mins

♈︎ | she/ her • i write (sometimes) cabin 10 <3 not a minor!!

[heartybubs]

totally mins!

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ “hiiii!!”

cabin 10 ; djo ; greek mythology ; lovergirl ; (the) moon ; movies ; music ; nostalgia ; pink ; reading ; romcoms ; sabrina carpenter ; sims 4 ; star wars ; whimsy ִ࣪𖤐.ᐟ

🌬️💋: my letterboxd ࣪ ִֶָ☾. my spotify ࣪ ִֶָ☾. my storygraph

ᣟ𐚁˳♪‧₊˚ i will remain kind. i will.

i will.

i will. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

✧༺♡༻∞

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[levanswrites]

𝐤𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.4k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend throws himself off a 200-foot tower to save you. and you've finally had enough. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, heavy angst, character analysis, switch!steve, hurt/comfort, pain kink, breeding kink, minor blood kink, choking (m!receiving), bondage (?), hate-sex adjacent, sex as coping, descriptions of blood/injury, fantasies about marriage/children, scars, ptsd, aftercare, fluff, bathing together, palm reading, happy ending 𝐚/𝐧: out of everything I love about steve harrington, this is the thing that breaks my heart the most.

✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦

“You’re such a fucking—idiot—asshole—”

How do you love a man who would die for you, but won’t live for you?

“—selfish dick!”  

You slam back into him before the sentence can finish breathing. Words shredded by teeth and tongue, by kisses hard enough to bruise. Bite hard enough, and maybe you can tear the martyrdom out from under his skin. Rip the halo off and snap it between your teeth.

You sink your cuspids into his bottom lip, right over a split that had barely scabbed over on the drive home.

You feel it tear back open. Feel the plush give of it, the hot burst of copper that blooms across your tongue. Metallic and thick, his life slides down your chin in a slow ribbon of red. It smears between your mouths when you grind closer, staining your skin, marking you both.

He makes a sound.

And it’s not anything born out of pain—you’d know. 

Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.

That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.

Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair. 

And he’s hard.

Something in him is broken that way.

Years of surviving by the skin of his teeth—beaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devoured—it’s fucked up the wiring in Steve Harrington’s brain.

Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system can’t tell the difference anymore.

Getting hurt no longer scares him.

Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and he’s teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, that’s when he feels most alive.

Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like you’re fucking him.

You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.

“Yeah?” you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adam’s apple jump under your touch. “Does that feel good?”

He nods.

Doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation he’d once possessed hollowed out by hunger—by that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after he’s survived something that should have killed him.

A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favor—and instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.

You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.

You despise it.

You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thought—dangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than his—and still get hard when you hurt him for it.

You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.

He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallow—swallow his blood like it’s yours, like he’s yours, like the world could never take him from you.  

Like he hasn’t already tried to give himself away.

Only this time... it was for you, wasn’t it?

Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.

One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, and—

Your palms slam into his shoulders.

Just like his had slammed into yours.

Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.

He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.  

Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.

And the moment you close your eyes—

You’re standing on top of that tower.

You remember the look on his face.

That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.

You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.

Far enough that you couldn’t reach him.

Far enough that you would live.

And then he let go.

You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.

You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.

The same hands that had pushed you away.

The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.

You remember his mouth opening like he might say something—your name, maybe—a goodbye, something he needed you to know—but all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.

You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.

You remember lunging for him without thought.

You remember Robin’s arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.

And then his fingers slipped.

You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.

He’s sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.

“Why?” you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like you’re the insane one.

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that.”

He’s smiling.

A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out.  

It detonates something in you.

You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.

You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.

The sight underneath steals your air right back.

It never gets easier to see.

Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.

Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed right—and it never will.  

Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.

“What was the plan this time, hm?” you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. “What was the fucking plan, Steve?”

You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.

“Answer me. What would you have done if—if Jonathan didn’t catch you? If you slipped?”

His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin you’ve kissed a hundred times.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he pants. “Let you fall?”

“You didn’t know I was gonna fall!”

“Well I wasn’t gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?”  

The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.

“I can’t... I’m not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.”

Your body goes still.  

The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all that’s left is grief.

“You know,” you whisper, quieter now. “You know I’m not just talking about the tower.”

There’s a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.

He knows exactly what you mean.

Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.

His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.

“No, don’t... don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

“Well what do you want me to say?” he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. “That I’m sorry I stopped you from falling?”

“I want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!”

He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he can’t understand why you could possibly be saying this.

Steve doesn’t consciously believe his life matters less.

He would never say that.

But somewhere deep down—in the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kid—he believes it instinctively.

You’ve known that for a long time now.

Steve grew up starving.

Not for food.

For affection.   

A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.

Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.

And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.

Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.

Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.

Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.

Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.

And his body became a type of offering.

A thing to spend.

You’ve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.

Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and blood—yours or his, it doesn’t matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.

Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and begging—begging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. What’s the point of any of this shit if you’re dead, Steve?      

It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat he’ll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that won’t come.

Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.

The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.

Loop, thread, pull, cinch.

Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.

Because hesitation is what gets people killed.

It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.

How this world has taught you to restrain someone you love—and taught you well.

You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.

Steve doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.

Has the fucking audacity to smile.

“What,” he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. “You gonna punish me?”

You yank the belt tighter.

He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.

“Okay, easy, easy,” he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. “Jesus—easy, honey.”

“Oh, so now I’m honey?”

You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.

“Baby...” he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. “C’mon, you don’t have to, just—”

“Shut up.”

You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.

He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasn’t learned a single fucking thing.

So you wrap your hand around his throat.

Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.

The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.

Life he throws around like loose change.

“S-shit, babe...” he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.

But even then, he doesn’t push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.

You hate him.

You love him so much it makes you violent.

And he’s still fucking bleeding.

Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the corner—same one he’s had since he was five.

This bed once held your first kiss.

Your first time.

Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.

Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.

A hundred different somedays and maybes.

About a future that didn’t look like this—didn’t include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.

Now you’re choking him in it.  

Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you don’t know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.

It won’t leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.

Not an inch of hesitation.

Like it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.

Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in. 

Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.

“Fuck you.”

Some days you think about killing him yourself.

Ending it before the world gets to.

Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for you—

But won’t live for you.    

At least it would be quick, then.

At least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.

It’s unbearable.

Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why you’d want the same for him.

Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin. 

That’s what terrifies you most.

Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesn’t fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.

Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.

And it’s all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you don’t love him despite it.

You love him because of it.

Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.

It’s a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like it’s a dare.  

And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.

You love him.

By god, you love him.  

Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isn’t bravado—it’s instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.

Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body.  

It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside you—wounds that might close, someday, but never fade.

And he really does believe it.

That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.

But what good is devotion if it buries you?

What good is love from someone six feet under?

Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.

His Adam’s apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like he’s still back there.

Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.

His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.

Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.

And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.

Steve flinches like it’s acid, muscles clenching underneath you.

“Baby...”

You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.

“Y-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,” your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. “And it’s like—it’s like—”

The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everything’s exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.    

“...It’s like you don’t even care if you leave me here.”

Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.    

You watch—eyes burning, body trembling—as he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours.  

You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your hand—his skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling.   

He whispers your name on a soft breath.

“Baby, if I ever lost you?” He shakes his head faintly. “That’d be it for me.”

You sniff hard, refusing to blink.

“I mean it.” Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. “I’d never… I’d never leave you behind. How could I?”

He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.

“I love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.”

You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.

“Do I?”

Two words, but it’s the ugliest thing you’ve said all night.

It's suffocating, the silence that follows.

“Do you ever think about us? About me?”

Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?

For all the names you’ve thrown at him in your worst moments—reckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wish—

It’s you who feel selfish.

For wanting him to stay.

For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.

For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.

Because you’re terrified that when the moment comes, when it’s you or the world, he won’t have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him first—and that one day, it’ll win.

Or worse, that he’ll choose you instead.

That he’ll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.

And you’ll be the reason he changes.  

The reason the world breaks.

Steve’s expression changes in a flash.

The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.

“Look at me.”

You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.

“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.”

Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.

“Of course I think about you,” he whispers, breathless. “You don’t think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at me—you’re all I think about. You’re in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.”

Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.

“Every time something goes wrong, or—or I’m thinking about doing something stupid, you’re there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to think—"

You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.

“And if I just stood there tonight,” he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, “If there was even a chance you could fall, and I didn’t do anything?”

He swallows.

“I couldn’t live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldn’t.”    

A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“Baby, I... I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we don’t have to keep doing this forever.”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“You remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Six kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.”

His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin. 

“That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”

He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

“I would’ve jumped with you.”

You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t. Don’t fucking say that.”

Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.

“If you’d fallen off that tower tonight, I would’ve followed you.”

His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.

“Wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just go.”

“Steve—”

“I’d go.”

Your eyes snap open.

Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.

That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.

And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesn’t belong to him.

Your chest aches just looking at him.

You’ve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.

Waiting.

Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop it. 

Sometimes you’d trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.

You’d study the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly he’d ruined your life for anyone else.

And you’d torture yourself with the same impossible question.

If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:

Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.

He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.

He’s going to kiss you like you’re the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.

He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.

Then one day, he’ll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension. 

He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.

Would you still choose him?

Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?

Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his life—

But never his own?

And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.

You would.

Every fucking time. 

“I love you,” the boy in front of you whispers.

The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.

“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.

Because if he loved you, wouldn’t he try?

Wouldn’t he try?

“I love you.”

“Steve, s-stop.”

“I love you. There’s nothing—nothing—that matters to me more than you.”

“Steve, I swear to god—”

“You’re it for me. And if it came down to it again—”

“Please, stop—”

“—I’d choose to jump. Every time.”

It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.

Your breath caves first—a sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurt—before your body moves on instinct.

You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.

“Fuck you,” you sob.

Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.

He can’t hold you properly. Can’t wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.

Still, he tries.  

He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.

You bury your face against his neck.

His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.

“I know,” he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

“N-no, y-you don’t,” you choke out.

Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.

“You don’t know,” you sob against his throat. “You d-don’t know what it f-feels like—”

“Hey,” Steve whispers shakily. “Hey, c’mon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.”

You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.

Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “M'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.”  

You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.

When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him. 

Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.

Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesn’t so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.

The first kiss is soft.

Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier.  

But it’s worse like this, somehow.

Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender he’s being with you.

And it’s funny, really.

How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.

One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.

The next, it's here.

In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.

In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.

He’s already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.

He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it.  

Nose to nose, lips brushing even as you’re not kissing—only sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.

And your eyes stay open, watching him.

Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one you’re still begging the universe to let you keep.

“Show me.”

He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.

“Show me how much you love me.”

He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut.  

“Fuck…” he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. “Baby, please... just untie me,” he pleads, straining against his binds again. “Please—fuck—let me touch you—”

“No.”

“Please, baby—”

“No,” you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.

He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.

“God, you’re so... so pretty when you’re mad, you know that?” He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard he’s been panting.

“You get this look like you’re—ah, fuck—like you might actually kill me.”

You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.

“Maybe I should.”

Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.

Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.

You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own.  

Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"

He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.

“You gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?”

He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.

And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.

“I love you.”

His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this way—no prep, no lube, just spit—yours, his, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I love you. I love you. We’re... we’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours. 

“I love you,” he repeats against your mouth, over and over. “I love you. I love you.”

Grief really is a funny thing.   

It burns until there's nothing left to consume

And the anger that had kept you upright for hours—the frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd been—begins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.

Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.

You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.

And when you get too tired to do even that—when your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back down—he’s there to catch you.

One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.

"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.

You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. “Steve—”

“I mean it,” he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. “I-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, and—”

His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“I’m gonna marry you and—fuck—gonna give you a baby.”   

You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.

“Yeah?” He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. “You want me to give you a baby?”  

You nod into him, unable to find the words.

“How many?”

His pace is unrelenting—thrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaper’s going to show it tomorrow.  

“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. “How many?”

Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.

“F-fuck, I don’t...” you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. “Two. Maybe... maybe three.”

“Three,” he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. “What about... what about four? Make it a—mm, fuck—make it an even number.”

And it’s hardly new—the kind of bullshit he spouts when you’re both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. He’s always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the moment—spinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutes—just to get you both off.     

But tonight, they don’t feel like a fantasy at all. 

“You’d look so... so fucking pretty,” he pants, voice breaking. “Pregnant with my kid. Jesus.”

“Mm, close...” you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach.  

“Yeah? You’re close? You gonna come for me?”

You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. “T-tell me again.”

“Tell you what, baby?”

“That you... that you love me.”

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. I don’t even know what I’d do without you. I—shit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, that’s—that’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on you—expression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.

And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heat—

When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stay—

When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake him—

You finally whisper the words back.

Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.

Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.

They cannot carry it all.

They never could.

But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yours—his weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lips—you realize maybe the words don’t have to hold it all.

Maybe he can feel the rest.

· · ·

The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.

You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.

It’s the good kind—the expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You haven’t touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like you’d lost your mind.

He’d shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.

“Thought we deserved something nice,” he’d said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. “We haven’t done a proper date night in a while, right?”

But you hadn't used the bottle then.

You'd saved it.

For a night that felt right.

For a night where you weren’t just surviving long enough to see morning.

Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.

Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.

The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.

For a moment, you let yourself go back.

Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadn’t changed.

A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.

Then, the sink creaks behind you.

You turn immediately, heart jumping.  

Steve’s reflection is blurred in the mirror—shoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. He’s got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.

“You okay? You need help?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I got it.”

The words are automatic. Steve’s favorite answer to anything that worries you.

He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.

You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.

You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you. 

He doesn’t argue when you crouch in front of him.

You start with his shoes.

Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.

He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

It’s not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like he’s having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.

Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.

The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.

“Shit—”

His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.

Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.

“Too hot?” you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.

He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.

“’S perfect.”

You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.

Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.

The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.

His next breath comes easier. Then another.

After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.

They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.

He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.

“What?” he murmurs. “You’re not getting in?” 

A smile tugs at your lips. “You want me to?”

He gives you a slow, incredulous look—the classic Steve Harrington stare.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, like it’s obvious. “How else am I supposed to feel better?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you stand.

Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.

You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.

By the time you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way that’s not even pretending to be subtle.

You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off.  

“Seriously?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.

“What? Sue me.”  

He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.

You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.

The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.

They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer.  Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.

His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.

“This is nice,” he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.

You take the other one for you to keep.

Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.

You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.

“How do you know?”

The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.

“Hm? Know what?”

“How do you know...” You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. “How do you know this is real?”  

He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.

“We could still be down there,” you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.

“Maybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...” You gesture around the room. “...this.”

The lavender.

The warm water.

Him.

“What if none of it's real? What if he just—what if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?”    

Your chest feels tighter with every word.

“What if we're still—"

“Hey.”

Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.

“Hey. Look at me.”

His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.

But they’re still his.

Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.

“You know how I know?”

Your throat goes tight. “How?”

“Because you’re scared.”

Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.

“That’s how I know. Because you’re sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that we’re okay.”

Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.

A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.

“I mean…” He draws out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I don’t think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, ‘Cool. Guess that’s over.’”

He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“But then I look at you and… and I just see you doing that thing.”

You blink. “What thing?”

He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.

“This.”

He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely. 

“You always start messing with my hand when you’re freaking out.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.

“Yeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I don’t know. Thing. Like you’re inspecting it or something.”

Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s something teasing about his voice now, his smile.

The same Steve who’d make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.

His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.

His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.

“I guess… I guess that’s how I know.”

The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until there’s nothing left but this.

His hand in yours.

His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.

“Because I know you.”

He tightens his fingers around yours.

“I know you.”

· · ·

Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.

The water isn’t quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.

You’re still holding his hand.

Neither of you has let go.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.

“Hm?”

He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.

Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.

You can tell he’s searching for something—squinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail you’ve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.

You watch him for a second, then mumble:

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m doing it wrong?”

“Yes.”

He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows he’s being teased.

“How can I be doing it wrong? It’s my hand.”

You give him a look.

“Because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.

“Okay, fine, genius,” he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. “What’s this one mean?”

You smile faintly.

“You don’t remember?”  

“No, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.”

You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. You’d laughed the whole time because you didn’t actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.

You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.

“Here,” you murmur.

His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.

“This is your heart line.”

Steve doesn’t look at his hand.

He looks at you.

“It’s deep, and it doesn’t break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.”

He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.

You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.

“And here, it turns up.”

You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.

“See that spot?”

“Mm.”

“That’s called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means you’re... a hopeless romantic.”

You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you don’t already know.

But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.

“It also says you don’t know how to love halfway.” Your thumb follows the line one last time. “When you care about someone… you give them every part of yourself.”

When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.

Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.

It’s a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss.  

His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.

“Tell me what else.”

You smile, looking back down at his palm.

“You want me to read everything?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.

“Okay. This one is your head line.”

Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what they’re supposed to mean.

The truth is, none of this is anything you don’t already know.

You don’t need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is. 

You’ve known for a long time.

So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.

That he’s stubborn.

That he’s brave.

That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.

That he’s always seen himself as ordinary when he’s anything but.

And Steve listens.

· · ·

You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.

And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.

Outside this room, there will still be reminders.

Things neither of you can outrun.

Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.

Maybe some things never fully leave.

Maybe they don’t have to.

Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.

And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.

Beside you.

His hand wrapped around yours.

✦ · · · ✦ · · · ✦

[heartybubs]

INSANELY WELL WRITTEN!!! wow

[billyrayjo]

Come Get Me

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x f!reader

Description: Dean’s away game was supposed to be the worst part of your night. A creepy guy and several drinks later, you’re calling the one person who would drop everything to come get you, and suddenly, whatever you two are doing doesn’t feel so casual anymore.

