This is my main blog where I share my fan fiction and general obsession with Harry Potter and Hogwarts Legacy. I'm currently fixated on Marcus Flint, Percy Weasley, Oliver Wood and Leander Prewett.
I take writing requests and I love a good prompt (especially for my favorites listed above) so feel free to pop into my asks with any ideas! I can't promise to take every request, but they're always welcome. I write both x reader and character x character stories.
My DMs are also open for yaps or just saying hello! I'm shy and awkward af but I'd love some fandom friends.
[My Ao3] 🖤 [Multi-fandom Reblog Blog] 🖤 [Dividers by @pixopix]
Fan Fiction Masterlists
Hogwarts Legacy
🪴 Leander Prewett
🧪 Garreth Weasley
🐍 Ominis Gaunt
🔥 Sebastian Sallow
🪄 One Offs (Amit, Everett)
Harry Potter
🔮 Percy Weasley
🧹 Marcus Flint *
🦁 Oliver Wood (see Percy's list for fics including Oliver)
*recently updated
More Hogwarts Legacy Writings
Headcanons
Leander Prewett NSFW Alphabet
Modern!AU Bachelor Party HC
Character Reactions
MC stroking the HL boys hair
HL boys find out MC is a mermaid
MC asking the HL boys to choke them
MC gives the HL boys a bouquet
Leander reacting to Garreth's potion failures
if i'm not DISGUSTINGLY in love with at least one (1) of the characters in any given piece of media it is not for me. if i have no one to crawl and weep for? can't get into it. if there is not one single character that makes me want to bash my head through a wall and then write ten thousand (fictional or academic) words about them then what is the point. respectfully
A/N: 20 whole days later, and here ya go. YALL CANT SAY IM NOT PERSISTANT. anyways i can finally begin other fics but im lwk proud of this. Im such a percy defender, I hope I sufficiantly satiated yalls thirsts for this cute nerd <3
Warning(s): Percy's avoidant attachment, his overthinking, reader is lovely and determined, lwk percy angst bc poor boy doesnt get treated the best, fluff ending!!
Word count: 3k
dividers by @pixopix !!
Percy had a rather pedagogical way of thinking, nothing was spontaneous about him in any way, shape, or form. He had lists for his lists, folders for his files; everything was ordered alphabetically, then based on the date, then on the importance. He had his entire life planned out by the time he was twelve—his job aspirations secured, subjects chosen as soon as he received the complete list in third year. Nothing was based on impulse; every move and decision calculated well in advance.
He studied the Rules and Guidelines at Hogwarts School For Witchcraft and Wizardry like it was Merlin’s biography. He followed them like it like death was the punishment. Model student, model son. He was the image of perfection, both academic and domestic. Him becoming Head Boy as soon as he entered fifth year was unsurprising. Everyone expected it from Perfect Percy.
He’d dedicated his all to doing everything right, avoiding anything that could hinder his possibility of doing anything or messing up his entire life schedule. Never lost house points, never faced a single detention. All his assignments were consistently submitted early, and he was at the top of every single class he took. People generally assumed it was to feed his ego, or build a reputation, and be treated differently than Weasleys were usually treated by purebloods or the elite.
They couldn’t be more wrong, of course. Percy did everything he did purely for his parents. He’d watched them struggle. When Percy was as young as ten years old, he took it upon himself to help his father with taxes and bills. When he realized how much his father worked, how much they sacrificed and dealt with, he vowed that he’d be the one to lift his parents out of it. Thus why he dove into his academics, became the ideal teachers pet. He made sure he stepped on no toes, made no waves against authority. He did everything right to avoid hindering his future opportunities in any way—learned who to suck up to in order to further secure his future.
He thrived on his capability to control every aspect of his life. In a family that was the epitome of chaos and disorder, he needed to be the thing that stood still. Needed to be what pulled his family out of it. The endless pressure he placed on himself to do better, do more, become more, go higher, higher, higher, higher. Never satisfied, not even with the highest score in class. He chased extra credit like a seeker to a snitch. He was like a never-ending burning star.
Which is exactly why you were the bane of his existence.
You, one of the newly appointed Ravenclaw Prefects for the past year or so. Ever since you’d become prefect, you’d drive him crazy. Not because you did anything wrong, you were just… so carefree.
You skipped through the halls during night rounds, you made your professors and classmates laugh. You were loud, charismatic, something people didn’t expect from a Ravenclaw. You did all duties, he couldn’t technically complain about you. But he couldn’t help but feel himself get on edge whenever you were near.
You were the epitome of I’ll figure it out eventually! Worst part? The majority of the time, you did. You almost always found a way to do anything with minimal planning. It irked him completely—the method to his success was relentless planning, and watching you wing it every single time drove him half mad.
What was even worse was that you kept finding ways to avoid getting in trouble. It was infuriating.
Told you no student may be out of bed past 11? You said the rule doesn’t apply to prefects and head students.
Told you your cat can’t roam the halls? You pulled out a technicality on the premise of the day of the week it was.
He even tried to stop with the no running in the halls rule, and yet you simply yelled out ‘I’m skipping, not running!’
He was hopeless. He relentlessly thought of ways to teach you the importance of rules, the importance of acting in a proper, predictable manner. You’d been driving him half insane for nearly a year and a half, and he was the only one who seemed to be going crazy over you.
