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ellivenollivander · 6 days

Text

Served Cold

18+ || MDNI || Content Warnings: violence, major HL game spoiler(s), swearing, I think that’s it.

Word Count: ~1.3k

Garreth Weasley x f!Ravenclaw!MC

A/N: Enjoy angry Garreth standing up for MC like 2 years after the fact but it’s the thought that counts really. I also wrote this almost all in one sitting so it is barely proofread xoxo Pluv

~~~

“I want to hear all about fifth year,” Garreth insisted, finally coming down from the mild temper tantrum he threw when MC showed him the Room of Requirement…and accidentally let it slip that it had been his aunt who showed it to her in hopes of giving her somewhere private to catch up on her studies.

“You spent a lot of time with Sebastian that year.”

MC immediately clocked the jealousy in his voice, and she didn’t even try to hide the smug smile that settled on her face.

“And I’ve spent a lot of time with you every year since. I was trying to help him find a cure for Anne. We both went through a lot that year. Really Gare, it’s like having a brother.”

“And you two weren’t able to find anything to help Anne?”

His voice grew soft at the mention of the other Sallow twin. She had touched more hearts than just those in her house. Garreth remembered the girl fondly, filled with memories of antics that rivaled his own like some unspoken competition between the two. She, of course, had the benefit of being able to drag Sebastian and Ominis into her schemes. Maybe half the time he had been able to trick Leander into participating.

“No.” She hesitated before looking at Garreth, a newfound seriousness on her face. “Gare, I need you to swear to me what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. Do you understand?”

He sat a little straighter on the couch they were sitting on. He looked down at her and his eyes scanned over her face, trying to find a clue for what was about to come out of her mouth.

“I swear, MC. Whatever you tell me will stay in this room.”

The tension gradually left her shoulders as she recounted most of what she and Sebastian did in an attempt to find a cure for the mysterious curse that plagued the girl in Feldcroft. She did, intentionally, twist the story of what exactly happened in the catacombs. Solomon Sallow’s true cause of death was a secret she’d take to the grave. In embracing the relief it felt to just tell someone, especially someone who mattered to her as much as Garreth did, about just how much she had done during her first year on top of defeating Ranrok under the school, she missed the boy beside her growing more and more tense with every word she spoke.

“He used an Unforgivable on you?”

The cold, level tone that she had never heard come from his lips finally clued her in on the fact that (how Garreth feels abt hearing all this shit).

“Well, it was that or we would’ve died down there, Gare. We found the skeleton of Ominis’s aunt for Merlin’s sake. And I didn’t know the spell then, so I couldn’t have cast it.”

“He could have – you didn’t know it then? So you know it now?!”

“I had him teach me later. I uh it’s very useful when you’re spending your nights going up against poachers and ashwinders.”

“Ominis was there too. They both just agreed to let you take the godsdamned torture curse?”

MC opened her mouth to speak, but before she could even get a word out, he was gone. It took longer for her body to react than she would’ve liked, and that delay paired with how much taller the Gryffindor was, she knew catching up to him before he found the Slytherin boys was going to be impossible.

~~~

“Oi! Sallow!”

Garreth was marching across the courtyard, the anger radiating off of him in waves so palpable it repelled anyone standing between him and the two Slytherin boys he was looking for.

“What’s got your knickers—what the fuck?!”

Sebastian’s antagonistic greeting was cut short when Garreth’s fist made contact with his cheek. The redhead was absolutely seething.

“Not so fucking tough when it’s someone your own size, are you? Huh?”

“What in Merlin’s beard are you talking about?”

“Garreth, I—“

“Gaunt, if you open your mouth to try and defend him, what little grace I’m giving you will end. Don’t think I won’t exclude you from getting your arse kicked just because you can’t see it coming.”

His attention turned back to Sebastian, and the brunet still had the audacity to look confused. The sight just pissed Garreth off more.

“I know what you did, you fucking bastard. Were you not man enough to take it yourself? You had to make her take it? Did you two bring her to her common room afterwards or did you just let her walk all the way from the godsdamned dungeons up to Ravenclaw tower? You fucking cowards!”

His angry words were no longer enough and MC finally found them just as Garreth pounced on Sebastian and the two rolled around in the grass. Sebastian was only trying to dodge Garreth’s punches, and the fact he wasn’t fighting back just spurred the redhead on further.

“Levioso!” Her own voice carried across the lawn, her chest heaving as she felt she had searched everywhere in the castle before finally finding the scene she interrupted.

The anger didn’t leave Garreth’s eyes as he levitated over Sebastian until his glare was blocked by a particularly irritated and flustered witch. She affixed him with a withering stare before turning to her friend. She produced a wiggenweld potion from her pocket - because of course she still carried them around everywhere - and offered both Sebastian and Ominis an apology.

“I’ll deal with him. I apologize that I wasn’t quick enough to catch him before he found you two. I’ll handle him from here. I’ll speak with you two at dinner.”

Once the two were gone, she turned back to Garreth, arms crossed over her chest. Her gaze wasn’t as harsh as it had been, but it was still painfully obvious she wasn’t happy with him.