Note: This can be part 4 for 'Special Girl' or a standalone. The divas yearn for Dean, so hopefully this is a bountiful harvest for those who requested! I got carried away... sorry in advance. Feedback is appreciated! Enjoy!

Tags/Warnings: Mentions of parties, alcohol, swearing. HURT/COMFORT ANGST SOUND THE ALARM!!!

The game lasted way too long.

Every whistle felt unnecessary. Every timeout dragged. By the third period, Dean had checked the clock above the scoreboard so many times that Coach finally barked his name from the bench.

"Eyes on the ice, Di Laurentis!"

Dean muttered an apology and forced his attention back to the game.

It wasn't like he had somewhere to be. Not technically. The team was still hours away from campus, and even if the game ended right that second, he wouldn't make it home before midnight.

Still, he couldn't stop thinking about the disappointed little crease that had appeared between your brows earlier that afternoon when he reminded you about the away game.

You'd tried to hide it quickly.

"Oh... Right. I forgot that was tonight."

But he'd seen it.

And because he was whipped, the knowledge that you'd wanted to see him had left him feeling embarrassingly pleased with himself for the rest of the day.

That feeling had disappeared as soon as you mentioned your plans.

Hannah and Allie were taking you to a party at some off-campus house. A friend of a friend's place, apparently. Dean hadn't recognized the name, but he didn't get any relief when you mentioned some football players were attending. He immediately disliked everyone who might be there.

He knew how ridiculous that was.

You'd only been hanging out for a couple weeks since the fall festival. One night at Malone's. A few increasingly long conversations after class. Several text exchanges that had somehow gone from teasing to telling each other things neither of you usually shared with people you barely knew.

And of course, he couldn't forget the handful of hot make-out sessions in between.

He had no right to care who spoke to you at a party.

You weren't his girlfriend.

Unfortunately, that didn't stop him from caring.

The final buzzer sounded with Briar up by two, and Dean was off the ice before the crowd had even finished reacting. He showered in record time, dragged on some sweats, and practically herded his teammates toward the bus.

"Move," he ordered when one of the freshmen stopped in the aisle to rummage through his bag.

The kid glanced up nervously. "I can't find my headphones."

"Tragic. Keep walking."

Garrett snorted behind him. "You got a hot date waiting at home?"

Dean dropped to his seat and stretched his legs onto the aisle. "No."

"Then why are you acting like the bus is about to leave without us?"

"Because some of us don't enjoy standing around a freezing parking lot while Stevens conducts a full inventory of his backpack."

"I found them!" sounded from a few rows ahead, Stevens holding up his AirPod case like the frozen four trophy itself.

A chorus of tired laughter moved through the bus.

Dean shoved his own AirPods in, although he didn't turn anything on. The moment Garrett looked away, he pulled out his phone and opened your text thread.

The last message you'd sent had come six hours ago.

Good luck at the game!

He'd hearted it before immediately second-guessing himself. The reaction had felt too eager, so naturally he'd followed it with something even more eager.

Text me when you get home?

You hadn't answered.

That wasn't weird. You were at a party. You were probably dancing with Hannah and Allie, drinking something bright blue and laughing at whatever dumb story one of them was telling.

You were fine.

Dean locked his phone and rested his head against the window.

Less than a minute later, he checked it again.

Garrett reached across the aisle and landed a hand on his shoulder.

His knee had begun bouncing without him even realizing.

"You're shaking the entire bus."

Dean glanced down. "Huh."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"You've checked your phone twelve times since we pulled out of the parking lot."

"I'm popular."

"You're anxious."

Dean scoffed, pulling one AirPod out. "I'm not anxious."

Garret studied him for a moment before his mouth curved into a slow grin.

"This about y/n?"

Dean stared at him.

"You've already disappeared with her every day this week."

"I haven't been disappearing."

"You skipped lunch with us yesterday."

"I was busy."

"At Malone's?"

Dean's expression tightened. "Do you have surveillance on me?"

"No. I'm dating Hannah. Y/n tells her everything."

"Of course she does."

Garrett leaned back in his seat, entirely too pleased with himself. "So she's at a party and you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out. She asked me to tell her how the game went."

"She did?"

"No."

Garrett laughed.

Dean shoved the AirPod back into his ear. "Go to sleep."

"You're so screwed."

Dean ignored him, although the words stuck with him as the bus carried them onto the dark highway.

He wasn't screwed.

He was curious.

Interested, maybe.

Concerned in a normal, causal way.

Nothing more.

The party had been fun at first.

That was the frustrating part.

You'd spent most of the afternoon pretending you weren't disappointed about Dean's away game, only for Hannah and Allie to see through you immediately.

"You're pouting," Hannah had announced from the foot of your bed.

"I'm getting dressed."

"You can do both."

Allie had glanced at you through the mirror as she applied mascara. "She's definitely pouting."

"I am not."

"You made that exact face when he told you he was leaving," Hannah said. "Like someone told you documentaries were getting taken off of Netflix."

You threw a shirt at her. "I've hung out with him like twice."

"And?"

"And I don't miss him."

Allie's lip twitched. "Nobody said you did."

You'd hated how warm your face became.

By the time the three of you arrived at the party, they had mostly stopped teasing you.

Mostly.

The house belonged to a guy Hannah knew from one of her classes. It sat just far enough from campus that the neighborhood had bigger yards and fewer people walking around, but close enough that every room was packed with students.

Music rattled the windows. People crowded around a beer pong table in the dining room, and the kitchen counters were covered with liquor bottles, half empty cups, and open boxes of pizza.

A red cup appeared in your hand before you had made it ten feet through the door.

"Drink," Allie said.

"I just walked in."

"Exactly. You're behind."

You rolled your eyes but took a generous sip.

The first hour passed quickly. You played flip cup with Hannah, danced badly with Allie, and laughed until your stomach hurt when a guy attempted to jump over the back of the couch and his toes caught onto the top of the cushions instead.

Someone refilled your cup.

Then someone else did.

At some point, you stopped noticing when it happened.

By midnight, the warmth from the alcohol had spread through your entire body, softening the sharp edges of the crowded room. Your face hurt from smiling, and every song seemed like the best one you had ever heard.

You pulled out your phone when it vibrated in your pocket, expecting a message from Dean.

It was an email from the campus bookstore.

Disappointment sank through you before you could stop it.

"You are so bad at being casual," Hannah observed.

You looked up to find her watching you over the rim of her cup.

"I was checking the time."

"You were smiling before you looked at the screen."

"I smile all the time."

"Not like that."

Allie leaned against your shoulder. "Text him."

"He's playing."

"The game ended twenty minutes ago," Hannah said.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why do you know that?"

"Because unlike you, I'm capable of checking a score without staring longingly at someone's contact."

"I wasn't staring longingly."

Allie reached for your phone. "Give it to me. I'll do it."

You jerked it out of reach, laughing. "Absolutely not."

For several minutes, the three of you argued over what would constitute a normal message. Eventually, you gave up and locked your phone without sending anything.

You didn't want to seem clingy.

Whatever existed between you and Dean was still too new to poke at. You liked him more than you'd expected to, which made every text feel strangely important. You didn't want to be the person waiting around for him after only a couple of weeks.

"All right," Hannah said, pointing towards the kitchen. "I need water."

"You need water?" Allie repeated skeptically.

"I'm thirsty! You took a shot off of someone's stomach fifteen minutes ago and I still feel gross about it.”

"It was hygienic."

You followed them toward the kitchen, but a group of people surged between you near the doorway. Someone grabbed your hand and pulled you into a conversation about a professor you didn't even know. By the time you politely escaped, Hannah and Allie were gone.

You weren't worried. They did this all the time, vanishing into different corners of a party before eventually reappearing with stories you could barely follow.

You checked the kitchen, found neither of them, and poured yourself some water.

"Switching to the hard stuff?"

You glanced over.

A guy stood beside you, smiling as though you were already halfway through a conversation. You vaguely remembered him from earlier. He had introduced himself during flip cup, but his name immediately disappeared beneath the alcohol.

"Trying to be responsible," you muttered.

"That's boring."

"I've had enough fun."

"I doubt that."

His gaze lingered on you long enough to make you aware of the short hem of your skirt. You tugged at it without thinking.

He noticed.

The smile remained on his face, but something had shifted.

"You here with somebody?"

"My friends."

"I meant a guy."

You lifted the cup of water to your lips. "No."

"Good."

The answer was too immediate.

You laughed lightly, more out of habit than amusement. "Why?"

"Because I've been trying to talk to you all night."

"We're talking now."

"Exactly."

He leaned closer to be heard over the music. His breath smelled sharply of beer.

You stepped to the side and looked toward the doorway. "I should find my friends."

"They're probably fine."

"I'm sure they are."

"Then stay."

His hand brushed your elbow.

The touch was light enough that you could have pretended it was accidental. You moved away anyway.

"I really do need to find them."

He raised both hands with a laugh. "Relax. I'm not stopping you."

The word relax bothered you more than it should have.

You smiled politely and slipped into the hallway.

The air felt thicker away from the kitchen, and the alcohol that had seemed pleasantly warm twenty minutes earlier was beginning to weigh down your limbs. You pulled out your phone and opened the group chat.

Where did you two go?

The message delivered instantly.

You waited.

Nothing.

You called Hannah. The music on your end was so loud that you couldn't tell whether the call had even connected before it went to voicemail.

Allie didn't answer either.

You reminded yourself that they were somewhere in the same house. They hadn't abandoned you. One of them was probably in the bathroom while the other was trapped in a conversation.

There was no reason to panic.

You returned to the living room and stood on your toes, searching over the crowd. No familiar brunette hair. No flash of Allie's red top.

Someone bumped into you hard enough to spill part of your water down your wrist.

"Sorry!"

"It's okay."

You wiped your hand on your skirt and continued toward the stairs.

"There you are."

Your steps faltered.

The guy from the kitchen appeared beside you, carrying a fresh drink.

"I thought you ditched me."

"I told you I was finding my friends."

"And did you?"

"Not yet."

He held out the cup. "I made you something."

"No, thanks."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I'm drinking water."

"Come on. One drink."

"I've had enough."

His smile tightened briefly before returning. "You sure?"

"Very."

He lowered the cup, although he didn't move out of your way. "You seem nervous."

"I'm not."

"You keep looking around."

"I'm looking for my friends."

"You've said that."

Because you were drunk, it took you a second to recognize the irritation in his voice.

Something cold slid beneath the warmth in your stomach.

You moved toward the stairs. "I'm going to check upstairs."

"I'll come with you."

"No, that's okay."

"It's crowded. I'll help."

"I don't need help."

He laughed as though you were flirting with him.

Normally, you would have been firmer. Sober, you would have told him to leave him alone without worrying whether you sounded rude.

But your thoughts were sluggish, and every response seemed to arrive a second too late. By the time you figured out what to say, he had already stepped closer.

"You know," he said, "you've been giving me mixed signals all night."

You stared at him. "I've barely talked to you."

"You kept smiling."

"I was being polite."

His expression changed again. Not anger exactly, but something petulant and ugly enough to make your pulse jump.

"Right."

You stared past him.

His fingers closed around your forearm.

Not hard.

That almost made it worse.

It was casual, as though he had every right to stop you.

You looked down at his hand before meeting his eyes.

"Let go."

For a moment, he didn't.

Then he released you with another laugh and raised his hands. "Jesus. I was just trying to keep you from falling."

"I wasn't falling."

"You're obviously wasted."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

The room seemed to tilt around you, not because you were about to fall but because suddenly every instinct you had was screaming that something was wrong.

People moved around the two of you without noticing. Someone shouted from the beer pong table. A group near the couch erupted into laughter.

Nobody was watching him.

Nobody knew that you wanted to leave.

You backed away. "I need some air."

"I'll come."

"I want to be alone."

His smile disappeared completely.

"You don't have to act like I'm some creep."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

You didn't answer. You pushed through the crowd and headed for the front door, resisting the urge to look behind you.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped onto the porch. You gripped the railing and drew in a slow breath, trying to calm the sudden pounding in your chest.

Maybe you were overreacting.

He hadn't hurt you. He had held your arm for all of three seconds. He was probably drunk too and terrible at reading social cues.

But that explanation didn't make you feel better.

You unlocked your phone again.

Still no response.

You typed another message.

Where are you guys? I'm ready to leave.

Your thumb hovered over Dean's name afterward.

You pictured him on the bus, tired and sore after the game. Calling him would be dramatic. He was hours away and couldn't do anything except worry.

You locked your phone.

The screen door creaked open behind you.

"Getting some air?"

Your entire body stiffened.

He stepped onto the porch and let the door swing shut, sealing off most of the noise from inside.

"I figured I'd keep you company."

"I'm waiting for my friends."

"They'll find you."

He settled against the railing beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

You moved several steps away.

His eyes followed you.

"I think I'm going back inside," you said.

"I'll walk with you."

"You don't need to."

"I know."

The answer came with a smile, but there was no warmth in it now.

He moved when you moved, matching your pace toward the door.

You stopped.

So did he.

"You don't have to follow me."

"I'm not following you."

"You've been everywhere I've gone for the last half hour."

"I'm trying to talk to you."

"And I've told you I'm looking for my friends."

He tilted his head. "Why are you being like this?"

The question caught you off guard.

"Like what?"

"Acting scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You look scared."

He took another step.

Your fingers tightened around your phone.

"I'm going inside."

His hand landed at the small of your back as though he meant to guide you.

You jerked away so quickly that your heel caught on the edge of the porch. The railing stopped you from falling, but the movement sent a painful jolt through your ankle.

"Don't touch me."

He stared at you.

Then he laughed.

The sound made your stomach turn.

"Okay. You're being dramatic."

You pushed through the screen door before he could move again.

The party swallowed you immediately.

You didn't run, but your steps were fast and clumsy as you searched for somewhere to go. The bathroom at the end of the hall was occupied. You knocked once, received no answer, and tried the handle anyway.

Locked.

You crossed the kitchen, nearly colliding with someone carrying a tray of shots. The stairs were crowded. Every doorway seemed blocked.

Behind you, you heard his voice.

"Hey, wait."

Panic sharpened your thoughts for the first time all night.

You slipped down a narrower hallway and found another bathroom tucked near the laundry room. The door opened.

You hurried inside, locked it, and leaned your back against the wood.

The sudden quiet was almost painful.

You breathing came too quickly. Your eyes burned, and when you looked down, your hands were shaking so badly that you nearly dropped your phone.

A knock sounded behind you.

Soft.

Patient.

"You okay in there?"

You covered your mouth to keep from making a sound.

"Come on," he continued. "I said I was sorry."

He hadn't.

Another knock.

"I'll wait."

The words made something inside you crack.

You opened your phone and pressed Dean's name before you could talk yourself out of it.

He answered before the first ring had finished.

"Hey."

You could hear his smirk over the phone.

The relief of hearing his voice was so intense that your eyes filled instantly.

"Dean?"

Silence stretched for less than a second.

When he spoke again, every trace of warmth and teasing had vanished.

"What happened?"

You tried to answer, but your throat closed around the words. All you managed to mutter was a jumbled mess of 'Is' and 'hes’.

"Hey." His voice softened without losing its urgency. "Take a breath for me. Are you hurt?"

"No." The word came out wet and uneven. "I don't think so."

"What do you mean, you don't think so?"

"I'm drunk."

"I know, baby. That's okay. Where are you?"

The endearment nearly undid you.

You pressed a hand to your eyes. "I'm in a bathroom."

"What house?"

"I don't know."

Dean swore under his breath. You heard movement on his end, then Garrett asking him something.

"Open your messages," Dean instructed. "Send me your location."

"I don't want to hang up."

"You don't have to. Put me on speaker."

You did as he said, fumbling through the screen until the location sent.

"Got it," he said immediately. "Stay where you are."

A knock sounded again.

"You still in there?"

Dean went silent.

Your stomach dropped.

"Is that him?" he asked.

You nodded before remembering he couldn't see you. "Yes."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know."

"What did he do?"

"He won't leave me alone. He grabbed me, and he followed me outside, and I told him to stop, but he keeps saying I'm being dramatic."

Dean's breathing changed.

The quiet anger in it frightened you almost as much as the guy outside.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Did he put anything in your drink?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. Listen to me." His voice remained steady, each word clipped and controlled. "You are not opening that door. I don't care what he says. Hannah and Allie are there, right?"

"I can't find them."

"I'm calling them now."

"Dean, please don't hang up."

"I'm not hanging up. Garrett's calling."

There was muffled conversation on the bus. Seats shifted. Someone cursed. Dean was clearly moving toward the front.

"You're still hours away," you whispered.

"No, I'm not."

"You said-"

"We've been driving for over an hour. We're close enough."

"How close?"

"Doesn't matter."

The bus driver shouted something in the background.

Dean responded sharply, then returned to you. "I'm coming."

Guilt pierced through the fear. "You don't have to."

"Stop."

His voice wasn't harsh, but it left no room for argument.

"You called me because you're scared. I'm coming."

Another knock rattled the door.

"Are you seriously hiding from me?"

You flinched.

Dean heard it.

"Back away from the door."

You moved toward the bathtub.

"Good. Sit down if you're dizzy."

"i'm not dizzy."

