#i like this style it looks kinda. jittery. rushed

[misiahasahardname]

'booyakasha'? what does that even mean?!

[noobsomeexagerjunk]

Gift Horse

The last response Emma gave to an invitation from her sister was “Next time.” This year, Jane has invited Emma to celebrate Christmas with the rest of her family in the hospital. What if Emma went this time?

(AU wherein Jane survives the car crash; this part contains an illustration)

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4

“Hello everybody! My name is Markiplier, and welcom—“ Buffer, “—e back to Cuphead!”

Tim Houston was seated in one of the chairs in the hospital room, earphones plugged into his ears and smartphone. The hospital wifi was clearly slow, which irritated the boy.

"Okay, so this is the end of it! I think. I'm not one hundred percent sure—"

Knocking from the door made Tim pause his video, removing his gadgets and heading to the door.

The door opened before Tim could, revealing his dad and his long-awaited Aunt Emma.

"We're back!" Tom announced with as much joy as he could muster from his bruised face, "Tim, this is your Aunt Emma,"

Aunt Emma had quite a resemblance to Tim's mother. They had the same eyes, hazel with a heavy gray tint that manifested the lack of agency in their lives. Their brown hair was of the same shade.

Aunt Emma was more tan than Tim imagined her to be, chalking that up to the sun in Guatemala. She strutted her winterwear with whites, blacks, and grays, so unlike his mother’s style, which was comparable to the Biblical Joseph’s rainbow dress.

"Hi, Tim!" Her voice was deeper than his mother's, "I'm so glad to finally meet you!" yet they had the same inflection in their speech.

Tim went to embrace her, which she received willingly.

“Ow!” He suddenly blurted out, making Emma back away immediately.

“Shi-Shoot! Tim, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright, Aunt Emma. Bruises take a while to heal, after all.”

“I’m gonna head out and get us dinner,” Tom cut in with a heavy tone, hand already on the knob.

“Oh, I could come with you,” Emma volunteered.

“No, Tim’s been needing an extra pair of hands for far too long,” Tom opened the door, “and you two should bond. It’s Christmas, right?”

SLAM!

The two blinked.

“Mom’s asleep,” Tim said, pointing to his mother’s hospital bed.

The gesture immediately made Emma move, quickly placing the bags she carried into the room on top of the mini-refrigerator, then proceeding in a jittery but hesitant manner towards the hospital bed.

Emma glanced at Tim, who walked behind her. Tim had one black eye, bandages on his left cheek, as well as his hands. Standing still made her notice his very slight limp in walking.

“You alright?” She asked the boy in concern.

“What do you mean?” He asked, finally standing next to her.

“You know, if you don’t wanna move so much, you don’t have to, alright?”

“I know, but the nurse said that a little walking in the room would get the feeling in my legs back,”

“Are your legs numb?”

“No, but they feel like sprains when I move sometimes.”

“I think you should sit down then,” Emma pointed to the chair closest to the hospital bed.

“Okay,” Tim then proceeded to do so, clearly tired and eager to pick up where he left off before his aunt’s arrival.

Emma faced the hospital bed, now reasonably close to her sister in a long time.

The bed was elevated, with Jane Perkins on top of it under disheveled blankets like a plastic Christmas tree. The tubes pierced her like electric wires, the bubbling of the fluid within them akin to the sparkle of Christmas lights. There were bandages all over her, mostly on the left of her body, reminiscent of Emma’s trademark badly-wrapped Christmas presents.

Jane’s hair was already beginning to gray, bags under her eyes almost as dark and defined as Emma’s own. Her skin was paler than how Emma remembered it, patches of red from clearly healing bruises.

She was asleep, “dreaming” as my late grandmothers would have put it.

“She looks kinda peaceful,” She thought out loud.

“What was that, Aunt Emma?!” And it was loud enough for Tim to pause the buffering Markiplier Let’s Play.

“Oh, i-it’s nothing, Tim,”

Tim peeked behind Emma to see his mother. Still asleep.

“...then who were you talking to?”

“Um—“

“Did you see a ghost?”

“W-What?”

“Kinda like those Christmas Carol stories where that greedy Scrooge guy meets ghosts and learns to love Christmas?”

“Well, I love Christmas," She lied. A little. "So that can’t be right.”

“Then, why don’t you come over?”

Emma paused.

"Tim—"

Tim restrained himself, sighing.

“It’s the really big Holidays when Mom tells me something about you,” Tim kept his gadgets again, “Is it true that the best way to view the stars is from up a mountain?”

It was true. Hiking in Guatemala had something special Hatchetfield could not offer. Guatemala was an escape where all the right roads were. Upon those mountains were the sights of starry nights, the kind of shit master painters famously felt dreamy about.

Emma didn’t have the strength to reply.

“Aunt Emma?”

“...can you repeat your question again, Tim?”

“T-the stars,” He was looked directly at her familiar eyes, “Do they look pretty from the mountain tops?”

Emma did not reply right away, heading towards her bags, pulling out that cursed doll she bought for Tim.

“It honestly depends, um, how a-and whether you seriously wanna get up there,” She said, box tightly held in her hands, “The stars won’t be so pretty if you don’t really want to see them.”

Tim got up, curious about the box.

“In my experience,” Emma turned to face the boy, “they remind me how little I—er, we, actually are.”

Tim stared at the box.

“Is that for me?”

Emma didn’t exactly wrap the doll at all.

“Well, y-yeah!” She crouched a little, “don’t tell your Dad I gave this to you right away, but—“

“But he’ll find out anyway.” Tim took the box, Emma willingly letting him do so. “How will this fit in my bag?!”

“Okay okay,” Emma tried to calm the boy down. “But I’m still giving it to you now, okay?”

“Okay,” Emma then left Tim to play with the doll on the floor, going back to the hospital bed.

Tim stared at the rather plain plastic packaging, writing of note being “Whippy Whinny Horsey”, “Whinny's eyes glow!”, and “WHIP IT UP!”

Tim found it cool how the parts of the doll had to be assembled together like a puzzle. One thing he and his Mom had in common was this partiality to playing with pieces, whatever those pieces may be.

However, Jane liked her puzzles abstract, where she picked apart people and their psyches. Tim took from his father a liking to playing with more hands-on things, like machines and computers.

He began pulling out the pieces, attaching the right leg, then left arm, followed by the left leg, and then right arm. The stitch marks were clearly aesthetic; the pieces attached seamlessly. This fact was very pleasing to the eight-year-old. Tim deduced magnets were at play.

Tim’s busy joy halted when the head wouldn’t attach, squeaking as it landed on the floor. The same happened with the tail.

He kept trying. The horse had to be whole. His attempts kept on for some time.

On the other hand, Emma was still standing there, glancing at her sister, to the window, to the TV, to the bathroom door. Her staring cycled and cycled, until shifting from her peripheral vision caught her attention.

It was Jane, and she was stirring awake, every movement making Emma freeze in response.

Everything was going to change once she waked. Emma felt that deep in her frantic thoughts, with memories and unprocessed feelings rushing back to her like the flashbacks she witnessed from her brother-in-law on the way to that very room.

