[identity profile] katekintail.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] rain_of_gold
Someone mentioned WS with plot. I don't know if this counts as plot, but there's drama

Title: This Isn’t Sexy
Author: KateKintail
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Marcus/Oliver, past Cedric/Oliver mentioned, past Percy/Oliver mentioned, Marcus/OMC mentioned
Rating: R
Warnings: Water sports
Disclaimer: Not my characters or world. I definitely don’t make money on this!
Summary: After the reception, Oliver is pissed at Marcus.
Notes: Set after ‘Things to Not Mention in the Toast’

Oliver threw open the door to their room at the inn. Their bags lay on the floor by the foot of the queen-sized bed where they’d thrown them when they’d arrived. There had only been a few minutes before his sister’s wedding then, meaning no time to unpack. Oliver was glad for it now. He grabbed Marcus’ bag by the strap, hurled it at the man, and didn’t care that it hit Marcus partly in the chest and partly in the face. He snatched a pillow from the bed and one of the extra blankets from the chair and flung that at Marcus as well. “Get out.”

The pillow fell to the floor, but Marcus managed to hold onto a corner of the unfolding blanket along with his bag. When he bent down to get the pillow, he tripped on the blanket and had to reel it in while arguing, “Oliver, come on—”

Oliver advanced on his boyfriend, driving Marcus back one step at a time. “I don’t want tae hear it, Flint. And I don’t want ye sleepin’ in my bed.”

“Where am I supposed to—”

“I don’t fucking care, do I? Just not my bed. I’m not going to sleep in yer wet. Now go!” And with that, he slammed the door.

At once, he felt a rush of relief at being alone again. Then the room felt all too small for just one person. He thought about taking a shower, but the effort of getting out of his clothes exhausted him. Maybe it was the long drive that had really done that. Or the ceremony as he watched his sister marry the man of her dreams. Or putting up with Marcus’ crap after the man promised—promised—to behave himself.

Too tired to care any more, he fell into bed, let his head sink deep into a lumpy feather pillow, and pulled the quilt around himself like a cocoon. The voice of Percy Weasley in his head told him he should at least get up to brush his teeth and lock the door. In his last burst of energy and using his wand, he managed only the latter.

Percy. Percy wouldn’t have behaved like Marcus had today. Percy would have been the perfect date to bring to a wedding. Hell, he probably would have kept Oliver in line as well. Maybe too closely. There had been fighting about that.

In fact, as he went through the list of men he’d been with, he couldn’t think of a single one he hadn’t argued with. He and Percy had argued all the damn time, about stupid little things at first and then about crucially important things. Percy had been a self-centered, uptight bastard. Percy had been so fixated on things he let everything—Oliver included—slide. And Percy had insisted on believing the Ministry of Magic’s propaganda instead of what his own family was saying. Blind trust wasn’t admirable; it was stupid. Especially when it meant not listening to what Harry Potter and Dumbledore were saying about the real reason Cedric Diggory died.

Cedric. That had been doomed from the start. Oliver hesitated to even call it a real relationship. What it really had been was a series of clandestine meetings in the Quidditch locker rooms after hours for snogging and groping. Cedric had been his first. But they hadn’t been able to talk without the conversation evolving to a shouting match about their house Quidditch teams. Cedric had always seemed to think any team had a chance if it just worked hard enough. But Oliver knew that every team was working as hard as possible and winning the cup was going to take a lot more than just effort and faith.

He felt bad about that now, all the time spent arguing with a boy who hadn’t even made it out of Hogwarts. And it was kind of ironic that in all the months he and Marcus had been dating and living together and playing together on the pitch, there hadn’t been a single argument. Sure, there had been a few close calls over miscommunications or stupid assumptions. But nothing of significance. Until now.

Now they were out of their usual routine. They were far from home. They were away from the pitch. Of course Marcus would choose now to start acting like the complete berk he’d been back in their days at school.

Emotion welling up inside him, Oliver closed his eyes so tight it hurt and yelled into his pillow, the sound so sufficiently muffled the people in the rooms on either side didn’t even knock on the walls to tell him to keep it down. Anger rushed from him. Tears trailed down his cheeks. And some time amidst it all, Oliver fell asleep.


Oliver woke in the middle of the night, warm and sleepy and in desperate need of a piss. Alone in bed, he rolled out of bed and took the quilt with him. It trailed behind him like the train on the wedding dress his sister had worn just hours before. The bathrooms were not en suite, but there was one per floor.

Unfortunately, this one was occupied by someone who had clearly had too much champagne. Or too much wedding cake. Or both. So Oliver hurried down the stairs. Under the blanket, he gripped himself and swore under his breath when he realized how damn good that felt when you really needed a wee. Just a satisfying squeeze and those nervous flutters about not being able to make it to a toilet were mostly gone.