"You sound drunk enough to be friends with the floor, so sit."

Despite everything, a broken laugh escaped you.

Dean exhaled. "There you are."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For calling you."

His answer came so quickly that it almost overlapped yours.

"Don't ever apologize for calling me."

Your face crumpled.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the bathtub and hugged one arm around your stomach, your breath coming out in shaky pants.

Dean barely remembered getting off the bus.

He knew Coach had yelled after him. Garrett had followed long enough to toss him his keys, while Logan remained on the phone with Hannah.

The bus had reached the outskirts of campus, but the party was still twenty minutes away.

It took Dean twelve.

He stayed connected to you the entire drive, forcing himself to keep his voice calm whenever you went quiet. The angrier he became, the gentler he spoke to you.

Hannah and Allie had finally answered Logan. They had been upstairs helping a friend who had gotten sick, both of their phones buried underneath a pile of purses. The moment they understood what had happened, they started searching for the bathroom.

Hannah reached you first.

Dean heard her pounding on the door and shouting your name.

"It's her," he told you. "You can open it."

"Are you sure?"

The question made his grip tighten around the steering wheel.

"I'm sure."

There was the sound of a lock clicking, followed by Hannah's horrified voice.

"Oh my God."

You burst into tears.

Dean listened to Hannah reassure you until the headlights swept over the crowded driveway. He parked crookedly along the curb and was out of the car before the engine had fully stopped.

The front door opened as he approached.

Allie stood there, pale and furious. "She's in the bathroom."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. Hannah told him to get lost, and he disappeared."

Dean's jaw locked.

Every instinct urged him to search the house, find the guy, and make sure he never followed anyone into a hallway again.

Then he heard you crying.

The anger disappeared.

He followed Allie through the house, pushing past clusters of confused partygoers until he reached the narrow hallway.

Hannah sat on the floor beside the bathroom door. You were curled against her, your face hidden in your hands.

Dean stopped.

He had spent the entire drive imagining you injured, unconscious, or trapped behind that door. Seeing you upright should have relieved him.

Instead, the sight of your shaking shoulders hollowed out his chest.

Hannah looked up. "He's here."

You raised your head.

Your mascara had smudged beneath your eyes, and fear still clung to your expression. The moment you saw him, something in your face softened.

"Dean."

He crossed the remaining distance and crouched in front of you.

"Hey."

Your bottom lip trembled. "You came."

The words nearly broke him.

"Of course I came."

He wanted to touch you, but he didn't know what would make you feel safe. His hands hovered uselessly until you reached him first.

Your fingers closed around the front of his sweatshirt.

Dean moved immediately.

He slid one arm around your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you from the floor as though you weighed nothing.

You curled against his chest, pressing your face into his neck.

"I can walk," you mumbled.

"I know."

"You're carrying me."

"I noticed."

"I'm heavy."

"Now you're insulting me."

A weak laugh warmed his skin.

Dean closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the rush of relief.

Hannah gathered your purse and followed outside with Allie.

"We're coming with you," Hannah said.

Dean glanced down at you. Your eyes were already drifting shut against his shoulder.

"I'm taking her home."

"Our apartment," Allie urged. "We'll meet you there."

Before Dean could respond, your weak voice sounded below him.

"I want to stay with Dean. If that's okay."

Dean tried to fight his smile as he waited for Hannah and Allie's approval, his mouth coming down to your ear to whisper a quick "Of course it's okay, baby." before shooting a pleased look Hannah's way.

"Fine. But make sure she's okay, Dean. I mean it."

Dean nodded his head vigorously as the girls came to crowd around you. Apologies and forgiveness flew back and forth between you and them, the others finally deciding you were good to leave when you promised to call them first thing tomorrow.

He lowered you carefully into the passenger seat of the car, then crouched beside the open door to inspect you.

"Where did he grab you?"

You looked down at your forearm.

Dean found a faint red mark near your wrist.

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

"Does anything else hurt?"

"My ankle a little."

"What happened?"

"I tripped when he touched me."

Dean stared at you.

Your eyes widened. "It's not bad."

He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb against his brow.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm trying really hard not to commit a felony."

That earned him another tiny laugh.

He took off his jacket and draped it over your lap before fastening the seatbelt across you.

Your fingers caught his wrist before he could stand.

"I'm sorry you had to leave the bus."

Dean looked down at your hand around him.

"You really have to stop apologizing."

"I ruined your night."

"You did no such thing."

"You won."

"How do you know?"

"Hannah told me."

Despite himself, he smiled. "We did."

"I knew you would."

The trust in your voice was so uncomplicated that it hurt.

Dean turned his hand beneath yours and squeezed your fingers.

"Let's get you home."

The drive to the hockey house was quiet except for the low hum of the heater.

You kept one hand wrapped around Dean's sleeve, as though you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. He didn't comment on it.

Every few minutes, he glanced over to make sure you were awake.

"I'm okay," you mumbled the third time you felt his gaze on you.

"Didn't ask."

"You keep looking at me."

"You're very pretty."

Your face warmed.

He immediately cleared his throat. "And drunk. Mostly drunk."

"You think I'm pretty?"

"You're hearing things."

"You said it."

"I've taken a few pucks to the head. Nothing I say is legally binding."

You smiled and leaned your cheek against the seat.

For several turns, neither of you spoke.

Then you whispered, "I missed you."

Dean's hands tightened around the steering wheel.

The thrum in his chest drowned out the turn signal as he took another left.

He let his hand fall to your lap as he brought his gaze to yours.

"I missed you, too."

Your eyes filled again.

He softened immediately. "Hey. No more crying."

"I can't help it. You're sweet to me."

Dean stared at you. "That's what's making you cry?"

"It's been a long night."

The light you had been stopped at turned green.

He rotated his wrist to hold his hand palm-up.

After a moment, you placed yours in it.

He drove the rest of the way one-handed.

The house was dark when he pulled into the driveway.

You stirred when the engine shut off, lifting your head.

"Where are we?"

"My place."

"Oh."

"You remember agreeing to that, right?"

Your brows furrowed.

"I think so."

"Very reassuring."

Dean climbed out and walked around to your side. You had already opened the door by the time he reached you, but the moment your foot touched the pavement, your face pinched.

Dean noticed immediately.

"That hurt."

"No."

"That was absolutely a pain face."

"I don't have a pain face."

"You do now."

Before you could protest, Dean slid an arm around your waist to steady you. You stiffened for half a second, and he felt it immediately.

His grip immediately loosened.

"Is this okay?

You looked up at him, and something in your expression softened.

"Yeah."

"Okay."

He kept his arm around you as you crossed the driveway, letting you decide how much weight to put against him. Halfway to the door, your head tipped against his shoulder.

"You still with me?"

"Mhm."

"Compelling argument."

"I'm tired."

"I know."

The house was empty, which Dean was privately grateful for. The last thing he needed was Garrett or Tucker wandering downstairs and making some comment that would send you into another spiral.

He guided you into the living room and eased you onto the couch.

"Sit."

"You're bossy."

"You're drunk."

"You keep saying that."

"You keep proving it."

Dean disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of water and a sleeve of crackers.

You frowned at the crackers. "Those are depressing."

"They're preventative."

"Preventative of what?"

"You throwing up on the rug."

You looked down. "Is it expensive?"

"Not even a little."

That made you laugh again.

"Drink."

Dean twisted the cap off the bottle and handed it to you. You took two tiny sips.

He stared.

"More."

"You're annoying."

"I've been told."

You drank again, then handed the bottle back with a dramatic sigh.

"Happy?"

"Thrilled."

He sat on the coffee table across from you, and for the first time since leaving the party, the room went completely still.

Without the music or the crowd or the urgency of getting away, the night seemed to settle over you all at once. Your fingers tightened around the edge of Dean's jacket.

He noticed.

"You okay?"

You opened your mouth to give the automatic answer, then stopped.

"I don't know."

Dean's expression softened. "That's allowed."

You stared down at your hands. "I should've just been mean."

"What?"

"To him." Your voice grew quieter. "I kept trying to be polite because I didn't want to look crazy."

"You weren't crazy."

"I know that now."

"You should have known it then."

You looked up at him.

Dean leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You never have to be nice to someone who makes you uncomfortable."

"I know."

"No." His voice lowered. "I mean it. You don't owe anybody politeness if they're scaring you."

Your throat tightened.

Your eyes filled again.

Dean saw it immediately and panicked.

"Oh, no."

You gave a watery laugh. "What?"

"Don't cry."

"I can't help it."

"I'm terrible with crying."

"You're doing okay."

"I'm panicking internally."

That pulled another small smile from you.

Dean reached toward you, then stopped himself before touching you.

"Can I?"

You looked at his hand for a second before nodding, and the hesitation on his face loosened as he let it settle lightly against your knee. The touch was careful, almost tentative, which felt strange coming from someone who normally carried himself with so much confidence. But tonight, he seemed determined to let you control every inch of space between you.

You tugged at his hand gently, his body instantly responding and sliding onto the couch next to you. You tucked yourself into his side, one had wrapping around your shoulders as the other remained on your knee. For a few minutes, neither of you said anything. The house was quiet around you, so different from the pounding music and crowded rooms you'd spent the last several hours trying to escape.

You stared down at his hand.

"I called you."

Dean's eyebrows pulled together slightly. "Yeah."

"I mean..." You swallowed, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. "I don't know why I called you."

His hand shifted against your knee, and you caught the brief flicker of something on his face before he covered it with a crooked smile.

"Wow. This night just keeps getting better for me."

"No." A laugh slipped before you shook your head. "That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"I just mean I didn't really think about it." You picked at the edge of your skirt, trying to figure out how to explain something you barely understood yourself. "I was sitting in the bathroom, and I was scared, and I kept trying Hannah and Allie, but then I saw your name and just... called."

Dean didn't immediately respond.

When you looked up at him, the teasing expression had disappeared. He was watching you with an intensity that made your already warm face feel hotter.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"That's not nothing."

He gave you a quiet laugh and glanced away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "You're drunk."

"I'm aware."

"Which means I'm definitely not having this conversation with you right now."

You frowned. "What conversation?"

"Exactly."

"Dean."

He looked back at you, and you could tell he was trying very hard to keep things light.

"You called me. I came. That's all."

You smiled faintly, but your chest tightened again.

"I knew you would."

That wiped the amusement from his face.

Dean stared at you for long enough that you started wondering if you'd said something wrong.

"Knew I would what?"

"Come get me."

Your voice was quieter now.

Something changed in his expression then. It was subtle, but you saw it. His jaw shifted slightly, and his thumb moved once against your knee before going still.

"You can't say things like that when you're drunk," he finally said.

Your brows knitted together. "Why?"

"Because I'm trying very hard to be a decent person here."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Dean let out a disbelieving laugh and leaned back slightly. "You really are drunk."

"You keep saying that like I've forgotten."

"You asked me ten minutes ago if my rug was expensive."

"That was a valid question."

"You were worried about throwing up on it."

"I was being considerate."

He grinned despite himself. "You're adorable."

The word slipped out so naturally that neither of you seemed to process it immediately.

Then Dean did.

His grin faltered.

Your eyes widened slightly.

He cleared his throat. "Drunk. I meant you're an adorable drunk."

"That wasn't better."

"I panicked."

That pulled another laugh from you.

Dean smiled, clearly pleased with himself, before standing and holding out his hand.

"Come on."

You stared at it. "Where are we going?"

"Bed."

Your eyes snapped up.

Dean immediately sighed.

"My bed. You sleep in it. I sleep somewhere else." He shook his head. "Jesus. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"My mind isn't in the gutter."

"You looked terrified."

"I was surprised."

"Sure."

You took his hand and let him pull you carefully to your feet. Dean caught you around the waist before you could stumble.

"I'm fine."

"You know, I think we should ban that phrase from your vocabulary."

"It barely hurts."

"Great. You can tell me all about it while you're not walking on it."

Before you could ask what he meant, Dean bent and lifted you into his arms.

A startled noise escaped you as you grabbed onto his shoulders.

"Dean!"

"What?"

"I can walk."

"I know. We've discussed this. I just want to help you up the stairs."

"Jerk."

His laugh rumbled beneath your ear.

You should have felt embarrassed being carried through the house by a guy you'd only been seeing for a couple of weeks, especially after everything that had already happened.

Instead, you felt safe.

Dean pushed open his bedroom door with his shoulder and lowered you carefully onto the edge of his bed.

"Stay."

You raised an eyebrow. "Am I a dog?"

"No, because dogs listen."

You rolled your eyes while Dean disappeared into his closet. He returned a moment later and with a folded T-shirt.

"Arms up, baby."

You raised your arms, heat dusting your cheeks as the slid it over your clothes.

It smelled like him.

That seemed like an observation you should keep entirely to yourself.

When you returned from the bathroom after cleaning yourself up and removing your party clothes, Dean was pulling an extra pillow from the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"Couch."

The answer came so easily that something in your chest sank before you could stop it.

"Oh."

Dean paused.

You immediately hated how much disappointment had slipped into that one stupid syllable.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He stared at you.

You climbed beneath the covers and busied yourself adjusting the pillow.

"I'm fine."

"Banned phrase, remember?"

You sighed.

Dean waited.

Finally, you looked at him.

"Can you stay?"

The teasing disappeared from his expression.

You rushed to explain before he could misunderstand.

"I don't mean... I just don't really want to be alone yet."

Dean's face softened so quickly that you almost wished you hadn't looked at him.

"Yeah."

He put the pillow back without another word.

"Of course."

He lay down beside you, careful to leave a respectable amount of space between your bodies. For someone who had spent the last couple of weeks flirting with you at every available opportunity, he was suddenly acting like crossing the invisible line down the middle of the mattress might kill him.

You turned onto your side.

Dean stared up at the ceiling.

"You're really far away."

His head turned toward you.

"I told you I was trying to be a decent person."

"You look like you're afraid of me."

"I'm afraid of myself."

You frowned.

Dean immediately shook his head. "That sounded significantly worse than I intended."

You laughed softly.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Come closer."

He hesitated.

Then he shifted across the mattress until only a few inches remained between you.

"Better?"

You nodded.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The exhaustion you'd been fighting all night finally began pulling you under, but every time your eyes closed, you remembered the bathroom door.

The knocking.

The voice on the other side.

Your eyes opened again.

Dean noticed.

"You okay?"

You nodded, then stopped yourself.

"No."

He waited.

You stared at the space between you.

"Can I..."

You trailed off, embarrassed by what you were about to ask.

Dean seemed to understand anyway.

He slowly opened one arm.

"Come here."

You moved before you could second-guess yourself, curling into him and resting your cheek against his chest.

Dean went completely still for half a second.

Then his arm settled around you.

Carefully.

His hand rested between your shoulder blades, warm and steady, and the tension that had been sitting inside you all night finally began to loosen.

"This okay?" he murmured.

"Mhm."

"You sure?"

You smiled against his shirt.

"You ask that a lot."

"Tonight seems like a good night for it."

You couldn't argue with that.

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You won't leave?"

His chest rose beneath your cheek as he took a slow breath.

"No."

"Even if I fall asleep?"

"Especially then."

You were quiet for a moment.

"Promise?"

Dean's arm tightened around you just slightly.

"I promise."

You believed him.

Dean stayed awake long after you stopped moving.

He stared into the darkness with one arm wrapped around you and your hand curled loosely into his shirt, trying not to think too hard about how natural it felt to have you there.

Two weeks.

That was it.

Two weeks of burgers and texts and stupid jokes. Two weeks of pretending the rush he got whenever your name appeared on his phone was just because you were new and interesting.

Tonight had ruined that lie.

Because when he'd heard your voice crack through the phone, there hadn't been a single part of him that had considered doing anything other than getting to you.

And now you were asleep against his chest because you trusted him enough to close your eyes.

Dean looked down at you, his hand slowly moving over your back before he could stop himself.

He should have been terrified by how much that meant to him.

Maybe tomorrow, he would be.

Tonight, he only pulled you a little closer and closed his eyes.

For the first time since his phone had rung on that bus, Dean finally felt like he could breathe.

[livinglegendxoxo]

⟢ ⋆ ＰＲＥＴＴＹ ＢＯＹ. ⋆⟢

summary : once you come into possession of an old polaroid camera, it’s only right to make good use of it - forcing your boyfriend to be your model!

warnings : fluff, body worship, biting, lazy-sweetly-pervy make out session.

word count : 1,5k.

notes : i was listening to 80s love songs while writing this and i genuinely reached flow state.

Going on supply runs to Mount Weather made you realize one thing - you were one hell of a vintage enthusiast. You found the oldies fascinating, from faded books and paintings to any kind of antiques and gadgets. So the day you got your hands on a box with a polaroid camera inside, you instantly knew it would become your favorite item in the small collection.

“I don’t wanna screw it up.” You mumbled as you made your way over to Bellamy, clutching film packs in your left hand and the camera in your right. You were truly excited about this, grinning from ear to ear like an eager kid. Although being aware of your tendency of being too hot headed for your own good, you grew to not really trust yourself with things that needed delicacy or thoughtfulness. Especially when you had little idea about them. Such as in this case.

“C’mon you won’t! It can’t be rocket science, yeah? C’mere.” Bellamy reassured you with a chuckle, finding you absolutely adorable right now. You turned on the nightstand lamp that cast a warm, yellow glow over the room and hopped on the bed right in front of him, your legs touching.

