Pairings: Oliver Wood/Salazar Slytherin, Oliver Wood/Marcus Flint, mentions of Salazar Slytherin/Godric Gryffindor, and past Oliver/Percy
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: dirty talk, mentions of light bondage
Word Count: ~4145
Summary: Oliver Wood leaves Marcus Flint a sharply worded note, only it isn't Marcus who answers him
Author's Notes: Written for violet_quill's Slash Superchallenge! I just couldn't make the Arthur/Scrimgeour that I was originally working on get to smut because Arthur insisted on being faithful to his wife, so I switched over to this rather unlikely pairing instead. Thank you to thescarletwoman for the beta!
The captains' office was empty when Oliver Wood crept inside, shielding his Lumos-bright wand with his left hand. Good, he thought. Not that he'd really expected anyone to be there at midnight but you never knew. He wasn't the only Quidditch-obsessed captain at Hogwarts, and with a Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff match only three weeks away, it was possible that someone might stay up for a late-night planning session.
But no one-- and by no one, he particularly meant Marcus Flint-- was here. He lit a single candle with a muttered spell and settled down behind the desk. Flint was such a wanker sometimes. Well, all the time. Oliver was still furious with him for letting Malfoy and his goons onto the Pitch dressed as Dementors. Harry could have been killed, and Oliver knew Marcus had sanctioned it, or at least looked the other way.
On the other hand, as he didn't normally speak to Flint in the hallways anyway, the fact that he deliberately wasn't speaking to him was possibly lost on the Slytherin captain. The man might have rippling pectorals but he wasn't the swiftest hippogriff in the herd. Picking up a dull quill and popping off the top of an ink bottle, he began to pen a letter to tell Flint that he was being shunned.
Oi, Slytherin prig,
I'm still sore at you, mate. You should know better at the very least and at the best you should have a better sense of honour. Quidditch isn't about winning at all costs or screwing with the the other team so they're easier to beat. It's about winning because you're at the top of your own game.
So I'm not talking to you right now. At least not until you apologize or figure out a way to make it up to me.
In the few times they'd passed notes back and forth, they'd always stuck with House names in case anyone else had discovered their missives. Flint was very much not a writerly fellow, and if Oliver was honest with himself, neither was he. But this was important. Looking around the office, he wondered where to put it to ensure that Marcus would find it. Leaving it here would make the most sense, the one space that he and Flint shared with any regularity, but where would he see it...
It had to be a place that only Marcus went to with regularity. He sealed the parchment with wax, addressed it to 'Sytherin' and tucked it into the third drawer on the right, by the box of rosin powder he knew Marcus kept stashed there. He pushed it all the way to the back, biting back a yelp as something crawled over his knuckles, and then gathered up his gear and slipped back through the darkened castle.
As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait. The next evening at midnight, after refusing even to look at Flint during their shared Herbology class, Oliver eagerly dashed back to the Quidditch office. Logically he knew that the chances for a reply so soon were slim, but a man could hope. Yanking open the drawer, he felt forward past a few discarded quills-- Marcus'-- the box of rosin, and the crawly thing from last night that turned out to be a stray doxy. He sent the little creature on its way with a swat. Finding parchment, he pulled it out, assuming it would be his own....
Oliver stared. Who knew Marcus Flint could do calligraphy? The letters were like works of art to Oliver's eyes, each one looping and connecting with the next, with ornamental flourishes and lines that fluctuated between thick and thin strokes.
He broke the green waxen seal and frowned at what he saw. He could pick out most of the words, if he squinted, but they looked like they'd been written in some insane Welsh dialect or old English or something.
"What are you on about, mate?" he muttered, running a callused index finger over the looped "Gryffindor" and "Slytherin" at the top and bottom of the letter. Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, he worked over the first sentence. All right, "dolt" he knew, and "imbecilic", though that was more of a Snape word than something Flint would normally use. His gaze alighted on the words "Reddo Lacunum." Marcus had taught him that spell, a simple little thing that he claimed Salazar Slytherin had created himself. While it couldn't actually translate texts from other languages, it could crack codes in English and make them readable to the spell caster. So Marcus had coded his message? All right, Oliver could deal with that.
"Reddo Lacunum," he said, tapping the parchment with his wand. At once the shadow-black ink burst into a shining silver, rippling like mercury as the words slithered across the page, rearranging themselves. It took only seconds, and left the parchment glowing faintly with an internal luminescence.
My Dear Gryffindor,
You really are the most imbecilic scoundrel, a blackguard amongst the innocents, and thick in the head. You are particularly lucky that these are characteristics are ones I enjoy about you. They make you the charming dolt that you are.
