The Best Game Ever: Harry Potter fic (HET)
glockgal drew this utterly fabulous Angelina/Fred pic, which I adore, and I wrote a little tidbit to go with it, which I am rather fond of, even if it pales in comparison to the wonder of the Glock and it was written on the spur of the moment and it's unedited and my dad kept bugging me about financial aid in the midst of it.
What a game. A great game. The best.
Well, perhaps not the best, Fred amended mentally. He normally ranked every game as the best because the best game was the one in which he shined the most, and his healthy ego allowed that he shined the most in every game. Not only was he always the best he could possibly be, but he always improved.
"Fred the Unstoppable," they called him. "Fantastic Flying Fred," they hailed him. "The Better Beater," was the title they bestowed upon him. "Right Said Fred," they deemed him (Fred didn't quite get that one). "The Unbeatable Beating Beater Beating the Unbeatable to Beatenhood," they honored him.
..."They" being the voices he imagined when he was polishing his ego along with his broom... and anything else that might need polishing. He was sure the other Hogwarts students named him similar heroic things behind his back in awed, hushed tones. It made him sleep just that much better at night to think it and blocked out the sound of George breathing a bit too fast and harshly to be innocently asleep.
Today's game was not one in which he could honestly say he shone as "Fred the Unstoppable." Today's game was more about "Amazing Aviating Angelina," than "El Fred-o Fabuloso." That he could not deny.
And yes, it bugged him just a teeny weeny bit.
Fred had thought, and he had spent a lot of time thinking it, that Angelina, today regaled by all as "Angelina the Air Conqueress" (if that made any sense at all) had finally decided upon him as a fine, ripe, crisp, shining apple for her (beautiful and brown) eye. And he had thought, and spent far more time thinking it (at night, when he was breathing a bit too fast and harshly to be innocently asleep), that all those brushes of hand against hand as they passed in the hallway, all that warmth of thigh against thigh as they didn't listen to Oliver during his pre-game speeches, all the intimacy of nose against nose as she invoked some unheard-of Quidditch ritual called "bumping noses" (and only with him, even though George had been awfully keen on getting a go)... that all that had been a promise of far more skin against skin in the very near future.
And by Merlin, Angelina had luscious skin.
But after the last game, when there was absolutely no doubt that the decisive Gryffindor defeat of Ravenclaw could be credited solely to Fred, and that particular Weasley had dived with swoon-inducing daring, speed, and athleticism to skillfully save one Angelina Johnson from the cruel threat of a heavy bludger, and then stood very regally and handsomely (he thought), coated in a tasteful sheen of sweat, in a victorious pose well within passionate-embracing distance of his not-so-distressed maiden, she had not passionately embraced him. Or hugged him. Or socked him on the shoulder. Or given him the thumbs-up. Or even glanced his way.
Angelina Johnson had stood very regally and gorgeously, coated in a tasteful sheen of sweat, and then turned and very proudly walked off. She did not appear sore either emotionally or physically. She just seemed disinterested. Disinterested in Fred, in all his supposed glory.
It was a fantasy-quasher, but it hadn't made that game any less the best. Yes, that game was the best because Fred had shone. Unlike today's game, because Fred had... not shone.
Angelina had. Fred mulled over this as he quietly shucked off his gear in the locker room, where he had escaped as inconspicuously as possible as soon as everyone's attention was focused on the enraged (and defeated) Slytherins skulking off the field. He was aware of his teammates filing into the locker room, but he avoided their eyes and thusly any conversation about the game into which he might otherwise have been sucked.
He wasn't sulking. He didn't deny Angelina her glory. He wasn't the sort to place himself over his teammates. It was just that... well... dammit...
Angela had saved him!
Of all the indignities! Of all the emasculating indignities! Not only was he the male, the would-be knight in shining armor -- not only was he interested, interested in her breasts and thighs (marvelous, strong, and agile thighs) and beguiling charm -- not only that! -- but he was the Beater! She was the Chaser!
Of course Fred was an amiable fellow, inspired and delighted by any deserving display of wit, so his mental admiring playback of Angelina's fantastically versatile twist in midair to confuse the second (and by Fred, unseen) bludger that had been dishonestly shucked at the vulnerable back of his head by a scheming (and shrewish) Slytherin was only slightly dampened by his disappointment that this game was the final sure nail in metaphorical coffin inside which rested his and Angelina's would-be passionate and blissful and divinely sexual relationship.
Dampened like this locker room. He was in a locker room. He blinked himself out of his thoughts as that mysterious sixth sense that tells us when others are staring rudely at us told him that he was being stared at... not exactly rudely, though.
Instead, Fred's eyes popped wide open and it was he that was staring blatantly and open mouthed into the sensually inviting gaze of one gloriously naked "Amazing Aviator."
Angelina Johnson had a damn fine body.
Fred forgot to close his mouth and how to talk and how to straighten up from unlacing his boots and how not look stupid, but Angelina wasn't stalled by this.
Far from it, she smirked cockily as if this was exactly what she expected and exactly what she wanted, and approached him gracefully, summoning into Fred's mind clichéd but effectively arousing comparisons to slinky feline predators closing in on their prey.
"Fred the Unbeatable, isn't it?" she breathed, and Fred forgot how to answer as she punctuated the question with the firm placement of each beautifully bare leg so that they framed his own and she stood tall and goddess-like and definitely victorious above him.
And he could smell her.
And then Angelina leaned forward, all control and gentleness and perfection, condom in one hand and Fred's chin in the other, took a kiss and took him.
Angelina Johnson enjoyed beating the unbeatable into beatenhood, and this, she thought, was the best game ever.
