Everything Oliver does with Marcus is like fighting. Quidditch is a war, his men against Marcus's and both of them on the front lines. Meeting in the corridors is a duel, sharp jabs with fingers and wands and words. And kissing -- kissing is a brawl.
Marcus fists the front of Oliver's robes and yanks him in. Oliver trips Marcus and over they go, rolling on the ground as they try to eat each other's faces off. Marcus twists Oliver's arm behind him and Oliver bites Marcus's lip and they both wince and swear.
Oliver's lungs work hard to get enough air in. This takes more stamina than Quidditch, more cunning than duelling. Pain sears through his arm and he wonders if Marcus will break it one day by accident. Then he wonders if it will be an accident.
They're still kissing. Whatever else they do, they're joined here, mouth to mouth, mouth to skin. Oliver jerks his arm free and pins Marcus to the ground.
Everything is a fight and so someone has to win. This time it's Oliver. Marcus hates to lose but he pays his forfeit when he does. Oliver's shoulder throbs as Marcus goes down on him and the rhythms are just out of sync.
Marcus always hates to lose. Sometimes, Oliver hates to win. Sometimes, Oliver hates to fight.
The next time Marcus twists his arm up behind his back, Oliver bites his own lip instead and shows his throat and whispers, "Please." Marcus stares a moment and then he smiles at Oliver, an ugly smile with an ugly mouth, and pushes Oliver's arm higher until Oliver is lightheaded with the pain. Marcus kisses Oliver, hissing terrible names into Oliver's mouth. Oliver's knees turn to water and he sinks easily, gratefully, when Marcus pushes him down.
Sometimes, both of them can win.