wanking_mods (wanking_mods) wrote in hp_wankfest, @ 2008-05-28 00:01:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | 2008 fic |
Charlie Weasley in the Hog's Head with Spello-Tape
Title: The Twelve Uses of Spello-Tape
Author: mindabbles
Character: Charlie Weasley
Location: Hog's Head, Hogsmeade
Object: Spello-Tape
Other Characters: Oliver Wood, Hagrid (for a minute)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,900
Summary: If you’ve never been touched by a Quidditch player, you don’t know what you’re missing.
Disclaimer: I own neither Charlie nor Spello-Tape.
Author's Notes: Tremendous thanks to S and L for the wonderful feedback and suggestions.
Charlie Weasley was in the midst of an unprecedented dry spell. You might find this hard to believe. Well, he would agree.
It wasn’t a short one either, one he could just take care of with a quick wank until the next good thing came along. It was more of the sort where he couldn’t remember what it was like to do anything but wank. It was beginning to hack him off. He didn’t have dry spells.
The dry spell was his first problem.
Charlie gave up several things when he turned his back on a professional Quidditch career to go off chasing dragons. Certainly there was fame, and the pay was a damn sight better than that of a dragon keeper. He missed the thrill of competition, too, but none of those things really mattered in the grander scheme of things. The thing he missed right now, being back at Hogwarts for the Tri-Wizard Tournament and in constant view of the Quidditch pitch, was closely related to his first problem.
The stories you’ve heard in pubs and whispered in dormitories about the goings on after Quidditch matches are all true.
It doesn’t all happen in the showers – there is that, but then there’s the equipment room and beneath the stands as well. Madam Hooch never did stay around long after she blew her final whistle. They were more than dirty stories to Charlie. They were memories.
This was his second problem.
Gripping brooms one-handed, the hand sliding over polished wood again and again, created a particular set of calluses. He had a special fondness for keepers, with the line of rough, hardened flesh across the top of the palm, another up the length of the thumb, and with some particularly passionate sorts, a little raised spot on the pad of each finger.
If you’ve never been touched by a Quidditch player, you don’t know what you’re missing.
Quidditch players and their hands had generally been quite the opposite of a problem for Charlie. When he was barely fifteen, Kirsty McMahon, with her confident hands, had shown him the benefits of staying after practice and had taught him creative uses for the callus. The problem was that during a dry spell, it wasn’t something he could easily recreate. Since arriving here, all he’d been able to imagine at night when he turned to the wall of the tent and reached his hand into his pants and stroked, was that line of broom-toughed skin dragging along his cock and the raised spot on the thumb catching and rubbing over the head.
He picked up his Butterbeer and took a long swallow. He redirected his mind to the conversation Hagrid was attempting to have with him. It wouldn’t do to be having those thoughts here, not with Hagrid going on about dragon breeding being a lost art, and wouldn’t it be good to start something up right here at Hogwarts. A good talk with Hagrid about dragons might just take his mind off his problems.
This was not entirely likely, as his third problem was sitting across from him at the dirty, banged-up table.
Oliver Wood had come into the bar about a half an hour after Charlie and Hagrid had. He’d come to watch the tournament, he’d said, to see how Harry and Cedric did, his former teammate and his former rival. He just wanted a quiet drink, and he didn’t seem to think he stood a chance at that in the Three Broomsticks. Seems Oliver fancied himself a bit more of a star than he probably was at this early stage of his career … but that may just have been Oliver’s enthusiasm.
Having Oliver join Hagrid and him for a drink wasn’t a problem in itself. He’d seemed genuinely happy to see Charlie, and Charlie was always glad to see an old teammate, even though Wood had eyed him with a healthy dose of suspicion since learning of his decision to take the apprenticeship at the reserve.
The problem came in the way that Oliver was having a drink with Hagrid and him.
“And then, they bloody swooped down on me, both Chasers, but I faked to the right and…”
Oliver was going on and on about the game that had secured Puddlemere United’s spot in the finals. Charlie had always found his fanaticism a little irritating. Oliver’s voice was getting louder as he talked, his tone going up and down with the movements of the game he was describing. Charlie was having trouble following the words, but no trouble at all following the movement of Oliver’s broad hands up and down and around the slick surface of his bottle of Butter Beer. Then the muscles in his forearms flexed, his muscles rippling as he described a particularly brilliant move on his part, and Charlie’s problem had just got bigger.
Charlie blinked hard and took a long swallow of his drink.
The maniacal focus had been irritating when Oliver was a boy. Now it was dead sexy, or maybe that was just the dry spell talking.
“…I had to flip half off my broom to reach it, announcer said he’d never seen…”
Oliver had always been a burly bloke. When he was fourteen, he’d been almost as broad as he was tall. He’d grown into it nicely. The strong shoulders and wide chest were offset by his height and the sculpted jaw just edged in dark stubble.
