series title: I think I will
chapter title: control (1/?)
author: midnightregret
rating: r
warning: s.l.a.s.h, language
disclaimer: not bleedin ours
a/n: here we go again!!
I think I will
Chapter One: Control
By regret
When my mind is done playing tricks on me
And the world is crashing
I think about it
I think I will
-Lucia, I Think I Will
When it's late at night, and the air is too cool against my flesh, I can't help but think about it.
Think about his warmth.
Wish for it.
Wish for it to cover me, everywhere…
I know I shouldn't…
Shouldn't think about his kewpie doll mouth.
It's too feminine for a boy so tall…
Shouldn't think about his Quidditch-calloused hands.
How they would feel against my cock, enticing and tender-tough.
Shouldn't think about his clear, unblemished skin.
The way purpled bruises would look against flesh not even the sun sees.
Shouldn't think about *him*.
But I do…
Can't help myself…
No matter that I don't want to.
No matter that he'd never have me.
No matter that he'd make me hurt him.
No matter that I'd have to leave him.
Not that I wouldn't want to, of course.
Fuck.
Who'm I kidding??
Certainly not myself…
And nobody else matters…
Not when my thoughts stray to him.
Not when I'm so hard it hurts and there's nothing I can do about.
Not when there's nothing I *want* to do about it, because nothing could ever be as good his mouth on my dick, my hands in his hair, as he tries to eat me alive and swallow me whole.
As he enjoys it, every blissful second…
Damn, I really need to get a hobby.
~*~
//Get it together Flint! You are *not* loitering in the changing rooms, waiting for *him* to show up! You're not! It doesn't matter that you know he always shows up early, by a good fifteen minutes, to get changed and strategize. It doesn't matter, because you're doing something *important*… Now if you could only figure out what the hell that is before he gets here…//
"Flint."
Ooooooh *shit*!
It's all I can do not to moan when I hear him say my name.
His tone clipped, but, somehow, not *cold*.
Thank *GOD* for his bloody Gryffindor honor, else wise I'd *never* get to hear him say my name…
Though the jury's still out on whether or not that would be a good thing or a bad thing…
And PISS!
I've still not found something to do.
An excuse to still be here…
And an excuse to *stay*…
"Wood," I try my damndest to be impassive, but I'm not *quite* sure I succeed.
Especially not when he shoots me a covert glance from under lashes so long it should be a sin.
A glance that makes me whole body flush.
A glance that makes certain parts of my anatomy stand up and take notice.
Which is *really* not good, considering I've just realized that I'm not dressed.
That I'm standing about in only a thin pair of boxer shorts.
A thin pair of boxer shorts that will leave *nothing* to the imagination in all of about two seconds…
//Well, *there's* your excuse to stay, you prat. Spent so much time looking for one, and now you wish it'd *disappear*!!//
I can't help but laugh at the thought.
And I know he's looking at me again, but I can't bring myself to care.
I *must* be a masochist, or, at least, severely twisted…
"Alright there, Flint?"
His tone is curious and it sends another shiver down my spine.
No to mention short-circuiting my brain in favor of my cock…
"MmmHmm. Just *dandy* Wood, and yourself?" I ask, almost giddy (and *far* too aroused), as I pull on my trousers as quickly as can pass for normal.
Despite the fact that, with every layer of clothing added, my excuse to be near him, his warmth, his eyes, his voice, slides through my fingertips and mocks me with good-bye.
And Oliver?
He just eyes me suspiciously, not answering…
As if he fears that I've laid some sort of trap…
As if answering could be the death of him (but you never know, it might)…
As if I've grown a third head or started spouting Shakespeare or *some*thing…
Though, I do suppose, that it's not often a Slytherin is borderline cordial, *or* giddy, when in the presence of a Gryffindor.
I'm sure as hell not.
But what can I say?
It's *him*, and I'm certifiable…
Pulling my sweater over my head I realize my 'excuse' is gone…
Nothing for it now.
Which is probably a GOOD thing…
Probably…
Closing my locker I cast him a glance.
And immediately I know I *really* shouldn't've…
Because he's now the one clad only in his boxers.
In *blue* boxers, with moving… Snoopy's? on them?
But… isn't that a *Muggle* cartoon?
Not that I know Muggle cartoons or anything and my GOD! he's looking at me checking out his package!
I MEAN HIS BOXERS!
Heh…
And Oliver, the damned unflappable bastard he is, just cocks an eyebrow and says, "They were a gift from my cousin. It was the funniest thing watching his eyes bug outta his head when I got the Snoopy's to start movin' about."
"Oh…"
Why the hell is he telling me this?
Why the hell do I care?
And just why the hell do I feel the urge to *laugh*??
What has gotten into me?
I really think I'm loosing my mind…
I've always been so in control…
But it seems like all day today I have been *grossly* out of sync…
As if I'm living a waking dream…
And if this is only a dream…
It doesn't matter that an awkward silence has befallen us…
It doesn't matter that I'm leaning into him, ever so slightly…
It doesn't matter that his breath catches as he unconsciously licks his lips…
It does, however, matter when he breaks the moment by giving his head a good shake…
It does, however, matter when he begins to glare at me in earnest, a slight flush to his cheeks…
And it does, however, matter when he says, "What the fuck are you playing at, Flint," his voice cold and rough and *distant*, breaking my dream into a thousand little pieces.
Pieces too small to pick back up again…
I'd never be able to find them all…
Goddamn him!
How *dare* he!
It was *my* dream, NOT HIS!
"*This*," is all I manage to grind out as I lunge at him, hands catching him about the shoulders and shoving him back against the lockers, hard.
I've barely the time to register the look of shock on his face, the delicious little gasp that escapes those parted lips before I crush my mouth down upon his.
No finesse, no tenderness, just force and pressure and *need*.
And my GOD!
What am I doing??
And I didn't just whimper against his, still parted, lips.
And his hands didn't just come about my waist too pull me closer, but to push me away.
And he didn't just tremble and move his mouth against mine in what could be considered an encouraging manner.
And he *certainly* didn't try to follow my lips as I pulled away…
Didn't let loose a slight mewling sound as I jumped away from him, tripping over the bench.
Didn't stand there looking shocked, not angry or repulsed or violent, as I got up and ran out of the changing room.
No, most definitely not.
That was all my imagination.
Wishful thinking and all…
*Shit*!
I left my Quidditch bag behind…
But there's no way in hell I'm going back for it.
The Gryffindor's are starting arrive now…
Oh, that would *not* have been good…
I'm going to be sick, I'm quite certain of it…
Fuck…
It's gonna be a looooooooong day.
