Whatever shreds of a good mood he'd managed to gain hold of over the weekend faded quickly come Monday morning, as he walked into a department in absolute chaos over a mistake some intern had made over the weekend. Suddenly, Sylar was seen as having seniority - the first time since the takeover of the Ministry he hadn't reveled in it. Sometimes, he thought it might have been better before the Death Eaters had come to power. Sure, he had more freedom now to indulge his less than savory urges, but he seemed to be spending less and less time in the field actually working a case. And then, after he finally left work, there was always the possibility that he'd have to deal with Cassandra and his own apparent shortcomings as a fiancé. He couldn't catch a break. 

It was this combination that had him stopping off at the bar after work, meeting the few people whose company he actually enjoyed and coming home late enough to stave off most arguments should the need arise. His liver surely wasn't thanking him, but it was the least of his concerns at the moment. He'd left late that evening, and Diagon Alley was darkening already by the time he apparated in. Sylar turned the collar of his coat up against the blossoming chill as the sun set, quickening his steps in an attempt to get to the Leaky that much faster. But his life didn’t ever seem to be that easy, anymore, and as someone stepped into his path he all but howled in frustration, his glare darkening exponentially when he brought his gaze up and realized it was Daisy. He wasn’t in a good enough move to even toy with her today. “Move.” He snapped.

@dxisy-hxxkum​

cassandragreengrass​:

Cassandra did not take this engagement lightly as she knew exactly what it meant for her. She would never have the chance of finding real love or the acceptance she so greatly craved. She was resigning to a marriage with Sylar and the lie and cover that this marriage was. He was gay and he needed a respectable marriage in their society, and she needed independence and money away from her own family who was ready to drop her. Yet, when she agree to Sylar’s proposal, she made sure to make it very clear that she expected respect, independence and freedom, money, and to not be humiliated. 

Yet, he had humiliated her today. Cassandra remembered the looks the chef gave her as she went over the plan for the menu for their wedding reception. Of course the cook had expected both of the happy couple to show up - and Sylar was supposed to be there. But he showed her up and Cassandra acted as if she had known. Though, she still remembered the pitying looks with a fury. After the meeting she stormed into his house, past the stuttering house elf and instructed that she was to wait for the master of the house. She took up residence in the grand room, sipping a fine whisky by the fire as she boiled in anger. When Sylar finally did arrive, Cassandra glared at him. “When I agreed, I said you were never to humiliate me.” She reminded him of one of her terms. “And yet today, you deemed it appropriate to stand me up with the cook so the bloody woman could look at me with pity in her gaze as the wife already isolated from her husband.” 

Sylar physically bit the inside of his cheek as she began, not in the mood for yet another altercation at the end of his day, although it seemed inevitable. Honestly, did she think he wanted her to look bad? She would be carrying his name soon enough, would she not? It wasn't just her getting the short end of the stick here, after all. But how in the bloody hell was he supposed to make anything better if she kept beating around the bush before finally just coming out with it? He poured himself a drink, not offering to make one for her, but leaving the bottle out should she decide she wanted any. 

"Ah, " He sighed. "The menu." He had been forgetting something. There was no use denying her words, as they were true. He had stood her up, but whatever she seemed to believe it hadn't been on purpose. He would have rather suffered through that than this, but what was done was done. "Well maybe next time you can tell her that your husband," He found himself scowling at just the word. "Has to work if you want to keep the lifestyle you were promised." Sylar moved to sit in his favorite wingbacked chair, taking a long pull from his drink before bending to unlace his boots. "I'm afraid the Ministry didn't care that I had a prior engagement to taste twelve different types of chicken." 

cassandragreengrass​:

Cassandra hated this game. She loathed how she was expected to marry and to ‘make a good match’ for herself. It was ridiculous that all she was good for in life was to make a good match and to marry well. She was expected to be a pretty little silent wife and to push out babies. That was all she was good for. Of course she rebelled against this image and this expectation of her. Cassandra was extremely attractive, and though she was extremely vain it was often a thought validated by others. Cassandra knew she was extremely beautiful and while she often did preen before others and was proud of her beauty, however it made it so that she probably received a few more marriage proposals because of this. It was always such a laughable thing to her that she was proposed to by almost strangers. Of course she would turn them down or fight enough so that the others took away their proposals. They did not know her! They did not respect her and if she truly was to get married, she wanted to at least have some foundation of respect - even if she truly hoped for love.

