#tiny hardy gaming

[tinyalechardy]

Skrunkly anon yet again (sorry). Don’t grind too hard buddy, you gotta take some time for yourself too! You got a favorite movie/franchise or something you like to watch?

"I have decided to try the game you recommend. My care taker is helping me understand. I can see why you recommended it to me. I am enjoying this quite a bit." -tiny hardy

[heartthrobin]

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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[prolix-yuy]

Olive Branch

Pairing: Francisco Morales x F!Reader

Summary: If Frankie doesn't like olives, then what does he like?

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: T, alcohol consumption, mention of drug use, incredibly tame for me, hints of spice. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: I was challenged by @happypedrohours to write a story involving Frankie and olives, and what do you know, these are two of my favorite things! I was snickering to myself the entire time as the olive metaphor rolled out, but what the hell, we're gonna keep it in! Enjoy my friends, and Happy Pedro Hours!

Cross-posted on AO3

When it slides in front of you, you know it’s a good one. You watched the bartender make one at the end of the bar and it was just how you like it. Dry, cold, three olives on a hardy metal toothpick. You were practically salivating by the time you ordered your own and it slid in front of you, shining like the Holy Grail.

“Didn’t know you liked martinis.”

Head whipping around, you stutter out a laugh as Frankie slides in next to you. He perches an elbow on the bar, free shoulder coming close as the crowd tucks you into each other. Your eyes dart to his crinkled brown ones, then to your drink, and back again to distract from the proximity. His hand is tucked into his faded jeans, but it wouldn’t take much to cup your elbow or wrap around your waist. 

“On special occasions,” you quip, tossing your head at Will and Tatiana surrounded by your friends. She’s showing the girls the ring, the men clapping hands on Will’s back and making him laugh. The air holds the fresh taste of new beginnings.

“Never had much of a taste for ‘em. Just gasoline in a glass,” he replies. Your face must be ten levels of indigent with how quickly his eyebrows shoot up.

“Do I look like a car to you?” 

Frankie’s eyes twinkle, and it flips your stomach.

“Definitely a hot rod.”

You laugh it off, rolling your eyes. He’s never serious, after all. He likes to ply you with compliments just short of flirty and leave you high and dry at the end of the night. The first time it stung so hard you didn’t go out with the boys for weeks. 

“He’s just a little fucked in the head, don’t take it too personal,” Santi told you when he finally wrestled the reason for your absence out. “Can’t stop chasing anything messy with two legs. Last girlfriend was a cokehead, even worse before that. He likes ‘em pretty and crazy, and he bags ‘em left and right. They always leave him worse for wear.” Santi’s eyes narrowed over his knowing smirk. “So now you like him?”

“Fuck no,” you spat out, arms folded tight. “I don’t deal with boys who play games.”

Yet here you are, again, with Frankie, ready to roll the dice yet again. At least he doesn’t know you’ve still got a soft spot for him ready to land.

“I’ll ignore the fact that you called Hendricks gasoline,” you scold, sliding your gleaming prize closer on its soggy black napkin. “There’s also vermouth, and olives.” You take a sip, the warmth of the gin and sharp salt of the charcuterie mainstay sweeping across your tongue. Frankie’s eyes drifting down to your lips on the rim of the glass.

What a cocktease. At least most men who eyefuck you actually follow through.

“Shaken, not stirred?” he quips in a rough approximation of a Scottish accent. You snort, instantly regretting it as the burn of brine and alcohol decimates your sense of smell. Trying to hide it under a tiny cough, Frankie’s face turns to the bar.

“Not much of an olive guy either, so you're 0 for 3 on convincing me.” 

You don’t know why, but your stomach sinks briefly as you gingerly twist the glass stem between your fingers. 

“Perfect, more for me then,” you shoot back brightly, but he looks back a fraction too soon before the disappointment flits away. 

“C’mon, you know you were never gonna change my mind,” he teases, jostling you with his shoulder as he motions for the bartender. 

“Never said I was,” you add absentmindedly. 

Frankie will never be an option. He’s made it clear time and time again that he doesn’t choose you. But sometimes, when you let your mind drift, you think about how it could happen. Some dark room where he finally finds something he’s been looking for. The brushing of noses and near-misses before one of you finally acts and you’d know what his lips feel like. Then he would lick into your mouth and his flavor would dance with acidity and botanicals on your tongue and he’d moan at how good you taste.

But he doesn’t even like olives. Or you.

Frankie’s drink is a golden lager, malt rising to your nose. You like beer too. You like a lot of things. You could sit at this bar and talk about your favorite drinks for hours. You’re not just the martini girl. You’re so much more. 

You need some air. Your daydreams are getting in the way of enjoying the night and Frankie’s none the wiser, so best keep it that way.

“I’m gonna bring my gasoline olives back to the party,” you say, ducking out from Frankie’s body without waiting for a reply. Maybe catching a glimpse of surprise, you strut back to the girls. The warmth of their excitement and enthusiasm reinvigorate your tight throat. 

Your drink dwindles slowly, savoring the clean flavor and crushing the olives one by one between your teeth. One of the girls tries the dregs of your glass and wants one of her own, so you weave back to the bar so you can help her order. A holler rises from the boys around Will, and when you look you catch Frankie’s face again. He’s all beaming smiles, eyes barely visible from behind his crows feet and gleaming teeth. He catches your eye and his smile softens, and over the din of the bar he mouths “you good?”

You nod. Of course you are. What would Frankie know about that?

The drinks come, followed by cheers and hums of contentment. You will definitely be tipping well tonight. Before you can make it back to the group Benny cuts off your path, swooping one arm behind your back and your free hand into his. 

“No no no, Benny, I’ll spill!” you shriek, feeling the telltale wetness of a sloshed drink over your fingers. “Shit, I think I got it on the back of your shirt…”

“Ah, I’ve had worse,” Benny says, mock-dancing with you to the barely audible music. 

“How’s Will?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder to snag a healthy sip of the martini. Now a more manageable level, you let Benny lead you away from the bar.

“So in love it makes me sick.” You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way!” he adds, turning you so the man in question is visible. Tatiana’s tucked under his arm, and his mouth drifts to kiss the top of her head.

“You know what, I get it,” you agree, the both of you snickering as the tempo of the music changes. It might be a Hozier song? It’s hard to tell over the babble of voices.

“How are you?” he asks, feigned innocence a red flag flicked in front of your eyes.

“Peachy. Why?”

Benny’s hand squeezes yours in a soothing rhythm.

“Hey, don’t bite my head off. Fish mentioned you seemed down. Something about olives?”

The flash of heat rocketing to your face has to be combatted, so you choose comedy.