He’d sit with you in the library to try and tell you, but somehow the conversation turned into a debate on a theory being taught in Arithmacy. When he’d ask you to stay after prefect meetings to say you couldn’t ‘abuse the rules’, he’d wind up smiling at you as you very animatedly depicted giving a group of third years detention. It’d end with you ruffling his ginger hair and skipping away with a giggle he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind.
Nevertheless, he still tried. He kept going up to you. Kept trying to talk to you. Kept having his hair ruffled. Kept pulling you aside, only for his mind to scramble and for his words to merge together, forming something horrifically unintelligible. He couldn’t help it—something about you was so incredibly disarming, he felt at a loss for words near you. Percy Weasley was never at a loss for words with absolutely anyone. That wasn’t who he was, nor how he usually acted.
People noticed, of course, they noticed. The sharp-tongued, steady-handed, held-together Percy Weasley turned into a wordless, blubbering mess around the ink-smeared, soft-eyed Ravenclaw prefect. Fred and George, in particular, wouldn’t leave him alone over it.
“Who would’ve thought, ey? Our very own Perce having something interesting going on for once.” George snickered as Fred slapped an arm onto Percy’s shoulder, making the older boy scowl.
“Oh, bugger off! This doesn’t concern you in the slightest—“
“They grow up so fast.” Fred mooned, sleazily smirking down at his fuming brother. Percy pushed up his glasses just as George ruffled his loosely curly, fluffy ginger hair.
Percy practically hissed, swatting the touch of his younger twin brothers away, moving away. “Tuck in your shirts, fix your ties.” He hissed. His brothers merely groaned in response. “Oh, P, please. You’re finally interesting!”
Percy could only glare at Fred as he snickered to George, sighing. “I know this is fun for you, but it’s not to me. This is my life, Frederick. Leave out of it.”
George pouted, hands on his hips. “Hey, now. No need to get all butt-hurt.” He huffed, making Percy’s scowl melt into a small frown.
“She’s–It’s just not like that, okay? We talk. We’re not even friends. I don’t even like her. She gets on my nerves.” He mumbled, tugging at his own tie as if to compose himself. A nervous tic. George narrowed his eyes. “Really? Seems like she’s stuck to you every chance she gets, Perce.”
That made his head snap around, eyes widened in a most undignified way. “She—No, I’m the one constantly pulling her aside–”
“Yeah, pretty easy to do when she’s always standing close to you.” Fred mused, incredibly amused by this whole thing, leaning on Percy’s shoulder.
George then whistled, nudging Percy slightly before turning and grabbing Fred’s wrist. “Speak of the devil. Seeya, Perce.” He snickered before the two boys sauntered off. Percy scowled at them in confusion before hearing a much too smooth voice, making him jerk upright.
“Pepper!” Came your honey-dipped voice, he could hear your grin before he turned to face you. calling him pepper’s another thing that drove him mad—you’d overheard his siblings calling him pepper (because apparently he’s as spicy as one) and adopted the nickname for yourself. It didn’t sound nearly as horrible coming from you, though.
“Hello.” He mumbled softly, fixing his glasses as you beamed up at him. He already noticed the small things about you, almost as if you’d customized your very being—your fingers were smeared with ink, your arms had small drawings on them, your tie had paint on it, and your wizarding robe had a few stickers on it. He’d tried chastising you for said customization, but you said there was nothing against stickers, drawings, ink, or paint in the rulebook, and therefore, your uniform was still technically being worn properly.
God, he wanted to kiss that pretty mind.
He immediately stilled at his own thought, making you frown in confusion when he stiffened before you. “Erm, well, are we going to do rounds together again?” You said softly, walking closer to toy with the bangs of his loosely curled ginger hair. He simply flushed a bright pink and nodded slowly, unable to respond for a beat. “Y–Yeah, yes. Yes, we are. Two rounds of the whole school.”
You nodded, grinning before you ruffled the boy’s hair, turning to fall into step with him, almost like you’d become a singular thing. Percy turned red, walking wordlessly beside.
He should feel indifferent; he shouldn’t give you another thought—but what he felt was frustration. The way you spoke to him felt condescending, felt like a harsh joke. No one was ever nice to him like you were. His siblings made fun of him for his accomplishments, and his parents wrote off his intellect as a given. He’d never been properly appreciated whatsoever. He wasn’t Charlie who worked with dragons; he wasn’t Bill who turned into a cool rebel after he left, wasn’t Fred or George, worshipped for their jokes and comedic prowess; he wasn’t Ron—best friend of the Harry Potter; he wasn’t Ginny, the only daughter and youngest child of the Weasleys.
He was Percy: too serious, too strict, too uptight, too snobby. Percy, who desperately followed the rules, became the ideal child—got good grades, all to make his parents happy, to get some attention in a household of 9. Percy, who got nothing in return for everything he worked for.
Then there was you. You, ruffling his hair in the hallways; batting your eyes at him and giggling at his dry jokes. You, brushing his fingers with your own, smiling at him in that earnest way you did. It killed him. Because he’d never had that attention. Appreciation. Open affection. Not the mandatory kind his parents had to give him. The kind that was more natural than anything.
To him, it felt fake. Felt like you were making fun of him; mocking him. He was used to that kind of thing. Not this.
