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firewhiskeyficTitle: Minor Catastrophes
Author:lq_traintracks
I am of legal drinking age in my region: I get more and more legal every year
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Harry/Teddy; nonbinary Victoire; too mahy OCs for my drunk self to keep track of; first person Teddy POV, unless I messed it up because of thedrinking wait this is the pairings section, what am I doing talking about POV??? lmao
Challenge/Prompts used: Kingsley Shacklebolt; Glacius; Mulled Wine; Ice Skaing; Mittens
Summary: Harry skates for charity. Teddy loves his dumb arse.
Rating/Warnings: Explicit; age difference; sex??? Oh wait, I used the words slutty and whore in there somewhere but like affectionately!
Word count: some (okay maybe 1,500ish)
Author's Notes (if any): I’ve vvut back on my drinking and boy howdy I can tell! Woooo! FWF! Still I think the typos are not enough to be funny. Shame.
“Which one would you shag?” Vic asks, nudging my shoulder as we sit in the frigid stands and watch what’s left of the Ministry department heads ice skating for charity. Last one off the rink wins, and you’d think Magical Games and Sports would have it in the bag, but Chauncey Greysmith threw in the towel at the first sign of a hot toddy vendor passing through the crowd.
“I’d shag that one,” I say.
To which Vic snorts. “Well, of course you would, he’s your husband. I meant of the rest of them.”
I give Harry a wink as he skates past, lifting my hot, buttery mulled wine in salute. He looks longingly at it, his lips nearly blue now that they’re two hours into this ridiculous event. It’s not even an indoor rink; they’re skating through a wind chill. (I almost wrote in soethinga bout the cold longdond sky being a rebuke so yoou should be grateful I held back because UGH)
Vic renews our warming charms and says, “I’d be under Shacklebolt with my legs on his shoulders in a heartbeat.”
“That was quick.”
“Mm,” they agree. “It’s something I’ve given a lot of thought to.”
“I’d still choose Harry,” I say, both to be stubborn and because it’s true. It comes out sounding as fond as I feel. Harry is currently flailing around another corner, arms like out-of-control windmills, though the left is wheeling in the opposite direction as the right one. I have a strong desire to rescue him, but he manages to stay on his feet.
Falling is an automatic loss, and Harry Potter doesn’t go down easy. In a competition, that is.
“But if you had to choose someone else. What about Simon Cuffy?” (totally lookinga tmy bookshelves for name ideas here)
“Is that the hhot twink from Mysteries?”
“The very same.”
I shrug. “He’s not bad. But he’s not entirely my type.”
Just then, Rhoda Fogblight from International Cooperation hits the ice hard, and the crod gasps as one.
“Had to hurt,” vic says dispassionately. We sip our beverages and watch poor Rhoda slip and slide, limping and clutching her ribs, to the side of the rink.
Riggs of Transportation laughs at her as he passes, and no one could prove that I flicked my wand and sent him some instant karma. He ends up on his arse, Vic wheezing beside me with shondenfreudian (dear GOD why???) giggles.
“Serves him right, the knob,” they say. “Definitely wouldn’t shag that arsehole.”
“Definitely not,” I agree and then blow on my mittened hands as Harry, my Harry, half stumbles around again, veering dangerously close to tripping over his own feet. “You’ve got this, babe!” I shout to him, clapping.
He shoots me a thumbs up, though he looks bloody miserable.
It’s only four of them left now: the DMLE, Catastrophes (fuck what a word), Harry (the head of the newly renamed and rebranded Department of Magical Creature Support and Aide [is it Aid?? Fuck if I know.]), and Kingsley, the Minister himself—until the latter makes a fatal error in judgement and takes a corner too sharply. Though he’s the Minister and he makes even falling look sophisticated and proper somehow. The crod gives him a standing ovation for lasting as long as he did and he nods in acknowledgement. (Um, crowd. Liquor’s hitting me.)
“You’re bisexual,” Vic says.
I turn to them (goddamn I’m going to misgender my own character I can just rfeeel it). “You’re a Sagitarius.”
