#never settle for less than a Terence

[rainybookshop]

Of Gryffindors and Rainy Sundays

Fandom: Harry Potter

Words: 2, 232

Read it on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298461?view_adult=true

It’s a typical rainy, dismal Sunday in April when Marcus Flint wakes up with a truly wicked hangover and Oliver Wood in his bed.

Of course, at first all he’s aware of is the horrible pounding at his temples and the queasy feeling in his gut and the way his veins sort of feel like sandpaper. But as he blinks his way into reluctant wakefulness, he can feel soft sheets against his - entirely - bare skin and the weight of a strong, freckled arm thrown across his chest, and, if he squints, he thinks he can make out a trail of clothing leading from the door to the foot of the bed. He can also smell the faint hint of someone else’s cologne in the air, an appealing, slightly spicy scent that seems vaguely familiar somehow, and beyond that, there are soft little snores drifting up from somewhere on his right. Marcus scowls, feeling his already impressively bad mood sour further. He fucking hates snoring.

He doesn’t think he actually had that much to drink last night – although it’s clear from the vicious pounding in his head that he wasn’t remotely sober – but the combination of a hangover and his general grogginess in the mornings tends to leave him horrifically disoriented when he wakes up after drinking. So he’s sure the pieces of last night will come back to him after a shower and some headache potion and a very strong cup of tea, but for now all he can remember is going to the pub with Terence and Adrian. He thinks Adrian might have been called back to work, and given his level of nausea he’s pretty sure there must have been shots, and for some reason he thinks he can remember a Puddlemere Chant? And…

Holy shit.

He’s pretty sure he can remember sitting and having drinks with the entire Puddlemere team last night, doing Quidditch-themed shots and earnestly telling Viktor Krum that he's a big fan and chatting amicably for hours with Oliver fucking Wood. The rest of the night is as hazy as ever, but Marcus feels the first tendrils of anxiety unfurl in his stomach, because going from drinking with other players to waking up with a man in his bed does not bode well at all for someone who has always kept work and pleasure separate.

So as much as he desperately wants to go back to sleep for the next six hours or so, he also really wants to figure out what the fuck happened, not to mention get some water and dislodge whatever idiotic stranger has had the audacity to snuggle him in his sleep. He’s reaching up to unceremoniously remove the admittedly well-muscled arm from his chest when he sees something that makes his stomach clench with an uncharacteristic sense of panic.

The man is wearing a ring. Not a wedding ring - which Marcus would never have been stupid enough to let happen, because there is nothing less discreet than a wronged, vengeful wife - but something much, much worse. There, on the middle finger of the man’s right hand, sits a large Hogwarts signet ring. For Gryffindor.

Jesus Christ. Marcus briefly wonders if he can trust his absolutely rubbish Charm work enough to try Obliviating himself, but unless he wants to risk ending up roommates with Lockhart in the Janus Thickey Ward, he thinks he’s shit out of luck.

Because the problem is, while he’s seen the gaudy, stupid class rings on several Hogwarts grads over the years, there’s one person in particular he remembers wearing this one. Specifically on the middle finger of his right hand, for luck in each Quidditch match.

He really, really doesn’t want to roll over and find out if he was just as colossally stupid last night as he suspects, but he also doesn’t want to spend any longer silently panicking in his bed in the arms of a Gryffindor. So he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and shifts to the right.

And right there, sprawled inelegantly across most of his mattress, handsome face shoved unceremoniously into one of his admittedly expensive pillows, is a blissful-looking Oliver Wood. Even in the grey light filtering through his curtains, Marcus can make out Quidditch-toned muscles and a jagged-looking scar on one shoulder and, he notes with a terrifying mix of horror and arousal, a rather large bite mark on the side of Wood's neck. Marcus is still staring - and is absolutely not frozen with a sort of panicked indecision that would be mortifying in any other circumstance - when Wood cracks open one brown eye and regards Marcus sleepily for a moment.

“Morning,” Wood yawns, closing his eye again and settling deeper into the pillow with a contented little sigh.

Marcus stares blankly back, wondering absurdly if he’s finally taken too many Bludgers to the head and needs that spot in the Janus Thickey ward after all.

“Wood,” Marcus grits out, shoving him roughly in the shoulder. “Wake the fuck up.”

Wood groans slightly, attempting to burrow deeper into the mattress, and Marcus watches helplessly for a moment, refusing to acknowledge the feeling that blooms in his chest at how comfortable Wood looks wrapped up in his sheets. Shaking himself, Marcus pulls himself to a seated position, Accios his wand from somewhere in the haphazard pile of clothes on the floor and, with a whispered Aguamenti he manages on the second try, fills the cup on his bedside table with water. He gulps it down hungrily while simultaneously kicking Wood in the shin until Wood pulls his face out of the pillow with a muffled groan and fixes Marcus with a glare that would probably be impressive if he weren't still half-asleep.

Marcus resolutely avoids Wood's eyes as he refills the glass again and takes another generous swig before, in an unusual moment of generosity, offering the rest to Wood, who hastily pulls himself up to lean against the pillows next to Marcus, close enough that their arms are almost brushing. Wood takes the water gratefully, downing the contents in about 3 seconds flat before setting the empty glass on top of the stack of Quidditch magazines on the bedside table. Marcus is painfully aware of the scant inches between them and that neither of them are wearing anything beneath the sheets and that Wood has definitely noticed that the cover of the topmost Quidditch magazine features a giant glossy photo of Puddlemere.  

A profoundly uncomfortable silence falls.

“Do you…do you not remember?” Wood finally asks, biting his lip in concern. His voice is rough with sleep, accent more pronounced than normal, and Marcus resolves not to find it cute.

And the thing is, while the night’s a little hazy in places and he’s still not exactly sure how they made it back to his flat, Marcus definitely remembers now. In vivid, technicolour, earth-shattering clarity.

He remembers Wood shoving him up against the wall outside the pub and kissing him with an intensity that was almost dizzying, and tearing off Marcus's clothes so he could trail his lips over every exposed piece of skin, and looking down at him with a sort of breathless awe Marcus wasn't sure he deserved. He remembers letting himself get swept up in what was probably years' worth of tension, in a fierce rivalry that maybe wasn't entirely about Quidditch, and in how Wood's always been able to make him a little more reckless than he probably should be.

“No, I remember,” Marcus mutters, looking over at Wood before he thinks better of it.

Except now Wood looks dismayed, twisting his hands anxiously in his lap.

“I didn’t mean to…oh god. I didn’t mean to – to take advantage of you, or anything, I swear."

“Wood,” Marcus starts, but Wood doesn't seem to hear him.

"I thought - last night, you seemed so sure," Wood continues, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair and looking agitated, "but, if you weren’t, and I …shit, I’m so sorry...”

“I did want this, okay?" Marcus cuts in, staring at the vivid bite mark on Wood's neck and trying not to shudder at the memory. “But - that’s it, alright?" he adds hurriedly when Wood opens his mouth to respond. "I don’t get involved with Quidditch players,” Marcus tells him with finality.

Wood blinks, looking a little wrong-footed. Marcus resolutely doesn't notice the way Wood's nose scrunches up attractively when he frowns.

"So, er, you don't date them - Quidditch players I mean - or...?" Wood asks, shifting just a little closer and looking at him earnestly.

This close, Marcus can see every freckle spanning across Wood's cheeks and how one of his eyes is a little more green than the other and all he wants to do is kiss Wood on his stupidly soft-looking mouth and suddenly he can’t stand it anymore.

“Look, can you just – you need to leave, now,” Marcus tells Wood, nudging him none-too-gently with his foot and nodding decisively at the door.

Marcus catches the confused frown on Wood's face out of the corner of his eye before he drops his gaze resolutely to his lap, fiddling mindlessly with the sheet pooled around him for one long, tense moment, until he hears Wood mumble "right, then" in a tone he can't decipher. In the next instant, Marcus feels the bed shift next to him as Wood heaves the covers off of himself and rolls gracefully to his feet, carelessly slipping on a pair of pants and casting around for the rest of his clothes.

Marcus keeps his eyes fixed on his lap, trying desperately to feign nonchalance while - he's well aware - a half-dressed Oliver Wood makes his way around Marcus's room, sorting through the mess they left in the hazy desire of last night. Marcus is pretty sure he'll start shredding the sheet if he tugs at it any harder, but this might be the most uncomfortable situation he’s ever been in, and he’s had to watch Warrington and Montague act like they don’t fancy one another for years.

All of a sudden Wood is right in front of him, stretching up to retrieve his shirt from where it somehow ended up on the bedpost behind Marcus's head, and Marcus looks up before he can stop himself - the strong muscles is Wood's abdomen are stretched taut with the movement, and Marcus feels his mouth go dry.

Wood's gaze snaps to his and Marcus hurriedly drops his eyes, biting his lip in mortification when he feels a flush rise in his cheeks. He can feel the weight of Wood's gaze on him for one long, tense moment until Wood moves off to retrieve his jumper from where it's entangled on the floor with Marcus's trousers, cloak, and socks, and Marcus lets out a silent sigh of relief.

"So, I'll just be going then," Wood tells him a few moments later, with what might be a hint of hesitation in his tone. Marcus nods once, slightly, before he realizes that now it must look like he can't even make eye contact with a fully clothed Oliver Wood, which is possibly the most humiliating aspect of this entire situation. So he forces himself to look up at Wood, who's standing in front of him holding his cloak, mouth downturned just slightly at the corners.

Wood who also, apparently, still looks stupidly handsome while nursing what's undoubtedly a rather pronounced hangover, and Marcus wants to smack himself for noticing, because - he can't be doing this. He's already been horribly careless, and he needs to stop this now before he runs an even greater risk of ruining the career he's worked so hard for.

Then Wood runs a hand through his hair awkwardly, and Marcus's eyes are drawn helplessly to the way the muscles in Wood's arm flex with the motion before he locks eyes with Wood again, who's staring at him with an intensity that sends a shiver up his spine. Marcus sits up straighter, trying to pull himself together, and he catches the moment Wood's eyes drop to the way the sheets have slipped a little lower around his waist to expose the bruises - of what are undoubtedly Wood's fingerprints - he can feel etched on his hips. Marcus is hit with an unnerving sense of déjà vu as Wood bites his lip and he can't stop himself from looking at Wood's mouth again, and Marcus is dimly aware of how his breath is coming faster and that there's a frenetic sort of energy surging through his veins the same way it does before he's about to make a particularly risky Quidditch play.

Then he looks back up to meet Wood's gaze, which is dark with want and unmistakably, disarmingly, fascinatingly intense and -

"Goddammit," Marcus growls, reaching forward hurriedly for Wood, who immediately presses closer, tossing his cloak carelessly to the side so he can take Marcus's face in his hands and kiss him soundly. Marcus fists a hand in Wood's collar to tug him impatiently back into bed, and Wood smiles against his mouth before leaning back to hastily strip off his shirt again, and well - Marcus figures that once more won't really make a difference, anyway.

***

When Marcus wakes up the following Sunday, mercifully not as hungover but no less entangled with a softly snoring Oliver Wood, he really thinks he should be less surprised.

[onesandzcros]

   Terence had been nothing if not puzzled when he’d headed off to the library that day after work on the reservation and his online college courses were done for the day. Graham had been free as well, but his attention hadn’t been on Terence at all; he’d been distractedly told go have fun with your books, as though his boyfriend hadn’t even noticed him coming or going, not really. More than a little bothered by what felt like a dismissal, Terence had shrugged his shoulders and headed off to his place of refuge. He was one of the few people of his age that ventured into Forks proper, it felt like, but it did ensure he got space when he needed it and plenty to read.

   It was one winding thread of a road that connected Forks to La Push, there like a strand of gold, and it was one of Terence’s favourite places to drive or ride a motorcycle. There was something about seeing the stretches of green and mountains in the distance, the open sky, that settled him down, like a wild thing unfurled in his chest and stretched up to it. It didn’t do its work that day, though, and once Terence reached his favourite aisle in the Forks high school library, the only accessible library the town had, he was ready to find some fiction to lose his head in. 

   What he didn’t expect was to be met with a face he’d never seen before. He grew up in the area, he knew everyone and everyone knew him, but this girl, woman, hadn’t been on his radar. He was too curious for his own good, and that meant he approached and smiled at her when she eventually looked at him. “Hi,” he greeted. “Sorry if this is overstepping, but I was about to ask if you had any books you really liked? I could use a new recommendation.” He offered his hand outwards, tacitly friendly, as he always was unless someone gave him a reason not to be. “I’m Terence. Are you new to Forks? I haven’t seen you around before.” With another bright smile, he took her in, and suddenly and unexpectedly, something in his chest felt like it jackhammered at high speed. Tall, beautiful blue eyes, and the kind of cheekbones that could cut glass. Anyone would be incapable of not noticing this girl was stunning, but it was less usual for him to notice the details quite so profoundly, as though he’d been tugged in.

[queerchoicesblog]

A Few Words On Pride Month 2020

So, pride month has come at last. No matter how crazy it sounds right now as we're experiencing first-hand one of those events that will end up in history handbooks one day.

I'll be honest, it's quite difficult for me to talk about it now when everything that is not Mrs Rhona releted seems so well less relevant than it was before. But I want to share a few words that most likely nobody will read but I'll let them flow anyway.

I watch that video every single year during pride month. It's from a series I liked quite a lot back then, it's called Sense8. The character speaking is a trans woman, an lgbtq+ hacktivist, reminiscing her disastrous relationship with her transphobic mother yet finding strength in her own sorrow. There is a passage I love:

Today I'm marching to remember that I'm not just a me

But I'm also a we

And we march with pride

These words resonate with me: they summarise perfectly the deep empathy and acceptance that I feel should make us stick together. Both inside the lgbtqa+ community and as human beings: "I am a human being, and thus nothing human is alien to me". I'm quoting by heart a Latin playwright named Terentius (Terence in English, I guess?) so forgive me if I got something wrong but what I mean is...we should all care about each other because no matter our differences, our sexuality or color of skin or class, we are human. We are brothers and sisters: I'm an only child but I believe that the definition of a healthy family is one where people overcome differences that don't truly matter in the end, they don't define us as worthy or unworthy of love and respect which should always be given to another human being.