You were oblivious to his inner turmoil, walking with your hands behind your back, chatting his ear off. “—It’s clear Italy is the perfect place to go. The paintings are beyond gorgeous, and I long to see them in person. I’ve always wanted to go to an art museum, y’know? I think you’d quite like it there as well. We should go together, maybe—”
“Stop.”
You turned to look at him, your steps faltering when you saw him standing still. Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly in confusion.
“Stop?” You echoed, your aporia noticeable in your tone of voice.
“What–What is this, huh? What are you playing at? Doing? If you think this is funny, it’s not.” Percy muttered, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, the hallway dimly lit by lanterns, causing an amber hue to cast along the room. It made his hair look much more prominently orange.
The sight of him like that, eyebrows furrowed, his nose scrunched up. It both made your heart flutter and clench. You’d never really seen him like this. You couldn’t discern what the expression on his face quite meant—what it was trying to say. You’d seen him angry, stressed, exhausted, exasperated, annoyed, amused, intrigued, and even happy.
With aching realization, you began to see it, what it was: hurt.
His hands were clenched into fists, eyes unable to decide whether to look at you or the ground before they solely fixated on you.
“Percy, I’m– What do you mean? I’m not doing anything.” You mumbled, unsure of how exactly to act in this situation, the look in his eyes already turning your thinking capacity to mush. He just sighed, dragging a hand down his face, over his glasses.
He pursed his lips, his hands moving to his robe pockets. “You-you’re doing everything! Touching my hair? Smiling at me? Poking me? Laughing with me? I don’t know if–if this is some bet to see how fast you can make me feel special or whatever but I’m sick of it. It isn’t funny. You can’t toy with me like this.” His voice was shaking at this point, his hands aimlessly motioning through the air.
You felt your heart twist at the accusation, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Percy.” You breathed, taking a step towards him. “I wouldn’t–I’m not joking around, P. I-I’m not pretending. I like spending time with you; truly. I promise, I promise. You’re cute, and interesting, and smart, and witty. I’ve never met someone quite as intelligent as you without them having a massive head about it.”
Percy just shook his head, frowning at you. His heart thumped hopelessly in his chest as he took nervous steps away from you, refusing to look at you. “No, this isn’t–I don’t get it.” He breathed. You tried reaching for him, but he merely moved further away, slippingv out of reach.
“Percival.” You pleaded, trying to explain, trying to reassure. He wouldn’t listen. Too scared, too cautious.
He turned and walked away.
You were too hurt to chase after.
Three weeks.
It’s been three weeks since that night Percy ran away from you. Three weeks of you chasing after him, begging to talk to him, searching for him, only for him to rush away from you like you had Dragon Pox. All four of his bloody siblings had to endure your frantic questioning as to where he is.
Turns out they’re not much help when it comes to the whereabouts of their brother; most times it seems Percy’s sudden absence hadn’t crossed their minds till you shone light on it.
It annoyed you to no end, observing everyone’s apparent apathy over it. Had this always been the case? Had you simply missed it?
It fueled your will to find Percy even more, but even as Head Boy, he was impossibly difficult to locate. He was everywhere and nowhere. Everytime anyone had “seen him” anywhere, he’d already moved elsewhere by the time news got back to you.
Supposedly, that sheer desperation is what led to you currently sitting on Percy’s bed. It took an embarrassing amount of bribing with George and Fred to let you in Gryffindor Tower, even more so to lead you up to Percy’s dorm.
But, here you were. Sitting in his room. In the dark. You felt completely ridiculous, you didn’t know why you were so desperate for him to talk to you again, but after months of you two meeting and talking everyday, you couldn’t bear the silence.
It didn’t take long till Percy entered the room, returning from the weekly meeting the Head boy and Girl had with Dumbledore. As soon as the ginger flicked on the lights with a sigh, you practically pounced on him.
“Percival!” You hissed, making the poor, exhausted boy yelp, gasping. You frowned, shutting the door behind him, hands then moving to your hips. “You’ve been utterly dodging me for weeks! You haven’t so much as looked at me!” You hissed, heart now racing when your mind finally realised you were confronting him. “Some Head Boy you are! You—You can’t even talk it out?! Have a mature conversation?! Y-You just run? Escape? Are you kidding me?!”
Percy was absolutely shitting himself, unable to speak nor breathe in the face of your wrath, hands waving in front of him. “P-Please, wait a moment—“
“No!” You snapped, eliciting another yelp. “I’ve waited weeks! Weeks for you to just look at me, speak to me, acknowledge me! Is it so easy for you? To drop me just like that?! Am I that dispensable?!” You were positively fuming now, and it made his stomach twist.
“Please, it’s not like that, please just let me explain, there’s a reason—“
“To hell with your reasons!” You continued on, a fiery ball of bitter rage and hurt. You were truly more hurt by his absence than by the fact he was avoiding you, but everything was practically gushing out like word vomit. You were never one for filtering your words. “Did I mean anything to you at all? As a friend? A person? Someone who enjoyed your company?! I can’t believe you’d drop me without even letting me defend myself properly, without even listening and understanding what I was saying!”
You glared, gesturing wildly as you lectured him. “You, Percival, are a real piece of—mnff!!”
You were effectively silenced by the soft press of lips against yours, a warm hand cupping your cheeks, smushing them together.
