#fuck hogwarts legacy play dead space instead

[softdadleon]

“It’s a surprise, sweetie. But I think you’re gonna like it.”

10.4 hours later and this painting is done! Holy fuck bruh this was a journey! But I’m super fuckin’ proud, so enjoy :)

[olderthannetfic]

Hogwarts Legacy anon. Honestly not even inaccurate on the living under a rock thing. I won’t say I follow JKR or Harry Potter news well. It’s not my fandom. But the posts are confusing to say the least and tend to lack any middle ground on people’s morals or the perception of them. Or whether said people should even believe randoms on the internet who have a tendency to spread lies and over exaggerations. When most everything on the internet is posted with oversimplification upon further research, it makes the rest doubtful as well.

The fact of the matter is, how in the know are you about the game or JKR (other than the occasional Twitter scandal) can you be if you aren’t perpetually in the state of researching everything you know? Or if it’s not even near your interest? Someone buys you a Harry Potter game, what do you do? Tell them to fuck off?

My question aims more to how is JKR any different from the many assholes who create or work for other entertainment, that don’t get the same level of outrage? Or the outrage gets replaced by another story to come later. And should the outrage be lain on, yes, the usually ignorant customer? Doesn’t that turn them away from even hearing the valid arguments out?

This question is more in reference to JKR involvement with said game. Probably valid criticism on the game, idk, I don’t know much about it, other than the visuals. And yes, I am coming from a place of ignorance on this matter, but from my perspective I just see a lot of shaming and a lot less information.

Though I still don’t understand vilifying people who buy the game because a. They don’t have any reason to believe internet people b. How likely are they to even know? The only reason I’m sorta in the know is because I spend too much time on the internet. C. Again why vilify for ignorance when you can teach instead of bitch?

(This is a sincere ask, by the way, filled with many days confusion. I do apologize if this is a bit ranty.)

--

We discussed this whole topic of "How complicit am I in JKR's suckitude?" extensively on my blog a while back. You can scroll back a few months if you want to see. The game was discussed at length then (though prior to anyone having played it).

As for why we would bitch instead of teach... dude... exactly how much of a tireless saint do you expect others to be?

If someone ran around using the n-word because they "just didn't know", would you give them a pass? What about if they loved their golliwog doll from childhood? Whose job is it to tell them to stop being a complete ass in public?

Yes, yes, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, metaphorically speaking. (In reality, vinegar is one of the best ways to murder the shit out of flies, but I digress.) However, the fact is that randos on the internet enjoying their own space aren't free teachers who owe people things. They're reacting with wrath to a piece of propaganda by some fuck who wants them dead.

You're busy and haven't had time to do research. Fair enough. But everyone else is also busy.

Hogwarts: Protocols of the Elders of Gringotts, as that other post called it, is reportedly not at all subtle in its flagrant antisemitism.

One reason people are frustrated is that most non-Jews simply cannot be bothered to learn the very most basic information about antisemitic tropes. This isn't subtle stuff, nor is it hard to learn if you browse wikipedia instead of screamy social media posts.

I agree that tumblr, twitter et al. are bad places to get information much of the time, but that doesn't mean information is unavailable.

[hephaestiions]

Addictive Tendencies

@hprarepairnet​ & @slytherdornet​ - quidditch player ships challenge Pairing: Marcus Flint x Oliver Wood (Flintwood) Summary: “I hate him,” he whispers fiercely against the fist he stuffs into his mouth to keep himself from screaming long and loud at the heavens, at the Founders, at the bloody sun. “I hate him so damn much.”

“Makes me wonder why I bothered to show up, then,” comes the all too familiar heavy drawl, and if Oliver’s heart had dropped before, now it drowns. One thing leads to another. 

Warnings: Light angst, break-ups, everyone swears a great deal, mentions of nsfw/18+ activities. Rating: Teen. 

