heartybubs

[heartybubs]

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)

-

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[heartybubs]

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

-

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

-

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

-

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

-

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

-

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

-

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

-

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them. 

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

-

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

-

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[heartybubs]

desperate measures

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it nonny! ❤︎

summary: murphy’s thirst for revenge forces bellamy into an impossible choice, himself for the reader and jasper. But deals with the desperate rarely go as planned, and the aftermath leaves nothing the same.

warnings: fem!reader, friends to lovers, violence, unhinged murphy (we love him in later seasons tho), mentions of hanging, bell almost dying, blood, reader has a mouth on her, protective!bell, hurt/comfort, happy ending, cussing, we don't like murphy in this fic, guns?, taunting, groveling!bell, reader gets injured, lmk if I missed anything?

word count:8.3k (yes, I’m actually insane)

note: based off the episode ‘we are grounders part one’. it is NOT exactly how the episode goes. I loosely wrote my own version but kept the same plot. I know the episode was a lot different to how I wrote this but idc, lol. enjoy!

The first thing you noticed was the cold, hard floor beneath you. The second was the dull, pounding ache at the back of your head. You groaned softly, shifting, only to realize that you couldn’t move your arms. Your wrists were bound behind your back, a rope biting into your skin and around your ankles, too.

Panic flickered through you, sharp and sudden. You blinked, trying to force your vision to adjust to the dim light around you. The metal walls, the familiar scent of rust and old fire—the dropship.

Why the hell were you in the dropship?

A groan beside you made you turn your head, your breath catching as you spotted Jasper slumped against the wall. His head lolled forward, and a thin streak of dried blood trailed down his forehead.

“Jasper,” you hissed, nudging his leg with your foot.

He let out a sharp breath, blinking sluggishly. His eyes flickered open, unfocused at first before they darted around, taking in the metal walls, the ropes, you.“What the hell?” Jasper mumbled, shifting against his restraints. His face twisted in confusion as he tugged at them. “Why am I—”

“Finally,” a voice cut through the air and your blood ran cold.

A slow, mocking clap followed, the sound bouncing off the dropship’s walls. Jasper inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid beside you.

Murphy.

He stepped into view, his movements slow and deliberate. The rifle hung loosely at his side, his fingers drumming against the barrel. His eyes gleamed with something dark, something unhinged, as he looked down at you both. “About time you two woke up,” Murphy drawled, tilting his head. “Thought maybe I hit you too hard.”

Jasper stiffened. “You knocked us out?”

Murphy grinned. “What can I say? Didn’t think you’d come quietly.”

Your jaw clenched. Anger burned beneath your skin, hot and sharp, pushing back the fear threatening to take hold.

“What’s the matter, Murphy?” you sneered, lifting your chin. “Got tired of playing the victim, so now you’re back to being a psycho?”

Murphy’s grin twitched, his fingers tightening around the rifle. “There it is,” he mused. “That sharp tongue of yours. Always thought you were a little too bold for your own good.” He took a slow step forward, crouching in front of you. His eyes flicked over your face, his smirk widening. “Bet Bellamy just loves that about you.”

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression neutral.

Jasper, however, wasn’t as composed. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded, his voice sharp and laced with frustration. His breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling a little too fast — the panic was setting in, even if he was trying to hide it.

Murphy’s smile stretched wider, that twisted, smug grin that always made your skin crawl. His fingers flexed around the rifle at his side, a casual movement that felt far more threatening than if he’d actually raised it. Like he was just waiting for an excuse.

“Revenge,” he said simply, like the word itself should be enough to explain everything.

“Oh, give me a fucking break,” you muttered, your voice thick with sarcasm. “This is about the hanging, isn’t it?”

Murphy’s smile faltered, his expression hardening. His grip on the rifle tightened just enough for his knuckles to go white.

“Jesus, Murphy,” you scoffed, shifting against the rough rope that cut into your wrists. “You tried to kill people. Hell, you killed Charlotte. And now you’re throwing a tantrum because things didn’t go your way?” You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, that totally screams ‘victim.’”

“Careful,” Murphy warned, his voice low and sharp like the edge of a knife.

“Or what?” you shot back. “You’ll bore me to death with your sob story?”

His eyes darkened, something ugly flickering behind them. The air in the dropship seemed to shift, suddenly heavier, colder. Murphy took a slow, deliberate step closer, boots scuffing against the metal floor. “You always were a mouthy little bitch,” he muttered, voice curling with contempt.

You didn’t flinch, you refused to. Instead, you met his gaze and gave a cold, humorless smile. “Yeah?” you drawled. “Well, you always were a miserable little prick, so I guess we’re even.”

Murphy’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek ticking. “You really think this is funny?”

“I think it’s pathetic,” you snapped. “You’re pissed because Bellamy didn’t let you die? Seems like your real problem is that you’re still breathing.”

For a second, Murphy’s face twisted with pure rage that sharp, barely-contained violence that always simmered just beneath his skin, but then something cruel flickered across his features. His expression shifted, cold fury melting into something far more calculated.

His lips curled into a smirk.“I bet that’s why Bellamy likes you so much,” he sneered. “He’s got a thing for the feisty ones.”

Your stomach twisted. “Screw you,” you snapped, but there was an edge to your voice now, too sharp and too defensive.

Murphy’s smirk widened, and you knew he’d caught it. “Yeah,” he drawled, stepping closer until he was towering over you. “I’m sure that mouth of yours drives him crazy.” His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, like he was peeling back your defenses layer by layer. “Maybe that’s why he’s always hovering around you.”

Your chest tightened. “Go to hell,” you spat, but the words didn’t feel as steady as before.

Murphy chuckled, low and dark. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Jasper’s fingers twitched against the dusty floor of the dropship, eyes flicking toward the old radio lying just inches from his hand. Murphy had left it behind, probably too caught up in his own rage to notice.

Carefully, painfully slow, Jasper stretched his arm out, moving slow enough not to draw attention. His fingers brushed the edge of the radio. Murphy’s back was turned, still pacing and spitting insults your way.

"Go to hell, Murphy." You spat, anger only rising in your frame.

Murphy’s boots scuffed loudly as he stopped in his tracks, turning to face you again. “Careful,” he warned, voice low. “You’re not exactly in a position to be running your mouth.”

Jasper’s hand finally closed around the radio. He kept it close to his side, thumb pressing down on the transmit button. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Or what?” you snapped. “You’ll whine me to death? Cry some more about how no one likes you?”

“You really wanna push me right now?” Murphy shot back, stepping closer.

“You already pissed off half the camp,” you said coldly. “What’s one more person who hates you?”

Murphy’s face twisted with rage, and before you could react, his hand shot out — backhanding you hard across the face. Your head snapped to the side, a sharp sting blooming across your cheek.

“Shut your mouth,” Murphy growled.

The radio crackled softly in Jasper’s hand, still broadcasting everything.

Bellamy was at the campfire, a rare moment of calm as he stripped a branch for kindling. The sounds of the camp buzzed around him. People chatting, the clang of metal, footsteps crunching on dirt. But none of that mattered when a voice — your voice, crackled suddenly over the radio.

“…already pissed off half the camp. What’s one more person who hates you?”

Bellamy froze, his hands tightening around the branch. His head jerked toward the source of the sound. What the hell?

The sharp crack of skin hitting skin shot through the speaker, followed by a sharp gasp. His heart dropped into his stomach. “Shut your mouth,” Murphy’s voice growled.

Bellamy was on his feet before he could think “Where’s that coming from?” he barked, spinning around.

Octavia bolted from the tent, the radio clutched in her hand. “It’s Jasper’s radio — it’s them. Murphy’s got them.”

Bellamy snatched the radio from Octavia, fingers curling tight around the device as he held it close to his ear. His chest tightened as Murphy’s voice came through again, smug and taunting.

“You think you’re so tough, don’t you?” Murphy sneered. “Bet you’re not feeling so smart now.”

“Oh, go to hell,” you shot back, your voice sharp and unwavering.

Despite the panic clawing at Bellamy’s ribs, he felt a flicker of pride. That’s my girl. You were still running your mouth, still fighting, but that pride was quickly swallowed by something else. Murphy’s not stable, Bellamy thought. She’s pushing him, and he’s just crazy enough to kill her for it.

His fingers tightened around the radio like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His mind raced, anger boiling beneath his skin, fear gnawing at his chest.

“She’s gonna get herself killed,” Octavia muttered behind him.

Bellamy’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He knew you. Knew that sharp tongue of yours, that stubborn streak that never let you back down — even when you should. Part of him was proud, hearing you stand your ground like that. But the rest of him? The part that knew Murphy was just unhinged enough to put a bullet in your head for pissing him off? That part was fucking terrified.

“She’s not gonna die,” Bellamy said, more to himself than anyone else. “I won’t let that happen.”

The radio crackled again.

“Look, man,” Jasper’s voice broke through the static, rough and desperate. “You don’t have to do this.”

Murphy’s bitter laugh followed. “Yeah, I really do.”

“No, you don’t,” Jasper pushed. “You got your revenge, right? He's already dead—”

“This isn’t about him,” Murphy snapped. “This is about me. About what’s gonna happen when your fearless leader finds out what I did.”

Bellamy’s fingers tightened around the radio, his heart hammering in his chest.

“What did you do?” you demanded, your voice sharper now.

“Shut up,” Murphy growled, his tone low and dangerous. “You’re just a bonus. You weren’t even supposed to be here.”

“Yeah?” you shot back. “Well, lucky me.”

Bellamy closed his eyes briefly, frustration boiling in his blood. Damn it, why couldn’t you just stop pushing him?

Murphy let out a dry chuckle. “You think you’re funny?” he sneered. “I’ll tell you what’s funny — the king losing his goddamn mind when he finds out."

“Finds out what?” you shot back, your voice sharp.

Murphy’s smirk widened. “That I’m the one who killed Connor.”

Your breath caught. Jasper stiffened beside you.

“You’re lying,” you said, but your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted it to be.

“Am I?” Murphy’s eyes glinted with twisted satisfaction. “Ask Jasper.”

You turned to Jasper, who wouldn’t meet your gaze. His silence told you everything. A sick feeling curled in your stomach. “Jesus,” you muttered, turning back to Murphy. “You actually killed him?"

Murphy grinned, sharp and cruel. “Damn right I did.”

Jasper swallowed hard. “That’s why you took me,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Because I saw you.”

Murphy gave a mock bow. “Bingo. Knew you’d piece it together sooner or later.” His expression darkened. “Couldn’t have you running to Bellamy, now could I?”

You clenched your jaw. “And me?”

Murphy’s smirk returned. “You?” He chuckled. “You were a bonus.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “See, when I heard you moving around upstairs, I thought, ‘Well, shit. That’s my lucky day.’ Knocked you out cold before you even knew I was there.” His grin widened. “Because what better leverage against Bellamy than you?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Murphy went on, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You really think he wouldn’t do whatever the hell I wanted to get you back? Hell, next to Octavia, you’re the best damn bargaining chip I could ask for.”

Outside the dropship, Bellamy’s grip on the radio tightened until his knuckles went white. His jaw was locked so tight it ached.

Murphy kept talking. “So yeah,” he continued, pacing now. “I’ve got all the cards. Bellamy’s gonna come running, and when he does—”

“You so sure about that?” you cut in, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Because from where I’m sitting, it kinda looks like you’re just another dead man walking.”