When she got the invitation from Sylar Flint for dinner, Cassandra assumed this would be another insulting proposal. He was almost a stranger to her. Of course she remembered him at a distant from school and from social engagements, but they had barely spoken. However, she was going to decline his invitation or stand him up since he was just the same as the rest. Yet, his invitation gave her a teasing tidbit. He wanted to offer her something no one else had. Though she suspected that it was a proposal, his invitation sounded more like business offer. It was that curiosity that had her striding into the restaurant with her head held high. The latest gown from Paris draped across her stunning body  and she felt eyes on her as she approached Sylar. He held out her chair for her and she sat down and picked up her napkin. “It depends on what bottle you ordered.”

Sylar watched her appraisingly, although didn't give her an answer. He'd ordered what he liked - and he had exceptional taste as far as he was concerned, so if she didn't like it when it came, she could order what she wanted. It made no difference to him. "I'm sure you know why I've asked you here." He started brusquely, linking his hands together before him as he chose his words much more carefully than he might otherwise. After all, he hadn't been completely certain she would even show up - and he tried to silence the part of him that was disappointed that she had. "I figured we might as well get straight to the point." He went on, his eyes never straying from hers as he spoke. "That way, we're not wasting my time or yours."

 After all, a woman of Cassandra's status surely had her pick of things to do. He wouldn't be surprised in the slighted if meeting him wasn't particularly high on the list. And he, himself, surely didn't want to sit through a whole meal that amounted to nothing by the end of it. "I want to request your hand in marriage." He said bluntly, none of the emotion in his voice that usually came with such a proposal. "I can't offer you what you want." Straight shooter, as always, but he wasn't going to bullshit her. If they were going to do this, they would both go in with eyes wide open, they would both know everything. She deserved that much, at least. "But I can offer you what you need, and a certain degree of freedom to go pursue the rest." If she was as smart as people praised her for, he hoped she might see the benefit of such an arrangement. "If you're willing to give me the benefit of a discussion, I hear the lobster here is excellent." With that, he leaned back in his seat, waiting for her response. 

gregorygoyle-sr​:

Gregory perked up slightly as a familiar voice broken the silence of the bar. He set his glass down on the wooden bar top before glancing towards the man who called him by his prefer named. Although Gregory was his given name, he never felt it really fit him. Gregory. Blah! Boring. Goyle was a name people would fear, right? He tapped the bar just as Sylar had as they both waited impatiently. Gregory for his free drink. The man licked his bottom lip, drinking the last sip of the firewhiskey before using the back of his hand to wipe whatever fell onto his chin.

“Flint,” he said while clearing his throat. Gregory never got the chance to get to know Sylar back at Hogwarts. Goyle normally was set with his small group of friends and followers (meaning the people he bullied). Although a year older, it wasn’t until after Hogwarts did they get more acquainted. The corner of his lips turned up into a smirk. Grim Reaper. He liked that. He even straighten up his back a bit before speaking.

“What’s a man if not a grim reaper, eh?” Gregory shrugged his broad shoulders, giving Sylar a bit of a goofy grin. “And what’s not a grim reaper, if not but a man?” He slammed his glass on the table once more, tapping it against the wood. “I am but a man, who enjoys his job. Do you think the grim reaper could say the same?” Now, in Gregory’s head, that sounded really cool, but he was sure it sounded like some kind of sloshy nonsense. Gregory shrugged his shoulders revealing his palms up to Sylar. “I guess i am the Grim Reaper,” he said half-jokingly. 

Fighting a sigh, he sat fully on the stool before angling himself to face Gregory more directly, dropping his chin into his hand, elbow resting against the bar. What the hell was he on about? But as he kept talking, he furrowed his brow, contemplating his words. He posed an interesting enough question, he supposed. "Well, then you've answered your own question." He pointed out, arching an eyebrow and pulling himself lazily off the bar top as he saw the bartender approaching with their round of drinks. "Sounds like the Grim Reaper does, indeed, enjoy his job." 