“I swear it won’t leave this room,” she mocked him, letting him fall to the ground.

Garreth’s cheeks almost matched his hair as he stood, frowning down at her as his eyes locked on hers.

”Well, I didn’t know the severity of what I was going to hear when you made me swear. You expected me to just hear what they, what he, made you endure and not do anything? Either one of them could have taken that curse instead of having you do it. I mean have they even apologized? It’s been two years, MC. Please tell me they at least had the decency to apologize afterwards.”

She hesitated, preparing to have to stop him again. “They don’t need to apologize. It was either take the curse or die. And I wasn’t going to die in some hidden room in this castle that no one else would know existed.”

His stare was incredulous as he tried to gauge how much her anger would be worth following the two snakes she set free. Feeling her arms wrap around him caused him to tense for a moment before he relaxed and he reciprocated her hold.

“Thank you for being so upset on my behalf, Garreth. If I were in the same scenario again, I’d take it. No matter who I would’ve been stuck there with, I would’ve taken that curse to get us out.”

”No, you wouldn’t have.”

She looked up at him, her facial expression indignant. She was clearly ready to argue but seeing the look on his face clearly made her falter and she didn’t speak.

”You wouldn’t have taken it if you were stuck with me. I love you too much to even imagine having to put you through that.”

The warm feeling from the Room of Requirement, when she realized she was able to tell him things she couldn’t tell anyone else, returned to her chest.

”I love you too, Garreth. Enough to never put us in a situation that requires that curse.”

He chuckled, leaning down closer to his favorite witch. “You’ve got a deal,” he murmured before sealing it with a kiss.

#😩😩😩😩😩😩#RIGHTEOUSLY ANGRY GAR BEAR IS #BARK BARK BARK #garreth weasley

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ellivenollivander · 8 days

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A Date, Of Sorts

Ron Weasley x f!reader

Summary: A chance encounter, a sympathetic ear. You find Ron Weasley drinking alone, a burnt out Auror burdened with heavy expectations. Once he opens up, the night takes you elsewhere.

Tags: explicit | post-Hogwarts | sex | cunnilingus | alcohol

2.9k words

A/n: For @ellivenollivander 🖤 I love how this is the fault of the Ominis server of all places. Despite the thing that got me writing was sub!Ron, I ended up writing this absolutely shameless self indulgent smut fic.

The Leaky Cauldron, London. Neither very grand, nor particularly cosy, absolutely terrible for conducting private business, and yet witches and wizards flocked to it like moths to a flame. You supposed it was convenient for the Ministry, given how packed it currently was with smart robed administrators with pinched faces and even the odd member of the Wizengamot or two. You were here for someone in particular, and yet after a careful sweep of the crowds, he eluded you. You considered that perhaps he'd been held up at work, deciding to settle down at a dark and dingy corner of the bar to wait.

The barman looked at you expectantly as he wiped a pint glass with a dirty cloth, your lip curling in faint disgust you were too slow to hide. “Butterbeer,” you requested, wishing it was something stronger. Keeping your eyes peeled for your date, you kept yourself busy by idly fiddling with the hem of your skirt whilst taking in the ambience—if it could be called as such. The old pub was dilapidated and held up by more magic and willpower than by the crumbling oak beams, yet you did admit it held a certain charm. Your eyes drifted down from the flickering lights and caught on something warm and familiar; a burnished copper mop that glinted amber and gold and reminded you of sticky toffee… “Ron?”

He hadn't heard you—though it was certainly the boy you'd gone to school with—clearly busy nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey with too much ice. You kept your eyes down, surreptitiously glancing across the bar whilst grabbing your butterbeer with clumsy fingers and shoving a pile of knuts on the counter. The barman grumbled, ignored.

Oh, it was Ron Weasley, alright. So many years later, he'd not changed in all the ways that mattered. A sip of beer masked a smile, sticky sweet foam coating your lips, but your blush felt far too obvious. Lucky, then, that he appeared so deep in thought, so enraptured with his own fingernails.

No wedding ring.

Ron sighed and picked up his glass and you instinctively copied him. He threw the rest of his drink down, wincing slightly at the burn before signalling the barman—who seemed far more genial towards him than yourself—for another. Whatever had him here, had him drinking for comfort; for solace. Now that you were really looking, you noticed how downcast he appeared, the once easy smirk he wore wiped clean from his face. The slight shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights; the black suit of an Auror, top button popped open, the obvious culprit.

“Ron?” You tried again, and this time he looked up, slightly dazed, clearly not expecting to be addressed despite the busy pub filled with his colleagues. His eyes were blue and red; beautiful and sombre. A spark of recognition finally passed after a few agonising moments, and he offered you a sincere smile. Your name rolled off his tongue and you nodded—yes, it's me.

“Hey.” His voice was gravelly with drink. “Now there's a face I haven't seen in a while.”

He looked you over, unabashedly, as you'd done only moments before, eyes leaving a trail of prickled skin in their wake.

“Likewise. Working at the Ministry?” you asked cheerfully, but it was clearly the wrong thing to say. Your question prompted another gulp of whiskey. “Sorry, bad day?”

