#It's been years and I can still draw it without a reference | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heartthrobin · 11 months ago

Text

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle.

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports.

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge.

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner.

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers.

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor.

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed.

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish.

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster.

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge.

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you.

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone.

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move.

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face.

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches.

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.”

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again.

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.”

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor.

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick.

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.”

He’s brushing past you.

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded.

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable.

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?”

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked.

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration.

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him.

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.”

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle.

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own.

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.”

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness.

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms.

It’s quiet.

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks.

“Why’re you out here alone?”

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him.

Why do you care?

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters.

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.”

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t.

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent.

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room.

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.”

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours.

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!”

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow.

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction.

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way.

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it.

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets.

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

taglist:

@laurenmckiernan-blog @mooneyswife @meyaareads @buffkittenmuscles @emielry @amora-lilly @maximumride1 @sarcastic-nerd @chanyeolsbeloved @pinkb4t @betty13augustine @toadweed-twinklegaze-silverpuff @bella-rose29 @grimm1992 @mortallytenaciousmoon @alanalanalanalanalanna @amane-enama @sosasi521-blog @head-in-the-clouds222 @she-went-that-way @joeybelle @mahidahi @malenk @lillyys-reposts @m626 @rain-echos @meidl @arwn-yng @hotchberry1245 @avatar-lovergirl011 @silverblur @aphroditesanem0ne @angstywaifu @2-blind-2-see @alanatheblogger @ebklsbxgdsworld @gwnwrites @skskskye @girlqrush @cas-planet @thycia-flowers @badonkadork @malachitecorgi-spicy-account @carter-knight @angelic-destiny25 @nyxm0on @saltistic-dumbass @maddsunn @margflower @curlyblaze @ardrhys8 @carolga @my-beloved-fandoms @leaawrites @ilovelilies @ahead-fullofdreams @perciver4ever @amaliarosewood @iamthejam

4K notes · View notes

imstillalexcomic · 3 months ago

Text

On Transgender Day of Visibility, I got a message from Fran (@crazygnomenclature of Tiff and Eve) who was over the moon having just learned that a comic artist she’s a fan of was trans. The artist’s name didn’t come up at first, but when Fran said it was Dana Simpson, I was like, “Oh, DC Simpson, I know her! She made Ozy and Millie.”

I hadn’t kept up with her work in recent years, but back in high school (graduated HS in 2006 for a frame of reference), Dana was a god to me. Ozy and Millie was one of the webcomics in my usuals and I absolutely loved everything about it.

There was one storyline in particular that really stays with me today, when their school puts on a play… but not just any play, they put on… “The Story of Caulk”.

I mean, first off, that’s absolutely hilarious and I still giggle when I think about it. As an adult, I’ve caulked three bathtubs. I like to think that being introduced to caulk as a teenager prepared me for sealant based home maintenance later in life.

But that plotline also had some poignant messaging regarding gender and how kids interact with each other, and has massive value beyond its comedy.

And that’s kind of what Dana Simpson was for me back in high school. I’m not sure that I can find what she said at the time (or if it even is still online at all anymore), but I recall reading something she said about her comics being a way to create conversations about more serious issues that are otherwise difficult to get started. I believe she said that comics were a way to open a dialogue by slipping these issues “under the radar”.

Now, it’s been twenty years since then so I miiiiiiight be misattributing that, but I’m almost certain it was Dana who said it.

She got me thinking about a lot of things. It would still be about four or five years until I started my first comic strip, Corpse Run, but her work was a major part of the reason why I wanted to be a comic artist.

When she came out as transgender, she got me thinking more.

I knew I was queer, I knew I was questioning my gender, I knew that being transgender was a thing… but until she came out, there was no one in my sphere of life in any capacity that actually was trans.

Her coming out made me realize that this was a kind of self acceptance and love that I could practice. It took another decade and a half to eventually begin my transition, but without Dana, I’m not sure I ever get to where I’m at now.

She had that big an impact on me, and I’m forever grateful.

As a note on the second panel in this comic, there are many more folks that I’ve met and befriended in these last few months, and in the event you aren’t shown in that panel, I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t know, love, and appreciate you all. These are drawings that I already had on hand, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!

Folks in the second panel:

@maddiee-line - @kaylasartwork - @bubbleverseart - @lynnsenpai - @lariumbreon - @pennymations - @deadeyedfae - @haarlow - @cholerascum - @welldrawnfish - @paintedbytosia @biblicallyaccuratemoth - @crazygnomenclature (represented by Tiff and Eve)

1K notes · View notes

raynas-delivery-service · 6 months ago

Text

It's truly astonishing how we're 3 movies deep, and there's still ZERO straight explanation for Robotnik and Stone's relationship.

Like yeah when 1 came out, it was good fun shipping them after the whole "pin yourself to the wall" thing and those of us who saw the potential would've stayed Stobotnik truthers regardless of what direction the following movies took. No one was expecting like... actual canon evidence tho??? In 2 Stone is shown to be visibly depressed when Ivo is gone, draws detailed latte art of their faces with tiny hearts, and has no desires other than to be in his presence once he's back (also the maid outfit lmao). Ivo, despite hating all of humanity, not only lets Stone stick around well after they've left the government, but is allowed to see him at his lowest, SHAVE HIS HEAD, and in general get closer to him than anyone else ever has in his life. (Slight S3 Spoilers but he also literally refers to Stone as "the only person he can trust" 😭, which I reacted totally normal to btw).

That's without even mentioning their natural chemistry (courtesy of Jim and Lee), or the way Stone is so down bad he looks at Ivo like he's hung the stars, or THAT PART in 3 that's basically all the confirmation I need. There's wayyy more here than an average toxic boss/henchman dynamic, and watching this all unfold in real time over the last (almost) 5 years had been such a chaotic delight. It's never not crazy to me how all of this started simply cause the filmmakers decided to give Jim Carrey someone to work off of 🤖🪨❤️

#sonic the hedgehog #stobotnik #sonic movie 3 #dr robotnik #agent stone #ivo robotnik #jimbotnik #sonic 3 #sonic movie #i just think they're neat

1K notes · View notes

emptymasks · 9 months ago

Text

They're done! I really want to try and make prints again as it's been years and I've never felt like I was very good at making whole posters. Dipping my toe back in with these silly chibis of each Papa with every Ghoul they've had. Perhaps they can also work as a guide for those wanting to learn all the characters? I added in a fair amount of little references with the Ghoul's poses so it'll be interesting to see what you guys figure out and notice!

The prints are on pre-order and won't ship out until November. I've put up 25 of each to start with but if they get low on stock I'll keep adding more until I have them printed and then it'll be a set amount in stock.

Also a reminder about the stickers of every Ghost Papa and Ghoul that I made earlier this year that are also available as customisable badges! Thank you so much to everyone who already bought them and got Etsy to list them as a 'bestseller' for a while. They're still up and in stock.

EDIT: someone informed me Delta was not in Secondo's era so sorry little water ghoul but he got edited out of that drawing.

