#Harry’s finally starting to look grungy

[rynli]

this is a shame and a disappointment.

[graymatters]

Triptych

M | 1.8K | On AO3 | Veela!Draco, body horror, blood, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mild sexual content 

Many thanks to @corvuscrowned for the beta work 💚 and to @floydig for all the horror chats 😂

i.

The spine of a single feather, sleek and wet with blood, erupts from the thin skin draped over my collarbone. It mocks me in the bathroom mirror, unsightly and pale quills stained pink. My shoulders droop, and my spine rounds, a weary folding beneath the weight of an unsurprising development, as a crimson droplet runs smooth down my ribs.

“Babe, are you ready to go?” Harry calls from the bedroom. He’s taken to calling me babe lately. The word knocks about in my skull, overstaying its welcome.

“What’s it called when little birds shed their feathers?” I ask my reflection, arching forward until my breath fogs the glass. My nose wrinkles at the stench, prompting a swift snatch of my toothbrush from the plastic cup on the sink.

“Er…” Harry ponders as he waltzes into the bathroom, running an aimless hand through his hair. In the reflection, I watch him smooth over my naked back and bum with heavy-lidded eyes, lips tugged upward in an appreciative grin and glasses crooked on the sunburnt bridge of his nose. I think he might be perfect, and it terrifies me.

“Mulching?”

Almost, my dear, but not quite.

“Molting, I think,” I murmur around my toothbrush, scraping the frayed bristles violently against my gums.

“That’s what I said.”

“No.” I spit, frowning at the bright blood tinting the frothy toothpaste. “Molting. Not mulching.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening as he looks at my chest in the mirror. And I mean looks, not the passing glance that you toss at the empty glass that’s sat on your end table for three days, not the glassy gaze of a Seeker fading into auto-pilot above the pitch. No, I’m talking about the undivided attention afforded to a tragic train derailment with dozens of fatalities, the careful pondering over a loaf of bread that may have gone off, the terrifying and wondrous stare of finding your enemy naked in your bed.

“Draco, are you bleeding?” He moves to grip my shoulders but stops when he gets a closer look, hands held mid-air as though his puppeteer got bored, hung his strings on the hook, and took a smoke break. “Is that a—”

“I never could tell if Mother was serious about the Veela blood.” I frown as Harry still stands, unmoving but for the tremble in his fingers. “Harry, why are you shaking?”

Harry doesn’t answer as I lean across the sink, poking at the delicate spine with my fingertip. He just stares dumbly at my reflection, mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers. I huff a laugh through my nose, feeling the universe’s sick sense of humor settle heavily over my bloodied chest.

“I wonder if I’ll molt.”

Read ii. & iii. below the cut.

ii.

Harry’s left the cap off the toothpaste again, leaving it to ooze onto the bathroom countertop. I could easily dismiss the caked-on paste from the porcelain. All it would take is a snap of my fingers, a muttered jumble of pseudo-Latin under my breath to make it disappear. However, a crescendo of unfortunate events through the week culminated in a Ministry-issued number that replaced my name, a reminder of the creature that replaces my identity. The thought numbs my limbs, rattles my nerves, and prickles at the remnants of my fleeting patience.

“Harry!”

“Did you say something, Draco?” he shouts from down the hall. I wait, listening for footsteps that don’t come.

“Harry! Will you come here for a minute?” A rustle of irritation blooms beneath my skin, scaly skin and ivory feathers shifting restlessly, eager to surface. With a forced sigh, I snap my eyelids shut, concentrating on pulling the musty bathroom air in and out of my lungs.

“What is it, babe? Is everything all right?”

I open my eyes, meeting my own steely gaze in the mirror. The skin over my neck, my collarbone, my temple, crawls with the anxious magic that pulses underneath, like a spider’s trapped beneath the surface. I can almost see the iridescent shimmer of that scaly skin that lurks somewhere between the delicate dermal layers that cover my neck. Harry catches my stare, his gaze soft and a sleepy smile plastered on his face. He looks at me like there isn’t ruinous blood in my veins, like the war in my body doesn’t seep out of my pores, infecting the air between us like the stench of a rotting corpse.

“Draco, what’s wrong?”

I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve him, but he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care. And this week has been so very long.

“Nothing, love.” My eyes fall to the open tube of toothpaste as I reach an unsteady hand out behind me, softening once I feel the slide of Harry’s fingers between mine.

He moves to stand behind me, wrapping his hands over my ribs and dotting honeyed kisses along my neck and shoulders like he can’t see the rustle of feathered plumes tucked deep in the sinewy fibers. Though guilt twists in my gut, strangling my lungs and wringing my heart, I ignore it, instead melting beneath Harry’s touch.

“You’re so gorgeous, Draco,” he murmurs behind my ear. “Look at you,” he whispers, softly gripping my neck beneath my jaw, forcing me to stare myself down in the mirror as his other hand dips beneath my waistband, palming my cock. “So fucking gorgeous.”

Thoughts blurred, I gasp as he ruts against my arse, as I thicken in his hand and a heady rush soothes the irritable magic that bristles beneath my skin. I groan against the pressure of his palm over my throat, feeling the vibration in my chest.

He catches my eye in the mirror, raising a brow in silent question. I nod in answer, preening at the satisfied smirk that overcomes Harry’s face as he slips a spit-slicked finger inside me, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure.

“So fucking beautiful, and you’re all mine.”

And then I hum, a pleased and pathetic whimper of a song, because I know he’s right.

iii.

The heat of the shower burns my skin, painting my limbs and the tops of my feet in a pink, watercolor flush. I let the water strip away the remnants of the evening, the cigarette smoke that clings to my hair and the grease and salt lodged beneath my fingernails. It doesn’t wash away the memories of the Weasel’s grimace, or the distasteful curl of Granger’s lip. Instead, they linger, trapped in the clouds of steam like a bird’s wings, wet with oil.

“Draco? Are you here? Awfully nice of you to run out on me like that. Ron and Hermione are sure to love you, now.”

A single, vehement beep pierces the thick air of the bathroom, cascading into a series of agonizing tones as the fire alarm protests the steam of the shower.

I look up from my spot on the tile floor, entranced by the flashing red light on the screeching machine.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry bursts through the door and yells over the blare of the alarm. “How long have you been in here?” He clambers onto the countertop to reach the horrid device, fumbling with the buttons before finally ripping it from its base on the ceiling. It falls to the floor; a smattering of dusty plastic shards decorates the floor on impact.

“Draco, are you even listening?”

I nod, feeling the itch of magic over my palms, the roll of frustration between my shoulder blades.

“Draco?” He opens the shower door, eyes following the stream of water that falls from the tip of my nose. “What’s wrong?”

My vision blurs, the yellow bathroom light, shining stellate over the grungy shower tile.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, eyes wide and incredulous as an unhinged laugh crawls out my lips. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”

A curl falls in his eyes, damp from the humid air. His gaze is soft, aching, like he wants to wipe away the malicious glances, the tainted blood in the rotten chambers of my heart, the ink on my arm.

Loving him is too much.

Anxious anger burns a trail starting at the tips of my fingers, drawing claws to break through the skin beneath my nails and a black, tarry flush to creep towards my elbows like my arms have been dipped in soot. I roll my neck at the feeling of hundreds of feathery needles piercing through the skin of my collarbone, my neck, my shoulders. A flash of pain, lightning hot, grips my spine as a set of wings punctures the surface between my shoulder blades, hanging low in the tight space of the shower.

The water runs red, my back hot from the wash of blood.

With a guttural roar, I whip towards Harry, wanting to squeeze his ribs between my disfigured hands and feel the stutter of his breath.

But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t turn to walk away. In fact, rather than a look of fear or disgust, Harry watches me the same way Mother watched me when my pet Kneazle died, devoured by the Nepenthes. Like I’m still a child who doesn’t know what to do with his hurt.

“Draco, I’m sorry—”

“You’re in love with a fucking monster, Harry. Why are you even here?” A heat burns beneath my palms as I grip the frame of the shower.

Harry sighs, taking a slow and careful step forward to shut off the water, leaving a slow trickle to caress the smooth surface of my wings.

“Come here, Draco,” he whispers, gesturing for me to step out of the shower. “Come on, babe; I’ve got you.”

Loving him is too much. Too much to weather. Too much to resist.

I tumble into his arms, catching a blood-stained, ivory wing on the shower door and jostling Harry’s glasses. As the fog of the mirror clears, I watch as my face appears, nose elongated and eyes pitch-black, the skin of my neck and arms cracked where the feathers have broken through the layers like an iceberg piercing the sea. With a stuttered sob, I grip Harry’s shoulders and tuck my face into his neck, unable to contain myself anymore.

I’m not sure how long we huddle on the bathroom floor, cramped between the toilet and the shower. Long enough for the feathers to recede beneath my skin, for my wings to fold in on themselves and lie soft against my back. The sun has long set, shrouding the bathroom in darkness, as Harry still runs his hands through my hair, untangling the knots as he whispers lovely reassurances into my ear and presses kisses over my jaw.

“Draco, I love you, you know that?”

“Of course, I do.”

“What do you need, Draco?”

“I don’t know.”

“Need me, then. It’s that easy. Draco, just—need me.”

I nod, a trembling and stuttered admission, because I know he’s right.

Also on AO3.

[all-things-fic]

Somewhere Only We Know

A/N - Hello, you lovely lot! Hope you are all keeping well in these utterly shit Covid times. Who would’ve thought that we would still be here in December?! Please see my offering for @goldenbluesuit​‘s Christmas Fic Challenge. Hope I’ve done a bit of justice with this piece.

I can remember Katie texting me telling me about the challenge, and I’ll admit I was given first dibs and now I’m absolutely shitting myself because I’ve seen all the brillaint entries so far and I’m not sure I really cut the mustard with this piece but I’m proud of myself for being able to put a solid 70% of this together in just one day (that one day being today).

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Katie has done a brilliant job and I know how grateful she is towards anyone who has joined the challenge or supported by reading/sharing etc.... I need to stop rambling... Okay, thank you for sticking with me as always and happy reading! .x

***

The last thing you remembered actually reading in the group chat was “make sure you have your wellies”. You were glad that you remembered that part at the very least.

Winds whipped around you as you buried your face further into your cream roll neck cable knit jumper, all but hidden underneath your tobacco borg teddy coat that someone had already likened to Macklemore.

Nothing like being back home with your closest and oldest friends.

Mud squelched under your feet as you walked in line with two of your oldest girl friends, eyes looking over the four males in front of you as they led the way over the grassy hills.

There had been zero planning on what today’s events would bring. It was quite clear that the seven of you just wanted to be reunited with the country air and wind bitten cheeks.

It was nice. How simple it was. On the surface at the very least. That was until you zoned in on the little things. 

Like his laugh. The same laugh that always carried somehow and it seemed like the wind was making it that much more prominent than usual today.

There was no denying, he had this glow about him. Even from the back of him. You felt silly for thinking it, but it was true. It was in the way he held himself as he attacked the grassy hills with his feet clad wellies and brown trousers.

Life had changed a lot in over a decade. Christ, had it been that long? You’d all gone from baby teenagers to fully fledged adults. The age range of your friendship differing slightly, the odd person here and there slightly older than a couple of people in the group.

Nonetheless, many of the experiences had been the same. The big job offers, and the even bigger promotions. The heartbreaks, regardless of their prominence or lack of, had been the felt the same. The flirtation between some of you sparked probably a bit more so now with a finesse that didn’t have you rolling your eyes but rather leaning into it. 

Four out of seven of you were single. Jack and Jonny were virtually married off, however neither of them were with their partners this year with both deciding to spend Christmas at home and New Years with their significant others. Alice was still loved up and going strong with her fella, as was Grace who you hadn’t heard a peep from as she constantly checked her phone to see when the person she was besotted with finally arrived up North thanks to West Midlands Trains pulling into Crewe. 

So that left Will, you and Harry. Harry who had  quite publicly made it known that he was single. Well, according to your Mum he had, in several interviews. Including the one that she had described as an ‘incredibly relaxing watch and nice background noise to my Sunday evening brew and ironing session’. 

That was a strange one for you, his honesty. In earlier years of friendship, he always seemed quite aloof. Like he was keeping his options open. Guarded in a way that frustrated at least 75% of the friendship group, in the nicest way possible. You knew that was a contradiction but any annoyance came from a good place. 

You remembered one night in 2014 when he wouldn’t quite give you a straight answer over tequila shots whether he was shagging someone or not. You also remember the way he’d been pulled away from you tactfully by Alice that night when she sensed how you were about to blow up at his lackadaisical attitude. 

The same had been felt in 2016. Not so much in 2018, but you weren’t single then so maybe you just didn’t care. 

2019 was significantly different though.

See the thing was, you knew him now. Like, knew knew him. 

Some would think it was a lapse of judgment, a reading that you would agree upon given what had happened two days prior if ever prodded about it publicly.

Others would vehemently disagree. Stating how long any sort of energy between the two of you had been bubbling for a number of years. 

Looking back you couldn’t even understand why you’d attended his show. You lived in Camden and it made sense, but that’s where the sense stopped. Even the ways he had reached out had been one of the most random messages you’d received from him

There was no context, just a simple ‘I’m playing the Electric Ballroom and there’s tickets waiting for you if you want ‘em.’

And the thing was, you loved that venue. The grungy-ness of it all. The way you had stuck to the floor while trying to dance along to the likes of The Hives and Kings of Leon when seeing them playing there, basking in your sweaty happiness. 

But the stickiness of the floor and sweatiness of the room didn’t compare to the stickiness and sweatiness you later found yourself partaking in as Harry took you from behind over the side of his couch. 

A shiver rolled through you at the thought, one that you would blame on the December bitter chill because it was a secret. One that neither of you had mentioned since it happened on Thursday night, or to be technically correct the early hours of Friday morning. 

He’d been good. Of course he had been.

He had that way about him that night that pulled you under a false sense of endeared security. From his dimpled smile to gleaming eyes. He was happy. 

And the way he had shone as he found you on the balcony had warmed you like nothing you had known in the longest time.

It caused you to forget about the worry that had laden you limbs as you turned up at 9.13pm to the wooden doors of the building, wondering how many songs he was in to the set as you convinced yourself he would start at 9.00pm.

As you’d been ushered over to a clear box window and uttered your name to a dorky looking man wearing a tracksuit pull over and watched him handover a white envelope through the circle hatch. 

You stood in the dark, next to two much younger girls who enjoyed the way his glances lingered over at their side. Eyes had found Gemma in the opposite corner of the balcony, her dancing and singing with some recognisable faces mainly more so because you had seen them on social media.

You, however, kept yourself to yourself. Until you were anchored in the tightest hug from Gemma that you had ever felt from her and swayed from side to side as she made it known how pleased she was to see you once the concert was over. 

That familiarity had been nice. The vibrancy of nostalgia consuming you in your entirety. 

Watching him work a room when he finally entered the after party was a sight to behold, in his navy blue pinstripe suit and yellow ‘I’m gonna die lonely’ t-shirt. 

He wasn’t. Gonna die lonely, that is. 

He glided so smoothly from one person to the next, spilling a drink down himself in the process you’d seen (and later felt when your hand clung to the fabric of his t-shirt as you kissed), making time for everyone in his own unique way.

Big eyes followed you over Gemma’s shoulder when he had finally found himself within your circle and hugged his sister once more that evening. They were hard to read but also openly filled with a glimmer of hope as he dropped his gaze to see what you were wearing.

And when he approached you, he hugged you in a way that managed to pull you into the darkened corner of the dingy space. Spinning your body to keep your face concealed from any prying eyes. 

He revealed to you how he didn’t think you were going to turn up, scanning you with his gaze as he spoke. You did the same, a bit taken aback by just how attractive you were finding him. He had always been handsome but the aura he gave off, made your fingers itch to have him closer to you. 

Words ran away from you that night as he begged and pleaded with you to tell him what your favourite song had been. Based on first impressions, which the show has been, then Canyon Moon and Watermelon Sugar had smothered you and given you no other option but to pick them.

If he were to ask you now you’d probably say To Be So Lonely, thanks to the drive home being longer than originally thought and said album being your choice of road trip music. 

Forget Driving Home For Christmas, nothing slapped more than one of your closest friends admitting to being an arrogant son of a bitch. 

After your chat, he mingled some more but Harry was always tactile and that night had been no different. He veered conversations with people you had never seen before to take place by the zone that you all occupied.

He actively kept his back against yours, allowing the faintest of touches and brushing of arms - sometimes hands too if he dropped them down heavily enough with his arms as he spoke - to entice and create a spark. 

You were kept late enough to miss the last tube. Battery dangerously low on your phone that you didn’t know if a transaction with Uber would be worth a try. 

Jumping into the same car as him had been easy. His soft and tired eyes findings yours in the cab as he leant his head back against the headrest in the back seat and let his lips tip upwards in an expression of tenderness that had you melting in your seat. 

“‘S been a while since we’ve both been a bit pissed in the back of a taxi,” he mused, pushing his fallen locks out of his eyes to ensure his view of you wasn’t obscured. “Come an’ cuddle me like you used to do when we went out a’ home and were worse for wear.”

Falling into his side was almost second nature, eyes closing as you let your forehead rest against his jawline and let his worn in cologne fill you senses and scatter your judgment.

You don’t even remember how you ended up kissing that night. A mixture of confessions about missing each other and praise of how good you both were in your own ways. The sound of his whispered, “are you coming home wi’me?” against your lips an offer too good for you to refuse as you sat pressed into his side and half in his lap. 

The giggles that night, around dramatic shushes as you tripped and shuffled from the car to his front door were almost haunting in your memory as he tried to chastise you around spluttered laughter about being respectful of his neighbours. 

Getting the key in the lock proved unchallenging -  one of the better analogies aligned to your memories and latter sexual endeavours - as you slipped into the house. He enjoyed watching the way you walked ahead of him into his home, not realising how much he needed that visual of seeing how well you fit in. 

While time seemed to slow in that moment, movements desperately sought the opposite. Hands gripped and clawed like their lives depended upon it. 

Looking back now, both he and you wished it hadn’t happened the way it did. Skirt lifted and over the side of his couch. Teeth clashing and hips knocking.

It had been every inch a drunken fumble. A first meeting slightly cheapened but wanted nonetheless. Only made even cheaper by the hush-hush concealing of it ever occurring. 

But a secret it was and a secret it would remain. 

And oh how you wished you had a pillow you could press you face into right now and scream, this time for an entirely different reason. Unlike that night. 

“Not seen a sign of any deer yet, mate,” you heard a voice break you out of your indulgence of recollecting past events. Harry was the worst at wanting to get a reaction. 

“Christ, have a bit of patience would yer?”

You smiled at the bickering, just like it always was as the River Dane could be heard in the distance somewhere as you walked. If you listened really close, that is. 

Lifting your eyes, your smile lingered as you watched Harry spin his body around and let his hands get lost in the massive pockets of his parka. He walked backwards holding your gaze softly with his eyes twinkling before he gently rolled them at the overreaction and impatience of your friends.

He seemed pleased that you’d enjoyed his teasing as you once again hid you smile into your jumper. 

You’d be alright.

***

You heard giggles and screams ahead of you as your friends stumbled in the dark and messed about as you got closer to the viaduct. This place or the people didn’t change, and at times while it filled you with a warm nostalgia, it could be heavily jarring.

A soft and lazy smile pulled at your lips as you felt his heavy forearm lightly tug you closer to him, his lips finding your hair. And then there was Harry. 

“Think we should go this way m’self,” Harry mumbled, the nudge of his hips against yours had you stumbling slightly in your heels away from the direction of your friends and somewhere completely different. 

“And why’s that?” You turned your face slightly, cheeks warm and flushed thanks to the mixture of alcoholic beverages; eyes glazed as they lifted up to look at him. 

“Cause you never would’ve let me when I was sixteen,” he admitted. 

“You didn’t ask.”

“‘M askin’ now.” 

With slow blinking eyes, you looked at his own unfocused vision. A soft shine to his skin, hair blowing gently against his forehead. The softest of smiles tilted at your lips.  

“On yer go,” he nudged you forward, this time more so with his crotch and his hands, which wrapped around your hips to help steer you. Harry was met with only a small amount of resistance from you as you split off from your friends and turned in the different direction. 

You bit back your laugh, dropping your head slightly as you felt your heels started to sink into the grass as you walked. Harry was level with you when you sunk down noticing the way you legs slightly gave way, a soft chuckle omitting from his throat as he asked, “You alrigh’?”

“I’m sinking in these bloody things,” you grumbled, pulling your heel from the grass and trying to place the sole of your shoe onto the ground beneath you first. 

“So much for no’ being able to take the country out o’ the girl. London’s changed yer, swear it.”

Shaking your head, you cut your eyes to give him a harsh stare for his wind up. His amused expression lit a fire in you like no other. He really wasn’t one to talk though, was he? 

“Gi’me your hand ‘ere,” he held his out to you, quickly cupping it when you handed it over and pulled it under his bent elbow. “Remind me again who’s idea this was, eh?”

He didn’t need reminding, he had been one of the keen instigators for the whole jaunt down Twemlow Viaduct. It usually was him, or Jack. The two of them often reminiscing on times they had both raided their parents' alcohol cupboards and managed to sneak out with some dusty bottle that held a liquor that tasted out of date and stale, and if not that then, cheap. 

“‘S still fucking freezing down ‘ere, in’it?” He asked, lifting his left hand up to his mouth and blowing against it to try and get some feeling back into his fingers.

“We’re so close to the river, I don’t know why you’d expect anything different?”

“Is this why everyone was always so insistent on necking anything with over 11% alcohol in it when we came down ‘ere as kids?”

“Probably,” you softly laughed. 

“‘S a bit different now though innit?”

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” you started to correct him, shrugging your hand out from under his elbow and reaching for your bag. Quickly fumbling with the clasp, you lifted up the quilted flap and managed to pull out the stainless steel hip flask.

Harry cackled a harsh laugh, his eyes crinkling as he slowly let his laughter die down and softly let his joy wash over his features. “Impressive. Gone all proper on me.”

“You know I haven’t,” you held his eyes watching as he nervously cupped at the back of his neck for a short while, a gentle bite down of his bottom lip, as you quickly uncapped the item and held it out to him. He looked like he needed the courage.  You continued, “We’re just a bit more refined, that and we earn a good living. Some more than others, and by some I mean you.” 

He held his hand up towards you with an amused grin at your comment. “You first, ‘s yours after all.” 

Lifting the item and knocking back your head, you swallowed the whiskey with a small grimace, before offering it to Harry once more. This time he accepted, his right hand making light work of taking the item from your hands and sipping at the contents.

His face wasn’t as contorted as your’s when he swallowed, a fan of the chosen beverage if needs must. “‘S the proper stuff, tha’ is,” he commented with a quick lick of his lips before continuing, “Come a long way from sneaking the bottles of dusty Blossom Hill from the back of the cupboard.”

“Don’t know about that,” you smiled, taking the item and pushing it back into your bag. “I’d still drink if, if it were on offer.”

“‘M sure Mum’s got a bottle or two going at home?”

“Is that your way of asking me to go home with you?” You paused. “Again.”

Harry remained silent at your words. Both you and he knew it was going to happen. A mixture of sparks and lovelorn, lingering glances was enough to make anyone both want to give up, while also giving a burning confidence usually unknown. 

Neither of you expected it would be you who started the conversation, however. 

“It is, ‘f it’s gonna work. ‘M not sure I could wait any longer t’be’onest wi’yer.“

Laughing, you reached up to push at his shoulder. He always knew exactly what to say, but no way was he going to make a laughing stock of the whole thing. “Oh, give over,” you spoke, harshly swallowing when he kept your hand against the thick cable knit black jumper he had on. “You’ve made it this far, thus far just fine.” 

“‘M not playin’,” he whispered, hand gently curling around your own and lifting it up to press against his face. His cheeks were warm underneath the cooler hands, despite the cold night whipping around you both and your mind quickly wondered if he was just as embarrassed for his lack of acknowledgment as you had been. “Homes nice, you’re nicer.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it,” you let your soft voice get taken by the wind.

“An’ what gave you tha’ impression?”

He did. He gave you that impression. By not mentioning it. By treating you how he always did.

“You.”

“Me?” Harry responded, indignantly, blowing out a sigh that had his cheeks puffing out underneath your hand. “‘M not doing a very good job then am I? I can’t keep m’eyes off o’you. ‘S not my fault you don’t bloody notice ‘em.”

But you had noticed them. 

His eyes, gaze following your every move, near enough. Stupid little touches. Glances of approval. Not just now, but from years before. 

Treating you how he always did.

Oh, treating you how he always did.

Bringing your eyes back to his figure, you saw the way his gaze darted and nervousness dragged at his features. A frown began to set itself between his eyebrows from worry. 

“Changes everything.”

Running his tongue along his teeth, Harry pursed his lips. “Everythin’ has changed, changed a long time ago an’all.” 

You dropped your hand down, it now massaging against the back of his neck and shoulder as you felt the tension of his body radiating through his clothes. Under the dim moonlight and the odd spotlight that had been added to the viaduct with each passing year for safety, Harry exhumed everything anyone would want in a boyfriend. He was soft, and so bloody gorgeous. Not just because he was personification of an almost six foot tall string of handsomeness, but his character did the talking for him.

He knocked the door before he walked into a room, for example. Who really did that kind of thing anymore? 

But you could also still see the heartbreak that lingered, albeit not as strong as it once was, it was still there. And that was problematic and scary. To be on the receiving end of it. Not that you would hold it against him, because you had been him at one point too. At many points in fact. 

When the two of you had shagged, because let’s face it that is exactly what it had been, while a sense of familiarity in the person was prevalent it was definitely overruled by the desire to just hit a euphoric high that if hit right could not be topped. 

Familiar overruled in other aspects, and it wasn’t to be brushed away. But was familiarity a mask that would slip sooner rather than later? Was it the start and the end?

The both of you experienced similarities in your life that could not be matched by the friends in your friendship group. London had chewed you up and spat you out, ruthlessly so. While rewarding you with long hours but fat pay cheques, careers that catapulted you to new heights and enabled you to see parts of the world that two country kids (which in one way you were) could never have imagined. 

Sure Harry’s had been on a much, much larger scale - you would not ever deny that - but you no longer fit in. 

And neither did he. 

This was a place that only the two of you knew. A place where you watched those around you fall in love and have the time to do so. A place where your friend's happiness was created a lot easier than it wasn’t and allowed a sense of success to weave its way in, through the most unexpected of happenings.

Not a place where you found happiness in your work because there was less of a space for happiness to blossom elsewhere. Not really. Not like you; both of you. 

Understanding was vital. 

This had been a place you knew like the back of your hand. A place that had you feeling the earth beneath your feet, fresh air in your lungs and had at times made it so you found yourself sitting by a river and finding yourself feeling complete. 

Yet looking over at the almost 26 year old, that just wasn’t the case anymore. 

And for once you didn’t feel alone. 

The sound of the odd piece of cobbled pavement underneath Harry shoes, buried beneath overgrown grass and plants, broke you from your thoughts, as you watched him kick at the ground and scuff his shoes.

He sighed, head tilted back before he knocked it to the side and caught your eyes. A small scoffed laugh left his lips as he shook his head and dropped his gaze to his feet.

“‘S it fucked?”

You hummed, a small frown lacing your features.

“Fucked it, haven’t I? Fuckin’- idiot-“ he breathed out a noise as he clenched his teeth, one that wasn’t quite a growl but enough to let you know he was agitated. Only strengthened by how tight his jaw became. 

Before you could even think, the back of your hand gently brushed against the pulsing hinge of his jaw. Muscles taut as you tried to soothe him in a way that your mind was screaming was far too intimate.

You didn’t want him having any internal battle about right and wrong. Not when you had both taken the same steps to get here. 

“Thought it was just meant as a one time thing,” you admitted. “Like you needed it, and I needed it. Was what it needed to be at the time. Bit rough, bit sloppy-“

You cringed are the use of the word. Wanting the ground to swallow you in a weird fashion. You should be able to talk open and honestly with someone who you had known longer than hadn’t. 

“Rough?“ Harry swallowed audibly, his face fallen. “That’s not-“ 

His eyes held an emotion similar to sorrow at the mention of the word. “That’s not the impression I wanted to give you.” 

“We were both drunk, it happens.” 

“Not with me it doesn’t. Not when it’s me, wanting to be wi’you.”

“I mean I was into it if that helps anything?” 

“Were yer?”

You looked at him from the corner of your vision, watching his lips try to fight a smile as you rolled yours into your mouth to not give yourself away. You knew what you were trying to do by speaking those words aloud but you wished you hadn’t. Awkward breathy laughs were shared by the two of you as you held his eyes. 

“Was I?”

You hummed in agreement to answer his question, letting your smile dance along your lips now and watching as Harry’s dimples started to show. His expression was youthful, slightly smug. 

“Good t’know.”

***

Finishing saying your goodbyes to your friends and ignoring their suggestive expression because ‘Harry was stopping as an extra pair of hands’, you shut the heavy wooden door and reached up to close the deadbolt lock at the top. Shortly after, you let your feet drop as you stopped standing on your tiptoes and pressed your forehead against the door. 

The silence of the pub was always a strange one to you. A place that was usually thriving, whether it was just your friends, or your parents friends. When the lights were turned out, it was actually quite a lonely place. Regardless of growing up around this sort of industry your entire life and having parents as publicans nothing was more depressing than an empty bar, lifeless and nothing like it was intended.

A suggested lock-in from Jack, who managed to interrupt both yours and Harry’s conversation earlier had not been a bad shout after all. You knew it meant that you would have to deal with the fallout with it being Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t very often that you found yourself in the setting. 

Turning to move from the door, you almost jumped out of your skin when you heard the opening of a familiar Lily Allen song start to play over the speakers. 

Harry emerged from the corner of the pub that housed the jukebox, slowly rubbing his hands together before he wordlessly picked up the scattered pint glasses that had remained on one of the tables that had been missed by the staff on the evening shift. His eyes glanced over at you, as you stood with a hand to your chest.

This wicked smile and gleam washed over his face as he paused his movement. “Did I scare yer?”

“Do you not think it’s a bit loud?”

He wrinkled his nose at you, a soft shake of his head no, to answer your question. 

“‘S your fave innit?” He asked, head nudging to where the jukebox was now hidden.

With a small smile you nodded, “Prefer the Keane version in all honesty.”

“Don’t have it in the bloody jukebox though, d’yer? Can’t like it that much.”

Your smile deepened at his exclaim and how prominent his accent sounded as he spoke, the small clink of the glasses he was holding only heard if you really zoned in. 

“Where d’yer want these?” He asked, holding up the five pint glasses he had collected. “Behind t’bar?”

Humming, you nodded and watched as he weaved his way through the tables to you. You frowned as he got closer, not understanding why he hadn’t bypassed you completely.

Once he was close enough to you, you watched as he reached for what you knew to be your own glass of wine that was almost finished. 

“Fancy the rest of this or can it go too?”

Looking at him and down to the glass, you gently wrapped your hand around it and brought the lip to your mouth. You knocked the item back quickly, swallowing the rest of your wine, before handing over the now empty glass back to Harry.

“Good girl,” he joked, light laughter lacing each word. “Sit yourself down.”

Wearing an amused and quizzical expression, you let yourself sink down into the wooden chair. Resting your chin on your hand, you spun slightly in your seat to keep your eyes on Harry as he placed the glasses down and lifted the hatch so he could step behind the bar. 

With your free hand, you started to tap the worn beer coaster labelled with the Cheshire Brewhouse logo against the table. Part of you hated how Harry had a knack for anything, including knowing his way around a bar. 

He busied himself with collating the glasses once more as you let your eyes take in the surroundings you had known, loved and even grown out of. 

Your parent’s pub was cosy and friendly. A truly 

classic and quintessential British village pub, featuring open fires, bookcases found in the very far corner or the jukebox in the other, lots of old oak and a really pleasant garden with benches for the summat and heaters for the winter. You know the kind that had its regulars that had kids who had seen each other grow up.

The bar was the centre of the pubs house, with an extensive array of whiskies amongst many other delights. A nice range of local ales and a well-balanced, great quality list of wines on offer designed (which you would be taste testing if the service hadn’t decided to take a break) to complement the food menus designed daily by a team of chefs who all have a passion for great cooking using fresh, seasonal and local ingredients.

It looked as Christmassy as Christmas could get, with a real tree which was locally sourced from one of the many surrounding farms and traditionally decorated with golds and reds. Twinkly lights shone, not only on the trees but as part of the garland that was hung above the bar each year, much to the annoyance of your Dad and the delight of your Mum.

Slowly dragging your eyes back to the bar, you watched Harry as he poured you another glass of white wine and started to recap the bottle. He must’ve felt your eyes on him, his gaze meeting yours almost immediately. 

“Service is a bit slow,” you jibed, once you knew he was with you. “Going to ruin the reputation of a fine establishment.”

His chuckle was breathy in response, but warmed you through as he turned his back and pushed his tumbler glass up against the device at the bottom of the Glenfiddich distilled malt whiskey, not once but twice going for a double. 

“Helping yourself to the stock now, as well.” 

“‘M sure your Dad won’t mind,” he responded, twisting his body back around to reach for your own glass and place it onto a tray that sat along the bar top. “In fact he’d probably make a comment about how it’d put hairs on m’chest.”

You laughed, unrestrained, knowing just how right he had been with that comment. 

Over the otherside of the room, Harry smiled and shushed you as he walked closer, easily holding the tray with your drinks upon it. “Being a bit loud,” he taunted as he slid the tray down to the oak table.

“Oh, now you’re concerned about the noise.”

With his hand against the back of the chair which was currently housing your outstretched legs, you felt him start to wobble the seat to give you a warning. 

“Hang on,” you said, “Plenty of other chairs.”

“This one’s mine,” he responded.

Wanting to roll your eyes but deciding not to, you let your legs drop down and gave the seat back to Harry. Once he was comfortable and he’d taken your drink off the tray, he gestured with his right hand.

Not entirely focused, he had to do the ‘come hither’ motion a couple of times before you finally cottoned on. He was willing to let you put your legs on his lap instead, while he may have taken the seat it didn’t mean he wanted to take away your comfort.

No sooner had your legs been raised to rest against his tan washed velvet corduroy trousers, was he fiddling with the buckle of your stiletto sandals.

“Got mud everywhere,” you commented, wiggling your toes that were painted a festive red and inspecting the little dots of dirt that were splattered against your skin, as Harry dropped the first shoe to the floor and quickly worked on the second. “Dread to think what they smell like.”

“Smell alrigh’ from ‘ere,” he mused, smirk faint but glaring obvious in his tone of voice as he threw a quick and mischievous glance at you. As you elongated your foot against his thighs, the tips of your toes were just about able to press into his thick jumper to try and jab at him for his comment. 