“Bad day, bad year. But how about you? What are you up to these days?” He deflected easily, suddenly giving you his rapt attention. You told him the usual story—you were a healer at St Mungo’s, caring for the sick was your calling, and so on and so forth. You might have seen a flicker of doubt in his gaze, but he only smiled and nodded, eating up every lie you had, ravenous to hear anything but his own story. He pushed his hair out of his face as if willing you to keep looking, and that's when you realised he was using his routine on you. That's also when you remembered you were waiting for a date, a thought that almost sent butterbeer dribbling down your chin.

“What are you, really? Go on, you can tell me. My lips are sealed,” he slurred. He looked at your lips as he said it, and you looked at his.

Unfortunately for him, it would take more than mere flirting from an old crush to get you to dispense with your secrets. An Unspeakable is discreet, even in the face of adversity (and gorgeous redheads).

“I promise you I am a healer, despite my clear disregard for my own health and wellbeing,” you said, gesturing to your third—or fourth—glass of beer.

“I think the most you'll get from that is cavities.” He laughed, and it sent you back in time to those days at school before everything went so horribly wrong.

“I'm better at mending broken bones than hearts but if you wanted to talk…”

“Is that what you think I have—a broken heart?” Ron grinned, wide and bright, and you melted despite your foolishness.

“Is it not? Sorry, I just assumed the whiskey and general demeanour—”

“Okay, alright. Glad to know you noticed me being a sulky git. Truth is, my job really takes it out of me sometimes.”

“I can imagine,” you said quietly. In fact, you knew exactly what he meant. “Is being an Auror not what you expected?”

“I’d say it's exactly what I expected. The problem is, after everything that happened everybody expected me to do this, you know?”

You nodded, fighting the urge to look away. Ron may have looked startlingly similar to his sixteen year old self—bright eyes; crooked smile; fiery, untameable hair—but despite the years that had passed he had a weariness about him that belied his true age. Once he'd started there was no stopping him, words pouring forth as he reached desperately for catharsis. He'd wished he'd taken a different path, and looking at him now, you had to agree with that assessment. Ron Weasley didn't suit the stifling crush of the Ministry.

You reached across the bar and put your hand on his, a gesture most unexpected and yet felt right for the moment. If your date happened to turn up now, then so be it. Ron looked at where your bodies joined with the slow sort of realisation of someone unused to physical affection—or maybe it was the firewhiskey. Everything certainly was quite hazy now. There was a soft glow around the edges of your vision that enveloped you in a warm hug of intoxication. The weak alcohol told you that anything was possible—even holding Ron Weasley's hand.

Ron cleared his throat, and for an awful second you thought he was going to pull away, not pull you closer. But soon you felt his callouses brush your palm as he turned over his hand and guided you closer, the hot tang of whiskey on his breath and smoke lingering in his hair—not the kind of tobacco smoke that clogged your lungs but the unmistakable scent of fire, of magic. You wondered what he'd been doing that day, why his coat was singed and he had the slightest hint of a bruise blooming on his cheek, but then he was kissing you.

His lips parted, soft and supple, coaxing you to respond amongst your shock. You tilted your head—an invitation—and he smiled against your mouth, sliding a hand onto your knee with only thin nylon between you and his burning palm.

When you pulled apart, both breathing heavier than before, it took a while to focus your eyes on his heavy lids that suggested he wanted much more than just your kiss. Despite his drunkenness, Ron kept his hand a respectful distance from your lap, despite your growing urge for him to venture higher and relieve the throbbing ache between your legs. He licked his lips and smiled.

“Do you do that to all the girls that lend you an ear?” you asked quite breathlessly.

Ron chuckled and smiled that crooked smile that set your pulse racing, but his answer was sincere and serious.

“I always fancied you, know. At school.” He shrugged, a hint of boyish charm and feigned innocence. “And thanks for listening. It's not often anyone thinks to ask.”

His fingers still burned a brand into your thigh; so distracting was his hand's presence that you almost forgot to reply.

“You're welcome,” you replied weakly. To your dismay, he knew damn well the effect he was having on you. Even more horrifying were the words that spilled from your mouth next. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” What in Merlin's name possessed you to say that?

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You'd asked and he'd accepted, and your fate was sealed. Though there was no promise of anything more than quiet company the expectation hung thick and heavy in the air between you. After that kiss, how could you think clearly about anything other than how they'd feel on your body?

You walked in the chilly night, wind battering the comfortable jacket of warmth the alcohol had given you until you were startlingly sober by the time you stood on Ron’s doorstep. By then you didn't care much—apprehension had made way for giddy excitement and lustful want. Reminiscing on old times and flirtatious banter continued into the hallway, which was much more tidy and homely than you'd expected. There wasn't much time to take in the decor before your lips were fused once more.

Pressed against the wall with a dado in your spine, you were now reminded just how tall he was, towering above you and blocking the ceiling light like an eclipse. Your neck craned to kiss him, a gentle finger tilting your chin, a leg slotted between your own. Not enough pressure to relieve much of anything, only an enticement. His hands roamed whilst tongues entwined, and you moaned softly into his mouth once he found his way underneath your top, skimming the waistband of your skirt. You'd thought he might be fumbling, a little awkward, but Ron surprised you with his gentleness, his teasing strokes. He grazed the dips of your waist, groaning low with approval as your hips rocked of their own accord.

