#the attempt of trying to get out of that headspace resulted in that wc

[tryingtimi]

ya girl is gonna go for her first concert abroad tomorrow (three hours long ride with a bus so not as far tho) and growing more nervous by the minute. we're also gonna stay in a capsule hostel kinda stuff, so the beds so far looked like coffins you can lock from inside lol. excitement and fear slowly takes over the ability to write, but i still got 1087 words down today. which is more than i did since january.

[britishboystm]

On the Quidditch Pitch | The Day We Met: A Fred Weasley Mini Series

Inspired by:

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, injuries, nasty falls, swearing, physical fighting, bullying

WC: 1.6k

Chapter Summary: Y/N joins the Gryffindor quidditch team in her second year at Hogwarts. As a result, a series of unfortunate events unfold at her first official match.

Series Masterlist

***

September 6th 1990

Madam Hooch had seen a great deal of potential in Y/N the second she stepped onto the Quidditch pitch in her first year. In fear of other teams preying on the small girl, Madam Hooch felt it necessary to keep her after class to train.

By second year Y/N was ready to be the best Gryffindor chaser Hogwarts had seen in decades. The moment the other Gryffindor players saw her walk towards them in sporting robes one afternoon practice, they all laughed, including the twins. This sparked something within her and it became Y/N’s mission to prove them all wrong.

Once everyone had taken position in the air, Y/N had gotten into her game headspace. By the end of practice, she had gotten ten quaffles through the tall hoops.

“Did you know about this?” George asked in bewilderment as he flew up beside his twin. Fred couldn’t keep his eyes off of the tiny chaser passing the keeper again and again. He was gobsmacked.

“No idea.” He responded in astonishment.

It was a week later that Y/N found herself standing alongside the rest of the Gryffindor quidditch team at her very first official match. The small open space between the closed canvas curtains gave a tinge of brightness as the team waited in anticipation. Muffled screams and shouts of the hundreds of students in the crowd echoed throughout the pitch.

“You ready L/N?” Asked keeper and captain to be Oliver Wood.

The young girl looked up at the older brunette and smiled widely.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The drapes opened, allowing the sunlight from the outside world to fill the inclosed space. Y/N jerked back a bit and winced, attempting to adjust her eyes to the brightness.

She had almost missed the moment in which the rest of the team mounted their brooms, zipping on to the pitch.

She quickly caught up and followed as the team did a lap around the pitch. Nothing but grass, sky and the blurred collection of the Hogwarts student body were in sight.

Y/N let out a shaky breath she didn’t know she was holding in and all of a sudden she felt as though she were on top of the world.

It was almost immediately that the Slytherin team brought into play their game plan; pick on Y/N. Being the newest, youngest and physically the smallest member of the Gryffindor team, she instantly became the easiest target. It was what Madam Hooch feared when she began training the young girl, but Y/N knew she couldn’t let a few green hooded bullies get to her.

She pushed and pushed and scored and scored. The cheers and chants of her names coming from the stands every time she advanced Gryffindor to victory was her fuel. Much to the Slytherin team’s chagrin.

“Get the little twerp!” Marcus Flint yelled. The three chasers of Slytherin all collectively nodded to the commands given and nosedived to where Y/N was. She didn’t initially notice them until one of them pulled up beside her and aggressively body checked her with his shoulder. She looked at the older boy in disgust, trying to lose him amongst the other players.

But she was too late.

A second chaser came up on her other side and did the exact same thing as the first. Y/N soon realized that she was being ambushed as she looked over her shoulder to see the third chaser right on her tail.

The three Slytherin’s forced Y/N down towards the grass below. She tried to shimmy her way out of the pack of bodies, but when she finally looked down to where she was going, a flash of white hit her, her stomach lurching forward in the process.

The tip of her broomstick had caught onto one of the sand patches, sending her flying forward off of her broom and skidding face first into the rough grains of sand.

The impact was enough to knock her out cold.

A collective gasp filled the pitch and the game stopped completely. Everything went silent.

Fred couldn’t help but worry as he witnessed his friend take the nasty tumble. When the cloud of dust around her finally settled and he saw her not moving, his worry grew exponentially. That was when Hagrid, Madam Pomfrey and a student assistant rushed onto the scene.

“Out of my way!” Madam Pomfrey yelled as she ran past the now grounded players towards Y/N’s motionless body.

Everyone watched as the three person medical team examined her injuries. A group of Gryffindor professors came trickling in with Madam Hooch, hoping for a positive report. Sure it was slightly biased since she was one of their own, but who could blame them?

