hii i was wondering if u could do a fic wherein reader is watching the quidditch world cup and george and them have a bet to see who wins 💗
Eyes on the Prize | G.W
summary: Love's all sweet with George Weasley until you put it on the line for a Quidditch game.
c/w: short fic, characters are aged up above twenty, taunting and teasing, romantic rivalry, mentions of sex and implied intercourse at the end
wc: 1.7k
It was deafening.
Was it the pounding of your heart? Your hard breathing?
Oh, it was all of those.
But we can't forget the cause of it all. The loud roars and charismatically patriotic cheers of both the witches and wizards that came to rally on their teams for the long-awaited, nail-biting, Quidditch World Cup.
The smell of smoke and the faint aroma of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey swirled in the air, confetti rained like the first snowfall, and millions of different colors and lights flashed and strobed as far as the eye could see. The energy was electrifying, fit to get anyone riled up for a good game.
It surely riled up your Quidditch fanatic of a boyfriend, George Weasley.
With the stuck-up bigwigs a bit farther down in a more privately occupied platform, their heads tilted up with "their noses nearly touching the heavens above," said George, the so-called 'normal' onlookers seemed to have twice as much fun at least. You know, the ones who actually came to watch the game and not just attend as a show of status.
"We're nearly there!" George exclaimed through the booming chaos, his grin so wide it nearly tore his cheeks in half, his hand tightly clasped around yours as you sifted and squeezed through the crowds of onlookers standing shoulder-to-shoulder and couldn't keep still from excitement.
"What about your family?!" You yelled back, glancing behind you to see Molly, Arthur, Fred, Ginny, and Ron with Hermione and Harry slowly begin to disappear.
"You're with me, aren't you?! They know it's a date!" Replied George, looking back at you, his hair brushing over his face from the wind that practically competed with the Seekers' speeds. "And besides, it's one less mouth! Less yelling, more for them to properly enjoy the game!"
"I think you forget that Fred's got twice the mouth on him than all your family combined!" You exclaimed, pulling on his hand to tug yourself closer until your body was nestled by George's side as you neared your spot for tonight's game.
"Well then, that's their trouble to deal with," he said, his tone a bit more shushed as you finally halted in your steps. "Because tonight, it’s gonna be you, me, and QUIDDITCH!" He opened his arms wide, the wind suspiciously on cue as it blew on his clothes. "Yeahhh!!!" He roared, shaking his fists enthusiastically in the air.
You snorted, gazing admiringly at your boyfriend before shifting your gaze for a proper look at the little date spot he had insisted both of you separate from the rest of his family and his own twin brother for. The view was no less than spectacular, with an even higher vantage point than the one you were in the first time you'd watched The Cup with his family.
"George… this is… Merlin, it’s beautiful! I thought the view with your family was good, but this — this is unreal."
Smug, he responded. "Told you I’d find the best seat in the house. Reserved just for us."
"You mean you dragged me halfway up the stadium so you could show off."
"Guilty. But admit it, the view’s worth every step." He smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close enough so you were now hip-to-hip. "And I bet seeing the Bulgarians lose from up here would be just as entertaining as well."
"Humble yourself, Weasley." You grinned pridefully, tugging George closer by his green and white striped scarf. "Bet you'll be eating your own words today once Bulgaria takes home The Cup."
He cocked up an eyebrow, his eyes glinting as an amused smirk painted his lips. "Oh? You sure starting a bet with me's a good idea?"
"But I'm not. I’m just getting you ready for your defeat, mate!"
George wrapped his hands around your wrists, using the contact to pull you closer. "As if!" He shot back. "C’mon, love, with Ireland’s Seeker flying like lightning and form so sharp it could cut through a Bludger, we’ve got this in the bag! Those Bulgarians will be chasing shadows like a Chaser trying to score with no Quaffle!"
You mock gasped. "Please, have you seen Krum play? He's a maniac on the field!"
"Maniac, Schmaniac!" George mocked your words in a way that was familiar, gently dropping your hands back down.
He smirked. "More like reckless. Ireland'll crush him."
"Fearless," you countered. "He dives for the Snitch like no one else."
"Into a broken neck, maybe."
"Face it — Bulgaria’s better. Krum will win."
You watched George’s grin widen as he laughed. “We’ll see,” he said, that mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
He leaned in with all the confidence in the world. “Let’s bet on it then!”
You crossed your arms, already wary of where this was heading. “Okay, we’re really going that route. Loser gets…?”
His answer was immediate, a wicked little smirk playing on his lips. “No sex for a week.”
You scoffed out loud before you could stop yourself. “Barbaric.” The word slipped out sharp and incredulous, and honestly, you meant it.