“Oh yeah, the fact that they never give me enough in my damn drink. Could drive a woman to tears!” Your put-on mid-atlantic accent doesn’t sell it. Benny chews on the inside of his cheek before leaning to bring his mouth to your ear.

“I know you’re gonna tell me to fuck off…”

“Then you don’t have to say anything.”

“...but you and I both know this ain’t about olives.”

You lean back, jaw set and eyes cool.

“You’re right. It’s about absolutely nothing.”

“Hey…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Benny lets go and you down the rest of your drink. It burns and you hate yourself for it, but it feels good to let liquid frustration carve through the center of you. 

“It’s late, and bar snacks aren’t gonna soak up the hangover I’ll have tomorrow. I’m gonna say bye to Will and Tatiana, get a cheeseburger, and go home.” Benny puts his hands on his hips, blue eyes filled with a brotherly care you know better than to try and tamp down.

“And it’s not about olives?”

Plucking the toothpick full of metaphor out of the glass, you point it at him.

“It’s not about olives.”

Benny relents, and walks you over to the happy couple. Promises of more drinks and a bachelorette party are half shouted before you pick through the crowd and exit the front of the bar. 

The air is just starting to get cool, alcohol thrumming in your blood. You love the way a martini buzz feels, your mind crystal and your body sharp as glass. It’s different from the smoky haze of scotch or the sluggish thudding of beer. Martinis make you diamond.

Which is why you notice Frankie immediately upon his exit, even though you can tell he wanted to go unseen for a few moments longer. He fumbles his hands into his pockets, ambling up to stand beside you while you glare at the Uber app.

“Got a ride coming?” 

“Eventually.”

He nods and stares at the toes of his boots, which you observe surreptitiously. The progress bar keeps filling and emptying as the silence stretches. 

“I’m sorry for shitting on your drink.”

You can’t help but snap your face to him, eyebrows raised.

“I sure hope you didn’t shit on my drink.”

The poor choice of words quirks the corner of your mouth as Frankie tries to recover.

“Jesus Christ, I mean…you know what I mean! I didn’t mean to be a dick,” he says, now contemplating the sky with resignation. There's still a fight in you, but you try to meet halfway.

“S’all good, I shit on your terrible beers all the time. We’re even.” You glance back at the app and shut it out of frustration. You’ll try again in a minute. 

“I don’t hate olives, either,” he rushes out. You roll your eyes, shoulders slumping. God, could they just let this go? You’re embarrassed enough about it. Before you can make another joke, another deflection, he barrels on.

“To be honest, I’ve never tried…olives. I see them all the time - at parties, at the bar, at friend’s houses - and there always seems to be some reason not to try them. I’m always having something else, or just had something, and I don’t want to…I’m afraid if I try the olives, I’ll really like them. And I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. And that’s been scaring me off from even trying.” 

Frankie looks up at you, mouth parted and brow furrowed, as realization rises slow and fizzy.

“Because I think I could really, really like them. Enough that I’d want them all the time. But I’ve never had anything like that before. And I don’t want to hurt the…olives.”

Your heart is thudding in your ears, lower lip close to a betraying tremble before you force it between your teeth..

“You don’t want to hurt…the olives,” you parrot back and Frankie sighs, lifting his cap enough to rake his fingers through his hair before resettling it. 

“Fuck it, you know what I mean, right? It’s not about…it’s not about the fucking olives,” he says, and one of his hands wraps around your shoulder. It’s hot and strong and your chest swells at the touch.

“If it’s not about the olives,” you say, tentative, voice dropping into a lower register. He’s closer, almost as close as in the bar, thumb worrying back and forth over your shirt. “Then why don’t you show me what it is about?”

You expected more hesitation, but with that permission he lunges for you, cupping your face with both hands as he crashes your lips together. It’s fast and messy, teeth pressed against your lips and his tongue slipping in to taste. He groans and your knees go weak, head spinning worse than any drink could hope to do. You clutch the lapels of his canvas jacket and pull him closer, sweeping strokes of your kiss filling your mouth with bitter hops. With a lurch he pulls back.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, but he continues to clutch at you, arm banding around your waist to keep you snug against him. 

“For what?” you tease, sliding your nose along his proud profile. 

“Takin’ so fuckin’ long.” His teeth graze your jaw lightly, heat pooling in a place that’s demanding a more private location for proper penance.

“I think you owe me a lot more than one very good kiss, after everything you’ve put me through,” you contemplate, his grip tightening. 

“Still waiting for your ride?”

Your fingers wander to the nape of his neck, and his curls are just as soft as you imagined.

“No.”

A gentler kiss follows, broader, somehow still able to make your head spin.

“Good, you’re coming home with me so I can properly apologize.”

The next morning as Frankie opens his front door for his breakfast delivery, he finds a pristine jar of olives resting on his welcome mat. The scrawled note - better start getting a taste for these! - is clearly in Benny’s handwriting. The memory of your body, soft and sleeping in his bed, pulls him back inside. 

After everything that got him here, he could learn to like olives.

END

"This is where righteousness ends It’s a relief to wave this overdue white flag and My blind spots have tortured you enough How much salt could I pour in To think that I called myself a friend."

Alanis Morissette, Olive Branch

[munsons-maiden]

𝚃𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 | DI Alec Hardy x female reader 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢 | based on this request: Alec uses handcuffs (smut but it's sweet and soft) 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 | 1.1k 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 | SMUT (DON'T READ if you're under 18!), a tiny bit of edging, handcuffs 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 | my Alec Hardy sideblog is @bloodytwittah. I also write for Crowley (Good Omens) over at @stargazing-crowley 🖤

“Please.”

Your whisper fills the silence of the office, warm breath mingling with his as you arch into his touches, his kisses, chasing every fleeting brush of his fingertips on your skin like it’s a lifeline and you’re caught in a storm.

Well, he is.

And you’ll happily drown in him, in the way his scent is engulfing you, the pine-needle smell of his cologne forever entangled with the ever-present salt in the air.

“Patience is a virtue,” Alec drawls, a quiet laugh painting his voice.

“And stalling is a vice,” you shoot back, but it comes out rather breathless.

Alec has spent what feels like an eternity kissing you, teasing you, fingertips brushing over all the sweet spots where you so desperately need him the most yet never lingering long enough to do anything but stoke your need for him further, letting you chase those fleeting touches nevertheless with growing despair. And impatience.

You can feel his erection pressing against your leg, the outline of it very visible beneath the navy fabric of his pants, but each time you wrap your legs around his waist to drag him closer, drag him right where you need him, he angles himself away from you with a soft, deep chuckle.

