Word Count: 1500
Summary: Ron finds that he's packing equipment enough for a win while on the road—even if it's an off-pitch victory.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling, and owned by J. K. Rowling and various publishers, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by the posting of this fic.
Author's Notes: A gift for shocolate! Thank you, chat ladies, for beta'ing. *huggles*
Ron was signing the inn's register when he noticed, two signatures above his own, an intriguing name: "Oliver Biggerstaff." Given that the Cannons had just been trounced by Puddlemere United, there was no question in his mind that the pseudonym belonged to Wood.
Biggerstaff is right, he thought, his mind racing with images of the "enemy" Keeper. "Bet he never lets anything through off the field, either," he muttered.
"Pardon me, sir?" the clerk asked.
"Er, nothing," Ron said, taking his key and flushing as he bent to pick up his bag before walking hastily towards the stairs.
He needed a wash. He needed a wank. He needed a win.
Wood wasn't about to help him with any of those things.
The inn was old and out of the way; the Cannons didn't rate anything posh, not with their record. As captain, however, Ron rated a room with its own bath, and that was nothing to sneeze at after another loss on the pitch.
At least the water will be hot, Ron told himself, forcing his key into the ancient lock of his door. I hope the water will be hot, anyway.
Sometimes it was, and Ron was an optimist, wasn't he? That's why he'd stayed with his favourite team, right? He noticed that something was wrong as he shoved the door open, however, and it wasn't rusting hinges.
"Oi! Did you bring those towels after all, love?"
A male voice. A familiar voice. Wood's voice. But what was Wood doing in his room?
And what lucky bird's bringing you towels? Ron was wondering, when Puddlemere's Keeper stepped, naked, into the room.
Steam rose from Wood's broad body, and Ron tried not to follow the path of the water cascading down it. "W—ood," he stammered, feeling foolish. "You're in my room."
Wood chuckled. "I'm pretty sure this is my room."
"Right, I'll just be going, then," Ron replied, pleased at his own coherence as the strain of holding his gaze level began to take its toll.
He started when a warm hand landed on his shoulder. "Not so fast. You look like a man in need of a wash. It's all yours," Wood offered, tilting his head towards all that lovely steam.
Ron's mind blanked for half a second, but then he ducked his head by way of a nod and darted into the loo, practically slamming the door behind him.
"Biggerstaff" wasn't just a pseudonym—and Wood was in his room! Naked. Dripping. Hot.
Naked. "Fuck," Ron muttered, shucking his kit and grabbing his own "bat" by its base to steady himself, but not for long.
No matter that Wood was just outside the door—naked—and the door was unlocked—which meant that naked Wood's bigger staff might come barging in unannounced—Ron had never needed a wank more. His hand shifted, slipped up his prick and then down it without his really thinking about it—who really had to think about it?—while Wood's grin slid across his consciousness and transformed into a pucker, and his hand became Wood's lips.
He was coming all over them in a deep groan seconds later.
Moving quickly, Ron stepped under the hot water and reached for the limp flannel lying on the edge of the sink. He was washing himself vigorously when he realised that the cloth touching his cock had most likely lately been touching Wood's, and his prick twitched at the thought.
It was then that the gust of cold air made him shiver. Looking up, Ron froze in mid-scrub to see Wood grinning at him from under the lintel of the now-open door.
"Yeah," Wood, for whom keeping a level gaze didn't seem to be any more a priority than being clothed, said, "I like to take the edge off after a game, too."
Ron's prick practically jumped at his words.
"Looks like you need help with that," Wood continued, stepping into the shower and moving a hand over Ron's. "Perhaps a little more lubrication?"
Naked. Kneeling! He's—"fuck!"
Wood's mouth was hot, as well, hot, wet, demanding, and perfect. It had Ron's full attention in no time, and all Ron could do was to steady himself by gripping Wood's surprisingly soft hair and try to stifle his moans.
"Mm, mmm," Wood murmured, moving his lips teasingly up Ron's prick and then sadly off it. "Don't hold back. I want to hear you."
That was hot, too.
"Merlin, Wood. I—"
"Right, Oliv—er. Ungh!" So hot, so fast, so fucking good!
