Title: All Talk
Author: rilla_licious
Characters/Pairings: Lee Jordan/Oliver Wood
Rating NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Stretch Yourself.
Other Warnings: Angry!sex, minimal lube, infidelity
Word Count: ~2000
Summary/Description: Lee's never been interested in Oliver Wood. Not one little bit.
Author's Notes: It was hard to choose something to stretch myself, because I'll write pretty much anything, but then I realized that I have a really hard time with first person POV pwp. So that's what I was going for here. Thanks to ellensmithee for the speedy beta!


The first thing you need to know is that I wasn't trying to get his attention. Well, that's not quite true, but I didn't go looking for what happened next. I'm a talker, always have been. I'm good at it, too. Can talk my way out of anything. Or into it. I've been accused of being in love with the sound of my own voice, and while that may not be too far from the truth, I've never considered using my vocal proclivity to mess around with someone else's man. Never crossed my mind.

I knew him well enough, before. We'd gone to Hogwarts together. I'd watched him play Quidditch, maybe even favored him when I called the matches. He was always so serious though, laced up so tightly. Sure, there had been jokes about loosening him up, literally and figuratively, but if you think I ever gave him a second thought, you're wrong. There was no interest there, none at all.

When he got married, I hardly cared. It had been coincidence that George took me out to get good and pissed that night. It was three months and two days before the anniversary of Fred's death, after all. What more of a reason did we need? Now, I'm a bloke who can hold his liquor, always have been, but straight Goblin Bourbon (the good kind of bourbon, imported from the Appalachian Holler Goblins in the States, not that weak-arsed Muggle stuff) can send me right under the table after a couple of glasses. And that night, that's just what it did.

The next day (late in the afternoon, after hours curled in the fetal position on the bedroom floor), I made a pact with myself. Self, I said, there are two things you are going to stop doing. Drinking Goblin Bourbon and pining after Oliver Wood. I blame the second part of that pact on residual drunkenness, you see. Because I was absolutely, positively not in love with Oliver Wood.

Who said anything about love, anyway?

The next time I saw him was the anniversary of Fred's death. The anniversary of all the deaths. We were all up at the castle, laying flowers on graves and memorials, walking around all weepy and introspective. I'm absolute shite at weepy and retrospective. Those are things that happen in your head, where it's quiet. As I've already established, I am not a bloke of the quiet variety. So I cornered him, out near the Quidditch pitch (because, really where else was I going to find him?) and made him talk.

If I were a better man, I'd tell you it was something cathartic, that I made him face feelings he'd suppressed the day of that last, terrible battle. I'd tell you that I wept for my dead friend, and he wept for his, and we walked out of it stronger, and more secure in the world. Fortunately, I am not a better man.

So instead I'll tell you the story of how we fucked in the supply shed.

It was easy enough to get him in there, speculating about whether or not they were still using some of the same sorry equipment they'd had in our day (the war made it seem like decades ago, not scant years), threatening to go check it out myself. The concept of breaking and entering on Hogwarts' sacred grounds horrified him. I think it excited him too.

When we were in there, I shut the door, pinned him against the wall.

"What's it like?" I said, and my voice was low, my breath hot on him as my lips trailed around his ear. "What's it like to fuck your wife?"

"Lee. Get off me."

I boxed him in with my arms. He reached around and grabbed a handful of my dreads. They were loose, hanging half-way down my back, and when he wrapped them around his fist, it hurt.

"How did you know I like it rough?" I said, and I smiled, because I thought I had a hand-up.

"All I know is that you like it," he said, and he pulled, hard. My cock fucking jumped at that, and I wanted him to do it again. "You'll shag anything that moves."

"Not true," I said. "You move, and I haven't shagged you."

"That's because I never let you," he said, and it was true.

Who has the hand-up now? I thought. Not you, Jordan.

"Are you going to let me now?" I said.

"Lee, I'm a married man."

And this is the part where I almost lost my nerve, because he might not have been bluffing. The problem with being a talker is that sometimes you don't spend enough time learning how to read people. I didn't know what he was thinking. I only knew that I had my pride, and if he was going to reject me again, I was going all out for it.

I pressed my palm against his crotch. "Does she get you this hard?" I said, and I was so fucking relieved to discover that I had, indeed, got him hard.

"Fuck. Lee. I can't do this."

"You want it," I said. "This time you want it. But you need to tell me you want it, or we both walk away unsatisfied. I can do things to you that you've never even thought about. I can make you hit the fucking sky without a broomstick."

He rolled his back against the wall, looked away, looked at me, looked away again. His hips rocked forward and he pressed into my hand, and all I could think about was shoving my hand down inside those jeans and grabbing him. But I didn't. I had to think about just breathing. Luckily, I never have to think about words.

