hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2002-10-29 09:52 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2002-10-29 09:52 am
he's not *that* twisted.
i've been drabbling quite a bit recently, and i suspect i've forgotten how to write. i'll be working on that this week.
Deficient
“We meet again, Mr. Wood. Perhaps it would be more efficient if I simply followed you around school with ointment and bandages at the ready,” she says in a sardonic tone, and Oliver automatically smiles. Oliver’s lips rest on smiles and no one but him knows that they don’t mean pleasure, although in this case it’s more humourous than not. He never took Madam Pomfrey for the sarcastic type.
“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks,” he tells her when she eyes the bruise just below his cheekbone. She obviously doesn’t believe him as she tilts her head so far to the side that he thinks it might come off her neck, however, he is telling the truth so she won’t break him with her piercing glare. Oliver may not be the best in Arithmancy or Muggle Studies, but he knows his Quidditch and he knows his body. It’s really nothing. It’s only been about thirty minutes, but Oliver can tell that this bruise will amount to naught. It didn’t even ache when he smiled, which means that it won’t be coming up as nicely as he had hoped when he set out to get it.
He’d have done better to hit himself.
If Flint had taken the bait instead of letting Higgs do his dirty work, then Oliver wouldn’t be in this mess.
A second-rate punch will only get him a second-rate bruise.
The least Higgs could have done is wear rings or a watch or something to add a bit of texture to Oliver’s face, but no, that’s not Oliver’s luck. It's not as bad as it looks, and that’s why he’ll have to set about getting one to match it as soon as he leaves the hospital wing.
Oliver only came in because Professor McGonagall made noises about checking up on him later, and it wasn’t even a fight. It barely qualified on the tussle scale, and Oliver’s expended more energy arguing with the Weasleys about extended practices. Still, if Higgs was a little shorter he might’ve actually done some damage and then Oliver might’ve had mouth issues later on in the evening. Luckily, or not, Higgs has terrible aim and Oliver won’t miss out on the treacle pudding. Oliver loves treacle pudding, and Oliver loves his bruises.
Oliver thinks that Marcus hits better, harder; he has a better follow-through.
Oliver wanted Marcus to hit him.
“At this rate, there’ll be nothing left of you to send home for winter holidays,” the nurse says with an accusing tone in her voice. Oliver doesn’t reply; he knows better, and as Madam Pomfrey pushes back from her desk, her chair grates against the floor again, and the sound makes him wince. It always does that, and this is the second time this week that he’s been in the infirmary.
It’s only Tuesday.
He anticipates her question before she even asks it because it’s not as though Oliver hasn’t had this conversation before. “It honestly doesn’t hurt, Madam Pomfrey,” Oliver says with a conviction he doesn’t feel, but he’s found he can be very convincing when he wants to be. He’s had a lot of practice with his mum, but his mum hasn’t had a lot of practice with boys.
Oliver is the youngest of four and the only boy. To his thinking it explains a lot. Where other boys spent their time beating each other up and defeating the mighty dragon, Oliver was serving tea and doing his best to avoid playing dress up. He’s not been emasculated or anything, but he’s reckons he might be a bit confused about how to play with others. Oliver suspects that most kids don’t play quite as rough as he does, and he suspects that most kids don’t like playing as rough as he does.
Oliver likes it rough.
He likes his pain, and he likes it to hurt. Oliver knows it’s not quite normal, but he has yet to be seriously damaged, and it feels good. The endorphins feel really good, and he could always do worse. Yes, fighting makes him feel good. Yes, Quidditch makes him feel good, and the bruises he picks up from these activities are just reminders of how good they feel. There’s nothing wrong with a reminder, and Oliver thinks that things that cause pain and are slightly dangerous are brilliant. He still remembers the time he was eight and fell whilst climbing the great pine out back.
He suspects eight year-olds aren’t supposed to like twisted ankles and scraped hands, and his mum only knew there was a problem the first time because he walked a bit funny when she called him in for supper.