The talk was inevitable.

Jane's right eye opened slowly (the left was in bandages), all the color drained from her irises. Emma held her breath once their pupils seemed directed at each other.

“...Emma?”

Her tone was in great disbelief, despite how weak she sounded.

“H-Hey, Jane. I guess I finally came, huh?”

[jawllines]

vamp harry vamp harry vamp harry but aLSO i saw an anon suggested a super cute update from the tattoo h fic where they get into a fight and yn doesn’t talk to him and h is all sad and pouty bc he just wants a cuddle now and realized he’s wrong and I NEED THAT now pls

YOU KNOW I ACTUALLY FORGOT TO POST THE WEDDING BLURB DIDN’T I? I WILL POST IT UNDER THE CUT

“Harry when’s the last time you went to a wedding?”

“1840.” Harry answered without a second thought, frowning down at the carrot he was chopping.

Y/N doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to that, no matter how many times he mentions the various years in which he was inhabiting a spot on the planet when Y/N’s grandparents weren’t even a glimmer in their own parent’s eyes. Understandably, this quick response caught her off guard, her brows dipping downward and a gaze overwrought with confusion as she wiggled herself in her spot on the counter, “Whose?”

“Queen Victoria and Prince Albert; I wore a beautiful tailored original flared frock coat -- reckon m’the one who brought it into style, everyone gives Albert the bloody credit -- and my date wore this gorgeous silk satin off the shoulder dress,” he takes a look to her, “Not a real date mind you, her father paid me a lump some of money to take her with me so she could get courted and sadly my little human wasn’t there to accompany me.” He runs his finger down the sides of the blade, swiping off any diced carrot that clung to it down to the cutting board, “Lovely reception, I stole a dance with her.”

Y/N grins, seeing him smiling fondly at the thought of it and she’s positively elated. She’d been rather nervous to bring a wedding up to him -- not because she wanted one herself, no, at least not right now. However, she got a costly parchment paper invitation to her friend Caroline from Sophomore year film studies (one of those where they were really close then, and they simply just fell out of touch apart from a spontaneous conversation every now and again) wedding. She figures because she’d been the person to set them up with limited help from Niall who was more concerned with the fact that he hadn’t lost his virginity at the time so “Why should I help someone else get their dick wet, huh?” But it had worked out well. She always liked their pictures together and felt a small glimmer of pride when she saw that they were still together since she was the matchmaker of the century.

“Welllllll, we were invited to a wedding! Minus the frock coats though,” he slides the carrots from the cutting board into a bowl so he could add it all together and mix it, “Plus, I haven’t gotten to get a new dress for anything in a long while and I’m kinda itching to spend money on something cute.”

Harry turns to face her, that permanent furrow planted deep in his brow, “I bloody hate weddings.” He stated plainly and Y/N’s face warps to match his own.

“What?” She nearly cries out, “But you just said --”

“There’s a reason the last wedding I went to was 1840, Little human.” He shakes his head, moving to chopped carrots to the broccoli, diced onions, ginger root, halved green beans, ginger root and garlic; he was making her a Ginger Veggie Stir-fry (he’s still very much pro-health considering the turmoil he puts her body through when he drinks from her, and she had a particularly shitty dinner of ordered in greasy, cheese pizza the night prior considering Harry had been working late and those are her only cheat days) and he was being quite diligent. It was the first time he was making it so it was probably a bad idea springing this on him while he was in his chef state of mind (because nothing matters as much as his dishes when he’s cooking). “The ceremonies are long and drawn out, the vows are contrived, you’re expected to stay for the reception and dance and eat the disgusting excuse for a mass produced dinner.” He shakes his head, the thought of it absurd in his mind, “Human weddings are meaningless; they divorce just as quick as they enter them most of the time. All that time and money wasted for what? A piece of paper? It’d made me irate before but now that I know what true love is with you, it only makes me angrier that they try to prove their love with that.”

Though his last statement had brought her cheeks warm and rendered her heart a bit mushy, she could feel herself deflate immensely. She couldn’t force him to an event that he didn’t want to attend -- he never made her accompany him to the two hour long meetings he was often stuck in, how could she make him come with her? It was long and albeit beautiful, the ceremony was rather boring, and the receptions could either be really fun or terrible, and the wedding cake -- god, you have to pray that they didn’t spend hundreds on something that tasted grocery store quality at best. But she hadn’t been to one in so long and there was some part of her that secretly loved them, even if she didn’t technically participate as anything but a face for the bridesmaid’s to look out at when they were trying to keep their mind off their cramping feet. She supposes that she could go with her friends or tag along with Niall and his date, but neither would be as fun as she thinks it would be with Harry, no matter his grumpy nature.

“Regardless of my distaste for them, I will attend with you,” he adds a few moments after his initial tirade and Y/N looks up, a new light in her step when she realizes he is looking at her, “I’m interested in how they have changed over time, and I don’t like when you look disheartened by something I’ve said. Wipe that sad little pout of your mouth my love.”

She sucks her bottom lip back into her mouth, biting down on a smile, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to though -- don’t want to force you into it.”

Harry pauses his cooking, walking towards where she sits on the counter and parting her legs for him to fit between, hands remaining on her thighs, “Would going to this wedding make you happy?” He inquires and when she nods, he strokes her skin with his thumbs, the metal of his rings coaxing goosebumps to the surface, “Then I will go. Little human, if you are happy, I am happy, however I do request you let me feed from the tender flesh of your thigh as my repayment for enduring such an interminable proclamation of human love. And that you do not make me dance.”

Y/N agrees to both happily, grinning wide and slipping her arms around his neck, peppering kisses onto his cheeks in rapid succession, “You can suck me dry through my thighs if you want to! And no dance floor shenanigans, promise.”

She had her fingers crossed around his head though -- she could get him on the dancefloor she bets.

Harry allows her kisses before puckering his own lips, and Y/N pushes their mouths together. It only lasts but a moment though, because Harry slips from her hold and pats on her thighs, “Now get off the counter, I need the space for the rest of the food.”

                                                     .                           .                          .

The day of the wedding, Y/N woke up at 7AM to an already showered and partially dressed Harry fixing up the buttons on his white blouse. Perhaps she was a bit melodramatic, since the wedding didn’t start until 10AM and they were maybe just a half hour away from the venue, but she scrambled from the bed. “Why didn’t you wake me?” She had cried out, trying to wipe the sleep from her eyes and detangle from the cotton sheets spread over her bed, “We’re g’na be late!”

“You told me not to wake you until 7:05.” He had reminded her, “I woke early so that you would have ample space and time in the shower.”

She pauses on her way to the bathroom because she remembers this very distantly and the fact that he had woken earlier than needed to get ready himself, makes her reroute to where he stood in front of her mirror. Kissed him quickly, murmured a quick, “Thank you, love you,” as her apology for panicking, before she scattered to back to the bathroom. In a haste she showers, shaves, lotions up, washes her face, brushes her teeth, and does her hair in the course of forty minutes. She walks out of her bathroom to be met with Harry taking her dress from where it hung freshly pressed on the door (he’d insisted on it, even if it was just a floaty floral number), holding it until she could pull up a pair of underwear on and wrestle with a bra.

