Leigh!fic | Trick for Treat (1/1) | Oliver Wood/Padma Patil
Title: Trick for Treat (1/1)
Author: leigh_adams
Pairing: Oliver Wood/Padma Patil
Rating: R
Summary Opposites attract at Roger Davies’ annual Halloween party.
Word Count: ~4,000
Warnings/Content: None aside from an attempt at a vague Scottish accent.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This was a double-doozy project: written for the 2014 round of samhain_smut and as a gift for thimble_kiss as part of my Summer 2014 Drabble Meme. Hugs and kisses to mugglechump for beta'ing this for me!
Amongst the more recent graduates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, there were three annual events that everyone circled on their calendars. The annual Remembrance Ball (which sounded as if it ought to be a solemn affair, but no one had told the former members of Dumbledore's Army that), Blaise Zabini's winter solstice shindig (it wasn't a success unless you woke up the next morning, missing both knickers and memories), and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, Roger Davies' annual Halloween party.
Or perhaps it wasn't that surprising. Mandy Brocklehurst had once referred to it as "the closest thing to a fraternity party I've seen since American Pie." The majority of her magical classmates had no bloody clue what that was supposed to mean, but the rest of the Muggleborns agreed with her. So it had to mean something, right?
Roger had only three rules when it came to his annual soiree: one -- no law enforcement, magical or Muggle. Two -- party admittance costs two bottles of booze. Expensive, cheap, no one cares. But no booze equals no party. And three, which was perhaps the most important rule of all -- costumes are mandatory.
And so every year on October 31st, scores of young witches and wizards descended on the ramshackle farmhouse Roger called home. The wards were reinforced with Muffling Charms, ensuring the good citizens of Little Hatherden were able to sleep soundly despite the party continuing well into the night.
The festivities were in full swing by the time Oliver arrived, black cape fluttering behind him as he landed his broom in the sloping back garden. Securing his half-mask to his face, his lips twitched when he heard a nearby girl sigh, her companion whispering, "Oh gods, that's Oliver Wood! Quick, how does my makeup look?"
"Forget your makeup, how does my cleavage look?"
"Wood!"
Glancing up from his Firebolt, now safe and secure in Davies' broom shed, he found the man of the hour -- and the same who'd called his name. "Davies!" Grinning at his old friend, he started to embrace his host, but stopped just shy and burst into laughter. "What the bloody hell are ye supposed to be this year?"
Roger blinked owlishly. "I'm Mr. Darcy. Thought that bit was obvious." He gestured at his outfit, which Wood had to suppose was... not the worst thing he'd ever worn on Halloween. The black boots and tight trousers, fitted with a billowy white shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest -- it had a certain swashbuckling charm. Oliver wasn't entirely sure why every few minutes, a spray of water would appear from nowhere and plaster the white shirt to Roger's chest, but then again, Ravenclaws were a bit eccentric.
Oliver snickered. "If I knew who Mr. Darcy was, that might help."
His friend rolled his eyes. "Don't you bloody read, Wood? Or watch telly?
"I read Playwizard. That counts right?"
The other man snorted. "Philistine. I forget reading isn't an essential skill for Puddlemere United players." He clapped his hands together and eyed the tote bag slung over Oliver's shoulder. "Did you bring them?"
It was Oliver's turn to roll his eyes. "Davies, there are times when I think you're only after me for what I can provide you." Despite himself, he grinned and handed the bag over to Roger. "Two bottles of my Seanair's home distilled firewhisky, bottled in 1970." Everyone in Inverness-shire knew Duff Wood made the most potent firewhisky known to wizards. Roger had developed a taste for it after sampling a glass, and so it was tradition that Oliver's contribution to the party came from his own liquor cabinet.
"Excellent." Roger thrust one bottle back into Oliver's hands. "You know the drill. Add that to the bar, and this beauty stays hidden with me."
"Greedy bastard." Clapping him on the back, Oliver strode toward the house, bottle of whisky dangling in his hand. Every so often he'd nod at a familiar face, or wink at a pretty woman, but he'd only just arrived. There was plenty of time for mingling and seeing what other pleasures there were to be had after he'd poured himself a dram.
The inside of the house was crowded enough that he had to gently push his way through to the bar. His burly frame was excellent for blocking quaffles; less adept at easily moving through crowds.
By the time he'd managed to get to the bar, open the bottle, and pour himself a drink, he could already feel a bit of sweat trickling down his back. He had the momentary thought he should have stuck with his original costume -- Tarzan -- but he'd decided against it. No need to perpetuate the "dumb Quidditch player" stereotype more than he already did.
Sighing in relief at the first touch of the burning alcohol on his tongue, he allowed himself to relax and look around the room. Roger had cleared most of the furniture out except for a table, where some of the younger attendees were attempting to teach others the rules of some Muggle drinking game involving a pyramid of cups and a small, Snitch-sized ball.
"No no, that's right! I saw it in a film one time!"
