New Fic: HPValensmut, Draco/Oliver NC-17

[ravenna_c_tan]

The reveal has taken place at hpvalensmut and here is the one I wrote for a person who unfortunately left LJ before the fest and so I never got any feedback from them. (*cries*) And I was so effing proud of having stuck SOOOO closely to the request, too! Check it ou!

Title: Settling the Score
Author: ravenna_c_tan
Recipient: gnightg
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Oliver Wood
Beta-reader: miss_bowtruckle
Word Count: 4600
Summary/Original Request: "Angst, PWP, Quidditch dressing rooms, Quidditch pitch, desperate erotic dreams, masturbation, watching, admiration, pain is so close to pleasure, sport is so close to sex, tarot fortune telling, wall-sex, smart talk, did I mention ANGST?"
Author's Note: I believe I got every one of the elements in the request into the story except for "watching" and "admiration." The rest fit together incredibly well. I loved this request and had a ton of fun with it! Hope what came out pleases you!



Settling the Score
by Ravenna C. Tan

He was in a circle of Death Eaters and they were laughing, their black robes swishing and their masks as mocking as their voices. There, kneeling in their midst, Draco tugged furiously on his cock, knowing from long experience that the game would only end when he came.

At least this time he was alone, depending on no one but his own right hand, and hurting no one, as the leering crowd around him touched both their cocks and their wands, tossing the occasional hex his way to make his goal more difficult. Little zaps of Cruciatus, Engorgement charms forcing him to wank with both hands, lubrication charms making himself too slick to handle, any sick thing they could come up with to prolong the game.

He was desperate to come now--they had been tormenting him for more than an hour--and there were sounds coming from his throat he had only ever heard here in the Dark Lord's dungeons...

Suddenly there was someone there, which was how he knew this was a dream and not a memory. A hand joined his on his cock, a robed arm curved around his chest from behind. "Come on, Malfoy," said a masculine voice. "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm trying," he tried to say, to explain, but with a sudden start he realized he was awake, in bed, alone as always, one hand wrapped around his cock, pumping himself sore. His wand was just out of reach. He licked his hand instead and pulled hard and fast until he came, quickly and with little satisfaction.

The waking charm then set his wand abuzz and startled him. It took him a moment to remember why this day was different from other days. Why was he going to get out of bed at all? Then full memory returned. Puddlemere. Right.

He dragged himself from bed to kitchen--the distance only a few steps in his tiny, dingy flat--and rummaged for something to eat. Half a box of stale water crackers was all he could find.

He sat eating them one by one and staring at the cracked surface of the table. If this didn't work, he was running out of options. He supposed there was always giving Tarot card readings in the park, but that was dodgy work and the Ministry frowned on wizards doing it, even those like Draco with no actual Divinatory talents.

He left the crackers and dug out his old cards, shuffling them and drawing three, as if doing some old Divination homework.

"Let's see, here's me, here's today, and here's the future," he said, then flipped the cards over at once, spreading them to see.

The Five of Swords, the Five of Wands, the Five of Cups. Draco frowned. Three fives? What were the odds?

He Summoned his old Divination text, one of the few books he had not sold, mostly because no one wanted it, and flipped through out of curiosity.

"The Five of Swords," he read aloud, his the only voice that was ever heard in the flat--he had never had a visitor. "He is the master in possession of the field." Well, that sounded promising, given what he planned to do today. But the divinatory meanings made him frown. Degradation, infamy. Well, those were two things that had ruled his life since Lucius had been given the Kiss.

"The Five of Wands," he read next. "A posse of youths brandish staves, as if in sport or strife. It is mimic warfare." Well, that certainly sounded like a Quidditch reference if ever there were one in the deck. The hairs prickled at the back of his neck.

That left the Five of Cups. "It is a card of loss, but something remains over." He wrinkled his nose. Would he lose at the flyout, today, but get some form of consolation prize? "May mean a newly-formed union, but whether or not it is happy is entirely up to you."

"Sodding useless." He tossed the cards aside and went to dig his broom out of the closet.

***

Draco shifted his broom nervously from hand to hand, looking around the pitch and trying to pretend he was not sizing up his competition. But of course every one of the young men standing on the grass with broom in hand was doing the exact same thing.

Draco began to feel that coming here was a mistake. There were at least twenty five hopefuls, himself included, there already, and he knew a few more would be coming from the dressing rooms. But he reminded himself again, he had very little to lose by trying.

Fighting alongside the Order of the Phoenix at the end of the war had saved him from Azkaban, but had gotten him precious little else. The Ministry handed out a few medals to Order members, Potter and Snape among them, but had looked askance at them generally, and Draco's contribution to the defeat of Voldemort had not been enough to win him much when the Ministry claimed the Malfoy Estate for war reparations to Lucius Malfoy's victims.

