However long that it takes I'll go to whatever lengths It's gonna make me a monster though Ethan Alexander Wood | 22 | He/His | Chaser for the Montrose Magpies| King of the pitch Fan Club meets on Tuesdays.
Danny took a swig from his bottle, clapping Quidditch Bro on the back. For as haphazard as their hangouts have been, it was probably the closest thing to a regular meeting Danny ever had since having left the states.
“Dude–how about we take this somewhere else? We’ve got like, all of London–and I dunno man, there’s something about muggle alcohol that hits different.”
Not that Danny really knew about how the world was changing, how the rules were tipping against his favor. And even if he did know, when the fuck did Danny ever actually care?
@ethanwoodx
Ethan downed the last of his firewhiskey before nodding at Danny, desperate to quell his growing thirst. Like his appetite, it had only seemed to grow more and more ravenous over the passed few months, never seeming to reach the point of satisfaction. But even in spite of his secrets, Ethan still wasn’t the type to pass up a night of drinking.
“Yeah, alright. What the hell?!” Ethan agreed, banging his empty bottle back down to the table with more force then intended. A night out and a distraction were exactly what the chaser needed to get his mind off tomorrow’s full moon, his third one since the accident.
“Drink up, mate, and let’s get the fuck out of here. You know any good spots?”
“Well—can you imagine a first year on a Firebolt?” Julian called to his brother, rummaging the shed for a quaffle that he tossed out the door to Ethan. Thank Merlin that only the Quidditch Captains had access to equipment, otherwise the first years would have probably wrecked the quaffles. He stepped out of the shed, shaking off the dust.
“It’s my broom…” Julian tried to sound proud of his discovery, but it came across as guilt. His family had a bit of brand loyalty to the Firebolt, so Ethan would recognize the shape of it, if not the logo and gold lettering at the handle. “An older model—not anything like the kids bring to school these days for Quidditch—but it’s the one. From fourth year. I never really needed a new one.”
Very rarely did Julian take his broom for a ride, but it certainly happened when he was sure no one was looking. Never on a sunny day during the school year. Julian threw his leg over the broom and quickly kicked off from the ground; the ease with which he could navigate the broom was eons better than the one he had borrowed from Finley, but it certainly didn’t steer like something fresh from Quality Quidditch Supplies.
“You actually kept that thing. Thought you would have burned it or pitched it off the astronomy tower or somethin’.” Ethan teased, half in genuine jest and half in utter disbelief. After all these years, the middle Wood would have bet any amount of galleons on his brother ridding himself of all things Quidditch, especially his Firebolt. Then again, Ethan saw a glimmer of something that day in the underground league. It seemed he may have had Jules wrong this whole time.
Ethan stepped forward to take a closer look at the broomstick Julian now possessed. There was no mistaking it was a Wood family original—practically a precious heirloom that Ethan would have had promptly displayed in the Quidditch Hall of Fame if it was his, and well— he planned to. He sported the same model at one time, straight down the golden lettering. It was a tradition Ethan continued to keep up no matter the make or model Firebolt he endorsed. His initials were always delicately craved into broomstick’s wooden handle, even on the Firebolt Ethan current held onto now.
A boyish grin spread across his lips as Ethan nodded towards the pitch, eyes brimmed with nostalgia. Merlin, the hours they used to spend chasing one another through the air on those damn things. “Let’s see if this bad boy’s still got it then, yeah?”
Vegas couldn’t help that smile that blossomed on her face as she was met with one of Ethan’s signature smirks. How like Ethan to know exactly how to ease her nerves. She had always known his ego– though not without some justification, which she would not admit lest his head inflate even larger– was not always grounded in narcissism alone. He wanted to be here perhaps even less than she did, and yet there he was turning the charm on and trying to make her feel better. In fact, he had spent months making sure she was as worry-free as possible. The least she could do for him was attend a stuffy Gala and behave like a proper date rather than draw even further attention.
“Ah–Silly me, how could I forget?” Her tone was playful as she took his arm, tipping her head at him graciously. “I’m sure they were holding their breaths waiting for the Quidditch royalty to arrive–imagine their delight to hear you’ve brought an escaped convict along. Really helps with the bad boy look, aye?”
