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bedlamsbardTitle: Lust
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bedlamsbard
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R
Characters: Cedric Diggory/Oliver Wood
Spoilers: PoA
Wordcount: 1169
Summary: His senses are heightened and he can smell everything – the flowers in the greenhouse, the rain outside, the sleek gold of the Snitch, and something absolutely delicious that has to be Cedric Diggory.
Author's Notes: Takes place right after PoA Ch. 9, "Grim Defeat."
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The wind whips at Oliver’s face and robes, sending the latter whirling in a flurry of scarlet and gold and stinging the former with cold drops of rain. In his hand, his broom strains against the wind, like it wants to jump free and fly without the burden of a rider. He almost wants to let it. Then it’ll end up in the Whomping Willow like Harry’s and he won’t have to do this anymore…. He’s being ridiculous, of course. Oliver’s first word was “up!” and his second was “sky,” and he could fly long before he could walk. Twenty-four hours without the wild blue yonder and he’d be utterly raving mad. He knows that, somewhere in the back of his mind. He just doesn’t want to think about it now.
“Wood!”
For a moment he thinks it’s just the hideous weeping of the storm, then the shout comes again and Oliver turns around reluctantly.
Cedric Diggory struggles toward him gamely, dark hair plastered flat to his head and sodden yellow robes sticking to his legs. Proving he’s easily just as mad as Oliver, he’s still got his Comet Two Sixty in one hand and the white wings of the Snitch fluttering weakly around his opposite fist. There’s a smear of mud on one high cheekbone and for one furious heartbeat all Oliver wants to do is force that pretty face down into the dirt and smear it with mud…he’s a Hufflepuff, he’s supposed to be one with the earth, not gallivanting around in the air.
“Wood,” Diggory says again, when he’s close enough he doesn’t need to shout, which means he’s close enough Oliver can feel his breath flutter warm against his cheek. “Are you mad, man? At least get out of the rain – come on, I want to talk to you.” He frees some of his fingers from around his broomstick and grabs onto Oliver’s sleeve, dragging him backwards toward the nearest greenhouse. Oliver has to ignore the irrational urge to plant his feet and stay in the rain, although that’s not only stupid but suicidal, since he’s likely to bloody drown. Instead he lets Diggory pull him out of the open.
He’s a Prefect, of course, so the door opens automatically under his hand and closes behind them. Diggory lets go of Oliver and shakes his head so quickly droplets of water go spraying out all over the greenhouse. Several splatter on Oliver’s cheek and he raises one hand to wipe them off before he remembers that the rest of him is just as wet and there’s no real point. Instead he glares at Diggory. “What. Do. You. Want?”
Diggory leans his broomstick against one of the tables and fingercombs his hair. “Ah,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you –”
“You said that already,” Oliver snaps. There’s a rough Scottish burr underlining his words and he could kill himself for it; accents don’t do anyone any good when pronunciation is the second most important part of all verbal spells. His first year he’d barely been able to make himself understood without Professor McGonagall to translate; he’d lit Percy Weasley’s head on fire with what was supposed to be a levitation charm and hadn’t noticed for a full minute because Percy’s hair and the flames were the same color.
Diggory looks frustrated. “Bloody hell, Wood,” he says. “I see what Weasley said, about you being hard to talk to.”
Oliver stares at him. When he doesn’t get a reply, Diggory swallows and continues on. “Listen, about the game – it really wasn’t fair, what with the Dementors and Potter and all. If you and I both go and talk to Hooch, then –”
“You won!” Oliver shouts. “Fair and square! Magical beasts are allowed onto the pitch under Rule 729 of the Quidditch Code, if their presence is not a direct act by one team and/or the referee –”
“Dementors are forbidden by the International Wizarding Code of 1621, Amendment 19.7 to enter a public spectacle consisting of more than five hundred witches and wizards!” Diggory snaps. “Therefore –”
“You bloody badgers won!” Oliver barks. “Why can’t you just crawl back to your den and be content with that, instead of sniffing around –” He stops abruptly. Diggory’s staring past him, mouth slightly open. “What?”
“That plant just sneezed,” Diggory says, almost conversationally, and Oliver revolves on the ball of one foot to see the bright pink flower draw its petals back and shudder, sending pollen flying straight at his face.
“Bloody –” he says and starts to lick his lips before he realizes he’s got no idea at all about what the plant is or its side-effects. Unfortunately, he’s already feeling sort of – funny, high almost, like the time he ate too many Fizzing Whizbees when he was eight. And his senses are heightened and he can smell everything – the flowers in the greenhouse, the rain outside, the sleek gold of the Snitch, and something absolutely delicious that has to be Cedric Diggory.
He turns – just to see if Diggory looks as good as he smells, he tells himself later, but he doesn’t have time to think or act or even do anything but feel, a brief shock of warmth and what? as Diggory shoves him up against the wooden table and kisses him hard. Oliver makes a faint protesting sound and drops his broom so that he can scrabble against Diggory’s robes and fist his fingers in his hair. Diggory tastes good, like rainwater and Honeydukes chocolate, and Oliver just wants to lick the taste out of his mouth.