From closer inspection it became evident that her face had been badly bruised and scratched, especially around the cheek area. Her left wrist laid awkwardly beneath her, clearly broken. And from a couple quick tests, it seemed that she also suffered a bad concussion.

“She needs to be taken to the hospital wing.” Madam Pomfrey said with concern.

Hagrid nodded and along with the student medical assistant, rushed away into the shadows of the pitch to then re-emerge with a cloth stretcher.

They gently placed her on it and with very little struggle brought it off the ground, walking off the pitch towards the hospital wing.

Fred didn’t really think before he dropped his broom and ran after the group of adults, slowing down when he finally found himself beside the moving stretcher.

“Y/N.” Was all he said before taking her small hand in his. She looked so peaceful for someone who had just gotten the life knocked out of them.

“Is she going to be okay?” He asked with concerned eyes as he looked to Madam Pomfrey.

“Yes but what she needs is rest.”

“I’m going with her.” He stated confidently.

“Sorry sunny, she won’t be allowed visitors for another few hours. Only after I’ve fully mended her wounds.” And with that they quickened their pace, leaving Fred behind.

“Sad to see your little girlfriend go Weasley?” Called out Pucey in a nasty joking tone.

Fred’s fists and jaw clenched and his temperature rose exponentially. The Slytherin’s had clearly planned this. To injure his friend who was just playing a good and fair game of Quidditch.

He finally turned around at the sound of the opposing team laughing.

“You greasy little git!” He yelled as he stormed towards Pucey, shoving him in the chest once he got close enough.

“Ooohh.” The team mocked, not really taking Fred Weasley seriously.

“So she is your little girlfriend. Maybe next time you see her you can tell her to leave the game to the big boys. Pipsqueak didn’t stand a cha-“

Fred punched him square in the jaw causing the Slytherin to fall to the ground in pain. The crowd erupted in cheers and hollers when Fred dove forward and pinned Pucey down, tackling him.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Filled the arena.

“Get him off!” Pucey yelped as Fred laid hit after hit. No one talked about Y/N that way, never. He didn’t understand why he had gotten so heated over the situation, but at that point he was in way too deep to even care.

Finally, George came in and pried his older twin off of the bloodied up Slytherin who was whimpering in agony. He had to before the collection of angered professors approaching them did.

“Fred stop!” George yelled as Fred thrashed, trying to push his brother away from going back in for another round.

“Stupid wanker! I’ll show him!” George finally moved in front of him.

“Fred, relax. Y/N wouldn’t want to see you like this. Pull yourself together mate.” Fred was still seeing red. George attempted to make eye contact but it was no use. Fred was too busy sending death glares to Pucey, his chest rising and falling rapidly and nostrils flared.

“Mr Weasley!” Professor McGonagall screeched. She ran up to him with Snape and Flitwick close behind her.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Professor he-“

“Apologies for interrupting you Mr Weasley but I believe I asked your brother the question.” George slinked back away from Fred, no longer able to protect him from the wrath of McGonagall.

“I hope you understand the severity of the situation. You will attend detention every day for an hour until Winter Break, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes professor.” He couldn’t make eye contact with her.

She looked at him with disappointed eyes.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor.” She said with a sigh before walking away.

“All students back to the castle!” She called out, causing everyone to disperse from the stands in disappointment.

Later that evening, Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore stood in the doorway of the now darkened hospital wing. Hours had passed since the incident.

“He’s been here for hours Albus. Should I send him back to his dorm?” She whispered.

Dumbledore smiled lightly, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

Fred Weasley, still in his dirty quidditch robes, sat in a chair beside the hospital bed Y/N was sleeping in. He hadn’t gone back to his dorm to change or had eaten dinner in the great hall. He instead, paced in front of the hospital wing entrance until Madam Pomfrey finally let him in to see Y/N.

Fred was now hunched over and drifting in and out of sleep. His hand held Y/N’s, his thumb caressing the soft skin on top of them.

The two adults listened intently as Fred sleepily recounted his fight with Pucey to Y/N. He didn’t care if it fell on deaf ears. At least she was there.

“No Minerva. Leave him be.”

[harkwrites]

natural

a/n: iwaoi uni / ice skating au. wc: 2685. i started this fun little au at least two years ago and wish for it to see the light somewhere but not on ao3 because this isn’t my best work. there may be more parts incoming in the future!