Unless there are valid reasons not to.

As the latest happenings in the world have shown, a hard truth we all know has been reinforced: we live in a cruel, unfair world where, as Nomi said, "hating isn't a sin on that list and neither is shame". A world where people get hurt or killed for reasons which can be hardly called a motive for violence: not being white, not being rich enough, being different, holding a hand or kissing a person of the same sex in the street.

We may comfort ourselves saying these fears were past fears, last century or even Victorian age fears but no, they're still out there. And we can't turn a blind eye.

The current pandemic added new ones, making our lives even more miserable. Speaking of the lgbtqa+ community, I think I can say the social distancing is hitting even harder. Does anybody feel lonelier now? I rise my hand, I do. I'm not referring to the fact that pride parades are cancelled (because we all know there is a freaking valid reason atm), but getting in touch with other people is way harder now. In my personal experience, getting in touch with fellow lgbtqa+ folks was rare even before the pandemic, now it's hella tough. In the street we hide our faces behind masks and don't have the same careless attitude we used to display. Shaking hands and even the lightest touch or proximity are not allowed under the new restrictions: a few weeks ago, over here a couple was charged for hugging each other in the street. How sad and dystopic are these times we live in...

Virtual meetings can help but they're not like in person meetings: the warmth of personal interaction is simply not there. We try but it's not there. Couples are separeted by lockdown rules and so are some families. Lgbtqa+ hotlines are a saving grace and I cannot stress enough how important they are and how anyone struggling with their mental health or literally anything concerning themselves, their gender and sexuality should feel free to contact those volunteers who are a blessing restoring a little faith in humanity.

My thoughts are for those of us who got stuck quarantining with homophobic/biphobic/transphobic etc parents or roommates, and those stuck in abusive contexts. Yes, even relationships because - I know I'll be super unpopular saying this but we can't lie especially to the minor or vulnerable ones- lgbtqa+ relationships can be abusive and toxic too. As I said, we're human and I am sick and tired of the honeyed sunshine rhetoric of lgbtqa+ people and love as an ever right and righteous safe haven. It is a safe haven for us to some extent but we must acknowledge there are problematic issues in our community. We have to be honest with each other especially for the sake not only of each other but for the vulnerable ones and the young. Like criticising or reporting abusers, predators, rapists and so on don't make us all filthy creatures who will burn on a stake for our abominable sins. It just makes us responsible and looking out for each other.

We spend so long dreaming of finding someone of the same sex to be with that when someone shows us any sign of affection our feelings for them grow fast, even when red flags or abuse enter our lives. We stay because we're hungry for love and crave what straighties seem to get so easily: love, acceptance, reciprocity. To the young and everyone who needs to hear this I wanna say: it doesn't have to be like that. Don't ever settle for cheap love only because you feel you will lose your only chance to be loved. There are good people out there too and you deserve one of them at your side. You will find them, your paths will cross: just be patient and never ever forget the importance of respect and consent.

To all those experiencing anything like the relationships or toxicity I mentioned, who feel silenced by the sunshine rhetoric, I say: you are not alone, stay strong and you did nothing wrong, others did and I'm sorry you're going through this cause you don't deserve it.

I share a similar shutout to those struggling with mental and/or physical disorders. If you ever felt pretty much invisible, you're not. I see you, many others see you and we're all rooting for you. You're stronger than you think and you're beautiful.

The not-as-unfortunate-as-the abovementioned but still quite forlorn are the star crossed lovers meeting that special someone in a bad time. Quarantine will see the blossoming of some romances but also takes no prisoners, blowing off others. They don't vanish though, in most cases they turn into those impossible loves and what if we love so much in the movies and hate in real life. I wish I could lay a blanket or pull into a tight hug all those going through this. Your pain is not irrelevant even if there are worst things in the world right now, our souls hurt for things like that. I hold your shaking hand wherever you are as you stare blankly at your phone, waiting for a message or a call that will never come, or you reminisce, listening to a romantic playlist you still have saved on your device. Your suffering is my suffering.

On a brighter side, cause I don't wanna be a complete downer, the luckiest ones among us are blessed with love and I can't be any happier for you, whoever you are. I can picture the one day a few years from now when I will be talking to someone and they will share their story saying how they met the love of their life during the pandemic. How it wasn't easy at first because of all the uncertainty and fears but they kept trying and it all started with a social distancing date at a park or via Zoom. You lucky ones, cherish that and never take what you have for granted: the love you feel and that special someone is showing you is a balsam in hard times. Please cherish it dearly and never stop loving: one day you'll warm these old bones and lonely heart if we ever get the chance to cross path.

Actually I don't have any more wisdom to share, granted what I wrote can be called wisdom, nor giveaway. I considered doing a lgbtqa+ one in honor of the pride month but I feel nobody would be interested. Or at least not by me and I fully agree: writing is getting hard and I feel like I risk of ruining everything I dedicate myself to, as I usually do in my life. I'll follow the tips of a few anons (I think?) and devote this month to educate myself over aspects, nuances or realities I am not fully familiar with: so I'll watch Pose and Sex Education. Hopefully I'll learn something new that might make me a better human being.

Feel free to share further advice: books, articles, movies, series, documentaries...you name it! Drop a message or an ask and I'll make what I'm starting now a lasting project!

That is my advice: if you're stuck inside with nothing much to do this month, find something that might enrich you, even a little thing, and go for it.

As well as reminding yourself the usual stuff: you are not wrong nor unlovable, you're not offensive or dirty for being attracted to your same sex or both or none. Not to quote Lady Gaga, but it's truly is that simple: you are born and beautiful this way.

Stay safe and stay strong, my darlings 🏳️‍🌈

Love,

E.

[sometimesiwrite]

A Pinter Pause (1/2)

Summary: Terence and Katherine reconnect at the opening night reception for a collection of short plays by Harold Pinter. After talking for a long while, they realize there’s more than just an intellectual connection between them and things get deliciously tense. 

Content Notes: Sexual tension, references to sex in public and arousal.

Word Count: ~3,000? 

I didn’t intend this as a fanfic/imagine piece but if one just so happens to imagine one’s favourite actor crush playing the role of Terence, then who am I to tell you what to do with your imagination?

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Terence Davis had been standing in the lobby of the Old Playhouse Theatre after the opening night of collected short plays by Harold Pinter. He was holding a martini and wearing a smart blue suit with a crisp white shirt and tastefully colourful tie. An excellent tie which Katherine remembered exactly — oblique stripes of electric blue, yellow, black, aqua, and a less occasional thicker white stripe for the sake of it. Katherine had seen him from the opposite corner of the room where she stuck to the wall in an attempt to avoid the ever-churning mass of theatre goers who were in the process of getting drunk, and were therefore more likely to bump into each other. Terence seemed sober, though, and as he looked up, smiling from the remains of a witty retort (probably one of his own), he saw Katherine Henderson over the top of his martini glass. He smiled at her, and waved. Katherine waved back and then made an oh-my-god-there-are-too-many-people-in-here face.

Terence laughed, and raised his glass to her in agreement; Katherine took a sip from her glass of Rosé. It was mostly full. As the minutes inched their way around the clock on the lintel above the front doors, Katherine watched the swarm as its consistent buzzing reverberated through the teal-carpeted room. Every once in a while, she glanced Mr. Tie on the other side of the world, still in his corner contentedly talking with the same two or three people. She could have sworn she met him before. Where, she could not imagine. Somewhere classy, probably. She stood silently sipping at her glass, listening to the ebb and flow of sounds. Laughter stood out the most, then pompous protests, scolding, one unruly child, and the traditional cocktail phrases could be heard above the hubbub: “Oh my God, look who’s here!”; “And then I said…”; “Nooo of course not!”; “Oh my goodness, how are you?” All of that was underscored with a general clatter of clinking class and clanging catering dishes.

Of all the people in the room, Katherine knew probably five or six, two of whom were certainly in bed by now (probably with each other). Another two were evidently more-than-tipsy, and the others were involved in ever-so-enthralling discussions with members of the school board, or Theatre Arts Association, or some other organization in search of people to whom they could give money. So, Katherine stayed in her corner, watching people come and go as groups morphed and merged into one another like water drops on a window. Drunk, noisy water drops.

Katherine always found it interesting how much unfocussed electricity could be produced after the intensely-focussed energy of a two-hour play. Not a film. Film could never do that, it was easy to get your bearings after a movie had ended — all you had in front of you was a black screen. The theatre was different; even when the house lights went up after the standing ovation, one was able to sense the bit of the world that was left behind on the flower-strewn stage. She could not help but compare it to the thin layer of mist that hung over hot pavement after a summer rain shower. She didn’t really understand her own simile at the time, but she was too claustrophobic to care.

About fifteen long minutes after their silent conversation across the room, Katherine looked back to Mr. Tie’s usual corner. He was gone. Katherine assumed he had left with his friends, and decided to eves-drop on the conversation to her left: “Well, I just didn’t get it. I mean, who writes plays like that? No one’s going to understand them anyway—”; “No, but—no shut up and listen. You never listen when I try to talk and it’s rude. It’s very, very rude. You’re rude. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. Understanding them isn’t the point. There is no point.”; “Well then what the hell’s the point of trying to watch something you’re never going to understand. It’s just dumb. And I hated the pauses. So many pauses. You would have thought a good company like them would have known to pick up the pace…” Katherine’s wine was starting to release the cynic. Oh Christ, if a piano were to fall through the ceiling right now, I would want it to be them or me. Someone please drop a piano.

Katherine turned around in the hopes of finding a less drunk, more interesting group, though she suspected it was too late in the evening for either of those criteria to be relevant. Instead, she came face-to-collar with a brightly-striped tie. “Hello!” it said. Katherine looked up. “Oh, it’s you,” she replied, not sure what else to say. “I’m not sure what else to say. I didn’t expect to see you out of your corner.”

“I often find ‘hello’ is a good safe standard to go by,” he said, soberly.

“Should I try it?”

“By all means, do please try. After all, you may like it.” His smile was crooked without being roguish or gruff. Instead she found it rather warm and reassuring. Not as though Katherine needed any reassurance to say hello.

“Hello,” Katherine said.

“See, that didn’t hurt one bit, did it?”

“No, it didn’t. I might say it again sometime, just to be rebellious.”

“Alright, but you know what they say: greetings can lead to scandalous things like friends and lifelong companions, romantic or otherwise.”

“Is that what they say?”

“I believe so. Though nowadays, they say so many things one can’t help but suspect they make at least some of them up.”

Katherine realized that she could easily listen to this man talk all evening. His voice was smooth, calm, and wonderfully expressive. It reminded her of a radio voice from the 1960′s or—what was his name? The man who did The Twilight Zone..? His demeanour was straightforward and grounded, and had a softness to it hat she found soothing. She was glad for the company. He produced a sort of shield which relieved Katherine of her subtle crowd induced panic.

“Would you think it terribly rude of me if I asked what you were thinking of just now? Before I ambushed you?” He asked, just loud enough to cut through the buzz and no more.

What a strange question.

“It’s just, you had such an interesting expression on your face as I walked over, I couldn’t help but be curious.”

She paused, wondering whether she should tell the truth. “I was thinking about how nice it would be if a piano fell through the ceiling and killed either me or the two women behind me who are far too stupid to go to the theatre, and far too drunk to talk about it.”

Mr. Tie laughed. A rich, genuine laugh. Brushed his hair out of his eyes with a well-practiced gesture. “Were you really? That’s fantastic. Though, I suppose it’s all you really can do when they get to this stage, isn’t it? They’re already bumping into one another, next they’ll stop noticing other people standing right behind them—”

“Then they’ll start spilling things...”

“But nothing can beat the point immediately after when they begin profusely apologizing at a decibel level beyond human standards.”

Katherine laughed aloud for the first time all evening. His poise and manner were thought to be extinct. How wonderful to find they were only severely endangered. “The theatre really is an ugly place, isn’t it?”

“An ugly place filled to the brim with beautiful people.”

“Better than a beautiful place filled with ugly people. At least with your example the expectations are low.”

“Whereas your example is utterly devastating,” he quipped. 

“Tsk!” Katherine playfully batted him on the arm. For a few moments, they fell silent. Not an awkward silence, but a settled one as they waited for something else to say.

“We’ve met once before, haven’t we?” Katherine said, still watching the crowd.

“Last Christmas. Jennifer Finney’s.”

“You had a pinstripe suit and a pink shirt. And a vest.”

“With suspenders,” he added, leaning towards her ear.

Katherine gasped. “Please, we’re in public!” she cautioned playfully.      

“You were wearing an evergreen evening gown with blood red earrings.”

“Bravo!”

There was another pause. Shorter this time. It was Terence who broke it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it seems I have forgotten your name in the six months since I met you.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Mr. Tie raised his eyebrows.

“No, no! It’s just that I can’t remember your name either, and I’ve felt so awful this whole time talking to you and not calling you by your name because I forgot it.”

He offered he hand: “Terence Davis.”

She accepted it: “Katherine Henderson.”

“I am pleased to re-make your acquaintance,” he peacocked, kissing her hand in mock chivalry. “Well, now that we officially know each other, may I ask what you have been doing in this corner all evening? Have you been punished for stealing peppermints or something ridiculous like that? Or was it some other dubious thing?”

“Well, the thing is, I kept running around kicking people in the shins and screaming at the top of my lungs, so my mother made me stand in the corner all night.”

“Really?”

“No, but that’s what should have happened to a boy who was in here earlier.”

“I saw him.”

“He was hard to miss.”

“I had rather short words with a young woman who I can only assume was his  mother. She did not heed my advice. Eventually, Angela, that Goddess of a stage manager, asked her to leave.” Katherine flushed a little at his last comment, wondering whether he was confiding in her that we was attracted to the stage manager or just saying she was an all-powerful saviour of the world, which was true.

