Harry Potter, This is What Insanity Looks Like, Fred/Oliver
Title: This is What Insanity Looks Like
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R
Summary: Fred and Oliver can be fucked up together.
Warning: Mentions of character death, sadomasochism, characters being generally messed up, and it might be difficult to follow. I was trying to get into his mindset which, I think, would be a little difficult to follow. And I think my American-ness is definitely seeping through.
Disclaimer: There is no truth in the story; I’m just playing with JKR’s characters. If I owned them, I would die so happy.
Notes: For the Contre la Montre war challenge and for the Suzarchist countversutia, who wanted Fred/Oliver with bonus points for mentioning past relationships. Now give me fucked up!Flash, biotch! I'm sorry it's not that great, but I'm kind of stressing about the ACTs. What doust thou think, m'Lady?
*~*
The war took its toll on everyone. Graves were dug, orphans made. Clean up was a bitch. Fred wished he was among the casualties. With George.
George was dead.
Fuck.
Percy, that fucking . . . Fred couldn’t stop being so angry that the traitorous bastard lived and George didn’t, where were God and justice in that equation? George fought and died for people, Percy hid in that fucking sham of a ministry claiming he was helping from behind the scenes.
Oliver came to the funeral. Oliver fucking Wood came to the funeral and Percival worthless fuck Weasley didn’t. At the pub that night, Oliver was there drink for drink, word for word. Sob for sob.
The barman kicked them out at closing time, so they Apparated to Wood’s to continue their little memorial. George would have loved it, thought it appropriate. Wanted more of the whiskey.
“Heard you were living with bloody Flint of all people,” Fred slurred, finally to that point where losing half his soul didn’t hurt so much.
Oliver laughed ruefully. “We weren’t living together. Just shagging.”
Fred cocked his head and squinted, as if Oliver was something strange he’d never seen before and wasn’t sure if his eyes were honest. “You’re a queer?”
“Yeah, ’s it to ya?”
“Nufin’. I ’ink Percy’s a queer.”
“I know he’s a queer.”
“Yeah, really?”
“Yeah, really. He ’n Flint are quite the pair. Kinky.”
“I don’t think I want to know that.”
“Hell, you won’t remember tomorrow.”
“Wish I wouldn’t remember for the rest of my life.”
“Yeah, it’d be nice.”
Somehow, they got to having fumbling and sloppy kisses. Fred got Oliver’s trousers off and was amazed at the scars mangling the Quidditch star’s leg. It looked painful. Fred hadn’t even noticed the limp.
“Some Quidditch star, now.” Bitter, and Fred couldn’t blame him.
“How?”
“Fighting. A spell. Something blew up, shrapnel did . . . that. Flint hated seeing it.”
Fred got Oliver’s shirt off and was amazed at the scars marring his chest. Not like he fell off a broom once or twice, like someone took a knife to him or something.
“Shrapnel?” Fred asked.
“Flint,” a small, dry voice. Dear God, was that whiskey so watered down they weren’t smashed anymore?
“The fuck?”
It was Oliver’s turn for the sobs to wrack his body. Fred lay with him on the bed, just holding him until he fell asleep.
Fred couldn’t sleep. Fred didn’t think he’d ever sleep again, not since the war ended two days ago and the only thing left in life was to bury the dead.
“And live,” some would have added.
Fred didn’t want to live.
“Course you do,” George said from the mirror across the room. “Mum would kill you if you didn’t. Oliver wants you to live. You can fuck with Percy’s head with that or something.”
“Or have mind-blowing sex,” Fred added.
“That too.”
“I think he needs someone.” Oliver, nuzzling into his arm.
“So do you.”
“Yeah, well.”
“He’s never going to play Quidditch again.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he’d like running the shop.”
“Maybe.”
“Wood’s great.”
“Yeah.”
“Fucked up.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Bet he’s a bloody brilliant shag.”
“He’s been with Percy of all bloody people.”
“And Flint.”
“I’m trying to forget that.”
“Hey, once you get past the eyebrow-”
“And the teeth-”
“And the personality-”
“You mean lack thereof.”
“Yeah, okay, there’s nothing redeeming. Unless he’s got a wonder cock or something.”
“Percy likes it, apparently.”
“That’s kind of disturbing.”
“He might be in trouble or something.”
“No one deserves Flint.”
“Cept maybe Snape.”
“’Course.”
Oliver woke up to the sound of Fred’s voice and thought he must have been spectacularly smashed after all. Or maybe there was a weird after-affect of one of the spells he’s gotten thrown at him. Didn’t matter, he felt . . . contained in Fred’s arms, like the world might just get better.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R
Summary: Fred and Oliver can be fucked up together.