36. What inspires you?
Lori! XD
P.S. Bonus brownie points to those who get the Dntel reference, eh, Keri?
edit 1:58pm -- I am destined to repeat all my mistakes: "Dude, delete your soft core porn!" - My sister
What a game. A great game. The best.
Well, perhaps not the best, Fred amended mentally. He normally ranked every game as the best because the best game was the one in which he shined the most, and his healthy ego allowed that he shined the most in every game. Not only was he always the best he could possibly be, but he always improved.
"Fred the Unstoppable," they called him. "Fantastic Flying Fred," they hailed him. "The Better Beater," was the title they bestowed upon him. "Right Said Fred," they deemed him (Fred didn't quite get that one). "The Unbeatable Beating Beater Beating the Unbeatable to Beatenhood," they honored him.
..."They" being the voices he imagined when he was polishing his ego along with his broom... and anything else that might need polishing. He was sure the other Hogwarts students named him similar heroic things behind his back in awed, hushed tones. It made him sleep just that much better at night to think it and blocked out the sound of George breathing a bit too fast and harshly to be innocently asleep.
Today's game was not one in which he could honestly say he shone as "Fred the Unstoppable." Today's game was more about "Amazing Aviating Angelina," than "El Fred-o Fabuloso." That he could not deny.
And yes, it bugged him just a teeny weeny bit.
Fred had thought, and he had spent a lot of time thinking it, that Angelina, today regaled by all as "Angelina the Air Conqueress" (if that made any sense at all) had finally decided upon him as a fine, ripe, crisp, shining apple for her (beautiful and brown) eye. And he had thought, and spent far more time thinking it (at night, when he was breathing a bit too fast and harshly to be innocently asleep), that all those brushes of hand against hand as they passed in the hallway, all that warmth of thigh against thigh as they didn't listen to Oliver during his pre-game speeches, all the intimacy of nose against nose as she invoked some unheard-of Quidditch ritual called "bumping noses" (and only with him, even though George had been awfully keen on getting a go)... that all that had been a promise of far more skin against skin in the very near future.
And by Merlin, Angelina had luscious skin.
But after the last game, when there was absolutely no doubt that the decisive Gryffindor defeat of Ravenclaw could be credited solely to Fred, and that particular Weasley had dived with swoon-inducing daring, speed, and athleticism to skillfully save one Angelina Johnson from the cruel threat of a heavy bludger, and then stood very regally and handsomely (he thought), coated in a tasteful sheen of sweat, in a victorious pose well within passionate-embracing distance of his not-so-distressed maiden, she had not passionately embraced him. Or hugged him. Or socked him on the shoulder. Or given him the thumbs-up. Or even glanced his way.
Angelina Johnson had stood very regally and gorgeously, coated in a tasteful sheen of sweat, and then turned and very proudly walked off. She did not appear sore either emotionally or physically. She just seemed disinterested. Disinterested in Fred, in all his supposed glory.
It was a fantasy-quasher, but it hadn't made that game any less the best. Yes, that game was the best because Fred had shone. Unlike today's game, because Fred had... not shone.
Angelina had. Fred mulled over this as he quietly shucked off his gear in the locker room, where he had escaped as inconspicuously as possible as soon as everyone's attention was focused on the enraged (and defeated) Slytherins skulking off the field. He was aware of his teammates filing into the locker room, but he avoided their eyes and thusly any conversation about the game into which he might otherwise have been sucked.
He wasn't sulking. He didn't deny Angelina her glory. He wasn't the sort to place himself over his teammates. It was just that... well... dammit...
Angela had saved him!
Of all the indignities! Of all the emasculating indignities! Not only was he the male, the would-be knight in shining armor -- not only was he interested, interested in her breasts and thighs (marvelous, strong, and agile thighs) and beguiling charm -- not only that! -- but he was the Beater! She was the Chaser!
Of course Fred was an amiable fellow, inspired and delighted by any deserving display of wit, so his mental admiring playback of Angelina's fantastically versatile twist in midair to confuse the second (and by Fred, unseen) bludger that had been dishonestly shucked at the vulnerable back of his head by a scheming (and shrewish) Slytherin was only slightly dampened by his disappointment that this game was the final sure nail in metaphorical coffin inside which rested his and Angelina's would-be passionate and blissful and divinely sexual relationship.
Dampened like this locker room. He was in a locker room. He blinked himself out of his thoughts as that mysterious sixth sense that tells us when others are staring rudely at us told him that he was being stared at... not exactly rudely, though.
Instead, Fred's eyes popped wide open and it was he that was staring blatantly and open mouthed into the sensually inviting gaze of one gloriously naked "Amazing Aviator."
Angelina Johnson had a damn fine body.
Fred forgot to close his mouth and how to talk and how to straighten up from unlacing his boots and how not look stupid, but Angelina wasn't stalled by this.
Far from it, she smirked cockily as if this was exactly what she expected and exactly what she wanted, and approached him gracefully, summoning into Fred's mind clichéd but effectively arousing comparisons to slinky feline predators closing in on their prey.
"Fred the Unbeatable, isn't it?" she breathed, and Fred forgot how to answer as she punctuated the question with the firm placement of each beautifully bare leg so that they framed his own and she stood tall and goddess-like and definitely victorious above him.
And he could smell her.
And then Angelina leaned forward, all control and gentleness and perfection, condom in one hand and Fred's chin in the other, took a kiss and took him.
Angelina Johnson enjoyed beating the unbeatable into beatenhood, and this, she thought, was the best game ever.
36. What inspires you?
Lori! XD
P.S. Bonus brownie points to those who get the Dntel reference, eh, Keri?
edit 1:58pm -- I am destined to repeat all my mistakes: "Dude, delete your soft core porn!" - My sister