You discarded his tie a while ago, and his white dress shirt is undone, revealing his chest, the fine scar running over his sternum where they fixed his heart mere months ago, and the way his dark hair is messy and ruffled – not by the sea breeze for once but by your fingers – makes him look like he should be on the poster for some highly expensive perfume ad.

“We could consult Reverend Coates about the matter,” Alec chuckles softly now, his hot breath ghosting over the side of your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin on your pulse point, the soft scratch of his beard sending pleasant shivers up and down your spine.

Your own quip is swallowed by a string of moans as Alec’s fingers stop tracing circles on the inside of your thighs to wander higher, to the spot just above your clit, and you desperately roll your hips up to grind against his fingertips.

But the moans turn into a frustrated groan as he pulls his fingers out of reach once more.

“So impatient,” he breathes. You can feel his smile against your pulse point.

“Alec Hardy,” you tease softly, “Did I just catch you smiling?”

“Don’t tell anyone. Got a reputation to uphold.”

“And of course we wouldn’t want anyone at Broadchurch PD know you’re not as grumpy as you seem.”

“I am grumpy,” Alec quips with a whisper that sends a shiver of need through your body, “Just not when I’m with you.”

Butterflies soar in your chest at his words, and your fingertips in his hair tighten as you pull him into a searing kiss.

“Still. Payback’s gonna be a bitch,” you announce as you pull away just enough to catch your breath, eyes flitting to the clock on the wall over the closed door to his office. Ever since you’ve started dating Alec Hardy, nightly overtime hours have lost their unbidden-ness.

When Alec chuckles softly in response, resuming to map your throat with his lips knowing damn well what it’s doing to you, you feel your own grin curve your lips.

Two can play this game.

Still grinning, you untangle one of your hands from where you’ve been raking your fingers through his soft chocolate hair and let it roam down, underneath the skirt you chose this morning in the hopes it would come in handy later – and good lord, it does.

“What –“ Alec breathes, pulling away from your throat to stare at you, and your grin turns into a sultry smirk as your own fingers spread the wetness that’s been pooling between your thighs as you let your head fall back a little.

His eyes have been darkened by arousal before, but at your little performance, they’ve grown almost black now. It’s nearly enough to send you over the edge right then and there.

“I’m perfectly capable of finishing the job on my own,” you drawl, letting a lewd moan spill from your lips for effect as your fingertips start circling your clit.

It feels good.

It feels amazing.

It doesn’t feel half as amazing as it would if it were his fingers, though, and the cheeky expression on his handsome features tells you he knows that.

For a few moments, Alec stays where he is, eyes dark and devouring as he watches you, before he closes the few inches between the two of you with another searing kiss, his hands leaving your waist to gently grasp your wrists, pulling your hands away.

There’s no firmness in his grasp. If you wanted to, you could easily tear your hands out of his grip.

He’d never be rough with you. He’d never take control without asking for your permission first – Alec Hardy has never been anything but sweet and gentle with you.

Bantering has always been part of your relationship long before you let him into your bed, and it extends into every aspect of your relationship. Which is probably why sex with Alec Hardy is the best you ever had.

And which is probably one of the reasons why, despite his always-mildly-annoyed, grumpy exterior, it didn’t take long for you to fall for Alec Hardy in the first place.

As he gently pushes your hands behind your back, feverish kisses deepening, his clothed erection brushes against your core, and this time, it’s Alec who moans first, a deep, half-suppressed moan spilling from his throat as you roll your hips against him, desperate for more friction, for more of those sinful, sweet noises from him –

A soft click makes your eyes fly open to meet Alec’s smug little smirk.

“Oh no, you didn’t,” you gasp, eyes wide.

His grin turns even cheekier. “Yeah I did.”

The handcuffs he just closed around your wrists rattle softly as you test them, cool metal against your wrists.

“You’re under arrest,” Alec drawls, his Scottish accent growing thicker with his own arousal as he trails sloppy, feverish kisses down the side of your throat, over your collarbone, hands slowly unbuttoning your blouse to unveil the lacy black bra underneath telling him exactly what you were hoping for when you got dressed this morning, “For obstruction of police work.”

“Payback,” you breathe, arching into his kisses and unable to suppress a soft, breathless giggle, “Will be such a bitch, Alec Hardy.”

Your voice breaks as you watch him kneel before you, dark eyes sparking with arousal and affection and just the perfect amount of cheekiness as they hold yours.

He places a single, almost chaste kiss to the inside of your thighs before he breathes, “Then I better start making it up to you now.”

𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 - 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 🖤

[tomwambsmilk]

have to tell you guys about my favourite disco elysium experience.... my first playthrough I never found the tape for "The Smallest Church in Saint-Saens" so I didn't get to sing karaoke. My second playthrough I still could not find it UNTIL Kim and I were on our way back to town for the tribunal. Somehow I'd missed that little house right up until that moment. I don't know how. Anyways. The tribunal went very very poorly - only 3 Hardie boys survived - but Kim survived as well, and when we came downstairs afterwards to end the game I realized this would be my last chance to sing karaoke, so that's the first thing I did (and nailed the check). And halfway through I just got blown away by the story moment I had inadvertently created. There's an explosion of horrific violence in the town that kills 5 Hardie boys, and Harry, who got injured in the process, finally comes downstairs one morning and, without speaking to anyone first, just goes to the karaoke stage and sings a beautiful sad ballad about a little church for the tiny motley collection of 3 remaining Hardie boys and Garte and Kim and the one or two other Martinaise residents who are here this early in the morning. And somehow that context transforms it from "just" a karaoke song to a requiem. It's not really about the smallest church in saint-saens it's about what Martinaise just lost and how it's going to keep existing anyways

[michelle-is-writing]

Sick, Ben Hardy

Word Count: 1.2k~

Saturday nights are always date nights for me and Ben. No matter what, we always go out and do something fun together. We'll go to dinner, watch a movie, see a game, anything that sounds like a good time. We always make an effort, and nothing ever stops us from spending time together.

However, as I lay in my bed with nonstop nausea filling my throat and stomach, I feel the need to cancel for tonight. During the seven months that we've been dating, neither of us have ever canceled a Friday night, and that's always something I love about us. Once again, we always make time for each other, so when I think about calling Ben and saying I can't go tonight, I feel even worse.

Reluctantly pressing the green button on Ben's contact, I hold my phone up to my ear and listen to the ringing tone as I wait for him to pick up. As more seconds pass, I find myself trying to hug my blankets as close to me as I can while my body begins to shiver. This stomach pain is starting to cause me to feel cold as well, and it sucks.

"Hello, darling," I hear Ben's voice pick up after the second ring, making me smile. I always love hearing his voice. It carries this tone of protection in it that gives off a feeling of happiness at the same time. "Are you ready for our date?"