Murphy stopped pacing. His smile twitched, fingers flexing around the rifle at his side.

“You know,” you said, your voice tight with defiance, “for someone who acts like a victim, you sure seem to enjoy being a miserable asshole.”

Murphy’s expression darkened. “You really wanna run that mouth right now?” he growled.

“Why not?” you shot back. “You’ve already proved you’re a coward. What’s one more tantrum?”

His eyes flashed with rage. In one swift motion, he raised the rifle and pointed it directly at you.

Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you refused to flinch. “Go ahead,” you sneered. “Prove me right.”

“Murphy!” Bellamy’s voice exploded from the radio, sharp and furious.

Murphy jerked in surprise, whipping around to face Jasper, who was gripping the radio tightly, his thumb still pressed on the button.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Murphy snapped, storming over and snatching it from Jasper’s hands.

“Murphy,” Bellamy’s voice came again, colder this time. “You hurt either of them, and I swear I’ll kill you!”

“You’re in no position to make threats,” Murphy sneered into the radio, his fingers tightening around the device. His eyes glinted with twisted satisfaction. “But I’ll tell you what—I’ll make you a deal.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You swore you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Murphy’s smile widened, sharp and cruel. “You for them,” he said. “Trade yourself for Jasper and her.”

Your stomach dropped. No.

Your head snapped toward Jasper. His face had gone pale, eyes wide with the same dread you felt clawing its way up your throat. He knew exactly what this meant. Bellamy wouldn’t be walking away from this — and Murphy fucking knew it.

“Don’t,” you whispered, voice barely audible. Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t get enough air. “Don’t do it.”

The radio crackled.

“Deal.”

Your breath caught. “No!” you burst out, voice ragged. “Bellamy, don’t—”

Murphy clicked off the radio before you could finish “That’s enough out of you,” he muttered with a smug grin. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he turned to Jasper. “Well,” he drawled, voice dripping with mock cheer, “looks like we’re making a trade.”

“You’re gonna kill him,” you shot back, your voice shaking with rage. “That’s what this is — you’re setting him up to die.”

Murphy gave an exaggerated shrug. “Yeah? Not my problem.”

Your blood boiled. “You son of a—”

“Save it,” Murphy snapped, stepping forward and grabbing Jasper by the arm.

“Wait—” Jasper struggled, his eyes flicking desperately to you as Murphy hauled him toward the dropship door.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice cracking. “Murphy, don’t do this!”

Murphy didn’t even glance back. He shoved Jasper hard toward the exit, and Jasper stumbled forward, almost tripping over his own feet. Jasper turned, his gaze flicking between you and Murphy. His expression twisted in confusion and then realization.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Murphy barked.

“You said both of us,” Jasper said, his voice low and uncertain.

Your heart thudded painfully. Murphy’s smile stretched wider, colder. He turned, looking straight at you, and the smug glint in his eyes made your stomach turn.

“I lied.”

The sound of the dropship door clanging shut felt like a gunshot in your chest.

Bellamy stumbled forward, barely catching his balance as he pushed through the curtain. His gaze locked on you instantly, wide and frantic, but then his eyes shifted.

Murphy stood too close with his hand fisted in your shirt and his gun jammed against your ribs and Bellamy froze. His body went rigid, hands curling into fists at his sides. His chest rose and fell like he was barely holding himself together. “Let her go,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Murphy grinned, that smug, twisted smile that made your stomach turn. He didn’t move the gun “You’re in no position to be making demands,” Murphy sneered.

Bellamy’s eyes flicked to you again. You saw the way they dragged over you, the tension in your shoulders, the way you kept perfectly still, like any sudden movement might make Murphy pull the trigger. The rage simmering beneath Bellamy’s skin seemed to burn hotter.

“I said,” Bellamy growled, “let her go.”

Murphy snorted. “Yeah? And what’re you gonna do about it?”

Bellamy took a step forward and Murphy’s finger twitched on the trigger. The barrel pressed harder against your ribs, and you sucked in a sharp breath.

Bellamy froze again, teeth clenching hard enough to make his jaw twitch. “I said both of them,” Bellamy snapped, his voice shaking with fury. “That was the deal.”

Murphy’s smile stretched wider, like he’d been waiting for Bellamy to lose it. “Yeah…” Murphy dragged the word out, mockingly casual. “But here’s the thing…” His gaze flicked back to you, cold and calculating. “I’m never letting her go.”

Your heart stumbled and Bellamy’s face twisted into something dark and dangerous. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Murphy said, his voice tightening, “she means too much to me.” His fingers curled tighter in your shirt, dragging you closer like you were some kind of prize. “I’m not stupid. I know how much you care about her. You think I’d give up something that valuable?”

“You’re fucking sick,” Bellamy spat.

Murphy’s grin turned sharp. “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But you know what’s funny? I don’t think you’ll do a damn thing about it.”

“You think I won’t kill you?” Bellamy shot back.

“Oh, you will,” Murphy said, pressing the gun harder into your ribs. You bit down a wince. “But not before I put a bullet in her first.”

Bellamy’s eyes widened, panic flickering behind the anger. His gaze shifted to yours again, and you knew exactly what he was thinking. Murphy kept his gun trained on you as he took a slow step back, dragging the moment out like he was savoring it.

“You know what’s funny, Bellamy?” Murphy mused, a bitter grin curling on his lips. “You standing here, looking so goddamn righteous—acting like I’m the bad guy.”

Bellamy didn’t answer, his jaw ticking as his glare burned into Murphy.

Murphy let out a dry chuckle. “Let’s take a little trip down memory lane, yeah? Let’s talk about how you kicked the box from under my feet and almost let me fucking hang.” His voice sharpened, the anger cutting through the mockery. “Let’s talk about how you banished me—left me to die—all for what? Justice?”

Bellamy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, but his face remained unreadable.

Murphy scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He took another step back, finally putting some space between himself and you, but his gun didn’t waver. His free hand shot out, grabbing a nearby box, and with a loud scrape, he dragged it to the center of the dropship.

You glanced at Bellamy, confused, but he was just as lost as you were.

Then, without breaking eye contact, Murphy found couple of long, thick straps—seatbelts and ripped from the wreckage of the drop ship.

He tossed them toward Bellamy’s feet and Bellamy barely spared them a glance before his glare snapped back up.

Murphy smirked. “Make a noose.”

Your stomach lurched. “Murphy—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, not even looking at you.

Bellamy didn’t move. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump, his hands flexing at his sides like he was seconds from lunging.

Murphy sighed, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Bellamy,” he drawled. “You’ve done it before.” His smirk turned razor-sharp. “Should be muscle memory by now.”

Bellamy’s chest rose and fell, his breath coming heavier now. “You think this’ll make it right?” Bellamy said, voice low, shaking with restrained fury. “You think this makes you the good guy?”

Murphy’s face darkened. “I don’t give a shit about being the good guy.” His finger twitched on the trigger. “Now, make the fucking noose.”

Bellamy’s hands trembled as he twisted the seatbelt into a knot, his knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping the worn fabric. The room felt suffocating, almost too quiet except for the faint sound of Bellamy’s ragged breathing.

“You know…” Murphy’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, cold and sharp. “The more I think about it… the more it makes sense.”

Bellamy didn’t react, keeping his eyes locked on the knot he was tying, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed.

Murphy leaned back in his chair, still keeping the gun trained on Bellamy. “The king and the queen,” he said with a mockingly sweet smile. “That’s what you two are, isn’t it?” He snorted. “Clarke’s the princess, the one everyone listens to… but you two?” He shook his head. “You’re the real power couple. Always side by side, always whispering to each other — doesn’t take a genius to see what’s going on there.”

“You’re full of shit,” Bellamy muttered, voice low and tight.

Murphy grinned. “Am I?” He gestured vaguely between you and Bellamy. “’Cause I remember how it started — you two couldn’t stand each other. Always bickering, always at each other’s throats.” His grin widened. “But then something changed, didn’t it?”

Bellamy’s hands stilled on the noose, fingers curling into fists.

“You started sticking close to each other,” Murphy continued. “Backing each other up, sharing those little looks. Always so protective of her…” His gaze flicked to you, and his smile turned colder. “And her? Man, she followed you around like a fucking shadow.”

“Shut up,” Bellamy snapped, his voice breaking.

But Murphy wasn’t finished. “I mean… it’s not hard to figure out why. I saw the way she looked at you — like you hung the goddamn moon.” Murphy chuckled darkly. “I bet she still does.”

“Murphy, I swear to God—”

“And you?” Murphy’s eyes slid back to you, sharp and calculating. “You’re just as bad.” His smile twisted into something cruel. “What’s it like knowing he’d do anything for you? Must feel pretty fucking special.”

“Stop,” Bellamy warned, his voice tight with barely restrained fury.

Murphy ignored him. His eyes stayed on you, cold and gleeful. “Tell me…” His smile sharpened. “Did you have to sleep with him to get him to care that much? Or did you just bat those pretty eyes and hope he’d notice?”

The words hit their mark like a slap, heat rising to your face. Bellamy shot to his feet so fast the chair beneath him scraped loudly against the floor “Watch your fucking mouth,” Bellamy snarled, his voice dangerously low.

Murphy just laughed, dark and humorless. “See?” he said, waving the gun toward Bellamy. “Look at him — all worked up just ‘cause I talked about you.” He smirked at you. “Man’s got it bad.”

Bellamy’s fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body tight like a wire about to snap. “You think this is funny?” Bellamy’s voice was rough, his eyes burning with rage. “You think you can push me until I break?”

Murphy’s grin widened. “I’m counting on it.”

Bellamy’s chest rose and fell in sharp, angry breaths. His fists were still clenched at his sides, his entire body coiled like a spring about to snap.

“Go on,” Murphy taunted, his grin widening as he turned the gun back on you. “Be a hero, Bellamy. Step out of line — give me a reason.”

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your voice sharp with panic. Your eyes locked with Bellamy’s, silently pleading for him to keep his cool. He was barely hanging on, you could see it in the tight set of his jaw, the fire blazing behind his eyes.

“Look at her,” Murphy sneered. “So worried about you. Almost sweet, isn’t it?” He chuckled darkly. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re in love with someone.”

Bellamy’s eyes flicked to you again, something raw and unspoken flashing across his face.

“Don’t know why you two keep pretending,” Murphy went on, voice smug and cruel. “I mean, we all see it. Even the damn kids back at camp talk about it.” He smirked wider. “Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you two were already screwin’.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bellamy growled.

Murphy’s smile sharpened. “What’s the matter? Don’t like me talking about your girl?”

“She’s not—” Bellamy started, but Murphy cut him off.

“Please,” Murphy spat. “I know you’d die for her. And her?” He shot you a pointed look. “She’d do the same for you. Stupid, isn’t it? All that loyalty, for what?”

“Because he’s worth it,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

Murphy’s smile faltered, just for a second, and then he was laughing again, cold and sharp. “Yeah? We’ll see how much you believe that when he’s the one with the noose around his neck.”

Bellamy’s fingers twisted the belt in his hands, the makeshift noose tightening as he pulled the knot into place. His hands shook, sweat beading along his hairline despite the cold air inside the dropship. He kept his head down, jaw clenched so tightly you swore his teeth might crack.

“Alright,” Murphy said, voice smug and satisfied. “Get on the box.”