Word Count: 4k (yes, I know, it is very long for a Tumblr fic) 

For all that he feels almost dead going through the motions of life, Oliver comes alive on the pitch. There’s something about the clean, crisp scent of fresh air– the kind reminding him of the open fields close to home– and the adrenaline rush of mounting a broom that leeches into every cell of his being. It fires his synapses, jolts his entire body out of the sleepwalking trance he slips into during classes and meals and all the other mundanities that compose everyday life. Oliver can’t wait to go pro.

To leave fucking Transfiguration and Potions and Professor Sprout’s herb gardens behind. To make the familiarity of the broom clenched under his thighs and the roaring blood in his ears his livelihood, his reason to wake up every morning and  go back to bed each night without drinking himself into a stupor thinking of everything that could have– Fuck no. He’s not going down that road right now.

Right now, his focus needs to be narrowed down to that slim space between the hoops and the perfect, concentrated manoeuvre that will allow him to slip through. His focus needs to be on his game, his practice, not on… other things.

Vision tunnelling, Oliver tenses his calves around the reliable solidity of his broom, and corkscrews his entire body almost violently through the gap, veering dangerously close to the metal bars of the left hoop, emerging unscathed and out of breath on the other side. He wants to be happy.

Wants to be proud, because this is the first time he has executed this move flawlessly without either crashing his elbow or his knee or his side into some part of the hoops. He desperately wants to feel the joy he would be whooping with by now if this had been even six months ago. But all he feels is the desperate desire to hear Marcus shout, “That’s what I fucking call a Hummingbird, Wood, you fucking genius!” either from the stands or from his place on another broom by Oliver’s side. He’s met with silence. The wind moans, twisting its way through the branches of the trees lining the entrance to the Forbidden Forest. Oliver wants to drive himself into a metal bar just to work off some of the pent up frustration and rage gathering in his shoulders, his back muscles, his stomach. The almost physical ache gripping and tearing at his heart. He kicks out, and the broom bucks underneath him, buoyed in the wrong direction by an errant current of air. There’s a brief moment of sheer terror as his body misbalances midair, but he isn’t the fucking captain of Gryffindor for nothing. He lets himself fall for a second, letting his weight gather momentum, before pulling out at the very last second. Sometimes he wants to smash his entire body into a wall, but he knows better than to work out his aggressive tendencies on the unforgiving pitch.

His legacy deserves better than to be remembered as a gruesome splatter on the grounds of Hogwarts. Marcus though. Marcus can bloody well plummet to death for all Oliver cares. Except.