“At least you tried,” she replied, intentionally feigning over-comfort as she put a hand on his shoulder. Terence glanced at her hand, and then back to her. Katherine flushed a little more.

“I do what little I can for the betterment of humanity,” he sighed, his eyes locking onto hers a little more firmly and lingering a little longer than was necessary. Katherine was suddenly very aware of her heartbeat which had crept its way into her throat. She tried to swallow it back to where it belonged.

“Though,” she continued, her mouth slightly dry, “if you want an honest answer to why I was standing in my corner—”

“It’s noisy, crowded, hot, and you don’t like anyone here because they’re all inarticulate and annoying.”

“Well, I was going to try to put it a bit more diplomatically but, yes, in a nutshell.”

“Darling, over the years, I have found it’s often more diplomatic to speak your mind, and those who are offended can go join a support group.”

Katherine smiled. “I suppose I haven’t quite gotten to that point yet.”

“Rest assured, the day will come when you shake off that downy coat of concern over other people’s reactions, and realize that the only way to deal with the insanity of the world is to tell it the truth.”

“I feel a deep discussion coming on.”

“You know, I believe I do as well. Would you like to escape and venture elsewhere?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” answered Katherine, breathless with anticipation, though she didn’t know why. There was no implication in his voice that suggested he wanted anything other than conversation. And yet…

“Ladies first.” The two of them maneuvered their way through the crowd toward the front doors of the theatre, eventually finding themselves in the open air, breathing freely and deeply. This must be how a fish feels when it’s released from its small plastic bag. They walked for about a minute without speaking, enjoying the warm, fragrant night air. It had rained while they were inside so that the street lamps cast shimmering amber rings on the black, empty pavement. No traffic on the residential side street. It was Katherine’s turn to break the silence.

“How did you enjoy the show?” She asked, trying to find new footing for their conversation after its drastic change in atmosphere.

“I thought it was quite good.” Katherine noticed some reservation in his voice.

“But…” She prompted.

“You don’t know any of the cast, do you?”

“Just one. The man with the funny hat.”

“An unfortunate casting choice, but obviously not his fault. He was very good. One of the best of the group, I would say.”

“Mmhmm, he’s very versatile, wasted on this production if you ask me. But then again, the production was wasted on the audience, so perhaps it’s all for the sake of balance.”

There was a brief pause.

“You’re a clever young woman, did you know that?”

“So my bathroom mirror has tried to convince me.”

“Maybe you should listen to it. It’s a very attractive trait.”

Katherine felt like giggling on the inside, but resisted. Instead, she directed the conversation into more comfortable territory, one where she would always have a response. “You’re just trying to change the subject. You still haven’t told me what you thought about An Evening of Pinter.”

“I would, but I was taught never to speak ill of the dead.”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Parts of it were on the stage, but the rest was back in the rehearsal room somewhere looking for its socks.”

“How so?”

“Well, the taxi driver, for example. She wasn’t specific enough in her choices. She clearly had no idea what she was talking about.”

“Neither did we, though.”

“No, but the playwright did. Some people argue that absurdist theatre is a waste of time, and that may be in some cases, but the fact still stands that a published playwright went to the creative trouble to put some very specific words on paper for a very specific reason. Not to respect that in one’s performance is rude. I saw quite a bit of that in other scenes as well, and I found it very disappointing. Others were good. Surprisingly good. But I can’t help but feel I’ve missed a connection. It’s like a bad date”

Katherine felt herself blushing again, feeling playful and a bit bold in the late night air. “Well, maybe the director didn’t know you were expecting a date, maybe he thought you were just talking nonsense together for the evening.”

“Perhaps, but surely the fact that I had purchased a ticket suggested I was interested in more than just a bit of nonsense.”

“Or, maybe the director was trying to expose the language burier. Sometimes life makes sense, sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes we think we’re talking about one thing when we’re really talking about another.”

“Hmmm subtext carrying our baser selves on the shoulders of nonsense…” They had stopped walking now and Terence had squared himself to her, looking her dead in the face, hands casually in his pockets, dark eyes intensely steady yet still warm.

“Subtext can be confusing,” said Katherine, breathlessly, not breaking eye contact but feeling her arms go cold as her palms moistened.

“Then let’s be direct.”

“…Okay”

“I’ll start: I’ve been watching you watch other people all evening and I find that utterly fascinating.”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“…I noticed” He raised an eyebrow and that damn smile came back to his lips.

“I find you very attractive and charming,” Katherine blurted out.

“I would find that very flattering if you didn’t look as though you were about to get hit by a car,” he chuckled. Katherine buried her face in her hands, laughing in embarrassment, wishing her hands weren’t so cold all of a sudden.

“Nevertheless,” he said, gently pulling her hands from her face to find her eyes again, “I find you incredibly alluring.” His last words were spoken so quietly they were almost a whisper, but Katherine them rumble in his chest. He had closed the distance between them by placing one hand on her shoulder, leaving one side of her open so as not to trap her. He tilted his face closer to hers, but didn’t kiss her. His lips were three inches away from hers, an offer and a question. She could almost taste his breath in her mouth, sweet with gin and vermouth. He stayed there, one hand on her shoulder, one still in his pocket. Ordinarily Katherine would have felt threatened by his confidence but instead she felt secure and aroused in a way that she wasn’t accustomed to. She felt emboldened, even—dare she say—empowered? Ugh, she hated that word. And yet, she felt such a sense of… control. Not more than he had, but no less either. Whatever was about to happen was on both of their terms and she was so unused to that feeling, always having to either take the lead or navigate objecthood.

Still, he hovered there, waiting for Katherine to decide what she wanted to do. His eyes had started searching her face for signs of a wordless answer, clues for whether he should proceed or retreat. Finally, she spoke, bringing her lips just to the point of almost touching his as she spoke and adoration began to spread from his chest like hot wax dripping down a candle. “You see, the thing with pauses,” she said, her breath heavy on his face, “is that they build tension between the performers and the audience. So that by the time they find their next line...the audience is in agony with anticipation.”

“This is a very long pause, darling,” he said, just as breathless as she was. She could tell how much he was holding back.

“Shall I kiss you then?”

He pressed a little closer to her. “Yes, I think you better had. If you’d like that.”

She breathed and closed the molecular distance between their mouths. Terence freed his other hand from his pocket and cupped her cheek, his fingers combing her hair away from her face as he did. The kiss was tender, chaste, and brimming with desire all at the same time. She pressed her front against his, convincing herself that this was actually happening somehow. It had been so long since she felt this rush of exhilaration about anyone. She didn’t know it, but Terence was just thinking the same thing, feeling remarkably fortunate if a bit nonplussed. 

With both of them feeling pleasantly surprised about the direction the evening had taken for them, things had heated up quickly, fuelled by alcohol and the empty street. Terrence gently pulled away from their hungry embrace his grin more primal than it had been in the theatre. “Easy, darling,” he cautioned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We still need to walk to my flat. If you want to come with me…”

Katherine almost laughed out loud at how unnecessary his question was, but wanted to respect his efforts nonetheless. She looked him in the eye, tilted her head and said, “When you say come…” and then smiled a wide, cheeky smile that made Terrence raise his eyebrows in surprise. He shot her a playful warning glance and said, “Damnit, woman, you’re going to be my undoing. Let’s just hope I can do the same for you,” he added in her ear as they started walking, his arm around her waist. 

She was just starting to hope he didn’t live far she heard keys in his pocket. They had arrived at the shiny black door of a red brick duplex, two mailboxes mounted above the doorbell. Terence  lifted the lid of the bottom one and peered inside. It was stuffed full of flyers, letters, and a newspaper. “Good news,” he said, letting the lid fall closed again and unlocking the door. “The neighbours are out of the town.” He smiled at her as he opened the door behind him and held an arm out, ushering Katherine in: “After you.”

Tag Requests!

@iloveyouyen

[lovemesomerafael]

El Amor Todo Lo Puede       Chapter 30:  Someone To Watch Over Me

Source:  @turnswithus

Chapters 1-25  Chapter 26  Chapter 27  Chapter 28  Chapter 29

Rafael had received death threats before.  Usually there wasn’t much reason to worry - some lowlife he’d convicted who was just spouting off because they’d gotten caught. This was different.  These people had actually hired someone to threaten him in person, to show him that they could get to him whenever they wanted. And “these people” were cops.  So, in order to fight fire with fire, he’d swallowed his pride and asked the SVU squad to meet him here in his office.

He hated the conversation he was having right this minute. Asking for help was below dental work on his list of favorite things to do.  But he was comforted by a couple of things.  The first was that, as soon as he’d asked for it, help was sitting on the other side of his desk.   In fact, in Carisi’s case, it was sitting on his side of his desk, glowering down at him like a gargoyle.  The second was that he’d been in this position once before, and he’d come out the other side with his life, career, and pride intact.  

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”  Carisi asked.

“I’m telling you now.”  

“I’m calling Intelligence, getting you a protective detail,” Rollins announced, taking her phone from her pocket.

“Is there someone there you trust?  The threats started when I indicted the three cops who killed Terence Reynolds.”  Rafael’s expression was a tense mix of anger, fear, and annoyance.  

Carisi, Rollins, Fin, and Laura exchanged disgusted looks.  Nobody wanted to think cops would be involved in threatening a D.A.  

“We trust me,” Laura declared, quietly but firmly.  “I’m taking this detail.”  

Her teammates knew Parker wasn’t asking or suggesting.  

“I’m calling Liv,” Rollins said.

“Tell her I’ve got him until this is over.”  

Carisi turned his head toward Parker and Fin as Rollins began speaking quietly on the phone.  

“We’re gonna need a plan.  How we gonna get him out of here?”  

“With a lot of help,” Fin answered.

“Can we not talk about me like I’m contraband?” Apparently, annoyance was winning out over anger and fear.  The cops weren’t surprised.  Barba was realistic about needing protection, but cocky enough not to allow himself to be intimidated by threats.  Although Laura knew him well enough to know that his question about who they could trust had not been an idle one.

 Carisi and Rollins had gone back to the station to begin work on investigating the source of the threats.  Once the car that would take Rafael to safety was in place on the ground floor of the garage, Laura, Fin, and two uniformed officers escorted Rafael out of his office to the stairs, all with weapons drawn.  He wouldn’t admit to feeling relieved by the presence of so many cops, but he felt free to complain about the discomfort of the bulletproof vest and his sense that they were wildly overreacting.  Fin and Laura paid just enough attention to enjoy the show. They weren’t about to do less than their utmost to protect him.  

Laura took point as they entered the stairwell, checking up and down the stairs before she would allow Fin to enter with Rafael, with the uniforms covering the rear.  They made Rafael stay next to the wall, with the four of them surrounding him.  Laura checked up and down again at each turn of the stairs, and at each floor, the uniforms would cover him behind the door as she and Fin would go high and low to make certain nobody was waiting to come through the door.  

They reached the ground floor.  Again they put Rafael in the corner behind the door with the uniforms between him and danger while Laura and Fin checked the door.  The unmarked squad was there, where it was supposed to be, with a uniform at the wheel.  But Laura pulled Fin back by his collar and slammed the door.  

“I’m not good with this.  I don’t know that guy.  Do you?”

“No.  Let’s go back up and then we’ll check it out.”

In the same manner they’d gone down, they went back up a floor.  While the uniformed officers and Fin protected Rafael in the stairwell, Laura checked out the floor and found an office where they could keep him safe until they could figure out how a stranger had ended up driving the car.  

Rolling his eyes, Rafael muttered, “This is ridiculous,” as they moved him up the stairs and into the office.  

Fin looked Laura in the eye.  A silent message, clear as speech, passed between them.  “I’mma send Fredrickson down there to check it out,” he said.

One of the uniforms said, “Yeah, sure, I’ll go find out who he is.”  He moved past Fin out the door, holstering his weapon.  

As soon as the door closed, Laura pulled out her cell and pushed a button.  “Carmen. Laura.  I need a favor.”  

 When Officer Fredrickson returned to the office, it was empty.  He swore viciously and pulled out his cell phone.  

 Two uniformed officers and a male/female plainclothes pair led a dark-haired man in a suit from the stairwell to the unmarked squad car, moving at a dead sprint.  The man dove to the floor of the back seat, the female detective throwing a blanket over him and covering him with her body.  The uniforms slammed the back door, the male detective jumped into the passenger seat, and the car sped from the garage.  

For the first three blocks, the drive was stressful, but uneventful.  At that point, Fin looked at the officer driving the car.  “So what’s your name, dude?  We haven’t met before.”  

At that moment, as the squad crossed on a yellow light, a rusty red pick-up truck T-boned it from the passenger side, going at least forty miles an hour.  But for the fact that the unmarked squad car was going just above the speed limit, the overwhelming damage to the car would have been just at the spot where Fin sat. As it was, the frame was too bent and the car’s body too mangled to allow Fin to open his door when four men came running from two cars parked on the street to surround the squad.  It wouldn’t have made any difference.  The driver had already pulled his gun on Fin.

The men on the driver’s side of the car tried to pull the door open.  Both had guns in their hands.  The door, however, wouldn’t open due to the damage to the frame, and when the man in the suit looked up through the broken window, they saw that it wasn’t Barba. It was some ginger dude in a wig that had slid to one side from the impact.  The female “detective” was also someone they had never seen, and she, too, was wearing a wig.  When they realized what had happened, the men outside the car split up and ran in separate directions as the fake cop in the front seat tried to open his door to escape with them.  

Fin was too fast for him.  He had they guy before he could do more than get one leg out and shift his weight to it.  As a result, the fake cop fell out of the car onto the street, one hand cuffed, with Fin on top of him.  As soon as he had both hands cuffed, Fin left him lying there to assist the decoys in the back seat.

 “This is a sweet ride,” Laura commented into her bluetooth as she drove the pristine SUV as unobtrusively as possible through the city. “You’re paying Carmen too much.”