He gave the man behind the bar a pointed glare until he left them again, before taking a healthy swig of his drink. With a sigh, he sat back, once again turning his attention toward the man beside him. "Work's been good then, I take it?" Sylar asked, although he didn't particularly care, but still, inane chatter had its place. He knew work in his own department had begun to pick up lately, but he had been paying very little attention to much of anything else. 

oliver-adams​:

Oliver couldn’t help but to snort at his comment. A French maid outfit - perhaps he would pick one up just for fun if he happened to think of it. Although his back was turned to him, he could feel Sylar’s eyes on him, almost as though his gaze was burning into him. It brought a smile to his lips, his shoulders shrugging slightly at his comment. "Well, I usually keep the good stuff for myself and give the cheap shit to my guests. I’d make an exception for you, but it seems I only have cheap shit left.” He laughed softly as he moved some items around in search for some beer. He found a couple of bottles shoved in the back of the fridge and he pulled them out, popping the tops of them off the counter before heading back into the living room.

Oliver smirked to himself as he returned to find Sylar sitting on the couch without his shirt on and handed over one of the beers to him. “You know, I’d pay good money for someone with a body like yours to just sit statuesque on my couch like that all the time.” He snickered, lifting the bottle to his lips, keeping his eyes on Sylar while he drank. Rolling his eyes when he felt the tugging on his shirt, he shot him a slightly annoyed glance. “What?” Oliver questioned, cocking an eyebrow, “Are you done stringing me along?”

"I'm honored." Sylar drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. It didn't matter too much - Merlin knew he'd had his fair share of cheap booze in his lifetime. He huffed slightly, but let his comment (compliment?) go by without a word. After all, if he made mention of every ridiculous thing to come out of Oliver's mouth, he'd never have time for anything else. And the anything else was what he was really interested in, after all. 

"Stringing you along?" He scoffed, shaking his head slightly, tugging more insistently until he was able to pull him down to his level - not quite in his lap, but close enough. Ridiculous. As if Oliver didn't know exactly what he was getting into every time the two men found themselves in such a position. Rolling his eyes, he let his hand wander away from the hem of his shirt and up the bare chest in front of him. "Don't be stupid, Adams." Sylar purred, smirking at the other man's annoyance, before stretching himself upward until he was close enough to kiss him again. "Is this what you brought me here for or not?" He challenged, digging what little nails he had into his shoulder. 

Sylar had the distinct impression that he'd been forgetting something all day - but to his credit, it had been an exceptionally busy day within the department. There had been a mixup somewhere down the line, and one of their number had been sent after the wrong target - but by the time Sylar had been dispatched to stop him, he had done a considerable (and downright impressive) amount of damage, which had left him playing cleanup for the rest of the day while his coworker got to handle the hefty amount of paperwork that came with such a mistake. A busy day, and not a very good one, either.

He sighed as he entered the Flint Estate, shrugging out of his work robes and banishing them to the laundry, thoughts on a single malt scotch he'd been hiding from his guests. But as he turned, he found his fiancé in the sitting room, seemingly waiting for him, which couldn't possibly mean anything good for himself. Things were never particularly good between the two, but ever since his disappearing act at the festival, they'd gotten noticeably frostier. "Cassandra." He greeted, voice carefully neutral as he passed her, rolling his sleeves up as he tried to make it to the bar cart without incident, although he had a sneaking suspicion that he was about to be reminded of whatever it was that he had forgotten. 

@cassandragreengrass​

Flashback

It was a calculated risk - meeting her for dinner. This dinner, to be precise. Sylar wasn't a man prone to laying his cards on the table, but he didn't see many other options. And he'd been smart enough to pay attention to the many other options Cassandra had had that she'd turned down. Every move he'd made this far had been calculated, but he was still nervous - an emotion he had grown unfamiliar with. He had no choice but to trust her with some of his most personal information and while obliviating her was certainly always an option if the meeting went south, he would prefer to avoid it. He didn't know Cassandra well, but from what he'd seen she was proud and resilient, and would be expected to make a good match. A match like Sylar, as far as most people knew. 

The bell above the door jingled in an annoyingly cheerful manner and he stood as she wound her way to their table, moving to pull her chair out for her. He may not display them often, but his parents had taught him manners, after all. "Thank you for meeting me." Sylar sat back down, unsmiling. After all, he didn't want to give her any false illusions, as he figured she would not particularly like what he had to say. But he wasn’t betting on whether she would like it or not - he was betting on offering her something the others hadn’t, in a way. It wasn't like he was one to beat around the bush, regardless. "I've ordered a bottle of red, I hope that's okay." 