Bellamy’s fingers stilled. His head lifted slightly, eyes locking on Murphy. “You’re out of your mind,” Bellamy muttered.

Murphy’s smile widened. “I said, get on the goddamn box.”

“Bellamy, don’t,” you blurted, unable to stop yourself.

Murphy’s expression twisted, all smugness gone in an instant. Without warning, he whipped the gun toward you and pulled the trigger.

BANG.

You flinched hard, a sharp yelp tearing from your throat as the bullet struck the metal wall inches from your head. The sound rang in your ears, and your heart hammered against your ribs.

“Next one doesn’t miss,” Murphy warned coldly, his gaze snapping back to Bellamy. “Now, get your ass on the box, or she dies.”

“Alright!” Bellamy barked, pushing himself to his feet so fast the chair skidded back. His voice shook with anger and with fear. His eyes flicked to you for the briefest second before he turned and grabbed the wooden crate near the center of the room.

“You’re insane,” Bellamy muttered under his breath as he dragged the box into position.

Murphy grinned. “Yeah? Maybe. But you’re still the idiot standing on the box.”

Bellamy shot him a murderous glare but stepped onto the crate anyway. The wood creaked under his weight. His broad shoulders tensed, muscles coiled and ready, but there was no fight left to pick. Not when Murphy’s finger twitched so damn easily on that trigger.

“Bellamy…” Your voice was barely a whisper.

He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. His focus was on Murphy, on the shaking gun, on whatever slim chance there was to turn this around.

“Alright,” Murphy said with a grin, tossing the loose end of the noose over the metal beam above. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.” Murphy tossed the loose end of the noose over the metal beam, the seatbelt strap hissing as it slid through his fingers. With ease, he secured the knot, yanking it tight until the loop hung in place, waiting.

Bellamy stared at it, his jaw clenched so tight you swore his teeth might shatter. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.

Murphy cocked his head, a cruel grin tugging at his lips. “What’s wrong, Bellamy? Cold feet?” He tugged at the strap, testing its hold before stepping back. “That’s funny. Didn’t hesitate to kick the box out from under me.”

Bellamy’s eyes flashed with something dark, but still, he didn’t move.

Murphy’s grin widened. “Oh, I get it,” he drawled. “It’s different when it’s you, huh? When it’s your neck on the line?” He shook his head with mock disappointment. “Guess you’re not as tough as you like to pretend.”

Bellamy stayed silent. His body was rigid, tension rolling off him in waves, but he didn’t react, not in the way Murphy wanted.

Murphy’s smile twitched. He hated that. So, he turned to you. “Or maybe…” Murphy mused, his voice slow and taunting. “Maybe you just need the right motivation.” Murphy’s eyes slid toward you, and before you could blink, he raised the gun and fired.

The crack of the shot ripped through the air, deafening in the tight space. For a second, you didn’t feel anything, just a cold, hollow shock spreading through your body, but then the pain hit.

White-hot and searing. You screamed, clutching your thigh as blood poured from the fresh wound. It was everywhere, spilling through your fingers, soaking your clothes, pooling beneath you. The agony stole your breath, your vision blurring with tears.

“No!” Bellamy lunged toward you, but Murphy was faster.

“Back the fuck up!” Murphy barked, jerking the gun toward Bellamy’s chest. “You so much as breathe wrong, I’ll put the next one in her head.”

Bellamy froze, chest heaving, face twisted in fury. His eyes flicked back to you, and you could see it, the panic, the helplessness, the rage simmering beneath it all.

“Put it on,” Murphy ordered, gesturing to the noose. “Now.”

“Murphy,” Bellamy gritted out, voice low and dangerous, “don’t do this.”

Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “I said put it on.”

Bellamy’s gaze darted back to you, to the blood still pouring from your leg and something in him broke. Hands shaking, he grabbed the noose and slipped it around his neck.

“Good,” Murphy sneered. He gave the strap a sharp yank, dragging Bellamy closer until his boots barely touched the box. Bellamy choked, rising onto his toes, his fingers instinctively clawing at the strap.

“Stop!” you gasped through the pain, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “Please, stop!”

Murphy shot you a twisted smile. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” His gaze flicked back to Bellamy. “Hurts worse watching someone you love bleed out right in front of you.”

Bellamy’s face was turning red, veins standing out on his neck. His furious gaze never left Murphy.

Murphy chuckled darkly. He grinned at Bellamy, eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. “Guess I can see why you love her. She’s a fighter — I’ll give her that. Not to mention…” His eyes dragged over you, lingering too long. “She’s easy on the eyes.”

“Don’t,” Bellamy ground out, voice raw.

“What?” Murphy smirked. “You pissed ‘cause I noticed?” He gave the noose another sharp tug, forcing Bellamy higher on his toes. “Or are you pissed ‘cause she’s bleeding out right now and you can’t do a damn thing about it?”

Tears streaked down your face as you squeezed your eyes shut, attempting to block out the pain. Bellamy’s face was darkening, his muscles straining to keep himself upright.

“You know,” Murphy mused, “if I were you, I’d start thinking about your last words.” He grinned. “’Cause I don’t think you’ve got much time left.”

Murphy’s grin widened as he gave the noose another hard yank. The strap dug deeper into Bellamy’s throat, forcing a ragged, strangled sound from him as his boots scraped against the box, barely keeping him upright. His face was turning red, veins bulging at his temples.

“You’re turning colors there, Bellamy,” Murphy sneered. “Starting to think you’re not gonna make it.”

Then there was a noise, faint but distinct coming from beneath the dropship.

Murphy’s head snapped toward the sound, his expression twisting in irritation. “Bet that’s your little grounder-pounder sister,” he muttered. His eyes narrowed, and before anyone could react, he fired a shot through the metal floor.

“No!” you screamed.

Bellamy’s instincts kicked in. Fueled by desperation, he lunged forward, yanking hard on the strap around his own neck and knocking Murphy off balance. The gun fired again, but the shot went wide, sparking off the metal wall.

“Son of a bitch!” Murphy growled, shoving Bellamy back and this time, his boot shot out, slamming into the box beneath Bellamy’s feet.

The box tipped over, crashing to the floor. Bellamy’s body dropped, and suddenly he was hanging, gasping, choking, his fingers clawing desperately at the noose cutting into his throat. His legs kicked out wildly, searching for something — anything to catch his balance.

“Bellamy!” you cried, panic crashing over you like a wave. You fought against your bonds, your fingernails tearing at the rope around your wrists. You twisted and yanked, sobbing through the pain.

Bellamy’s face was darkening, his gasps turning to garbled, desperate sounds. His fingers struggled at the strap digging into his throat, his eyes flicking to you wide with fear and pain.

The dropship door suddenly groaned and flew open, slamming against the wall.

“Shit,” Murphy hissed. He bolted for the ladder, scrambling up toward the second level.

“No, no, no!” you sobbed, still sawing at the ropes with your fingernails, desperate to break free as Bellamy’s body jerked violently above you. His kicks were getting weaker. His face was turning a sickening shade of purple.

“Hold on,” you begged him. “Please hold on.”

Murphy’s boots clanged against the metal rungs as he scrambled up the ladder, his breath ragged and frantic. He reached the second level, slammed the hatch shut behind him, and shoved the lock into place just as Octavia rushed inside the dropship.

“Bellamy!” she cried, her eyes widening in horror as she saw her brother dangling from the noose. Without hesitation, she ran beneath him, gripping his waist and trying to lift him. Bellamy’s weight sagged against her, his face blotched red and purple as his strained gasps turned weaker.

“Jasper!” Octavia shouted. “Cut the rope!”

Jasper didn’t hesitate. Grabbing a jagged piece of scrap metal, he lunged for the rope, sawing at it with desperate force. The fibers began to fray, splitting one by one. “Come on, come on,” Jasper muttered through gritted teeth.

Finally, the rope gave way, and Bellamy dropped like dead weight into Octavia’s arms. He collapsed to the floor, crumpling in a heap, his body jerking as he gasped for air.

“Bellamy!” Octavia knelt beside him, her hand on his chest, trying to calm him down. “You’re okay. You’re okay, just breathe.”

Someone rushed to your side, fumbling with the ropes around your wrists. The second they fell loose, you tried to stand, but pain shot through your leg like fire. You cried out, stumbling, barely able to keep your balance.

“Whoa, hey, easy,” the Harper said, looping an arm around your waist to steady you.

“I’m fine,” you ground out, teeth clenched against the pain. “I’m fine.” But you weren’t. Every step sent agony tearing through your thigh. Still, you forced yourself to limp forward, dragging yourself to Bellamy’s side.

His breaths were still rough and uneven, his face pale and drenched in sweat. His hand clutched at his raw, bruised throat, and his fingers shook violently. “Bell,” you rasped, dropping to your knees beside him. “Hey… hey, I’m here.”

His bloodshot eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something broke inside you.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Bellamy choked out, his voice hoarse and ragged. He shoved Octavia’s hand off his chest and lurched to his feet.

“Bellamy, wait—” you grabbed for him, but he was already staggering toward the ladder. He barely felt the pain, barely noticed the way his legs threatened to give out beneath him. All he could see was red.

He reached the ladder and climbed, ignoring the ache in his throat, the burn in his muscles. Reaching the top, he slammed his fist against the locked door.

“Open the damn door, Murphy!” Bellamy roared, his voice raw and broken. He pounded again, harder this time. “You think you’re safe up there? I’m gonna kill you!”

“Open the damn door, Murphy!” Bellamy roared, his voice hoarse and ragged. He slammed his fist against the hatch, metal rattling beneath his knuckles. His body ached and his throat was raw, his muscles screamed but none of that mattered. Not after what Murphy had done.

“You think you’re safe up there?” Bellamy bellowed, pounding again. “I’m gonna kill you!”

Suddenly, there was a click, the faintest sound, followed by Murphy’s twisted laugh from above “Yeah?” Murphy called back. “Good luck with that.”

Then came the boom. The explosion ripped through the dropship like a thunderclap, deafening and violent. Bellamy stumbled back, nearly losing his footing as the force of the blast knocked him away from the hatch. The floor shook beneath him, metal groaning in protest.

Smoke billowed from above, filling the air with the sharp scent of gunpowder and scorched metal. Bellamy’s ears rang, but through the haze, he saw it — a gaping hole where the side of the dropship used to be. Chunks of metal still crumbled away, clattering to the ground outside. And Murphy that bastard was already sprinting through the trees, making his escape.

Bellamy lunged toward the twisted wreckage, climbing over the mangled metal. “Murphy!” he roared, but the coward was too far gone, his dark figure disappearing into the woods. Bellamy’s fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. He could still feel the rope burn on his throat, still see the way you’d screamed when the bullet tore through your leg. He was going to kill Murphy.

“Bellamy!” Octavia’s voice yanked him back. He spun around, heart pounding as he stumbled down the ladder, nearly tripping in his rush to get back to you.

You were on the floor, pale as a ghost. Blood soaked your jeans, spreading fast. Harper was pressing a wad of cloth against your thigh, but her face was tight with panic. “She’s losing too much blood,” Harper said, her voice strained.

Bellamy dropped to his knees beside you, hands shaking as he took over. He pressed down hard, too hard and you let out a sharp cry. “Sorry,” Bellamy muttered, voice thick. His hand lifted just enough to ease the pressure. “I’m sorry… I just — I need you to stay with me, okay?”

