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“You know what?” Oliver prompts out of the blue, contemplating his pint before raising it to his lips. “I should get a boyfriend.”
“Why?” Angelina asks, grimacing. She’s swaying a little—or maybe the pub is—because Oliver’s a little dizzy, too. He’s celebrating the end of the previous season, so he reasons that he’s allowed to drink as much as he wants.
“You know,” Oliver states, as if Angelina’s supposed to know what goes on in his head. “A boyfriend to sleep with during off-season and to give me cuddles during Christmas, but not while the league is on! Can’t have him distracting me from quidditch.”
“That,” Angelina says, chewing the thought slowly, “doesn't really make sense. Sounds more like a shag-buddy.”
“Well,” Oliver sighs and blows a little air into his pint. “I’m twenty-five and I haven’t shagged anyone for a year. A year, Angelina!”
“Well alright, no need to get prissy,” Angelina answers, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. “Have someone in mind, then?”
At that, Oliver sets down his now-empty glass, scanning the room for prospects. He’s not Angelina, a beautiful dark-skinned woman who seems to make every head turn wherever they go. He’s just Oliver—keeper for Puddlemere United. He knows he’s not particularly gorgeous, but he’s fit enough, a bit plain in the face, but he supposes he can’t have it all.
It’s a discouraging attempt right from the start; the blonde man in the corner just within his grasp, is far too short and is also wearing a Chudley Cannons jersey. Not a chance. His friend, who wanders over by the bar, is much too attention-seeking, laughing obnoxiously and making eyes at anyone within his reach.
The one leaning against the opposite wall is promising for a second, but he’s not quite beefy enough, his arms couldn’t hold Oliver’s weight at all.
The man who’s glancing suspiciously around the room looks too much like a criminal or murderer. Oliver shudders.
One man shifts, though, and his motion catches Oliver’s eyes. He looks like he's here after Quidditch, too, which is promising because it means that he either plays professionally or for fun, and that's never a bad thing. He’s wearing a dark grey and white quidditch robe and Oliver feels like he should remember those colours, but he’s a little too drunk to recall.
From where he sits he can see his broad shoulders and sculpted back. He’s got black, short-cropped hair. He's muscular and tall, it seems. He’s tanned too, judging by the colour of neck.
Oliver considers it, watching him order. He does it smoothly, a Galleon tucked between his long fingers, flashing it just long enough for the bartender to see and take his order. He likes his beer to resemble his hair, Oliver notes; a smooth, dark, rich stout.
He still can’t quite see his face.
But by now, he’s willing to risk it.
“Be right back,” he tells Angelina.
“Sure you will,” Angelina replies sarcastically, rolling her eyes excessively. There’s already three men waiting to pounce as Oliver stands up—Oliver doesn’t worry. Angelina can fend for herself.
Oliver runs a hand through his hair nervously and straightens his back. Then he taps the tall, dark and hopefully handsome man on his very firm shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he begins politely, and the man turns.
“Oh,” Oliver says, blinking.
“Oh, indeed,” Marcus Flint agrees—no he practically purrs it, with a very, very cocky smirk on his face and Oliver regrets every moment of his life that has led to this horrible moment.
“Sorry,” he says bluntly, “I just thought—”
“Thought I was someone else, Wood?” He’s got a mischievous look on his face and the way his sharp, grey eyes gives Oliver a once-over makes him feel sort of squirmy.
“Right,” he says, a bit clipped, though it wasn’t meant to sound that way. It’s been seven years since Hogwarts—he’s not one to keep up grudges. Is he?
“Right,” Flint repeats. “Did you want something?” And it looks like he can barely hold back his laughter and Oliver feels himself grow redder with every second.
No, he wants to say.
No, he should say.
“I wanted—” he starts, but he’s not sure how to finish.
“Sit down, Wood.” Flint interrupts.
Flint flags the bartender down with a wave of his large hand, like that’s supposed to get his attention and Oliver wants to scoff at the other man’s arrogance, but the bartender nods and suddenly there’s a pint of lager sliding down the bar top, and then Marcus sodding Flint hands Oliver the glass.
His stomach does a strange flip-flop.