**

“And here we have the rare Oikawa Tooru, one and only of its kind, struggling in an unfamiliar and harsh environment. Wave to the camera, Oikawa.”

Tooru hisses through grimaced teeth, flashing all two perfect rows. Stiffly, he smiles. Hanamaki, nonplussed, swings his camera phone downward, his narrative voice turning graver. “Take a moment now to watch his feet. The usually graceful Oikawa wobbles like a newborn fawn taking its first steps out into the brave new world. As you can see, others of his species have made much more progress in this endeavor.” The phone sweeps over the rest of the ice skaters in the rink, most of who were gliding smoothly in circles, moving around the trio like a river parting around a nuisance of a protruding rock.

Hanamaki turns his camera back onto Tooru in perfect timing to see the comical wobble of ankles. “But this one has a long way to go.”

“Tragic,” Matsukawa comments.

“Truly,” Hanamaki adds.

“It’s like the runts of the litter on those wilderness shows,” Matsukawa thoughtfully says. “The ones you cheer for because you want them to survive.”

“Survive the winter, Oikawa, and be sure to live a long, fruitful life.”

“Mattsun,” Tooru implores, both hands clutching onto the walls surrounding the ice rink that he’s been clinging to for the past ten minutes. “Stop Makki.”

“I can’t.”

“Take his phone, Mattsun.”

“It’s a documentary.” Matsukawa lifts his fingers in a shrug, looking the picture of casual. “I can’t interfere with education.”

Tooru’s lips curl in distaste, and then he mumbles, “I’ll pay for your ramen later if you do me this teeny, tiny favor.”

Matsukawa snorts. “You’ll do that anyway.”

“Not willingly!”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa give each other a silent look, which they do infuriatingly often when in Tooru’s company, and then break out into simultaneous peals of laughter.

Affronted, Tooru shuffles forward and attempts to swipe the phone from Hanamaki’s gloved hand himself. Hanamaki skates backwards – backwards! flawlessly! – so that his lunging motion only serves to destabilize his already precarious balance. His skates noisily scrape against the ice as he struggles to stay upright, heart beating a little faster in his chest when he finally manages to steady himself without falling over.

“You two are fired,” he huffs upon regaining balance. “You’re both fired.”

“From what?” Hanamaki’s fingers are making a pinching motion over his screen as he zooms in, presumably on Oikawa’s face.

“Roomateship!” Tooru exclaims. “You haven’t even offered to teach me how to do this!”

“The rare Oikawa Tooru,” Hanamaki continues, smile a smug slant of the lips that Tooru would love to wipe out if his hands weren’t currently white-knuckled and gripped over the railing for support. “Has just issued an aggressive declaration. It’s startling how quickly young animals grow up when they begin to feel threatened. Is this what they call survival of the fittest, Matsukawa-san? Rising to the challenge?”

“I think so,” Matsukawa seamlessly picks up. “Eat or be eaten.”

“The fight or flight response in action, ladies and gentlemen,” Hanamaki says.

“Well,” Matsukawa says. “It looks like he couldn’t manage either of those right now.”

“Goodbye,” Tooru primly announces, and with a mighty shove launches himself away from the edge of the rink, the titters of his two friends at his back.

It’s not so difficult, really, if he limits himself to a few small strides at a time. The momentum keeps him going with ease. He soon finds his balance returning to him, not quite graceful, but a few good steps above floundering. Completing the first lap around the rink fills him with a refreshing sense of leisure, warms him up to the idea of staying and possibly enjoying himself, and he thinks that he’ll be alright for the next forty minutes or so, although he still refuses to converge with Matsukawa and Hanamaki again after they, upon passing Tooru once, erupted in a sudden burst of applause that had several confused heads turning in their direction.

No, for now Tooru is firmly and cheerfully alone.

Time passes with few incidents, and he finds the repetitive circuits around the rink allows himself to slip into a pleasantly empty headspace that doing exercise usually does, his thoughts slipping quickly and harmlessly away. Even the chill of the ice rink isn’t as abrasive as it was upon entering, even as he can feel the gooseflesh peppering his arms beneath his long sleeves. The air smells nice. A light breeze nips at his cheeks and ruffles his hair as he maintains an easy pace. 

But like all terrible things in life, it happens both in an instant and in an agonizingly slow moment. Whatever meager balance he had been clinging to throughout his foray into casual Sunday morning ice skating abandons him altogether and he lands hard on his backside. The wet chill of ice seeps through his good pair of jeans as his body continues propelling forward, fueled by the momentum of his horrendous wipe out.