@cassandragreengrass​

7 22 36 47 58 75 & 90

7.  Do you have any pets?

Just my owl.

22.  Have you ever got in trouble with the law?

You do realize I am the law, don’t you? Plus, I don’t get caught. 

36.  Favorite clean word?

“No.”

47.  What is your most expensive piece of clothing?

A custom tailored set of Venetian silk robes - quite extravagant, I’ll admit. But comfortable.

58.  Do you have much of an ego?

Is it a big ego if you’re as good as you think? I suppose most people would say yes, although I’d have to disagree.

75.  Have you ever started a rumor?

A rumor? Try about a hundred.

90.  What makes you angry?

Oh, I dunno - endless stupid questions?

ANASTASIA 1997 | dir. Don Bluth & Gary Goldman

oliver-adams​:

Oliver smirked, biting his bottom lip as he watched Sylar unbutton his top. It was such a simple thing but there was just something about it that he found incredibly alluring. Although he pouted slightly when he didn’t pull it off his body, Oliver always had a thing for nice arms and it was rather disappointing that he was being teased. Sylar wouldn’t be able to hold out forever, though, so he would simply have to wait.

Rolling his eyes, he huffed softly, but a grin returned to his lips. "Merlin, I didn’t realized you wanted me to go full hostess.” He laughed softly, pushing himself off the couch while shaking his head. It wouldn’t have been so much of a bother if he wasn’t so terribly impatient. “I suppose I can find you something to drink, though I do believe I’ve already drank all of the good stuff.” Oliver mumbled as he wandered towards the kitchen, sliding out of his own jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair as he passed by. He hummed softly as he opened his fridge, taking in its contents, and began unbuttoning his own shirt to kill two birds with one stone. “What would you like, Flint?” He questioned, “I’ve got a shit load of whiskey, some wine and… There’s a few bottles of beer hiding somewhere I’m sure.”

"I'm really just hoping you'll come back in one of those French Maid outfits." He drawled lazily as Oliver trotted off, smirking as he watched him. His eyes trailed over his body as he moved - there really was something to be said about Quidditch players. He rolled his eyes even though the other man wasn't there to see it. Honestly, he was surprised he had the patience to see him as often as he did. "I'll never understand why you even buy anything but the good stuff." Sylar, himself, only kept top shelf at his home, but to each their own, he supposed. Alcohol was alcohol, and currently, it would all do the trick. "Beer," He called. "If you can find it." 

Leaning forward, he shrugged out of his shirt, taking his time to fold it carefully, smoothing the top before he placed it on the side table. It was one thing to disappear and have his fiancé assume (correctly) she knew where he'd gone - it was another to come home with a wrinkled shirt and flaunt it. He leaned back once more, pulling one ankle up to rest on his knee as Oliver came back into the room, in a similar state of undress. Sylar nodded his thanks as he took the drink from him, taking a rather large swig from it as he had a feeling it would be sitting, forgotten, in just a few moments. Even as he drank, he reached his free hand out to snag the bottom of Oliver's shirt, tugging. 

i may seem like an angry person on the surface but deep inside im actually angrier

oliver-adams​:

Oliver groaned softly as Sylar pushed him away, glaring at him for a moment. It was his own fault, he never should have said he didn’t like to take things slow. He had to admit, he liked being teased, but he wouldn’t be able to entertain it for too long. "Honestly? Most of ‘em, yeah.” He chuckled, any hint of a glare on his face disappearing as he watched Sylar walk deeper into the house. Reaching behind him, Oliver locked his door before taking a couple steps towards him, biting his bottom lip lightly, watching as his jacket fell to the floor.

Nodding his head with a soft chuckle, he shrugged his shoulders. “I keep it a little extra warm in here on purpose.” Oliver said, reaching into his jacket for his flask, “Makes people want to take their clothes off. It seems to be working.” He smirked, falling into his couch as he took a sip from his flask. He could be patient for now, as long as Sylar continued taking his clothes off, Oliver would be willing to wait as long as needed to. “Keep going, take more off. Gimme a show.”

"How charming." Sylar drawled, rolling his eyes. It wasn't like he didn't know he was one of many, and it's not that he minded in the slightest - but he was jealous. Not that Oliver entertained Merlin only knew how many other men, but that he could. He smirked as he heard the click of the lock - he knew he should do the deed and get home, but what difference did it make now, really? The only thing waiting for him was an empty bed and an angry fiancé. He toed off his shoes, kicking them to the side to join his discarded jacket. 