They’re hard, both of them, and Oliver has never hated Quidditch robes before until he realizes exactly how difficult they are to get out of in a hurry compared to ordinary robes, but Diggory’s Seeker’s fingers are quick and sure and Oliver’s been getting in and out of Quidditch uniforms long enough that it doesn’t take too much time, but too much is still too much. By the time Oliver pushes Diggory down onto the pile of robes he’s biting hard at Diggory’s neck, teeth digging in enough to bruise but not quite breaking the skin. Diggory splays his hand out over the small of Oliver’s back, gasping out words Oliver’s never heard him say before and rubbing fiercely against him.
There’s a thick dusting of dark pink pollen drifting over both of them. Oliver laps up wet strips from Diggoy’s chest, teeth catching on a nipple. Diggory hisses and arches up against him, head thrown back against the red and yellow of their rumpled Quidditch robes. They’re both shaking now, moving hard against each other, and then another burst of pollen settles over them and Diggory stiffens, chin knocking hard against the top of Oliver’s head. Oliver follows a moment later, gasping out words onto Diggory’s chest.
After, they lie curled together for God-knows-how-long, then Oliver wriggles up Diggory’s body and starts to kiss him again. The flower coughs out another burst of pollen.
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R
Characters: Cedric Diggory/Oliver Wood
Spoilers: PoA
Wordcount: 1169
Summary: His senses are heightened and he can smell everything – the flowers in the greenhouse, the rain outside, the sleek gold of the Snitch, and something absolutely delicious that has to be Cedric Diggory.
Author's Notes: Takes place right after PoA Ch. 9, "Grim Defeat."
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The wind whips at Oliver’s face and robes, sending the latter whirling in a flurry of scarlet and gold and stinging the former with cold drops of rain. In his hand, his broom strains against the wind, like it wants to jump free and fly without the burden of a rider. He almost wants to let it. Then it’ll end up in the Whomping Willow like Harry’s and he won’t have to do this anymore…. He’s being ridiculous, of course. Oliver’s first word was “up!” and his second was “sky,” and he could fly long before he could walk. Twenty-four hours without the wild blue yonder and he’d be utterly raving mad. He knows that, somewhere in the back of his mind. He just doesn’t want to think about it now.
“Wood!”
For a moment he thinks it’s just the hideous weeping of the storm, then the shout comes again and Oliver turns around reluctantly.
Cedric Diggory struggles toward him gamely, dark hair plastered flat to his head and sodden yellow robes sticking to his legs. Proving he’s easily just as mad as Oliver, he’s still got his Comet Two Sixty in one hand and the white wings of the Snitch fluttering weakly around his opposite fist. There’s a smear of mud on one high cheekbone and for one furious heartbeat all Oliver wants to do is force that pretty face down into the dirt and smear it with mud…he’s a Hufflepuff, he’s supposed to be one with the earth, not gallivanting around in the air.
“Wood,” Diggory says again, when he’s close enough he doesn’t need to shout, which means he’s close enough Oliver can feel his breath flutter warm against his cheek. “Are you mad, man? At least get out of the rain – come on, I want to talk to you.” He frees some of his fingers from around his broomstick and grabs onto Oliver’s sleeve, dragging him backwards toward the nearest greenhouse. Oliver has to ignore the irrational urge to plant his feet and stay in the rain, although that’s not only stupid but suicidal, since he’s likely to bloody drown. Instead he lets Diggory pull him out of the open.
He’s a Prefect, of course, so the door opens automatically under his hand and closes behind them. Diggory lets go of Oliver and shakes his head so quickly droplets of water go spraying out all over the greenhouse. Several splatter on Oliver’s cheek and he raises one hand to wipe them off before he remembers that the rest of him is just as wet and there’s no real point. Instead he glares at Diggory. “What. Do. You. Want?”
Diggory leans his broomstick against one of the tables and fingercombs his hair. “Ah,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you –”
“You said that already,” Oliver snaps. There’s a rough Scottish burr underlining his words and he could kill himself for it; accents don’t do anyone any good when pronunciation is the second most important part of all verbal spells. His first year he’d barely been able to make himself understood without Professor McGonagall to translate; he’d lit Percy Weasley’s head on fire with what was supposed to be a levitation charm and hadn’t noticed for a full minute because Percy’s hair and the flames were the same color.
Diggory looks frustrated. “Bloody hell, Wood,” he says. “I see what Weasley said, about you being hard to talk to.”
Oliver stares at him. When he doesn’t get a reply, Diggory swallows and continues on. “Listen, about the game – it really wasn’t fair, what with the Dementors and Potter and all. If you and I both go and talk to Hooch, then –”
“You won!” Oliver shouts. “Fair and square! Magical beasts are allowed onto the pitch under Rule 729 of the Quidditch Code, if their presence is not a direct act by one team and/or the referee –”
“Dementors are forbidden by the International Wizarding Code of 1621, Amendment 19.7 to enter a public spectacle consisting of more than five hundred witches and wizards!” Diggory snaps. “Therefore –”
“You bloody badgers won!” Oliver barks. “Why can’t you just crawl back to your den and be content with that, instead of sniffing around –” He stops abruptly. Diggory’s staring past him, mouth slightly open. “What?”
