Because Oliver!Muse is far too hyper...

Takes place after the Hufflepuff match in Prisoner of Azkaban. Based off this quote:

"Where is Wood?" said Harry, suddenly realizing he wasn't there.
"Still in the showers," said Fred. "We think he's trying to drown himself."
-- Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, American Edition, pg. 180.

Title: Drowning
Author: Redd
Rating: R, just to be safe (contains slash, fairly graphic, but not anywhere near NC-17)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Summary: Violence, blood, lust and rain. The finer things of life.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the lot of 'em. I'm just borrowing.



This shouldn't be that much of a shock. Gryffindor had lost before. He'd lost before. But never - never - with Potter playing. Potter'd never lost before, and a part of him knows that he should be more concerned with how Potter's handling this, should be more concerned with the fall Potter suffered.

But they lost to Hufflepuff, and despite him telling his team otherwise, even he'd underestimated them, and standing there in the rain staring up at the hoops, blinking the water out of his eyes, he blames himself.

"Brooding in the rain, Wood?" And he's proud of himself for not jumping when that voice comes purring out of the rain. He turns sharply, jaw set, just as Flint comes closer, school robes billowing out behind him, hair already soaked, and Oliver knows that Flint hadn't gone back inside after the game. Flint's lips curl up into a satisfied smirk as he chuckles, his breath fogging slightly in the cold air. "So very much a Gryffindor thing to do."

"Then what are you doing out here, Flint?" he spits out, thankful to have something - someone - to turn his anger on, and he unconsciously moves forward, fists balled at his sides. Flint doesn't blink, though, or step back. Rather, he shifts forward, still smirking.

"Laughing at you mostly," he says, stepping around Oliver, circling him, eyes never wavering, and Oliver has to fight the urge to shiver under that gaze.

"This is your fault," he mutters, turning back to look up at the hoops, doing his best to ignore Flint. Except Flint's always done his best to fuck up Oliver's plans, and Flint's mouth is suddenly very close to his ear.

"My seeker was injured," he says, the normal roughness of his voice very nearly purring. "I wasn't going to put a reserve up against Potter. I'm not that stupid."

It's Oliver's turn to smirk then, turning slightly to meet Flint's eyes, hissing back as he tries to ignore the clench in his stomach at the touch of Flint's breath on his cheek. He says, his voice never getting above a very soft whisper, "You still would have lost. Malfoy's no match for Potter."

Flint's eyes darken slightly, and there's a slight tremor that passes through Oliver because he's seen that look before, usually right before he takes both bludgers to the stomach. He can barely brace himself, the rain and the mud working against him, as Flint lashes out, fist connecting with Oliver's jaw, and the force causes him to dig his teeth into his lip, and he thinks that he might have blacked out briefly.

Oliver licks his lips out of habit to soothe the pain, tasting blood and rain, and he can't help but sneer as he steps forward, needing this release more than anything, channeling his anger at himself into pure rage at Flint. It's his turn to lash out, and he catches Flint in the stomach.

They're both moving then, and it's hard to tell who's doing the most damage, if only because the rain starts falling harder soaking robes and jumpers and uniforms. Maybe Oliver means to knock Flint to the ground, or maybe it was just a combination of not paying attention and the mud, which causes them both to trip. Somehow, though, Oliver gains the upper hand, punching hard and quick, bloodying Flint's lip as he presses him down into the mud.

Flint makes a sound low in his throat that could be a growl, and he shifts suddenly, throwing his weight up, sending Oliver off balance. Flint's hand is suddenly around Oliver's neck, pinning him down quite effectively, and the other's supposed to be at Oliver' side, but the sweater had slide up, and Flint's fingers hit bare skin, and they both stop suddenly, breath shallow and gazes locked on each other. The touch is warm, and Oliver finds himself shifting into it slightly, swallowing as the warmth spreads from those fingers to counter the cold mud at his back.

Oliver can't tear his eyes away from Flint's, and Flint doesn't takes his fingers off Wood's skin. Oliver has to swallow several times, trying to find his voice, trying to sound like he's not affected by the one light touch. That doesn't quite come off well, though, and his voice is low and hoarse as he whispers, "Get off me."

Flint blinks, the moment not breaking with that movement, and his head cocks slightly as he mutters, his tone matching Oliver's, "No."