Your eyes went wide, looking at Percy’s nervous, shut-eyed expression before your stiff shoulders melted as you leaned into him, practically slumping.
He eventually, albeit hesitantly, pulled away, cheeks flushed, glasses askew, ears flaming red. He smiled softly, lopsided. “I’m truly sorry I did that. You.. you just wouldn’t stop.” He mumbled softly, caressing your cheek with his thumb. You were completely caught off guard, kissed completely stupid as you stared up at him like your brain had failed you.
You nodded, cheeks warming as your mind caught up. “You kissed me.” You breathed, in which he only nodded in response, looking away sheepishly. “I-If you didn’t like it, I truly understand. I just— It’s hard, y/n. Hard being with someone who likes.. this. I’ve yet to meet anyone. Well, until you. Please forgive me for my lack of understanding and my quite avoidant approach towards it.”
The sincerity of the apology made your heart swell, your hands fiddling with his tie before you ruffled his hair, an action you’d most missed.
“You’re quite dumb for a boy so brilliant. I adore it completely.” You mused, making him stuff his face into your neck with a groan. He hugged around your waist, tugging you close. “You’re incorrigible.” He whispered. You snorted, giggling softly. “You love it. Can’t live without it.”
All he could do is nuzzle deeper into your neck and hum. “Youre right.” He breathed. “Peace and quiet are overrated anyway.”
You smiled into his hair, pressing a few soft kisses. You promised something to yourself, then and there. You’d care for this boy endlessly, shower him with love, and pour adoration till it was pouring out of every pore in his body. You’d show him everything he assumed he didn’t deserve.
Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood | Rated: M | Words: 3873 | Mafia | very light Dom/Sub
Fic Summary: When Oliver agrees to help out Percy to combat underground betting, he didn't think he'd be teamed up with Marcus Flint of all people. No, that had been the last thing on his mind. But when Marcus starts calling him 'Sweetheart', it is very quickly the only thing on his mind.
✨ Snippet:
When Percy had convinced Oliver to do him a favour, he'd agreed on the assumption that he'd be working with his friend. Wrong. So wrong. Percy had merely beamed at him and then summoned Flint to his office, chatting amicably to him about having told him that Oliver would agree without a shadow of a doubt. But that wasn't the moment Oliver had decided to murder his oldest friend, no. It was when Percy winked at him and mentioned that they'd look good together on a date, 'believable'. Honestly.
Marcus Flint had somehow grown into his bulk with strong shoulders that stretched the seams of his woolly coat. His dark hair was styled out of his face to reveal piercing grey eyes, but Oliver longed to run his hands through the strands, ruffle them until he looked less put together. The sad truth was that Marcus Flint looked good in everything, but Oliver preferred him sweaty and windswept.
"Oliver, seriously," Marcus murmured and tugged on Oliver's elbow to make him stop. "Nothing can happen to you. Stop worrying."
"Nothing, Marcus? Nothing?" Oliver snapped back, but made no attempt to withdraw from Marcus's touch. Shit. He should never have agreed to this. He was not made for this, and he got the feeling that he was doing the Head of the Sports Department a favour instead of his friend. "Oh yeah, because underground betting has never had any consequences."
Hi!! i loved your mutually beneficial fic!! And I’d like to request a spin off or idk what you’d call it but basically can I request a fic of what Marcus would be like after a loss versus a win?
This particular line from the fic is what sparked my inspiration:
“Marcus was different after a win than he was after a loss, but the two of you met up after each game all the same.”
THANKS IN ADVANCE AND I LOVE YOUR WORK
AhhH! I'm glad you enjoyed Mutually Beneficial! And thank you for your request!! I had a lot of fun working on this.
Win or Lose
Marcus Flint / f!Reader
2.4k Words
Content Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content; sex
Summary: Following a hard quidditch loss, you go looking for Marcus knowing he wouldn't want to be alone.
A/N: This is a companion work that is best enjoyed after reading Mutually Beneficial, which is referenced a few times in this work, and contains the same "reader" character. Now they've got a bit of history.
Slytherin hadn’t played badly, and that’s exactly what made the loss especially painful. Marcus couldn’t very well ream his team mates when they’d done objectively well. They’d been ahead in goals. Their beaters made it an absolute nightmare for the opposing chasers to even get their team onto the scoreboard at all. Their seeker had been on top of things, too, only barely getting edged out by the other seeker in the last second of the stretch for the snitch. They’d been so close.
It was the kind of loss he took personally as a captain. When he couldn’t pin point exactly what they could have done better, he placed the blame on himself. That was only fair, wasn’t it? He could have spent longer putting together their plays, or scrutinized each individual member of the other team more thoroughly, worked out their weak spots more effectively. Yeah.
Marcus knew he must have looked annoyed, he’d ruminated all the way from the pitch to the locker room, after all, but the way the rest of the team fled the moment they gathered their things told him it was probably worse than he’d thought. He never was great at schooling his emotions, but he hadn’t planned on shouting at them, he hadn’t said a word. Getting bailed on, if anything, only made him feel worse. He never meant to scare them off.
~
You had a feeling things hadn’t gone well in the locker rooms when you noticed the Slytherin team minus Marcus among the rest of the crowd draining from the pitch and heading back to the castle immediately after the match. Perhaps they had better sense than you did when it came to their captain, but you were willing to wager otherwise. You always met with him after his games, and that wasn’t about to change if you could help it.
