HP fic: Air Game (George/Oliver), NC-17, 3388 words

[octopussy]

Fic. Harry Potter fic. Yeah, I don't know what got a hold of me. It's porny and long, if not the best George voice I've ever managed. I just felt like doing a quick bit of smut but Oliver needs a little sweet-talking to get down and dirty, it seems.

glockgal is always an inspiration. For you, my dear.

Comments

SMILE

[reishin]

Years later, made maudlin by drink and giddy with success, Oliver would begin his litany of toasts. First he would toast Harry - for winning the Quidditch Cup in Oliver’s last year and thus beginning Gryffindor’s marathon run of wins. At this point, an anonymous voice in the crowd had to shout out, “And defeating You Know Who!”

George thought there was no moment more precious when Oliver would pause, hands still thrown wide in mid gesticulation, and frown, his brows drawing together in a truly impressive scrunch. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with our anniversary.”

The same irrepressible voice answered, “And Quidditch does?”

Here Oliver would either veer off onto points too enthusiastically clarifying for a mixed crowd or be reminded of the next item to toast. “To Esmerelda and Bruce!”

Though speculation was rampant as to the precise identity of Esmerelda and Bruce, neither Oliver nor George cared to confirm or deny them: Oliver, because he couldn’t bear admitting he named his Quidditch broom much less still carried round a splinter of it as a good luck charm (in his skull actually, the episode which had led to the final battle, Bruce’s demise, George’s near heart attack were stringed together in a series of events that still caused George to wheeze upon remembering. Oliver had refused to have it removed, and the medi-witches had carefully backed away from the wild eyed man.) and George, because the speculative nature of these rumours was too enjoyable to be quenched (The latest had Bruce and Esmerelda as cross dressing vampires who had happened upon Oliver and George at a Singapore brothel, running from a band of enraged, vastly intelligent albino simians. )

And on Oliver would toast until the crowd had petered out with only the hard core partiers remaining, and chanting along with Oliver, or the alcohol had run out. Either way Oliver would never fail to find and catch George’s gaze in the crowd. And though Fred would always threaten to take a picture of and to use for blackmailing purposes the smile that George would sprout, nothing could discourage the reaction to Oliver’s closing toast. “Still better than Quidditch.”

So much better!

[octopussy]

Hey, for some reason I totally missed this. Sorry!

Oliver carrying around a piece of Bruce in his thick, already-woody skull! <3 <3 <3

I adore this! I can just imagine their cuddly drunken pawing in the wee after-party hours. I <3 twins in love. Their emotion seems so much more special because they're usually so flippant.

George's near-heart attack. Oh. <3