Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters belong to J.K Rowling.

Marcus is vicious.

Ragged fingernails dig into the soft skin above Oliver's hipbones, and the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain winces at the stinging sensation. He knows from experience that there will be angry red sores there later, and thanks some unknown deity that he remembered to brush up on his healing charms. Marcus thrusts into him, hard and swift and brutal, eyes closed in pleasure. Oliver bites his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain. It feels as though he is being torn apart, as though the Slytherin boy is literally ripping his flesh into pieces.

Marcus grunts, more animal than human, and a choking gasp slips out of Oliver's mouth. The larger teenager's upper lip curls back in a grimacing sneer and he slams into his partner's body with even more force. There are tears leaking out of Oliver's open eyes, but his own erect member throbs with every pounding motion.

The kiss, when it arrives, is just as aggressive. Marcus pushes his mouth against Oliver's, and the Gryffindor tastes his own blood on his lips. It is over in a moment, a string of scarlet-tinged saliva connecting their mouths for a moment before Marcus jerks away.

His thrusts are faster now, more urgent, and Oliver knows that he's not far from completion. He pauses unexpectedly, penis still embedded in the smaller boy, and bends to nip at a patch of Oliver's throat. The Gryffindor whines, overcome with sensation. He vaguely recognises that Marcus is nibbling and sucking at his flesh too fiercely, that there will be swollen marks to deal with in the morning, but that seems far away and hopelessly insignificant.

One last movement, one last groan, and Marcus shudders to a halt. Oliver can't feel his orgasm, but he knows from the expression of intense concentration on the Slytherin's face that it is happening. A calloused thumb suddenly rubs over the head of Oliver's penis, rough and firm, and he gasps as the pleasure building inside him bubbles over.

Marcus is tender.

There are no apologies, no heartfelt declarations, but Marcus's gentle tongue lapping at the bleeding crescent-shaped cuts tells Oliver all he needs to know. He forgives him with fingers through dark hair, easing out the tangles and stroking the slightly damp curls near his forehead.

He can't help but notice how close Marcus' head is to his crotch, but a quick cleaning spell has already taken care of his emissions, and there is nothing sexual about the action. Marcus' hands stroke gently over his thighs, rubbing away the aching pain in Oliver's lower body. He finishes licking away the blood and wriggles back up the mattress until their faces are level.

They don't kiss. They rarely do, afterwards; Oliver always feels exhausted and vaguely uncomfortable, sticky despite the cleansing charms. He is in no mood for passion, now.

Instead he rolls onto his side, facing away from Marcus. His eyelids are drifting closed when he feels warm, thickly muscled arms slide around his waist and hold him tightly against a firm chest. Oliver can smell him, a mixture of the pine-needle scent of his deodorant and the salt of his sweat. Something warm and wet runs across his neck, and he knows that Marcus is licking him again.

He doesn't mind that. It feels natural, somehow, like an animal grooming their mate. Marcus' long fingers are splayed across his abdomen, and he sighs as one hand brushes against a still semi-erect nipple. The touch is feather-light, like the caress of a moth's wings.

Marcus is vicious, and tender, and everything in between, and Oliver wouldn't have it any other way.

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