Leigh!fic | For Love of the Game (1/1) | Marcus Flint/Katie Bell
Title: For Love of the Game (1/1)
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Katie Bell
Rating: R
Summary: Two highly competitive Quidditch captains go head-to-head.
Word Count: 930
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Author’s Notes: This was written as a gift for greyeyesbluetoo as part of the 2015 Humpathon at hp_Humpdrabbles.
Marcus Flint was in rare form by the time he stormed through his front door. Ballycastle, the top team in the league, his team, had lost. But no, they hadn't just lost -- they'd been fully and thoroughly trounced by a score of seven hundred and twenty to two hundred. By bloody Puddlemere. It was absolutely humiliating. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the league's second-best team, Appleby, had annihilated Portree, and the Bats had tumbled from atop the league to third place.
The press conference had been brutal. It was his responsibility as captain to answer to the media, to try and explain what had gone wrong. He'd had no words, and that wasn't an exaggeration. He'd spent most of the twenty minutes staring at the back wall, answering questions with grunts and growls -- occasionally with a glare.
The team's media director had hustled him away from the podium after a particularly vexing reporter from Quidditch Today had asked if his lack of focus had anything to do with his love life. He'd seen Marcus's hand moving toward his wand. The last thing the man wanted to do was mop up bloody. That was above his pay grade.
It was cold, raining, and all he wanted to do was go to bed and pretend the day had never happened.
He was in such a snit that he missed the signs. If he'd been more perceptive, he would have noticed that the corridor lights were on, or the pair of ankle boots by the door. He wouldn't have missed all the signs that he was not alone in his flat.
As such, he was not in the mood for the sight that greeted him in his bedroom.
"Took you long enough," a feminine voice, its tone ripe with amusement, said when he threw open the bedroom door. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd drowned yourself."
Marcus growled and pointed at the figure on the bed. "You," he snarled, jerking his thumb at the door, "out."
Unperturbed, Katie's lips curled in a coy smile. "Is that any way to greet your girlfriend after a long day's work?" Lying on her side, she propped herself up on an elbow to watch him shed his wet shirt. "Shall we try that again? Hello, darling. How was your day?"
"Bloody awful, and you're the reason." He wanted to punch something; not her, of course, he wasn't that much of a brute, but his blood was still boiling. And while normally he quite enjoyed having Katie, warm and willing, in his bed, it was less appealing seeing the captain for Puddlemere United sprawled across his pillow-top mattress.
His girlfriend -- though he was reconsidering that title, if only for the night -- just smiled. "I think the better squad won today, Marcus. We can always have a one-on-one rematch tonight, if you'd like. To see if you can even the score."
Marcus snorted. "Not likely."
At that, Katie moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and for the first time, he actually noticed what she was wearing. Or, more accurately, what she wasn't. She'd filched one of his old training jumpers from his chest of drawers... and as far as he could see, that was all she was wearing. It hung off one shoulder, letting his gaze travel the length of her neck and shoulder, and the hem brushed her bare thighs.
Despite the storm hanging about his head, he felt the blood pool in his groin. Damn Katie Bell and her ability to make him hard with a single look.
"That's not the way this works, Marcus." She reached for him and looped her fingers though his belt. Tugging him to her, she pulled him between her thighs. "Do you remember what you did to me the night we lost to Wigtown?" Her fingers tugged his belt open and started on his fly. "How you made me scream after we barely dropped that match with Holyhead?"
He remembered every detail, in exquisite clarity. The way her body was already tense, but how she melted at his touch. How bloody good she tasted when he buried his face between her thighs. How sweet his name sounded when he made her climax; pushing her body over the edge time and time again, never ceasing his assault on her senses. The way she ripped her nails down his back when he took her.
She slipped her hand inside his trousers, and Marcus groaned when her fingers circled his erection. Every argument he had against letting her do exactly this fled from his mind when she pushed his trousers off his hips with her free hand. She ran her tongue over the head. His hips jerked in reaction, searching instinctively for more of that wet heat.
Katie rolled her eyes up to meet his and smiled. "Let me return the favor. It's the least I can do."
Marcus fisted his hand in her hair, holding her brown locks tight. "You'll do more than that, Katie," he rasped. "You scored thirty-one goals today." His grip tightened, and he smiled wryly when she whimpered. "It'll take a lot to make me forget that."
He saw her breathing quicken, her chest rising and falling as a flush rose to her cheeks. He knew if he put his hand between her legs, he'd find her wet and ready for him. Still, his girl did not falter. Her smile took on a wicked tint.
