Inspired by Regina Spektor's 'I Cut Off My Hair'. Reviews would be HIGHLY appreciated.
You're a Beater-kisser, Oliver, with Chaser-hands and a Snitch-heart, golden and impossible to be sure and my hands are all down your back and I hear your pulse slam and I know, I know, I know what it says.
It says Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch. Why wouldn't it? That's what you live, Oliver; that's what you breathe.
Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch.
You are a reckless enthusiast and a manic and you strategize with those glinting hazel eyes: strategize, re-strategize, move us around on the field like chess.
But when it goes well, when we win, when wide-eyed little Harry Potter catches the Snitch in a few snarled breaths and Lee Jordan screams the score, then you celebrate.
You celebrate and for half a moment I can pretend I hear
Katie, Katie, Katie
The definition of a crazy person is someone who does the same thing over and over again while expecting new results.
The first time you kissed me, I, damn little fool that I was, thought it meant something. You tumbled off your broom, you gorgeous, graceless fuck, and I was yelling and so were you and blood was booming in me. You had a Seeker-look in your eyes and you kissed me and I thought I'd fallen through a goal hoop.
You kissed me you really did and there was an ecstasy of wolf-whistling and shouting.
You kissed me and stars bloomed in my tangled arteries. You were fast breathing and hard hands but you did it well (not that I had much basis for comparison) and I wanted to tell you (but I couldn't because my mouth was caught in you) that you tasted like Quidditch—like rain and practice and rage and sweat. Like avarice.
Your fingers slid down the neck of my robes and they were hot and deliberate and I was a flying shudder of a person, a blur on a broomstick again as you toyed under my bra strap.
(Kissing you felt oddly like playing Quidditch, and the worst part is that makes sense.)
You kissed me and I wanted to tell you everything honestly everything and you smelled like victory. You kissed me like you played the game (you're a reckless enthusiast and a manic) and I wanted to tell you there was something utopian and exhilarating in the bone on the side of your wrist. You kissed me and I wanted to tell you I love you I love you I love you I love everything about you and I wanted, just once, to make the awful pun about you being a Keeper.
You pulled back. You stopped kissing me. You were beautiful and filthy like a swear word and I wanted to shake Quidditch from every bone in your body (to make room just a little room for me) but I couldn't, I only gawked at you, a still shot of a blurred person. Caught mid-flight.
Your mouth pulled up on one side, and your left eyebrow went up in an unconscious pornography.
"Some match, eh, Bell?"
And you walked off all muddy robes and messy hair and still, untouched heart (a Snitch heart, wicked fast and damn near impossible to see) and there was a roaring in my ears and I could hear for the first time the dull echo of your pulse.
Quidditch, quidditch, quidditch.
The definition of a crazy person is someone who does the same thing over and over again while expecting new results.
So it happened. Again and again.
So I kissed you the second time, the third, the thousandth, until it became another part of being on the team, another practice routine.
So we celebrate. You kiss me like Quidditch practice (rough, breathless, at all hours), like it's a purely physical exercise. I roar past myself in a thunder-pulsed blur, stopped short whenever you pull away. You are a reckless enthusiast and a manic and you're devastating and careless because you're great.
You kiss with an impersonal violence and I do the same because I want to leave some imprint of me on you, some Katie was here, some awareness that your tongue is in my mouth and it's not training and I EXIST, God damn it. So I jam myself against you, clench at your windy hair, try to rattle my way into your ribs. Knock sense of me into you and catch the Snitch and win the game
And maybe maybe maybe drown out with my booming heart and racing breath and clutching hands the dismal melody of
Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch.
The definition of a crazy person is someone who does the same thing over and over again while expecting new results.
It's another game, and we're at it again.
We're at it and Oliver Oliver Oliver and I can't breathe and you don't care but I love you love you love you like salt, like stars, like flirting with Death on a broom galaxies above the ground. You pull my body to yours and it's like an eclipse and your hard, hard cheekbones are jammed against mine and there's passion, merciless crimson killing roaring passion pumping in every atom of your body and Oliver Oliver Oliver.
You are triumphant and burning and bright, a manic, a stern brilliant, a sweat-clogged, dirt-winged angel Gabriel and I'm just Chaser Bell.
Chaser Bell, who barely exists
Chaser Bell, who is just a mouth and a robe and two hands that score goals
But you are austere and insane and obscene and I hear your pulse slam and Oliver just once kiss me. I'm a soaring shiver way out in space on some God-forsaken broom and I hate you I hate you because I can't stop and quidditch quidditch quidditch not Katie Katie Katie, never Katie Katie Katie but maybe one day.
Maybe one day I'll clutch the Snitch with my aching, clumsy fingers and Bludger you with my being, my breathing and thinking and existing as an entity outside of this fucking game.
(This game you love so so much and I don't understand)
Maybe one day I'll kiss you and you'll blur with me and
Maybe one day you'll say my name like you say the winning score and
Maybe one day maybe maybe maybe.
Maybe one day the thumping of your wrists will roar Katie, Katie, Katie.
The definition of a crazy person is someone who does the same thing over and over again while expecting new results