“Not possible,” Rafael said, his voice coming through the earpiece, but also in a muffled echo from the back of Carmen’s Acura.  They used their phones because they needed to be able to communicate if something went wrong, and wouldn’t have been able to otherwise.

“You doing OK back there?”  

“Living the dream.” Rafael grumbled.  Laura smiled because she knew he couldn’t see her from where he was.  But she knew he had to be uncomfortable and claustrophobic.

“Ten more minutes.  Hang in there.”  

Liv opened the garage door of the safe house so that Laura could pull in.  They waited until the door was closed again and they were sure no vehicles had followed them before opening the back gate and lifting the hatch so Rafael could climb out of the underfloor storage of Carmen’s SUV.  Laura and Liv didn’t look at one another, for fear their faces would betray their amusement.

“Shut up, both of you,” Rafael snarled, brushing off his sweatpants as though they were the $3,000 suit he’d had to give to his decoy to wear.

“You’re welcome,” Laura smiled crookedly.  Then she took a closer look at Liv.  “Hey… what happened?”

Olivia allowed her scowl to deepen.  “Fin and the decoys.  You were right.  The driver was in on it.  They got T-boned at an intersection and four guys with guns surrounded the car.  When they saw it wasn’t Barba, they split. Good news is, everybody’s OK and we got the driver.”

Rafael blanched and said nothing.  Both Laura and Olivia noticed.  

“Hey,” Laura said, “Let’s go inside.”

“Not me,” Liv said.  “I gotta get to the accident scene.  You have your radio, and there’s no reason you wouldn’t be safe here. Nobody but the three of us know where you are.  Just stay put and keep the curtains closed.”

Olivia left quickly.  Laura and Rafael let themselves into the safe house and looked around a bit before settling at the kitchen table with bottles of water.

“You ok?”  She asked quietly, putting a hand on his.

He didn’t look at her.  “You were right.  If you weren’t so impossible, we’d both be dead right now.”  

Laura wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.  She didn’t want to add to his anxiety, but she also didn’t want to pretend the situation wasn’t serious.  “Well, that’s a backhanded compliment.”

“I’m trying to thank you.”  His voice was low.

“You suck at it.  But anytime.”  

“I would really prefer this to be the last time.”

“Me, too.  But if it’s not, we’ll have your back then, too.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I told you before, someone messes with you, they mess with me.  And not just me.  They mess with you, they take on the whole squad.”

 They sat together, talking in low voices, for over an hour before Fin called.  Laura put him on speaker.  

Before they could even ask, Fin said, “Look, everybody’s fine.  I got a sore neck, but other than that I’m good to go.  And I was right.  That Fredrickson was no good.  We got him and the driver in custody.  They’ll talk.”

“Let us know when they do.”

“Until then, lay low.  We’ll check in soon.”

“Thanks, Fin.  And thanks for being the bait.  Next time it’s my turn.”  

“No thanks, I’ll take a car crash and gun-wielding maniacs over babysittin’ Barba anyday.”

“Partner, you’re on speaker.”

“Yeah, I knew that.”  Both Rafael and Laura could hear the smile in Fin’s voice before he hung up.  

Rafael and Laura looked at eachother across the table. For a moment, neither spoke.  Rafael started with an expectant look on his face, then slowly morphed it into a question.  Laura didn’t speak, just to see what he would do next.  Eventually, they both laughed.

“So… what do we do now?”  He finally asked.

“No idea.”

“What, you’ve never done this before?”

“No.  But I’ve seen it on TV.  I think we’re supposed to smoke a lot and play poker.”

“Neither of us smoke.”

“And I don’t know how to play poker.”

“What?  Who doesn’t know how to play poker?”  

“I don’t.”  

“That’s just wrong.”  Getting up to look into the cupboards and refrigerator, he said, “You find cards.  I’ll find snacks.”

“Didn’t you hear me?  I don’t know how to play.”

“I heard you.  You’re about to learn.  I can’t be seen being protected by a cop who doesn’t know how to play poker.”  

“All right, well, it’s not a day off for me.  Lemme check things out again.  I’ll be right back.”  

 That evening, when Olivia and Fin made their way through the back yard from where they’d parked a few blocks away from the safe house, they heard what they initially thought was an argument. Reaching for their weapons, they ran, crouching, through the dark to the wall of the house.  From under the kitchen window, they realized that what they were actually hearing was an animated conversation interspersed with rowdy laughter.  

“Lo siento, pobrecita[1], but a flush beats a straight.”

“Well, that’s stupid!  A straight is harder.  A flush doesn’t even have to be in order!  I don’t think that can be right.”

“Google it.”  

“Shit.  How much is that now?

“You owe me thirty-six thousand, four hundred dollars.  It’s my deal.  Now, try that phrase again.”

“Vete a la mierda,“ Laura cried gleefully.

“Better.  And that means?”

“Loosely, it means go fuck yourself.  I can’t wait to say it to Fin.”  

Laura’s phone rang.

“Now’s your chance,” Rafael noted, continuing to shuffle the cards.

After warning Laura that they were there, Olivia and Fin let themselves into the house through the back door.

“What’s with all the racket?”  Fin asked.

“Rafael’s teaching me poker and obscene Spanish phrases.”

Olivia cocked an eyebrow.  “Well, glad to hear you’ve put your time to good use while we’ve been out there fighting crime.”

“How’s the investigation going?”  Rafael asked, worry coming back over him like a bucket of ice water.

Fin leaned against the kitchen counter while Olivia took a seat at the table.  

“It’s bigger than we thought,” she said.  “That whole precinct is riddled with dirty cops. It’s taking some time, but we’re getting there.  You were right to call us, Rafa.  These people… they’re serious.  They had a pretty big operation going.  They would’ve done whatever they had to to protect it.”

“Terrific.  How long to I have to stay here?”

“There’s your gratitude,” Laura humphed.

“We’re getting there, like I said.”  Olivia continued.  “Everyone’s clamoring to rat everyone else out.   What they don’t know is that McCoy says there won’t be any leniency for any of them.  But it’s going to be at least tomorrow before we round them all up.  I don’t know if whoever’s still out there would see any point in getting to you now, but we’re not taking any chances.  Which reminds me, Parker, your relief from Intelligence is on its way.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no.  They can come, the more the merrier.  But I’m not leaving him.”

A pregnant silence hung in the room as each of them digested the meaning of what she had said, and what it meant that she’d said it.  

“Fine,” Olivia finally said.  “I see no reason you need to leave when he gets here.  But you’ve been on duty for long enough.  Get some rest.”

“Copy that.”

Fin and Olivia stayed for a couple of hours. They deserved the break after locating, arresting, and questioning the many suspects in what had become a massive cleanup operation.  At some point, they all cooperated to put together a dinner from the stocked cabinets and refrigerator, which gave the group the opportunity to discuss the situation and simply spend some time together.  Eventually, however, Fin and Olivia took off to get back to work.

The cop assigned to protect Rafael arrived about fifteen minutes after Fin and Olivia left.  When Laura explained that she wasn’t leaving, he shrugged it off. He knew that Rafael was assigned to SVU, and really wasn’t that interested, anyway.  He was there to do a job.  Laura was impressed with him.  He was wiry and compact, and looked like he could give anyone trying to get to Rafael a hell of a hard time.

Rafael began to yawn as he and Laura companionably washed dishes together.

“You should go upstairs and get some sleep,” she suggested.

“Yeah,” he sighed wearily.  “It’s been quite a day.  But I doubt I’ll be doing any sleeping until I know there’s no one still out there looking to kill me.”

Laura let that comment go without making any of the many replies that went through her head.  

“You should get some rest, too.  You’ve been on duty all day.”

“I’ve been playing poker with you most of the day. Not exactly hard duty.”

He turned to look at her, hands still in the soapy water.  “Do you think I’m blind?  Or that I don’t pay attention to you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you constantly checking out every car that drives past, looking out between the curtains every ten seconds, going on alert every time you heard a noise.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah.  That.” He handed her the last washed plate and pulled the stopper from the sink to drain the water.  Drying his hands with a dish towel, he leaned against the counter looking down at her with a serious expression.  “Thank you for saving my ass.  Again.”

She reached up to set the now-dry plate into the cupboard over her head and closed the door.  Turning to him, she said, “If someone wants to hurt you, they’ll have to get past me.  You’re important to me.”

His face clouded over as he realized what she was telling him, although she hadn’t mentioned what he’d shared with her about his marriage.  Without hugging or kissing her, as she’d hoped he would, Rafael stepped around Laura and headed for the hallway that led to the stairs.  “I’m going to take your advice and find a bedroom.  Feliz noche.[2]”

“Dulces sueños.”[3]

Laura stayed where she was for a moment, sighing and wondering how long she would have to wait for Rafael to be able to let her love him.  Perfect. In order to be with the man I love, I have to learn patience.  God has a mean streak.

Her eyes widened and her head snapped up as she realized what she’d just been thinking.  Love.  She was in love with Rafael Barba.  

Laura stayed downstairs for a while, chatting quietly with the Intelligence officer.  She needed to give herself a chance to come down a little from her hyperalert state before she would have a chance of being sleepy.  Besides, he was a cop she hadn’t met before, which made him interesting.  

An hour or so later, having run out of casual conversation and beginning to feel a little tired, she said good night to him and tiptoed up the stairs.  There were three bedrooms, and she could see that the door of the first was pulled almost closed.  She assumed that was the room Rafael had chosen.  As quietly as she could, she stepped to the door, intending just to glance in at him and make sure all was well.  She could see that he was stretched out on top of the covers, hands behind his head, fully clothed except for his shoes.  She stepped back from the door and turned to go to the next bedroom.

“Laura.”  Rafael’s scratchy, sleepy voice quietly stopped her.

She went back to his door.  “You’re awake.”

“Everything OK down there?”  

“Yes.  Go to sleep.”

“Laura… ven acá[4].”

Hesitating, she said, “I’m good right here.”  

“You don’t want to come in?”

“I want to come in.  It’s just… I’m not very, um…”

“What?”

She struggled to explain.  “I… that kiss.  That was, um, really great.  You asked for time, and I’m trying to give it to you.  So I think I’ll just stay over here, if you know what I mean.”  

“Are you saying you don’t trust yourself with me?”

“That’s what I’m saying.  Yes.”  

His throaty chuckle, all by itself, was enough to make her wet.  Good grief.  What would it be like to actually be touched by him?  

“I’ll take my chances.  Ven acá.”

She stepped into the room, crossing carefully in the near dark to sit on the side of the bed next to him.  He put an arm across her legs, his hand splayed out on the side of her thigh.  

“I liked that kiss, too.”

She smiled.  She considered her realization, just an hour before, that she was in love with him.  Looking at him now, lying on the bed, just a bit rumpled, wearing sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt that didn’t belong to him, it hit her fully.  She would wait for him forever.  She would die for this man.

“Do you want to lie down with me?”

“Yes.  Oh, hell yes,” she whispered, her voice full of what she was feeling.  “But I’m not going to.”  

The teasing in his voice was tinged with emotion of his own.  “Are you really that lacking in self-control, Detective?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I insist.”

“Wait…”

Rafael scooted over in the bed to give her room, but she stayed where she was.

“I’m sorry.  I’m giving you all kinds of mixed signals here.  I just want you to lay here with me.  That’s all.”

Laura leaned down to unlace her boots, kicking them free without regard to where they landed.  Turning toward Rafael, she crawled to a sitting position next to him. Hesitantly, her voice just a bit shaky, she asked, “Can I hold you?”

“Ven acá,” he repeated, pulling her into his arms as she stretched out beside him.  

She felt him put a palm lightly to her cheek, one thumb under her jaw, and tilt her face up to his.  When he kissed her, she felt a tear fall from her eye into the pillow. As aroused as she was by being here, holding Rafael in the dark while he kissed her tenderly, she was equally stunned by the force of her emotions.  She moved her lips with his, trying to hold back and follow his lead.  It wasn’t easy.  Every instinct screamed to throw her leg over him and straddle him, kiss him as deeply and intrusively as possible while she ground on him and pulled that shirt from his body.  Instead, she forced herself to lay quietly, returning his sweet, tender kisses.

Rafael had his own struggles.  He could feel her suppressed ardor, and ached to give in to what they both wanted.  He didn’t allow himself to think about it.  He forced himself to keep his hands still as he held her, focusing entirely on her lips, her mouth, her tongue as she eagerly welcomed his deepening kisses.  

He only slowed down when he felt her fingers begin to play with the hem of his shirt.  He knew if he felt her hands on his bare skin, he would not be able to resist. He also knew he needed to take this slowly.  It was beginning to dawn on him just how important Laura had become to him, and he’d done a lot of thinking about their conversation the night of the awards dinner.  Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to keep memories of what Anatalia had done to him from getting between him and Laura. Just the thought of Anatalia’s name helped to cool him somewhat, so that he was able to take his mouth from Laura’s.

They were both breathing hard.  He realized that they had been doing a bit more moaning as they kissed then he had been aware of at the time.  He wondered if the Intelligence officer downstairs had heard them.

Rafael repositioned himself so that he was on his back with Laura in the crook of his arm, her head cradled on his shoulder. She held him with one arm across his chest, and rested her hip on his so that one of her legs settled between his.

Neither of them knew when, or how, they had fallen asleep like that.  In the morning, when the Intelligence officer came to wake them and tell them the threat was over, he gave no indication that there was anything unexpected about the fact that they were together, fully clothed, her back pressed against him and his arms tightly curled around her.  In fact, the only thing he found a little odd was that she was still wearing her gun on her hip.

[1] I’m sorry, poor girl

[2] Good night.

[3] Sweet dreams.

[4] Come here.

