I use they/them pronouns!
The closest label I have is genderqueer. I feel both all of the gender and none of the gender. (Listen, I wish it made sense as well)
I'm a multifandom fanfic writer!
I have ADHD, so usually the fics I write are connected to my current hyperfixation. I really only write x reader fanfics. If I do any character x character fics's it usually because I've made the ship polly >:)
I'm also dyslexic!
Which makes writing as my main hobby just so much fun... I am having fun, but jesus christ, I wish the English languge made any sense to me. In reality, it just means that my editing isn't always the best, but I do try to proofread the best I can :p
My blog is 18+
While I personally don't write smut, I do reblog smut!
Reblogs and likes are always appreciated!
I don't have any friends who are in the online fandom space. So posting my writing is really the only place I get to talk about my interests freely. In turn, any interactions with my posts always feels super cool. I'm so grateful for all the interaction my blog gets.
My blog has some old writing.
I've had this blog since high school (which is crazy to think about). So I have a fair amount of writing that I wouldn't call great posted, but I don't feel the need to delete any of it. If you see a fic I've written but it's not on my masterlist, it's just because it's old and I don't want to actively point people towards it.
Thank you for reading <3 and I hope to see you around!
I lowkey hate when programs talk to me in a friendly way. "don't worry, nearly there!" Shut up. It should say "loading 64.3% completed. Do not turn off device" and absolutely nothing else. You arent my friend you are computer. Act like it
Word count: 1k ⚝ Fluff ⚝ No Warnings ⚝ poor editing as per usual
“And then we could hit the Ferris wheel and see the sunset!” Cassie explained, skipping ahead of the group slightly, the map of the theme park gripped tightly in her hands. Tim rolls his eyes affectionately picking up his pace to keep up with her.
It was nice to see both of them so relaxed.
With Tim’s identity exposed to the team, Cassie got to enjoy being in public with her boyfriend more often, and the rest of the team gets to enjoy the benefits of being friends with a Wayne child. Benefits like going to theme parks with everything paid for under the guise of ‘team building’ (Bruce knows you all get a long great, but he needs to at lest trick himself into thinking he’s not getting swindled).
Though the relaxation falters with a small gust of wind.
Bart, who couldn’t control his impulse to run ahead, is now stood next to you holding a small basket of French fries. A half smirk came to his face as your eyes met. His expression is slightly sheepish as he realizes he’s been caught.
You simply shake your head before returning your attention back to the group. Fighting the impulse to put a leash on him.
~~~
Despite the bright colors and fast rides, amusement parks are always oddly slow. Long lines, waiting to ensure you're buckled correctly, waiting for the ride to start, trying to walk through crowds, the list goes on. A surprising amount of waiting for something supposed to be exciting… Far too long a wait for a hyperactive speedster.
The worst line so far had been the Ferris wheel. The ride, Cassie was adamant that everyone was going on… yay!
You and Bart are stood at the end of the area of the line the team was taking up. Everyone is talking among themselves, deciding who should get on first.
You turned with a shy smile, about to ask if Bart wanted to ride with you (PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE) or if he wanted to swap. Bart, however, isn’t paying much attention to the conversation.
His voice is soft and mumbled as he talks to himself. His fingers twitch at his sides, playing with a loose thread from his jeans in an attempt to keep busy. You can tell he’s flickering his eyes with his speed based on the way they’re vibrating slightly. Then they pause on something in the distance, his browns twitch together like they always do just before he-
“Nope!” Reflex kicking in as you reached out, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Giving you the once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment of beating him at something speed-related, “We’ve been in this line for almost 20 minutes, I’m not going to the back just because you jet off at the last minute.” Though your tone is teasing, the stiff laugh at the end lets him know you're being serious.
Bart’s focus had shifted completely to you after the slight clotheslining. His brows pulled raised in both suppise and nerves. His eyes flicker again as he half steps closer to you, almost like he’s encouraging your touch instead of running from it. The thought makes your face heat up slightly.
“I’ll be quick! Fast as the Flash ha- ha-!”
“Bart.” His nervous laughter softened with your expression hardening. “What’s going on?”
“Ahhh, I just-” His head flickered between you and the slow-moving ride a few times. Trying to get his mouth to catch up with his thoughts. “This ride does not look crash. We’ve been sitting and waiting ALL day, and this ride is literally about sitting and waiting to get to the top!” He whispers yells, closing the distance between you more, “I don’t know if I can do this one, I’m toooootally going to crash the mode.”
You couldn’t hold in the giggle that bubbled up, your expression soft once again with a loving smile. Loosening your hold on his collar to let your hand rest over his heart. The hyped up organ creates more of a vibration than a beat.
“Big deep breath speedy… I’m not just going to leave you to crash,” You can feel his heart pick up slightly before slowing with his breath, “If you really don’t think you can get on, then I’ll let you run off some steam and cover for you, but it would be really lonely to get to the top without you~”
The corners of Bart’s lips had twitched up slightly, seemingly a little dazed as he listened to you before snapping back in as his cheeks flushed a few shades deeper.
“O-oh, we’re riding together?” His head tilted, but it was hard to tell if it was out of innocence or in teasing. One of his hands comes up to cover yours lightly, wanting to keep your touch but not if you didn’t want to give it.
“Well, only if you want to. I’m sure Gar will switch if you wanna ride with Jaime?” You're barely halfway through giving him an out before his grip on your hand tightens. Intertwining your fingers against his chest, making the position slightly awkward, but the jester still sweet. His smile grows as his mind slows enough to let him enjoy this moment with you.
The line shuffled ahead of you as staff began to load people onto the ride. The rest of the team wooing and laughing in the excitement of finally getting on the ride.
Bart shifts your intertwined hands into a more comfortable position between the two of you. His palm is warm, you can feel the calouses between his fingers from where the gloves of his suit dig in.
Your hands stay locked as the two of you are let onto the ride. The soft clicks of the lap bar are the last interaction you have on the ground before the ride begins to move.
Your stomach drops as the enclosed metal bench rises up, letting you look over the rest of the theme park. Over the building and rides the sun falls into the horizon. Warm hues of orange and pink are beginning to take over the sky.
“The sun does look really pretty. Maybe Cassie was onto something.” You hum, looking to Bart only to find he was already looking at you. His eyes twitched over to the view of the horizon momentarily before returning to yours.
“Eh, I prefer looking at you.”
synopsis: After getting the scare of your life and seeing your ex-bestfriend at your current bestfriends house party, you just want things to go back to normal. What better way to do that than mini golf with your friends! Though it seems you have a Ghost you'll need to confront.
Word count: 2.5k
WARNING: Swearing! breif mention of bad home life, unaddressed attachment issues, confontation, bad editing (forever and always), poorly written accents (I tried), Johnny being an ass, forced proximity
---
“I agreed to come because you said you wouldn’t ask about this.” You huff, slouching into the uncomfortable plastic chair.
Kelly huffed as well, leaning onto the table more as she swished her cup to stir the melted ice back into her coffee.
“I’m only asking because I’ve never seen you like that before… It was worrying! I worry about you!”
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Kelly was an amazing person and friend. But she could also be a nosy bitch when she wanted to be. A persistent nosy bitch at that.
Taking a sip of your own drink as you sat up again, adjusting to ensure she would pay attention,
“I’m going to say this once, this is all the detail you're getting, and I don’t want any sympathy cooing after I say it. It happened years ago and I’m over it. For the most part.”
Kelly nodded, sitting up straight as well to offer you her full attention.
With a sigh, you explained, “We met in year ten when we got partnered up for a project, we clicked and became best friends. His home life was shit, mine was less shit, so we hung at my house a lot. We spent basically every day together, even getting the same job as teenagers, so we could be together… Then on his 18th birthday, we skipped school, spent the day in Southport, and just hung out by the sea. When we got back, he said goodbye, kissed me, and then I didn’t see him again until 3 nights ago at the party.”
You waited until your eyes stopped burning and then looked up from the table. Kelly’s face had fallen dramatically. No longer excited and triumphant from getting to hear the gossip, now sad and empathetic. Then Realization.
“Oh my god, Simon is- That’s Simon?! Oh my god.” Kelly’s hands came up, pushing her hair back as she processed the new realization that the childhood best friend you’d spoken about over the years was him. That somehow, in either a crazy coincidence or a cruel joke from the universe, she had reintroduced the two of you. “Jesus Christ. Wait! He kissed you! You never told me that-”
“That’s all the detail you're getting.” You shook your head. Cutting the story then and there.
Kelly’s expression shifted a few times. First surprised, then sympathetic before taking a final shift to determined.
“I’ll cut Johnny out, just say the word.”
“What Kel? no.”
“What Kel? Yes. I’ve never seen you that upset before, and now knowing the rest of the story, I don’t want anything to do with either of them if it’ll hurt you.”
You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh as you reach other and take her hands across the table.
“Kel Johnny is the nicest Guy you’ve gone out with in years. I can’t do another shitty Kelly boyfriend!” you teased, letting both of you have a small laugh, “Plus I do like Johnny! He’s a good guy. I don’t want to make either of you lose something just because a skeleton in my closet escaped… Besides now that he’s seen me, he’ll probably screw off to wherever he’s been hiding for the past 10 years.”
Kelly let out another small chuckle as she listened. The care and love she held for you poured out of every inch of her, “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive… I just want things to go back to normal, and let Simon become a memory again.”
She nodded, giving your hands a squeeze, “Well then, it’s a good thing mini golf is this weekend.”
~~~
It felt weird to talk about him so candidly again. The only other person in your life who knew the full story of you and Simon was your therapist. You’d shared stories with Kelly about Simon before, but it was always in a way people talked about the dead. Stories are short but sweet, holding an emotion that the other person wouldn’t necessarily understand. Now it’s with the reality that he does exist. That somewhere in the world stands Simon Riley, living and breathing. Without you.
It’s always a weird pill to swallow. A grief you’re not supposed to feel and never get to move on from due to the incomplete feeling it leaves you with.
But Mini Golf Sundays (TM) is possibly the one thing in this world that could cheer you up.
Having adult friends also means competing with an adult schedule, and seeing that most of your current friend group were also your mates in college you had to come up with a consistent way of seeing each other. At first, just to get away from classes but now it’s to squeeze in between work shifts.
Hence Mini Golf Sundays (TM). Where all of you meet up on the first Sunday of the month, play some mini golf, and then go out for food. A ritual that’s been going on for almost 8 years and very few are invited to.
Which is why your heart fully stops for a few seconds when Simon fucking Riley is at mini golf!?
“There ye’ are Lass!” Johnny’s arm wraps around your shoulders, causing you to tense up more than you already were. “Startin’ to think you got lost on your way”
Your eyes shot over to Kelly, whose expression is sheepish and apologetic. Maybe a little frustrated but you could be projecting.
Johnny, noticing you’re looking for a way out, keeps his gentle but firm hold around you. Dragging Guiding you over to the putter house to pay and start on the course. Simon is sticking out like a sore thumb in the group, trailing along behind Johnny while also trying to keep a safe distance from you.
With really no choices you let yourself get dragged along. Not wanting to cause any upset or awkwardness by leaving. Though by the 4th hole your patient is being tested.
Johnny, instead of aiming his ball at the hole, he instead takes aim towards your ball, always finding a way to knock it closer to Simon’s. The scottsmen is doing EVERYTHING in his power to push the two of you together, and if fucking infuriating.
You're doing your best to be cordial. Pushing out a half-hearted laugh whenever Johnny cracks out a dumb joke. Whispering a small ‘excuse me’ whenever you have to step past Simon to get to your ball. Forcing a small smile that you hoped didn’t look too awkward as the group played. Being able to hear the other in the group a few holes ahead, having the fun you should be having, isn’t helping your frustration either.
Someone’s getting they’re ass kicked.
Whether it’s going to be Johnny for ruining the sanctuary of Sunday minigolf, or Simon for having the balls to show his face again. Someone has to pay for the shit you're going through.
The chance comes 2 holes later, when during the longest hole on the course Johnny knocks your ball into the furthest outcove from the hole. Leaving you in an impossibly tight spot that was in sand.
Kelly had made it in easily and Johnny made it in soon after he’d knocked your ball away. Seeing as you were going to be a bit Johnny intertwined his arm with Kelly, giving you a knowing smile as he pulled her along to move ahead to the next hole. Saying that he was sure you and Simon would catch up with them.
Fucking asshole… Speaking of assholes.
You wacked at your ball again, slowly pushing it out of the sand alcove it had been hit into. Anger spiked as you turned to Simon, white knuckling your putter as you spoke in an aggressive hush.
“Did you put him up to this?!”
Simon blinked a few times, having not expected a conversation, let alone your aggression.
