Title: Scottish Hospitality
Fandom: Harry Potter, set during book 4
Rating: PG-13 (there's bad language)
Pairing: Oliver/Marcus?, past Oliver/Cedric mentioned
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or their world. Please don't sue me. I'm just having fun and not making any money.
Summary: Oliver Wood's team plays Marcus Flint's team for the first time since the two left Hogwarts. They're professional and there's a bit of tension… but also possibility for friendship?
Notes: I started this as a gift for x_posed_again but then realized it's nothing close to what was requested. But the story would not freakin' leave me alone until I finished it (less than 24 hours after I began it, and with a doctor's visit thrown in there)
The score was much closer than Oliver was comfortable with, especially since the game took six and three-quarter hours to play. The good news about that was that the players had to be switched out several times during the game and Oliver got a chance to play in his first game against the Ballycastle Bats. The bad news was that it went from notoriously overcast to pouring rain around hour two. That was one of the reasons it took so long for the team seekers to find the snitch. Game play was intense, but Oliver hadn't been drafted straight out of Hogwarts for nothing. He kept his wits about him and his eyes on the dark black uniforms of the Bats. In the end, it all came down to the snitch catch.
Later, when the two teams were packed into the Puddlemere Pub, the hostilities seemed absurd. All the tension had been washed away in the rain, and they were all just Quidditch players. Navy blue uniforms with gold brooms and black uniforms with scarlet bats formed a sea of hungry, thirsty players. Oliver found himself at a table with most of the second string players from both teams, including Marcus Flint. Flint was on the other side of the table, but right in front of Oliver every time Oliver looked up from his steak and kidney pudding.
Like every other Quidditch team, Puddlemere had several after-match traditions. The first was for the losing team to buy the winning team the first round of drinks. And tonight, that meant the bats were buying, and it meant that Oliver would take particular delight in drinking his beer in front of Flint. Flint noticed. “Enjoying your drink, Wood?”
Oliver grinned. “Naturally.”
One of Marcus' teammates, Adian, spoke up. “I forgot. You two were at Hogwarts together, weren't you? Played against each other? How did that go?”
“Bit like today,” Oliver said. “But in the end, I got the better of him.”
“In your dreams, Wood. Four house cups to one? Hardly a comparison.”
“You had lucky breaks.” Oliver's blood was boiling.
“Skill, Wood. It's called skill.” Flint was practically sneering.
“It's called dirty tactics.”
Instantly, Oliver knew he had gone too far. The house rivalry had been left back at Hogwarts, and he hadn't meant to really insult the man in front of his teammates. Flint had played perfectly above board today, and he didn't want Flint to be targeted on his own team or branded a cheater.
There was only one thing that could save it. He winked blatantly and spoke in a low, sultry sort of tone. “I've heard how dirty you can be.”
The table erupted in laughter. And it wasn't just Oliver's imagination that Flint looked noticeably relieved for a brief moment. The subject moved onward, naturally, to other school teams. Oliver relaxed and enjoyed the conversation. From where Oliver was sitting, Flint seemed to be enjoying himself, too. His eyes were sparkling and the pleasant smile on his face was refreshing. He looked… good. Better than good, actually. He looked attractive.
Once the meal was over the drinks kept coming, conversation turned into inebriated singing. Having grown up in Scotland, Oliver was familiar with every pub song in the book, and a few more he'd picked up in his recent travels with the team. The songs grew louder and more spirited, until the time came for another of Puddlemere's post-game celebrations. “Quidditch players, into the loo, now!” shouted Archibald, Puddlemere United's captain.
The rest of the pub, which wasn't too full by this time, kept singing as the Quidditch players all rushed into the small bathroom, which had been charmed to fit the lot of them. Laughing, burping, and gulping down whiskey from a huge bottle being passed around, every one of them stripped down to absolutely nothing. The first time Oliver had done this, he'd been a bit surprised and shocked, especially because of the co-ed nature of the teams and his own particular leanings away from the opposite sex. But now he was used to the celebration; it wasn't the least bit sexual. Though he honestly couldn't resist a quick peak at what Flint had been packing. He wasn't disappointed. This was all part of the celebration- a rush, a cleansing, a show of raw emotion with comrades.
Archibald cracked the door, listening, and as the singers reached the very last note in the song, the players rushed out, completely starkers. With adrenaline and alcohol warming them, they burst from the pub and did a lap around the establishment. The trick was to get to the front of the pack, which took it at a sprint, because the end of the group ended up merely jogging. This time. Oliver wound up somewhere towards the middle, and he was aware of Flint somewhere close behind. As they rounded the building, Archibald led them right across the street and leapt straight into the river.
