RP: Well-Honed Reflexes Who: Oliver and Genevieve When: Thursday, May 11 Where: Outdoors photo shoot What: Testing boundaries and a bit of flirting Warnings: None
A lot of people she had worked with over the years hated photo shoots, but Gen had always loved them. It helped, she supposed, that she enjoyed the attention and chose to view all the outrageous outfits and make up as something of a game rather than a ridiculous waste of time. But as much fun as she thought it was, she also recognized that it was work, and it worked toward keeping her in the public eye and talked about, which paired with her stellar record as a Chaser? It kept her a desired and valuable asset.
Today's photo shoot was outdoors and had her in a flimsy, see-through shift of a dress, though she was at least wearing a cream colored bikini beneath it. The combination gave the impression of indecency without sacrificing dignity. And, frankly, she put a lot of work in maintaining her body and had no shame in showing it off.
Once the photographer seemed satisfied with this set, he sent her off to change, and she headed toward the tent set up. There were several other players from various teams about, and she smiled and greeted them as she went. Rivalry on the pitch didn't have to translate to animosity off the pitch, in her opinion.
This had to have been Oliver's third - no, fourth - photo session this week. Or was it his fifth? Either way the days were being to blend together in one whirlwind moving entirely too fast for his liking. Between the interviews and the photos he had very little time for practice with the team (something Puddlemere assured him was in the very capable hands of their head trainer).
Today's photoshoot took place outdoors and Oliver found himself oiled by a blushing intern, rubbed with what looked like dirt in various spots on his clothes, skin and hair and given several Quidditch props to 'do as he liked'. Initially he'd picked up a quaffle but set it down for a beater's bat. It had been a long time since he's properly swung one. This bat, while claiming to be industry standard, felt overly light in his hands. A frown appeared at the corner of Oliver's lips; he'd never allow his beaters to use this bat. A quick swing here and there, and another, followed by one more, only to pause half way through the wind up as Genevieve nearly walked into the line of fire.
"Och, hen!" The Scottish accent slipped through with Oliver's surprise. "Sorry, didn't see you." Good thing no one else had really noticed the near accident.
The accent pierced Gen's awareness before the person it came from, and she couldn't help the immediate warm response. She'd always been a sucker for a Scottish accent. And then she realized it was Oliver Wood, and she smiled at him, letting out a soft laugh. "Never fear, my reflexes are well-honed," she told him with a cheeky little grin. "I would have ducked."
And then she took in his appearance and couldn't help laughing briefly again. "You got the oiled up treatment today, I see." Though she wasn't complaining. He clearly worked hard to maintain his physique, and shouldn't that be admired as well? She wasn't short for a woman, but even she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes, though she didn't view that as a hardship, either.
"You're going to need those reflexes this weekend." Oliver beamed kindly down to the lithe chaser as the practiced London dialect slowly colored his voice once more. "I know my Beaters are very excited to chuck a few your way."
A slight flush crept along his cheeks as the free hand slicked down the glistening arm catching the light and accentuating every muscle and vein. "Ah, heh, yeah. I guess they wanted to keep with the outdoors theme." He looked over her dress, noting just how incredibly fit Gen looked. She truly was a testament to female athletic abilities. Of course Romilda was in fantastic shape, but Genevieve was on a different level. "I'm glad they didn't ruin your dress.. It looks nice." Mentally, Oliver kicked himself. Of all the things to say, he came up with nice?
Her smile morphed into something of a mischievous smirk. "Oh, they'll be there, don't you worry. I'll make sure you have to work extra hard. Don't you know, your hoops are my favorite to score in," she quipped cheekily. Though she reminded herself a moment later that he did have a girlfriend and she probably shouldn't toe the line of flirtation. Not to mention the fact that they'd be facing each other in the finals this coming weekend. She did wrinkle her nose at the mention of his beaters. "I'm sure they are, but my ribs took a recent beating, so I'll thank them kindly to miss," she pointed out, sounding amused. It was true though that she didn't want to repeat the broken ribs and missing part of a game, especially one as important as this one.
Gen caught the tinge of color in his cheeks and had to bite her bottom lip to keep from commenting on it. "It's a good theme," she commented, going for an air of casual, though she happened to believe it. Quidditch and outdoors rather went hand in hand. At the compliment, she glanced down at her dress and then back up at him with a quirked brow. "I'm glad you think so. I have to wonder what they've got for me next!" Because it really couldn't get more risque than this and still be published for the general public.
Oliver smirked, running a hand through his hair and instantly regretting it: whatever that hairdresser had put in it to make the blond strands all shiny and wet looking rubbed off on his hand. With a sigh and momentary look of frustration, the offending product was wiped off on the hem of the smoke grey t-shirt (also ripped in one or two spots). "Yeah?" Another grin. Merlin, Genevieve could be so incredibly cheeky. Perhaps it was the French in her. "I think I like blocking your attempts the most." He let the fox like grin linger for just a moment longer than normal, then looked away.
Outside a player from Portree, a Beater, swung gracefully by his powerful legs bound in silk ribbons strung up this way and that from a thick tree branch. Oliver had never worked with this photographer before, though had heard many things about the eccentric French artist.
"Yeah," he agreed, watching as the light played off the dusted silver flakes painted on the Beater's face. "It is a good theme. You've worked with her before?"