“Yea- no- I- Johnny invited me- really the fucker dragged me… I didn’t tell ‘im to do any of this,” Simon pushed his words out breathlessly. He had seen you growing upset, but he wasn’t prepared to be the one to deal with the fallout. All of the wheels in his brain limping as they turned wanting to say the right thing. He jestered to the green around him, like that would explain everything.
“Bullshit.”
“Bullshit?”
“Did I stutter?” You take a step closer to him. Your anger and anxiety with the situation causing you to throw any healthy confrontational skills out the window.
“No?” Simon doesn’t step back, his body’s first response being to square up at the approaching “threat”
“Well?!” Your voice raised slightly, the heat in your gaze sending a shiver down Simon’s spine.
His chest expands in a deep breath. His whole body feels pulled taunt as he tries to work through the rising emotions. SAS training kicking in, keeping his face neutral as he creates a game plan to navigate the situation without pissing you off further. You can feel the tension growing as well. Heat rushing from your chest as your heart rate began knocking against your rib cage lightly.
Without breaking eye contact, Simon approached, creating a small standoff that lasted only about 20 seconds before a small ‘click’ broke the silence. Looking down and watching as Simon hit your ball with his putter, causing it to roll out of the outcove finally, and fall down a tube which gave it enough momentum to roll into the hole.
The action rips away any anger, instead freezing you with shock. Jaw slightly slacked as you watch the impressive show of put-put skills.
“W- what- how did you?-” The words die as your eyes come back up to his, you realize he’s closer. Not just by a few steps but my leaning down as well, letting you see the golden flexes in his eyes shine slightly like glass sparkling in dirt.
“I did not know you were comin’.” His voice is firm but soft, making them knock around in your brain harder. “Johnny didn’t say shit about it. Just said him, Kelly and some of ‘er friends were going golfin’… I didn’t mean to upset you, I-… I didn’t mean to upset you.” His jaw latches shut like he’s trying to keep anything other than facts from slipping out.
Frozen once again, your heart that had just been preparing for war now jumps into your throat. Your mind clearing out any thoughts as all attention should be used to watch him, listen to him. For the first time in almost a decade, you fell back into the trap of Simon Riley and its all too familiar embrace. No longer the ghost that had spooked you at the party last week, or the ghost of him that lived in the corners of your brain. Instead it’s him. Simon Riley in the flesh.
Your silent gawking seems to have answered some form of question for him as he gives you a small nod before standing up straight again,
“You go finish up the game with Kelly an’ Johnny.” His head tilts slightly to guide you towards the other half of the group that was now 2 holes ahead as he steps back.
No! Don’t leave again.
Simon had only gotten a few steps away when his arm was suddenly tugged, forcing his whole body to come to a sudden halt. The metal pole of his putter was cool in your grasp, leaving only a few inches of separation between your hands.
“Si- Simon. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for raising my voice.” Your voice rushed out, leaving it sounding breathless. Your heart starts up its panicked dance again as you watch Simon turn back to look at you again. His expression was still hardened at first. His eyes flickered slightly as he looked for any signs of a lie. Only relaxing when he sees the sincerity (or really upset) in your expression.
“‘m not leavin’ cuz you raised your volume. I’m leaving because I don’t want you to be upset with your friends.” He faced you more now, like his body couldn’t help but drift closer. Your grip stayed firm over his putter because somehow this thin metal pole would stop him from walking away. It had to. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
You shook your head quickly, desperate to answer him no matter the form. “I’m not uncomfortable! I’m- I’m just…”
Simon’s brows pulled together again, calling your bluff. You let out the breath that had been keeping you up. Your head drops slightly to avoid looking at him directly. Hurt, angry, sad, confused, scared. It all taste the same when smashed together.
“I guess I am… But it’s because I don’t know what to feel about you, a-about everything I-” Shit. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling.” It’s all too much.
The moment falls quiet again. Simon’s hand adjusted his hold on the putter so that his thumb could graze against the side of your palm gently. His voice breaking through the sound of families around you laughing,
“Can feel however you want… I deserve whatever comes my way from it.”
“No, that’s not true…” You find the strength to meet his eyes again, shining in the same way you imagine your own are. “You don’t deserve to be yelled at.”
His shoulders rise with a sigh, breaking eye contact briefly as he thinks before returning with a new softness that reflected in his voice.
“What do you feel then?”
A breeze carries a familiar laughter back to you. Looking over to find Kelly’s back against Johnny’s chest as he guides her into a swing. The two giggled like they were the only two there, leading to Johnny “scolding” Kelly for her swing and starting the line-up phase all over again.
“I feel like I wanna finish the game with you.” Your smile begins to return as your grip on Simon’s putter finally loosens before releasing, letting your hand graze against his briefly. “And I want to use your newfound putting skills to whip that smirk off Johnny’s face.”
Simon’s lips twitched into a smirk as he watched you find your center again. The weight on his chest lightening slightly.
“Kick his ass an’ make him pay for burgers?”
You take a few steps to the side, using your own putter to tap Simon’s ball into the pipe, letting it fall into the hole as well. “Kick his ass and make him pay for burgers.” You confirmed, your smile growing with the giddiness of not only finally getting a ball into the hole, but because you managed to get him to stay. “If that’s what you feel like doing of course.”
His smirk stays as the two of you walk across the green into the lower part. Crouching down and grabbing both of your golf balls before offering his hand up so you could take yours.
“I’m positive that what I want to do… Bastard should be happy the only thing we’re gunna bruise is his wallet.”
.
.
.
Tagelist: @little-mini-me-world @raveytheknight @mxxnechos @scaleniusrm
(Please let me know if any of the tags didn't work! I'm still new to this TwT)
Wanna be tagged? Go here!
Not my favorite to be so real with yall. This is the 4th draft/attempt and if I had to draft it again I was going to shave my head. But now that its done I can move on with the story and have fun again :)
Thank you sm for all the love on the masterlist post TwT I wasn't really expecting it tbh.
(Side note: I'm going to make a mood board for Kelly bc I love her sm and wish I had a friend like her :3)
I figured out why I don't like this part now... Cuz it sucks LMAO
It's not actually bad. I just genuinely forgot how to format and I caught a few spelling/grammar errors that is making it a bit clunky as well.
I have an Impulse/Bart Allen x Reader fic/blurb I want to edit and post, but after that this fic will likely get put back into the workshop for a bit!
I will be working on part 3 once this guy is squared away! Tbh ever since I posted this part I've been dealing with some pretty bad writers block. A big portion of the block is just that I wasn't super happy with my writing here and it didn't perform super well notes/likes wise. I just got super in my head and needed to work through that. I want to finish this story and I will gosh darn it. I just needed to finish the life lesson that inspired it in the first place :)
summary: after your article on the last Puddlemere game, their rookie keeper sends you a more than displeased letter. what starts as heated banter devolves into an unexpected friendship, one that you know your secret will never let flourish, much less turn into something else.
content: fluff, lots of lies and pretentious writting, reader has a nosy brother in this
wc: 15k
“Dear Mr. Whittaker at Bloody Bludgers,
I write to you to discuss the matter of the snippet you wrote about me on Bloody Bludgers a few days ago. While I can agree my playing wasn’t the best, I find the language you used to describe it harsh and ill-intentioned. Maybe the weight of it being my first official game made my flying not as perfect as it usually is, but referring to it as “reminiscent of a nervous student on their first flying lesson” felt mocking and childish. No other writer on the sports sections of any other newspaper or magazine that covered the game had anything to say about me or my playing, not even The Prophet, and they wouldn’t be so harsh anyway because they are professional. I hope my letter makes you reflect on the crude words you wrote about a rookie with a Hogwarts Quidditch Cup that was trying to make a great first impression on his first step as a professional.
Best regards,
Oliver Wood”
You stared at the parchment in your hand. The big, round writing displayed across its surface giving a chaotic look that contrasted with the polite tone of its content, obviously forced. You read it two, maybe three times more as an incredulous smile spread across your face.
“Oh, please” you groaned out loud. “Learn to take some criticism”
“That the letter that arrived for you?” you heard your brother yell across the store as he guided some new bats onto the shelves with a twirl of his wand.
The magazine you wrote for was really small, simply an accessory to your family’s store that you had been writting casually for a few years. It wasn’t popular, hell, it was barely a magazine despite the effort that you’d put into it looking presentable. Having someone read it, let along feel strongly enough about it to write back to you wasn’t a possibility you had ever taken into consideration. And yet, here you were.
“Where is Claws?” you asked down the hallway of Quidditch equipment.
“Dear Mr. Wood,
Thank you so much for reaching out to me with your honest thoughts about my piece. I’m sorry if my criticism came across as mocking. I was attempting to paint a charming and endearing picture from your wobbly flying. I’m sure our readers were able to interpret it that way, and to be fair you might be taking your playing more seriously than anyone did. I assume you went through every writting about the game looking for someone that had something to say about you and when you finally found mine it wasn’t to your liking. I’ll go further and say that the only reason why no one else wrote about your scarce five minutes on the pit is because no one bothered to pay any mind to an unknown rookie sent to help in a pinch, so in that way: you are welcome.
Best regards,
Ms. Whittaker”
That seemed good enough for you at the time, aware enough that your behavior wasn’t much more mature than his had been. You put the letter in an envelope with the address Oliver had scribbled on the outside of his own. Claws had eagerly picked it up with a pleased screech and leapt from the concrete windowsill of the store soon disappearing behind grey clouds. A few days later another letter with his name on it had been dropped by Claws on your bed. It left your room with a protest so loud you were sure your landlord would come complain to you again. You hadn’t been sure if he would answer, but given how temperamental his letter had sounded last time, you couldn’t say you were surprised. You were excited though, the situation as amusing as it was petty. The handwriting was not as rushed this time, making the lines thinner and letters smaller. You couldn’t tell if it was politeness or measured annoyance what you would discover, but nothing could have prepared you for what you would read next.
“Dear Ms. Whittaker,
First of all, I’d like to apologize for confusing you for a man; my cousin has the same name, and he’s a boy.”
You brought a hand to your mouth to suppress a laugh. The tone shift had almost made your animosity towards him disappear.
“However, I still think that your writing was childish and unprofessional. I agree I did not put on a good performance. I’m sure you remember your first game and can understand what pressure can do to even the most talented players. I hope next time I play I can change your mind, and that you can look at me with kinder eyes. I know you are a professional, so I know one day I’ll make it into your great writing.
Kind regards,
Oliver Wood”
You read the letter over and over, but not for the same reason you had done with the first one. You cocked your head to the side, confused and intrigued by some of the things written on it. Ever since you had sent your own letter, you had reflected back on what you had written about him and read it yourself, and you had to agree maybe you had been a bit harsh on him. You were confused as to why he had mentioned your first game, which you had never played. You read the word “professional” over and over again, flattered and feeling your chest swell with pride. Then the guilt seeped in.
“Dear Mr. Wood,
I want to open this letter with the admission that my words about you were in fact unnecessarily harsh. While the criticism I wrote about you was valid, the way I placed my words was not, and I’d like to formally apologise for that.” ... “ I have to admit I’d like to be able to relate to the stomach-turning feeling of stepping on the Quidditch Pitch for the first time, but I have never played myself. Maybe I was jealous that someone my age was already at such stage on his life and the bitterness got the best of me. My enjoyment of the sport is limited to the bleachers, the higher the better, which some people might say deprives my reporting of actual insight. I guess it's not that noticeable since you thought otherwise, which I will admit made me very happy. Thank you for the kind words about my writing and I hope that we can see each other as colleagues on opposite sides of the field from now on. I will be looking forward to seeing you at the next game.
Kind regards"
“Dear Ms Whittaker,
Are we really the same age? I had assumed you were way older because I have been reading Bloody Bludgers for years and I remember reading your articles back in school. How old were you when you wrote these? I thought I might have gotten it wrong but I looked for my old volumes and your name is written in them. Were you writing in school? I also had assumed you had played before because of the detail and insight you seem to have when it comes to your writings. Your dissection of equipment is one of my favourite corners of the magazine, and I learnt a lot from it (and I already knew a lot) Will you be at the next Puddlemere game? I doubt I’ll play, but I look forward to reading your take on it.
Best regards,
Oliver Wood”
That letter had found you on a downcast November morning. Oliver’s owl, which you had met for the first time, sat for a long time on the back of your chair as if waiting. You lay on the bed, feet fidgeting as you read the words over and over again. The overly polite tone had been dropped completely, and so had the animosity. You had in fact gone to watch the game, and as he had said he hadn’t played in it, which you refused to admit had soured your mood.
