Favourite Worst Nightmare

There were handprints on his neck. Deep purple, going green bruises that clashed horribly with the golden-tan tone of his skin. Defined finger marks, wide set palms, no one needed to ask who had given him those marks. Everyone just knew.

There were handprints other places too, places nobody bothered to look. Finger shaped bruises pressed into his hips and arse, on his wrists. His collar was a mass of purple mouths. Nobody but 'him' ever saw below his neckline for that reason.

The handprints could always be mistaken for something else; they could coincide with the shiner and split lip he was sporting. But the hickeys…

Oliver Wood sighed, twisting around in front of the mirror to catch a glimpse of one particularly large bruise that was forming on the back part of his ribs. This one wasn’t caused by a mouth, this one was a fist. When he looked harder he could see the defined knuckle prints. There were more fist marks all over Oliver’s body, there were always fist marks all over Oliver’s body because he was always fighting with 'him'. Even though McGonagall threatened to revoke his Captainship, even though his team needed him for extra practices not serving detention for getting into a fist fight with a certain hulky, snaggle-toothed troll. Oliver grimaced as he poked at a developing lump on his head. This one wasn’t a fist or a mouth; this was from where his head was slammed up against the stone wall mercilessly as that mouth that he hated more then anything else in the universe suckled the skin at the hollow of his neck.

It had been almost a year since their fights had developed into something more.

A sick game, a twisted romp. Started off the same way every time, fists slamming into faces or ribs or chests or any available body part and angry, down-putting phrases shot at one another between blows. And then 'he' would use 'his' greater body weight and strength and 'he' would get Oliver pinned to the wall or the floor or the nearest locker or desk.

Oliver opened his mouth, counting his teeth. 'He' was known to punch hard and on more then one occasion Oliver had found himself with a pearly white missing. He sniffed indignantly when he found all teeth accounted for and continued to take count of his newest wounds. Fourteen new bruises, three new hickeys, one swollen—maybe fractured—finger; not too bad for a days haul. And it wasn’t like he had let 'him' walk away unscathed (he absolutely refused to give him the satisfaction of a name, what they did was bad enough, he would not allow him to have a face). He knew for a fact that 'his' rival would be sporting a split lip tomorrow, when he had left there was more then a trickle of blood spurting from 'his' nose, bruises were blooming all over 'his' body even as the two thrust against one another.

'Fucking, pure little whore. Red and gold slut.'

Oliver’s eyes hardened as he stared at his reflection. 'His' muttered little insults always got to him. 'He' had dared to bring it up on the pitch once, just after a fumble by Wood leading to a Slytherin point.

'Nicely played, cock-sucking slut.'

His cheeks burned at the memory. He hated 'him' so fucking much, hated the fucking arrogance, the tombstone smile. It didn’t stop him from sneaking off in the middle of the night to find 'him', though. Didn’t stop Oliver from meeting 'him' under the bleachers after the said same game.

'Saw the way you were looking at me during the game. My little comment get you that hot?'

'His' little comments always got Oliver hot, always got him worked up and hard and begging. It was only after, when the bruises were on the way to mending and the blood was drying, that Oliver felt bad, felt sick for the things whispered and done.

'Merlin, Marcus, fuck me.'

Hot shame fought across his cheeks again. He was always so desperate when they were together. He always begged and moaned and writhed when the punching was done. He always wanted it so fucking bad that he would allow the insults to simply glance off of him. He knew that 'he' liked it better when Oliver was begging.

Worse then that, Oliver liked it better when he was begging.

'Fucker, always so tight, every time.'

Oliver glanced over the new bruises on his hips. Deep purple, perfectly formed fingers, curling around his sharp hip bone, thumb marks just behind the bone. There were hickeys down there too, not as many, but they were there.

'You are my little slut. Mine. No other fucker can touch you.'

Oliver smirked, his fingers tracing one of the bites on his pectoral. This was 'his' way of claiming him, marking him, making sure that no one would ever lay a hand on him. He remembered the time that he’d tried. Remembered kissing Adrian Pucey just to see what 'he' would do. After Adrian was nothing more then a bloody mass that may have at one time or another been a human and sending the boy to the hospital wing with more broken bones then an old museum, 'he' had turned his attention on Oliver.

It was an experience Oliver never really wanted to relive. The way those graveyard teeth had spit curses at him, the hands around his throat, squeezing him within an inch of his life. Oliver ran his hand to his neck, placing smaller hand where the mark was. It had become a routine after that incident. Tonight however, there had been no asphyxiation.

Just 'him'. And his hands and his cock and his snarl of a smile and his harsh words and his kisses that were more often bites then actual kisses.

Just Flint. And his bluntness and his Slytherin confidence and his unintentional, often lethal protectiveness that landed his own team members in the hospital wing.

Just Marcus. Who did whatever the fucking hell he wanted to do to Oliver because he knew that deep down, the Gryffindor liked it and got off on it and stood in front of the mirror studying the marks he got from it. And somehow Marcus seemed to know that no matter how many times Oliver considered charming the bruises away, that he never really would because he enjoyed being marked, being owned, being abused and cajoled into submission.

Because Oliver was Marcus’ and deep down, the red and gold Gryffindor loved it.