“Fine,” he grits out, still feeling a little faint. Best sit down then, his mind supplies.
Oliver sits down next to the brute, careful not to touch him in any way which proves difficult at the busy counter. Oliver fidgets, squirms in his seat, wondering what they could possibly have to say to one another. He’s not even sure why he sat down in the first place.
Flint sips his stout.
Oliver watches his mouth, briefly.
Then he watches the way Flint’s fingers curl around his glass.
His nails are bitten short—not manicured or nice at all, like Oliver would have expected. The fingers themselves are long and thick and Oliver feels himself growing hotter at the thought of what else might have those proportions. He's wearing a very expensive watch, but it's tasteful. Not too flashy. Not at all what he expected.
Flint eyes the liquid in his glass. “What are you here for?” he asks gruffly, still looking into his own pint. He takes a sip and Oliver gets to watch as his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and there must be something very wrong with this pub, because it feels like the temperature’s gone at least ten degrees up.
“Sex,” he says without thinking and then there’s a moment of silence before he realises what he’s just said to his former rival. He shakes his head violently. “No, I mean—“
Flint’s gaze cuts sideways and his eyes are bigger than before, the smirk long gone from his face. Instead his mouth is hanging open and Oliver gets a glimpse of his horrible teeth.
“And you came to—” Flint says, his voice slightly strained.
“Not with you,” he assures him bluntly, pointedly raising his glass. “We’re just having a drink. No funny business.”
Flint nods and Oliver lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He’s practically mortified but tries to save it by returning the question. “And you?”
They both take a sip at the same time.
Flint tosses his head towards him and there’s that annoying smirk again. “Same reason, Wood.”
He blinks, but tries not to betray his surprise at the honest answer.
“So what’s your type then?” Flint asks neutrally, his gaze somewhere else and Oliver promptly chokes, sputtering on a too-large swallow.
“What?” he manages, coughing in his fist.
“Blokes?” Flint guesses, his gaze flicking over Oliver. “Yeah, I figured. Suppose you like them all Gryffindor-y and preppy and—“ he trails off, scrunching his nose up in disgust and Oliver notices how it’s now very obvious that it’s been broken a few times. It’s sort of lopsided… and rather cute.
“Quite the opposite,” Oliver admits, clenching his pint a little tighter with his hand and he can feel his cheek heating up now.
“Oh, Wood,” Flint drawls, “You can’t possibly mean me.” And there’s a look in his eyes that Oliver recognises from the pitch; determined, challenging and playful.
Oliver straightens himself on the chair. “No,” he lies, with confidence.
Flint chuckles and leans towards him.
“Liar,” he says, his grey eyes focused on Oliver’s own muddy ones and there’s that small smile on his lips again.
Oliver blinks.
“From where I was sitting,” Flint continues, his hand landing on Oliver’s thigh. His fingers trace up the inside of his thigh and pauses at the midpoint of his inner thigh. “It looked like you were eying me up.” Oliver struggles to swallow his own spit and lets Flint move his large hand further, his fingers now brushing a part of his thigh that’s making him feel things. “I don’t mind, Wood,” he adds, raising his glass to his lips with his free hand, “but don’t come here lying about it.”
He gives Oliver’s (now trembling) thigh a smack, before he withdraws his hand and Oliver exhales sharply.
“But,” he says, “seeing as I've reached the bottom of my glass—” He drains it, pointedly setting it down on the table. “I think I’ll head home.”
Oliver stares at him.
And stares.
“Are you serious?” He demands.
Flint rises to his feet.
“What, you want to come?” He asks and his thick eyebrows are raised like it’s a surprise to him, but Oliver sees the amusement in his eyes.
He bites his lip, gnawing on it thoughtfully.
“No,” he says, even though he doesn’t mean it. “This,” he gestures between them, “would be a disaster anyway.”
“Yeah,” Flint agrees with a nod, but he’s not moving. Stormy eyes still twinkling with amusement. “Would probably end up bashing each other’s faces in.”
“Glad we’re on the same page,” Oliver says coolly, and then Flint nods again, already looking over his shoulder and preparing to leave.
“But,” Oliver attempts, his throat suddenly quite dry. “If you were to, um, finish what you started, I guess I’m just curious—“ He doesn’t even know what he’s saying.