By then, the pub's patrons and anyone else up at that late hour of night had come out to watch and cheer on the runners. The spectators also had warm blankets and more whiskey for them as the players slowly climbed back out of the ice cold water. Oliver was shivering terribly and shared a thick wool blanket with Reginald as they shuffled back into the pub and the loo to get dressed again.
“Could have warned a bloke,” mumbled Marcus to Oliver, through chattering teeth.
He looked so cold, Oliver felt sorry for him. “Just a little Scottish hospitality for you. Besides, half the fun is seeing the new players freak out,” laughed Oliver, remembering the shock on Flint's face as he came up for air then treaded water in the river.
Flint chuckled. “Guess so. But I could use something hot to drink now.” They had finished putting on their uniforms, and were a few of the players still remaining in the loo. Flint was repeatedly rubbing his hands up and down his upper arms in an attempt to warm up.
Oliver had his wand and offered to perform a warming spell. Flint declined initially, but a violent shiver ran through him and he accepted. They both seemed a little nervous for Flint to be at the end of Wood's wand, but the warming spell was quick and fool-proof, and Oliver would have been unlikely to try anything in such a public place. One upon a time, things would have been much different between them. The spell helped a bit, and Flint reluctantly thanked him. “Sure is different now.”
“Aye.” Oliver nodded. He had been thinking the exact same thing; it was nice to find himself suddenly in synch with Flint. So nice that he made another offer before he could stop himself. “Want to come 'round to mine tomorrow for tea?” He quickly added. “If you'll be in town, I mean. I don't know what your schedule's like and if-”
“Yeah,” Flint said, shrugging. “Sure.” Oliver scribbled the address for him on a paper towel. Then they started to head out of the bathroom, but Flint turned and put a hand on Oliver's chest. He eyed Oliver warily. “There ain't any more traditions I should know about, are there?”
“Just a drinking competition between the team captains, but it's nothing to worry about. Archibald always wins.”
“Is that so?” Flint relaxed but put on a fake sneer. “Two sickles say Bryant drinks him under the table.”
“Oh, you've got yourself a bet!”
Oliver burned the tea. He had been so preoccupied with the idea of Marcus Flint coming over for tea that his mind hadn't really been on the fact that Marcus Flint was literally coming over for tea. With about ten minutes until the time Flint was supposed to arrive, Oliver had to apparate into town and buy more. This time, he chose the kind in teabags.
He got back just in time to put the kettle on before there was a knock on the door to his flat. “Be right there!” he called, squatting down and checking himself quickly in the reflection of the oven to make sure he didn't look like complete shit. As he headed to the door, he told himself that was what he'd do if anyone were coming to call on him. It had nothing to do with Marcus Flint.
He opened the door, a bit startled to find himself smiling and to find Flint smiling right back. “Hiya. Come on in. I've got the tea-” The tea kettle began to whistle and Oliver excused himself to go get it. When he returned, with crackers, cheese, and two cups of steaming tea, Flint had made himself at home and had commandeered the armchair. Oliver sat down on the couch and set the tray down on the coffee table. Flint hesitated.
Flint's expression was vacant, unfocused. Then the man bent right in half in his seat. “HARSHOO! HEHHPSHOO!” The sneezes were surprisingly strong and loud, and directed towards the floor. He straightened up slowly, sniffling. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed at his nose.
“Bless you,” Oliver said automatically. Then, both casually and concernedly. “You feeling all right?”
Flint shook his head. “I feel awful. To be honest, I almost didn't come round. But I didn't want to seem petty or like I was sore over anything that happened yesterday.” He smiled again, broadly this time. “Besides there's only so much lying in bed, blowing my nose that I can take. Figured I could handle tea.” He reached for the tea now, sipping, then gulping. “Thanks.”
“Aye, don't mention it.” Oliver sounded uneasy.
“S'just a head cold,” Flint reassured him, but he gave a little shiver.
Oliver suddenly felt worse. “Oh good God. Last night?”
Flint shook his head and gulped down another mouthful. “Nah. I was already feeling a bit sick by the time we jumped into the river. Probably could have kicked it early on, but playing in the rain did as much damage as anything else. Sniff. SNIFF!” He rubbed his nose with his hanky. “Merlin's pants, I don't miss Scottish weather one bit. How can you stand it?”