At his question, I close my eyes and swallow down the guilt that rises to my throat as my smile lowers into a frown. He sounds so happy - excited, almost. Do I really have to take that away from him? All because of something that could probably be treated with medicine?

As soon as the thought of maybe suffering through the pain and going on a date, another stomach cramp pushes into me, making me almost hunch over in my bed to get through the pain. "Actually, Ben," I start, my free arm wrapping around my stomach as the stinging sensation passes. "I was calling to tell you that I can't come," I explain, my ears almost catching the sound of his heart breaking through the phone speaker. "I think I caught food poisoning from my friend's food at dinner we went to the other night."

"I ate it, and I seem fine," He tells me, his words making me shake my head with an amused smile.

"That's because you have an iron stomach, Ben," I joke, hearing him chuckle on the other end. "And, besides, if you can eat your own cooking, then you can eat practically anything."

"Oi!" Ben dramatically exclaims as if my words hit him with a punch. I laugh at his silliness. "Such harsh and hurtful words from the woman I love!" He further chides as I clench my already hurting stomach from laughing. He soon joins in on the laughing before speaking once more. "But that's alright love. I understand you're not feeling well. I love you! And I'll be over in ten minutes."

Just as quick as he said his last words, he hangs up, leaving me to stare across the room with wide eyes as my phone remains resting in my hand, Ben's picture flashing once before the screen goes dark. Did he really just pull a fast one on me? Just like that?

While thinking about Ben, yet another wave of nausea rolls over me, causing me to turn onto my side with my knees close to my chest, a pained groan escaping my lips at the same time. What if this isn't food poisoning, and it's something contagious, and I accidentally give it to Ben? It's not that I don't want him coming over (I'm glad that he is), but the last thing I want to do is make him sick as well.

For what feels like an eternity, I lay on my sides, switching between the two when another cramp comes along. It isn't long before I hear keys being inserted into my front door, twisting and turning before the piece of wood opens and closes a few short seconds later. Footsteps sound throughout my tiny apartment until my bedroom door gently opens, a head full of blond hair and shining blue eyes staring back at me as I smile from my current predicament on the bed.

"There she is," Ben says with a sweet smile. Wearing a plain grey t-shirt and black sweats, he takes one step into my room before happily sighing. "And just as beautiful as ever."

Blushing, I roll my eyes and flop onto my other side to dramatically turn my back to him, only receiving a laugh back before I feel his warm body settle behind my cold one. As soon as he touches me, it's as if all of my nausea and cramping dissipate, the warmth from his body acting as a heating pad for my achey body.

Ben wraps his arms around me and pulls me close to his body as he kisses my temple, his lips soft and warm like fresh pastries. At his sweet affection, I smile even more and raise my hands to rest on top of his, only for him to interlock our fingers together. Even when I'm sick and not able to do the things we usually do, he's still the best boyfriend I could ever ask for.

"Would you like me to make you some soup?" Ben asks, leaning down to nuzzle his face in my neck. Underneath the covers, his legs intertwine with mine, bringing me just enough warmth to stop shivering so bad.

"No, just lay here with me, please," I tell him, snuggling my body further in his hold as a soft sigh escapes my lips. There's nothing better than lying in the arms of the person you love - especially if they're a natural heater.

"Oh, and like I said earlier," I begin, remembering our earlier conversation. "Your cooking is something special," I remind Ben with a smirk, listening as he snickers behind me. Okay, maybe there's nothing better lying in the arms of your boyfriend and teasing him for his helpless qualities.

"I can put on a video or something, go off of that," Ben suggests, leaning his head over mine to cuddle closer to the front of my neck. "Or, I could be safe and just order something," he offers, making me smile.

"That would be nice," I tell Ben, nodding my head. Just as he goes to get up to grab his phone presumably, I tug him back down and snuggle even further into him. "In five minutes, of course," I clarify, hearing him snicker behind me again.

With a simple "okay," Ben gets himself comfortable once more before resuming holding me close. I guess no matter what, Saturday nights will always be our night and not even a stupid stomach bug can stop that.

[tribbetherium]

'The Early Rodentocene, 100 years post-establishment.

Before it was a paradise, it was a hamster hellscape.

Without predators to curb their numbers and a nigh-limitless supply of food, the first hamsters, having escaped the confines of Isla Genesis via land bridges that formed during a period of low sea levels, bred incessantly and exponentially. In the span of a century, they numbered in the hundreds of billions, becoming a tidal wave of hungry nibbling mouths that swept through Nodera, and then Easaterra, Westerna and Ecatoria like a rodent plague of continental proportions. They quickly ravaged the local plant life and introduced invertebrates, reducing once-lush grassland into barren wastes and driving many species of colonists to extinction as their numbers grew unchecked, their consumed biomass converted into even more hungry hamsters.

Eventually, having overrun the still-interconnected four main continents, they finally ran out of food, and began starving en masse: heaps upon heaps of tiny carcasses blanketing the landscape for miles on end and emanating the most terrible smell imaginable all across the land as they decomposed, a nauseating miasma of dead rodent times a hundred billion. And yet, in this putrid panorama of death and decay, some life endured. Fungi and microbes and flies and worms soon returned the nutrients of the dead to the soil, and dormant seeds and insect eggs awaiting the end of the scurrying storm burst back into bloom, nourished by the now richer earth. Trees, boasting lifespans measured in centuries, simply held off producing seeds and filled their leaves with distasteful tannins until the menacing swarms died down. Floating seeds and flying insects, blown across the sea from offshore islands and the unreachable Borealia, blew back inland and colonized the continents once again. And, with a new, enriched environment, new life flourishing once more, the world again became a paradise for the few hardy hamsters that survived the armageddon.

Unfortunately for them, it would eventually happen again, over and over, throughout the subsequent centuries. A pattern of extreme global boom-and-bust cycles of hamster populations defined the earliest days of the Early Rodentocene, as the ecosystem as a whole struggled to keep this rampant invading species under control. Time and time again, life would rebound from the devastation, only to be destroyed by the growing swarms once more within a few decades. As the centuries passed, however, the extreme pressure the hamsters put on the other species of the planet began to fuel their evolution: in a matter of just a few millennia, many plants, especially grasses, developed enormous rhizomes that grew deep underground, which continued to live on even as hamsters ate their leaves and stems. Invertebrates followed suit, laying large amounts of overwintering eggs in secluded places to assure at least some would survive, timing their emergence by evolutionary trial-and-error to times when hamsters were at their fewest. Some early plants became tougher, or more toxic, or thornier, while invertebrates retaliated with thicker exoskeletons, pinching mandibles, and painful stings to deter them from being eaten. Other species played an opposite game: instead satiating the predators with such a huge influx at the breeding season that they could not all be consumed, leaving a small percentage to survive and reproduce. Finally, and perhaps the most significant deterrent to the uncontrollable hordes, were the opportunistic microbes and invertebrates that, in the abundance of rodent hosts, became parasites and pathogens to them: ones that became particularly devastating when dense populations were in close contact, spreading quickly and causing large-scale deaths when numbers were too high.