He fell on his ankle, not his head.
Oliver likes falling; he likes pain.
Perhaps it has to do with being the only boy or being the youngest. His mother always took such pride in his looks: in his flawless skin and bow of a mouth, in his perfectly charming manners. Oliver never wanted to be pretty and maybe he has a subconscious need to mar himself. All the little boys he ever interacted with were dirty and rugged and so boyish. They had dirt under their fingernails and scratches on their arms and knees. Oliver never got to be like them, but now he thinks he is. Now he doesn’t feel as deficient. Now when he goes home his jumpers are clean and his hair is neat and he’s got bruises down his back and on his knees.
Madam Pomfrey hasn’t seen those.
“I don’t know how you children can treat each other this way,” she says with a sigh. Oliver just stands still and lets her push and prod and cluck and do all those nurse things. Every now and then she mutters something about “intolerable behaviour” that he chooses to ignore. He also allows her to apply the ointment to his face instead of making an excuse about doing it himself. He might as well placate her as he’s sure to see her again relatively soon, and if nothing else the ointment will be good at creating a new slate for Marcus to work with. The bruises on Oliver’s hips are turning green already and the teeth marks on his inner thigh are slightly purplish - it’s time for something new.
As he gathers his books to leave and gives her the obligatory responses by rote, he can see she’s not fooled. His good-bye smile, however, is genuine and as he tosses the chocolate she gave him out a convenient open window, he catches sight of his again flawless complexion. Normally, he would sigh with the injustice of it all, but the Gryffindors have Double Potions this afternoon with the Slytherins. He’ll have another shot then. Marcus can’t avoid him forever, and even he knows there’s nothing as beautiful on Oliver as a fresh bruise.
Deficient
“We meet again, Mr. Wood. Perhaps it would be more efficient if I simply followed you around school with ointment and bandages at the ready,” she says in a sardonic tone, and Oliver automatically smiles. Oliver’s lips rest on smiles and no one but him knows that they don’t mean pleasure, although in this case it’s more humourous than not. He never took Madam Pomfrey for the sarcastic type.
“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks,” he tells her when she eyes the bruise just below his cheekbone. She obviously doesn’t believe him as she tilts her head so far to the side that he thinks it might come off her neck, however, he is telling the truth so she won’t break him with her piercing glare. Oliver may not be the best in Arithmancy or Muggle Studies, but he knows his Quidditch and he knows his body. It’s really nothing. It’s only been about thirty minutes, but Oliver can tell that this bruise will amount to naught. It didn’t even ache when he smiled, which means that it won’t be coming up as nicely as he had hoped when he set out to get it.
He’d have done better to hit himself.
If Flint had taken the bait instead of letting Higgs do his dirty work, then Oliver wouldn’t be in this mess.
A second-rate punch will only get him a second-rate bruise.
The least Higgs could have done is wear rings or a watch or something to add a bit of texture to Oliver’s face, but no, that’s not Oliver’s luck. It's not as bad as it looks, and that’s why he’ll have to set about getting one to match it as soon as he leaves the hospital wing.
Oliver only came in because Professor McGonagall made noises about checking up on him later, and it wasn’t even a fight. It barely qualified on the tussle scale, and Oliver’s expended more energy arguing with the Weasleys about extended practices. Still, if Higgs was a little shorter he might’ve actually done some damage and then Oliver might’ve had mouth issues later on in the evening. Luckily, or not, Higgs has terrible aim and Oliver won’t miss out on the treacle pudding. Oliver loves treacle pudding, and Oliver loves his bruises.
Oliver thinks that Marcus hits better, harder; he has a better follow-through.
Oliver wanted Marcus to hit him.
“At this rate, there’ll be nothing left of you to send home for winter holidays,” the nurse says with an accusing tone in her voice. Oliver doesn’t reply; he knows better, and as Madam Pomfrey pushes back from her desk, her chair grates against the floor again, and the sound makes him wince. It always does that, and this is the second time this week that he’s been in the infirmary.
