CHAPTER THREE oliver wood and the quidditch hard-on
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
IN RETROSPECT, perhaps she could have handled the situation better. Perhaps she could have declined the way she always did, hitting him with the glacial wall of a hard no and hight-tailing out the classroom without a glance over her shoulder, like she'd wanted to. Perhaps it was unnecessary, cruel, even, the way she laughed in his face and launched barbed assault on the one thing he dedicated his life to, gearing even the most ancillary mechanism towards refining to perfection. Unlike Oliver, who held the magical sport so close to his heart it consumed his every thought and waking functionality, Quidditch sat in the remote vacuum of subliminal disconnection where Sawyer took to burying causes for concern and smoothed impenetrable layers of apathy over the entombed corpses. Attributable to this contingent detachability, Sawyer would never understand Oliver's perspective. Anathematising Quidditch—or what she granted the antiquated epithet 'bootleg basketball-slash-baseball'—tipped him over. One would've thought that she'd insulted his mother with the way her verbal prodding sent him flying into a scandalised outrage.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'IT'S JUST QUIDDITCH'?!" He'd exploded and Sawyer could imagine steam billowing out of his ears. As she mapped out all the ways she could have circumvented this volcanic tirade, her lips curved into a lackadaisical smile.
It's times like these she forgets she used to have a tiny crush on him when they were six. A fact she wished she could obliviate from her mind permanently. A fact she would never admit to his face, even if Jeremy and Rio were on fire and the only way to save them was to let this buried secret see the light of day after a whole decade of rotting away in the darkest corner of her mind.
Exasperation coloured his features in shades of red, each second passing turning him a darker shade of irritability. Oliver pinned Sawyer with a baleful glare that was equal parts disdain and bewilderment. Like she was more demented than he'd initially thought. Like the idea that a broom may actually come more handy when used as a cleaning tool rather than in a sport was an abomination in itself. There was a crazed mania in his eyes, electrified earthy pools darkening by the second, and the thought that she might have broken him crossed her mind for a fleeting second. Almost as though it weren't him who'd dragged her into the classroom out of nowhere.
"I'm saying," Sawyer said, offering a one-shouldered shrug, "all Seekers after Charlie Weasley are hopeless and Gryffindor could stand to lose another Quidditch season with or without my help."
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Lee, we'll flatten you even without a Seeker and both my arms chopped off—"
"Oh, I have no doubt about that. My team's a lost cause and I couldn't care less about them," Sawyer drawled, perching herself on a desk. A small smirk crept over her lips and Oliver's eyes darted down to her mouth briefly before snapping up to her eyes, a red flush creeping up his neck. She cocked her head. "Though, I'd love to see you without arms. May I?"