“Let’s go outside.” Flint says and turns. Oliver is up in an instant, almost crashing into the larger man’s back in his hurry to follow.
“I—um,” he attempts helplessly, as they stand in the apparition alley next to the pub. Everything’s spinning a little and Flint glances down at him—was he always so bloody tall? Oliver scrunches his face in confusion—why did he go with him again?
“Close your eyes,” Flint says.
“Wh-”
“Close them,” he murmurs and places his hands on Oliver’s hips, aligning them with his own. Oliver, not really sure why, obeys.
“Relax,” Flint says and draws his chin up, his lips meeting Oliver’s in a very soft kiss. It’s sort of chaste and delicate, but then Flint tilts his head and there’s tongue.
Oliver gasps, his eyes fluttering open.
Flint’s eyes are shut now.
He deepens the kiss, pulling Flint closer towards him, and he briefly registers the sound of someone whistling from the pub’s side door. Flint yanks his shirt up, obviously not caring about the onlookers, sliding his warm, large palms against his sides and promptly fits himself between Oliver’s legs.
The door shuts again, the echo of it fading in the opposite direction, and only then does Flint lean away.
Oliver, lamenting the loss of him, tangles his fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Flint matches the pressure with his fingertips, digging them into his waist.
“Don’t stop,” Oliver whispers.
He looks Oliver in the eyes then and Oliver gets to see Flint’s pupils dilate in a sort of slow-motion manner, in the bright light from the moon, before he promptly apparates them away.
“Merlin, Wood, your arse . Could fuck you like this all night, all fucking night, Wood, fuck, you’re so good. You're so good. You’re so fucking hot, Wood. So fucking sexy. You feel so good, so fucking tight, fuck. Do you like that, Wood? Yeah? Like it when I fuck you like this? You want it harder? Deeper? Tell me— I wanna watch you, wanna see your face when I make you come. You’re so fucking hot, Oliver, fuck— come on, come for me, sweetheart—”
Oliver comes so hard he can't see.
“Fuck,” he whispers, shuddering hard as his cock spurts on both their stomachs, and Flint pauses his thrusting, brushing Oliver’s sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead and then he stares intently at his face.
“You're fucking beautiful when you come,” Flint says without hesitation, and for some reason, Oliver believes him.
It’s not until several hours later when he’s laying on his side, his body tired from fucking in every position imaginable, Flint’s front plastered to his sweaty back with a heavy arm around him, that he realises Flint called him beautiful.
Oliver isn’t sure what to make of their passionate night together, so he decides to make it nothing, although the lingering feelings are still there, somewhere, deep in his mind.
Three days go by.
Then Flint comes through his Floo, looking very large and imposing in his quaint living room.
“Are we still doing this?” he asks bluntly, and Oliver frowns.
“That was just—”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But do you want to do it again?”
He thinks about it.
It’s not really necessary for him to think that long, but he won’t give Flint the satisfaction of submitting so easily.
“Maybe if you ask nicely,” he huffs, and Flint steps towards him with cat-like stealth, backing him against his lumpy sofa and throwing an arm around him just before he falls back onto it, lowering him carefully on the sofa.
“Alright,” Flint says, his brows narrowed in concentration as he lowers himself to his knees, his hands tracing Oliver’s thighs.
“Please,” he says, pulling Oliver’s joggers down to his calves in a swift motion. For a man who’s probably never said please in his life, it doesn’t sound like he’s begging at all. It sounds sexy.
“Will you,” murmured into the curve of his hip, “let me,” his hot breath against the cotton of Oliver’s boxers, “fuck you,” Oliver wants to sob, but then Flint’s tongue darts against his cock, brushing it through the fabric, and he practically howls, “please?”
“You said please twice,” he informs him, inhaling sharply as Flint pulls out his cock and gives it a long, broad lick from root to tip.
“’M being polite,” he murmurs to the slit of Oliver’s cock, before swallowing his cock in one go, and Oliver finds himself murmuring something about yes, indeed, letting the larger man push him all the way back into the sofa cushions.
