yes or yes
elevatc:
he’s feeling more smug than usual, but that’s to be expected from a guy who runs on ego-flexing and bad, bad decisions, done by yours truly or by the hands of others.
today, it’s an unfortunate case of the latter on both fronts. when some grizzly looking owl came crashing right into the back of his head earlier that morning, envelope clutched in its talons. one that was strawberry-lace pink and decorated with a cluster of drawn mini hearts. his first thought: what the fuck?
and after scanning the contents of the equally frilly letter: what. the. fuck. followed by something that sounds like hyena laugh the second he gets to the bottom, where in thin, spidery scrawl the letters spells out the sender’s name.
truth be told, he’s never so much as looked her way in his entire life, but their circles run close enough to pick her out through the pack of students lazing in the courtyard. a glance over his shoulder to his so-called “lackeys” is the signal to move, and so they do, padding from behind at a distance.
simon slides into the opposite side of the picnic bench with a practiced ease that is in his opinion unparalleled, face pulled into a sharp sort of neutral despite the fact that deep down, he is absolutely school-boy giddy that someone, someone really harbored such ridiculous fixations for him ( but that’s not the cool cat way to handle things now, is it? ). running a hand through pomade slick hair, he clears his throat loudly for her attention.
“you’re roh, aren’t you?”
he tilts his head, expression impassive, fingers drumming idly on the tabletop. “for someone who i’ve never talked to, you’ve got a lot to say, huh.”
( rewind, october 2018 with @peachpvt )
it’s unlike her. bea knew that fairly well. it is completely unlike her to write a love letter. a concept so silly, it’s unbecoming on her. she’s not a hopeless romantic. but what she is, bea surmises, is a girl filled to the brim in affection and no means to express it.so, true to the nature of someone comprised of one too many soft things (none of which taught her how to properly convey feelings to someone who may or may not even notice her existence)—she penned a letter.
to, the you i cannot get out of my head. i’m writing this letter to tell you that i like you. the rest she simply cannot continue thinking about, cheeks heating up at the vague recollection of detail in which she went in on. of course, having written in a flurry of emotion, bea barely thought too much of it before she signed it (with the very last heart detailed beside her name) and sent it off.
now, doodling idly into her notebook on the courtyard, bits of regret begins to seep in; shame that clings to her cheeks in ruddy shades, a simmering humiliation that settles in the pits of her stomach. bea is near stabbing a hole through the paper when someone else joins her, jumping slightly in her seat when he makes his presence felt.
then, he speaks. and the words that slip out, though only slightly accented, makes absolutely no sense. “sorry?” her brows furrow, head tilting slightly to glance at the semi-menacing two standing a couple feet away before turning to the gryffindor. she knows him. not personally, not through friends, but bea knows him. hears from word of mouth the kind of unsightly he brings to the house of lions.
“i—don’t know what you’re talking about.” cheeks still flushed from earlier, she only manages to meet his gaze for a second or two before fixating on packing up her things. “i think you have the wrong person.”