Warning: Mentions of character death, sadomasochism, characters being generally messed up, and it might be difficult to follow. I was trying to get into his mindset which, I think, would be a little difficult to follow. And I think my American-ness is definitely seeping through.
Disclaimer: There is no truth in the story; I’m just playing with JKR’s characters. If I owned them, I would die so happy.
Notes: For the Contre la Montre war challenge and for the Suzarchist countversutia, who wanted Fred/Oliver with bonus points for mentioning past relationships. Now give me fucked up!Flash, biotch! I'm sorry it's not that great, but I'm kind of stressing about the ACTs. What doust thou think, m'Lady?
*~*
The war took its toll on everyone. Graves were dug, orphans made. Clean up was a bitch. Fred wished he was among the casualties. With George.
George was dead.
Fuck.
Percy, that fucking . . . Fred couldn’t stop being so angry that the traitorous bastard lived and George didn’t, where were God and justice in that equation? George fought and died for people, Percy hid in that fucking sham of a ministry claiming he was helping from behind the scenes.
Oliver came to the funeral. Oliver fucking Wood came to the funeral and Percival worthless fuck Weasley didn’t. At the pub that night, Oliver was there drink for drink, word for word. Sob for sob.
The barman kicked them out at closing time, so they Apparated to Wood’s to continue their little memorial. George would have loved it, thought it appropriate. Wanted more of the whiskey.
“Heard you were living with bloody Flint of all people,” Fred slurred, finally to that point where losing half his soul didn’t hurt so much.
Oliver laughed ruefully. “We weren’t living together. Just shagging.”
Fred cocked his head and squinted, as if Oliver was something strange he’d never seen before and wasn’t sure if his eyes were honest. “You’re a queer?”
“Yeah, ’s it to ya?”
“Nufin’. I ’ink Percy’s a queer.”
“I know he’s a queer.”
“Yeah, really?”
“Yeah, really. He ’n Flint are quite the pair. Kinky.”
“I don’t think I want to know that.”
“Hell, you won’t remember tomorrow.”
“Wish I wouldn’t remember for the rest of my life.”
“Yeah, it’d be nice.”
Somehow, they got to having fumbling and sloppy kisses. Fred got Oliver’s trousers off and was amazed at the scars mangling the Quidditch star’s leg. It looked painful. Fred hadn’t even noticed the limp.
“Some Quidditch star, now.” Bitter, and Fred couldn’t blame him.
“How?”
“Fighting. A spell. Something blew up, shrapnel did . . . that. Flint hated seeing it.”
Fred got Oliver’s shirt off and was amazed at the scars marring his chest. Not like he fell off a broom once or twice, like someone took a knife to him or something.
“Shrapnel?” Fred asked.
“Flint,” a small, dry voice. Dear God, was that whiskey so watered down they weren’t smashed anymore?
“The fuck?”
It was Oliver’s turn for the sobs to wrack his body. Fred lay with him on the bed, just holding him until he fell asleep.
Fred couldn’t sleep. Fred didn’t think he’d ever sleep again, not since the war ended two days ago and the only thing left in life was to bury the dead.
“And live,” some would have added.
Fred didn’t want to live.
“Course you do,” George said from the mirror across the room. “Mum would kill you if you didn’t. Oliver wants you to live. You can fuck with Percy’s head with that or something.”
“Or have mind-blowing sex,” Fred added.
“That too.”
“I think he needs someone.” Oliver, nuzzling into his arm.
“So do you.”
“Yeah, well.”
“He’s never going to play Quidditch again.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he’d like running the shop.”
“Maybe.”
“Wood’s great.”
“Yeah.”
“Fucked up.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Bet he’s a bloody brilliant shag.”
“He’s been with Percy of all bloody people.”
“And Flint.”
“I’m trying to forget that.”
“Hey, once you get past the eyebrow-”
“And the teeth-”
“And the personality-”
“You mean lack thereof.”
“Yeah, okay, there’s nothing redeeming. Unless he’s got a wonder cock or something.”
“Percy likes it, apparently.”
“That’s kind of disturbing.”
“He might be in trouble or something.”
“No one deserves Flint.”
“Cept maybe Snape.”
“’Course.”
Oliver woke up to the sound of Fred’s voice and thought he must have been spectacularly smashed after all. Or maybe there was a weird after-affect of one of the spells he’s gotten thrown at him. Didn’t matter, he felt . . . contained in Fred’s arms, like the world might just get better.