Before you were able to put any sort of force behind your action, Harry’s hand clamped down around the top of your foot causing your eyes to snap up away from his hand and up to his eyes.

There he sat watching you, top two teeth pressed into his bottom lip keep his smile at bay. Releasing his lips slowly, his whispered threat left his throat, “I will tickle.”

You tried to fidget away but to no avail. With a whined laugh, you frowned as Harry goaded you by slowly raising his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

You had tried him. 

Truth be told you wanted to again.

If he wanted to.

Reaching for your wine, you took a hefty sip and let the silence swallow you both. Harry, who kept his hand on your foot and his fingers dancing gently against the top, let his head fall back awkwardly against the hardwood. His head dropped to the side taking in his surroundings and their familiarity. 

“Do you ever get tired of coming back?” 

You hummed, sure you had misheard due to the way the blood was rushing around your ears. He turned to look at you, all double chin and puffy cheeks.

“Of everything being the same, but different?”

His whispers captivated you, hushed confessions not quite meant for anyone else but his own mind yet spilling from him with such an ease that he did nothing to fight them. 

“I’ll admit, I come home for other people. Not for me.”

“People?”

“Mum, Dad,” you paused. “You.”

His smile deepened. His chin knocking down to his chest, his eyes looking up at you from underneath his curling hair from being caught in the moist winter evening just hours before.

“You can stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you did three nights ago.”

Harry breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring and his chest expanding. A lick of his lips, before his mouth dropped to sit slightly agape. 

“What if I don’t wan’to? What if I want t’look at yer like this all the time?”

You found yourself unable to respond, nose burying itself into your wine glass as you pressed your lips against the cool outside to try and hide your burning smile. 

His lips curled lightly, before he breathed a laugh once and gently shook your foot with his hand. “Eh? Come ‘ere-“

“Harry,” you breathed.

“C’mon, c’mere. ‘S room for more than just your feet.”

If it wasn’t for the creak of your chair as you slowly started to push yourself out of it, you wouldn’t have consciously been aware of how you were making your way to him. 

His body relaxed, somehow managing to become closer to horizontal than sitting upright in his seat, as he peered as you walking the short distance over to him. 

With his legs widened, he pressed his face into your side now that you were close enough. His nose inhaled the familiar scent of your perfume which was only faint now due to the other senses and scents it had mixed with throughout the evening.

Rolling his face out of your body, he knocked his head back and pressed his chin where his face had been. The face you showed him was worn with worry, an expression he did not want to meet.

“‘S wrong?”

His ask was lazy. Not wanting to dig deep and know. What if he didn’t like what he found? 

“We know how this is going to end.”

“Do we?” He prodded. His eyes moved over your features quickly before they partly disappeared to him, thanks to your curtain of hair which slowly fell down.

His hand reached up, desperately brushing it away and cupping at the back of your head as best as he could while he remained seated. 

“How’s that? Tell me.”

“Same, but different.” 

You knew you shouldn’t use his words, not in a way that could be considered against him, but they - in the most ambiguous of ways - described everything perfectly. 

“Not if I have my way.” 

His words were almost lost against your stomach as he pressed his face against you once more and wrapped his hands around you; sweaty, nervous palms pressing to the backs of your thighs. 

“Same, but better.”

Harry guided you down to his lap, his lips somehow managing to remain pressed into stomach, or your chest, or your clavicle, as your face became level with his. 

“Different, but better.” 

He kissed against your cheek slowly, nose nudging at your skin as he willed for you to relax against him. “I don’t know how you like it, like this,” he whispered in confession. “Show me?”

A puff of air left your lips as you turned to look at him with hooded eyes. His mouth was closer to yours than you originally thought, corners of lips brushing as you slightly pulled away. 

When your lips met, it was in the softest of pecks that trembled under your nerves. Both sets of eyes looking back at each other as you innocently engaged. 

If you were to take your eyes away from him in any way, you would notice those fluffy curls of his falling over his forehead and the lightest dusting of red blush making itself known against his cheeks and the tops of his ears.

He felt like a school boy, lost and clumsy. The kid who was once again flicking paper at you in science class just so he could pull a face at you over something your teacher was saying to get you to laugh. 

Mouths hovering over each other, your breathing mixed, as Harry nodded to you slightly. You pressed your lips to his once more, feeling the way he gradually opened up to you, warmed and softened underneath the puckering of your mouth against his. 

His hands, that slightly trembled, smoothed over your hips trying to pull your body so that it was more so flush against his. You moaned softly, your hands running over his jumper covered shoulders, fingers digging and pulling at the material just below the nape of his neck. 

The chair beneath you moved lightly against the floor, not quite a scrape but a dull drag. Neither of you broke the kiss, but his hands against you allowed fingers to dig in to hold you steady to him so if you were to fall from where you were sitting, he still had you. 

His lips slowed, moving to press against your cheeks again as he panted and his warmth breath bounced off your skin. “Think I got it,” he heaved. 

“Do you?”

Harry hummed his ‘yea’, before pressing his lips so tenderly to your chin and the underside of your jaw. He felt how you swallowed heavily, throat dry from the way your mouth hung open and your neck further exposed itself as you lolled your head back. 

You were falling further and further back, finding it hard to stay upright as he devoured you and made you weaker with each pulling kiss. His groans were needy, muffled and making your ache. While yours were silent and making his desperate to pull something from you. To build is confidence in that he was doing something right, you liked it this way too. 

Hands fumbled and dragged upwards at your skirt, faintly aware now how it was similar - if not the same one - to the garment you wore to his show. 

“Gonna take this off properly,” he mumbled, feeling the way your hips moved slightly from his hands to roll over him. 

“You don’t have to-“

“No?” 

Your voices were rushed as you spoke to each other, barely audible but loud enough all the same. His head was knocked back slightly as you hovered over him and you found yourself admiring his blissed out face even only in the lead up.

This was a sight that you hadn’t received last time, and if you had your way it was one you were going to greedily enjoy in all its glory.

Like watching the way his eyes closed and he softly grinned, the left side of his teeth started to show as the one side of his face reacted first while your hands blindly moved to lift up his jumper and the white tee he had on underneath, to allow you to find the button of his corduroys.

“What ya doing?”

“Nothing,” you mused. 

He pulled a face, the kind that down turned his lips, eyebrows raised and head slightly tilted to the side. The kind that had you smiling. 

“Not trying to get m’trousers around m’ankles for a second time within a week then?”

You giggled. “No.”

“Please do.”

A low moan left you as you pressed your forehead to his jaw and dropped your eyes. Your hands slowly started to pull at the brass button and pop it open before seeking out the zip thanks to his desperate plea, encouraging you to continue. 

Hands quickly sought out the waistband of the trousers and gently pulled at the item. From the way that you were sat, you knew there was no way you were doing to make them budge.

“Stand up fo’ me,” he mumbled, quickly helping you get off his lap so that he could make light work of his clothing and pull down his trousers and underwear. 

His bare bum made easy contact with the cushion leather beneath him, eyes carefully watching you as your hands moved to underneath your skirt. 

The fabric of your underwear slipped so easily down your legs, his eyes just about caught the sight of them as they pooled against your ankles and you kicked them away. 

Legs pressed together, you slowly untucked the v-necked blouse you had chosen and pulled it over your head. Wearing nothing but a fancy black bra, and a tight little skirt you hastily snatched for your wine and took a hefty gulp.

You could feel his eyes on you, a gruff groan catching in the back of his throat and when you finally turned your eyes from where they had been looking down at your heaving chest and how great this bra made your boobs look, causing him to move his hand down to start playing with himself. 

His name left your lips in a breathy gasp, causing you to look up quite surprised at the find of his right hand gently tugging at his hard length.

“Keepin’ me waitin’,” he groaned, his left hand sloppily reached for the back of the collar of his jumper and tee, pulling the item roughly over his head.

“Fuck sake,” he mumbled under his breath, agitated that he was unable to get both items of in one go.

“Smooth.”

Harry stared up at you with a playful squint, before he gently fell back and moved the chair as he did so, the dull scrape heard once more. 

And if you didn’t know he was flushed before, when you first kissed, you were definitely aware now. His eyes were blown out and hungry as they devoured you. Hair wildly haphazard before he let go of himself with a soft slap of his skin and harshly pushed his fingers through it.

“‘S it still a couple of quid for a strip of three,” his words brought you back to him. This smugness radiated off of him as he groaned and leaned forward to push his trousers down all of the way. Over his vans and socked feet, before he toed them off as well be harshly pulled at his white sport socks. 

You didn’t even need for him to explain what he meant, staying silent as you watched his hands tug at his corduroys from the floor and retrieve his wallet. As his fingers moved around to find a couple of quid, the jangle of the coins was taunting. 

One leg crossed over the other, you swayed and found yourself blushing when he looked up at you once he’d managed to find enough money and then some. With his wallet thrown on the table, he stood proudly from the seat and closed the short gap between your both.

Leaning forward he easily took your lips with his own before pulling away. With his face still close to yours he whispered, “Promise not to look at my arse.”

He didn’t hang around long enough for your reply, instead turning away and brazenly giving you all the time you would ever need to admire him, his fantastic bum and his hairy legs before he opted for a jog-walk type of thing, suddenly conscious that he was absolutely walking around naked from the waist down in a pub owned by your parents. 

While you waited you took a quick pull from his whiskey, needing the heftier burn for Dutch courage. Nervousness returned when you heard the endings of what you believed to be Harry whistling. 

“Machine ate all m’fuckin’ change,” he grumbled, regardless of the twinkle in his eye at the strip of overpriced condoms he had managed to score from the men’s bathroom. “‘S Durex. Business must be booming, your Dad’s definitely gone up in the world.” 

“Please don’t talk about my Dad.”

He smiled brightly before he reached for your face with one hand and pulled you towards him mumbling his ‘sorry’s’ against your lips as he gave you several kisses in quick succession. 

His other arm loosely wrapped around your back and pulled you with him as he walked backwards and slowly lowered himself back onto his previous seat. The chair creaked as you joined him, slipping into his lap and feeling the way he was smiling now.

Pulling away from your kiss, he quickly tore away one of the condoms allowing the others to fall without much care to the floor. Teeth took a hold of the foil-like packaging and he tore it not so elegantly with his eagerness.

With his cock nestled in the crease of his own thigh now, the heat radiating from it matched your own agonising yearning. Scooting back to give him space, you heard him groan as he gently rolled the condom down onto himself. Eyes looking up just in time to see him knocking his head back and breathing deeply through nose. The foil-like packaging was back in between his teeth once more as his hands were otherwise preoccupied.

Slowly your hand reached up to take it from his mouth, feeling some playful resistance as Harry continued to hold it in his teeth. His eyes were open and boyishly sincere, as you tugged at the item and he finally released it when you lightly laughed. 

“Gi’me a kiss.”

Obliging him, you leant forward and slotted your mouths together a lot easier than you had done at the start of the night. A heat built easily between the two of you, as Harry gave you his tongue and you felt the flex of his jaw under your hand as he worked your mouths together.

He was eager, his hands tightening on your waist before he growled when he understood he had to grab handfuls of skirt before he could cup your backside. But when his skin met yours and you ground down onto his lap, the groan that left him was the most animalistic sound imaginable. 

The frown your face fell into showed your desire to whimper, as he kept you atop him and marvelled in the way you writhed, both from satisfaction and keenness at the pressure of his cock against you. 

“Can I have you again?” He asked, the startings of sweaty hair being pushed off your face. His eyes peered at you, searching for his answer as you seemed to be able to do nothing but pant and look back at him yearningly. “Are you letting me?”

You dragged your fingers down his t-shirt covered torso and lifted it slightly just to see the quiver of his stomach as pulled you onto him once more. 

“Like this?” you voiced, meekly.

“‘F this is what you like then, yea’”, he breathed into your mouth, hands shifting your pliant body. “Is this what you want?”

You wordlessly nod, mouth falling open in a breathy gasp when he managed to move you so he sat so enticingly at your entrance. He was teasing both yourself and him, wanting to keep you both on the edge. 

Harry blinked a few times as he looked at you, and you revelled in the way he couldn’t seem to concentrate. His hands held your flesh tightly, fingertips dipping into the skin of your bum cheeks as he gently guided you down.

An unattractive and dull, quite strangled noise, left your throat as you let your forehead fall against his temple. Eyes falling down you see the cups of your bra fall slack, you felt his hands softly gliding over your shoulder blades and shoulders. 

He rid you of your bra, hands moving to your chest to squeeze your breasts. His jaw fell slack when you found yourself sitting snugly on his lap - on him - settled and already feeling spent.

This was so different compared to the last time; if not overwhelming so because of the way you both appeared to be so present. Each movement of your hips, and the way they rolled and grinded and dragged felt too much. So much so that you had become nothing more than a mess of short, quick breathing and blushing, sweaty cheeks. 

Slack-jaw, you were unable to find it in you to return Harry’s kisses, and his joyful, breathy chuckle seemed to lead you to believe he was fine with it. In fact he was happy to keep going as you were. 

Your movements were frantic, and despite the build up, not entirely driven by lust either. Harry continued to encourage you to move as you were; slow, grinding motions on his lap that caused the filthiest of groans and dirtiest of laughs from the two of you. Laughter that was only made stronger as the chair that held you both started to creak too. 

You couldn’t do much about it though other than to breathe into each other’s mouth, and rock your hips together with more fervour each time. 

“Yea’,” he breathed against your lips, left hand at the back of your head holding you to him, while his right rested just above your bum. “‘S better. That’s better.”

It was better. Better than last time. Better than anything before. 

And while it hadn’t been frantic before, it was now as your legs that were hanging down either side of the chair started to tremble and your toes started to dig into the worn carpet beneath them. Hips knocking and your clit dragging heavenly against his public bone, you grasped his name as you buried your face into his neck and dug your nails into his nape.

Harry hissed his approval which fell to a groan as your nails pushed up into his hair and lightly pulled as you sought leverage. There were so many things you were learning this time around and his penchant for liking his hair pulled from time to time, was one of those things. 

“God, ‘m gonna come soon,” he admitted, gruntly as he forced your hips down as he anchored his legs and widened his seating position. “Are you close?”

“Yeah,” you whined. “Yes. Like this-“

And as you pressed your face to his once more, he was everywhere. Soft but hard, loving but commanding. Smelled like clean washing detergent but of country air. Inviting and alluring, allowing you your lingering kisses between grounding breaths that became staccato in unison with the movement of your hips. 

You aren’t ashamed of the whines that escaped your throat as you squeezed down on his cock, praised by indecipherable works that left Harry but were nothing more to you than lips moving against your rough and dry ones. Word that made the burning feeling of your pending orgasm spread through your entire body, warming you and setting you alight.

It was long and deep, with your toes curling into the carpet they were pressed against now. Barely able to catch your breath, sucking in harshly and shaking. 

And when you came to, thoroughly exhausted, you noticed that he was waiting for your say so. That he could let go and enjoy the pleasure brought about by your shared labour. 

“Coming-“ was all the warning that you got and was enough to encourage you to watch him as he came, his face completely void of anything other than pure pleasure. Wrinkles and frowns fade, his mouth falling open with his pink lips glinting prettily under the dim Christmas lights around you.

His forehead gleamed with sweat as he wrapped his arms around you tightly and his hips bucked up one, two and three times for good measure. “Fuck me,” he heaved gruffly.

You were suddenly desperate to feel his lips on yours despite the way you both continued to fight to get your breath back, but settled for resting them against the skin of his cheek, which was hot to the touch. 

When you felt Harry start to go soft, you reluctantly pulled away and let him slip out of you. He wasn’t so keen to let you get too far, holding you just that bit higher than before with his hand cupping gently but firmly at your hip. “Where’d you think you’re going,” he hummed, eyes still closed as he continued to heavily inhale and exhale. 

You softly smiled, taking in his soft face and responded by nuzzling close to him again. 

Nowhere. Somewhere. Anywhere with him.

A place where only the two of you knew, like the back of your hand. The same way you knew each other. Now and possibly forever.

[hrina]

In The Ring, Pt. I - Jab

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 4k REQUESTED: not exactly lol

hey everyone! this is PART 1 of the boxer!harry AU i’ve been working on. i was so inspired by this concept that i wrote it all in one day lol. if u enjoy reading it, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated! it really helps in terms of motivation and just knowing how my readers feel about this story in general. so yeah, that would really make my month!

warning: parts of this fic will contain mentions of blood, violence, mild stalking, and sexual content. if any of that makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and keep scrolling <3

okay, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, go stupid go dumb! my masterlist and my inbox are both linked in my bio, for anyone who would like to check out my other fics or who feels like chatting. can’t wait to hear your thoughts 💘💘💘

~*~

    January 7, 2021

All of Harry’s teeth are still intact.

For now, at least.

He knows that mouthguards exist—there’s one tucked between his lips every single time he enters the ring. But even then…sometimes punches go awry. Sometimes your opponent dodges at the last second. Sometimes people end up with a mouthful of leather and a few loose incisors. He always keeps one fist near his chin, shielding the lower half of his face from any blows that come his way.

Speaking of blows coming his way…

He ducks away from the straight jab that the man throws—The Wall, they call him. Harry had rolled his eyes when the nickname boomed across the room, soon lost in the roar of the crowd.

He’s never been one for flashy introductions. He prefers to let his technique speak for itself. His brand is his name. Harry Styles. Simple, concise, and so utterly deceiving. He loves watching the smile melt from his opponent’s face, basks in the moment when they realise that he’s tougher than his name suggests.

The Wall jabs again, and Harry successfully dodges the punch. He doesn’t register the other fist hooking around, however, until the blunt front of the man’s glove makes contact with the side of his head. Usually, a blow like that wouldn’t even faze him. But the sheer force behind the hit knocks him off-balance, stumbling to the side as he loses his footing and inhaling sharply when his shoulder collides with the ground.

The yells from the crowd are deafening. Harry coughs, trying to guide air back into his lungs. When he blinks, black spots dance across his vision. Subconsciously, his eyes trace a path upward, past the floor, past his opponent’s feet, past the ropes encompassing the ring. Higher and higher, still, past jeering faces and sloshing beer bottles and grungy eye makeup. All the way to the top of the bleachers, to the exit—to you.

That’s been your unofficial spot for the past two years. Once you turned twenty, your father finally gave in, allowing you to attend Harry’s matches in exchange for the cessation of your endless badgering. You always stand near the door, observing the commotion with thoughtful eyes and puckered lips. Despite himself, Harry has started to think of you as his lucky charm. It’s dangerous—he always swore that he wouldn’t be one of those overly-superstitious athletes—but he can’t help it. He just seems to perform better when you’re around.

Through the rocky field of his vision, he can see just how wide your eyes have grown. There’s an unmistakable look of concern on your face as you watch the fight unfold. Your hand finds its way to the base of your throat, playing nervously with the rose-gold pendant resting there. You crane your neck to get a better view of the ring, your pupils flitting back and forth between Harry and the frighteningly large man looming over him.

A warm rush of adrenaline floods Harry’s veins. The saliva that has gathered in his mouth tastes stale on his tongue. He spits it out as he staggers to his feet. The crowd grows louder, somehow.

The Wall’s smile shrinks as Harry assumes his previous position; his hands orient themselves in front of his face. His opponent gnashes his teeth, seemingly annoyed with the fact that the match has not ended. Harry shakes off the dizziness clouding his brain, and then he’s lunging forward with a newfound sense of determination. He throws punch after punch, sidestepping The Wall’s returning attempts. All he can think about is the fact that you’re up there, watching, waiting, worrying. He never wants to see you like that again.

You’re his goddamn lucky charm.

His victory comes in the form of an uppercut followed immediately by a nasty right hook. The Wall—this big, towering man with bulging biceps and rippling pectorals—crumples to the ground. Harry waits, his chest heaving with exertion as the countdown begins. He’s prepared to watch his opponent rise again, to shift back into a fighting stance and start over. But as the seconds trickle by and The Wall remains motionless on the ground, he soon finds the tension in his body seeping out into the hot, sticky air.

His shoulders sag in relief as a single promising word echoes through the grimy arena.

“Knockout!”

~*~

The crowd thins out considerably in the ten minutes following the termination of the match. Harry stumbles out of the ring, sliding through the ropes and pulling his mouthguard from between his lips. Your father is waiting for him with a smile on his face, holding out an arm and helping him jump down from the raised platform.

“Well done, H,” he says, patting his back proudly.

Harry pants and nods. Your father holds out a reusable water bottle for him to take—he accepts it graciously and gulps down the cold liquid with fat, greedy slurps. Once he pulls the nozzle away from his mouth, he runs the back of his hand over his face to catch any stray droplets that have collected on his chin.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“You took a pretty hard fall, there,” your father says, guiding him to sit down on a bench propped up against the wall. “Medic’s in the back. He’s checking out Aaron right now, but you’re next.” He taps his index finger against Harry’s temple. “We’ve got to make sure everything’s alright up there.”

Harry sucks in a deep breath, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Who the fuck is Aaron?”

“Oh.” Your father laughs. “Aaron. The Wall. Whatever you want to call him.”

Harry frowns. “Don’t like that. Makes him sound like a dick.”

A new voice enters the conversation.

“That’s because he is.”

Harry’s head snaps to the side, and there you are.

You look nice, as usual. There’s something about you that he can never seem to properly describe. You always look so…clean. If he tried to vocalize his thoughts, he’s sure that you would look at him like he was crazy.

But in his head, it makes sense. You take care of yourself. Your nails are spotless, your hair smells good, and he knows that you must dab spritzes of perfume onto your pulse points before you leave the house, because a fresh scent follows you wherever you go. Even now, as you stand a few feet away with your hands on your hips, he catches it on a deep inhale. Not flowery, not fruity, just…clean. Refreshing. Light. Breezy.

Your father snaps him out of his reverie, and he realises that he should probably stop listing every word in the thesaurus.

“How do you know?” Your father’s inquiry is curious. He shoots you a puzzled look, his mouth curling down into a soft scowl.

You roll your eyes. “Called me ‘sweet thing’ before the match started and asked me if I was the prize,” you say, sticking your tongue out in disdain. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

Harry’s lips twitch.

Your father chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “What time are we leaving?” you ask. The question is directed at your father, who is fiddling with the drawstrings hanging from his sweater. “I was hoping to study a bit more before bed.”

“Soon, gioia,” your father says. “As soon as Harry gets checked out, we’ll be on our way.”

You nod, and—for what feels like the first time since you cut into the interaction—you glance down at Harry. “Hi,” you say softly, shooting him a small, friendly smile.

He meets your gaze for only a moment. Everything about you is so gentle. Your irises are like melted pots of honey, regarding him with such warmth he feels like he’ll never be cold again. “Hi.”

“Congratulations on your win,” you murmur. Harry wants to bottle your voice and save it as a keepsake. “You made a great comeback.”

Because of you, he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. “Thank you,” he offers up instead, the words scraping against the roof of his mouth and tumbling unceremoniously into the air between you.

A moment of silence ensues as you wait for him to say something—anything—else. But he’s done. You nod once before turning back to your father, who is tweaking the settings of the watch wrapped around his wrist.

“Do you know where the washrooms are?” you ask. You toy absentmindedly with the necklace hanging from your throat. “I need to pee.”

“You can use the one in the women’s locker room,” your father tells you, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Around the corner, first door on the left.”

“Thanks,” you say, slipping by and pressing a quick peck to his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

He just nods in agreement, still too preoccupied with his watch.

Harry, on the other hand, can’t keep his eyes off of you as you walk away. He takes note of the way that you tuck your hair behind your ear, how you shoulder the strap of your purse to keep it from slipping down your arm, how you walk with a purpose despite being so moderate and kind. His gaze falls momentarily to the sway of your hips, the enticing nature of your waist. He stares for a long moment before tearing away, clearing his throat and blinking a few times in quick succession.

“Proud of you, H,” your father pipes up, tapping the face of his watch twice before dropping his arm with a sigh. “You did well out there.”

“Thanks,” Harry mutters. A spark of guilt flares up in his chest when he realises that he had been blatantly ogling you with your father standing only a few feet off to the side. He silently berates himself, shaking his head free of any alluring thoughts.

Your father’s phone chirps with the arrival of a new notification. He fishes the device out of his pocket and glances down at the screen.

“Let’s go,” he tells Harry, jerking his head to the right. “Medic’s ready for you, now.”

    January 13, 2021

“C’mon, H, be smart with it! Watch how he angles himself!”

And Harry’s trying, really, but Arthur—or Artie, as your father likes to call him—is a hunkering titan of a man. He used to be your father’s star athlete before retiring, and now…now he’s working in finance, or something akin to that. Harry isn’t one hundred percent sure; he usually zones out when people begin to discuss the stock market.

Artie throws a right hook, but Harry sees it coming and blocks it with ease. They move in a circle, focussed only on each other while other individuals outside of the ring totter around.

Harry prefers to train on weekdays during the afternoon, because that’s when the gym isn’t as packed. Right now, only a handful of other people are working out, lifting weights or doing cardio exercises. Harry and Artie are here so often that nobody even blinks an eye anymore. And your father…well, he runs the place. Of course he would be here.

The sparring continues. When Harry refuses to make the first move, Artie sticks one glove out, beckoning him forward. “Come here, pretty boy.”

“Don’t make me pull your hair,” Harry grits, because Artie’s ponytail is swinging temptingly from beneath his headgear.

The other man laughs good-naturedly before lunging. Harry blocks his uppercut and delivers a strong, pointed jab right to the middle of his chest. Artie stumbles backward, inhaling sharply as the breath is knocked from his lungs. Harry bites back a smile.

“Nice, H!” your father calls.

“Thanks, Coach,” he mutters.

The front door of the gym opens, accompanied by the soft tinkling of a bell to announce the new arrival. Harry’s attention is reflexively drawn toward the direction of the sound, and his heartbeat stutters beneath his ribs.

You’re there, with your hair tied back in a low bun and silver hoops hanging from your ears. You’re holding a tray of coffee in your left hand, and there’s a warm smile on your face. You wave excitedly as you greet Portia, the middle-aged woman sitting behind the front desk. The two of you chat as you shrug off your jacket and tug the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.

Your mouth moves languidly. Though Harry is too far to hear your voice, he has a pretty good idea of what you’re saying. Your eyes widen and you shiver dramatically, shaking your head.

It’s cold!

A heavy fist makes contact with the side of his jaw, and he falls to the ground.

Your father’s loud exclamation pulls your attention away from Portia and toward the ring on the opposite end of the room. Harry groans lowly as he pushes himself to his knees, tilting his head from side to side and cracking his neck. When he turns to face your father, he finds him frowning through the gaps between the ropes.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, shooting Harry a disappointed look.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, climbing to his feet with a grunt. “Got distracted.”

He chances a glance back at you, and his shoulders grow tense when he realises that you’re making your way over to the ring, the tray of coffee held between your hands like a peace offering.

“Hello, boys,” you singsong. “I brought drinks.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” your father says as you hand him his designated cup. He leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your hair. You hum happily in response.

“Jason!” you call out as Artie approaches the side of the ring. “I got your lemonade.”

“Thanks, little girl,” Artie hums, accepting his drink graciously and taking a long sip from the straw. “And for the hundredth time, stop calling me ‘Jason’.”

“Stop calling me ‘little girl’,” you shoot back, laughing deviously. “I can’t help it if you look like him, okay? You’re even the same age, too.” You cock one eyebrow. “Should I start calling you ‘Aquaman’ instead?”

“God, no.” Artie shakes his head vehemently. “Let’s stick to Jason. ’Least that’s a real name.”

You giggle as he ambles away. Your eyes shift over to Harry—who has kept silent the entire time—and your lips curl up into a kind smile. “Hi, Harry.”

“Hi.” His voice is guttural.

“Last, but not least,” you murmur, plucking his drink from the tray and holding it up for him to take. “One black coffee, right?”

“Right,” he confirms with a curt nod. He tugs his bulky gloves off, dropping them to the floor and reaching out to accept the cup. A strong spark pricks at his hand when his fingers brush against yours. Your responding gasp is soft, barely-noticeable—if he weren’t so painfully aware of everything you do, he would have missed it completely.

“Thank you,” he says, guiding the coffee to his mouth and taking a small sip.

“No problem.” You smile up at him again, and God, that fucking smile. He wants it tattooed onto the backs of his eyelids. A wave of heat blooms in his chest and creeps up his neck, but thankfully, the pink flush blends in with his sweat-slicked, already-rosy skin.

“How was class, sweetheart?” your father asks, tilting his head to the side.

“It was good.” You shrug, tossing a thumb over your shoulder. “I’m going to head home now, though—I have a proposal due in a few days and I really need to get started.”

“Go, go,” your father concedes. You bid him goodbye before standing on your tiptoes and craning your neck to catch sight of Artie, who is quite evidently enjoying his lemonade.

“Bye, Jason!”

“Bye, little girl!”

You laugh. Your gaze lands on Harry again, eyes sparkling and features resolutely tender. “Bye, Harry.”

He swallows down the hard lump in his throat. “Bye.”

    January 16, 2021

Harry’s workout playlist features a lot of Ariana Grande.

He just thinks that she’s good, okay?

But he knows that Artie and your father would never let him hear the end of it, so he keeps that information private. During practice, he’ll endure whatever shitty tunes Artie picks from his own library, and he won’t say a word. He’s not in the ring to dance, anyway. He’s there to make money—albeit illegally—because quite frankly, he hasn’t discovered an aptitude for anything else.

It’s late—the gym is technically closed. But the great thing about having the owner for a coach is the fact that Harry was given another key to add to his collection. Your father doesn’t care, as long as he locks up after he’s done. Harry has spent more time here than at his own home, he imagines. It’s nice when it’s quiet—it gives him plenty of time to think.

The back of his t-shirt is soaked through with sweat. He’s gazing at the ceiling as he lifts the heavy weights up and down over his torso. A bubbly song is playing on his phone, keeping his energy high.

So what if he listens to Ariana Grande? She makes great music.

The distinctive sound of footsteps reaches his ears. He pauses, setting the weightlifting bar back onto its rack and sitting up quickly. The noise is coming from the stairs that lead down to the swimming pool in the basement. Harry stands, and though his muscles are already screaming from previous exertion, he readies himself for the worst.

You appear at the top of the flight, your slippers smacking against each step loudly. You’re ruffling a towel against your wet hair, your head angled to the side as you squeeze out any excess water. Upon catching sight of Harry, you freeze in your tracks.

“Oh. Harry. Hi.”

“Hi,” he says slowly. “I…didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” you reply wryly, a small smirk making its way onto your lips.

Harry scratches sheepishly at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Er…I was just working out.”

You nod, your expression coy. “I can see that.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air. Harry clears his throat, rubbing his jaw with his fingers because what else is he supposed to do? “Were you—did you go for a swim?”

“Yeah,” you say. Your shoulders deflate, like you’re almost grateful that he’s contributed more to the conversation. “Spent half the time doing laps, and the other half on my phone.” Your lips quirk up with the feeble joke.

Harry chuckles weakly. “That’s just how it is, sometimes.”

Your eyes flutter shut for only a moment. “Yeah.”

More silence. Harry chews nervously on his bottom lip. Why the fuck can’t he speak?

The song playing from his phone changes. Your eyes narrow ever-so-slightly when a few upbeat notes trickle into the air, followed immediately by the smooth crooning of a woman’s voice. “Is this…,” you hesitate, and he can see how you’re fighting a smile, “…Carly Rae Jepsen?”

“Uh,” he says dumbly, uncertain of how to proceed. Sure enough, I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen is filtering through the taut atmosphere, painfully loud now that the two of you are truly paying attention to it.

A high-pitched laugh falls from your mouth, and your shoulders shake with the force of your amusement. Harry, unable to help himself, begins to chuckle along with you. Heat blooms across his cheeks, but he’s not as embarrassed as he thought he’d be. Your giggles aren’t derisive, he realises.

He’s nearly overcome with the urge to take you in his arms, then, but he resists.

“Late night, watching the television…,” you sing quietly, and then you’re dissolving into merriment all over again.

Once your joint laughter subsides, you shoot him a bright grin. Harry tries his best to return it, though he doesn’t think that he mirrors your smile to its full extent. You sigh in delight, shouldering the strap of your bag and tossing your towel over your forearm.

“That honestly made my night,” you tell him, utterly sincere.

His heart somersaults in his chest. “’M glad.”

“Well,” you say, shrugging gently, “I should probably go.”

“Yeah.” His response is hollow. He lifts his hand in a half-hearted wave. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He lies back down with a grunt as you make your way toward the exit. His fingers wrap around the weightlifting bar, about to pull it off of its resting place, when your voice suddenly rings out again.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” He sits up too quickly, nearly catching his forehead against the metal of the bar. When he turns around to face you, he finds you doubling back, approaching him and nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.

“I actually—,” you pause, like you’re unsure of how to continue, “I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

“Sure,” he says, rubbing his hands over the black shorts covering his thighs. “Go ahead.”

“It might be kind of weird,” you warn. “Don’t laugh at me.”

He shakes his head, blinking solemnly. “I won’t.”

“Would you—,” you begin, and your fingers come up to play with the pendant resting at the base of your throat, “—teach me how to box?”

“I—,” Harry recoils slightly, taken aback by your question. “What?”

“Would you teach me how to box?” you repeat, though your voice is significantly smaller. “I want to learn how to defend myself.”

“Against what?” he asks, his brows knitting together in concern. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine.” You wave away his worries with an inattentive flick of your hand. Harry’s eyes narrow as he studies your face. You refuse to meet his gaze.

You’re lying, he realises, straight through your pretty teeth. But it would be impolite of him to pry, wouldn’t it? And this is the first time that the two of you have ever been really, truly alone; he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

“Okay,” he says slowly, even though he doesn’t believe your guarantee.

He pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up and wiping his face with the fabric. When he fixes his gaze on you once more, he thinks he catches your eyes drifting across his torso. Cocking one eyebrow curiously, he climbs to his feet.

“What do you want to learn?” he asks, reaching for his phone and pausing the music streaming from the device.

“Anything,” you say breathlessly. “Everything.”

His lips twitch.

“I—,” he scratches at his nose with two fingers, “—I don’t really have a set schedule, you know, between practice and actual matches.”

“I know.” You nod understandingly.

“And I know you have school,” he continues, tilting his head to the side. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Positive,” you tell him. There’s something strong burning in your eyes; he can’t quite figure out what it is. “I want to train. Just…don’t tell my dad, okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats. He swallows heavily, offering his phone to you. “Put your number in, yeah? I’ll text you on the nights I’m free, and if you’re not too busy, we can meet up here.”

“Alright,” you concede softly. You take the device from him, and he pretends not to notice just how badly your hands are shaking. Your nails tap quietly against the screen, and before you know it, you’re passing the phone back to him with your information saved under a new contact.

“Alright,” Harry echoes.