His hair felt like spun silk, copper strands falling over his eyes as you displaced them. Laboured breaths and moans filled the cramped hallway, your skirt hitched around your hips and his thigh pressed tight against your aching centre. You might've let him take you there and then if he'd not pulled away. You felt like you'd been slapped, so sudden the absence of his lips was that you opened your mouth in protest before realising he was taking you to the bedroom with a smirk to end all debate. His red and kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair had you practically skipping behind him, falling into his arms and onto the bed as soon as the door shut.

“I thought we were just coming here to lament about our jobs some more,” you said with a pout.

You were on your elbows, looking up at him, half undressed and flushed as he knelt before you with a hand on his belt buckle. He stilled, looked at you and raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, we can do that instead if you want.” He shrugged. He shrugged. Then his fingers slipped inside your knickers with one swift motion and his face split into a shit-eating grin. He didn't need to point out how aroused you obviously were, but he did anyway—something about being ‘soaking wet’ before he plunged his fingers inside you and silenced any retort. Not that you could have thought of one, given how addled your mind was as he curled his digits almost languidly. Your back arched, head thrown back against the mattress as you looked up at him, surrounded by a dim halo of light. He'd abandoned his attempts at undressing himself, fixated on your every reaction to him. You swore his eyes were now a darker grey, a swirling tempest as he drank you in, rather than the baby blues you'd been so enamoured with.

“Ron…,” you managed to sigh between the pumps of his hand.

“You’re gorgeous.” The words dripped in what sounded like awe, coaxing a whine from your throat.

Your body shifted and squirmed beneath him, desperate for more and he heard your silent plea. You thought he would finally shed his pesky clothes, that damned black suit that clung to his body so delectably, but once again he surprised you by dipping his head and disappearing from view.

“Ro—oh fuck.”

His fingers remained buried to the knuckles but now the warm, wet swipe of his tongue sent your head spinning. Deciding that the bunched fabric of your underwear was far too impeding, he swiftly pulled them down, discarding them to the floor before laying flat on the bed. He shifted to get himself comfortable as you watched, waiting, gripping the bed sheets in eager anticipation. Ron spread your legs, looking up through blond lashes and holding your gaze as he buried his mouth between your thighs. Your knuckles paled, cotton straining in your grasp as his tongue flicked lazily over your clit. Just the right amount of firm pressure, testing the waters.

He quickened, flicked and swirled his tongue, reacting to every heightened moan until he knew exactly how you liked it. By then you were close to the blissful end, your climax only a lick away, and you moaned his name so loudly the walls should have shattered. You came hard, fingers threaded through his hair and eyes locked on his, asking him without words to please don't stop as wave after wave swept over you. You felt him smile against you as he sucked until you squirmed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

You were staring at the ceiling again, wondering when your ears would stop ringing, when the mattress shifted and Ron’s face loomed into view.

“That good, huh?”

You licked your lips and sighed in response, only now noticing he'd finally shed his shirt as you let your eyes fall on the expanse of freckled skin. He'd filled out since those school days, with broader shoulders and muscles you swore he'd not possessed even in his prime as a Keeper. Your palms flattened against him; firm and irresistible.

Lower they roamed until you found his belt, the buckle clicking as you made quick work of it, moving onto his trousers whilst Ron watched you, apparently fascinated. Knuckles brushed his cock straining against the fabric as you loosened every button, only taking a second to run a teasing thumb over the head before his mouth crashed into yours. Your surprised gasp was muffled, twisted into desperate whines as he kicked off the last of his clothes and planted himself between your legs all whilst your tongues danced and gasping breaths mingled. A press of his thigh spread your legs wider, his erection grinding against your overly sensitive clit. Fuck, he’s big, you thought with a pleasurable squirm of excitement in your abdomen.

“Ron, please…”

That smile again, a flash of amusement before your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed inside you. Slowly, deliberately, with moans of pleasure from both sides, his cock stretched you so satisfyingly an inch at a time. “Fuck, so good. You feel so good.” The praise rolled off his tongue and he kissed you again, sloppier this time; a brush of lips and heavy breaths, sharing each other's air. Your fingers entwined in his hair as he finally, mercifully, started rolling his hips. He held you firm with bruising fingertips against your hips, speaking of restraint you wish he didn't have, but oh, it felt glorious. He hit all the right spots, his steady pace building you up for another explosion of pleasure.

“Right there, yes, more.”

Harder, faster; you witnessed Ron let go of the last of his self restraint, pounding into you with such reckless abandon you could no longer breathe, let alone form coherent sentences. You managed to cry out a string of yeses until your orgasm enveloped you once more and your body convulsed, toes curling and back arching, but he didn't stop. Towering over you with flames framing his face, mouth agape and eyebrows peaked. “That's it, come for me…fuck, I'm so close.” He chased his release with brutal thrusts, gripping your hips so hard you felt bruises blooming, until finally he came with a shuddering moan and your name shouted for all to hear.