He gasped like you’d insulted his honour, but his eyes were still sparkling. George leaned closer, voice low and teasing. “Barbaric? Love, this is mercy compared to what Fred suggested.”
You heart flipped despite yourself. Merlin help you, you were already losing this bet in your head.
"... And what did he suggest?" You asked, genuinely curious. But knowing Fred, you'd already known it would've been something completely diabolical.
George, all casual with his eyes staring out into the vast arena, answered. "Streak across the pitch after the final match wearing nothing but a Bulgarian or Irish flag as a cape."
You blinked a few times, your prejudice proving you right once again. Shuddering, you shook your head. "Yeah, that's definitely a Fred thing to propose... And the winner?"
"A date with yours truly."
"We're already going out, George."
"Oh... right." He scratched the back of his neck, ears slowly going red. The overwhelming atmosphere had him forgetting something as simple as his own girlfriend. But you'll let it slide just for today.
You barked out a laugh, tossing your head back momentarily. At least George is thrilled to see you take it with a lightheartedness he loved about you. Just then, an idea came up. Simple, but not one everyone would like to lose a bet on.
Your hand quickly found George's forearm, catching his attention quickly when he snapped his head back to you. "Butterbeer."
The man furrowed his eyebrows at you, a confused smile on his lips. "Yeah...?"
"Loser supplies Butterbeer for everyone during our entire stay here."
"Now that's just mental!" He protested. “In case you've forgotten a thing or two about my brothers, they've got bottomless pits for stomachs! You're gonna run either of us out of money!"
You grinned, patting his cheek playfully. "Best get your Galleons on the ready, then, business boy."
"We're gonna be begging for Sickles outside the classrooms, hope you know," he grumbled.
And with square shoulders and an ecstatic smile, you were nothing short of confident with tonight's affairs. That endless supply of Butterbeer's already as good as yours.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
So, you lost. He won.
"Chin up, y/n." He beamed, wrapping the winning team's scarf around your neck as you continued to spew words of disbelief and disapproval. "It's a good time to join me on the obviously better team."
The stadium was still alive with electric cheers when you snapped.
You were sulking with a scarf of the wrong colour wrapped unwillingly around your neck, still smarting from both the loss and the embarrassing terms of your bet.
“I know damn well that McKenna cheated! Everyone saw that Wronski feint — there’s no way she made that catch fair!” You exclaimed, pointing at the field with your opened hand.
“Mhm, and here we have the rare y/n in her natural habitat,” he commentated, tugging at your sleeve to try and level your head. "Complaining and yelling like the players could hear a word she's saying because she can't admit her team is a load of bollocks."
“I demand a review, George! That was interference with the Bludger — did you see it?”
George grinned. “No, but I saw you nearly leap out of your seat. Thought you were going to dive onto the pitch yourself.”
“You’re not taking this seriously!”
“Of course I am! I’m very concerned for the Ref’s safety. If looks could kill, you’d have him Petrified by now.”
“George!”
“Yes, love?” He leaned closer, smirking. “Are you auditioning to be the next Quidditch commentator? Because the angry shouting is spot on. You'd be putting Lee out of duty.”
“This is an outrage!”
“Mm, adorable outrage. I might have to start fouling Bludgers myself just to see this again.”
“I'm not losing this bet! I’ll prove it!”
"Oh no, you won't!" George finally caught up, grabbing you around the waist and spinning you back toward the stands. His face was red—half with effort, half with genuine amusement. “Merlin’s beard, woman! You’re going to get us banned from The Cup!”
“I don’t care!” you growled, though your bottom lip wobbled, equal parts indignation and embarrassment bubbling in your chest. “You tricked me into this ridiculous bet and now everyone thinks your team is flawless!”
He pressed his forehead to yours, laughing under his breath despite himself. “So your plan is to start an international Quidditch controversy… just to prove me wrong?”
“… Yes.”
“Brilliant,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm and affection all at once. “Bloody brilliant. Next time, I’m betting you a single Chocolate Frog. Much safer for world peace and keeping my head on my shoulders.”
Even as the crowd cheered and whistled, George swept you off before other spectators could scold you for your outburst, muttering about your dangerous mix of pride, stubbornness… and love of Butterbeer debts you’d rather not pay.
Now you're left with no sex for a week, and a wallet that's about to be inhabited by little white butterflies by the end of the tournament.
But who's George kidding? Merlin knows that man worships your intimacy more than some Quidditch event. He may have won (quite prideful about it too, running around when the Irish nailed the final score, and nearly blowing his voice out yelling to Fred in hopes he'd hear), but lost the bet he set all the same.
On the same night you both wagered it. Behind the stadium where no one crossed, in a little booth George had enchanted to be soundproof.
He allowed you to really vent out your frustrations, then.