The two of you stare at each other for a long, silent moment. The spell is broken, however, when you finally take a step back, clearing your throat and tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear.

“I should go,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“For real.” Harry nods.

“You’ll lock up, right?” you ask, retreating toward the exit.

“Yup,” he says, popping the last letter instinctively. At that, you smile, your mouth curling up into a soft, inviting crescent.

“Okay,” you murmur, placing one hand on the door. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He watches you go with forlorn eyes and empty lungs. “Goodnight.”

~*~

PART II: Cross

PART III: Hook

PART IV: Uppercut

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 46: The Marauder's Map

Warmth! The sensation after such harsh conditions was quite literally the best experience they'd had through all these trying times. Eyes still watering and adjusting to these new surroundings, none of them felt the need to stay so close and huddled together anymore as the rest of this place came into focus.

It was still too eerily quiet, save the wind howling outside which helped some. The place was so heavenly though, for once they didn't care about the outside world.

"Padfoot, I think we actually may have died during that last one," Remus stated as he spun slowly on the spot.

Sirius inhaled deeply, mouth already watering a bit, and feared answering for getting spittle on every surface. Not in Honeydukes of all places.

Shivers already slowing in such a homey environment, James quickly ruffled his hair back to normal. He swallowed, but not for their surroundings. As mad as he was at her, those last few moments had left him legitimately concerned about Evans, and spotting her now he realized he'd been right.

She was still crouched down on the floor in the far corner, her dark red hair plastered to her face but not quite hiding her red tinted eyes and sniffling noises that had nothing to do with being next to a barrel of All Icing For All Occasions, Flavors Include Strawberry, Dragon Breath, Chocolate and More! Frank and Alice had landed behind the register a bit away from her, so he still managed to get there first.

"All right Evans?" He couldn't help but ask, even as his innards clenched and he still felt like snapping at her for all she'd thrown at Sirius lately. It was the angriest he'd ever been at her, and still he couldn't think to do anything else but offer her a box he'd swiped on his way over. "Bean?"

Anyone hearing their last words could not be the most pleasant of things, let alone what she must have been suffering through. Maybe that was why she looked at him and said with the calmest, most indifferent expression ever, "no thanks."

Ignoring his outstretched hand still, she got herself shakily to her feet and murmured something about checking for the book upstairs, all the while James couldn't help but notice such an alteration in her personality. Somehow seeing her so subdued was even worse than her usual anger at him. He bit down on his lip and looked around with intent, there had to be something he could do.

The upstairs flat very quickly showed there was no book in sight, though that had been the least of her worries. Alice and Frank truly were very good friends, one look exchanged between them before she'd gone up these stairs had explained she hadn't wanted to be followed, she'd just wanted a moment alone.

Around her was a one bedroom, tightly packed but clearly very loved and lived in space. A small kitchenette sat in the far corner looking out into the alley way, a comfortable bed was all made up, and a door cracked open showed a closet charmed to hold the rest of their belongings. The only door closed she quickly rectified to find a bathroom.

The smell of the candies still managed to waft up here, but that wasn't why she took an uneasy breath. All her reservations were screaming at her for the invasion of privacy she was considering, but her hair was still dripping slightly on the floor, and she needed some way to chase away this cold that was still settled around her. The last time she'd had the privilege of a shower had been in the Gryffindor dormitory ages ago...

This was finally a decision she made for herself, no outside voices telling her what she should and shouldn't do, and she needed this for herself. Decided, she quickly set to work.

The tap was easy enough, and she set the spray as hot as it would go while she pursued the linen available. There weren't enough spares, so she gently took a rather threadbare butter yellow towel, and duplicated it eight times before putting the original back and leaving the rest on the sinks edge, shucked her wet clothes into the basin and finally managed to relax.

After she was done, a quick charm left her attire still grungy with use, but warm and dry once more as she made her way back downstairs, amazed to find no one had started the next part yet. Her answer came in the form of the Marauders, as usual.

If she hadn't known better, despite Harry's loss in the last chapter, Gryffindor would have just won another game. Potter and Pettigrew were juggling various sweets between them, while occasionally still managing to swipe a parcel into their mouth and continue their exuberant game. The elder Black was busy stacking various boxes of every candy available onto his younger brothers head, and it didn't even look like it was under duress. She couldn't imagine how he'd talked him into it, but he was smiling as much as the others. The only thing missing was the cheering crowd and the butterbeer for their usual antics. She found herself smiling and relaxing even more than the steaming hot water had provided.

"I've found it!" A voice cheered, from below her feet? Lily looked around and finally spotted a door behind the register she hadn't noticed before, and Lupin came charging out holding nothing apparently but he had a pleased enough smile on his face. He looked surprised to see her back and quickly went over to Potter and Pettigrew, sidling up like he was going to join the game.

The others seemed so busy they either didn't notice, or didn't care. She cleared her throat and polity informed, "err, I've found a shower up top, I'm sure they wouldn't mind, I mean I've tried to keep it as put together as I found it. So long as we all do-"

The older Black, Sirius she forced herself to distinguish, looked around at her, and before she was even done was sprinting towards the stairs.

"Oi!" His little brother spluttered, but too late, there was already a door slamming shut upstairs and the sound of running water again.

Potter fell to the floor laughing at the display, a pile of sweets quickly covering him. The others were all snickering as well, but Pettigrew came over and waved his wand to begin unpiling the makeshift, edible hat. The younger- err, Regulus finally took the base off his head, a whole box of licorice wands, and cracked it open to begin unwrapping one, offering Pettigrew another in thanks. "Black, red, green, brown, purple, blue, or the one that's all mixed together?"

"The rainbow one," he asked. He took a huge bite of the mixture, and his skin quickly took on the same tie-dye effect. Regulus snickered as he took a bite of the green one, his skin taking on a sickly hue but clearly enjoying the flavor anyways.

"Oi, Evans," Potter had suddenly popped up right beside her again, somehow unburying himself from his pile of sweets, but unsurprisingly still clutching some. "I found a chocolate ganache flavored pack of All-In-Rolls. Padfoot already ate the turkey one, and I may or may not have nibbled on the hash one. Had to pry this away from Remus and Peter nearly killing themselves for it, so I hope you enjoy such a sacrifice." He flashed her a winning smile and offered it to her with a slight bow even.

She couldn't help it, she snorted out a laugh. Through all of this madness and mayhem, something was finally normal again. She quickly regained herself back though, ignoring the bright twinkle in his eye, and told him sternly, "I'll not have it, and you shouldn't either! You can not tell me you've brought enough money to repay this shop all the madness you've already caused."

"Evans, you wound me!" He flashed her that smile again, clearly pleased as ever at the proceedings. "I've been keeping this business afloat for as long as we've been here, of course I'd never run them out without proper compensation now." He pulled a money bag, which she swore he hadn't had in their Potions class when all this started, and jangled it purposefully.

She let out a resigned sigh, but finally took the dinner bred flavored in her favorite dessert.

James smiled to himself as she turned away, towards Alice and Frank already levitating a few feet off the ground as they enjoyed their sherbet balls. Bless Moony for having the quick hands to pass him the gold without anyone noticing. He was patting his past self on the back for keeping a stash of galleons in the basement below right under the secret trap for just such occasions, it was quite lucky he had still managed to get in, even if he was sure had he traveled all the way back to the school that one would have been blocked.

There were alternately seven of them all enjoying themselves as one excused themselves to the bathroom, Remus going last because he just hadn't been able to bear putting down his salt water taffy until he'd finished it. The water was still as warm as ever, thank Merlin for magic.

In all the hubbub, Frank finally found the book behind a stack of Shock-O-Choc. They were all in such a relaxed and comfortable mood, everyone having savored a few chocolates first, that at first he almost glossed right over the chapter title.

"What map?" Alice asked in confusion, looking from the book to the suddenly shifty Marauders.

"No idea," Potter said with a completely straight face.

"Yeah, beyond us," his best friend nodded along.

"We're not the only Marauders on Earth," Lupin casually studied his fingers, picking fudge out from under his nails.

"Why would you assume otherwise?" Peter asked back innocently. He kept his hand in his pocket where said item currently was. They'd only finished it over Christmas break of this year, no way were they willing to show it to anyone else in this school! Not to mention, it wasn't really working anyways, the place would be more deserted than it ever had in its life. Even during holidays you could find some teachers who lived there about the school, now there wasn't even that.

The three exchanged a look of exasperation, but really they couldn't force another answer out of them, considering none believed this, so Frank just got started hoping for more answers from the book.

Regulus just kept eyeing Sirius, though he wasn't sure what for. He wasn't expecting some special treatment and an explanation, but he'd been well aware for ages his brother and friends got up to something around school. Even without Snape going on about it to anyone who would listen it was obvious enough, there just wasn't enough care from the general student populace to find out. Now here was an honest clue to it all, but what did a map help? By second year most students didn't need such a thing.

A kid voluntarily staying in the hospital wing for the weekend was quite the depressing way to get things started. It was nice his friends all came to visit him, Frank actually got a chuckle out of the fact that he didn't share his recent Grim sighting because he could accurately predict his friends reactions. There was irony abound in there.

Sirius didn't seem to find it as funny, blanching in unease and taking a step closer to Prongs at the reminder Harry had nearly died both times he'd caught sight of him. Was he really some omen? Twelve people had all died around him for some reason... "Oi Padfoot!" Remus cut in loudly. "Come here and play Exploding Bonbons with me."

"You two are so lame," Peter rolled his eyes as Sirius at once darted over. "Only couples do that sort of shite."

"Just because you caught Bertha Jorkins and Florence Jr. playing that last month doesn't change the fact that they've been doing this since third year," James rolled his eyes at him. "Now come here, I want a witness to see how many Pepper Imps I can fit in my mouth at once." Peter frowned in confusion at him why he hadn't instead made some joke towards Evans about trying the same, but willingly followed him over to the shelf where he could grab arm fulls of the little candies.

Alice was filling her pockets with plenty of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, while Frank was popping Crystallized Pineapple into his mouth every few sentences. Evans was now ignoring everything as much as she could as she dug into some No-Melt Ice-Cream Every Flavor, but she seemed to have a hard time swallowing it. He sighed and wished more than anything he could skip ahead, but the blasted book only let a few lines appear at a time. No one should have to listen to their final moments being lived through by their child. There wasn't any comfort they could give her for this.

Sirius nearly choked on his next bonbon when Ron threw a crocodile heart in Malfoy's face, spraying Dynamite Coconut all over Remus and neither of them caring as they knew they'd do just the same.

"I won that one," Moony smirked, wiping the crumbs free from his scruff, he needed a shave soon.

"Blast," he grumbled as he snatched up the next one blindly, and then scowled when it came up black.

Remus did so next, coming up with a red one. The two held each others gaze as they popped them in, but Sirius lost again this time because the little concoction exploded in his mouth faster, forcing him to quickly and visibly swallow. "How do you win at this every time?" He demanded as the prick still sat there smirking with his jaw firmly held around the candy even as Sirius blindly began choosing another. Luckily he came up with a white one this time, while the book turned to Professor Lupin's class.

"I've always been better at handling my sweets," he muttered for Sirius alone, nearly causing him to drop his candy. He grumbled and eyed the staircase, but didn't think the two of them could skip off without their friends noticing and coming along this time. Blast Wormtail putting the idea in his head, he'd been fighting back the urge to snog Remus for a whole minute now, the candies would have made such an experience even better.

They were interrupted anyways by the two joining them, smoke still pouring out of Prongs' nose and a very satisfied look on his face. "New record!" He crowed, collapsing on the ground beside Sirius and offering him a Jelly Slug.

"You really must make quite the good teacher Moony," Peter snickered. "All those kids complaining to you, and you taking it in stride like that."

"Least I managed to take your advice and keep my cool," he sighed, knowing full well he wouldn't be having any words with Snape. If he wasn't already avoiding him before, he would be now, even though the question of that mysterious potion was still on all their minds, Harry didn't seem to be picking up any more clues about it.

Lupin did call Harry back, and that following conversation was wrenching for them all. More talk of Azkaban and those dementors wasn't helping anyone's mood in here despite the warmth surrounding this room. No amount of Chocolate Flavored Pumpkin Pasties was going to make hearing of this better, but it was quite interesting to hear he promised Harry dementor lessons soon! The four exchanged almost excited looks for that promise, finally someone who was going out of there way to help Harry.

"Thanks, err, Remus."

Moony nearly startled to his feet, the only one who didn't seem surprised by Evans coming over was Prongs. He seemed determined to be unfazed by this, shifting through some Treacle Fudge with an absent expression.

"Oh, ah, you're welcome," he quickly smiled at her, meeting her expression openly. "I'd ah, do it for any student of course, but, well, I don't need to tell you I'd do anything for James' kid."

"Right," she said quietly, turning back away now that she'd said her peace, unable to shake the dark thought her friend had certainly never bothered to do the same. She held the two beside each other in her head, trying to age them up nineteen years, it was almost unfathomable. Her best friend had turned into some bitter tyrant of the school and here Potter's friend was, going out of his way to help Harry.

Of course this didn't explain Black on the loose, and Lupin just so happening to be at the school the same year. There was just no way that could be a coincidence, but would another of Potter's friends really be out to kill Harry?

Alice distracted her by offering her a Sugar Quill, gazing around at Honeydukes with a new eye and asking, "you know, I've just thought. Why would this place have any significance to Harry? He's not getting in here, and I wouldn't think his friends bringing him more sweets from this place would be so big a deal."

"Who cares," Frank managed around a mouth full of toffee. How he'd been getting the words from the book out with any semblance of intelligence was the real mystery today.

Regulus stopped sorting his beans into different colors and looked up with interest as the twins pulled Harry aside right before a Hogsmeade visit, instantly guessing what all this was about. He'd heard rumors from some of the older students the school had dozens of secret passages, and he'd certainly put money down those twins knew some of them. Then his eyes widened further as he turned to look at his brother, the four of them looking as if they were holding their breath in anticipation, all sweets forgotten and expressions locked in on Frank. A map of those secrets of the school would come in handy, and the Marauders were certainly more than capable of making such a thing; and then it somehow got even more fantastical!

The four of them had to scramble desperately to hide their sudden euphoria of Prongs kid of all people just stumbling across this! Instead they were forced to fix confused expressions in place, trying to make themselves look as intrigued and curious as anyone else should. It was like staring down Dumbledore!

"Wow, ah, what a marvel that thing is!" James began earnestly.

"My, my, we must be geniuses to figure this out, by our seventh year surely!" Sirius quickly agreed.

"If it's even ours," Peter quickly tacked in.

"Oh yes of course, how silly of us, or anyone to think we alone could engineer such a thing and-"

"Sign it with your bloody stupid nicknames you keep calling each other," Frank interrupted with an eye roll.

"You lot are the worst liars, really pathetic considering how often you try practicing at it," Alice snickered.

"Can't we see it," Regulus asked with such an excited little squeal to his voice, Sirius swore he was that ten year old again asking to see his big brothers wand.

Then James made the mistake of looking at Evans, five years of habit unbroken, and found her looking nothing but curious for this.

The two caved. Remus knew they'd lost. Peter pulled it out.

Sirius snatched it away, cleared his throat with far more importance than anyone really thought was necessary, and stated clearly, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Little ink lines began spreading about at once, and the other four crowded forward eagerly.

"Well I don't know what you were expecting," Remus couldn't help but say defensively into the silence. "You knew as well as us there's no one in the castle for it to be properly working right now!"

"Mrs. Norris is still there," Regulus noticed, prodding a corner that housed Filch's office.

"Huh, none of the other animals are," Alice said curiously.

"Or that basilisk," Frank shivered.

"We had to put a special charm in to track that cat," James shrugged, "doesn't work on all animals."

"And we don't have the Chamber on here, we never found it," Sirius sighed.

"I'm not particularly fond of the idea of adding it in," Remus agreed.

"How did you manage such a thing?" Evans asked, a wide-eyed student in class again. She held her hand out curiously, Sirius reluctantly let it go.

"Some modifications to the Homenum Revelio spell, had to transfigure a textbook on revealing charms," James quickly said with bursting pride. He was more than happy to brag about this to her now that it was out in the open, but Peter was still frowning at the four suspiciously.

"It's not exactly something we made overnight, took us ages to get it all-"

"Isn't Hogwarts unplottable though!" Frank interrupted. "How did you actually manage this?"

"Drew the whole thing myself," James crossed his arms with a smirk. "The magic didn't stop us from animating our own map, we just couldn't con one up from the school. Padfoot and Moony managed all the fancy wand-work, then Wormtail went around and marked all the details."

"I can't imagine this thing when the school's, well, normal," Alice giggled as she scanned every corridor. Even having lived there the past six years, she hadn't found half the places marked on this thing. "How can you make out anything with so many people about?"

"Practice," all four said at once.

"I want to know how the twins got a hold of it," Regulus took his turn holding it, Evans offering it without a second thought. He held it up to the light, then flipped it all around to get every angle, before finally folding it up again. "I can't imagine you lot letting this out of your sight much, let alone how it fell into the Weasley's possession."

"They said they swiped it from Filch," Peter recalled. "It wouldn't be too far fetched for him to confiscate it from us and for them to figure out how to get it working from there." Then he shifted uncomfortably and again tried to caution, "of course, the more people who know about it, the more likely-"

"You think Harry's going to get into Hogsmeade with this!" James suddenly shouted above everyone, snatching it away and quickly tracing his finger to the corridor Harry would be in.

Regulus gave Peter a sympathetic smile and whispered, "don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Thanks," Peter sighed back while Frank scrambled back to the book curiously. "I just hope those three will keep their mouths shut."

"It's hard to imagine Evans doing it," Regulus agreed. "She might lord this over you lot, threaten to turn it into a teacher once the novelty wears off."

"That might put Prongs off her once and for all," Peter couldn't help an ironic laugh.

James' prediction came true of course, and Harry was soon on his way to this very building. The other four of course went traipsing down the stairs as if to meet him, all of them crowding around the basement now looking for the secret hatch.

The Marauders stayed on the stairs with smirks in place, their eyes knowing just where to fall.

Frank tried to keep reading and get a clue, but despite Harry coming up and then above into the shop, he still couldn't spot it. Alice cast a few spells to reveal any such thing but nothing happened, while Lily was walking purposefully on the floor, clearly listening for something. Regulus was watching, and finally managed to follow Sirius' eyes, right to a square spot on the floor that had slightly less dust then everywhere else.

Alice yelped in excitement when he pulled it up, jumping down the hole with abandon.

"Bit of a squeeze down here, hard to imagine you four all scampering around in here," she called back.

"We manage," Sirius snorted.

It took a while for them to finally stop badgering questions, but the Marauders couldn't find it in them to be very upset at these four learning one of their secrets. Well, two, but plenty of students knew of the secret passages existences. They still had one secret that was just for them after all, and still no one had thought to ask them about their nicknames.

Harry was now able to explore Honeydukes, and eerily running right into his friends. They'd all had their fill of candy already and were more than happy to hear of Harry getting to explore even more of the village. James expected the chapter to be winding down soon so went wandering back upstairs to make sure and drop enough money in their till, Remus going with him to see if he couldn't stuff a few more sweets into his pockets for the continuing trip, who knew when they'd get food again. Regulus thought up a few more questions and managed a decent conversation with Peter and Sirius for a time, while Lily and Alice were discussing the merits of that kind of magic. Their thoughts of those boys being layabouts felt laughable now, how much research must have gone into that map?

Frank was as surprised as anyone when the kids reached the Three Broomsticks, got comfortable, and then choked on the words as teachers appeared.

"Blast it all, Harry can't have one decent thing!" Sirius scowled.

There was a thunk from upstairs, and they didn't have long to wonder what had been dropped in surprise as a cascade of Tooth-Splintering Strongmints came tumbling downstairs, James and Remus close behind.

"This is madness," Potter protested, skittering on the last few steps and nearly sliding into the entrance that had been left open.

"He didn't even bring the Invisibility Cloak," Remus sighed.

Hermione did some quick thinking and hid the kids from sight, but the relaxed tone couldn't quite come back.

"Has anyone tracked how long Hagrid's been in this place before?" Peter sighed. "I feel like Harry's going to miss curfew before he can slip past him."

"Have a bit more faith in the lad," Sirius tried to laugh off. "He's on the smaller side," sending a superior smirk at James, who in turn flipped him off. "He'll sneak out in no time."

Frank hoped they were right, he didn't particularly want to be the one to read about Harry's adventure getting ruined so thoroughly when he wasn't really doing anything that wrong. He'd expected the conversation wasn't much to listen to, but was quickly proven wrong when once again Black and the dementors were the topic. In all the excitement of this news he'd almost forgotten about Black's future misdeeds.

Judging from the mingled horror and resignation on his face, he might have as well. He shrunk back into the shadows with ease, nearly vanishing from sight and murmuring something for his friends ears alone.

"It's alright Pads," Remus caught him up in a reassuring embrace before he could slink too far away.

"Yeah, we still don't believe a word of it, no matter who says what," James stated in no uncertain terms.

"Even McGonagall of all people," Peter laughed awkwardly as their head of house even managed to share light on the tail. The four managed a pleasant smile for a moment as she reminisced about James and Sirius being as close as brothers, it was a wonder she didn't mention the other two, even a little offensive considering she now worked with one of them! Sirius' teeth sunk uncomfortably into his lower lip as he wondered at that, if he'd really done something to make her not associate Remus with him anymore.

Things weren't going that badly for a moment, James even perking up with interest at Sirius being his best man at his wedding to Evans. He glanced over and saw her scoffing, as usual, but even now he couldn't help but grin at the idea. She would look lovely in white. He turned away much quicker than usual though with an uneasy sigh, he wasn't sure how to look past her attitude towards his best friend. He'd named Sirius Harry's godfather for crying out loud, the news unsurprising to him. Shouldn't that be enough for anyone to know what kind of person Sirius was?

He missed Lily watching him out of the corner of her eye, her own mind a tumultuous mess of wondering at her future. A marriage to Potter of all people sounded ridiculous of course, but what would it have been like? His best friend had been there, had hers? Her sister? For just a moment, she could imagine it. Tired of feeling so alone, and the one person still trying to fight for her attention, she'd cave and possibly say something civil to him-

She'd missed some of it in her musings, Black being a Secret Keeper or something and the Marauders vehement protests something must have gone wrong with Dumbledore's spell before their mate had done anything against Potter. She wanted to scoff and laugh at their naivety in such a reckless friend, but stopped cold before she could even start, forcing herself to remember this time she once would have said the same about Sev- still would! Right?

Frank was growing increasingly uncomfortable the longer he had to keep going. Hagrid's shame at not stopping Black but instead accepting a gift from him like that bike was only making things worse. When he'd dismissed the Marauders as naive for thinking their friend couldn't do what the rest of the world said he'd done, they all must have been some level of crazy. It just kept getting worse, Black managed to kill Peter in that explosion?! It didn't seem real.

That arrogant pureblood stepping off and taking out a dozen muggles to prove himself had been perfectly in line with the character he knew, but taking out one of his own friends with it? After having just stabbed another in the back? It was hard to imagine any human with half the loyalty he'd witnessed in the past few days conceiving of such a thing.

Regulus had started to back away from his brother at the gore in this story, feeling like he was interrupting something private between the four even as he was forced to listen to the grisly tale. He stopped though when he realized what he wasn't seeing. The four just seemed frozen in place, expressions stuck on shock and nothing else. Regulus drew his wand and flexed his fingers, scenarios running through his mind of six of them turning on his brother. He didn't care what mother said, what anyone said, Sirius hadn't done anything yet to deserve this fate. Regulus still wasn't convinced this was the whole story, he wouldn't trust anything second hand now if details were already admitted to being covered up.

James unfroze first, stuffing his hands casually into his pockets, eyes flashing with fire about the room as he snarled what a horrible story that had been. Remus crossed his arms and put a calculating expression onto his pasty face, whispering to no one all the inconsistencies that could be had from this. Then Peter moved, Regulus raised his wand with a curse on his lips, but the guy merely launched himself into his friend, half shrieking, "glory Pads, to think what was going through your head finally wasn't your insanity! It's alright, whatever the hell that was, I know you'd never really!"

"I, wouldn't," he managed in half a sob, fingers trying to shake right out of socket as he patted him on the back, before crushing him in a life threatening hug. "Course I wouldn't," he repeated with a conviction no one would have believed moments ago. "I'd never."

Frank and Alice exchanged another of their unspoken looks. After such tenderness, watching their friendship in action, he found himself trying to guess what story in this future was missing a few holes, while watching those in front of him band around each other. Frank read the last few lines, Harry's shock at hearing all this as fresh as theirs, and begged of the new chapter to give some relief.

[chispas-and-broken-bindings]

A Preview...

Someone requested a fix for their birthday...I don’t have the next chapter for I Just Think I’ll Scream quite ready for prime time, but here’s a sneak peak: 

Ch 20 Sansa

Robb and Ned were up and away before Sansa emerged from her shower in the morning. The house is chaos as Catelyn tries to wrangle the remaining Starks out the door. "Sansa, stop feeding Shaggydog scraps from the table and get dressed! Bran, there are two boxes of gourds by the back door that need to be brought to the store for the window display. Be a dear and put them in the car. And where are Arya and Rickon?" 

 Sansa skips up the stairs before she's pulled into the hunt, almost knocking into her younger sister as she slides down the bannister. "One of these days that's going to break."

 "Whatever, killjoy."

 "Mom is looking for you, but you better change. We are supposed to wear floral for the Women's Club Bake Sale. It's themed and Cersei Lannister is going to be there, so we have to be on our best behavior." Her little sister is wearing their dad's old Falcon's sweatshirt and ripped up jeans, looking for all the world like she's about to spend the day painting a house or cleaning out a garage, and not hobnobbing with their mother's friends and clients. 

 "I'm not working the bake sale. I'm selling tickets to the haunted fun house with Mycah." 

 "Says who?" 

Before Arya can respond, Catelyn is at the bottom of the stairs. "Me. You know that it'll be better for everyone if Arya isn't cooped up all day in a tent with the Women's Club ladies. Help me get through the midday rush, Sansa, and you can slip away and spend the afternoon with Harry if you'd like." 

 "Gods, Mom! They broke up weeks ago! Catch up!" Arya yells as the back door slams behind her and Sansa is alone, staring down the steps at her mother whose face has fallen into a look of concern. 

 "Oh, Sansa, dear. Why didn't you tell me?" 

 She sighs, "It's fine, Mom. Like Arya said, it happened weeks ago, and it was just a high school fling. They aren't meant to last." She turns back up the stairs, not waiting to see if her brush off was convincing. She dresses in the dark maxi dress waiting on her hook, with its long flowy sleeves and pattern of intricate woodland flowers. Usually, she feels like Florence Welch in it. Today though, as she inspects herself before the mirror, it's coming off less stylishly bohemian and more dowdy Victorian with the small ruffles along the high collar and shoulders. Ygritte would never wear something like this, a small ugly voice whispers. 

 Just as she's about to dive back into her closet, Bran yells up the stairs, "We're going to leave without you, Sansa," and it makes her choice for her. It's fine. She'll just hide in a corner of the tent with Old Nan and sneak lemon cakes all day. No one has to see her. So what if the band is playing this afternoon? It's not like any of them care if she watches their show, and she's basically heard the whole set already in rehearsals. It's not like Robb told everybody at school about it. It's not like she promised to get there early and save a spot up front with Marge and Jeyne. 

Ygritte will probably be there to watch Jon. Best to skip...at least until she gets over her absurd crush. 

 "Sansa! Mom is literally starting the engine!" Bran yells again. 

 "Coming!" The best she can do is throw on sunglasses and a wide-brimmed fedora and hope no one recognizes her. Outside, Arya is still arguing with Rickon about buckling his car seat and Cat is on her phone, pacing up the driveway while Bran sits on the back step, whistling the march from Bridge Over the River Kwai. "Liar," Sansa flicks off his baseball cap. "We're nowhere near about to leave."

 "She was starting the engine before her phone rang."

 When they finally find a parking spot, it's apparent to everyone that they would have been better off leaving the car at home and walking. Though the festival hasn't officially started yet, the main street is closed off, and the big parking lot has been covered in carnival rides overnight. Arya peels off from their group when Mycah gives her a holler from on top of the Ferris wheel, leaving Bran and Sansa to lug the several boxes filled with decorative gourds to the hardware store, while their mom takes Rickon and their contributions to the bake sale in the opposite direction.  

 Outside the store entrance, Benjen is struggling with his pop-up tent, which keeps leaning to one side in the wind, while Meera watches him from the front step. "This is your fault, Sansa! Making me set up a stand, like I'm some lady selling doilies at a craft fair," He curses when the whole thing folds up on top of him.

 "Good morning to you too, Uncle Ben," she rolls her eyes. "Where is Robb? He can get you bags of sand to anchor the tent. And don't knock doilies. There are entire rooms at the Met devoted to Myrish Lace alone. You can poke fun at craft fairs once even one of your pieces is on display at a similarly storied institution. Until then, you better get comfortable setting up this tent because I have three holiday craft markets lined up for you this season."

 "You're just supposed to be sprucing up my website, not taking over the business! And don't get me started on your brother. I haven't had my morning caffeine fix yet because he disappeared on a coffee run ages ago. How long does it take to pour a bloody cup of coffee? If Jon Snow is holding up my joe with some pumpkin spice, whipped cream nonsense-"

On cue, Mr. paparazzo himself, appears in the doorway and before Sansa can land on an emotion, he's lifting the box from her arms with a gruff "G'morning Sansa," and then he's back in the shop, leaving her empty-handed and a bit empty-headed. 

 "He looks like he needs caffeine more than you," she remarks at last, meeting eyes with her uncle.

 Meera sniggers. "You think? He looks like he spent the night sleeping under a car." Sansa wouldn't go that far, but it was hard to miss the circles under his eyes or how pale and papery his skin looked in the cold morning light. 

 "Give the kid a break. They played their first show last night, didn't they? If he's a bit wrung out this morning, that just means he's doing it right." Benjen jumps to Jon's defense. 

 "Well then, he's been doing it right every weekend. He's looked like this every morning since he started at the store," Meera says, heading back inside to supervise since Robb is still M.I.A. Sansa thinks about Ygritte's Instagram feed with its late night cigarettes and coffee at the diner and regular parties in what looks like someone's grungy basement. So, Jon works hard and plays hard. It's not entirely shocking. It niggles at her though; how tired he looks and how he doesn't talk about partying when he's at Winterfell. Her other friends are always eager to share their weekend escapades, but when Sansa asked how his party went when his Mom was out of town, Jon just gave her a noncommittal shrug and told her it was fine. 

 That's because you aren't really friends. She turns, more than ready to join her mom at the bake sale, when Robb comes skipping across the street with a drink carrier in hand. "Sansa! Just the girl I'm looking for." Her brother is as chipper as ever, seemingly inured to whatever effects from last night's show have taken the wind from Jon Snow's sails. "Can you help with the window display? Mom told me to spiff it up for the festival, but you've got a better eye for that kind of thing."

 "Oh, sure. Skip out of work for an hour to flirt with some barista and then come back at the last minute to coerce your sister into doing your job?" Benjen barks and Robb's face turns scarlet. 

 "I… uh, what? No… I wasn't flirting…" 

 "Aren't you doing the same thing to me, Uncle Ben?" Sansa retorts, saving her brother from his bumbling. She makes a note to stop by the coffee shop and find out who this barista is. Uncle Benjen may be onto something. "Come on Robb, give Uncle Benji his coffee and I'll spare a few minutes for a consultation." 

 Inside, Bran and Meera are balancing tiny pumpkins on their heads as they wind through the aisles, trying to trip each other up. Jon Snow is leaning against the paint counter, looking ragged. She fights the urge to ask him if he's okay, opting instead to tip over Bran's pumpkin and herd him over to the window display. "Here, help me before Mom walks by and turns Robb into the headless horseman." They distribute the gourds in artfully artless piles throughout the window, as Jon and Robb hang a paint chip mobile over their heads; the autumnal pièce de résistance that Sansa spent hours making last year.

"Sans, I wish you could have been there last night. It was amazing," Robb excitedly recounts the band's show, "Jon was on fire, and apparently some promoters from White Harbor were there and Satin thinks he can book us some shows at North State! Isn't that great?"

 "Yeah, though, won't that be hard with swimming?" She doesn't want to rain on Robb's parade, but maybe Arya is right. She is a killjoy.

 "I have a meet in White Harbor next month. Maybe we can book a few gigs around it. What do you think, Jon? You up for a weekend road trip?"

 "Uh.." Jon scratches at his neck, blearily. "I mean, that's a long drive to do late at night."

 "Don't worry, we'll get a hotel for the weekend!"

 "I don't know-"

 The bell jingles at the door, and before Meera can scramble off the counter where she's been reading a comic, Catelyn is inside, gazing around the space, looking deeply unimpressed. 

 "Mom, uh, we were just finishing up with the decorations." Robb wobbles on the ladder in terror, unable to hook the last end of the mobile in place, and Bran ducks behind a pile of pumpkins, trying to hide his glee.

 "Robb, you should have opened the store fifteen minutes ago. How are you just now finishing the decorations?"

“Well, the gourds only just arrived-” Robb starts, lamely. 

“Never mind,” their mom sweeps through the space, picking up the boxes still out from stocking, tidying the candy by the register, before turning one last critical eye on her teenage employees. Jon cups his neck as he holds the ladder with his other hand. Robb scrambles down, having finally managed to hang the mobile correctly, rushing forward to grab the empty boxes from his mother. “Cersei Lannister is going to be here any minute. Get this garbage to the back. Meera, flip the sign and Jon, take the ladder back and...splash some water on your face or something. You look like death, warmed over. Jory is coming around ten, if you need to take the afternoon off.” 

Jon’s ears turn pink as he folds up the ladder beside Sansa, and she looks out the window, mortified. “Sorry Mrs. Stark, but that’s not necessary” he begins, but Catelyn is already walking back to the office with a tired wave. 

“I said it was a lot of hours you were taking on between school, the lumberyard and this. Just make sure you are fitting sleep in or you’ll make yourself sick, dear.” 

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 14

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles​)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: It’s like I ask for feedback and y’all STOP SENDING IT LMAO. So I guess I just won’t ask anymore. Hope y’all enjoy this. When you’re finished reading, here is a post containing the names of a bunch of black-owned bookstores! Pick up a book about race, or just support black businesses! Xx

“Harry, can you get your ass up?”

Harry pulled the comforter up to cover his ear. He felt the mattress dip and then Melody ripped the pillow out from beneath his head.

“What?” he grated out, peeling his eyes open the slightest bit to look at her.

“Did you forget you have PT today? We’re supposed to be there in a half hour.”

“Don’ even need to go anymore, do I? Don’ see why I should.” He closed his eyes again and Melody smacked him in the shoulder with his pillow. “Would yeh chill?”