Characters featured on the prints and are also available on stickers and badges: Papa Emeritus I / Primo, Papa Emeritus II / Secondo, Papa Emerirus III / Terzo, Papa Emeritus IV / Cardinal Copia, Aether, Air, Alpha / Fire, Aurora, Chain / Water, Cirrus, Cowbell, Cumulus, Delta, Dewdrop / Sodo, Earth, Ifrit, Ivy, Lake, Mist, Mountain, Omega / Quintessence, Pebble, Phantom, Phil / Special Ghoul, Rain, Sunshine, Swiss, Zephy.

I can’t link to my Etsy without risking Tumblr hiding the post from tag search results, but the link is in my pinned post, my carrd, I’m emptymasks on Etsy. Reblogs help support artists more than likes ❤️

[ID: Four landscape drawings, one for each of Ghost's Papas and the Ghouls that were in the band with them while they were the lead singer. Each Papa is in the center with each of their ghouls standings to their sides. Every character has their name written above or below them, on brightly coloured backgrounds for each Papa's robe colour. Also, individual pixel art chibi drawings of 69 characters from various European musicals (listed above) that are available as stickers. These drawings are also available as badges where they are placed inside circles to show what they will look like as physical button badges, some of them with plain colour backgrounds and some with 1-3 different pride flags as examples of how you can customise the backgrounds.]

For those who want to know what the little references in the prints are and don't want to guess, they're under the cut:

Omega can be a stompy boy when he's playing guitar, Alpha likes to throw up peace signs, Air is very found of the rock horns hand symbol, there's one close-up photo of Lake out there where you can clearly see his black sclera contacts and he's doing double 'horns' hand symbol, Mountain infamously takes his shoes off when playing the drums and leaves them on the stage at the site of his drumkit, Dewdrop likes to like.. most things including his guitar and his picks and sometimes his own hand, Pebble liked to hand out his drumsticks at the end of shows by dropkicking them into the crowd, Omega wore a flower tucked into his guitar strap during one show and Terzo constantly flirts with him more than other ghouls, Delta is suspected to be the ghoul that attempted to kick an audience member off stage when they climbed onstage and attempted to kiss Terzo, Zephyr was the only band member and only keyboardist who sat down while playing, the special ghoul played by Tobias wore a nametag 'Phil' in an interview, Swiss constantly is showing all his teethies with his smiles and always wiggling and moving around, Aether and Dewdrop often interact with Dew teasing/bothering Aether, Dew and Rain also often interact with Dew constantly reaching to grab his neck and attempt to kiss him, aaaand I think that's everything I intentionally included other than just generally tried to get the poses and expressions to match the personality we've seen from each ghoul.

1K notes · View notes

miedei · 4 months ago

Text

plots and plans

the team's gotten to know spencer's gf very well... but now there's a new face in the bau (aka emily gets initiated into the team... by meeting mystery girl!)

a/n: this fic took an ungodly amount of time its been in my drafts for months but <333 mystery girl <333 (this is fr just a bau team fic at this point)

(look at '#mystery girl!au' on my blog to see more musings about them <3)

cw: alcohol consumption, reader referred to as a woman, reader is around spencer’s age in s1/s2 (23-24), the team plotting, use of y/n eugghhhhh

wc: 3.4k

part one | part two | mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

SSA Emily Prentiss is perfectly wonderful. Garcia thinks so, and so does Morgan. Sure, they miss Elle, and they miss working with her, but leaving the BAU was something she’d needed. Besides, Penelope wasn’t letting Elle out of the team’s outings anyway.

So, the two of them really have nothing against Prentiss. She’s kind, good at her job, and fits into the dynamic of the team well. However, at the end of her third case with the team, something of interest happens that makes them start to plot against her. Lovingly.

Morgan’s on the phone with Garcia, letting her know that the unsub was in custody, when Emily comes up to him, tapping his shoulder. Without hanging up, he draws the phone away from his ear, turning to her questioningly.

“Morgan. Can I ask you something? About Reid?” At his sound of agreement, she plows on.

“Does he… He’s so young. Do you think he’s had the social experiences he needs?” She shakes her head slowly. “He’s so sweet that it makes me worry. I mean, a kid going to university at 14, that’s got to make you miss out on a lot of things, right?” She gestures to Spencer, and Morgan turns to see him.

Spencer is fiending off the officers mobbing him with thanks and congratulations for his breakthrough on the case. A smile creeps up on Morgan’s face, watching him fiddle with his hands and bow his head nervously, trying to find a way out of the group.

“I mean, yeah, Reid’s a little clueless in some ways, but I don’t think it really affects him too much. He’s learned to adapt quickly.”

Emily frowns, still looking at Spencer. “I feel like there are things everyone deserves to experience, you know? He hasn’t been able to do so many things because he’s achieved so much. I mean, he’s never even dated someone, has he? Did you see the way he handled that witness?”

Morgan bites back the urge to laugh uncontrollably. Earlier in the case, Spencer was interrogating a witness, Morgan, Emily and Gideon watching through the one-way mirror. He recalls the way the woman grabbed hold of Spencer’s patterned tie, twisting the fabric in her fingers with a sly smile. Spencer, the sweetheart he is, had recognised the flirting, but did his best not to mention it, pulling his tie out of her grip multiple times as he stuttered through his questions, until Gideon came in to save him.

Morgan recognised that for what it was, Spencer’s incredulity that anyone other than you, the person he’s so obsessed with, would ever try something with him.

But Emily, poor, sweet, Emily, had assumed the same thing the rest of the team had, years ago. That Spencer was nothing more than an inexperienced nervous wreck, that had never even kissed a girl. Morgan shamefully remembers the time he’d been proven wrong of this same assumption.

Emily’s face is so earnest, that Morgan almost doesn’t want to pop the bubble, disturb her impression of Reid. Instead, he just pats her shoulder with the hand not holding his phone.

“Trust me, Prentiss. Reid’s missed a few things, but he’s fine.”

Walking away from her, he remembers that he didn’t hang up the phone, bringing it up to his ear to hear Garcia speaking rapidly, clearly having heard his exchange with Emily.

“-and she doesn’t know! Oh my god, you hunk, wouldn’t that be so good? She’d experience what we did back then and-” Morgan cuts her off.

“Babygirl, what? I didn’t catch that first bit, who’s going to experience what?”

Garcia takes a deep breath, and Morgan can picture her smile. “Okay, I know you're always thinking, ‘what is the wonderful thing about having the most beautiful and brilliant woman you’ve ever seen in your life?’, and, sweetheart I’ll tell you. It’s that I have a wonderful, wonderful brain, and I have a plan we have to set in motion.”

Derek sighs, but he knows he’s all in before she even says the word. “Alright, princess. Hit me with it.”

Garcia insists that the plan must be unfolded in three stages. Three stages, in order to make sure that Emily’s introduction to you will be just as bewildering as it was to them.

Stage 1: Confirmation.

Emily’s assumption of Spencer’s inexperience had to be nurtured, demonstrated to her, to lull her into a false sense of security, the way the team had for far too long.