Charlie shifted in his seat. Hagrid yawned and looked into his goblet. Oliver described the reaction of his teammates to his spectacular save and swiped his callused thumb over the mouth of the bottle.
“You’re out of mead, Hagrid,” Charlie blurted out, jumping from the table and grabbing Hagrid’s goblet.
He walked slowly to the bar, waiting for the barman to come from the back room, from where Charlie could have sworn he heard a faint bleating. He started to lean on the bar, but thought better of it. These were fairly new robes, after all, and it was anyone’s guess what might be lingering on the surfaces of the Hog’s Head.
Oliver was still blathering animatedly to a progressively sleepier looking Hagrid. Oliver had always seemed happy to wax on and on about any match – past, present, or future, and even hypothetical ones had held his interest. Charlie got lost in the movement of Oliver’s mouth for a moment, and he started when he realized he’d leaned on the bar as he tried to picture what that busy mouth would look like sucking in the tip of his cock.
You may be wondering why Charlie had never given Oliver a second look when they were in school. Well, Oliver was awfully young, and Charlie had tended to seek out someone older – someone who'd had more time to develop certain skills, not to mention calluses. Charlie was a fairly perceptive bloke, and even when they were lads, he’d sussed out that the combination of his talent and his lack of dedication to the sport made Oliver nervous.
“One mead and two Butterbeers,” Charlie said, when the barman reappeared. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Oliver stretch a leg out under the table, his robes moulding to one toned thigh. “And a Whisky, make it one Whisky as well.”
“There y’are Charlie. Ta very much,” Hagrid said, taking the mead with a grateful smile. “So, about yon Chinese Fireballs. D’yeh think that lot’d adapt teh the weather...”
Charlie was beginning to sorely regret this choice. He had originally wanted to talk with Hagrid about dragons. There weren’t many people outside of the reserve who appreciated them as much as he did. Much to Charlie’s surprise, Oliver was listening intently, and even asking questions, as his right hand began to touch and stroke the slick surface of the bottle Charlie had just put down in front of him.
As you have probably imagined, Charlie now had a fourth problem, one that needed seeing to while the images of Oliver’s Quidditch-rough hands stroking and touching the bottle were still fresh in his mind.
“We both ended up as keepers then,” Oliver said when Hagrid stopped talking to down his goblet of mead in one go. “You keeping dragons, and me red, leather balls.” He picked up his bottle, thumb and forefinger circling the neck and wrapped his lips around the mouth of it. “So, what do you miss most about Quidditch?” He laughed as a drop spilled on his chin. He wiped at it with his thumb and slipped his thumb into his mouth to suck off the moisture. Charlie could imagine his tongue sliding over Oliver’s finger and the feel of the smooth-on-one side, rough-on-the other skin.
“I’m for the loo,” he said, and jumped out of his seat and fairly ran to the shabby, slightly crooked door.
He had barely shut the door behind him before his hand was in his robes, slipping into his pants and stroking down his aching cock.
“Ahhhh,” he moaned at the relief of the friction as he squeezed at the base and roughly moved his other hand up to the head. He let his eyes drop shut and his mind wander.
Oliver’s hand, with that rough band along the palm drags over the length of his cock. The friction of his hardened thumb flicks over the sensitive skin of the head.
“Fuck,” Charlie gasped.
It wasn’t right. He could see it, but he couldn’t feel it. He even considered for a moment going back to the table and asking Wood if he fancied a toss.
But would you do that with Hagrid sitting there, half pissed at the same table? Charlie decided not to risk it, either.
He pressed his hand hard against his erection, trying to picture something other than Oliver’s hands. But his hand felt wrong and his robe kept swinging against it, things in his pocket knocking against his wrist.
Taking off his robes wasn’t an option. They suited him particularly well, and he didn’t fancy putting them down in anything dodgy. He decided instead just to take everything out of his pocket. He’d accumulated quite a collection: A bit of parchment, a vial of healing potion, a roll of Spello-Tape, his wand, and his pouch of money.
A roll of Spello-tape.
“Brilliant,” he said to his rather flushed reflection in the smudged mirror.
He pulled a long bit of the tape off the roll and placed it along the top of the palm of his right hand. Another piece lined his thumb, and small bits tipped each finger. He added another layer and another. He looked like he’d just been released from St. Mungo’s after sticking his hand too close to the business end of a dragon, but it was worth a go.
He rubbed his tape-covered finger along the underside of his cock and gasped at the new sensation. He circled his thumb and forefinger loosely and began to stroke up and down, but the edges snagged and flapped loose and the last bloody thing he needed was a paper cut.
“Ugh,” he huffed. It was still not like the rough, magnificent hands of Hal Hornby, scraping over his balls and reaching back to tease his arse.
Hal Hornby was the former Ravenclaw keeper, if you haven’t had the pleasure. Charlie had, during the spring of his sixth year. Between the middle of March and the end of term, he gave Charlie a primer on uses for fingers and tongues that continued to serve Charlie well to this day, but that’s another story.