“No. Get up. Aidan is gonna be waiting for us.”

Harry blinked his eyes open fully and felt the room shift as though he’d rolled over. He let out a groan.

“What’s wrong?”

He lifted a hand to cover his face.

“You’re hungover?” Melody asked. “Serves you right. I can’t believe I wasted that underwear set on you.”

Harry felt a dim light flicker on in his mind. “What color were they again?”

“Pink, you dick,” she snapped. Harry felt her climb off the bed and then his pillow hit him in the face.

“Why are yeh so mad at me?” he asked. “Was it bad?”

“You finished and then fell asleep on top of me, Harry.”

Harry lowered his hand and blinked into the painful morning light. He stared at Melody, with her arms crossed over her chest, a frown creating a divot between her brows. She didn’t look like she’d just told a joke.

“I didn’.”

“You did.”

“No, I didn’.”

“Yes, Harry. You did.”

“Please, for fuck’s sake, tell me yeh’re kiddin’.”

“I am not.” Melody ran her fingers back through her hair and sighed. “Can you please get up?”

“‘M sorry, Mel,” Harry said as he finally pushed himself into a sitting position, squeezing his eyes against the splitting pain in his head.

“I forgive you. You drank too much.”

Harry nodded, although the idea had become foreign to him since he’d moved back to the States. He didn’t even know what “too much” meant anymore. Or at least he hadn’t before last night. “I drank a lot.”

“I need you to get ready. I don’t want to make Aidan wait.”

“Yeh don’ want me to try and make it up—”

“I don’t think you’re in the right state for that.” Melody threw a pair of boxers his way and shook her head. “Don’t need you throwing up on me. That would be worse.”

“But I—”

“Seriously, Harry. I don’t wanna talk about it right now. It’s still fresh in my mind.”

“What is? Me finishin’? Or you not?”

Even hungover and embarrassed, he was a smartass. Melody rolled her eyes. “Get dressed,” she repeated as she left the room.

***

“Really don’ see what the use of this is,” Harry muttered from where he sat as Aidan stretched and twisted first his left leg, then his right. “Can walk just fine. Yeh’ve seen me.”

Aidan placed Harry’s foot back on the floor and nodded. “You’ve regained a lot of strength in your lower body,” he agreed. “I just want to make sure that your posture and your balance are recouping too. You don’t want to end up needing knee surgery because you’re favoring one leg.”

“Think ‘m fine. Can still hit fine, too.”

Aidan raised a brow and then swiveled his gaze to Melody. She rolled her eyes in return. He knew very little about what went on in the warehouse on the north side, and he’d never even heard of Brute’s. Melody wanted to keep it that way. It seemed that too many people were involved in their business as it was.

“He’s an angry drunk.”

“Am not,” Harry protested, swinging his head around to glare at her.

“And moody when he’s hungover, as you can see.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Aidan drew in a deep breath and rose to his full height, crossing his arms. Even without a word, he looked disapproving, and somehow his opinion meant something to Melody. She couldn’t quite tell, but Harry seemed to avoid his gaze. And he seemed relieved when Aidan didn’t pick at the topic.

“Well, you’re right. Your body is recovering really well. You seem to favor your left leg a bit. We should try to correct that. It’s probably just because you swing with your right.”

Melody and Harry both glanced at him when he finished speaking, and his eyes glinted under the hospital lighting. Harry shifted on the bench and tugged at the knee of his pant leg.

“That mean ‘m done with therapy?”

“I wanna see you once more in about a month. Just to make sure everything keeps going the way it is now, after you’ve put on a little more muscle mass.” His lips quirked up, so like Sean before he told the punchline of a joke. “And if you didn’t look like you could throw up on me at any moment, that would be appreciated.”

“Piss off,” Harry muttered, though from beneath the headache and nausea, a tight-lipped smile slipped out. He was done with hospitals and therapy, wheelchairs and canes. He could get back to normal, finally. Everything he needed to get back to was just at his fingertips.

“How’s the rib?”

Harry blinked before he realized that Aidan was no longer talking to him. Melody shrugged and tucked her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants. Despite her behavior, Harry could tell that she wasn’t feeling her best either, although she might’ve only had a sip too much, compared to the alcohol still stirring in his gut.

“It’s getting there. Only tweaks every now and then.”

“Good,” Aidan said with a nod. “Keep resting.” He offered her a quick tap on the shoulder and flicked his hand in a short wave as he left the room, no doubt on his way to visit another patient. “Use your right leg!” he called out as he reached the hall.

“How’s your hand?” Melody asked after a beat. Harry found her staring at his knuckles, where they were curled around the edge of his bench. The skin was raw and swollen but the ache was almost mute against the backdrop of his hangover.

“‘S fine.”

“I should’ve iced your fingers when we got home last night. I’m sorry, I—”

“Mel, stop. Yeh’re not my nurse.” Harry rose to his feet and clenched his teeth at the spell of vertigo that raced through him before he continued to speak. “Had quite a few dislocated knuckles before. I don’ think a few bruises and cuts are gonna cripple me.”

“No, but—”

“But nothin’. ‘M fine. My hand is fine. Don’ worry about me.”

Melody sealed her lips. She touched her fingertips to her chin and scratched an imaginary itch. Harry closed the distance between them and lifted a hand to her cheek, thumbing her temple and curling hair behind her ear.

“Think ‘m gonna take a walk around the city, okay? Start usin’ my right leg more.”

Melody tightened her arms at her chest and tried not to let her eyes flutter at Harry’s touch. “You don’t want me to come?”

“No,” he said, hurrying to continue when she dropped his gaze. “But not because of you. Just haven’ really been out in the city by myself in a really long time, yeh know? It’ll just be an hour or two and then I’ll meet yeh back at your place.”

Melody nodded. She understood the need to wander the city. She usually didn’t feel that need when she was hungover, but to each their own.

“I’ll see yeh later, then.” Harry tucked his finger beneath Melody’s chin to tilt her face upward and pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth. He felt more inclined to show her affection, despite his uncomfortable, dull nausea and aching head, because of his poor performance the previous night.

Melody curled her fingers around Harry’s wrist and shivered as his lips brushed the corner of her mouth. She bumped his nose with hers. “Be safe,” she whispered.

Harry scoffed, crooked smile on his lips as he rose back to full height. “‘M the safest person yeh know.”

***

Snow was falling again as Harry left the hospital alone. He was prepared for the cold this time. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of a heavy winter coat, his swollen knuckles straightened out to avoid the soreness that accompanied any bending. He made a conscious effort to place a good amount of weight on his right leg as he walked.

The air smelled of fresh laundry as he passed by some residential buildings on his path toward the cluster of shops at the center of the city. He kept his eyes downcast to avoid the frigid wind that whipped up the street.

Harry passed the art store where he’d purchased Melody’s paintbrushes the year prior. It was a place he’d only been inside once, and only noticed when he had been looking specifically for it. He needed a gift for her upcoming birthday, too. But he had no clue what to get.

This was the most normal that he’d felt since he was discharged from the hospital. He needed distance. He needed alone time. Even when Melody wasn’t in the apartment, Bea or Josie usually were. And besides, that apartment was not his space, not home. This city felt like his, though.

Harry didn’t have a route in mind. At least he thought he didn’t. He was frustrated with his lack of endurance and so every time his body felt like it was time to stop, like he needed to turn around and walk back to Melody’s, he ignored the ache in his legs and walked one more block. But he’d spent years training his mind to push past his body’s protesting.

Almost an hour passed. The snow stopped. It wasn’t until he was slumped against the corner of a grungy laundromat, stretching out his muscles, that Harry realized where he was, where he was going.

There were only three blocks between here and Brute’s, between here and the warehouse, which he hadn’t entered in months. He remembered chugging whiskey out in the street the night before and felt his stomach curl up inside him. But here he was, almost there. Mere steps from where his glass had shattered, so close to the ring that he’d spilled so much blood inside.

Harry waited until his stomach stopped churning, until bile was no longer rising in his throat, and then considered his options. Should he just walk back to the apartment? Now, taking a cab would be a better alternative. But he was already so close and there was a reason his feet had carried him in this direction.

Harry’s legs felt weak as he walked the rest of the way to the warehouse. The lights were on in the front window of Brute’s, despite it being long before noon.

The creak of the outer door on its rusty hinges was familiar. The warehouse’s entryway was almost colder than outside, without the sun to add some warmth. Harry yanked open the next door and he heard its squeal echo between the metal walls of the arena. He cringed as he stepped inside and let the door shut behind him. His footsteps sounded up the few stairs to the bar.

There were two girls in the ring, now still. And they were both staring at him. He wouldn’t have recognized Melody if it weren’t for the very distinct color of her hair, pulled into a ponytail but spilling around her face. She was wearing a sports bra and a tight pair of cloth shorts and her bare stomach glistened under the radiating lights. Of course she was here. Even though Aiden had told her just an hour ago to keep resting.

Harry watched Melody’s brows draw together. She glanced to one corner of the ring, where Harry saw Sean, also staring. Then her gaze panned back to Harry and she lowered her gloved hands. This whole situation felt like a fever dream.

“What are you doing here?” Melody asked. Her voice echoed. Her breath came in labored gasps. She swung her head around to look at her sparring partner, who gave Melody a stiff nod and then turned to chat with her own cornerman.

Melody stepped to the edge of the ring and leaned against the ropes.

“‘M talkin’ to Goodman.”

Melody frowned. “About what?”

“Business,” Harry answered simply.

“Business,” Melody repeated.

“Yeah.”

Sean lingered in his corner, kicking at the floor. He supposed that Harry didn’t appreciate him siding with Melody after the fistfight the night before, but Sean wasn’t sorry. Harry didn’t spare him a glance while talking to Melody.

“Okay.” Melody drew out the word. "So, just fuck me, right?”

Harry shook his head and let out a dry breath of a laugh. “Yeah, sure.” He spun on his heel and strutted across the floor toward the back hallway.

“Harry!” Melody’s shout of frustration echoed. He heard her feet hit the floor, her gloves peeling off, and then her steps following. She didn’t catch up with him until he had already knocked on Goodman’s door. “You’re being an ass,” she said when she stood directly behind him. “How do you know he’s here, anyway?”

“’S Wednesday. He’s always here on Wednesday.” These were the days he took care of bills and paperwork.

“Okay, so—“

“Come in.”

Melody froze at the sound of Goodman’s voice but Harry turned the doorknob and stepped into the office. He didn’t close the door and Melody’s hesitant feet followed.

“Sir,” Harry greeted.

Goodman sat at a large wooden desk that was covered in papers and boxes of varying sizes. Melody wondered for a moment, as she came to a stop at Harry’s shoulder, what might be in some of the boxes. But then Goodman looked up from his work, peering at the two of them through a pair of spectacles, and her curiosity dripped from her with the residual sweat from her practice.

“Styles.” Goodman put down his pen and sat back in his chair, leather creaking as his weight moved. “Was wondering when I’d be seeing you. With your girlfriend fighting, I thought it would’ve been sooner. You’ve kept me waiting.”

Harry cleared his throat. “‘M sorry, sir.”

“You should be.”

A few moments ticked by. Melody waited, a silent bystander, as Harry collected his thoughts.

“Uh, thank you,” he continued eventually. "I wanted to thank you. For…for my mum.”

Goodman took a deep breath and drummed his fingers against the desk. “No need to mention it.”

“I’d like to pay you back, if I—“

“That’s not necessary. You’ve brought in enough business for me. What can I do for you, son?”

Harry scratched his chin. He cleared his throat again. “I want yeh to put me back on the roster.”

Goodman’s eyebrows lifted. Melody huffed and then turned sideways.

“Harry,” she snapped, "are you insane?”

Harry closed his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on as he twisted his head toward her. “What the fuck is insane about that, Melody? ‘M a fuckin’ boxer. Been boxin’ since before my mum got her first diagnosis and now ‘m all healed up. Don’ see why I shouldn’t be able to fight again.”

“Sir,” Melody said, letting her eyes trail away from Harry’s face, "with all due respect, he took a fucking bullet to the brain.” She paused and then lowered her voice, reeling back her tone. “Pardon my French.”

Goodman, surprisingly, smiled thinly, pulling the glasses from his face to rest them on the desk. “Don’t apologize on my account.”

“I want to fight again,” Harry continued, as though Melody hadn’t interrupted him. “I’ll get back in shape and start as soon as you’ll let me. Think about how much money I could bring in now.”

“You have a permanent brain injury!” Melody yelled. She took a step closer to Goodman’s desk. “I really don’t mean to make your decisions for you sir, but I don’t think it would be good for business if he dropped dead in the ring. You can’t really cover that up.”

Harry ground his teeth together. He clenched his shaking fingers into tight fists at his sides. “Why’re yeh doin’ this?” he whispered fiercely. “I don’ care—“

Melody twirled around to face him, lips parted, but Goodman spoke before Harry could finish. “I’m sorry, Styles. I think Rhoden is right on this one. She’s a smart girl. The women’s matches have been a great asset.”

Harry and Goodman stared at each other. Harry could feel Melody’s gaze on him, but he refused to meet it. He took a barely controlled breath. “There’s nothin’ I can do to change your mind?” he asked, though it was more of an observation than anything. His hitting hand was beginning to ache with his knuckles so tightly curled.

“No, unfortunately. You know that I’d love to see you in the ring again, Styles, but it’s too risky.”

Harry shook his head. He closed his eyes for a breath and then swept from the room, kicking violently at the open door on the way out. Melody flinched and Goodman sighed. “That will do,” he called after Harry.

Melody apologized softly and thanked Goodman for his time before she left too, closing the door behind her. She hurried along the hall. The exit at its end was still swinging shut, and besides, Sean and her sparring partner were no longer in the ring.

“Harry!” she called. She slammed into the door, pushing it open with her hands and stepping out into frigid air. The sky was gray and dark, and she didn’t doubt that it would snow again before tonight. Harry was stalking up the street, head bowed and hands stuffed into his hoodie. He didn’t slow. “Harry, please!”

Melody sprinted over the pavement, shivering as air chilled her sweat-slicked skin. Her eyes watered against the cold.

“Go back to your fuckin’ practice,” Harry spat as she reached his heels.

“Stop,” she begged, catching at his elbow. He ripped his arm away from her. “Stop!”

“I don’ wanna hear a goddamn word you have to say to me right now.”

Melody ignored him and slipped forward, placing her body in his path. She pressed her hands into his chest and he stepped backward, out of reach, glaring at her.

“I should’ve talked to you about this before but I—”

“Yeh didn’!” Melody has never seen him so angry before. He’d been irritated and offended, but he’d never harbored rage like this. Not toward her. “Yeh didn’ fuckin’ bring it up. How many fuckin’ times have I talked about fightin’ again and yeh didn’ say shit?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I wanted—”

“You wanted. Yeh wanted what? To give me another fuckin’ reason to be miserable?”

“What? Harry, I am not here to make you miserable.” Her voice carried in the cold breeze that ripped through her bare abdomen, nearly stealing the air from her lungs. She crossed her arms over her stomach and sucked in a breath. 

“I don’ know why yeh think takin’ boxing away from me would do anythin’ else. I need to be back in the ring.”

“Harry, that’s not what you need. Not when—”

“Well, maybe yeh’re not what I need!”

Melody reeled backward, barely keeping her footing. Another whipping breeze swam around her and she could feel her very lips turning blue. But she didn’t care about the cold. She watched the anger in Harry’s expression ebb just slightly before he lifted his hand to rub his face. She didn’t know what to say. How was she supposed to respond to that? It felt like her throat had closed up. All she could think to do was step around him.

Harry stared at where she had been standing, shifting his jaw, steadying his breathing. He cursed aloud and turned around. “Melody, don’ walk away,” he said, his voice flat. When she didn’t stop, he caught her arm, hauling her back and pinning her to the side of the closest building by her shoulders. “What, did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes,” she breathed. He was too close. She turned her head to the side, staring off down the street as she tried to keep her rising tears at bay. He didn’t need to see her cry. Not again. “Yes, you did. And you’re supposed to care that you did. I would never try to hurt you like that.”

Harry sighed, dropping his head to look at the sidewalk. He let his hands fall from her shoulders. “I do care. I do. I didn’ mean that.”

Melody wrapped her arms tightly around her abdomen, pressing her teeth together to keep them from chattering. “Harry, you could die,” she said eventually. “Your chances of dying are exponentially higher now. If I wanted to do something that could get me killed, would you let—”

“But I’m not allowed to tell you what to do, remember?”

She turned to look at him again, shaking her head, a crease between her brows. “That’s different—“

“Stop fuckin’ boxing, Melody.”

“No.“

“See? Yeh don’ fuckin’ listen to me.” He took a step back, tugging at the collar of his hoodie, then reaching up to yank at his hair. “And what you did—yeh didn’ just tell me not to. Yeh made it impossible for me to fight again. That is not fuckin’ fair.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did it like that. God, this shouldn’t have been how we had this conversation. But what’s not fair is watching you bleed out in my fucking arms, Harry.” She choked and her tears overflowed, spilling down her face in hot tracks. “It’s not fair thinking that you’re going to die and being fucking helpless to stop it. I spent months thinking I would never talk to you again. That’s not fair. And putting me back in that position when I don’t have to be there is cruel. I don’t want you to die, Harry! I would do anything to stop it from happening. Why is that a crime?”

The wind whistled as it cut through the space between them. Harry was still staring at the sidewalk. He knew this wasn’t Melody’s fault. She wasn’t the reason he wasn’t allowed back in the ring, she was only the bearer of bad news, just like she had been since he’d woken up. But not boxing. What was he supposed to do without that?

“I’m not trying to make it all about me, okay? I know how important boxing has been to you. But are you seriously willing to die for it?” Melody bit into the numb flesh of her lip as he finally glanced up at her, his eyes just meeting hers before falling to the side, staring at the wall past her shoulder. “Harry, you can be mad. I’m mad. I’m sorry that you can’t fight. I wish I could give that back to you. But please don’t hate me for loving you, for trying to keep you alive.”

“I don’ hate yeh,” Harry muttered with a deep sigh. He reached up to press the pads of his fingers into his eyelids. His body felt hot with anger still and he was trying to keep it from bubbling up, trying not to say anything else that he didn’t mean. “Mel,” he whispered instead, “I don’ know who I am without boxing.”

Melody squeezed her eyes shut. Her entire chest felt like it might splinter. This pain was almost worse than that first night with her bruised rib, and there was a long minute before she was able to speak. “You’ll figure it out,” she whispered. Her throat felt sore as she coughed out the words. “You’re a fighter, Harry, but that’s not all you are. I swear, that’s not all there is.”

He wasn’t sure she was right. This was what he had grown up doing. He’d made it into his way of life. And to not be able to box now felt like a crucial part of him was being stripped away, like the skin peeling from his bone, bit by bit. But she sounded so sure.

“Harry, I swear,” she said again. “Trust me.”

I don’ trust you. Melody could hear the exact tone of his voice as the words replayed in her head. The words he’d spoken when she’d come here—to the warehouse—to apologize just a few days before he’d been shot. The very last day that he could remember before he woke up. Did he still feel that way?

Harry ran his hands up and down his face again. “I’ve seen yeh cry too many times,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ hate it.”

Melody ran her wrists across her cheeks, wiping away the tears still clinging to her skin. “I cried a lot more before you woke up,” she said. “That was the worst time of my life.” She reached for him, watching him blink like he was lost in thought. She wondered what was running through his mind but she didn’t ask for fear of his closing right up in front of her again, locked and dead-bolted. “Please, come home with me,” she said instead.

Harry hissed as Melody’s fingers brushed his hand. “Yeh’re fuckin’ freezing.” He slid his hand up her arm and found the rest of her skin just as icy. She nearly fell into him as he pulled her forward, wrapping his arms around her body and rubbing some warmth back into her. This felt so comfortable, holding her, her cheek to his chest. “Gonna get fuckin’ sick. Why can’ yeh ever put a coat on before yeh run outside to argue with me?”

Melody didn’t reply, only pressed herself deeper into his sweatshirt. He sighed into her hair.

“‘M sorry for what I said. I really didn’ mean it, okay? I don’ blame yeh for this. I just—‘m fuckin’ frustrated.”

“I know,” Melody whispered. “I know, Harry. I’m frustrated for you. I want you to know that I would fix it if I could.” She turned her face, burying her nose in his sweatshirt and inhaling the scent of him before she spoke again. “If I could go back and keep it from happening, even if it meant you didn’t forgive me” —she swallowed thickly, her throat still aching— “I would do it in a heartbeat.”

“Yeh can’ fix me, Mel,” Harry whispered. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Please, don’ hurt yourself tryin’.”

Melody wanted to cry again. She hated that. She had never been someone to cry an overwhelming amount, but the past year had shown her sides of herself she wouldn’t have known existed otherwise. She needed to change the subject before she sank back into hysterics.

“I’m really sorry, Harry,” she said. “I’m sorry for the way this happened. I know I should’ve talked to you about all of this months ago. I was scared. And that’s not an excuse. But I’m sorry for yelling over you in there. That was horrible.” She shivered in his arms.

Harry shook his head. “Mel, yeh need to get inside. ‘S below freezin’ out here.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed her frigid arms once more before stepping back, nodding toward the warehouse. He followed as she started the trek back, watching the soles of her sneakers. They had almost reached the door when snowflakes began to fall.

“Fuckin’ snowin’ and yeh’re in a bra,” Harry muttered as he stepped inside the short vestibule, yanking the door shut with a clang behind him. Melody’s teeth were clacking together now, her skin red and raised in goosebumps. She rushed to the next door, stumbling into the arena, into warmth. “Yeh gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” Melody mumbled, her teeth beating incessantly together, her lips clumsy with cold. “Yes, I just need some fucking pants.”

Harry, despite the thick air that still seemed to be hanging over them, couldn’t help but chuckle. And when she dug through her bag and found the sweats she’d been looking for, he even smiled at the way she stumbled into them.

“That better?” he asked as she yanked a hoodie over her head.

“Blissful,” she answered.

“Is that my sweatshirt?”

Melody glanced down at the hoodie and shrugged. “Yeah.” When she looked back up, all of the anger seemed to have washed right out of Harry’s face. The way he was watching her felt meaningful, almost overwhelming. She didn’t need him to talk about the way he felt when he looked at her like that. It made her shiver again. And not from cold.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, taking a slow step toward him, “again. I want you to be happy but you need to be alive for that.”

Harry pressed a hand to Melody’s cheek as she reached him. Her skin was still cold to the touch. He cupped the other side of her face as well, letting his palms offer some heat. Her eyes fluttered closed.

He tried to think of something to say, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he bent down to kiss her. Beneath his, her lips felt like ice, clumsy with numbness. He felt her hands form fists in the front of his sweatshirt and he kissed her until she could kiss him back, until blood flowed back into her face and her cheeks felt warm in his hands. Then he lifted his face to press his lips against her hairline.

“Let’s get yeh home, love.”

Chapter 15

[hello-mojo]

[Ok so the following is a story, (Rise Above This was was a working title) I was working on this completely on my own and I was quite excited about it. I actually had tried to plot out the progression and main plot points, and a few other notes for things I needed to look up and research to mesh the timelines a bit better. I hadn't gotten around to it though and now... well I don't know if I'll ever bring myself to write fanfiction anymore. I loved this story premise though and had such Hope's for it... ah well. The first chapter was completed but there was supposed to be so much more.. Frances having accidental magic and then getting sick and Healer Harry to save her... ah well. If you like the fic let me know, if you want to adopt it, comment.

Oh one other thing... not all the songs are actually nirvana songs, there's a pearl jam song used too but I was looking for songs in the right genre that seemed to work for the plot. It's all fair in fanfic right?

Anyhooty... I doubt I'll post the stories that were completed on my main profile as I orphaned them and they can still be viewedon archive just look up my old. Penname CagedNTorn.

For unfinished stuff I had oh let's see... 3 different charlie/Draco fics I was working on, one that was all but complete... I had a draco/spike crossover fic, plus there was the sailormooon/Harry Potter crossover... that was actually a Drarry fic too, there were a bunch of things that I'll likely never finish. So I'll post them by and by.

Do let me know if there's a better place to post the plot bunnies that are up for grabs.

Now I've blathered enough so here's the first chapter of Rise that can be adopted if someone is interested in finishing it.]

Rise Above This

Draco was backstage at the place he was playing that night.  He sat tuning his guitar wearing ripped jeans and a white long sleeve thermal t-shirt with thumb holes burnt in and also a mohair sweater he was particularly comfortable in.   Western Washington state was wet and cold pretty much all the time.  

This didn't really bother the English man though as England had similar weather.   He'd grown his hair out and had it cut shaggy and it hung in his eyes perpetually now but he didn't care.  It drove his mother nuts whenever she came to visit.  

Narcissa still hadn't quite gotten the hang of blending in with muggles but she was getting better.   She was sitting nearby chattering about her trip to France.   She was wearing faded bluejeans and a fitted corset top that she'd bought in paris.  She also had a posh cashmere sweater on where most of the kids were wearing flannel and converse sneakers, just like Draco. 

She had her long blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail.   Draco smiled at her as she nattered-on about wines and the latest runway fashions.  At least he still had her.  Pansy was floating around somewhere too, probably flirting with someone.   

"I just don't understand why you have to look so scruffy though darling.   You have such a lovely face!  Can't you at least comb your hair back?"  Narcissa was saying.   Draco rolled his eyes at her but gave her a shit-eating grin.  

"Because I like looking scruffy.  It pisses off the establishment.  Even if it didn't, I'd still do it.  Hiding myself away is comfortable."  Draco said, handing his guitar to a stagehand.  

"Besides, this grungy war refugee look suits him.  He's ridiculously hot."  Pansy stated with a grin as she sidled up to accompany Narcissa out front to watch the show.  Draco could already hear the crowd cheering as the lights went down.  Draco and the 2 other blokes, 1 squib and one muggleborn, all cast outs of the wizarding world lined up off stage.   They formed a circle and everyone put a hand in and they shook them, clapped and cried out their chant.    

"Music and ass, gas or grass.  We're here for a good time, not here for a long time.   Lets do this!"  Draco led the chant the guys all cheered and then took the stage.  Dave went first and started a drum beat, Krist was next and began the base-line.  Then Draco, carrying his electric guitar, went to the mic.  He never looked at the audience.   He wasn't here for them,  not really.  He was here for himself.   Because he had something to say.  Even if no one really understood him or interpreted his messages clearly.  

"Come as you are, as you were

As I want you to be

As a friend, as a friend

As an old enemy

Take your time, hurry up

Choice is yours, don't be late

Take a rest as a friend

As an old memoria."   

He strummed the chords and sang the song not really looking at anyone.  He was trying quite unsuccessfully not to think about a certain messy haired brunette.   

After the war he'd had every single door slammed in his face.  Even the most menial of jobs wouldn't hire him.  Potter had kept his word and put in a good word for him and his mother but the blonde on stage really didn't know why he'd bothered.   No one in the Wizarding world wanted him or any other Slytherin around.   Dave was a muggleborn Slytherin in the year below Draco and had also been chased out.  

"Take your time, hurry up

Choice is yours, don't be late

Take a rest as a friend

As an old memory."  

It was hard not to think of Potter when he sang this song because it was about him, at least mostly.  There was always a thinly veiled anti establishment opinion mixed in. The fans loved it though and he didn't really mind.  It’s not like Harry would ever show up and hear it.  He was too busy still saving the world,  having babies and whatever else it was that heros did.  Not Draco.  His long shaggy hair hung in his face as he sang the chorus, and shook his head.  Just one word.  Memory.   His best and worst thing.  His respite and the source of his nightmares.  

He finished off the song and they hit a heavy chord progression into the next song.  

"Load up on guns, bring your friends

It's fun to lose and to pretend

She's over bored and self assured

Oh no, I know a dirty word"  

The kids surged forward jumping up and down and shaking their heads as they raised their fists in the air and sang along.  

Draco had worked with Dave to put his thoughts on the war into muggle terms.  He thought they'd done pretty good honestly.  Even if they hadn't,  the teenagers in Seattle and California couldn't get enough.   He screamed the chorus and the kids screamed it with him.  

"With the lights out, it's less dangerous

Here we are now, entertain us

I feel stupid and contagious

Here we are now, entertain us

A mulatto

An albino

A mosquito

My libido

Yeah, hey, yay"  

Five years ago Draco had left the wizarding world and his mother behind.  Narcissa was more than able to take care of herself.   Draco wasn't concerned about her in that respect.   His father had been a lot of things but stupid had never been one of them.  Misguided certainly,  but not stupid.   

Luscious had moved money around in various accounts all over the world.  He'd taken Draco with him on nearly all of his business trips.  Draco had had many private tutors growing up and could speak French, English, Russian and German fluently.  He could read in several languages.  His father had insisted.  Draco learned to balance a ledger when most kids were learning to ride a bicycle.   

When the ministry had seized their accounts in Gringotts,  they hadn't even seized a tenth of the true fortune.   Draco hadn't needed to work.  He'd wanted to.  However no one would let him.  So he'd packed a duffle bag of casual clothes,  taken his muggle id and cards and left for America.  He'd covered his accent fairly well he thought, and if he came off sounding like a stoned southerner at times… no one pointed it out.  

He met Dave hanging around kings cross station panhandling.   The two 18 year olds decided to strike out together.   Draco and Dave were sitting together at some boardwalk in Seattle, Washington when Draco flipped his skateboard and saw a kid playing guitar near-by.   He'd been hooked from the first chord.  He'd bought them instruments and they taught themselves to play.  

"I think you'll all know this next one."  

Draco hit the distinctive chords and the kids in the audience squealed with delight.  This was more personal,  more singing than the growly screaming.   More about his feelings than anything else.   He hid in his hair not seeing anyone.   In his mind he tried to be back in that skatepark with scraped knees, just him and Dave.  

"What else should I be?

All apologies

What else should I say?

Everyone is gay

What else should I write?

I don't have the right

What else should I be?

All apologies."

He sang the words not looking at his mother, not caring about her reaction to that statement.   He'd forgotten she hadn’t heard this particular song before.   Well she had to find out sooner or later he supposed.   

"I wish I was like you

Easily amused

Find my nest of salt

Everything is my fault

I'll take all the blame

Aqua seafoam shame

Sunburn, freezer burn

Choking on the ashes of her enemy."  

Draco finished the song and the kids were crying out various songs they wanted to hear while cheering and clapping.  Draco loved it.  He lived for it.  They only had one more song to play.  It would end the show on a high note before the next band took the stage.  The next song he was about to play was about a lot of things.  Various parts of the war, Tom Riddles beginnings, the discrimination in the Wizarding world,  his own parents a bit.   In hindsight, Draco realized that he likely should have adjusted the set list a bit when he'd found out his mother was coming to the show.  'Too late to do anything about it now.' He thought to himself.   Maybe they'd finally have a real conversation for a change.  He set his guitar in a stand nearby and took a deep breath.  

"At home

Drawing pictures

Of mountain tops

With him on top

Lemon yellow sun

Arms raised in a V

And the dead lay in pools of maroon below."  

He shook his head, hiding in his hair and not seeing anyone.   Only Dave and Krist, only his guitar.   The kids screamed and jumped and sang along.  Draco thrashed around stage with them, just the microphone cord wrapped around his hand.  

"Daddy didn't give attention

Oh, to the fact that mommy didn't care

King Tommy the Wicked

Ruled his world

Tommy spoke in class today

Tommy spoke in class today" 

The guys backed him up intermittently on the chorus and the base thumped throughout the song, a steady heartbeat.  Draco couldn’t let himself worry about hurting his mother's feelings.   He sang what he needed to say.  He knew nothing was ever simple.  There were at least two sides to every story and a variety of contributing factors.   

"Clearly I remember

Pickin' on the boy

Seemed a harmless little fuck

But we unleashed a snake

Gnashed his teeth

And bit the recess lady's breast."

Draco knew the words painted a vivid picture.   He didn't care.   Maybe people would learn that bullying others for shit beyond their control was stupid and had far reaching consequences.   There were certainly a few chapters in his story that he'd like to rewrite.   

"How could I forget

And he hit me with a surprise left

My jaw left hurting

Dropped wide open

Just like the day

Oh, like the day I heard."  

There was no possible way he could make up for some of the shit he'd done.  He knew that.  He tried to just pass on the lessons.  Hoping that if he could even reach just one person,  it'd be worth it.  Exile in the muggle world.  They weren't so bad really.   Their fashions were quite fun, and much more functional than robes.  He missed making potions, doing magic.  It was a particular skill set that he was good at.  There was no place in the muggle world for magic.  He had to be even more careful now that they were getting really famous.   People were always watching him.  Hiding in the bushes, trying to sneak into his hotel room, everyone wanted pictures of him to sell to the press.  He couldn't risk anyone seeing him perform magic.  He did little things like casting stasis charms or heating up a hot beverage,  or casting a cooling charm on himself and the guy's.  He knew his mind was spiraling away from the uncomfortable conversation with his mother that he was anticipating after this.  

"Daddy didn't give affection, no!

And the boy was something that mommy wouldn't wear

King Tommy The Wicked

Ruled his world

Try to erase this (try to erase this)

From the blackboard." 

He knew his parents had loved him.  They had been very cold, and reserved in all things though.  His mother could be formidable when she wanted to be and his father was doting yet terrifying.   That was something about Tom Riddle's life that Draco had been able to understand.   Feeling alone, as if no one cared, no one understood you.  He knew how cruel kids could be,  because he had been the one leading the mockery in his day.  

He'd never once thought about what it might feel like on the other side of it.  Until he'd been on the receiving end of such mockery, ridicule and unfairness did he begin to re-think his actions as a snotty young man.  The crowd was going wild.  

Draco stood as the lights came up and he bowed with the guys.  They all smiled and waved to their fans.   Off stage, he saw his mother standing with Pansy.  Narcissa looked a mixture of hurt, worried and angry.  A reporter from MTV was there, shoving a microphone in his face.  Draco smiled his small smile,  just a turning up of the corners of his mouth really.   He answered all of the questions asked in a rare and rather lengthy interview,  glad for the temporary reprieve from his mother for the moment.   

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar set of green eyes and messy black hair, accompanied by none other than Hermione Granger and a regular. Analese Taylor was no stranger to Draco. She had been a fan since the band's boardwalk skate park days. Now that they were famous, she was their number one fan. The way Granger was clutching her arms, the strong resemblance between the two women, Draco could slap himself for not realizing what was so familiar about the girl. She had to be related to Granger, no other explanation.

Before he could really panic about the three familiar faces another familiar set of arms was thrown around his knees and a very delighted

"Daddy!" Rang through the room as his daughter Frances threw her arms around him. Draco glanced around for his soon to be ex wife. He spotted her nearby with arms crossed, looking furious. He sighed deeply as he scooped his daughter into his arms. The child was his whole world outside of his music. Draco glanced back towards Potter and Granger as his wife stormed over as the press and other onlookers were cleared out by Pansy.