“Alright, so…” He murmured as you handed him the items that needed figuring out. “Pretty sure the dark slide has to be facing outward.” Your eyes followed his long fingers that pressed the film door latch and inserted the said packet, and then clicked it back into place.

“That’s it?” You asked, barely containing your impatience.

“Looks like it.” He tilted his head up with a smile and returned the polaroid back into your hold. “Knock yourself out.”

Your back straightened as you brought the lens to your eye, assessing the frame, watching how differently lit places of your apartment looked in it. A warm chuckle came from behind you at the sight. “Wait until daylight, the lighting’s just shitty here.” He was convinced that you’d anticipate some nice shots in the woods or something like that. Your mind on the other hand, was wandering in a completely different route.

You turned in his direction, not really listening to his words, too focused on the sight in the viewfinder. Oblivious to being in the center of the frame, Bellamy leaned over to grab a book from the nightstand. The muscles of his bare, freckled back tensed, the covers sliding off his lower stomach. Too pretty not to capture. “Put that damn book down.” The moment his eyes landed on you again, you pressed the shutter, the flash hitting his confused face. You lowered the polaroid, bursting into laughter.

“Couldn’t bother to warn me?” He scoffed, blinking repeatedly.

“Sorry. Needed to immortalize your dumbfounded face.” You replied and put the ejected photo away for the colors to develop.

“Baby, you’re wasting the packs on me. Save ‘em.” He squeezed your thigh as he spoke right before lowering his body down on the mattress with a heavy sigh.

“Shhh...” You smirked and without hesitation crawled up his body, straddling his hips, clumsily wriggling the camera in your raised hand. He immediately reached out to assist you, used to your restless moves. Looking up to you with his dilated brown pupils like a damn puppy. “Stay still.” You murmured. He knew he had to give in now. You felt his chest rumble with laughter underneath you.

“‘Kay. Should I do somethin’ specific? Smile?” He grinned playfully, showing off his teeth and earning a scoff from you.

“Freedom of choice.” You gazed back into the lens, still feeling his hands endlessly kneading on your things. He stopped grinning like an idiot now but the honest smile lines wouldn’t come off his face.

You saw right through him. You noticed how he felt receiving that amount of affection a while ago. And gosh - to say you loved it would be an understatement. You relished in the way his freckled cheeks heated up just a bit, how he’d always try to dismiss how much he enjoyed having you pay attention to him in such a way. Feeling almost foolish to be facing admiration so openly.

“So handsome...” You couldn’t resist the urge to hum the words out loud while your fingers stroked his curls, messy and still damp from the shower.

“Just take the damn photo.” He murmured with a sheepish smirk and pinched your sides to stop you from giving him that torturously disarming look.

“What? Embarrassed much?” The sweet words rolling off your tongue got him good, alongside the way your head gently tilted to the side.

“Remind me again, when did I consent to this?” Well, a sudden, deep kiss planted on his lips turned out to be a fairly satisfying answer. His hands cradled you forcefully, bringing you closer by your backside. Your body practically melted into his, getting warmer with every brush of his heated skin against your own. “Mkay, I think I remember now.”

He barely got to finish the sentence before you rubbed the entirety of your body weight on him and brought him in by the neck to revive the wet kiss you still needed from him. Feeling his bare leg curl up against your own, his fist tugging at your hair… it all made your head spin in ecstasy. Your palms travelled to feel the familiar skin. Not really realizing when the polaroid left your grasp. Your fingers traced the movement of his Adam’s apple. Then they made their way up to feel his sharp jaw that worked so eagerly to satisfy you with the ongoing slow kiss. You were simply drunk on the sight of your pretty, hardworking boy underneath you.

Bellamy’s hands seemed to want to touch you everywhere at once. That’s why the moment they moved to grasp your leg that curled around his waist, they met the plastic of the polaroid that you abandoned somewhere in the sheets. “Baby, watch the camera.” He chuckled and reached out for it with you still in his lap. “Oops.” Your whisper was quickly followed by a pleased groan, dragged from his throat once your teeth clutched his lower lip. His grasp on you tightened at sensation so delectable and provocative.

“You know what shot could be real nice?” He sighed pulling your face just a tiny bit away, stroking your hair back in the process. “One with some marks from your pretty mouth on my neck. Or anywhere you’d like. That work for you, sweetheart?”

“I do see the vision.” You replied with your stomach already twisting in excitement.

“Good. We workin’ real good on this photography thing together.” Oh, you definitely agreed. Your response was immediate - your teeth sank deep between the freckles dusted over his skin. You got real comfortable sitting on his stomach, and in that position you began to taste - dragging your mouth from the hinge of his jaw, the spot that always made his head throw back. His neck, fully revealed and all yours to enjoy, looked so edible. With a satisfied sigh, your mouth wandered there, sucking as forcefully as it could. After all, the hickeys had to be visible and clear for the upcoming photography!

“Oh baby…you’re the sweetest.” The faint groans slipping through his parted lips only kept encouraging you. The wet sounds of your eager lips moved to his collarbone now. But that wasn’t enough either. His large arms were still untouched, and you couldn’t let that be. In awe, Bellamy watched your tongue carefully making its way to his bicep. Slowly, you inflicted the sweetest pain again. And again when you moved on to his other arm.

Your face then ducked down to his abs. The trail of nibbles was quickly but surely left there as well, making him hiss. He lazily brought his hand down to stroke your head when you licked over places where you almost drew blood. His stomach was so soft, so warm - you would be sick if you didn’t just nuzzle against it like a cat.

Once the amount of marks seemed like enough, you proudly pulled your head back up and admired your opus.

“You done, pretty?” He asked. His chest rose and fell, steady and deep. His gaze on you was worshipful.

“Mhm.” You nodded while your sore lips curled into a little smile. After a moment of quietly relishing the intimacy of the scene, you leaned over to finally grab the polaroid. When your body hovered over him, stretching to reach it, he steadied you by your hips and leaned in to press his lips against your torso.

You maneuvered yourself to get the best possible frame, wriggling on his lap. You smiled to yourself at the feeling of the bulge in his boxers, leaned back and stared into the viewfinder.

Bringing one hand up to his face, you tilted it to the side, showing off more hickeys. You let your fingers linger on his jaw, then let your thumb move closer to his mouth. Into his mouth.

Your chuckle merged with the sound of the click and the whirr of the photo sliding out. 

[heartybubs]

this is so good!! everyone write for bellamy blake again. now.

[heartybubs]

i love, i love, i love you

stranger things [steve harrington x booklover!reader]

in which steve’s bewitched. body and soul.

mins speaking: i looove pride and prejudice!! rewatched the movie yesterday and now i really want to reread the book, i don’t have any time tho ugh!!

steve and his girl who loves reading, especially romance.

he loves loves loves having you lay between his legs, fingers brushing through your hair or massaging your scalp while you’re reading in bed.

anytime a giggle or a gasp leaves your lips, he roles his eyes playfully — he has to, to convince himself he’s not a big softie, who also kinda loves your romance books — and waits for you to tell him about what just happened and if you don’t, he’ll ask. if you’re rereading a book, steve could probably guess what part you’re at.

and when you fall asleep in his arms again one night, book still in your hands, he makes sure you stay comfortable and most importantly; that your book is safe. he only takes his eyes off of you to place it on the nightstand before going back to admiring you. his soft hands now unmoving, but still tangled up in your hair because he doesn’t want to wake you, but could never keep his hands off of you.

this has become a regular thing, a routine almost, and he loves it. but steve never gets used to your beauty or the feeling of pure adoration he feels for you whenever he looks at your sleeping figure. safe in his arms.

“i love, i love, i love you.” he whispers, it’s barely audible and even if you were awake, you might not even have heard it. in your sleep, you move closer to him, snuggling up against his chest. his breath hitches, butterflies erupt in his stomach and his heart skips a beat.

oh he’s done for.

my masterlist

[heartybubs]

close call

stranger things [steve harrington x reader]

type: angst & fluff (at least they’re very in love)

warnings: spoilers for the finale

in which steve almost dies, but the entire time you’re the only thing on his mind. selflessly, he’s whipped.

a/n.: back in my steve harrington era and since i haven’t found much about this particular scene, i decided to try myself. this could have a part 2 post-fight where they have an emotional talk/ almost argument where reader feels guilty and steve just wants to make clear how much he loves them :P (idk u tell me). hope u guys like it!

w.c.: 2.088

my masterlist

you weren't sure what would kill you first; your heart beating at about 300 times it's normal speed, your lungs not allowing nearly enough oxygen to enter your system, or your shaking hands that made it almost impossible to hold onto the railing of the radio tower. it would probably be the brutal fall from this high up, when el ultimately would not be able to stop the planet descending upon you soon enough, resulting in you — and all of your loved ones — plummeting to a brutal, ugly death.

you couldn't stop thinking about your current situation. no really, even if you'd wanted to, you couldn't have. you desperately needed to focus on the plan ahead, but with the emerging danger of plummeting to your death, your brain just couldn't stop attempting to process the scene at hand, repeatedly failing. it made your head feel like it was going to explode.

great. another thing to possibly kill you.

"hey. hey, y/n, look at me,” softly, but also firmly, your boyfriend spoke to you. he placed his hand at the small of your back, keeping his other one steady on the railing. with his worried expression you knew all to well after years of battling vecna and the upside down, he scanned your face. he let go of the railing to touch you, to smooth out the crease between your eyebrows you didn't even know was there. the moment his hand lifted, you felt your heart drop for a second. your eyes shifted to where he had moved it from and steve saw how scared you were. his heart broke at the sight, knowing he couldn’t do anything for you right now.

"i need you to calm down, sweetheart. can you do that, keep your cool?"

he knew he was asking too much of you and you did too, but you nodded anyways. he kissed your forehead before diverting his attention to dustin, who was desperately communicating with hopper.

it seemed like you all just had to wait and see whether you could survive this one.

a few more seconds passed, but they felt like hours.

and then the planet hit the tower and the entire structure shook. you couldn't help but think that this was it, that you would die in the upside down when the radio tower collapses. no one left to remember you, not only because all of your friends were to die with you, but also because vecna would win. it would’ve all been for nothing. after years of fighting, you’d suffer the greatest loss imaginable.

your grip on the railing tightened and you immediately looked for steve. in his own distress, like many of the others, he had walked a few steps away from you. never far, but right now it felt like you were miles apart.

your eyes met his, but he was already walking back towards you. the structure shook again and you looked up to see the big antenna slowly crumble.

everything happened so quickly, you had trouble comprehending. maybe the upside down air had finally gotten to you, or this was just what dying felt like. terrifying.

"steve-" you turned towards him fully, he was now right in front of you. without thinking, you lifted both your hands from the railing to touch his face. you didn't think you were going to die in that moment because you weren't able to think at all. all you knew was that you wanted him. to speak to him, to touch him, in case you'd never get to do it again.

"no. baby, you have to hold on," he immediately interrupted you, though his eyes softened at your shaking voice. he took your hands in his and lead them back to the railing before pressing a small kiss against your temple, hoping it would calm you down just for a second.

steve was scared shitless, everyone probably was, he wouldn't know. he barely took his eyes off you in that moment. he so badly wanted to protect and look out for everyone, but with death emerging, as long as el didn't do something, his head was only screaming one thing — your name.

you were that little spark of hope that grounded him in that moment because you couldn't die. you were too good for that, you didn't deserve it.

he couldn't let you die.

there was no way he'd ever let that happen and despite the odds, this thought gave him strength. strength he would need.

"steve, i need you to know that i-"

"y/n, no. don't do this."

before you could argue, before you could tell him how much you wanted that future you two never really discussed, but wanted oh so badly, he looked up and saw the antenna fall.

"look out!"

he screamed and everyone else scrambled towards safety. instinctively, you looked up as well and that's when it hit you. not the antenna, but something way worse.

steve was not holding on to anything.

from that point on, everything happened so fast. the tower shook hard, you were first pushed into the railing and then into robin next to you. your ribs started hurting immediately, the pain almost unbearable, if it hadn't been for all the adrenaline in your body.

steve tried so hard to reach you and he was close, really close, but it just wasn't close enough. he still had his hand outstretched when he was yanked across the platform, a terrified expression on his face. when your eyes finally found his again and he saw how equally terrified you looked, his eyes softened.

he was about to die, but his eyes softened with pity because he didn't want you to see. he knew he could never recover, if he lost you, but the thought of having to watch you die, was something that had been causing him many sleepless nights. and now you would have to deal with that alone.

yes, in his final moments, steve worried about how you would cope with his death.

you screamed. you couldn't hear yourself, but you know you screamed. it felt like he had ripped your heart right out when he fell. you were in so much actual, real pain.

somehow, steve managed to hold onto the platform and when you saw his hand, you fell to the ground. it was so hard to move, the unbearable pain in your chest made any sort of movement impossible and your bruised rips didn't help either. still, you tried to crawl towards him. you were so far away.

he knew he wouldn't be able to hold on, he was lucky enough to not have fallen off immediately, but in that moment he almost would've preferred that. instead, he had to listen to his friends crying out his name. dustin, robin and worst of all, you.

‘oh y/n’, was the only clear thought he had in that moment. he was hanging off a platform, barely holding on for his life and all he wanted to do was to pull himself up. not to save himself though, no. solely to hold you. his entire body screamed for you, but he couldn't. he registered your piercing scream before he was able to process his hand slipping. his expression turned even more intense than before and in that moment, nothing but fear overtook him. he was really going to die right now. his life was over.

no six little nuggets, not even a single babygirl that he would get to love to the moon and back.

he would have. not only because steve would've made an amazing dad, but because she would've been your exact replica — a little you, he would have never been able to not fall in love with, even if he fought his hardest.

he wouldn't get to live any of his dreams and worst of all, his death would've been another stupid mistake of his, one he wouldn't be able to make up to you, or to dustin, or to anyone else.

because he had been careless.

you weren't in a state of mind to notice much of what else was happening around you, and you didn't, but lucas did drop to your side and wrapped his arms around you. trying so hard to somehow use his body as a shield for the grief, he knew so well. he pressed his eyes shut, holding back tears.

you also didn't notice when jonathan threw himself onto the floor to save steve, stretching out his hand at the last possible moment to grab his wailing arm.

steves wide eyes looked onto jonathans while they held onto each other for dear life.

"i've got you."

was all his saviour said. he tried to smile at him encouragingly, but it came out weird. scared. then he mustered up all his strength to pull him up.

as if some part of your body understood before you could, your vision cleared. lucas grip on you loosened as he looked over his shoulder.

the second steves face was in view, you jumped to your feet, but froze in disbelief.

you were sure you had just watched the love of your life fall to his death.

before you could and before steve was even fully standing upright again, dustin ran up to him to embrace him. that pushed the last bit of air out of his lungs, but he didn't mind and didn't waste a second to hug his best friend back.

there was another short moment where jonathans and steves eyes locked, there was a silent nod between them and they both understood.

then his eyes found yours.

dustin felt his arms loosen, but he knew. the boy tightly hugged his best friend once more, before letting him go and taking a step back.

as soon as he was free, steve stumbled towards you. he wanted to run, to sweep you off your feet, but the shock of his near-death experience still hit deep.

when he was two steps away, you finally closed the distance between the two of you and stormed into his chest. his left arm wrapped around your body immediately, while his right hand found its place at the back of your head.

he buried his head in your hair, smelling it. it smelled of sweet vanilla, like the shampoo you always used at his place. the smell made his heart ache, bringing back the situation he had been in just seconds before. tears sprung to his eyes and he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, without backing away though. he needed to take it all in for a second. he wasn't really planning on letting you go ever again.

the others watched you for a moment. a mixture of emotions in the air, before most of them turned their focus elsewhere.

"steve," you were crying. so hard. he could feel his upper layer soaking, but he didn't mind, as long as you were okay.

at this train of thought, he would've chuckled, if it hadn't been for the situation at hand. he was really whipped, wasn't he?

"yes, sweetheart?", he spoke softly, lifting his lips from your head just enough. with his hand he began stroking your hair. he was shaking too, you could tell. "i've got you, i'm here." you weren't sure whether he was talking to you, or himself. if you had asked him, he couldn't have told you either.

"i-i almost... you almost died," at your words, he sobbed once. "i think i just saw my.. life flash before my eyes, steve. w-we almost didn't get to live together, but it's the only thing i'm certain about. it's the only thing in my future i can count on. steve, you're the only part of my future i want, the only thing i insist on."

it took steve everything to not break down at your words. his eyes were glossy and he moved both his hand to hold your face, so that he could look at you. everything you said deeply resonated with him and despite all the pain he was in, physically and mentally, a small smile fought its way onto his face.

and the moment you, despite all your pain, reciprocated that smile, his lips crashed onto yours. it was a beautiful, passionate kiss. emotional and heated, while nothing but purely loving at the same time.

"you're never getting rid of me now, y/n. never, i can promise you that."

[goldnfairy]

Shadows and Sparks

Summary: A sudden storm keeps the camp awake, and when Percy sneaks into your cabin, what starts as a quiet, restless night turns into something heavier, charged with unspoken feelings. As the thunder rolls outside, you navigate close quarters, accidental touches, and confessions that hang just below the surface. Tension builds slowly, simmering with every glance and brush of hands, until at last you both cross the line, realizing there’s more between you than friendship ever let you admit. By morning, the storm may have passed, but the change between you lingers, tender, messy, and promising more.