Somehow, it sounded right.

He could have rolled over and asked you to leave; there were no expectations, no pressure from either of you to stay entwined for longer than necessary, yet that's exactly what you did. Long after your breath had steadied, he held you in those strong arms, still flushed beneath the smattering of freckles. This chance encounter had reawoken a flame from former years, and you'd never been so grateful for a date not to show. If just for one night, it had been unexpectedly perfect.

“So, fancy dinner tomorrow night?” Ron's voice drifted into your ear as you felt yourself lulling, and you turned to see him grinning like an idiot; a picture of the schoolboy you once knew.

Full of surprises.

“Yeah, go on then,” you replied in an equally casual manner. You both laughed, somewhat shy and giddy.

“Wicked.”

#nsisjdksjdnsjdnskdnajsjka #ron weasley x reader #djisndkwndjw #AAAAAHAHHHHH #this was delicious

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ellivenollivander · 9 days

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Quick sketch of Imelda & Anne, maybe in 7th year?

I like to imagine that they’re literal menaces, esp to Sebastian who they love tormenting 💓💓

Ominis plays along - he can hear everything they’re whispering (they’re talking about homework but laughing and looking at Sebastian so he thinks they’re talking about him) and when Seb asks Ominis to tell him what they’re saying, Ominis lies for Anne. Plus, he loves seeing Sebastian get more and more worked up too 😊🙏 it’s their favorite thing to do when studying for NEWTs gets too demanding💓

#love love love love this #Imelda Reyes #anne sallow

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ellivenollivander · 9 days

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ellivenollivander · 9 days

Text

Random Andrew Larson fluff fic.

This boy has me lately, and I needed to write for him.

This was nearly smut, but I couldn't do it, he's too sweet to do the things I was gonna make him do.

Word count: ~2200

Summary: Andrew has a certain way of grabbing MC's attention - and her affection. Old habits die hard, not that she'd ever want him to stop asking for her time.

A Moment of Your Time

"A moment of your time, please?" Andrew Larson asked, polite as he'd been every time she encountered him in Hogwarts.

Always a gentle greeting and a friendly smile from this one - such a contrast to her usual cohorts.

Sebastian's quips and reckless plans, Ominis's penchant for gossip and incessant bickering with the former, both Natty and Poppy eager to delve into danger for the sake of what they deemed right, Garreth's daily pleas for assistance with various concoctions...

But then there was Andrew Larson, a calm presence amidst a veritable storm of chaos.

Appreciative for any second he'd spare her, she smiled brightly and nodded, and he took a seat next to her in the Library, setting his open textbook in front of her on the table.

"I'm struggling with this concept in Professor Hecat's class, and I recall you're rather familiar with advanced dueling techniques." An easier way of saying she's a brute who took out a goblin warlord, but who was she to deny her classmate a request for help?

So, of course, she all too eagerly assisted with his studies, chattering excitedly as she pointed out the passages she found most helpful, with real-life examples as well, of course.

Because she was, in fact, very familiar with advanced dueling techniques.

"A moment of your time?" The familiar question rang out in the noisy halls, beckoning her to a quiet alcove away from the bustle.

She brightened instantly to see Andrew's ever-charming face, that easy smile waiting for her as she trotted over, adjusting her hair in what she hoped was a nonchalant motion while she approached.

"Yes, Andrew?" She asked, daring to venture just a bit closer than necessary to him - a toe over the line of politeness and crossing into his personal space. If he questioned it, she could simply say she couldn't hear him over the raucous students walking behind them.

He didn't mention it, however, and maybe he was simply being polite, or perhaps it had something to do with his next question - if she read into it the way she desperately wanted.

"Is it a fact that you're close with Mister Weakes in Hogsmeade? I've been meaning to stop by for broom polish, but I find the shop admittedly dizzying in its vast selection - would you mind accompanying me if it's not too much trouble?" He asked, voice smooth like he'd practiced the request a hundred times in the mirror before summoning her.

Very unlike her own clumsy response as she fumbled with the words, part of her knowing Albie only carried a single variety of broom polish, and the other not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Y-yes, of course - I mean no, it's not too much trouble, and yes, I'd love to accompany you - not love, mind you, but I'd be happy -"

"Splendid." Mercifully, he cut off her humiliating attempt at basic English with a serene laugh, but then only made things worse with his closing line, leaving her to wonder more still.

"I'll take you out for a butterbeer afterward as thanks."

"A moment of your time?" The tap on her shoulder came with the words she knew so well, and she spun around to smile as Andrew, in his dress robes, held out a hand in a silent invitation to dance.

The Yule Ball, while spectacular, had been so disappointing before this moment that she'd wondered why she even bothered attending at all. Several hopefuls had asked to escort her, all of which she turned down in favor of the only boy she was even willing to spare a thought for anymore.

But Andrew Larson, who despite all the will-he-won't-he over the months, never once approached to ask for a date despite her certainty that he would. Nor did he approach her for anything at all over the entire week leading up to the event.