It’s only Tuesday.
He anticipates her question before she even asks it because it’s not as though Oliver hasn’t had this conversation before. “It honestly doesn’t hurt, Madam Pomfrey,” Oliver says with a conviction he doesn’t feel, but he’s found he can be very convincing when he wants to be. He’s had a lot of practice with his mum, but his mum hasn’t had a lot of practice with boys.
Oliver is the youngest of four and the only boy. To his thinking it explains a lot. Where other boys spent their time beating each other up and defeating the mighty dragon, Oliver was serving tea and doing his best to avoid playing dress up. He’s not been emasculated or anything, but he’s reckons he might be a bit confused about how to play with others. Oliver suspects that most kids don’t play quite as rough as he does, and he suspects that most kids don’t like playing as rough as he does.
Oliver likes it rough.
He likes his pain, and he likes it to hurt. Oliver knows it’s not quite normal, but he has yet to be seriously damaged, and it feels good. The endorphins feel really good, and he could always do worse. Yes, fighting makes him feel good. Yes, Quidditch makes him feel good, and the bruises he picks up from these activities are just reminders of how good they feel. There’s nothing wrong with a reminder, and Oliver thinks that things that cause pain and are slightly dangerous are brilliant. He still remembers the time he was eight and fell whilst climbing the great pine out back.
He suspects eight year-olds aren’t supposed to like twisted ankles and scraped hands, and his mum only knew there was a problem the first time because he walked a bit funny when she called him in for supper.
He fell on his ankle, not his head.
Oliver likes falling; he likes pain.
Perhaps it has to do with being the only boy or being the youngest. His mother always took such pride in his looks: in his flawless skin and bow of a mouth, in his perfectly charming manners. Oliver never wanted to be pretty and maybe he has a subconscious need to mar himself. All the little boys he ever interacted with were dirty and rugged and so boyish. They had dirt under their fingernails and scratches on their arms and knees. Oliver never got to be like them, but now he thinks he is. Now he doesn’t feel as deficient. Now when he goes home his jumpers are clean and his hair is neat and he’s got bruises down his back and on his knees.
Madam Pomfrey hasn’t seen those.
“I don’t know how you children can treat each other this way,” she says with a sigh. Oliver just stands still and lets her push and prod and cluck and do all those nurse things. Every now and then she mutters something about “intolerable behaviour” that he chooses to ignore. He also allows her to apply the ointment to his face instead of making an excuse about doing it himself. He might as well placate her as he’s sure to see her again relatively soon, and if nothing else the ointment will be good at creating a new slate for Marcus to work with. The bruises on Oliver’s hips are turning green already and the teeth marks on his inner thigh are slightly purplish - it’s time for something new.
As he gathers his books to leave and gives her the obligatory responses by rote, he can see she’s not fooled. His good-bye smile, however, is genuine and as he tosses the chocolate she gave him out a convenient open window, he catches sight of his again flawless complexion. Normally, he would sigh with the injustice of it all, but the Gryffindors have Double Potions this afternoon with the Slytherins. He’ll have another shot then. Marcus can’t avoid him forever, and even he knows there’s nothing as beautiful on Oliver as a fresh bruise.
no subject
thought not.
interesting. what a needy little fellow. and one that may fall into a bad spot of trouble.
nicely done.
scy- who is trying to repress that damned lucius/snape bunny that has about three pages to its name. unless someone wants to see it?
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Re:
no subject
Oliver!!
You rock, Z.
(no subject)
no subject
Very well done. I can see it all so perfectly.
Now when he goes home his jumpers are clean and his hair is neat and he’s got bruises down his back and on his knees.
Oh, gah. That's just lovely.
...the teeth marks on his inner thigh are slightly purplish - it’s time for something new.
You're trying to kill me, aren't you? Admit it. Go on.
(no subject)