Except the very thought sends shudders down Oliver’s spine, and his hands inadvertently reach out into thin air even contemplating the prospect of letting Marcus hurt himself. Except that Oliver would take the fall before letting Marcus take it. He’s fucked, truly. “You’re a bloody fool, Oliver,” he mutters to himself with only the wind listening in. “And for once you’ve got something other than terrible grades to prove how truly fucked you are.” Marcus’ words echo in his head, a never ending loop of heartbreak and agony and gut-wrenching misery that no rationally thinking future pro Quidditch player has the time for. You– you know how the world is beyond Hogwarts, man. You know it’s not good to– to people like us, especially when we want to play and go pro, you know. It’s bollocks mate, is what it is, but it’s life and I guess I want a career more than a fuck. Because that’s all they’d been of course. A fuck. Fuck Marcus. Well and truly fuck him into next Sunday, next month, next bloody year. That line of thinking conjures up a whole new set of images that are doubly uncomfortable when one’s private parts are squashed onto a pole of unforgiving wood. His whole body itches and aches and buzzes with energy he doesn’t know how to work off, so he perfects his form on the broom and swoops in and out of the spaces between the hoops, tracing fast paced figure of eights that even the best of the best would have a tough time keeping up with. It’s mindless and the cold wind sniping at his cheekbones jars him into the present, into the steadiness of swerving past the bars of the hoops and spinning around like his life depends on it. Fuck Marcus Flint and his stupid, scared arse and his willingness to give up on everything Oliver thought was sacred to them. Fuck him. After half an hour, he wants to keep going, but his whole body resists, aching and burning along the lines of tension in his muscles. He feels heavy and tired, like a stone about to drop, and he turns on his broom to swoop down when– When he sees him. In the stands. The crossed arms, the wind billowing through strands of hair that are surprisingly soft to the touch (Oliver knows that because he’s touched those stands reverentially in the showers, in hidden alcoves, during warm, hot moments of kisses and mouths trailing over flushed skin–). The green robes are flying out behind the solitary figure in the stands like a cape from one of Katie’s superhero comics, and there’s no mistaking the identity of the man. Not for Oliver at least.   Marcus is watching him. Has been for Merlin knows how long. All Oliver wants to do is touch down and drag himself over to the stands and crash into Marcus’ arms, but he resists the urge. Instead, he laps a lazy loop in the air, before his tired body forces him to retire, and instead of picking the pitch like a sane person, Oliver perches on the edge of the middle hoop, crawling off the broomstick onto the thick metal. It’s surprisingly comfortable. It’s also a ploy to wait Marcus out, but well. It doesn’t seem to be working quite yet. Some part of him wants to swing his legs around his broom, swoop down beside Marcus and kiss him senseless. Some part of him wants to pull Marcus in and just relearn the feeling of their bodies touching again. He reins this part in with every ounce of control and every shred of self respect he has. He holds it back, letting it kick and rage and fester at the back of his heart, where he keeps his pain and his misery and his urges to do things he will regret within five seconds. That part of his heart– It’s ugly. He turns away from the imposing figure Marcus cuts in the stands with his biceps bulging and his hair, longer than it was since Oliver last ran his hands through it curling around his strong neck. Oliver can feel the pressure of it, of Marcus’ head pillowed against his lap when they could sneak an afternoon away to the Astronomy Tower. Marcus’ dark hair curled into Oliver’s fist as they talked, as they kissed, as they pushed each other’s clothes off with all the pent up energy of two prowling hyenas going in for the kill. He feels the tears rise, but he doesn’t want to cry. Not here anyway, with Marcus watching for whatever Merlin-forsaken reason. Doesn’t want to raise his hand in the tell tale sign of wiping away his tears. Doesn’t want to be weak.

Instead he stares at the setting sun even though the riot of colours across the sky only make him angrier. Why should the world get to move on and revel in its beauty when his life feels like radio static? Why should sunlight have the right to twirl pretty patterns into Marcus’ eyes when Oliver isn’t there to see it? Why does even nature get to laugh at his sad, pathetic arse and why doesn’t he ever get to move the fuck on? “I hate him,” he whispers fiercely against the fist he stuffs into his mouth to keep himself from screaming long and loud at the heavens, at the Founders, at the bloody sun. “I hate him so damn much.” “Makes me wonder why I bothered to show up, then,” comes the all too familiar heavy drawl, and if Oliver’s heart had dropped before, now it drowns. “What,” he says without turning around for fear of what he’ll see, “are you doing here?” “Saw you practicing from the Tower. Thought I might join you.” Oliver lets loose a laugh. “Get lost,” he says, and grimaces when it comes out slightly choked. “Or I’m telling Hooch you’re spying on the Captain for his plays.” “I have plenty of plays of my own,” Marcus says, and Oliver cringes at the suggestive undercurrent of the words. “Or did you forget?” When the weight of his anger and his hurt and his exhaustion crash into him, Oliver almost falls off his precarious perch. He staggers slightly and has to reach out with one hand to grip the edge of the hoop. His other hand slackens around his broom, and it teeters dangerously in his loose grip. Somehow, he doesn’t have the energy to hold it tighter. The tiredness creeps into his muscles, his bones, the raging fires of his heart, shrouding his entire being in a blanket of heaviness that he can’t shrug off. Here he is, trying to hold himself together, and Marcus has the balls to be making innuendos. “Last I checked, Flint, your plays were off limits. And you didn’t want any of mine, either. Which begs the question that I already asked you, why the fuck are you here?” Marcus is silent, because of course he is. Damn bastard, he can’t even give Oliver a good reason, a good excuse for his real purposes. “Come to gloat?” He asks, and his voice comes out a broken whisper. “Come to check in on poor Ollie and how he’s doing now that you’ve binned him?” “Oliver–“ “Shut up,” he says, he begs, and turns to face Marcus, and promptly has the breath knocked out of him. Because Marcus, oh, he’s bathed in the light of the golden sun, bathed in every shade of desire, coloured in Oliver’s dreams. There’s that uncertain turn to his lips, as though he expects Oliver to shove him away, tell him to leave, as though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t look like he’s gloating (and Oliver knows how Marcus looks when he gloats, because goddamn, he’s lost Quidditch matches against this man). If anything, he looks a little wrecked, but in the most beautiful way imaginable, and Oliver– Oliver has never wanted to kiss someone more. Marcus sighs. His lashes flutter against his cheek and his shoulders droop slightly, and he looks a little lost when he gazes at some spot in the distance and says in a slow lilt, as though he’s searching for the words as he goes, “I– I missed you, Oliver.” And those words, the words he’s been craving to hear for a whole fucking month now wash over him, curl into the spaces that are yawning open and empty in the absence of the warmth Marcus had been when they’d spent those five glorious months in each other’s sunshine.