Then, as luck would have it, she discovered he'd had to go home early for the holidays for a relative who'd fallen ill - through perstering his friend Amit relentlessly, she was at least relieved to discover his aunt was indeed well again, and Andrew would return after the holidays.

Still, her friends managed to convince her to attend the Yule Ball stag, if only to experience it once before graduation. So, she'd sullenly pined away the evening, watching the others twirl around and enjoy themselves, wishing she were anywhere else.

Perhaps in London, cozied up next to a fire with a certain fair-haired boy responsible for snatching her affections without even trying.

Until he arrived, looking far more spectacular than anything she'd seen all evening.

Crystal chandeliers and decadent buffets be damned - Andrew Larson was before her in the flesh.

"Weren't you in London?" She asked quizzically, but then silently cursed herself as his smile faltered, and he retracted his hand.

She should have just taken it.

"Yes..." Andrew explained, now more hesitant than she'd ever seen. Still, he maintained that soft demeanor that turned her to goo each time they interacted. "Amit mentioned in his letters you hadn't accepted a date for tonight, however, and I thought it would be a shame if I didn't get the chance to ask the most dazzling girl in school for a dance - so I came back just for tonight."

"You came back all the way from London to ask me for a dance?" She asked, flabberghasted.

Again, he offered his outstretched hand.

This time, she accepted without missing a beat.

"A moment of your time?" He asked, taking the initiative to grab her by the hand before she could even react, pulling her into an empty section of the school gardens - tall flowering plants, wild vines, and privacy.

Surrounded by the sunny, floral backdrop, Andrew looked ethereal.

"It's been difficult to catch you between studies." He said, corners of his lips tugging down.

She didn't want to see that kind of expression on her darling boyfriend, of course, and simply leaned up to peck his cheek.

As expected, the small act put a bright smile back on his face, as such innocent affection always succeeded in achieving.

Also, as always, she pulled away afterward, not wanting to press the matter, but he gently coaxed her back to him, a delicate finger under her chin, before placing his lips softly on hers.

The kiss only lasted for the briefest, lingering second, but it was more than enough to send her heart fluttering and face dark red. For all the days she'd spent wishing to kiss him - really kiss him - she now felt woefully ill-prepared.

All at once, however, Andrew withdrew and she was left simultaneously reeling from the intense embarassment of her first kiss coming on and ending so suddenly she couldn’t react, and a heated desire to pull him back for more.

Seemingly picking up on her frazzled state, her boyfriend merely chuckled, proudly wearing the blush on his cheeks, equally affected by the act as he looked fondly at her, hand still resting on her cheek.

It was only later, as she walked back to class, the she found the single stem of blue hyacinth he'd tucked in her hair.

A knock came first - three sharp raps on the door of her office, loud enough to make the unexpected visitor's presence known, but not so obnoxious as to startle her from the veritable mountain of paperwork covering most of the surface of her work area.

“Come in.” She called out tiredly, not at all in a good position for more chatty visits from colleagues.

The first year of settling into her new position with the Ministry's Obliviator Headquarters proved taxing - freshly graduated from Hogwarts and maintaining the delicate balance of a fully-loaded work schedule with her social life was significantly more difficult than school had ever been, even in the thick of exam season. Now, with her probationary period over, the real work felt insurmountable.

Her office door creaked open, and she caught sight of the bright blue bouquet of hyacinth and cornflower before she heard those familiar words.

“A moment of your time, dear?”

An immediate balm to her headache, far more effective than any potion or spell, she rose from her chair, fatigue dissipated immediately at the sight of Andrew.

Standing in her doorway, bashful yet still with his heartachingly tender charm, he looked far lovelier than the bunch of flowers he cradled.

“I thought my favorite Ministry worker bee would welcome a small distraction and a gift almoat half as pretty as she is - honestly, I couldn't stop thinking about you all morning and well…”

Maintaining some sense of propriety, he let the door click shut behind him before drawing her into a kiss. Tender and soft as he'd always been, now he held onto her for far longer, the hand not occupied with a floral arrangement resting gently on her upper arm.

What was not as always, however, was how Andrew continued the kiss when normally he would have put a halt to things, never willing to push too far. Instead, he opted to deepen his claim on her lips, mouth moving softly against hers, testing, and slow. Heat built steadily until she'd forgotten to breathe, or what oxygen even was.

Then, when all thoughts of paperwork and stress effectively flew from her in favor of this very intriguing new side of her boyfriend she was now getting acquainted with, he pulled away slowly.

She whined under her breath, lightheaded and all but melting from the phantom caress of his kiss, only to have her breath hitch once more from the look he fixed her with.

Nervous - Andrew Larson, her composed, beloved boyfriend, lost his poise somewhere in that moment and looked lost for words.

He didn't need them, though, choosing to distract them both from his floundering by placing the flowers in her hands, obscuring her vision of his red face with the vast, bushy bouquet.

While she cooed over the bundle, sniffing them and showering him with thanks, she shifted the flowers to get a better look at him, only to find he was no longer standing in front of her.

Andrew was kneeling, delicate engagement ring in hand, and a hopeful look on his features.