The storm had been coming for hours. I’d heard it in the wind before dinner, the way it whistled through the trees at the edge of camp, restless and sharp. By the time curfew hit, the rain was already falling, steady at first, then harder, sheets of water pelting the roof of the cabin. Lying there in the dark, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to the drum of it against the wood, and the occasional flash of lightning lighting up the ceiling beams above my bed.

I wasn’t asleep. Not even close. Sleep never came easy during storms, not when each clap of thunder made the floorboards hum beneath me. My blanket was pulled up around my shoulders, but it didn’t do much against the weight in my chest, that restless knot that storms always left behind.

So when the knock came, sharp against the door, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I froze, breath caught halfway in my throat. Nobody was supposed to be out after lights out. Nobody was supposed to be here.

Then a voice. Familiar, steady, even if a little hushed. “Hey, it’s me.”

Percy.

Of course it was Percy. Who else would show up at my door in the middle of a storm like this?

I hesitated a moment longer, heart thudding against my ribs, before pushing the blanket aside and sliding out of bed. The wooden floor was cool under my bare feet as I crossed the small cabin. I paused at the latch, whispering through the door: “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

There was a beat, then his reply, dry but laced with that crooked grin I could practically hear. “Do you have any idea how much it’s raining out here?”

I rolled my eyes, even if he couldn’t see it, and cracked the door open.

There he was, framed by the storm. Hoodie clinging damp against his shoulders, rain dripping off the ends of his dark hair, sneakers soaked through. He looked like a mess, like he’d run straight through the downpour without thinking twice, but somehow it only made him look more like him. Wild, thoughtless, impossible Percy.

“Seriously?” I whispered, pulling the door wider. “You couldn’t just… stay in your cabin like a normal person?”

He gave a little shrug, water dripping from his sleeve as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Power went out. It’s pitch black. Figured you’d be awake anyway.”

The casual way he said it made something tighten in my chest. He was right, of course. He always was when it came to me.

“Lucky guess,” I muttered, though I was already stepping aside.

He slipped past me without hesitation, like he belonged there, leaving damp footprints on the floorboards. I closed the door quickly behind him, the storm’s roar dulling once the latch clicked shut. The silence that replaced it felt heavier somehow, stretched tight across the small cabin.

Percy tossed his soaked hoodie over the back of a chair and sat down on the edge of my bed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His shirt clung a little at the shoulders, damp, and he ran a hand through his hair, trying to push it back but only making it messier.

“You’re soaked,” I said, watching the water drip onto the floor.

“Half-soaked,” he corrected, flashing that grin again. “Besides, storms don’t really bother me.” He leaned back a little, propping himself up on his hands. “Perks of being Poseidon’s kid, I guess.”

I huffed, crossing my arms, though the corner of my mouth twitched. “Does that mean you’re immune to common sense too?”

“Probably,” he said, unbothered. Then, after a moment, his tone shifted, softer. “Storms keep you up though, don’t they?”

That caught me. My arms loosened slightly, and I forced myself to look anywhere but directly at him. He always noticed, things I never said, things I thought I’d hidden.

“Sometimes,” I admitted quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “They’re… loud.”

He hummed in agreement, gaze lingering in a way I felt more than saw. Thunder cracked outside, rattling the window, and the two of us sat there in its echo, silence filling every corner the storm didn’t touch.

I shifted on my feet, unsure what to do with the space between us. He was still sitting on my bed, still dripping rainwater, still looking at me like he hadn’t just broken curfew to show up here. And the thing was… it didn’t feel wrong. It should have. But it didn’t.

And that scared me more than the thunder ever could.

The storm outside hadn’t let up, but inside, the cabin felt smaller now—warmer, closer. Percy leaned back against the wall near my bed, knees bent, arms resting loosely. I kept my blanket wrapped around me, though it wasn’t really for warmth.

We’d been talking, softly, about nothing in particular. The storm made our words feel heavier than they should, the quiet around us making every laugh, every sigh linger longer than normal.

I was reaching for my water bottle when my hand brushed his. Just a second, but it was enough. He froze for a heartbeat, then pulled his hand back like it had burned him. My chest jumped.

“Sorry,” I murmured, though it sounded softer than I meant.

He shook his head, forcing a grin. “No no, it’s fine. Totally fine.” But I saw his eyes. Green, sharp, searching. They didn’t look away.

I sat back against the wall, letting the blanket slip a little, trying not to notice the way he shifted closer. Not on purpose, I was sure of it. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

“You’ve been… different lately,” he said, voice low, careful.

I blinked. “Different how?”

“Just… quieter. Thoughtful.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Like you’ve got a lot on your mind, and maybe you don’t wanna talk about it.”

I laughed a little, nervous. “I’m fine. Really.”

But Percy didn’t move, didn’t laugh, didn’t argue. He just looked at me. And in that look, I felt it—the tension that had been simmering since the storm started, since he showed up at my door, since every night we’d sat together like this.

The lantern flickered, casting shadows that danced across his face. I noticed the curve of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together, the way his chest rose a little faster than it should have.

“Sometimes I… I don’t know,” he said finally, voice almost breaking. “I get scared. Not of storms, not really… just… losing you. Losing someone I—” He cut himself off, eyes flicking away, and my stomach did that twisty thing again.

“You don’t have to say it,” I whispered, even though every nerve in me wanted him to.

He swallowed, jaw tight, then muttered, “Yeah. Maybe not.”

We stayed like that for a long while, the storm thrumming against the cabin walls, the quiet between us thick and heavy. Every little touch felt electric, the brush of our knees, the way our hands kept coming close but never quite meeting.

I realized, suddenly, that my heart was racing, that I’d been holding my breath, that I was acutely aware of him. And Percy… Percy was just as aware. I could see it in the tension in his shoulders, in the way his hands twitched, in the way he kept glancing at me, as if trying to read the words he didn’t dare say.

I didn’t move. He didn’t move. And yet, something had already shifted. Something that made it impossible to go back to just being “friends” tonight.

The storm had slowed to a steady pattern by now, but inside the cabin, the air felt thick, too heavy to ignore. Percy was still sitting near the wall, knees bent, arms resting on them, and I was closer now, blanket around my shoulders but not really hiding anything.

We didn’t talk at first. Just the quiet, punctuated by the occasional clap of thunder in the distance. Every brush of his leg against mine made my stomach flutter. Every time he shifted, leaned forward slightly, it felt like gravity had changed, pulling us closer without either of us saying a word.

“You… you know I’m not leaving,” he said finally, voice low, almost a whisper.

I swallowed, heart hammering. “I know.”

His hand twitched near mine. Not really reaching, not yet, but close enough that I felt the electricity.

I shifted a little too, letting my knee brush against his again. He didn’t pull back this time. His green eyes caught mine in the dim light, and for a moment, I could’ve sworn the storm outside had paused just for us.

“You’re… hard to ignore,” he admitted finally, barely audible, words thick with something I hadn’t expected. Vulnerability. Something raw.

I froze. And then I laughed softly, nervous. “You’ve always been impossible.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, lips twitching like he was holding something back. “No. You don’t get it. I mean—” He stopped, jaw tight, hands clenching a little. “I… I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not ever.”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “Percy…” My voice faltered, but I didn’t stop moving closer. Something inside me had shifted the second he said that. I couldn’t stop myself, and I didn’t want to.

Our knees touched fully now. His hand hovered near mine, and I didn’t pull away. Neither of us moved for a long moment, both waiting, both afraid to be the first, and yet desperate for it.

The lantern flickered, throwing shadows across his face. I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly, the way his chest rose too fast. I reached slowly, just barely brushing his fingers. His hand twitched, then he leaned in, just a little, giving me room to decide if I wanted him closer.

I did.

“Percy…” I whispered, leaning in until our foreheads touched lightly. His breath hitched, and I felt the pulse in his neck, the slight tremor in his shoulder.

Then his lips were on mine. Slow, cautious, searching. No rush, just the weight of everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d both felt for years, pouring into that one moment. My hands found his arms, gripping just enough to ground myself, and he responded, leaning further, tilting his head slightly, deepening the kiss.

It wasn’t perfect, not in any fairytale sense. It was messy, desperate, real. Thunder rolled somewhere outside, but in here, all that existed was him. Me. The quiet we’d been waiting for, finally loud with feeling.

We broke apart after a long minute, foreheads still pressed together, breathing heavy. Percy’s green eyes were wide, vulnerable, and his usual grin was gone, replaced with something softer, something that made my heart ache.

“You… wow,” he whispered, voice rough.

I laughed softly, leaning into him. “Yeah. Wow.”

And for the first time, neither of us tried to hide what we were feeling. Not with words, not with distance, not with anything. It was slow, it was messy, it was us, and somehow, that was perfect.

—-

The first light of morning slipped through the cracks in the cabin walls, soft and pale. The storm had passed, leaving the air crisp and clean, the smell of wet pine lingering outside. Inside, the cabin felt different, quieter, warmer, like it had held its breath overnight.

I stirred under the blanket, feeling the remnants of sleep and the lingering heat from last night. I opened my eyes slowly and realized Percy was still there, sitting against the wall where he’d fallen asleep, knees drawn up, hoodie bunched around him.

He stirred at the sound, blinking at me with that slow, half-awake gaze that made my heart skip. For a moment, we just looked at each other, neither speaking, both holding onto the quiet.

“Morning,” he murmured finally, voice low and rough from sleep.

“Morning,” I replied, smiling softly. My fingers twitched, almost reaching for his hand, but I paused, letting the moment linger.

Percy tilted his head, as if reading my thoughts. “We… uh… last night was—”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, finishing for him. “It was.”

He laughed softly, a little sheepish, still avoiding looking too directly at me. “Not that I’m complaining.”

I shook my head, hiding a grin behind the blanket. “Me neither.”

There was a pause, comfortable now, weighted with everything we hadn’t said, but with something new—something gentle and promising threading through it. Percy’s gaze flicked to mine, then down at the space between us, then back up. I caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“Coffee?” he asked suddenly, voice casual, but I could hear the little nervous edge underneath.

“Coffee sounds perfect,” I said, sliding out from under the blanket. Our shoulders brushed, and neither of us pulled away.

As we moved around the cabin, gathering mugs and water from the small sink, I realized something. The storm had passed, but the air between us hadn’t settled, it had shifted. There was tension still, yes, but now it was a warm, quiet sort of tension. The kind that promised more.

I caught Percy looking at me, really looking, and I smiled, just a little.

“Whatever this is,” he said, voice soft, “I don’t want it to go away.”

I glanced at him, heart warming, and nodded. “Me neither.”

And for the first time, it felt like maybe we didn’t have to rush. Maybe we could take it slow. Messy, complicated, and perfect, in our own way.

[heartybubs]

percy jackson, the casually protective and oh so perfect boyfriend you are

[wholeheartedsuggestions]

happy pride to everyone in the community!! happy pride to those who are out, those who are not, those who aren’t sure of their identity yet, those who don’t use labels, those who don’t feel seen, etc, etc. stay safe and don’t be ashamed to be yourself.

[heartybubs]

part of u knew

percy jackson [ percy jackson x reader ]

type: angst & fluff

warnings: they’re SO oblivious

in which a huge misunderstanding leads to a dramatic love confession on a rooftop where you realize; you could’ve known all along (part 2 to party 4 u)

a/n.: so happy you liked the first part, really hope i’m doing your expectations justice!!

w.c.: 2.615

my masterlist

✧༺♡༻∞

"what about this one?" percy grabs a plain white shirt and holds it up for annabeth to see, she groans. she wasn't keeping count, but she was pretty sure that was about the 30th shirt he had shown her.

"percy i thought we agreed on the black one like twenty minutes ago!", at her answer, percy drops his arms in defeat and lets himself fall back on his back. he pushes his hair out of his face before covering it with his hands and groaning. annabeth rolls her eyes at the sight, he could be so dramatic.

"yeah yeah, you're right. we did! i'm just so fucking nervous", he admits and peaks through his fingers to see his friends reaction.

"and that's completely normal, but you shouldn't be! it's all going to be fine. she for sure likes you back", annabeth reassures him.

"how can you be so sure though?", percy is practically losing his mind. he's been to literal tartarus, but this might very well be the most scared he's ever been.

"daughter of athena, i know stuff", she answers grinning. "look, even if you decide to be a coward today, you can still just have a great evening with her, seaweed brain."

percy's eyes widen at her comment and he grabs one of the shirts on the floor to throw it at annabeth, who laughs at his miserable attempt to hit her when the shirt lands only a few inches away from his feet. 

"excuse me?!", he yells out, grabbing the shirt and throwing it at her again. this time he throws it with more force so it actually reaches her. 

"what? if you don't hurry up the girl of your dreams is probably going to grow a pair and ask you out before you do!", she adds, laughing even harder at his shocked expression.

"she's not—", he starts, raising a finger in a way to correct her before stopping himself and furrowing his brows. "yeah no, she totally is", he admits in defeat, his frown turning into a little more of a lovesick expression.

annabeth stops laughing and just shrugs her shoulders, "hmm sure!". she has learned not to engage with any too positive comments about you because percy could very easily spiral into an endless rant about you and how perfect you are.

his whole crush-dilemma had been bearable for the first few years before he'd actually openly talk about it to her. that had changed about a year ago when they finally returned from their journey on the argo 2. he had apparently felt a little out of control of his own life and wanted to set some goals to regain that control. well, there really wasn't anything else on his to-do list besides confessing to you and he was still adamantly working on that one. 

"remind me, why exactly are we being late on purpose?", she changes the topic, genuinely wondering what was going through his head when he decided that being 2 hours late would be a good thing. she hadn't questioned it earlier though, confident that you were whipped enough to be unbothered as long as percy was there.

"leo told me it's good to be 'fashionably late'. something about seeming more desirable or something...", he answers, shrugging his shoulders before changing into the black shirt they had decided on earlier. 

annabeth's jaw drops at his answer. she stares at him, waiting for him to register the words that just came out of his own mouth, but nothing happens."what?! and you think his advice is any good?"

as percy's checking himself out in the mirror, he notices annabeth's face. a horrible realization finally dawns upon him. now why would he take leo's advice on anything? "oh gods. we should leave, shouldn't we?"

"yeah. probably. you're such an idiot sometimes!"

basically everything goes wrong on their way to your party, it's a wonder they're not also attacked by various monsters. they end up having to walk all the way to you and when they finally arrive 45 minutes later, percy's nerves go crazy.

he's stood right in front of your door where he can hear the music through the walls. the thought of going in there and having a good night with you seems pleasant at first until he remembers his goal for tonight. that's when he freezes.

annabeth obviously notices the way his body tenses up, but she's not going to let him give up now; especially after he made her walk through the entire city to get here. 

"c'mon percy, you got this!", she smiles at him, even going as far as putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. his expression turns into a nervous frown, his jaw clenched, eyes still locked on your front door. "i don't know..."

this little game of will-he, won't-he goes on for a good 15 minutes until annabeth's fed up with him. she grabs his hand and forces him inside the apartment, not even giving him a chance to resist. 

"annab-- i'm going to kill you!", he lets out a nervous chuckle, eyes immediately looking for you. she laughs at his empty threat, telling him she'd like to see him try, but when he can't hear her because of the loud music, she leans closer to his ear and repeats what she said. percy laughs as well, lifting his gaze again to keep looking for you. 

"have you seen y/n yet?", he asks her, leaning over her shoulder from behind to get closer to her ear. at her negative response, he sighs and helps his friend strip out of her jacket. 

that's when his eyes finally find yours in the crowd. his heart skips a beat at the sight out you. 

the strobe lights make it hard for him to see you properly, but the bit he can see looks literally breathtaking. your hair, your outfit and of course your face. he immediately takes off to get to you, determination ridding his mind of any doubt or fear he had. before he can really reach you, you storm off. they're subtle, but percy notices the tears in your eyes.

after freezing for a moment, confused by what just happened, he follows you. using more strength than really necessary to push past the dancing crowd. 

you don't really think, you just want to get away so you leave your apartment. sure, you could've gone to your room or something; there would've actually been a bunch of reasonable alternatives to the rooftop of your apartment complex, but you can't think right now. so that's where you let your feet lead you. 

percy is close enough behind you to barely see you leave the apartment and go up the stairs, so he grabs his jacket and follows. when he finally reaches the door that leads outside, he stops for a moment catching his breath. then he slowly opens it, scanning the roof until he finds you. 

you're standing with your back turned to him, looking out onto the city. your arms are hugging your body, it's a fresh night, but you don't mind the cold. it's less painful than the thought of your one sided crush on percy; and that one is oh so painful. 

tears are running down your face and you don't even care to quiet down your sobs, thinking no one was going to hear them anyway. percy's heart breaks at the sound.

he approaches you carefully, scared to make everything even worse. he does not know what's going on, but his heart yearns to help you. "n/n..."

you press your eyes shut. you didn't expect him to be behind you, but the way he uses your nickname ever so softly makes you want to throw up. as if that's not enough, you feel his hand hover over you shoulder. at that, you turn around, knowing you couldn't bare his touch.

his heart shatters at the sight of you. despite the dim lighting, he can clearly make out streaks of mascara on your cheeks. "talk to me, what happened?", percy tilts his head. despite his worry, he manages to form a small smile on his lips in hopes of making you feel a little better. "party looked fun from what i saw."

you huff. "glad you like my party, what a shame you missed the first three hours", percy can barely hear you when you mumble your words, but he does. and, surprise, his heart drops again. damn leo.

before he can come up with something to say, you huff again, this time shaking your head as well. "you know what, it doesn't matter. i really wanted to—", you have a hard time finding your words, not wanting to say anything wrong and ruin your chances for tonight, or with him. but then you remember; there are no more chances to ruin.