As easily-accessible food became scarcer and starvation, disease, and competition began to take its toll, the population booms gradually became less and less severe as time went on, and the mass die-offs too became less and less devastating. Soon, new life began to flourish alongside the hamsters, not in spite of them, and, with their population levels now moderated by factors that kept them getting too overcrowded, the hamsters, once invaders, now became a part of the ecosystem. Some plants evolved to spread their seeds by having hamsters hoard them, while others relied on the nutrients spread by their droppings to grow. And by 10,000 years post-establishment, the periodic overpopulations and mass deaths were a thing of the past: balance restored to a biosphere disrupted by an unexpected arrival.

The world had changed to accommodate the newcomers: but the hamsters themselves were changed by this brutal cycle. With survivors sometimes as few as a hundred or so persisting each die-off, the gene pools narrowed and grew and fluctuated: and through rampant inbreeding, or genetic failsafes to combat the deleterious effects of lessened genetic variety, a plethora of mutations would gradually emerge in the once homogenous population: mutations that, with the aid of time and natural selection, became the catalyst that would shape the hamsters' future for the millions of years to come.'

---------

[butchreg]

U^ｪ^U  shauna shipman agere headcanons !

link to all yellowjackets agere headcanons ^__^

shauna will be referred to with she/he prns .

shauna is a flip with a caregiver lean ! she is jackie's caregiver && loves taking care of her puppy but sometimes needs to regress as well . shauna regresses typically to around 6 or 7 but also sometimes a little older or a little younger . she doesn't ever really regress to baby age but sometimes she's just a little tot .

shauna's regression is primarily involuntary but sometimes he'll regress on purpose too . if he's real small then it's probably been triggered by something but if it's voluntary she'll be on the older side .

i think shauna was one of those kids who started reading really young && her favorite activity while regressed or taking care of a regressor is reading ! jackie's too tiny to be able to read but shauna loves reading jackie little stories even if he's too little to really follow them . little!shauna is really proud of how well she can read ... she's always showing off around the other littles && asking if she can read to them .

on top of loving to read shauna loves word games like scrabble , word searches && crossword puzzles . he's really proud of having a good vocabulary && always asking about new words he comes across . she can be a bit of a little shit about it , bragging that she knows more words than the other littles or taking over if she doesn't like how someone else does the voices when reading ... .. shauna does Not play about character voices >:-L .

cg!shauna making little spelling tests for older littles like tai && nat , giving them soooo many high fives when they get the hard ones right . trying to teach younger littles like jackie && lottie the alphabet , spelling out little words with blocks . "p. u. p. pup ! like you , bug ! can you say pup ?" jackie usually just babbles in response but shauna praises her anyway ! "wow , you're so smart jax ! just like mama !" that always makes jackie clap && giggle .

legos ! little!shauna loooooves her legos . big brothers!nat & van always help her with the harder sets . she has suuuch a big collection — the other yellowjackets always get her legos for her birthday .

shauna loves mystery books like nancy drew && the hardy boys ... she has a massive collection of them && they're her favorites to read whenever she's regressed . he's suuper good at solving the mysteries && gets so proud when he figures it out before the characters . he always tells tai about them . " tai guess what ?" "shhhh no spoilers, shaun . i haven't read that one yet !"

shauna's a pretty independent little most of the time but when she's sleepy or sick it's a whole different story . following tai around , clinging to her . reading in tai's lap && crying when tai needs to get up . if she's in a mood she'll throw tantrums if left alone .

shauna's usually very confident but on the rare chance he's feeling shy or scared he'll hide behind tai or jackie . not a big fan of new people — if someone new comes around && shauna's feeling small he's using tai or jackie as a shield && refusing to talk .

shauna loves to make up stories as well as read them ! whether she's taking care of another regressor or regressed herself she's always got a story to tell . he's a bit of a yapper when regressed always going on about something .

[snekkyfics]

trying to deal with bad news. have some emduo fic.

~~~

Maunsia truly is the backwater of the North. Not so much a snowflake as a grain of dirt buried beneath them, slimy and slippery and tiny enough that they’d managed to get away with just about everything before the Antarctic Empire ran out of more available targets.

Techno’s not even sure that Maunsia is officially recognized, or if it’s even on the map.

Which would track, from what little he’s seen - and everything about it was certainly little – supported the half-cracked jokes among the men about it being a hideaway for the rich and deplorable.

And all those tracks led to fruition the moment Maunsia’s ‘king’ entered.

He was the picture of every stupid king in every fairy tale Techno had ever heard, and somehow managed to look half as bright. All trussed up in all sorts of gaudy fabrics and jewelry, twice as much as he should reasonably need in the cold, if he had the sense to invest in hardy wool and good tailors, which he clearly did not.

Techno had mentally prepared himself for many long hours of whining and meaningless imitations of groveling and bad flattery from the moment this ‘king’ entered. The sun was hardly in the sky and already the day was looking to be a lot less fun and a lot more games, and the voices were certainly making the strategy of “screw it and eat their livers” quite enticing.

But as miserable a time as these negotiations were shaping up to be, they were not yet a disaster, not yet a record-breaking horrible,

Until the rest of Maunsia’s surrendering party entered the chambers.

There was nothing unusual initially. Techno carefully – albeit with great boredom – scanned the four soldiers, and then the assorted gaggle of attendants, and then an extra soldier-looking induvidual, with a prod and a chain…

Part of Techno’s brain grasps what’s going on long before one final member of Maunia’s party is shoved between the tables separating the conqueror and the conquered, the chain looped through a hitch in the floor with a sickly practiced ease.

Ah. He’s been here before. Many times. “Gifts” were common in the process of this whole “cleaving to the Empire” business. In the beginning, when the Blade was a legend at best and a solider at least, those gifts were usually offers of status, poor bastards misunderstanding his relationship with the battlefield and the Blood God and offering him a glutton’s fill of death. Then, when the Antarctic Empire established itself as an actual force of power, the offers turned to material wealth, gold and jewels and armies. And now, as Techno, Emperor Techno, the Blade, led one of the richest and largest empires in the known world, these desperate gifts turned to rarities.

Occasionally it would be priceless works of art, although such things weren’t usually stereotypical of a ruthless warlord and thus weren’t so common. Then other times it would be strange creatures, or the remains of such, but if anything, they tempted Techno less than art would.

But most often, it was slaves.

A symbol of power, more than anything else. Techno personally theorizes that for most it’s all in the taking of a life, minus the corpse and the wastefulness. Others have called it the ultimate show of superiority, but Techno thinks that if it was so ‘ultimate’ it would not be so common, especially not in such a filthy hole as Maunsia.

At this point, Techno thought that nothing more could surprise him along this avenue, his own past muddled with the dozens of faces paraded before him, all species and races and genders and ages, dressed like royalty or entirely bare. Offered as ‘tokens of appreciation’ or ‘cooperation’ or ‘generosity,’ there for Techno’s picking.

Pick he did, the locks around beaten limbs and the tongues from their keeper’s heads.

So the horror of the day doesn’t even start with the figure gingerly moving to kneel where they’re bound.

Not even when the inky wings hesitantly and briefly stretch out to fold perfectly wrist-down, although Techno’s sure that the back of his mind was searching somewhere-

And then the figure glances up at at the table of triumphants, his gaze landing on Techno’s own.

Blue. Blue like ice. Cold and sharp and almost white against perfectly round and inky pupils. Filled with nothing but hate and determination and kill-kill-kill-

Techno’s sure he gasps, at least inhales a little sharply, not that anyone in the room cares to comment.

Which is probably a blessing, considering Techno feels like someone is dumping a never-ending stream of ice-water down his back, chilling and numbing and inciting a deep gut feeling of get-away-get-away-get-away-