“Slow down,” he commands gently when she rushes to grab the dress from him, holding it just out of her reach, “We have plenty time, Little human, we’re not the ones getting married.”

Which -- well, that was true, she supposes. Something about having an event to go to makes her a little jittery, moving too quickly and rushing; it’s like homecoming and prom all over again, only this time she had a vampire boyfriend who was incredible at handling stressful moments, carefully helping her into her dress. He took a glittery necklace he’d bought her from her jewelry dish atop of her dresser, and slid it around her throat and clipped the two ends together. A vampire boyfriend who also sweetly reminded her to take her iron supplement because, “Tonight, m’getting between those thighs lovely.”

The drive was alright; there was some traffic and she’d been worried when she saw how backed up the highway had been, but they got there forty minutes before the ceremony and secured a spot near the front where Niall had saved them seats. Harry entertained her with stories of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and also trying to act as human-like as he can when they have any sort of interaction with the people around them. Like when Y/N spots another old friend (Adaline) sat in front of them and they begin chatting, catching up some at where they were in life, and who the men sitting beside them were. She’d  made the comment, “What do you guys think of the venue? It’s lovely.”

Harry had answered unprompted, as he hadn’t really spoken much in their conversation other than, “It isn’t St. James Palace, but I suppose it’s fine. Hope she can stand up to the likes of Queen Victoria.”

Y/N’s eyes had widened, a dribble of panic slipping down her spine because she wasn’t ready to give the fake “he reads history books in his free time” explanation that he’d given Niall over Harry’s outlandish comments, but she doesn’t have to. Adaline only laughs, shaking her head and pointed her finger at Y/N, “Course you would find someone with the same sense of humor as you, lucky dog. Adam can never tell when m’joking or not.”

She has to pretend that she isn’t concerned that her joking sounds like Harry’s very serious tone but merely patted Harry’s thigh, giving it a loving squeeze, and when she looks to him he is smiling to himself. He rather enjoyed when people found him funny, and what he enjoyed even more, was Y/N trying to dig their way out of a ditch he’d begun digging them.

The ceremony was beautiful; Caroline looked stunning in her dress, a proper gown embellished with beading and lace appliques fitted to her torso and fanning out into the longest train Y/N doesn’t think she’s seen in real life before. Harry held her hand during the duration of it and swipes away the tear that had beaded to her eye when they began reading their vows and the groom got choked up. Even pulled her close to him, and despite his previous adversity to weddings, this one seemed to be getting him a bit mushy himself. She reckons if they hadn’t been in public, he would have purred for her as he’s so fond of doing when he’s feeling immense love for her.

Her reception was in the same building, so they only had to go a floor up to enter it. She met up with Niall and a few of their mutual friends, got to gush to Caroline about how beautiful the wedding was and how incredible she looked, and kept Harry at her side. He spoke when he was spoken to but otherwise he was quiet and when he’d ventured off to get them more champagne, Gina -- who also shared film studies with them -- leaned in, “He’s giving me strong Edward Cullen vibes, babe -- he moves, you move, silent probably broody type, definitely gorgeous,” she laughed as she continued, “Is he a vampire or something?”

Y/N’s blood ran cold when she forced a laugh, shaking her head letting a lie slip easily from her tongue, “No, no, just shy is all. He’s a bit of a writer so he likes observing people -- can characterize them better.”  

Niall snorts, taking a drink from his flute, “Shy until someone challenges his history knowledge, that’s for sure -- grade A smart lad has a damn book of information as a brain.”

Before they could say anymore, Harry reappeared with her drink, “They’re attacking the cake like vultures to a carcass, I think I may need to break an old woman’s finger to get a slice. Would you like one?”

She’d tricked him into dancing as well, locking their fingers and dragging him out to the floor in the middle, “You promised!” He protested but Y/N had already started moving side to side a little dramatically to get him to smile past his frown.

“Had my fingers crossed!” She let him know delightedly and after some coaxing and the whispered promise that she would throat him later (weddings made her all sorts of soppy and soft, which in turn made her an eensy bit greedy for Harry, and being greedy is simultaneous with cuddly and horny), she got him moving at least a little. She’d coached him through the Cha Cha Slide, had improvised a dance to Papa Loves Mambo, and serenaded him with a lovely rendition of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You. By the time the bride threw her bouquet (which Niall’s date had caught, Niall’s eyes widened comically, and Y/N decides then she’s going to tease his ass to shreds about it), Y/N was feeling the full effect of her champagne and Harry was gaining a contact high from her giddiness. Even the slow songs were nice, as Harry showed her how it’s done exactly (because she’d never been arsed to learn herself), and pulled out some moves that he remarked Queen Victoria would have blushed at (“Times were simpler then, my Love”).

The whole night was so enjoyable and fun and by the time that it was through, she doesn’t think either of them wanted to leave. “We should start crashing weddings,” Y/N had decided on their chilly walk back to the car around , just as Harry revealed a plate with another plate over the top of it that he’d been covering with his coat, “What’s that then?”

“I stole you cake,” he answered, taking off the top plate and showing the five slices that had been hidden, “You enjoyed it thoroughly and they were just going to throw it away but wouldn’t let me take the entire thing, so I took as many as would fit.”

Y/N might have never been more in love with him than she was in that moment.

On their way back, as they both cooled down from the excitement of the reception and Harry was navigating the post wedding traffic while Y/N nursed the stolen cakes in her hand, they were relatively quiet. Harry was worrying his lip between his teeth like he was thinking on something, and Y/N was too worn out to bother him about it until he opened up as she usually does. Though he told her soon enough, once they finally pulled off on the exit that would take them back home.

“I enjoyed that much more than I thought I would,” he told her truthfully and she smiled.

“Good.”

“I would enjoy if we had a big party,” he continued, and Y/N’s once drooping eyes shoot open, “Much like a wedding but without the ceremony, that was a bore. But a big party and we will invite many people and celebrate our love for one another. Would you be interested in that?”

Y/N’s soppy soft heart only gets soppier as she nods, reaching over so their hands locked where his rested on the middle console.

“I’d love that.”

                                      .                        .                     .

Once Harry and Y/N made it home, Y/N had taken what she believed to be a very well deserved nap in the passenger side, only waking to the gentle brush of his fingers to her cheek once they were parked, “Oh, sweet thing,” he’d hummed, “We’re home.” Harry was the best for waking people up, Y/N had decided long ago, because he’s nothing but sweet murmurs and soft caresses. When Niall woke her up in the mornings it was a plethora of pillow hitting and purported threats in the form of I swear to god, you little demon, I’ll write a love letter from you and give it to Professor Rollins. It was jarring and she was far undeserving of it (she only ever hit him will a pillow once and it was because he was already thirty minutes late) when she always wakes people up with careful shakes and promises of breakfast.