Now Draco Malfoy was twenty years old, almost penniless, nearly homeless, and trying desperately not to take Snape up on his offer of a potions apprenticeship in Oslo, where he was on a research fellowship. Draco knew quite well what being apprenticed to Snape would mean--chopping dragon liver by day and cleaning cauldrons by night. No thank you.

The judges were now making their way across the pitch, each carrying a clipboard, already in spirited argument with each other over something. There were five, and Draco quickly identified them in their blue robes with golden emblems as Puddlemere's owner, defensive coach, offensive coach, flying coordinator, and the youngest team captain in the team's nearly four-hundred year history, none other than Oliver Wood.

Draco narrowed his eyes at Wood. If they'd gotten on better at Hogwarts, Draco might have considered leaving off the glamour that turned his usual blond to black and his eyes from grey to blue-green. He was too easily recognizable as the son of the notorious Death Eater and even if the number of nutcases who actually tried to hex him in the street was fairly low, the stares and whispers were tiresome.

No, it was better if his acquaintance with Wood from their school days did not come into play. If he won the backup Seeker position at the open flyout today, it would be on merit.

And if he didn't, he'd have to sell the broom next. Or take Snape up on his offer. Or start selling his arse on Knockturn Alley... but it would be such a bother to spell his pubic hair every day, too, Draco thought. Though at least then maybe he'd be getting some.

Wood blew a whistle and Draco mounted his broom along with the others, and flew a few laps around the pitch, the cloth numbers charmed onto the back of his robes flapping in the wind.

The initial drills were not difficult for him, and he was pleased by that. He had not had much chance for flying, but instinct made up for a lot and some of the "hopefuls" there today were clearly only that--hopeful, not talented.

By noon they were down to a dozen, and now the eyeing of one another became open. There was a Russian who barely spoke English who flew very muscularly, a Frenchman who had no chance really just by virtue of being French, though he flew well enough that they would keep him around all day to save face--none of them had exchanged names and they ate sandwiches on the pitch without speaking to one another.

In the afternoon, they moved on to more complex flying, and Draco's advantage here was that he had scoped out Puddlemere's flying patterns extensively the moment he had heard about the flyout. As a test of their abilities as Seekers it was a bit dumb actually--the Seeker almost never flew in formation anyway, but they needed some way to weed out the best from the rest.

So it was that by mid-afternoon--the summer heat making him sweat whenever he wasn't flying at top speed and plastering his hair to his forehead--Draco was nearly surprised to find it down to himself, the Frenchman and the Russian, and an Englishman named Terrill. Puddlemere's Seeker, a bloke named McNally, came down to the pitch then, and it became clear to Draco what the next test would be when he saw McNally held a Snitch in his hand.

"Number Forty-Seven!" Wood called out, and Terrill mounted his broom. So did McNally, after releasing the Snitch.

Draco took a seat on the grass. This could take all bloody day, and he wasn't about to fatigue his legs with standing about, nor tire his neck with watching too closely. The two flyers chased the Snitch one-on-one all over the place, and Draco could not imagine a less exciting thing to watch. One-on-one Quidditch was fun to play, dull to observe.

Thus it was that he was actually dozing in the sun, the smell of the fresh grass lulling him, when the accident happened. McNally was facing off against the Russian and got run into a goalpost, or so Draco gathered from the chagrined look on the Russian's face as he was sent packing, and the flattened, bloodied state of McNally's nose. Terrill was nowhere to be seen.

"What happened to Terrill?" Draco asked the Frenchman, whose answer was an eloquent drawing of his finger across his throat. "Ah."

"Number Fifty-five!" Wood barked, and it took Draco a moment to remember that was his number. "Get in the air."

Draco shrugged toward the Frenchman and took off, looking back to see Wood himself flying after him. He held steady and Wood pulled even with him, no sign of recognition in his eyes.

"Run me into a post and you'll have more to worry about than your wounded pride," Wood said, then let the Snitch go and was after it without warning.

Draco kicked his broom up to speed and gave chase, artificially-darkened hair, number, and robes flapping madly in Wood's wake. Wood's broom was a Willowback Z60, one of the more powerful brooms out there and the one favoured by Puddlemere United for all positions except Seeker.

Draco clutched his old Nimbus between his legs and flattened himself, trying to reduce his wind resistance and slip into the calm section of Wood's wake, waiting for the Snitch to make a break one direction or the other. They were clearly pushing their top speed and the little golden ball was, if anything, pulling slightly away.

