escort au (flintwood)
Marcus wonders whether Wood’s a virgin.
There’s nothing wrong with that, just with the way Wood is stammering, mouth agape when Marcus had merely taken a couple steps closer - it makes him wonder.
Probably not - quidditch stars, after all. He feels a dull burn sitting in his stomach at the thought of quidditch, what he could be doing instead of this - this escort-for-hire service that so many of his peers have been pulled into. At one point in his life, he’d have sneered, had laughed in the face of anyone who’d thought Flints could sink into that particular train of service. Now - well now, Pansy’s been snapped up by Potter in the same business, and Warrington seems almost proud of earning money this way - Marcus has discarded all thoughts of how the Wizarding World is supposed to work.
Wood is visibly astonished that Flint had shown up, Marcus can tell - sees the way the man’s hands tug unevenly at his sleeves and it’s so - so childlike in its bashfulness Marcus can’t bear to choke it down. Or maybe Wood hadn’t known it was him that he’d be getting and Marcus has the upper hand.
He could work with this.
“What are the rules?” Wood lifts his chin, falsely brash. There’s a faint blush painting his pale skin and Marcus is so close he could reach out and trace the faint freckles dusting Wood’s cheek.
“No violence, from you or for you. No using me for illegal purposes. Same for Dark magic.” Marcus lists off dryly, the words committed to memory. “But past that - well.”
Wood meets his gaze.
“Personal boundaries.” Marcus grins, sharp and direct in the dimly lit living room. “You’ll find that list is non-existent.”
He feels the shudder of Wood’s intake of breath - that’s how close they are right now, and Marcus can’t recall the reason he’d taken up this client. Maybe, when he’d first gotten the owl and the money (pre-paid, all real gold and Merlin knows how much he needed that), with the name neatly printed on a slip of parchment, maybe he’d been craving for a fight, terse words, getting under Wood’s skin - something he’s used to, something he knows.
Now, he’s not quite so sure.
Wood obviously didn’t request him, and now Marcus is wondering who did. And why Wood hasn’t yelled and shoved him out the door yet. There’s only one explanation, really.
“Wood.” Marcus repeats. “What can I do for you?”
It’s not a question, not really. Wood hasn’t moved back, and Marcus isn’t stupid, not with things like this.
Wood’s skin is clammy under his touch, like melting ice, but he doesn’t jerk or jump when Marcus closes the gap between them.
It’s different. Hesitant. Marcus shoves his thoughts away and does what he does best.
***
“Isn’t - isn’t this prostitution?”
Marcus stiffens, sweat still cooling on his skin and he feels more than sees Wood realize that he’s said something wrong.
“I didn’t -”
“Just because you get to continue with your old life doesn’t mean all of us do.” Marcus growls, untangling himself from the sheets. Wood sits up, hair mussed, looking conflicted. “Don’t be a bloody Gryffindor about this.”
Wood stumbles out after him, as Marcus summons his clothes and starts dressing. He doesn’t know why his heart is pounding, why Wood’s bluntness still manages to get under his skin. The bloody man’s got a sheet wrapped around him like some blushing bride and Marcus has too much bile under his tongue to spit at him.
“Flint, I’m sorry.”
“Whatever. I have the money, you got your fuck - there. You can keep your golden conscious clean.” He tugs his robes back on, fumbles with the lock on the door, and storms out.
The hall lights aren’t on. And when Marcus chances a look back at the stairs, there’s Wood, still staring at him like an idiot from the open door.