“Dear Oliver,
I did in fact write during my time in school. You probably know this, but our magazine is actually part of our family business, a Quidditch equipment store. It has belonged to my family for three generations, so of course even if I have never played, I’m well versed in all aspects of the sport. If I’m being honest I’m always surprised when someone not local reads our magazine since I started it as a hobby. I guess you must read a lot. I hope I get to see you play soon. I also hope you’ll read my article on the upcoming Warwick game and give me your opinion of it”
He didn’t reply to that one for the next few days. It started worrying you that you might have overstepped by calling him by his first name. Maybe that had been too much too soon. It was the first time in years that you had interacted with someone with the same enthusiasm for Quidditch that you had. Not even your brother matched your intensity, acting more as a resigned heir to the business than anything else. He was also your best friend, which wasn’t saying much, but given the circumstances was understandable. With your friends there was always a detachment, especially the ones you’d known since school. Maybe this was for the best, you thought; becoming friends with someone like Oliver would just start a ticking bomb. So you tried to not feel hurt when another day passed by with no news of him and pretended you couldn’t feel the hope sink down all the way down to the pit of your stomach.
That was, until the Warwick game.
You hadn’t even noticed him even after he had sat down next to you. You hadn’t bothered to turn around when you felt someone sit down, only readjusting yourself when you felt their knee bump against yours. Whoever it was, they were accompanied by the faint scent of leather and an unfortunate choice of cologne. As you finally turned to fetch your writing materials out of your bag, you saw him looking around with a pair of binoculars. However, he wasn’t looking at the pit; he was looking around the bleachers. Your face had already turned into one of mild discomfort when he had turned to you and jumped on his seat when the binoculars fixed on you. As he put them down and stared at you with big brown eyes blown in embarrassment, you felt the air around you still and the noise of the crowd fade away.
“I’m looking for a friend” he blurted out nervously, each word tripping over the next as the redness spread across his cheeks. You were too shocked to register whatever he was saying, though. There, sitting so close to you his cologne would linger on your scraf for hours after was Oliver Wood. You could recognize him from that Puddlemere game, even if the feeling he gave was completely different. His headset had been hiding his longish chestnut hair, and the clumsiness he exhuded back then was nowhere to be found as he sat with perfect, imposing posture next to you. His eyes were bigger than you would have imagined, long lashes softening the natural harshness of his stare. They shook a bit, alternating between the pit and you. You realized then that your silence and unbreakable eye contact were making him shift on his seat. “Well, someone that I know. Well, sort of”
“Oh” you said out loud.
You.
He was talking about you.
It seemed like getting a word out of you actually made him more nervous than your prolongued silence had.
“I’m not doing anything weird, I swear!” he explained, a few spectators turning their heads with interest at his choice of words. His shoulders slumped slightly, as if he was trying to hide himself from them.
He put the binoculars down on his lap and stared down at the game, and so did you. How much time did you have by then? How long until it was impossible for you to reveal yourself? You had the power to make it end right at that instant with nothing more than your silence. That’d make things easier for sure. There was no need to complicate everything and hurt yourself--
“Who’s your friend?”
The question caught him by surprise, but not as much as it did you. His body, while still stiff, relaxed at the friendliness of the question.
“Umh, someone I’ve been talking to. Calling her a colleague would be more appropriate. We’ve been exchanging thoughts about Quidditch, and I thought we could discuss the game”
“A colleague” you mumbled to yourself.
“Yeah, well, we are in the same field. I’m a Quidditch player” he looked around, looking conflicted about whether or not he wanted people to hear him or not “I, uhm, I play”
“Oh, that’s awesome” you bit your tongue “And your friend?”
“Colleague” he corrected “She’s a journalist. She writes for a magazine”
Now your toes were truly tiptoeing at the verge of the cliff. If you stayed quiet now, there was no going back. A small quiet lie to stop many other ones that would come.
“And you?” He asked suddenly “I’m sorry I didn’t... I didn’t ask you anything. Are you a Warwick fan?”
You felt a painful feeling of relief when the universe seemed to have chosen for you what you knew was the right thing to do. You swallowed the bitterness and gave him a smile.
“No, not really. I find them messy”
“How so?”
“I mean, they’ve got really good players, but they don’t blend well together. I honestly don’t think they get along at all”
“I know, right?” Oliver’s voice rose as he turned to you on his seat with a small hop. His eyes seemed to shine impossibly bright under the grey sky “When they signed Forbes I thought they’d finally get a hold of themselves, but here they are” he pointed at the losing sign.
“People keep saying they need a new coach, but Sheersmith is fine really. What they actually need is a good--”
“Captain” he finished for you.
You both exhanged a smile “Yeah”
“You know, when I was captain I prioritised chemistry over skills. You can always polish someone’s skills, but you can’t force good rapport”
“You were captain?” you feigned ignorance, having already heard about him by the second letter.
“Yes, since my fourth year” his puffed his chest with pride “To be honest I hated it at times. I’m not good with people” he seemed to think about that before adding “I’m not bad at it either, though”
“So why did they make you captain, then?”
“Because I deserved it” he said matter-of-factly, not a sign of embarrassment on his face even when you stared at him wide-eyed “I knew what I wanted”
“To win?”
He frowned, apparently deep in thought. His lips pressed into a pout.
“To play as long as I could” he finally said, then chuckled and looked away “That sounds silly”
“No. I mean, maybe. But I know exactly how that feels.”
His face lit up with interest.
“So you played”
“Yes” you bit your tongue, hard “Seeker”
He gave you once-over.
“Excuse my straightforwardness, but how old are you?” damn it, maybe he was sharper than you had been told, but that was on you for being a pathetic liar “I mean, I don’t think I remember seeing you at any games at Hogwarts, but you can’t be much older than me”
“I am not” you laughed, and you hoped he couldn’t tell it was due to nervousness “I umh, got hurt during a game so had to stop. That’s why I said I understood what you meant”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Not recognising you from school makes more sense now. To be honest I didn’t pay much attention” He was still staring at you like he was trying to figure you out, and you were terrified he might “What house were you in?”
“Hufflepuff” you replied without missing a beat, then held your breath in silent prayer until he said:
“Gryffindor. You don’t... remember me?”
He sounded almost offended and you had to stiffle a laugh.
“Vaguely”
Oliver nodded, the statement obviously hurting his ego a bit.
“I was a keeper. I am” he corrected “Puddlemere. Or I will be when I get to play”
“You are a professional, though”
“I’m very green. I messed up my first try” “It’s funny, someone commented on how disappointing my playing was, and I got so upset when I read it, but... I think I was more upset about the fact that it was true”
You laughed to yourself.
“You let them have it?”
“Embarrassingly, yes. I mean, I had my reasons! It was a very nasty article, but it was true” When he felt your eyes on him he straightened up and cleared his throat “It’s alright though. We worked it out. That’s why I was expecting to find her here”
“To let her have it?” you joked.
“No! Merlin, no. Well, I might have back then, but judging by her letters I assume she’d beat my ass”
That got a genuine laugh out of you, the first honest thing Oliver had heard from you since he had sat by your side. He reciprocated with a smile of his own. Then it dawned on you that his plan didn’t make much sense.
“Did you plan to meet here?”
Oliver scratched the back of his neck, looking away with a frown.
“No, uhm, I know it’s stupid but I just thought I could bump into her”
”Do you know what she looks like?”
Oliver made a face and looked at you out of the corner of his eye.
“Not really”
“You didn’t think that one too well, did you?”
He chuckled, the way his lips stretched into a smile making your eyes unconsciously fixate on them “Yeah, I don’t know. I just... felt embarrassed to ask if she wanted to watch the game. I mean, she’s working, you know”
His voice lowered a bit, making it almost hard to hear beneath the roaring crowd. A subtle tint of pink spread across his cheeks, and you wondered it maybe he felt really cold. Whatever it was it made your heart skip a beat.
“I’m sure she’d be happy to bump into you” It felt awful to say, given the fact you were already lying to him. Still, in a twisted way, you were at least telling the truth.
“Yeah, well. Now that I have come to my senses, it might be a bit weird”
You nodded, amused yet flattered “Just a bit”
“I’m not making a good first impression, am I?” He extended his hand to you with an awkward smile. “Oliver Wood, by the way”
You grabbed his hand before you could even think of what false name you were about to give him. There was no way you could say the real one now. A small droplet fell onto your linked hands, and you thanked Merlin for his compassion.
“It’s starting to rain, I should go”
You stood up, way too excited to leave.
“Wait, why?” asked Oliver, whose hand was still hanging in the air after you had let go.
“The game’s boring anyway”
“It’s okay, we can just...”
Oliver pulled out his wand and, as everyone else had done in the stadium, casted a protection charm around him to keep the rain away.
“Right” you said, sitting down again next to him under the invisible curtain keeping you safe from the rain that was violently falling down upon the field now.
You felt his body stiffen when you sat down again, your body pressed against him so you could fit underneath his charm. You weren’t sure at the time if the sudden warmth you felt came from the ehat his body seemed to exhude, or from how the proximity made you feel. Suffice to say, you didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the game. Neither of you did.
“That was underwhelming,” was Oliver’s consensus of the game. “Henderik needs to give up the sponsorships and actually get a broom that works for him. You would think someone has hexed him!”
You felt the unpleasant feeling of feet sinking onto the mud on your way out of the stadium. Despite the rain having ceased a while ago, the wind was unforgivingly cold, contrasting heavily to how you felt inside. Oliver walked next to you, bumping into you from time to time and hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. You wondered if his hands were as cold as yours, and how would it feel to hold them. They’d probably feel rough after the hours of practice, maybe even weasty. But you’d never find out. Maybe in another lifetime, you thought. When you looked up at him after his brief yet unusual silence, you caught him looking over his shoulder.
“What is it?”
He snapped back, looking embarrassed.
“Nothing”
You bit your lip, pondering.
“Still looking for that colleague whose face you don’t know?”
“I know, I know” he protested with a sigh “I think you two would have gotten along, by the way”
You desperately needed to change the course of the conversation.
“Did you come by Portkey?”
“Floo Network down at The Red Hog. You?”
“Portkey”
“I usually prefer portkeys, but I’m worried about landing wrong and hurting myself. I need to be careful now that I’m playing professionally” he said proudly and you bit back a smile.
The short distance to the entrance of The Red Hog was spent in an awkward silence that could be excused by the fact that you both were freezing, every muscle on your body feeling tight by the time you reached the door. It was a small pub with nice food and usually a great and cheerful atmosphere. An ideal place for witches and wizards to chat about the games before going down the stairs and using one of the many chimneys in their impossibly wide basement to get back home. Not your favourite way of transportation, to say the least.
“This is it” Oliver said as he stood by the door, letting people pass him by on their way inside.
“Yeah”
The awkwardness was palpable. He fidgeted with his hands inside his pockets, shoulders almost raising to his ears. You assumed he was really cold.
“It was fun” He finally said “Watching the game with you”
You gave him a smile, making sure it wasn’t as big as you knew it could be.
“I had fun too”
“Actually I should walk you to your portkey, it is getting kind of late” he offered.
“Oh, it’s okay! I’m waiting for my brother” for once that wasn’t a lie “We promised to meet here after the game”
Oliver couldn’t come up with anything else to say, so with a thin smile and a shrug he just said:
“Very well”
Oliver walked backwards towards the door, neither of you knowing how to properly say goodbye.
“I’ll be cheering for you” you blurted out, your face bright red.
You would have felt mortified if you hadn’t seen how Oliver’s forced thin smile softened into a surprised, genuine one.
“I won’t disappoint”
You let out a loud, deep sigh of relief once he was gone. Adrenaline was rushing through your system, and your heart was beating at an alarming pace. Suddenly someone grabbed the back of your sweater and turned you around with so much force that you knew right away who it was. Pushing the hair away from your face in annoyance, you were met with your brother’s shocked face, hands grabbing at your shoulders.
“Why on earth were you hanging out with Oliver Wood?”
“So you lied to him?” your brother asked.
“Yeah...”
“And then in the middle of that lie... you lied again?”
“...yeah”
You were both trying to walk through the narrow dirt path into the woods, making sure to not slip or step on deep puddles. A few wizards near you had already fallen, and while you two had been quick to stifle your laughs, you didn’t want to suffer the same fate. You were walking a few feet ahead of him, as if that would make the embarrassment more bearable.
“And what’s the end goal here, exactly?” he asked, his genuine confusion mixed with a hint of mockery.
“There is no end goal. I couldn’t even write anything for the article” you groaned.
“At all?”
“What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just start writing notes. He would have put two and two together”
“I don’t know about that. He was never the most intellectually gifted” He stayed quiet for a few seconds before he asked “Why did you give him my story, though?”
“I don’t know! I was panicking and didn’t have the time to come up with anything, so...” You threw your arms in the air and finally, turning to him, said “We are twins anyway, so in some way it’s a shared experience”
“Yeah? You played seeker for Hufflepuff?” he mocked “You got named prefect?”
Your hands balled into fists out of embarrassment.