"i only threw this party for you, perce— percy. man, this is actually so damn embarassing. i threw this entire party to spend time with you and you— you're late. not only that, but you're also dating annabeth!", you throw your arms up in defeat. your voice is shaky while you talk, a few sobs escaping your lips between your words. 

percy is starstruck. why would you throw a party for him, it's not like he achieved anything vastly impressive in the last few weeks, right? and wait, what was that about him dating annabeth? "n/n what—"

"DON'T call me that, percy! i'm trying really hard to keep it together right now", you sob and wipe your tears. you're not keeping it together at all. "look, i'm happy for annabeth and you. really i am and i should have known you two were a thing."

but annabeth and him aren't a thing beyond being best friends. yeah sure they spend a bunch of time together, but why would you think they're dating?

"just leave me alone please", your voice is barely above a whisper, drained of energy to have this conversation right now. 

percy doesn't move at first. he keeps his eyes on your face and tries to figure out his next move. he is truly so confused right now, but he can't stand to see you like that. it's a brave move, but he takes a step towards you, closing most of the distance. your breath hitches at his move and you stiffen up, hoping he'll just disappear if you don't move. he doesn't leave though, he would never just leave you like that.

suddenly, you feel his hand on your cheek. you really wish you had the self-respect to push him away, to yell at him to leave, but you don't. instead, you melt into his touch. 

"why would you throw a party for me, y/n?", he asks softly, his thumb tracing your cheekbones, making it really hard for you to come up with any words. 

"doesn't matter anymore", you sob. percy immediately pulls you into a hug at your reaction. one of his arms wrapped around your torso, the other wraps around your shoulders so he can place his hand on your head to stroke your hair. why was he making this so hard on you?

in this position you cannot only feel the comforting warmth radiating off his body, but also the way he's shaking. you don't ask though.

"and why would you think i'm dating annabeth?", that's when you suddenly stop crying. what?

"what?", he chuckles at your wide eyes and moves his hand to wipe away some of your tears. on the outside, he was keeping his chill pretty well, on the inside though... this was the moment. there was no way out of this without telling you about his feelings and he was seriously considering just throwing himself off the roof. 

"i came here to tell you something. wait— not that i wouldn't have come— but like uhm. man with a mission, you get it", you can't help but smile a little at his awkwardness. the sight of your smile immediately calms him down, so he takes a deep breath and smiles back.

"i wanted to tell you about this uhm.. well, crush i have", he states, watching your eyes widen in shock. "on you, by the way!"

the world starts spinning around you. could be due to the amounts of alcohol you have consumed today, but you're pretty sure sobriety hit you like a brick when you saw percy and annabeth earlier. you take a little step back, "what?"

"i have a crush on you, y/n. well, i think crush undermines my feelings heavily. i'm actually crazy about you, have been for years", he chuckles awkwardly, scratching his neck. you on other hand... 

"there's no way...", you shake your head and let your mind wander back to every interaction you've ever had with percy. it's like you're reliving the past five years compressed into 5 seconds and that's when you realize what you were to blind to see before; he had always been completely whipped.

"is... that a problem?", he breaks the silence, heart about to explode from anxiety. you don't answer though, at least not verbally. instead, you basically throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and press your lips onto him. his hands find your waist immediately as he doesn't waste a second to kiss you back. your lips find their flow as if they've never kissed someone else's. percy moves his hands from your waist to your face, the kiss getting wilder, demanding even.

you two make out until you have to gasps for air. lips swollen, cheeks flushed and eyes filled with adoration and love.

"so you liked me back the entire time?", percy answers your question with a simple nod, shit-eating grin plastered onto his face. "why did i have to throw this party then!", you groan, throwing your head back while simultaneously pulling him closer to you. 

he throws one of his hands up in surrender, not wanting to let go of you fully. "i'll take it as a compliment, no worries."

your eyes widen at his cockyness and you playfully hit his arm. "why would i worry? i'm asking why you didn't tell me sooner you idiot!"

"hmm...your idiot now though", he mumbles and dips his head into the curve of your neck to leave a few soft kisses. butterflies errupt in your stomach as you let him. "was scared you'd reject me."

you raise your eyebrows at him, pushing his head away from your shoulder so that he'd look at you. "you? scared? the greatest hero of our time spent years of his life too scared to confess his feelings to some girl?"

percy frowns, "not just some girl! a really pretty one", he chuckles and presses a kiss to your forehead. "matter of fact, most beautiful one i've ever seen." you roll your eyes, but can't hide the blush creeping onto your cheeks. he notices and places a soft kiss on each one. 

"so you're telling me you went on these crazy quests, saving the world from impending doom not once, but twice and you still weren't brave enough to tell me you like me?", he groans as you're clearly making fun of him, but he can't hide the smile that seems to be a new permanent feature now he knows you like him back.

"okay okay, i told you now, didn't i?", he continues kissing all over your face. he'd never be able to stop again. 

"don't know if you get all the credit for that one..."

"whatever you say, pretty girl", oh gods.

[heartybubs]

party 4 u

percy jackson [ percy jackson x reader ]

type: angst, bits of fluff

tropes: mutual pining, yearning even; they’re both so oblivious ugh

warnings: mentions of alcohol

in which reader wants to confess her feelings to percy after having been in love for years and throws a party, only for him to arrive three hours late, holding annabeth’s hand.. (inspired by party 4 u by charli xcx) — part 2

a/n.: female cabin 10 reader, pretty sure i used she/her pronouns at some point. very interested in doing a part 2, if you’d like me to😽

w.c.: 2.760

my masterlist

✧༺♡༻∞

you're running around your families new york city appartment, stressed out of your mind.

today was the night of the party you'd been planning for weeks now. your friends from the dionysus cabin were in charge of the drinks, you had convinced some of the apollo kids to take care of the music (though it didn't take much convincing) and two of your aphrodite sisters had helped you with the invites weeks prior, ensuring that no one would decline the offer. you had even gone as far as subtly 'inspiring' your father and stepmother to go on a vacation weeks in advance. everything was taken care of.

you had texted a bunch of friends from school in new york and told them to bring friends of their own, as well as inviting every camper above the age of 15. the only person you really cared about though, was percy jackson. he was the only reason you wanted to throw this party in the first place.

ever since he had come to camp five years ago, you’ve had a huge crush on him. at first, you were sure the feelings would just go away at some point, especially cause you were only 12 and also a daughter of aphrodite. you got small crushes all the time and people had crushes on you all the time, it was basically a normal part of your life. and even though you did develop other crushes throughout the years, dating a few people here and there; it was always the same thing when you came back to camp. everytime you saw percy, your heart would skip a few beats.

you weren't supposed to feel like this, you were supposed to make people feel like this.

well, it's not exactly like your mother would agree with that statement. she actually asked you about percy every single time you talked to her (which really didn't happen a lot honestly) and every single time you tried to shut her up, she'd just smirk and sigh before eventually changing the topic. 

it's not like there weren't people out there who weren't as crazy about you as you were about percy, but none of them, not even your favourite ex-girlfriend, made you lose your mind as much as he did.

"y/n, you seriously gotta chill", you whip around, a hand already finding its way to your chest to shield your beating heart and find yourself looking at lilah, your best friend. she looks almost irritated as she scans your appearance for a moment before sighing and putting an arm around your shoulder protectively. 

"what, i am chill. so chill, actually."

she doesn't even make an effort to respond and pulls you away from the living room until you two end up in the hallway by the frontdoor. she considers stopping for a moment, but decides to go a little further and sits down on the stairs leading upstairs, pulling you down with her.

you sit there in silence for a minute, fiddling with your fingers. your breathing uneven and your heart is beating so hard, you're scared lilah could hear it over the loud music coming from the other room. 

"y/n, seriously..", lilah's tone softens as she moves her hand to stop yours from fiddling nervously. youd'd be embarassed right now, if it weren't for the fact that lilah had seen you in way more desperate states.

yeah, your desperation was extremely embarassing, but it was nothing compared to the way you'd act everytime percy came back from a quest. he'd look all sweaty and dirty to her, but to you, every quest he went on made him seem taller, more muscular, more handsome... and so on. you weren't sure if this was due to your ability to romanticize anything and everything or if there was some of your mother's magic involved... you wouldn't put it past her.

"this is the worst you've ever been, i can't even lie to you." oh. yeah, so nevermind then. "i know you're only throwing this party for him, but don't let him ruin your night. you invited him, he said he would come. he's either late or not coming, but either way you gotta stop being such a nervous wreck!"

you’d usually appreciate her honesty, but right now you wished silena was here instead. no one got through to you as well as your favourite half-sister, especially when you were inspiralling into your feelings for percy. "he said he'd come, lilah. i thought maybe... maybe i'd tell him tonight, y'know?"

she sighs. "i get it. seriously, don't underestimate my emotional involvement, i've been with you for 3 years of this 5 year hell, alright? and i think it's great you're gonna tell him tonight, but--", she stops talking at the way your eyes twitch at her words. "exactly! y/n you always say you're gonna tell him and then you chicken out!"

you drop your face into your hands and let out a desperate huff of air. wincing, you say: "i know, i know! but i really was going to today. i swear it! he seemed so excited when i invited him."

contrary to all your other guests, you had only invited percy about three weeks ago; once you were sure everything else would work out as planned. you had been almost as nervous as right now when you paced up and down your cabin, getting on your siblings nerves. it was cabin 3's turn to clean out the stables, you had made sure of that by checking the schedule give or take 200 times, and you were going to invite percy today. for sure. probably. 

it's not even that you had never talked to him before, you actually kind of had been friends for about two years now, but because of your intense crush on him, you usually avoided being alone with him. it's not like you were going to attack and kiss him either (at least you were fairly sure you wouldn't do that), so you weren't really sure why you were making it so hard on yourself. and anytime you do have  a conversation with him, it ends up being really nice.

percy was really funny, had some really good stories to tell and always listened when you actually build up the courage to tell some of your own stories. it was especially nice when you could share your new york experiences with one another.

"that cafe sounds really good, we should totally go there some time." percy had smiled at you after you told him about your go-to spot downtown and it was not like he had asked you out on a date or anything, but his suggestion completely wrecked any confidence you had built up until that point. you just gave him a shy nod, before turning your attention back to the campfire you were seated around. 

this way you couldn't see the way percy's eyes lingered on your face.

gods, the bonfire made you look even more beautiful.

after one of your brothers had had enough of your mumbling and nervous pacing and basically threw you out of your own cabin, you were on your way to the stables. you walked fast, wanting to get there before the doubts would stop you. when you arrived, you basically stormed in, startling percy, who was talking to one of the horses.

his eyes lit up immediately when he saw you standing there, but he'd have reacted that way for everyone who gave him a break from cleaning, at leats that's what you told yourself. 

"hey n/n, what are you doing here?" butterflies errupted in your stomach at the nickname that no one else really used. 

"hi perce. uhm i- well i wanted to ask you something", percy ignored the funny feeling in his stomach and closed some of the distance between you.

you tried to ignore how nervous that made you and sent  a shy smile his way. it helped a little when he smiled at you even harder, reassuring you a tiny bit before making everything even worse. why did he have to be so fine?

"i'm throwing this party in three weeks", he didn't say anyting yet, instead keeping his sea-green eyes on yours, waiting for you to continue. your nerves couldn't stand staring into his pretty eyes, so as you were looking down, keeping yours on the hay on the floor, you missed the way something in his face twitched at the mention of the party.

finally, he thought.

percy had heard of the party, well how couldn't he have? you had invited basically everyone, except for him. he had spent almost everyday pestering annabeth with questions about why you wouldn't want him at your party, as if she'd know and everyday she got more irritated with him. 

annabeth couldn't believe how oblivious her bestfriend was. obviously you had a crush on him, everyone knew that. well, except for percy and it also wasn't like anyone ever talked about it. but still, everyone was confident that everyone had noticed the longing stares you let linger on each other.

"and— uhm i wanted to ask you.. if you maybe want to come? it's in new york so—"

"of course i'm coming, i'd love to come!" percy had answered so quickly and with such enthusiasm that it made all your anxiety disappear for a moment. your nervous smile turned into a big grin and percy couldn't help but grin back in return, relieved that you seemingly hadn't noticed the way his face heated up in embarassment at the way he was making a fool of himself.

get it together, he thought.

you agreed to stop by his table at dinner later to give him a little note with all the information he'd need and when you were done talking about the party, you stayed. percy had continued cleaning out the stables. you would’ve helped, but he had insisted that you sit down and just talk to him instead. normally, this would’ve killed your nerves, but you didn’t even think twice about agreeing to spend more one on one time with him.

and if that entire interaction hadn't been as positive as it was, you wouldn't be as hurt as you were now when percy was over 2 hours later than your little pink note had said. 

"maybe he was just being friendly." you mumble and look at lilah, who is already rolling her eyes and throwing her head back. "deadass right now, i am 100% he likes you, y/n. he's always looking at you like a fool in love, basically same way you look at him honestly."

you don't believe a single word coming out of her mouth, although it is kind of insane to hear her say something that's not full on rude about percy. she always denies having anything against percy and claims her slightly negative attitude is just a natural consequence of witnessing him letting you (beautiful, perfect woman) pine after him (demigod of liquids and not the fun kind).

totally her words, not yours.

although you're pretty sure she is as fond of percy jackson as her father is of peter johnson...

lilah's words do finally start to sink in though. well, not the part about percy having a crush on you too, but basically everything else. there's no reason you, a child of aphrodite, should have to be pouting all by yourself, waiting for a guy to like you back when you could be having fun at your own party instead. in theory. you should forget about percy, at least for one night. 

"let's party!" you stand up, doubt visible on your face before you mask it with a big fake grin. lilah looks at you uncertain whether to entertain this new attitude of yours. "lilah, c'mon! there's no reason i should be sober at my own party, i put you in charge of drinks for a reason." 

you wink at her before slowly walking off towards the living room, giving her no other choice than to follow you into the  crowd. although still a little unsure at first, lilah doesn't stop you from taking your mind off percy in whatever way you deem effective. 

she mixes you both some mean cocktails and then some more when you finish them almost immediately. it takes you no more than 30 minutes until you're finally dancing and having fun with your best friend, just like you were supposed to. 

it's hard to pay attention to the room due to the amount of alcohol you've already drunk in such a short amount of time and even though it definitely helped you take your mind off things, you still can't help but look for percy everytime one song fades into the next. 

another hour passes, still no sign of percy, but at this point you're too drunk to care. you're having fun with your friends, dancing with whoever's closest to you at the moment. lilah left a few songs ago to go dance with one of your friends from school, you could sometimes make out their shape on the other end of the room and you were pretty sure you saw one of her hands burried in the other girls dark curls earlier. go lilah!

from the corner of your eye, you can barely see the front door open at the end of the hallway. when you turn your head, focussing hard to make the room stop moving, you see a blonde girl pull a dark haired boy into the room by his hand. they're laughing and then you recognize the two people entering your home. 

percy is finally here. and he's holding annabeth's hand. 

your heart drops. way worse than it ever has before. your body comes to a full stop as you can't help but watch the pair. she turns around to whisper something in his ear, he laughs and responds a moment later so that he's kind of leaning into her from behind, their hands still intertwined. he looks so handsome, but the sight of him taking annabeths jacket off her ruins everything for you. 

of course they're dating, you should have known. 

you're so in trance that you don't notice annabeth pointing you out to percy, who immediately lets go of her hand to come over to you. he even thanks annabeth innocently for forcing him into the apartment, after he had spent 15 minutes debating whether he really had the courage to enter, especially when he had told himself tonight would be the night he'd confess his feelings to you.

she just waves him off, glad to actually have made it here after having spent an entire two hours at his place helping him with his outfit and hair. she had felt like a camper in cabin 10, only for him to go with blue jeans and a black shirt. 

when you finally snap out of it, realizing that percy is pushing through your other guests in order to get to you, you immediately start looking for a way out. you can feel your eyes sting, there goes any hope. there's no way you can stand stupid host-guest smalltalk with percy right now. you're pretty confident that you'd burst into tears the second he'd thank you for the invite. 

so you run. 

you try your hardest to escape the dancing crowd, or rather percy, and don't look back. but he catches up quickly, his size making it easier for him to get through to you, than for you to get away from him. knowing you can't hear him over the music, he quickly grabs your wrist before you can get any further away. 

you jump at the contact, turning around and pulling your arm from his grip. he smiles, until he notices your teary eyes despite the lack of good lighting. 

"wha—" you can barely make out what he's saying, but you shake your head anyways. the sight of him makes it so much harder to suppress your tears, knowing you're looking at the one thing you want but will never have, apparently. percy lets you push past him and watches you leave through the remnants of the path he just created to get to you. 

he doesn't move and stands there confused until you're out of sight. people all around him are dancing to the music, but he feels isolated as he's still looking the way you just left. neither the music, the strobe lights, nor the people bumbing into him pull him out of his trance, until whatever just happened finally kind of clicks and he follows you, pushing people out of his way, determined to get to you.