“We were just fucking,” he says anyway, because he’s too damn proud to be soothed of a month’s hurt by some half hearted confession of being missed. “Right, Flint? Just a fuck.” “You know that’s not true.” “Do I?” Oliver asks. He wants to be angry, wants his eyes to flash, wants to clench his fists and look ready to batter Marcus into a bloody pulp for daring to hurt him the way he did, but the words come out thick and heavy, laced with the burdens Oliver has been carrying alone. He never cared, he never looked at me as anything except a fuck, he just wanted some fun. Human beings, fragile creatures. Togetherness is more of an addiction than drugs and whisky could ever be. “Oliver, I– I was scared, and–“ “And you thought I wasn’t? You thought it was a breeze for me, that I hadn’t ever considered what the damn repercussions could look like–“ “That’s what you made it sound like!” Marcus throws both his hands up, and there’s a wild light in his dark eyes. “You made it look so easy with all your casual, hey Flint, care for a Butterbeer this weekend and Marcus, look at me and your damn smiles– and I– I was scared out of my mind Oliver, and you just looked like it was something you were born with.” “Born with what?” “Confidence! Fearlessness! Like you couldn’t give a fuck what people in locker rooms would think if you went pro, if I went pro, like you didn’t care that coaches would pay less attention to you, or make you the punching bag of the team, like teams would only sign you on if they had to pay you less if they found out about this.” Oliver sighs. It’s so obvious now that all through those months when Oliver had been caught up in a haze of a perfect love story of two Quidditch captains from historically rival houses, Marcus had been overthinking his choices, his career, everything. “This isn’t a hand job in a dark bed in the dorms, Oliver, and you know it.” He feels weary. Wrung out. “I wasn’t born with it,” he says, and looks away again at the darkening horizon. The sun is now a ball of red against a blue sky turning black. “What?” “Confidence, or fearlessness, or whatever you thought came easy to me. But you were scared about fucking up your career and I was scared of fucking us up. You were thinking about whatever pro team deals you dream of and I was thinking that something I would say or do would push you away because I’m too much of a stupid fuck for anyone to be with. Wood, have you got leaves for brains? Wood, if I knocked on that head would it ring hollow?” “Oliver,” Marcus says, and he sounds so shocked, so hurt that it’s like a string tied to the back of Oliver’s head has been pulled. He turns to face Marcus again, and he looks devastated.

He looks like he’s seeing Oliver for the first time.

