Prompts: Flying, forbidden (implied), fragile/ outdoors sex. Weekly four times, one time prompt: Four times George made Angelina laugh, and one time he made her cry.

Summary: George convinces Angelina to let him ride along. He isn't interested in flying.

George had waited for Angelina after her match ended, waited long enough that the press left and the stadium cleared, and talked her into flying tandem, something he'd been trying to get her to do all season.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she said, looking around as they walked across the grass. "Players are the only ones allowed to fly on the pitch."

"Then it's a good thing I planned on playing you." He winked at her.

Despite the cheesy play on words, she gave him a reluctant smile and let go of her broomstick, which floated in front of her. She threw one leg over it and slid forward, giving him room to mount behind her.

"No flying. You keep your hands off my broomstick."

"No problem," George said, demonstrating by holding her waist. He had other plans for his hands, anyway.

She gave him a suspicious look over her shoulder, then kicked off. Angelina was an aggressive flyer, and George braced his feet against the footrests to keep his balance. She cleared the stands and leveled off, shifting her weight, trying to compensate for his. He pushed towards the front of the broom, snugged his thighs around hers, and leaned forward until he was almost lying against her.

"Too much?" he shouted over the wind. Angelina was hardly fragile, but with his hands on her waist, the bulk of his frame rested on her back.

"No, that's better!" She turned the broom into a downward curve, testing their balance, then ascended again, circling the pitch.

Confident that she had control, George slipped both hands under the hem of her jumper and ignored the swat on his forearm; she could hit a lot harder than that. He let his hands span her waist, front and back, and slid them up over her ribs, stopping with his forefingers resting on the wire of her bra.

"George, you can't—"

He propped his chin on her shoulder. "Can't what?"

"I have to fly," she protested.

"I'm not stopping you." He cupped her breasts, squeezing them gently. "See? Hands off your broomstick, just like you said."

She gave a huff of laughter. "Not exactly—what I—meant."

He continued with the light massage, fingers pressing into the soft tissue, his thumbs stroking the outer curve, and leaned into the turn as she steered them around the goal posts. It was a smooth fabric under his fingers, silky, and if he were very lucky, this was one of her bras that hooked in front….

The broom jerked, then leveled out as his hands closed over her bare breasts. They were perfect, round and full, filling his palm with their warm weight as they spilled free.

"What are you doing?" He had been watching the shape of her bust change under her jumper as he moved his hands and just now noticed the ground was a lot closer than it had been.

"Landing," she said breathlessly.

George kissed the hollow behind her ear. "But I want to fly."

"I'm going—to get us—both—killed." Her back arched, her head pressing into his shoulder.

"Pull up and fly straight. You can do that with your eyes closed."

She jerked upright, his words a reminder that they were still inside the stadium, and with a sharp turn, they sailed between the gap in the stands over the entrance and out into open sky.

Angelina hooked her feet over his ankles and leaned forward into his hands, but he continued to tease, stroking her in ever-shrinking circles that never closed over the tip. Looking over her shoulder, he saw her hands tighten on the broom handle. She wouldn't ask; she never asked. He let his fingers brush over her nipples and was rewarded with her bum pressing back against him. She was flying with her eyes closed, well above tree height, still visible to anyone who might be below but not identifiable. George turned his face into her neck, kissing the fluttering pulse point and rolling one nipple between thumb and forefinger. He felt the vibration of her moan against his lips. He did it again, with both hands this time, and she squirmed between his legs.

"Turn around. C'mon, Angie, turn around. Back to the pitch."

George dropped one hand to grasp the handle and increase their speed as she brought them out of the turn.

"Hands off the broomstick, remember?"

He let go, tucking that hand back under her jumper. She was a heck of a lot warmer, anyway.

"You don't have to keep them off of me."

He had let his hands drift, not wanting to distract her too much as she guided them back into the stadium and approached her landing.

"I would like to live to see this through," he shouted, the wind louder as they cleared the goal posts and she tipped them into a dive. "And you can't come on a broomstick."

Angelina laughed, hard enough that she was still laughing when George tumbled her the last couple of feet onto the pitch.

"That's what you think."