Oliver snorted, his attention already wandering to some of the more attractive female party guests. It was no hardship to look. Most of the costumes were short on material, leaving long legs and plump breasts exposed to his gaze. A brunette in what looked to be a gold metal bikini with a slave collar and chain attached to her neck looked his way and gave him a sultry smile. Little Rose Zeller had grown up in all the right places.
His mind had decided to go over and say hello -- because he was a friendly bloke like that -- when he caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of his eye. Oliver's brow furrowed, and he changed course without conscious thought. It wasn't like Parvati Patil to look so bored at a party.
"Yer looking entirely too serious this fine night, Vati," he said, sidling up beside her and grinning down at her.
He got an impervious arched brow in response, and he instantly knew he'd made a critical error. "Wrong twin. Vati's over there." She nodded toward her twin, who was dressed in a similar fashion. Where Padma's Grecian gown was silver with accents of white and light gold, Parvati's ensemble was a rich yellow, and a crown of red roses rested on her head.
Oliver shrugged sheepishly. "Well, I guess Vati isn't looking so serious tonight then." He gave her a crooked grin, the one Witch Weekly had referred to as 'endearingly boyish in its charm.' "I'm Oliver. Ye must be Padma."
"Your deduction skills are top notch."
The sarcasm was tangible, but he chuckled. "'Suppose I walked right into that one." He looked over her costume; it was simple, one shoulder bare and tied at the waist with a gold rope. There was a smattering of silver glitter brushed across her temples, with a few sparkling stars dotted in her hair. "Who are ye dressed up as tonight?"
"Selene. Greek goddess of the moon." Across the room, Parvati tossed back a cup of alcohol and drank it down in one long swallow. Padma just sighed and shook her head.
Oliver's lips twitched. "Any reason a goddess such as yourself doesn't look as if she's having a bit o'fun? This is a party, no?"
"You could say I'm not much of a party person." Padma took a sip of her drink and glanced up at him. Her nose crinkled. "Penelope made me come with her. She's afraid I'll grow roots at my desk."
"Miss Clearwater's a wise woman. Yer a barrister too, then?"
She nodded, the light from nearby floating candles catching the gems in her hair and casting sparkles around her. “Mhmm, junior partner at Gilson, James, and Macmillan. I do mostly international casework, and it’s come to the attention of my dear former housemate that I spend too much time at the office and not enough time at the bar.”
As if she could tell they were talking about her, Penelope raised her glass to Padma in salute and puckered her lips to blow a kiss. Padma rolled her eyes, but she smiled and saluted her friend in return.
Oliver took a sip of his whiskey and nodded. “Can’t say I know much about law work. I --”
“Play Quidditch.”
He gave her his most dashing smile. “Aye. Starting keeper for Puddlemere United going on four seasons now. We won the League last year -- maybe you saw?”
She shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t follow Quidditch.”
His jaw dropped. "Ye -- ye don't -- what?" He blinked several times in rapid succession, trying to wrap his mind around what she'd just said. "I don't understand."
Padma's lips curled in amusement. "What's not to understand? I don't follow the game of Quidditch. I never have. I always read a book during the matches at school." She took a sip of her drink and shrugged. "I just don't see the appeal."
Doesn't follow Quidditch? "Just what kind of witch are ye?" he asked incredulously.
"The kind with immigrant parents," Padma replied dryly. "I grew up at cricket matches with my family. I didn't see a Quidditch match until I started Hogwarts."
Oliver was still struggling with that notion. Quidditch -- it'd been part of him since he could toddle to a baby broomstick. He'd grown up playing with his Da and cousins every time they had a family gathering. His father had never been so emotional as he had when he'd been drafted by Puddlemere after school. "So, erm, what do you do for fun?" He took a sip of his whiskey, relishing the way it burned going down his throat.
She glanced up at him. "I like to read, cook for my friends. Mandy took me to a Muggle cinema once, and it was quite a bit of fun, so I do that sometimes." Bringing her cup to her lips, she took a drink of her beverage; clear, so Oliver could only assume she was a lass who liked her vodka. "I suppose that sounds boring to you."
"Oh, no," he assured her, somewhat awkwardly lying through his teeth. "I'm sure it's good fun. I'm just not much of a reader myself."
To her credit, she didn't respond with the same kind of snide comment Roger might have. Her lips just curled in an alluring little half-smile, and she took another sip of her drink. "It's alright. I wouldn't think less of you if you said so. My own sister thinks I'm too dull for my own good. Between the two of us, we form one reasonably well-adjusted twenty-six year old."
Across the room, her twin threw her arms in the air and let out a shout of victory. One of her many admirers pressed a drink into her hand, and she tossed it back without a second thought. Her face flushed, she grinned and shouted, "Shots! Now!"
"God," Padma muttered under her breath, shaking her head in a move Oliver recognized all too well -- the familiar 'older sister shake of disapproval.' He'd seen his older sister Jules do it often. Padma glanced down at her drink and sighed. "So much for that."