He made his way into the living room, his hands reaching up to slowly, slowly undo the buttons at the neck of his shirt. He sat on the couch, only three deep when Oliver joined him, and he frowned slightly at his words. His hands stilled as he debated - give him what he wanted (what they both wanted) or stop altogether just to spite him? But even Sylar's pettiness had its limits and though he glared, his hands resumed their work after a moment. "Shut up, Adams." He grumbled, finishing off the buttons and leaning back into the cushions to get more comfortable, his shirt falling open as he did so. He certainly wasn't about to do all the work. "Is there nothing to drink in this damn house?" 

I've done nothing wrong. Except for all the atrocities. Besides that I'm innocent

oliver-adams​:

Oliver couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his lips at Sylar’s glare. On one hand, he expected him to say no to leaving, he did have people waiting for him, after all. But on the other, Oliver knew he absolutely wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. He was sure that Sylar didn’t get many chances to let his walls down and explore this side of himself, the real side of him, and he figured he would pounce on the opportunity. Raising an eyebrow, he smirked, it was all the permission he needed to get them out of there. “Slow has never been my style,” Oliver teased, holding on to him tighter as he apparated the two of them out of the forest to just outside of his house.

Without another word, he gripped the front of Sylar’s jacket and dragged him along behind him into the house. They were hardly in the door before he had Sylar pinned against it, pressing their lips together roughly. “This is much better, isn’t it?” Oliver mumbled against his lips, a smile quickly spreading on his own. His hands found the buttons on the front of his jacket and he fumbled with unbuttoning them. The quicker he could get Sylar out of it, the better.

"Don't I know it." Sylar murmured, and then in quick succession he found himself whisked away. No sooner had his feet hit the ground than he was being tugged rather gruffly into the house, and he smirked. Now that they had no chance of being interrupted, he could have a little fun. He let the other man have his way for a moment - after all, it was hardly unenjoyable. His hand wound its way up Oliver's chest, laying flat against him for just a moment before he pushed him away, rather gently. "Is that how you welcome all your guests into your home?" 

Sidestepping him, he moved a few feet further inside, although in all honesty, Sylar couldn't possibly care less about anything he was looking at at that moment, but still. He had a rather annoying habit of pushing both buttons and boundaries. He shrugged out of his jacket lazily, taking his time as he took it off before turning back to the man. He raised a single eyebrow, before dropping it to the floor with a smirk. Slow has never been my style. He really shouldn't have said that, but even Sylar knew he himself wouldn't be able to resist for too long, either. "Bit warm, though." 

gregorygoyle-sr​:

• who: open. • where: hog’s head in. • when: feb. 1978; winter; evening.

What a terribly long day it had been. The rugged man sat hunched over at the bar, his cold grey eyes staring at the bar floor, the wet soggy mat and the curl of cloudy colored mold that grew in the drain right next to it occupying his mind. He watched as water from the sink dripped down into it eventually turning his gaze and quickly knocking his neck back as he inhaled the shot glass in front of him of firewhiskey. (That’s 3 killin’s more than yesterday, he thought to himself.) As much as he enjoyed his job as an Magical Creature Executioner, it was tiring. His shoulders ached and his arms felt heavy from carrying around his scythe all day, up and down hills, through hedges, trees, and whatever witches and wizards kept in their gardens. He also wasn’t the person most people were too keen to see. His face was almost always covered, he wore a jet black hood that only allowed his slate colored eyes to be seen. The man was normally quiet in his everyday life, but he was abnormally quiet on his job. He felt it was his own way of maining his professionalism. Very professional was Gregory Goyle, the grunty lad as he is known as in office. He had much rather prefer to do his job on site although it wasn’t uncommon when people had to bring their creature into the Ministry. It could be that the Ministry had picked them up, could have been because they attacked someone and had nowhere else to go. At least the field trip ones he got to wander out and was also given more time the next day to finish his paperwork. 

The Hog’s Head Inn was the only place where he felt the most comfortable. It was a lonely hole of a pub with not a lot of witches or wizards. He spent most of his time alone anyway. Unless there was some sort of meeting with the group he was involved. He never let on that he was a Death Eater, but he was pretty sure it was written all over his face. No one could really prove it though. He followed the law. In his own way. Didn’t bother anyone. Unless necessary. And if you left him alone, Goyle would most likely do that same. That is, if you didn’t have a bounty on your head. 