"I could turn you inside out, Wood. The look in your eyes tells me you know it, too. I could make you see God. But I'm not going to do a thing unless you tell me you want it."

"Fine," he said, and he'd made me wait so long that I could have whimpered in relief. That could have been what he was going for. "I want you."

"You got it," I whispered, and faster than I could have done it with a spell, I had both our flies undone, my palm wrapped around the bare skin of his prick. "How long?" I said, and I started to stroke him, rolling his foreskin up over the head of his cock every time. "How long have you wanted me?"

"Lee... Don't... Just... God. Can't think right now."

I let go and held both palms up in the air. I had to know. "How. Long?"

He was as impatient as ever, and he grabbed both our dicks, groaning when he pressed them together. "Forever, all right? Fucking forever."

I'll admit, pride be damned, that I wanted to come on the fucking spot. It took me a minute to be angry, see? Because I'd been wanting this for as long as I could remember. But then I did remember. I remembered every last rejection, every time he'd shot me down. Not that I'd ever cared, because I didn't. Right up until that moment, I hadn't cared at all. Really.

I grabbed him by the wrists, shoved him away, then turned him around toward the wall. The shed was small, and overcrowded, but there was a gap where our bodies fit just perfectly, where we had just enough room, like it had been waiting there for us to come fuck right in this space. I didn't want to consider if this was the only space made for that. There's a reason that I hate quiet thoughts; my brain comes up with crap like that.

"Tell me," I said, and I pushed the small of his back, flattening him against the wall. "Tell me again."

"I want you, Lee." His teeth were clenched, the words like a growl, and it was hot as fucking hell.

"Then why did you have to ruin it?" I said, and I shoved his jeans down over his arse. "Why did you have to go and get married and ruin it?"

"What else did you expect me to do?" he said, and he was looking at me over his shoulder, pressing against the wall, back arched and arse offered up to me like it was on a silver platter. "You were never serious about anything. You think we had a future together, Lee? I wanted a future. I want one still."

"But I'm good enough to fuck in the Quidditch shed," I said, and I spit on two fingers, then pushed them between his cheeks and rubbed my saliva around his hole. He was tight as fuck, I could already tell.

"Yeah," he said, and his voice was as stony as the castle itself. I wasn't the only one who could use words as weapons. "You're good enough for that."

I could have been more gentle, pushing my fingers inside, but if I had been, he would never have made that sound, the one that cut right through me and made me tremble from the inside out. That low, hoarse, begging sound that I felt straight down to my balls. I stretched him hard and fast, and he rode my fingers like he was made to do just that.

"I don't have any lube," I said. I leaned over him, bit down on the shell of his ear.

He laughed, pushed back against me again. "You think I care about that? Hurry up and fuck me, Lee. Jesus."

I pulled out my hand, spit a few times more on my palm, slicked up my cock as best I could. He was jerking himself by then, his arse rocking back against me with every stroke, and I pushed inside in time with that. He lost his rhythm, made another one of those raw, needy sounds, and slammed his forehead against the wall.

I lost it then, and I grabbed his hips, so hard that I must have left bruises, and I pulled him down on my prick again and again. He was so bloody tight that I would have thought he was a virgin if he didn't know exactly what he was doing when he rode me, but he did. By the end of it, the only reason I was still on my feet was because I'd braced myself so hard on his hips.

He came first, shooting all over the fucking wall, obscene graffiti splattering the inside of the shed. I wasn't long after that, buried in his arse, gritting my teeth as I pressed my face to his shoulder.

"Lee. Fuck, Lee. Fuck."

I slid into him a few more times, the friction easier now with my come inside him and my cock going soft. When I pulled out, it felt like I lost something, and I pushed away from him, yanking up my jeans.

He was grinning at me when he turned around. "All these years, and now I find out that's what I need to do to shut you up?"

I rolled my eyes, and my smile felt a little bit stupid, because he was right. We didn't say anything else to each other, and he didn't try to kiss me goodbye, or anything uncomfortable like that. Which was good. Because I wouldn't have wanted him to anyway. Not at all.

When we were ready to walk outside, he looked uneasy, guilty, and I wondered if my theory about that one small space in the Quidditch shed was true. I would have had more to say than "bye" but all those quiet thoughts just wouldn't go away. I'd see him again, of course I would. We ran in the same circles, one of us was bound to see the other at some point. It was warm outside, but I shoved my hands in my pockets anyway, as if they were cold, and wandered back up to the castle.

So, maybe I did mean for it to happen. Maybe for years the only thing I've been able to think about is burying my cock balls-deep in that gorgeous arse, holding him down, panting and sweaty, and fucking him until he can't even remember where he is.

And if Oliver Wood is lucky, maybe I'll do it again.