WHO: Howell Williams, Drystan Fawcett & Saoirse Mullet
WHAT: AHAHAHA no but actually WWIII
WHERE: Istanbul! Holly and Saoirse's room
WHEN: today!

As she roughly pushed Howell down into the chair behind him, Saoirse fleetingly thought that this was reminiscent of how they had spent their summer months together last year. With exciting, hot grasps, that included little verbal exchange, a general disregard for anything else in that moment except each other, and, of course, a great dedication to divesting each other from clothing. She had immediately taken it upon herself to attend to that final matter, barely waiting until they had made it into the room she and Holly had called home for the past two and a half weeks, before ripping off her boyfriend’s shirt and throwing it to their feet.

Jumping to meet his lips again, Saoirse rushed to straddle him, her hands briefly running through his hair before frantically moving on. They raced down his neck, then his bare chest, only stopping when an intoxicating shiver took over her as his hands went under her shirt to do a bit of racing of their own.

She had missed this, she had missed his touch, she had missed him--- though the longing Saoirse did not realize she had was not meant to be confused with the breaking down of all personal vows she had made for the month. She had been doing very well, not speaking to, seeing, or even thinking about Howell so far, but was the matter even plausible when the door to your lift opens to reveal him standing there, lonesome with no one else in sight?

It was really rather surprising that they made even it a floor before attacking each other.

A noise nothing short of an indecent moan escaped her, and Saoirse scrunched her shoulders up and hunched her back more to kiss Howell properly. Fiercely. Unreservedly. His mouth made her weak, his taste made her forget any previous thoughts that had ever possessed her, and she only briefly relinquished her grasp on him to help pull her own shirt off. How in the world had she lasted this long without him? Saoirse pushed herself closer to Howell to not have to think about it a second longer.

He worked her with a single-minded focus, a single-minded fury. They hadn't spoken a word, although there had been a symphony of moans, of groans, of breathy sighs and meaningless whispers. It was like a play-by-play of their every past encounter, and he was selfishly grateful for the familiarity, for the lack of expectation and nerves, although he had never before had to tamp down on a hot swell of emotions that threatened to close his throat when he felt something as simple as Saoirse's hands through his hair.

His time in Istanbul had been… interesting, that being the safest, blandest word he could think of to describe it. Howell's spirits had been low entering the Cup, and not even the victory of Wales could cure him. The stint in jail had done little for his morale, and he now had to avoid the formidable pink-haired Wendy, and not only because he'd yet to buy her something suitably pretty. He hadn't had a destination, hadn't even had a real plan in his head as the doors to the lift slid open, when who should he see, but the girl he had tried his dismal best to not let haunt his every waking, and often sleeping, moment?

One look was all it had taken before they were wrapped around each other.

Howell let her guide them, unseeing and absolutely uncaring about where they were headed, as long as he could keep his hands on her. It wasn't until she'd pushed him down into the chair and fell into place so beautifully in his lap that he even realised they were in a room—her room, he presumed, but he wasn't bothered with the details.

But when he'd felt flesh on flesh, his eyes fluttered open, cleared of the haze of lust, and he saw Saoirse bowed over him, tossing the shirt over her shoulder without a care. The image was frozen in his mind even when her lips closed over his again. Lax for a moment, his hands then curled around her possessively, jerking her even closer, if it was possible. His fingers stroked reverently at the pale, smooth flesh of her sides, and he thought it possible, even reasonable, that he would suffer heart failure at any second.

As he contemplated his sudden but entirely unpleasurable death in fits, starts, and half-formed thoughts, a noise pervaded. Somewhere, he supposed, in the foggy recesses of his mind that were not entirely focused on Saoirse, sadly surprised as he might be that such things did in fact exist, he could hear a loud rap on a door, a slight click as something slid forward. "Saoirse," a voice rumbled, "did you forget we—"

Her eyes snapped open and Saoirse froze, staring wide-eyed at Howell with her mouth still firmly caught on his. She knew who was in the doorway the moment he breathed in before evoking her name, for it was within that millisecond that reality crashed down on her. Drystan, she had been taking the lift down to meet Drystan, and, when she hadn’t shown up downstairs, he had come up here to look for her, for how easy was that when the rooms were adjoined? How could she be so stupid? Of course he would come up here to check first, neither of them were tardy people, or ones that knowingly skipped planned meetings.