Your eyes flickered open, glassy and unfocused. “I’m not going anywhere,” you mumbled, but your voice was barely a whisper.

“You better not,” Bellamy said, forcing a shaky breath. His hand found your face, thumb brushing along your dirt-streaked cheek. “I mean it… you don’t get to quit on me now.”

Your fingers twitched, weakly curling around his wrist. “I won’t,” you rasped. “I promise.”

Bellamy swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Good.” His voice broke. “Good… just… just keep your eyes on me, okay?”

But he felt your grip weaken your fingers slipping from his arm. Bellamy’s hands were slick with your blood, his fingers pressing desperately against the wound. His breath came in ragged bursts, panic clawing at his chest.

“No… no, no, no…” His voice shook as he pressed harder, trying to stop the steady flow of crimson. “Stay with me!” His voice cracked, raw and broken. “You hear me? Don’t you dare—”

Your head lolled to the side, eyes barely open, your skin deathly pale. Bellamy’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“Shit…” He whipped his head around, voice sharp. “I need something, anything to stop the bleeding!”

“Bellamy—” Harper stammered.

“Now!” Bellamy barked, his voice snapping like a whip. But before Harper could even move, the sound of footsteps pounded against the metal stairs outside. Bellamy’s head jerked up, muscles tensing as the door burst open.

“Clarke?!” Harper's stunned voice broke the silence.

Bellamy’s breath caught in his throat. Clarke stood in the doorway, chest heaving, her hair damp with sweat and streaked with dirt. She was back.

“Oh my God…” Clarke’s eyes locked on you, on the blood pooling beneath Bellamy’s hands and her face paled. “What happened?!”

“Murphy—” Bellamy’s voice wavered. “He—he shot her.” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking again. “I—I can’t stop the bleeding.”

“Move!” Clarke barked, already rushing forward. Bellamy didn’t hesitate, he slid back just enough to give her space, his hands hovering above you like he couldn’t bear to let go completely.

Clarke knelt beside you, her fingers moving fast as she ripped open her pack and grabbed supplies. “She’s lost a lot of blood,” she muttered under her breath. “Too much…”

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” Bellamy’s voice was sharp, desperate. “Tell me she’s gonna be okay!”

“I don’t know yet,” Clarke shot back, pressing gauze hard against your wound. “But I need you to calm down.”

“Calm down?!” Bellamy’s voice rose. “She’s bleeding out, Clarke!” His voice cracked on your name.

“I know!” Clarke snapped, eyes flashing. “And if you don’t shut up and let me work, she won’t make it!”

Bellamy staggered back like he’d been slapped, chest heaving. His hands curled into fists, your blood still warm and sticky on his fingers.

“Please…” His voice broke softer this time, barely above a whisper. “Please… save her.”

Clarke’s expression softened for a heartbeat, but just as quickly, she refocused, her hands steady as she worked to save you.

A dull, aching pain throbbed through your thigh as you slowly drifted back to consciousness. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and faint traces of smoke from the campfire outside. Your limbs felt heavy, exhaustion still clinging to you, but you forced your eyes open.

Dim candlelight flickered across the canvas walls of the tent, casting soft shadows. It took a second for your mind to catch up, to remember what had happened. The dropship, Murphy, the gunshot...You sucked in a sharp breath, your body tensing in panic.

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice broke through the haze, rough but gentle. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Your eyes finally focused on the figure sitting beside you, slouched forward in a chair like he hadn’t moved in hours. Bellamy. His dark eyes were locked onto you, filled with relief but shadowed by worry. He looked exhausted, his jaw clenched, his hair a mess like he’d been running his hands through it over and over.

“Bellamy…?” Your voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

His whole body seemed to sag at the sound of your voice, like he’d been holding himself together by a thread. “Yeah. I’m here.” He leaned in, his hands hovering like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You swallowed, trying to shift, but a sharp pain shot through your thigh, making you wince. Bellamy was up in an instant, his hands gently pressing against your blanket-covered leg to keep you from moving too much.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You lost a lot of blood. Clarke patched you up, but you’ve been out for almost a day.”

A whole day? No wonder your body felt like lead. You exhaled shakily, letting your head fall back against the pillow. “Jasper?” you asked, your voice still weak.

“He’s okay,” Bellamy assured you. “Thanks to you.” His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering away for a second before he looked back at you. “You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger like that.”

A small, tired smile ghosted over your lips. “Didn’t really have a choice.”

Bellamy let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, that sounds like you.” His expression softened, and this time, when his hand reached out, he let it rest over yours. His palm was warm, grounding. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said, voice rough with emotion.

You gave his hand a light squeeze, your eyelids already growing heavy again. “Can’t make any promises…”

Bellamy huffed out a breath but then his fingers curled around yours a little tighter, like he was anchoring himself to the feeling of your skin against his. His jaw clenched, his eyes flickering down to where your leg was still wrapped in bandages beneath the blanket.

“I should’ve done something different,” he murmured, his voice thick with guilt.

You frowned slightly, trying to shake off the haze of exhaustion. “Bellamy…”

“No,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “I should’ve—” His throat bobbed, his grip on your hand tightening. “I should’ve just listened to Murphy. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have—” His breath hitched, and he looked away, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt. “You wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

You stared at him, barely processing what he was saying at first. “You think this was your fault?”

Bellamy let out a bitter laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course it’s my fault. Murphy wanted revenge on me. I hesitated and didn't listen, and because of that, he turned his gun on you.” His voice cracked, raw with self-loathing. “I should’ve done something...anything to stop it.”

You could see it now, the weight of it pressing down on him, the guilt drowning him. He wasn’t just shaken up from almost losing you. He truly believed that if he had done something differently, you wouldn’t be lying here, weak and wounded.

You hated seeing him like this.

Summoning what little strength you had, you shifted your fingers beneath his, giving his hand a small squeeze. “Bellamy, look at me.”

He hesitated before finally meeting your eyes, and the sheer torment in his gaze nearly shattered you.

“This wasn’t your fault,” you said firmly, even though your voice was still weak. “Murphy was unhinged. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t have shot someone anyway. The grounders will take care of him now.” You swallowed against the dryness in your throat. “You did what you thought was right and that's all that matters.”

Bellamy let out a slow, unsteady breath, like he was trying to believe your words but couldn’t quite let go of the guilt. His free hand hovered over your blanket-covered leg, his fingertips brushing the fabric just above the bandage. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted. “The second that gun went off, and you—” He cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

The quiet confession sent warmth and pain curling through your chest all at once. You’d never heard his voice so raw, so vulnerable. “You didn’t,” you murmured. “I’m still here.”

His lips pressed into a tight line, his gaze searching yours like he wanted to believe you, but the guilt was still lingering, still gnawing at him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant crackling of the campfire outside, the muffled voices of the others going about their night.

Then then Bellamy did something that nearly stole the breath from your lungs. He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing the softest, most fleeting kiss against your knuckles.

When he pulled away, his eyes locked onto yours, something unspoken burning in them. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you again.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the weight behind it was unshakable.

You felt your heartbeat stutter in your chest, your breath catching as you stared at him. There was so much you wanted to say. So many emotions swirled between you. Relief, exhaustion--something unspoken that had always lingered beneath the surface. But now, with his hand still wrapped around yours, his lips barely parted like he was holding back something important, you weren’t sure you could keep pretending anymore.

Bellamy exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching like he wanted to touch you again, like he wasn’t sure if he should. His eyes darkened, flickering down to your lips for just a second before meeting your gaze again. "I don’t think I can do this anymore."

Your brow furrowed. “Do what?”

His grip on your hand tightened as he leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your skin. “Pretend like I don’t feel something for you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like I haven’t felt something for you since the moment we met.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The exhaustion, the pain in your leg, everything else faded into the background.

He shook his head, his expression twisted in frustration, almost like he was angry with himself. “I was so damn scared to say it before. I told myself I couldn’t--there’s too much going on, too much at stake. But when I saw you lying there, bleeding out, I realized something.” He let out a shaky breath. “I can’t lose you. Not before I tell you that I—” He swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto yours. “I love you, Y/N.”

Your chest tightened, emotion swelling up inside you so fast it nearly stole your breath. You had dreamed about hearing those words from him, but hearing them now, spoken with so much raw, unfiltered honesty, was almost too much. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you reached up, your fingers curling weakly around the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer.

That was all it took. Bellamy closed the distance in a heartbeat, his lips crashing against yours, urgent, desperate, like he had been holding back for far too long. His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing gently over your skin, a contrast to the sheer intensity of the kiss.

You melted into him, your body still weak but your heart pounding, your fingers gripping onto him like he was the only thing tethering you to the world.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. “I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmured.

A small, tired smile played on your lips as you ran your fingers lightly over his shirt. “You’re making up for it now.”

Bellamy let out a soft, breathy chuckle, but when he looked at you again, there was nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. “Not ever.”

And for the first time in a long time, despite the chaos of the world around you, you truly believed him. "I love you too, bell." You whispered with a soft smile on your lips.

author’s note:

heh, that was a long one 😅 if I’m being honest I really didn’t want to follow the episode exactly, so I just wrote from memory—but tweaked a few things.

also, I know I villainized murphy in this fic but I promise he’s still one of my favorites! I did hate him in s1 & s2, but he eventually grew on me and became of one my favorite characters in the 100.

I hope you liked it, nonny! y’all don’t be shy and send in some more requests! I don’t bite, I promise! ❤︎

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@rubydacherry42 @chalametsangel @imsiriuslyreal

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

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© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission.

[heartybubs]

I love jealousy fics!!

me toooo, but i’m not good at writing them😭🫣

[heartybubs]

jealousy jealousy

the 100 [ john murphy x reader ]

type: ig angst but it’s not well written enough to ‘hit’

tropes: jealousy, roommates, unspoken but accepted love, best friends to lovers

warnings: violence ( knife fight ), mentions of murder

in which wells jaha is getting help by the only person willing to be around him, who just so happens to john murphy’s unofficial girlfriend, who then has to deal with his idiotic jealousy.

a/n: hii, i’m back! this is based on a request i really really liked but i’m not happy with what i actually wrote so i hope it’s okay to read. i kinda ignored how much of a psychopath murphy was in the first season cause i really couldn’t have justified his actions otherwise and the whole jealousy part wouldn’t have been entertaining AT ALL. so yea, i was struggling a bit ( whilst also blatantly ignoring the timeline, ignore anything that doesn’t match the canon timeline of s1 pls ), but at least i tried right🫣 no pronouns

w.c.: 2040

yours and murphy's relationship was a rather unclear, but at the same time simple one. you weren't officially dating, but during your time on the ark, when you were locked up in your shared cell, where you also met, you definitely did some inappropriate stuff; stuff that friends don't do.

your cell was also the place where the two of you bonded, becoming really really close rather quickly. although he was a very aggressive and irritating person to be around at first, you got used to it and soon he became your favourite person to be around.

now, after months of being roommates and part time lovers, you were finally on the ground, something you'd dreamed of since you first learned about it and therefore were keen on securing your survival. murphy on the other hand, got so bad that even you couldn't deny the fact he was a total asshole and if you didn't know he would never hurt you, you'd be way too scared to share a tent with him, especially alone.

you didn't actively distance yourself but after watching him bully wells, the chancellor's son, countless times for his father's actions, you kind of naturally looked for ways to make some new friends. and as if the universe hated john murphy, you seemed to work really well with wells.

everytime murphy saw you talk or walk around with wells, which honestly happened quite a lot, it fueled his hatred against home even more and made him want to stay away from you too.

you didn't mind not being associated with the provocative behaviour of john murphy and the way he tyrannized the other delinquents, however, it was a very different story when it came to going to bed and waiting for him until you physically couldn't keep your eyes open any longer, leading to you and him barely ever meeting and getting a chance to talk, despite sharing a tent.

yes, murphy was an asshole, that was totally not up for debate, BUT he was also the cell mate you had for the past few months; one who you loved deeply.

you were sitting by the dropship, wells next to you, watching your hands closely.