Morgan and Garcia begin just one week after the case, a paperwork day where the team is confined to the bullpen for hours. Emily is sat at her desk, across the aisle from Morgan’s, when Garcia walks by, a phony excuse for her presence spilling out of her mouth.

“Just got to drop these files off to Gideon!” She speaks too loudly, to no one in particular, and Morgan groans internally at her unsubtlety. Emily quirks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t say anything, even when Garcia taps her nose in a very exaggerated manner.

No time to cover up for her, Morgan’s got work to do, and a time limit to boot.

“So, Prentiss. You’ve had three cases here so far, you’ve gotten to know the team. I wanna know, what are your impressions of all of us?” Emily narrows her eyes at him, but swivels her chair so she’s facing him. Bingo.

He grins as she leans forward, speaking lightly. “My impressions? What, you want me to profile you guys?”

He holds up a finger. “Ah ah ah. I’m a profiler too, don’t act like you haven’t been doing that to us since the day we met. Now, tell me. Why don’t you start with, say, Reid?” He winces internally, hearing the eagerness in his voice. Despite that, Emily replies readily.

“Well, I’m probably just going to tell you things you already know. He’s brilliant, insecure, anxious about not only himself but us, worries about his mother all the time. Socially unsure of himself, especially in non-professional settings.” As she speaks, Spencer walks into the bullpen from Gideon’s office, accompanied by Garcia, whose eyes are filled with poorly-contained mischief.

“...and, my good doctor, she was flirting with you! Didn’t you see the way she tried to give you coffee for free?” An expression of puzzlement flits across Spencer’s face, looking at Garcia as he grips the file in his hand.

“Garcia, why are we talking about this again? That happened weeks ago, and I still don’t think she was doing anything more than-” She cuts him off with a palm facing him, barreling forward with her rant, eyeing Prentiss blatantly as she speaks.

“You never think they’re doing anything more until they’re the ones gripping those little ties of yours. Spencer, you don’t think anyone is ever flirting with you!” Prentiss nods at Morgan, speaking under her breath with a smirk.

“Uncomfortable in non-professional settings, especially romantic ones.” She sits back in her desk chair, swivelling away as Garcia ushers Spencer to his desk, ignoring all of his questions.

Spencer sits with a huff, confused. He pulls out his phone surreptitiously.

SPENCE <3: They’re being weird. Again.

Garcia has filled JJ in, and she is ecstatic. She still remembers the horrifying embarrassment that she hadn’t realised something so huge about her best friend. It might be a little juvenile, but it will definitely bring her a little comfort if Emily, profiler extraordinaire, makes the same mistake.

It’s five days later, and they’ve moved onto the second phase of the plan.

Step 2: Doubt.

Garcia has decided that sowing seeds of confusion, the way the team had been confronted that one time at the bar, was the way to make sure Emily has the full experience of being one-upped by that infuriating man, according to her.

JJ’s role is the whisperer, making sure that Emily witnesses suspicious activity. She’s taking this immensely seriously, Garcia having impressed upon her the responsibility of this guise.

Walking past Spencer’s desk, she shoots a glance at Emily, confirming her distraction, before speaking into the room, “Everyone had a good day off yesterday? Spence, went to that exhibit at the Living Museum?”

A dreamy smile flashes over Spencer’s face, before he makes sure to school his features, allowing only a small grin to remain. “Um, yeah. We went to go see the aviary, they’ve got some new Southeast Asian birds in.” Yes. JJ resists the urge to smirk, but her hopes are quickly dashed when Spencer moves on without a word. “I think Gideon would really enjoy it actually, I’ve been meaning to…” She groans internally, tuning out of his meandering ramble about bird migration patterns. There’s no way Emily clocked that tiny ‘we’.

JJ isn’t one to give up easily, though. Any good plan requires patience, so she waits another day before attempting again.

The team is on the jet on the way to a case, and JJ is sitting strategically at the table with Emily, Derek, Spencer, and Garcia on the grainy laptop screen. Garcia’s hands fly around animatedly as she finishes describing the state of the case.

Hotch raises his head from the case file, proceeding to assign everyone preliminary tasks, when JJ nods at Garcia subtly, and watches as she begins to rush around her office in a whirl, finally snatching up her cell phone. It’s a wonder that no one else notices the rush of movement on the screen, leaving JJ holding her breath, hoping that Emily or Spencer don’t catch wind.

Finally, two minutes later, Garcia sits back down at her desk, feigning nonchalance.

“Yep! Okay, sounds like you guys all have it under control, so— I’m going to go, do my techy things in my techy room. Okay? Garcia out!”

The image of her disappears from the screen, and JJ grips her mug tightly, fearing that Garcia gave it away. Gideon chuckles, but other than that, it seems that everyone has written it off as a regular Garcia-ism. Thank god. Hotch continues his spiel.

A few seconds later, Spencer’s cell phone rings, the ringtone different from the one everyone is used to hearing when he’s called by one of the team members, but JJ recognizes the 8-bit rendition of Vivaldi’s Summer that you helped him set up for your number.

She can see Emily tilt her head from next to her, but JJ resists the urge to look up, keeping her eyes trained on the case file in her hands, and nodding along with Hotch’s words.

The sound of Spencer rustling around for his phone meets her ears, and the subtle sigh of happiness that he lets out when he sees the caller ID. The beep of him accepting the call and standing to walk to the kitchenette float through the cabin, and the whispered ‘excuse me’ when he walks into the curtained room.

JJ can almost hear the confusion radiating from Emily, knowing that the newer agent’s utterly baffled at the sight of Spencer missing out on the discussion currently happening.

She can only pat herself on the back for having maneuvered Emily into the seat closest to the kitchenette, too, because the way she stiffens when hearing Spencer’s saccharine-sweet voice say ‘hey, angel’ is just the cherry on top.

JJ whips out her cell phone, texting Garcia discreetly that the plan was a success, receiving a flurry of emojis in return. Unseen, Gideon looks over her shoulder.

In the kitchenette, Spencer furrows his brows, confused.

“Wait, Garcia told you I needed to talk?”

Your tinny voice flows through the phone and into his ear.

“Yeah! She texted and said you asked for me but wouldn’t call for some reason? I don’t know, it was strange. You know I don’t call you when you’re on a case, but I thought it was an emergency or something.”

He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“I told you, they’re being weird! I asked Morgan what was going on and he just laughed.”

Your matching sigh rings out. “If they’re not going to tell you, I think there’s nothing to do but let it happen until it comes out. They always tell in the end, anyway.”

His shoulders slump in annoyance, but he begins to nod.

“I guess you’re right. It’s still annoying.”

The case wraps up four long days later, and the team pile into a booth at O’ Keefe’s all in similar states of sleep-deprived delirium. Spencer would much rather be at home right now, but Garcia was persuasive as usual, crooning on about how ‘your ladylove gets you every day, can’t you give us one evening?’.

Despite his love for the team, their increased strangeness hasn’t abated over the days they were working.

Even now, JJ, Derek and Penelope sit across from Spencer in the booth, huddled around each other and whispering behind cupped hands. Granted, they weren’t this obvious over the last few days, but their drinks have only weakened their resolve to not let Spencer and Emily in on whatever they’re doing, not broken it.