[onesandzcros]

while we sleep

   The Games had begun for the year, but to say that Terence was concentrating on them didn’t accurately summarise the situation. There was a painful note to watching people being chosen that he didn’t like. It brought up too many things that were buried to see the interviews, to focus on them. So what Terence focused on during the Games was keeping up appearances. He attended the soirees his parents chose and behaved like he was every inch the charming, well-behaved son of a family high in the President’s favour. What was less clear was the fact that Terence was also slowly but surely picking up pieces of gossip and storing them like a treasure trove. A rumour, for example, of exactly why the President seemed so very attached to his roses. By the time he got through all of it, he felt the need for a distraction all over again, one of the reasons he’d negotiated with Franklyn the way he had. When he’d crossed paths with the other, though, seen the shadows beneath his eyes. Terence had considered something else. Ten weeks was very little time, but he had enough funds to pay for more than a single evening.

   That something else led to more negotiation, money paid and a form filled out: two days of Franklyn’s precious and expensive time, including an overnight stay. Engineered with both of them in mind, Terence’s instructions had been very clear, an improvement from the first appointment. Comfortable clothes, no red. I want to learn about non-sexual intimacy. I want to learn how to just hold someone and be held, how it feels to fall asleep and wake up with someone there. I’ve never done that. I’d also like to review what you’ve already taught me, so that I can get more comfortable with it.

   It was as straightforward as Terence had known how to be; it had led to making out in his bed, to hands on skin and no further, keeping within the limit set. They’d gone for a walk that evening, a way to cool down, to silence the burning of Terence’s racing pulse into something more settled. No one paid them even a little attention, too preoccupied with the Games. By the time they got back, it was much later, and he was climbing into bed beside Franklyn for the second time that evening. He could taste the spearmint from his toothpaste, and it was strange to have someone else’s body fit against the mattress beside his with the intention of actually staying there. He smiled a little at Franklyn, resting on his side facing him, leaned on his elbow with his head propped up. The uncertainty was showing, but not doubt of the choice made. “You taught me how to kiss you and a little of how to touch you, but this is new too. How does this work?” It sounded analytical, and maybe it was a little, but this was another foreign area. “I keep hearing the term big spoon and little spoon. What on earth does that even mean?”

[clean-bands-dirty-stories]

Birds ~ Stan Uris (part 1)

A/n: My first song prompt! Heard this and immediately thought of my bird boy. I tried to resist writing it bc I’ve already done a little series fr Stan but I couldn’t help it. Hope you enjoy! Also, y’all are aged to 17/18.

Anon: Pidge

Word Count (without lyrics): 3036

Song: “Birds” by Thomas Sanders ft. Terence Williams

MASTERLIST

I don't wanna drive a fancy car today; I don't wanna ride in a red corvette. I don't wanna jog my Saturday away, but I don't wanna go home yet.

Shoulders clashed together and two pairs of eyes met, wide. “I’m so sorry,” one of the people gushed before pausing, a small smile on their face as their head tilted. “Eddie Kaspbrak?”

Eddie found a smile moving onto his face. “That’s my name,” he confirmed. “And you’re fine, you didn’t kill me.” They both laughed. “What’s your name.”

“Y/n,” was the answer. “We went to middle school together but... you probably don’t remember me.

Eddie felt guilty. “I... do not.”

The giggle that came out of the new face was cute and Eddie found himself liking this person. There was a certain energy. Something that drew him in and made him feel so comfortable and warm. “It’s okay. I was a really quiet, shy, awkward kid. I kinda sat in a corner and hid behind books from... everyone.” An embarrassed expression passed over their face. “I’m working on being more social. Making friends. Try to make high school better than Middle school.”

Eddie scoffed. “Heard it’s worse.”

Y/n smirked. “Challenge accepted.”

This human being was intriguing. Eddie knew his friends would like them. “Hey, want to come meet my friends? We’re just a bunch of Losers but it’s somewhere to start.”

Y/n beamed. “I would LOVE to.”

After that, Y/n became a Loser. The others all felt the same draw as Edddie had, and they were welcomed with open arms.

Stan thought they were fine in a passive way. He seemed to be the only one not super excited about his new friend that they had... Y/n was madly taken with him though. They thought he was so good looking and funny, more prone to laughing at his banter with his boys and his nonaggressive insults than to take offense to them, as if they already knew that Stan’s way of showing affection was through eye rolls and snarky comments.

Freshman year was filled with making memories and adjusting to the shift. Y/n kept their promise in accepting Eddie’s challenge when it came to high school being lame. For every bad thing that happened Y/n set a good thing. A hang out during he weekend or a game night in the middle of the week. Sharing jokes at lunch or bringing cool books and exchanging the worst pick up lines with Richie, making everyone laugh. That was the year went from stranger to friend, telling stories about their life and lineage since their family had been kind of wild. The Losers could tell some of them were fake, but Y/n never insisted they were real and told them for the pure purpose or entertainment. If anyone ever asked or pushed it, they would immediately tell if the story was real or not. Y/n lied a lot less than the average person. Probably because they were terrible at it unless they were telling a story.

Sophomore year was when Y/n stopped making it about their life and turned stories simply into that- stories. Fantastical and amazing and full of magic or horror or drama. They were more entertaining than ever, and Bill often would write down an outline of each story, giving the notes to Y/n and insisting they should write it. Y/n would claim the the same thing: “You write it, Billiam. I couldn’t sit down and organized my chaotic thoughts on paper. I change it based on crowd reaction and there’s so many plot holes.. you’d do better.” So Bill would write them. And, in return, he gave Y/n paper copies of each of the short stories he’d strengthened based off of her idea. Y/n collected them in folders and when Summer came, they left pages for covers and made an amateur book- Short Stories by Bill Denbrough and Y/n L/n. Those stories were told again and again until the other Losers could recite them, but without fault Ben and Eddie would ask for another story during each long stretch of nothing or when they couldn’t sleep at sleepovers.

Junior year was for Richie and Y/n’s insane duo. With Eddie and Y/n’s joking around and brother/sister bond and Bill and Y/n’s bond over writing and how Ben and Mike could rant about anything and Y/n would listen with endless, genuine interest, it was amazing to see Y/n not only be creative, attentive, caring, and genuine, but also be able to keep up with Richie. Y/n laughed at his jokes, as earnest to listen to him as they listened to Mike or Eddie. The two kept the mood light, continuing their constant exchange of jokes and pick up lines. Between Bill’s creative mind and Richie’s unwavering ability to always have something to say, the two boys and Y/n became really close as Y/n tied inside jokes into quick stories, letting Richie jump in with voice impersonations and dorky comments and the most wacky, random suggestions to throw the story for an insane loop. Bill, as before, took notes and wrote the stories at home in his free time, and a new volume was made- “Crazy Stories by Trashmouth, Sunny, and Big Bill.” That’s what they called Y/n. Sunny, because of their cheery disposition and the way they brought a new sense of life and a simultaneously bright and also chill atmosphere. A safe sort of feeling that was so warm and comfortable and felt exactly like home.

When Richie and Bill realized they had feelings for each other, it was Y/n who got them together. And then they got Ben and Mike together too. The summer after junior year, Y/n sat back and smirked as they successfully paired up their friends and watched love bloom.

One day, Eddie plopped next to Y/n. “You’re good at that.” Y/n looked over with their arms crossed and a questioning eyebrow risen. “Match making. Getting people together.” He chuckled. “Think you could help me out?”

Y/n chuckled. “I’ll definitely keep my eye out, Eddie Spaghetti.” Y/n rarely called Eddie that other than in joking, lighthearted moments like these. They had picked it up from Richie. “You deserve to be happy.” They winked and Eddie nodded, agreeing silently.

Two weeks later, Y/n pointed out a guy sitting in the park with a book on his lap. “The one in the purple shirt?” Eddie asked doubtfully.

Y/n shot him a look. “Yes, Eddie. Trust me. He works in the pharmacy, in the back. Sorting things and restocking shelves. He’s super introverted so it might take a second, but you two are a match made in heaven. Swear it on my reputation.”

Like magic, a few months later Eddie ran to his friends a few days before senior year began, ranting about the fantastic date he’d had the night before with his boyfriend and the kids they had and on and on- only Y/n stuck around to listen, laughing and beaming. “YOU’RE MAGICAL!” Eddie ended dramatically.

“I told you!” Y/n insisted.

Eddie looked around at the Losers. Stan and Bill were talking as Richie played with Bill’s fingers. Mike and Ben, not one for super affection while with their friends, were sitting close together and listening to the conversation about what they expected senior year to be like and what they had planned after, every once in a while giving input.

Suddenly he turned to Y/n. “What about you?”

Y/n seemed confused. “What ABOUT me?”

“Oh come on Sunny,” Eddie prompted. Y/n’s nose scrunched up at the nickname. They knew that Y/n wasn’t ALWAYS happy. No one was. They knew that Y/n actually got into a lot of arguments with their parents and had to deal with being the less favorite child compared to their younger sister who was perfect and pretty and for some reason everything Y/n wasn’t to their parents. That’s why Y/n was so accepting and attentive and caring- because they didn’t want anyone to feel alone or less than as they had. But the nickname had stuck more in appreciation for how hard Y/n worked to be the best friend they could be despite it all.

Still, sometimes it bothered Y/n the same was ‘Eddie Spaghetti’ bothered Eddie. They still used the nicknames though.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You have to like someone. Let me help set you up with someone!”

Y/n shrugged, suddenly not as into the conversation. Eddie was unsure what he’d said and why it had upset Y/n, but he promptly stopped talking. Y/n sighed, running a hand through their hair in habit. “There’s no one interested in me,” they settled.

Later, Eddie would talk about the odd interaction with Ben and the two would team up to figure out who Y/n liked, because Ben said that based on what they said, there WAS someone.

“Come ON, Y/n!” Eddie insisted.

Finally they broke. “Oh my gosh, it’s Stan!” Both boys stared at Y/n with shock. “I’ve tried everything I could think of, but no matter what I do every time I try and get especially close to him he just seems annoyed with me more than anything. Like how he’s annoyed with Richie but worse.” Ben and Eddie shared a startled look. That was bad. “I gave up. He won’t ever like me, I get it.” Their voice grew quiet. “But it won’t change that when he smiles my stomach twists and when he laughs my insides warm up. It doesn’t change that I wonder if his hair is as soft as it looks or think about holding his hand and marking him laugh or...” they shrugged, glaring into their lap. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t bring him to me and when I try to go to him, he gets annoyed.”

There was a pause before Ben scooted close to his friend, placing his hand on their shoulder. “We have one year left, and then we’re done with high school. You’ve been into him since freshman year?” Y/n nodded. “That’s three years, Y/n. Three years.” Eddie and Y/n both gulped, but Ben smiled. “You might be THE matchmaker, but I think you should go for it again. Try a different tactic. Don’t give up or stop trying. Stan deserves someone who’s as loyal and persistent as you. And you never know, maybe you’ll find a hole in that wall of his and make his life better just as we know you do for everyone.”

Smiling, Y/n thought about it for a second. A small smile grew on their face and they nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Ben and Eddie cheered, causing Y/n to laugh.

...but saying they would do it would be a easier than doing it. Succeeding would be even harder. But, Y/n was trying it seemed. Again.

Big sigh.

Today is not the day to jump out of a plane. I don't wanna parasail or play roulette. I don't wanna risk it all or go insane, but I don't wanna go home yet.

The couples in the Loser’s Club set up a group date as a last ditch hurrah before summer ended, leaving Stan and Y/n with nothing to do with their friends. Y/n took their chance, approaching Stan as the group broke up for the day. “Hey.”

Stan looked over and smiled a little, nodding. “Hello.” The small, slightly friendly, casual upturn of the corner of his lips was all Y/n could ever get from Stan and it was frustrating when the one person she wanted to see smile the most was all the only person they couldn’t get to really smile.

“So everyone’s going on that group date tomorrow,” Y/n began and Stan looked at then sideways, not wanting to partake in any such activities with his friend just because Y/n couldn’t be fine on their own. “Maybe we could hang out tomorrow? Not with the other Losers on the date, but just like... I don’t know, anything.”

Stan had planned to go birdwatching the next day so the idea of not going the one day he was sure absolutely no one would bother him was disappointing. But he was working on being more of a people person, so though hesitant, he managed a, “What did you have in mind?”

Y/n help hope rise inside of them. “We could go to a movie.”

Stan’s nose scrunched. “It’s supposed to be a really good day tomorrow, I don’t want to lock myself indoors for too long. Plus I’ve seen all the movies out that I’m interested in already.”

Touching their bottom lip, Y/n thought. “So then no arcade either.” Stan shook his head. “We could go to the Quarry,” they offered next.

That didn’t seem to please him either. “It’s not as fun without the whole gang,” he pointed out. And Y/n had to agree, he had a point.

“We could ride bikes. Like, race or just ride.” Even Y/n knew that was a weak idea. “Or go in a hike. Or have a picnic! Oh that would be so fun!”

A hike and picnic actually sounded like a great idea. Stan could see them walking, quietly their footsteps to see birds while walking, and then continuing to do so as they ate, making the smallest talk about buds and nature and other odds and ends things that popped into his head.

But even though he could see it, he knew it wasn’t realistic. No one was into bird watching- even the other Losers thought it was dorky. Richie teased him about it all the time. Y/n was too loud and impatient anyway and would probably scare all of the birds away. They’d want to tell stories or have long, constant conversation. Stan had always been annoyed with Y/n. The way they seemed to bond so easily with everyone but him. They were too loud and hyperactive- Stan was quiet. They could never get along like Y/n did with the others. For that reason alone Stan said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He didn’t know why he had such a wanting to keep Y/n away but he did. So whatever. He had his birds anyway.

Y/n deflated, completely out of ideas. They walked in silence for quite some time. House passed. Y/n’s turn passed, but they continued with Stan, trying to come up with something. Anything. They made a promise to Eddie and Ben to do their best, so no matter what they would.

After a few more weak ideas passed through their mind, though, Y/n slowly realized that they had been right- Stan would never go for them. They couldn’t even get him to hang out!

The pair finally reached Stan’s house and Stan turned to Y/n, an eyebrow raised in annoyance. “You coming inside with me too?”