And the tongue thing. Who did that? Why had no one ever done it to him before?
Ron barked out a half-laugh, half-moan and slid down the wall of the shower as a second orgasm shot through him, only to find himself in Oliver's lap. And then Oliver was feeding Ron's come back to him in a thorough, tongue-tingling kiss, the kind of kiss that Ron hadn't experienced in ages.
Hot things never happened to Ron, at least, not "Wood-hot" things.
I can't believe—
"Lucky," Oliver said, pulling away. "Wasn't it?"
Ron blinked, still too turned on to quite believe his own luck. "Pardon?"
"Your finding yourself in my room?"
"Mine," Ron replied, his hand inadvertently grazing Oliver's cock.
"Do I h—ave a bed?"
"That you do," Oliver replied, rising and holding out a hand for Ron, who grasped it with his free one.
There was no way that Ron was giving up Wood's staff. Not now. Not after months of imagining—
"You're staring. Come on," Oliver insisted, pulling himself free. "I'll give you something to stare it."
Ron swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and followed Oliver to the bed—upon which Oliver was splayed, belly down, arse up.
Wriggling his arse, Oliver murmured hoarsely, "That's the idea."
Fuck! He wants me to shag him!
Captain and Keeper or no, Ron had never been presented with anyone's arse for the taking before. He fell on Oliver like Harry on a Snitch, spreading his cheeks and licking one broad stripe between them.
Oliver made some sort of sexy hissing noise.
That's got to be a good sign, thought Ron, experimentally jabbing at Oliver with tiny presses of his tongue and feeling rather dizzy as he lost more blood to his prick.
It wasn't possible that he was hard again, was it? Ron decided not to worry about it. After all, he was hard again, and his tongue—he—was making Oliver moan.
"Please, I want—yes, please, Ron—more! Fuck me."
Beg. He's begging!
No one had ever begged Ron to fuck him before, either.
Hottest. Thing. Ever, Ron thought, teasing Oliver with a fingertip.
When he dipped it inside, Oliver slammed his arse up so hard into Ron's chin that Ron thought he might pass out, but his lust, his need for Oliver's arse was too great to do anything so stupid as that.
"Going to . . . to fuck you . . . soon," Ron panted, working Oliver with finger- and tongue-tips, as he delighted in playing with the grasping, greedy interior muscles of the other man.
"N—now, please. Now, Ron."
The guttural, alien sound that rolled through Ron as he pushed his prick into Oliver's arse might have been embarrassing as hell if not for the unyieldingly hot, undulating reception that Ron was receiving; it overwhelmed his every thought. All he could do was thrust and gasp, thrust and drown in the scent and sound and suction of Oliver's body: it was like nothing Ron had ever experienced before.
Keep you. Gonna . . . keep . . . you, he thought, just as his third orgasm, so intense that Ron almost feared for his bollocks, slammed through his body. "FUCK!"
After many long moments of fighting for breath while pin-pricks of pleasure fired through his every nerve-ending with decreasing strength, Ron succumbed to the sensation of post-coital satiation and realised that Oliver had moved, had moved them, into a sticky embrace.
That was beyond hot; it was lovely. Most blokes just rolled over and fell asleep, snoring.
I just shagged Oliver Wood, and he's still here—with me. "Wow."
"Couldn't agree more," Oliver murmured, tightening his arms around Ron. "You're bloody amazing, Weasley."
"Yeah, Ron. 'M glad he bollocksed up the room assignment. Didn't really think the clerk would come up with my 'towels', anyway, and he wasn't really my type."
"You, er, have a type?"
Oliver rolled over on top of him and bent to press his lips to Ron's. "I do now—tall, hot Keepers with magnificent pricks."
He likes my prick! Ron inwardly exclaimed, opening his mouth in astonishment—only to feel Oliver suck his tongue into his mouth. Rallying to the idea that Oliver might like to shag him, Ron decided, My prick might not be staff-worthy, but it hasn't let me down yet.
And there was no denying that Oliver enjoyed it, even though it was attached to a Quidditch player whose team hadn't yet won a game that season.
To Ron's way of thinking, this happy fact was win enough for one man.