Her nostrils flared, and Saoirse could not subdue her heavy breathing enough to speak, let alone dare pull her gaze up to the man in the doorway. She had not told Drystan about Howell yet, thinking it wiser to wait until after the season was over, when there wasn’t as much going on, and there wouldn’t be opportunities for anything irrational to happen. It had been well-intended, she had wanted to control their first meeting to ensure that Howell would be well-liked; it was very important to her that Drystan approved of him, but now?

Well, now, she was indecently straddling her boyfriend he had no idea about with flushed lips and her shirt off. This was not going to end well.

Images of terror concerning the next few minutes filled her head, and out of concern for Howell and a deep unwillingness to be parted from him, Saoirse curled her grip on him. Perhaps she was overreacting, jumping the jinx. Maybe Drystan wouldn’t even mind, and she would be able to silently scold herself for all ridiculous notions considered. Keeping to this faint hope, Saoirse jerkily began to move and cover her scantily clad front with her arm.

“Drystan!” she let out, half strangled, half warning, and with a bit of apprehension.

Drystan's voice had died a noisy, strangled death in his throat as he surveyed the scene before him with shocked, wide eyes. It was supposed to be a day like any other. No match played (THANK THE BLOODY LORD FOR THAT) this day, but he and his fellow Chaser were to scope out some of their competition's training, and practise some of the new play they'd developed in the last week before deciding to employ it at the Cup.

They were punctual people; it was yet another quality in Saoirse that he both liked and prided himself on having. When she had not met him on time, he hadn't felt annoyance, but a slight apprehension. Tardiness was unusual for her, and being that she was a twenty year old girl (a twenty year old girl of a very specific ilk), Drystan wondered dryly if trouble had found her as he set off to investigate.

WELL. Little had he known!

A moment or two had ticked by in absolute silence before comprehension dawned, but the bare skin shortly had his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Separate!" he barked, snapping his arm out to the side, index finger rigidly extended. The lack of response had him snarling, "Now!"

Nope, not at all, she had been completely sound in her assumptions. Saoirse’s jaw set tight at Drystan’s words, and she immediately felt torn between following them for the sake of the situation, and defying them purely on the grounds of their delivery. Separate? Her hold on Howell tightened, and her arm covering her chest dropped to push on his chest, in case he had succumbed to Drystan’s orderly tone.

She was not about to scramble off embarrassed and stand before Drystan like they had been doing something wrong, that much Saoirse knew. But how prudent would it be to doing anything else? Not very. Which created a very... unfortunate situation, because he most certainly was not going to order her, or Howell, around like that. And she had so wanted Drystan to like him....

Saoirse’s eyebrows went high, and her back straightened indignantly. “Excuse me?” she let out coolly, putting aside her place for her pride. She made sure to look at Drystan directly, and make it clear that she was, in fact, not moving an inch if this was going to be how he acted. It was amazing how little she was suddenly concerned about her lack of upper frontal body coverage.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Saoirse spoke smoothly, calmly.

If Drystan could be thinking, which he currently was unable to at that moment in time, his thoughts would have been a repetition of This can't be happening again, these girls are actively trying to give me grey hairs before my seventies, cannot IMAGINE what would happen if I had walked in on Pen—

But luckily for all, his head was blank as a canvas, though there was a steadily twitching muscle just to the upper left of his eye. "Can't I?" he replied just as evenly, even if the tone was ice. His arms were deliberately crossed across his chest, the better to stare her down as he fought every single impulse to stride the five feet to her and pluck her out of the pawing arms of some fecking junior Casanova eejit who had the bright idea of trying to sully his pristine protege.

"Skipping out on a team practise in order to do… this." Drystan's voice was drier than the Sahara as his gaze roved dismissively over the boy she was sitting on, and narrowed further, giving Drystan the satisfaction of seeing his face turn a dull red. He couldn't even trouble himself to wonder who the boy was, because it would matter very little in, oh, about three minutes, or so.

"No, I'm thinking I rather can, as apparently you've lost every shred of common sense you've ever had."

“The only thing that’s lost is your decency,” she snapped, feeling her face begin to trickle red. He had some nerve implying--- it wasn’t a team practice, barely a--- important, yes, but that didn’t--- it wasn’t of--- Saoirse felt her mouth tighten, as she felt aggravated, with herself or Drystan it was impossible to tell, but aggravated and embarrassed nonetheless. It was extremely difficult to remember that he was, in his mind, keeping her best interest at heart when he openly insulted her.

The shameful burn that was within her concerning Howell having to experience this exchange (and being dealt his own helping of shade) was swiftly pushed aside to make room for a steely defense. She had done nothing that--- well. Drystan did not--- well. She let out a low, frustrated sound, annoyed that she could not yet get justifiably feisty while knowing that Drystan was operating without all the facts.