Making up his mind to ignore them, Spencer has resorted to leaning into the other end of the booth, chatting idly with Gideon, Hotch and Emily. Hotch is smilier than usual, three beers deep and showing them a seemingly endless amount of baby pictures of Jack from his wallet.

He can’t help but smile at the grainy photos of the chubby baby, grinning to himself at the memory of the last time he saw Jack.

He’d been leaving the office to meet you, and ran into Hotch and Haley in the elevator, stroller in tow. The image of you excitedly waving at little Jack, holding out your hand and letting him grip on to your index finger is burned into his brain. He’ll probably never forget it, eidetic memory or not.

The multiple drinks he’s had allow a lovestruck look to settle on his face as he half-listens to Hotch’s tales. They also make sure that he doesn’t notice the puzzled look that Emily flashes at him, same as the ones she’s been sneaking for days now.

However, no amount of drinks can let him ignore the strange way that Gideon is acting. The stately profiler is normally rather talkative on nights like these, subtly teasing the team or devolving into long tangents about an old far-fetched story.

Tonight, however, he’s silent, merely nodding along to Hotch’s words.

Spencer can’t help but be weirded out, especially when he catches Gideon looking over at him with an expression of repressed mirth, as if he knows something Spencer doesn’t. It’s slightly infuriating, the way it feels as though everyone is keeping things from him these days.

He knows it’s not exactly the smartest thing to do, but he offers to go to the bar for another round of drinks. If they’re going to be weird, he might as well have something to help tide him over.

You’re at home when Gideon calls, informing you that Spencer’s gotten more drunk than usual, and it’s probably a good idea that you come get him.

As you pull on your coat, you can hear Spencer ranting loudly about Rachmaninoff in the background, laughing to yourself when Gideon assures you that he’s fine.

(Curiously, you hear an unfamiliar voice question Gideon, ‘Who’re you calling?’ before he hangs up.)

Arriving at the dimly lit bar, you crane your neck to try and glimpse Spencer and his coworkers, coming up blank.

You’re just about to call Gideon again when a suspiciously swaying, lanky individual catches your eye. Sure enough, Spencer is standing by a wall, gripping a glass in both hands and staring into the middle distance, seemingly alone.

Pocketing your cell phone, you make your way over to him, feeling a familiar infatuated smile start to bloom on your face.

“Hey, handsome. You here alone?” He blinks rapidly before focusing on you, eyes widening dramatically.

“You’re here! How are you here, I thought-” He hiccups, the action causing his entire body to wobble, your hand shooting out to steady him.

“I thought you were at home!” He takes the hand you have on his waist, tugging you closer until he can drape himself against your side, tall frame hunched over you.

You have to giggle, widening your stance so you can support the two of you as you look around the bar, hoping to find any of his coworkers.

Unfortunately, you come up blank, assuming they're in the booths towards the back that you can’t see. Sighing, your hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck, causing Spencer to sigh happily, bending even further so that his face is buried in your hair.

“Spence, where’s the team? We’ve gotta say goodbye before we go,” You murmur softly, feeling him relax further and further. His voice is higher than normal, muffled due to his refusing to raise his head from yours.

“I dunno, they’re sitting… somewhere, and Emily said she’d come find me after I came here. Did you know, she listens to Eric Carmen? I was telling her about the lawsuit Rachmaninoff’s estate filed against him, and…”

He must keep talking, you can feel the vibrations against the crown of your head, but he’s shifted his face to where his mouth is pressed against your scalp, taking with it any hope of understanding his words.

You’re waiting patiently for him to finish, when a dark-haired woman catches your eye. She stands a few feet away from you, peering at you curiously, as if trying to suss something out. Her face is obscured due to the shadowy lights, but she looks vaguely familiar.

Stopping your ministrations on Spencer’s neck, you entreat him to look up.

“Hey, do you know who that is?” He raises his head with a heaving sigh, as if it’s taking all his energy. He nods once, before returning his face to your hair, snatching your hand and placing it on the back of his neck again.

“Yeah, it’s Prentiss.” He falls silent after that, but at least he gave you something.

You’ve heard a lot about Emily Prentiss from him, although you haven’t had the chance to meet her yet. Waving her over, you smile brightly.

“Hi! You’re Emily?”

She walks over to you, expression wary, until she catches a proper glimpse of Spencer’s face, at least, what’s visible of it.

“Reid? It is you…” Her face is bewildered, confused, looking at you.

“Sorry, who are you?” You stick out the hand that Spencer isn’t holding hostage, shaking hers.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, his girlfriend. It’s really nice to meet you, I’ve heard great things from Spencer and the others.” She looks more stunned, if that’s possible, but stutters out a greeting.

It reminds you of the time you met the rest of the team, the way they’d stared incredulously at you when Spencer introduced you. Thinking back to Penelope’s multiple texts confirming that you weren’t coming tonight, it seems you’ve figured out why they’ve been acting weird.

You can’t help but smile pityingly at her, knowing how she’s feeling. Gesturing at the man clinging on to you, you give her an out from the conversation.

“I think I should be taking him home. Would you mind telling the rest where we went? I don’t want them to worry.”

She nods wordlessly, watching after you as you slowly lead Spencer out of the bar and into the night.

SSA Emily Prentiss is a profiler. A spy. She’s accustomed to learning everything there is to know about an individual within a few days of knowing them. It’s for these reasons that she stands, dumbstruck, in the middle of O’ Keefe’s.

Spencer Reid has a girlfriend. And she didn’t figure it out?

She resolves to go back through the profiling notes she’d taken in her time at the academy. Maybe twice.

Shuffling back to the booth, she’s stuck in her head, eyes wide and thoughts flickering at ten times their normal speed. It’s clearly noticeable, Derek looking concerned when she slides into her seat once more.

“Prentiss? Are you okay?”

She reaches out to snag her beer, turning the glass in her hand. Her voice is low, still confused as to how she missed it.

“Spencer’s girlfriend came to take him home.”

Her words incite identically incredulous squawks from JJ, Morgan and Garcia, all of them incensed.

“You met her? She wasn’t going to come tonight, we had a plan!” Penelope exclaims in frustration, looking around the table.

Gideon merely shrugs, his amused half-smile finally emerging.

“Plan took too long. Took it into my own hands.”

Morgan has to hold Penelope back from lunging at him.