There are people fumbling out of the way save for a single, oblivious person. Tooru feels not unlike a bowling ball barreling straight toward a pin down the lane, determined and helpless.

“No,” he hisses, preparing for the collision.

“Fuck,” grunts the guy who Tooru bodily slams into.

Oikawa only catches a shocked face decorated with a vehement frown before they’re both falling over each other in a wild scramble of limbs. Tooru’s eyes widen in horror as he watches the guy’s body descend toward him, right elbow sticking out in a direction dangerously aligned with his face. He cringes in anticipation, barely has enough space to pinwheel his arms in a pointless attempt at regaining his balance. The ice skater very nearly tumbles straight on top of Tooru but manages an absurdly quick mid-air twist at the last second. It lessens the severity of their impact but the weight that slams heavily onto Tooru’s left arm and shoulder still has him grunting out a note of pain. It’s a clumsy, hard scramble of limbs, and he has just enough presence of mind to remember to keep his head lifted to avoid a serious knocking. As soon as they grow still Tooru lets his head sink back onto the ice, eyes squeezed shut to catalogue the damage. A dull ache throbs in his shoulder though, radiating a dull sensation of discomfort. which incites a flare of panic, a kneejerk reaction that the prospect of getting seriously injured always brought even if he hadn’t stepped onto a volleyball court in months. He breathes out in a rush.

The carnage fades into silence. Plunged into darkness, only his sense of touch and hearing informs him of what happens. There’s a shuffle of limbs, Tooru finding his own again as the other man disentangles, a low curse, and the sudden disappearance of weight from Tooru’s side. The other skater rises back to his feet mere moments later, dusting off bits of shaved ice that clings to his clothes in quick, jerky swipes.

“Oi,” Tooru hears the person above him say, tone low and crisp like he might launch into an angry tirade in the next breath on how silly or dangerous that all was, as if Tooru’s pride is deserving of any more damage. “Can you hear me?”

Tooru again ignores him. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut for another precious second, sure that the whole rink must have their gazes locked on him, concerned and amused by the figure still sprawled on the ground.

Now, Tooru is a person of good grace and good coordination right down to the most minute movements, able to turn a motion as insignificant as sitting down into something fluid and eye-catching. A finely tuned awareness of his body and its movements: the gestures that look appealing, the angles that flatter him the most, the sweetness and cadence of speaking that best attract others to him, all of it earning results he finds pleasurable and oft entertaining. He had trained his body for athletics before. This is simply an extension of that training, something he learned alongside the sport,  grew up and figured out how to smile his way through life and he derived satisfaction whenever he caught someone watching him due to the way he moved. Having that easy control stripped away so completely leaves him feeling uncomfortably exposed. But there is no way to mitigate the spectacular harm the last minute of his life had inflicted on his sense of self. The ice is quickly becoming too cold to continue languishing atop on. He’s not sure how much longer he can endure the freezing sting on the sliver of bare skin between his sleeves and his gloved hands and raising goosebumps where his shirt has ridden up on the small of his back during his collision into the stranger.

The sharp chink of a blade stopping uncomfortably close to his head rips him from his melancholy. Tooru snaps his eyes open, incredulous, and stares at the neat black pair of skates resting mere centimeters from his face. He turns his gaze upward, a vapid smile coming onto his lips, the thrilled expression of someone who has just survived a near death experience, and says, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“That’s my line,” his almost-murderer readily replies. He’s wearing a horrible expression, all downturned lips and furrowed brows. Tragedy, Tooru thinks. Does his resting face default to a terrible poutiness all the time? Tooru has very little sympathy. “You’re the one who came out of nowhere and almost killed me.”

Fair, but rude. Tooru harrumphs and wordlessly sits up, tugs his sweater down and flicks loose slush from his sleeves, each movement slow and fastidious, and then he truly studies the person standing above him.

Deceived by the gruffness of his voice and that distasteful frown pulling on his lips, Tooru is surprised to see genuine concern reflected on the man’s face too. The shock Tooru had noticed earlier is all but wiped away, the frown smoothed into something slightly less severe. A gentle downward tilt of the corners of his mouth rather than the full-blown distaste that had been stuck there a few seconds earlier. His brow is crinkled in a mix of worry and irritation and, most surprising of all, are that his eyes are arresting. Not in color or shape, for both were rather plain, but arresting in their intensity and steadfastness. They hold Tooru’s glance with no amount of hesitance and a great deal of patience when a semi-awkward silence unspools between them. No holier-than-thou glare. No hint of held back laughter. That nonjudgmental gaze feels at odds with the man’s crass tone of voice. Unsettlingly so, like he might really stand there for as long as it takes to receive a proper verbal response from Tooru, his legs spread a casual shoulder length apart, gaze mutinous but patiently so, awaiting for the appropriate time when he could say something else to sway the conversation into his favor.