Draco was patient. The only way to keep up with the Willowback would be to draft him like this; there was no chance to overtake him. This was a professional snitch, though, so it would surely change direction suddenly on them...

There it went. Now, with it zooming back and forth, Wood's advantage was lost, and he and Draco were shoulder to shoulder, each trying to bump the other off course and stay on the Snitch at the same time.

It was exhilarating. Draco found himself grinning, baring his teeth as his eyes never wavered from the fluttering prize leading him on, yet completely aware of the body in the air next to him, Wood's shoulder as hard as his namesake pushing at him. He spared a glance and Wood had his teeth bared, too, a wild gleam in his eye.

The Snitch dove then, straight down, but the pitch was so far below them, Draco hardly noticed. Gravity tugged at him, and they spiralled downward... and Draco realized that he was edging ahead of Wood. He flattened himself still further, hearing Wood curse from behind him. Draco laughed. The Willowback probably had some superior braking charm to prevent fatal dives, but the Nimbus had no such thing.

Heart pounding in his ears, adrenaline surging through his veins, Draco hurtled ahead, toward the green of the pitch, and closed his fingers over the whizzing, golden ball.

He pulled up immediately, exultant, and felt and heard something tear--he looked back to see Wood holding the number in his fist and shaking it at him. Draco laughed and flew toward the judges on the ground.

Draco noted that Wood did not join them as the four took it on themselves to talk all at once.

"...brilliant method of dealing with a faster broom...!"

"...nervy, gave as good as you got..."

"...the only one of the four to actually capture the Snitch..."

"...such a dive, absolutely a crucial move in this league..."

Eventually, they wound down and the owner, a portly wizard named Magister Chafee, whose family had owned the team for the past hundred years, stepped forward and shook Draco's hand. "I must say I was a bit sceptical of this plan for an open flyout, but young man, you have made this entire day worth my while." He flourished his wand in the air and a contract appeared, letters shimmering into place on the page as Draco took it in. It would, of course, be magically binding. He saw his salary and his guarantee in case of injury--both were acceptable. He took the quill from Chafee's hand and signed with a flourish of his own.

Chafee squinted at the signature. "Welcome to Puddlemere United, Mister....?"

"Malfoy," Draco said, holding out his hand. "Draco Malfoy."

***

He sat alone in the dressing room an hour or so later, after the mild uproar, put down by the team's Director of PR who quickly determined that the "forgotten war hero" angle was in fact perfect to help restore Quidditch's reputation in the postwar era as a serious and worthwhile pursuit...

Draco didn't care. They could use him as they liked. He would have regular pay, eat three meals a day again, and pay his back rent. If he restored the Malfoy name somewhat, well, that was a bonus he barely expected and hardly cared about.

He stripped out of his sweaty jersey and sat there on the bench naked in front of his locker with it balled in his hands, feeling drained and sunburnt and wishing there were someone he could owl for congratulations. He should share the news with Snape, he supposed, if only as the reason why he wouldn't be taking him up on his offer. There was no one else.

The bang of the door behind him in the hard, echoing room made him jump. He turned to see Wood sauntering toward him slowly, a serious expression on his face.

Oliver Wood had not changed terribly much since his seventh year at Hogwarts. His face had elongated a tad, but his body was much the same as Draco recalled, a solid, trim triangle for an upper body, and long, slim legs under the straps and buckles of his flying gear.

Wood walked up to him, reached out and took Draco's face by the chin, turning him this way and that, looking him over in the glow of the setting sun coming through the high windows. "Yeah, okay, it is you. Pretty damn sneaky of you, Malfoy."

"Don't be ridiculous, Wood. I won the job on my skills, didn't I?"

Wood's hand had not moved from his chin. "Perhaps you did. I wasn't too pleased to be shown up out there," he said, his voice low and menacing.

"What do you want?" Draco hissed. "The contract is signed. You're stuck with me, Wood."

Wood chuckled. "No, I rather think it's you who's stuck with me. Malfoy." His hand slid from Draco's chin into his hair, in a rough caress. "My word is law on this team."

Draco narrowed his eyes. So, big man Gryffindor wanted to play heavy? Wood couldn't even imagine how much worse Draco had stood up to. "You didn't answer my question," Draco spat. "What do you want, Wood? My mouth or my arse?"

The slap came without warning and Draco shook his head, his bell rung but no blood came forth. He sat calmly, waiting to see what Wood would do next.

Wood was seething now, the blow seemed to have unhinged him more than it had Draco. "Your father killed my cousin Ned, did you know that?"