He reached for his wand and touched it to each of the bits of tape, muttering the charm Mum had taught them to finish the endless projects she’d had them do – gifts for the neighbours, ornaments for Christmas - and the edges of the tape fused to his skin, smooth and even just as it had to those glass baubles.
He ran the tips of his fingers teasingly over the sensitive skin on his hip and shivered with the memory of the anticipation and nerves of Hornby’s hands caressing him, preparing him that first time in the showers.
Eyes falling shut, he grasped the base of his cock and squeezed. It didn’t feel like his own hand, and although the angle was wrong, he could see broad shoulders flexing as they moved and strong hands moving up and down on him as they had on the bottle.
“Yeah,” he breathed as he found a rhythm that was not entirely his. It wasn’t his rhythm he wanted after all, and Oliver would move faster, more frantic and intense. Oliver would slip his other hand to hold and squeeze his balls and reach back further to press a finger in.
He lifts one thick finger to Charlie’s lips and groans when Charlie sucks it into his mouth, tongue rolling around it, pulling on it and moistening it. They look at each other, eyes burning with desire and the expectation of what Oliver is about to do. When Oliver is hard and panting from Charlie’s mouth on his finger and hand on his arse, licks his lips and pulls his finger slowly out of Charlie’s mouth with an obscene pop.
He speeds his pace on Charlie’s cock until it’s wet and throbbing and Charlie is begging him, “Make me come, just fucking make me come.” But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want Charlie to come, not yet. The hands disappear, and Charlie moans with frustration. Two seconds pass and Charlie feels a leather band being wrapped snugly around the base of his cock. He exclaims, “Fuck,” as his arousal spikes, hot and desperate.
You are probably wondering where he got a cock ring. You are quite right -- it was never mentioned in the contents of his pocket. At this point, Charlie also slipped out of his fantasy to consider the wisdom of Spello-Taping so close to pubic hair. He decided that the pay-off would likely be worth any momentary discomfort.
He cleared his throat and closed his eyes and rubbed the charmed callus on the tip of his index finger across his sensitive slit, collecting wetness and sliding it around the head.
Oliver trails his hard finger tip around and around Charlie’s cock. The finger is at his lips again, slipping in, and they both moan as Charlie adds his salvia to the dampness on the finger, tasting himself on Oliver’s hand. Oliver’s other hand reaches between Charlie’s legs and pulls, rough and fast, as the wet finger slides along his arse and nudges inside. Charlie presses back, pushing it deeper inside. He leans his head back and gasps, “More, Wood,” as Oliver begins to fuck him with his finger in time to the stroking of his cock.
Charlie throws his head back and sobs in exquisite frustration, hips jerking onto two, wide fingers, and into the tight, coarse confines of Wood’s fist. “Oh yes, oh yeah, please.” Charlie begins to crumble, to beg to come, and Oliver gives him a wickedly sultry look and says, “All in good time, Weasley.”
Just as Charlie thinks this will never end, that he will teeter on the precipice of ecstasy forever, Oliver presses his fingers deeper, harder, and releases the leather cock ring in one quick snap. The world narrows to this moment, to a flash of blinding white behind his eyes and a pulsing in his cock and around Oliver’s fingers and all of the pent up tension from the last several months spills hot and slick onto Oliver’s bare, taut stomach.
Charlie slumped against the wall. His knees were wobbling and the muscles in his arms trembling. He cracked his eyes open and saw splatters of come and a discarded strip of Spello-Tape with a few curly red hairs stuck to it lying on the floor. No harm done, not to this floor.
A splash of colour in the periphery of his vision caught his eye. Charlie kept his eyes focused on the floor and cringed when he realized that what he was seeing was a pair of trainers.
You’ve surely guessed. When Charlie looked up, it was into the flushed face of Oliver Wood.
“Bugger,” was all Charlie could think to say. He wasn’t easily embarrassed, but this was a bit much even for him. He shoved his Spello-Taped hand in his pocket and decided there was nothing for it but to clean up, tuck in, and order another Whisky.
Oliver wasn’t moving. Well, that’s not entirely true. Oliver was standing still, staring at Charlie, and his sturdy, callused right hand was moving slowly and firmly over a bulge in the front of his robes. He opened his mouth and a little coughing sound came out. He flushed ever ruddier and cleared his throat.
“You’d been gone a while,” was all he said.
Charlie licked his lips, running his tongue along his top lip, and then slowly tracing his bottom. Oliver’s eyes followed every movement of his tongue. He couldn’t help but imagine how those fingers really would feel in his mouth, and even better, how Oliver’s muscular shoulders would look with his arms pinned and secured above his head.
His eyes darted to the roll of Spello-Tape on the edge of the sink.
“Come here,” he said, beckoning to Oliver with a jerk of his head, “and I’ll show you the fourth of the twelve uses I’ve discovered for Spello-Tape.”