They roll their eyes. “I meant.” They point at Darcy Mulligan. And to be fair, Darcy is, sort of, sometimes,, my tyepe.
I shrug.
“Merlin, you’re so whipped.”
“If by whipped you mean that I can’t help lusting after that fit, stumbling doofus, then yes, I suppose I am.”
Darcy, the DMLE hottie, bites it, and then it’s just Harry and Herman Butler from Catastrophes.
I stand up and cup my hands around my mouth to yell such eloquent platitudes as “Whoooo!” and “Go, Harry!”
And I think it’s actually my encouragement that distracts him finally. He hits a slick spot—if there is such a thing on an ice rink—and his feet go flying in front of him, one and then the other, like a mad chorus line—one, two, three, four, five times… and then he hits, on his side, and he looks like a croissant, all hunched in a puffy-coated little curve and sliding to a stop.
“I’d better collect him,” I say, making sure to finish my mulled wine first (don’t tell Harry).
“Of course you choose him,” Vic says, an annoyingly charmed grin on their lips. “Go get flipped onto your hands and knees and reamed like only Harry Potter can do, I suppose.”
I wink at them. “You know it.”
A moment later, I’m at his side as he stomps off the rink, leaving Herman what’s his name to celebrate his win.
“Should have known it’d be [the guy with the last name that I’ve forgotten],” Harry says, wrapping his strong, muscled arm around my waist as he speaks. “If this charity event was anything, it was a catastrophe after all.” (I can’t believe I spelled that right like 15 times!!!)
I smile into the kiss he gives me. Then, “Fucking hell, Harry,” I say after a moment. “Your lips feel like a Glacius.”
“You should feel my cock.”
I laugh, kiss him again, and then meet his beautiful eyes. “Let’s go home.”
~
I get him naked, warm him with my hands over his sturdy shoulders, his flanks, his gorgeous arse. I warm him with my mouth, and he sighs, letting me, his hands in my hair.
“Get in the bed,” I say, and he does, lying back into the pillows.
I murmur a lube charm.
“Right to it then,” he says, but he’s smiling. He fits his hairy calves against my hips, looking up at me like I’m made of magic and he’s still that Muggle boy who lives under the stairs.
“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” I tell him, and push slowly inside.
“Fuck, Teddy,” he gasps. But once I’m all the way in, I feel him adjust. We adjust together, our bodies warming to one another. I settle my hips, and his damp lips part. I rock into him, and he inhales.
Harry loves it like this, and I love Harry like this. I tell him so. “You feel so fucking good on my dick.”
He meets my gaze. “Then fuck me with it.”
I give it to him hard then. A hand around him, stroking, I make him come. He falls apart beneath me, and then when he’s shot all over his beautiful chest, I pull out, tell him, “Turn over,” and then once he does, I sink back inside. And it’s brilliant. Fast and animal and brilliant.
I grip his hair in my fist, body slapping messily against his. I come hard, see stars, cry nonsense—praise and filth and his name. Over and over, his name.
Minuntes later, when we’ve caught our breeath, mostly, and we face each other on our sides, I tell him, “Vic thinks I’m a slutty whore of a bottom.”
Harry twinkles. “Well, that’s probably a matter of percentages rather than them being completely mistaken.”
I slap his shoulder. But then I admit, “Okay, true.”
Harry pulls me close. “You made me trip and fall, you little shit.”
“I know.”
“You hexed Riggs, didn’t you?”
“I’ll never tell.”
He laughs. When he sobers again, the smile lingers. “I love you,” he says.
“I…” I start, am overcome with it. I cup his face. “Let me show you.”
I crawl out of the bed, tuck his tired body into the thick covers. I start toward the bathroom in order to run him a hot bath. I’ll wash him myself, worship the body I truly believed I’d never—not in a million years—have access to, until the night he kissed me, all those years ago.
I turn back in the doorway, just to catch him ogling my arse. I smile.
Because Vic wasn’t completely right. But they weren’t totally wrong either.
I give my bum a little shake, drinking in the aroused groan from the fit lump on the bed, and I turn to run my darling, nearly-murdered-himself-ice-skating-for-charity husband a bath.