“Yeah, I also got dumped by Genevive Hoggings in the middle of Hogsmeade and had to hide in Madame Puddifoot’s bathroom so no one would see me cry!”
“You--!”
He took a big step towards you, and his shoe slipped on the ground. Before he could hit the ground, you held onto his arm and attempted to stop the fall, only to pathetically fall alongside him. Your butt hit the soft, damp ground, the feeling so unpleasant you couldn’t even bring yourself to protest.
“Very nice” he said, shaking his hands now covered in mud.
“Don’t say it like it was my fault”
“We are twins, so technically it’s a shared fault”
“That makes no sense” you both helped each other up, ignoring people's muffled laughter before continuing your trip “I don’t know, I just...” You sighed deeply, struggling to find an explanation that made sense.
“It’s alright.” His tone was lower, comforting. He put a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t even care that the mud it was covered in was staining your coat “I understand”
Your smile was very small but genuine. It was moments like this that made you feel like he was older. In a way he always had to be. He looked like it too, and it made you feel guilty, like it was somewhat your fault.
“Thanks for coming to get me”
“That’s what I’m here for” Your smile fell a little, and he knowingly raised his hand in protest without even having to look at you “No, I don’t want to see that look”
“Hello,
I went to the Warwick game today. I was thinking I might run into you since you said you’d attend. We didn’t run into each other, but I’ll be looking forward to your article. I’ve been thinking about the Puddlemere one you wrote, and I wanted to say thank you for at least having an eye on me. I think that in the future I will appreciate it more”
“It seems like you guys get along,” your brother said over your shoulder once he had finished reading the letter in your hands “Both versions of you”
You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply as you folded the letter back in half.
“So it seems”
You rested your back against one of the old mahogany counters. The store was surprisingly quiet despite the nice weather. Warm sunlight bathed the place in a subtle bath of gold, making the many particles of dust dancing in the air visible. There were a few kids eyeing Quidditch appliances, an early sign that August was coming to an end.
“Are you going to reply to him?”
You wanted to, that was for sure. Whether you should or not was a different story. Still, it would be odd to stop replying. Your shoulders rose with a shrug, and you could feel Patrick’s disapproving glare on you.
“What even is your plan?”
“I don’t know! We are just talking about Quidditch anyway...”
“He was looking for you” he said drily “At a game”
“Maybe he also wants to make friends who are Quidditch obsessed”
“So you are just going to exchange letters forever and pretend to be someone else when he shows up looking for you?”
“Yeah, well, what was I supposed to do!” You turned to him, and the increase of your volume made the kids turn to you “I wasn’t ready to have to go through all that out of nowhere”
“I mean, yea, not there”
“But it would come anyway at some point”
“Wrong, it will come eventually at some point”
”And you think I don’t know that?” Patrick closed his mouth, shoulders slumping a bit. You knew he meant well, he really did “We both know lying doesn’t suck as much as the other option. Can’t I enjoy this for a bit?”
“Listen, I have nothing against lying and plotting! I just sold an old man polishing cream for twelve gallons when it only costs eight! I’m just worried about what’ll happen when you can’t stretch this any longer”
“You scammed an old man?”
“It’s okay, he wasn’t that old. How are you going to write the Warwick article, by the way? You don’t even know what happened”
You groaned onto your hands.
“Dad’s going to ask”
“We’ll say it was raining and you had to leave”
Your head perked up.
“That’s true! I’ll just write something else. The new Comet design just got released, so I’ll write on that”
“Good evening,
I’m sorry if this letter is excessive, but I think your reply might have gotten lost. Your owl did seem agitated last time it delivered your letter to me, so I wanted to make sure she’s okay. Anyway...”
The way the handwriting seemed to change at the end of the sentence caught your attention. The words that had been slightly tilted seemed to straighten up as if he had taken such a long pause after the full stop that his flow had been interrupted.
“I attended the Warwick game today. I wasn’t expecting to bump into you there, obviously, but I thought it’d be funny if we had. I was shocked that they put Diggings on the pitch when he has had a ratio of twelve out of fifty this season. I wasn’t surprised at the score at all, I could see it from a mile away. Where were you? I’m very interested to know your analysis of the game. I’m looking forward to it.
Oliver”
But he already knew what your opinion had been. You had told him at the time, sitting on the bleachers with your knees gently bumping against each other once and again. You could remember every word he had said and how he had said them, how his eyes would drift from one player to the other while animatedly giving you his very opinionated take on each play. Not like you were any better. The plan had been to not write to him anymore. Patrick was right, just how long did you think you could stretch this? You had already lied to his face, there was no way to ever come back from that. So why you picked up a new piece of parchment you were not entirely sure.
“Dear Oliver,
I haven’t been able to continue our correspondence as I have fallen ill these last couple of days. Due to this, I was unable to attend the game and also to answer your last letter. Thank you for your concern about Claws, but she is completely fine, she actually seems uneasy that she hasn’t had much correspondence to deliver lately, so she’ll be happy about this letter. I think she has gotten used to you. I will be writing a short article on the new Comet model, though. I’ll give you a small exclusive as an apology for not replying sooner: don’t buy it”
That would be it, the last time you’d write to him. You wouldn’t really have much time to go to your parents’ store for the next couple of days anyway as Patrick would be busy, so you were hoping that’d make things easier for you. That was until he had shown up at your door barely two days later. You had actually been scared to open the door, as he had rung the bell multiple times in a frantic manner. When you had peeped through the hole he had said.
“Stop looking at me and open the door!”
The safe that always got a bit jammed let go with a bit of resistance. When you opened the door, Patrick stood there, looking a bit annoyed and holding a small basket in one hand and a wrinkled envelope in the other.
“Home delivery” he announced, almost mockingly.
“What’s that?” you asked, but he didn’t reply as he walked past you into your flat. Instead, he had just handed you the letter and let himself plop down on the couch “You left the store unattended?”
“Sue me”
“Dad might”
Deep down you knew this was probably your fault , and when you opened the letter and read its contents you got confirmation of it.
“Hello,
How severe is the illness? Are you sure you should be forcing yourself to write while sick? I wasn’t sure about what was wrong with you making you sick, so I bought a few basic healing potions for malaise that the old lady at the store recommended for me. I hope this gets to you before it gets worse, and if you are feeling better, feel free to keep it all for when you get sick again. Of course I’d prefer if you never got sick again, obviously. Get better soon. Let me know when you do.
Oliver”
You folded the letter when you felt Patrick reading it over your shoulder again.
“Do you mind?”
“I do, actually! He sends them to the store, so technically I have a right to know!”
“Yeah, well. Can’t have an owl coming in and out of my flat, don’t you think?”
“Especially when the owl is mine” You had nothing to say to that “What even is this?”
“I told him I was sick, so he sent all this”
“I’m sorry. Are you dating this guy?”
The letter crumpled in your hand. You turned to Patrick, face red and eyes wide.
“Of course not!” you said, louder than necessary.
Patric’s eyed the letter in your hands, then the basket “And is he aware of that?”
“He’s just being nice! It’s called having friends”
“Oh, so you are friends”
“Yeah”
“The two versions of you?”
You closed your mouth, brows coming a bit together as your gaze fell to the floor. Your shoulders slumped, and you felt the texture of the parchment on your hands.
“I’m not writing to him anymore” you announced, tone somber “I’ll thank him for the medicine, tell him I’m alright, and never write to him again”
“There’s no need for that but...” Patrick stared at you in silence for a short moment. There were many things he wanted to say, but they all had been said before, and he knew it wouldn’t help. He simply sighed “Okay”
“You should go back to the store” you took the small basket and handed it to him “Take this too, it is not like I can use any”
“I mean... you could”
“What if I explode?”
“That’d be fun”
“Wait, before you go!” you exclaimed as he was about to leave through the door. You disappeared down the short hallway and came back with a piece of paper in your hand “The new Comet model review”
Patrick eyed it for a brief moment.
“They are going to sue us for this”
“Dear Oliver,
Thank you kindly for everything you sent my way, it was very thoughtful. I’m currently feeling better, so you have nothing to worry about. Hope you are doing well too, as the Quidditch season is reaching the quarter finals.
Good luck”
“Hello,
I am really happy to hear you are all better now, especially as I have heard from the coach that I will be playing in the next Puddlemere game, December 12. I was hoping you could come watch it. Strangely besides my coach’s I think your opinion is the one I care about the most. Let me make up for my disastrous first game? I promise I’ll give you enough material for an awesome article we can both be proud of this time. I sent two tickets in case you wanted to bring someone. We can catch up after the game at The Meeting Point if you want. Hope to see you there”
A strong pressure weighed against your chest as you read the letter, and when you had finished it, you knew you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to read it again.
You had swallowed all your pride when you had asked Patrick to go with you to the Puddlemere venue, unable to look him in the eye. You knew what he looked like anyway, his “I told you so” face and “what is wrong with you” face mashed together. You both parted through the sea of people until you had found your seat at the very top, Oliver had made sure you got the ones at the very top. Patrick complained about the view, but it made you so happy you felt like you’d burst. It also made you feel incredibly guilty. Oliver’s flying was nothing like it had been during his first game. His clumsiness had morphed now into perfectly timed manoeuvres, the boyish charm of his nervousness was now replaced by the determination and sharpness of a seasoned player. It was the unmistakable sight of effort and discipline, and your heart swelled at the realisation of simply how mistaken you had been. Your hands gripped your binoculars a tad tighter with every Quaffle he blocked from going through the ring, your heart beating with the infectious excitement of his playstyle.
“This is just cruel. Can we go?” Patrick sat next to you on the wooden table, his complain almost drowned by the loud chatter inside the pub. On a corner at the other side of it sat Oliver, an untouched beer in his hand as his eyes scanned the room every few seconds, his head snapping towards the door whenever someone came in “This is killing me”
Patrick dragged his chair back, ready to stand up when you had said:
“I’m going to tell him”
At first he thought he might not have heard you right, but judging by the look of determination on your face he new he wasn’t mistaken.
“All of it?”
You couldn’t answer that, and you were unable to before Oliver’s eyes caught yours from the other side of the room. It made you stand up immediately, as if you were worried you would change your mind if you took only a second longer to think about it. You made your way across the sea of bodies in the packed pub, glass in hand, painfully aware of Oliver’s gaze on you. A smile spread across his face when you were finally in front of him, and he shifted in his seat, straightening his posture.
“Hey”
“Hi” you breathed out, your heart racing as if you had just run to him “Great game”
“Thanks” A moment passed between you two. Oliver's eyes were wide and kind, gleaming under the warm vibrant candlelight, but there was something behind them, a restraint of some kind. He seemed to struggle before he asked “Do you want to sit?”
“Is that okay?”
There was a weight on the way you asked him, and even if you knew he wasn’t aware of what you really meant, it somehow felt like he did. He had come to terms with the idea that you wouldn’t show up.
“Yeah, sure”
He stood up and moved the chair away from the table so you could sit on it. The gesture made you melt, feeling grateful for the chair as you felt your legs become weak. Your knees brushed for a moment before you dragged your legs away, embarrassed. His presence felt suffocating, every inch of your body begging you to run away, while his eyes were so kind when they fell upon you. There was a softness behind them now, one not of comfort but of disappointment, and it hurt to know that it was because of you. He was waiting for you to come through that door, and sitting there beside him you couldn’t help but hate yourself.
“I didn’t expect to see you again” he said, bringing you back to reality. The smile he gave you brough warmth back to the room, his smile seeming to lit it up.
“I didn’t expect you to be that good”
Oliver’s smile widened, pride and a bit of bashfulness tugging at his lips.
“Yeah, well, I had to make up for the fiasco that was my first game”
“Had something to prove?”
“Yeah” His eyes went to the door “Something like that”
You swallowed the lump on your throat, worseded by the way his eyes seemed to shine with hope.
“It was a really good game, Oliver”
His gaze snapped back to you and he cleared his throat.
“Are you a Puddlemere fan?”
You shrugged and unconsciously gave him a once-over.
“I might become one after seeing you play.”
His eyes widened in surprise before he let out a surprised chuckle, his brown eyes turning into crescents.
“I’ve always wanted to hear that” he looked over your shoulder, and his expression hardened a bit. “I’m sorry, there’s a guy that won’t stop staring at yo. It’s making me nervous” You turned on your seat, but you didn’t need to. You knew you’d see Patrick sitting there “He looks kind of familiar” Your eyes fell down to the table as you turned back to him, your expression somber. It made Oliver straighten up immediately “Do you know him? Do I need to have a word with him?”
“No, that’s... that’s just my brother”
“Oh, right. You mentioned” you could almost see the wheels turning in his head “Did he ever play Quidditch?”