~~~

them immortals are NOT friends yet

might post this as a oneshot or something. plans for lots and lots of emduo angst and hurt/comfort

1 - 2

[quitealotofsodapop]

"Questions" Chapter 2 preview.

I've decided to merge a lot of the story elements from the Hero Is Back game with the film, as the game's worldbuilding is pretty tight.

Basically after Dasheng saves Liuer from falling into a ravine (via the Stone Guardian with the seal) + getting his foot crushed in his attempts to break the cuff on his arm; they come across a young hunter who tosses his axe at Dasheng thinking he's kidnapping the kids. Once Liuer clears things up with the hunter (Boqin), the older human explains that the village nearby, Gao village, has suffered a rash of kidnappings recently. The kidnappings all perpetrated by mountain yaoguai led by a larger boar demon.

Liuer basically guilts Dasheng into acting the hero. The gang get brought to Gao Village, where the Squire Gao explains that a boar demon has recently taken residence outside the village, and that they suspect him of being the same demon leading the kidnappings - especially since he seems gluttonous enough to try.

Dasheng: "Is there any weakness this pig seems to have?" Squire Gao: "Yes, but it's not one I wish to risk my daughters' health over." Dasheng, raises eyebrow knowingly: "Women?" Squire Gao, embarrassed: "Yes. Especially taller women with red hair..." Liuer: "Dasheng! You're tall with red hair! You could draw him out!" Dasheng: "I'm aware of that, brat. But my powers aren't working like they used to, I can't just change my appearance into a pretty human." Liuer: "You don't need powers to make a good disguise, Dasheng." Dasheng, sighing: "You're right." (*turns to Squire Gao*) "You got any of your daughters' spare things?" (*cut to Dasheng standing outside the pig demon's lair, dressed in a hanfu with flowers in his fur*) Dasheng: "This pig can't be that desperate..." Zhu Bajie, Tex Avery-esque reaction: "HELLO PRETTY LADY!!!" Dasheng: "Well I be damned."

Eventually they fight monkey to pig until Zhu Bajie sees the cuff, and realises who he's fighting.

Zhu Bajie: "Sun Wukong! You're the reason I'm in this form!" Sun Wukong: "I don't remember making bacon." Zhu Bajie: "Hardy-har. I was once Marshal Canopy! When you felled my armies in heaven, I lost my place amongst the immortals and was reborn a pig!" Sun Wukong: "And is that why you've been stealing human babies?" Zhu Bajie: "What??? Why would I want to steal babies? They stink and scream all the time - there's less annoying prey out there. Plus I've been avoiding meat since Lady Guanyin told me to wait around til some tiny monk collects me." Liuer, popping in: "You met the bodhisattva!?" Zhu Bajie: (*surprised pig squeal!*) "AH! Tiny monk!!!"

And now the gang is +1 pig.

It turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. The game has a boar demon enemy/boss attacking the village at the same time you meet Bajie as a red herring.

Dasheng: (*looking between Bajie and the boar demon leading the mountain trolls*) Dasheng, offended: "Can you all seriously not tell two completely different demons apart from one another!?" The Gao Villagers: (*nervously avoid eye contact*)

And after thats all dealt with, Bajie mentions that the rash of kidnappings sounds eerily similar to an incident that occurred a century or two ago where a king sacrificed 100 "pure souls" for immortality...

Dasheng groans as Liuer looks up at him expectantly.

[upward-centrifuge]

the seadweller post, aka the first and last time i will give this much of a shit about homestuck fish.

No clue how to introduce this, so I'm just going to tell you what is true about seadwellers canonically. Seadwellers are completely distinct from everyone else on the hemospectrum, including other highbloods, in a way that isn't dissimilar to the aristocracy. Only the fuschias are actually rulers, but the violets are still royalty. Like, explicitly they are royalty. The seadwellers live in their own little world that is separate from everyone else, and they are ALL royalty. They don't have to worry about culling, they don't have to worry about money, and yet they are still people in an unjust system and this does have consequences.

In fragments, for this reason, I portray seadweller society very blatantly as an aristocracy. And the thing about an aristocracy is that it is its own tiny society where the stakes are different, the rules are different, and there are countless eyes on you at all times.

Don't get me wrong, these people are immensely privileged. They experience almost none of the risks and dangers the average Alternian faces. However, they are locked constantly in a risky social game. One in which other people are often the pawns.

They live in a world of constant power struggle, turmoil, and subterfuge, where every single action means something. This is what compels people about period dramas that focus on royalty and rich people. The aristocracy suffers no real threats, so they play convoluted power games that can be much more fun to watch.

Now, I don't focus on all this much in fragments, because one, that's a lot of screen time to spend on something ultimately more or less irrelevant to the story; and two, I don't actually find this kind of subtle power play all that compelling. It's nice sometimes, as a little treat, but you're not gonna find me watching Downton Abbey. lol.

Why I bring this all up is again, to reiterate: the seadweller aristocracy is Like That because they are at the very top. They suffer no real threats, so they have to create their own hostile little society. This goes for the hemospectrum, too. When everyone in your little society-within-a-society is at the very top of the food chain, you can't use normal hierarchy as a quick way of controlling people. So you create your own heirarcies. Seadweller society in fragments is hyper-aware of physical differences. Ethnic and regional features that are just considered "people look different depending on where they're from, big surprise" by other castes become distinct ethnic groups in the eyes of seadwellers, and it's how they form their pecking order.