“I forgot. You're Scottish. You probably like playing Quidditch in rain storms.”
Oliver smiled sheepishly. “That's how I grew up playing.”
“Course you did. No wonder you're a masochist.” He coughed quickly when he saw Oliver's expression. “Ah, when it comes to Quidditch I mean. I remember you back at Hogwarts. All those fucking practices. Held twice as many as the rest of us did.”
“Well, I wanted to win.”
“We all wanted to win, Wood. You wanted to win or literally kill yourself trying.”
Oliver laughed and agreed. Then he grew silent, remembering his remark from the night before. “Look, about what I said last night.”
“Forgotten,” said Flint. “Completely.”
“Forgotten,” echoed Oliver. “Fresh start. So how do you like playing for the… ?” He trailed off, watching Flint.
The man was fighting against what appeared to be a pretty powerful sneeze that he didn't really want to let out. The battle started quietly, with Flint screwing up his face and pinching his nose, but grew louder and more desperate as it went on. “hahh- hah-HA-HUH-UHHHH…” Marcus' leg bounced up and down and the fingers of one hand curled and dug into the arm of the chair. It was quite the display, and Oliver wasn't sure it was going to end any time soon. Marcus lifted his arm, burying his nose in the crook. “HUR-HAR-HUHH-HEHHHPCHUHHH! HERUSHHOO-ERCHOO!” Marcus shook in place with each sneeze.
“Bless you,” said Oliver, rather amazed.
“Fuck,” Flint muttered back. “Spilled some tea.” There wasn't much left to spill, but there were droplets running down his hand and the arm of the chair.
Oliver summoned a dishtowel and mopped up, telling Flint that it was no bother. He'd bought the chair secondhand anyway, and at least the teacup wasn't broken. “But how are you, really? That was quite a…”
Flint blew his nose into his hanky and nodded. “Yeah, uh, I tried not to…”
“I noticed. You didn't have to.”
“Not pretty,” he grumbled, finishing off the last few drops of tea remaining in his cup. He looked apologetically miserable as he turned his gaze away from Oliver and on the rest of the living room, pretending to be interested in the wallpaper.
Oliver felt really sorry for the guy and an awkward silence filled the room. He noticed the tray on the table, still, and how all the food closest to Flint was gone. “How long since you've eaten?” He hadn't meant it to come out just like that, but hadn't stopped himself in time.
Flint shrugged. “Had breakfast at ten.”
It was now too late for lunch but a little early for dinner. Oliver wasn't the least bit hungry. “I know this great place for fish and chips. Just down the street a ways.” Flint looked dubious and Oliver remembered what the man had said about not even being sure about going to Oliver's flat today. “I don't have much here, but I could make rumbledethumps.”
Oliver laughed. “It's like the Scottish equivalent of bubble and squeak. It's just a fry up but it's warm and quick. You game?”
Flint nodded and sniffed hard, his nostrils flaring.
Oliver stood in his kitchen, shredding cheese over the leftover potatoes, onions, cabbage, and carrots. This felt… strange. It felt domestic and unusual. Yet it also felt good. He'd only had a couple people over to his apartment since moving in. He wished he had something better to serve than refurbished leftovers. He raided his cabinets, hoping for something else and coming up with absolutely nothing. Reassuring himself that Flint was probably hungry enough to eat anything and that this was at least relatively healthy and warm, Oliver brought two plates out, cradling salt and pepper shakers in his arms, as well.
Flint had retreated more into the large armchair, having brought his legs up onto the seat with him and resting his head against the back. He coughed and opened his eyes when Oliver arrived. “Looks great,” he said, taking a plate and loading it down with salt.
“You're lying, but I appreciate it,” said Oliver, poking his fork at the beyond-mashed mash on his plate. It had the strong smell of overcooked, soggy vegetables and probably tasted likewise. Maybe salt wasn't such a bad idea.
“No, I appreciate it. Haven't had a home-cooked meal in ages.” He took a bite and nodded approvingly. “Besides, my nose is so stuffed I can't taste much. At least it's warm.”
“That's what I was thinking.” He picked at his meal, absentmindedly. “Look, I'm sorry you're feeling like shit. And I'm probably not giving you a very good time. So if you want to go, I won't hold it against you-”
Oliver looked up, blinking.
“This is nice, Oliver. Don't fuck it up by being like that.”
Oliver swallowed quickly to keep from choking. “Like what, exactly?”
“Like some self-conscious little twat. I don't like those sorts of guys. Such a turn-off.”