[heartybubs]

yoo!! hope it's fine to request here 🙏🏻

first off, how r u doing?? hope everything's fine!!<3

I wanted (if possible) to ask 4 either hcs or a one shot for stiles stilinski, picturing a reader who's scott's younger sister :)

maybe she has lived with rafael for a while and just came back in beacon hills?

HOPE IT'S NOT TOO COMPLICATED HELP

have a great day and tysm anyway !!

hc: best friends sister

teen wolf [ stiles stilinski x mccall reader ]

warnings: mentions of anxiety and su!c. attempt (motel california)

a/n.: first of all, tysm for your request, very happy to finally deliver!! decided to go with a hc set around the events of the best episode in s3a (so it gets kinda dark for a moment ig). i didn’t really focus on the fact she just moved back, but if you want something like that lmk! got a little carried away, but hope you like it <3

my masterlist

✧༺♡༻∞

when your and scott’s parents initially split up, you obviously stay with melissa. in middle school, you decide to move to your (now sober) father to rebuild your relationship with him until high school. scott genuinely despises him at that time (still does lowkey), but you had always been daddy’s little girl when you were a toddler

you’re barely a year younger than scott, but he LOVES being the big brother (you don’t really mind)

stiles was never a stranger to you, he’d obviously been in your life as long as he had been in scott’s, but after you left, you didn’t really make an effort stay in touch with each other. you were definitely his first crush tho before his obsession with lydia started

when you move back, you almost don’t recognize stiles, who’s WAY finer than you had remembered. the moment he sees you, it’s almost like he couldn’t care less about lydia martin. he probably stares at you, open mouth and all (super embarrassing, but you blush HARD)

scott would love to keep you out of his supernatural business, but quickly realizes that simply won’t be possible.. especially when stiles and you start hanging out a lot.. he’s oblivious for a while, not even considering that there could be something going on between his best friend and his baby sister until isaac asks him about it… he’d never stand in your way tho <3

stiles and you are even more oblivious than scott tbh, spending multiple days (and nights) in a row with each other; working on his case board, studying, watching his favourite star wars movies (while cuddled up)…

this probably goes on for like a year? until the guys go on a lacrosse trip to motel california to which lydia, allison and you follow them. that’s the night you realize you love him.

something between stiles and you changes after derek’s (supposed) death. the way you comfort each other feels different and new, but never scary. you try your hardest to be there for scott, who’s crumbling under his insane guilt, but whenever he goes to sleep, you text stiles and he comes over right away

every. single. night.

losing derek, who you’d always gotten along with, and seeing your brother like that doesn’t pass you lightly. you can’t really put your feelings into words, but you don’t have to because stiles gets it. he gets you.

and everytime you let him in, you two don’t speak until you’re in your room where you just melt into his chest. he wastes no time to wrap his arms around you and holds you tightly until he relocates you both from the middle of the room to your bed

“c’mon, n/n, let’s go to bed, alright?”, and he’s always SO soft with you. if you’re crying, he’s wiping your tears right away because he knows he wouldn’t last ten seconds without bursting into tears himself

after a short stop at a gas station where allison has to sew up your brother, who’s basically dying (fun!), you girls join the team on the bus. you’re obviously seated next to stiles, falling victim to his unserious yap-attacks (he’s just glad you look relaxed and have that pretty smile of yours back on your face, even if you’re rolling your eyes at him non-stop)

you obviously don’t share a room at the motel, but you spend the entire night with him, especially after the werewolves start going a little crazy… and when you see your brother standing in the parking lot, drenched in gasoline with tears running down his face, you freeze in fear. terrified to lose the most important person in your life, not knowing what to do.

stiles is holding onto your shoulders for dear life. you can feel him shaking behind you, he has to be at least as scared as you, but he doesn’t waste anytime. he places a soft kiss to the top of your head before moving you behind him and carefully stepping into the gasoline puddle to his best friend

you’re scared shitless, not being able to breathe or listen to any of the words he’s speaking to scott. you’re spiraling into an anxiety attack, tears are pouring down your cheeks. everything happens so quickly and before you know it, lydia saves the two most important people boys in your life from going up in flames

that’s when you realize

you don’t move. you just watch as allison helps lydia, scott and stiles back up. you don’t have to move tho, because stiles is already coming your way and when he stops right in front of you, he grabs your face with both his hands and presses his lips onto yours

you spend the rest of the night on the team bus, stiles cuddled into your side. you leave the kiss undiscussed until you’re back home in beacon hills and find yourself spending another evening in stiles’ room

you’re both quiet, still shaken up from the events of last night, but in the comfort of your silence, you find the courage to kiss him again. and that’s basically what you do for the rest of the night until you fall asleep in his arms

[heartybubs]

that dam biceps

percy jackson [ percy jackson x reader ]

type: fluff, sexual but nothing explicit/ no smut!

tropes: reader is just down bad

in which percy’s biceps accidentally makes you unable to spend your day off thinking about anything besides being with your boyfriend…

a/n: posting one fic every two years just happens to be my rhythm ig… no mention of readers cabin, no pronouns.. got a little carried away :P

w.c.: 1.739

my masterlist

✧༺♡༻∞

it was your first day off in a long time and you desperately needed it. though you would have preferred being able to enjoy it with your boyfriend, percy. but that was obviously just wishful thinking because how could camp halfblood ever do without you AND their beloved hero, percy jackson for a whole day?!

you two were now counselors of the camp you'd both spent many years growing up in and although you truly loved getting the chance to be to the younger kids what the counselors were to you - comfort, guidance, support and of course a good friend when needed most - you'd pay all the drachmas in the world and pray to all the gods out there to just get one day with percy. just the two of you.

instead, you were cuddled up in percy's bed in cabin 3 all by yourself, staring up at the ceiling in frustration. you had spent the night here, as you do almost every night, but percy had to leave early for a day full of sword fighting classes, training, super important meetings and other minor tasks. he'd be out and about until dinner.

right before he left at sunrise, he slipped back under the covers to say goodbye. you woke up to a soft touch to your waist, percy's hand naturally found its way there and softly stroked the skin beneath his shirt you were wearing. he placed his other hand at the top of your head, slightly burying it under your hair and looking at you lovingly, as he always did. he hated having to leave you, especially at the sight of you in his bed, but he made a mental note to come by and visit you at the first chance he got. percy knew that if he just spent the entire day missing you, without seeing you once, he'd just end up in a bad mood.

when your tired eyes fluttered open, he pressed light, soft kisses all over your face, making you giggle tiredly which in return made his heart skip a beat. gods, he was so in love.

"good morning, beautiful", he said as he moved the hand that was kind of in your hair over to hold your face by your cheek. "just wanted to say goodbye".

at that, you annoyedly threw your head to the other side so that your face was turned away from him and muttered a little sad "nooo", but percy moved your face back and kissed your forehead.

"i know baby, i know", he muttered against it. for a small moment, you both enjoyed each others proximity in silence. you basked in the warmth that came from him and breathed in his scent - a fresh sea salt breeze; as always. you then looked up into his eyes, finding the sea-green eyes that were already staring at you and as you realized how lovingly he was looking at you, you became aware of his hand at your waist; still stroking softly. suddenly, your breath hitched and you felt your cheeks heat up, but percy didn't notice or didn't care because either way, he didn't react.

you made the mistake of letting your eyes wander from his eyes down to his arm. his bicep was barely covered by the sleeve of his orange camp halfblood shirt and naturally, due to the position you were in, flexed a little. that sight made your heart, your stomach and a region a little lower explode in sudden warmth. how was he so effortlessly fine?

as if you weren't already spiraling into a sudden craving for him, he interrupted your thoughts with a passionate kiss to your lips. it was so soft and loving, but also hard and demanding at the same time; and it drove you mad.

"gotta go. i love you, pretty girl", you could barely say it back before he left the cabin, very oblivious of the throbbing heat he had caused inside of you.

and three hours later, you were still in his bed. still craving him on top of you, inside of you, hell even under you. as long as he took care of you the way you knew he could so well.

it was almost getting painful at this point and you were considering taking care of your needs yourself, but you were determined to leave that job to percy.

the door to the cabin opened without a knock and what would have normally startled you, didn't even make you flinch as you kept staring at the ceiling, brows furrowed in sexual frustration.

"you're still in bed?", percy walked over to you, leaving the door behind him ajar. he had a cocky grin on his face, as he did most the time. you could tell that he'd been active, lose strands of his sweaty hair were messily hanging over his forehead and he was breathing a bit heavier than usually; probably because he ran to the cabin. he had also exchanged his presumably sweaty camp halfblood shirt for a black tank top, which exposed his biceps fully.

you didn't even verbally greet him, not that you could have even if you wanted to. you were so down bad, it was honestly embarrassing. percy greeted you with another one of his annoyingly perfect kisses on the lips, this one even more passionate than the one he had given you this morning. without hesitation, you kissed him back, your lips quickly finding their usual flow with each other.

he placed one hand on your cheek, using his other hand to steady himself as he was almost howering over you since you were still lying down. at that, you pressed your legs together, trying desperately to get rid of the feeling in between your legs.

"gotta leave again", percy removed his lips from yours for a moment before immediately pressing them down on yours again. "am late already",

another kiss.

"missed you",

one more.

"had to see you".

you sighed dramatically when he pressed one final kiss onto your lips before sitting up and therefore moving his face away from yours. his eyebrows shot up in surprise at your reaction, before he smirked again. he loved when you were clingy.

"why can't you just stay here..", you mumbled and grabbed his free hand..gods, these strong hands—

"you know i would if i could, pretty girl", he let out a sympathetic chuckle as he moved his hand on your cheek so that he was drawing circles onto your skin. "you're so clingy today, what has gotten into you, hm?", he asked, placing a soft kiss to your cheek. "not that i don't love it!"

not you, you thought, melting at the sight of his biceps, again! it was naturally flexed, just like that morning, but now it also had that pump to it from him training and you could just— sigh.

"just bored without you", you muttered before stretching, pressing your legs together again, hoping your boyfriend didn’t notice. he would never let you live this down, if he knew how desperate you were right now. "can't you stay? just for a little bit?.."

percy's smirk turned into a genuine smile. he stood up, letting go of your body and you didn't know whether to feel relieved or even more frustrated at his touch leaving your skin.

"i can't, i’m sorry. actually, i really should leave right now", he chuckled nervously and scratched his neck in such a dorky way, that it was even more annoying when you noticed how his biceps flexed, again and how your lower stomach heated up, again.

"clarisse is gonna kill me for being late already. but i promise that i'll make it up to you later. we're gonna spend the entire evening together, just us two, maybe go to the lake or something?", percy was already walking towards the door, stopping right next to it, turning around to look at you after he didn't hear an answer from you. normally you'd be way more excited, even if you were tired, which worried him. of course he was still oblivious to your aching core.

"is everything okay, y/n?", his brows furrowed worriedly as he eyed you carefully. he almost never called you by your actual name, unless he was being very serious and you were starting to feel bad for keeping him up when he had already told you that he was in a rush... fighting an angry clarisse was an insane challenge, even for a powerful demigod, especially when it's percy.

"yes, im fine percy", you send him a small smile before continuing "you should leave, really don't want clarisse to kill my boyfriend."

you giggled at your own words to make percy feel better about leaving, which seemed to work when his worried expression turned into his signature smirk. "yea, you're right".

but he knew you to well.

he watched you closely, letting his eyes wander over your figure that was still hidden by the covers. the blanket however, didn't stop him from finally noticing movement below. it took him merely a second to understand what was going on and immediately his smirk turned even more cocky before he closed the door behind him. any worries about being late disappearing right away; he’d never make you wait.

you, knowing your boyfriend just as well as he knows you, instantly noticed the change in his demeanor. your breath hitched as you watched him close the blinds of one of the windows before stepping over to you.

this time, percy also noticed your physical reaction immediately.

"i thought you're in a rush?", you muttered shyly, bitting the inside of your cheek as you looked up at percy, who was now standing at the foot of the bed. gods, the world could be burning up in flames when you're looking at him like that and he still wouldn't dare to take his eyes off you. he couldn't care less about making clarisse wait when his beautiful girl was looking at him like that. "what about clarisse?"

"do me a favor and stay as quiet as you were a few seconds ago. be a good girl", your eyes widen in shock as percy lifts up the covers and disappears head-first underneath them.

"gotta take care of my pretty girl first", he says between kisses he's placing on your thighs before burying his head between them.

[wqlfstqr]

◟𖥻 sleeper build : percy jackson

▰▰ pairing: percy jackson x fem!reader

Four times Percy showed off his strenght and had y/n swooning over him.

mari talks! i'm so weak for sleeper build sorry i literally woke up to write this.

warnings: slight mention of percy being taller than reader, use of petnames, protective!percy, use of y/n, i think that's all.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

the time he moved her bookshelf

It's not like she didn’t know that Percy was strong, she wasn't dumb. Of course he was. She had seen him wield Riptide like it was made of air, lift entire pieces of debris off wounded campers and, you know, survive and come victorious out of battles against gods.

But somehow, she always saw him as just Percy. Cute, funny— infuriating sometimes, but undeniably cute. His messy dark hair and those ridiculously pretty sea-green eyes, the way of carrying himself that made him look effortlessly cool and how he always had had a comment that never failed to make her laugh. That was what made her fall for him.

But she had never stopped to think about his strength outside of those battles, on his day to day he was only percy, who sometimes tripped over his own feet and wore hoodies and tshirts that hung loosely on his frame. It was hard to think about him any other way.

That is, of course, until she asks him for help to move her bookshelf.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" She asks, still shy about having to bother him.

"No, I've got it." He sends her a small, reassuring smile before crouching to grab the bookshelf.

Still, she is about to offer her help when he suddenly hoists the entire bookshelf up like it weighs nothing. And y/n—

She forgets how to breathe.

Because she is suddenly aware of how strong he is, not only because he is carrying that damn bookshelf as if it's nothing to him, but also because his forearm flexes, his biceps pulling against his sleeves, the shirt that is supposedly loose on him now seems too small for his arms.

"Where do you want to put it?" He asks but— gods forgive her, she is not thinking about where to put that bookshelf at all.

He must have noticed her lack of answer, because he looks over his shoulder to find her gaping at him, he raises an eyebrow. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't reply, simply blinking at him. Oh, the gods are being cruel with her. His shirt has ridden up slightly and she's able to see his toned stomach and those arms. He looks like one of those Greek statues on Mount Olympus, all effortless strength and power. Not fair at all.

"y/n?" he tries again, actually worried because she has gone pale white and is definitely not breathing.

"Yes?" she blinks dumbly at him before she realizes he is waiting for an answer. "Oh! um— I wanted to move it to that corner."

Oh. she is dooomed.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

the time he picked her up

She's in the weapons closet, trying to pick up a bag of arrows that's on the top shelf. She can usually reach things herself, but the last person to clean the closet was clearly taller and didn’t stop to think about putting the damn arrows so high that she couldn't reach.

"Need any help, doll?" She would've been scared if she didn’t recognize Percy's voice right away, and turning her head, she found him resting against the doorway and smiling at her.

Going back to looking at the shelf, she shakes her head. Ever since he helped her with that bookshelf, she has been avoiding him because the only thing she can think about when looking at him is him carrying that bookshelf and the way his shirt hugged his arms. Gods, she's probably red already.

In her sudden distraction, she doesn’t notice Percy stepping towards her until suddenly he's hoisting her on his arms, his hands wrapping around her waist as he raises her without any effort, and— yes, she can die already.

"Well? can you reach what you wanted now?" He asks, as if this is an everyday occurrence.

She's short-circuiting, and it takes her a long minute to actually remember what she was trying to get on the shelf before she finally reaches for the bag of arrows.

Then Percy sets her down on her feet again, she's afraid he'll be able to see how flustered she he is, but if he does, he doesn’t show it as he simply smiles at her. "Alright, need anything else?"

And when she shakes her head, he simply nods and walks away, not even noticing that he left her speechless and blushing furiously while she hugged the bag to her chest.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

the time he used her for push ups

it's briefly after they start dating, and she has pretty much forgotten about the other two incidents, or at least she has tried to. Sometimes, it's hard to stop herself from shamelessly checking him out, especially when he's training.

Right now, when she finally finishes with her training, she goes to find him and he jogs towards her once his eyes find hers, pressing a kiss against her temple when he's close. "Hey, pretty girl. I'm almost finished here."

she nods, and she's about to suggest they go do something together after training, when Clarisse's voice cuts through the moment. "Hey, Jackson! whoever does push-ups for longer?"

They do this often after training, always competing against eachother in whatever way they can think of. So it's no surprise when Percy immediately accepts. "Oh, You're on."

And then, he's dropping into a plank position with ease, as if it's just another part of his training routine.

y/n rolls her eyes playfully while Clarisse and him start doing push-ups at an absurd pace. But she goes to sit down with the other campers that are watching, her eyes never leaving Percy— totally not paying attention to the way Percy's shirt sticks to his back or how his arms flex everytime he pushes himself off the ground. Nope. Not at all.

Clarisse is strong, she's probably the only one that's able to match Percy's energy, so she manages herself just fine for a long moment. But being exposed to that much sun and the pace of those push-ups, it's no wonder her arms start shaking slightly even if she's still not giving up.

But Percy notices she's growing tired and he smirks, barely winded. "Honestly, La Rue, this is way too easy." He tells her, and y/n knows he's already plotting something just by the look of amusement on his face.

And that's when his gaze shifts to her, and she's already looking at him because— come on, of course she was looking at him while he did those stupid push-ups, can't blame her.