In the eyes of your average Alternian, if you put a member of their caste from somewhere cold and a member of their caste from somewhere hot next to each other and then asked them to tell you the difference, they might identify ethnic traits, like one of them being fatter, but they're just as likely to point out those traits as any other traits, like the two being different genders. They're also most likely not going to attribute those physical differences to anything other than random chance.

Meanwhile, if you asked your average seadweller to do the same, they'd immediately be able to identify one as a larger-than-life, brightly colored tropic-dweller, and the other as a hardy, blubbery icefish. This shit is a big deal to them, and they're pretty racist about it.

This is why I mentioned my seadweller hierarchy as something I think a larger fanbase would love to misinterpet. I fear that the collective tumblr fandom hivemind would see that and decide that rich people are oppressed on my version of Alternia. In fact, what I am actually trying to portray is the subtle power dynamics that the obscenely rich and powerful create amongst themselves, and those dynamics do frequently involve race and ethnicity. Turn away from the British/European upper class, look at Robber Barons in America or the games that politicians play amongst themselves. Hell, look at the American middle class. There's a lot to observe.

[tinyalechardy]

Tiny hardy, Who's that in the red?

Oh woa! Tiny deadpool!?

Tiny deadpool no!!! Don't hit him!!!

... oh okay.. that's fair. You tell him tiny hardy

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Hardy transistor material could be game-changer for nuclear reactor safety monitoring

The safety and efficiency of a large, complex nuclear reactor can be enhanced by hardware as simple as a tiny sensor that monitors a cooling system. That's why researchers at the Department of Energy's Oak Ridge National Laboratory are working to make those basic sensors more accurate by pairing them with electronics that can withstand the intense radiation inside a reactor. The ORNL research team recently met with unexpectedly high success using a gallium nitride semiconductor for sensor electronics. A transistor made with the material maintained operations near the core of a nuclear reactor operated by research partner The Ohio State University. Gallium nitride, a wide-bandgap semiconductor, had previously been tested against the ionizing radiation encountered when rockets hurtle through space. Devices with wide-bandgap semiconductors can operate at much higher frequencies, temperatures and irradiation rates. But gallium nitride had not faced the even more intense radiation of neutron bombardment.

Read more.

[mausuwinasa]

Things I like abt every Side Order level track bc this is one of my fav OSTs of all time!!!

I have lots of thoughts abt the music in this game so I’m gonna just spit all of them out in this one giant post :3 90% of this will make sense only to me, also keep in mind I have synesthesia so I mention colors a lot when I talk abt music. I’m sorting these based on level type and talking abt each track individually.

d3mol12h

1. Simple and empty, much like the early levels! It creates a nice base to transition into the other tracks from. The detuning on the synths and ticking percussion remind me of a certain Purple Kiss song.

2. This track is genuinely beautiful. The organs (??) in the background give it an oddly emotional feel for such an intense song. The pinks and purples of the synths stand out well against the neutral colors of the in-game stages and enemies. It’s like the musical embodiment of a noble sacrifice! I’d put it on my nuzi playlist if it were on Spotify, smh…

3. Now it really feels like the difficulty has ramped up! The drums here are really interesting, I love the syncopation on some parts. They were also present in the second version, but I didn’t want to drag out the notes for that one any longer. The less intense parts are awesome, and I love how they get aggressively interrupted by the synths! It matches the gameplay very well.

rout1n32

1. Probably my least favorite track, but still pretty neat. I like how the same sample gets “recontextualized” into different chords, if that makes any sense. It has a bright and sunny feeling to it!

2. Metal pipe falling sound… basically just a more intense version of the first track. I like those weird ascending sound effects, they remind me of bubbles. They’re also kinda weird rhythmically, making them a ton of fun to listen to! There’s a tiny little piano sample in a certain part of it that I just noticed, and I really like for some reason.

3. GOOD LORD this song sounds like pure fear and absolutely slaps. The metal pipe has been multiplied thousands of times. Definitely a good encapsulation of the emotions most players feel upon entering Cruel_Sisyphean_Eight-Shaped.Floor.

2ouv3n1r

1. Great use of emptiness. The vocal samples sound almost corporate, a great representation of the conformist world Order is trying to create. Almost puts you to sleep, much like the early ♾️-ball levels do! Hardy har har.

2. The weird, distorted sounds, contrasted with the more relaxing parts with the lovely “wah-wah” synths make this a natural transition between the first and third tracks. I love how the repeated violin and flute sounds make a return here, but with slightly more complicated parts!

3. This song is fascinating AND very stress-inducing! It’s like the song itself is warning you about the 15 or so battering lentos currently trying to charge you. Watch out! Oh, and the less intense parts are GORGEOUS!!! The transition from a yellow to pink key reminds me of a beautiful tropical sunset. The subtle guitar part really adds to the vibe, and the descending chords are the perfect cherry on top for a lovely listening experience. They also contrast the rising synths of the chaotic parts well! It’s like a wink to the camera, a sly reminder that these tougher ♾️-ball levels are way easier than they look. Good lord I wrote for a long while on this…

j1tt3r2

1. Hmm, I don’t have much to say about this one, but I definitely like it a lot. The repeated piano samples feel almost awkward, like when you’re trying to explain your thought process to someone. Some parts of this song almost seem like miniature versions of the more ambient segments of the third track. Pretty neat!

2. I love just how weird the percussion on this is, it’s like it’s bouncing back and forth. The piano sample becomes more chopped up, and some of the beeping sounds that are more prominent in the third track start coming in, like the seeds are being planted for them.

3. Lovely intro! The abrasive synths quickly lead into another odd piano sample, like you’re swaying back and forth in a precarious spot. Almost like a more relaxed version of the vibe created by the percussion! I love the echoey ambient part in this too! There’s a certain element that sounds like someone coughing, which may sound very weird but I mean that as a compliment. The bleeps and bloops make me think of an old Game & Watch game.

j32t1ng

1. Some of the effects sound like dogs and cats to me. It makes the panicking alla mambos feel like skittish little animals, which they sort of are. The ascending beeping sounds are reminiscent of the player chasing them down. I really like the typewriter (??) sounds too! What is it with this game and abnormal percussion? I’ve gotten so much inspiration!

2. The animal-like sounds are still present. Some of the bitcrushed sounds remind me of the noises the enemies make. The meandering but relaxed melody in the beginning always feels fitting when I’m surveying the stage and planning out how I’ll achieve the objective.