“‘Course. The Prophet will have a bloody field day. Imagine what they’ll think once we get the shots goin’.” Ethan winked, a crooked smile played on his lips as he looped his arm with Vegas’s. He was certainly the playful type, always reveling in the chance to joke around and drown his sorrows— even when about to be fed to wolves.
Nodding passed the prying eyes and over towards the refreshments, Ethan made a start for the them. If he was going to make it through the evening unscathed, he was going to need something strong. Something strong enough to get his mind off the events of the past five months– a blurred and bloody nightmare that had haunted him ever since. At least, taking care of Vegas helped to take the edge off.
Ethan Wood wasn’t wired to run away. Not from a bludger or a fight, a conquest or a challenge. Not even from a rabid monster as it bared its teeth and barreled towards him at ungodly speeds. Ethan didn’t think; he charged.
His feet pounded the ground picking up speed with all the strength of the golden Gryffindor lion he so desperately wanted to believe himself to be until his body collided with the monster pummeling him down to the ground. It was the only time Ethan Wood would have the upper hand.
On instinct, he reached for his empty pocket, but it was useless. His wand was already strewn beneath the snow. No matter the circumstance, he couldn’t back down now, not when he had to find Vegas.
The beast snarled in those wasted moments, jaw primed to gnash through human flesh as he tossed Ethan from on top of him slamming the chaser down to the cold hard earth. No stranger to taking a beating, Ethan found his footing just as the wolf did, but he was too slow for creature. It made the first move this time and lunged striking Ethan down to the ground, taking his feet out straight from under him.
Teeth bore into the muscle years and years of Quidditch training had painstakingly crafted. Ethan howled a battle cry that rivaled the beast itself, pawing at the earth in his own desperate attempt to free himself from the creature that mercilessly clamped onto his calf.
No use. Another slash seared his flesh slicing clean across his chest. Ethan’s vision blurred and pain surged through him dowsing the fire that once raged rabid in his chestnut irises. There was no team behind him or fans in the stands, but Ethan could have sworn he was no longer alone. Through the pain, he saw Alfie in front of him calling out, urging him on. Not to give in however, but to keep going, keep fighting. It wasn’t his time to join his brother just yet.
With a jagged breath, adrenaline shot through him, and Ethan rolled to the side, throwing up a final blow. The rest was unclear. All Ethan registered was that the wolf released it’s grip and retreated. The chaser managed to get to his hands and knees and staggered forward, clinging onto his last ounce of fight. It was fleeting, and he collapsed back down to the earth allowing the world around him to cascade all at once into darkness.
---
Ethan Wood wasn’t built to break. Not from a bludger or a fight, a conquest or a challenge. Not even from a rabid monster as it left him bleeding out on the cold hard ground. Ethan didn’t give in; he stirred, too stubborn to die.
The chaser didn’t know how long he’d been laying there or where he was for that matter, not to mention how the hell were his wounds were already sealed and dressed securely in bandages? The room didn’t look like St. Mungo’s, and there was no one around either, no one to say thank you to or answer the hundreds of questions he had. Could this have all been a figment of his imagination, a drunken romp gone terribly wrong? Was this how it ended: in the basement of some psycho chick he had done wrong?
Ethan’s first step off the tattered cushions told him otherwise. White-hot pain, surged through him, and he opted to rest for a few more minutes as he assessed the damage. Three carnivorous gashes seared Ethan’s bare chest. Each uneven, stretching from the bottom of his neck to his rib cage, sanguine and raw, matching dozens of other smaller ones that decorated the length of his athletic physique and the piece de resistance: the chuck of flesh torn from his calf, now sealed to keep him from perishing.
His clarity was short lived and blood rushed to this head, vision betraying him once again, and Ethan succumbed to a second spell of temporary darkness.
---
Ethan Wood wasn’t born to scare so easily. Not from a bludger or a fight, a conquest or a challenge. Not even from a rabid monster as it branded Ethan’s flesh forcing him to back to the start, deeper and deeper into the forest, rope in hand. Ethan didn’t cower; he trudged on.
It had been exactly one month. One month since his encounter with the wolf, and his mysterious savior. In the agonizing count down to the next full moon, much had occurred. Ethan had developed an urge to consume massive amounts of red meat, Vegas and the others were found—no help from him— and a new Minister of Magic was elected, which meant Ethan had to take to precautions.