But Percy's smirk widens when he notices the way her eyes drop to his arms as if she can't help it. She really can't.

Clarisse, completely oblivious to this exchange, snorts while she tries to push herself up again. "What? are you going to do them one-handed?"

Percy's sea-green eyes are fixated on y/n, twinkling with something very dangerous as he briefly replies to Clarisse. "Have a better idea." and then, he supports himself with one hand to pat his back with the other. "Come here, pretty girl."

She blinks rapidly, suddenly surprised. "What?"

"You heard me, doll, I need the extra weight." He replies simply, patting again as if he doesn’t find anything odd with his request.

This man is about to make her combust, she's sure of it as she takes a sharp breath and moves to straddle his back. Because, let's be honest, there's no way she can say no to him.

Percy barely reacts to the added weight. Like at all. Even Clarisse is surprised, panting and trying to keep up with the push-ups. "What the hell, Jackson?"

And y/n? she is losing her mind.

And Percy knows this, because he simply laughs, voice enterely too smug. "Impressed, doll?"

She's, in fact, extremely impressed but she won't admit it. "No."

But obviously, she remains impressed through the whole thing, especially when Clarisse finally drops to the ground and he's able to do five more efortless push-ups before he finally stops.

Yeah, she's definitely impressed. And flustered.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

the time he scared some boy away

Even months after, after they had finally started dating, she still finds herself utterly surprised in those moments where he shows his strenght. She just never got used to it.

Right now, for example.

They are spending their day at Central Park. She's chatting with Piper while they wait for the guys to come back with their coffee orders, when a guy suddenly walks towards them.

"Hey." he smiles confidently at her, not even acknowledging Piper. "You're very pretty and uh- I was wondering if I could get your number."

Alright, straightforward— she blinks at him, surprised while trying to process his words. He's at most decent-looking, tall and broad shoulders but he is no Percy. And her only interest is Percy.

"Sorry, I have a boyfriend." and of course the dude looks at her in disbelief, as if he's expecting her to say she's lying. She fights the urge to roll her eyes at him as she points at Percy.

The guy follows her hand towards the coffee cart where Percy stands, chatting with Jason while they wait for their orders. Her boyfriend is casually slouched against the cart, looking effortlessly relaxed with a cap over his messy hair and a loose shirt he had thrown on in a hurry in the morning.

Gods, he's so effortlessly handsome.

Piper has to actually nudge her with her elbow because she's already so distracted staring that she forgets about the weird dude trying to get her number.

"That guy?" He sounds almost pitying, y/n can almost see Piper rolling her eyes. "Come on, pretty, you surely can do better than that"

She immediately furrows her eyebrows, Who does this guy thinks he is? he did not just—

Before she can even think about a surely offensive reply, a familiar arm wraps around her shoulders, tugging her back against a solid, warm chest. Percy. She knows him by scent alone, and when she tilts her head back to look at him, she's able to catch the glint of amusement in his beautiful eyes.

"Everything good around here, pretty girl?" He asks, pressing a kiss against her temple before he looks at the guy in front of her, an underlying shine of challenge on his eyes.

And, oh— oh! he's flexing.

It isn't too obvious, but she can feel it, the subtle kind of flex that makes the veins on his forearms stand out a little, the fabric of his sleeve tightening slightly as the firm biceps wrap around her shoulders, his other arm sneaks around her waist. She could die happy right there.

The stupid guy in front of her definitely notices too, because his eyes drop towards Percy's forearm curved protectively around her, his smirk slowly disappearing as Percy's own grin only gets bigger.

"Need something, man?" Her boyfriend asks, acting completely innocent as if he doesn’t know exactly what he's doing.

The guy barely manages to shake his head before he's walking away in defeat, his friends are already waiting for him while they snicker and tease him about his fail on getting her number.

"Percy, man, I think I've fallen in love with you." Jason tells him, blinking at him in amusement.

y/n is inclined to agree with him, but she's not going to admit it out loud, instead she turns to him with an almost accusatory look. "You did that on purpose."

Percy shrugs, passing her a cup of coffee as he tries to hide his mischievous smile. "Maybe, a little."

She groans, covering her flustered face with her hands. "Gods, you're so hot." she admits quietly, only for him to hear.

Percy chuckles delighted, wrapping his arm around her waist again, strong arms pushing her closer to him as they walk behind Piper and Jason.

"I think I need to sit down. My legs feel weak." she tells him before she can process her words.

"That's the caffeine hitting, doll." he presses his lips against her temple once again, sweet and comforting.

"No, that's your fault."

Percy only laughs, and yes, she's definitely blushing.

[wqlfstqr]

◟𖥻 in between : percy jackson

▰▰ pairing: percy jackson x fem!reader

I just can't come in between them, they got their own thing ʚĭɞ or 6 times people thought they were dating + the 1 time it was actually true.

"So, you're dating?" the new camper looks between her and Percy after they gave him the tour around camp.

Ah, the long awaited question.

And the answer is always the same. "No, we're friends, why?"

Once again, the camper looks between her and Percy, who's standing just behind her with his arms wrapped around her shoulders, her head comfortably resting back on his chest. "Oh, nothing, I just thought—"

Yes. Everyone just thought. Everyone just thought they were together, and everyone was always shocked when it turned out they were merely friends.

Percy and her couldn't understand it at all, because it was totally normal for friends to act the way they acted with each other. Right?

ʚĭɞ the ponytail.

It is, obviously, totally normal for friends to want to help each other out before combat. So, of course Percy knows exactly how to tie her hair into a perfect ponytail. Doesn’t everyone know that?

Who can blame him if he knows his best friend so well that he can easily notice her discomfort with her hair falling on her face when she's sparring? And who can blame him if he wants to help? That's what best friends do.

So he didn’t see anything wrong when he stood behind her after they called for time out, his fingers gently carding through her hair, gathering it into a ponytail, twisting it with practiced fingers and securing it with the hair tie that he just happens to have on his wrist.

"Thanks, Perce." She says, as if it's nothing out of the ordinary.

"Dude, how do you even know how to make a ponytail to begin with?" Leo asks when he hangs back and she goes back to sparring.

"She hates when her hair falls on her face." He shrugs, as if that's enough explanation.

Leo doesn’t understand, he doesn’t try to, he simply shakes his head and says, "You do realize you're in love, right?"

But Percy isn't even hearing, his eyes fixed on her and his smile growing when he sees her more relaxed without her hair bothering her.

ʚĭɞ the necklace & hairtie

Yes, it is completely normal that she wears his best friend's initial around her neck. Totally normal.

It isn't even that noticeable, just a small, golden "P" that rests on her collar bone. Cute and meaningless. She just likes jewelry. This one she especially likes, since she wears it every day.

Clarisse has never noticed it before, but now that she stands in front of her as they drink water after training, the gold necklace manages to catch her attention, sparkling under the sun tauntingly.

Clarisse squints her eyes at it. "Is that... a 'P' in your necklace?"

She lowers her water bottle and smiles, and oh— Clarisse already knows what's coming just by the silly smile on her face. "Yes, for Percy."

"How is that-" Clarisse stops herself with a sigh. "Nevermind."

She's tired of questioning it.

And Percy? He adores the necklace, but he also loves the hair tie he always has on his wrist. Because friends should be prepared for when their best friend needs a hair tie, of course. There’s nothing else to it.

People don't realize at first, it's a simple black hair tie. But Percy fiddles a lot with it during meetings, snapping it against his skin when he's bored. And he doesn’t let anyone take it or borrow it from him, "anyone has an extra hair tie?" and he's silent because he's sure as hell not giving his.

Nobody really understands why until he ends up losing it and he's frantically looking around for it as if it's such a precious object he just lost and not a simple hair tie.

"Hey do you know if I left the hair tie in your cabin last afternoon?" He asks her when they sit together for breakfast.

"No, but you can have this one if you want." And it's that simple. He nods. And she takes it off her hair to give it to him.

This one is not even a black hair tie, but rather a lilac scrunchie that definitely clashes with his orange camp shirt. But Percy is grinning like a child opening christmas gifts, and you best believe he won't lose this one.

"Is that her scrunchie on his wrist?" Katie Gardner squints at him when he walks past her table.

"Yes, and he's wearing it like it's a promise ring."

ʚĭɞ the kiss on the cheek

And of course it's normal for her to greet him with a kiss on the cheek every time.

Hi? Kiss on the cheek. Bye? Kiss on the cheek. Training? Kiss on the cheek. Breakfast? Kiss on the cheek. Seeing him after capture the flag? Kiss on the cheek. It was simply her way of greeting. Him. Only him.

So when she was late for a cabin meeting and rushed past him with a distracted. "Morning, Perce!" without a kiss? Percy kind of froze. His eyes followed her as she walked away, looking like a kicked puppy, like a kid who's candy had just been stolen.

He proceeds to spend the rest of the day sulking. No sign of her around. No kiss on the cheek. By dinner, he's still weirdly quiet.

Grover asks first. "Dude, are you okay? you look like someone just stole your christmas gifts."

"She didn’t kiss my cheek today." He mumbles, more to himself than to his friends.

Piper almost looks like she wants to throw her fork to his head as she asks, "Is this whole thing just because she didn’t kiss your cheek?"

"Why didn’t she? Did I do something wrong?" And he's pouting, dramatically sad about it.

Grover raises an eyebrow at Annabeth, but before any of them can say anything else, she finally arrives, almost running to the table and taking her usual seat besides Percy.

"Sorry guys, had a busy day today." She excuses herself and then— like it's second nature, she leans to press a kiss against Percy's cheek. A greeting.

And every single one of his friends is able to witness the change in Percy's expression, the way his whole face just brightens. Long forgotten is the sadness and the sulking.

"How is this normal?" Annabeth shakes her head, going back to her food.

ʚĭɞ the wallet

Percy, as a good friend would, has memorized her usual order. "Chicken sandwich with no tomatoes and fries on the side, add honey mustard for those please."

"Does it change anything if I point out that you hesitated with your own order but not with hers?" Jason asks, looking at him as if he's simply ridiculous.

"That's what friends are for." Percy shrugs, taking out his wallet.

"So you know all your friends orders that way? I don't think-" Frank's words trail off when Percy opens his wallet. "What is that?"

Percy pulls out a few dollars before he realizes Frank is talking to him, his eyes fixed on the photo on his wallet. "Hm?" he looks down and he smiles at the photo. "Oh, that's y/n."

He proudly opens the wallet wider to allow both Jason and Frank to see the photo of little five year old y/n squinting at the camera with a wide grin, a bandaid on her nose. "Doesn’t she look cute?"

"I- uh- do you just carry it in your wallet?" Jason asks, genuinely taken by surprise. And he thought he could expect anything from those two.

"Well, yeah? she gave it to me ages ago." and he turns to pay.

Frank and Jason exchange looks and shake their heads in disbelief, meanwhile Percy is already busy. "Hey do you have those chocolate chip cookies with the colorful little sprinkles on top? She likes those."

ʚĭɞ the flowers and lipsticks

Friends get each other flowers, right? at least, Percy will if he casually spots flowers while shopping for groceries with her mom.

It's not his fault, they were just there.

A bouquet of pink lilies, her all time favorite flowers, right when he's walking past the flower stand. They are basically calling for him.

When Sally Jackson looks up from her cart and finds his son holding a bouquet in one hand and gummy worms in the other, she smiles to herself.

"Is there any special dates coming soon?" She teases, knowing exactly what this is about.

"Oh?" he looks down, as if he just realized he's holding flowers. "Oh these? they remind me of y/n, so I thought I might aswell get them for her."

Sally nods, she doesn't question it, she doesn't try to understand it. Because she already knows.

Except that sometimes it really is unbelievable that his son is so oblivious, Sally gets to realize this when she takes a lip balm from the racks by the cash register. "Maybe I should get y/n one of these, she likes them, doesn’t she?"

Percy hums, distracted by placing the groceries in the chekout belt. "Yep, but make sure to get the cherry-mint one, you know? the one in the little pot with the silver lid. She loves that one."

"Percy, how can you know how it tastes?"

Silence. For a second, Percy just stops mid-putting the bread down and realizes what he just did.

"I guessed." he replies simply.

Because he's not about to confess to his mother that he knows that's the lip balm she has been wearing since he kissed her for the first and only time when they were twelve. So what? they had just been friends who had never kissed anyone before. It just seemed fitting at the time that they should share their first kiss with each other.

And it was totally normal if maybe he simply made a mental note not to ever forget her favorite lip balm. Because he's a good friend.

"Perseus, you are unbelievable."

ʚĭɞ the date

Percy felt as if it was perfectly normal to be worried for his friend going on a date, worried to the point of sulking the entire day? completely normal.

Yes. She has a date. With some guy Percy didn’t even bother learning the name of. Percy had only focused on the sheer audacity of this guy to be charming enough to get her flowers— roses, seriously? and ask her out.

But it's normal for him to be a little protective over his best friend. That's all it is. He just doesn't want her getting hurt by some dude that didn’t even bother trying to know her favorite flowers.

That's the only explanation for the way he felt something inside him twisting when he saw her before she had to leave for the date, looking all pretty and smiling brightly to go out with some other guy.

That's why he doesn’t do much the whole day, he doesn’t train or joins his friends on their impromtu day at the lake. By the time the night falls, he has been on his cabin for hours, glaring at the ceiling for more time than he'd like to admit.

It's past lights out when there’s a soft knock coming from his door, and before he can even react, she opens the door and slips inside, still in that dress that looks like it's been made just for her, her heels clicking as she holds them in her hand.

Most of the times, she lingers on the door to wait for Percy to give her permission to step inside— as if he would ever tell her to leave. But not this time, this time she walks quickly and doesn’t even stop at the edge of the bed or sits like she always does.

No, this time she simply crawls into bed with him.

"Hey, how did-" He gets cut off when she suddenly wraps her arms around him, burying her face against his chest.

"Missed you." Her voice is muffled against his chest, but he's able to understand. "So much."

Percy wraps his arms around her waist almost instictively, pulling her closer to him. "You saw me this afternoon."

"Still missed you." She replies. "Especially after that date."

He chuckles softly, his fingers carding through her hair, her fingers curl slightly against his shirt, and he tightens his hold around her. And it feels right.

"Was it that bad?" He asks, keeping his tone light, as if he didn’t spend the whole day brooding.

"So bad." There’s no hesitance. "He talked about himself the whole night. Barely asked anything about me. And when he did, and I brought you up, he got all weird."

Percy's hands stopped on her hair for a second, his eyebrows raising slightly. "Weird?"

She shifted slightly, nuzzling her face against the crook of his neck. "He he told me that we should probably distance ourselves a little because people thought we were dating and he almost didn’t ask me out because of you."

"That's ridiculous." Percy laughs at that, but it even surprises him how forced it sounds, how his stomach twists again.

She pulls away now, barely really, just enough to look at him. "Yup, ridiculous, right?"

They both look at each other, her fingers still curled in his shirt, his arms still securely wrapped around her waist. And neither of them moves.

After a moment, he whispers, as if he couldn't allow himself to speak any louder because it might break the whole thing. "Have you ever thought that maybe... it isn't so ridiculous?"

His heart is pounding, his gaze glued to her, waiting for a response. "Yes, maybe it isn't ridiculous, maybe-"

Percy doesn’t let her finish her sentence, he can't. Because the moment she confirms what he has been thinking about, it's like his body moves instinctively, his lips suddenly crashing against hers.

Cherry-mint lips welcoming his like they've been waiting for this for a long time, his hand brushing over the delicate chain around her neck, fingers pausing just for a second on the tiny gold letter that hangs on it.

And it's exactly what it should be. Soft. Sure. Familiar. Comforting. And even better than that first time they kissed back when they were twelve year-old kids convinced that all they could ever be was friends.

ʚĭɞ the kiss.

The next morning, nobody notices the change— because there has not been any evident change in the way they act. Everyone just thinks that the clingyness, the kisses on the cheek, the hugs, are just part of the routine already.

Until they're getting ready for capture the flag and, as usual, Percy helps her with her ponytail. It isn't anything that people haven't seen already, No. So everyone just rolls their eyes at them, mumbling about how oblivious they are.

"How many more months do you think will take them to finally realize?" Clarisse mumbles, putting on her helmet.

"Who knows? It could be years, they-" Grover's words die on his mouth when Percy suddenly leans to kiss her.

Kiss her. Percy is kissing her. In front of everyone.

He doesn’t even realize that people have stopped to look at them, because as he pulls away, the only thing worth his attention is her smile as he says. "You'll do great out there, angel."

"I swear if you tell me you're only friends after that, Jackson." Leo tells him after she has ran off to go find her spear.

Percy chuckles, his smile bright, his eyes still fixed on her. "Friends? No, that's my girl."

[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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[heartthrobin]

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

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

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

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

part one

You can’t sleep.

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

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

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

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

You lingered on it all weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Without a doubt.”

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

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

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

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

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

“He said that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He perks: "really?"

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

"Ow!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tense?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She said that, too."

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

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

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

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

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

'Maybe.

We good?'

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

You hunch over the note again.

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

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

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

'Never :)'

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

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

But lately he's foggier than usual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

You're not at dinner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What does it look like, Arch."

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs. "Not today."

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

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

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. "I know."

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

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

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

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

"You wouldn't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

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

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

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

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

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

He won.

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

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

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

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

Will you forget him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wood! What are you do--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So, is that a yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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