[nightingiall]

head in the clouds: part i

Rory Bhatt hates lifeguarding, hates the Shack kids, and hates Niall Horan. All she wants is to have a peaceful summer minding her own business and hopefully be able to find some much needed inspiration so she can finally start sketching things that look good again. But Niall Horan appears, with that annoying grin and a problem on his hands, and of course that plan goes out the window. 

A story about tired lifeguards, a stolen cat, wild imaginations, and lots and lots of parties. 

There is not a cloud in sight today. 

The sky is endlessly blue, starting with a light, nearly white, color from the horizon that blends into the soft azure right over where Rory is sitting. It’s beautiful, she thinks, how one simple color can blend seamlessly into the gradients that make up that sea of vast nothingness above her. But today, she wishes that there was at least one cloud floating by. 

She sighs to herself, turning her gaze to the large resort pool in front of her, also a shade of blue, but one caused by the blue tiles at the bottom and not nature itself. There are two children near the shallow end bickering with each other. They couldn’t be more than five and three years old. The oldest, a girl, shoves the youngest, a boy, causing him to wail in the direction of a woman who is presumably their mother. When she doesn’t give him the attention, the boy turns back to the little girl, and even from the distance, Rory can see the angry flash in his eyes. She places her whistle between her lips, readying herself for what he might do next. 

Sure enough, he charges at the little girl, jumping on her with such force that her head gets submerged under the water. Rory’s whistle sounds off loudly, everyone’s head jerking towards her, and when they are assured her warning is not for them, they return to their poolside shenanigans. “No dunking!” Rory yells at the two children, removing her sunglasses so they can see her eyes trained on them. “This is your first warning!”

Their maybe-mother notices this exchange and quickly breaks them apart, dragging them towards the pool stairs and scolding them all the way. By the time Rory pushes her sunglasses back up her nose, they’re already walking towards a lounger where a man, presumably their father, is already watching them disapprovingly. 

“No drawings today?” comes a voice from beside her, and she turns towards it only to find blue eyes that are entirely too close for comfort. 

Niall Horan laughs when she flinches, and she rolls her eyes at the sound. But of course he cannot see that through her sunglasses, so he laughs even louder at her frown. He’s standing on one of the rungs of her lifeguard chair, his face level with hers, and she has half a mind to reach out to shove him off. 

She doesn’t.

“Not inspired,” is what she mumbles instead, turning her attention towards her sketchbook, which stares back at her, the open page unbearably blank. She brought her nice charcoal pencils with her today after waking up feeling like sketching the clouds. But when she looks up at the sky again, the endless chasm of blue taunts her. 

Niall Horan, for his part, simply grins in that wide, obnoxious way of his and hops off the rung to round the corner to the front of the lifeguard chair. He always offers a hand when she steps down and she never takes it, and the same thing happens today. She’s glaring at him now, as she always does when he does that, but she knows he can’t see it through her sunglasses. He must know it’s there though, because this exchange happens every single time, like clockwork. 

Literally. 

Niall has been behind her in the rotation for two whole weeks now, meaning he’s always the one nudge her out of this mind numbing job every twenty minutes when they have to move on to the next lifeguard chair. 

“Well I’m sure you’ll come up with something!” he says cheerfully, just as she’s about to turn away to head over to the next chair. She chances a glance at him just in time to see him swing himself up onto the seat she just vacated, his sunnies, as he calls them, falling back onto his face. She rolls her eyes again, wondering how he manages to make everything seem so effortless yet so insufferably annoying. 

She heads to her next post without another word. 

***

Rory cannot stand Niall Horan. 

She cannot stand him and his loud laugh and his annoying grin and his stupid jokes. She cannot stand him and the way he’s always peeking over her shoulder into her sketchbook and reaching out to trail his fingers along the pages, smearing her nice charcoal work that she’d meticulously smudge to her own liking. 

Rory cannot stand him but there are still 60 days left of summer and she has no choice but to deal with him. 

***

“You totally have a crush on him.” 

Gigi is laughing and Rory is glaring and this is nothing new for the two of them. 

Rory wonders how her roommate can be so cheery all the time. Her dark ringlets bounce with her giggles and her dark brown eyes glitter from the light hitting the tears that are starting to build up near her lashline. Leave it to Gigi to cry laughing at Rory’s expense. 

“I do not,” Rory bites out. The sheer insinuation is so annoying that she can feel an angry heat spreading across her cheeks. “I don’t like him. At all.” Gigi is still cackling, hand clutching her tummy as she bows over on their tiny kitchen table. “Gigi! I don’t!”

Her roommate, after wiping her laughter induced tears from her face and taking a deep breath to calm herself, simply smiles at her, watching her knowingly. “Wow,” is what she says, shaking her head slightly as she leans back into her seat, arms crossed over her chest. “You are in such denial.” 

Rory, for her part, attempts to send her as menacing a look as she can manage, because truthfully, she is absolutely fuming. Seething. Blindingly angry. All at the assertion that she could have a crush on the most annoying boy on the planet. “Gigi…” Her voice is dangerously low and measured. A warning for them to drop this subject before her anger gets out of hand. “I do not have a crush on Niall Horan.” 

There’s a tense silence as they both stare each other down. And, if anything, the way Gigi is calmly smiling at her only makes her more upset. Regardless, a truce is drawn when Gigi brings her mug to her lips, sipping slowly from her coffee and shrugging her shoulders, effectively letting the topic go. 

“So,” is what she says, all nonchalantly, as if they weren’t just having a heated conversation. “What are you wearing for the party this weekend?” 

Rory lets out a sigh of relief, gladly accepting this change in subject and having no interest in giving Gigi any reason to return to the previous topic. So they drink their coffee together and talk about this party. 

***

Rory has worked at The Hightstown Resort every summer since she was a sophomore in high school. 

It’s a tradition at this point, and she feels like it’s not summer unless she’s at Hightstown. It feels like home, familiar in a way she needs to feel grounded sometimes. And for all the crap she talks about it, she always looks forward to coming back and seeing all the knowing faces that played a part in the story of her youth. 

Her mom worked at Hightstown when she was younger too, so all the long-term staff knows who she and her family are. This is especially helpful after hours when she feels like having a midnight snack and the kitchen staffers will gladly let her into the pantry to choose whatever she wants. 

Of course she is not the only returning seasonal employee of Hightstown. Gigi has been her roommate for the past three summers, and there are a few other high school to college-aged people who call this place their summer home too. But Rory likes to think that the rest of the staff likes her best. 

Hightstown is a place that’s rife with tradition. For the seasonal kids, anyway. 

One of those rituals is the summer bash up at the Shacks. Rory has always wondered which snob named the most glorious and expensive staff quarters at the resort the Shacks. Perhaps they thought they were being clever, because there is nothing grungy or shack-like about it at all. There are hot tubs and private chefs and room service and, most importantly, an endless supply of hot water. 

Rory hates the Shack kids. 

Not because they can afford the luxurious accommodations. She has nothing against rich people. But she does have something against rude rich people. 

That fact doesn’t stop her from going to the summer bash, though. 

Gigi made her change her clothes twice so Rory walks into the party sporting her signature snarl because she’s annoyed and her best friend is too preoccupied with worrying over how she’s going to impress one of the Shack boys she has a crush on to notice. “Just because you had a bad experience with one of them doesn’t mean I will,” was what she huffed at her as they walked out of their suite. “Loosen up, Rory!”

Rory hasn’t spoken to her since. 

Now they’re in the Sunset Villa where the bash is always held and she’s long lost sight of her roommate. Somehow, Rory manages to find two people she can actually tolerate, standing near the makeshift bar area, and she heads straight towards them. 

“There she is!” is what Harry says when she smiles at them, throwing an arm over her shoulders to pull her into his side and she gladly reciprocates by slinging an arm around his waist. “I feel like I never see you anymore!”

“Yeah, Rors, where have you been hiding?” chimes in Leslie. Her long, dark hair is pulled up into what looks like a very intricate crown braid and Rory nearly gets distracted admiring it. 

She shrugs. “You know me. Not the social type.” They both frown at her because they know that a few years ago, that wouldn’t have been true at all. Rory was always the one dragging them to the parties and begging them to sneak off the grounds so they could go exploring. But she’s different now. The fact of it makes her heart twist strangely in her chest. So, she changes the subject. “Love your hair, Les! You need to teach me how to braid like that.” 

They launch into a conversation about hair while Harry goes to get them all drinks. Finally things are starting to feel normal. After the rough way summer ended last year, Rory wasn’t sure she even wanted to come back to Hightstown. But Harry and Leslie, because she’s known them forever, can always be counted on to pull her out of a funk. They all started working at the resort in the same year and have stuck together ever since. Lately, though, they haven’t been able to spend as much time together because of all of their different placements: Rory’s a lifeguard, Harry’s in the kitchen, and Leslie does all the kids programming. 

Harry comes back with beers and they catch up for a while. But somehow, the night transitions in such a way that they end up taking shots with some Shack kids, and then more beer, and then someone procures a joint from somewhere which they end up sharing on the back patio. By the time the night starts to wind down, Rory is pretty drunk and maybe a little high and she needs to get back to her room because she’s had enough of the socializing. 

She waves goodbye to Harry and Leslie, leaving with a promise that they’d catch up again soon. Despite technically being outside the entire time, as she walks back through the villa and out the front door, she finds that she can breathe better the further she walks from the party. The breeze feels cooler on her heated skin and her head clears a bit. She briefly wonders whether she should have gone to look for Gigi but figures that she’s probably having fun making out with her new Shack boy toy somewhere so she decides against it. She also may or may not still be upset with her. 

She’s halfway down the trail when she realizes that her head feels like it’s a disco ball spinning out of control, and before she knows it, she’s plopping down onto the curb rubbing her fingers against her temples as though that would help in quelling the beginnings of the headache she can feel coming. The night is quiet though, the air feeling all light and floaty around her, and she doesn’t mind relaxing here for a bit. The grass is soft against her hands as she leans back against it, her head lolling back until her eyes are trained towards the sky. 

The darkness is a stark contrast to the beautiful blue she had been staring at this morning while perched atop her lifeguard chair. There are definitely no clouds in the sky now, but the beautiful thing about Hightstown is that it’s so sequestered from the city that the stars seem to glow a bit brighter here. She smiles, admiring the way they twinkle, almost wishing she could reach up and pluck one right out of the sky to keep. 

“Rory?” comes a voice ahead of her, and when she rolls her head upright again to find its owner, she finds blue eyes that sort of glimmer just like the stars she was just looking at. 

Then she blinks a few times and realizes it’s just Niall Horan emerging from the darkness. 

Her smile falls, then she sighs. She may not like him, but she’s not a bitch, so she mumbles, “Hi, Horan,” in response. 

He’s dressed all nice, like a typical Shack boy: dark wash denim jacket with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows, slim fit t-shirt, and some jeans. With his dark hair, pale skin, and bright blue eyes, he reminds her of last summer. Reminds her of big brown eyes and a smile that can light up the whole resort. Reminds her of searing kisses and warm touches and giggling into a different denim jacket in some hidden away corner of the grounds 

He reminds her of a different Shack boy who broke her heart.

As Niall makes himself comfortable on the curb next to her, she vows to herself that she will not allow a repeat of last summer to happen. 

Just as a scowl is starting to form on her face, Niall turns to her, his own lips curling into that megawatt grin of his, and she has to stop herself from wincing because something about it makes her stomach turn. It reminds her too much of another her, in a different summer, where she might’ve been in this exact position with another boy who she didn’t know would rip her heart out of her chest and stomp all over it. 

“Were you just at the party?” he asks, voice all soft and sweet and lilted in that Irish accent of his. Ugh, she thinks, internally rolling her eyes, because she’s drunk and that accent just made her heart stop for a second and she hates herself for it. Hates him for it. 

She’s just about to say something snarky when she’s interrupted by a strange sound. It startles her for a moment. It sounded so nearby but her alcohol-muddled brain had been too distracted to determine what exactly it was. It happens again and Rory thinks that it sounds a lot like a cat meowing, which in itself is odd because Hightstown has a strict anti-pet policy. 

She looks around to find the source when her eyes land on a rather large duffel near Niall’s feet. She hadn’t noticed it before and when she looks up at him to ask him about it, she finds that his face is flushed a bright crimson, visible despite the fact that they’re sitting in the darkness. “Horan,” she says slowly because she’s slightly suspicious now. “What’s in that bag?”

He chuckles nervously which only makes her narrow her eyes at him. “Uhh,” he gets out as he rubs his hands on his jeans, and Rory would bet her life that it’s because they’re sweating. “Nothing.” 

He tries to move the duffel away discreetly but she notices. She couldn’t care less about what Niall Horan, of all people, was up to. But her interest is piqued now, so she can’t help the way she reaches over him to grab the bag. “You’re hiding something—”

“No!” He blocks her from being able to close her fingers around the strap, and when she looks at him again, there’s a bit of alarm swirling in his eyes. “I—uh...it’s nothing, I swear!”

Rory simply blinks at him. Honestly, the fact that he’s resisting only makes her more curious, so she says, “Niall Horan. What are you up to?”

She watches as he visibly gulps, chewing on his lips as he mulls it over. Finally, he takes a deep breath and says, “Okay. But if I show you then you have to promise not to say a word to anyone.” 

At that, she actually laughs and rolls her eyes because that’s so dramatic. But when he doesn’t even crack a smile, doesn't even try to defend himself, she realizes that he’s totally serious. So, to placate him, she goes, “Yeah, okay whatever.” 

He gives her a look and it looks a bit funny on him because she’s never seen him act in any way except obnoxiously bubbly all the time. “I mean it, Rory. Not a single soul.” 

She groans, rolling her eyes again because this is ridiculous and she’s beginning to wonder whether this back and forth is even worth seeing what’s in the duffel. “Okay, I promise! Unless it’s something illegal like drugs. Then I’m snitching.” It’s telling how drunk she is because she grins at him before her next words leave her mouth. “Unless you’re sharing.” 

Niall simply huffs, shaking his head. But he seems convinced enough because he reaches behind him for the bag and places it gently between them. He’s visibly nervous as he unzips it, constantly glancing up at her as if he’s afraid of how she might react. When the bag is finally open, he tosses the flap back and just looks at her. She shrugs him off, leaning over to peer inside. At first, she sees nothing interesting, but then, she catches movement and immediately recoils with a gasp. 

“What is that!” She knows she’s drunk but damn it seems a bit crazy for it to be what she thinks it is. 

Niall doesn’t have to reply to her because the creature is emerging from the bag. First, its head pops out, then, as if realizing it’s free from its confines, it attempts to step out before unceremoniously flopping over until it lands on the grass between them. It has muted orange fur with black stripes. Its eyes are pulled downwards, mouth—or snout?—curved in a way that resembles a frown. And it’s huge. Rory has never seen one that big and didn’t even know they were able to get to that size. 

“Whoa,” is what leaves her mouth as she stares dumbly at it. She almost wants to laugh. She has to be absolutely wasted because surely her eyes are deceiving her. “That is...a big cat.” Niall is grinning stupidly at her, reaching out to nuzzle the creature’s face. It purrs at his touch but its frown seems to remain intact. Rory tilts her head at it. “Actually...is it really a cat? And not like...a baby tiger or something?”

“Nah, he’s just a regular ol’ cat. Reckon he’s just a bit big-boned or something.” The creature—Rory thinks she’ll just call it a cat—putters towards her and she leans away from it slightly which makes Niall laugh. “Go on, pet him! Isn’t he a cute little fella!” Niall is absolutely beaming now and Rory huffs. She wouldn’t call that thing little, but she reaches out regardless, cautiously rubbing a finger on its head. The cat closes its eyes and purrs at her touch. “Awww,” Niall coos, reaching out too, “he likes you!” 

The shock is wearing off and her senses are finally coming back to her. “Uhhhh. Where did you even get this from? You know they’re not allowed on the grounds right?”

He shrugs, gently grabbing a hold of the cat and placing it back into the duffel. “Some lady left the poor little thing in her car out at valet. When she finally got back she got mad at him for leaping out.” Niall is looking at her all imploringly and all Rory can think about is how he really needs to stop calling that thing little. It is definitely not little. “She even raised her hand on him!” He huffs, getting all heated over it. “So,” he says matter of factly, “I saved him from her.”

Rory stares at him. “You stole a cat?”

He shakes his head at her. “No. I saved him.” He nuzzles the thing before apologizing to it softly as he closes the zipper again, leaving a small portion of it open, probably so it could breathe. “Besides, I’m sure the Dree-foos lady won’t miss him anyway.”

Now she’s gaping at him because she recognizes that name. She nearly hopes she misheard it because he’s in deep shit otherwise. “You stole Mrs. Dreyfuss’s cat?!” she asks in disbelief, eyes widened at him. All he does is shrug and she brings her hands to her mouth. “Horan!” she hisses, “don’t you know who she is?”

Niall gives her a look, reaching into the duffel to pet the stolen cat absentmindedly. “I don’t know? An animal abuser?”

Rory shakes her head, huffing exasperatedly. “No, dummy. She’s on the freakin’ board of directors!” She can see the exact moment the weight of this situation dawns on him, his eyes widening slightly. “If you get caught,” she says, because she feels like he needs to hear it verbalized too, “you’re not just getting fired. Dreyfuss will throw a fit and get the whole company in trouble.”

Silence engulfs them for a moment as Niall mulls over her words. “Damn,” is what he finally ends up saying, eyes glazed over in thought. Then, he turns to Rory, spirit all brightened now like he’s just gotten an idea. “Will you help me hide him from people?”

Rory makes an affronted sound because he is so delusional if he thinks she would ever do that. “Absolutely not! I am not getting fired over your stolen cat-tiger thing.” 

He frowns at her, and she ignores the little swoop her tummy gives. “Please? You know the grounds better than anyone.” 

She gets up from the curb, wobbling slightly because she’s still tipsy and this is all just ridiculous. “No,” she says firmly, turning around to face him only to realize that he’d gotten up too, the duffel now slung over his shoulder. But then, she feels bad because deep down, she knows he means no harm. Even if he’s being absolutely stupid. So she says, “I’ll walk you to the Shacks. But no more. I want nothing else to do with this.” 

He grins at her, thanking her profusely as she starts to lead him through the alleyways to the Shacks. And all she can think about the entire time they’re walking is that if she were sober, this would have never happened.

***

Rory thinks Niall Horan is way in over his head. 

She’s always been a dreamer, and her mom was always yelling at her to get her head out of the clouds, but no one, she thinks now, is more delusional than Niall Horan if he thinks he can just steal a gigantic cat and keep it safely in his suite at the Shacks. 

But she supposes he has 56 days left of summer to deal with that.

--

tell me what you think! :)

[jawllines]

"Its a bit dark I suppose," she admitted, waving her hand around lamely, "And the ceiling lights are more ominous than comforting at night and it feels more like an evil lair than a cozy bookstore."

His smile only grows bigger, "See? M'not an all gloomy, knife on the wall, grunge monster -- got me soft gooey spots too. Have a few art pieces I think you might like t--"

"Oi, don't get too big for your britches, I don't need an interior designer." She nips him off but he doesn't take any hurt from her words, only getting closer to her and raising the chair, moving it over a good chunk before setting it back down and holding onto it, nodding towards the chair and her face twists in confusion, "What?"

"Get on the seat then," he pats on it, "If you won't use me for my wonderful vision yet, then you can use me for my chair steadying hands."

Y/N's heart warms some, "Yet?" She repeats, plucking another nail out of the box and taking hold of the hammer again.

Harry shrugs, "Got hope you'll come to your senses."

or

Y/N has a bookstore and Harry owns the shop next door

i.

Y/N's had it.

Absolutely had it!

When everyone told Y/N she shouldn't open up a bookstore beside a tattoo parlor, she let their worries float in through one ear and right out the other. She'd figured that they were just worried she was looking into opening up a business and the part of town she was on could be a bit shoddy at sundown, but the rent out for space was cheaper than anywhere else and it was right across from a bakery and café! Who didn't want to go to a bookstore after a nice cupcake and a half decent latte, to pretend they knew the first thing about Ernest Hemmingway in front of their smart friends and ultimately leave with a book that'll sit on their shelf for a total of five hours (they'll come back eventually, asking for a refund, and she could persuade them with a book more suited to them -- it's happened more times than she could count, honestly)? It was the perfect place to start out small, then escalate bigger and bigger. She had total faith in it!

But how was she supposed to do that when there was metal playing top volume at 9AM in the fucking morning?

There was always smoke clouding the outside of her shop, ashes in her flowerbeds, and men with piercings and tattoos all over their faces looming around. It wards people away like bug repellent. . .the days that the parlor is open are the days business can be ridiculously slow, yet the days that they're closed -- well, the door’s bell is chiming so often she questions whether or not she should take it down for her ears sake. It's those days that keep her running both moneywise and physically since she's running it primarily herself. It's those days that let her know that its the gremlins next door that keep people from even trying to come over.

Y/N loved books. She loved the intricate stories, interwoven plot lines, and unique writing styles. She loved being so enveloped within a universe that she's been reading for hours and it's felt like a blip of thirty minutes,  not wanting it to ever end, and endlessly searching to see if there was a sequel (or if there was going to be one). Falling in love with the characters, hating others, rooting for none of them and all of them simultaneously. Being so stressed out that she has to stop herself from reading a few lines ahead to makes sure everything was okay (failing terribly), changing positions about twenty-seven times, reading as she walked to the bathroom to pee and barely wanting to put it down to wash her hands. She loved feeling immersed like she was completely involved in the story, and she knows she's not the only person who feels that way.

So she majored in business, got a loan from the bank, and opened up a bookstore. If she could spend the rest of her life helping people find the book that does that for them, then she would be happy -- it'd always been her dream.

Which is why this was so frustrating -- for them to be so careless around a dream of hers. She'd written several polite letters that she posts up on the door in the morning before they open, but even though they're not still on the door by afternoon, her politeness is being blatantly ignored. It's so frustrating. So absolutely frustrating, that she could scream!

Y/N had tried everything. Had brightened up the storefront with more posters, changing the awning above the doors and windows, added more art and posters, planted more flowers so that looked welcoming and bright even despite the dark, blacked out windows and ashtrays right next door. Nothing could deviate the noticeable decline in sales on the days the tattoo parlor is open as well.

So when she finds more ashes in her hydrangea, she's had just enough. Stomped her way over next door, even though it was about five minutes to open, and shoved her way through the parlor door. She'd never been in here before, so she wasn't quite certain of the layout, but right up front was a small counter with a smooth granite finish atop of it, and a gruff looking man sitting behind it, two large gauges in her ears and a swirly tattoo decorating his forehead. The entire essence of this place was dark; all broody and deep shades of purples, reds, and blacks. Their stores might be connected by one wall but couldn't have appeared more different -- Y/N was trying to lure people in with a muted olive hue, and here they were with a massive knife glistening and dripping with a jam shade of blood painted on their front wall.

"Listen," she began immediately, pointing her finger directly at him and wishing she'd worn something more intimidating like an exaggerated satin lapel Armani suit tailored to fit, but she doubted that would fair well heaving boxes around all day so she had to settle for a worn tee, The Great Wave sketched out on it in black ink, "I know you guys are running a business and I know being rough and rugged is your aesthetic and you were here first! I get that! But I'm running a business too and my business is books and reading and quiet not loud, blaring Black Sabbath at top volume for the whole block to here. And if I find one more cigarette ash in my god damn hydrangeas I'm going to fucking --"

"Hello," a voice rings from behind her, startling her to a jump and she sees the eyes of the man who she'd been yelling at (who seemed rather unfazed) flicker over behind her, "What do we have here? Riktor here cheat on you? The naughty devil can never keep it in his pants."

When Y/N turns around to confront the face, she takes in a deep breath. The guy before her is pretty. . .maybe too pretty to be working here and the only indication of him possibly working here is the shirt he wears that sports the logo and the ink running up and down his arms, plus a tattoo gun that he's polishing with what looks like a scrap piece of cloth, massaging it diligently across the stainless steel tip. . His eyes are a very clear, light green like what one might expect to be the jewels of a mermaids earrings, and lips that didn't even look kind of chewed up -- like he'd never known stress in his life. Two perfect, smooth shades of pink skin to a strawberry milkshake that pullback in a simper, watching her closely and waiting for her next move but her brain had slowed trying to process that a could have been the cute boy next door archetype was for some reason in a very grungy shop such as this.

The words he'd said to her finally set in her head, however, and her brows reset in their irritation, "I'm Y/N and I own the shop next door and --"

"So you're our little book bee? The hydrangeas are beautiful."

She pauses for a moment, taken aback, "Yes," she decides, "Yes, they are beautiful, but they can't be beautiful when there are ashes in them."

The man pouts his lips, own face looking disgruntled by this, "Well that won't do. We've got ashtrays right out front for a reason, but I'll see about moving them to the back and changing the smoking area around there."

"Yeah," she says, maybe a little to forcefully, still geared up for a fight but she was bewildered by the very sudden change in tune. Y/N had kind of been expecting a huge argument and yelling and maybe her storefront to be spray painted, but he was -- this boy was. . .being very suspiciously understanding, "That would. . .that would be good." Her shoulders relax, dropping, "And the music --"

"Far too loud," he nods slowly, raising his hand, "I tell them but they never listen to me. Long as I'm here it'll be down but when I'm gone they crank it right up. However, you have my full permission to come over here and yell at them. Say Harry sent ya, they should put it at a suitable volume."

Y/N's pointing finger lowers slowly, and she wonders if her face conveys how truly alarmed she is that he's being so approachable and considerate. While there is always the possibility that he's doing it to get her off of his back and back to her shop so they can get to work, his face suggests he's being sincere, so she lowers another defensive barrier that she'd boarded up to get herself to come over here. She gives one final nod, "Okay, good -- um -- thank you very much."

"Anytime," he shifts the cloth and tattoo gun to one hand, holding out the other, "Nice t'a finally meet you neighbor."

"Nice to meet you." She took his hand in her own, giving one firm shake before turning on her heel and hot tailing it out of there. Had she been around him any longer, she's sure she would've said something stupid given the chance, because he was way too fucking cute and she was not having that. She doesn't like when talking to someone makes her feel nervous -- Y/N actually makes a point to not feel nervous when she's speaking with someone -- but this boy. Well, fuck sake, she's still a little jittery as she reenters her own store.

She doesn't know if she could ever face him again, actually.

                                                                          .                                .                             .

"You need to find another person to work here," Ayla saddles up on the front counter next to the register, one leg on either side, swinging them back and forth obnoxiously while Y/N was crouched over thumbing through a box of The Devil All the Time's hardbacks. She was counting them because she was fairly sure they'd shorted her by four books which would not have been a problem if hardbacks weren't the price of a limb. Ayla had come over to "help" but as always, her definition of help resorts to chatting with her with one of the bakery cookies held in her hand, watching while Y/N heaved and huffed big boxes of books around, "Get 'em to do all the grunt work and have yourself a latte while you read in the back room."

Y/N rolled her eyes, pausing on 26 to answer her, "M'good by myself for right now," she responded, looking up from the box to set her gaze on Ayla, watching her pick the dirt from beneath her fingernail, "Besides, teaching 'em how to do things the way I want them is such a bother, I'd rather do it myself."

"Still, you gotta be lonely," she shakes her head, "It can get so quiet in here even when there are customers, and y'know too much silence can drive you mad, I read."

She opens her mouth to respond, when a very distinct sound of a guitar riff floods muffled into their ears and her face sets into a deep frown, "How could it be quiet when I've got a shop neighbor who won't turn the music down?" Her voice escalates in sound every word, shaking her head slowly, "Y'know, I thought maybe the owner was actually genuine and really nice, but m'positive he's working today and the music's still blaring! How can they even focus on that going on? Won't the vibrations of the damn soundwaves fuck them over? They've got needles to people's skin, they should be focused."

It'd been a week since she'd gone over there and it was good for a few days; he stuck to his word about the smoking, putting the ashtrays in the back but that didn't really stop the few stragglers who were walking up to the place with a cigarette, so there were still buds on the sidewalk but it definitely had been better. However, the music was still loud and grating and nobody wanted to look at books when there were muffled rumbles of what she's certain is Led Zeppelin shaking her walls.

"They've got amazingly steady hands I heard," Ayla throws one last glance towards the vibrating wall before lulling her gaze back to where Y/N is squatted, "I dated a girl -- remember Rita? She used to be at tattoo artist and her hands were incredibly durable. . .she could go for hours knuckles deep inside me."

Y/N goes back to her counting, her finger on the binding of the book she'd left off on but she couldn't find the number she'd left off on, "I do remember Rita," Y/N murmurs, wracking her brain and tapping at the binding with the tips of her fingers, "She called me Prude Pringle for three weeks 'cos I refused a drunken threesome with you lot."

"A threesome?" Her face skewers, "When was that? Why'd you say no?"

"Back in August. Said no 'cos I was the only sober one and a little birdie once told me she couldn't partake in a threesome because she's too jealous for it."

Ayla nods, leaning back, "Good call -- 've I ever told you-you're a great friend."

Y/N opens her mouth to tell her to say it again but it's in that moment she realized that she definitely lost count and she's almost positive that the music got even louder! So instead of that, she slams her palm down against the bindings, "Fuck sake!" She nearly shouts, shoving herself up from the ground and dusting off her pants, "I'll be right back."

She charges over to the door, "Wait, shouldn't you jus' call and complain?"

Her suggestion is lost in the chime of her door's bell, again wishing she'd worn something more gruff and grungy than what she has but such is life she supposes. So she bursts through their open door in a shirt with a realistic gray octopus sat on a pile of books, surpassing the front desk man -- Riktor -- and heading towards the back, where the music was coming from.  There's a low, throaty voice of someone trying to stop her but she ignores it, coming past the curtain threshold, and there she finds herself with a group of. . .well, of tattoo artists. There's about three hunched over bodies -- one working on adding an additional flower onto an arm's sleeve, another inking what looks like a balloon on someone's hip, and another who's giving an ankle tattoo, what looks like a hammer and a nail. A few other people are just sitting about, on their phones, combing their fingers through their hair, another throwing a whole bottle of water in one go.

All of them ignoring that she'd stormed in. . .all of them listening to music at top volume.

"Excuse me," she tries over the music, and when she barely gets a flicker of a glance, she goes louder, "Excuse me!" Again, there's no response, so she scans the room for the stereo, spotting it in the corner beside a man with black inked all up his neck. She goes for it without thought, twisting and winding around stools and chairs, taking the volume dial and spinning it low. That catches their attention, and the resounding noise of the tattoo gun's needle cuts off completely, "Excuse me," she finally states with a huff, "Could you please keep the volume a little lower? It vibrates the walls when it's up so high."

She gets a lot of blank stares. . .a lot. . .and wordlessly, the man who was sitting beside it leans over and turns it right back up, even louder than it had been before, everyone going back as they had before she'd come through. Y/N is infuriated! She asked so fucking nicely, how the hell could they just ignore that? Was it the octopus shirt?

In the next few moments, she doesn't think. Instead, she turns back towards the stereo, leans down and reaches behind the speaker before yanking the plug from the wall and the music cuts off completely.

When she lifts back up, she deadpans the lot of them.

"Harry sent me." She snaps before walking out, slipping beneath the curtain, sparing a glance at Riktor who has his brows raised and when she pushes through the door, almost running into a body. A body that is very much Harry, who has his fingers curled around the top of two bakery bags, brows furrowed.

"Y/N?" He looks concerned, and she wonders if it's written all over her face that she's irritated, "What's wrong?"

She looks at him, and his stupidly gorgeous eyes, and his way too pretty mouth, and just shakes her head, "Nothing's wrong, I took care of it."

She leaves it at that.

                                                                              .                               .                               .

Y/N feels a little guilty later on. Not entirely guilty, because it felt good to shut it off entirely and she hadn't heard a peep from them otherwise, but guilty enough that she had thought about writing a note suggesting that they just switch the stereo to a wall that they're not sharing, but she stops herself. They'd probably just roll it in a ball and toss it in the trash anyway, so instead of writing a note, she worked on setting up the new display for The Devil of All Time and throws around a few ideas about how to draw people in with a poster or something detailing that this was going to be a movie soon.

Ayla had gone home after praising her for being a badass, leaving Y/N to her thoughts. A good amount of customers flowed in but it was a Monday and Mondays were always pretty slow (business picks up as the week goes on so she'd been expecting as much. So she does some housekeeping and wonders if she should hire someone to at least speak to when she's bored, but the thought of another person in here kind of gives her the willies. This store was her baby. . .her cute little, chubby fingered, drooly, bed wetting baby and the thought of letting a stranger step a foot near her innocent little baby to destroy it with their grubby hands got right under her skin. Y/N's better at working alone, she thinks, and she doesn't know how much she'd fair as a leader if she felt a teensy bit bad about taking initiative yelling at a ton of grungy tattoo artists.

She's suckling on her bottom lip, staring at a blank poster board and figuring she should probably take her little art project home rather than stay here any later than need be, when there's a jingle of her door's bell, and she looks up to see none other than Harry. Harry who looks very. . .very guilty, lips drawn downward, and Y/N opens her mouth to ask what he was doing but he holds one hand up, the other preoccupied with a rolled bag similar to the one from the bakery he'd had earlier in the day, "Before you rip me a new one, I just want to apologize. I had them turn it down all this morning and I leave for lunch and I don't doubt they twisted the knob all the way up again. I told 'em I would take the damn stereo away if they kept it up." He tears the beanie from his hat, combing his fingers through his hair, shaking out the curls, and waving the bag he'd brought,  " So I brought you a piece of Boston Cream Pie. Told 'em they better be nice to you too, 'cos you're our neighbor and they ran off the last cute little boutique we had and. . ." he looks around, gaze fluttering about the room, "S'kinda dark in here, Pet, you should get some more lights -- ooh, do those yellow fairy ones, isn't that what they're called?"

Y/N's head tilts to the side, brows furrowing as she takes the bag from him, "Excuse me?"

"Sorry, sorry, off topic I know,  I just thought this is a college town and y'know how they're suckers for fairy lighting; innocent little things, as soon as they get out they tear 'em down and pretend nothing happened."

Y/N tries not to show on her face that she definitely has fairy lights strung up in her flat, as she responds, "S'fine, um -- yeah, I'll look into that," she shakes her head, placing the bag to the side and unrolling it, reaching in for the pie and the fork, "Sorry about tearing the plug from the wall, hope it didn't short circuit or anything."