I do not know to which Quidditch-related offence you are referring, nor do I understand why you would scratch out a letter to me and disguise it behind such simplistic lettering and convoluted turns of phrase. I had to use the 'Reddo Lacunum' charm to make it legible. I'm not surprised we are still not speaking to each other, however, and I suppose I understand the need to keep this from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. I do not think they ever use this writing desk, however. This is our place, not theirs.
In the meantime, I am not speaking to you either, regarding the wolverines. I expect your apology before I even think of entertaining one of my own.
Oliver read the letter over again, puzzled. This did not sound like Flint, but it couldn't possibly be anyone else. He wondered if the high-faluting tone was just a product of the decoder spell. Maybe if Marcus had used a charm to encode it in the first place, that would also explain the calligraphy.
The incident with the wolverines, though? Oliver hadn't a clue what that meant. He didn't think wolverines could even be found in these parts. Maybe that was also a mistranslation of the spell. Ah well, at least it was a response. He quickly penned one of his own.
Yeah, I don't think we want Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw knowing about this, or anyone else for that matter. You know what it does to people's careers, this kind of trash getting spread about.
And watch who you're calling what there, mate. I'm no Ravenclaw but I wager I'm a mite or two cleverer than you. I'm also not apologizing for whatever you're on about vis-à-vis wolverines. I AM waiting for you to admit you were behind the idiocy with the Dementors. That's 'to what I am referring.'
I don't know how to code this up all fancy-like like you did, so don't expect me to unless you show me. But then, I'm not talking to you. Just you remember that.
He sealed and addressed the parchment and shoved it back into the drawer. Trust Flint to be such an obstinate bastard. He was frustrating as hell, and Oliver didn't know why he put up with it.
Midnight the next night found Oliver hiding behind a bank of lockers. He had to wait until Cedric Diggory left the captains' office and buggered off back to his common room. Nice enough guy and everything but he was a bit of a blabbermouth. It was almost two o'clock in the morning before he left, and Oliver, yawning but eager, dove straight for the drawer.
Sure enough, a letter that was not his own was waiting there. He tore into it, and wasn't surprised to see it was also encoded. He used the spell again and watched the letters dance brightly into a new constellation that actually made sense to him. Somewhat.
I am not the one insisting on hiding his words with a cipher. Not that I mind. And you know why I don't mind. I watched you biting your lip this morning and I very nearly crossed the grounds and took you right there. Your lips entice me more than they have any right to, and I want them pressed to my own. It's a pity they don't have more interesting things to say but then, you do other interesting things with them.
How dare you deny knowledge of the wolverine incident. It took me three days to put my rooms to rights and I know it was you. No one else is that juvenile. As to the Dementors, I see. I did not realise that you knew of my involvement with the vile creatures. I do not believe it to be a misjudgement, however. They have their uses.
In the future, do be aware that the translation charm also renders legible that which you've crossed out. If you're so uncertain about what we are doing, we could speak about it. I would not tell anyone else this, Gryffindor-- I would hold your ignorance of how the charm works to myself, watching you and waiting for you to slip up. For me to tell you is a gift to you.
Feeling his cheeks flush, Oliver dropped the parchment. Marcus had never actually vocalized his desires like that before. Oliver always felt like he was on unsure footing, like Flint could rip the flying carpet out from under his feet at any moment and send him tumbling to the ground. For Marcus to say that about Oliver's mouth, and to say whatever it was he was trying to insinuate about their future.... what the hell was Flint trying to say?
Also, he'd referred to Malfoy and his goons as "vile creatures." That in and of itself was enough to make Oliver forgive the man twenty times over.
Trust me, I had nothing whatsoever to do with any wolverines in Hogwarts. It really and truly wasn't me, mate. I do appreciate the confession about the Dementor incident, but I disagree with your reasoning. What else is new? It was a dangerous and stupid thing to do. Someone could have been hurt. Your 'vile creatures' don't have the judgement to know when's when and it's up to you to control them.
But don't stop now about my lips, mate. This is starting to get good. I'm likely blushing as I write this, but I don't mind telling you I'd like to hear more. What else do you think my mouth is good for? I have an idea or two. I'd like to sneak you up to the Astronomy Tower some time and make you stand on the very edge. Then I'd strip you of your robes, undo your trousers, and take your prick into my mouth. It would be up to you not to fall off, mate. Your balance is supposed to be phenomenonal. Let's put it to the test, shall we?
He didn't bring up the question of their future, or the supposed 'gift' of knowledge. It unnerved him too much to think beyond Hogwarts' walls.
Over the next few evenings, the letters between them flew back and forth, though outwardly Flint showed no signs whatsoever that Oliver even existed. Oliver strove to maintain the same icy exterior, even as their missives heated up.