Harry is much sweeter towards her, coaxing her from her slumber with soft touches, peppered kisses against her cheek, murmuring pleasant words into her ear and nibbling at the lobe. It brings shivers down her spine and tickles goosebumps up her arms, to where she’s blinking her eyes open slow, adjusting to the light of the room and snuggling deeper into him. If it were a morning she had things to do, Harry would only appease her for a moment with back rubs and cuddles, “Wake up, little human,” he hummed sweetly, and when she replied she didn’t want to, he would assure her that as soon as she returned home they could nap together (which means Y/N will snore in his ear while Harry did whatever he did when she was sleeping and he wasn’t). If she had nothing to do, he would let her sleep in some but would tempt her with breakfast and smoothies.

So when she is reluctant to remove herself from the car, he’s as tender as he always is. Titters something she can’t quite make out before walking over to her side, reaching over to unbuckle her, before gathering her up in his arms. “Your species is such a sleep bunch,” he had commented, “Or maybe it's just my little human who is so tired?”

“Mhm,” she murmured, dipping her face into the column of his throat only then realising that he was carrying the cake plate with the hand of the arm tucked beneath her knees, “Still ready for you stuff me full of that big, thick —“ she begins to tease him but he cuts her off with a small pinch to her bum.

“Careful what you wish for, sweet thing,” he responded, not concerned in the slightest, “Haven’t been inside you for a while, might just split you in half.” He unlocks the door swiftly, twisting the knob and pushing it open, noticeably biting down on the inside of his lip when he feels Y/N shudder and nestle into him closer. She would very much like that, she decides, but she doesn’t think he will. One thing she had learned from him is that if he’s going to feed from her while and/or before they have sex, he prepares far before. The dinner he has is rich and full of nutrients, it’s not normally around a time in which she’s stressed, and it’s only if he’s sure she’s not too exhausted. Two of the three weren’t happening and she could feel from his grip that he was intending to feed from her as soon as they settle.

It’d been a while since he had fed from her; a few weeks at the very least. He didn’t enjoy doing it when she had finals to worry about so he had appeared to be pretty opposed to the fact, even though she continuously told him that it would be just fine if he did. So she knew he was starving -- parched for it -- and the tender flesh of the inside of her thighs, where the blood ran warm and his nose was tucked near another place he loved to frequent, she knew would be a treat after such a long period of wait.

Harry was brisk in his movements, setting the cake he’d taken down on the coffee table and almost immediately whisking her off to their bed. His pupils were blown a telling black that suggested his hungered state; it’s moments like this -- as he’s setting her down atop of the mattress, pushing the soft fabric of the dress up so it floated and fluttered around her hips with albeit precise coordination, eagerly -- that she remembers what he is. Not that him drinking her blood wasn’t its own telling indicator, but she often forgets that he is truly a whole different part of this world, one that nobody is quite aware of.

This should scare her. The way he pushes her thighs apart and settles happily in between, the dark of his eyes overshadowing the usual foamy, light green that they regularly were -- it should make her heart race out of fear that he might take it too far. Drain her of every ounce of blood until he’s satiated and full.

But she isn’t -- not in the slightest, because not only is he pushing sweet kisses to the skin and wrapping his arms around each thigh like a hug, he’s looking up at her like she had given him a star. Like she had single handedly flown to space, plucked one from the sky, and held it out for him to have and to hold. “Remember to tell me if it gets to be too much,” he reminds her as he always does, before he presses his nose to the skin and breathes in deep. His shoulders roll backward once as he nestles closer, his tongue dipping from his mouth to lick a stripe where he would bite as he always does. Goosebumps tickle up and down her arms and legs, her center giving a pulse in interest at the proximity in which he’s near her. It’s too much and not enough all at once, bristling beneath his attention, impatience and excitement fizzling through her veins as she awaits the first bit of pain.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to it. The way the point of his teeth slides into her skin, two pricks much like a shot that she still flinches from. Harry notices her discomfort, using one of his hands to reach up towards her, slotting their fingers together with a soft squeeze as he latches his mouth around the point he’d chosen. He begins to suck from her, such an odd sensation that’s both terribly disconcerting and arousing all at once. A moan threatens at the back of her throat but she swallows it down in favor of hearing his own happy hum against her. Though he normally lacks color, the addition of blood into his system always tints his cheeks a rosy pink at first, and the way he holds onto her tighter, suckles sensually, and revels in the sweetness of the taste makes her tremble.

Y/N doesn’t start getting light headed until two to four minutes in and Harry can always tell -- parting from her with a soft, wet smack, lulling his tongue over the flesh he’d just been feeding from. This time instead of peeling back immediately as he usually does, he scoots forward and pulls the fabric of her panties to the side. Once again he breathes in deep, only this time he is slicking the broad of his tongue up from her hole up to her swollen clit, suckling it into his mouth. This time she is unable to keep her moan quiet, weakened thighs attempting to shut around his head, as he continues to lap at her petals.

“Harry,” she gasps, her back arching, her hips rolling up against his tongue where the clit slicks and slides around the swollen button, moving it side to side beneath, “Please, please don’t stop I --” her legs are shaking much more than she was expecting, reaching down with the hand that he wasn’t holding to burrow in his hair. The mix of spit and her juices was deliciously inviting, wet, messy and warm. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, the telling sign of an orgasm zipping up from the tips of her curled toes, and the light of it wraps around her thigh, around her hips, up through her torso and fanning out down towards her fingers and to the tips of each strand of hair atop her head.

He reaches down towards his cock, wiggling down the slick trousers so they bunch around his thighs as he slips his fingers around the stiff shaft and begins to twist and tug, only serving to make her moan even more against her. Her chest heaves with each breath, biting down on the inside of her cheek when he prods his tongue at her hole, licking inside her, slurping and drinking her up like he’d been born to do it. Almost like he’d been waiting for it since she’d promised him a bite of her thighs in exchange to go to the wedding. The sheer avidness and passion, how he takes hold of her clit between his lips, sucking hard and fast.

He encourages her with his gaze alone, nodding his head, a soft, “Mhm,” against her that had her insides undulating, and like a bubble of water that swells beneath immense pressure, it pops around her in a blinding wave of light. She cums on his mouth, shaking like a leaf -- a very well satisfied leaf -- as Harry licks and sucks and works her through it. Brings her back down from the clouds with soft, sweet kisses up her thighs, to the junction of her leg and hip, pushing kisses to her stomach, and skipping where her dress was still covering her to her mouth. When he kisses her he slips his tongue into her mouth so that he can taste her, nipping, and suckling at her lips before rubbing the tips of their noses together.

Harry pecks another kiss to her mouth before murmuring, “We ran out of cranberry juice this morning,” but before she could act even the tiniest bit elated, he continues, “Thank goodness I have a whole new case of it in my trunk.”

“Harry,” she pouts, but he reaches up and plucks at her bottom lip.

“Put that away,” he tuts his tongue, “If you drink it all, maybe I’ll get you off again, hmm?”  

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Confessions of a Coffee-Eater | 01

Genre: Smut, College/University AU

Pairing: Student!/Poet!Namjoon xStudent!/Poet!