He’s never met a man who enjoys fellatio as much as Flint does. He seems to genuinely like the effect it has on Oliver, too, not just to perform it. He does it with an almost barbaric edge; as if the taste of Oliver isn’t enough; as if Oliver needs to be a shaking, sobbing mess before he’s satisfied.
Oliver also didn’t realise there were so many ways to have oral sex until he met him.
Flint sucks his cock while Oliver lays back on the kitchen table, the great brute kneeling at the edge of it with Oliver’ legs over his shoulders. Flint slides underneath him in bed and leaves him helplessly sitting on his face as a wicked tongue darts in and out of his hole in teasing thrusts. He practically swallows Oliver’s cock in the shower, on his knees while Oliver’s back presses against the too-cold tiles. Flint eats him out for two hours from behind on all fours in his stupidly large bed, rough fingers digging into Oliver’s thighs, leaving blue and purple bruises that last for days. He ruins him, his legs shaking from the smallest motions of his wicked tongue, and Oliver wonders if Flint knows what he does to him.
“Did you feel that?” He asks breathily after he comes untouched, with Flint’s tongue and two fingers in his arse, his knees pushed all the way to his chest, his arse sore as sensations cascade in little after-shocks and his fingers tighten in the soft strands of his black hair. “Don’t think anyone’s made me come like that before.”
Flint gives him a look like he said something that hit him too deeply.
“Oliver,” he says, more a shudder than a sound, and then Oliver no longer wonders.
Flint is cooking one morning. Oliver can hear pots being stirred and cupboards opening and closing. It smells heavenly.
He doesn’t know if he’s meant to stay at first. Flint might be expecting guests, after all. It might be one of those posh pureblood brunches. The kind that Oliver isn’t fancy enough for. The kind where the Malfoys, Parkinsons and Notts come around and they discuss how much money they’d spent buying themselves out of Azkaban.
He rolls out of bed. He tries to pull on his clothes as quietly as he can. Imagine the horror of some old pureblood geezer finding him naked in Flint’s bed. That would surely earn him a hex or two.
He trods down the hallway, careful not to make a sound, too afraid of it echoing in the large rooms. Flint’s flat is nearly triple the size of his own and it’s enough to put a scowl on his face, but then he remembers that Flint also has a manor, so him staying in a flat instead makes him… oddly mundane. Normal, even.
“Oi,” Flint’s head pops out of the kitchen door, “Where are you off to?”
“Er, home,” Oliver replies and just for the sake of it, he gives him a sheepish grin as well. “Don’t want to disturb your guests and all.”
Flint looks at him like he’s off his rocker. “Not expecting any guests. I thought you might like some breakfast though.”
“Oh,” Oliver says intelligently.
There’s a stupid event at Wimbourne Wasps’ pitch. He’s not sure why it’s the Wasps that are hosting, but he’s glad it’s not Puddlemere. It’s some faff about saying no to potions and Oliver didn’t really want to go, but there he is, decked out in his kit with the rest of his teammates.
“This is ridiculous,” Oliver grumbles to himself, grabbing one of the neatly cut sandwiches from a nearby tray. He practically shoves the whole thing in at once, angrily chewing on it, putting all his frustration into his jaw muscles.
This isn’t what quidditch is about.
“Part of the job, Wood,” a familiar voice says behind him, like the person could hear his thoughts.
He turns around and it’s Flint, standing there in the same uniform that Oliver’s hands have been on, been under. He’s doing the same as Oliver it seems, hovering by the tables, hiding from reporters and ministry buffoons.
His steel eyes are focusing on something else though. Oliver follows his line of sight and sees Puddlemere getting ready for photos for Witch Weekly and all the other rag magazines.
He wants to leave. Preferably before they spot him and ask him to comment on the new length of standard issue robes or something silly like that.
“Wood, get your arse over here!” Dominic Moran yells at him and Oliver considers briefly if he should ask Flint to apparate him away.
Instead, the larger man gives him a gentle push on the back. “Go on then, we’ve all had to do it.”
Oliver mutters something incoherent and angrily stalks towards the photographer.
When they’re done with the photos for the Daily Prophet, Oliver stands among his teammates, slightly off put by the prodding and probing by the stylist. His hair doesn’t need styling, thank you very much.