My Surprising Gryffindor,
I didn't know you had such filthy thoughts in your simple head, nor the ability to commit them to paper. Shocking indeed. Your scenario was a good beginning, though it lacked a few details that my imagination would like to fill in. Would you be naked as well, Gryffindor? I will admit to admiring your physique, and I have not had the chance to properly show you so lately. After I accomplished the feat of not falling off the Tower, I would want you on your hands and knees. Waiting for me. Begging me. I do love it when you ask me to take you. Your thigh muscles quiver with anticipation, did you know that?
This is most improper, to speak in this context. So I shall limit myself to one detail more: I would wrap my hands around your waist and drag you upright, both of us balancing on our knees as I took you hard, making you perspire and moan. I love the smell of you when you're just off the Quidditch field, your perspiration evident on your brow and the smell of exertion upon your skin. I would create the same effect without the Quidditch field.
Post-script: For you, I shall rethink my plans to guard Hogwarts with Dementors after all. There are other uses for them and they will likely be happy enough remaining within the realm of Azkaban.
Didn't know you had it in you, mate. The apology and the rest of it, I mean. The boring stuff first: glad you're going to keep your Dementor idiots away from the other students.
As to the second thing. Why take Quidditch out of the equation? I'd take you up to the middle goalpost, facing the sunset because that's supposed to be romantic or some such. And I would tie you naked inside the hoop, your back against the wood, your arms tied behind you and around it, holding you in place. Then I'd fly up to you and swing off my broom and dangle from it, holding on with my hands. I'd use one of those handy little preparing charms you showed me and make myself instantly ready for you, and then I'd lower myself onto you from mid-air. You'd have to thrust up, and I would ease myself downward, sheathing you inside me.
I need you inside me, mate, and I mean soon. I want to feel you thrusting against me even while you can't get out of the rope holding you down the goalpost. I'd think about it every time I was Keeping a game, every time I stopped a Quaffle from going through.
Your Unbelievably Turned On Gryffindor
My Groaning Gryffindor,
Oh yes, I will make you groan. It's so deep and throaty, when I can coax that sound of utter abandon out of you. Your words of need stir me up in ways I didn't think possible. I can barely walk by you now without arousing suspicion of how much I want you. I love the image you created for me, especially because it makes me think of the way your arm muscles would be working to keep you upright, tensed and rippling as I watched. You know how much I enjoy your body, my love.
I want you in the Forest, where the wild things are. I want you nude, of course, and running as though you are my prey. As though I am the hunter, the wolf rather than the snake. And you are a hare, fleeing before me. I would give you a one minute head start and then I would be after you, tracking you down by the sounds you make, and with magic, and by your scent. I would catch fleeting glimpses of you as our hearts accelerated together, knowing the inevitable, that I would come upon you at last, both of us breathing hard but spurred on by our sure knowledge of what is to come. I would tumble you to the forest floor and you would struggle against me, our bodies writhing together, every inch of our skin touching. I would sink my teeth into your neck, force your thighs open with my hips, pin your wrists down with my hands. You are stronger but I would have the upper hand. I would be on top, and you would want it too much not to topple me.
Because you want it that much. Just as much as I do.
Oh god, I can't stand this. I'm sitting here in the dark, not a sound around me, and I'm making so much noise passers-by are liable to think a ghost is going insane in here. I couldn't help myself, love. Reading your letter, I had to undo my trousers, and take my cock in my hand. You know how much you love my cock. I imagined my hand was yours as I stroked myself, reading your words. I had no idea you could think of things like that. I knew you were a dirty fucker but my god. I am impressed, is what I'll say.
I can't wait any longer. Tomorrow, everyone will be watching the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff match. We should be watching too but I don't care. Meet me in the Charms classroom, no one will be there. As soon as the match starts, I'll be waiting.
The letters had been heating up and Oliver couldn't wait any longer, especially not while Marcus was being so cool to him outwardly. He had to have his sometime-lover and he had to have him now. Pacing the length of the classroom and trying to ignore both his hard-on and the manic shouts from the Quidditch Pitch, he willed himself to calm down.
He felt more connected to Flint than he'd ever felt before. The letters had ratcheted everything up a notch. Marcus had apologized, which had never happened in all the years they'd known each other (even if the wording was odd and he'd babbled about Azkaban-- Oliver still blamed the weirder turns of phrase on the translation charm), and he'd been so intimate and dirty in the description of his desires. And there were those hints about the future, about Marcus wanting more than just a fling inside the safety of Hogwarts' walls.
So it was all of this added together that made Oliver so angry and irritated and crushingly disappointed when the Slytherin bastard didn't show up. Still half-turned on but pissed as hell, he made himself wait, straining to see out the classroom window, until everyone had gone inside once the match was over. Then he barrelled down to the Quidditch captains' office. The only thing that would save Flint's hide from a damned good hexing was if he'd left either an explanation or had somehow not received Oliver's letter.