Y/n stared at Stan for a really long time, eyebrows pushed together and hands on their hip. Now THEY were the annoyed one and it took Stan off guard. Y/n’s eyes were actually really pretty and the simmering irritation and swirling thoughts made this intense look in their eyes that was dark and alluring. They were... kinda cute actually.

Stan hated when his brain did this. Notice things about Y/n. Notice how good looking and easy to get along with they were. He hated how he was secretly so drawn to Y/n. He’d become antisocial and with all his friends pairing up, his favorite past time was just to block out the whole world and look at birds and pretend he wasn’t himself. Just a drifting cloud, watching and observing and taking notes. It was freeing, the quiet. It let him relax and be himself. It had gotten to the point that anytime he was around people he just felt... on edge. Like he was irritated simply by other people’s presence. So he avoided people. There was a kind of content that he couldn’t enjoy with people around and he didn’t want to let that go.

Except Y/n kinda made him want to. Made him want to think of a different kind of life with the one person he was sure was the polar opposite of the person he needed in his life that way.

Nothing too dramatic. Going on dates. Holding hands. Mindlessly playing with fingers and hair like Bill or leaning their shoulders together as one of them read like Ben and Mike. Someone to make you smile and make memories to bring smiles and conjure for lonely moments. Someone to kiss, maybe, if that was as good as he secretly wondered it was. Someone to BE with. He knew he was expected to find someone, eventually, but... he had time right? And no way in the world could Y/n be that person anyway!

It was a mantra he’d been repeating to himself since the end of sophomore year when Y/n had leaned over and kissed Stan’s cheek to congratulate him for passing his final exam. The little bubbles and heartbeat trips had added up to a picture Stan didn’t like in that moment, blaring a truth he had settled to simply ignore until they all went away. Until Y/n went away. But the feelings and the person who caused them still stayed. And, in moments like these, it was hard to keep that truth buried as deep down as he usually had them. It was hard to not admit it even for a split second just to himself...

Y/n was really good looking. Funny, nice, positive, caring. Thoughtful. Gentle. They were dedicated and hard working and fun and their teasing was exactly what made him go. They way they flirted seemed to appeal just to him.

He... he...

“Stan?” Y/n called. Stan blinked, humming as he was knocked from this thoughts. He realized he was glaring more deeply than he had been before, frustrated with himself. Y/n was frowning, probably think he was glaring at whatever they had said. “I said, if you hate all of my ideas, what do you do for fun?”

Stan’s heart stopped dead in his chest. Birdwatching. Birdwatching is what he did for fun.

Fuck.

[frontproofmedia]

Jean Pascal vs. Badou Jack and Jarrett Hurd vs. Luis Arias Virtual Press Conference Quotes

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Published: May 27, 2021

NEW YORK – WBA Light Heavyweight Champion Jean Pascal and two-division champion Badou Jack, plus former unified world champion “Swift” Jarrett Hurd and veteran contender Luis Arias, previewed their respective showdowns on a virtual press conference Tuesday before they step in the ring as part of the SHOWTIME PPV undercard of Mayweather vs. Logan Paul taking place Sunday, June 6 from Hard Rock Stadium in Miami Gardens. Pascal and Jack will meet for a championship rematch in the co-main event of the pay-per-view, while Hurd and Arias square off for a 10-round bout also on pay-per-view. The SHOWTIME PPV begins at 8 p.m. ET/5 p.m. PT and will also feature former NFL star wide receiver Chad Johnson making his boxing debut in an exhibition match against versatile fighter Brian Maxwell. Tickets for the live event are on sale now at Ticketmaster.com. Here is what the fighters had to say Tuesday: JEAN PASCAL “I’m very excited about the rematch. I’ve been training in Puerto Rico since December. I’ve been waiting this whole time for the rematch and I’m ready. I respect Badou, but he’s always whining after he loses. The judges said I won the fight and that’s it. “The first fight, in the first six rounds I did everything well. I might have gotten a little overconfident. I took it a bit too easy after that. The fight got close because of that knockdown he got that wasn’t from a real punch. Without that, it wouldn’t have even been close. We’re going to settle this June 6 in Miami. “I think I just have to pace myself a little better this fight. I got over-excited because I’ve sparred with Badou before and know what I can do. I am a veteran, so I shouldn’t have gotten too excited like that. As far as knocking him down again in this fight, my mom taught me that anything you can do once, you can do twice. “I do believe that Badou respects my power. If he doesn’t, then he better watch that fourth round again. But I also have skills with my power. I am naturally gifted and I have the better skills. I was born for this sport and built to win. “I really think the work in the gym will help so I don’t have ring rust. I’m a veteran. I’ve been here and done that. At this age, it’s better to have more rest than to be overtrained. I had the right intensity in camp to make sure I’m not overtrained. “He’s coming for revenge and I’m coming with bad intentions. It’s going to be a great show, so make sure you tune in for this one.” BADOU JACK “I’m feeling great with my new trainer Jonathon Banks. Physically I’m in amazing shape and I can’t wait. Another week and a half and it’s all going to happen. “This has been in the works since our first fight. Last year Floyd called me and said, ‘it’s on.’ Then the pandemic hit and it got pushed back. There is a reason there is a rematch because everyone knows who won that fight. It’s better late than never. I was back in the gym Monday after the first fight. “There were three judges and Julie Lederman had it for me and the two other guys had never judged a big fight before. We have two judges for this fight: the right hand and the left hand. That’s it. I’m very confident for this fight and I’m not worried about the judges. I know Jean Pascal is a warrior, and I’m a warrior. I’m just ready to fight. “Looking at the past, yes, I need to start faster. Every fight, that can apply. I will listen to my corner, and we’re going to figure out how to win the fight. By any means we need. “He can say whatever he wants about when I knocked him down. I hit him five straight times and he swung and missed and I hit him. That’s why he went down. “This is going to be a firefight. We already know that. Tune in to this fight. Boxing is not a game and I’m going to show everyone that and try to steal the show. “I’ve watched the last fight once or twice, maybe three times. I just need to make some small adjustments. You can always do better. I’m more confident than last time. I know we are both warriors. We’ve fought everyone. We’re the same age (Jack is 37; Pascal 38), even though I look a little bit better. I’m looking younger. Nobody has seen my birth certificate. I’m not really 37. I’m 27.” JARRETT HURD “Training camp has been great. I haven’t fought in a year and a half, so I had a chance to really take my time with this camp. I’ve had a lot of time to put in the work. I’m training with fighters like Terence Crawford, Shakur Stevenson, Troy Isley and a lot more. We’re all out here working day after day. “Arias is a great fighter. This is going to be the type of toe-to-toe fight I like. He’s going to be there in front of me and ready to fight. He’s never been stopped, so I’ll be prepared to go the distance. “We’ve seen this story before from Arias. He talks a big game but look at his fights against top fighters. It doesn’t matter what weight I’m at, Arias knows what’s coming. I suffered a loss, but I got the win in my last fight and I’m on my way back. “I just need a dominant win on June 6. Luis Arias can make it ugly, but I have to go win convincingly and let everyone know I’m back. I don’t want to win in a sloppy way, I want to look good doing it. “He might think he’s catching me at the right time, but it’s not going to be a good time for him on June 6. I can box and I can bang, it doesn’t matter. We’ll decide on fight night which style I’m going to use. I know that I can beat him either way. “I tried to work on my bad habits after my loss. I was a straight-forward guy who just came at you. I wanted to show in my last fight against Francisco Santana that I can use my height and range if I need to. I wanted to box all 10 rounds and I did that. “I still have too much-unfinished business at 154-pounds. I have a lot of fights, including my rematch against Julian Williams, that I still want to get. I want to regain my titles. Me and Jermell Charlo is probably the biggest fight at 154 right now. I want to handle that before I move up in weight.” LUIS ARIAS “Camp has been excellent. I’m excited for the fight. I think this is a perfect fight and a perfect opportunity. It’s a great matchup. I’ve been working on the right things to make sure I’m one hundred percent prepared for this fight and I think I’m catching Jarrett Hurd at the right time. He’s switching styles. He really doesn’t know how he wants to fight. “When this fight was brought to me, he was ranked No. 1 at the Ring Magazine at 154 and that’s part of why I wanted this fight. Leonard Ellerbe asked if I was willing to fight Hurd, and I said one hundred percent. It’s all about challenging yourself. This is another challenge and I never turn down a challenge. I’ve been in there with the best and there’s nothing that Jarrett Hurd can bring to the table that I haven’t already seen. “A win puts me right back in the mix. I’ve always been just one step away from really getting into the mix with the big guys. My last couple fights have all been just one fight away from getting that world title fight. Once I beat Jarrett Hurd on June 6, I’ll be right there with the big dogs. He’s calling out Jermell Charlo and he wants to fight all these other big names, but he’s going to have to get through me. If he loses to me, I’ll be in position for the fights that he wants. “It’s going to be a hard fight. If he wants to bang, we can bang. If he says he wants to box, he’s not the better boxer. But there’s only one way to find out and we’re going to find out in two weeks. I have to do everything that I can do to make sure that I show up and I impress. “I’m still young and I’m still fighting my way through. I just needed to make the proper adjustments. I’m not going to be a desperate fighter. I’m going to go in there and fight the way I fight. I’ve always had championship-level fighting in me, but I just haven’t shown it. This is a perfect opportunity for me to show it. “I’m coming after him. I have to win. He’s not going to have to find me. I’m going to be right there. If I have to box him in the middle of the ring or if I have to put my head in his chest and dog him out, then that’s what I got to do. From the opening bell to the final bell, if we make it to the final bell, I’m going to be on him. We’ll see what type of adjustments he makes, but I don’t feel he’s a better inside fighter than me and I don’t feel like he’s a better boxer than me.” LEONARD ELLERBE, CEO of Mayweather Promotions “The world is buzzing about this whole event, including our terrific undercard with two great professional bouts. Hurd vs. Arias is going to be a scintillating bout. I’ve seen Luis up close and personal during this training camp and I know that he’s 100% prepared and ready to pull off the upset. Hurd on the other hand is looking to maintain his footprint in the 154-pound division and prove he’s the best at that weight. “Pascal and Jack had a fantastic bout a year and a half ago on SHOWTIME. From the opening bell, those guys proved they are great warriors and we expect nothing less in the rematch on June 6. The fans are truly in for a treat on that night. “The energy between these four fighters today has been incredible. As the promoter of this event, I’m excited, so I can only imagine what the fans are in for. Hurd and Arias are both looking to make a statement, and that’s going to roll right into Pascal against Jack, who are going to pick up right where they left off in their first fight.”

[derrickperegrine]

@snakepitnet halloween challenge: friday the thirteenth

any fool can have bad luck; the art consists in knowing how to exploit it.

     -- frank wedekind

this is late but why should i care. for my quidditch love @puddifoot

(click ‘keep reading’)

‘Oh fuck,’ Cassius interjected inelegantly; he spilled his goblet of pumpkin juice over the table as he reached for the scrambled eggs, and it only narrowly missed the dark green wool of his Quidditch uniform.

‘Hey, what’s up, butterfingers,’ Peregrine smirked as he walked past, clipping Cassius on the back of his head, albeit in a friendly fashion. Cassius glared at him as he hastily smoothed down his hair. Peregrine’s own black hair was standing up and sticking out from every angle -- a little more unkempt than usual.

‘What is it, Derrick, the game don’t matter to you enough to clean up a little?’ Lucian commented, himself as pristine as ever, his robes sharply pressed and not a single strand of his blonde hair outside of its carefully choreographed nonchalance.

Peregrine shrugged as he took a seat and picked up a slice of toast. ‘It’s just a game, Luce; and against Gryffindor, no less,’ Peregrine pointed towards the Gryffindor table, rowdy and prematurely celebratory after some particularly rousing speech by Wood. ‘Do they look like they give a shit about how they’re looking? See, their uniforms are all crumpled as if they haven’t ever been folded after a vigorous scourgify.’

Lucian passed his eyes over Peregrine’s robes, unimpressed. ‘It’s not like yours are much better anyway,’ he pointed out.

Hastily, Peregrine spread strawberry jam over his toast, and held it up to his mouth. ‘Just let it go, won’t you. You’re acting like my mum again. And besides, it’s not like we’re going to the Quidditch pitch to look for a date,’ he lowered his voice and muttered, ‘Unless your name is Flint.’

Marcus’ head snapped up from his sunny eggs. ‘Did someone say my name?’ he demanded crossly, looking at Peregrine’s direction. Lucian shot Peregrine a look that read, You should have known better, but before he could respond someone bumped into his shoulder, causing Peregrine to drop his toast and jam, which smeared across his left shin-guard and boot before hitting the stone floor. Lucian shot a scourgify at them, and Peregrine flinched as if the cleaning spell physically ruffled him. Lucian sneered in triumph.

In a huff that might have seemed dramatic and excessive to a boy of a different temperament and bearing, Oliver Wood furiously strode past the Slytherin table, his collision with poor Peregrine not slowing his raging course towards Marcus.

‘Flint, what is the meaning of this!’ Wood near-shouted, his face flushed with anger and his bushy eyebrows almost vertical in their inclination. In his hands he held a red notebook marked ‘Quidditch Training’ in his own handwriting, completely warped and blotchy from prolonged exposure to water. Marcus was glaring daggers at Wood, and although the Slytherins knew that their captain would never do such a thing, Marcus was not helping his own case very well.

‘It weren’t me,’ Marcus said evenly, simply, as he forked eggs into his mouth. He was still glaring at Wood, who was still glaring at him, because it seemed that any moment the two of them were in sight of one another, that’s what they did. Sometimes the Slytherins wished that that was all they did, and that they did not have to listen to Marcus’ long rants and rambles about nearly everything Oliver Wood did. Sometimes it felt like the level of his unnecessary commentary rivaled that of Lee Jordan.