You lingered around the pitch for awhile waiting for Marcus to emerge from the locker room, able to hear the shower running inside when as you paced the corridor. You could just picture it, him beating himself up over the outcome of the match, standing under the spray of water looking like a kicked crup. You hated the thought of that just as much as you knew he’d hate your pity.
And so you waited.
And waited.
Realistically you knew that he couldn’t hide in there forever, though it certainly seemed like that was what he was going for. The stands had fully cleared out by the time you’d grown impatient enough to say to hell with it and go in after him. How mad could he feasibly be? Surely he was expecting you.
Pushing the door open and slipping inside, you were hit with heavy steam and uncomfortable, sticky warmth, one of the showers still running somewhere in the row of stalls. Marcus hadn’t heard you come in, or at least if he did, he didn’t speak up. You could have fun with that.
Rather than announcing yourself, you took a seat on the bench just outside of the sole occupied shower stall, getting comfortable next to the haphazard pile of Marcus’s clothing. Fortunately, it appeared that you’d done most of your waiting around outside of the pitch before coming in, and it wasn’t much longer before you finally heard the squeaky sound of the knobs turning as Marcus shut the water off.
The crinkling of the shower curtain being shoved open and Marcus gasping while practically jumping out of his skin were all simultaneous things, and you couldn’t quite hide your amusement at his surprise.
“For fucks sake! Why are you just sitting in here!?” he shouted, grabbing the shower curtain and yanking it across his lower half.
Quite the over reaction, you thought, considering that you’d been sleeping together for some time. “I was waiting for you, obviously,” you tell him as you toss him the towel that had been in the heap along with his clothes. “Relax. You realize I have seen it before. Several times.”
He glared at you indignantly, catching his towel and wrapping it around his waist before stepping out of the shower stall. “Not when I’m soft. ‘S not the same.”
“Thank you for the anatomy lesson,” you quipped, giving him a smirk that he clearly didn’t appreciate as much as you’d hoped he would.
“Piss off, you shouldn’t even be in here.”
“That’s never stopped us before, has it?”
Marcus groaned, realizing that trying to push you away wouldn’t be a battle he could win at the moment. He relented, taking a seat beside you on the bench, straddling it so he could face you, though not actually meeting your gaze just yet.
“I’m not in the mood,” he muttered, practically into his own chest, head hanging low.
He looked so dejected—he often did following a loss, though sometimes was worse than others. Navigating him when he felt the way he did always took a bit of fine tuning, so you adjusted for him.
“Do you really want me to go?” you asked, voice softer than it’d been a moment ago.
The shake of his head was nearly imperceivable, but it was there.
“Then I’ll stay.”
You could hear him let out a soft breath at that, like he’d been relieved that you wanted to stick around, though you could still see the tension in his shoulders.
“You played really well, you know. You’ll get it next time,” you told him.
“It doesn’t matter that I played well! We still lost! At the end of the day, that’s on me as the captain!” he shouted, his words bitter enough that he appeared to taste them on their way out. His head sank into his hands, his elbows propped on his legs. Off as he was, he could hear himself taking his mood out on you, and you didn’t deserve that–made him feel even worse in the moment.
He took a slow breath, needing to reel things in. “You shouldn’t have worn that shirt,” he told you, finally picking his head up and looking at you beside him.
You heard what he’d said but what he meant wasn’t lost on you. ‘I don’t deserve your support right now’ or ‘how can you stand to be near me with me while I’m being an arsehole’ or any number of self-deprecating things. You figured one day maybe he’d get used to you sticking around, but apparently today was not that day. You wouldn’t hold it against him.
“I seem to recall you telling me just recently that I had to wear it to every game from now on,” you said with a grin, giving his knee a nudge with yours.
He scoffed, but that got a bit of a smirk out of him. “You shouldn’t listen to what I say off a win, I’m kind of a cocky bastard.”
“You are, yeah. But I think I did a good job painting it, actually, so I’m going to wear it whether you like it or not.”
“Stubborn,” he muttered, giving you a poke to the leg.
Unable to deny it, you shrugged your shoulders, and took his return contact as permission enough to take his hand in yours.
As if he’d ever refuse. Giving your hand a firm squeeze, Marcus shifted his grip to your waist and leg instead, one of his large hands splaying along the underside of your knee as he guided you to straddle the bench, facing him. “C’mere.”
“I thought you weren’t in the mood?”
“Mood’s shit, but you aren’t,” he said simply, pulling you closer, hoisting you up onto his lap. His arms snaked around you, resting against your lower back as he brought you forward, firmly against him.
“What high praise,” you teased. Marcus’s skin was warm beneath your hands as they trailed up his still damp chest, maybe more gently than he’d usually like. “You sure?”
“Yes. I want you now, bloody hell don’t make me beg,” he insisted, leaning his forehead against yours. One of his hands came between your bodies, gripping his towel and giving it a tug, fighting lamely to get it out of the way. “Lift up. Gotta get rid of this.”
You didn’t have to shift much for Marcus to be able to pull his towel free, tossing it aside on the tile floor beside his clothing. His hands were against your lap the moment you settled back onto his, pushing your skirt up out of his way before slipping between your legs, tugging at the gusset of your panties, eagerly working for access.