He secured himself to a sturdy oak deep within the same English forest, unsure of exactly what lay ahead of him. All the books he never read in school clearly detailed his fate and even more tragic tales of victims begging for death rather than succumbing to the moon. Like hell Ethan was one of them; he’d fight.
In the fading rays of the sun, Ethan drew in a steady breath and closed his eyes allowing silvery moonlight to wash over him. Game on.
Ethan’s skin bubbled splintering apart like the bark of the tree he balanced a calloused hand on. Golden scarlet hairs sprouted from the cracks threatening to encase his entire flesh. His once chestnut irises melted into a heavy lifeless mahogany devoid of their famous, mischievous glint. He screamed, vertebrae shifting beneath his flesh like gears; audible cracks slicing through the moonlight air as loudly as his bellows. The rope snapped, and he fell onto all fours.
He was not Ethan Wood any longer, but the monster he always thought himself to be. He was his own demon.
Vegas took a deep breath upon seeing the crush of bodies filling the Great Hall. Of course, it was comforting that the venue be so familiar–and fitting considering just who she was attending the Gala with–but it would be her first time voluntarily attending such a public (and media-heavy) event since being found in The Fens. She found her hand gripping for Ethan’s wrist without much thought.
“Please tell me I’ve gone mad and I’m just imagining everyone staring.”
It didn’t matter that Ethan was trying to keep a low profile or that he didn’t really give a shit about politics, unless it affected quidditch, his presence at yet another stuffy, media ridden Gala was practically mandatory. He took some solace in the fact that there would be free booze and the company he kept this evening would be most welcomed. The chaser drew in a quick breath and plastered on a smile, not just for the prying eyes but for Vegas as well.
“Pssh, of course not, Veg.” Ethan said as he offered Vegas his arm and one of his infamous, mischievous smirks. Joking around always helped him get through these sort of events. “They’re obviously staring at me. Quidditch super star, remember?”
“Please, you didn’t even call me that when you were in school!” Julian laughed, watching him scribble onto pieces of parchment. Clearly his brother was in his element as the students rallied around him, but Julian wasn’t as great with an audience. At least not the kind where they expected everything of him and gave little back. He did feel a little like a bodyguard, at least trying to organize the students to fall in a haphazard line and to stop them from tugging at his robes.
He finally shooed the last of the students away—or tried to—but all he really did was wait for Ethan to follow him as he fast-walked to the broom shed near the pitch. Julian unlocked the door with a flick of his wand, then lit the lamps with quick tap. Most of the brooms there were covered in fingerprints, the tail twigs out of place and falling apart.
“The kids have these to work with—and I guess that’s why I’m trying to figure something out with Finley. Something that’ll stay nicer for longer, but not quite as terrifying a Firebolt or a Nimbus—hell, maybe those older Cleensweep models would work, but they’re not good for beginners…”
But Julian brushed past those and tapped his wand against one of the boards holding up the shed. A loud crack came as a response and from the roof dropped a broom—not a new one, by any means. Julian caught it with his free hand, his touch undusting the handle.
Ethan teased his brother back, a smile etched into the fissures of his jawline as he did so. The students in earshot chuckled at his jest, and Ethan playfully warned them not to mess with Professor Wood too much. Once he finished up a final signature and promised to sign more parchment later, the chaser jogged after his brother.
The route to the broom shed was familiar. Located on the same pitch that had once been home to a young, up and coming athlete on the edge of quidditch super stardom. Oh how the younger version of himself longed to leave the that very pitch, and move on to bigger and better things. To Fame. To Glory. To the World Cup… Now, it felt damn good to be back on the very pitch that helped raised him.
Firebolt in tow, Ethan stepped beside Julian and scanned the broom shed, grimacing at all the sorry excuses for broomsticks unable to hid his disgust. The selection was pitiful.
“You know, I could get my team on this, too and we could donate some Firebolts or Nimbuses. The Mapgies go through them like water....” Ethan rambled on completely missing Julian’s point about creating a flying device that wasn’t too scary for students, until a loud crack stopped him and a broom appeared from out of no where. “Shit Jules— what the hell?”
“Oi! Clear the courtyard—or I’m pulling points from all your houses!”
But only a few students really shuffled out of the way. Julian wasn’t allowed to use his wand on the students even if only to move them to the side, so he was wading past Gryffindors craning their necks to watch his brother arrive. Julian hadn’t announced that Ethan was visiting, except to McGonagall herself; no one else needed to know.
