#they're very silly and can be trusted around sharp items

[pumpkingutz52]

me when i draw instead of focusing on math/spanish

[self-preservation-fic]

hello. i just miss these two. any ideas what they're up to? <3

I sure do! I’m pretty busy with the other fandom I’m in at the moment, but I keep going back and working on the second part of this fic because it’s been my baby for forever and I’m not about to let it go :’) 

Where the sequel begins, the guys are on Christmas break, Marcus is with his parents + sister, Oliver is off with his own family. The second fic is going to have a darker tone with some family drama. (And some Oliver POV  👀) The main plot will centre around Marcus making his decision on what to do after her graduates and whether he wants to help the Order of the Phoenix out or not have any part in the conflict to come. 

Here’s a snippet from the beginning of the fic, I’m rating it M for some not-explicit sexual content. Please forgive any grammar/spelling errors, it’s still rough! 

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Marcus let his door swing open on silent hinges. His room was way cleaner than Marcus had ever kept it. All of his personal belongings tucked neatly away and the covers pulled taut across so taut across the bed he wondered if they were meant to pin him there. He felt like an adult stuck in a dollhouse and this room wasn’t his anymore. Everything of value he’d brought with him to Hogwarts, he didn’t trust it here alone.

Marcus was careful to hang up his suit before pulling on sweats and rifling through his drawers for a shirt. All of his pent up worrying from the train ride here had manifested itself in a nearly compulsive need to run. He had to dig into the bowels of his drawers to find an appropriately ratty t-shirt.

As he searched, he could pick out the careful tread of his mother’s footsteps down the hall. Drafty old houses with minimal insulation were perfect for eavesdropping and terrible for keeping secrets.

“Come in,” he called, snagging a t-shirt when he heard the wrap of her knuckles against the door. He made sure to raise his voice just loud enough for her to hear, not more.

The door creaked on its hinges. “I just want to know--” her voice was cut off by a sharp intake of breath. Marcus froze, shirt halfway on, he was about to hall it over his head when his mother’s voice stopped him.

“Marcus, honey, what happened?”

Shit, he knew what she saw and couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t pretty, the round pink scar on his right shoulder, the skin raised and puckered like a muggle bullet wound. Magic always leaves a mark, Marcus thought ruefully.

“What did you do?” she asked and Marcus could feel the prickle of heat creeping down his back.

“It’s nothing Mom, it was stupid.” He assured, tugging his shirt the rest of the way down and turning to meet her gaze.

Her eyes stuck to his shoulder as if she could see right through him. “That doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

“I was protecting a friend,” he settled, knowing she wouldn’t drop it until he gave her something.

That pricked her interests. “Do I know this friend?”

“No--I don’t know--maybe.” He turned back around and busied himself with grabbing random items of clothing from his luggage for her to give the house elf to wash. No matter where you lived and who you descended from, everyone knew everyone else's business at Hogwarts. He wondered if he told her Oliver’s name if she’d remember going to school with his mother. He wondered how long she’d try to pretend it was okay that they talked.

“Okay,” she acquiesced, quietly, and he let out a nearly restrained sigh of quiet relief.

He handed her the messy bundle he’d collected, and when she took it from him her hands trapped his, holding him tight and forcing him to look her in the eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. Their warm hazel had turned watery. “You know you can always talk to me, I love you so much.” Her bottom lip wobbled slightly and Marcus sighed.

“Mom--” Detaching her hands gently from where they gripped him, he pulled her in over the laundry. She was a tall woman, but even with the bundle pressed between them she still felt small. “Of course I know,” he said, trying his best not to ruffle her perfectly waved hair.

“I just wish you’d write more,” She whispered and he swallowed, sometimes he forgot how long it must be for her in between visits. Time always flew by at Hogwarts and Marcus had always been shit at writing, like he was shit at reading, and it was just easier not to do it most of the time even if he did have something to say. He was blanking now. Lips glued shut.

“I know, I’m sorry.” was all that he could say. It felt lame out in the air between him. All that worry had transformed into leaden guilty in his stomach. There had hardly been any room left to breathe this year between school quidditch, his father--Oliver-- somehow between all of that part of him had forgotten about his mom. “Sorry,” he repeated, and it still doesn't feel like enough.

When she pulled away she waved her hand as if she could dispel her own emotion. Her voice was still thin when she spoke. “Don’t worry about me, I’m just being silly.”

He gripped her shoulders, giving them a squeeze as if he could instill in her the confidence he himself didn’t feel. “Mom, you're not being silly. I should have written, I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said with a nod and he let her shoulders go. The hand not clutching the bundle drifted up to brush his hair back and down the side of his face. “Oh, sweetheart wish you’d talk to me.”

Marcus clenched his eyes shut. He was really not prepared to do this now.  “Mom--”

“Estelle!” Marcus felt her fingers reflexively tense against his cheek at his father’s voice calling from bellow-stairs. He opened his eyes, standing up straighter, not realizing that he’d sagged into her palm.

Stepping back her lip caught between her teeth and he gave her a smile, saying in the most reassuring voice he could muster. “It's alright, I’m okay.”