Oliver did almost choke then, and had to get up for a drink of water to calm his coughs. He leaned over the sink, letting the water run into a glass. It filled up and overflowed into the sink and Oliver didn't notice. He stared at the tiled wall in front of him, lost in thought until he heard Flint sneezing again in the other room. This was a mess, plain and simple. It wasn't… well, it wasn't anything else. It wasn't anything like… that. Was it?
Mess or not, he couldn't hide out in the kitchen forever or Flint really would think him a twat. So he gulped down the cool water, which steadied his nerves somewhat, and went back into the living room.
“HARSHHOO! HAH-RAHCHOO! URSHOOO! KTCHOO!” Flint was sneezing into his handkerchief, but held it a few centimeters from his face so the sound wasn't muffled at all. Oliver waited patiently until the sneezing fit passed and Flint was blowing his nose. Flint sniffed. “You knew I was bent, didn'tcha?”
Oliver shrugged. He hadn't really known. Suspected, maybe. Maybe, for a brief moment last night, he had even hoped. Oliver had made a point of dressing and undressing so that Flint could have seen him if desired, but he hadn't caught the man looking. And, sure, their eyes had met and lingered upon each other's a couple times the night before, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Even if the lad was queer, it didn't mean he fancied Oliver. It didn't even mean he liked Oliver. But it hadn't really occurred to Oliver that the man might be using this to test the waters the same way he was.
“Well you are, too, right?”
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “How did you know?”
“Heard the rumors 'bout you and Diggory. And I'd never see you out with birds, not even those ones on your team. Everyone just sort of figured you were too into your game, and they were probably right. But, I dunno. Takes one to know one or summat.” He shrugged. “And 'cause if you didn't like me, you would have come up with an excuse and chucked me out of your flat earlier.”
“Flint…” Oliver began, unable to figure out what to say. He was right, of course, even about Cedric. But how did you go from mortal enemies to gay lovers in the space of twenty-four hours?
“Doesn't mean I want to fuck you right now,” Flint said. “Merlin knows I can barely keep my head up at the moment, let alone my cock. I just didn't want you going all soft on me. Got it?”
Oliver nodded. “Got it.”
“Good. Now I'm going to eat this shite and enjoy it 'cause you made it and I need something to keep my mind off this cold. SNIFF!”
They talked about Quidditch at first, but then branched off into other areas. Oliver was a bit shocked to find out their musical tastes were so similar, minus Oliver's fondness for Scottish folk music. They were done with dinner and halfway through a discussion about the best wizard travel destinations when Flint suddenly bolted to the bathroom with an audible but rough ''scuse me a sec.”
Oliver heard more sneezing. Lots more. He sounded terrible and… unable to stop? “Flint?” Oliver knocked on the bathroom door. He heard coughing, spitting, water running. “C'mon. Flint?”
Then the door opened. Flint stood in the bathroom, looking especially sallow in the light. He sniffed. “Yeah?”
Cocking his head, “What do you mean by 'yeah'? You're in my bathroom sneezing your fucking head off. I got worried. Not being soft,” he clarified, quickly. “Just worried. Are you okay?”
Flint shrugged. “It's a pretty crummy head cold, actually. Thought I'd save you from seeing the worst of it.” He hopped up onto the sink counter. Sitting back against the mirror and dangling his legs in front of the under-the-sink cabinet.
Oliver leaned sideways against the doorjamb. “Maybe you should go see a healer? I know a couple in the area if you don't want to see a team healer.” Oliver knew there were sometimes drawbacks to having team healers constantly on your case and documenting your every sniffle.
But Flint shook his head. “They won't be able to do anything for me.”
“Can't take Pepper-up.” Flint rubbed his finger under his nose. “You know how it makes steam come out your ears? Well it makes the congestion go straight to my ears and stay there. Then it takes forever to get rid of the ear infection. The first time I had it, it made me deaf for two weeks straight. I'll take the sneezing, thank you very much. Even if it… Hahhhhh…” He cupped his hands to his face and hunched over. “Hahhh-AHShooo! AHRCHOO!”
“Bless you.” Oliver walked in and squatted down in front of the sink. He rooted around there until he pulled out a clean handkerchief. “Here, man.” He stood up slowly, so close to Flint, and had to remind himself to take a step back.
Flint nodded appreciatively and wiped his nose. “Maybe I've outstayed my welcome anyway. It's kind of past teatime.”
“Do you play cards?”
Flint grinned. “That depends. Are you as damned competitive at cards as you are at Quidditch?”