And as Ethan approached the castle, word spread quick of a new visitor coming on broomstick. The visibility in the spring time cleared the sky and students and staff alike were eager to enjoy the sunshine. Julian, with his arms outstretched, finally managed to push some of the students back to make room for his brother to land in the courtyard.
“Merlin, could you make an even less subtle entrance?” Julian was the first to greet his brother, throwing an arm around his shoulder and dragging him to the grounds. He tried giving a glare to the small crowd that had gathered, with a few students prepared with parchment and quill. Ethan’s visit was a first; Julian never talked about his more famous siblings and after answering so many times that he doesn’t know anything about how his brothers were doing, a lot of people just put the topic to rest.
“Come on, I gotta go to the broom shed first.”
@ethanwoodx
Whether Ethan tried to or not, the professional chaser always seemed to make an entrance where ever he went. Matches. Clubs. Bars. Charity events. Even today, on this clear spring afternoon, as his alma mater came into view. Naturally, Ethan soaked it all, waving down at his adoring fans and seizing the opportunity to show off. The days of strutting proudly through the Hogwarts corridors sporting his infamous scarlet and gold robes may have far behind Ethan, but as he looped through the cool English air the chaser couldn’t help but bask in the glory of how far he’d come. This was more like it.
Once Ethan touched down on the familiar grounds, he made his way over to his brother, scribbling his signature against a few pieces of parchment as he waded through the small crowd of students. The cheers and the swoons never seemed to get old, and after anything the chaser had been through he had almost forgotten just how damn good it felt to be adored by the public.
“You know, I can’t help it.” Ethan teased finishing up one last signature. He winked at the small crowd of students, mouthing that it was time to go before slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders as he followed him towards the pitch. It also felt damn good to have Julian in his corner instead of on the other side of the ring.
“Yeah, of course. Lead the way, Jules—” Ethan smirked, a familiar cheekiness to this demeanor. “Or should I say Professor Wood.”
Surprise flittered on Julian’s face. The way that Ethan called out to him didn’t sound pissed, he didn’t sound disappointed. Julian was sure that he knew that Julian didn’t just let him win either, so perhaps that was enough satisfaction for Ethan.
And Julian never remembered his brother ever being satisfied.
Ethan dropped to the ground too and Julian balked for a second when he offered his hand. Good game? Was Julian hallucinating? The shock washed over him for a second; Ethan was being relatively… kind, and Julian wasn’t even on his deathbed or anything. It was admittedly rather pleasant, even if Julian was… absolutely resolute on staying bitter for the rest of his life.
There was something so formal about a handshake, so oddly sportsmanlike that Julian had never seen in his family aside from formalities. Kids never told each other good game unless there was an adult around.
So here they were. Adults.
Julian took the handshake.
“We should—” Julian paused at we, because Ethan had better people to actually practice with, but decided to finish his sentence anyway. “—er, practice on a real pitch. Like at the school. And then I dunno, go to the castle for drinks or something.”
In the seconds it took for Julian to shake Ethan’s hand, he held his breath, half-convinced that he’d be left looking like an asshole with his hand outstretched and the stupid semblance of smile plastered across his face. He would have understood though. After all, it had taken his older to to nearly die, a drunken fight, and some back-alley quidditch for Ethan to finally get it through his thick skull that his brother was the one who was trying harder, and it was about damn time that he tried harder, too. No matter how much of little shit Ethan was or how much he was still struggling with the loss of his best friend, instead of fighting Julian for the quaffle anymore Ethan was going to pass it.
Relief flooded the chaser once Julian took his hand, allowing a moment of understanding to pass between them as Ethan nodded at his brother. The gesture wasn’t much, but at the same time it was everything. Everything that big, bad, dunderheaded jock Ethan still struggled to find the words for, a peace offering of sorts.
“Yeah, alright. That’d be cool.” Ethan agreed. He was barely expecting Julian to shake his hand back, let alone an invitation for another round of quidditch. The chaser wasn’t going to question it though. Instead, he merely let go of his brother’s hand and got a good look at the sorry excuse of a broom Julian had been using during their match.
A teasing smirk played on Ethan’s lips as he added, “Just one condition though— don’t bring that piece of shit.”
