(no subject)
Title: Retrograde
Author: Redd
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the lot of them. I'm simply playing for my own amusement. Lyrics quoted at the top and bottom are from Bush's 'Out of This World'
Summary: 'It was about reading signals...'
Notes: Written for the contrelamontre Five Minutes Challenge. Written in under thirty minutes.
...And the barriers were all self made.
In the end, the war wasn't won in one large, glorious final battle. No one was even aware that it had ended, not with a bang but a whimper. Potter had brought down Voldemort in the town of Little Hangleton, alone, and no one had seen fit to inform the foot soldiers that it was over.
And standing in the Forbidden Forest, listening the rush of wind as killing curse after killing curse was sent through the trees, leaving the forest illuminated in a dreary shade of green, Marcus Flint really wanted the war to be over. Not, of course, that he had anything to look forward to after it was all done with, just a chance to rest finally. From school to quidditch to war, he hadn't exactly had a moments peace in six years.
Frankly, it was starting to wear on him, making his hearing duller, his eyes tired. That, he assumed, was the reason, the only reason, that Oliver Wood was able to get anywhere near him.
Granted, Wood wasn't subtle, and the snap of a fallen tree branch signaled his entrance into the clearing before he even got within hexing distance, but Marcus should have heard him long before that. He was slipping, and being careless would get him killed, or so he'd been taught since he signed up for this, taking that damn Mark like it actually meant something.
Of course, like everything else in his life, it all went out the window when he finally turned around, looked up, and met Wood's eyes.
There's a point in seven years of playing quidditch against someone where you're just able to tell certain things. Generally, it's body language. Keepers always lean in the direction of the hoop they're determined to guard, and every keeper has a favorite hoop. (Wood preferred the center one, and Marcus wondered a little at his uncanny ability to remember the most random things.)
Sometimes, though, it was something else. Something much more personal.
It was meeting his rival's eyes in the heat of the game, holding that gaze, because looking away equaled surrender, and neither one of them was about to do that. It was about shallow breathing, and flying close enough to feel the heat of Wood's body. It was about clenching hands around the quaffle, and trying to convince Wood that he was going for the opposite hoop. It was about winning and playing and beating Wood. It was especially about beating Wood.
It was about moments in the corridors in their shared seventh year when their eyes would lock, and it was like being on the pitch again, shallow breathing, clenched hands, and all. It was about those moments after games when glaring at each other resulted in fast, rough, hard kisses with one of their backs pressed up against the cold stone wall.
It was about not minding the rough stone in the corridor or the cold mud on the pitch or the nearly scalding water in the showers. It was about not caring about Gryffindor versus Slytherin, green versus red, evil versus good.
It was about revealing in the heat of Wood's body. It was about pressing kisses to hip bones in the middle of the changing room before the Ravenclaw games.
It was about that first kiss after their hundredth fight, when Marcus wasn't sure who punched first, only that he tasted blood in his mouth, and then he was kissing Wood, and the blood mingled with the taste of chocolate and pumpkin juice and something that was just undeniably Oliver.
It was about knowing your own weakness and stopping things before falling too much in love with someone who was supposed to be your enemy. It was about telling Wood that it was only about fucking up against the wall and in the showers and on the pitch. It was about ignoring all the times that actual conversations took place.
It was about reading signals and knowing when to kiss or kill. It was about knowing how and where to break someone.
Marcus knew Wood was going for his wand probably before Wood even knew it himself. That's what it was about.
"Fight back?" Wood said, the whisper barely carrying across the space between them, and Marcus knew he was going to ask that, knew that his Gryffindor nobility would allow Marcus the chance. Marcus's hands remained loose at his side, and Marcus just shook his head, knowing that even in the dim light Wood would see it.
Wood's wand never wavered, his gaze never dropped, and in the end, Marcus didn't even try to go for his wand.
That's so retrograde.
Author: Redd
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the lot of them. I'm simply playing for my own amusement. Lyrics quoted at the top and bottom are from Bush's 'Out of This World'
Summary: 'It was about reading signals...'
Notes: Written for the contrelamontre Five Minutes Challenge. Written in under thirty minutes.
...And the barriers were all self made.
In the end, the war wasn't won in one large, glorious final battle. No one was even aware that it had ended, not with a bang but a whimper. Potter had brought down Voldemort in the town of Little Hangleton, alone, and no one had seen fit to inform the foot soldiers that it was over.
And standing in the Forbidden Forest, listening the rush of wind as killing curse after killing curse was sent through the trees, leaving the forest illuminated in a dreary shade of green, Marcus Flint really wanted the war to be over. Not, of course, that he had anything to look forward to after it was all done with, just a chance to rest finally. From school to quidditch to war, he hadn't exactly had a moments peace in six years.
Frankly, it was starting to wear on him, making his hearing duller, his eyes tired. That, he assumed, was the reason, the only reason, that Oliver Wood was able to get anywhere near him.
Granted, Wood wasn't subtle, and the snap of a fallen tree branch signaled his entrance into the clearing before he even got within hexing distance, but Marcus should have heard him long before that. He was slipping, and being careless would get him killed, or so he'd been taught since he signed up for this, taking that damn Mark like it actually meant something.
Of course, like everything else in his life, it all went out the window when he finally turned around, looked up, and met Wood's eyes.
There's a point in seven years of playing quidditch against someone where you're just able to tell certain things. Generally, it's body language. Keepers always lean in the direction of the hoop they're determined to guard, and every keeper has a favorite hoop. (Wood preferred the center one, and Marcus wondered a little at his uncanny ability to remember the most random things.)
Sometimes, though, it was something else. Something much more personal.
It was meeting his rival's eyes in the heat of the game, holding that gaze, because looking away equaled surrender, and neither one of them was about to do that. It was about shallow breathing, and flying close enough to feel the heat of Wood's body. It was about clenching hands around the quaffle, and trying to convince Wood that he was going for the opposite hoop. It was about winning and playing and beating Wood. It was especially about beating Wood.
It was about moments in the corridors in their shared seventh year when their eyes would lock, and it was like being on the pitch again, shallow breathing, clenched hands, and all. It was about those moments after games when glaring at each other resulted in fast, rough, hard kisses with one of their backs pressed up against the cold stone wall.
It was about not minding the rough stone in the corridor or the cold mud on the pitch or the nearly scalding water in the showers. It was about not caring about Gryffindor versus Slytherin, green versus red, evil versus good.
It was about revealing in the heat of Wood's body. It was about pressing kisses to hip bones in the middle of the changing room before the Ravenclaw games.
It was about that first kiss after their hundredth fight, when Marcus wasn't sure who punched first, only that he tasted blood in his mouth, and then he was kissing Wood, and the blood mingled with the taste of chocolate and pumpkin juice and something that was just undeniably Oliver.
It was about knowing your own weakness and stopping things before falling too much in love with someone who was supposed to be your enemy. It was about telling Wood that it was only about fucking up against the wall and in the showers and on the pitch. It was about ignoring all the times that actual conversations took place.
It was about reading signals and knowing when to kiss or kill. It was about knowing how and where to break someone.
Marcus knew Wood was going for his wand probably before Wood even knew it himself. That's what it was about.
"Fight back?" Wood said, the whisper barely carrying across the space between them, and Marcus knew he was going to ask that, knew that his Gryffindor nobility would allow Marcus the chance. Marcus's hands remained loose at his side, and Marcus just shook his head, knowing that even in the dim light Wood would see it.
Wood's wand never wavered, his gaze never dropped, and in the end, Marcus didn't even try to go for his wand.
That's so retrograde.