688 notes · View notes

meow286 · 2 months ago

Text

some ramblings today. with a little sketch and its tie down

drawing cats is always easy and almost automatic for me since theyre basically my foundation. so when i want to warm up on some concepts, theyre usually my go to.

recently ive been studying art again more seriously, really looking at where i was lacking and doing studies, reading a lot of art theory and reference books, life drawing, everything i can. getting better at grouping shapes, values, focusing on clarity of silhouette, simplifying information, have all become my priority. i really try to think the entire time im drawing now instead of going on autopilot. so even revisiting drawing cats occasionally, now feels new as im doing it with a new mindset/perspective on what i want to achieve. i tend to practice drawing 6-8 hours a day but the goal of where i want my ability to be still feels so impossibly far away.

i havent animated very much at all in the past year, and im trying to rekindle my love and drive for it, it scratches an itch in me that drawing never does. over the years of being a lonely teenager who tied their self worth to their online art presence, my self esteem was linked to how well i could perform artistically any given day eventually lead to me crashing and burning mentally. i could not animate without significant stress and feeling like i was going to throw up because i knew the end product wouldnt satisfy me. so i avoided doing it for almost a year.

i know a lot of younger artists follow me and its easy to fall into this trap, esp with how competitive it is and the incentive of social media attention. but it will make you miserable, and upset. even know i have to repeat to myself "its ok to make bad drawings" and that comparing myself to others has no purpose. this sounds overly dramatic since a lot of you know me as a former warrior cats animator, but ever since i made animation my career this thought process became increasingly difficult to escape and would affect my performance at work sometimes. i got a job working with dogs for a while since i didnt want to have the mental toll of doing professional work anymore. im trying to get back in the game now, almost reteaching myself art in a way. and ive been feeling a lot better.

im thinking of making some sets of cat anatomy tips, reference drawings, and my thought process when stylizing them to out up on gumroad for free. maybe some animation cycles and breakdowns too. if you read this far 😀 hi

#last year was hard #i lost two people in my life and two pets #i couldnt find animation work so i gave up #i felt worthless #recovering from it very slowly #but surely

367 notes · View notes

ephemeralinstance · 4 months ago

Text

The reciprocity of Solas and Lavellan

It's easy to read the Solavellan ending as Lavellan stepping in to save Solas and deliver him a happy ending. But the thing I really love about it is that to me, they save each other. Neither one could have a happy ending without the other.

Lavellan had an incredibly lonely journey in which she was elevated against her will into a religious figure of a religion she probably doesn't even believe in. Even when she tried to move past that, it kept calling her back. She may have disbanded the Inquisition, but eight years later when Thedas was in crisis everyone still looked to the Herald of Andraste to save them, and what choice did she have?

Even eight years on, everyone refers to her as 'The Inquisitor,' instead of her name.

Lavellan needs Solas because he's the only person who can really know what that feels like. He too was unwillingly deified, his myth swallowing the truth of who he really was. Ironically, only two years after their relationship ended, when she learns the truth about his past, does Lavellan come to know why he was able to see her and empathize with her very specific situation in a way that no one else did.

Lavellan is clearly a strong and dynamic person. She hasn't been moping all this time; she's moved on, made a life, no doubt achieved more amazing things in the intervening time. And yet - for eight years she's carried this piercing, bone-deep loneliness. Though she has close friends who love her, like maybe Dorian and Cassandra, they still can't really understand. The secret, painful longing in her to be witnessed; to be known.

The relief she must feel, after everything, when Solas finally lays down his plans. She doesn't have to be alone any longer. He's the one person who can still see her for what she really is, and he's finally ready to come back to her. It doesn't matter to her what he's done, because she knows his heart in a way that no one else does, just as he knows her in a way that no one else does. They speak elvhen to each other, echoing one another's cadence, because they are bound in a very deep way that no one else can really understand.

When she says 'We'll make this journey together, forever,' she's not simply offering herself to him. She's acknowledging that they need each other. 'There is no fate but the love we share' - because it is fate, in a way. They're incredibly lucky that they were brought together in this way, because no one else could have known them in the way they know each other. And I think that's one of the things that really draws people to their story - it's this beautiful dream about finding a person who truly understands and sees everything that you truly are.

#dragon age #solas dragon age #solas meta #solavellan #dragon age veilguard #dragon age inquisition

292 notes · View notes

heartslabyuls · 4 months ago

Text

been messing with this for a while, but i think i’ll finally post the first three dorms for my swap au!!

these aren’t necessarily what i think the rsa uniforms would be in canon, just how i’d personally adapt them to the main cast in these positions. i don’t think a dorm based on the lion king would even exist at all in canon rsa.

design notes below the cut!

the pictures above the characters are the iterations/versions where i drew most inspiration for each design, both physical and writing. riddle and ace had the most inspiration taken from different places.

Heartslabyul —> Eccentryul

riddle’s design is painfully obviously ripped off of the alice in wonderland black butler ova. i spent so long sketching out ideas for him then ended up rewatching some black butler episodes and literally stole ciel’s clothes.

since eccentryul doesn’t have a dress code, all students are free to dress as they please. riddle is meant to look like an outlier among the other members of his dorm to highlight his role as the alice of the group while still looking like he belongs there. every character is wearing some kind of coat, however riddle is the only one with something overtop of it. all characters have slightly more muted colors in their clothing whereas riddle’s blues are a bit brighter.

trey and cater, as the third year pair, have flat colored hair without any change. ace and deuce as the first year pair have two colors in their hair. and riddle has no coloring to his hair at all as the only second year.

riddle’s headband is tied to resemble bunny ears! he no longer has his heart ahoge, unfortunately too much damage to his hair has made them recede back into his hair. but! his bangs have the general shape of a heart to make up for it!

deuce’s shoes were inspired by chat noir from ladybug. the paws look is adorable and i use it whenever i can. ace also has pawbs shoes, but they’re slippers! specifically the kind of slippers you could wear outside with the firm bottoms.

Savanaclaw —> Savirvana

i looked at so many possible references and did my research on kenyan clothing trends and traditional styles, but NOTHING i did came out right, so i just ended up basing it off of the outfits from leona’s hometown event. i simplified them a bit more than those, because event outfits tend to be more dramatic and detailed than the base outfits.

leona’s skin was shifted to a darker, more red tone, to match the deeper red tones of his hair. his warmer colors give off a more approachable feeling compared to the cooler, dark tones of his original design. his tattoo is a butterfly to symbolize the change simba experiences in his character arc in the movie.

ruggie is still pale, however he’s now tanned due to his constant time outside in such a hot and sunny environment. his freckles are kind of hard to see in the image quality but they’re still there! ruggie really doesn’t change much, his personality is already very firting to timon and pumba-

jack’s hair color also sees a significant change, mostly because there were too many white-haired characters LMAO. the brown colors give him a calmer look, fitting his personality more than the bright white hair and tail. unlike leona and ruggie, since jack grew up in an environment with a wider variety of temperatures and climates, he isn’t as used to the sun and thus keeps his arms covered and protected to prevent damage from too much uv light. don’t mind how the stripes of his pants look different compared to leona and ruggie’s, they were so annoying to draw and i got sick of it by the time i got to him 💀

Octavinelle —> Sidonis

i got the idea to base the uniform for the dorm of the sea off of sailor outfits/uniforms and that was my peak design moment. i will never reach that level of genius ever again.

sidonis’s uniform consists of light, flowing fabrics in order to not drag them down in water. their shoes resemble water shoes! for obvious reasons, so they aren’t ruined by salt water or just water in general.

jade and floyd still remain opposites, and i tried to portray this more with their hair. jade’s hair is neatly styled, with a black coloring to further symbolize his supposed “maturity.” floyd’s is unkempt, with the same black streak more highlighted among the white, to showcase his unpredictability.

floyd also seems to be missing a tooth. i wonder if jade knows anything about that.

azul’s housewarden uniform has a trail of tulle(? maybe chiffon?) tied into two, flowing tails to replicate ariel’s mermaid fins. he has a lot of diy and homemade jewelry to reflect her creativity and resourcefulness, including the shell necklace.