For the amount of time Marcus had spent trying to hide himself away in the shower, and as aghast as he’d acted once he found you waiting for him, he was awfully impatient for you now. His frustration was still evident, though, in the way he muttered under his breath as he fought against his own body, skin still damp and sticky from humidity—the tops of his thighs dragging the bottoms of yours as he maneuvered you into position until he was finally able to work his cock up into you.
And just like that he relaxed, a content, shuddered exhale escaping him as his arms encircled your body, pulling you more firmly against his lap and encouraging your rhythm as you began to rock your hips against him.
His damp hair tickled your skin, cold, dripping curls making you shiver as he buried his face against your neck, little beads of water soaking into the collar of your shirt. You didn’t mind that cold, not when it came along with the heat of his body and the way he held you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
His lips ran along your neck, planting soft kisses into your skin as his hands trailed up your sides, bringing your shirt up along the way. Drawing your arms in, you helped him remove the garment, and sat still while he unclasped your bra, wanting the layers keeping your skin from his gone just as badly as he clearly did. His hands smoothed over your breasts the moment they were bare, his touch gentle, conscious of how calloused his fingers were as they groped and traveled your body. Leaning into his touch as you brought your arms back around him, you picked up your pace, grinding against his lap as he flexed his hips over and over, working you down against him as you rode him, his efforts making him groan something deep and low.
Merlin, his sounds. You’d never get enough of them. You wanted to swallow them whole. Moving a hand to his stubbled chin, you carefully tipped his face up to yours, pressing your forehead against his while you just listened to the heaviness of his breaths—the little shudders and throaty sounds that slipped out as he thrust into you.
Marcus was always intense, but not always in the same way. Sometimes intensely cocky, sometimes boastful. But like this, face to face with him deep inside of you and his hands clinging to your skin, he was intensely vulnerable, whether he’d acknowledge it or not. It showed in how suddenly, how insistantly he pressed his lips to yours when your eyes lingered on his for a beat too long, like he wanted to shut you up before you got the silly idea to say something sweet, that he’d look like a fool working out a response to.
Kissing you was safer than speaking to you in the moment, but the way you kissed him back hungry and eager, he got the feeling that the two of you were on the same page. One of your hands tangled in his hair while the other kept hold of his face, his hands gripping at your thighs, guiding you against him as your rhythm started to falter, legs trembling as the pleasure between you built.
Moaning against his lips, you came undone on his lap, holding him tightly and melting against him with your full weight, body pulsing and sensitive. It was then that he broke your kiss, his head falling against your shoulder with hot breath and teeth against your skin, he came, panting heavily and never loosening his hold on you.
You weren’t exactly sure how long you sat there on his lap once the two of you had finished, maybe five minutes, maybe longer. But you knew that you’d never spent that long just sitting and holding one another the way you were in that moment, breathing softly, heart rates long steadied and Marcus’s skin mostly naturally dried off from his earlier shower. It felt like anything you might say might just break everything, so you stayed silent, your hand gently petting over the hair at the nape of his neck, just waiting for him to speak up first. That was the safest bet, you thought.
And you knew his head had been working when he did finally speak up. “Sorry I was a bit of a prick to you before,” he muttered, lifting his head to look at you, though his gaze fell away from your eyes as he spoke.
You were more touched by those words than perhaps was fitting, but you knew Marcus well enough to know that apologies didn’t come easily to him. You also knew him well enough to know that though he was sincere, he wouldn’t love you getting sappy about it, so you didn’t fight your first instinct, which was to give him the sass that came so naturally to you.
“You’re always a bit of a prick, to be fair.”
He snorted at that, giving you a soft jostle. The playfulness of it didn’t land quite as hard though, when he was still inside of you, soft and warm. “You’re usually more entertained by it, though.”
You shrugged. “You were upset. I get it. It’s okay.”
He shook his head at that, like he wanted to fight back against your words. You caught that, and you knew what he’d have said. That it wasn’t okay for him to shout at you how he had. Just one of the many conversations that probably needed to be had just as much as he didn’t want to actually have them. You were too understanding and it was both terrifying and perfect to him.
Marcus wouldn’t question why you waited around for him this time, or any other time that you did, especially when he was being difficult, but he would thank you for it, in soft kisses all over your skin that made you smile until he finally did, too.
Hi!! i loved your mutually beneficial fic!! And I’d like to request a spin off or idk what you’d call it but basically can I request a fic of what Marcus would be like after a loss versus a win?
This particular line from the fic is what sparked my inspiration:
“Marcus was different after a win than he was after a loss, but the two of you met up after each game all the same.”
THANKS IN ADVANCE AND I LOVE YOUR WORK
AhhH! I'm glad you enjoyed Mutually Beneficial! And thank you for your request!! I had a lot of fun working on this.
Win or Lose
Marcus Flint / f!Reader
2.4k Words
Content Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content; sex
Summary: Following a hard quidditch loss, you go looking for Marcus knowing he wouldn't want to be alone.
A/N: This is a companion work that is best enjoyed after reading Mutually Beneficial, which is referenced a few times in this work, and contains the same "reader" character. Now they've got a bit of history.
Slytherin hadn’t played badly, and that’s exactly what made the loss especially painful. Marcus couldn’t very well ream his team mates when they’d done objectively well. They’d been ahead in goals. Their beaters made it an absolute nightmare for the opposing chasers to even get their team onto the scoreboard at all. Their seeker had been on top of things, too, only barely getting edged out by the other seeker in the last second of the stretch for the snitch. They’d been so close.