“You really thought that I thought you were–“ “Bollocks for brains, yeah.” And because he can’t bear to see Marcus look so upset, he adds, “But that’s alright now. I’ll get over it, and you, and you can sign all the pro deals, and have a couple babies and no one will think you and I–“ Marcus slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” Marcus says, and oh, he’s so beautiful when he’s angry. “You’re a bit thick sometimes, I’ll give you that,” Marcus says in a voice so low that it sounds like he’s admitting state secrets instead of the most obvious thing that anyone who speaks to Oliver for five minutes can pick up on. “But don’t ever think that you’re stupid, or that you’ve got leaves for brains– Oliver what the fuck? The way you– the way you remember all the damn plays starting from the fucking 1790s and how you can recite precedents for every move anyone makes on the field and how you know exactly which player to pair with which one, which one needs to be benched– Oliver, you’re made for this. You don’t need some Transfiguration O to prove that.” He doesn’t know whether to believe this is happening. And worse– he doesn’t know what it means. If he’s imagining it, he’s further gone for Marcus than he can ever admit to anyone who is not a Mind Healer. If he’s not imagining it, Marcus is here, after a bloody month of ignoring him, breaking his heart, stomping on it with the butt end of a broom, to tell him– Rage curls in his stomach. He jerks away from the hand Marcus has now slid onto his jawline, regretting the motion immediately when the thumb tracing circles into the space behind his ear is dislodged. “And you’re telling me this now? After telling me you care more about your career than a fuck? Why bother? If that’s how you feel– it’s not going to change!” Marcus looks down. Oliver wants to curl a hand under that drooping chin, pull it up, kiss it better, but he holds himself back. “I was scared,” he whispers. Oliver wishes he weren’t so fucking easy, because the ice walls he’d thrown up to keep Marcus and his mind games out is already thawing. “I was so scared.” “You had a reason,” Oliver mumbles. He looks down. The drop to the pitch is sheer, sharp. If he falls, there’s no way he can be saved unless Marcus decides to be a hero. The thought brings a small smile to his lips. “I was being a coward,” Marcus says sharply. “Thorne– Thorne’s y’know, bisexual and all that, and he’s playing great game with the Magpies–“ “We can’t all be Thorne. And Thorne was stoned in Diagon.” “By one man who was arrested by Kingsley Shacklebolt. We might not be Thorne, but we can try.” The sound that rips itself from Oliver’s throat is rife with the pain and frustration of a month of second guessing and heartbreak. “Why does it matter?” Oliver asks, his voice carrying in the emptiness of the pitch. “Why the bloody fuck does any of it matter Marcus, you don’t want this, it was just a fuck–“ It happens so fast that Oliver doesn’t process it till its done. Marcus surges forward on the broomstick, invading the meagre personal space Oliver had tried to maintain between them so he wouldn’t reach out, be overly-familiar, push Marcus away the first time he’d dared to venture close in so long. Their eyes meet, and the pitch, the hoops, the past month and their discussion fades to nothing but white noise in the back of Oliver’s brain. Marcus, bless his balance on a broom, reaches out with one hand to cup the back of Oliver’s neck and the other comes to frame his face, resting on his ear. He waits for a second, for permission, to be pushed away, hell, Oliver doesn’t know, and then they’re kissing, Marcus’ hot, perfect, slightly chapped lips fitting against his. Something clicks into place finally. Something disjointed and broken snaps back inside his chest and the heavy weight he’d gotten all too used to carrying lifts like the healed wing of an injured bird. His heart soars with all the delight of a creature learning to fly once more, and something in this urgent, heartfelt kiss feels like a reassurance. I missed you, it says. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m sorry for hurting you. A million apologies in a single press, a single touch, in the soft breath that gusts over Oliver’s nose. It could be seconds, could be decades when Marcus finally pulls away. Oliver has to shut his eyes, clench them tightly to keep the traitorous tears from falling, from ruining this perfect moment that he’s certain will be shattered anyway when Marcus realises what he’s done. But Marcus doesn’t release a horrified gasp, doesn’t push him away, doesn’t retreat with the air currents back to the stands. Marcus stays there, floating gently on his broom, holding Oliver’s face between his hands, waiting for something. Oliver’s too scared to open his eyes and figure out what. He’s never felt so small, never felt himself be flayed open by circumstances rendering him raw and broken and ready to be picked apart. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, and Marcus is here to watch. He doesn’t know if this feeling of trust is warranted, especially after everything Marcus said and did, but he knows he can’t make himself be suspicious or cruel in this moment. He will hate himself forever if he pushes Marcus away right now, and of all the punishments Oliver has suffered, self inflicted misery isn’t one he particularly enjoys. But he can ask, so he does. “What now?” Marcus shrugs. Oliver feels it, the slight tremble, the tell tale stiffness and when he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see tears in Marcus’. “Are you–“ “Shut up, Wood.” Oliver watches Marcus close his eyes, bite his lip, whisper something inaudible and pull himself together. Watches him try to be steady. To know that they are here, suspended midair in a moment in time, being unsteady together rouses the buried beast of hope in Oliver’s heart. The sun has set. The horizon is a bruised blue now, and Marcus still looks like a shining beacon of future possibilities set against a dark sky of prejudice and inevitable darkness. “So. Thorne.” Marcus smiles despite himself. Nods. “Thorne.” “You’re kidding yourself if you think you play as well as Thorne does.” This time, Marcus laughs. It’s slightly choked, and only barely there, but it’s a laugh. “That’s not the fucking point and you know it.” “Oh I don’t know,” Oliver teases. “I’m a bit thick, aren’t I?” Marcus sobers up almost immediately. Oliver’s heart goes into overdrive, panicking. What if he said something wrong? Reminded Marcus of why he left? But Marcus merely looks serious when he says, “It’s still true.” “What?” “About the teams and coaches and the players. The world– The damn Quidditch world isn’t kind to people like us.”