Oliver shrugged. “Dunno. No one's ever lasted long enough against me to tell me.”
Flint hopped down. “You're on, Wood.”
With another pot of tea and a piece of pie to split between them, they settled down on the floor of the living room. Oliver got whipped the first two rounds, but came back for a stunning victory of three out of five. He suggested best out of seven, but Marcus yawned and shook his head. “I should probably head back to the hotel, get some rest, and work on avoiding the rest of my team until we skip town tomorrow afternoon. Sniff! Should be easy as long as I keep using silencing charms. My roommate's a pretty sound sleeper.”
Oliver nodded. “Good luck with that.” It sounded pretty impossible, frankly. “Unless…”
Flint cleared his throat. “Oh no. You're not going to invite me to stay the night, are you?”
Shrugging, “Thought I might. You can sneeze all you like. And I crash on my couch sometimes after practice so I know it's not a bad place to sleep. As good as a hotel room, at least.”
“You don't really want me here.” Flint rubbed at his nose again.
Oliver glared at him, then poked him in the belly. “Don't fucking tell me what I want or do not want! Now are you going to leave me hanging here or are you going to stay over?”
Flint chuckled, hanging his head and nodding. “Yeah, okay. On the couch.”
“On the couch,” Oliver agreed. It wasn't so bad on the couch, Oliver thought as he gathered up a spare pillow, a set of sheets, and blankets. But he probably should have offered his bed. Flint was the one who was sick, after all. But when he got back to the living room, Marcus was already happily settled in on the couch for the night. He'd gotten down to his boxers and a white t-shirt and was curled up on his side, head on a couch cushion. “Flint?” Nothing. “Marcus?” Still no reaction. The man was asleep already.
Sighing, Oliver set the pillow on the arm of the couch by Flint's head, where he would see it if and when he woke. Then he set the sheets aside and draped the two thick blankets over Marcus. He had brought another handkerchief, as well, and placed that on the coffee table for him. He whispered, softly, “If you need anything, just call for room service.”
Oliver slept with the door open. He wasn't exactly sure why, but he wanted to hear what Flint was up to. So he woke up several times every hour when Flint woke up coughing or sneezing; it was mostly sneezing. With a blanket draped around his shoulders, Oliver headed to the doorway of his bedroom and looked out over the living room, watching Flint though Flint didn't see him watching. He was tired, of course, but didn't feel quite right sleeping peacefully when his house guest felt so miserable. Several times, he sat down in his doorway, back against one side of the doorjamb and knees against the other. He nodded off while sitting there once.
Wearing nothing but sweatpants, and the blanket hugged around the rest of him, Oliver padded out to the living room around two in the morning. Flint lay on his back, sneezing repeatedly into a handkerchief. He winced slightly to see Oliver. “Didn't have t-to-ARSHOO! Sniff! get up on my… hah… account. RSHOOO!”
“Can I get you anything?” Oliver asked, then immediately stifled a yawn.
Flint shook his head. “Just… ha-hahSHOO! HERSHOO! SNIFF! Sniff, sniff. Just feeling sneezy. No help for it.”
Oliver nodded. “I'll go get you another hanky, then. And… how about a hot cup of tea?”
“Brilliant, yeah. Sniff!”
Though Flint started to get up, Oliver insisted he stay on the couch. “Stay here and try to rest.”
Flint shook his head and sat up. “Go back to bed. I can make my own fucking… tea… ha-ERHIHSHHH! HEHSHOO!” His whole body shook at the force of the sneezes, and Oliver could see they were taking a lot out of him. It was the middle of the night and Oliver felt exhausted; he wasn't even the one sneezing. He could only imagine how tired Flint must feel. The last thing he wanted was Flint half dead and trying to use a stove in an unfamiliar kitchen. Oliver would be far less uncomfortable brewing a pot of tea then rushing out of a burning down flat. “hahh-HAHSHOO! ARISHHHH! HERSHOO! Sniff! I can do it.”
“Don't hold it against me if I don't believe you. Now lie down and wait for your tea.” He grasped Flint's shoulder and pushed him back. “Don't make me get my wand out and bind you to this couch.” Though smiling at the obviously empty threat, the man still went down without a fight and stayed down.
Then Oliver headed to the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, eyes closed, until the kettle whistled. Marcus stayed awake long enough to drink his tea, but fell asleep when Oliver went to get another handkerchief and an extra pillow to prop him up. Flint woke groggily and let Oliver slide the second pillow under his head, then drifted right back off again.