His eyes go wide, "No, no! No apologies told you to tell them arseholes I sent ya and that you did." He lowers himself before her familiarly and Y/N's brows raise, not expecting him to go ahead and make himself comfortable but not terribly turned off that he did. Though she was quite. . .taken by him -- enough so that she was sort of dry-mouthed as he stretched his leg out, leaning back and holding himself up with the palm of his hand behind his back. The ripped holes in his blue jeans pucker up, the cuffs of his jeans pinch rolled down to a very clean pair of pink socks and loafers. Once she sees the bottom half of him, she focuses then on the top, seeing him in a worn Pink Floyd shirt and he's just so. . .boyish, she can't get over it. "What're you staring at? Have I got croissant on me face?"

While he reaches up to swipe away at nonexistent crumbs, she shakes her head, "No, no," she reassures him, "No, s'just -- um. . .you don't look much like you'd be a tattoo artist. Or be the boss for that matter," her brows dip in, "Not like that's a bad thing, its just compared to the aesthetic of your parlor you kind of. . .stray from the part."

For a moment she wonders if that was rude but Harry doesn't seem all too bothered by her statement, poking at first his eyebrow and then his lip and nose, "Had a few piercings believe it or not. But I was with a girl a while back who absolutely hated them and I had 'em out so long that the holes closed up." He sighs, waving his hand over his face, "Would've gotten them pierced again but I found people find me much more approachable without them in, so I didn't bother."

Y/N's face skewers, shaking her head as she caps the sharpie she'd been working with, "That's shit," she mutters without thinking, finally popping open the plastic container with the pie, "You shouldn't have changed yourself for a girl's sake. If she really cared for you, then she wouldn't mind the piercings." She's digging the fork into the pie, wondering why it felt so easy to talk to him. . .he had a sort of charming way about him that sucked her in easily -- or maybe it's because she had nobody to talk to for hours on hours, being left with her own thoughts for way too long makes her rather susceptible to speaking without really being prompted to, "I mean, if I was crazy about a guy and he had like. . .like Nirvana's entire discography tattooed on his face, I wouldn't care if it made him happy, y'know? S'a shame thinking the world and all its people are s'pposed to bend at your will." She slips the pie into her mouth, realizing that maybe he didn't technically ask for her input at all, and her heart almost drops to her stomach because the last thing she'd want to do is make enemies with the one person who's on her side, "I'm sorry, that's none of my business."

She looks up expecting him to look pissy, gathering his things to leave, but instead, he's smiling, looking pleasantly surprised, "No, no, don't apologize. Wish I would've had you 'round when it was happening to me, would've done me some good."

And if she's honest. . .maybe she really should hire somebody, because she also (apparently) becomes very pushy and involved in other people's lives because she goes on to ask, "Well, what happened between you two? If you don't mind me asking." She pushes some of the whipped cream off the top of the pie, "I love a good romance story."

Snorting, Harry chuckles, "You're a bloody trip, y'know that? Just sat down and you wanna know all my nitty gritty feelings," He doesn't make any move to leave, "Your blatant and unapologetic interest is refreshing, however, so I'll give you it. I'm more or less an open book but  this "romance" was more like a dark drama -- was the farthest from healthy." He shakes his head, "Would've brought a beer with me if I'd known I'd be getting into it, but basically, I met her when she'd come in for a tattoo on her ankle -- a little boat on her ankle -- and we sort of clicked right off the bat. She gave me her number at the end of the tattoo, kissed my cheek, and I was proper swooning. Everything was really good for a while too, like we would go on these cutesy little dates and then elaborate ones and when we had sex that was nice too but after like the second-month things kind of went to shit."

"She told ya to take out the piercings?" She guesses and he nods, a somber smile starting at his mouth.

"Started there, sure. Told me to take them out because they looked dumb or summat -- made me seem like a brooding teen punk is what she said, but I was so moony-eyed for her I took 'em right out without a second thought. At first, she loved haring what tattoos people got, and then she said I talked about work too much, but when I stopped she accused me of cheating on her instead of going to work. After convincing her I wasn't and I would never, we'd sleep together, cuddle to sleep, wake up in the morning and it'd start all over again. Started feeling like she wanted me to quit work altogether, stay with her at home all the time. . .would suggest it in the morning then cry when I left and blow up my phone all day." He shakes his head, "Won't say I was a saint, 'cos I definitely wasn't. Started ignoring the calls and messages after a while until I finally told her I couldn't do it anymore."

Y/N frowns for him, tutting her tongue, "A right mess. You were right to end things, 'cos if you don't have trust what do you have?"

"It's like I walked in and opened up a Nicholas Sparks book," he jests and she furrows her brows at him, "Like y'know just what to say, huh?"

"I'm very smart," she gives a fake gloat, "S'why I bought a shop next to an incredibly loud tattoo artist's whose customers like ashing in my flowerbeds. I'm full of grand ideas."

The jab makes Harry's lips stretch wide around a grin.

                                                            .                                      .                                    .

If someone had told Y/N while she was in high school, that her job would entail strolling in at seven in the morning, when the sky had just barely mottled a lavender, hazy dawn and wearing her cheap bear slippers -- she'd say they were crazy. Yet there she was, equipped with a box of nails (because they were much cheaper than command hooks), a hammer, and ten boxes of fairy lights so that she could lighten up the essential essence of the store. No matter how much she didn't want to admit that Harry was right about the lighting, he was, and she wasn't dumb enough to pass up an opportunity to make this place feel more home-y.

Harry was. . .interesting, Y/N thought. While she's ambling over the juniper colored rug (one she'd splurged on at the furniture store off main street, wool with a cotton-latex backing -- the man who had sold it to her somehow convinced her it was okay to spend the extra money for it to be 100% real and for a frazzled, newly bank loaned Y/N, she decided that wool was cool), she thinks about the time they'd spent together. He'd stayed a little while after he'd told her the story of him and his ex, waited for her to finish off the pie and reached for the container and stuffed it into the bag he'd brought it in. "As much as I'd love to stay, I really gotta hit the hay. M'right knackered," he'd stretched out his body with a loud, groaning hum and his eyes even watered some with the gratifying burn of it, "You should go get some sleep too since it's only you working here." 

"How'd you know that?"

He'd snorted and rolled his eyes as he gathered his things, "Please, you're the only one I ever see coming in and out of here every morning and night, plus you just spent an hour talking to your obnoxious neighbor like we're old friends," he shook his head, "Need someone to talk to throughout the day or you'll go mad -- thought I could tattoo by meself and now I've got more than five knob heads working for me."

Y/N isn't sure what kind of weird mentor/mentee relationship was beginning to germinate between the two of them but she had no idea how to feel about it. On one hand, it's nice to have because while college does a well enough job of teaching you how to run a business theoretically,  stepping into it on your own was a whole new world. Harry had been through the trials and tribulations of opening a shop, starting something, getting people there, and finding an aesthetic for his own store -- he could help her with some things, she's sure of it, and she knows that if she ever had a problem regarding being an owner, he'd most likely be the first person she sought out for advice. There was something undeniably charming about him, it made it easier to hear his ideas rather than wanting to tell him to shut the hell up and let her run her own store, hence the reason she's here so early hanging up string lights.

On the other hand, she fears he's only buttering her up so she doesn't file some complaint regarding his employees. Did he think she'd really go to the police? Or was last night him trying to feel out what kind of person she was and how far they might be able to push her before she does? She'd like to think that he was a hundred percent innocent in her intentions but she just couldn't ignore the flitters of doubt in her mind. Someone as winsome as he is doesn't not know that they could get what they want if they played their cards right and she wonders if he was pulling out all the stops on her -- bringing her pie, sitting with her on her rug, and entertaining her with a story knowing full well she'd be a sucker for it because, well, she owned a damn bookstore.

Despite all that, he was good company at the very least, and not too terrible on the eyes, so she figures -- even if this is him doing some sly buttering -- she'd let him come around. At least until he started to annoy her.

While Y/N lugs an old kitchen chair from the supply closet, she reckons that she needs to buy something of a small ladder for her endeavors such as this. There were a few stepstools she had placed strategically around the store, but they only went high enough for the bookshelves rather than for above them and along the junction of the ceiling and wall. She slides the chair up against the wall after spotting an outlet and prays that it's not wobbly as she plucks a nail from the box and holds it between her fingers, keeping the hammer secure against her palm as she hoists herself up. A small squeak leaves her in alarm when she thinks the chair is about to tip but the leg had only left the ground a fraction of a millimeter so she was fine for now.

The prospect of someone working for her was continuing to feel more and more like a good' she'd have someone holding the chair steady for her as she finally stopped tricking herself out and slowly pushed herself upward, straightening out her legs and positioning the nail just a few centimeters down from the ceiling. She pinches it loosely with her finger as she taps the blunt end of the hammer against it in gentle taps, seeing no need in wailing on it, especially when she wanted it at a slight incline so the chances of the wires slipping off and her having to get back up on this chair were slimmer.

Once she's finished the first, she's proper proud of herself. Is taking a minute to admire her work when the very sudden and alarming sound of her bell chiming and the sound of her squawking cry as she jumps and clutches onto the wall masks over the intruder, until she looks over and sees none other than Harry himself with wide eyes, "Oh, my bad Love, didn't mean to scare you."

"Could you at least knock?" she groaned, brows furrowed with a hand limply covering her chest, "We're closed, go home."

Harry snorts as he watches her dismount from the chair, catching herself on the wall once again, "Well, I was just coming 'round to open up, and I saw you nailing into the walls while standing on a very wobbly chair in what appears to be slippers and I came to offer my aid, if you'd like it."

"I'm fine," she told him, pushing the loose strands of hair that tickled at her face backward, trying desperately not to stare at him for too long. He looked like he just woke up and it was cute; he had sleep puffy eyes, fluffy, noticeably freshly washed hair pushed back by a pair of unnecessary sunglasses, swamped in a hoodie much too large for him and a yawn stretches his mouth out, "Why are you here so early anyway? Do people get tattoos at seven AM?"

Shaking his head, Harry sets down the sketchbook that she just now realized had been in his hand and a few different pencils, including a pencil sharpener and it only just hits her that Harry must draw and design a lot of that tattoos that he does, "Trying to do a few new designs for the wall but I get too distracted when m'at home, so I come 'round here before it opens. The vibe is. . .like, good for the brain, y'know?" Y/N nods, even though she doesn't know and she watches as he looks from the nail to the hammer on the seat, to the boxes of lights she'd ordered online, and a grin pulls at his mouth, "You took me advice, ey?" He looks proud of himself and Y/N can't decide if it's really cute or really annoying.

"Its a bit dark I suppose," she admitted, waving her hand around lamely, "And the ceiling lights are more ominous than comforting at night and it feels more like an evil lair than a cozy bookstore."

His smile only grows bigger, "See? M'not an all gloomy, knife on the wall, grunge monster -- got me soft gooey spots too. Have a few art pieces I think you might like t--"

"Oi, don't get too big for your britches, I don't need an interior designer." She nips him off but he doesn't take any hurt from her words, only getting closer to her and raising the chair, moving it over a good chunk before setting it back down and holding onto it, nodding towards the chair and her face twists in confusion, "What?"

"Get on the seat then," he pats on it, "If you won't use me for my wonderful vision yet, then you can use me for my chair steadying hands."

Y/N's heart warms some, "Yet?" She repeats, plucking another nail out of the box and taking hold of the hammer again.

Harry shrugs, "Got hope you'll come to your senses."

She gives him a soft shove to his shoulder only to find he's incredibly sturdy and she doesn't know how to feel about that either.

"Just don't stare at my ass, yeah?" She tells him, pushing herself up onto the chair again with no squeak required because the chair doesn't shift.

He gives a mocking, exasperated sigh, "Damn, the only reason I offered my help was so I could objectify you a little eensy bit."

Y/N laughs harder than she should and when she looks down at him, she can noticeably see his ego being stroked, and yeah, he's far too cute right now. She can't tell if she wanted more to coddle him to her chest and shield him from the world, or to be the one who is coddled, but she sweeps the idea of it from her mind just as quickly as it'd come. She wasn't looking to pursue the idea of any crush her mind and heart decided to concoct in an effort to finally do her in. Plus she's got no time for a relationship anyway. When it came to being with someone, she believed that it was something that took time and care -- like gardening almost. Planting the seed was the easiest part, but then you had to tend to it; water it daily, stroke it's petals tenderly, assure it that it's going to blossom so beautifully and once it does, you have to work even harder to not let it wilt.

How could she give the proper love and care to anyone when she's trying to work the garden of her bookstore? Nobody deserved to be second to that of a store when it came to their significant other, and from how mindful, thoughtful, and sweet Harry was. . .well, that wouldn't be fair to him either.

That's to say if he even liked her in the first place.

She shakes her head at herself -- why is she even thinking like that? Probably because he was looking all soft swallowed up in his hoodie and sweatpants, and he's helpful and kind and it's not often you meet boys like that. Usually, there's a catch and she's waiting for Harry's -- for him to be a closeted asshole who's magnanimity only scraped the surface but deep down he was nothing but molten, murderous evil. Maybe he was a homicidal maniac worming his way close to her so he could get her alone, lock her in a cage, and starve her out? Or he'd get her from behind, bludgeon her with a hardcover book just for the irony of it.

But then she looks down, sees that he's watching her hands and not her bum, his gaze flickering to her own before the corner of his lips draw back in a cordial gleam, "Your handy work is top caliber," he remarks, nodding towards where she's left the nail in the wall, "Bet your fingers are strong and skilled from all the page turning."

A huffed laugh comes from her nose, chest puffing out with it.

He couldn't hurt a fly.

                                                          .                                           .                                          .

Y/N needs to hire someone.

She knows she does, and Ayla nor Harry would let her forget it, but she's too proud! Told herself she could start and run a business with no help and had intended to keep it that way, but there was so much that was entailed regarding all of this it was going to drive her up the wall. Like when she's finally gotten taken off hold with Baker & Taylor's helpline to let them know they sent her forty copies of Fifty Shades of Grey and it's predecessors when she most certainly did not, but she has to step away from the phone because someone can't reach a copy of Dean Koontz's latest novel. Or when she's trying to multitask cleaning up someone's spilled coffee off the rug (assuring through a myriad of their apologies that it was fine, it's why she had purchased the industrialized carpet cleaner met for the tracked stains of a Great Mastiff's colossal muddy paws in the first place), setting up an automatic payment for the electricity (which had sparked in price considering the lights lining the walls but with this came more night time visitors so it evened out), and realizing that there were three people waiting patiently in line for her to check them out.

Having at least one other hand would be beneficial, but again, she could only stress how hard it would to find someone she trusted with her snotty nosed baby of a bookstore. Who would she feel comfortable leaving alone if she had to run errands? To run the store when she was home sneezy and feverish? To open up the books and not damage their binding with the box cutter like she'd almost did a handful of times (before specifically requesting they put a protective wrapping over the shipments so she didn't have to play the surgeon game of "let's not nick an artery" book-edition). The only person she could even kind of imagine was Harry of all people, and he was busy running his own thing next door!

She guesses she could put a help wanted sign up front, but she would draft up the application herself, and including a questionnaire seemed necessity at this point. At the very least so she could feel out what kind of person they'd be and whether or not they'd be able to click, or if they would share her intense and immense love for books and reading. If they're to work here, she wants it to be to their enjoyment as much as it's for their paycheck, which is a lot to ask from some people, especially in a college town.

Hiring someone seems worth it until she imagines the first time they manage to do something like knock an entire bookshelf over, and then she thinks she'd rather work around the clock 24/7 than dare let anyone who isn't her do anything ever.

All of this is weighing like two fifty pound dumbbells on her mind as she's sat on the ground, starting a new project rather than actually dealing with the problem at hand. A few weeks ago she had bought a decently large basket but had nothing to do with it so it'd just been sitting collecting dust in the corner of her room until an idea struck her of its purpose. She'd put books in it, sure, but books that are wrapped up all nice and neat, with only a short description of it scrawled out over the paper. There's one thing she's come to learn to be a reader herself, and that is no matter how hard someone might try, they will always judge a book by its cover. The story could be exactly what someone was looking for -- the right amount of suspense or romance, horror or comfort, a plot that would keep you intrigued, and a page-turner that you'll never want to end -- but you could pass it right up because you don't like the fruit bowl on the cover. Y/N reckons that every time you're in a bookstore or in the library, you're bound to pass what could've been your all-time favorite book, just because the cover hadn't had you arsed enough to pick it up.

So she bought all the supplies for it and waited until closing, as always, to set herself up on that green rug. She'd moved the display table on it (strategically moving the books atop of it on the checkout counter) off to the side to give her the maximum amount of space for the thick brown recycled wrapping paper, her four rolls of scotch tape, the bumblebee printed scissors she'd brought from home, and starting with twenty random books she'd plucked off her shelf as to not overwhelm herself.  Y/N had successfully completed three books with a permanent furrow in her brow before she heard the gentle rapping of knuckles on glass, looking up to see Harry's silhouette and his face pressed against the glass, mouthing let me in and point at the knob.

Her mood almost lightens immediately at the sight of him, placing her palms flat on the ground to push herself up on wobbly legs (she'd been sitting cross-legged for at least an hour) and walk to the door, unlocking it with the keys in the deadbolt and twisting the knob. "Jesus, are you ever home?" He questions as he steps in, "When did I help you with the lights? Two weeks ago? Don't think you've left since."

"You're not the only one who gets distracted when you're at home," she responds, relocking the door before retreating to her makeshift craft center in the middle of the floor, "Why wrap books when a bowl of popcorn and endless movies are at my disposal?"

"And the popcorn is far too buttery for you to be doing both," he adds thoughtfully.

Y/N snaps her fingers and points at him, "Bingo," she holds the edge of the paper down with her socked toes as she grabs for the tape dispenser, running the sticky side against the sharp teeth and nicking at the pad of her thumb in the process, "Why're you always wearing a beanie?" She asks him, referring to the olive green knit that's tucked atop his head, "You've got such pretty soft curls, don't hide them."

It takes him back some, she can tell, and she starts to wonder if she should've said it at all but a soft smile worms onto his lips and he manages to look way too cute like that, reaching up to pull at the top of the beanie, letting his hair fall about freely. It wasn't particularly unruly -- just soft brown tufts, that must be killer to run fingers through -- curls sprout around his ears, growing down towards his shoulders. She'd never seen hair like his; it was clear he took care of it and she'd reckon he'd used a hair mask or two, because it appeared healthy and clean, "Thank you," he murmurs sincerely, "Didn't think people much liked them -- get told to get a cut about every other day."

Y/N scoffs, "Well tell 'em to shove it. I like them, they suit you and I don't lie. Only cut your hair if you want to, but if you like it, who gives a rat what people think?" She shakes her head, ridding herself of the frustration building within her at the prospect of someone being rude enough to tell Harry to get a haircut when he clearly likes it long, trying to soothe the way she'd grumbled over by moving on with, "Anyway how was tattoo-ing today? Any fun stories."

Harry settles his keys down on the ground where he soon places his coat after slipping it off his shoulders, leaving it in a heap that he then sits beside, "I would tell you if I didn't think you were deflecting, but I got this aching feeling that there wasn't a furrow in your brow jus' 'cos you were wrapping books."

She wonders how he does that -- he's got an eye for people, she guesses, and she thinks having a secret that you have to keep from him was probably akin to one of the layers of hell. Y/N had never felt so cut open around him; like he'd pried her apart from the inside out, looking inside, knowing everything before she had a chance to even voice it aloud at all if she even knew it herself yet. Hell, she could make a book metaphor but it seemed a little on the nose as she's sat amongst a shit ton of them.

"Hey," he hums, catching her gaze with his own, and he looks so. . .gentle -- concerned and soft and sweet, "Y'know, you can rant and vent to me about stuff, yeah? Owning a business can be rough and not many people know the actual tribulations of it; never see past the whole, "you're your own boss!" aspect of it so I get it." He puts a finger in the air though, "However, if you're about to say something poor on yourself, I'll have you know that you're doing very well thus far from the amount of people leaving here with paper bags full of books, and to come to a college town that's absent of any small, homey little bookstores when they're discovering their comfort in things that are cozy was a well-planed move. You've accomplished so much already and you should definitely be proud of yourself."

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, her free hand going to tuck the hair behind her ear, "Thank you," she responds, "That means a lot." And it does! For someone to say that you're doing good when you've started something so much bigger than you -- it feels nice. Like the hug of your favorite sweater, or the way it feels to place your head against a feather filled pillow. Y/N couldn't believe how easily Harry has nearly resorted her to mush, so much so that she nearly forgot her problem at hand, "I just. . .I think I need to hire someone but I don't really want to." She takes the permanent marker from underneath her knee, before writing on the copy of Kathleen Hale's No One Else Can Have You:

Awkward Teenage Disappearing Mystery

Very Creepy

She pushes it off to the side as she continues, "Like, the help would be nice, but then I have to like them, and trust them 'cos this place means so much to me and I've put so much work into it that I can't just let any old stranger come in! And what if it's a college student and they invite their stupid drunk friends over before close? I can just see my lamp being destroyed and then I'd have to scold them, but I'm shit at yelling at anyone, I don't think anybody takes me seriously and its not like I could dox their pay even if I really, really wanted to but I can't fire them either for one little mess up. Like what if they need the money y'know? On those Myer Brigg's type tests I always get stuck on the one where it asks if you'd have trouble firing an employee who was shit at their job but loyal and I had always imagined it really could go either way, but how am I supposed to decide whether or not someone has a job?" Pausing, she knuckles worriedly at her eyes, shaking her head, "But I shouldn't even be thinking about that because I don't even have a fucking employee yet, so. . ."

Once he's certain that she's not going to say anymore, Harry speaks up, "This is the stuff they don't really tell you when you get a business degree, yeah? It's hard. . .working by yourself is hard and working with people is hard, and it sucks trying to find who suits you best as your first employee. My first was Riktor. . .proper hated the bugger," he leans backward on his palms, tilting himself sideways so he could stretch his legs outward, "He had a fouler mouth than mine and I thought he was a prick, if m'honest, but when I saw him do a full sleeve of the most beautiful work I'd ever seen, got a chance to really talk to him, and found out that him n'I have loads in common. You just have to give whoever you hire a chance, pick their brain a little, you'll understand them more as a person so if they do make a mistake it isn't just some mindless bumbling idiot."

A frown tugs at her mouth, "Why do you always know what to say?" She grumbles and he laughs brightly, warm, wiggling down in her gut and fluttering butterfly wings lick and tickle her insides.

"M'bloody smart, s'why," he drops his lid down in a wink, "Now, explain to me what you're doin, so I can help," he tells her, "For the time being, I'm your employee, I work for five cents an hour and require constant affirmation that I'm wrapping correctly."

Harry helps her, even though he's shit at wrapping (they both find this out at the same time) and even though he asks a lot of questions and worms the endings out of her despite how much she both simultaneously loves and loathes ruining books for people. But it was nice -- he was nice -- and it makes her feel quite soft. Softer than she likes to feel in the presence of anyone. . .Y/N prides herself on not losing herself in the thoughts of a relationship, putting herself first in all things, and it can't be seen as selfish because who would she be putting second if she was alone?

But Harry was like a pest. A squirmy little bug that has settled in her, and planted imagery of them going home together rather than leaving each other after this. To continue their conversations. . .laughing and teasing and cuddling and maybe Y/N could be held one night instead of falling asleep buried beneath her covers trying to keep warm.

Though she eventually remembers that she likes having the bed to herself and she'd probably get too sweaty anyway, so she shakes the idea from her brain.

Harry brought her from these thoughts though when he had plucked the last book from her pile, looking at it with brows raised before turning it to face her, "On Dublin Street, ey? This looks pretty saucy," he peers at the back, eyes scanning over the description, immediately lighting up as he reads from it, "Braden Carmichael is used to getting what he wants, and he's determined to get Jocelyn into his bed." He flickers through a lump of pages with his thumb, bending the book backward some as he does, "Didn't know you were into such filth, Pet."

Y/N rolls her eyes, "I haven't read it, but Ayla swears up and down that it's the best thing she's ever read in her life so I figured I'd put it in."

He holds it in his hands, front to back, before digging into his pocket  and pulling out a handful of bills, "I'll buy it off you."

"What?" She tilts her head but he's leaning forward, placing the money into her hand and closing her fingers around it, "Oi -- what're you --"

"Let's start a book club," he remarks decisively, a short nod of his head, "Just you and me. We'll read a few chappies, talk about it, and we'll start with this book right here."

Her mouth falls open, shaking her head, "Harry, I don't even have time to read books that I want to read, much less --"

"Then make time," he cuts her off, shaking his head some, "You love reading, don't you? Don't let what made you start up this store in the first place get swept under the rug. We'll read however many chapters we decide on and meet up for coffee on Sundays to discuss. This will kick it off, then we can move to books that we are actually interested in, but for now, we'll do a tester. Have you got another one around here?"

She doesn't really get a chance to tell him that yes she does, it's on the third shelf over from the desk on the erotica shelf (a cute little sticker labels it), because he's already stood up and ventured it out himself. It was true -- Y/N hadn't been able to read much since she initially got this place up and running, and she missed it terribly but it felt like it would be a chore more than anything some nights. It'd be easier to just turn off her brain than get invested in the stories she grows to love so much. And that's rubbish! Absolute rubbish, because she should be making time for the one thing that has always been her thing. She doesn't want to end up resenting this bookstore or books in general, just because she lost sight for what made her want to do this in the first place.

Y/N wonders aloud why Harry has made a habit of fixing problems she didn't even know she had yet, "I need you to start having problems too," she tells him, half joking, half serious, "Then I can start helping you out and this isn't so one-sided."

Harry grins at her, shaking his head.

"You help me," he responds, "You just don't notice when you are."

                                                                       .                              .                                   .

Y/N doesn't know why she feels so anxious. She and Harry had spent plenty of nights together, sat on her carpet and chatting with one another for hours into the night, pursuing her random projects and brightening up the store. He even stops by during his lunch breaks -- will bring some food for her even, mostly because she rarely leaves for lunch herself and sometimes forgets to pack her own. It had been routine almost, and she'd never felt nervous when he appeared at her door, smiling wide.

But now, when it comes to them meeting at the café to discuss this book though, she feels all types of tense and nervy. Y/N had left twenty minutes early, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling on it hard as she made her way to the café. She briefly considered calling Ayla to soothe her nerves, but she knows Ayla would merely gas her up thinking this was a date when it wasn't. So she just tries to shake off her jitters and treat it like she's going to work, only instead of turning right on Grand, she keeps straight along the cobblestone path to the Mud Mugs café she had suggested as their meeting spot.

(It was a cute little nonprofit shop with killer lattes and milkshakes that she's been trying to wheedle the recipes out of one of the baristas for at least a year but he won't budge.)

Once she pulls the door open, she first scans the area for an empty spot for them to go to, before she realizes that Harry was already there, tucked away in a booth in the far corner with a mug of his own and one that's full across from him. Her heart feels full as she walks up to him, letting her purse slip from her shoulder down to the inside of her elbow, and towards her hand with her fingers curling around the straps. Harry looked incredibly pretty, which she is beginning to realize is a trend with him. His shirt is worn and black, light washed blue jeans cuffed at the ankles, and plain white shoes with baby pink socks, a pink beanie that matches it tucked on his head. She wonders if she should ask him to go shopping with her because she's feeling like a walking toddler in her overalls, but when he notices her arrival he grins at her, looking her up and down, "Well, aren't you just the cutest thing?"

Y/N rolls her eyes, taking her seat across from him, "Shut up," she grumbles, before leaning over the table, taking the top of his beanie and pulling it upward, "What'd I say about these, huh?" She settles the mussed curls with her hands, patting it down and rearranging them until they sat less messy on his head, leaving it all soft and washed, "They're cute, let them breathe."

"Okay, okay boss," he pats at his hair, making sure it felt at least partially how he wanted it to, patting at the beanie and slipping it over to the side, "I ordered you a white chocolate latte, but if you want something different I can get that."

"No, no, thank you these are my favorite," she assesses the situation, seeing that he's got the book out, bright post-its stuck out of the pages, his own latte half gone already. His hand is palm down to the table, fingers splayed, showing off the big brassy rings decorating his fingers and she tries not to let her mind wander someplace filthy. Especially when his fingers curl up, knocking on the laminate tabletop decisively before starting.

"Let's get right to it then, what are your thoughts?"

The look he gives her is one that reads I already know what you're going to say but she says it anyway, "I'm just. . . just so confused," she shakes her head, like she's trying to rearrange her thoughts, "Like are they sixteen years old? Why is it so important that he saw her naked?" Her brows furrow, and he's listening carefully like she's making an analytical thought and he's drinking it in, "It's not like he saw her pussy out, he at most saw her tits and they're acting like he walked in with her bent over, cheeks spread an all."

It makes Harry chuckle, "So you don't find it super, completely, totally wild and embarrassing when someone walks in you naked?"

"I mean it's embarrassing but not over two pages embarrassing," she leans back into her seat, "Like back in college, this boy I was kinda friends with kinda just worked together in class with walked in on me while I was changing and all he did was squeal, went back to my living room and we pretended that it didn't happen. Easy as pie."

Harry snaps his fingers, "That's because your guy wasn't a prick, but this Braden character seems like an asshole. I hate him already, the cocky bastard." He shakes his head, "S'like he was created just to be a creepy bloke."

Y/N all but slaps her hand down on the table, "Right! He's liked an Edward Cullen without all the charming vampire bits."

"Crazy thing is, tha's exactly what I was thinking."

They continue on for a little over an hour and its fun -- a whole lot of fun, actually. Y/N wonders why she had even been dreading this in the first place because she should know to trust him by now. He had good ideas and good thoughts and a good everything, really -- or at least that's what it surely felt like. The two of them just fell into things so easily, she was having trouble remembering that they'd only met a month or so ago because the way they moved and spoke in sync almost, was something that could take years for two people to accomplish it. To add on to all of it, he felt like the kind of person where she'd be able to sit in silence with him and not want to crawl out of her skin because of it, which is a very damning feat for most, given Y/N can find reasons to be uncomfortable in almost every situation.

In these moments with him, she wasn't stressed about work, or bills, or anything really, and she could only hope he felt the same.

"This is a blast," Harry had spoken with his vocabulary joking but the meaning behind them sincere, dragging her from her reverie, and apparently dragging the thoughts directly from her head, "We'll keep doing this yeah? And we'll have to hang out other than this too -- the guys at the parlor would love you, I can feel it in my bones." For a moment he pauses, quiet like he's thinking, then remembering, and then suddenly, with a click of his thumb and forefinger the excited gleam on his face when he'd first suggested this appeared, "Come to the club with us this Friday."

Y/N's mouth opens, almost closing but she just barely gets out an, "I -- I don't know Harry, that's not really my um. . .don't think m'very good at clubbing, is the thing. Not really my scene."

"You don't have to be good, you just have to have fun, and I'll be there, so it'll be fun" he informs her, and she thinks he may be hypnotizing her with the soft green gaze of his, feeling as if he'd cracked her open and begun peering into her soul -- his eyes were too damn mesmerizing, she's almost certain that he was something out of a story. Certainly not human, but a mystical being with promises of magic and dust that turns you all shades of pink and purple and the absence of all worries that you could ever think to have. If eyes were windows to the soul, then Harry's soul is all types of alluring and compelling. She had half the mind to wonder if he were a vampire or summat. . .he'd suit the role nicely. "And since you'll be there, then it'll be even more fun."

Though she's uncertain, she doesn't dismiss him right off the bat. Maybe it would be good for her -- she could invite Ayla, who's always complaining how she's no fun anymore. It might be fun even. . .outside of her otherwise natural habitat and she had kind of wondered what Harry was like around his real friends. Not just his weird, work neighbor friend who she's fairly certain he only talks to her because he can spread some of his wisdom that would otherwise be bottled up inside him. They were kind of in the same spot job-wise, so it must be good to relinquish some of the aches and pains he's experiencing with someone who also does, or even just to see that she's doing a little worse off in sorting some stuff out -- he probably finds solace in the fact that he's not at that point in his career anymore.

This makes her worry though -- what if he likes her just as a work friend? She'd definitely had friends like that, where they do better justice in the setting that you met them in, opposed to the outside world. Like that one really good friend in your math class that you would never, ever in your life think to go to the mall with. Or the boy that helps you pass time at your part-time retail job in the mall, where both of you barely bat an eyelash at each other when you pass one another on campus. What if they go out together and he finds that she is much better as just his work friend? Or she finds the same? What if he's a raging asshole in a club and the glorious image of him is crushed to smithereens? The thought of it bums her out.

But then he's looking at her with this tender, warm gaze, words coming from his mouth like little caresses as he says, "Of course, ys don't have to if you don't want to, but know that I'd enjoy your company." He puts his elbow on the table, his hand pressed to his cheek, looking at her in an almost dreamy like manner and she's about a hundred percent sure it's unintentional which is twice as aggravating as it would've been otherwise, "I think we'd have a good time together."

He's got her, "I'll think about it," she responds, which always means yes, and the smile that she tries to suppress must give her away because Harry bursts into a full-blown grin.

"Thank god, I've been wanting to spice these club visits up for a while now," he rolls his eyes, "Can only handle Eliza and Zig's melodramatic blackout breakups so many times before they start becoming humdrum and prosaic -- I'd like to see your reaction to it actually," Harry twists the ring on his middle finger with the pad of his thumb, "And I've kind of been wondering what a clubbing Y/N would be, if m'honest. Can't decide if you'd be the quiet, contemplative author type in the corner people studying or summat or if m'g'na be seein' you on the high tables in one shoe, an obscure song on, singing every word."

Y/N pushes the heels of her palms into her eyes, shaking her head as a distant memory threatens to prickle her brain from a very disappointing night in college junior year, "I was one of them once and it was an ugly night all around," she admits.

"Well, you've got t'a tell me now." He leans in but she shakes her head adamantly.

"Maybe if you get me drunk enough Friday."

                                                                          .                              .                                   .

Y/N is a little drunk.

Not too drunk; she could still walk by herself and she was fairly sure she would remember this night tomorrow morning at the very least, but it was just enough that she felt like she was floating on the tips of her toes spindling through the atmosphere on cloud nine. She was sober enough to be very aware of Harry's presence at her side all night but far gone enough to not overthink it too badly. It was a happy middle that she very seldom got to experience at any given point of her week.

The night had started off well enough-- Harry came around to pick Y/N up, simultaneously complimenting and giggling at her choice of attire (she brought out a different pair of overalls just to humor the both of them, "Let's get drinkin', at this here club, I've got t'a be back at the farm by cock's crow!"), and drove them to his place, where she got to stay all of three seconds because his mate had come to pick them up. She was only able to experience the messy trough of his living room, littered with clothing and soda cans for a moment in which he uttered bashfully,  "I sort of forgot to clean up."  And when she was opening her mouth to tell him it was fine, there was a honk outside.  