Oliver looks at Marcus, at the depth of his eyes that people ignore when they critique him for being a bastard (he is a bastard, Oliver knows, just a bastard with depth and capability for kindness that Oliver feels privileged to know exists), at the worried cleft between his eyebrows, at the self conscious way in which he pulls his lips over his teeth. “The pitch makes up for it,” he says. “If I get to keep you and the pitch and my broom, I don’t give a fuck about what coaches and players and galleons have to say.” Marcus lets out a sound like a strangled sob and rests his forehead against Oliver’s. If Oliver hadn’t been holding onto his broom with one hand and the Quidditch hoop with the other, he’d have held Marcus a little closer, but he settles for kissing Marcus’ nose.

“I like galleons,” Marcus whispers after a while. For the first time in a month, Oliver feels a genuine laugh erupt from his chest, into his throat, out of his mouth. He feels light. “You’ll make plenty, don’t you worry,” he says instead. “Promising Chaser, conniving little Slytherin, bit of a looker too– why wouldn’t you?” “Are you calling me handsome, Oliver?” Oliver snorts. “Stop fishing. If the whole Quidditch thing goes balls-up, you can always model for Gladrags.” “Which section of Gladrags?” “Let’s see. Much as I’d love to see you in women’s lingerie, I don’t know if the civil public is willing to, so I’d say the part where handsome young wizards pose in their underwear with their hands suggestively placed behind their heads.” “The civil public doesn’t read Gladrags, Oliver.” “Are you calling me uncivil?” They burst into laughter, something dark and heavy lifting from their beings, and the tensed, tightened bolts of coiled emotion and anger loosening with every quip, every little kiss, every stolen moment of this. Above them, the sky darkens as the universe’s speckled cloak unravels with the fading light of day. Somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, a Centaur looks up. Somewhere, a first year student catches a glimpse of two figures on one of the hoops of the pitch and looks away with wide eyes and a racing heart.

On the pitch, two boys share a secret smile in the darkness, and somewhere above them, the stars align perfectly.