Note: This story was written as part of the "Ring of Fire" game in the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum.
Challenge: "Waterfall, the person who picks the card has to write 100 words, the next person in the list 200 and so on until the last person in the list has 100x the amount of players words to write. Each person has to pick a prompt."
Prompts: Try by Pink (chosen) & 400 words (imposed) & "No, this is Patrick" (imposed)
Warnings: Reference to abusive relationship, mentions of gratuitous violence
The bed sheets are thin and coarse, the mattress is a lump of bumps, and metal springs dig into his body. Oliver shifts his butt, but another spring waits there as well. Normally, he would cast a spell, transforming the springs into fluffy cotton balls, but Madam Pomfrey confiscated his wand, and besides, his arm still throbs painfully every few minutes; he doubts he could have concentrated anyhow.
Usually, no one is very surprised when Oliver ends up in the hospital wing; it's to be expected on game day (Madam Pomfrey looks him up and down, "Mr. Wood, again?" "No, this is Patrick." Sarcastic to the end), but today remains a mystery for most: the play had been on the other side of the pitch, the heat on the opponents' Keeper; yet, the Bludger had been sent straight at Oliver, hovering idly away from the gameplay. Who had done it? They had been playing Slytherin; culprits are not lacking there.
Oliver knows. He knows because he can't keep his eyes off of him, however hard he has tried. Oliver knows what they say—he's dense, he's part troll—but on a broom, he's beautiful; he's a vibrant flame Oliver desperately wants to touch.
Besides, Oliver half-expected something to happen. He's always more aggressive than usual when something has happened off the pitch. It's like they're always dancing, avoiding each other gracefully yet not innocently—it's a capoeira, of sorts. On land, he's clumsy, and sometimes Oliver catches him, however fleetingly. But, on the pitch, Oliver sometimes gets caught up in his beauty and forgets the danger; he missteps, and his aggressor never misses the window of opportunity.
Other times, though, Oliver misses his cue on purpose, and what ensues is more of a messy wrestling session. At those times, Oliver knows he's bound to get hurt, but at least it means he gets to touch him.
(Later, after he's been discharged, Oliver gets cornered in an empty hallway. Strong hands grab him from behind and manhandle him into an unlocked utility closet they both know is there. There's no light, and Oliver is shoved against shelves; his fingers stab something sharp, and he cries out. The hands don't stop, don't relent the pressure. A mouth sucks and bites on his neck. Everything is hurried—their breath, their lust—and everything hurts. "Marcus… Marcus..." Oliver presses up against him. Don't stop.)