“Yeah, he did” The grip on your glass tightened, knuckles turning white “Hufflepuff seeker”
“Like you?” he chuckled “That’s funny. You guys do look alike”
“He’s my twin brother” you said clearly, and Oliver was unaware of how heavy the revelation hung in the air.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that something didn’t add up, his eyebrows slowly downing over his eyes.
“So you were in the same year? Then how could you both be seekers? I don’t remember any house having a rotation system during my time”
“They didn’t” you thought you were brave enough to look him in the eyes, but you were wrong. A single glance at his confused expression was more than you could take, and your eyes flew to the other side of the pub “I didn’t play”
“I thought tou did” he asked quietly, confused.
“I said I did. I lied to you. I’m sorry”
“Wh-- So, you didn’t play?” You shook your head, and he was silent for a while until he announced rather cheerfully “I understand. You met a professional player and felt like you had to say that. It’s okay, I get it.”
He was so pleased with himself and so kind to you. The reassuring smile he gave you made your heart ache.
“Oliver, that’s not--”
“You didn’t have to lie, I can tell you love Quidditch. You don’t have to play it to love it.”
That made you still. Just how different things would have been if only you could have met him before. If you could not have met him at all.
“That’s what I would always say” your voice came out weak “I’m not sure I love it, though”
Out of all the things you had said so far that was the one that seemed to alarm Oliver the most. He leaned forward on the table, trying to hear you better.
“What?”
“I don’t know if I like it or if that’s just all I have”
His hands rested on the table now. If you had moved your hand just a bit you could have held them. Your fingers were shaking ever so slightly as you attempted to keep the grip on your glass steady.
“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”
“It’s me, Oliver” you braced yourself and held his gaze for as long as you could. His eyes widened ever so slightly, almost as if he was able to understand before you told him “It’s me you’ve been exchanging letters with”
You saw the bretah catch on his throat and his fingers twitch. He called your name in a whisper, you almost didn’t catch it among the noise.
“But-- Why--”
“I didn’t have the courage to tell you when you bumped into me and--” your voice was shaky, almost breathy “And then it was too late to backtrack”
“Why? And-- you already told me you didn’t play Quidditch, so why say that you did?” you couldn’t tell if there was any anger laced in his confusion, but it still scared you there might. There should be, you deserved it “To impress me?”
“I didn’t want to impress you. I--”
“Then why?”
“I...” you shrugged, a single tear falling down your cheek that was swiftly wipped away by the sleeve of your jumper. You should’ve become better at this by then “I really, really wanted to play. I just wanted to pretend for a moment that I could”
A million thoughts went through Oliver’s head, all of them attempting to leave his mouth at the same time only to come out as a confused groan. He flopped back on his chair and stared at you for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what we are talking about” he said frustratedly “I mean, you can just play if you want it so much”
“I can’t. You don’t understand”
“Yeah, I bloody don’t!” he looked aroudn, embarrassed at his own outburst “You’ve been lying to me and I still don’t even know about what exactly”
“I should have never written to you. Or I should have never talked to you when you sat with me. This is my fault. I’m sorry”
You stood up from your seat, and Oliver followed suit. He saw the tears in your eyes, and his hand reached for yours without really thinking about it.
“Wh-- Hold on. Can we just take a moment to calm down? I’m really trying to--”
“I’m a squib”
The room seemed to have fallen silent, even if it was only in your head. A few wizards on the nearby table did turn towards you as they heard you underneath the loud atmosphere, but that wasn’t new. Oliver’s grip on your wrist loosened, and it felt like he was letting you fall into the abyss. This was on you. This was you. Your reality.
“Well-- That’s--”
Oliver cleared his throat, then seemed to struggle with something to say. This had been the only outcome possible from the beginning, the only one you’d ever had. It still hurt, though, his silence piercing through your chest like a knife. You felt someone grab your shoulder, then heard Patrick mutter behind you:
“Excuse us”
He dragged you out of the pub and into the crisp winter air. You couldn’t even say anything as you both walked down the street and among the passersby that, while ignorant to your presence, still made you feel like you were being watched.
“Hold on tightl,” Patrick said as you got to the portkey: a thick, used book.
You’d never gotten used to portkeys, and every time you used one, you couldn’t help but wonder if the nauseous feeling would disappear if you were actually magical. You held onto Patrick and shut your eyes tightly, welcoming the feeling of vertigo as it took your mind off the aching pain on your chest if only for a few seconds.
“Dear Oliver,
Please accept this letter as my last. I don’t know why I bother with the pompous writing style when you already know how messy my lexicon truly is in person. Still, I think this is me attempting to hold onto the very little dignity I have left at this point. I want to apologise first for lying to you and my behaviour the other night...”
The letter ended up being long. Three pages' worth of excuses that had made you take a few breaks in between memories. Your hands were still shaking when you sent Claws to deliver it. You didn’t come into the store for the next few days, not even when your parents had come back from vacation. You quietly turned in your article about Puddlemere and focused solely on your classes: your regular journalism ones. Patrick had tried to drop by on a few occasions to cheer you up, but he had just sat on the couch while you studied until he would give up and leave.
On Thursday the world ended, clouds so think you had casted no shadow as you ran under the pouring rain. Your fingers had been numb as you kept your umbrella from flying away, bumping onto strangers and and the bottom of your jeans damp and heavy as you stepped onto another puddle. You didn’t notice him when you got to the entrance of your building, too busy looking for your keys in your purse while holding your umbrella under your armpit. He took the liberty to lift it, making the rain stop falling on the back of your head. There in front of you stood Oliver, eyebrows sunken onto his eyes and soaked to the bone. He answered the silent question your shocked expression was silently screaming at him.
“Your brother gave me the adress. He said you’d be back soon”
“Patrick?” Your mind was trying to catch up with the situation, shocked as you were by the state of him. Clothes compeltely drenched and hair sticking to his face “How long have you been here?”
He took a moment to answer.
“A while” he finally admitted.
“Why didn’t you hide from the rain?”
“I can’t use magic in the middle of the street” he spoke in confidence, nervous eyes looking around at the multiple people on the street passing by you.
“I meant like, an umbrella or going inside a cafe or something”
“Well, I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I didn’t want to... it doesn’t matter” He pulled a hand inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope: your letter. To your surprise, it was still dry “I don’t want to read this” he said “Whatever it is, I want to hear it from you”
You felt so small underneath his unyealding gaze. Your shoulder was freezing, having forgotten to hold your umbrella properly and letting the rain fall on you.
“I thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me again”
“I’ll make that decision myself” he stated, and something about it made your stomach turn “So, can we talk?”
You fumbled awkwardly with your keys, te metal making your already frozen fingers turn numb.
“Do you want to come in?”
His expression became blank for a second.
“To your flat?”
“I mean, it’s pouring and you are soaked. I’m really cold and very tired, so... But we can go to the cafe if you want”
“No! I mean, yeah--”
“We shouldn’t discuss this sort of thing in public, though”
“Yeah, exactly”
You fiddled with your keys and opened the entrance while he stood behind you at a distance. He took a look at you: the soaked jeans, dirty boots and almost certainly broken umbrella He walked into the foyer after you, politely closing the door behind you. The sound of rain became muffled, and you were suddenly aware of how heavily the silence hung between you two.
“It’s upstairs”
He made a gesture with his hand, inviting you to go first. He stood behind as you unlocked your door, unable to see you fumbled to put the key in with how badly your hand was shaking. When he walked inside, he took a look around, taking in every detail he could catch. The scarce furniture, the somewhat clean kitchen, the ugly curtains.
“Have you ever been to a flat?” you asked, attempting to make conversation.
“I’m from Glasgow” he answered, still eyein your place. Before you could offer Oliver a solution for his clothes, he took out his wand and performed a drying spell that left strands of his hair sticking out in all sorts of directions “Do you...?”
“No, thank you. I think I’ll just change out of these clothes” Oliver stiffened, his eyes dropping to the way your hands were pulling at the hem of your sweater “I’ll be back in a second”
“Okay” He watched you enter your room and close the door behind you as he pulled his wand away. He stayed close by it, trying not to think too much of what was going on on the other side “Are you not fond of spells?”
He heard your laugh from the other side, muffled by the thin walls separating you two.
“It is not like that. My brother has used a few spells on me more than once”
“Oh, so he is your brother” he sounded surprised, and despite saying it mostly to himself, you could still hear him “That’s good to know”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I didn’t know how much of what you said was a lie, so I wondered if maybe that brother of yours was like... a friend?” he hesitated “Of the boy kind”
You made a face he couldn’t see.
“What sort of crazy person would date someone with pretty much their own face?” he was glad that was the part of the question you had focused on. You opened the door, now changed into a more comfortable Canons jersey. He eyed you head to toe, eyes surprisingly soft, but said nothing “But I guess your impression of me is not the best, so...”
“You can change that”
A warm feeling seeped through your chest before you swallowed it with a bitter smile.
“Are you sure?” you asked, serious “What if I explain everything and you still hate me?”
“I never said I hated you”
“Wouldn’t be a stretch to assume... given the circumstances”
Oliver’s brow furrowed as he stared at you, deep in thought. He eyed the way you twisted your hands in an attempt to get some warmth.
“Why don’t we make some tea and you let me decide whether I hate you or not?” you simply nodded and attempted to pass by him towards the kitchen when he stopped you ”I’m joking. I won’t hate you” he said “I might think you are crazy, though”
It hurt you to smile, but you did nonetheless. It didn’t feel fair. It didn’t feel like you deserved to smile at him. To be forgiven.
“How do you like your tea?”
He followed you to the kitchen like a puppy, standing close to you and watching you as you filled the teapot with water. Neither of you said anything, letting the familiar sounds of tea making fill the air that feelt so warm now with the storm still roaring outside.
“I read your article” he finally said “I could tell you were really sorry by how nice your words were”
“You did really well. I was being objective” You caught him smiling to himself as he set two cups on the counter “I almost didn’t go, but I wanted to see you play” you admitted “I had a hunch that you’d do great, and I didn’t want to miss it”
Oliver said nothing. He focused on your hands, wondering if they were as cold as his were. He could have told you he had been eyeing the bleachers, as if he could have once again recognised you without even knowing what you looked like. He just assumed he’d know when he saw you, and in a way, he had.
He realized he’d been staring at you for a tad too long “Maybe you have divination skills”
“That was one of the few subjects I could get a grasp on” you remembered fondly “My brother used to let me borrow his books”
There wass a pause, and Oliver stole a glance at you out of the corner of his eye, hesitating.
“When... uhm” he cleared his throat “When did you know...”
You didn’t reply right away, and Oliver started regretting even bringing it up. But you wanted to tell him. Maybe the sharp sting on your chest would finally go away. He made it feel like it could.
“When the letter didn’t arrive” you said with a bittersweet chuckle “For a while my parents thought maybe it was because Patrick and I are twins, so we just got one letter for the both of us”
Oliver let out a short laugh before forcing himself to become serious again.
“Sorry”
“It’s okay. It is funny” You lifted your hand about to pat his shoulder but you stopped yourself, letting it fall on the counter again, fingers drumming nervously on it “I feel bad for them when I think back to it.”
“Nothing compared to how you must have felt, I assume” he said as if he was trying to retort to that.
You looked at him like he had said the oddest thing, and he stared back at you with something akin to indignation. It was an odd thing for someone to be on your side. Most people would pity you, feel bad for your family, so Oliver being on your side felt foreign and strangely overwhelming.
“Yeah... I was small, so I didn’t really understand” You swallowed the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You always got it when you talked about this, even if it didn’t happen often. They were the words you always tried to swallow, and for some reason, in the comfort of your kitchen and Oliver’s undeserving understanding you finally let them out: “It sort of felt like I had done something wrong, you know”
“Yeah, but you didn’t” he replied, indignation making his accent dance wildly across his words.
Who could have thought compassion wout feel more overwhelming than rejection. You felt yourself smile, and the tears didn’t take long to pile at the corners of your eyes. The whistle of the kettle was a good excuse for you to hide this fact from Oliver.
“Can you get that?”
Oliver hesitated but finally pulled the kettle away from the fire and pretended to not see you wipe the tears away, carefully pouring the scalding water into each cup. Maybe he put a bit more on yours.
“Do you need sugar?” you asked him, opening the cabinet above you.
“No, thank you”
“Really?”
“Yeah” he was confused “Why?”
“I don’t know. I sort of assumed you were the extra sweet type”
Oliver shrugged and gave you a nonchalant smile.
“I can be” You felt the heat crawl up to your cheeks, and you were thankful the single lamp you could afford to decorate your living room with was so dim. This was wrong. Oliver Wood standing in your kitchen, making you tea and smiling at you like this could become a habit. But you were getting ahead of yourself, and you couldn’t allow yourself to daydream about such things “So...” he trailed off, the tips of his ears a bit pink “Do you use sugar?”