Draco sighed, now dead calm. "You think you're the first person to walk up to me and tell me something like that? My father killed hundreds, and there are hundreds more who were offed by other Death Eaters, but people would like to believe that their great-aunt Myrtle was personally dismembered and then buggered to death by Lucius Malfoy."

Draco took a deep breath, his recitation seeming to have mesmerized Wood, who was still panting angrily but who neither moved nor spoke. Apparently it was Wood's first grudge-fuck, Draco thought wryly. Draco decided to push.

"I say again, Wood, which would you prefer? My mouth or my arse?" He set the jersey aside, giving Wood a good look at the merchandise. "Or have you some other form of restitution in mind? The money's already been taken, you see."

Wood frowned. "Are you serious?"

Draco sighed and stood, putting his hands onto Wood's shoulders. "Quite. Are you one of those who needs to kiss me first so you won't feel like a villain? Gryffindors usually need something like that." And with that Draco leaned in and pressed his mouth to Wood's.

It didn't start out much of a kiss, because Wood was too shocked to respond, but then Draco felt arms circling his bare back, the buckles of Wood's flying braces cold against his skin, and a soft but muscular tongue parting his lips.

Oh, yes, there it was. Draco felt the moment Wood committed himself, made the decision to take what was being offered. A surge of desire ran through him, matching the energy in Wood that was rising up now to claim him. Wood smelled of the grassy pitch and hot sun and musky sweat--and being held against Wood's uniform and gear made Draco feel deliciously naked.

"Fuck," Wood breathed as he broke away. "And if I said I want both, your mouth and your arse?"

Draco was panting, which removed some of the sardonic tone from his statement. "If you take my mouth, you won't last long enough to get to my arse."

"Is that right?" Wood said, hands reaching around to cup Draco's arse and spreading his cheeks. "Your arse it is, then, Malfoy," he said, as he lifted Draco up against the metal doors of the lockers. "Drop your glamour, though. I want you to look like you when I'm taking you."

"I'll need my wand," Draco said, pressing his head back against the doors.

"Summon it," Wood said, one hand working his trousers open.

Draco nodded, Summoning his wand from the pile of his belongings under the bench. He lifted the glamour with one swipe, then swished it once more, casting a silent lubrication spell on himself. (It might have been Wood's first grudge-fuck, but it wasn't Draco's.) Wood then took the wand from his hand and tucked it into his arm brace.

One arm and one knee held Draco in place while Wood's free hand slid down Draco's torso and tugged experimentally on the hard cock he found there. "You get off on being treated like this?" Wood asked, sounding downright concerned.

"Would you prefer I didn't?" Draco shot back.

"No, no," Wood said, startled, fishing a finger into Draco slick hole. "Maybe it's better we fuck instead of talk, hey?"

"Fine with me," Draco said. "Get on with it."

Wood needed no other encouragement, centring himself and breaching him without another word.

Draco cried out in pain, the cry loud in the echoing room, and clung to Wood then with a following gasp. Wood said nothing, but held still, rubbing his cheek against Draco's shoulder as if in sympathy.

Draco pressed his face against Wood's hair and was surprised to find his cheeks wet.

Wood looked up then. "Oh God, Malfoy, I canna do this if you're going to cry."

"I'm not going to cry. Anymore," Draco said.

"You're the one who said to get on with it." Woods voice was reedy with blame. "I thought you would be ready."

Draco gritted his teeth. "I like it to hurt. If it doesn't... it doesn't count. It was just..." He changed his mind about whatever he was going to say. "I'm fine now," he said into Wood's ear, his arms wrapped around his neck. "And I want you to fuck me, Oliver. Or don't you get that?"

"I get that," Wood replied, thrusting against him and making the locker doors rattle. "I can't claim to understand the twisted motivations for it in your Slytherin head, but ... mmph." He ended with a grunt as Draco tightened around him and he thrust again, jerkily, several times.

Draco grunted in response as Wood began fucking him in earnest. "Oh, like your reasons for doing this are... so pure of heart."

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"You already are."

"Right." Wood moaned as he resettled Draco, shifting them both and deepening the penetration. Now he lifted Draco with both hands as he pulled back, letting him drop as he thrust in, and Draco cried out again, this time in pleasure.

"You flew beautifully," Wood whispered as he increased the pace. "You know that, right? Mmm, when I thought you were just some black-Irish bloke with an out-of-date broom, when we were flyin' up there, I wanted to fuck you just like this."

Draco found himself clinging to Wood now with all his strength. There were too many layers of desire flying around in here. Too many motivations. He couldn't tell who was in control and he no longer cared. "If you keep that up, I'm going to come with my cock hardly touched."