Needless to say, the work simply continued piling up the rest of that day.

“A moment of your time, Mrs. Larson?”

Andrew did not wait for her reply, simply stealing her away swiftly, dragging her eagerly by the hand through the whimsical gardens where they’d said their wedding vows not even ten minutes ago.

She laughed in response, “Where could my husband possibly be dragging us off to when all our friends and family are waiting for us to start the reception?”

His answer came in the form of pushing her playfully behind the gazebo at the far end of the gardens, far enough from prying eyes to be obscured, but still out in the open enough to be considered scandalous for what he was doing to her.

“W-what are you doing?!” She stuttered out, a gasp finishing off her query when his hand boldly scorched up her thigh under the skirt of her white dress and tugged insistently at the garter.

Body pressing against hers, pushing her back against the wooden frame of the shelter concealing them, his lips latched onto her throat, gentle in the way he claimed her, drawing another gasp and a stifled moan.

His breath was hot against her ear when he finally answered, amusement tinging his voice, “Enjoying my gorgeous wife, of course. It's my right as your husband to consummate our marriage, isn't it?”

Rhetorical question, of course, and one she found herself incapable of answering with anything other than a yearning whimper of his name when that lace garter snapped under his touch and so did what little shreds of their combined patience remained.

Hand traveling up to touch her with a confident boldness she'd never known her Andrew to possess, he made good on that promise and claimed her so thoroughly that by the time they stumbled back to the reception much later, red-faced and disheveled, she could hardly comprehend a word said to her the rest of the day thanks to the sweet echoes of his touch still lingering on her body, and the sound of his breathless, loving praise in her ears.

Their little ones outside with the neighbors’ children, she watched over the peaceful scene with a smile.

Content - as always.

This truly was the perfect life. Andrew, doting father and the pinnacle of stability in their marriage. No matter what chaos life threw their way, between their respective Ministry positions and their two young children, he anchored her in a way nothing else could.

Even now, while she relaxed with a drink on the lawn with the Sweetings, he'd insisted on being the one to go inside and prepare snacks.

Still, even now, she'd always come whenever he beckoned.

Like when the back door creaked open and Andrew poked his head out with that charming smile and his familiar words.

And she knew she'd either be exiting the house shortly helping him carry a drink tray, or they'd both be stumbling out, flushed and giggling while she smoothed out her skirt and made excuses about needing to clean a spill.

She hoped it was the latter.

“A moment of your time, my love?”

Of course, she ran to him.

#sianxisnfkwndiwndownsoqnw #this was so fucking cute #I’m in love with him #Andrew Larson

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ellivenollivander · 9 days

Text

Writing Prompt #2: Poppy Sweeting x Imelda Reyes

Thanks to @celestial--sapphic for providing the second prompt:

Poppy attending one of Imelda's Quidditch matches

Poppy Sweeting x Imelda Reyes

Word Count: 1328

Rating: Teen ✨✨✨

Poppy’s first Quidditch match as Imelda’s paramour was going exactly as expected. Splendidly. Imelda was in top-form, directing her teammates confidently, as the Slytherin Quidditch Captain should, and chasing her opponents with a singular focus, like a Hungarian Horntail pursuing its prey.

Now, if only Poppy knew more about Quidditch…

Seated in the stands with her fellow Hufflepuffs, sporting a very conspicuous Slytherin scarf that drew some pointed glances - though she couldn’t have cared less, especially since Hufflepuff wasn’t even playing today - she tilted her head back, squinting against the sun’s harsh rays. There, amidst the whirl of the other players, she watched Imelda soar by on her broom, a vision of grace and finesse, her ebony ponytail trailing behind her.

Poppy sighed wistfully. And to think, just yesterday afternoon she had been straddling Imelda on her broom as Imelda deftly maneuvered one of her old broom trial courses from their fifth year, the year Professor Black banned Quidditch. It had been quite a remarkable experience, the wind in her hair, her body pressed tightly against Imelda’s lithe but muscular frame. Poppy didn’t doubt that one day Imelda would realize her dream of joining the ranks of the Holyhead Harpies. She was that good, and oh so passionate.

Her attention was diverted by raucous cheering coming from the Slytherins in the stands across the way. While it seemed like Slytherin was winning, Poppy couldn’t exactly say for sure. She was too distracted by Imelda’s outrageously talented self, and, well, to be totally honest, Gerald the Puffskein, who was currently squirming around on her lap. In fact, he was humming very loudly, so loudly that Poppy was worried that someone might overhear. She technically wasn’t supposed to have taken him out of Professor Howin’s class, but she couldn’t help it! He had seemed down and she thought a rousing Quidditch match might cheer him up.

Fortunately, Professor Howin was seated among the other professors in a stand further down the way. There was no chance they’d be spotted together. Unless…

A Bludger streaked across her field of vision, and then, in an unexpected turn of events, zipped back directly from whence it came. The crowd erupted into startled cries and gasps of alarm as they ducked down. Poppy followed suit, shielding Gerald beneath her, her reaction slightly delayed but thankfully swift enough to avoid a potentially deadly blow.