Never one to let a gentlemanly opportunity pass him by, Oliver held out his own drink. "Here. Ye can have it, iffen ye don't mind me having drank out of it already."
She eyed it warily. "What is it?"
"Whiskey. Secret family recipe for it."
Still giving the cup a suspicious look, Padma took a small hesitant sip and immediately started to cough. "What the bloody hell is in that?"
Oliver grinned proudly. "Eh, it just takes a bit of getting used to. Ye keep it, I'll pour myself another dram." Ignoring her sputtered protest, he gave her a wink and headed back toward the bar. Padma Patil was a beauty like her sister, if it a bit less exuberant. He wouldn't mind sharing a few drinks with her during the night -- maybe alcohol would warm her up a bit.
Grabbing an empty cup and the bottle of whiskey, he pushed through the crowd to return to Padma's side. "What do ye think of it?" he asked. He poured himself another drink and took a sip. Whiskey -- a Scots' best friend.
"It's a bit strong," she answered diplomatically. When she brought the cup to her lips, Oliver's gaze couldn't help but wander toward the neckline of her dress. It was natural curiosity to wonder if her breasts would fit in his hand...
Shaking his head, Oliver snapped out of his momentary lapse. "Well, drink up," he said with a grin, holding up the bottle. "There's plenty more, and we've got all night."
"Let's do body shots!"
Padma's eyes widened slightly, and they both watched as across the room, her twin laid back on Roger's kitchen table as a group of eager young bucks with shot glasses crowded around. Next to him, Padma shuddered and tossed back her whiskey, finishing the entire cup in one long gulp.
On an exhale, she held her empty up out to him. "Another?"
He couldn't find reason to argue with her and poured her another glass. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess yer the responsible twin, no?"
She snorted and took a sip of her drink. "That's a question that answers itself, I think. Vati's the fun one, I'm the boring barrister."
Oliver glanced over at the other Patil; her activities currently obstructed by a bevy of blokes surrounding her, and he shrugged. "She's a lass who likes a good time. Nothing wrong with that."
His lady friend shook her head and tipped the rest of her cup back, then held it out to him for a refill. "Nothing wrong with a good time in moderation. You aren't the one the bartenders call when Vati's gotten herself too pissed to Apparate home. My sister, as much as I love and adore her, is an aggressive drunk."
He poured her another whiskey, noting that over half the bottle was gone already. "And what kind of drunk are ye, Padma?" If she kept pounding back whiskey at the rate she was going, she'd be a sick, sick drunk -- he remembered the Hogmanay his Da and uncles had a bottle each in half an hour. His Mum hadn’t forgotten it either.
The petite beauty at his side shrugged. "I don't know. No one's ever told me how I act, and I don't drink very often. Particularly not whiskey."
"Would ye rather I get yer vodka for you?" he asked. He turned back toward the bar, but a small hand on his arm stopped him after two steps.
"No, no, that's alright," she assured him, and she smiled up at him. "Whiskey is quite fine. I like it. It makes me feel very warm." Her hand, he noticed, had moved away from his arm, but she was standing a bit closer to him. From here, he could smell her light, floral perfume. It suited her.
Thankfully, she took her time nursing her newest glass of whiskey. "You don't have to spend all your time talking to me," she assured him, swaying slightly against him. "It's a party. Go find a pretty girl."
Oliver automatically put his hand on her back to steady her. Despite the dress separating her skin from his, she was warm under his touch. "I found me a pretty girl, and we're having an enjoyable conversation, thank ye very much."
"We are?" she asked with a giggle -- a sound that would have sounded more at home from her sister. "We don't have very much in common."
"Well," he started, "no, we don't. But ye are very pretty, that's true."
Padma snorted. "Vati's the pretty one. The fun one. I'm the boring one."
He couldn't help but laugh a bit, his free hand chucking her lightly under the chin. "Well, last time I noticed, yer identical. Both beauties in my opinion. And I think right now, yer also the twin who's a wee bit drunk, no?"
"Mayyyyyybe." Leaning closer, she looked up at him and blinked slowly; once, twice, a third time. "Do you think I'm pretty?"
What sort of question was that? Both Patil twins were exotic and stunning. It'd be a blind man who turned away their company, and Oliver had perfect vision. "I think yer quite a vision tonight, Padma," he replied honestly. He took a long sip from his own whiskey, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. Calling it 'liquid courage' was apt.
She smiled slowly, dark eyes hazy as she looked up at him. "Pretty enough to snog?"
Oliver grinned crookedly. An invitation to do just that, if he'd ever heard one. Bending down, he pressed his lips to hers. Immediately, her lips parted under his, and he swept his tongue over hers, deepening the kiss. The din from the party faded away; all he could focus on was her taste, her scent, her lithe next to his. His hand passed over one small breast. With a start, he pulled back. "I'm sorry."
Her reaction wasn't what he expected. Instead of snapping back to reality, she took his hand in hers and murmured, "Follow me."