“This isn’t sexy,” Oliver told himself as he carefully navigated the stairs down; it wouldn’t do to trip and wake the whole inn filled with his family and the new muggle family he had acquired through the marriage. He huffed muttering under his breath, “Don’t know what Marcus sees in this.”

“What’s that?”

Oliver stumbled down the last two stairs, saving himself by gripping the banister. Marcus sat upright in an armchair, a blanket draped over his front and the pillow folded and molded so it fit wedged between his head and the chair’s high back. The chair pointed directly at the stairs, as did his eyes.

It was so creepy it made Oliver give a little shiver. “Been sitting and waiting fer me tae come down and apologize?”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Certainly not.” He thought that telling Marcus the real reason might be a bad idea just now, given what had happened that day. And he certainly couldn’t claim to be worried about Marcus. Because he wasn’t. Not at all. “What are you doing awake?”

Marcus sneered. And, for a second, he looked a lot like he had back in Hogwarts when he was captain of the Slytherin team and rubbing the Quidditch Cups he’d won in Oliver’s face. “Can’t sleep sitting up. And I’m not sleeping on the floor, not with my back.”

A weak pang of sympathy hit Oliver. Marcus had thrown his back out during a game a few months back, around the time Oliver had busted his knee. There had been a weird week of hobbling and shouting requests from room to room and using their wands for just about anything and everything. Ever since then, though, Marcus had been worried whenever he slept bad and woke up stiffness or an ache in his lower back. The last thing he needed was to get pulled by medical.

“Sorry.” That didn’t make him forget what Marcus had done today, though. “That doesn’t make me forget what you did today, though.” He crossed his arms over his chest, thought better of it, and used them to pull the quilt tighter around him. Holding them out like that exposed him to too much cold night air. And cold night air against his crotch right now was an unwelcome thing.

Marcus didn’t look confused so much as thoughtful—Oliver knew his expressions well by now. “Are you upset about the car? About me not telling you about my fetish before then? It was kind of a rotten way to find out.”

Oliver looked around, realizing they were in the sitting area of the inn. The fire had long since died out but they were out in the open. Anyone could walk in on them. Anyone could overhear them. Still, Oliver didn’t much fancy going back upstairs to a floor with an inaccessible bathroom. Not until he’d made use of the one down here. And he couldn’t do that until he came up with a casual way of slipping away from Marcus.

He thought about the car earlier. Marcus had tried to hold his piss back so long he’d almost burst. He’d been forced to go in bottles. Then he’d wet himself rather on purpose. And he’d become hard. So hard. Oliver wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it. But Marcus hadn’t been able to control himself. And he’d looked… well… so vulnerable. It was amazing how embarrassed someone could look after having a fucking amazing orgasm. At the time, all Oliver had been thinking of was the drive home—ways to play with Marcus’ bladder, ways to drive the man mad with desire, ways to make what had happened in the car happen again and again without the solid deadline of his sister’s wedding looming in front of them. Thank goodness for magic or they’d never made it on time looking decent.

“I’m not mad about what happened in the car,” Oliver said. In fact, he’d been glad for the accident. There had been an intimacy about it. They’d only been together a few months, so finding out new things about each other still was a given. At the time, it had made him kind of horny as well.

Marcus nodded slowly. Unable to meet Oliver’s gaze, he looked at the empty hearth. “It was later then, right? With the tree at the reception?”

Oliver had toasted the bride and groom in proper style, absolutely alone. He’d hoped Marcus would be there at his side, or at least listening, but the man hadn’t been anywhere in sight. The toast had gone swimmingly; his best performance since the second game against the Harpies this season, in fact. And afterward, he went searching for Marcus. The facilities were in the main house, where his sister had gotten changed and where the kitchen staff had prepared the meal. But Marcus hadn’t bothered with those toilets. He had stumbled off into the woods and wet down a tree. There he was, in formal attire, kilt hitched up and a golden arc striking the trunk, running down.

It had been kind of stupid, really, and maybe even a little rude. But it wasn’t really a big deal. No one had seen him, except for Oliver, and he probably wasn’t the only one who’d done it that evening. “No,” Oliver said. “That’s not why I’m mad.”

Marcus looked confused; a look Oliver had seen him wear back in some of the classes they shared back in Hogwarts. “But what you said upstairs… about my…”

“It’s got nothing to do with yer stupid pee fetish, ye berk!” Oliver had said it far, far too loudly. Embarrassed, he over-corrected and lowered his voice to a whisper. “At the reception—”

Merlin, Oliver! I only had a couple drinks! I promised I wouldn’t get drunk and make a scene, and I didn’t, did I?”

Marcus stared at him, not believing this conversation was even taking place. All he’d done was get up to take a quick wee and here he was talking about Marcus Flint’s fucking drinking problem.

“Okay, okay, maybe it was a few more than a couple, but I didn’t lose it. I wasn’t an asshole, I’m sure of it. I didn’t hit you or anybody or lose it and start yelling… did I?”

