Halrloprillalar prillalar@gmail.com http://prillalar.com/ December 14, 2004 RATING: NC17. FANDOM/SPOILERS: Harry Potter. Books and movies. SUMMARY: Oliver/Marcus. Oliver keeps an eye on Marcus. WARNING: Issues of consent. DISTRIBUTION: Archive anywhere. Email forwarding allowed. DISCLAIMER: Rowling, not me. UGLY by Halrloprillalar - prillalar@gmail.com Marcus Flint is ugly. His mouth is wide and red, like a gash across his face. His lips are cracked from flying in the wind. His nose is flat. Maybe it was broken once and the healing charm was botched. His breathing is loud even when he's sitting still. Oliver wonders if he snores at night. Marcus's fingers are thick as carrots. He holds his wand tight in his fist, his spells are clumsy, his handwriting is a scrawl. Marcus had trouble with his exams last June. Now he's in Oliver's year. Oliver keeps an eye on Marcus. Has to. They are Quidditch captains, rivals, enemies. It's scouting. It's important. This is Oliver's first year as captain. Last year, Gryffindor played Slytherin and Marcus flew through the air like a stone, smashing into the Chasers, barreling into the Beaters. He slammed into Oliver and sent him wheeling away, clinging to his broom and gasping for breath, while Marcus scored. Oliver wished he were a Beater, so he could send a Bludger at Marcus's head. Marcus scored on Oliver six times. Oliver still thinks about it at night and his face burns in the darkness. He thinks about fighting Marcus, about punching Marcus, breaking his nose again, blacking his eye. Kicking him in the gut until Marcus is sick and shuddering. Today Oliver follows Marcus down a stair, down a corridor, around a corner. Oliver is quiet. Marcus is loud. His feet slap against the steps, he trails his wand along the banisters. Around the corner is a boy. Ravenclaw, by the looks of him, but Oliver doesn't know his name. Oliver hides behind a suit of armour, crouching down behind the massive shield. The boy is leaving but Marcus grabs him by the arm. "Please, no," the boy says, and Oliver wonders why he thinks that "please" will work on Marcus Flint. "It'll be yes in the end," Marcus says and his voice seems to crash against the walls, to make the hollow armour ring. "So it might as well be yes now." He pushes the boy to the floor, to his knees, but it's not until Marcus jerks open his trousers that Oliver knows what's going on. Oliver can't see very well, but he is sure that Marcus's cock is as ugly as the rest of him, thick and purple, heavy balls hanging behind, a brush of wiry hair twice as long as the hair on his head. It's only when Marcus takes a cigar out of his robes and lights it that Oliver realises he should do something. The Ravenclaw boy has his eyes screwed shut, his mouth opened wide, his fingers curled into fists. Maybe he's thinking about punching Marcus, maybe he wants to twist Marcus's balls, to bite his cock and make him bleed. Oliver can't seem to move. Marcus blows smoke in the boy's face. The whole corridor smells foul. The boy's head moves back and forth. Ash falls onto the floor. Marcus's lips pull back across his teeth. The boy gags and pulls away. He spits into a handkerchief. Marcus holds the cigar between his teeth and fastens his trousers. The boy scrubs his hand across his mouth and walks away, head down. "I'll have that essay," Marcus calls and the boy stops to drop a scroll of parchment on the floor. Marcus stretches, arms above his head, then picks it up. The boy is gone. Oliver's nails are clenched into his palms. "Enjoy the show, Wood?" Marcus says and his words squeeze Oliver's chest so that it's hard for him to breathe. Oliver stands up. His knees are stiff from squatting. He steps out into the corridor. Marcus is leaning against the wall. Marcus is smiling, a lazy, ugly smile. You can't do that, Oliver wants to say, but his mouth is dry and he's lost his wind. He steps closer. Maybe he'll hit Marcus, knock the cigar out of his sneering mouth. "What are you going to do?" Marcus asks. He purses his lips and lets the smoke out slowly. He's blowing smoke rings, Oliver thinks, but the smoke just coils away like a snake. Oliver sucks up enough saliva to wet his tongue. "I'll tell," he says and his voice breaks. Marcus laughs. Then he slams Oliver against the wall. "No you won't," he says. Oliver can feel the heat of the cigar near his cheek. He struggles, but Marcus is leaning against him, chest to chest, and Marcus is heavy. "You won't," Marcus says again. This is bad. Marcus is cruel, Marcus is strong, Marcus is bent. Oliver struggles again, tries to get his arm between them. "I don't think so," Marcus says, and moves his leg between Oliver's thighs. This is worse. Marcus is going to bring his knee up, he is going to crush Oliver's balls and leave him on the floor wishing he were dead. "Please, no," Oliver says. Marcus leans in. He's not hurting Oliver, not yet. His leg is pressing into Oliver's cock and now Oliver is getting hard. Now Oliver is wishing he were dead. It's just fear, Oliver tells himself, it's coincidence. It's a charm. It means nothing. "Open your mouth," Marcus says and Oliver does. Because he's charmed, because he's afraid. Marcus takes a drag on his cigar. Then he seals his lips over Oliver's and blows the smoke into Oliver's mouth. Oliver breathes in before he can stop himself. The smoke burns his throat, his lungs. He tries to cough and chokes. Marcus finally pulls his mouth away. Oliver is dizzy now, he's nauseated. Marcus steps away. "Come with me," he says. He turns and starts to walk away. "If you want to." Marcus is at the corner now. Oliver's legs walk. He follows Marcus. Has to. Marcus has his hand twisted deep in Oliver's gut, pulling him along by his entrails. It must be the charm. They go to the shed where the Quidditch equipment is kept. Marcus has a key, but he makes Oliver use his. Other people have a key to this door. Oliver tries not to think about that. He tries not to think about what Marcus will make him do, with his mouth, with his hands. "Here will do," Marcus says and twists Oliver's arm up behind his back. It hurts. There's a table full of Quaffles and Marcus sweeps them to the floor. He pushes Oliver over, face-down on the dusty wood. He yanks down Oliver's trousers. "Are you ready?" Marcus asks. "Yes," Oliver says and bites his lip. It hurts when Marcus pushes into him. Oliver's cock wilts, his balls tighten. He doesn't know if it's supposed to hurt. But his arm hurts more. Marcus is still holding it and there's a streak of pain every time Marcus moves in, a flash of relief when he pulls back. The table knocks against the wall and the Bludgers rattle in their cases, trying to get out, trying to smash into Oliver. There's a splash of paint on the table, Slytherin green, and Oliver stares at it and breathes through his mouth. Marcus's hips jerk and Oliver feels something pop inside his shoulder. It starts to throb. Marcus pulls out, pulls away, and Oliver sucks in air. There are tears in his eyes and he blinks them back. "Not bad," Marcus says and turns Oliver around. Oliver's trousers are around his ankles and his cock is limp. Marcus wraps his fist around it. "Your turn," he says. Oliver can't get it up, there's no way, only he does and Marcus jacks him until he comes. Marcus looks at Oliver the whole time, that same smile twisting his mouth, and Oliver can't look away. Marcus wipes his hand on Oliver's shirt. Then he leaves. "See you next week," he says. "Yes," Oliver says, but Marcus is already gone. There's something wrong with Oliver's arm. "How did this happen?" Madame Pomfrey asks. "Quidditch," Oliver says. He says the same thing every time. F I N I S Halrloprillalar prillalar@gmail.com http://prillalar.com/