“Yeah, a lot”
You led him to the couch, letting the cup rest on the coffee table as you shifted on your seat when he sat next to you. He kept a polite distance but his whole body turned to you.
“My grandmother, my mum’s mum, she’s a muggle, so she did help. With all the school stuff”
“My dad’s a muggle too” he chirped in “He’s really upset that wizards don’t seem to care about The Beatles and all of that” That made you laugh, which gave him a sense of pride “It’s a give-and-take situation: my dad rages to my mum about music, and she rages to him about Quidditch”
“So she’s the fan that birthed the famous Quidditch Monster?”
Something flashed behind Oliver’s eyes, and he crooked his head to the side.
“Did you rbother tell you about that?”
“He might have mentioned a thing or two about your reputation.”
“You know what, I thought about him for a long time, and I remember him being an appalling seeker”
“Oh, I know that. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Because you are an expert on it?”
“No, uhm... our parents are Quidditch enthusiasts, hence the family Quidditch store. I was shocked you were subscribed to our magazine. We have maybe only fifty regulars that do”
“I’m subscribed to every Quidditch magazine” he stated proudly.
“Isn’t that a lot of money?” he simply shrugged, and you shook your head in disbelief “Is it worth it at least?”
You took a sip from your cup, the steam pleasantly caressing your face. When it had dissipated, you caught Oliver staring at you as if deep in thought.
“Yeah, I’d say it is” He blinked a few times, looking away and reaching for his cup “So, Quidditch?”
“After we came to terms with the fact I’m not magic, I held onto it because it was the only magical thing I could still... you know? Nothing stopped me from watching games and learning and reading about it...”
“But you couldn’t play”
“Yeah. My brother tried to get me on a broom once, my parents were not happy”
“I remember him from back in school. He was a year or so below” his brows furrowed in concentration “Lousy flying”
You left your cup on your table in a sign of protest.
“You already said that!”
“It’s all I remember” he defended himself with a smile “I really tried to remember you, and it was driving me insane!”
Your gaze fell to his hands, holding the steaming cup of tea. The idea that Oliver had spent time thinking about you was flattering, the little joy it brought you was immediately swallowed by guilt.
“I’m sorry. I wrote that in the letter, but since you didn’t read it, I should say it aloud” You bit your lip, drawing in a deep breath “People are not... nice, usually. When they find out about the squib thing. People at Diagon Alley will still look at me weird if I happen to be at the store. They don’t say anything, but they don’t really have to. I can’t be there often anyway. I only go to help Patrick run it from time to time. He’ll be inheriting it soon”
“He is?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t even want it, to be honest”
“Do you want it?”
That caught you off guard.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll have to distance myself from the magical world for good eventually anyway”
“Why?” He set the cup on the table, body turning to you even more.
“Can’t expect my brother to act as a driver for me forever” you explained, pretending the way he leaned towards you wasn’t making your heart race “I can use Flu Network and Portkeys when in the company of an actual witch or wizard, so he always has to be around me”
“Is that how you get to the Quidditch games?”
You nodded “He takes me in and out of the magical world. It’s such a hassle, it makes me feel bad”
“I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”
“He does. I just wish he’d say it sometimes” You admitted, for the first time out loud “I know he feels guilty. that’s why he won’t complain, ever”
“That’s harsh. You don’t know that”
“Wouldn’t you?” Your eyes landed on him, not defiant but sympathetic “At some point he’ll have his own life... he can’t always be there for me. It is not fair.”
He sat in silence for a few seconds, pondering whether or not it was his place to get into your family business like that. He decided he shouldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to.
“You could also meet someone that would... you know, do all that” he left the idea hanging in the air and waited for the inevitable sceptical look you’d give him “What?”
“I already told you, most people are not fond of my kind” he grimaced at the term, and wondered if you’ve had it thrown at you often “I’ll just cross onto the muggle world completely. Get a job, take the tube every day, nine to five, microwave my food--”
“Do you want to do that, though?”
“Want what?”
“Live without being part of the magical world”
Your shoulders rose and fell with a shrug.
“It’s not like I’ve ever been part of it anyways” the sad look he gave you stung, so you gave him a resigned smile “It’s just the hand I’ve been dealt”
“I can offer you my hand” he blurted, way before he could realise how odd it sounded.“Like I can-- if you need someone to keep you in touch”
“You would do that?” you asked sceptically. He answered with a shrug “Bring me in and out and from one side to another like a chauffeur at any time of the day, every day?” he seemed to think about it, and considering the argument won you added “It’s a lot, Oliver. Staying on this side permanently is the sensible thing to do”
Oliver bit the inside of his cheek and decided to take in a deep breath as he glanced around your apartment. Winning time until he got enough courage.
“You could always meet someone who wants to do all that for you” He knew the look you were giving him before he set his eyes back to you “What? You are talking like it’s impossible”
You wanted to explain to him how it truly felt like it was. For most of your life, it had been a quiet reminder that it wasn’t really a choice for you.
“It isn’t impossible, but it’s not very probable either”
“I just offered” he must have seen the look on your face, nervously backtracking almost immediately “Like, as friends. I could do that as a friend.” He got nervous when you said nothing, only stared at him in disbelief, and said, “What?”
“When I got your first letter I would have never thought you were this kind” you said, your voice quiet “All I’ve done is lie to you, and yet...”
“I’m actually being selfish. I can’t give up on the only person who can keep up with my Quidditch talk”
“Is that so?”
“You wrote very nice things to me in your last article too”
“Yeah, well, it was supposed to be a secret apology letter”
“What’s this supposed to be then?”
Your lips parted, despite knowing that you didn’t have it on you to tell him. Under his surprised exression you reached for the letter and ripped it into pieces.
“Nothing, really” you discarded of the pieces on the bin. His mouth was hanging slightly open, not really sure of how to react. You cleared your throat as if to say something important and he fixed his posture, ready for whatever you were about to say “Thank you, Oliver. For coming all this way to let me explain and for just... being kind to me, despite everything”
You both stared at each other for what felt a really long time. His features were soft, only a subtle smile adorning them. You stood there, hands grabbing the hem of your jumper for courage.
“No problem”
He saw the way your shoulders relaxed, your eyes nervously looking around the falt as if looking for something else to say.
“I actually have something to take care of...”
Oliver stood up immediately, making sure to place the cup gently on the table.
“Oh, yeah. I actually should be on my way to practice. It seems like the coach is letting me be a starter again, so...”
“Are you serious? That’s awesome!” you approached him with stars in your eyes, and he thought he wouldn’t mind the sight for a little longer. Then your smile fell “You shouldn’t have risked it to come here, though”
“Yeah, probably not” he admitted, a quiet settling between you two once again.
“You are going to be so busy from now on”
“Most definitely” he smiled “Can’t wait”
You smiled up at him and he followed your eyes as they seemed to commit every one of his features to memory. He could feel the warmth reaching his cheeks when you finally said.
“Goodbye, Oliver”
There was something in the way you had said that that had rung alarm bells in his head, but he figured he had just imagined it. There was no need to ruin what had been a pleasant moment with you with unfounded concerns. And so he said goodbye to you and walked down the staircase towards the door, the storm waiting for him on the other side.
“Did you tell him?”
You were standing by the counter of the Quiddtch store, eyes lost somewhere at the end of the maintenance aisle.
“No”
There was a sigh muffled by the gentle ruffling of clothes, and you could just picture your brother rubbing his face on his hands. You had been in the same position as him multiple times within the last few hours before you had made an emergency trip to Diagon Alley. You had paced around nervously waiting for him to pick you up, by then all your nails were bitten.
“Will you tell him then?”
“I don’t think that’d be necessary” you said, the statement weighing heavy on your chest.
“Really? The guy that barged in here demanding to speak to you. You don’t think you should tell him?”
“He’s a Quidditch-obsessed, borderline-workaholic perfectionist that is about to become the youngest pro in the league. He won’t have time to remember me in a week”
Patrick scoffed and shook his head dismissively.
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Can’t you just cancel this whole thing?”
“I’m not having this conversation again” You raised your hands in the air “You were already okay with it”
“Yeah, well. That was for your sake, and still... You can change your mind. I don’t know...”
“There’s nothing new to talk about”
“Not even Oliver?”
“Yeah, not even Oliver” you lied.
“You are just being stubborn! He’s good for you, if only you stopped lying to him!”
“Oliver is just a guy I talked to for a few months, okay? He’s not like, someone who is going to change my life. He can’t do that, and I don’t want him to do that anyway”
“So you are just self-sabotaging again”
“He can’t change anything! I’ve made my mind, and I don’t want to see him again, so just stop”
There was a familiar creak of wood, and despite being so used to the noise whenever people walked around the store, you both turned at the same time towards the noise. There stood Oliver, a basket with baked goods in his hand, bigger than the one he had dropped when he had believed you to be sick. When you had lied to him about being sick. Your heart sank to your stomach before you even heard the way his voice strained a bit when he finally broke the tense silence.
“I came to apologise for barging in the yesterday” he said and left the basket carelessly on the counter “Excuse me”
He didn’t even bother to look at you when he left, bushy brows sunk deeply over his brown eyes that stayed fixed on the floor, slamming the door hard on his way out. The loud noise made the few customers turns their heads with curiosity.
“Aren’t you going to follow him?” Patrick asked as you both watched him through the display window, his silhouette disappearing into the crowd.
“It’s easier this way”
Patrick’s chest rose with a heavy sigh.
“You are a coward and a loser” he stated, a bit more bitter than usual “Let me know when you want to get back”
Stepping onto the Quidditch pitch felt like entering the beasts’ den. It had taken you a week of isolation and sleepless nights to decide on this. The grey, gloomy days you had stayed inside looking out of the window, no lights on in the flat, contemplating what you should do had blended into each other. It had taken a bit of trickery, but you had scored an anonymous interview with Oliver through his head coach, who was happy to give him any sort of publicity. You knew he wouldn’t meet you unless he was tricked into it. You could lie to him at least one more time, if only for the sake of coming clean once and for all.
He had been sitting at the benches waiting for you, taking care of his broom. There wasn’t any sign of surprise when he saw you approaching him, but his eyebrows did get a tad bit closer together before he looked down to the task at hand again.
“I imagined it was you” he had said when you had got close enough.
“And you still came?”
“I still have to practise. It has nothing to do with you or whatever excuse you are planning to give me”
He didn’t sound upset nor bitter, just mercilessly distant. You took in a deep breath, bracing yourself by holding your own hands.
“I have no excuses. I meant everything I said” he scoffed incredulously “But the context... I should at least give it to you”
There was a brief pause, then he said:
“I don’t care.”
He got up broom in hand and brushed imaginary dust out of his clothes. He walked up the stairs to the pit, and you knew that’d be the last time you’d see him.
“I wish I had met you before” is what you wanted to yell at him, but instead it came out in barely a broken cry “If I had magic, meeting you...” you swallowed, picking at the skin around your nails. You thought about the idea of meeting Oliver at some other time, at some other place, under other circumstances you had daydreamed about so often “So I hate that you showed up now. Not being able to meet you... that’s what I hate the most now”
You were sure you had been talking to yourself, but he was still there. He stood tall at the top of the stairs, back to you. The grip on his broom tightened as he spoke.
“After the other day I thought we were...” His steady tone withered before falling to a short silence. “On the same page” His head turned ever so slightly“I have to practise. You should leave”
His foot had just stepped onto the soft, freshly cut grass when you spoke again, a bit louder to make sure he heard you.
“I’m getting the Obliviate charm next week. I decided on it a few days before your letter arrived, and I’ve been preparing for it ever since”
The sound of Oliver’s heavy Quidditch boots stomping on the grass stopped at once, and all the indifference he had been carrying himself with washed away just like colour on his face as he turned to you.
“What?”
“I explained it on the letter I wrote you last time. It was supposed to be a goodbye letter, but...”
He reached you in only a few steps, but as he stood in front of you, he was breathing like he had just run a full lap around the pitch. You were sure you could almost hear his heartbeat, but maybe that was because of how close he was standing.
“Wha-- wh--” he stammered, suddenly frantic “Is your family okay with it? Patrick?”
“Mum and Dad were fairly easy to convince. Patrick not so much, but eventually he got around it”
“But, why? If it’s because of what you said the other day? That’s--”
“Of course it is because of what I said the other day” You cut him off “I don’t want to be a burden anymore. To my brother or...” Your eyes left his, busying themselves on a random corner “...anyone”
Oliver’s breathing stilled, and the next words that came out of him did so in a low mutter.
“Is that what you meant? About me?”
Your face flushed immediately, feeling exposed and embarrassed.
“It is not like I assumed you would-- like... I was just explaining to him why it’d be better not to be... friends”
“Oh right, because I’m a useless meathead that can’t help?” he asked bitterly.