#twisted wonderland #twst #my art #riddle rosehearts #ace trappola #deuce spade #trey clover #cater diamond #leona kingscholar #ruggie bucchi #jack howl #azul ashengrotto #jade leech #floyd leech #twst rsa #swap au

388 notes · View notes

sweetheartsofpanem · 3 months ago

Text

This Year is Different - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

hehe🌝🌝

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.26k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It’s hot.

Not just warm—thick. The kind of heat that slows everything down, that presses against your skin like something personal. The air hangs heavy with the buzz of insects and the smell of dust warming on old wood.

You’re not sure what draws you outside.

Maybe it’s the stillness. Maybe it’s the way the afternoon feels… off. Like something’s shifting just beneath the surface. Like something’s waiting.

You spot him before you even make it to the porch.

Haymitch.

Slouched on his porch swing, elbow braced on the armrest, glass in hand. His second, maybe third. Hard to tell. He’s not loud. Not laughing. Just quiet.

That’s what tells you something’s wrong.

You pause at the edge of your yard.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has and just isn’t looking.

There’s something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders tighter than usual, jaw set, like the act of holding still is taking effort—that makes your chest twist.

So you walk over.

You don’t say anything. You just climb the steps and lower yourself onto the porch swing, letting your legs stretch out in front of you like it’s any other day.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

The silence between you isn’t sharp—it’s thick. Still.

But you stay.

Because something’s wrong.

And even if he’s not ready to say it, you can still be here.

The minutes stretch.

There’s no breeze—just the slow shift of sunlight across the porch, the soft creak of old wood under your legs, and the sound of ice clinking quietly in his glass every time he lifts it.

You keep your eyes forward.

Let the heat melt through your shirt. Let the stillness settle in your bones. Let him sit beside you without pressure, without questions, without expectation.

It’s not easy. But it’s right.

With Haymitch, it has to be his choice.

So you wait.

And wait.

Until finally, somewhere between one sip and the next, he says “This day always feels worse.”

His voice is low. Rough. Like it hadn’t been used in hours.

You don’t look at him.

You don’t move.

You just listen.

He takes another drink—longer this time. The kind that makes your throat ache just to hear it.

“Used to think it was just the heat,” he mutters. “Then I figured out it wasn’t.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

Doesn’t explain what it is.

You don’t ask.

But something in the way he says it—the tightness in his jaw, the bitterness just under the surface—makes your chest pull tight.

The silence between you folds in close.

He swirls what’s left in his glass, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Some days just take more effort than others.”

That’s all he gives you.

That’s all you need.

You nod—small, steady, more of a promise than a response.

And then, softly, “I can stay.”

He doesn’t say yes.

But after a while, you feel it—his knee brushing yours. The edge of his arm shifting closer.

You don’t move.

You don’t look at him.

You just let your eyes follow the cracks in the porch boards, the ones that run long and splintered like they’ve been stepped on a thousand times.

Then—quiet, because it’s the only way you know how to say it, “July’s hard for me too.”

You feel him shift beside you. Not much. Just enough to let you know he’s listening.

You breathe in.

Hold it.

Then let it go.

“July seventh,” you say. “It’s his birthday.”

You don’t say his name.

You haven’t said his name in a long time.

“He’s dead now. Been dead since I was sixteen.”

You pause, pressing your thumbnail into the edge of your sleeve.

“I was fifteen the first time. My first time.”

You swallow the shake in your voice.

“I was drunk. Like… blackout, don’t-remember-how-I-got-there drunk. And he wasn’t. He was sober. I remember that part. I remember him smiling and saying I was pretty when I couldn’t stand straight. I remember thinking it meant something.”

Your voice stays steady, but it feels like it shouldn’t.

“I don’t think he thought he was doing anything wrong. I don’t think he ever thought about it at all.”

You look down at your lap. At your hands. Anything but him.

“But I think about it. Every year. Every time that date rolls around and I feel sick and I can’t figure out why until I remember. And then I get angry.”

You take a shaky breath.

“And then I feel guilty. Because he’s gone. And he didn’t get a future either. And I don’t know if I’m allowed to be mad at a dead man.”

The quiet stretches.

You wait for it to feel like too much.

It doesn’t.

Because he’s still there. Right beside you. Solid and silent.

And then—just barely—his hand shifts. Finds yours. His fingers don’t tangle, don’t grip. Just rest there.

Still.

Warm.

Present.

Like he’s saying, You are allowed.

Like maybe he’s angry too.

You don’t say anything else.

You just let the silence hold the parts of you that you can’t.

And he does too.

The silence holds.

Long enough that you start to think that’s it—that you’ve said too much, that maybe he won’t say anything back.

But then his thumb shifts just barely against your knuckles.

And he says, voice low and dry, like it costs him something just to say it out loud, “My birthday’s tomorrow.”

Your breath catches.

You turn your head slowly, just enough to see the side of his face. Still set. Still tired.

But bare.

You don’t say anything.

Because your brain’s already doing the math.

Tomorrow. July fourth.

And suddenly you remember what that date used to mean.

The Reaping. This year is the first without one.

Your stomach twists.

Because of course it was that day. Of course whatever higher power there is made it that day. And of course he never told anyone.

Of course he’s just been sitting here, drinking and swallowing it down like it’s nothing—like he always does.

Your chest aches.

And before you can stop yourself—before you even think about stopping yourself—you shift.

You turn toward him.

And you wrap your arms around him.

No warning. No explanation. Just arms around his middle, face against his shoulder, like your body decided for you.

He freezes.

Completely.

Then—slowly—his hand comes up. Not sure where to land. Not sure what to do.

And finally, it settles at your back. Light. Careful.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

But you feel it—the way he breathes, just a little deeper. The way his fingers curl, just barely, like maybe he doesn’t know how to take comfort, but he’s trying.

And you just hold on.

Because he shouldn’t have to carry it alone.

Not this year.

Not ever again.

And then—quietly, like it slips out before he can catch it, “Didn’t think anyone’d care.”

His voice is rough. Not sarcastic. Not bitter.

Just… honest.

It hits somewhere low in your chest.

You don’t let go. You tighten your arms just slightly, just enough that he feels it.

“I care,” you say, soft but certain.

He doesn’t answer.

But after a long pause—so long you think he won’t—he murmurs, “Forty-one.”

You blink against his shoulder.

“What?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be forty-one.” A beat. “If the liquor doesn’t kill me first.”

You huff a laugh, watery and small.

His hand shifts at your back—just a little. Still light. Still unsure.

But it stays.

“You’re not allowed to die,” you say, nose brushing the fabric of his shirt. “I just got used to having you around.”

That gets a sound out of him. A small breath, almost a laugh, but softer.

Like it surprises him.

Like it matters.

You stay like that for a while.

Just holding him.

Just… there.

Until the heat starts to settle into your spine and your heart finally stops trying to claw its way out of your chest.