Author:
lq_traintracksI am of legal drinking age in my region: I get more and more legal every year
Pairing(s)/Characters/Fandom: Harry/Teddy; nonbinary Victoire; too mahy OCs for my drunk self to keep track of; first person Teddy POV, unless I messed it up because of thedrinking wait this is the pairings section, what am I doing talking about POV??? lmao
Challenge/Prompts used: Kingsley Shacklebolt; Glacius; Mulled Wine; Ice Skaing; Mittens
Summary: Harry skates for charity. Teddy loves his dumb arse.
Rating/Warnings: Explicit; age difference; sex??? Oh wait, I used the words slutty and whore in there somewhere but like affectionately!
Word count: some (okay maybe 1,500ish)
Author's Notes (if any): I’ve vvut back on my drinking and boy howdy I can tell! Woooo! FWF! Still I think the typos are not enough to be funny. Shame.
“Which one would you shag?” Vic asks, nudging my shoulder as we sit in the frigid stands and watch what’s left of the Ministry department heads ice skating for charity. Last one off the rink wins, and you’d think Magical Games and Sports would have it in the bag, but Chauncey Greysmith threw in the towel at the first sign of a hot toddy vendor passing through the crowd.
“I’d shag that one,” I say.
To which Vic snorts. “Well, of course you would, he’s your husband. I meant of the rest of them.”
I give Harry a wink as he skates past, lifting my hot, buttery mulled wine in salute. He looks longingly at it, his lips nearly blue now that they’re two hours into this ridiculous event. It’s not even an indoor rink; they’re skating through a wind chill. (I almost wrote in soethinga bout the cold longdond sky being a rebuke so yoou should be grateful I held back because UGH)
Vic renews our warming charms and says, “I’d be under Shacklebolt with my legs on his shoulders in a heartbeat.”
“That was quick.”
“Mm,” they agree. “It’s something I’ve given a lot of thought to.”
“I’d still choose Harry,” I say, both to be stubborn and because it’s true. It comes out sounding as fond as I feel. Harry is currently flailing around another corner, arms like out-of-control windmills, though the left is wheeling in the opposite direction as the right one. I have a strong desire to rescue him, but he manages to stay on his feet.
Falling is an automatic loss, and Harry Potter doesn’t go down easy. In a competition, that is.
“But if you had to choose someone else. What about Simon Cuffy?” (totally lookinga tmy bookshelves for name ideas here)
“Is that the hhot twink from Mysteries?”
“The very same.”
I shrug. “He’s not bad. But he’s not entirely my type.”
Just then, Rhoda Fogblight from International Cooperation hits the ice hard, and the crod gasps as one.
“Had to hurt,” vic says dispassionately. We sip our beverages and watch poor Rhoda slip and slide, limping and clutching her ribs, to the side of the rink.
Riggs of Transportation laughs at her as he passes, and no one could prove that I flicked my wand and sent him some instant karma. He ends up on his arse, Vic wheezing beside me with shondenfreudian (dear GOD why???) giggles.
“Serves him right, the knob,” they say. “Definitely wouldn’t shag that arsehole.”
“Definitely not,” I agree and then blow on my mittened hands as Harry, my Harry, half stumbles around again, veering dangerously close to tripping over his own feet. “You’ve got this, babe!” I shout to him, clapping.
He shoots me a thumbs up, though he looks bloody miserable.
It’s only four of them left now: the DMLE, Catastrophes (fuck what a word), Harry (the head of the newly renamed and rebranded Department of Magical Creature Support and Aide [is it Aid?? Fuck if I know.]), and Kingsley, the Minister himself—until the latter makes a fatal error in judgement and takes a corner too sharply. Though he’s the Minister and he makes even falling look sophisticated and proper somehow. The crod gives him a standing ovation for lasting as long as he did and he nods in acknowledgement. (Um, crowd. Liquor’s hitting me.)
“You’re bisexual,” Vic says.
I turn to them (goddamn I’m going to misgender my own character I can just rfeeel it). “You’re a Sagitarius.”