Well, Quidditch was quite exhilarating, that was for certain. Poppy hadn’t been entirely sure, this having been only her second game ever, the first having been back in her first year. She hadn’t found her first particularly thrilling, so she hadn’t bothered attending any more matches since. But now, she had a reason to be here, and a captivating one at that. The mere thought of Imelda caused her cheeks to flush.

As Poppy regained her composure, adjusting herself back into a comfortable seated position, she whispered, “Are you okay, Gerald?” Gerald remained in her lap, covered in a blanket she’d brought specifically for him to ensure he didn’t catch a chill in the crisp fall air. He wiggled in her lap, snuffling at her hand. “Alright, you.” Poppy pulled a treat out of her pocket and offered it to him. As expected, he gobbled it up immediately.

Poppy soon lost track of time entirely. Tending to an adorably mischievous Puffskein would do that. Every so often she’d steal a glance at Imelda, only to be preoccupied once more with Gerald. She vaguely registered the sound of more cheering, although she couldn’t pinpoint its origin, and then, before she knew it, her classmates began bustling around her, scooting past her as they exited the Quidditch pitch.

Was the game over already? Who won? Imelda would certainly expect her to know who won, wouldn’t she? Merlin! She should have paid better attention.

“See this crowd? All my doing,” Poppy heard before Imelda stumbled into view before her, a bit unsteady on her feet. Imelda’s grace on a broom didn’t always seem to extend to solid ground. Poppy suppressed a smile. She would never say so aloud, but she found this quirk oddly endearing.

“You’ve got good flying technique, I’ll give you that,” Poppy teased, lifting Gerald, blanket and all, and cradling him gently in her left arm as she rose to her feet.

“Hello, Gerald,” Imelda said, tugging on the strap of her broom across her shoulder. “Dare I ask?”

“He wanted to go on an adventure!”

“And did he enjoy himself?”

Poppy flashed Imelda a coy smile. “Hmm, perhaps,” she replied. How long could she delay Imelda from finding out she wasn’t quite certain who won the match? A minute? Five?

“Hmph,” Imelda huffed, placing a hand on her cocked hip. “And you? What did you think?”

Poppy weighed her options. Realizing she had a fifty-fifty chance, she decided it was worth the risk. “A well-won victory, I must say,” she ventured, resisting the urge to cross her fingers behind her back.

At first, Imelda remained stoic, giving away nothing. She was a stubborn mask of solemnity. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was a glorious turn of expression that warmed Poppy to her core.

“Not bad, for a Hufflepuff,” Imelda finally said.

“Hmm?” Poppy questioned, trying her best to play it cool.

“You were too distracted by Gerald, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her cheeks warmed, presumably flushing, which would inevitably betray her lie.

Imelda surprised Poppy yet again with a playful smirk. “Honestly, some people should be re-Sorted. And you were correct, by the way. We won. Good guess.”

Poppy let loose a shy smile. “You’re not cross with me?” she asked, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand.

“Maybe a little,” Imelda admitted. “But this was only the first match of many. I fully expect you to make it up to me.”

“Oh?”

“And now you can’t say no to my next suggestion.”

Poppy raised a brow. “Your next suggestion?”

“It’s about time you got your own broom.”

“A broom? But I have Highwing!”

“And that’s all well and good, but Highwing needs a rest every once in a while.”

Poppy glanced down at Gerald who had fallen asleep in the crook of her arm. “Let’s say I agree with you. What’s in it for me?” she teased.

Imelda grinned. Her brown eyes twinkled mischievously in the sunlight. “You. Me. In the air. Flying side by side.”

“Oh, I don’t know…I’m not much of a flier.”

“If you’re worried about technique, don’t be. I’ll make you better, don’t you worry.”

Poppy brought a hand to her chin in mock contemplation. She took a breath. “Alright, it’s a date. When do we start?”

Imelda swiftly pulled her broom out from behind her back and straddled it. She gestured for Poppy to join her. “We start now. I’ll take you to Spintwitches.”

Poppy chuckled. “Why’d I even ask?” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Gerald,” she said, shaking her arm gently. “Are you up for another adventure?” He opened one eye, made a movement with his head that seemed like an assent, and then snuggled back into her chest. She’d ensure she kept a firm hold on him in the air.

Giving Imelda a curt nod, she said, “Gerald says yes.”

“Oh good, if Gerald says so.”

“Hold on, not so fast.” Poppy strode purposefully forward. She didn’t give Imelda time to react before smacking a kiss on her perfect lips.

Once she stepped back, she reveled in Imelda’s wide-eyed stare. “What was that for?” Imelda asked.

“Does a girl need an excuse to kiss her ladylove?”

“Pfft, hardly,” Imelda replied, a fleeting hint of affection softening her features before her customary mask of seriousness settled back into place. “Now pop on, Hufflepuff. I’m not the patient sort.”

Poppy did as commanded, tamping down her sudden urge to snog the living daylights out of Imelda. There would be time for that later. Yes, later.

#zjsfjiwjdiejfisjsiw #god I love the gays #Imelda Reyes #poppy sweeting

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