"see, it's really important that you wrap everything tightly, like super tight, since you don't want your arrow to fall apart in the air, alright?", you explained and made sure he understood. you were teaching him how to make an arrow from scratch and although you weren't an earth skills expert, you definitely knew more than wells, who didn't get the chance to attend earth skills class back on the ark. and you could probably count the people who at least tolerated wells on one hand, you included.

"okay and, sorry", he paused, scrunching his nose and forehead as he stared at the arrow-to-be in front of him, "how do i make sure the tip is sharp and everything? i just don't get it, sorry. i don't wanna waste your time y/n.”

you smiled, appreciating his consideration, but clearly declining his indirect offer for you to do something else. there wasn't anything else for you to do and he also wasn't wasting your time, he was just learning and you really liked teaching him; it helped you understand better as well.

"wells, c'mon. i'm choosing to be here, you didn't force me and i don't think it would be okay to produce less arrows, that literally get us food, just cause i'm bored of you", you said, smiling at him, "not.. not that i am bored of you, but you know what i mean!"

he grinned before nodding. honestly, there wasn't anything wrong with wells at all and you truly didn't understand how your fellow delinquents could treat him they way they did. especially murphy.

speaking of the devil, murphy was brutally staring at you and oh boy was he jealous.

he didn’t want to approach you, as he was lowkey trying to avoid starting anything right in front of you, let alone with you. he wasn’t blind and therefore noticed how much more distant you and him were ever since arriving on earth so he was trying to avoid any additional conflicts between you.

when you looked up, your eyes meeting his for a quick moment, leading to you sending a small smile his way, he almost forgot about all his anger and jealousy towards wells. that was until you looked back at the boy in front of you and started smiling hard at the almost perfect arrow he had just put together.

murphy was gonna make wells pay, hard. he just had to catch him away from you, something that was way harder to arrange than he’d like it to be.

“don’t you see you can’t control this?!”, wells voice echoed through the woods as you nervously made your way back. you were wandering around outside of camp, always keeping close to the dropship as you knew you could get los easily. the initial reason you decided to turn around was the cheering delinquents and something inside of you just had you thinking that murphy must have had something to do with it.

“wait”, you heard bellamy yell, making the noise die down for a moment. it calmed your nerves as you were standing at the back of the group, trying to be as tall as possible to see what was going on. “fair fight”, bellamy said before you could hear something metallic fall to the ground.

anxiety increasing again, you tried to push yourself through the delinquents that were proudly chanting for murder meanwhile you had to pray for a miracle; one that ensured that murphy wasn’t part of this.

“this is for my father”, you could make out murphy’s voice fairly quickly right as you were able to watch him attack wells with a knife. a gasp escaped your throat when wells defended himself with ease, pushing murphy to the ground and holding a knife to his throat.

“stop it! are you insane?!”, your feet were moving before you could think about your actions, bringing you right where wells and murphy were standing.

wells dropped his hand. murphy looked at you with fear and regret. he didn’t regret attacking wells, but he didn’t want you to see him like this. however, one had to admit that he hadn’t been trying very hard.

“y/n..”

“no, shut up john. i am so beyond done with your shit. yours too!”, you pointed a finger at bellamy who just rolled his eyes at your tone.

“if this is who you want to be, fine. go ahead and be a dickhead, john. you disgust me”, you mumbled angry words right into his face before storming off.

despite it being really challenging, you decided to ignore murphy for now. you couldn’t believe that he would do something as reckless as getting into a knife fight with wells! of course wells wasn’t innocent either, but it was clear who the aggressor must have been, even without having been there the entire time.

it was kind of embarrassing that you couldn’t even deny the high possible of john murphy, the boy you had lowkey caught feelings for, murdering an innocent boy for fun.

truly messed up, making murphy more and more deserving of the silent treatment you were giving him. at first he had stayed away from you until you didn’t even come to the tent at night, secretly having had asked a girl named harper to stay in hers.

so when you kept ignoring murphy the day after the incident, it angered him so much that he immediately stormed into your tent when he watched you enter it from afar.

“what the fuck y/n”, he said, his voice laced with irritation as he stared at you. his blue eyes piercing yours.

despite being intimidated, you stayed stubborn and didn’t give him any attention. he hadn’t deserved it yet.

“oh i see, you’re ignoring me? are you being serious? for what, scaring the chancellor’s son a bit? you know damn well i wouldn’t have done anything”, he said, rolling his eyes and waited for a reaction. this time you looked at him critically before ignoring him again.

“wait, you do know that, right?”, murphy’s voice softened a bit. he moved so that he could observe not only your body language, but also your eyes. this made you lower your gaze.

soon after, you felt two hands touching your skin. they were cold but the touch was warm, hot even. murphy moved your face so that you were looking at him and he immediately noticed your worried expression. he instantly understood that you actually didn’t know that he wasn’t a cold hearted killer.

“y/n, i wouldn’t have killed him, i swear. yes, i harmed him and i did that on purpose, i’ll be fully honest here, but i was just angry at him”, he explained himself calmly now.

you removed his hands from your face before getting up from the bed you had previously sat on. “what do you mean angry, john? what did wells do to you? you’ve been treating him like absolute shit, are you kidding me, i don’t get it”, you said. you wanted to yell at him but you also tried to hold onto the tiniest bit of privacy you had behind the ‘walls’ of your tent.

murphy slightly rolled his eyes and shook his head, then sat down on the bed and took off his shoes.

he is trying to escape the conversation!

it annoyed you that he had the audacity to ignore your question after everything he had done up until this point.

“what is WRONG with you, john. talk to me already!”, this time, he basically had you begging. again, unbelievable.

he tried to let as much time pass as possible before linking his hands, putting his arms behind his head and looking up. he sighed and licked his lips, trying to find the right words. “i was.. kinda jealous.”

you couldn’t help but stare at him and ultimately break out in laughter. this was absolutely pathetic.

“you were gonna kill someone out of jealousy? are you INSANE MURPHY?!”, you didn’t even try to keep your voice down, he deserved this.

“y/n, i know that it was wrong alright. but i already told you that i wouldn’t have killed him”, murphy was annoyed and you could clearly hear it in his voice. he however, could clearly see that you weren’t just going to let him disrespect you like that. he sighed again.

“do you want me to apologize?”, he asked quietly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. murphy moved his head so that he could look at you and when a slight grin appeared on your face, he let himself fall back into the sleeping bag.

of course you’d want him to apologize.

“yea, to wells”, you said, ruining his mood entirely.

“WHAT?! you gotta be insane. do you know how embarass”, your expression made him halt in the middle of the sentence, the stubbornness you radiated even caused him to groan. “okay.” you truly had him wrapped around your finger.

“good, john”, you said and walked over to him. “y’know what, this is an amazing sign for you to be better in general because from what i’ve noticed, you’ve been pure hell for most people in this camp”, you admitted, knowing he wouldn’t be mad at you for your honesty.

this, once again, caused murphy to roll his eyes at you. he shook his head slightly, not wanting to talk about his own behaviour anymore, he held one arm out to you, inviting you into the bed with him.

you hesitated for a short second, but quickly got down next to him.

“ugh come here”, murphy said and pulled you into his side.

sharing a bed or cuddling wasn’t a new thing to you two, but it made your heart jump, in a very very good way, everytime it happened.

you repositioned your head until you found a position comfortable enough to stay in and took a long breathe in.

after a moment of silence you began giggling.

“so, jealous huh?”

[heartybubs]

I‘m glad. I love your writing! <3

omg thank you so much💘💘

[heartybubs]

When is your next fic coming out? I‘m excited ❣️

aw thank you sm!

i’ve outlined an edmund pevensie x reader fanfic based on a request i got a few years ago🫣🫣

but the one i’m actually WRITING rn is murphy x reader and like, it involves jealousy ( also based on a request, but this time it’s a very frequent one, i swear😭😭 ). i’m really really excited to write it but sometimes it’s SOOO hard to get out of that writers block. i’ll try to get it done over the weekend tho :)

[heartybubs]

Do you have any blog or fic recommendations for the 100 especially for bellamy?

not like

off the bat because i’ve literally read EVERYTHING there is on here :(

i do however know about this wattpad series that was really nice to read in my case and despite not being interested to read the entire series at first, i couldn’t stop once i started yknow??

each book is about one season ( starting with the first ) and the first two are completed, the third one hasn’t even really started i think, but i don’t find it too frustrating since the ending of the second one isn’t like.. too open y’know?

if you’re interested you should DEFINITELY check it out ( i think it’s a “higher quality” fanfiction where it’s obvious that the author paid attention to their own story) ! the first book is called “alive” and the author is ughivy <3

[heartybubs]

Are you still writing?

yes!! i am still writing, not as much and way slower but i really really wanna get back into it :))

[heartybubs]

MASTERLIST

hi and welcome to my masterlist. here you’ll find some of my work or links leading you to other masterlists. my requests are open and i’d love it, if you could give me some ideas to put into one shots/ blurbs/ headcannons!

!if you’d like to request something involving a character that i haven’t listed, you can go ahead. if you give me some plot to work with, i might just write about them anyway!

last updated: 01/07/2023

star wars

anakin skywalker

the 100

bellamy blake

change

john murphy

jealousy jealousy

outerbanks

jj maybank

coming soon!

rafe cameron

kiara carrera

the maze runner

thomas

minho

gally

the walking dead

carl grimes

daryl dixon

rosita espinosa

tara chambler

teen wolf

stiles stilinski

isaac lahey

theo raeken

liam dunbar

narnia

edmund pevensie

coming soon!

peter pevensie

[heartybubs]

change

the 100 [ bellamy blake x reader ]

type : angsty, maybe a bit fluffy?

tropes: forced proximity, best friends to lovers

warnings: mentions of anxiety, heavy language, lowkey manipulative bellamy

in which bellamy blake and reader used to date but when he spiraled after octavia was arrested and his life fell apart, he distanced himself from her. after he begs her to trust him blindly and she does, they have to figure out their relationship on earth as neither of them is able to let it go.

a/n: hii, this is my first piece of writing in a loooong long time but i’m really enjoying the 100 again and i’ve noticed a severe lack of bellamy content on here, so i hope you like it! i don’t think i used any pronouns but i did use the term “girl” multiple times to describe reader! w.c.: 4.831

after octavia was discovered, he lost his job and his mum was floated, bellamy fell into a terrifying rabbit hole of depression. he lost himself with everything else in his life and instead of holding on to you, he wanted you to do better than him; so he ignored you. of course it made everything worse than it already was but it helped to tell himself he was actually saving you, despite seeing you fall apart piece by piece for months. he knew you'd get it together at some point, you had a great life going for you and he didn't want to risk you losing it at anytime soon, especially not because of him.

so when commander shumway approached bellamy and asked him to assassinate chancellor jaha in return of being able to go to earth with his sister and he said yes with barely any hesitation, he couldn't help but think about you, the girl he was so deeply in love with.

so now, bellamy was close to sprinting across the hall, giving his all to reach your door as fast as he could. he was going to earth, he had already shot the chancellor, but he couldn't leave you behind, no matter how hard he tried, not even after all those months of breaking your heart.

but just because he broke your heart that didn't mean he didn't love you the entire time.

you had taken the day off of guard duty, not feeling well as your three year anniversary with bellamy was approaching or, well, it would've if he hadn't abandoned you a few months ago.

although you tried your hardest to get it together, especially because you didn't want to risk your job as a guard on the ark, you couldn't just forget about bellamy. you had never loved anyone like him and no one had ever hurt you like he had.

there was aggressive knocking on the door, startling you immediately. you sighed frustratedly, there was no one who'd have time, or even want to, visit you in the middle of the day. especially not that desperately, since whoever was disturbing your peace got more and more aggressive with each knock.

you opened the door and before you could say anything, you were pushed into your room by a strong, all too familiar man. not being able to comprehend, you simply stared at the tan man in front of you, admiring his freckled face you had missed so much.