"Cancel your morning plans, darling. It's going to be a long night."
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Katie Bell
Rating: R
Summary: Two highly competitive Quidditch captains go head-to-head.
Word Count: 930
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Author’s Notes: This was written as a gift for greyeyesbluetoo as part of the 2015 Humpathon at hp_Humpdrabbles.
Marcus Flint was in rare form by the time he stormed through his front door. Ballycastle, the top team in the league, his team, had lost. But no, they hadn't just lost -- they'd been fully and thoroughly trounced by a score of seven hundred and twenty to two hundred. By bloody Puddlemere. It was absolutely humiliating. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the league's second-best team, Appleby, had annihilated Portree, and the Bats had tumbled from atop the league to third place.
The press conference had been brutal. It was his responsibility as captain to answer to the media, to try and explain what had gone wrong. He'd had no words, and that wasn't an exaggeration. He'd spent most of the twenty minutes staring at the back wall, answering questions with grunts and growls -- occasionally with a glare.
The team's media director had hustled him away from the podium after a particularly vexing reporter from Quidditch Today had asked if his lack of focus had anything to do with his love life. He'd seen Marcus's hand moving toward his wand. The last thing the man wanted to do was mop up bloody. That was above his pay grade.
It was cold, raining, and all he wanted to do was go to bed and pretend the day had never happened.
He was in such a snit that he missed the signs. If he'd been more perceptive, he would have noticed that the corridor lights were on, or the pair of ankle boots by the door. He wouldn't have missed all the signs that he was not alone in his flat.
As such, he was not in the mood for the sight that greeted him in his bedroom.
"Took you long enough," a feminine voice, its tone ripe with amusement, said when he threw open the bedroom door. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd drowned yourself."
Marcus growled and pointed at the figure on the bed. "You," he snarled, jerking his thumb at the door, "out."
Unperturbed, Katie's lips curled in a coy smile. "Is that any way to greet your girlfriend after a long day's work?" Lying on her side, she propped herself up on an elbow to watch him shed his wet shirt. "Shall we try that again? Hello, darling. How was your day?"
"Bloody awful, and you're the reason." He wanted to punch something; not her, of course, he wasn't that much of a brute, but his blood was still boiling. And while normally he quite enjoyed having Katie, warm and willing, in his bed, it was less appealing seeing the captain for Puddlemere United sprawled across his pillow-top mattress.
His girlfriend -- though he was reconsidering that title, if only for the night -- just smiled. "I think the better squad won today, Marcus. We can always have a one-on-one rematch tonight, if you'd like. To see if you can even the score."
Marcus snorted. "Not likely."
At that, Katie moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and for the first time, he actually noticed what she was wearing. Or, more accurately, what she wasn't. She'd filched one of his old training jumpers from his chest of drawers... and as far as he could see, that was all she was wearing. It hung off one shoulder, letting his gaze travel the length of her neck and shoulder, and the hem brushed her bare thighs.
Despite the storm hanging about his head, he felt the blood pool in his groin. Damn Katie Bell and her ability to make him hard with a single look.
"That's not the way this works, Marcus." She reached for him and looped her fingers though his belt. Tugging him to her, she pulled him between her thighs. "Do you remember what you did to me the night we lost to Wigtown?" Her fingers tugged his belt open and started on his fly. "How you made me scream after we barely dropped that match with Holyhead?"
He remembered every detail, in exquisite clarity. The way her body was already tense, but how she melted at his touch. How bloody good she tasted when he buried his face between her thighs. How sweet his name sounded when he made her climax; pushing her body over the edge time and time again, never ceasing his assault on her senses. The way she ripped her nails down his back when he took her.
She slipped her hand inside his trousers, and Marcus groaned when her fingers circled his erection. Every argument he had against letting her do exactly this fled from his mind when she pushed his trousers off his hips with her free hand. She ran her tongue over the head. His hips jerked in reaction, searching instinctively for more of that wet heat.
Katie rolled her eyes up to meet his and smiled. "Let me return the favor. It's the least I can do."
Marcus fisted his hand in her hair, holding her brown locks tight. "You'll do more than that, Katie," he rasped. "You scored thirty-one goals today." His grip tightened, and he smiled wryly when she whimpered. "It'll take a lot to make me forget that."
He saw her breathing quicken, her chest rising and falling as a flush rose to her cheeks. He knew if he put his hand between her legs, he'd find her wet and ready for him. Still, his girl did not falter. Her smile took on a wicked tint.
"Cancel your morning plans, darling. It's going to be a long night."