“Because you are kind” you answered, and the harshness of his stare softened before he composed himself “Because you would waste your time and energy to help me out, and I don’t want you to do that”
“So what?” He retorted drily, his voice steady. It took you aback, and you unconsciously leaned back.
“What do you mean?”
“I will make my own mind up about that”
“Oliver--”
“You can’t tell me what I can or can’t do, alright?” he finally snapped. The stoic expression he had made sure to maintain until then dropped completely “What, you don’t want to be a burden to me? Tough luck! If I want to stand in the rain for hours waiting for you, that’s on me!” He pointed his finger at you, actually poking you on the shoulder and throwing you off your balance “If I am late for practice because I have to take you somewhere, that’s my decision! You don’t have the right to decide whether I fancy you or not!”
The silence felt louder once Oliver’s outburst finished, and the echo of his voice died between the walls of the pit. His face was hot, his eyebrows deeply sunken over his eyes that were fixed on you. They shook slightly when reality started to dawn slowly on him, but he kept his cool. His chest rose and fell with heavy breathing, and this time you were sure you could hear his heartbeat.
“Okay,” it’s all you could say, still trying to process all he had said.
“Okay?”
There was a brief second of hesitation before you grabbed onto his face so you could kiss him. It was surprising, just how soft his skin was, it felt hot under your touch. He tensed up before he relaxed with a content sigh when your lips met his, and his arms held you closer when he felt you pulling away. He made a noise you could only interpret as a protest before he kissed you again, just as soft and airy, letting it linger, a bit drunk on the taste of your lips and your body pressed against his. When he finally decided he had had enough for the time being, he allowed you to take a small step back, but his arms were still firmly wrapped around you.
“I’m sorry,” you said, breathless.
“It’s okay” he reassured, trying to catch his breath “I’m sorry I raised my voice”
Your head rested against his chest. He felt you relax with a sigh as his hand stayed on the back of your head.
“It’s alright. I liked everything you said”
Oliver chuckled, his face breaking into a smile. You wanted to look up and stare at it, at the wrinkles that formed at the corners of his eyes when he did.
“I could have said them better”
“Good enough for me” you mumbled onto his chest, and he squeezed you tighter for a second.
“So..” you cleared your voice “You fancy me?”
To your surprise, he didn’t look embarrassed, even if his face got a bit red. He looked as proud as ever when he stated, almost nonchalantly:
“I thought that was obvious by the third letter”
“Not really” you pondered.“If anything, I might have thought that when we met at the Warwick game... when you thought I was someone else”
“Yeah... it was definitely a weird feeling” he joked, conflicted “But in the end I guess I can’t help myself”
Your head turned to the side in confusion; his fingers threaded a little deeper into your hair.
“About what?”
“About fancying you” he replied “Every version of you”
summary: Langdon is floored when you suggest hitting up a renfaire, even more so when you actually seem to be enjoying yourself. When you get home, he gets to work trying to ensure your fun lasts as long as possible.
tags/warnings: fluff, smut, established relationship, fem!reader, roleplay (princess x knight), body worship, pet names (baby, Your Majesty, your grace, my lord/lady), oral (f receiving), masturbation (m, frank gets off giving head #munch), frank cums in his pants
word count: 3.2k
A/N: my first Langdon fic wooo! pt.3 of Sweetheart is coming but in the meantime, enjoy this tidbit, I've been frankpilled asf lately so maybe expect more of him...anyway hope u enjoy i lurrrrve this one ugh, someone take me to a renessaince faire...
When you suggested a renfaire on your joint day off, Langdon was as stunned as if you’d proposed. He supposes that by now he should be used to it, but it continues to floor him that not only do you tolerate his dorkier tendencies, you actually encourage them.
For every cool, interesting pop culture tidbit you’ve taught him, all he’s been able to offer in return are fun facts about obscure bodily functions and useless details about bygone eras. Not once have you ever made him feel inadequate, or given him that squint-eyed, slow nod that people do when they’re trying very hard not to cringe away from whatever gauche thing you’re saying. Only, it’s one thing to listen to him blather on behind closed doors. Entirely another to traipse around Pittsburgh dressed as medieval elven royalty, where real-life, adult people can see.
With a hand securing your pointy, papier mache hennin hat, you look down at him in his train seat. “Don’t look so nervous.”
“I’m not,” he insists, muttering with his head bowed towards you. “But people are looking.”
When you smile, the pointed ends of your plastic elf ears rise slightly. “Would you prefer they close their eyes?”
“Yes, actually.” Langdon is sure his own elf ears are suddenly sorely mismatched against his real skin blushing a deep, humiliated pink. He shifts in his seat and looks up through his lashes. “Maybe they’re looking because they think I’m a bad boyfriend. Are you sure you don’t wanna sit?”
“Not if you’re gonna keep being such a wuss.”
“I am not a wuss.” He pouts, indignant. “The chainmail just makes a lot of noise when I’m standing up, that’s all.”
That, and a slightly more embarrassing issue. Langdon is not a pervert, he does not need beautiful women in period–or rather, lore-accurate costumes to get off. It’s just, you are especially beautiful right now. Plus, helping you get ready this morning required both hands and a lot of ribbons, the locations of which he can’t stop mentally mapping. They’re at your hips, the small of your back, in your sleeves. You made a joke about a too-tight garter belt when he was brushing his teeth and he’s almost certain that you were kidding. He can’t stop thinking about untying it with his teeth.
He’s hoping for a breather when you get to the fair. Some revelry, some craft stands, a little sun-warmed ale in plastic viking horns. Instead, what he gets is a fucking ambush.
Complaining of the heat, you loose the ribbon around your collar and now, he has a full view of your collarbone and the dainty gold chain around your neck. The pendant? Lost somewhere in the folds of your clothes, or your cleavage which now, if you’re looking, is also visible. Langdon, of course, can’t stop looking.
After a good while of ambling, you stumble upon some archery. It's mostly kids and buckets of candy as a prize but with some encouragement, he manages to lose himself a little. You stand at his shoulder, cheerleading in brilliantly inaccurate old English.
“Hark, my lord! That was a terrific shot.” He shoots a fond smile over his shoulder and in the lull, you step closer for a moment. “If such a display of battlefield prowess continues, I may have to reward thee with a kiss. Or, you know…”
He does know. Or, maybe he doesn't, but he can certainly come up with a few ideas. Once he starts, though, he can’t stop. The last thing you should be doing right now is leaving things to his imagination, which he intends to tell you until he's interrupted by the instructor telling everyone to swap places. At your uncertainty, he urges you to take the bow.
“Don’t worry, it’s not as hard as it looks.”
You send him a withering look. “You’re a doctor.”
“Good point. We’re known for our universal arrow-shooting capabilities.” He maneuvers you by the shoulders, swapping places so that you’re staring straight ahead at the target, then shoots you a wink. “Deep breaths, my lady. You got this.”
“There are so many kids around, like–”
He cuts you off laughing. “You’re not gonna shoot anyone, relax.”
“Fine.”
Langdon realises his mistake immediately. The elaborately braided knot in your hair has been coming undone for hours, and now your face is framed by puffy strands of curls. Your hat’s cheap, stapled-on chiffon wafts elegantly in the breeze, the dress’s matching fabric clinging to all your most distracting features as you raise your shooting arm. He’s just about ready to fall to his knees when a small gaggle of children materialise by your side, staring up in awe as you take the shot. It lands wide of the target, by a margin anyone else would find embarrassing. You take it in stride, turning to the kids like a Disneyland princess on the clock.
“Oh my!” you cry, hands flying to your face. “The wind blew away my arrow. How rude!”
The kids’ laughter chimes over another round of arrows and a nearby dragon fight. You lead them towards it and they follow, grinning and scampering.
“The king will not be happy! Perhaps we should leave the shooting to my handsome knight?” You shoot Langdon a wink that nearly has him toppling onto the grass. One of the little girls in the group, with tattered purple fairy wings, grips your skirt and dutifully agrees,
“Princesses aren’t meant to shoot arrows.”
“Oh, but they can,” you insist, crouching to meet her eye, “they must simply practice first.”
Langdon hangs back with the few stragglers in your audience, right by a stall selling foam swords painted to look rusted and war-torn. Still beside the little girl in fairy wings, you tap your chin in mock-contemplation.
“Or perhaps we shouldn’t shoot arrows…Perhaps–” You leap up and grab two swords, gently handing one to the little girl. “We should be swashbucklers instead!”
The kids all clamour to snatch swords of their own and the little purple fairy shrieks with laughter as you challenge her to a duel, then let her win. Before being roped into the fray himself, Langdon watches with an uncontrollable grin. He thinks about marrying you the whole way home.
The second you get through the front door, you groan and throw yourself onto the nearest, cosiest piece of furniture. Langdon assumes you’ll nap while he showers, then swap places so he can be off his feet for five minutes and you can wrangle yourself out of all those ribbons. He takes his time in the shower, and keeps it freezing cold. You aren’t going to want to be bothered by the stubborn semi he’s been fighting off every moment he’s gotten you alone. Tonight, you can cool off, watch a shitty, braindead action movie, make out and go to bed. It sounds pretty perfect to him.
When he gets out of the shower, however, it seems like you have other plans. You’re not on the sofa where he left you; now you lay on your front in bed, scrolling on your phone and swinging your feet in the air. A pale beam of sunlight lays flat over you like a blanket and, probably reading something, you mutter softly under your breath. He may as well have stumbled upon you, lounging in real palace gardens, leafing through a leatherbound tome.
As you hear him come in, you give him a coy look over your shoulder, smiling softly. When you get a good look at him, you pout slightly.
“No more chainmail? What happened to my dashing knight in shining armour?”
“He got sick of sounding like a heap of silverware in the dryer.” Langdon joins you on the bed, sitting at your feet and absently stroking a hand along the length of your skirt. “But he’s still here and ready to serve. Your majesty.”
When you give him a broad, toothy smile, he could swear that it makes the sun shine a little brighter.
“What are you thinking for dinner?” He tries dragging himself back to the mundane, but none of that distracts him. You aimlessly ramble about takeout options and his heart rate reacts as if you’re psyching him up to ride into battle. When you sit up closer to him, legs tucked beneath you, he’s as dazzled as if you’re a mermaid he just watched clamber onto a rock. He doesn’t mean to derail the conversation, he is listening. But he has to kiss you, or his heart, he swears, will stop.
You moan softly into the kiss, practically melting under his touch. He cups a hand around your face, thumb gently stroking back and forth on your cheek as he feels himself twitch in his sweatpants. His tongue drags against your bottom lip as he deepens the kiss, and his hand moves from your face to your shoulder, to stick his thumb through the loop of a bow on your sleeve. He tugs gently and the ribbon slips undone. It happens so easily, and now your sleeve is loose and threatening to slip right off your shoulder. His breath catches and he aches all the way from his erratically beating heart to his crotch, where he strains against his boxers with equally as frenzied desire.
“I am,” he kisses you again, moaning into your mouth, “so in love with you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” you respond, mouth still stretched into a dazzling smile. He grabs your hand and interlinks your fingers with a smile of his own, then gives you a peck. Just as he’s trying to get up, he steps on your skirt and simultaneously, both of you grimace and burst into laughter.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He knows that it doesn’t matter, not to you anyway. It’s a cheaply made, then cheaply altered costume dress that you probably won’t even think of until next Halloween. Still, something about it just feels wrong, like doing vandalism in the woods or peeing in the ocean. Your smile gets a little conniving as you look down at him, on his knees and brushing imaginary dirt off your skirt.
“You look good down there.”
“I do?” He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad you like it, m’lady.”
As he starts to stand, you hold him down by his shoulders, eyes narrowed and mouth quirking. With folds of your skirt still held between his fingers, he chuckles again.
“You good?”
After another moment’s silence, you sit up and lean back, expression becoming haughty and pouting. “Is that any way to speak to your queen?”
Langdon grins. “No, I guess not.” You raise your eyebrows and he tries again. “Oh, uh–No, Your Majesty. Apologies. What I meant was, uh…Is all well, Your Majesty?”
“All is well, my lord. It could be better though, could it not?”
“How?” It comes out more demand than question, and his hand is already creeping up your skirt. Loose around your ankle, then flat against your calf, fingers ghosting over your knee and flattening again as they slide forward on your thighs. He stops when he gets to your hip and stares up at you, mouth slightly ajar. “How could I be of service, Your Majesty?”
Leaning forward, you narrow your eyes again. “You love this, don’t you?”
As sheepish as he gets, what use is there denying it? He’s throbbing in his sweatpants and already on his knees. “It doesn’t get weirder than this, I promise, it’s just–”
You hold a hand up to silence him and his mouth snaps shut. His dick throbs even harder, so hard now that it aches. If he knew what you wanted to do to him, he might be able to bear it. Just a glimpse into what you might be thinking.