"bellamy? wha-", he cut you off, shaking his head frantically.

"look, y/n, this has gotta be really weird for you right now, but we have to leave. like, now. you have to come with me, okay?", although he was clearly stressed, there was a softness to be noticed in his voice that you knew all too well. you also recognized that he wasn't exactly asking you to come with him, he was telling you to.

"bellamy, what do you mean? you can't just come here and, and.. bellamy i don't understand! why are you wearing a guard’s uniform?", you rambled, looking at him more than desperate for answers. you knew that you would follow him anywhere but you didn't want to. you shouldn't after what he did to you.

he sighed, looking around nervously before taking a deep breath in and putting his hands on your cheeks. he held your face in his hands, pulling you a bit closer to him as he looked into your eyes.

"y/n, i beg you, you have to trust me, okay? i know i haven't been the best.. the best to you but if there's one thing you can do for me, even if it's the last time you ever help me out again, i need it to be today, right now", he noticed your big eyes, only now realizing that this might not work out and it scared him, terrified him even. "y/n..y/n, baby please. i'm begging you, begging. we don't have time, we need to go, please trust me, please y/n!"

"okay, bell."

you could tell how much this relieved him immediately and right as a little smile started showing, he pulled you out of your room, swiftly grabbing your necklace you always kept next to your keys and dragged you through the ark. it felt like you were running through the entire space station and when you finally slowed down, bellamy didn't give you a single second to ask questions.

he just motioned to you to be silent as he carefully pushed you towards something you recognized to be a dropship. your eyes widened in panic, what the hell was going on here.

"bellamy, serious-", he simply covered your mouth and shoved you into the dropship before closing the door. as panic overtook you and your breathing got heavier, your perception lessened. without bellamy pushing you around and doing whatever you needed to do for you, you wouldn't have gotten anything done.

you were clearly having a panic attack and while it hurt bellamy to not be able to help you get through right now, he had to prioritize your safety during the travel to earth and before you knew it, you passed out.

{ ~* }

you felt soft taps on your shoulder as you slowly regained consciousness. slowly raising your head before finally opening your eyes and looking around. you were still in the dropship but you were all by yourself, no sight of bellamy. of course.

the person who'd been trying to wake you was a boy you recognized as wells jaha, the chancellor's son. he looked at you, relief basically written all over him as you finally reacted to his attempts of waking you up. "i'm so glad you're awake, i almost thought you wouldn't wake up again. wait, let me help you out."

he started to unbuckle you, holding you up as you were still a bit weak from your intense panic attack. he could tell how confused you were immediately.

"i'm wells, you're a guard, right? why'd they send you to earth with us?", wells questioned as your eyes widened.

"earth?!", you repeated immediately, not believing what you heard and completely ignoring his question. you couldn't be on earth, it wasn't even going to be habitable for the next three generations so how could you be on earth now, alive?!

wells didn't really know how to react, he had expected you to know but you were just as, probably even more clueless than the delinquents. he decided not to engage in any more conversation, respecting your space as he figured you'd want some time to cope, as well as recovering from whatever made you pass out.

you were thankful for being left alone, slowly standing up and once you felt stable enough to walk to the hatch, you followed the ladder down. immediately you were met with the most beautiful sight you've ever seen.

tall trees, their roots covered in beautiful, bright green plants and, of course, many people all around the area.

you didn't care about them though, the only person you wanted to find was bellamy, he had to explain himself. what was he thinking, taking you to earth without even telling you?!

luckily, it didn't take you long to find him. he was talking to a girl much shorter than him; she had dark brown hair and bright blue eyes and although you hadn't seen her that well the last time, the day she was arrested, you were certain it was bellamy's little sister octavia.

you walked over to them, careful not to overestimate your strength yet and once bellamy noticed you, he got tense immediately.

"y/n, how are you?", he spoke up, seemingly interrupting octavia who simply looked at you curiously. while she had never really met you, she knew so much about you. everytime bellamy told her a story to fall asleep to, it was always about princess y/n and once she got older, he finally revealed that you were actually his girlfriend. she loved what she'd heard so far but she decided to lay low, not wanting to interrupt the two of you.

"i'm good. bellamy, what the fuck is going on, are we really on earth? you have to-", he sighed loudly before cutting you off. "i'm glad you're feeling good. you shouldn't stress yourself too much, you're probably still a bit weak, okay? enjoy earth."

the usual softness in his voice was all gone, leaving nothing, but unfamiliar coldness as he walked off. what the fuck was his problem.

"i should've known that he'd leave me again, why did i fucking come", you mumbled angrily. you really had every right to be angry at bellamy, but if you were being honest, you were probably way more disappointed than angered by the man who once loved you as much as you love him.

octavia looked at you confusedly, not being able to follow at all. "what do you mean again, you're y/n, his girlfriend y/n right?"

"i don't even know what i am to him anymore", you answered, feeling tears shoot up to your eyes. no, you couldn't cry about him anymore, you had wasted too many tears on his egoistic ass.

octavia's eyes softened, similarly to how bellamy's used to. she walked up to you and hugged you carefully, not wanting to disrespect your personal space beyond your liking. you hugged her back, appreciating her sympathy a lot and although you kinda didn't want to spend time with bellamy's younger sister, you didn't want to punish her for something out of her power. she had dealt with that too much already.

"my brother can be a real ass sometimes but he'll get over it, i think i know how much he loves you", she spoke softly, smiling at you. you smiled back at her but realized that she really had no clue how over the two of you were.

{ ~* }

days on days passed and not a single interaction between bellamy and you happened. you wanted to talk to him so desperately but whenever you approached him, he'd find a way to get away from you as soon as possible. it felt like you were back on the ark, trying to understand why your boyfriend of two years was suddenly ignoring and avoiding you.

you wanted to fight for his attention, you really tried to but when he set up a knife fight between john murphy and wells, you figured that you had to say goodbye to the idea of ever getting anything positive out of a conversation with him. the bellamy you once loved was probably gone for good and whatever egoistic, violent leader he had become now, was no one you wanted around you.

this time, you really had to get over him.

it honestly made you sick to watch him act like the born leader of the delinquents and it was almost worse to see them follow him blindly. he was leading them to do horrible things, he was clearly motivating their aggression and allowed them all to be terrible to each other.

of course you were angry, but it also confused you a lot. bellamy really terrified you, he was going down a path you couldn't follow and he wasn't anything like he used to be back in the ark, back when he was still your bellamy.

he used to be sweet, loving and caring but now it was so obvious that he was using the 100 delinquents to reach his own goal, you just couldn't figure out what goal that could be. another thing you were pretty confused about, was the fact he took you with him. when he begged you to come with him, he was so different. it almost felt like he loved you again, you were embarrassed to admit that you thought things would get better now, that everything would be like it was back then and you knew that you deserved better, no one, not even john murphy deserved to be treated like bellamy had treated you that past year. still, you just couldn't let him go, so you decided it was time for some distraction.

while you really enjoyed spending time with clarke, learning a bit from her medical knowledge, as well as simply making a new friend, you needed more. literally, you had no one besides bellamy, octavia and clarke and you didn't actually have any of them. you needed to make friends.

deciding to go against bellamy's orders to stay with clarke, something he hadn't told you personally, instead sending one of his little minions your way, you left the drop ship in search for something else to do. you weren't gonna let him tell you what to do, not if he didn't even have the balls to talk to you himself.

right as you left the dropship, you immediately spotted a tall boy with funny googles on his head walking towards one of the gates and decided to approach him. you remembered his name, joshua, or jasper.

"hey jasper", you smiled at him and he immediately smiled back. "hey y/n, i'm just heading out for the hunt."

you raised your eyebrow. hunt? that was perfect for you. not only did you ace pike's earth skills class, but you were also a trained guard. of all the people in your camp, it was safe to assume that you'd be the best at it.

"can i come too? i think i'd be a lot of help", you spoke nicely and without even thinking about it, jasper nodded. his smile grew as he was more than willing to spend some more time with you.

"i'm sure bellamy won't mind", he said and although you really didn't want to be around bellamy for once, it upset you even more that he couldn't even ask you to go with them. he knew just as well as you did that they needed you and that you were the best shot they had, probably even better than him since you actually finished your guard training.

you followed jasper out of the walls, stopping right outside as you joined the rest of the hunting trip. there were about seven unknown faces and of course bellamy’s. as soon as he saw you, he tensed up, leaving you to sigh annoyingly and roll your eyes.

"y/n get back inside the walls, it's not safe outside", he said, voice stern, motioning for you to turn around and go. you immediately shook your head.

"i'm gonna come with you guys, i'm literally your best shot and you won't even notice me, i'll be with jasper the entire time", you complained. he knew you wouldn't change your mind but he wouldn't risk your safety. bellamy trusted jasper but not with you, he trusted no one when it came to you. no one, not even yourself, would protect you as well as he would and although he had been avoiding you for days now, expecting to keep going until he knew you'd gotten over him completely, he had to be the one going with you.

"yea no, you're either coming with me or not at all, y/n. this is your first time outside the walls and i wanna make sure you find your way back home, alright?! however, if you don't want to go with me that's fine. stay back and help clarke then. got it?!", he was convinced he'd make you change your mind.

"fuck you, bellamy. really, let's just go already", you were angry. he was treating you like a complete stranger and you actually felt a bit embarrassed in front of the other people. what was he thinking talking to you like that in front of so many of the others, it was unnecessary.

he was caught by surprise by your response, less because of your words, but way more because you actually chose to come with them. he was so sure you would never want to be alone with him after all he had done but this just proved that it wasn't enough yet.

he should've known better than to expect you to just stop loving him that easily. hell, how could you get over him, if he couldn't even go a single hour without thinking about you.

"okay then", bellamy said before everyone split up and went into different directions. you followed him, making sure you stayed behind.