Warnings: Public male masturbation, sub!Namjoon, allusion to smoking and poverty, swearing/cussing

Summary: It is in hard times beautiful things can occur and the addiction of primal instincts be suppressed in their proximity. However, when two souls from different social worlds meet in a poetry class, any former urges gain a new direction.

Some of which are sensual in emotion.

And may not be reciprocated.

Masterlist

Next part

Not everything starts off smoothly, time occupying more of the mind than the designated task or destination. Students tend to deal with this occurrence more often than it would like to be admitted, especially on the first day of the new academic year when everyone has the silent resolution to begin with a clean slate. Withal, there remain some who, nevertheless, manage to sneak into the classroom as the introductions have almost come to an end and thus go from being an absent first to a present last. 

Hence is why regardless of the few remaining students introducing themselves all eyes in the vast yet bare space shift to the tall man entering the room in a wake of smoke and cologne. It is not unlikely to think they are as intimidated by the painted canvas on well-defined arms as the girl sitting right next to them after furiously wishing to be left alone, the desire denied as it is the sole empty chair left.

Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.

Nevertheless, the thought does not mean a glance at the artwork covering alluring honey-toned skin cannot be stolen. And the gained treasure is the sight of an intricate tribal design flowing over from bright turquoise into sleek black on the left arm and a Victorian clockwork overlapping with a nautical map and a compass, the former element stopping at the wrist after peeking out underneath a feather. That is all that can be picked up on from the side.

But almond eyes immediately sneakily take revenge by also looking at a source of interest for it is the natural thing for an individual to estimate the nearest person when being in an alien environment without a point of support consisting of friends. Unfortunately, each of them from private personal circles has chosen a different direction within the study, none of them daring to take on or simply interested in poetry. 

‘And who might you be?’ The round of rapid-fire introductions ends at the newcomer, who flinches as if waking up from a dream with the heavily blushing cheeks of a crumpled composure.

Which are mirrored in the flustered expression of an embarrassed heart futilely trying to cover up the chest area more by means of pulling up the slightly see-through white loose top thinly striped with lines of black. Regardless of the attempt, the pastel pink push-up bra decorated with a beautiful flower pattern in onyx remains visible very much so from above and a tad less from the front. Thus, when realizing the uselessness of the endeavour, the worry of coming across as an indecent person increases as now not only the professor is taken into account but the still nameless newcomer as well.

‘Oh, ehm, I’m- I’m Namjoon, an exchange student from Dongguk University.’ Eyebrows rise at the baritone voice trying to speak in a composed manner, miraculously managing to do so to a fair degree though fiddling fingers give away the surprise of suddenly being called to attention. Oddly, a thought pops up which almost encourages hands into action to calm tanned nervous ones but just in time can they be lowered into the lap while watching the speaker politely. ‘As for poetry, I believe it’s an expression of a person’s mind. However, this also means they are puzzles to be solved because a thought is chaotic and can have a double meaning.’

‘Very well. It’s funny you should mention poems being like puzzles. My son is currently in high school, also studying poetry and he and I had a conversation about it recently. He could not for the life of him figure out what any poem meant and was astounded I do this for a living. But, as any fifteen-years-old with a literature professor for a father, he wants to become a game designer.’ Chuckling arises in the classroom at the enthusiastically told analogy and all tenseness disappears thanks to the dry humour of the resident Manchester man. At the same time, eyes which swiftly avoided each other find one another again only to repeat the rapid break of contact, those of the too-exposed girl wavering instantly after strangely wanting to make sure Namjoon is more at ease like the others. Why the deep-voiced man looks back with the intention - if there is any intention at all - to lock gazes instead of, fortunately, accidentally letting focus wander lower to bared skin, shall remain a mystery.

For blushing cheeks to never unravel.

Get yourself together, Y/N. I don’t know him and he’s clearly more interested in my chest than myself. Although... just now he looked at me. And he’s kinda adorable. And handsome. No, no, no! Jesus, what am I thinking?

Professor Brown happily continues, pacing the room. ‘But if we think about encoding and poetry, they are similar on the grounds they are both, indeed, essentially the same in the manner they are carefully composed in order to work.’ Steps halt in the middle of the space, academic sight switching from one face to the next as hands fold behind the back clad in a neat black jacket. ‘There is something I would like to ask you. Does any of you write poetry?’

The majority of the students' palms rise in response, including one of which the arm is decorated as if by a traveller of old and one which finds purpose after being mentally prevented from ridiculously serving as a means of soothing. This risen pair does not go unnoticed by the minds which control them, the air in the narrow space between bodies filled with silent curiosity pertaining to the written work. The possible style, the possible words, the possible message.

The possibility to hear it being spoken.

The possibility to connect.

But neither says anything, focusing intently on the empty pages of the notebooks lying on the elongated table and clumsily fiddling with pens between fingers. Notwithstanding, every move is carefully composed to not make a wrong impression, both parties trying to prove a point which is supposed to be interpreted without any double meanings. Certainly so when rejoining each other’s company at the end of a swift ten-minute-break to allow room for breathing something else other than poetry in four hours dedicated to it.

Nevertheless, it cannot be helped but let shoulders relax when smelling nicotine mixed with sharp cologne and sensing two intricate paintings in contrasting styles settle on the empty chair again. It can even be admitted the presence is liked, certainly when from peripheral vision perceived americano irises follow the movements of the pen noting down a random lyrical thought.

And thighs have to clench together in slight awkwardness when unconsciously sensing them looking away swiftly after likely having been distracted anew by the revelation of the shirt that does not want to stay in place. However, the emotion changes when remarking upon an almost anticipating shiver disturbing the fairly intimidating man’s aura as knees accidentally touch.

Panic.

But something undefinable and incomprehensible forms its undertone.

‘I’m sorry.’ Clenching the jaw, the contact is immediately made undone by crossing legs and focusing on the penning down each poem, any poem that comes to mind. 

But nothing appears at hearing the shy stumbling over words, picturing all too well how Namjoon’s face is adorably flushed with timidity. ‘Ah, i- it’s- doesn’t matter.’

Which only worsens the uncomfortableness of a consciousness slowly turning corrupted as the long hours of the seminar pass, wondering what lies at the heart of the cause to behave so jittery and rush out of the door to smoke. Wondering is the wrong choice of words for it are more sensual ungrounded fantasies which rise one by one while listening to the flustered ocean deep voice answering a question here and there.

Fancying how it would sound when being completely controlled by the girl keeping up an innocent façade.

Me.

God-fucking-dammit, focus on class and not your own perverted imaginations. You’re here to learn, not to lose control like this.

This warning spins around a chaotic mind at least every quarter of an hour, swirling among the perversion and bringing common sense back for perhaps a good ten minutes before either Namjoon’s voice is heard or a glance is thrown in the man’s direction. Then the whole circus starts anew without hope of redemption.

Henceforth, it comes as a relief when the class is over at last and everyone packs their things to rush to the nearest bus station to make it home.

The first to disappear are arms made of ink and smoke.