It was the kind of loss he took personally as a captain. When he couldn’t pin point exactly what they could have done better, he placed the blame on himself. That was only fair, wasn’t it? He could have spent longer putting together their plays, or scrutinized each individual member of the other team more thoroughly, worked out their weak spots more effectively. Yeah.
Marcus knew he must have looked annoyed, he’d ruminated all the way from the pitch to the locker room, after all, but the way the rest of the team fled the moment they gathered their things told him it was probably worse than he’d thought. He never was great at schooling his emotions, but he hadn’t planned on shouting at them, he hadn’t said a word. Getting bailed on, if anything, only made him feel worse. He never meant to scare them off.
~
You had a feeling things hadn’t gone well in the locker rooms when you noticed the Slytherin team minus Marcus among the rest of the crowd draining from the pitch and heading back to the castle immediately after the match. Perhaps they had better sense than you did when it came to their captain, but you were willing to wager otherwise. You always met with him after his games, and that wasn’t about to change if you could help it.
You lingered around the pitch for awhile waiting for Marcus to emerge from the locker room, able to hear the shower running inside as you paced the corridor. You could just picture it, him beating himself up over the outcome of the match, standing under the spray of water looking like a kicked crup. You hated the thought of that just as much as you knew he’d hate your pity.
And so you waited.
And waited.
Realistically you knew that he couldn’t hide in there forever, though it certainly seemed like that was what he was going for. The stands had fully cleared out by the time you’d grown impatient enough to say to hell with it and go in after him. How mad could he feasibly be? Surely he was expecting you.
Pushing the door open and slipping inside, you were hit with heavy steam and uncomfortable, sticky warmth, one of the showers still running somewhere in the row of stalls. Marcus hadn’t heard you come in, or at least if he did, he didn’t speak up. You could have fun with that.
Rather than announcing yourself, you took a seat on the bench just outside of the sole occupied shower stall, getting comfortable next to the haphazard pile of Marcus’s clothing. Fortunately, it appeared that you’d done most of your waiting around outside of the pitch before coming in, and it wasn’t much longer before you finally heard the squeaky sound of the knobs turning as Marcus shut the water off.
The crinkling of the shower curtain being shoved open and Marcus gasping while practically jumping out of his skin were all simultaneous things, and you couldn’t quite hide your amusement at his surprise.
“For fucks sake! Why are you just sitting in here!?” he shouted, grabbing the shower curtain and yanking it across his lower half.
Quite the over reaction, you thought, considering that you’d been sleeping together for some time. “I was waiting for you, obviously,” you tell him as you toss him the towel that had been in the heap along with his clothes. “Relax. You realize I have seen it before. Several times.”
He glared at you indignantly, catching his towel and wrapping it around his waist before stepping out of the shower stall. “Not when I’m soft. ‘S not the same.”
“Thank you for the anatomy lesson,” you quipped, giving him a smirk that he clearly didn’t appreciate as much as you’d hoped he would.
“Piss off, you shouldn’t even be in here.”
“That’s never stopped us before, has it?”
Marcus groaned, realizing that trying to push you away wouldn’t be a battle he could win at the moment. He relented, taking a seat beside you on the bench, straddling it so he could face you, though not actually meeting your gaze just yet.
“I’m not in the mood,” he muttered, practically into his own chest, head hanging low.
He looked so dejected—he often did following a loss, though sometimes was worse than others. Navigating him when he felt the way he did always took a bit of fine tuning, so you adjusted for him.
“Do you really want me to go?” you asked, voice softer than it’d been a moment ago.
The shake of his head was nearly imperceivable, but it was there.
“Then I’ll stay.”
You could hear him let out a soft breath at that, like he’d been relieved that you wanted to stick around, though you could still see the tension in his shoulders.
“You played really well, you know. You’ll get it next time,” you told him.
“It doesn’t matter that I played well! We still lost! At the end of the day, that’s on me as the captain!” he shouted, his words bitter enough that he appeared to taste them on their way out. His head sank into his hands, his elbows propped on his legs. Off as he was, he could hear himself taking his mood out on you, and you didn’t deserve that–made him feel even worse in the moment.
He took a slow breath, needing to reel things in. “You shouldn’t have worn that shirt,” he told you, finally picking his head up and looking at you beside him.
You heard what he’d said but what he meant wasn’t lost on you. ‘I don’t deserve your support right now’ or ‘how can you stand to be near me while I’m being an arsehole’ or any number of self-deprecating things. You figured one day maybe he’d get used to you sticking around, but apparently today was not that day. You wouldn’t hold it against him.
“I seem to recall you telling me just recently that I had to wear it to every game from now on,” you said with a grin, giving his knee a nudge with yours.
He scoffed, but that got a bit of a smirk out of him. “You shouldn’t listen to what I say off a win, I’m kind of a cocky bastard.”
“You are, yeah. But I think I did a good job painting it, actually, so I’m going to wear it whether you like it or not.”
“Stubborn,” he muttered, giving you a poke to the leg.
Unable to deny it, you shrugged your shoulders, and took his return contact as permission enough to take his hand in yours.