It felt as if he were in a daze as he did just that, letting her lead him out of the main party room and down a corridor toward Roger's private areas. The room to one door was slightly ajar, and after peering in to make sure it was empty, Padma tugged him inside.
Oliver had her pushed back against the wall before the door was shut, his lips crashing down on hers in a furious kiss. He could taste the whiskey on her tongue and feel the warmth of her body through her thin excuse for a dress. Miss Patil kissed him back with an enthusiasm that had him growing hard against her.
She looped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair, and Oliver growled when her sharp little nails scraped his scalp. One large hand moved to her hip and fisted in her dress, tugging it up and baring long legs to his sight. He wanted to touch her everywhere. His hands never stopped moving; tugging at her dress, moving up her torso to cup and knead pert little breasts, sliding around her body to cup her luscious arse.
Padma arched against him, murmuring encouragement when he moved one hand underneath her dress to take hold of a bare, smooth thigh. His lips broke from hers to trail kisses across her cheek and down to her neck, nibbling and sucking at her pulse point as he slowly -- slowly, almost agonizingly so -- moved his hand higher and higher up her thigh. The scrap of lace covering her sex was easily pushed to the side, and Oliver nearly groaned when one blunt finger slipped into her wet heat.
With a moan, she rolled her hips against his hand, and he added another finger. Twisting it in and out of her tight passage, pausing in his motions only to rub smooth circles around the swollen bundle of nerves hidden there, he licked and kissed her neck. Padma writhed beneath him, gasping and murmuring his neck.
He couldn't take any more teasing. Reluctantly, he slid his hand from between his leg and went to undo his trousers. Her hands met his, and the two pairs fumbled impatiently with the button and zip. She won the battle, and this time he couldn't hold back his groan when her little hand slipped inside his pants and circled his erection.
"I've got to fuck ye," he growled, nipping at her neck. His hips thrust into her hand, his body pinning hers against the wall of Roger's bedroom. Reaching for her hand, he pushed it above her head and held it there. His other hand pushed her dress up to her hips and jerked her knickers to the side. Lining his hips up, he pushed into her.
Gods. It was all he could think. His brain had stopped working the second he was inside of her. Holding her body tight between the wall and his own, he slid his hand down her thigh until she hooked her leg over his hip, opening herself to his movements. "Fuck," he hissed.
Padma tipped her head back. "Yes," she moaned, "harder." Her hands moved to grasp at his back, fingertips pressing her nails into his shirt. It was all the encouragement Oliver needed as he thrust into her over and over again -- she moaned and moved beneath him, her short breaths punctuated by gasps and soft cries.
All too soon, he felt the fluttering of her sex around him. "Fuck, Oliver!" He'd shut his eyes to enjoy the pleasure of her body, but he forced himself to open them and watch her break. Padma Patil was gorgeous, her skin flushed with a faint sheen from their exertions. Her hair was slightly mussed from where his hands had grasped onto the dark strands. And despite her darker skin, he could see little marks over her neck and shoulders from his lips and teeth. He'd never thought of her as erotic, but there was no other appropriate word in that moment.
It was too much. He lasted another twenty seconds before he came with a shout and a long groan. Pressing his face to her neck, he let his hips move lazily against hers for another few thrusts before he stilled.
They were both quiet for a long moment, the only sound two sets of heavy breathing. He could feel her heart beating rapidly beneath him, and his own was beating just as fast. That had been, without a doubt, the best drunken sex of his life.
Belatedly, he realized he might be crushing her. "M'sorry," he murmured, moving so that she wasn't pinned so tightly against the wall.
Padma opened her eyes and smiled at him. "Don't be. It was quite enjoyable." Unwrapping her leg from around his waist, she moved away from him and smoothed her dress back into place.
Oliver watched her move to the mirror, fixing herself to rights again. "Can I get ye another drink?"
"Oh, I don't drink."
He blinked. "I beg yer pardon? Ye were tossing 'em back quick as anything about fifteen minutes ago. Ye were drunk!"
Her lips twitched, and she met his gaze in the mirror. "I assure you, I'm sober. Roger's flitterbloom, on the other hand, will have quite the hangover in the morning."
His jaw dropped -- though he wasn't sure if he was more aghast at her having faked intoxication or that she'd poured her whiskey in a potted plant. But - but - but - the vodka from earlier?"
"Was water." She turned to face Oliver, her hair restored to its smooth side-braid. "You assumed it was vodka."
"So ye faked being drunk so ye could shag me?" He was confused, and rightfully so. This made no sense to him at all. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do on Halloween? Pretend to be something you're not?" She smiled wistfully. "I wanted to pretend I was like my sister. Someone men found desirable."
"I can only speak for myself, but finding ye desirable is not a problem." Oliver tugged his trousers back up to his hips and zipped everything back into place. He was still somewhat befuddled from the evening's turn of events. He wasn't complaining -- not at all. It was still just a bit confusing. "Ye used me."
Padma's wistful smile turned mischievous. "Maybe. A bit." She arched a brow at him. "Are you complaining?"