Restraint is one of humankind’s most difficult issues to face on a daily basis, seeking refuge in what brings tranquility to a tempted consciousness. Withal, the nicotine purchased with the little money put aside from working the night shift at a nearby gas station did not help erase the vivid memory of pastel pink embroidered by lace as black as night. If anything, it was all in vain as the confrontation with it happened as soon as walking back into the room to which all of us are confined for four hours once a week.

Igniting a type of hunger which has not been felt towards any other girl in Korea, too busy working the same job as now to help make ends meet and send the little brother with big aspirations to high school because the sibling deserves a proper educational basis as well. Hence is why there was no room for letting attention stray towards anything but the means necessary to help pay for the rent.

  Three people could barely manage to bring it up each month. But out here on foreign soil and alone, being kicked out of the rented place nearby the university is not so much a surprise. Fortunately, the boss does not come in until seven in the morning which allows for two hours of sleep before packing up the makeshift bed consisting of a jacket for a mattress and rucksack for a pillow. It is difficult, but hardship is inevitable for those who are seen as pariahs, the people who do not fit the norm in one way or another.

Yet, strangely, Y/N - the name glanced from the improvised name tags the professor asked to be made to make it easier for everyone - was not as tense as the rest of the students. In fact, intrigued is perhaps the best description to give the overall attitude of the girl caught occasionally glancing sideways.

I did fuck up great time, though. Why did I stare at her boobs?

The painful twitch below that had to be awkwardly shielded against all the eyes of the room, certainly the pair of newly met ones on the adjacent chair for they are the cause, makes the memory of flesh resurface as a rapid turn is made towards the abandoned unisex restroom. Swiftly, the lock to the tiny space is turned.

Alone.

God, I really blew my chances with her. I should apologize.

The phantom of touching knees makes lashes flutter shut and teeth bite down on the bottom lip as a hand brushes over tight grey denim.

Obsidian with a pearl undertone.

A cute black bow from which a small diamond dangles between breasts.

‘She’s so pretty.’ A squeeze sends the mind reeling further away from sanity, recalling the warm scent reminiscent of the autumn which hangs in the air. Wild berries, dark plum and bergamot.

Her.

‘I could be so good to you. For you.’ Tanned fingers barely possessing a sliver of logic undo the zipper concealing heated hurt, firmly enveloping the source for distraction when slipping past the rim of plain grey boxers. To suppress any sound, their counterparts fold over the mouth on the brink of falling into whimpering submission, trembling like during the seminar in the sudden craving to be touched.

By Y/N.

If only I’d push my thigh a bit more to the side, she’d have caught on. What am I thinking? You’d never do that.

After all, what does have a poor man from Ilsan to offer to a foreign woman who is better off without an outcast glued to her? Moreover, there are financial priorities that have to be taken care of and it is highly improbable there is a willingness to help a wretched soul out of the gutter with money.

She does not know me. 

I do not know her.

We are strangers.

But lovers in this fantasized instance, having pretty small hands replace clumsy desperate ones as ears naturally attune to the echo of what little has been heard from a charming voice. Howbeit, it is speaking in a sweetened tone furiously wished to ever be heard truly in private. ‘Namjoonie, why didn’t you tell me you were so needy?’

‘I- I didn’t want t- to- we’ve just met and- and- fuck~’ The curse comes out on a breathless whimper as the chin is flicked up to gain access to the neck, glossy lips kissing the warm skin at random as the thumb circles the heavily leaking part of corrupted fancy.

‘If I’d known you’d be submissive like this, I’d done this to you sooner. You wanted to grab my hand earlier, didn’t you? Place it in your lap to rut against during the rest of the seminar?’ A cheeky grin chisels itself onto the coy mistress’s delighted expression at the unashamed nodding confirming the intention dismissed in the last second after the second smoking break. ‘Make sure I know what I do to you? Who would have thought that such a big buff tattooed boy,’ a whine falls into an appreciative growl when the stimulating palm tightens its hold significantly, the reaction eliciting a chastising click of the tongue, ‘would be such a mess. So cute, all submissive.’

‘O- only for you.’ Hips snap in time with the movements below, aching for release from the building tightening in the lower stomach. Breath comes at a greater difficulty as speech becomes harder to manage as well, feeling too heated to think properly and dwindling further and further into the urge to please the one who ignites a sense of safety. ‘Wan- Wanna be goo- ngh, ah, ehm, b- be good for you.’

‘As you should be as my baby boy.’ Y/N stands on the tippy toes of obsidian and alabaster Puma sneakers, arms suggestively snaking around the back of the neck and nails digging wonderfully into skin when whispering. ‘If you actually do grab my hand next time in class to rut against, I’ll jerk you off under the table but make you cry in overstimulation for being impatient. Am I understood?’

‘Y- Yes, M- Miss.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

‘C- Can I- Need to- shit!’ All attention of action shifts wholly to the most sensitive part, erasing every last sliver of sense while barely refraining from coming undone without permission. ‘Plea- Please, ah, ah, Miss, m- may I!’

However, the request remains unfinished as the stimulation becomes too much to handle and the world is sucked away into pleasant nothingness, taking fantasy along and leaving a poor man from Ilsan alone in perverted satisfied warmth.

Together in an imaginary self-made world. 

Alone in a bathroom in reality.

Stained in more ways than with solely thick ivory. 

Yet having to say sorry.

[jennifersylvesters]

faking it ( part two )

Synopsis: so maybe you shouldn’t have done that. but if anyone asks, you blame zendaya for dragging you out Word Count: 1.9k~ Warning: swearing A/N: remember when i said the other parts were supposed to just be drabbles? apparently i’m what people would call “a liar”. whoops. still, this is short for me. probably gonna be five semi-short parts in total for this. it’s definitely a different style than what i’ve currently put out here ( aka similar to “not so subtle” but messier lmao). my bad. or my good. i’m not sure; y’all tell me. ( also tagging people who asked for about the second part. if you don’t want to be tagged for future parts, please let me know! )

Thirty-five minutes. That's all you needed to muster through, and then you could give an excuse to go home. How hard could it be?

Turns out: it was fucking hard.

You thought it’d be easy enough to fade into the back, just politely nodding and nursing your drink. After all, they came to hang out with Zendaya not you. Instead you found yourself bombarded with questions.

Tom wasn’t kidding when he said Zendaya talked about you.They asked about your adventures with her as well as your most shameful moments, curious to see if there was any truth to the person she spoke so fondly about. It was overwhelming keeping up the accent as well as not thinking about murdering your roommate for telling a group of strangers how you crashed into a glass door before stumbling and falling on your ass.

With only a minute left, you drummed your fingers on the now empty glass. You couldn’t remember the name of the fellow who was speaking to you about a recent football match. Did his name start with an H? Well, at least you’d never see him again.

Three.

Two.

One.

And just like that, you decided it was time to head home. Perfect timing as Zendaya suggested another round of drinks.

“Z, I'm actually feeling a bit tired” you yawned, stretching out your arms. “D'you mind if I head back to our um, flat first?”

