Glitter Wizards
Title: Glitter Wizards
Author: princessteradia
Rating: NC-17
Main Pairing: George Weasley/Romilda Vane
Prompts: all in a day's work and glitter wizards
Warnings: Liberal amounts of crack with a dash of smut.
Words: 820
Summary: Romilda Vane, star photographer for 'Glitter Wizards', has news for George Weasley.
Disclaimer: I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to do really inappropriate things with her characters. I own nothing but the crack, really.
Author's Note: This was written for the drabble/art challenge onhpgeorgecentric, and I'm dedicating it to tania_sings (yes, I know you don't know me from Adam, but your George/Gabrielle had me falling in love with George, so this one goes to you). Because I can. I fail at meeting the word limit, alas, it's a little long, I'm hoping the mods won't mind, though.
"Excuse me? You want me to do /what/?" The tall redheaded wizard stared at his guest.
"I'm fairly certain I didn't stutter, Mr. Weasley. Or perhaps you'll allow me to call you George?" Romilda Vane looked back at him with an impatient expression. Where had he heard her name before?
She was young, barely into her twenties, younger than Ginny, even, not bad to look at but not especially pretty, at first glance. He wouldn't have given her a second, ordinarily, but he'd discovered very quickly that she wasn't the type of woman who went unnoticed for long. There was a boldness to her brisk and businesslike demeanor, and that voice... that voice did wicked things to a man's libido.
George forced his mind back to the subject at hand. "I don't believe I've ever heard of a magazine called 'Glitter Wizards', Miss Vane."
"Romilda, if you please," she corrected, tucking a lock of black hair back behind her ear, dark eyes fixed on him with such intensity he felt practically naked before her. /That/ didn't help his libido, either, nor did the sensuous tilt to her mouth when she smiled. "I didn't expect you would, it's a fairly new publication. We ran an advert, a few months back, asking readers to submit requests, then took the suggestions and had a contest, sort of a reader's choice, you follow?"
He followed, he just wasn't sure he was willing to believe her. "And I won, is that what you're saying?"
"Second place, actually, but we decided to do the top five, since we had so very many responses." She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful and rather deliciously sexy before adding, "My editors thought I should be the one to issue the formal request."
It took George a minute to wrench his thoughts away from the gutter, because her lips and her voice had him thinking thoughts he hadn't entertained in... entirely too damn long. "Does it have to be nude?" He realized, as his voice cracked mid-sentence, that he sounded like Ron.
"I'm afraid I really must insist. It /is/ what our readers want to see, after all." Her gaze left his face, travelled down his body, and he found himself mesmerized by the curve of her lips once more as she smiled. "I can assure you that you're in very capable hands, George. I'm a professional, after all."
"All in a day's work, then?" He tried to make a joke of it, tried to make it funny, but his voice was cracking all over the place like a prepubescent schoolboy because all he could think about was her hands -- her elegantly manicured, long-fingered and slender hands -- in places that were quite unprofessional, indeed.
"Precisely. Shall we get started, then? I just need you to sign this waiver, here." She backed him into the counter, her hip connecting with his, and that was all it took to shove him over the edge and into madness.
One minute, they were standing upright against the counter, lips and tongues and teeth warring for dominance while hands battled with clothing in a desperate attempt to seek curves and lines beneath... and in the next he'd lifted her onto it and climbed up to join her, her fingers clutching at his hips as he shoved just enough fabric aside to bury himself in the liquid heat of her. She was soft and warm and wet and so deliciously tight he was almost reminded of his first time until she started taunting him with that wicked bedroom voice, saying the most vulgar and crude things he'd never heard a woman say before. He'd never had sex with such ferocity before, either, not with anyone (not that there had been a lot of anyones, but still), but by the time she got around to taking photographs he wasn't in any position to deny her anything at all.
* * *
A month later, the magazine arrived with the morning post, wrapped in plain brown paper, and George, who was busy arranging a new display, thought nothing of letting Ron deal with the mail. Not until he heard the almost girlish horrified shriek from the other side of the store, which had him running back to the counter, wand in hand.
It was beyond tacky. The title flashed and glittered in obscene neon colors that could be easily read from six feet away. Worse than that, his face was plastered across the cover wearing the most ridiculous dopey grin, and George's cheeks instantly burned with shame. "I can explain," he ventured weakly.
Ron's jaw worked for a moment, then he thrust the magazine toward his older brother. "I'm not sure I want to know. That rag's for /poufs/!"
The close-up made it that much worse, because now George could see the article titles, and he knew Ron was right: the thing was targeted at gay men.