"Not at all," he assured her, grinning. "Feel free to do it again sometime."
"Maybe next year."
Author: leigh_adams
Pairing: Oliver Wood/Padma Patil
Rating: R
Summary Opposites attract at Roger Davies’ annual Halloween party.
Word Count: ~4,000
Warnings/Content: None aside from an attempt at a vague Scottish accent.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This was a double-doozy project: written for the 2014 round of samhain_smut and as a gift for thimble_kiss as part of my Summer 2014 Drabble Meme. Hugs and kisses to mugglechump for beta'ing this for me!
Amongst the more recent graduates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, there were three annual events that everyone circled on their calendars. The annual Remembrance Ball (which sounded as if it ought to be a solemn affair, but no one had told the former members of Dumbledore's Army that), Blaise Zabini's winter solstice shindig (it wasn't a success unless you woke up the next morning, missing both knickers and memories), and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, Roger Davies' annual Halloween party.
Or perhaps it wasn't that surprising. Mandy Brocklehurst had once referred to it as "the closest thing to a fraternity party I've seen since American Pie." The majority of her magical classmates had no bloody clue what that was supposed to mean, but the rest of the Muggleborns agreed with her. So it had to mean something, right?
Roger had only three rules when it came to his annual soiree: one -- no law enforcement, magical or Muggle. Two -- party admittance costs two bottles of booze. Expensive, cheap, no one cares. But no booze equals no party. And three, which was perhaps the most important rule of all -- costumes are mandatory.
And so every year on October 31st, scores of young witches and wizards descended on the ramshackle farmhouse Roger called home. The wards were reinforced with Muffling Charms, ensuring the good citizens of Little Hatherden were able to sleep soundly despite the party continuing well into the night.
The festivities were in full swing by the time Oliver arrived, black cape fluttering behind him as he landed his broom in the sloping back garden. Securing his half-mask to his face, his lips twitched when he heard a nearby girl sigh, her companion whispering, "Oh gods, that's Oliver Wood! Quick, how does my makeup look?"
"Forget your makeup, how does my cleavage look?"
"Wood!"
Glancing up from his Firebolt, now safe and secure in Davies' broom shed, he found the man of the hour -- and the same who'd called his name. "Davies!" Grinning at his old friend, he started to embrace his host, but stopped just shy and burst into laughter. "What the bloody hell are ye supposed to be this year?"
Roger blinked owlishly. "I'm Mr. Darcy. Thought that bit was obvious." He gestured at his outfit, which Wood had to suppose was... not the worst thing he'd ever worn on Halloween. The black boots and tight trousers, fitted with a billowy white shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest -- it had a certain swashbuckling charm. Oliver wasn't entirely sure why every few minutes, a spray of water would appear from nowhere and plaster the white shirt to Roger's chest, but then again, Ravenclaws were a bit eccentric.
Oliver snickered. "If I knew who Mr. Darcy was, that might help."
His friend rolled his eyes. "Don't you bloody read, Wood? Or watch telly?
"I read Playwizard. That counts right?"
The other man snorted. "Philistine. I forget reading isn't an essential skill for Puddlemere United players." He clapped his hands together and eyed the tote bag slung over Oliver's shoulder. "Did you bring them?"
It was Oliver's turn to roll his eyes. "Davies, there are times when I think you're only after me for what I can provide you." Despite himself, he grinned and handed the bag over to Roger. "Two bottles of my Seanair's home distilled firewhisky, bottled in 1970." Everyone in Inverness-shire knew Duff Wood made the most potent firewhisky known to wizards. Roger had developed a taste for it after sampling a glass, and so it was tradition that Oliver's contribution to the party came from his own liquor cabinet.
"Excellent." Roger thrust one bottle back into Oliver's hands. "You know the drill. Add that to the bar, and this beauty stays hidden with me."
"Greedy bastard." Clapping him on the back, Oliver strode toward the house, bottle of whisky dangling in his hand. Every so often he'd nod at a familiar face, or wink at a pretty woman, but he'd only just arrived. There was plenty of time for mingling and seeing what other pleasures there were to be had after he'd poured himself a dram.
The inside of the house was crowded enough that he had to gently push his way through to the bar. His burly frame was excellent for blocking quaffles; less adept at easily moving through crowds.
By the time he'd managed to get to the bar, open the bottle, and pour himself a drink, he could already feel a bit of sweat trickling down his back. He had the momentary thought he should have stuck with his original costume -- Tarzan -- but he'd decided against it. No need to perpetuate the "dumb Quidditch player" stereotype more than he already did.
Sighing in relief at the first touch of the burning alcohol on his tongue, he allowed himself to relax and look around the room. Roger had cleared most of the furniture out except for a table, where some of the younger attendees were attempting to teach others the rules of some Muggle drinking game involving a pyramid of cups and a small, Snitch-sized ball.
"No no, that's right! I saw it in a film one time!"