“Sure, Y/N” she answered slowly as she pulled you in for a hug. “I can’t wait to give you shit about this when I get home” she whispered in your ear.

You pulled away, faking a smile as if you weren't dreading that conversation. You bid everyone goodbye, pulling your jacket on and rushing outside. You could finally breathe knowing you’d never have to fake an accent around that group again.

“Y/N! Wait!” You turned around to see Tom jogging up to you. Did you forget something? You checked your pockets, confirming that you did indeed have your keys, phone, and wallet.

“Can't let you walk home by yourself” he spoke as he caught up to you.

“Oh, you don't-”

“I want to!” he insisted. “Also it kinda gives me an excuse to talk with you since, erm, everyone else was kinda preoccupying your time.”

Aw.

Oh, wait. That meant you had to keep up the charade. Damn.

It was only a ten minute walk to your apartment and even though it wasn’t far, you found yourself walking at the leisurely pace Tom set. Even though you barely knew him, you were drawn into his presence and couldn’t help but follow his pace.

Lucky for you, he didn’t pester you with questions like the others. Instead he just asked simple questions to which you could give brief answers before simply asking “what about you”. And in return he gave long-winded answers, going on tangents to topics you hadn’t even been discussing. One moment he was talking about his siblings and the next he was speaking about his favorite superhero. It was strange but adorable.

“Sorry I ramble when I'm nervous” he blushed, wringing the back of his neck.

“Me too.”

“You don't seem nervous in the slightest” he laughed, nudging you gently with his arm.

“I’m trying this new thing where I just...Listen. So I don’t look like a complete idiot.”

“I doubt you’d ever look like an idiot.” How little he knew.

Still it was kind of him to say. Tom was so extraordinarily sweet that you weren’t quite sure how to handle it. He seemed so easy and light like a soft spring breeze. You wanted to get swept up in his charm without any concerns.

When you arrived at your apartment building, you let him accompany you up to your floor. The two of you shyly stepped into the elevator, only a couple feet away from one another as the lift slowly brought you up. The sound of both of your shoes clacked against the smooth tiles before you finally reached your place.

“Ah, well this is me.” You fiddled with your keys, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He bit down on his bottom lip, eyes flicking from you to the floor and then to your keys. Tom took a step forward before taking it back. His nerves were getting the best of him, and it made your heart melt to think of how jittery he got. You weren’t used to someone being flustered by your presence.

You wanted to invite him in. It wasn’t to hook up, nothing dirty, but just to hang out. Tom seemed like someone who wouldn’t take advantage of this, someone who would be satisfied with just the pleasant company. Everything about this seemed so right. The timing was perfect, and he seemed into you. But you couldn't. Not if it meant you had to fake things with him.

“Night.”

“Night” he echoed, a tinge of slight disappointment in his voice.

As you closed the door, you rest your back against it. Thank God that was over. While you were a bit sad you wouldn’t see Tom again, at least you wouldn’t have to keep up the charade any longer.

A couple hours later Zendaya entered the apartment, tossing her keys and purse off to the side as she flopped onto the couch where you laid under a comfortable blanket. “Who knew that when I signed the lease with you, I actually had a British roommate?” she teased as you scowled, burying your face in the comforter.

Attempting to change subjects, you asked her how the rest of the night went. She went into detail about the shenanigans they got into, how one of the guys named Harrison had them bar hopping till they found the most interesting hole in the wall. She planned on taking you there, insisting that it was truly the most fun dive bar.

“And Tom seemed very interested in you” she grinned.

Your face heated up. “Too bad he's going back to England.”

“Yeah, that is too bad.” She dramatically sighed before a smirk crossed her lips. “Too bad you didn't know he's moving here.” The news caught you by surprise and you sputtered, unable to find the right words.

“Guess I'll just avoid all of your friends for the rest of my life” you decided. “Or maybe I’ll just die.” You knew you were being dramatic, but it didn’t matter to you.

“You can’t die! Then I'd have to find another roommate, and that's a total pain” Zendaya joked and you threw a pillow at her face. She laughed loudly at her own joke before tossing the pillow back at you. “You know I love you! And speaking of love, let’s talk about how much you love me seeing as I covered for you tonight…”

The next morning you struggled to get up, wishing desperately to go back to bed once your alarms rung. But you promised Zendaya that you would run errands with her that morning and that you’d buy her coffee for the next week.

You trudged to the nearest Starbucks in sweats, not particularly caring about your look. Who was up this early on a Sunday? No one that you knew. Most people were either sleeping in or nursing their hangovers.

The line was short and moved briskly, one of the perks of being up when no one else was. You tiredly gave your order to the barista. As you fumbled through your pockets for your wallet, the stranger behind you cleared his throat. “Oh, actually I’ll pay for theirs as well as mine.”

You turned, confused by the act of kindness. They smiled at you before turning to the barista and placing their order. Weird flex, but okay. You weren’t about to say no to an overpriced drink that you desperately needed. So when he begun making conversation with you, it didn’t seem like a big deal. Small price to pay for free drinks.

“Not a big morning person, are ya?” he asked as he tucked his wallet away in his jacket. His face looked familiar, but you couldn’t quite place it.

“No, not at all. If anything, I try to sleep in.” He laughed at this. Wasn’t really a joke but alright then.

“Running errands or something? Can’t understand why you’d be up so early otherwise.”

“Actually, I owe my roommate a favor. I owe her coffee, and I’ve now been dubbed her ‘errand friend’. And she’s always up early. Lord knows why.”

“Ah, is she?”

“Yeah, it drives me insane when she asks me to go jogging with her in the morning. Can’t stand either.”

He shook his head, grinning at you. “You really don't remember me, do you?” Were you supposed to?

“I'm one of Zendaya's friends. We met at the bar.” Oh no.The color in your face drained.  “I'm also Tom's best mate.” Shoot you now.

“I will say, I’m quite surprised to find out that you’re American since-”

“I’m not American” you cut him off, shaking your head nervously. Your accent was subpar at best that moment, but you weren’t about to sink that quickly.

“You’re not?” He raised an eyebrow at this notion with a deadpan tone.

“N-No...Um, I’m...I am...A world traveler?”

“Who's American.”

“I'm a human being of the world, really.”

“That geologically speaking is an American human being.” He knew better and obviously wasn’t going to let this go. You were the fucking Titanic, sinking miserably with no chances of staying afloat.

“Fine, so I’m not English” you finally admitted. The barista called your order and you grabbed the two coffees before proceeding to the sugar and milk bar. Harrison grabbed his drink as well before following you. He sipped his latte as you begun rambling, ripping sugar packets open and stirring them in frantically.

“So yeah, maybe I’m not from England. But it’s like, it’s totally not a big deal. It’s not like I thought you guys were gonna be here for very long. And okay, yeah, I shouldn’t have done an accent. I just panicked, okay? I panicked. Who doesn’t panic? People panic, okay? It’s what they do!”

“So you gonna keep it up the next time you see him then?” he asked, causing you to finally stop stirring. You asked him what he meant before he informed you that him and his friends would be dropping by next Friday to hang out.