"you know damn well that i'd be a great help. should've gotten your shit together and asked me", you mumbled and although he heard what you said, he decided not to respond.

you two were walking for a pretty long time, killing some birds on your way. obviously that wouldn't be enough for the entire camp to eat so you kept going. there wasn't much talking done either, you were able to work together without speaking, you had always been able to.

of course it was awkward, but it went fine until a loud sound rang through the woods. bellamy turned to you immediately, eyes wide as he grabbed your wrist and started running. despite having never left the camp, you knew that this was an alarm to warn about the yellow fog that was incredibly toxic and even deadly.

the two of you ran as fast as you could until bellamy noticed something in the ground that looked like a door to a bunker. he immediately pushed you in front of him and told you to go in, following closely as he rushed to close the door before the fog could get you. bellamy turned on his flashlight while your breath was shaky as you put a hand up to your heart. your athleticism wasn't an issue, your anxiety however was.

"y/n, are you okay?", bellamy asked softly as approached you, reaching for your shoulder but before he could touch you, you backed away.

"bellamy stop, stop doing this", he looked at you with a questioning expression on his face. "you know what i mean."

he simply shook his head, lowering it before quietly saying "i'm sorry, y/n, but i really don't. i just wanna make sure you're okay."

you huffed, did he even believe his own words? you were annoyed by his obliviousness and slid down the wall, he did the same oppositely from you.

neither of you said anything for some time but with every minute that passed, you feared that he would leave the bunker at the first chance he'd get, ruining your only opportunity to have the conversation you've been wanting to have for almost a year now.

"look, bellamy.. i just don't understand how you could do what you did. you're confusing me", you explained quietly, not wanting to look at him yet.

"i know, i don't understand either", he spoke back and as your eyes met, you could tell he wasn't lying. "i was angry, angry at everyone, even you. and i know that it wasn't fair, i wasn't treating you how i should have but when i lost everything, i was ashamed. you deserved better than that and i knew you wouldn't just let me go."

"literally what were you thinking?!  i was with you through any hardships you ever had to go through. what made you assume id just leave you, what made you think that after two years with you, i'd just abandon you. what for?! having a sister? i'm not the fucking council, you should know me better than that", you were angry but you didn't want to yell at him, you wanted this to work.

he sighed, he didn't know what to tell you. of course you were right, he fully agreed but what good would him agreeing do?

"talk to me, bellamy", you basically begged.

"i'm sorry, y/n. i have never regretted anything as much as breaking your heart. you were on my mind every single day", he said truthfully, not being able to look into your eyes as he spoke until he lifted his head. "if i could turn back time, i would. i am so sorry for ruining what we had."

you stared into his eyes, giving yourself time to think about what he just told you. you'd do anything to go back to how things were, you missed bellamy so much.

"me too", you then admitted. "you know, it would've been our three year anniversary a few days ago", you said and laughed slightly. bellamy smiled at you, oh how he had missed your laugh.

"i know", he said and reached into his pocket. "i didn't get you anything new and i know that i can't just regift something i already gave you years ago but i grabbed this when i asked you to come with me and i just.. didn't have time to give it to you yet."

you listened curiously, watching him pull out a silver necklace he once gave you. your mouth and eyes widened in excitement, it was your favourite piece of jewelry ever since you'd gotten it, but when you realized you didn't have it on you, you were sure you'd never see it again and it made you incredibly sad.

"oh my god, you took it with you? thank you so much, bellamy! i was missing it already", you admitted, excitement lacing your voice. he smiled again and handed you your necklace you put on immediately.

you smiled down at yourself, carefully grabbing the star charm.

"i missed seeing you like this, you are so beautiful, y/n", bellamy spoke quietly, you simply halted in your movement. your eyebrows were raised slightly as you looked at him, what was he doing?

"y/n, i know that i don't deserve your forgiveness, fuck, i don't even deserve you! but please, i'm begging you to forgive me for what i did. i don't expect it to be easy, but-"

"why did you ask me to come with you, bell?", you interrupted him. it took him a second before he chuckled and looked to the side, then focusing on you again.

"i spent so many months ignoring you, thinking i was making things so much better when i actually ruined us. i already told you that i thought about you every single day and i knew i wouldn't survive to go down here without you", he explained. "i know that it was incredibly selfish of me to bring you here and at first i didn't want to because i didn't want to expose you to all these dangers earth might bring. i wanted you to do better than me, that's why i distanced myself from you, but i was a fool to think this would work. the hold you have on me and my life is actually insane, y/n. when i had the opportunity to protect my sister and to take you down with me, i just-"

"wait, bellamy, why are you even here in the first place", you questioned. there was no way you wouldn't know about his mission but a janitor did.

his expression changed immediately, his jaw tensed and you could tell how scared he was to tell you, but he also didn't want to lie to you. not right now, not apart of this conversation.

"y/n, i messed up, okay.. i did things i regret and leaving you wasn't my only mistake, but i couldn't let my sister go to earth unprotected, alright? i had to make sure she was safe", he rambled immediately, panic lacing his voice. you on the other hand, only got more suspicious of him. "i shot chancellor jaha on shumway's request."

your eyes widened in shook, you couldn't believe what you just heard. "what, i-"

you wanted to be upset at him so bad but something in you couldn't. "is he.."

"i don't know, that was the goal", he answered quietly, not daring to look up.

"oh my god, bellamy! are you kidding me, you can't just shoot the chancellor, you can't shoot anybody actually!"

"y/n, i know, please. i know that i messed up but i can't change it anymore", he sighed before running his hand through his hair. by now, it was finally curly and loose again and you couldn't help but notice how good he looked. but that wasn't the point, not at all.

"do you though? you changed, bellamy. you have become someone i don't recognize, whats gotten into you?!", you got up from the ground, looking around helplessly. "first you shoot the chancellor and then you lead these kids in the aggressive way you do. do you even notice what you're creating?", at this point you were yelling, you didn't care anymore.

"y/n don't yell at me", he said but you just shook your head. he got up and approached you but you backed away like earlier.

"for fucks sake, stop telling me what to do! you're not my leader, if anything, you're my boyfriend, or ex boyfriend. hell, i don't even know what we are because you didn't have the fucking balls to actually break up with me before being an asshole. i have every right to yell at you", you hissed and you could see how much your words hurt him but bellamy wasn't gonna stay quiet this time.

"i never broke up with you because i didn't fucking want to. i didn't treat you like it but fuck, y/n i love you", he was raising his voice as well now.

"loved, you loved me, you don't anymore", you said and it seemed like this time, you went too far.

"shut the fuck up, y/n. don't say shit like that, don't disrespect me like that", he yelled at you, knowing full well that your disrespect wasn't even comparable to what he put you through. "don't accuse me of not loving you because i could never stop loving you. there wasn't a single day in the past five years where i didn't love you and you know that this is true, we both do!"

you bit your lip as you tried to calm yourself. the adrenaline was overwhelming at this point but still you somehow knew that he was right. you believed him.

"and you don't have to forgive me for what i did and for the way i'm leading these kids but you know damn well that i'd do anything for you and that i love you", his voice was softening again as he was calming down too. "and i know that you're not over me. you wouldn't have come with me, if you didn't love me at least a little bit."

you took a deep breath in, he was right. of course he was, but you couldn't just forgive and forget.

"y/n, baby, i'm not asking you to forget what i did, please don't. i just wanna know that i am right and that i still know you and most importantly; that i didn't ruin your life even more when i brought you down here", his voice got quieter and you could even hear it breaking towards the end of his sentence.

"yes, bellamy i still love you", you simply admitted, sad eyes meeting his right before he pulled you into his arms.

you didn't resist because you needed this, it was what you'd been seeking for all these months.

bellamy was relieved that you still loved him. he didn't expect everything to magically be amazing again but he knew that he hadn't lost you yet. he still had a chance for redemption and he was going to fix things. he was going to be a better man for you.

his strong arms were wrapped around you tightly, holding you against his chest as he also enjoyed feeling your touch again.

"i love you so much, y/n. i'll fix everything, okay? i will never hurt you ever again and we can work through this, if you want to. i missed you so much, baby", he said. his hand was now holding your cheek as he looked into your glossy eyes.

you nodded, believing him again.

you were hoping that he was saying the truth, that he would never mess it up again. you just wanted to love him again, but you weren't stupid, things, he would have to change first.

[heartybubs]

welcome

hi, i’m very happy to see that you’ve arrived at this safe place! stay as long as you want <3

while you’re already here, maybe check these two things out :)

⇾ requests

⇾ masterlist

[heartybubs]

Hello darling. I figure you didn't notice, but in the "falling asleep on them while they're streaming" hcs, you used she pronouns and the word woman in Wilbur's. No hate, just wanted to let you know. 🧡

heyy, thank you so much for telling me!!

i just saw this and i have corrected it now, absolutely did not mean to do that <33

[heartybubs]

will you be writing for vinnie hacker?

sorry for answering just now!!

but yes, i will write for vinnie hacker.

[heartybubs]

In case anyone is having a bad night:

Here is the fudgiest brownie in a mug recipe I’ve found

Here are some fun sites

Here is a master post of Adventure Time episodes and comics

Here is a master post of movies including Disney and Studio Ghibli

Here is a master post of other master posts to TV shows and movies

*tucks you in with fuzzy blanket* *pats your head*

You’ll be okay, friend <3

[heartybubs]

no but this is so awesome!! the talent i—

toxic - sapnap x reader

+ this is an entry for the writing competition hosted by @salinesoot​! go and show them some love<3

++ DISCLAIMER; in no way do I claim that sapnap is addicted to any form of drugs. this is all just fiction! with that I hope you enjoy this longer story :)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: drug addict/ex-lovers au! addict!sapnap x addict!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: months after your break-up, nick reaches out to you to put a peaceful ending to the disastrous fall of your relationship. the meet-up is rough; you’re not willing to comply with anything he’s saying, and he just can’t seem to get over the state he sees you in once he arrives.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.952

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: !ADDICTION! drugs, alcohol, smoking, break-ups, swearing, manipulation (?), abandonment.