Not that Saoirse thought it would make any difference, but at least then she could guiltlessly rip Drystan’s head off for his out-of-turn words.

Finally deciding it prudent, she shot from her seat to pull her shirt off the ground and jam it back over her head. “And your tact,” she added, pulling her hair from out underneath her collar with much more force than necessary. With that done, Saoirse moved onto a greater task as she weighed her next words: obtaining Howell’s shirt that was mere inches from Drystan’s feet. Never wavering from the intent of retrieving it herself, she took the few steps necessary to lean over and grab it, all the while looking up at Drystan as she spoke.

“I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend if I want to.”

Boyfriend This thing was her boyfriend? She was not old enough to be having boyfriends!

That is to say, had he realised that, one day, Saoirse would possibly require some sort of companionship? Yes, of course, he wasn't an idiot.

But he had thought, perhaps (well, not perhaps, more like with absolute certainty), she would focus on the game for a few years more. And he would bring out that nice boy from Q.U.A.B.B.L.E. he was saving for her, say, when she had turned twenty-five and had three championship rings under her belt, and then they would begin a nice, gentle courtship.

Someone had veered off the course rather spectacularly.

"Decency," he sneered, "is honouring commitments to one's teammates. Tact," added Drystan, "would mean I want to avoid giving offence, which is the direct opposite of my present intentions."

Abandoning dignity, slightly red in the face, but standing steadily, if rigidly, he of the grabby hands hazarded, "If I may—" but Drystan cut the boyfriend a look of pure venom that had him biting down on the words.

"I suggest you don't," he interrupted in a dangerously pleasant voice, holding up a finger to stop him. Drystan jerked his head toward the shirt Saoirse gripped, quiet rage sparking in him at the fact that it was his girlfriend retrieving the article for him. "I do suggest you get dressed," And get very far away, " and you," he glanced back at Saoirse, sparing them both the dress comment, "kiss your boyfriends on your own time."

He gave the broad-shouldered boy another look of undisguised distaste, trying to think of why the face tugged strings in him. There was no way this was a Swiss player, but surely Saoirse had the better sense than to be with any rival player. Under the layers of shocked outrage, a mild panic began to stir.

Jaw hardened, he told Saoirse, "Meet me in the lobby in five minutes' time, or don't bother coming at all."

Saoirse let out a couple of low, loud, wounded, and unbelieving breaths. Watching Drystan with a blanched and burned expression, she felt unable to function much more under this crippling embarrassment he was easily enveloping her in. Because she quite had, hadn’t she? Simply... dropped... what she had been doing to.... quidditch was... always supposed to come first...

Her gaze fell to the floor, a deep self-disappointment filling her as she momentarily let herself fell back into the recess of her mind. And, she would have stayed like that, Saoirse would have let Drystan continue on with his shaming tirade until he departed, feeling little moved to defend Howell anymore than she already had, if she had not continued to vaguely register Drystan’s words.

“Boyfriends!” she hissed suddenly, flaring back to her former anger within seconds. Boyfriends? Boyfriends? A new level of rage snapped within her, and Saoirse’s back stiffened so straight it hurt. Howell was not one of many, that concept didn’t even exist in her life--- or had it been meant that he would be nothing more of a throwaway? Or, that she couldn’t possibly understand what the title meant, and Drystan was mocking her like an unknowing child?

Enraged at this thought, Saoirse charged forward, balling the fabric in her hand together tightly. It had been intended to be thrown to the ground in a fit, but somehow Howell’s shirt ended up getting hurled across the room at the receding back of Drystan’s head.

“What is that supposed to mean?!” Saoirse screeched, her hands balling into two small fists. She slid slightly as she came to a halting stop a few feet in front of him.

The aim of the shirt was deadly, but the impact, however much Saoirse might wish it, was not. The material all but whispered down his back as it fell, though Drystan guessed her intent behind the throw easily enough. Steeling himself, he had to raise one eyebrow disdainfully as he paused on his way out, turning slightly to look down at the crumpled cloth on the ground, then at the angry girl behind him.

"I seem to recall you being a smart witch," he said coolly, jerking the door to the suite open. Stepping through, his hand convulsed around the doorknob as he gripped it tightly. When he looked back a second time, his eyes skimmed right over Saoirse to the still-standing boyfriend, still flushed, but without the shell-shocked expression on his face. Drystan's sneer dropped, and his face was stony and impassive as he tossed, "Figure it out," at her before slamming the door.