“What–”
Your hand drops but your eyebrows raise. “Did I tell you to keep talking?”
Langdon swallows. “No.”
Somehow, your expression gets even more stern. He takes the hint and clears his throat.
“No, Your Majesty.”
You nod sagely and shoot him a wink, before bringing your posture back to austere and imposing. Just as suddenly, you throw yourself back onto the bed, your performance now that of a withered damsel in distress.
“It is so exhausting to be a princess!” you cry. “So boring to be kept here, day after day, stuck behind these castle walls.”
Amusement tugs at the corners of Langdon’s mouth and when you lean up on your elbows to look at him, you have a matching giddy smile on your face.
“Do you know, my lord, how utterly deprived I am of entertainment?”
“I can only imagine, your majesty.”
“You can! It is–” you pause to dab an imaginary tear, “so dreadful.”
He gets distracted just watching you, so hard it hurts but too blissfully in love to care. You have to nudge him with your foot to get him to snap back into character. “Oh, right, uh–My lady, would…Shall I…entertain you?”
You grin and it takes everything in him not tear off your dress and fuck you senseless without another word.
“You shall.” His other hand slides under your skirt, then both pull off your underwear in one swift motion, making you gasp. “Someone’s eager.”
“It is not only royalty, my lady,” he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, “who notice their deprivation.”
“So I deprive you now, do I?”
“Of course not.” He lavishes your thighs with kisses, nuzzling into your skin and grazing his teeth along the most sensitive spots. “If I could have you every second, of every day, it wouldn’t be enough.”
You lie back as he spreads your legs and runs his lips along you. It takes a herculean effort not to taste every part of you at once, but he knows how you like it. And he’s here to serve you.
Slowly, deliberately, he runs his two middle fingers along your skin. Just enough pressure to feel how wet you are and have you writhe under his hands, legs spreading further and a whine falling from your lips. He does it again, this time with his thumb and a little more pressure, so that he dips inside you. Your back arches and he groans, licking into you as his thumb continues to rub languidly up and down, slowly getting soaked.
“You are–” he groans again, tongue rolling forwards with more pressure. Fingers digging into your thighs, he tugs you towards him desperately, unable to do anything but hump the empty air and moan.
He breaks for only a moment to push two fingers inside you, hawkishly watching for your reaction. “How does it feel?” he mutters.
You moan and arch your back, but he shakes his head and curls the fingers pushing in and out of your body.
“Tell me, my lady,” he plants a soft kiss on your inner thigh, “tell me how I make you feel.”
“Good,” you moan, all breathy and whining. “You feel so fucking good.”
Frank nods to himself and watches as you clench around his fingers. His other hand rubs your body aimlessly, his gaze wandering and awe-struck. “You want anything else?”
“Just don’t stop.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He dives towards your clit so that you tug on his hair. Nails scratching, then stroking, soothing.
By now, his boxers are soaked with precum, a dark gray spot blooming through his sweatpants as he continues to grind against nothing. He cups his free hand around himself, lightly stroking through his clothes. It’s not enough, it won’t be until he’s buried to the hilt inside you.
“Baby,” he groans. “Baby, I need you.”
You hum and sit up on your elbows, biting down on your lip as he continues to fuck you with his fingers. “Who?”
“Sorry, your grace.” He chuckles and draws his fingers out of you, marvelling at the way you clench around nothing. As he goes on, he can’t help it; he has to reach inside his boxers. Distracted by his soaked fingers and the promise of tasting you still only inches from his face, all thoughts of his own pleasure are forgotten. He laps at you even more hungrily and you giggle through more moans, head thrown back.
“What happened to needing me?”
“Fuck, I do, but–holy shit, baby–” he gasps, “You like this better, right?”
“I like you, silly.”
“I know, I know. But I’m okay. I just wanna take care of you. Wanna be on my knees for you.”
“Oh my God, Frank,” you moan breathlessly.
His breathing stutters as he jerks himself off through his sweats, moans becoming equal parts halting and droning. His voice hums through you and his tongue works you closer and closer to an orgasm. As waves of pleasure shudder through your body, he has just enough room to pull back and mutter against you.
“That’s it, baby, give it to me. God–” through more gasps and whines, he cycles between swirling his tongue over your clit and begging you to cum as he bucks into his own hand. “Please, baby, that’s–-Oh my God, yes.”
He settles on sucking your clit, fingers still curling ceaselessly inside you. You cry out his name again and clench your legs around his head and as you cum all over his tongue, coating his face, he kisses you like a man famished. Groaning and keeping one arm looped around your thigh to keep you in place, he pushes his tongue into your sensitive cunt, plants soft kisses on your clit and whines frantic praises under his breath.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.” He lets out a broken, panting moan. “So good, baby. Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you, thank you. You’re so fucking perfect, I don’t deserve–Ah, I love you. I love you, you’re so good. Thank you.”
He continues muttering his thanks, working himself through an orgasm of his own. Your body twitches and arches away from his kisses but he can’t stop, can’t get enough. By the time he realises what he’s done, the dark, wet patch in his sweatpants is growing even bigger and his head is spinning.
“Shit, oh my God, baby. Sorry.”
“What do you mean?” As you sit up, your voice sounds as dazed as he feels.
“I was meant to fuck you. I didn’t even…” To refocus his train of thought, he has to shake his head. “Babe, I swear I don't know what happened. I just…”
He trails off again, sending a blissed-out stare between your legs and licking his lips. You giggle and pull your skirt down, ruffling his hair and standing.
“If our biggest problem is you enjoy going down on me too much, I think we’re gonna be just fine.”
As you stalk off to the shower, Langdon stays on his knees. Even though they ache, he wonders if he could find a way to stay here forever. He thinks of the hectic shift he has tomorrow, of all the sideways glances and awkward small talk he’ll have to struggle through, as he tries to regain his place in the PTMC. Right now, though, it’s just this: deep, steadying breaths and your release drying on his face, one of your dress’ ribbons torn off and strewn on the floor. He twirls it around his fingers and basks in this feeling. For the millionth time all day, he thinks about proposing. Just like this, on his knees, holding up a ring and totally at your mercy. Of all his fantasies, this might be his favourite. Though he wonders if now, instead of a ring, you might prefer a crown.
About 2 years ago having freshly graduated high school I was trying to find my spark for writing again.
Without the looming threat of a grade in the back of my mind I had to become comfortable again with writing for fun. While I'm definitely better at it now, it is still a struggle for me.
However I would not be where I am today without this notebook.
While the first 10ish pages are about a book idea I have, 90% of this notebook is fanfiction. Which just means so fucking much to me 🥹
I started writing fanfiction when I was in middle school and have been in and out of the hobby for years. Mostly because I wasn't getting the external validation I had expected at the time from posting. This notebook changed that.
Something about handwriting a fic feels incredibly personal for me. Physical writing feels like I'm writing to myself instead of posting into the void of the Internet in hopes of someone else liking it.
The fics in this notebook exist because they bring me joy. Which I think is the biggest act of self love I've ever been able to offer myself.
Tomodachi Life: Living The Dream - Personality Chart
Feel free to save and share around. This is just a simple cheat sheet to get the personality you want fast. I made this based on the European localisation btw, the US one should take the same inputs but the descriptions for the personalities might be different. I unno. Enjoy
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
Why are you so cruel to people who make chat bots/use them? It's literally an addiction that a lot of us struggle with it and bullying doesn't help ur cause.
Hi nonny!! First off, I wanna make one thing clear.
I have a great deal of sympathy for those struggling with Ai addiction. Chat bots are designed to be predatory and extremely difficult to kick. Everytime someone tells me my work helped them quit, I truly am proud for them!
That does not, however, excuse people from criticism. Not only does AI inherently steal from creatives, the chatbot creator community is far too comfortable with outright theft. My own and my friends works have been stolen for chatbots, and I cannot defend that.
Reminding people of how bad chatbots are is not an attack on those trying to kick it, but it is a criticism of those who willfully indulge in it, and a warning for those who wish to try it.
If there's any other questions feel free to comment them!! Also to anyone whos messaged me abt quitting ai im so proud of you!!!! 🫶🫶
im so happy ur writing 4 santos i love her sooo much and i love ur writing so much omg... match made in heaven!! could i request some fwb!trinity but perhaps like fwbwf (friends with benefits with feelings)?? sorry if this wrong this is the first time ive requested something ever <3
Thank you for requesting lovely <3
cw: suggestive but no smut
Trinity Santos x fem!reader ♡ 746 words
“No way.” You cover your mouth with a hand, laughter running in between your words. “A nun with gonorrhea?"
“Right?” Trinity gestures emphatically. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says Pitt State Dad, because it was close enough to the bed when you finished and she always wants to cover up right after sex. You don’t mind; you’re laying on your stomach with the bedsheets halfway down your back and letting the blunt ends of Trinity’s hair slip through your fingers again and again, more than comfortable. “No one else thought it was funny.”
You smile and look at her through your lashes. “I think you’re funny,” you tell her.
Her eyes roll, but they catch on yours. She leans closer, lips quirking. “You think so, huh?”
“Mhm.”
“That’s because I’m hilarious.”
You let your eyes flicker down to her lips, only a few inches from yours. “And humble to boot.”
“Yeah,” she breathes. You take it in like secondhand smoke. “I have lots of great qualities.”
“Oh?” You play dumb. “Like what?”
You’re awful at hiding a smile, but Trinity’s better. Still, you like that they come out more readily around you now, as she covers your mouth with hers in a tantalizing kiss.
“Like…” Her hand slips under the sheets, skimming down your bare back. You fight a shiver. “I can spend all day typing so much my fingers cramp, and still get you off twice.”
You laugh into her mouth as she helps roll you onto your side. “That’s all you do all day? Not as impressive as I thought.”
Trinity scoffs. “I’ll show you impressive.”
Though you were fine with being done for the night, it’s easy to fall back into your usual rhythm. Her t-shirt bunches in your fingers, your leg finding its way between her thighs, while she kisses and touches you in the precise way she knows drives you to madness. When Trinity’s thumb bumps over your already sore nipple, you make a sound humiliatingly like a whine.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Mhm.” You pull her closer, needy. Her hand splays warm over your skin. “Sorry.”
“Sure? You seem off.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you laugh. It comes out a bit forced. “Sorry, you don’t have a monopoly on hard days.”
Trinity pauses, her eyebrows lifting.
You shake your head, dismissive. “I’m just tired,” you assure her.
All you get in response is a frown. You’re helpless as her eyes pin yours down, discerning in a way that makes your heart pitter. It’s both thrilling and intimidating to be looked at like this, by her.
“Just tired?” she asks.
“Yeah.” You don’t mean for it to sound so much like an apology.
It’s a surprise when her face softens, and a relief. “Can I help?” Before you can wave her off, she says, “Do you want to stay here tonight?”
You freeze. You never stay over. It’s one of your unspoken rules, boundaries neither of you had to set because certain things are just understood. “Really?”
“Yeah, why not?” Trinity’s hand slides up to your hips, resting there with a grounding weight. She’s still looking you over like she might find something she can fix. “If you’re tired, it beats having to drive home.”
You hesitate, but there’s nothing to suggest the offer isn’t genuine. Trinity looks relaxed, her concern only for you.
“I’m just tired,” you murmur, “not, like, on the brink of death.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s familiar enough to be a comfort. “Yeah, I know what the brink of death looks like, thanks.”
“Then why do you seem all freaked out?”
Trinity’s lips purse, like she’s considering you. When she speaks, it’s blunter than you’re ready for. “You’re just always so fucking chipper. So, yeah, it seems weird for you to say you’ve had a hard day.” Her voice drops into a more careful register. “I think you should stay here tonight.”
You wet your lips. “Okay,” you say. Trying not to overthink it, or the fluttery feeling in your gut. “What would we do, though?”
Her brows raise, mouth twitching. “Pretty sure we were just talking about how many things I’m good at. We could keep doing this…” She kisses beneath your jaw. “...or I could make us something to eat…” Her hand caresses your side, warm and reassuring. “...or we could humiliate my roommate at Mario Kart…”
“Oh, god,” you sigh, tilting your head back to give her better access, “definitely Mario Kart first.”
Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.
HOLY SHIT IM ACTUALLY WRITING A FANFIC FOR THE FIRST TIME
AND IM GONNA BE POSTING IT ON AO3
HOW DO I DO THIS? HOW DO I USE AO3? HOW DO I DO FANFIC STUFF HOW DO I NOT SCREW UP THIS FANFIC HOW DO I ADD TAGS HOW DO I-
OK OK IM NOT WORRIED ABOUT THE ACTUAL WRITING THE FIC PART IM JUST GONNA FIGURE THAT OUT. IM SCARED BC I NEVER USED AO3 AND IDK HOW AO3 DOES THE THINGIES AND THE IDK HELP ME AAAAA