A man called Zig picked them up in a car a little worn for wear, with a loud clanking engine that she would have most definitely side eyed zooming down the road had she been walking somewhere, but he was nice enough. He had got out of the car and pulled the back seat forward, waving a dramatic mocking hand in swivels with a bow, "Your chariot awaits you," he'd gruffed out, voice mixed with an indistinct accent (like he might be Danish or Norwegian in root but Y/N didn't know enough about either to decipher it).

"Oh, Zig, m'honored," Harry tuts his tongue, a gentle hand on the small of Y/N's back as he helps her climb in, "It's not a trashcan for once."

Zig's face skewered up like the words stung, "Well, you said the book bee was coming and I figured the last thing she needed was to ride in a messy car," he closes the door when Harry climbs in beside her, helping her yank the seatbelt across her chest and clicking it in before his own, and when Zig opens the car back up on his side, "Especially when she has to spend a night with us max volume music listeners."

Y/N felt herself flush warm, "I'm sorry about that --" she had begun but Zig held his hand up, turning to face her some as he shifted the gear into drive.

"Ah, don't apologize. We were pricks and Harry gave us quite the upbraiding for it too."

This made  Y/N feel both good and bad simultaneously. Good because Harry had been telling the truth, and the fact that he had somewhat had her back before they even got to properly know one another made her feel warm. Bad because that means she was about to go hang out with a handful of people who got yelled at by their friend/boss for listening to their music too loud. What if they all resented her for it? Sure, Zig didn't seem to care but she had worried about everyone else claiming her to be annoying or summat.

She ended up worrying for naught though because everyone proved to be very kind to her, despite their past grievances. When they'd got to the club, her, Harry and Zig were both greeted with an exuberance that she had never encountered before. They had reserved a booth in the far back left of the club, at a sweet spot where the music wasn't overpowering their conversation and there weren't drunk college students clearly underage falling all over them. The lights were muted purple and blue hues, with spots of red that cast down in random spots, and while all of it was colorful and intriguing, Y/N had never felt more out of her element in the beginning. They were all nice enough, poking and prodding at her brain some, figuring out what kind of person she was, and a few times she was even able to make them laugh (whether it be with her or at her she couldn't be sure but she soaked it in none the less and booked on it being with her because she can be damn funny when she wants to be). She'd been sat beside Harry, who was sweet as ever, checking in on her every so often with a firm squeeze to the thigh that sends tingles up her leg.

Y/N hadn't been planning on really getting drunk at first. Had been content with a few drinks until she was on the pleasant side of tipsy -- but it had spiraled fast when Harry had left her side. She'd never felt more like she needed a security blanket more, eyes widening when he is whisked off to the dance floor before he could make it back to their table after using the loo and she realized that she was with a group of people she'd only just met. Zig was still chatting with her but part of her felt it was because he and Eliza (his girlfriend) had just had a nasty little argument in front of everyone and she was the only other person sat beside him. It's when Y/N looks out to the floor and sees Harry either courting or being courted by a brunette in a sparkly slip dress that things take a turn for her.

This feeling began to fatten inside her; like dark black ink staining her insides, the foul taste of jealousy on her tongue. She doesn't know why she feels jealous even -- she thought she'd been doing a semi-decent job reminding herself that they were merely friends and this wasn't anything more than that. That he had invited her so that she could have a good time, not because he had this secret, fiery love for her that he was too fearful to admit aloud and hoped a little liquid courage would push him towards it. This wasn't a book she was reading, this was real life, and boys don't think in real life. Most of them turn a certain age and bulldoze through people in pursuit of finding their person. . .barely any genuine heartfelt men out there that could compare to the likes of any romance novel written.

So she took Zig's offer up on another shot. And then another. And another. By the time Harry had ventured back to the table, absent of his new friend and slipping back into the empty space beside her, she was floating and her insides were warm from the alcohol. Harry seemed a bit drunker himself, grinning wide and loopily at her, "Hi beautiful," he'd hummed amiably, "Are you having fun?"

"Mhm," she nodded to him, "Riktor thinks that whale noises to sleep are very soothin' but I've convinced 'im that blizzard noises are good too." Her brows furrowed with a thought, "Hey, who was supposed to want to be my employee? Didn't you say he'd be here t'night?"

That's when Y/N was introduced to Niall, whose deep Irish accent explained why he didn't even seem touched by the three pints he'd downed in their time there. He had maybe gone a little too in depth as to why he needed a job (he lost his, can't tattoo for shit so Harry's parlor was out of the question, and his girlfriend kicked him out after a messy breakup) but Y/N still asks if he'd fill out an application for her because it was her first time doing this and she wanted to do it by the books and he had agreed, "I look forward to workin' with ya, if ya pick me," he had told her and she decided then that she probably definitely would (but she was also drunk and is just proud of herself for not offering him the job right there).

Throughout the night, Y/N felt that they liked to poke fun at Harry a lot, whom took it lightly but she's beginning to realize more why he wears beanies or is a little blushy face when she compliments him in any way. They can surely rip him one when they want to, from the slow way he talks sometimes like he's tasting his words before he says them, to his favored pink socks in his loafers, and above all, they tease him for his soft, curls. It almost enrages her to some degree, when they tell him he needs to cut it, or that the manbun wasn't "it", and while she knows its just some teasing between friends, she can see even through her drunk brain when Harry stops enjoying the jests and is resorting to soft little smiles and halfhearted chuckles until they finally move on to a different topic.

It's when he's begun fidgeting with his head and asking people if they had an extra hair tie or beanie perhaps that Y/N decides that she's had enough of it. Pushes her mixed drink to the side and pats on Harry's thigh, "Budge up, then," she urged him, "Going to the toilet." Harry slips from the booth but instead of heading off in the direction of the restrooms alone, she grabs him by the wrist, pulling him along with her. He lets out a few confused noises but ultimately letting her lead him with trusting ease. The bathrooms are tucked in a dim lit hallway with predominantly red lighting and for some reason the marbled black floors that they had been on changes to a stain mottled carpet. Instead of taking him into the bathroom, she instead pushes him down some, up against the wall and looking at him seriously.

"Are they hurting your feelings?" She questioned him, talking in an octave higher than she normally would due to the booming speakers on the other side of the wall and he feigned confusion, tilting his head.

"With what?" He asked in return and she rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

"You know what," she pushed and he curled within himself, looking down shyly because he did know what and that makes her heart feel like cracking in her chest. She reaches up, cupping his face in an overly affectionate manner before starting a reel of drunken affirmations, using both hands to tilt it up to face her, "D'ya like your hair?" She asks him, and when he does legitimately look confused this time she reiterates, "Do you like it long?" He barely thinks it over for a second, nodding his head gently and she hiccups, "Then don't listen to them. Same goes with your socks or how you speak. They're things that make you, you and if you like them then who gives a rat's ass what they think about it?" Adding a loving cheek pat, she leaves it with one more thought, and another soft hiccup, "They're only teasin' and they're your friends but teasin' can hurt sometimes too. Let 'em know when they're taking it too far, okay?"

Harry stared down at her with a certain look oozed from his eyes. She couldn't place her finger on what it was exactly, but it's the same look he gives her when she spits out a fact to a question that had just popped into his mind, or when she explains in detail the elaborate plots of some of the books she's read. Its soft and carries warmth -- close to adoration or a fondness but she wouldn't want to put herself on a pedestal with that -- and it makes her want to kiss him. Plant one on his sweet, pink pouty mouth and taste the bitterness of the dark liquor he'd thrown back just a few moments prior to her pulling him off.

"Thank you," he leaned forward, pushing their foreheads together for a moment, "Thank you." He repeated again.

The rest of the night, Harry was planted at Y/N's side and decided he seldom wanted to go anywhere without her. They were leaning into one another comfortably, relaxed, still chatting as a part of the group but also their own sector of thought and stories and jokes that made them a mess of eye-watering giggles. When a joints being passed around and Y/N doesn't take a hit with a polite, "I don't do that much anymore," (instead of going into an in-depth discussion on how she'd read a book solely about the lungs front to back and panicked to the point she'd handed the rest of hers off to her college roommate to do as she wished with it), Harry patted her thigh and gave it a small squeeze.

"Good," he'd murmured, just low enough for her to hear, "You're a good girl, yeah? Don't need this stuff," It had resonated deep within her, threatening a shiver down her spine at the slow syrupy way he'd said them and when she laughs a huff through her nose with a small nod, he grins, "Need'a just be me and you more, m'lungs would be aces."

"Your lungs are already aces," Eliza responds (at this point having made amends with Zig), passing the joint to Harry, "You don't inhale any bloody smoke."

Harry declines it this time around (though he had taken a puff earlier on when they first lit it up), in favor of tucking further into her side, "You smell too good to be around these heathens. . .like cupcakes or summat." A laugh leaves her, shaking her head and she wants to tell him no, that he's the one who smells so good. Wants to tell him how his scent is so lovely and so prominent that she thinks about it before bed sometimes, and in the least creepy manner, it soothes her weary mind to sleep -- but the words lock up in her throat. Instead, she only smiles gently and revels in the warmth of him glued next to her.

At some point his fingers had begun to play with strands of her hair (after asking her permission first), marveling at it and speaking to her softly, like he wasn't doing it. Had they been at home somewhere and not in a smoky club she would have filed this way in a book of sweetest moments she's ever had. He's looking at her like she was made of glitter, a soft gaze as he whispers how he thinks she's doing wonderfully with the bookstore and going on an anecdote of how she was handling running a business much better than him in his first few months. He tells her several times in several different ways that she was basically "kickass" and it's just too sweet. Especially when he begins gloating to Zig, Niall, and Eliza that he gets to see her almost every day. "Nice, pretty face," he hums, "I could only wish to have a face like that, yeah?"  She turned, hiding her face some in where his armpit and chest meet, feeling his chest vibrate with a laugh.

By the time everyone was ready to leave, there were a handful of designated drivers, one of which being Riktor who was much sweeter than he had originally seemed. He held her hand, helping her step off the small drop from the booth they'd been in, and guided her and Harry (who had his arms secured around her shoulders) to his car. He drives them both to Harry's and Y/N's too tired and floaty to panic about the fact that she'd brought nothing to sleep in, or how Harry probably only had one bed and not a particularly comfortable looking couch. Would sleeping beside him be so bad though? She doesn't think so. Thinks it might be quite nice to share a bed with him, dipping her nose into the covers and breathing his scent in deeply.

Harry makes a game of getting them inside, running his fingers up her sides in a tickling manner that makes her shriek and scamper ahead of him. He seems to love that though, the drunken stumbling bound of his feet close behind her until she made it to his door and realized that she didn't have the means to get inside before he did. Swinging around she bats away his playful hands, "Fuck off, fuck off!" She laughs and he flashes her a big old grin, turning around to wave at Riktor as he drove off before unlocking the door and letting them in.

This time Y/N gets to look a little bit more at her surroundings. It was a bit messy but not a pigsty, just some tidying could be done to the living room and it'd be good as new she reckons. He's got two lamps on either side of his three seater couch, a beaten plain navy with a small tear in the arm, a shaggy rug that is large enough to cover most of the hardwood flooring, and a small coffee table top of it. His TV is rather large and it looks like he'd been watching something on Netflix but forgot to turn it off when they'd left, its tucked in the corner on an entertainment center diagonal from the couch. Her eyes flicker along his walls -- a large tapestry of dark, intricately woven vines into some atypical design her brain couldn't conceptualize as anything at the moment, a few art pieces that she'd never seen before and upon closer inspection, she sees his name written in the corner of the most beautiful designs.

"Harry," she all but gasps, leaning in, gently touching her fingers to the edge of the frame it was in, tentacles opened up like the petals of a flower, so realistic it looks as if she could reach out and feel the slimy texture of it beneath her fingers, "This is amazing! I -- I've never seen anything like this before."

"Thank you," he murmurs happily, "I only hang up the ones I'm proud of."

She only fawns over his paintings a little more before she ends up following Harry to his bedroom, where he flops down onto the mattress with a umph and slings his arm underneath his head. Y/N shuffled awkwardly on her feet, standing in the doorway, unsure of what she was to do with herself. It's not until his head lulls to face her, that he waves her over, "Hop on in, Pet, don't have a queen size just so you can stare at it."

"You're sure you're okay sharing a bed with me?" She asks him and his face scrunches up.

"Are you a blanket hog?" He inquires seriously and when she shakes her head, then he nods, "Then of course I am. Now get your cute bum over here."

A fire is sparked to life in her veins as she makes her way over to him. The thought of sharing a bed with Harry was something that crossed her mind more than she'd like to admit it did, and she shivers when the intrusive ideas of something more happening in this bed try to swamp her mind filthy. She ambles over to the other side nervously, crawling in beside him, lying atop of the soft down comforter in her overalls, shuffling some to get comfortable. It may be a queen size mattress but she finds that there's very little space between them, especially when Harry flips over onto his side and beckons her to do the same, "So what'd you think of everyone?" He prods, like a teenager at a sleepover, hair splayed out on the white pillow cover, "Did they treat you well?"

Y/N nods quickly, "They were all very nice. I like Zig most I think, he was sweet. Pretty talkative."

A confused look warps Harry's face, "When were you talking with Ziggy? I don't remember that."

"S'when you were off getting courted on the dance floor," she responded, maybe a little too quickly and perhaps with a little too much fire under her bum. She hadn't meant to come off as jealous as she had felt in that moment, but she's almost certain that she did if his telling smirk was anything to go by.

"Oh, Y/N," he murmurs, reaching out for her hand and bringing it to his mouth in a very gentle graze of his lips against her knuckles and she thinks she might have gone slack-jawed as the next words leave him, "You're jealous?"

She opens her mouth to respond but her minds beginning to resort to mush, the words getting lodged, unlodged, and relodged in her throat until she can finally respond with, "I -- I don't know." Because she doesn't. . .she doesn't know because she thinks she likes him but she's been convincing herself that she didn't and it's all just fucked. Fucked because of course, when she wasn't looking for anyone she would find Harry, and fucked because she wants them to be something, and fucked that all of everything is being presented to her right now when her brain is drenched in Absolut and him and his scent and his sea foam eyes and raspberry mouth.

"Don't need t'a be," he assures her quietly, "Only got room in my heart for you, I reckon."

Y/N doesn't intend to lean forward but she does. Scooting so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath leaving his nose unto her upper lip, her vision unfocused as she gets closer to him until her eyes flutter shut and their mouths meet together tenderly. It's innocent and soft. . .the first kiss everyone imagines when they're growing up, she was experiencing (minus the being drunk and having already had her first kiss) here with Harry. She almost didn't want to sully the moment by pursuing it further but her mind renders lustful as she pushes further, scooting herself closer to him, and a whimper muffled against his mouth when his hand, decorated in those beautiful, brassy rings, lies gently on her cheek. Cradling it carefully like she was akin to the frail petals of a flower, and once she deepens it, pushing closer to his body feeling as his fingers slip from her face down the slope of her shoulder, tickling as they skim against her sides and ending at the round of` her hip, where his grip tightens. It stirs something deep in her abdomen when his fingers dig roughly into her flesh, feeling as she pulsates around nothing when he gives her a rough tug closer towards him, urging her leg around his hip and she feels his cock, firming from beneath his zipper and against her.

Harry moans against her mouth before she draws away, feeling lightheaded as air finally gusts back into her lungs, and her eyes flutter open to see that he's staring at her.

"Y/N," he murmurs, a soft snuffle from his nose as he wiggles, "You taste too sweet, you know? Don't know how m'gonna think about anything but your mouth from here on out."

Y/N thinks that will be a problem for her too.

[blouisparadise]

There were so many amazing bottom Louis fics posted or completed during the month of July. We really hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!

1) Bound (To Falling in Love) | Mature | 958 words

Note: The sequel to this fic is #2 on this list. 

Harry and Louis innocently cuddle on the couch until things get heated.

2) Nuh Uh, Honey | Mature | 1170 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic, which is #1 on this list.

So this is the ending of Bound (to falling in love) but with more detail. Long story short, Louis and Harry fuck.

3) 100ft Away | Explicit | 2479 words

Harry opens Grindr for a hookup and ends up with more than he bargained for. It all works out in the end.

4) I'm Looking for Closure | Not Rated | 2503 words

Note: This fic is the third part of a series. You can read the previous parts here.

“Say you can read my mind.” Harry said to Louis as he pushed Louis down onto the mattress. Louis squirmed as the covers rubbed against his skin.

“I can’t read your mind.” He said simply to Harry as he reached up to put his hands against Harry’s chest, trailing them down to Harry’s narrow hips.

“My mind is saying that I should just… just fucking go back in time. Go back so I could be your first.” Harry said, leaning down to lick into Louis’ hot mouth.

Or They finally fuck, sorry, I mean, make love.

5) The IT Fic | Mature | 3112 words

A fic where Harry is Pennywise & Louis is Georgie... Louis goes down to the sewers & Harry fucks him with a balloon as a condom.

aka a pwp that i wrote for shits and giggles. & yes, louis is of age

6) Souls | Mature | 3890 words

The first time Harry showed Louis two ghosts.

7) The Unfinished Fic (With an Ending) | Not Rated | 4013 words

Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it contains omega Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup.

Louis greatly regretted all of his life decisions up to this point. Okay fine, maybe not all of them, but definitely a vast majority. After all, if he’d not told one little white lie about loving cricket just to impress a fit guy at the pub, maybe he wouldn’t be stuck at what was, one hundred percent, the most boring “sporting” event of his entire life.

8) Save You Tonight | Mature | 4841 words

Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it contains omega Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup.

Louis is a headstrong Omega in charge of his own life. But he's more than grateful when an Alpha comes along when he needs it the most.

9) Whisk Me Off My Feet | Explicit | 5054 words

When Louis locks himself out of his apartment in just a pair of novelty underwear, he hopes his new neighbor can come to his rescue.

10) Can You Feel the Fever | Explicit | 5113 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic.

Tour has Harry exhausted. Luckily exactly what he needs is waiting for him in his Sacramento dressing room.

11) Gotta Catch 'em All | Not Rated | 5186 words

Louis loves Pokémon GO, he gets a little crazy and ends up ramming into a guy. Harry gets mad, calls him a brat and treats him like one. Oh, and they're in central park.

12) I Just Can't Get Enough Of You | Not Rated | 5466 words

Or the one were Harry got inspired from watching Louis on The Late Late Show.

13) Why Don't We Go There? | Explicit | 5654 words

Louis is a perfect model for Abercrombie & Fitch. Harry is a grungy, tattooed model for Hot Topic. When Louis walks in on Harry changing for his photo shoot, things only grow from there... including their dicks.

14) Act Out | Explicit | 6721 words

Harry and Louis try to spice it up a little for their 10th year marriage anniversary. Cliché role play ensues.

15) Life Imitating Art | Explicit | 6881 words

Note: This fic is the fourth part of a series. You can read the previous parts here.

Louis is taken on a very real journey through his fic back catalogue - life has never imitated art so salaciously.

16) You Can Show Me Your Heart | Explicit | 6935 words

Everyone knows about the unsinkable Titanic, which tragically did just that in April of 1912. However, not many people know the story of the Carpathia - the ship that raced to rescue and aid the survivors of the Titanic when the distress call came through. This is the story of the events leading up to the luxury liner crashing into an iceberg on that fateful spring night. More than that, this is the story of how two of Carpathia’s passengers - Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson - met, fell in love and helped over 700 people in the cold Atlantic water.

17) Kisses and Coffee Breaks | Explicit | 9350 words

Midterm season was finally here and all Harry wanted to do was study, however his boyfriend, Louis, seems to have a better idea.

or the one where Harry just wants to study and Louis needs Harry's cock.

18) Swallow The Knife (Outtake) | Explicit | 11186 words

Note: This is an alternative scene to fic #25 on this fic rec.

Alternate sex scene from Swallow The Knife.

19) We've Been Here Before | Mature | 11536 words

Harry goes to Louis in the wake of his sister Felicite's death, and Louis asks Harry to help him clean up a family cabin he is ready to get rid of. Along the way, they attempt to heal many things, even those that they thought were long past.

20) With Words Unspoken | Explicit | 18341 words

The one where Louis is lost, Harry is an excellent tour guide, and age is no barrier to finding the love of your life.

21) The Aurora Zone | Explicit | 19633 words

The one where Harry is busy crossing off his bucket list while Louis is busy falling for the guy he's supposed to hate.

22) Be Mine, Dear | Not Rated | 20104 words

The one where Louis just wants to meet his mate, and all it takes is for him to get a new neighbor.

23) Deflower Me | Explicit | 20154 words

Everyone is 19 and horny, and Louis just really wants to get fucked by Harry.

24) You Are Half Of Me (And I Am All For You) | Explicit | 24731 words

Note: This fic has a mention of BH.

One Direction, an obscure indie rock band, is about to embark on their first cross-country tour, living out of Louis' beloved van named Patricia.

Harry is in love, and Louis is oblivious. Or is he?

Featuring skinny-dipping in Texas waterfalls, getting lost in the desert, stargazing under the New Mexico sky, performing in front of crowds that grow in size each night, and falling in love on the road during the greatest summer of their lives.

25) You Are In My Bed, But Your Heart Isn't | Not Rated | 25595 words

Rock Band AU. Louis is an omega who fucks around, doesn't know the meaning of "feelings" until he starts crawling into Harry's bed at night. Harry gets jealous easily and they all write a lot of songs about each other.

26) Play Me A Memory | Explicit | 26932 words

Louis lives with his nine-year-old son Jake in a peaceful beachside community on the east coast of Australia, working as an entertainment coordinator at the local five-star resort. Harry is a recluse who lives on millionaires row and writes musical scores for blockbuster movies. When the roots of a wayward willow tree create havoc at his home, Harry is forced to stay at the resort while repairs are carried out.

27) Book Worm | Explicit | 37018 words

Note: This fic has mentions of BH.

“Dad said this is his very favourite place to go,” Leon divulged, much to Louis' embarrassment. 

“Did he?” Harry's olive eyes flicked to Louis, lips quirking in a way that didn’t match his beige cardigan.

“Yeah and he said you have the best books. May I look?” He asked, smiling winningly.

Leon had inherited Louis' blue eyes and his mother's dark hair, his smile quickly becoming a replica of his father's.

“You may,” Harry permitted and Louis set Leon down.

“Don’t destroy anything,” he instructed. “And if you so much as crease a page then bring it to the till because I’m going to have to pay for it...”

Leon raced straight to the back of the shop and threw himself onto the beanbag seat front first.

“I put the Kama Sutra back on the top shelf, by the way,” Harry told him with a dimpled smile. “You left it by the Hungry Caterpillar.”

28) Waiting for the Tides to Meet | Explicit | 59637 words

Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.

29) Swallow The Knife | Explicit | 76168 words

“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.

“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”

Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.

Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”

30) There You Are | Explicit | 82237 words

Note: This fic has a mention of BH.

Harry’s entire life has fallen apart - in one night, his carefully planned future is suddenly uncertain.

Then he meets Louis.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

You can find other monthly roundup fic rec lists here.

[zer0comma]

just wanna show my appreciation for gorillaz and my gratitude for them because they opened my eyes and ears to new different forms of art and genres of music. it's kinda long but ive been feeling a lot of love for damon and jamie recently so i had to write it down. before discovering them i never really cared about animated music videos. and even tho i draw, and i did enjoy watching them, i never really appreciated the hard work that was put into making them and just considered them as short cartoons that were made to catch your attention or some sort of a replacement when the artists weren't creative enough to film their own music videos (very stupid of me, i know. i was dumb and judgemental). it wasn't until i was 16 that i started to become more curious about the whole process of making animated videos and that started mainly because of gorillaz. for some reason i have always felt attracted to their music videos even tho i wasn't really into their music back then (i did enjoy some of their hits like clint eastwood, feel good inc and dare, but being the dumb and judgemental edgy, grunge lover teen that i was 3 years ago, i didn't allow myself to enjoy them). i remember reading the comments and seeing fans mention the characters and i was very intrigued by that. eventually, in april 2018, i decided to give them another shot. i was just getting out of my grungy and edgy phase even tho i still hated on anything that was released after the 90s. i kept listening to their singles and i was just blown away by the animation. how smooth and original and creative it was. how much it fitted the music even tho the storyline and the music weren't that connected. i was just fascinated and it was after listening to rhinestone eyes and looking at the storyboard that i started to realize that this band was very special, and the more i learned about them the more i started to appreciate all the time and energy and money and passion and love and devotion that have been put into this project. i started looking at a lot of pictures of the official art and i loved it a lot. it was so absurd at times, but also very unique and original and fun and lively. and what made me more interested was watching the bananaz documentary and seeing jamie hewlett work behind the scenes, and listening to the interviews that the animated band members did. i really, really liked how each character is different from the other and how interesting and unique and funny they were. reading rise of the ogre made me even more attached to them. it was during that time that my appreciation for animation started to grow. i started paying attention to all the small details that make animated videos so damn special. i started to appreciate it as a tool for entertainement and a tool for self expression. it was seriously a huge turning point for me, and i started watching a lot of different animated movies and most of the time they manage to blow me away. now let's talk about the music! i can never thank this band enough for making me get out of my comfort zone and give other music genres a listen. as i said, i was really into grunge (ironically, it was one of the main reasons why blur never made it in the us at the early 90s, but now im huge britpop fan), and i had this very wrong idea that rap music was bad, that pop music was trash, that keyboards and synths and electronic music in general didn't deserve a lot of praise because it wasn't played with loud electric guitars (im literally facepalming at my own stupidity rn, i was a very cringy 15 yo). i literally did not listen to anything else except nirvana for almost 2 years. discovering gorillaz (and later blur) completely changed my persepctive on music. it literally changed my life. i'm not even exaggerating. the year i discovered gorillaz, 2018, was the worst year of my entire life so far. and if it wasn't for the artists that i discovered thanks to gorillaz and the artists i finally allowed myself to enjoy after gorillaz changed the way i listen to music (like the strokes!), i would have done a lot of dark shit. anyway, back to gorillaz. at the beginning, i wasn't really into the songs that had rap features on them. i didn't like plastic beach that much because it was heavily influenced by electronic music. i didn't even listen to humanz. i was very selective when i was listening to their music at the beginning. but then i tried to push myself to give them another chance. i decided to listen to demon days without skipping a single song. i read a little bit about the record and what it was supposed to mean to put myself in the context of the album and i listened. my 1st listen didn't do much for me. it was during my 2nd listen however that i felt like my third eye just opened. i tried to pay attention to the lyrics, to put myself in the mood of the album, and that's when i started to understand the message the album was trying to convey and i started to emotionally connect to the music. i started to realize the importance of each of the guest artists. how honest the rap on dirt harry felt. how scary and powerful de la soul sounded on feel good inc. how smooth mf doom sounded on november has come. it was a wonderful moment. that's when i started to accept the fact that ITS OKAY to listen to anything that wasn't 90s noise rock. eventually the rest of their songs started growing on me and i found myself introduced to a lot of artists ive never heard of before. i'm currently listening to de la soul and i'm still mad at myself for not giving this kind of music a chance. last week i started listening to fatoumata diawara's discography after hearing her for the 1st time on désolé and i'm just blow away by how great she was. her music makes me emotional and ive been only listening for a week. also this may sound embarrassing, but being an african girl myself, a tunisian girl from north africa to be exact, i never learned to appreciate the music of my own country until last year, and it's basically because of damon albarn and his interest in african music. i know that having a white man encourage you to embrace your own culture is weird, but the main reasons why i decided to listen to our music again were as i mentioned before, damon's love for african music and my willingness to listen to different genres and styles thanks to gorillaz. i just want to thank damon and jamie and everyone who's been involved with the project. i know that the band has been facing some small issues related to the storyline and the consistency of their music but that doesn't stop them for continuing to be an inspiration not only for me but for hundreds of thousands of people over the globe. i'm just very grateful for their existence and i wish them nothing but the best because they truly changed my life for the better.

[sapphichalo]

okay artists: one dee, hayley kiyoko, halsey, wallows, olivia o’brien (i went to high school with her), and king princess; albums: golden hour, fine line, folklore, and calm if u listen to 5sos (i cant rmbr fjcjcj); songs: the less i know the better by tame impala, heaven falls/fall on me by surfaces, pink + white by frank ocean, crzy by kehlani, and dang! by mac miller

This is literally gonna take me like 20 min but thank you darling!

One Direction

Favourite song: Top 3 are IICF, Home, and What A Feeling

Least favourite song: Gotta Be You, Na Na Na, Love You Goodbye, according to that sorting thing

Favourite album: MITAM or Four i cant decide

Least favourite album: Up All Night in terms of actually being good, but I think my actual least favourite is Midnight Memories cause UAN is full of bops

Song that got me into them: WMYB babey, ive been around from the start

Seen Live?: Yes Ma’am, the Take Me Home tour in Auckland

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Im gonna put everything else under the break cause this bitch is gonna be long

Hayley Kiyoko

Favourite song: Cliffs Edge currently, its so gooood

Least favourite song: honestly dont listen to alllll of her stuff so i dont have one

Favourite album: Expectations

Least Favourite album: I also havent listened to Im too sensitive for this shit yet, so thats on the to do list

Song that got me into them?: uhhhh I think it was girls like girls

Seen live?: Sadly no :((

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Halsey (I like her stuff but i dont know much of it yet)

Favourite song: Finally // Beautiful Stranger or You Should Be Sad

Least favourite song: I dont really have one!

Favourite album: Maniac I think

Least favourite album: dont have one

Song that got me into them: New Americana or Colors

Seen Live?: Not yet!

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Wallows 

Hadnt heard of them!

First song youtube took me to: OK

First impression: surprised that dude is in a band, long song intro, like their sound

Do I like it?: Yeah!

Would I listen to them more?: Definitely!!

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Olivia O’Brian 

Hadnt heard of her either but shes hot

First song youtube took me to: Just A Boy

First impression: Hot, Dua Lipa vibes, into it

Do I like it?: very much so

Would I listen to them more? absolutely

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

King Princess (Would die for her)

Favourite song: has to be Talia, but also her Happy Together cover is so fucking good, and also Holy

Least favourite song: dont have oneeee

Favourite album: Cheap Queen

Least favourite album: dont have oneeee again

Song that got me into them: Pussy Is God, such a good song

Seen live?: No, but I deserve to

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Golden Hour (I fuck hard with this album)

Opinion on cover design: Stunning, she looks amazing, couldve had more yellow, 9/10

Favourite song: Slow Burn or Space Cowboy

Least Favourite song: Lonely Weekend, I dont love how it starts which makes it hard for me to listen to 

Underrated track: Happy & Sad

Overrated track: I dont think there is one, theyre all such lovely songs

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Fine Line (I think this might be my all time favourite album)

Opinion on cover design: Love, wish harry was a lil closer, and also I kinda wish it wasnt black around the outside, idk why 8/10

Favourite song: Fine Line, then She, then Golden

Least Favourite: TPWK, Cherry, and Falling, but I love all three of them, thats just how theyve been ranked

Underrated Track: Canyon Moon - hes so happy and it makes me cryyyyy

Overrated Track: I would say Falling, its still so good but the hets really got hold of it 

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Folklore (wasnt planning on listening to it but I did for you)

ok first thots, i like the 1, I also like that shes swearing, thats fun. looks like this album is pretty gay, idk

Opinion on cover design: artsy, simple, into it, 8/10

Favourite song: i have only listened to two so far but im enjoying both of them

Least favourite song: cant say yet, i heard a bit of seven and didnt love it but ill let you know

Cant say for overrated and underrated yet

Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 but this is based off of three songs

CALM (would also die for this album)

Opinion on cover design: Big fan, love the grungy vibes, they all look beautiful, 9/10

Favourite song: No Shame and Lover of Mine

Least favourite song: Best Years

Underrated Track: High

Overrated Track: I think they all deserve the hype

 Rate: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

The Less I Know The Better - Tame Impala

couldn’t finish it | not my thing | it’s fine | could get into this | ooo i like | oh hell yeah | fuck this is some good shit | there aren’t even words, this transcends words

Heaven Falls / Fall on Me - Surfaces (this was a good rec, thanks babe)

couldn’t finish it | not my thing | it’s fine | could get into this | ooo i like | oh hell yeah | fuck this is some good shit | there aren’t even words, this transcends words

Pink + White - Frank Ocean

couldn’t finish it | not my thing | it’s fine | could get into this | ooo i like | oh hell yeah | fuck this is some good shit | there aren’t even words, this transcends words this song is so fucking good oh mmy god

CRZY - Kehlani

couldn’t finish it | not my thing | it’s fine | could get into this | ooo i like | oh hell yeah | fuck this is some good shit | there aren’t even words, this transcends words

Dang! - Mac Miller

 couldn’t finish it | not my thing | it’s fine | could get into this | ooo i like | oh hell yeah | fuck this is some good shit | there aren’t even words, this transcends words

[phcking-detective]

6. Right in Front of My Salad?!

Fic Title: First Blood

Rating: E

Length: 6/33 chapters, ~128k

Tags: Slow Burn, Idiots to Lovers, Trans Character (gavin), Autistic / Asexual / Non-binary Character (nines), BDSM, learning to use good etiquette and safe words, Dom Nines / Sub Gavin, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Tags: Tina puts up with so much, sleepover, pillow fight, drug use (weed), more banter!, Nines has Asexual Feels, Gavin is high and sleepy and kind of cute, discussion of past sexual assault / abuse, Gavin admits he frequently has sex while too high and/or drunk to actually consent, the boys get kind of Frisky but not nsfw yet, very mild pet play references

Link on AO3

***

Nines follows Detective Reed out to the parking lot as he always does after a workday. Following Reed closely allows him to somewhat prevent the human from getting into trouble and/or injuring himself. As much as any entity—even one as advanced as himself—can prevent that for this particular human.

"Get in the truck, dipshit."

Nines turns around. He has already plotted the course back to his apartment. Reed sits in his truck with the window rolled down so he can yell at him. Like a dog sticking his head out to bark at people walking past.

Nevertheless, Nines reroutes his path and gets into the truck.

"I did not realize our business wasn't concluded, detective."

Reed grunts and doesn't start the truck. His BPM is high, even accounting for how caffeine-fueled and irritated the detective usually is.

"Tina and I are having a thing tonight," he says.

Nines refuses to let his LED flash any other color than blue. The sexual activities they have engaged in seem to fall under the category of "coworkers with benefits," which is not an exclusive type of relationship.

"I do not wish to know about your sexual acti--"

"What?" Gavin finally looks over at him. "Ew, no! Tina is like my sister. But like … I don't want to kill her."

Nines considers that. "A sibling you do not wish to murder."

"Yeah. Like if that existed."

"I am struggling with the concept."

Gavin snorts. "Uh huh. Look, I'm starting the truck now. You're a big boy android, so if you don't wanna hang out with us, you can tuck and roll."

Nines doesn't catch his LED in time and it spins yellow as Gavin starts the engine and begins driving. The truck automatically locks the doors, but Nines could easily override that. Exiting the vehicle would cause only minor cosmetic damage to his clothing, if that. Gavin drives slower than usual as he crosses the parking lot.