Wood scoffed. ‘As if one could take the word of a snake,’ he sneered through his anger. Peregrine wondered if Wood’s hair could catch on fire, seeing how furious he was. Which seemed out of proportion even for Wood -- after all, it was just a notebook, and they were all teenagers, for Merlin’s sake, not professional Quidditch players; how top secrets could those plans be, anyway? Though, Flint and Wood were always known to overreact around one another, the fucking idiots.

Cassius heard sniggering and craned his neck to look around. His attention honed in on the Ravenclaw table; their Quidditch team was trying hard to hide their ill-meaning mirth as they watched the newest confrontation between Flint and Wood. Cassius suddenly remembered that just two weeks ago, Ravenclaw suffered an embarrassing defeat at the hands of Gryffindor; however that was to be expected, as although Cassius was loath to admit it, Wood was thrice the Quidditch captain that Davies was. Whenever Davies was out chasing after skirts, Wood was drilling his team to the ground with practice. He was only narrowly worse than Marcus as a captain, of course.

Tugging on Graham’s sleeve, Cassius redirected Graham’s attention away from his roasted potatoes to the Ravenclaw table. Graham nodded and turned to Peregrine, motioning for him to get the attention of Wood. Already in a bad mood for the loss of his toast, Peregrine glared at Graham and Cassius as he yanked at Wood’s sleeve roughly.

‘What is it!’ Wood yelled as he turned around to face Peregrine, who was looking back at him placidly, his eyebrows flat and unimpressed, although annoyance still burned within his chest for that unexpected collision.

Peregrine pointed at Graham. ‘Montague has something to tell you. Monty, tell him.’

Graham rolled his eyes and hissed at Wood. ‘Can’t you maybe look around first before pinning everything on us?’ he rolled his hazel eyes in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, and Wood’s eyes snapped towards them, finally seeing the Ravenclaw team. His stuck-out ears reddened even more in embarrassment.

Wood turned back towards Flint, crimson robes flapping behind him. It was an eyesore, Lucian decided, for he was not much a fan of the colour red. It often made someone look too overworked and exhausting, since it turned people’s complexions too ruddy and all that.

‘This is not the end of this,’ Wood assured Flint, vaguely but firmly.

Marcus glared back. ‘Don’t come for me every time something inconvenient happens to you,’ he smirked. ‘If you have anything against me, don’t hide it behind a false accusation against me; come at me directly and we’ll. Talk,’ he suggested mildly as he cracked his knuckles. Demonstratively.

‘I’ll see you on the pitch,’ Wood said with an air of finality, as he narrowed his eyes at Marcus. Marcus narrowed his eyes back, and the rest of the Slytherin team watched boredly as the two of them kept glaring at one another until Wood had disappeared back to the Gryffindor table.

Marcus picked up his goblet of water, raising it in the air. ‘We’re going to crush them today,’ he predicted, although it sounded much more like an order.

Miles looked at Marcus amusedly. ‘What’s this, time for a speech?’

Marcus scowled. ‘No, we don’t have time to cloud ourselves with useless optimism like a speech,’ he decided. He put his goblet to his lips and chugged. Emptying the goblet, he slammed it down on the table and turned around. ‘Lads, let’s roll.’

There was a shuffling noise as the Slytherin finished the last of their breakfast as quickly as they could, and hastily stood up to walk towards the pitch. Marcus marched towards the exit, and the Slytherin team began to fall into formation -- the other Chasers by Marcus’ side, and behind them Terence and Miles, and Lucian after … leaving Peregrine last, just as he was last to arrive at breakfast. He shoved some toast into his mouth, stood up and took a step --

-- And promptly stepped on the first slice of toast he dropped; slipped, and fell flat on his face.

The entire Great Hall roared with laughter, and Peregrine could hear Lucian and Cassius shouting in alarm, and their footfalls thundering in his ears.

‘Perry! You alright?’ Lucian asked as he helped Peregrine up.

Grimacing, Peregrine righted himself and dusted off his uniform. The mean laughter of the other Houses rang in his ears, and much to his own chagrin he felt embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he replied, although he still ached from falling hard against Hogwarts’ stone flooring.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ Cassius said, throwing an arm around Peregrine’s shoulders. The three of them shuffled out of the Great Hall, but before they walked out, Peregrine turned around and flipped off the Hall. They only laughed louder.

As Professor Hooch had them shake hands with the Gryffindors, Miles couldn't help but feel a little off. He would call it anxious, although it wasn't quite so severe. It was more of a niggling premonition that something was about to go wrong … he passed his eyes slowly down the Gryffindor lineup -- and extra slowly over the Weasley twins -- but could not find anything in their expressions. Some of them looked grim and nervous as usual, but others were still looking at Peregrine, snickering. He shook hands with Wood, and the two teams sauntered over to their own halves of the pitch.

Marcus kicked off first, quickly followed by Wood, who never liked being far behind. As soon as the ‘pleasantries’ were done, any fooling around immediately ceased; even the Gryffindor jesters, the Weasley twins, put on a serious expression --

‘Whoo! Haha,’ Peregrine laughed as he somersaulted through the air, his previous mishap seemingly all but gone in his mind. The October air was characteristically crisp and dry; it was the best weather for flying. Peregrine felt elation trickle through his veins, and he felt light with thrill.

‘Having a good time?’ smirked Terence as he zoomed past on his broom, his hair floating in a cloud behind him.

‘Oh, it’s only going to get better,’ Peregrine replied, giving his bat a few experimental swings, grinning. Lucian soared by and high-fived both Peregrine and Terence, before settling in his usual spot, by the righthand-side of Miles.

‘Oi! It’s no time for chit chat, the match is about to begin,’ Marcus turned back and scowled at his teammates. Peregrine grinned wider and flipped him off, but Marcus didn’t see him; his attention was turned towards Madam Hooch, who just blew the whistle and let out all the balls.

As soon as the Snitch was released from the chest, Terence zipped away from Peregrine’s sight, his eyes struggling to spot the elusive glimmer of gold across the wide pitch. Harry Potter darted over, closely tailing Terence.

Lucian managed to wrest one of the Bludgers from the Gryffindors, and batted it towards Peregrine. With a satisfying smack, Peregrine passed it back to Lucian, and the two of them continued to volley the Bludger between them, getting used to the weight and strain of the ball again.

Flying in formation with Marcus in the lead, the three Slytherin Chasers dove after the Quaffle, with the Gryffindors approaching it from the other side; Miles watched them closely, knowing that he should never keep his eye off the Quaffle, should it come hurtling towards his hoops. The Gryffindor girls were a hair closer to the falling Quaffle than the Slytherins, and Miles felt a bead of sweat break out against his forehead -- but at this time Cassius kicked the ball lower, so that it was falling faster, and Marcus dove straight under like some swooping raptor, and it came to rest against the small of his back. Before the Gryffindors could make a grab for it, Adrian kicked it up from Marcus’ back, into the Cassius’ waiting hands. Immediately Cassius zoomed towards the Gryffindor hoops, and not missing a beat, Marcus and Adrian flanked him.

Seeing that the Slytherin hoops were not in immediate danger, Peregrine and Lucian also headed towards the Gryffindor side of the pitch -- they were going to have to cover their three Chasers as they attempt to score a goal. As they continued to pass their Bludger between them, Peregrine and Lucian also kept an eye on the Bludger currently in possession of the Weasley twins.

It wasn’t long before one of the twins smacked their Bludger towards Cassius, who was slightly ahead of the rest of the Slytherin company; Marcus boosted forward to cover Cassius, and Peregrine moved in tandem with Marcus, bat raised at the ready.

The large, heavy ball whizzed towards the Slytherins, and Peregrine threw out his arms, catching the Bludger right in the sweet spot of his bat with a satisfying crack, and it went flying off again -- except that the crack was not actually a wonderful sound at all, since it appeared that the force of the impact had actually split the wood of Peregrine’s bat, and the bat broke in half in his hands, the top falling below him to the pitch.

Peregrine looked at his broken bat in befuddled annoyance. ‘What the actual fuck,’ he muttered, dropping the other half to the ground, and sliding his wand out of his sleeve. ‘Accio bat!’ he said under his breath.

There was a giggling sound and he furrowed his brows. Now, it weren’t his fault if his bat happened to break; bats break all the time. They’re expendable tools, and if you played as roughly as Slytherin you go through them quite quickly. However, that had been a relatively new bat, and Gryffindor Beaters had never been great sluggers -- they had to choose between being accurate or being powerful; if they wanted to hit hard then their aim would be off; if they wanted to be precise, then their force would be too weak. This was an aimed attack, and it felt like nothing to Peregrine as he batted it away. So why would his bat break?

The giggling grew closer, for some reason, and Peregrine felt unease tickle up his neck like a caterpillar. Across from him, Cassius’ eyes widened. ‘Look out!’

The Slytherins managed to just dodged in time as a large swarm of bats soared over their heads, screeching and laughing, despite being in broad daylight. ‘What the actual fuck,’ Peregrine repeated himself.

Madam Hooch’s sonorused voice echoed across the pitch. ‘SHOO!’ And screaming, the bats tore off the pitch. Terence flew by, looking pissed.

‘I was so close,’ he said, ‘The gold was so easy to spot in the black. Goddammit, Hooch,’ and he zapped away from Peregrine, Cassius, and Marcus.

‘Stupid,’ Peregrine muttered to himself as he cast another accio. ‘Accio Quidditch bat!’ and a brand new, gleamingly polished ebony bat flew into Peregrine’s hands. He weighed and inspected the bat carefully; it really wasn’t a good idea to begin a match with a new bat, whose unique weight and feel he needed to get used to. Alas, there wasn’t much of a choice.

‘Quit fooling around, snakes,’ Alicia Spinnet laugh-snarled. ‘Some of us here are trying to play a game!’

Angelina Johnson scoffed. ‘They weren’t fooling around. Derrick is really dumb enough summon bats instead of a Beater’s bat.’

Before Peregrine could shoot something cruel back, Marcus yelled, ‘Oi!’ Peregrine turned to see him furious, fire in his black eyes. No one insulted his team and got away with it. He looked like he was about to throw down, but of course, punching to girls in the air was a sure way to get a suspension for the rest of the game. He bit back his anger, but venom dripped off his teeth as he seethed, ‘Watch who you’re talking about. Everyone makes mistakes. Or have you forgotten that time you burnt the bottom of your cauldron because you used Chili Extract instead of Chilly Extract?’

Angelina glared back at him. A taste of your own medicine isn’t that fun now, is it? Cassius took this chance to zoom up to the hoops and shoot; Oliver Wood, who had said nothing since the game started -- he was always silently focused on the game -- made a move to catch it, but suddenly Adrian Pucey appeared from above, and used his foot to kick the Quaffle higher, so that it soared above Wood’s head, straight into the hoop.

‘Slytherin scores ten points! With sly and underhanded teamwork, as usual --’ Lee Jordan began spouting his nonsense again. Whenever it was Gryffindor who scored, he’d say something about their astonishing teamwork and probable mind-reading abilities, but whenever it was Slytherin, that’s impossible, they must have been playing some mean trick because Slytherin could never score against Gryffindor.

Katie Bell was waiting under the hoops, in usual Gryffindor formation, so she caught the Quaffle, and the Gryffindor Chasers coalesced around her and began making their way towards the Slytherin hoops. Miles Bletchley trained his eyes onto the Gryffindors -- now that Slytherin was in the lead, he wasn’t going to let it fall from that position.

Cassius whistled lowly as he flew by, and high-fived Adrian. The two of them flew towards the Slytherin half of the field, flanking the Gryffindors and slowly closing in on them. They would try to wrest the Quaffle from them before it even got to Miles.

It felt good to be in the lead, it was the Gryffindors who were dumb, after all; they let themselves be distracted by a crowd of bats and insulting Peregrine, and didn’t see Adrian Pucey, coming from above. Victory felt good; Peregrine found a wild laugh thrumming within his chest, but of course he couldn’t let it out now; Marcus would yell at him for not being serious about the game. So he only grinned, a predator’s sneer -- it would have been handsome otherwise, but on the pitch it was terrifying, hungry, and something you didn’t want to look at for too long.

The Slytherin Beaters moved forward to sandwich the Gryffindor Chasers as well -- Peregrine hovered above them like some bird of prey, whereas Lucian flew under them, a crocodile ready to strike anytime. ‘Per!’ Lucian called as he hit the Bludger upwards, and it buzzed close to Alicia Spinnet, who leaned towards her teammates to avoid it. Peregrine caught it on his bat, and sent it searing across the air in the other direction, so that Angelina Johnson in turn leaned the other way to avoid it, and poor Katie Bell, who was flying between Johnson and Spinnet, dropped the Quaffle in the disturbance, and the swift Slytherin Chaser, Adrian Pucey, caught the Quaffle, and minnow-like in his movements, made his way towards the Gryffindor hoops again.

Marcus, who had been trailing behind so he could see everything in front of him, turned back and whirled around Adrian, covering him as they made their way towards the hoops. Wood turned towards Adrian, who was in possession of the Quaffle and moving towards the central hoop, but at the last moment Adrian passed the Quaffle to Marcus, who made to shoot the hoop on Wood’s right.

However, something buzzed straight across Marcus, and he let go of the Quaffle with a yelp. Terence and Potter then barreled over in front of Marcus -- it was the Snitch. The Gryffindor Chasers saw this chance and Angelina Johnson picked up the Quaffle and the Gryffindors were once again in possession.

‘Fuck off!’ Peregrine cursed, moving in front of Miles. The Weasley Beaters soared over to Peregrine, lobbing their Bludger at him, hoping to knock him out of the way so Miles would have no cover. Not one to flinch, Peregrine engaged the Bludger with his own bat, sending it buzzing away from him and Miles -- however the Bludger was too close to him and too fast, and he didn’t make a good hit. The trajectory of the Bludger was out of his control, and it glanced off his bat towards Cassius; the black ball whizzed by the tail of his broom, breaking several of the twigs at the end of it -- but worse, knocking Cassius off his broom with the force.

