s l i p p e r y . w h e n . w e t

Slippery When Wet
[by victoria p.]

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Oliver's a keeper.

Notes: Thanks to Flora and setissmafor the speedy and helpful betas. According to the first movie, in his first Quidditch match, Oliver took a Bludger to the head two minutes into the game and woke up a week later in the hospital wing. I've mentioned that 'cause it's funny. Written for rubykate, who requested: charlie/oliver, at hogwarts. lots of sexual tension before smutty showerscene. in the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest. I've used JKR's wonky math to get Charlie and Oliver in school at the same time.

Warnings: Abuse of italics. Rampant Charlie love. Underage boyrubbing.

Date: August 22, 2004

Oliver loves Quidditch.

Quidditch is the thing he loves most about being at Hogwarts. In fact, some days, Quidditch is the only thing he loves about Hogwarts. He doesn't even mind having to get up before the sun, or practicing in the freezing rain, or the fact that he's had to wait until his fourth year to start.

So yes, Quidditch is his favorite thing about being a wizard, being at Hogwarts and being Oliver Wood.

Well, Quidditch, and the benefits of showering with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, including one particular Seeker.

Not that Oliver takes advantage-- well, okay, maybe a little. He watches Charlie Weasley soap himself, large, soft, quick-fingered Seeker's hands running over a broad, freckled chest, flat belly and well-muscled thighs, water sluicing over his thick, half-hard cock and perfect arse. Oliver wants to get down on his knees and thank whoever designed the locker room shower, and possibly Charlie's parents, as well.

He thinks sometimes that Charlie catches him and grins, but he looks away quickly, embarrassed. He's a fourth year and just promoted to a starting role; Charlie is the captain and the best Seeker Gryffindor's seen in years. Oliver knows he's out of his league there.

Oliver turns the cold water up, trying to outlast everyone so he can wank in peace. He jumps, startled out of his thoughts, when Charlie claps him on the shoulder.

"You'll be fine on Saturday," Charlie says encouragingly.

Oliver nods, pleased that his captain has confidence in him. Confidence is vital to winning, and winning is the most important thing of all.

"Be careful on the tile," Charlie says. "It gets slippery, and we don't want you getting hurt. A few years ago, our best Beater missed the game against Hufflepuff." Charlie leans in, radiating heat, and whispers, "He was wanking in here after practice, and he fell and hit his head."

Before Oliver can respond, Charlie walks away, and Oliver watches him hungrily, firm muscles flexing under tanned, freckled skin.

Oliver is still warm where Charlie touched him, and when he closes his eyes, he imagines those big, soft Seeker's hands running all over his body. He ignores Charlie's not-so-subtle warning, turns the hot water back on, and starts touching himself, lightly at first, but with intent. He moves his fingers up and down his sides, feathering over his belly, where he's a bit ticklish. He touches his thighs, stroking the groove where leg joins body, his cock already so hard he wants to die, but he doesn't touch it yet. Patience is the key to being a good Keeper, and it's the key to a good wank, as well.

He rubs his hands over his nipples, hard against his palms, and tweaks first one, then the other, then both at the same time, enjoying the sparks of pleasure and need that race through him. He doesn't worry about falling; he's steady on his feet, and he leans against the wall, imagining it is Charlie's body behind him.

He grabs the soap, slicks his hands with it. He strokes himself firmly from base to tip, occasionally running his thumb along the slit, imagining his hand is Charlie's hot, wet mouth, Charlie's tongue swirling over the head, until his balls tighten and he comes with a groan that echoes through the empty shower.

He imagines Charlie coming back in and finding him there, and the thought is enough to make his spent cock twitch again, but his skin is wrinkled from being in the shower so long, and he doesn't want to miss dinner. He cleans himself up and heads back to Gryffindor tower. He can always jack off again later, after all.

***

The morning of the game against Hufflepuff, Oliver pukes his guts out beforehand and lasts all of two minutes on the pitch. A bludger to the head knocks him out for a week. His teammates enjoy taking the mickey, and Oliver bears it with what grace he can -- "Could have happened to anyone," Charlie assures him laughingly, reaching out to ruffle his hair and sending a frisson of pleasure through him.

He comforts himself with the idea that at least he didn't slip and fall while wanking in the shower.

Their next game is against Ravenclaw, and Oliver knows how important it is, spends so much time training that Charlie stops him one afternoon and says, "Wood, slow down. We need you in top form on Saturday."

"Aye, Captain," he says, but it doesn't stop him from sneaking out after hours and practicing dodging Bludgers with the Weasley twins, who'll do almost anything so long as it breaks a rule or two and has to do with Quidditch.

On Friday night, Charlie catches him in the common room and walks with him to the fourth year dormitory.

"Is something wrong?" Oliver asks at this unusual behavior, hoping Charlie can't hear his racing heart. He rubs suddenly sweaty palms on his thighs, imagining yet again the feel of Charlie's hands on his skin. His face grows warm.

"Just making sure you get some rest before the game. I'll put you to bed myself and tie you to it if need be."

Oliver's sure Charlie's still speaking, as his mouth is still moving, but the images his words have conjured make the blood rush in Oliver's ears, and then head for points south. If he doesn't get to bed soon so he can take matters into his own hand, he's going to embarrass himself in front of Charlie.

"All right then, Wood?"

