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The lotion is cold when it's dribbled onto Harry's back and he shivers all over. Oliver stills him with a whisper, "It'll warm up soon." His hands smooth across Harry's shoulder blades and down his back ever so lightly, and the lotion heats with the press of Oliver's fingertips. Harry sighs, feeling every inch the young boy he's pretending to be—the boy that spied on his Quidditch Captain in the showers after practice—the boy that squirmed in his bed in the middle of the night with those memories, feeling hot and achy and not understanding why.
Now, Harry understands why.
Harry lies facedown on an expanded bench in the changing rooms clad only in cream-coloured uniform trousers. He's already Vanished his cup and undone the laces.
He knows what Oliver's hands do to him.
They planned this outing perfectly, going so far as Oliver coaching him through drills out on the pitch, until Harry's dick got too hard to fly in anticipation of what was to come.
Now Oliver's hands are on him, thumbs digging into his skin to ease the tension in his shoulders. "Can't have our star seeker getting injured, can we?" Oliver says. Harry stifles a moan.
Oliver's touch disappears. There's a rustle of fabric.
"What're doing?" Harry lifts and turns his head, but is stopped short with a firm press to his back. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Oliver's down to his pants, his clothes abandoned on the floor.
"Just getting more comfortable," Oliver says lightly. He climbs on the bench, straddling Harry's thighs and his palms slide from Harry's shoulders down the smooth planes of his back. The heavy weight of his cock rests on the swell of Harry's buttocks. Harry can't help but buck his hips once. Oliver's breath catches.
Oliver's hands linger on the small of Harry's back. He inches down as he kneads Harry's muscles, the tips of his thumbs slipping just below the waistband of Harry's trousers.
"We should get you more comfortable, too." He slides down and Harry barely has a chance to miss his warmth before he tugs Harry's trousers and pants below his hips. He runs his fingers along the slight dip where Harry's thighs meet his arse. Harry's cock throbs even as he forces himself tense all over. Nerves flutter in his stomach.
"Oliver? Wait—"
"Shhh," Oliver says. "You trust me, don't you?"
Harry cranes his neck to find the perfect mix of innocence and filth painted over Oliver's face. He nods, unable to trust his voice lest he beg Oliver to get on with it already, even if it breaks their fantasy.
But Harry's learned Oliver won't be rushed. It's never been more true than now. Oliver takes his time, palms coasting over the curve of Harry's cheeks, squeezing only gently here and there, even as his breaths grow more shallow, sending shivers down Harry's spine.
Finally, his fingers find the cleft of Harry's buttocks and slither down. Harry bites his lip.
"That feels weird," Harry breathes, squirming a little against the bench. Oliver's fingertips kiss Harry's rim and a bead of pre-come dribbles out of Harry's cock, smearing against his stomach. "Oliver—stop—"
"I thought you trusted me, Harry." Oliver spreads Harry's cheeks wide and hot breath ghosts over Harry's hole. Harry's need spikes tenfold and his hips jerk.
"I do, but..." he manages to hold back his whine, but only just.
Voice gruff, Oliver says, "Then shut it and hold still."
Harry squirms again—he can't help himself—until Oliver's grip goes impossibly tight and his tongue darts out over Harry's rim and swirls.
Harry whimpers. His hips pump without permission, giving his cock just enough friction. Spikes of pleasure radiate through his body as Oliver licks and licks, loosening him up. He should be fighting this, but Harry has no patience for their game any longer. He just wants more—he aches to be filled.
Finally, Oliver thrusts his tongue inside and slips a finger in beneath it—just one—and Harry quivers all over.
"Please," he groans. "Please—"
Oliver shoves one hand between Harry's hips and the bench and fists Harry's cock in time with his thrusting tongue, and Harry comes with a shattering cry.
"Turn over." Oliver urges Harry to his back. He scoots forward to hover over Harry's stomach, shoves his pants down, then curls a hand around his cock. Harry strokes the back of Oliver's thighs and watches, enraptured, as Oliver brings himself off, shooting arcs of white over Harry's chest.
"It's like we really are teenagers again," Oliver says, catching his breath.
Harry laughs wearily. "We didn't even get to the fucking."
"Next time." Oliver leans down, murmuring, "I'll catch you spying on me in the showers. Teach you a lesson."
Harry shivers with his promise. "I'll hold you to that."