Then—slowly—you ease your arms back.

You don’t pull away all at once. Just enough to shift. Enough to look at him.

His eyes are already on you.

Not guarded. Not unreadable.

Just tired. And something else underneath it—something that looks a little too close to grateful.

You blink, heart still beating in your throat.

“I can stay,” you say softly. “The rest of the day. If you want.”

His brow twitches, just barely.

You rush to add, “You don’t have to talk or anything. We can just… sit. Or ignore each other. I’m very good at sitting quietly and pretending things are fine.”

He huffs, but it’s gentler than a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

And then, almost before you realize you’re saying it—“Or I could… I mean, if it gets late or if you—if you don’t want to be alone tonight—”

You stop. Swallow. Try again.

“I could stay. The night. If that’d help.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. You stare somewhere over his shoulder like maybe the railing will offer you a way out of this moment.

But he doesn’t make it weird.

Doesn’t joke.

He just studies you for a second longer. And then says, “…Yeah. I’d like that.”

Quiet. Steady.

And honest.

Your chest tightens, but not in a bad way.

You just nod. Once. Like a promise.

The sun sinks lower.

The heat softens, golden and slow, stretching across the porch in long shadows.

You don’t talk much.

Just sit there a while longer, legs bumped together, the silence easier now. Like something’s been let out into the open and made room for something else. Something quieter. Softer.

Eventually, your stomach makes a very ungraceful noise.

Haymitch snorts. “That you or the floorboards crying for help?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “I’ll let you guess.”

He makes a move to stand. “I’ll cook something.”

You blink at him. “You?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I do know how, honey. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not solely sustained by bitterness and bourbon.”

“Tempting as that sounds,” you say, standing before he can, “absolutely not. Your birthday’s tomorrow.”

“So?”

“So.” You point a finger at his chest. “That means special treatment starts tonight. That means you’re not allowed to cook. Or clean. Or lift a finger.”

He stares at you.

Like you just recited a poem in fluent French.

You roll your eyes and gesture toward the door. “Go sit down.”

“You serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” you say, already heading inside. “Go. Lounge. Be useless. I’ve got dinner.”

He doesn’t argue.

Which is how you know it matters.

You hear the quiet creak of the porch swing as he drops back into it. Then nothing.

Just the sounds of summer outside, and you, barefoot in his kitchen, boiling water and chopping garlic and humming a little under your breath like this is a thing you’ve always done.

You settle on pasta—simple, summery, the kind you don’t need a recipe for. You add sliced tomatoes, fresh herbs, olive oil, the little chunk of soft cheese you know Peeta snuck into his fridge last week. The smell fills the kitchen, warm and sharp and homey.

At some point you glance toward the doorway.

He’s standing there.

Not saying anything.

Just watching you.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that you’re here, in his space, making him dinner like it’s normal.

You glance at him. “What?”

He shrugs, voice low. “Just figuring out if I’m hallucinating.”

You huff. “You’re not.”

And then, quieter—without thinking, “You’re just cared for.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he stays.

And when you hand him a bowl and sit across from him at the kitchen table, you swear he looks at you like you hung the moon.

And for once, you don’t look away.

The food disappears between bites and soft conversation, the kind that drifts between nothing and everything without ever needing to land. You talk about the heat. About the garden. About how Peeta’s latest bread creation was so good it made Katniss say “Huh.”

Haymitch laughs at that—really laughs—and the sound warms something low in your chest.

You finish eating. You stand, reach for his bowl.

And of course he moves to stand too.

You pause, bowl in one hand, and turn to look at him.

He freezes halfway out of his chair.

“What did I just say?”

He blinks. “That you’re terrifying when armed with a fork?”

“Close,” you say, snatching his dish out of his hand and gesturing toward the living room. “I said special treatment. Birthday Eve rules are in effect.”

“Is that a real thing?”

“It is now.”

He eyes you warily. “You’re really not gonna let me help?”

“Go sit down, Haymitch.”

He opens his mouth like he might argue.

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs—deep, dramatic—and drags himself out of the kitchen like you’ve sentenced him to exile.

You smile into the sink.

It doesn’t take long. The dishes are easy. The quiet of his house settles around you like something earned.

When you finally dry your hands and pad into the living room, he’s exactly where you knew he’d be—slouched on the couch, legs stretched out.

He looks up when you walk in.

And he’s staring at you again.

Like he did in the kitchen.

Like he doesn’t know what to do with you. Like the weight of being seen—really seen—is still catching him off guard.

You freeze halfway into the room.

“…What?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just keeps looking.

Soft. Quiet. Like maybe if he blinks, you’ll vanish.

You cross your arms. “Okay, that’s the second time tonight you’ve looked at me like I’m secretly glowing.”

“Maybe you are.”

You blink.

And now you’re the one short-circuiting.

He shrugs, eyes still on you. “You show up. You cook. You make me sit down and breathe and then you do the dishes? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

You stare at him.

Then, carefully, you walk over and sink down onto the couch beside him.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

Until eventually, just to fill the quiet, you murmur, “Your couch is absurdly comfortable. Is that where all your victor money went?”

He snorts. “I’ll have you know this couch is a cherished family heirloom. Came from a guy who lost it in a game of cards.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You stole it.”

“I won it,” he corrects, smug. “And the guy was too drunk to remember he even owned furniture, so really, I was doing him a favor.”

You shake your head, smiling into the cushions. “And now you’re letting it be tainted by my commoner presence.”

“Oh, I’ve accepted the risk.”

You nudge his leg with yours. “Very noble of you.”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts a little—closer—and lets his arm drape back along the couch behind you.

This time, his fingers brush your shoulder deliberately.

You glance over, but he’s looking at the ceiling like that’s where the most interesting part of the conversation is happening.

You lean into it.

Just a little.

Not quite touching him, but not not either.

“So what else in this house has a shady origin story?” you ask.

He hums. “The kettle’s stolen. The non-Capitol bookshelf was built out of salvaged fence posts. I’m pretty sure the bedroom mirror is cursed.”

You laugh. “Oh, definitely. I looked into it once and immediately wanted to cry.”

“Exactly.”

You turn your head to look at him, still grinning.

He’s looking at you too now.

Closer than you realized.

His arm is still behind you on the couch—wrist bent lazily over the back cushion, fingers just grazing your shoulder.

And then, like it’s nothing—like it’s habit—his thumb brushes lightly against your arm.

Once.

Then again.

Not pressing. Not purposeful.

Just moving in slow, absent-minded strokes over the fabric of your sleeve. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

But you feel every one.

You don’t say anything.

You just stay there. Let the warmth settle. Let his touch ground you in that quiet, flickering way it always does.

He shifts a little closer.

And you lean, just slightly—enough that your shoulder touches his chest. Enough that your thigh fits a little more snug against his.

Neither of you reacts.

You just keep talking.

Like you’re not both dying inside.

The air’s gone still again, but not heavy.

Just quiet.

You shift your leg a little closer to his, shoulder still tucked gently against him, and he doesn’t move away. His thumb keeps brushing absent circles along your arm like it’s second nature now.