“No, not that.”

Marcus seemed to be straining to figure out what he’d done. Oliver just wanted this discussion to end. He glanced over at the hallway, wondering if he could storm off and not have Marcus follow him.
“Then why the hell did you kick me out?”

Oliver took a deep breath. The filling of his chest reminded him of how much he needed to pee, and he squeezed himself again under the blanket. And, Merlin, but that felt damn good. “You don’t remember what you did at the reception?”

Marcus tried. Damn him, he tried hard. “Had the fish, clinked my spoon against the glass a couple times, watched your dad try to dance, had a piece of cake… this isn’t about me missing your toast, is it?”

Honestly, the man didn’t even know what he’d done. And that just made Oliver more pissed. Through gritted teeth and with eyes aflame, he answered, “Ye danced with my Cousin Wilfred.”

Marcus froze, though his eyes flicked around, as if accessing some portion of his memory. “What… who?” He shook his head. “No I… who?”

“Tall bloke in the suit with the silver tie and blue pocket square.”

Marcus still didn’t remember.

“The handsome one with the goatee and hair to his shoulders and the snake tattoo on his neck.”

At that, recognition flared in Marcus’ eyes. “Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’”

“I didn’t think you saw that.”

“Saw! Hell, Marcus, everybody saw! Me, my parents, my sister, my entire bloody family. Ye were pressed right up to him as if ye were dancin’ in a bloody gay bar. And then ye kissed him. Right there on the lips on the dance floor, whatever, with yer hand on his arse.”

Marcus was silent, and Oliver’s anger raged, daring him to try to defend the undefendable, to explain the absolutely unexplainable. This wasn’t something easily forgiven or even forgotten.

“Wilfred! When I was a kid, he’d tease me at family reunions. He knocked me off my first broom. He pulled my trousers down on the playground and all the girls saw my knickers.”

Marcus gave a laugh at this, which only made Oliver clench his hands into fists. Of all the guys Marcus Flint could have snogged at his sister’s wedding, why did it have to have been Wilfred?

Marcus restrained his laughter, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Merlin, Ol, if I’d known, I would have pulled his slacks down there on the dance floor for you.”

Oliver stormed out of the living room, heading toward the bathroom down the hallway. He found the door unlocked, mercifully, but as he started to push it open, Marcus slipped in-between the door and Oliver from out of nowhere. “Damn ye—”

Clapping a hand over Oliver’s mouth to quiet him, Marcus yielded slightly. Then Oliver found himself being pulled into the bathroom, the door locked behind them. With a rough shove harder than he’d meant it to be, Oliver pushed Marcus back against the sink, just the thing for his bad back, probably. “What were ye thinking?”

“I wasn’t, obviously! I was drinking and—”

“That’s no excuse! There isn’t anything you could say to make what you did okay.” The blanket fell from his shoulders but Oliver didn’t retrieve it.

“I was thinking of what happened in the car.”

Oliver just stared at him. A few minutes of desperation and then kinkiness followed by an intimacy and understanding he’d never had with anybody… and that’s what Marcus had thought about when kissing another man? “I told you I was okay with it.”

“You didn’t,” Marcus pointed out. “You said we’d talk later. And it’s later. How was I to know you weren’t thoroughly repulsed and ready to move on?”

“Because I walked in with ye on my arm and let ye meet my family.”

“You had to; you’d already told them I was coming.”

“Even if ye thought I was dumping yer arse—which I wasn’t—yer solution is to drink too much and snog the first handsome bloke ye meet?”

“He wasn’t the first—”

“Not helping yer case here, Flint!”

“He had a tat and long hair. He looked like the type who wouldn’t mind a little piss play is all.”

“Who said I minded?”

“Well, don’t you?”

“Of course not!”

“Prove it!”

“Aye, I will!” And, with that, Oliver let go.

At first, Marcus didn’t notice. He still stared into Oliver’s eyes. It took Oliver looking down at his own crotch to redirect Marcus’ gaze. And then he could see the white stripes of the pajamas turning a pale yellow and the blue stripes turning a dark blue. Wetness spread from his crotch outward, especially down his left leg, as that was the way his cock normally pointed. But Oliver wanted him to do more than look. Oliver pulled him close, holding Marcus right up against him. He thrust his pelvis forward, the wetness right up against Marcus’ leg.

The man was shocked at first, not knowing what to make of the unexpected wetness. But then his cock stirred, twitched. And then a low moan escaped his lips. He shook his head in disbelief. “F-fuck me…”

Oliver grinned, holding Marcus even closer, pissing his pjs and pissing Marcus’ pjs and the man’s strong erection beneath the layers. When the stream finally stopped, he looked into Marcus’ eyes and nodded. “Aye, I’ll do just that.” Down on the floor, in the small puddle he’d made, with soggy pajama bottoms around their ankles, Oliver reclaimed Marcus as his.
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