Ethan continued to thrust back and forth, working his hips selfishly against Dominique as her fingers dug into his backside. It was his turn to cash in, and he sure as hell was going to get his fill. He bit down hard on his lip, a thin layer of sweat beginning to cover him from brow-line to abdomen. Ethan was getting close, so close.
As the tension built then finally mounted, Ethan grunted and his body shuddered. The chaser gripped onto the couch cushions as he slumped forward, averting his gaze from Dominique in this vulnerable state as his body surrendered to the sensation that swelled deep within his abdomen. For the briefest of moments, his mind followed suit and went blank allowing all the trauma he carved to rid himself of to disappear.
Once the deed was done, Ethan pulled out, still catching his breath as he rolled himself off the blonde to the other side of the couch, never one to linger. It wasn’t his style, especially under the particular circumstances of their unique relationship. He heaved in a jagged breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling above in attempt to regain his bearings. “Well, fuck.”
The most Julian could do was anticipate his brother’s next move, after having already lost the quaffle. Julian flew wide to try to intercept the goal, but—
The quaffle was thrown over Ethan’s shoulder, backhanded into the goal. Julian was far enough away that he watched the quaffle zoom into the hoop and completely off the pitch. Even if he did go after it, he didn’t know where it had landed; there was a point beyond the makeshift stadium that wasn’t covered by the messy concealment charms (that were clearly not regulated by the Ministry) that it didn’t seem worthwhile to fetch it.
“Well—guess that’s it, I suppose?” Julian let himself drop gracefully onto the ground, nearly tripping when he felt the broom underneath him give out. He kept a mental note to tell and/or complain to Finley the next time he was visiting the Shacklebolts; he could blame the loss on this awful broomstick. “Congrats.”
Julian… didn’t understand what they were doing, but he never understood what they were doing. He was the one who instigated the game one-on-one, but Ethan was certainly asking for it. Didn’t Julian give him what he wanted? Julian was trying—and even if there was no appeasing his brother, Julian wasn’t the one could decide for Ethan to take it or leave it.
Ethan whirled around just in time, huffing as he watched the quaffle sail through the middle hoop. It was almost textbook Ethan Wood: flashy and dramatic, and powerful in nature, though this time riddled with all the pent up emotion of his past. Something that resembled a smile crept up his jawline in mild satisfaction and sheer relief. It was about damn time the old him showed up to the pitch today.
As the quaffle continued passed the goalposts, Ethan made a start to go after it, programed to do so ever since he could remember. From the corner of his eye, he spotted his brother dropping to the the ground instead of challenging him for the quaffle. At that, Ethan immediately changed course.
“Aw, c’mon. That’s it?” Ethan tried, calling down to Julian from the skies, his tone childish in nature resembling the old times of backyard quidditch at their family home. One more. One more. Five more minutes mum. Please! Never the less, it seemed that Ethan once again found himself with the wrong words to say and changing course for a second time.
Ethan slowed then gradually descended beside his brother. This time he extended a hand, offering it to Julian in an attempt to make amends. Sportsmanship wasn’t one of Ethan’s more notable qualities, but perhaps that was the very reason it might count for something. He nodded, unsure if this simple gesture would be enough.
Julian hissed. Ethan sped past him but Julian couldn’t possibly attribute that on the fact that Ethan had a professional racing broom. Julian wasn’t a stranger to the chase, but damn it had been a long time since Julian had probably played any broom sports. His balance was better than he had anticipated with a quaffle—clearly he had surprised even Ethan despite having missed his most recent shot.
But Julian was still too far to intercept the goal that Ethan had made, so the most he could do was try to take possession once the quaffle had gone through the hoop. Instead of following directly behind, Julian swooped underneath to try to scoop the ball into his hands—
Except he had undercalculated his reach. The tips of his fingers brushing against the leather just enough to change its trajectory, but not enough to secure it. It was a risky move more reminiscent of a seeker catching the snitch, rather than a chaser attempting to score. At the very least, Julian managed not to curse too loudly even if the two of them were tied.
Julian was painfully aware that he was losing fractional seconds in trying to redirect his broom towards the quaffle, having ducked his head down to narrowly miss the hoop again.
