Title: Good Game
Author: fangqueen
Characters/Pairings: Marcus/Oliver
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Slapping, Intercrural Sex
Other Warnings/Content: Quidditch, Masturbation, Fantasy, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Love/Hate, Pining, UST, Present Tense
Word Count: 1,427
Summary: He’d almost decked him the first time it had happened--and had they still been at school, and raging teens with often uncontrollable hormones, he wouldn’t have hesitated. They’ve both mellowed out over the years, aren’t as quick to pick a fight as soon as the other walks into a room, but there’s still that underlying tension. It prickles like gooseflesh across Marcus’ skin as he feels Wood’s hand connect with his arse: a hard slap that jolts him awake like a shot of espresso, like that first gust of wind across his face as he mounts his broom and kicks off from the ground.

---

"Good game, Flint."

He’d almost decked him the first time it had happened--and had they still been at school, and raging teens with often uncontrollable hormones, he wouldn’t have hesitated. They’ve both mellowed out over the years, aren’t as quick to pick a fight as soon as the other walks into a room, but there’s still that underlying tension. It prickles like gooseflesh across Marcus’ skin as he feels Wood’s hand connect with his arse: a hard slap that jolts him awake like a shot of espresso, like that first gust of wind across his face as he mounts his broom and kicks off from the ground.

Apparently, it’s a common practise in other sports (mainly Muggle ones), and it started as a joke amongst the boys. The ladies laugh and tease them for it, when they see them at it on their way back to their locker room. Another player explained it to Marcus once, but he still doesn’t really get it. Why Wood got into it, he also can't say, just that he knows the prat makes his rounds after every match they win nowadays. But there’s something special about the way he does it with Marcus. That glint in his eye when he’s caught in the act. Like it’s just another challenge--a curiosity, almost, to see that he’ll say. He doesn’t typically provide him with much more than an irritated grunt.

Marcus knows that he should’ve guessed something like this would happen, when he’d agreed to Puddlemere’s offer. That they’d be thrust back into that same rivalry, that needling way they’ve always had with each other, even if they do play on the same side now. Oliver Sodding Wood, thinking he has something on him, just because he can make him jump from something like a genial, after-game spank. It’s childish, ridiculous. And Marcus wants it to piss him off.

It doesn’t stop the memory from resurfacing later. Stripped of his gear, hidden behind a hastily shut shower curtain, he allows his mind--and his hand--to wander. These days, he’s already rock hard before he even gets there, and it’s a wonder how he’s managed to hide it under his towel all this time. With soothing water beating down his back, and the steam rising steadily around him, making him feel warm and drowsy, he rolls back the foreskin and runs his thumb through the moisture that’s gathered around the head.

Doesn’t everyone have a good wank after a match? He likes to tell himself that they do. Likes to think that he isn’t as perverted as he feels: stroking himself in his tiny, barely-secluded stall while his teammates chatter around him.

He pistons his hips, thrusting into the circle created by his fingers. He wants to finish up fast, not wishing to have the others wonder what always takes him so long, but it’s difficult. Every bark of a laugh, every passing conversation about friends, spouses, kids, training schedules: it all pulls him out of the moment, forces him to really think about what he’s doing. But then, like a blessing, he’ll eventually hear that one voice again--usually on the way into the stall right next to his, although who’s to say why he always picks it--and then he’s biting back a groan as his free hand slips behind and down to cup his arse.

He daren’t do it himself, lest the others were to overhear and wonder just what might be going on in his stall; but in his imagination, Wood is spanking him like he’s vowed to make it his life’s work. Because that’s how the Scotsman does everything in his life: as if he was born to, and he’d rather die than fail. Marcus knows the mere thought of each slap of skin on skin could push him dangerously close to the edge as it is, but it’s that voice, always like a ghostly presence at the back of his mind, that brings him off in the most spectacular of ways.

In his mind, they’re all teeth and tongues and hoarsely-whispered words. "You gonna be good for me?" Wood would say, punctuating the question with a particularly rough smack. He would lave at the juncture between Marcus’ throat and collarbone before biting down, earning yet another half-smothered moan from the stockier man. Because, again, they wouldn’t want the others to overhear. Because Wood would have "accidentally" entered the wrong stall, caught Marcus in the act, and decided to join in.

The onslaught on his rear only lets up once the skin is burning red--from the water, or the treatment, neither knows, and neither cares. Wood presses forward and shamelessly rubs himself against the abused flesh. He moans in his ear about that excellent pass the chaser had caught earlier--how horny it had made him to watch him play so well, and to see how his arse filled out their new uniforms so nicely. Marcus lets him take care of the talking; he’s always been better at it, anyway. He wants to tell Wood about how revved up he’d gotten just seeing him first thing that morning, mussy-haired, eyelids still heavy with sleep, and that he’d been near insatiable ever since. But he knows it would never come out quite right. Still, Wood knows, somehow. "You’ve been thinking about this all day, too, haven’t you?" he’d ask, and Marcus would merely groan, because it’s true.

They don’t bother with prep. Wood simply bends his knees a little, coaxing Marcus to spread his legs, and thrusts his cock between his thighs. Another time, perhaps, they’ll play with each other more, go further, but that isn’t what it’s about right now. While one begins a steady rhythm, the other is forced to brace himself with a hand against the wall. In the opposite, he continues to stroke. With every pass, the head of Wood’s cock jostles the back of his balls, bringing him closer and closer to orgasm along with every practised flick of his wrist.

He almost thinks he can actually hear it: Wood's ragged moan as Marcus chokes on a cry, his cock pulsing in his hand. But when all’s said and done, he’s always left watching his mess get washed down the drain--and wishing that the tender kiss to his shoulder and breathless whisper of "Fuck, that was good," weren’t just in his head…

***

He hates him, he really does. He hated him in school when they'd get into shouting matches on the pitch, in class, in the halls, and he'd get so close that Marcus could smell the soap he used and stop thinking altogether. He hates him now with that casual smirk after he smacks him on the arse, almost like he knows that Marcus is going to make a beeline straight for his usual stall, because he isn't even capable of composing himself enough to make it home first. Almost like an invitation. But that's hoping for too much, because he hates him, they hate each other, and after all this time, Marcus is going to give him an invitation right back and see what happens.

They'd done alright against the Kestrals today: 210 to 180, Puddlemere. They'd been halfway behind for awhile, and Marcus had been sure they weren't going to make it, till they'd caught the snitch and breached that substantial lead. His head hadn't been in it. Seemed Wood's hadn't, either. Marcus had caught him a few times, looking distracted when he should've been watching the quaffle zooming towards one of his posts.

But they did win, after all. So he's going to try it, before Wood gets the chance. Because today he needs it, needs to work out his frustration over how shittily he played. Wood's already at his locker, stripping off his jersey and tossing it onto the growing pile on the bench behind him, when Marcus comes in. His fingers flex against his palm. He isn’t chicken, he just...isn’t one to touch people uninvited like this.

He swallows that last bit of uncertainty and lets his arm swing forward, till his open hand contacts that taut backside, fingertips curling and cupping just under one cheek for a brief second. Wood nearly jumps clear off the ground before whipping around in search of the culprit. For someone so notorious for doing such things himself, he appears awful surprised to be on the receiving end for once. Then he sees Marcus, and something wholly undefinable passes behind his eyes. Whatever it is, it brings a rare grin to Marcus' lips.

"Good game, Wood."