In truth, Draco's cock was rubbing against the navy blue jersey Wood wore, but "untouched" was true enough. Wood groaned at that and continued his efforts. "Always... wondered... if your arse would be this sweet, Malfoy."

"Did you, now?"

"Mmm, quite. You flew like a demon back then, too." Wood was sweating now, thrusting faster, and Draco felt they'd soon both lose the ability to speak. "Always wondered what my broomhandle would feel like between your cheeks."

Draco squeezed him with both his legs and his insides. "Worth the wait?"

"God yes..." Wood growled, then spoke, as if to someone else, incredulously, "I am fucking Draco Malfoy."

"More fucking, less talking," Draco said then, his own orgasm imminent. He reached for his cock but Wood batted his hand away, shaking his head in warning. Draco just clung to him then, helping the motion as much as he could, which was not much, suspended between Wood's cock and the wall as he was, and supported by Wood's arms.

He let the pleasure build inside him, forgot the flyout, Hogwarts, grudges, Puddlemere, and just concentrated on the cock inside him, thick as a broomhandle. He hadn't felt this good in...

Wood backed away from the wall a step, his arms now taking all of Draco's weight.

When Draco came, it felt like flying.

It wasn't long after that Wood pumped him full of come, then sat him on the bench, pulling out quickly, and thrusting his spunky dick, still spasming, into Draco's mouth. Draco sucked it willingly--though he was glad his lubrication charm had cleansing properties to it--revelling in the feeling of Wood's hand on the back of his head, holding him steady as he stuffed his prick as far as it would go, until it was too much and Draco gagged.

Wood pulled out then, but Draco got down on his knees and finished the job, licking and sucking his balls and all around his cock, until he was limp and clean.

"Why'd you do it?" Wood asked, when his breathing had slowed and Draco got to his feet.

"I like flying and I need the money," Draco replied, picking up a towel.

Wood gave an exasperated sound. "No, I mean, let me grudge-fuck you."

Draco sighed. "You're hardly the first."

Wood looked as if he'd been slapped.

"Seriously, are you surprised?" Draco wrapped the towel around his waist, as if modesty counted for something. "It's the only sex I get, anyway."

Wood was suddenly close, his hands on the towel, still mostly in his uniform, spattered in come as it was, pulling Draco against him. "You need it, do you? Someone to punish you for your da's sins?"

Draco struggled a bit, but Wood's grip was firm. That was exactly it, but... "Don’t you claim to understand me."

"Fine, be that way," Wood said, jerking the towel. "But you belong to Puddlemere now, hey? That means you belong to me."

"What are you saying?" Draco hissed.

"McNally got his bell rung pretty good today. We'll see if he's fit to fly on Saturday. If not, it'll be you out there. I won't have you risking yourself looking for old enemies of your Da's up and down Knockturn way, you hear me?" He cupped Draco's arse again, pressing their groins together. "And I fly better when I've had... a release beforehand."

Draco pursed his lips. "It's all about Quidditch with you, then."

"Always has been, always will be," Wood replied. "It's why I'm captain. Now get your arse in the shower. If you're not out of here in ten minutes, I'm going to want another go."

Draco laughed. "And on Saturday?"

"Be here early unless you want me to take you in front of the others," Wood said, as Draco sauntered toward the showers.

It wasn't until he was running his head under steaming hot water that he remembered the Tarot reading of the morning. The final card now made sense. May mean a newly-formed union, but whether or not it is happy is entirely up to you. "Happy" wasn't a word Draco trusted much. But he would have money and food and honestly an arse-reaming by Oliver Wood every week wouldn't be such a bad thing...

Ten minutes later he was still standing under the water, washing his hair for the second time to make sure he took longer than usual, when Wood came into the shower room.

Draco sluiced water from his eyes and saw Wood start the flow on the showerhead next to Draco's. "Your ten minutes are up," Wood said, his voice casual.

"So did you lie about wanting another go? Or about how quickly you recover?" Draco asked acidly. He reached for Wood's cock with a sudsy hand and was gratified to feel the flesh firming quickly between his fingers.

"I want another go," Wood said, his voice husky. "I wasn't kidding when I said I've been thinking about you since you were too young to be thought about. And I wouldn't, you know, really fuck you in front of the others. Not when what I really want is to take you home and keep you myself."

"Keep me?" Draco said warily.

"I am a Keeper," Wood said, as If that explained everything.

"And I'm a Seeker," Draco replied, with a frown.

"And maybe you found what you're looking for," Wood said, running his hands over Draco's which were still massaging his cock with suds. "Figure it out, Malfoy, or don't. But you're coming home with me." And Wood Disapparated them without another word.