Genevieve couldn't help laughing at his clear frustration at getting the hair goop on his hand. "Don't you know the rules? No touching your hair once they've put the goop in it! You've been doing this long enough to know," she teased him as he wiped it on his shirt. That foxy grin wasn't going to help her remember boundaries, which she'd never been particularly great at anyway. It was too much fun to push boundaries. "Then it will be fun to see who comes out on top on Sunday." Her brow quirked up, challenge in her tone and expression.
Her head turned the direction he was looking in, and she whistled appreciatively at what the Portree Beater was doing. "Now, that looks fun," she commented, itching to try. It made her think of the Cirque du Soleil shows she'd seen in the Muggle world. Maybe she'd look into something like it for over the summer. "Oh, oui, she started out in France, but she's been here a few years. She worked with the Quafflepunchers a lot while I was with them." And the quirky and eccentric ideas had always seemed fun to her - an interesting spin on the boring, typical portraits.
Another sigh, this one with regret, because he did know better. Just like how he knew there wasn't any sense in arguing that he didn't want to smeared in oil and dirt. Oliver caught the rival chaser's expression, leaned in and whispered with a soft, husky Scottish accent. "It's gonna be me, hen." Genevieve wasn't the only one who could play dirty...erm, flirty? Oliver wasn't as dense as everyone made him out to be; he knew exactly how to use himself in a way that would ensure a win on his behalf.
The Beater looked in their direction long enough to give a thumbs up, eliciting cheers from two other Portree players. They'd come in fourth, no surprises they'd been invited to this photoshoot. He'd spotted a couple of the Holyhead players too, though they'd long since left. Apparently, if Oliver's assumptions were correct, this spread would focus on various players from the top five ranking teams.
"Are the French always so creative?" Oliver mused, admiring the scene before him.
Oh, but he played dirty. That comment and the way he intentionally let his accent out to play warmed her core in a way she knew he'd intended. Not that she'd let it influence her performance int he game. And really, she could hold her own, even in this. "I think you're underestimating just how much I enjoy being on top," she retorted, infusing a bit more innuendo in it than the last. Because what fun would it be if she didn't up the ante?
She laughed at the thumbs up and returned it. It took a certain level of control and a strong core to be able to do what he was doing, and she rather thought he deserved that little bit of silent appreciation. "Of course we are!" she answered Oliver without looking back at him yet. "And not just in photo shoots," she added with a laugh, peeking sideways at him. She couldn't help herself, it was fun to have someone willing to toss these comments around with.
This was getting good. The dark blue eyes searched over Genevieve's lovely yet determined features and took in every inch, right down to the way her nose wrinkled with the initial smile. But, Oliver had to remind himself, he had a girlfriend. Romilda was just what he needed: something so delightfully effortless and passionate. Now, if only she wasn't so busy. Of course he wanted her to have a successful career, but at the same time couldn't help but wonder if this was how the girlfriends in the past had felt. Was Oliver finally the one left behind and waiting at home?
With a small clearing of his throat and a nervous rustle of his hair (followed by soft cursing and annoyed swipe of his product covered hand) he moved back to a respectful distance. "We'll just have to see on the pitch, yeah?"
The Beater, swinging effortlessly back and forth while positioning his body with such grace caused a jealous pang in Oliver's stomach. He couldn't do that. How could that man have such control over himself? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Oliver blamed the nachos he'd consumed when he should have been eating grilled chicken again. Maybe then he'd look as good painted a dusky color, covered in silver foil and contorting himself. Maybe. But then again nachos were so delicious, especially when one shouldn't have them.
"Well, buy me a drink sometime. I'd like to see this unconventional French creativity off the pitch." If Genevieve was anything like her interviews the two would get along fantastically.
Gen resisted, just barely, needling him about how she'd come out on top the last time they'd faced off. That had been a great game, and she'd remembered the pleasure she'd felt at besting them. It was always more satisfying when you won against the top team in the league, even if they hadn't been far behind. "Oh yes, we will." And she couldn't help thinking how much fun it would be to see off the pitch, but once again she reminded herself that he was currently spoken for.
"How about after the game? Loser buys," she suggested. She would have no problem buying him a drink, but this was just another way to make the game more interesting, she thought.
"Genevieve!" someone shouted at her from behind, and she glanced back to see one of the assistants gesturing emphatically at her. She heaved a dramatic sigh as she glanced back at Oliver with a 'what can you do?' sort of expression. "I think that's my cue to get back on task. See you Sunday, Oliver."
"Those are some really high steaks," Oliver consented good naturedly, inclining his head as though to ponder the matter. "After this game I'm off my diet. I hope you like good Scottish ales."
His attention turned with Genevieve, catching her eye and nodding. Of course Oliver knew that look. They were all so tightly managed it was a wonder the ropes of obligation didn't leave marks on their skin. He would have to go into photos as soon as the Portree beater finished.
"Yeah, I'll see you Sunday. Meet me at the bar, Gen."
"Love them," she replied with a soft chuckle. One of her favorite parts of being with the Magpies was celebrating after a game almost always included good Scottish ale.
At that, she nodded and then turned to follow the assistant. Maybe she'd get lucky and get to do something fun like that Beater.