breakfast sausage. There was clinical interest in Wood’s eyes.
“The Slytherin team will be here soon to fetch their brooms, won’t they?”
Though he knew it was a rhetorical question, Marcus nodded. “Still, we can manage it.”
Wood thoughtfully rolled his wand between his fingers. “I don’t bottom. Take off your shirt,” he finally said. Marcus obeyed. He spread his legs and waited for Wood to come closer.
A flick of a wand, but not what Marcus was expecting. “Petrificus Totalus,” Wood cast, and Marcus felt his limbs stiffen. He tried to growl, but no sound came out.
“Serves you right to be found like this,” he heard Wood mutter, “pencil dick.” Then the broom shed door creaked and Marcus was alone. As a chill wind touched his skin, Marcus realised the door had been purposefully left open. He lay there, naked, feeling his penis wither even though it couldn’t move.
A few minutes later, he heard nearing voices and then, laughter. He blushed scarlet under the spell.
---
It was a Hogsmeade weekend. Oliver only half-listened to Katie Bell as they walked towards town, too distracted by the Golden Trio three groups ahead. Harry Potter was growing his hair out, and Oliver wondered how it would feel between his fingertips. He imagined himself grabbing it as he shoved his cock up Harry’s toned arse.
“Are you listening?” Katie demanded as they crossed over the train tracks and into town.
“Course I am,” he insisted, tearing his eyes away. He turned to look at Katie with a serious expression. “I’ve got a few ideas for our first game. I’ll run the lot of you through them at our next practice.”
“Right.” She sounded unimpressed. “Well, I’m off to meet Angelina. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks in a couple of hours. You still owe me a Butterbeer!”
Then she hurried ahead, towards the far end of town. Oliver took his time, peaking into the shop windows and admiring their displays. He didn’t have any plans here, but it beat staying inside the castle.
“Oi, Gryffindork,” a voice called out. Oliver looked around to see three Slytherins lounging on a stone wall. “Our friend, Marcus, wants a chat with you.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Oliver called back, but they were already drawing their wands.
“No need to be polite. We insist.” Oliver recognised the Slytherin Beater as he pointed at an alley just ahead. “Off we go, then, don’t make a scene.”
Flint was waiting for them in the alley, hidden behind some produce boxes. He smiled when he saw Oliver, his sharp teeth turning it into a snarl.
“How are we today, Oliver?” Flint asked, and shoved him through to an abandoned shop. It might have been a stable once, for the inn that was nearby. Oliver retreated to the far wall as Flint carefully closed the door and warded it. The other Slytherins remained outside, standing guard.
“Fine, thanks. And yourself?” Oliver drew his wand from its holster.
Flint noticed the movement, but let him. “That was a nasty trick you played on me,” he went on. Oliver watched him, but Flint never raised his wand, the stuffed up fool. “I’ll have to teach you better.”
The words rolled around in Oliver’s mind. “Or we could forget about the whole lot of it,” he offered.
“Can’t.” With a swift motion, Flint pulled his shirt over his head. Then he toed off his shoes and unbuckled his belt. From the far wall, Oliver watched him. Something in him became interested.
“You’re going to fuck me,” ordered Flint.
Carefully, Oliver approached him. “I could make you come again, and then leave you like before,” he warned.
“You want to fuck my arse more, I’ll bet.” There was a leering confidence in Flint as he puffed his chest out. “I bet you’re hard right now, thinking about it.”
It was true, but Oliver did not want him to know that. Chest to chest, he was a hand taller than Flint. Still, like any respectable Slytherin, Flint met his gaze and held it.
Then Oliver felt hands on his stomach and a warm mouth on his throat. He leaned down to kiss Flint - hard lips crushed against his own. He turned his head and Flint’s hands boldly slipped under his shirt. Cold fingers pressed against his fevered skin, one hard nipple, then the other. Oliver wanted to tell him to get on his knees, but didn’t.
“Get on all fours,” he said instead.
Flint awkwardly pulled off the rest of his clothes and dropped to his hands and knees. He was panting, Oliver noticed, as he tugged on himself. Oliver’s own cock twitched in response.
It only took a moment to lower his pants and kneel on the old wooden floor. Oliver pressed himself against Flint’s crack, using his hands to spread the cheeks wider.
Flint groaned. “Put it in,” he demanded, one hand stroking himself feverishly.
It was tight. Flint grabbed his wand to cast a lubricating spell, but it didn’t make the fit any more forgiving. Oliver bit his lip as he slowly pressed himself inside. When he couldn’t see his length anymore, he grabbed a hold of Flint’s hips.
“I’m going to fuck your arse until it’s raw,” Oliver said, remembering the taste of Flint’s come. He made a small thrust and, in reply, Flint rasped in pain. Then he pulled himself out halfway and thrust in again.
Flint leaned forward to stabilise himself, and with Oliver’s next prod, lost hold of the ground. Oliver grimaced and looked down at his bared cock. Then, he grabbed the short brown hair and pulled it until Flint whimpered.
“You can’t stop touching yourself long enough to stay upright?” he demanded, shoving himself back in. The muscles in Flint’s arse squeezed him. “You’re a slag, is what you are.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” Flint growled, his head hung as he focused on his cock.
The fingers in Flint’s hair tightened, and Oliver gave a measured thrust with his hips. “I’ll fuck you hard as you like... if you beg for it.”
It took only a moment. For all his mettle, Flint was still young. He’d probably just gotten his first wet dream, the way he was going off. Oliver had already fucked three of his yearmates.
“Wood, please.”
“Louder for your friends outside,” Oliver insisted. His penis swelled impossibly.
Flint looked back and gave him a grimace of pain. “Move already!” he angrily called out. “Fuck me like I’m your woman. Slag, whatever.”
Oliver thrust hard, frenzied, gripping Flint’s reluctant arse with white knuckles. Then he pushed himself as deep in as he could, his balls weighty and tight. Marcus gasped at the violence of it, his back shuddering. There, Oliver shut his eyes as he came.
As he pulled out, he saw some of his come on the dirty floorboards. More dribbled from Flint’s arse, and there was a suctioned pop as it released him. Oliver glanced down at his own cock, still intact, and cast a strong cleaning charm.
“I liked it better when you were sucking me off,” Flint admitted as he sank onto the floor. He rolled onto his back, looking haggard, and breathed in large gulps of air.
Oliver tucked his wand away. “Got to give as good as you get,” he commented as he stood up and straightened his clothing.
A moment later Flint was still lying there, starkers and unmoving. By now he had closed his eyes.
Oliver knelt down and gently brushed two fingers over his lips. Then he slid them past the thin lips and large teeth, pushing them in and out. Flint’s eyes flicked open and he met Oliver’s gaze.
“Petrificus Totalus,” teased Oliver, and Flint’s eyes widened until he realised it was a joke. There was no laughter in his expression, but Oliver was unbothered by that. “You’re an alright Chaser, but a natural Beater, Flint.”
With a grunt, Flint grabbed Oliver’s jacket and dragged him down. “Again,” he said, his voice husky.