Peter Birch, one of their beaters, throws a large arm around his shoulders and laughs. “Don’t look so bloody sad, Wood. There’s free food and drinks!”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “I’ve got food and drinks at home.”
“That you inviting me over?” Birch raises a brow and throws him a charming smile. His arm stays put, loose around his shoulders.
“Er, no,” Oliver replies, confused by Birch’s bluntness. He’s ruggedly handsome, sure, but they’re on the same team. He would never allow himself to put his position in danger, especially not for a beater of all things. Birch’s a bit old, anyway.
“He’s got plans, Birch.” A snide voice says and Oliver doesn’t need to turn around, because he knows it’s Flint.
Birch lets go of him and looks between the two of them, the confusion evident on his face. “Oh, I see.” And then he slaps Oliver on the back and laughs before he leaves. Flint just smirks at him, his eyes stormy and dark.
Oliver isn’t really sure what’s going on.
“Come on, Wood,” Flint says and gestures with his head. Oliver stumbles a bit in his haste to follow.
It’s not until they’re off the pitch, at the apparition point, he notices Flint’s got one of the fancy champagne bottles under his arm.
“Where’d you get that?” OIiver asks.
“I nicked it,” Flint remarks casually, shrugging, before he pulls Oliver close to his chest with one arm and apparates them away.
Sneaky bastard.
“Here,” Flint says, tossing him a faded green jumper.
Oliver makes a face as he catches it.
“Really?” He prompts skeptically, holding it up with a grimace of something that he’s pretty sure Flint can tell is disgust. "It’s got the Slytherin emblem on it!"
“Or,” Flint suggests, throwing himself lazily on the bed, “it’s just a green jumper with a snake on it.”
Oliver considers that for a moment.
“It’s too big,” he grumbles in return.
“You don’t have to wear it,” Flint says, shrugging, looking so very domestic in his ridiculously expensive bed, waiting for Oliver to join him.
Flint’s sleeping in next to nothing as always, slipping under his covers in his boxers and nothing else. Oliver wonders how he ever perceived this man as cold, when his body is anything but. He, on the other hand, is immensely cold, and he shivers at the prospect, glancing skeptically at his own ruined shirt on the floor - the one that Flint ripped apart when he came over earlier.
“Fine,” he says, mostly to himself, and pulls the jumper on. It's a little lumpy and long and it skims the tops of his thighs. “Don’t you dare say anything.”
The larger man’s mouth quirks.
“Might have to take it off you again,” he says, and beckons to him to join him.
“Sleep,” Oliver scolds, climbing in next to him. He’s already come twice and he doesn’t understand how Flint never seems to be satisfied.
He lies down on his back and is surprised when Flint does the same.
“Goodnight,” he says, in a perfectly normal sort of way, trying to appear nonchalant. He’s not sure why he’s suddenly feeling giddy and warm. It all feels very new and strange—sleeping together, as in really sleeping but it’s not new. They’ve done it before. In fact, they’ve stayed over at each other’s so many times now that they have spare toothbrushes.
“’Night” Flint mumbles, his breathing already heavy, and then he rolls onto his stomach, his head turned away from him.
Oliver closes his eyes.
And then he promptly opens them.
He scoots over slightly so that the barest centimetres of skin are touching, thigh to thigh.
Flint’s arm shifts, draping itself over his hips.
He closes his eyes again.
He falls asleep almost instantly.
“Season’s beginning soon,” Angelina remarks with her brow arched knowingly and a smug smirk on her face.
“Yeah, so?” Oliver mumbles distractedly into his pint.
“Flint’s still your boyfriend,” Angelina drawls, swirling her drink around before tossing it down,
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Oliver scowls, “We’re just—it’s just sex.”
Angelina’s laughter echoes in the pub and it seems that it’s all it takes, apparently, to attract a handsome man, because there’s one now, who sits down at their table without an invitation.
Oliver sighs.
When the season starts, Puddlemere loses its first match to Chudley Cannons and Oliver feels like it’s his fault. It’s not really, because they only manage 40 points against their 80, but they lose the snitch. It’s embarrassing.