Tooru balks, but then the guy opens his mouth and says, “Hello? Did you hit your head that hard?”

The illusion breaks. This grump isn’t quite as charming as he first thought. If they were on normal ground instead of a sheet of ice he’s certain that this stranger would be an arms-crossed matched with irate foot tapping kind of person.

Tooru smiles with force. “Would you take responsibility and carry me to the nearest hospital if I said yes?”

The man looks like he’s just been asked to swallow glass.

“Well,” Tooru breezily continues, ignoring the other’s aggressive words of concern (if they could be called that!) in favor for tugging at his gloves before holding both hands out like an offering, watching the skater’s eyes slide over them as if alien appendages had abruptly sprouted from Tooru’s sides. A light sigh blows past Oikawa’s lips.

“More than either of us, I believe the fault lies with the ice for being so mean to our feet. Will you help me up please? It’s very cold down here.” He adds with an overly sweet amount of cheer when he’s been left hanging a little too long. His neck is growing tired of craning up.

“You should help yourself up.” The man smoothly moves backwards but not completely away, the perfect distance to avoid a beginning skater proven to be a hazard to himself and to everyone else within a five foot radius. Knowing the reasoning behind the precaution doesn’t stop Oikawa’s mouth from slanting into an offended pout. He’s not the only novice struggling out here!

It must catch the man’s attention because he offers a slightly more helpful but equally aggravating piece of advice. “Get onto your knees first and then stand up without using your hands. Put your arms out straight in front of you if you need the extra balance. Squat lower to the ground if you feel yourself about to fall.”

He even demonstrates it, bending at the knees and putting both arms out before him, palms facing out.

He may as well have been asked to stick his ass out and act a fool. The posture looks exaggerated and silly and not at all like something Tooru wants to do in the public eye. In fact, Tooru feels a little like he’s being talked down to, admonished for being the utter beginner that he is. He considers using his hands to pluck himself off the floor as a small act of spite and because it seems like the safer option, yet he heeds the words and swivels onto both knees. He wavers once more, daunted by the prospect of performing another clumsy movement which may result in ruin. This is the point where he’s sure that Matsukawa would remark, laughingly, that he should suck it up and stop being such a drama monger. Tooru mentally shoves a pillow into his roommate’s smug face, after which the raucous voice of their other roommate, Hanamaki, releases a steady chant of ‘fight, fight, fight!’ The mental scenario barely helps him shore up enough desire to push one of his feet beneath him.

“Easy now,” the skater says, low and steady.

“Humans were not meant walk on ice,” Tooru says, the knee still planted on the hard ice growing increasingly cold and uncomfortable. He wishes the guy would simply pull him up and get it over with rather than attempting to teach him an unwanted lesson. Where were Hanamaki and Matsukawa? Tooru knows he’s been on the ground long enough for the two of them to complete at least one circuit around the rink. Unless they wee still too busy laughing at his plight. Oh he could see that – stomachs clutched, swiping real and imagined tears from their eyes.

“Maybe that’s what the skates are for,” the man retorts.

“Ugh,” Tooru insists, feeling his ankles lock up while fighting for balance.

“Now stand up.”

“I’m trying to do that.”

“Just do it.”

Tooru grits his teeth and tries a jerky, aborted movement. “How am I supposed to swing my other leg around?”

“You just have to do it.”

“My god, you are terrible at this.”

“I know you know how to stand up. It’s the same exact motion. Don’t use your hands, do it with your legs only.”

Oikawa tsks, frustrated, but raises his fingers from where they’d planted themselves on the ground for balance. In one brave effort he gets his other foot beneath him and stands. A frantic pause where he fears toppling over again, but after a tense moment balance deigns to grace his body again and he straightens up, buoyed and accomplished. “Did you see that?”

“Yes,” the guy dryly says, “You’re a natural.”

“Aren’t I?” Tooru croons, not missing the eye roll the other graces him with before the man skates away. Tooru feels affronted at that abrupt farewell, but he brushes the encounter off and kicks himself into motion again, feeling more confident now that he knows the feeling of falling isn’t as bad as he was expecting.