The office was empty, which was status quo after a game-- no one stayed and planned after a victory or a crushing defeat. They either went back to their common room to party, or slunk away to mope and lick their wounds. He tore the desk drawer open and felt all the way to the back. Sure enough, a letter with the Slytherin seal awaited him, and he ripped it open.
Oh, I suppose you think you're very funny, giving me those bizarre instructions and not following up on them. I waited until Rowena and Helga met in the Great Hall for their usual Gobstone match-up and I went to find you. Only you weren't there, were you.
Had a good laugh at my expense, didn't you. My gifts to you, my vulnerabilities, my fantasy scenarios. How many people have you shown my letters to? You've made me a laughingstock and you shall pay dearly.
Oliver sank into the chair, beyond puzzled. What the hell was Flint on about? It didn't make any sense whatsoever. Who the hell were Helga and Rowena? Deciding to confront the idiot head-on, Oliver made a quick detour to his dorm to pick up his stack of letters, hidden artfully under his mattress. He had to avoid Percy, who was hunched over a pile of books in their shared dormitory, and Harry in the common room who wanted to analyze the match with him.
Finding Flint, on the other hand, was easy. He just marched up to the Slytherin common room entrance and hammered on the door. The Malfoy weasel answered.
"What do you want?"
"Are we the doorman now?" Oliver asked, pleased when the little twit flinched.
"Sod off, Wood. Go steal some other team's Quidditch secrets," he snapped.
Oliver, never one for the subtle approach, stood on tiptoe and bawled over Draco's head, "Flint! Oi, FLINT! Get your irritating arse out here, front and centre!"
A ripple of shock passed over the Slytherins gathered inside, but it only took moments before Flint came charging up to the door. He was a titch taller than Oliver, and good at towering over him when needed.
"What the hell do you want, you Gryffindor prat?"
Oliver grabbed him by the front of his robes and hauled him out of the common room. Malfoy's mouth dropped open, which Oliver would have found amusing if he'd had the attention to notice. "What do you think I want? Where were you today?"
"Watching the game, what d'you think?" Flint dropped his voice so that none of his eavesdropping housemates could hear. "And are you out of your tree, making a scene in front of everyone? You ignore me for weeks and now this?"
Oliver gestured and they both slipped around the corner, out of earshot entirely from the curious onlookers. He held up the stack of letters. "I have not been ignoring you, you daft git."
"You have too!"
"What do you call these, then?"
Marcus snatched one of the letters up and frowned deeply. It was an expression that might have been scary if Oliver didn't like his frown lines quite so much. "I can't even read this rot."
"You encoded it," Oliver said, more uncertain now. What was going on here? "You mixed it up so I've been using that spell you showed me to read them. Er... haven't you?"
"Looks like you've been writing to someone else. I don't know what the hell this is." Marcus glowered at him, and Oliver almost found it menacing. Almost. The spark of jealousy he saw there was what saved him.
He dropped the letters, the pieces of parchment gliding lazily to the floor. "If it's not been you, then it's been someone I thought was you, who's a damned sight better than either of us at figuring things out."
"Oh? Then go shout at him, not me. I'm busy and you're an arsehole."
Oliver grabbed Marcus by the front of his robes again, but this time hauled him forward into a kiss before the Slytherin could object. Marcus tried to bite Oliver's lip, but the threat of his action melted away almost instantly as Oliver's tongue slipped out to stop him and entice him to play nice. Marcus' rough, thick fingers found their way into Oliver's hair, tilting his head back and plunging his tongue into Oliver's mouth. Oliver wrapped his arms around Marcus' muscular chest, giving himself over to the nerve-searing kiss.
He didn't care just now who his suddenly anonymous penfriend was. He just wanted to bring some of their more vivid fantasies to life with Marcus Flint, and he didn't care who knew about it.
Later that day, he would ask Percy because Percy had been the first boy he'd ever kissed and he knew he could count on his friend's discretion. And Percy would put together the clues that Oliver had missed.
Somewhere in the echoes of Hogwarts' halls, another Slytherin and Gryffindor-- THE Slytherin and Gryffindor, in fact-- would be having a similar argument, and a similar realisation. Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw would see the rather energetic make-up kiss, and would grin at each other and go about their business.
And every so often, even after he'd left Hogwarts, Oliver Wood would return to the Quidditch captains' office. He would leave a message in the enchanted desk drawer with a particularly dirty suggestion that he and Marcus had tried out. A reply would always come back to him, if a new suggestion of Slytherin's own was not already waiting there for him, and Oliver and Marcus would enact the scenario as soon as they could. It paid to have knowledgeable friends, especially ones with such dirty minds and sharp quills.