Oliver snorted, his attention already wandering to some of the more attractive female party guests. It was no hardship to look. Most of the costumes were short on material, leaving long legs and plump breasts exposed to his gaze. A brunette in what looked to be a gold metal bikini with a slave collar and chain attached to her neck looked his way and gave him a sultry smile. Little Rose Zeller had grown up in all the right places.
His mind had decided to go over and say hello -- because he was a friendly bloke like that -- when he caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of his eye. Oliver's brow furrowed, and he changed course without conscious thought. It wasn't like Parvati Patil to look so bored at a party.
"Yer looking entirely too serious this fine night, Vati," he said, sidling up beside her and grinning down at her.
He got an impervious arched brow in response, and he instantly knew he'd made a critical error. "Wrong twin. Vati's over there." She nodded toward her twin, who was dressed in a similar fashion. Where Padma's Grecian gown was silver with accents of white and light gold, Parvati's ensemble was a rich yellow, and a crown of red roses rested on her head.
Oliver shrugged sheepishly. "Well, I guess Vati isn't looking so serious tonight then." He gave her a crooked grin, the one Witch Weekly had referred to as 'endearingly boyish in its charm.' "I'm Oliver. Ye must be Padma."
"Your deduction skills are top notch."
The sarcasm was tangible, but he chuckled. "'Suppose I walked right into that one." He looked over her costume; it was simple, one shoulder bare and tied at the waist with a gold rope. There was a smattering of silver glitter brushed across her temples, with a few sparkling stars dotted in her hair. "Who are ye dressed up as tonight?"
"Selene. Greek goddess of the moon." Across the room, Parvati tossed back a cup of alcohol and drank it down in one long swallow. Padma just sighed and shook her head.
Oliver's lips twitched. "Any reason a goddess such as yourself doesn't look as if she's having a bit o'fun? This is a party, no?"
"You could say I'm not much of a party person." Padma took a sip of her drink and glanced up at him. Her nose crinkled. "Penelope made me come with her. She's afraid I'll grow roots at my desk."
"Miss Clearwater's a wise woman. Yer a barrister too, then?"
She nodded, the light from nearby floating candles catching the gems in her hair and casting sparkles around her. “Mhmm, junior partner at Gilson, James, and Macmillan. I do mostly international casework, and it’s come to the attention of my dear former housemate that I spend too much time at the office and not enough time at the bar.”
As if she could tell they were talking about her, Penelope raised her glass to Padma in salute and puckered her lips to blow a kiss. Padma rolled her eyes, but she smiled and saluted her friend in return.
Oliver took a sip of his whiskey and nodded. “Can’t say I know much about law work. I --”
“Play Quidditch.”
He gave her his most dashing smile. “Aye. Starting keeper for Puddlemere United going on four seasons now. We won the League last year -- maybe you saw?”
She shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t follow Quidditch.”
His jaw dropped. "Ye -- ye don't -- what?" He blinked several times in rapid succession, trying to wrap his mind around what she'd just said. "I don't understand."
Padma's lips curled in amusement. "What's not to understand? I don't follow the game of Quidditch. I never have. I always read a book during the matches at school." She took a sip of her drink and shrugged. "I just don't see the appeal."
Doesn't follow Quidditch? "Just what kind of witch are ye?" he asked incredulously.
"The kind with immigrant parents," Padma replied dryly. "I grew up at cricket matches with my family. I didn't see a Quidditch match until I started Hogwarts."
Oliver was still struggling with that notion. Quidditch -- it'd been part of him since he could toddle to a baby broomstick. He'd grown up playing with his Da and cousins every time they had a family gathering. His father had never been so emotional as he had when he'd been drafted by Puddlemere after school. "So, erm, what do you do for fun?" He took a sip of his whiskey, relishing the way it burned going down his throat.
She glanced up at him. "I like to read, cook for my friends. Mandy took me to a Muggle cinema once, and it was quite a bit of fun, so I do that sometimes." Bringing her cup to her lips, she took a drink of her beverage; clear, so Oliver could only assume she was a lass who liked her vodka. "I suppose that sounds boring to you."
"Oh, no," he assured her, somewhat awkwardly lying through his teeth. "I'm sure it's good fun. I'm just not much of a reader myself."
To her credit, she didn't respond with the same kind of snide comment Roger might have. Her lips just curled in an alluring little half-smile, and she took another sip of her drink. "It's alright. I wouldn't think less of you if you said so. My own sister thinks I'm too dull for my own good. Between the two of us, we form one reasonably well-adjusted twenty-six year old."
Across the room, her twin threw her arms in the air and let out a shout of victory. One of her many admirers pressed a drink into her hand, and she tossed it back without a second thought. Her face flushed, she grinned and shouted, "Shots! Now!"
"God," Padma muttered under her breath, shaking her head in a move Oliver recognized all too well -- the familiar 'older sister shake of disapproval.' He'd seen his older sister Jules do it often. Padma glanced down at her drink and sighed. "So much for that."
Never one to let a gentlemanly opportunity pass him by, Oliver held out his own drink. "Here. Ye can have it, iffen ye don't mind me having drank out of it already."