They roll their eyes. “I meant.” They point at Darcy Mulligan. And to be fair, Darcy is, sort of, sometimes,, my tyepe.
I shrug.
“Merlin, you’re so whipped.”
“If by whipped you mean that I can’t help lusting after that fit, stumbling doofus, then yes, I suppose I am.”
Darcy, the DMLE hottie, bites it, and then it’s just Harry and Herman Butler from Catastrophes.
I stand up and cup my hands around my mouth to yell such eloquent platitudes as “Whoooo!” and “Go, Harry!”
And I think it’s actually my encouragement that distracts him finally. He hits a slick spot—if there is such a thing on an ice rink—and his feet go flying in front of him, one and then the other, like a mad chorus line—one, two, three, four, five times… and then he hits, on his side, and he looks like a croissant, all hunched in a puffy-coated little curve and sliding to a stop.
“I’d better collect him,” I say, making sure to finish my mulled wine first (don’t tell Harry).
“Of course you choose him,” Vic says, an annoyingly charmed grin on their lips. “Go get flipped onto your hands and knees and reamed like only Harry Potter can do, I suppose.”
I wink at them. “You know it.”
A moment later, I’m at his side as he stomps off the rink, leaving Herman what’s his name to celebrate his win.
“Should have known it’d be [the guy with the last name that I’ve forgotten],” Harry says, wrapping his strong, muscled arm around my waist as he speaks. “If this charity event was anything, it was a catastrophe after all.” (I can’t believe I spelled that right like 15 times!!!)
I smile into the kiss he gives me. Then, “Fucking hell, Harry,” I say after a moment. “Your lips feel like a Glacius.”
“You should feel my cock.”
I laugh, kiss him again, and then meet his beautiful eyes. “Let’s go home.”
~
I get him naked, warm him with my hands over his sturdy shoulders, his flanks, his gorgeous arse. I warm him with my mouth, and he sighs, letting me, his hands in my hair.
“Get in the bed,” I say, and he does, lying back into the pillows.
I murmur a lube charm.
“Right to it then,” he says, but he’s smiling. He fits his hairy calves against my hips, looking up at me like I’m made of magic and he’s still that Muggle boy who lives under the stairs.
“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” I tell him, and push slowly inside.
“Fuck, Teddy,” he gasps. But once I’m all the way in, I feel him adjust. We adjust together, our bodies warming to one another. I settle my hips, and his damp lips part. I rock into him, and he inhales.
Harry loves it like this, and I love Harry like this. I tell him so. “You feel so fucking good on my dick.”
He meets my gaze. “Then fuck me with it.”
I give it to him hard then. A hand around him, stroking, I make him come. He falls apart beneath me, and then when he’s shot all over his beautiful chest, I pull out, tell him, “Turn over,” and then once he does, I sink back inside. And it’s brilliant. Fast and animal and brilliant.
I grip his hair in my fist, body slapping messily against his. I come hard, see stars, cry nonsense—praise and filth and his name. Over and over, his name.
Minuntes later, when we’ve caught our breeath, mostly, and we face each other on our sides, I tell him, “Vic thinks I’m a slutty whore of a bottom.”
Harry twinkles. “Well, that’s probably a matter of percentages rather than them being completely mistaken.”
I slap his shoulder. But then I admit, “Okay, true.”
Harry pulls me close. “You made me trip and fall, you little shit.”
“I know.”
“You hexed Riggs, didn’t you?”
“I’ll never tell.”
He laughs. When he sobers again, the smile lingers. “I love you,” he says.
“I…” I start, am overcome with it. I cup his face. “Let me show you.”
I crawl out of the bed, tuck his tired body into the thick covers. I start toward the bathroom in order to run him a hot bath. I’ll wash him myself, worship the body I truly believed I’d never—not in a million years—have access to, until the night he kissed me, all those years ago.
I turn back in the doorway, just to catch him ogling my arse. I smile.
Because Vic wasn’t completely right. But they weren’t totally wrong either.
I give my bum a little shake, drinking in the aroused groan from the fit lump on the bed, and I turn to run my darling, nearly-murdered-himself-ice-skating-for-charity husband a bath.