Ethan didn’t waste time celebrating. Not even a fist pump or a cheer. The chaser had learned the hard way just how valuable those precious seconds after scoring could truly be and how so much could change when caught up in the glory and the fame of it all. Quidditch had become than just the glory and frame. No longer not just a game. Not to Ethan. Not anymore. It was now about legacy, and Ethan intended to one day leave one worthy of late best mate.
Besides, what was there to celebrate, anyway? A measly goal? It was nothing to be proud of. He was a professional chaser for crying out loud. This was his job, and it was about damn time he finally got some points on the board, especially against Julian.
Instead of basking in the glory, Ethan was focused on the quaffle, already planning his next move to reclaim it. He dove swiftly, a step ahead as Julian narrowly missed his chance to secure it again.
Once the quaffle changed direction and began to plummet to the ground, Ethan had to think fast. He trusted his instincts and charged, securing it in his possession for half of a second. No time to turn around, he flung the quaffle backwards over his shoulder in a blind attempt to send it through the hoop.
Ethan became even more smug taking the name calling as a compliment and a reminder of the cocky athlete he was before the World Cup. It fueled him to keep going allowing the chaser to continue pleasuring Dominique as he worked his fingers faster and faster until she finished and opened her eyes. He met her gaze in approval, hungry for more.
Instinct drove the chaser now and he moved quickly still in need of his own release. If he had gotten to know the blonde at all since this unconventional understanding of theirs began, he knew that there was a possibility things could end here and Ethan would be left unsatisfied again just like the night at the Valentine’s Day party. But there was no way in hell he’d let it happen a second time.
Adrenaline shot through Ethan as he slipped his fingers from inside Dominique and positioned his hands on each side of her bare waist. It was impossible for him to deny himself of his climax any longer. He had been a good lad and put the work in, and now it was time for the final round. With that, he pressed his length between Dominique and trust his athletic frame into her starting off steady and building with each drive of his hips.
Julian was actually not going to stay long; he had done his one cute trick of having shown off a bit and having caught his brother by surprise, even if the approach in midair was rather sloppy. Lack of practice. Lack of a broom that actually worked.
Except he was eager to wipe that dumb grin off his face. God, Ethan looked like such an idiot sometimes.
The awful broom managed to keep Julian balanced as he made a sharp turn back to the hoops. This time, Julian’s outreached hand swiftly pushed the quaffle from under Ethan’s arm—another successful steal—and he made a wide circle around his opponent before shouting back that Julian accepted this challenge, even woefully disadvantaged.
Not that it mattered. It was the first time Julian had flown to play in nearly a decade. In the air, the competition felt friendlier, if only because an angry first was easier to evade on a broom than on foot.
“Fine—I’ve already got a point on you anyway.” Julian was going to count his awkward attempt to steal and score—because he did score. The sentence, however, would have been much more effective had Julian actually put the quaffle through the hoop when he said it.
Ethan grumbled the second time he lost the quaffle, not expecting his brother’s athletic abilities to return to him so quickly. What had it been centuries since Ethan had last played with Julian causing the death of the unstoppable dream team of chasers? Sure, the brothers were trained by the same coach—their legendary quidditch superstar of a father, but Ethan hadn’t anticipated Julian’s swift hand to stand the test of time. Whether the younger Wood wanted to accept it or not, it seemed that his brother was still his most worthy opponent on this pitch.
“Consider it a gift!” Ethan shouted back at Julian. His brother could have that one measly point, but Ethan sure as hell wouldn’t secede quietly. The chaser picked up speed as he zeroed in on his opponent in an attempt to pressure him into making a move. This wasn’t just some stupid game of underground quidditch anymore; it was personal.
Once the quaffle failed to make it through the hoop, Ethan seized the opportunity and charged forward again allowing all 6ft 5′11 of burly limbs and muscle to knock passed Julian on his way to snag the quaffle, half strategy and half because it felt damn good. He braced himself and dove for the leather bound ball, securing it tightly under his arm en route to even the score.
“Faster, huh?” Ethan teased, letting his shit eating grin do the rest of the talking for him. He never really was any good at following directions anyway. Instead, he deliberately slowed, taking his sweet time as Dominique squirmed beneath him and made her demands. None the less, they fueled him and managed to give the chaser the ego boost he was craving, turning him on even further.
After a few lingering moments of teasing, Ethan gave in to Dominique’s request, finding a rhythm as he pumped faster and faster with his occupied hand. His free hand wandered upwards, syncing to his movements and gripping her chest, his mouth anywhere he could reach. Whether on the pitch or off, Ethan always took great pride in a job well done, and tonight would be no different.