She eyed it warily. "What is it?"
"Whiskey. Secret family recipe for it."
Still giving the cup a suspicious look, Padma took a small hesitant sip and immediately started to cough. "What the bloody hell is in that?"
Oliver grinned proudly. "Eh, it just takes a bit of getting used to. Ye keep it, I'll pour myself another dram." Ignoring her sputtered protest, he gave her a wink and headed back toward the bar. Padma Patil was a beauty like her sister, if it a bit less exuberant. He wouldn't mind sharing a few drinks with her during the night -- maybe alcohol would warm her up a bit.
Grabbing an empty cup and the bottle of whiskey, he pushed through the crowd to return to Padma's side. "What do ye think of it?" he asked. He poured himself another drink and took a sip. Whiskey -- a Scots' best friend.
"It's a bit strong," she answered diplomatically. When she brought the cup to her lips, Oliver's gaze couldn't help but wander toward the neckline of her dress. It was natural curiosity to wonder if her breasts would fit in his hand...
Shaking his head, Oliver snapped out of his momentary lapse. "Well, drink up," he said with a grin, holding up the bottle. "There's plenty more, and we've got all night."
"Let's do body shots!"
Padma's eyes widened slightly, and they both watched as across the room, her twin laid back on Roger's kitchen table as a group of eager young bucks with shot glasses crowded around. Next to him, Padma shuddered and tossed back her whiskey, finishing the entire cup in one long gulp.
On an exhale, she held her empty up out to him. "Another?"
He couldn't find reason to argue with her and poured her another glass. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess yer the responsible twin, no?"
She snorted and took a sip of her drink. "That's a question that answers itself, I think. Vati's the fun one, I'm the boring barrister."
Oliver glanced over at the other Patil; her activities currently obstructed by a bevy of blokes surrounding her, and he shrugged. "She's a lass who likes a good time. Nothing wrong with that."
His lady friend shook her head and tipped the rest of her cup back, then held it out to him for a refill. "Nothing wrong with a good time in moderation. You aren't the one the bartenders call when Vati's gotten herself too pissed to Apparate home. My sister, as much as I love and adore her, is an aggressive drunk."
He poured her another whiskey, noting that over half the bottle was gone already. "And what kind of drunk are ye, Padma?" If she kept pounding back whiskey at the rate she was going, she'd be a sick, sick drunk -- he remembered the Hogmanay his Da and uncles had a bottle each in half an hour. His Mum hadn’t forgotten it either.
The petite beauty at his side shrugged. "I don't know. No one's ever told me how I act, and I don't drink very often. Particularly not whiskey."
"Would ye rather I get yer vodka for you?" he asked. He turned back toward the bar, but a small hand on his arm stopped him after two steps.
"No, no, that's alright," she assured him, and she smiled up at him. "Whiskey is quite fine. I like it. It makes me feel very warm." Her hand, he noticed, had moved away from his arm, but she was standing a bit closer to him. From here, he could smell her light, floral perfume. It suited her.
Thankfully, she took her time nursing her newest glass of whiskey. "You don't have to spend all your time talking to me," she assured him, swaying slightly against him. "It's a party. Go find a pretty girl."
Oliver automatically put his hand on her back to steady her. Despite the dress separating her skin from his, she was warm under his touch. "I found me a pretty girl, and we're having an enjoyable conversation, thank ye very much."
"We are?" she asked with a giggle -- a sound that would have sounded more at home from her sister. "We don't have very much in common."
"Well," he started, "no, we don't. But ye are very pretty, that's true."
Padma snorted. "Vati's the pretty one. The fun one. I'm the boring one."
He couldn't help but laugh a bit, his free hand chucking her lightly under the chin. "Well, last time I noticed, yer identical. Both beauties in my opinion. And I think right now, yer also the twin who's a wee bit drunk, no?"
"Mayyyyyybe." Leaning closer, she looked up at him and blinked slowly; once, twice, a third time. "Do you think I'm pretty?"
What sort of question was that? Both Patil twins were exotic and stunning. It'd be a blind man who turned away their company, and Oliver had perfect vision. "I think yer quite a vision tonight, Padma," he replied honestly. He took a long sip from his own whiskey, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. Calling it 'liquid courage' was apt.
She smiled slowly, dark eyes hazy as she looked up at him. "Pretty enough to snog?"
Oliver grinned crookedly. An invitation to do just that, if he'd ever heard one. Bending down, he pressed his lips to hers. Immediately, her lips parted under his, and he swept his tongue over hers, deepening the kiss. The din from the party faded away; all he could focus on was her taste, her scent, her lithe next to his. His hand passed over one small breast. With a start, he pulled back. "I'm sorry."
Her reaction wasn't what he expected. Instead of snapping back to reality, she took his hand in hers and murmured, "Follow me."
It felt as if he were in a daze as he did just that, letting her lead him out of the main party room and down a corridor toward Roger's private areas. The room to one door was slightly ajar, and after peering in to make sure it was empty, Padma tugged him inside.