I want to put a very big emphasis on addiction, as I don’t want to trigger anyone! if you feel in any way uncomfortable with the things listed above, please don’t continue reading :) thank you.

playlist:

save your tears - the weeknd

so high - doja cat

apocalypse - cigarettes after sex

high - sivik

habits - tove lo

champagne problems - taylor swift

Keep reading

[heartybubs]

240 Words to Describe Someone’s Tone/Voice

Abrasive - showing little concern for the feelings of others; harsh

Absurd - wildly unreasonable, illogical, or inappropriate

Accusatory - suggesting someone has done something wrong, complaining

Acerbic - sharp and forthright

Acidic - harsh or critical

Admiring - approving; think highly of; respectful; praising

Aggressive - hostile; determined; forceful; argumentative

Aggrieved -  angry and sad because you think you have been unfairly treated

Airy -  giving an impression of being unconcerned or not serious

Ambivalent - having mixed feelings; uncertain; in a dilemma; undecided

Amused - pleasantly; entertain or divert in an enjoyable or cheerful manner

Angry - incensed or enraged; threatening or menacing

Animated - full of life or excitement; lively; spirited; impassioned; vibrant

Anxious -  typically with a feeling of unease

Apathetic - showing little interest; lacking concern; indifferent; unemotional

Apologetic - full of regret; repentant; remorseful; acknowledging failure

Appreciative - grateful; thankful; showing pleasure; enthusiastic

Ardent - enthusiastic; passionate

Arrogant - pompous; disdainful; overbearing; condescending; vain; scoffing

Assertive - self-confident; strong-willed; authoritative; insistent

Authoritative - commanding and self-confident

Awestruck - amazed, filled with wonder/awe; reverential

Barbed - deliberately hurtful

Barking - utter a command or question abruptly or aggressively

Belligerent - hostile; aggressive; combatant

Benevolent - sympathetic; tolerant; generous; caring; well meaning

Bitter - angry; acrimonious; antagonistic; spiteful; nasty

Blasé - unimpressed or indifferent to something because one has experienced or seen it so often before

Bleak - without hope or encouragement; depressing; dreary

Bombastic - high-sounding but with little meaning; inflated

Booming - loud, deep, and resonant

Bored - to tire or make weary by being dull, repetitious, or uninteresting

Brash - self-assertive in a rude, noisy, or overbearing way

Braying - speak or laugh loudly and harshly

Breathy - producing or causing an audible sound of breathing, often related to physical exertion or strong feelings

Breezy - appearing relaxed, informal, and cheerily brisk

Brittle - lacking warmth, sensitivity, or compassion; aloof

Bubbly - full of cheerful high spirits

Burbling - speak in an unintelligible or silly way, typically at unnecessary length

Callous - cruel disregard; unfeeling; uncaring; indifferent; ruthless

Candid - truthful, straightforward; honest; unreserved

Caustic - making biting, corrosive comments; critical

Cautionary - gives warning; raises awareness; reminding

Celebratory - praising; pay tribute to; glorify; honour

Chatty - informal; lively; conversational; familiar

Cheery - happy and optimistic

Childish - silly and immature

Chirping - say something in a lively and cheerful way

Clipped - speech that is fast, that uses short sounds and few words, and that is often unfriendly or rude

Cloying - disgust or sicken (someone) with an excess of sweetness, richness, or sentiment

Coarse - rude, crude, or vulgar

Colloquial - familiar; everyday language; informal; colloquial; casual

Comic - humorous; witty; entertaining; diverting

Compassionate - sympathetic; empathetic; warm-hearted; tolerant; kind

Complex - having many varying characteristics; complicated

Compliant - agree or obey rules; acquiescent; flexible; submissive

Concerned - worried; anxious; apprehensive

Conciliatory - intended to placate or pacify; appeasing

Condescending - stooping to the level of one’s inferiors; patronising

Confused - unable to think clearly; bewildered; vague

Contemptuous - showing contempt; scornful; insolent; mocking

Crisp - briskly decisive and matter-of-fact, without hesitation or unnecessary detail

Critical - finding fault; disapproving; scathing; criticizing

Croaking - a characteristic deep hoarse sound

Cruel - causing pain and suffering; unkind; spiteful; severe

Curious - wanting to find out more; inquisitive; questioning

Curt - rudely brief

Cynical - scornful of motives/virtues of others; mocking; sneering

Defensive - defending a position; shielding; guarding; watchful

Defiant - obstinate; argumentative; defiant; contentious

Demeaning - disrespectful; undignified

Depressing - sad, melancholic; discouraging; pessimistic

Derisive - snide; sarcastic; mocking; dismissive; scornful

Detached - aloof; objective; unfeeling; distant

Dignified - serious; respectful; formal; proper

Diplomatic - tactful; subtle; sensitive; thoughtful

Disapproving - displeased; critical; condemnatory

Disheartening - discouraging; demoralising; undermining; depressing

Disparaging - dismissive; critical; scornful

Direct - straightforward; honest

Disappointed - discouraged; unhappy because something has gone wrong

Discordant - harsh and jarring because of a lack of harmony

Dispassionate - impartial; indifferent; unsentimental; cold; unsympathetic

Dispirited - having lost enthusiasm and hope; disheartened

Distressing - heart-breaking; sad; troubling

Docile - compliant; submissive; deferential; accommodating

Drawling - speak in a slow, lazy way with prolonged vowel sounds

Dulcet - sweet and soothing

Dull - lacking interest or excitement

Earnest - showing deep sincerity or feeling; serious

Egotistical - self-absorbed; selfish; conceited; boastful

Empathetic - understanding; kind; sensitive

Encouraging - optimistic; supportive

Enthusiastic - excited; energetic

Evasive - ambiguous; cryptic; unclear

Excited - emotionally aroused; stirred

Facetious - inappropriate; flippant

Farcical - ludicrous; absurd; mocking; humorous and highly improbable

Feathery - extremely light and soft or delicate

Flippant - superficial; glib; shallow; thoughtless; frivolous

Forceful - powerful; energetic; confident; assertive

Formal - respectful; stilted; factual; following accepted styles/rules

Frank - honest; direct; plain; matter-of-fact

Fretful - expressing distress or irritation

Frustrated - annoyed; discouraged

Gentle - kind; considerate; mild; soft

Ghoulish - delighting in the revolting or the loathsome

Glum - dejected; morose

Goofy - foolish; harmlessly eccentric

Grating - harsh and unpleasant

Gravelly - deep and rough-sounding

Grim - serious; gloomy; depressing; lacking humour;macabre

Growling - low grating voice, typically in a threatening manner

Gruff - rough and low in pitch

Gullible - naive; innocent; ignorant

Guttural - produced in the throat; harsh-sounding

Hard - unfeeling; hard-hearted; unyielding

Harsh - cruel or severe

Hearty - loudly vigorous and cheerful

Hoarse - sounding rough and harsh, typically as the result of a sore throat or of shouting

Honeyed - soothing, soft, and intended to please or flatter

Humble - deferential; modest

Humorous - amusing; entertaining; playful

Husky - sounding low-pitched and slightly hoarse

Hypercritical - unreasonably critical; hair splitting; nitpicking

Impartial - unbiased; neutral; objective

Impassioned - filled with emotion; ardent

Imploring - pleading; begging

Impressionable - trusting; child-like

Inane - silly; foolish; stupid; nonsensical

Incensed - enraged

Incredulous - disbelieving; unconvinced; questioning; suspicious

Indifferent - having no particular interest or sympathy; unconcerned

Indignant - annoyed; angry; dissatisfied

Informative - instructive; factual; educational

Insinuating - suggest or hint in an indirect and unpleasant way

Inspirational - encouraging; reassuring

Intense - earnest; passionate; concentrated; deeply felt

Intimate - familiar; informal; confidential; confessional

Ironic - the opposite of what is meant

Irreverent - lacking respect for things that are generally taken seriously

Jaded - bored; having had too much of the same thing; lack enthusiasm

Joyful - positive; optimistic; cheerful; elated

Jubilant - expressing great happiness and triumph

Judgmental - critical; finding fault; disparaging

Laudatory - praising; recommending

Lifeless - lacking vigor, vitality, or excitement

Light-Hearted - carefree; relaxed; chatty; humorous

Lively - full of life and energy; active and outgoing

Loving - affectionate; showing intense, deep concern

Macabre - gruesome; horrifying; frightening

Malicious - desiring to harm others or to see others suffer; ill-willed; spiteful

Matter-of-fact - unemotional and practical

Mean-Spirited - inconsiderate; unsympathetic

Mellifluous - sweet or musical; pleasant to hear

Melodious - pleasant-sounding

Mocking - scornful; ridiculing; making fun of someone

Monotonous - lacking in variation in tone or pitch

Mourning - grieving; lamenting; woeful

Muffled - not loud because of being obstructed in some way; muted

Naive - innocent; unsophisticated; immature

Narcissistic - self-admiring; selfish; boastful; self-pitying

Nasty - unpleasant; unkind; disagreeable; abusive

Negative - unhappy, pessimistic

Nonchalant - casually calm and relaxed; not displaying anxiety, interest, or enthusiasm

Nostalgic - thinking about the past; wishing for something from the past

Objective - without prejudice; without discrimination; fair; based on fact

Obsequious - overly obedient and/or submissive; fawning; grovelling

Oily - unpleasantly smooth and ingratiating

Optimistic - hopeful; cheerful

Outraged - angered and resentful; furious; extremely angered

Outspoken - frank; candid; spoken without reserv

Pathetic - expressing pity, sympathy, tenderness

Patronizing - condescending; scornful; pompous

Pensive - reflective; introspective; philosophical; contemplative

Persuasive - convincing; eloquent; influential; plausible

Pessimistic - seeing the negative side of things

Philosophical - theoretical; analytical; rational; logical

Piping - high-pitched.

Playful - full of fun and good spirits; humorous; jesting

Pragmatic - realistic; sensible

Pretentious - affected; artificial; grandiose; rhetorical; flashy

Quavering - shake or tremble in speaking, typically through nervousness or emotion

Querulous - complaining in a petulant or whining manner

Rasping - harsh-sounding and unpleasant; grating

Reedy - high and thin in tone

Refined -  elegant; cultured

Regretful - apologetic; remorseful

Resentful - aggrieved; offended; displeased; bitter

Resigned - accepting; unhappy

Restrained - controlled; quiet; unemotional

Reverent - showing deep respect and esteem

Righteous - morally right and just; guiltless; pious; god-fearing

Robust - strong and healthy; vigorous

Saccharine - excessively sweet or sentimental

Satirical - making fun to show a weakness; ridiculing; derisive

Sarcastic - scornful; mocking; ridiculing

Scathing - critical; stinging; unsparing; harsh

Scornful - expressing contempt or derision; scathing; dismissive

Scratchy - rough; grating

Sensationalist - provocative; inaccurate; distasteful

Sentimental - thinking about feelings, especially when remembering the past

Shrill - high-pitched and piercing

Silvery - gentle, clear, and melodious

Sincere - honest; truthful; earnest

Skeptical - disbelieving; unconvinced; doubting

Smarmy -  excessively or unctuously flattering; ingratiating; servile

Smoky - a raspy, coarse and tone of quality that is deeper than usual

Snide - derogatory or mocking in an indirect way

Solemn - not funny; in earnest; serious

Somber - oppressively solemn or sober in mood; grave

Sonorous - imposingly deep and full

Sour - resentment, disappointment, or anger

Steely - coldly determined; hard

Strident - loud and harsh; grating

Stony - not having or showing feeling or sympathy

Suave - charming, confident, and elegant

Subjective - prejudiced; biased

Submissive - compliant; passive; accommodating; obedient

Sulking - bad-tempered; grumpy; resentful; sullen

Surly - bad-tempered and unfriendly

Sympathetic - compassionate; understanding of how someone feels

Thoughtful - reflective; serious; absorbed

Throaty - deep and rasping

Tolerant - open-minded; charitable; patient; sympathetic; lenient

Tragic - disastrous; calamitous

Tremulous - shaking or quivering slightly

Unassuming - modest; self-effacing; restrained

Unctuous - excessive piousness or moralistic fervor, especially in an affected manner; excessively smooth, suave, or smug

Uneasy - worried; uncomfortable; edgy; nervous

Urgent - insistent; saying something must be done soon

Velvety - soft; smooth

Vindictive - vengeful; spiteful; bitter; unforgiving

Virtuous - lawful; righteous; moral; upstanding

Whimsical - quaint; playful; mischievous; offbeat

Witty - clever; quick-witted; entertaining

Wonder - awe-struck; admiring; fascinating

World-Weary - bored; cynical; tired

Worried - anxious; stressed; fearful

Wretched - miserable; despairing; sorrowful; distressed