Watching Quidditch from the sidelines had been one thing, but actually being on a broom herself an playing it? It was a completely different feeling. She felt free. Like she could do anything while up in the air. She thought that that was what freedom would feel like. Not that she had ever had it. In the air no one could tell her what to do. The feeling was new, but it was nice.
Knowing that Ethan was a professional player she figured it must be frustrating for him to lose. She didn’t think it was his fault that his team lost, she didn’t think that many of the people playing here today were actual professionals. If he was playing with his team they probably would’ve won every game. It was obvious that he was angry and she felt like she played a part in that. Colette didn’t think the evening they spent together talking was distracting him during the game, but if it did she owed him an apology.
“Thank you.” She nodded once, not trying to gloat but a small smile did appear at the corner of her lips again. “Well, I am planning on getting better with time.” As long as her parents didn’t find out and scream at her for being a disappointment to them and their legacy, that was. “Is there anything specific you noticed I should get better at?”
“Yeah, you’re welcome. It’s whatever.” Ethan tried, frustration still apparent in his tone. The smile Colette continued to sport wasn’t helping either and he rolled his eyes no matter how pretty he hated to admit it was. “I don’t know, why don’t you go—” Ethan cut himself short, stopping the retort before he said something that he would later regret, something about why not going to ask her husband for pointers instead of him.
Never the less, the chaser shook his head, heat and frustration beginning to settle in his cheeks as he replayed the dreadful match over and over again in his tactical mind. Pissed off or not, Ethan knew that his loss wasn’t Colette’s fault, and he had to acknowledge that for a first time she really did look pretty good out there. If he hadn’t known any better, Ethan may have even thought she had played his beloved sport before or at the very least that her Abraxian training had translated well onto to the Quidditch pitch.
“Look—” he tired again, the initial bite in tone dissipating. The chaser brought a calloused hand to nape of his neck, shrugging as he sighed and dropped his gaze. Ethan may have had the whole post-match sweaty, athletic style down to a science, but defeat was a look the chaser did not wear well. “I’m really not in the bloody mood right now, alright?”
Julian sprinted forward, dropping the beater’s bat as he mounted the broom. Merlin, who was he to tell Ethan what to do?
Try harder.
The wind whipped through his hair as he lifted off in the air. He sped towards his brother, half unsure of what he was going to do or what he was doing. But for all the wanting to knock Ethan off his broom, he certainly had the opportunity now.
Try harder.
Julian collided with Ethan in midair, not bothering to slow down—mostly because he didn’t have any intention behind what he was doing, so much as he just wanted to provoke Ethan into being less of a little shit. Julian was never going to get credit even if he did try.
The quaffle slipped from Ethan’s hands and without much to stop him, Julian reached for it, reaching for the opportunity for the half second he had the advantage. It wasn’t much of one; his hands were slippery and his grip on the quaffle was at a weird angle with the way this experimental broom flew slightly off balance. Finley wasn’t the best at broom design, evidently.
Without looking back, he nonchalantly tossed the quaffle into the closest hoop and watched it lackadaisically make an arc as he scored. It was a lot less embarrassing than dropping the ball right after he had kind of stolen it from Ethan. It was already slipping from his grasp anyway.
A string of curses followed Ethan as he sped after his brother nearly catching up to him before the quaffle was carelessly tossed through the makeshift hoops. Ethan couldn’t have rolled his eyes harder. Who the hell did Julian think he was trying to get a rise out him? The chaser had already been humiliated enough for one day—multiple losses and mistaken identities for starters— he sure all hell wasn’t about to go down without a fight and lose again.
With that, Ethan finally caught up to his brother, bumping him back lightly with just the tip of his shoulder as he flew passed him, sights set on a different target. Instead of going after Julian, Ethan dove, faster and faster to ground, chasing after the quaffle as he was trained to do. He gripped his broomstick handle with his right hand and bent forward to create more speed, stretching his fingertips until the quaffle found his left hand, making a show of what he deemed to be one of his signature, spectacular dives.
Ethan paused before making a start for the far hoop, a shit-eating smirk and a challenge etched in the fissures of his jawline. Like all things Wood, it would have to settled on the pitch. “First to ten wins.”