As if he’d ever refuse. Giving your hand a firm squeeze, Marcus shifted his grip to your waist and leg instead, one of his large hands splaying along the underside of your knee as he guided you to straddle the bench, facing him. “C’mere.”
“I thought you weren’t in the mood?”
“Mood’s shit, but you aren’t,” he said simply, pulling you closer, hoisting you up onto his lap. His arms snaked around you, resting against your lower back as he brought you forward, firmly against him.
“What high praise,” you teased. Marcus’s skin was warm beneath your hands as they trailed up his still damp chest, maybe more gently than he’d usually like. “You sure?”
“Yes. I want you now, bloody hell don’t make me beg,” he insisted, leaning his forehead against yours. One of his hands came between your bodies, gripping his towel and giving it a tug, fighting lamely to get it out of the way. “Lift up. Gotta get rid of this.”
You didn’t have to shift much for Marcus to be able to pull his towel free, tossing it aside on the tile floor beside his clothing. His hands were against your lap the moment you settled back onto his, pushing your skirt up out of his way before slipping between your legs, tugging at the gusset of your panties, eagerly working for access.
For the amount of time Marcus had spent trying to hide himself away in the shower, and as aghast as he’d acted once he found you waiting for him, he was awfully impatient for you now. His frustration was still evident, though, in the way he muttered under his breath as he fought against his own body, skin still damp and sticky from humidity—the tops of his thighs dragging the bottoms of yours as he maneuvered you into position until he was finally able to work his cock up into you.
And just like that he relaxed, a content, shuddered exhale escaping him as his arms encircled your body, pulling you more firmly against his lap and encouraging your rhythm as you began to rock your hips against him.
His damp hair tickled your skin, cold, dripping curls making you shiver as he buried his face against your neck, little beads of water soaking into the collar of your shirt. You didn’t mind that cold, not when it came along with the heat of his body and the way he held you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
His lips ran along your neck, planting soft kisses into your skin as his hands trailed up your sides, bringing your shirt up along the way. Drawing your arms in, you helped him remove the garment, and sat still while he unclasped your bra, wanting the layers keeping your skin from his gone just as badly as he clearly did. His hands smoothed over your breasts the moment they were bare, his touch gentle, conscious of how calloused his fingers were as they groped and traveled your body. Leaning into his touch as you brought your arms back around him, you picked up your pace, grinding against his lap as he flexed his hips over and over, working you down against him as you rode him, his efforts making him groan something deep and low.
Merlin, his sounds. You’d never get enough of them. You wanted to swallow them whole. Moving a hand to his stubbled chin, you carefully tipped his face up to yours, pressing your forehead against his while you just listened to the heaviness of his breaths—the little shudders and throaty sounds that slipped out as he thrust into you.
Marcus was always intense, but not always in the same way. Sometimes intensely cocky, sometimes boastful. But like this, face to face with him deep inside of you and his hands clinging to your skin, he was intensely vulnerable, whether he’d acknowledge it or not. It showed in how suddenly, how insistantly he pressed his lips to yours when your eyes lingered on his for a beat too long, like he wanted to shut you up before you got the silly idea to say something sweet, that he’d look like a fool working out a response to.
Kissing you was safer than speaking to you in the moment, but the way you kissed him back hungry and eager, he got the feeling that the two of you were on the same page. One of your hands tangled in his hair while the other kept hold of his face, his hands gripping at your thighs, guiding you against him as your rhythm started to falter, legs trembling as the pleasure between you built.
Moaning against his lips, you came undone on his lap, holding him tightly and melting against him with your full weight, body pulsing and sensitive. It was then that he broke your kiss, his head falling against your shoulder with hot breath and teeth against your skin, he came, panting heavily and never loosening his hold on you.
You weren’t exactly sure how long you sat there on his lap once the two of you had finished, maybe five minutes, maybe longer. But you knew that you’d never spent that long just sitting and holding one another the way you were in that moment, breathing softly, heart rates long steadied and Marcus’s skin mostly naturally dried off from his earlier shower. It felt like anything you might say might just break everything, so you stayed silent, your hand gently petting over the hair at the nape of his neck, just waiting for him to speak up first. That was the safest bet, you thought.
And you knew his head had been working when he did finally speak up. “Sorry I was a bit of a prick to you before,” he muttered, lifting his head to look at you, though his gaze fell away from your eyes as he spoke.
You were more touched by those words than perhaps was fitting, but you knew Marcus well enough to know that apologies didn’t come easily to him. You also knew him well enough to know that though he was sincere, he wouldn’t love you getting sappy about it, so you didn’t fight your first instinct, which was to give him the sass that came so naturally to you.
“You’re always a bit of a prick, to be fair.”
He snorted at that, giving you a soft jostle. The playfulness of it didn’t land quite as hard though, when he was still inside of you, soft and warm. “You’re usually more entertained by it, though.”
You shrugged. “You were upset. I get it. It’s okay.”
He shook his head at that, like he wanted to fight back against your words. You caught that, and you knew what he’d have said. That it wasn’t okay for him to shout at you how he had. Just one of the many conversations that probably needed to be had just as much as he didn’t want to actually have them. You were too understanding and it was both terrifying and perfect to him.
Marcus wouldn’t question why you waited around for him this time, or any other time that you did, especially when he was being difficult, but he would thank you for it, in soft kisses all over your skin that made you smile until he finally did, too.