‘Fuck,’ Peregrine tossed his bat to Adrian -- who shouted, ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with a bat!’ and flattened himself against his broom, diving downwards and reaching for Cassius. Fortunately his Comet was true to its name, and it caught up in no time; however the drag of Cassius’ weight hanging from his arm made Peregrine wince -- the rest of the game wouldn’t be fun. As soon as Cassius caught his breath, he cast an accio for his broom, and performed a quick reparo.

‘Derrick, you don’t have to hit each Bludger, you know,’ Marcus barked above them, ‘You gotta learn to let some balls go.’

Peregrine gritted his teeth and flashed Marcus a confirmatory thumbs-up. ‘Gotcha, captain.’ Annoyance burned within his chest -- it just wasn’t his game today. Which was strange; not that he was more arrogant than your average teenage Quidditch player, but Peregrine Derrick never had an off-game. He always knew what the odds were, and how to turn them in his favour. What was going on today?

Although one of the Slytherin Chasers suffered a hit, Adrian took this chance to toss Peregrine’s bat back to him and snatch the Quaffle back from the distracted Gryffindors. At a break-neck speed, he flew over to the Gryffindor side of the pitch, and, biding his timing, shot the Quaffle as Potter and Terence passed between him and Wood; it was a tricky shot as he was not yet close enough, but he wouldn’t get this cover from wood again. The Quaffle just barely made it in, scraping by the central hoop at a slanted angle, and brushing against the rim of the hoop on both entrance and exit.

‘Another 10 points to Slytherin,’ they all heard Lee Jordan’s disappointed voice, and tuned out the rest.

‘Good shot,’ Lucian said, clapping Adrian on the back as they passed one another.

Now the cool autumn air started feeling aching and tiring; Miles rubbed his ears; they had gone numb from the merciless winds at the top of the Quidditch pitch. He quietly hoped that the game would be over soon, as it was looking to get even colder throughout the day -- however, it really wasn’t their game today, and he’d expect a stern lecture from Marcus in the locker room.

Alicia Spinnet caught the Quaffle after Marcus tried to scuffle with her to get it back -- surprisingly not earning a single whistle during the entire ordeal, although they all suspected that perhaps Marcus played fairly on accident; both Bludgers were in the Weasleys’ possession, and the Slytherin Beaters had a difficult time fending them off completely, between the too-close angles and Peregrine’s injured arm. Marcus had to dodge some of them himself, and as a result had to give up his resolve to possess the Quaffle.

Since both Bludgers were in Weasley possession -- they had also taken advantage of the earlier commotion of Cassius falling off his broom -- this made defending the Gryffindor’s attack extremely difficult. As the Slytherins were not in possession of the Quaffle, the Weasleys focused their attack on Terence instead -- which was quite a gamble for them, as they could hit their teammate Potter as well -- and instead of trying to stop the Gryffindors from scoring with the Quaffle, Lucian and Peregrine had to make sure that their Seeker did not get quashed by two Bludgers.

The Slytherin Chasers encircled the Gryffindor Chasers like sharks, flying almost shoulder to shoulder to them, constantly popping out before them or making snatching movements in order to startle them into dropping the Quaffle or passing it to another Gryffindor Chaser -- chances that the Slytherins could use to dive in and possess the Quaffle again. However, the Gryffindor girls were very much known to be unflappable players, and the Slytherins had no such luck.

Miles squared up and loosened up his limbs, ready to defend his hoops. He was the tallest member of the Slytherin team, looming at nearly two metres high, with long limbs that were unexpectedly elegant rather than lanky. He had unusually broad shoulders for his build, but it gave him an advantage on the Quidditch pitch -- more power and momentum in his turns and shifts.

The Gryffindors neared the Slytherin hoops and, resigned to their fate, Adrian and Cassius slunk into the space beneath their hoops, so that they may catch the Quaffle should it go through one of Miles’ hoops.

Spinnet made to score, raising the Quaffle over her head whilst trying to evade Marcus, who still tried to snap at the Quaffle -- after all he was never known to be one to give up on anything, despite what he had just told Derrick not five minutes ago.

Spinnet pushed past Marcus, and shot -- but Marcus, being the taller one out of them, managed to touch the Quaffle in his last attempt to intercept it. However, Bell was right by their side, and as Marcus slapped down the Quaffle she boosted it with her foot again -- muddying its trajectory for Miles to stop.

For a moment it seemed as if Miles couldn’t quite make out the angle in time, and he’d just have to choose to lean a particular way; but at this moment Peregrine and Lucian burst before him, and Lucian’s bat got caught on his broomstick, and dragged him along. As Miles was about to put his hands back down onto his broom, in an attempt to balance himself, his hand ended up catching the Quaffle, and pushing it below the hoops. There was a deafening roar from Slytherin as Adrian Pucey dove to catch it, and the Slytherins were once again in possession.

‘Almost! If the Slytherins hadn’t accidentally reverse-sabotaged themselves,’ Lee Jordan commented, trying to rise above the din of Slytherin cheers.

But now Slytherin was in possession of the Quaffle, the Weasley Beaters turned their attention back on Marcus, Adrian, and Cassius. Lucian and Peregrine flew before the Weasleys, shadowing their positions. Lucian and Peregrine managed to evenly match the Weasleys’ volleys, and for a moment it seemed less like the Weasleys were trying to take out scoring members of the Slytherin team and more like they were just playing an intense game of Bludger-tennis with the Slytherin Beaters -- until Lee Jordan’s blasted voice cut through the air.

‘And Harry’s spotted the Snitch! Terence Higgs follows close by ...’

And all attention whipped to the two Seekers darting through the pitch, shoulder to shoulder; the Weasleys took their Bludgers and zipped towards the Seekers again -- they could afford to let Adrian score 10 points with a Quaffle, but they could not let Terence score, for it would end the game and Slytherin would win.

Harry was slightly smaller than Terence and had the advantage of a faster broom. He zipped through the Weasleys’ Bludgers easily, which weren’t meant for him anyway. Meanwhile, Peregrine and Lucian could only beat so many off of Terence, as they didn’t want to bump into Terence and cause him to lose sight of the Snitch, and Peregrine was injured besides; so Terence had to dodge the odd Bludger or two, falling behind the Gryffindor Seeker as he did so.

Marcus grit his teeth as he watched this unfold. Of course he couldn’t blame any of them -- most of the blunders in today’s game were just bad luck; his team still played alright, and they were, thankfully, in the lead anyway. However, this would decide the fate of the game ...

Wood floated right above him, glaring down as Marcus flew up to the Gryffindor hoops. Goddammit, why did he always treat a game with Marcus as some sort of personal battle? Like they were mortal enemies and every game was a final showdown between them? Marcus was beyond childrens’ games like this, he was tired of always fighting Wood -- did it always have to be that way? Well, after this game he won’t have to see Wood on the pitch for the rest of the year --

Adrian tossed the Quaffle towards Marcus, who caught it and, somersaulting on this broom through the air, hoped to increase its velocity -- and shot it at Wood. It was a new technique that they had been working on; and thank goodness Marcus was just acrobatic enough to make it. It flew forwards through the air, and Wood dove to catch it -- only to catch it with his face.

There was an unmistakeable crack and suddenly half of Wood’s face was red. Oh great. They’ve broken his nose.

‘Mister Wood! Please come down for treatment!’ Madam Hooch yelled below them.

‘Unnecessary!’ Wood declared, and pulled out his wand. He muttered a heavy episkey through the blood in his nose, and the cartilage fused back together.

‘You know you’re not supposed to do that! Detention, Mister Wood!’ There were strict rules about injured students healing themselves on the pitch -- mostly, it was dangerous to perform spells like that in midair, when the body is less balanced and, of course, ungrounded.

Wood sneered and it was a terrible but enthralling sight. ‘Worth it.’ If Marcus were less of an insane Quidditch player, he would have looked at Wood in some version of admiration.

But that wasn’t Marcus.

Whilst Wood was fixing his nose, Marcus picked up the Quaffle again, and as soon as Wood was done and looked up, Marcus threw the Quaffle through the hoop to his right.

There was a war between the cheers and the boos in the audience stands as Lee Jordan struggled to announce that Slytherin was once again in the lead, with thirty points.

Marcus let the disgruntled Gryffindor Chasers have the Quaffle. He needed to watch his Seeker. Now Terence was a broom’s length behind Harry, who was weaving through the pitch after the Snitch. Despite the fact that he was a Gryffindor, and an insufferably proud one to boot, Potter was a remarkable Seeker. Especially when one considered how difficult it must be to see through those glasses, and that hair. Really, that hair.

He passed the two Seekers as the Slytherin Chasers tailed after the Gryffindor Chasers, seeking to help defend Miles from the Gryffindor’s forward attack. They quickly outstripped the Gryffindors and lined up in a defensive formation in front of Miles. But still they looped around, increasing their coverage in the air.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Terence muttered to himself as he urged on his broom, a relatively modest Nimbus 1700 to Potter’s Firebolt. It almost seemed unfair that rich kids were allowed to compete in Quidditch with superior brooms -- they should all be issued a uniform broom to make it more fair, Terence thought to himself as he struggled to catch up.

Sweat dripped off of Lucian’s brow as he hit another Bludger away from Terence. His golden hair was no longer neat; it was plastered to his head in some parts, and sticking up in the air in others. But at least it wasn’t the total disaster perched at the top of Peregrine’s head. Out of the team, only Marcus looked unruffled, with his shaven head. They all looked a mess. The Gryffindors usually looked a mess anyway, so there wasn’t any significant change to them. Despite the Slytherin’s higher score -- to Gryffindor’s none -- it felt like they were losing their touch, getting tired, and losing the game.

Terence tried to flatten himself against his broom even more, although it was difficult, as he was already leaning pretty closely against it. ‘Come on, come on,’ he whispered, hearing the wind and Bludgers whizz by his ears. Slowly, he was catching up to Potter, but he wasn’t sure if he’d make it -- even though the Snitch was still flitting around quite far ahead.

Then the sound of Bludgers disappeared, and it was just the harsh autumn wind tearing at his poor ears. Why? The Weasleys flew in an arc before them, and suddenly Potter lifted up; and Peregrine was yelling something suddenly, and the Weasleys sent a Bludger whirring towards Terence --

He stopped on his tracks, sitting up suddenly and feeling his eyes black out from the abrupt change in position -- all the blood was draining out of his brain -- and he heard a sharp crack as a bat hit the Bludger. Quickly, Terence shook his head, and saw that it was Lucian who made the save -- and in that moment he saw a glimmer of gold.

Before it could fly away again, Terence kicked himself from his broom, and dove forward to catch the Snitch in his hands. It was smooth and cold, burning against his bare fingers, and its wildly flapping wings matched the thrumming pace of his own heart; and then he fell.

‘Goddammit, not again,’ Peregrine swore, and dove. He managed to grab Terence by the scruff, and with great difficulty -- but no hurry, as the golden Snitch in Terence’s hand signified that the game was already won -- lifted Terence to his own broom.

‘Thanks Per,’ Terence said as he hauled himself back onto his Nimbus.

Peregrine grimaced and windmilled his arm. ‘You owe me,’ he grumbled, but not ill-naturedly. Of course, how could he be? A sea of green was roiling in a corner of the Quidditch pitch, screaming at them, whilst Lee Jordan, as quietly has he could possibly manage, declared that Slytherin had caught the Snitch, and the game was over, with one-hundred and eighty points to Slytherin, and none to Gryffindor.

Marcus was grinning so widely that it looked eerie. Marcus Flint, smiling? A rare and terrible sight, only to be witnessed at a victorious Quidditch game. Clapping Terence on the back, they all flew down to the bottom of the pitch. The Gryffindors looked angrily at the Slytherins and themselves -- despite the Slytherins’ bad luck, nothing the Gryffindors did ended up working, and their direct Bludger attack on Terence, in fact, accidentally brought the Snitch closer to him, since it was caught against the Bludger as it sped forward.

Cassius and Adrian were roaring and laughing, trying to climb onto Miles’ back to ruffle his black hair. Lucian was impatiently herding them into the locker room, hoping to get there before the Gryffindor fans started pelting them with half-chewed, nastily-flavoured Bertie Botts; but his face was radiant with the joy of triumph, golden and soft, but forceful.

Peregrine had already torn off his robes and his jersey, and was waving them above his head and hooting like a madman. Whatever arm pain he was complaining about seemed to be there no longer. His stiff dark hair was sticking straight up, he was laughing so hard that there were dimples in his smile, despite his hollow cheeks.

‘Good game, boys!’ Graham yelled as the reserve team came up to greet them, and all laughing and cheering and hooting, the Slytherins retreated to the locker room.

‘Couldn’t believe that luck,’ Lucian remarked, leaning lazily against Peregrine and Miles.

Miles laughed. ‘I can’t even figure out if it was good or bad luck.’

Peregrine wrinkled his nose. ‘Either way, I didn’t like it. Too many unpredictabilities.’ He sighed. ‘Give me a straightforward game next time ...’

Terence slapped Peregrine on the shoulder. ‘You know, Perry, they’re going to call you Batty Derrick for months now ...’

‘Oh, please no,’ Peregrine groaned, and all the other boys laughed in sympathy.

Indeed it seemed to Marcus that today’s game was strangely not in their favour. All the mistakes and faults had been at their cost, and even the victory was won on a mistake, and not on their team’s true ability. Why had it been so?

As he walked to the showers, the daily calendar hanging on the wall caught his eye. In neat, block letters, it read: FRIDAY, and beneath that, OCT 13.

Marcus smiled to himself a little. He was never a superstitious person, nor did he believe in things like this; but it was a little odd, and a little amusing. If bad luck favoured anyone, why shouldn’t it be the down and dirty, scheming and sly Slytherins? Two negatives multiplied makes a positive ...

He rubbed his hand over his smooth head, and wondered what the Gryffindors were saying. Slytherin, winning? Only by sheer luck, of course ...