"Absolutely," Oliver answers, having no idea whatsoever what Charlie's just said, and not really caring.

Charlie grins and claps him on the back. "Excellent. See you in the morning."

Oliver rushes into his room, and has his cock in his hand almost before he's drawn the curtains on his bed. He forgets the muffling charm, and nearly bites through his lower lip when he comes so he doesn't cry out Charlie's name, because he doesn't think Percy would appreciate hearing it.

***

After the game, Oliver thinks there is nothing better than this feeling of winning. Everyone is whooping and hollering, rushing through their showers so they can get back to the common room to celebrate. Oliver lingers, as he always does, cold water turned up high, watching Charlie.

This time, he notices, Charlie is watching him back.

This time, instead of clapping him on the shoulder and walking out, Charlie stops, grins, and says, "Good game, Wood."

Oliver turns slightly, trying to hide his erection from its cause. Heat uncurls low in his belly the way Charlie's mouth curls in that cocky smile, the one that Oliver would swear is saying, I know you want me, because I am the best Seeker this school has seen in the last hundred years. Flash bastard.

"You won it," he blurts in response, which is only the truth. After two hours and twenty minutes, Charlie caught the Snitch, giving Gryffindor the victory.

"But you kept us in it," Charlie says, both hands on Oliver's shoulders now. "Like a good Keeper should."

"You-- you think I'm a good Keeper?" he asks, proud and pleased.

"Yeah," Charlie answers, leaning close, so his breath warms Oliver's lips, even in the chill of the cold spray. "I think you're going to be great."

And then his lips are against Oliver's and Charlie is kissing him. Kissing him. Oliver has only ever kissed two other people -- Bethany Douglas, who's in his Potions class, and Ian McLaren from Hufflepuff. And it was nothing like this.

Charlie's lips are soft and warm, almost comforting. Oliver gasps, and Charlie's tongue is in his mouth, hot and rough and sweet; Oliver can't help but moan a little at the touch of it against his own tongue, and the shock of heat it sends to his prick, which is already aching for touch.

As if he knows -- and right now, Oliver would believe Charlie knows everything -- Charlie's big, strong Seeker's hand, slick with soap, wraps around his cock, stroking firmly.

Oliver breaks away from the kiss, gasping, dying. "Merlin."

"No," Charlie says, his voice a low, insistent growl against Oliver's ear, "Charlie."

"Ch-Charlie," Oliver stutters, hips thrusting into Charlie's grip, part of him still not believing this is happening, it must be a dream.

Again, Charlie gives him a wicked grin and swings him back against the cool tile before taking his mouth in another searing kiss.

Then Charlie takes his hand away, and now Oliver really wants to die, because, oh God, did he do something wrong? He's never done this before, not with anyone but himself, let alone the captain of the Quidditch team, who he's looked up to since he was eleven.

"Charlie?" he says, and this time it comes out more like an actual word instead of a choked gasp.

"Shh," Charlie replies, and then he's pressing up against Oliver, flat, hard muscles beneath soft, tanned skin dusted with freckles. Based on the amount of heat Charlie's body generates, Oliver's not surprised his hair is fiery red.

Charlie thrusts, his broad hand wrapped around both their cocks, sliding against each other. The friction is delicious, unbearable, sparking along every nerve in his body. Okay, Oliver thinks, this is the best thing ever, even better than winning at Quidditch, and now I really am going to die.

And then he can't think at all, just thrust in response to Charlie's movements, hands gripping Charlie's wide shoulders for dear life because otherwise, he will crumple to the floor, bones turned to water by the heat arcing between them.

His balls tingle, tighten, and then he reaches for it, knows it's right there if he can just--

Charlie slides his hand around, fingers seeking the cleft of Oliver's arse, which is weird enough to startle Oliver back to consciousness as one slow, slick finger pushes inside him. He tightens up at the intrusion and Charlie whispers against his lips, shh shh. The finger moves in and out and he feels a hot, wild pulse deep inside--

"Fuck. Charlie."

Head thumping against the tile wall, hips jerking rapidly, the world disappearing in a red haze of heat and ecstasy, Oliver loses what little grasp on reality he had, spattering them both with warm, white, sticky fluid that washes away too quickly.

Charlie is still thrusting, head thrown back so the tendons of his neck stand out in sharp relief. He is sleek and wet, powerful, beautiful, his mouth open in a wide 'O' of pleasure as he comes against Oliver's belly and thighs, and his own.

When Charlie is done, he drops his head down onto Oliver's shoulder, wet hair plastered to his head. He presses soft kisses to Oliver's neck, the warmth of his lips a startling contrast to the cold water still beating down on them.

"Definitely a keeper," Charlie murmurs before his mouth closes over Oliver's again for a slow, lazy kiss that seems to go on forever.

Then Charlie pulls away, and says, "We'd better get to the party before someone misses us." He grins and claps Oliver on the shoulder. "And maybe later, we can do this again. Captain's job to look after his players, after all."

He saunters out, still smiling, and once he's gone, Oliver lets out a shaky sound that may, if it ever grows up, turn into a whoop. With Charlie's solid warmth gone, Oliver is chilly, and his legs are no longer capable of holding him up. He slides down the tile and sits, leaning his head against his drawn up knees, and breathing deeply.

This is the best day of his life so far.

He's a Keeper. Charlie Weasley said so, and Charlie Weasley knows.

End

~*~

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