“So,” you murmur, “are all the days before your birthday like this?”

He huffs. “What, tense and full of unsolicited affection?”

You grin. “Exactly.”

He pauses like he’s actually thinking about it. “Usually I just drink until it stops feeling like the day before The Reaping.”

Your smile fades a little.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just keeps going anyway.

“Never felt like it was my birthday, just a day they sent kids to the slaughter.”

You nod slowly. “That makes sense.”

“Doesn’t matter that it was always that way. Still felt like they ruined it. Like they took something I never even got the chance to want.”

You don’t say anything to that.

Just let it hang there, heavy but honest, resting between you like something sacred.

And then, after a moment, Haymitch exhales through his nose. “But this one’s different.”

You glance up at him.

He’s still not quite looking at you—just past you, eyes half-lidded, voice low but lighter.

“This day,” he says. “Today. It hasn’t felt like the others, even though it did at first.”

You feel your chest pull tight.

Not in panic.

Not in fear.

Just… in recognition.

And maybe a little disbelief.

You’re quiet for a beat too long, and he picks up the slack—because of course he does.

“Must be the pasta,” he adds, mouth twitching. “You buttered me into sentimentality.”

You snort. “I did not use butter.”

“Oil, then,” he corrects. “Same crime.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “You get vulnerable for two seconds and immediately run screaming into food slander.”

“It’s called balance,” he says, deadpan.

You give him a look. “It’s called avoidance.”

“Same thing.”

You shake your head, but the tension that had been coiled up between your ribs loosens just a little. You let your shoulder settle more fully against him.

His thumb hasn’t stopped moving.

Slow, thoughtful circles over the fabric of your sleeve.

And now, the rest of his arm shifts too—just a slight bend at the elbow. Enough to draw you in a little more. Enough that you feel your side meet the warmth of his chest.

You don’t speak.

You just… let it happen.

And when he leans his head back against the couch cushion and lets out a soft, tired breath, you think maybe—for once—he’s letting himself feel it too.

The kind of closeness that would’ve sent you into orbit a few weeks ago, but now feels like breathing.

After a few minutes, you murmur, “So what’s your actual favorite food? Not whiskey. Not something you say to annoy Peeta. The real answer.”

He hums, low in his throat. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Why?”

“Because if I tell you, you’ll try to make it.”

“And that’s… bad?”

He lifts his head just enough to look down at you, one eyebrow raised. “Honey. I’ve seen how seriously you take seasoning.”

You gasp. “Are you saying I’m too competent?”

“I’m saying you might accidentally marry me with basil.”

You choke on your laugh. “Okay, noted. No basil until we’ve signed paperwork.”

“Reasonable boundaries.”

You grin into your sleeve. “But seriously. Favorite.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then, softly, “Chicken soup.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Homemade. Not the canned garbage. My ma used to make it every winter, she’d gather ingredients the whole year. Big pot. Carrots too soft, noodles falling apart.”

You glance up at him. “That’s kind of adorable.”

He shrugs. “It was warm. It meant she was in a good mood.”

The quiet settles again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t explain more.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you say, “Mine was strawberry cake. When I was little.”

He looks at you, something fond slipping past his usual guarded expression.

“My dad used to get me one from the bakery every year even though it was more than we could really afford,” you say. “It was always lopsided and the frosting melted if the weather was warm, but he’d let me eat a piece for breakfast anyway.”

Haymitch nods once. “Smart man.”

“He was,” you murmur, and the ache behind your ribs is softer than usual. “He really was.”

Neither of you speaks after that for a while.

Just the creak of the couch. The chirp of insects outside.

The soft hush of two people realizing this might be something they want to keep.

Eventually, he shifts beneath you—just a stretch at first, his muscles rolling slow and tired.

Then he says, “Think I’m gonna head up.”

You nod, slow, not really moving. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

He rises with a quiet groan, stretching one arm overhead until his back pops. The couch shifts without his weight, the space beside you suddenly cooler.

He heads a few steps toward the stairs.

And when you don’t follow, he turns back.

Brows lifted. Voice dry.

“You coming?”

You blink.

Look up at him, startled.

“What?”

He shrugs. “You’ve already slept in my bed once.”

Your face goes warm in a way you really hope isn’t visible in the low light. “That was— I was comforting you.”

“Still counts.”

“Haymitch.”

He smirks. “What? You offered to stay the night. This is me accepting.”

You blink at him again.

He doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t make it a joke.

He just waits.

Like it’s normal. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not making your heart stutter in your chest.

So you stand. Slowly. Carefully.

And when you reach him at the bottom of the stairs, he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t say anything.

He just starts walking.

And you follow.

Because maybe it is casual.

Or maybe it’s not.

But either way, you’re going.

And either way, he wants you there.

The bedroom is dim when you walk in, lit only by the fading spill of moonlight through the half-open window.

You stop just inside the doorway, unsure of where to stand. Or look. Or breathe.

Haymitch steps past you, casually rifling through a dresser drawer like this is nothing. Like this is normal.

And then he turns, holding out a t-shirt. “Here.”

You blink down at it. It’s soft. Worn. Faded in that way old cotton gets after years of too many wash cycles.

You take it with both hands, fingers curling into the fabric.

He nods toward the room. “You can change in here. I’ll take the bathroom.”

And just like that, he’s gone—door clicking softly behind him.

You stand there for a second.

Just… holding his shirt.

Then you exhale, quietly, and peel off your clothes, slipping the shirt over your head.

It’s soft.

And huge.

It hits your thighs and clings to the warmth of your skin, smelling like cedar soap and summer air and him.

You sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying not to overthink it.

And then the door opens again.

You look up.

And your brain immediately stops working.

Because he’s shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just completely shattered your internal operating system.

His steps falter.

Because he sees you.

Wearing his shirt.

And for a beat—just a beat—you both freeze.

You in his clothes.

Him in absolutely too little clothing.

Neither of you speaking.

Just standing there.

Staring.

You clear your throat. “This shirt’s comfortable.”

His mouth twitches. “Looks better on you.”

You blink.

He blinks.

Silence.

Then, like synchronized swimmers of denial, you both look away and move to get into bed.

Because you are normal.

And this is casual.

And you are absolutely not freaking out.

You pull back the covers.

He climbs in beside you.

And you both lay there—facing the ceiling, not quite touching, hearts pounding loud enough to echo through the mattress.

And still, neither of you says a thing.

Because this?

This is fine.

Totally fine.

The quiet stretches.

Long and steady.

You just lie on your back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it might give you answers.

It doesn’t.

So—slowly—you shift onto your side, turning away from him, tucking your hands beneath your chin.

The sheets rustle.

A pause.

And then—his arm wraps around you.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a warm, solid presence curling around your back, chest against your spine, hand settling low on your waist like it belongs there.

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t speak.

He just stays.

And after a long second—after your heart remembers how to beat—you let yourself soften into him.

Let yourself be held.

And in the silence that follows, your eyes slip closed.

Because maybe it’s not casual.

Maybe it never was.

But it’s real.

And right now, it’s enough.

Next Part

183 notes · View notes