3. I love this song! It just feels so cute and silly! The orchestra hit sounds are really neat. I like how the melodies often sound like circus music. I sure feel like a clown chasing down these stupid fish… the cute vibes of this song definitely make its levels feel like just a fun little game, which they certainly are! This has got to be one of my favorite tracks.

Alright that’s the end of my absurdly long post, if anyone wants to hear me rant abt the boss music just let me know because I’ve got plenty of thoughts on that too.

[ladykailitha]

WIP Wednesday Game

It’s WIP Wednesday, time for a little accountability, sharing your work, and getting a kick in the pants.

Here’s how it works:

In a reblog (or new post w/ rules attached), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!

If you’re reading this, you’re invited!

If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.

My only problem is that I tend to file name what the title is so I can find it easier, so...here’s what they were called before I titled them.

"File" Names

Steve is in a Metal Band

Werewolf Steve

Boy w/a Bat Book 2

Soulmate AU

Snippet

“I’ve also got someone coming in and deprogramming our personas,” Robin said, “so we don’t look like weirdos with no spacial awareness.”

Simon giggled. “Just how many of your friends thought you were cursed, Steve?” he teased their frontman.

“Oh hardy ha,” Steve grumbled.

“Most of them them,” was Robin’s cheerful reply.

Steve stuck his tongue out at her. “So just to reiterate, Eddie knows about me and Robin and will probably guess about you three, but it is up to you if want to tell him. We’re going back into the studio for our third album and Corroded Coffin is currently recording their ninth. And while we’re there, we’re going to learn how to be regular humans again. Then after they’re done and hopefully us, too,” he added as an aside, “and they set the dates, we will open for them for just their US portion of their tour.”

****

Sorry, I forgot to set this to schedule, but my husband decided to go to bed early and it threw off my groove.

Same as always my loves. It runs until 11pm EST.

Send as many asks as you want as often as you want.

Have fun go nuts!

Just tagging my regulars because I think a couple of them missed the post (except that lovely anon who I would love to tag)

@mira-jadeamethyst @zerokrox-blog @just-a-tiny-void @w11l0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Stomach Troubles

Jaskier sometimes wishes he was a Witcher. Who wouldn't want to basically have superpowers? He admires Geralt's enhanced strength and senses, and his resilience, sturdiness, and overall hardiness.

The man could probably stub his toe on the coffee table and have his toenail hanging on by a scrap of skin and just casually be like "Oh, well f**k. Would you look at that?" as if he were commenting on the weather.

If Jaskier stubbed his toe, it would be game over. That would be it. He'd be on the ground in the fetal position, writing his Will because he was dying.

What Jaskier really admires about Geralt is his constitution. Geralt regularly eats the mystery leftovers that he finds in the back of the fridge that have been hiding there for heaven knows how long.

It still smells good, and it's not all green and runny yet, so..

He could literally eat out of the garbage and be perfectly fine. H*ll, he could probably eat roadkill, maggots and all, and be like food-borne illnesses and parasites? What are those?

If something does manage to upset his stomach, it's usually mild. A rancid fart here and there, maybe a slightly sour stomach. Nothing he can't sleep off.

Jaskier wishes he had a stomach like Geralt's. His diet isn't the best, so he sometimes has to deal with various digestive issues. Most of them are mild issues, like the common upset stomach, acid reflux, and mild cases of needing to make a quick run for the nearest toilet.

He doesn't like to complain and bother his friends, so he tries his best to deal with the problem on his own. Sometimes, he'll ask Yennefer for one of her potions if he starts feeling too much discomfort.

He doesn't have to deal with digestive issues too often, though, because Yennefer is usually the one making their meals. She does it becuase she refuses to allow Jaskier and Geralt to "eat like stoners". Healthy meals are the norm, though she does let them order take away once in a while.

But Jaskier isn't always at home for every meal. He does gigs with his band and sometimes spends days on the road, going from city to city, or he spends a few days at Madeleine's house when they are working on their projects. Those are the times when Jaskier eats whatever the f**k he wants, and often eats too much of it in one go. Most of the time he suffers no ill effects, aside from a little indigestion.

Madeleine wonders how he never seems to have problems until he gets into the car. Then he's ripping a** , and there's no escape. She has the suspicion that he always does it in the car because he knows she can't get out. And it always smells like a dead animal.

Sometimes, he ends up destroying Madeleine's bathroom. And he always seems to run out of toilet paper when it happens. Then he has to yell through the door.

Madeleine pushes the end of a bog roll under the door and lets him unravel it as he needs, or , if she's feeling brave, she'll take a deep breath, yank the door open, toss the bog roll in grenade-style, then slam the door shut before the miasma can leak out.

Yennefer has warned her about not giving him Pepto-Bismol. She said it turns his tongue black, and he thinks it's funny to try to lick her. Yennefer has learned this from experience.

Yennefer has also been the victim of Jaskier's childish sense of humor. The little b**tard will innocently come and sit across her lap on the couch. He'll lean into her and rest his head on her shoulder, the very image of 'I need a cuddle'. He'll snuggle down, and get cozy, and then he'll shift, rip a** on her, and run away cackling while Yennefer chokes on the horrid crud vapors.

It's so rank, she swears she just got pink eye from it.

And it's funny as h*ll when he cracks one in Van Roach with Geralt and Yennefer. The Witcher is always the first one to smell it, and it hits his nose like a f***ing freight train. He's cussing and gagging, and his shoulder is making these tiny, desperate circles as he frantically tries to turn the old-school window crank fast enough to get the window down before he passes out from the smell.

Meanwhile, Yennefer is wondering what the f**k he's doing. And then she's b*tching at him because rolling the window down has done nothing but forcefully circulate the smell and now she can smell it.

Then she's jumping Jaskier's a** for eating whatever the f**k it was that made that cheek flapper smell like maggoty garbage on a hot day. He'll do it in public too.

He'll drop an air biscuit, then just walk away, leaving one of them standing in it.

Once, after eating some really spicy, greasy tacos with Eskel, he went home and asked Geralt to help him find something in the big upstairs closet. They started looking through the storage boxes, and after a few minutes, Jaskier dropped that hydrogen bomb he'd been holding in and slammed the door shut, trapping Geralt in the closet with it.

Yennefer had laughed when she'd been told about it, because well, it hadn't been her stuck in that closet.

She always threatens some creatively unpleasant consequences if Jaskier keeps eating all that sh*t food he likes so much. She constantly reminds him about his acid reflux, and tells him she's not going to just drop everything and come running everytime he eats something he shouldn't have and thinks he's having a heart attack.

Jaskier tries not to eat what results in stomach issues, but sometimes he just can't help it. Some foods are just too tasty to turn down! And when it's all you can eat... Of course he's going to get his money's worth! Consequenes? Meh, he'll worry about those later!