Oliver had her pushed back against the wall before the door was shut, his lips crashing down on hers in a furious kiss. He could taste the whiskey on her tongue and feel the warmth of her body through her thin excuse for a dress. Miss Patil kissed him back with an enthusiasm that had him growing hard against her.
She looped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair, and Oliver growled when her sharp little nails scraped his scalp. One large hand moved to her hip and fisted in her dress, tugging it up and baring long legs to his sight. He wanted to touch her everywhere. His hands never stopped moving; tugging at her dress, moving up her torso to cup and knead pert little breasts, sliding around her body to cup her luscious arse.
Padma arched against him, murmuring encouragement when he moved one hand underneath her dress to take hold of a bare, smooth thigh. His lips broke from hers to trail kisses across her cheek and down to her neck, nibbling and sucking at her pulse point as he slowly -- slowly, almost agonizingly so -- moved his hand higher and higher up her thigh. The scrap of lace covering her sex was easily pushed to the side, and Oliver nearly groaned when one blunt finger slipped into her wet heat.
With a moan, she rolled her hips against his hand, and he added another finger. Twisting it in and out of her tight passage, pausing in his motions only to rub smooth circles around the swollen bundle of nerves hidden there, he licked and kissed her neck. Padma writhed beneath him, gasping and murmuring his neck.
He couldn't take any more teasing. Reluctantly, he slid his hand from between his leg and went to undo his trousers. Her hands met his, and the two pairs fumbled impatiently with the button and zip. She won the battle, and this time he couldn't hold back his groan when her little hand slipped inside his pants and circled his erection.
"I've got to fuck ye," he growled, nipping at her neck. His hips thrust into her hand, his body pinning hers against the wall of Roger's bedroom. Reaching for her hand, he pushed it above her head and held it there. His other hand pushed her dress up to her hips and jerked her knickers to the side. Lining his hips up, he pushed into her.
Gods. It was all he could think. His brain had stopped working the second he was inside of her. Holding her body tight between the wall and his own, he slid his hand down her thigh until she hooked her leg over his hip, opening herself to his movements. "Fuck," he hissed.
Padma tipped her head back. "Yes," she moaned, "harder." Her hands moved to grasp at his back, fingertips pressing her nails into his shirt. It was all the encouragement Oliver needed as he thrust into her over and over again -- she moaned and moved beneath him, her short breaths punctuated by gasps and soft cries.
All too soon, he felt the fluttering of her sex around him. "Fuck, Oliver!" He'd shut his eyes to enjoy the pleasure of her body, but he forced himself to open them and watch her break. Padma Patil was gorgeous, her skin flushed with a faint sheen from their exertions. Her hair was slightly mussed from where his hands had grasped onto the dark strands. And despite her darker skin, he could see little marks over her neck and shoulders from his lips and teeth. He'd never thought of her as erotic, but there was no other appropriate word in that moment.
It was too much. He lasted another twenty seconds before he came with a shout and a long groan. Pressing his face to her neck, he let his hips move lazily against hers for another few thrusts before he stilled.
They were both quiet for a long moment, the only sound two sets of heavy breathing. He could feel her heart beating rapidly beneath him, and his own was beating just as fast. That had been, without a doubt, the best drunken sex of his life.
Belatedly, he realized he might be crushing her. "M'sorry," he murmured, moving so that she wasn't pinned so tightly against the wall.
Padma opened her eyes and smiled at him. "Don't be. It was quite enjoyable." Unwrapping her leg from around his waist, she moved away from him and smoothed her dress back into place.
Oliver watched her move to the mirror, fixing herself to rights again. "Can I get ye another drink?"
"Oh, I don't drink."
He blinked. "I beg yer pardon? Ye were tossing 'em back quick as anything about fifteen minutes ago. Ye were drunk!"
Her lips twitched, and she met his gaze in the mirror. "I assure you, I'm sober. Roger's flitterbloom, on the other hand, will have quite the hangover in the morning."
His jaw dropped -- though he wasn't sure if he was more aghast at her having faked intoxication or that she'd poured her whiskey in a potted plant. But - but - but - the vodka from earlier?"
"Was water." She turned to face Oliver, her hair restored to its smooth side-braid. "You assumed it was vodka."
"So ye faked being drunk so ye could shag me?" He was confused, and rightfully so. This made no sense to him at all. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do on Halloween? Pretend to be something you're not?" She smiled wistfully. "I wanted to pretend I was like my sister. Someone men found desirable."
"I can only speak for myself, but finding ye desirable is not a problem." Oliver tugged his trousers back up to his hips and zipped everything back into place. He was still somewhat befuddled from the evening's turn of events. He wasn't complaining -- not at all. It was still just a bit confusing. "Ye used me."
Padma's wistful smile turned mischievous. "Maybe. A bit." She arched a brow at him. "Are you complaining?"
"Not at all," he assured her, grinning. "Feel free to do it again sometime."
"Maybe next year."