Oliver tries to force him up and off then, tries shifting upwards, trying to gain leverage, but Flint's hand at his throat is just a little too sturdy and the mud a little too slippery, and Oliver tries a different tactic, shifting up with his hips. Like all plans, though, Flint can counter this, and his hips shift down against Oliver's, trying to keep him down and in place. And at that contact, they both stop, breathing ragged and still shallow.

And Oliver's eyes widen because Flint's hips are still pressed against his, and the pressure isn't as unpleasant as it should have been. It's nearly enough to make Oliver whimpers and arch up against him.

He doesn't though. He doesn't because he refuses to give Flint the satisfaction of affecting him, refuses to give in simply because he has the sudden urge, the sudden need to know what Flint tastes like.

Flint doesn't give him the option though, because before Oliver can argue or even think, his hips shift down, and Oliver's eye flicker shut, and a low moan manages to escape before his can stop himself. Flint's hand at his throat loosens and finally disappears altogether as he braces that arm by Oliver's head, and Flint's staring down at him, eyes dark and unreadable as he licks his lip.

Flint swallows slightly, then shifts down again, and Oliver can't stop himself this time as he whimpers softly, a needy, desperate sound. His hips roll up against Flint in response, and Flint's breath hitches as he half-moans, half-growls, pressing down hard against Oliver.

It's difficult to describe, Oliver knows, but he's craving the friction, needing it, and his hips are rocking almost unconsciously, and he swallows again, trying to find the words to either order Flint to stop or to beg for more. A part of him wonders if Flint's having the same issues because his eyes are still holding Oliver's.

He knows then before Flint even really moves, and he has enough presence of mind to say, "Don't." Though, really, he can't claim that there's any weight behind that because his hand is curled around Flint's thigh and he knows he should be pushing him back even as he pulls him forward.

Flint hesitates, and there's uncertainty flickering in his eyes, and Oliver wonders at that because it's an entirely new expression for Flint. Then Flint shifts against him, unconsciously but the pressure and friction are there, and hey break Oliver's hard held control and he lifts his head, pressing his lips against Flint's.

It's light and barely a touch, let alone a real kiss, but Flint makes a soft, strangled sound in his throat, and pushes forward, hips sliding along Oliver's, his own growing hardness pressing against Flint's. He can't help but whimper again, can't help but press himself up into that kiss, bringing one arm up and locking it around Flint's neck while the other, mud-stained hand comes up to tangle roughly in Flint's hair.

It's not the best, most earth-shattering kiss, but, gods, it's right and perfect at that moment and just what Oliver needs, because if h can't have violence to relieve the tension, then lust will do, and it's only fitting, only right that it's with Marcus Flint.

And he's pouring all of himself into that kiss, forcing rage and hate and more than three years of pent up sexual tension into one expression of intimacy, and it must be working because Flint's responding just the same, hand still lightly touching his side. Then those fingers move and Oliver thinks he's going to be lost for good as Flint maps the few scars from Quidditch and just growing up that Oliver has there.

His own hands clutch at Flint's robes and he wonders if it would be possible to tug his clothes up and off without breaking the kiss. The logical side of him argues that there is, that it's called buttons, but Oliver knows that that would require thinking, not feeling, and he's not equipped to handle that right then.

His blood mingles with Flint's, and Oliver can't enough of the taste, the slightly copper tang combined with rain and a little mud and something that's vaguely like the dungeons, vaguely like the pitch, vaguely like chocolate and purely Marcus. He thinks he'd like this to go on forever, that he could get used to this give and take, get used to the roughness, the feel of Flint in general.

As soon as he thinks that, it's over, and Flint's on his feet, backing away from Oliver, breathing hard, eyes a little wide and, maybe, if Oliver squints, a little frightened. And Oliver knows that this isn't going to end well, that Flint's about to say something to make this worse, something about Oliver being weak.

To Oliver's surprise, Flint doesn't. He just stands there blinking before backing away and spinning on his heels to hurry back to the castle, leaving Oliver slumped on the ground, breath coming in ragged pants. He watches Flint leave, then falls back into the cool mud, needing that to cool his skin, wanting it there to wipe away any lingering memory of Flint's hands, lips, hips, cock...any memory of Flint.

It doesn't work, and Oliver lays there, staring up at the rain, wondering if maybe he angles his head just so he could actually drown and not have to worry about losing to Hufflepuff or the prospect of sleeping with the enemy.

end