“That plant just sneezed,” Diggory says, almost conversationally, and Oliver revolves on the ball of one foot to see the bright pink flower draw its petals back and shudder, sending pollen flying straight at his face.
“Bloody –” he says and starts to lick his lips before he realizes he’s got no idea at all about what the plant is or its side-effects. Unfortunately, he’s already feeling sort of – funny, high almost, like the time he ate too many Fizzing Whizbees when he was eight. And his senses are heightened and he can smell everything – the flowers in the greenhouse, the rain outside, the sleek gold of the Snitch, and something absolutely delicious that has to be Cedric Diggory.
He turns – just to see if Diggory looks as good as he smells, he tells himself later, but he doesn’t have time to think or act or even do anything but feel, a brief shock of warmth and what? as Diggory shoves him up against the wooden table and kisses him hard. Oliver makes a faint protesting sound and drops his broom so that he can scrabble against Diggory’s robes and fist his fingers in his hair. Diggory tastes good, like rainwater and Honeydukes chocolate, and Oliver just wants to lick the taste out of his mouth.
They’re hard, both of them, and Oliver has never hated Quidditch robes before until he realizes exactly how difficult they are to get out of in a hurry compared to ordinary robes, but Diggory’s Seeker’s fingers are quick and sure and Oliver’s been getting in and out of Quidditch uniforms long enough that it doesn’t take too much time, but too much is still too much. By the time Oliver pushes Diggory down onto the pile of robes he’s biting hard at Diggory’s neck, teeth digging in enough to bruise but not quite breaking the skin. Diggory splays his hand out over the small of Oliver’s back, gasping out words Oliver’s never heard him say before and rubbing fiercely against him.
There’s a thick dusting of dark pink pollen drifting over both of them. Oliver laps up wet strips from Diggoy’s chest, teeth catching on a nipple. Diggory hisses and arches up against him, head thrown back against the red and yellow of their rumpled Quidditch robes. They’re both shaking now, moving hard against each other, and then another burst of pollen settles over them and Diggory stiffens, chin knocking hard against the top of Oliver’s head. Oliver follows a moment later, gasping out words onto Diggory’s chest.
After, they lie curled together for God-knows-how-long, then Oliver wriggles up Diggory’s body and starts to kiss him again. The flower coughs out another burst of pollen.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-07 02:27 am (UTC)Them magical plants are dangerous ...
They're going to be too very tired boys at the end of the day.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-07 03:16 am (UTC)Forget the end of the day, how are they ever going to face each other across the Quidditch Pitch again? *grin*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-07 03:37 am (UTC)That would be a very funny follow-up. And do they still want to rip each other's clothes off when they're NOT intoxicated? (G) Hmmm. Cedric might have Cho (at least in canon) but was Wood ever dating anyone? All that aggressive sports energy ... concealing a little homoerotic fire? (G)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-07 11:35 pm (UTC)*rubs hands together* Oh, I could do things with this.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-07 11:45 pm (UTC)(lure, lure ...) I'd sure read it, anyway. Hee.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-08 12:00 am (UTC)*cough* Totally off-topic.
I'm sure if questioned, Oliver would tell anyone who asked that, "I'm just trying to figure out their strategy!"
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-08 03:07 am (UTC)I think you're right. As the visiting schools seem to have to find dates among themselves, or with Hogwarts students.
I'm sure if questioned, Oliver would tell anyone who asked that, "I'm just trying to figure out their strategy!"
LOL! You've got to write this now for me. You've just got to. "Figuring strategies." There's your title (lots of double entendre there).
(plants her virtual self on doorstep, waiting.)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-09 12:47 am (UTC)I'm just still trying to figure out how the hell Gabrielle Delacour got there in the first place. I mean, did Dumbledore or Maxime go all the way to France just to kidnap Fleur's little sister? Or did the Champions' families come to visit (as is implied; we know they were there for the third task) and Dumbledore just went, "Oh, by the way, borrowing your youngest spawn for a dangeorus task! Don't worry, she'll only be underwater for an hour"?
LOL! You've got to write this now for me. You've just got to. "Figuring strategies." There's your title (lots of double entendre there).
*stares at notebook, bewildered* I appear to have begun. It may be longer. Hello, Gryffindor Quidditch fifth years, taking their Captain's love life into their own hands. They're a bit scary, actually.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-09 05:49 am (UTC)This sounds delightful. Do you mean Griffyndor fifth years or Hufflepuff? (I wondered because Wood is a seventh year and Cedric is a fifth year.) But EITHER way sounds like fun.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-09 11:34 pm (UTC)“You go talk to Oliver –”
“– and we’ll leave you alone.”
“If you don’t –”
“– we’ll make your life a living hell.”
“Clear?”
Oliver is just having mental breakdowns in the library. And apparently, in my head on paper in the future, because there suddenly appear to be two pages of a post-War Oliver fic on paper.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-09 11:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-09 11:57 pm (UTC)Seriously, poor Cedric. Then Angelina and Alicia add in a bit of Hufflepuff-torment.