With a hesitant nod, she turned, stepping from the room and closing the door softly between them. He waited until he heard her heels clicking back down the hall.

Sagging against the door, Marcus let his head thump back against the door. Pinching his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his now, he suppressed the quelling frustration and anger under his skin, picturing instead a pair of deft arms holding him up. He let out a shuddering breath. He couldn’t leave, he couldn’t and it made him nauseous.

Fishing a flimsy chain out of the pocket of his sweats, Marcus inspected the transfigured metal chain with a small lion gangling from it once again as if he hadn't spent the entire train ride doing so when he thought nobody was watching. It had meant to be a joke, Oliver had produced it from seemingly nowhere and presented it to him with a wry smile. It was the sort of trinket you’d find in Hogsmead shops selling quidditch memorabilia.

“So you don’t forget me,” Oliver had said with an undercurrent of hopeful honesty. He was laid out on Marcus’ bed in his dormitory, looking very at home there, Marcus sat cross-legged on the mattress beside him.

“You shouldn't have,” Marcus had said drily, eyeing the lion as it gave a soundless roar. He put it on anyways, because it made Oliver smile. “And I didn’t get you anything?” Marcus had said, bending over to crowd him against the mattress to press a quick succession of messy kisses to Oliver's face as he had half-heartedly tried to escape.

Eventually, he had stopped the assault, keeping close so that he could more easily study Oliver’s face. It was only Christmas, but he didn’t want to forget a single thing about it. Slowly the smile Marcus had put there slipped from Olver’s face. A warm, square hand reached up to smooth the hair from his face. Marcus allowed himself to melt into the touch, knowing that soon it wouldn’t be there at all. “No, really, you shouldn’t have,” he had said, whispering even though no one was around. He wanted Oliver to know the words were only for him. “Could never forget you.”

The hand in his hair brought him down until his face was pressed to the hinge of Oliver’s jaw, breathing in the comforting scent of his body and trying to pretend he wasn’t about to fall apart.

Fingers carded through his hair as his breath caught and held in his throat. Wrapping one hand around Oliver’s waist the other wormed up under his sweater to feel the warm skin and smooth planes of muscle that hid there. He knew he wasn’t making any noises--he was barely breathing as it was--and yet Oliver was still murmuring shhh noises into his hair.

“Marc, hey, look at me.” Marcuse reluctantly pulled back, just enough to do so while still keeping Oliver close as they lay on their sides. Oliver worried at his lip, his fingers continuing their trail from his brow, down the uneven line of his nose, to the thin set of his lips and the dip in his chin before Marcus caught it and tangled it in his own.

“Hey,” Oliver repeated, looking hesitant and apprehension welled up in Marcus’ chest before he finally stopped worrying at his lip and squeezed Marcus’ hand hard enough to almost be painful. “I love you.”

The rushing sound in his head was so loud he barely heard the pained noise that ripped from his chest. Bending down to press his mouth firmly against Oliver’s own, his brain hazy with want, he repeated I love you, I love you, I love you--over and over in his head. Oliver opened for him willingly, making soft noises against his mouth, his fingers tightening and tugging lightly in Marcus’ hair. Tilted his head, he let himself sink into the soft warmth of his mouth, pushing his hands up further to feel Oliver’s ribs expand and contract tightly under his fingers.

Pulling back he gasped. “I--I--” the words getting trapped in his throat.

“Shhh,” Oliver said, sweeping his thumb over the swell of his bottom lip, then up over the arch of his cheeks. “It’s okay I know.”

Kissing wetly over his jaw and down his neck in apology. He has so many things to apologize for. Rucking his hands up to brush a thumb over his nipple, Oliver’s breath hitched and he full body tensed before relaxing boneless into the bed with a sigh. Pressing a line of kisses down his breast bone, Oliver arched into his touch as he reached the soft dip of his stomach nosing at the fine line of hair there.

Marcus wished it didn’t have to be like this, he wondered how long Oliver would put up with it, how far his patience would stretch. Tugging on his hair, Marcus looked up and this time Oliver’s eyes weren't hesitant, but fierce. “I love you,” Oliver said and Marcus felt it burn hot and quick in his chest. Overwhelmed, he gripped Oliver’s hand tighter before pulling it away to make quick work of his belt.

Mouthing a wet spot into the fabric of his boxers, Marcus lingered there before hooking his fingers in and tugging it down. He sucked a possessive bruise into the soft skin of Oliver’s abdomen as he panted wetly above him. Marcus comes with Oliver’s hands wound in his hair, his body curled taught over him and a hand down the front of his pants. He let Oliver come in his mouth, breathing “I love you’s” in a mantra around shaky moans. Marcus squeezed his eyes through the wetness prickling at the corners and moaned in turn.

Marcus blinked back to the present, thumbing the lion in consideration. Everything about it was just so achingly Oliver. Moving over to the mirror over his dresser, he fastened it around his neck. The chain was short but just long enough to tuck under the collar of his shit, hidden away and safe. The metal was cold against his skin, pressing his palm over it, he felt the indentation through the fabric as it slowly grew skin-warm, a heavy comfort against the hollow of his throat.