Feeling pretty good, yet exhausted, Goyle almost wished he had someone to talk to. Normally on nights as such, he would have a few drinks and wander home to his dirty old studio flat. His reflection in the broken bathroom mirror would be that only thing to talk to and most of the time, the mirror never said say nice things. He heaved a sigh, tapped his index finger to his glass for the bartender to give him another. His glass filling up on it’s own at the man behind the bar’s request. Gregory tossing it back again, slamming the glass on the glossy bar. 

“Oi, ‘nother one, ye?” He grunted in a low mumble.

His little stunt with Daisy at the Leaky had left him in a rather good mood, even if he was bored. He hadn’t heard anything, but he didn’t need to - knowing he had caused her insurmountable pain was satisfaction enough for him, he didn’t need to see just how spectacular the resulting fireworks had been. Still, he wasn’t sure what to do with his night, as all his usual.... activities hadn’t answered his owls. So he’d wandered to the Hog’s Head to people watch, and perhaps get up to a little more mischief if the right opportunity came along. Although as he watched the man at the bar from his shadowed booth, he figured he could settle for nothing more than a little late night chat.

“This round’s on me.” Sylar murmured smoothly as he ambled his way to the bar, taking the stool next to the man presumptuously, although he was more standing than sitting, if anything. Leaning an elbow on the wooden bar top, he leaned his chin on his hand, eyes taking in Gregory appraisingly. “Goyle.” He greeted finally, before sighing slightly, tapping the fingers of his free hand impatiently as he waited for his drink. They had only been a year apart, and in different houses when they’d been in school, but certain events after graduation had thrown them together on occasion. Namely a certain shared tattoo, although that was neither here nor there on Sylar’s end. Still, a little company wouldn’t go amiss, and it was certainly a better option than anyone else at the Hog’s Head tonight. 

“I almost didn’t recognize you as a man. I’ve grown quite accustomed to the grim reaper.” He drawled, although even Sylar had to admit, he respected the work. He certainly would never do it, but it was honest work, all the same. 

oliver-adams​:

The best part about hooking up with Sylar was that virtually nothing was off limits. It was always rough and aggressive, which, honestly, was part of the reason Oliver continued coming back for more. Sylar needed a way to release his pent up frustration and Oliver was more than happy to provide whatever he needed. With a face like his, it was difficult to say no to anything. Allowing himself to be guided backwards, he snickered slightly once his back was against the tree. It was rather exciting when Sylar took control.

Releasing the front of his jacket from his grasp, Oliver’s hands trailed down his torso. It was a damn shame it was so cold out, otherwise he would have pushed his jacket off by now. It gave him an idea as his icy fingers slipped under his layers, gripping at the top of Sylar’s pants and pulling their hips closer together with a grunt. “So are we going to do this right here, out in the cold? Or did you want to go back to my place?” He offered, figuring now would be the last opportunity he would have to ask before things got too far. Oliver was no stranger to hooking up in public spaces, but he had to admit, it wouldn’t be quite as fun if he didn’t get to see all of Sylar.

Sylar bit Oliver’s bottom lip as he laughed, slightly annoyed, although not as hard as he normally might. They were just getting started, after all, weren't they? And whether it was appropriate or not, he wasn't one to pick up the pace at the cost of pleasure. And regardless, as far as he was concerned, he'd put in his time tonight. He wouldn't be missed if he didn't come back to the festival at all. His breath hitched at the cold, dragging air in over his teeth sharply as Oliver's icy fingers met his formerly warm skin briefly. 

He knew he shouldn't - he knew he should stop here, and leave it at a rather crude make out session in the middle of these damned woods. But he also knew he wouldn't. "I don't give a fuck, Adams." He growled, pulling away from him roughly to give himself enough room to speak clearly, and pierce him with a glare while he was at it. It wasn't like Sylar's life usually lended itself to his preferences, and Oliver knew as much. "If you're going to do something, do it fast." He grunted, grinding his hips into Oliver's, but otherwise staying still as he waited to see whether he was about to be whisked away or not. After all, he didn't want to risk splinching any…. particular parts of his anatomy in his own haste.