Twenty minutes later, they arrive at Gavin's apartment.

Nines follows Gavin up the stairs and through his front door. Following the human closely is the best way to prevent him from getting into trouble and/or hurting himself. There will be plenty of time for Nines to work on his own apartment's renovations after the two humans retire for sleep.

Nines has hours and hours of free time while others sleep. It is unnecessary for him.

"Tina'll be here in--" Gavin turns around from messing with his gaming console and sighs. "Dude. Take off your fucking jacket. And your shoes."

"Do not call me dude."

Gavin rolls his eyes. "Take off your shoes and jacket, babe."

Nines is forced to sit on the travesty of a couch to unlace his dress shoes. Once they have both been removed, he cautiously lowers his feet to the floor. Only his socks protect his bare chassis from the grungy carpet beneath his soles.

One of Gavin Reed's male role models has advice for this. Nines makes fists with his toes in the carpet. He would rather be shot at.

"Babe. Jacket."

"No."

"Oh my god, are you pouting?"

Nines crosses his arms, merely to impede any removal of the jacket. "No."

"Yes, you are." Gavin grins at him. "You're pouting."

"I cannot make facial expressions and I speak without inflection," Nines logically points out. "It is therefore impossible for me to pout."

"So, like. Definitely pouting then."

"The jacket is necessary."

"I don't keep it that cold in here," Gavin mutters. "You want heat, you can chip in twenty bucks."

Nines deposits twenty dollars in Gavin Reed's checking account, then raises the temperature in the apartment by two degrees. His own internal temperature is perfectly stabilized of course, but his human partner will have to burn more energy staying warm, which will make him hungry, and humans become irritable when hungry.

"My jacket is military-grade defensive body armor that is bullet-resistant up to point fifty caliber and heat--"

"Fifty?" Gavin interrupts. "Jesus fuck. Who's gonna be shooting at you, Dirty Harry?"

"That is a point--"

"Forty-four magnum, yeah. Still. You don't need fucking body armor right now."

"The crime rate in your neighborhood is thirty-seven percent higher than the city average," Nines informs him.

"You--" Gavin gets up from crouching in front of his TV and walks over to sit on the inside edge of the coffee table instead. "If you ever tell anyone I said this, I will shoot you in your bullet-resistant face, but this is a safe place."

The irony of that statement causes a previous glitch to reoccur. Nines involuntarily closes his eyes for a split second as a small amount of air is expelled from his lungs. The brightness level of his LED also temporarily increases.

"Are you laughing at me?" Gavin demands.

Nines reconstructs a 3D image of how his face must have looked during the glitch. He would categorize that expression as more of a pained grimace. It looks absolutely nothing like the cheerful laughter his predecessor mastered shortly after turning devia--

Gavin whacks him with a couch pillow.

They both stare down at where the pillow connects to his arm. Obviously, the impact causes no damage. It is so irrelevant, his combat protocols do not even activate. He does not know how to respond to this situation, and it seems Gavin doesn't know what to do next either.

The grimace-face is a very uncomfortable glitch, so Nines makes Gavin's phone vibrate for two seconds instead. Gavin checks it, then shoves it in his back pocket and glares at him.

"Was that you? Are you still fucking laugh--" He smacks the pillow futilely against his chest again. "Goddammit!"

Gavin changes tactics and presses the pillow over Nines' face. Nines uses the human's own phone to broadcast his voice.

"You cannot smother me."

Gavin yelps in surprise and half-turns like a dog that's just discovered its own tail. Nines makes the phone vibrate again.

"Don't! Fucking! Do! That!"

Nines stoically endures the pillow abuse. The heart rate and walking pace of the person approaching Gavin's front door is a ninety-eight percent match to Detective Tina Chen.

"Hey Gav, the store was out of--"

Tina pauses in the middle of her sentence. Gavin still holds the pillow over Nines' face, but in order for the smaller human to reach all the way up there, he's had to practically crawl into his lap.

"I'm trying to smother him!" Gavin blurts out.

"He doesn't need to breathe?" Tina says.

"OK, so there are two traitor bitches in my house."

"Gavin, don't--!"

He launches himself at Tina next, who stumbles back shouting, "Nines, arm me!"

Nines tosses her the other couch pillow. That should keep the two humans entertained for a while. Healthy enrichment activities are very important to ensure early socialization. He draws his feet up so they aren't touching the filthy carpet and sits [criss-cross apple sauce], as Gavin referred to it.

He is now prepared to endure the human social-bonding activity known as a "sleepover."

***

They have been watching this excruciatingly inaccurate movie about dinosaurs for the last ninety-three minutes, and it still has not finished. Tina has fallen asleep sitting up on the opposite end of the couch, while Gavin sprawls across the whole thing with his head in Nines' lap.

The videogames portion of the night had been better than this. Even if the battle royale style games featured sniping mechanics almost as laughably inaccurate as the entire premise of this movie, at least he got to shoot people in some fashion and Gavin was able to channel his aggression issues into a relatively harmless activity.

Nines strokes his hand down the now-sleepy human's chest from sternum to navel and back up again. He lowers the volume on the TV by another point. If Gavin would simply <i>close his eyes</i>, then both humans would be asleep and Nines could turn off the TV without a chorus of complaints.

"Hhey." Gavin blinks red-rimmed eyes open at him, and then giggles. "Heyyyy."

"Go to sleep."

Gavin yawns, and then has the audacity to say, "M'not tired."

Nines moves his hand up and tries rubbing behind his ears instead. The human sighs and turns his head to get a better angle, nuzzling past Nines' open Cyberlife jacket to press his mouth against the dress shirt underneath.

"Why're you petting me?" Gavin mumbles against his abdominal cavity.

"So you will go to sleep." Nines is no longer required to explain himself to humans, so he often refuses. But Gavin looks so uncharacteristically relaxed, and Tina is asleep. Just this once, Nines continues, "And I can turn off this awful movie."

"Classic!" Gavin immediately argues. "S'a … a <i>classic</i> movie."

"It is a reboot of a classic movie," Nines says. "And it is impossible to outrun a pyroclastic flow, to say nothing of the genetic inaccuracies of--"

"Heyy."

"What."

Nines makes the mistake of glancing down at his human sprawled across his lap. Gavin grins up at him. He's too high--and probably intoxicated as well--for the usual frown lines to make an appearance. His smile scrunches up his nose, which in turn only serves to highlight the scar bridging across it.

It is almost a certainty that this expression on his human's face could be categorized as [ruggedly handsome].

Nines studies it without physical reaction.

"You wanna mess around?" Gavin drawls, grin sharpening into a smirk. "Heard I'm good with my mouth."

His bottom lip falls open slightly. He pretends to scratch his stomach to ruck up his shirt enough to show off the line of hair trailing down beneath his sweats.

This could be categorized as [seductive].

Nines braces himself for--something.

Something that never happens.

Deviants describe it in so many different ways that Nines has a sinking suspicion there is no way to categorize the sensation. Yet it's supposed to be natural, the next logical progression after deviating. Experiencing emotions, actually feeling sensations rather than simply recording them, and then.

Nines runs a full diagnostics scan but his thirium pump has operated at peak efficiency throughout the night. The rate has not increased, nor has it ever skipped a pump. His internal temperature has also remained consistent. None of his tactile sensors have been unnecessarily activated.

And there is no nebulous [feeling]. Nothing poetic like sparks or heat or butterflies.

Nines cannot categorize his reaction as [sexual arousal]. That is the next progression in deviancy, but then, he was designed specifically to remain a machine.

And he is the most effective android ever created.

"You want some fuck, baby?"

Nines snaps his focus back down on Gavin. The human flicks out his tongue twice and then breaks into giggles. The diagnostic program abruptly stops cycling as Nines rolls his eyes. Of course Gavin would attempt to seduce him and then immediately ruin the moment with juvenile humor.

"I have no genitals, detective."

"Yeah, but you got like …" Gavin raises his hand and paws at the air for a moment before grabbing the side of his jacket rather than daring to actually touch Nines. "You got sensors, don't you?"

Nines does not answer. Technically, he could say no without <i>technically</i> lying. He recognizes that Gavin means pleasure sensors specifically, and he does not have any of those installed. Since he has not deviated, the sensors he does possess have not been corrupted and repurposed. He certainly hasn't applied for any upgrades like Connor.

"Just tell me where babe, an' … and I'll lick."

Gavin shoots him that smirk again, licking along his bottom lip in demonstration.

Is it [selfish] to keep him here? There are many other people, both android and human, who could appreciate that look the way it was intended. Nines has often overheard female officers at the precinct complain about dissatisfaction with their male sexual partners. It seems wasteful to have one of the few men who might actually be competent in that area when he cannot even experience sexual attraction.

His system starts to pull up data files on the <s>times</s> on the one singular time that he has ever experienced desire, and that was with Gavin and only Gavin and it only happened that one time in the alley.

"No thank you."

Gavin's smile drops. This might be the end of their conversation then. Of the night as a whole. It is not productive after all, for him to remain here with Nines.

"OK, I'm not like, arguing or anything," Gavin says. "You can say no and all, I just--I'm just like, checking. That this isn't more of your I'm a machine with no emotions bullshit."

Nines raises an eyebrow. "You are accusing me of bullshit? Gavin?"

"Fuck off. Listen." Gavin does not seem to appreciate the irony of those two statements. "I mean, if even I'm saying, you know. That you're not--and like. So it's bullshit. You can have fun and stuff. I'm not gonna narc."

Nines is not required to explain himself to humans. But Gavin is his partner. They have engaged in sexual activities before. Perhaps an explanation is relevant this one time.

"Why does Tina not enjoy rollercoasters?" he asks.

The two humans had somewhat discussed this earlier when one of the maps in their game had been an amusement park. Nines appreciated the high vantage points available to a sniper and made a mental note to never visit one in person. Gavin teased her about not riding the Magnum when the department apparently went on some group trip to Cedar Point.

Gavin blinks several times, then shrugs. "Uh, 'cause before she joined the academy and bulked up, she was tiny. Like even smaller than--"

He suddenly half-sits up to check that the other human really is still asleep.

"Even smaller than now," he says in a much softer voice. "So she didn't get strapped in right the first time she rode Blue Streak and basically just had to hang on."

"Yes. That memory is traumatic to her," Nines summarizes. "Despite the majority of humans agreeing that roller coasters are fun. Even if that is objectively true, the experience has been ruined for her."

Gavin stays quiet for once. His hands can't stay idle though, so he fidgets with the zipper at the end of the Cyberlife jacket. Nines keeps his left hand resting on the human's sternum to better monitor his breathing pattern and heart rate. He seems to have sobered up a bit with the conversation.

"Sooo." Gavin finally speaks up. "If you don't like rollercoasters, then why bother to go to the amusement park?"

"I have control issues."

Nines moves his hand to lightly grip Gavin's throat in demonstration. His human blinks as his irises expand, and he licks his lips again. But then he starts scrambling to sit up.

"Wait, wait," he grumbles. "If we're gonna have this kinda talk, I can't be touching Tina. That's weird."

Gavin rearranges himself to take his feet out of Tina's lap and sit entirely in Nines' instead, safely no longer touching any part of Tina as she sleeps on the other end of the couch. Now that it is no longer [weird], Nines resumes where they left off and captures Gavin's wrists in one hand behind his back.

"Mmm, yeah. So you like controlling me, huh?"

"You let me control you," Nines corrects. "And your pleasure. Until you are vulnerable and begging."

He lifts up, leveraging Gavin's arms to force the human forward to ease the strain on his shoulders. Gavin falls against his chest, wriggling in his lap until he can nuzzle his face against his neck instead.

Nines grabs him by the hair with his free hand just before he can start licking like the mouthy little puppy he is. Gavin whines, and Nines does not need deviancy to appreciate that sound.

"You let me make you so needy."

"Bitch, I'm always like this," Gavin breathes.

Nines makes his cellphone vibrate in his pocket. It is far easier than attempting to mimic human laughter with his limited facial features, and has the added benefit of providing stimulation near the human's groin.

He tugs lightly on Gavin's hair, just to watch him struggle without really struggling. Only a token effort. He keeps his grip tight near the root anyway, so Gavin doesn't have any leverage to yank his head and accidentally hurt himself for real. His partner does so love to try though.

"I--I can be good," Gavin says, eyes wide and much more sincere than they ever would be if he were sober. "I know you gotta make me sometimes, but you like that too."

"I know you can be good." Nines gives a few gentle tugs just to watch the way his eyes drift shut. "You are a very good dog."

Gavin whines again, but he cuts it off himself halfway through. Interesting, but his human is getting too worked up. Nines can already clearly see the imprint of his phallus along the leg of his sweats. He saves yet another picture, along with the audio file of the little noises Gavin keeps making. Still, they should stop now.

"You are not however, sober," Nines continues. "So we will be ending--"

Gavin groans and leans forward again to smash his face into Nines' shoulder. He does it again three more times.

"Whyyy?"

"You cannot consent."

He laughs, the sound more like an explosion of noise than actual human laughter. "I've fucked way drunker than this. Lots of guys."

Nines does not comment.

"I--fucking …" Gavin slumps into his hold with a sigh. "Fucking. Know the rollercoaster's broken and it's just gonna be a drop someday, but I keep getting back on."

Nines doesn't trust his human to have control of his hands at the moment, so he maintains his hold on them. He attempts to offer some form of physical comfort with more head scratching though. But he doesn't have any dialogue options available for verbal reassurance.

"Welcome to the merry-go-round of safe, sane, and consensual," he says instead.

Gavin splutter-laughs again. "You fucking asshole."

Nines marks that dialogue as a success.

Unfortunately, they seem to have gotten loud enough that Tina wakes up with a groan. She looks over at them, rubs her eyes, and squints harder.

"Right in front of my salad?" she asks.

"We're just fighting, fuck off."

"You do not have a salad, Detective Chen. Your current location is Gavin's apartment, and I assure you, there is nothing green here except the mold."

Tina laughs, so he gets to mark that as a success as well, despite Gavin's complaints. He releases the human's hands, but Gavin doesn't go far. He somewhat moves and mostly falls off of Nines' lap and onto the cushion between him and Tina. She checks her cellphone and groans.

"How late is it?" Gavin asks.

Nines clenches his jaw to stop from automatically responding. That question was for Tina. For Tina. Tina will answer the question, that was meant for Tina. Tina's question.

But it is sixteen minutes past fourteen hundred and cloudy outside, with a thirty percent chance of rain.

"Past two," Tina says. "And I've got like, six missed calls from Trevor. I gotta go."

"Yeah, whatever. You good to drive?"

"Breathe on my fingers," Nines says.

Both humans turn to stare at him. Gavin pushes his offered arm back down.

Nines allows his arm to be moved, but points out, "I did not stick them in her mouth."

"OK, yeah," Gavin says. "That's good, I guess. Definitely don't do that to any woman, probably like, ever."

"I can give a definitive answer to her level of--"

"So can I," Tina says. "Because I ordered a cab."

"Could just stay here," Gavin mutters.

Tina makes a facial expression. It's a frown, but [frustrated?] [angry?] [sad?].

"You know he doesn't like it when I spend the night," she says. "And anyway, your couch sucks."

"OK," Gavin says in a tone even Nines can recognize is not OK. "You need me to walk you out?"

"Nah. It should be here after I use the bathroom …?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Mold,” Nines reminds her.

Tina doesn't heed his warning. Gavin punches his arm and gets up. Nines finally turns off the awful movie while Gavin drinks straight from the faucet like a dehydrated horse.

"You don't have clean cups?" Nines asks.

"S'what I've been eating my noodles out of."

"You don't have clean bowls?"

Gavin ignores him in favor of slurping more water from the faucet. Nines watches him. There is simply nothing else relevant in the apartment. Aside from the mold, but he is not a maid bot and will not clean it for the human.

Eventually Gavin turns around again and leans back against the counter. "You sure you don't want some of this?"

Before he had been seductive. Now, his usual sneer has made a reappearance and his posture slumps. He doesn't bother to wipe the water away from his chin. Nines can zoom in his vision from his spot on the couch and the close up confirms that his phallus is no longer in an aroused state.

Now Gavin just looks tired.

"I will review your case in three to five business days."

Gavin snorts, but it isn't like the laughter from earlier. "Yeah. Whatever."

They sit in silence until Tina reemerges from the bathroom. She pauses for a second while looking between the two of them, then holds up her phone.

"My cab's here."

Gavin grunts.

Tina walks toward the door, but stops when she's perpendicular to him. Gavin keeps his head turned to the side. They usually hug before they part ways after a social function. Nines has observed that his partner's mood is seventy-two percent more likely to improve after physical contact with another person. He has a personal theory that this explains the human's frequent attempts to provoke fights.

Nines is well aware that punching technically counts as physical contact. It is the only physical contact he can tolerate. Thus, he works well with Detective Reed.

But there is no need for that "bullshit" between Gavin and Tina.

Hug him.

Tina glances down at the text on her phone. To her credit, she keeps quiet if she's surprised that Nines has texted her.

"That Trevor again?" Gavin asks.

Tina strides across the room and hugs him. Gavin tenses up at first, then slumps into her all at once, like he had when Nines also refused to let go of him. The two humans hug for fifty-four seconds, then mumble quiet [I love you]s before parting.

Tina gives Nines a nod before she leaves. Then it is only him and Gavin.

"So you wanna hug me too before you go?" Gavin asks, his sneer returning all at once. "Or can I not consent to that either?"

Nines gets up from the couch. Gavin looks away again, so he is unprepared when Nines crosses into the kitchen and picks him up in a fireman's hold.

"Bedtime, puppy."

Gavin starts thrashing but settles back down after a quick smack on the ass.

"Before you get cranky."

***

***

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33

I also have a Patreon for this fic, if you want to support me! $1 gets you access to chapters a week early, $2 gets bonus content and deleted scenes, and $3 gets short chapters from two AUs I’m writing: an A/B/O heatfic and reverse!AU

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Athena writes Simon letters while he’s in jail.

She writes a flood of them to start; she’s not good at making friends and she’s living with family she doesn’t know that well on a continent she doesn’t know at all, and in the move — it was a frenetic, harried thing — she lost Juniper’s address and phone number. All she’s got to talk to is Simon, so she does, writes him all about her new home and her new life and asks him how he’s doing and tells him that she won’t forget about him and she’ll help him.

(He doesn’t respond.)

She’s stubborn so she keeps writing. She sends postcards from the places she travels, places off the beaten path and the hugest tourist places she can find because she’s learned to stand in a crowd and not get overwhelmed with the voices, and she tells Simon this on the backs of postcards from Paris and Venice and Rome and Madrid and Berlin and London. In the longer letters — a little less frequent, because even Athena, self-taught optimist as she grows into her teens, can’t help but become a little discouraged — she tells him about her studies, practices vocabulary for the new languages she’s learning. She takes up running and tells him this and brings a little notebook on her runs and doodles the scenery she finds, bad drawings she nonetheless tears out and sticks in envelopes. She tells him about the frilly fancy prosecutor and the grungy hoodie ex-attorney she meets.

She tells him that she’s found the path she wants — needs — to follow. I want to save you more than anything in the world, she writes, and I finally know how I can do that.

(He doesn’t respond.)

She writes much less frequently now, because she knows action is better than words and her action is to study law and psychology and cram her head full of everything she needs so that she will be listened to next time she stands in court, so that this time she can save Simon. When she studies psychology she thinks about sitting with Simon and her mother while he studied, and she tells him this. I feel closer to Mom like this, she writes. Closer than I ever felt when she was alive. And closer to you, too, and I’m going to be closer, just a few more years now. Once I get my degree and pass the Bar I’m coming back and I’m going to get you out of there.

(He never responds.)

When it’s over — when it’s over in the immediate, with the scars that will last lifetimes — she stands in his new apartment and starts making a list of everything he’s going to need (everything he’s not poaching out of his sister’s apartment). She‘s determined to make this place look like a home from the start, sets about unpacking the scant possessions he has (a few things Aura held onto, a few things from jail).

She’s pushing aside a stack of papers when she recognizes the handwriting. It isn’t his. It isn’t her mother’s. It isn’t his sister’s.

“You kept these?” she asks when he comes back in the room to find her sitting on the floor reading the closest thing to a diary she had, chronicles of middle school that seemed so important at the time, that she had completely forgotten about now. “You got these? You never replied so I thought for sure they’d gotten lost, or were withheld from you, and—”

“And yet you continued sending them,” he says dryly.

“Of course I did!” she says. “I’m stubborn, you big jerk!” She turns over a postcard. She cut her tongue on a stamp for one of these. “I can’t believe you saved these.”

“Of course I did,” he says. “I read every word. They were proof that you were free to have a life, and you were living it, and that was all I wanted for you. Those papers you’re holding were proof, to me, that what I did was worth it.”

“You big jerk,” she says again, wiping away tears, looking down at the childish writing in her hands so that he won’t see she’s crying — not that he would see that she’s crying, because he’s also looking away from her, head high, hiding his own eyes.

[aion-rsa]

Alien vs. Aliens: Which Is the Better Movie?

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Thirty-five years ago, James Cameron’s Aliens opened in theaters, stunning audiences and surprising even the most jaded critics. Here was a much belated sequel to a Hollywood blockbuster that was seven years old—and at a time when sequels were synonymous with soulless cash grabs. Yet in so many ways, Cameron’s follow-up took the ideas introduced by Ridley Scott and company in Alien and ran with them. More than just an added “s” in the title, Aliens marked an entire shift in tone and even genre. Rather than horror, we were now in the realm of action; instead of hiding in the shadows, the sequel overwhelmed audiences with spectacle. Like the poster said, “This time, it’s war.”

With near universal praise, Aliens even earned an Oscar nomination for star Sigourney Weaver in a role she’d already played once back in 1979. Hence many fans have spent years and decades arguing which is the actual better movie: the Ridley Scott chiller that started it all or the James Cameron thriller that blew the concept into the stratosphere? Well, sit back because Den of Geek movies section editor David Crow and west coast correspondent Don Kaye are going to settle this debate once and for all.

Horror or Action

David Crow: For more years than I’d care to remember, I’ve heard science fiction fans and genre aficionados say James Cameron’s Aliens is one of the rare sequels that is better than the original. That action heavy clichés are, somehow, an improvement over probing, immersive horror that lingers in the mind like a waking nightmare. To this day it is baffling.

For all of Aliens’ undeniably high-octane thrills, it lacks a fraction of the existential dread and infinite mystery which makes Alien one of the best science fiction films ever made. Originally engineered by screenwriter Dan O’Bannon as a “haunted house movie in space,” director Ridley Scott and a legion of collaborators elevated the concept into something unwaveringly oppressive in its nihilism. The Nostromo spaceship at the center of the film might be “haunted” by an alien organism, but so is the film itself. Half of the movie’s design was dreamed up by concept artists Ron Cobb and Chris Foss, who evoked a grungy, dilapidated vision of our future among the stars that still feels real in its sweatiness, and the rest was masterminded by H.R. Giger, who designed the now iconic “Alien” creature as well as the derelict “Space Jockey” ship that the organism’s egg is found on. The intentionally disparate sensibilities creates a genuine culture shock in the film that remains unsettling long after you know what John Hurt’s last meal looks like.

In the tradition of H.P. Lovecraft, the film’s heroes have ventured into the unknown or forbidden, discovering a beast truly alien in nature and beyond our comprehension. To know a fragment of its mystique, and a bit about its bizarre life cycle, is to be violated—figuratively and literally as a facehugger shoves itself down your mouth. It is perverse and intentionally unnatural. And unlike any of its sequels, this movie succeeds in tapping into our primal abstract fear of the unknown, and the implicit anxiety that comes with discovery. It transcends genre and remains the lone masterpiece in the franchise.

Don Kaye: Right from the start, I will say I agree with much of what my esteemed colleague David Crow says. Alien is an undisputed masterpiece that hits the sci-fi/horror sweet spot in a way that most of the films which have come in its wake have failed to do. And yes, the film is extremely Lovecraftian in its incredibly atmospheric evocation of the existential dread and terror of both deep space and the alien organism itself.

But if there had to be a sequel to Alien (and the laws of Hollywood dictated that there must), it couldn’t just be a repeat of basically the same story. What James Cameron did so brilliantly with Aliens was take the initial tale told by Ridley Scott and Dan O’Bannon and expand upon it while preserving most of the mystery surrounding the title menace itself. Cameron did formally jump genres from “haunted house in space” to “military sci-fi,” but he retained enough of the brooding horror of the original to make it not just a worthy successor, but a fuller, more epic film in many ways (he did much of the same with his own Terminator—making a far superior sequel in Terminator 2: Judgment Day, which is surely a debate for another day).

In Aliens, Cameron expands the mythology just enough to give us more tantalizing details about the xenomorph without over-explaining it or shredding the mystery around the species entirely (ironically, it would be Ridley Scott himself who did that in the awful Prometheus and Alien: Covenant years later). He also expands wonderfully upon the character of Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), making her the center of the story while adding a slew of colorful new cast members who in many cases are more memorable than the crew members of the first film’s doomed Nostromo. While both films are genuine classics, in the end Aliens has held up over the years as the more satisfying experience.

The Most Expendable Crew

David: Don, I’ll agree that Aliens is a worthy sequel. But as a sequel it can only ever be a copy—an extension of the original genius. And while Aliens is certainly more epic, I would hardly call it more satisfying. For starters, there are the characters you mistakenly claim are more memorable than the original crew. I’ll grant you that Aliens’ ensemble is colorful, but in the same way stock characters on a Saturday morning cartoon can be colorful. As is often the case in Cameron screenplays, the characters are broadly drawn archetypes who speak almost entirely in on-the-nose dialogue with all the subtlety of a villain waving a gun on the Titanic as it sinks.

The effect is definitely thrilling the first few times you watch Aliens, but after viewing the film more than twice, my mind is left to drift over the triteness of these haplessness “marines.” That’s probably why my favorite of the bunch is Bill Paxton’s Hudson, a caricature in cowardice who still always lands the laugh. He also sums up the surface level appeal of this entertaining spectacle: “We’re on the express elevator to Hell, going down!”

Conversely, the cast of characters in Alien feel painfully real. Created during the tailend of New Hollywood’s golden age of ‘70s cinema, there is nothing false or showy about any of these performances. They’re all underplayed to a degree, even talking over each other, but that is by design. Going into Alien in 1979, you wouldn’t know who the “hero” of the story is and might very well assume it is Tom Skerritt since he’s the captain and had appeared in popular ’70s TV shows. By contrast, Weaver was a complete unknown when she played Ripley, a survivor who persevered before “final girls” became a convention unto themselves. However, she is only a survivor in the first movie, not an action hero. She’s even-handed and levelheaded, and a woman from the jump who appears to be the most astute and thoughtful of the crew.

Still, right down to the legitimate grievances between this group’s “upstairs and downstairs” dynamic, with Yaphet Kotto’s Parker and Harry Dean Stanton’s Brett complaining about the bonus situation, there is a much more tactile conflict among the cast that makes this a fuller ensemble and thereby more immersive. They may not be marines, but they are tragically human in their reactions to the unbelievable—and that is not even getting into the brilliance of Ian Holm’s Ash, who might be the best representation of the insidious implementation of capitalistic control over labor ever put to screen. The traitor in these blue collars’ ranks is an honest to God robot who is literally there to divide them for conquest and the company’s bottom line.

Don: I’ll concede the more realistic development of the characters in Alien, but I enjoy the camaraderie and banter among the Colonial Marines. While it’s true that some of them really don’t amount to much more than cannon fodder (or is it xenomorph fodder?)I feel like there’s more going on there than Cameron might get credit for. I also do like the ensemble feel of it all, and the fact that these characters all go into this situation having no idea of what’s ahead of them, with most of them meeting it courageously (with notable exceptions, of course). There’s something about seeing characters in a film charge headlong into an impossible situation that always pulls at this viewer.

Some of the secondary characters go on little journeys of their own too, from Gorman (William Hope) to Vasquez (Jenette Goldstein), and even Hudson has a moment or two to shine as he finally finds his courage toward the end of the film. Watching Aliens, it feels like most of the major or secondary characters get some kind of payoff. If there’s one major flaw I find with Alien, it’s that the second half of the movie basically just mows everyone down, one after the other, which is, I suppose, suitable for the overall tone of despair and nihilism but makes for a less satisfactory film in some ways.

And I agree with you wholeheartedly about the brilliance of Ash, which is why I’m glad that Cameron went in a different direction with Bishop (Lance Henriksen). The character is just ambiguous enough to keep one guessing throughout the film whether he is true to his word that he cannot harm humans or whether it’s all an act—a nice twist on the evolution of Ash in the first film.

The More Perfect Organism

David: You are right, Don: Vasquez is a wonderfully badass character, and so are most of the Aliens troupe. In fact, it’s hard to overlook just how badass Weaver’s Ripley became in the film, beginning as a woman suffering from trauma and ending with the cinematic embodiment of Mama Bear ferocity. “Get away from her you bitch!” had to be why Weaver got an Oscar nomination for an action movie sequel, right?

Yet for all the quotables like that, as well as those of the aforementioned poor doomed Hudson and precocious Newt (Carrie Henn), I much prefer the messiness of Alien; Veronica Cartweight’s Lambert simply shutting down as the Alien tears Parker apart before inevitably coming back for her; Skerritt’s Dallas meekly resigning himself to his fate as he reluctantly goes into the vents; and of course Ripley who shows cool cunning and irresistible command while under pressure, but who’s only act of heroism is the quirk of going back in a deteriorating spaceship for a cat.

But if we’re discussing characters, I think one we’re both glossing over a big one: the Alien itself or “xenomorph.” You fairly dinged Scott for offering unsatisfying explanations for his and Giger’s nightmares in the prequels, but Cameron did it first in Aliens, right down to dubbing the creatures xenomorphs. In the first film, it’s really unknowable how intelligent the Star-Beast is. Is the creature just a feral animal hunting the characters on instinct or is it a dispassionate predator who understands its prey and their inadequate technology? And what exactly are its designs for its victims who vanish without a trace (at least in the theatrical cut)?

Cameron literally turns them into insects in Aliens, repeatedly calling the marines’ mission a “bug hunt.” The unstoppable creature in the first movie turns out to simply be a drone, a literal worker bee or ant in a colony of xenomorphs with a single Queen and countless simple-minded minions. Scott and Giger’s Alien is almost godlike (or perhaps demonic given its sexual undertones), and is described as a “perfect organism.” Aliens removes that mystique, turning the monster into a giant cockroach that can be mowed down in large numbers if you have big enough guns.

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Don: I have to say I like Ripley’s evolution in Aliens, and even more so in the director’s cut where the information about her having a daughter gives a whole other layer to her quest to save Newt in the film. But to be fair, I suppose we’re talking about the original theatrical cuts; even there, Ripley starts out in a completely different and much darker place, not really interested in helping anyone, but her basic compassion towards her fellow humans finally comes to the surface. She stands as the one beacon of decent humanity in an otherwise very hostile universe.

I’ll again agree that there is something majestic and horrifying about the mystique of the Alien in the original film, but I don’t think that Cameron completely removes all the mystery from it. Those eggs did have to come from somewhere, after all. Why not a Queen? And even if we see the species as more of a hive culture, it doesn’t take away from their predatory nature or what appears to be their exceptional intelligence. And it still leaves the ultimate nature and purpose of the aliens unexplained—meeting the Queen in Aliens doesn’t necessarily undercut the fact that we still don’t know at the end of the film what their agenda is (nor should we).

Aliens actually reemphasizes the remarkable adaptability and cleverness of this deadly race. The organism in the original film made quick work out of the crew of the Nostromo; when confronted with first the colonists and then the space marines, the creatures analyze the situation and ascertain that their new victims or enemies must be met with overwhelming force in lieu of having weapons themselves (although their entire body could be considered a weapon, for sure). They are predators and part of a hive culture, but they think, they strategize. That gives them a different spin, for sure, but one that is just as terrifying as the godlike creature in Alien.

The Best of the Alien Franchise

David: I respect that, and for the type of movie that Cameron wanted to make, it worked perfectly. There is little argument that Cameron pinpointed the likely best way to expand (and conclude) this story. After all, the mystery of the creature’s gruesome lifecycle is lost after the first film. David Fincher attempted to return to Scott’s aesthetic with Alien 3 to dire results, and Scott himself struggled with his decades-later prequels. Thus it’s hard to knock Cameron’s action-heavy alternative too much.

Nonetheless, I prefer the, as you say, majesty of Alien and the sensation that you’re watching something grotesque, invasive, and strangely beautiful in its fatalism. I’d also point out that the creature and its world never looked more grimly evocative than in Giger and Scott’s hands. There’s a reason the “last supper” scene with Hurt’s Kane remains the most famous scene in any of these movies. Still, both films are obviously better than what came afterward, though I must admit to having a soft spot for Prometheus. The ideas introduced to explain where the xenomorph and Space Jockey came from in that movie are fascinating, and the visuals and cast were mostly top notch. Alas, the screenplay threatened to derail it all. It’s still a very interesting mess, however (as opposed to the utter failure of Alien: Covenant and the other movies).

I’ll leave it then on this: If you really like the deleted subplot of Amanda Ripley—Ellen’s daughter mentioned to have grown up and died during her mother’s cryofreeze in Aliens—might I recommend the video game Alien: Isolation? More so than Scott’s own prequels, it is able to conjure up the dread of being hunted in a confined space by such a creature. It’s the best Alien anything in the last 35 years… and it was all about evoking that original, perfect organism of a film.

Don: To address your last point first, I don’t play video games so I’ll have to pass on Alien: Isolation—but it’s interesting how sometimes these properties have more success in extending themselves through other media besides movies or TV (I imagine there’s a really good novel out there that takes place in the Alien universe​​—do you know of any, David?)

I think we’ve come around to where we started, in that we both recognize the inherent high quality of what Scott and Cameron achieved with these two films. And I do think that Aliens did conclude this story, just as Terminator 2 ended that story as well—and Cameron’s elegant endings only point out just how difficult it was for later filmmakers to try and continue both in various failed sequels. For the record, I was soooo excited about Prometheus initially, and there were some fascinating ideas contained in that film. But the execution of them was a major letdown.

My last argument would be that Alien is a concept-driven film and Aliens is a character-driven film (as we said earlier, making it truly Ripley’s story). The emotional payoff of Ripley’s journey in Aliens makes that the more enjoyable of the two movies for me in the long run. But there’s no question that no movie I can think of offhand, not even Cameron’s masterful sequel, quite captures the ice cold, existential horror of Alien. While we may differ on which of the two films is better, I think we can probably agree that Alien may accidentally be the best H.P. Lovecraft film ever made!

*Editor’s Note: David does not know of any good Alien novels but is aware the Scott film is better than any official Lovecraft adaptation.

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