It’s the fucking Chudley Cannons and he feels like the entire pitch is laughing at him, which some of the fans are. Even their own fans, it seems.
He takes it personally like an idiot and then, like an idiot, he runs from the reporters, from his team mates, from his team.
He just needs to make it go away.
He goes to his own flat first, but he's not there. He wipes away his tears angrily with his sleeves but he keeps going, passing through the Floo to Flint’s living room.
“Flint,” he announces, voice shaky, “I need you to—“
He breaks off as he sees him sitting with his old housemates; Adrian Pucey and Terence Higgs. They’re clearly having a good time, chatting vividly and drinking something that looks far more expensive than Ogden’s Finest. Oliver stammers and starts to mutter his apologies, ready to go back through the Floo. He’s not sure why he came here in the first place.
“One moment, boys,” Flint throws a charming grin at his friends and Oliver freezes in place as he rises to his feet, coming towards him.
“You alright?” He asks quietly, his grey eyes soft and weary. He's analyzing him, he can tell; he knows Oliver had a match today.
“It can wait,” he says, and Flint nods and puts his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly.
Oliver’s about to head shamefully back through the Floo when Flint’s voice cuts through the room again and then there’s a warm hand at the small of his back, gently guiding him away from the Floo.
“Gentlemen,” he beckons formally and the two men on the sofa snickers childishly, “have you met Oliver Wood?”
“Of course,” Higgs says, gesturing with his tumblr, “greatest keeper of our generation!” Pucey smiles and toasts him as well and the two turn to each other, already back to discussing something.
“I shouldn’t be here.” Oliver says, looking down at his feet. He’s still wearing his boots, muddy from the rainy pitch. There’s mud all over Flint’s expensive rug now. “Sorry, for interrupting—”
“Oliver, look at me,” Flint says and Oliver’s eyes snap up to meet steel eyes at the use of his first name. Flint has said it a few times, but only in bed - mostly when one of them is about to come.
Flint glances down, assessing him a second time, his eyes sharper now, somehow firm.
“You’re my boyfriend,” he tells him. “You’re important.”
Oliver blinks.
They are boyfriends.
“Is it alright if we just talk for half an hour more?” Flint presses quietly. “’S okay, if you don’t wanna. We’re just having a chat. I’m sure they want to hear what you’ve been up to, too.”
“Me? But—“ He blinks again. “Are you sure that I won't—“ He thinks of the fiasco today and drops his voice, “...embarrass you?”
Flint looks amused, as though Oliver’s being an idiot again. “You’re first string, Wood. That’s fucking hot.”
Then he leans in, kisses his cheek, and nudges him towards the two Slytherins, giving him a playful pat on the arse on the way.
“Oliver would be great for your campaign,” Marcus says and Oliver wonders why he’s never noticed how confident he sounds. “Got to first string as keeper this year for Puddlemere and it does help that he’s a looker too. I think his perspective on the new qualifications for the league would be relevant for you to hear,” he says, and he continues on, saying something about interviews, Valmai Morgan and intersectionality, but Oliver doesn’t hear him.
All he can hear is that Marcus is proud of him. How he actively follows his career. How he clearly thinks Oliver is worth something.
He puts his hand on top of Marcus’ large hand, the one that’s resting on his knee. Just casually, like it’s meant to be there.
Instinctively and without looking, Marcus’ warm hand comes to rest on top of his own, brushing his thumb softly over Oliver’s knuckles, and while Pucey’s reminiscing about something not quidditch-related (Oliver tends to tune these things out), Oliver flips Marcus’ hand over, tracing his nails along the lines on his palm.
I like you, he writes after a while, riskily, with his index finger, his touch light and feathery. Flint’s fingers contract slightly as he registers the message, but his eyes remain on his friends, still engaged in their conversation.
I know, he writes back on Oliver’s knuckles, as the smallest, most pure of smiles dances across his lips.
It’s so tiny a motion that neither Pucey or Higgs seem to notice it, still engaged in their debate.
In fact, it’s so him in its sneakiness that only Oliver would catch it.
Oliver smiles to himself.
It’s the start of the season and though Puddlemere has lost to the Chudley Cannons, Oliver doesn’t feel sad at all. He has a boyfriend.