The congestion was making Flint cough, but the coughing kept him up as much as the sneezing did. After Flint fell asleep following an especially bad bout of coughing, Oliver tip-toed in with a tall glass of water. He left it on the coffee table. Flint woke back up not long after that, coughed, drank at once, and then whispered into the darkness of the living room, “Thanks, Wood. You're a lifesaver.” Oliver went back to bed, smiling.
Oliver apparated into his apartment to be quiet, but found Flint was already awake. One of the chasers for the Bats was sitting up on the couch and sneezing yet again. He glanced up and smiled at Oliver, then buried his face in a hanky. “hahhh-AHShooo! URSHOO! URCHOOO!”
“Bless you.” Oliver looked around the apartment. “Profit arrive yet?”
Flint shook his head and blew his nose. “You wedt out?” He blew some more.
Oliver held up a paper bag. “I usually make an energy drink and go running in the mornings. I was jogging past a bakery this morning and thought you might want something better than porridge to eat for breakfast.”
Soon the whole flat was filled with the scent of irresistible fresh baked goods. There were bagels, muffins, and one loaf of banana nut bread. Flint had a bit of everything, then a bit more of everything. Oliver had some bread and was considering what so much starch would do to his physique when the owl delivering the Daily Profit arrived. Oliver had left his bedroom window open for owls so there wouldn't be a draft in the living room to bother Flint.
Oliver nearly overturned the coffee table in his mad dash to get to the paper. He had meant to dive right into it like usual, but was temporarily distracted by the feature article starting on the front page about the Tri-Wizard Tournament at Hogwarts. It had been the photo of the school champions which had distracted him, the faces of former teammate, Harry Potter, and former fling, Cedric Diggory, staring back at him. He wondered what they would say if they knew who had spent the night on his sofa, and decided he didn't really care.
He promised himself to go back and read the article in full, but flipped quickly through the paper until he got to the Quidditch results. There had been three matches over the weekend, and the rankings would be out today.
“You looking at sports?” Flint asked. Oliver nodded. “Figured. Read out loud, then,”
So Oliver did. The write-up of their game wasn't half bad, even though the two weren't mentioned specifically in it. They both got listed in the stats for having made three goals, in Flint's case, and fifty-two stops, in Oliver's case. “Magpies creamed the Kestrels 250 to 80. No surprise there,” Oliver went on. “And, blimey, the Chudley Cannons actually won another game. Against the Wasps, no less. Close game, but still… probably wet themselves in shock. Says the Wasps fans refused to leave the stands afterwards, they were so depressed.”
Flint laughed. “Serves 'em right. Those Stingers piss me off, always buzzing whenever I get the Quaffle. Makes me want to send a bludger right at the stands.” He winked at Oliver, who had been hoping until then that Flint was indeed joking.
After breakfast, there wasn't much more to do except part company. Oliver had to get to practice by eleven and Flint's team was scheduled to head back to Northern Ireland just after lunch. Flint got dressed while Oliver read the paper. The article barely mentioned Ced as the writer seemed to favor Potter. Oliver had a tough time believing half the stuff she wrote about him, though. So the picture on the front page was pretty much the best part of the whole article.
“Hey, Wood?” Oliver looked up at Flint. “I'm heading out. But… just wanted to thank you.”
“Scottish hospitality,” Oliver said, shrugging humbly. He got up to walk Flint out.
Flint shook his head. “Don't be like that. It was damn nice of you, and you know it. So accept my gratitude or I'll kick your arse the next time I see you.”
Oliver smiled and risked a, “I hope you'll consider doing something else to my arse next time.” His face flushed but his words were met by a strong kiss. Like his gameplay, Flint was rough with his kisses. His teeth crashed against Oliver's and his tongue was all over the damn place. But his head was tilted and his hand gently cupped Oliver's jaw on one side, thumb stroking Oliver's cheek. And when Oliver relaxed and got used to the sensation, it was actually rather pleasant. Beyond pleasant- it was downright arousing. Just when he didn't want it to stop, Flint pulled back.
Flint turned and sneezed freely, stamping his foot in frustration afterwards. “HAR-UHHSSSHHHH! Sniff! SNIFF! Fuck, I hope I didn't just give you this cold.”
“I can take Pepper-up,” Oliver said, shrugging. He wiped his hand across his seriously wet lips. “That was… well, it was definitely worth it.” He smiled at Flint. “Guess that means there will be a next time.”
“What can I say? I play dirty.”
“I thought you said it was skill.”
Flint grinned. “That, too.”