You didn’t want to go through this again - the fake accent, pretending to know specifics about England, acting like you knew what Arsenal was. (Seriously, why were the boys so obsessed with Arsenal?) But you also didn’t want them asking questions, wondering why you were insane enough to pretend to be English. You hated the idea of them judging you after finding that out, especially Tom. So you sighed and figured that you would keep up the accent once again.

“Where are you gonna tell him you're from if he asks?” Shit. You hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Sussex?” That sounded right. Or maybe you were making that up?

“Sussex?” he repeated. “Where in Sussex?”

You paused. “A house?”

Harrison's lips pressed together as he looked at you. “You're gonna tell him that you used to live in a house in Sussex?”

You nodded weakly.

He roared with laughter. “Oh, God. I don't know what's worse - you saying that or the possibility that Tom might actually accept it.”

“So are you gonna tell?”

He hummed. “Not yet. I think I wanna see where this goes.”

You grimaced, watching him exit the coffee shop with a smile still lingering on his face.

And now your fate for the upcoming group hang was left in the hands of Tom’s best friend and your roommate.

Fan-flippin-tastic.

tags list: @sleepybesson, @tomhaz | @tomshufflepuff, @almostrosadiazz | @dianx365, @gab-spidey, @black-ballons

[thekillingquill]

Wolves of War

Characters: Scott McCall, Chris Argent, OC/Reader Warnings: Violence. Summary: A 17-year-old girl in a small rural town has no business being apart of any war, let alone one between humans and supernaturals. However, she doesn’t have the luxury of a choice when an Alpha comes recruiting. A/N: Blurb #2 for the January Challenge. I tried a new style. Sorry in advance if the style didn’t work out.

“Everyone knew that a dog backed into a corner bites. I’d just never actually considered that the dog could be me.” — Kristen Simmons

There is always something needin’ to be done on a ranch. PawPaw’s part, and the part of all the men in my family, was always the cattle and the fixin’ of whatever was broke down that day. MawMaw kept the house, the family, and the books in order and bred the dogs.

My contribution to the farm for as long as I could remember was workin’ with animals. The feedin’ and the groomin’ plus the trainin’. But the dogs and the chickens? Those were my responsibilities alone ever since I could walk, talk and carry a pail. Folks born into the Saracen family learnt about responsibilities early on in life. Ya do your part--ain’t no other way to be gettin’ by in a town as small as ours.

If it hadn’t been for the dang dogs I woulda never been outside that night, never woulda crossed paths with that red eyed monster, never woulda become a monster myself.

“The war is coming,” the monster said with the face of a man--and he had this look about him that I’d seen in critters caught in a trap: terror. Then I was the one whose face was fulla terror, because he wasn’t a man no more, he was all red eyes and sharp teeth--lungin’ for my shoulder.

When I woke up I was in the barn with straw and dirt stuck all over me, glued to my skin with sticky blood, but there weren’t no mark to be seen. I didn’t know yet that I was a monster--didn’t know how dangerous I could be.

Life was one big adrenaline rush: I was hearin’ better, seein’ further, movin’ faster and liftin’ heavier loads with no effort at all. It sounds good on paper, but there were bad things happenin’ to me, too. I broke door handles and scared the animals--the dogs growlin’ every time I came near the kennels, the horses shyin’ away.

And then there was the howlin’ at night. The call of that wild sonuvabitch who speaks of a war and a need for preparation--the monster, the man, the Alpha I can’t ignore. Every dang night callin’ me to the woods to meet with the pack--a ragtag group of misfits rangin’ in age from thirteen to thirty-eight. Puttin’ me through his trainin’ regime ‘cause we’re being’ hunted. Well, I wasn’t bein’ hunted before he bleedin’ bit me.

But now here I am, runnin’ for my gaw’dang life while gunfire echoes through the woods behind me. I can still see the arrow protrudin’ outta the red eyed monster’s chest. There was this beat of oppressive silence and then the twang of another loosed arrow, the poppin’ of gunfire and the sound of dirt and rocks kicked up by our feet--leaderless wolves on the run for our dang lives.

I didn’t realize where I was runnin’ to ‘til I was nearly there. A girl feels safest at home with her family, but I’d be leadin’ these hunters straight to ‘em. With my heart poundin’ I could barely hear anythin’ comin’ up behind me, but I knew they were there. I felt like if I could just get home, if I could just reach the barn, I could shake the hunters.

You could try fightin’ a little voice growls in the back of my mind. It sounds an awful lot like the monster. The monster who tried to fight and is more’n likely dead by now. How many of us have been taken down? Am I the last one runnin’ am I the last? Fight, flight or hide, them’s my only options.

Bark is blown off the tree in front of me, and I instinctively move myself lower to the ground, weavin’ and bobbin’ as much as I can to get outta range. I’m suddenly out in the open, in the field leadin’ to the ranch. I start sprintin’ full out toward the barn, hopin’ I can make it there faster than any bullet aimed my way. I don’t put much stock in hopin’ but maybe there’s somethin’ to it, because I make it to the barn without incident.

Maybe I’ll make it outta this thing alive--maybe my life don’t have to be based around this war. Maybe tomorrow things’ll be normal and I’ll do the feedin’ and the groomin’ and the trainin’ of the animals--we got a new batcha pups that need attendin’ to. I grip the sides of the ladder and launch myself up several steps, headin’ to the shadowy parts of the rafters above to wait this out.

The waitin’ feels like an eternity, and a minute, an icy winter and a swelterin’ summer all rolled up together in some sort of confusin’ paradox of time. How long ‘til it’s safe to crawl out of the shadows? I try focusin’ my senses, but new skills take their time to develop. Frankly I hadn’t been tryin’ too hard to learn, resentful as I am about the situation--somethin’ I find myself feelin’ regretful over.

I’m about to bite the bullet, so to speak, and crawl outta my hidin’ spot when the door to the barn is blown off it’s dang hinges! The smell of gunpowder wafts into the room moments before the weak beam of a flashlight at the end of a huntin’ rifle comes around the corner ahead’uv the man wearin’ dark clothes. He’s got these goggles on his head--possibly for night vision.

My chest tightens with fear when the beam passes over my hidin’ spot. I’m thankin’ my dumb luck when it passes over me and the man starts to exit. Except that he ain’t leavin’. Next thing I know somethin’ is hittin’ the hay beside me. It takes me a moment to realize it’s some kinduv explosive. The adrenaline hits me so hard that I don’t bother with the ladder, just launch myself off the rafters as fast and as far as I can before it detonates.

I hit the ground on my side, breakin’ my shoulder if the crack and the blindin’ pain is anythin’ to go by. The blast puts a dang hole in the roof and in my pain fueled daze all I’m thinkin’ is how much that’s gonna cost the ranch and how much time my kin are gonna spend fixin’ it up tomorrow. I roll onto my back, clutchin’ my shoulder when the man in black stands over me, his goggles discarded. My mouth opens in surprise--’cause standin’ over me with a rifle is my third grade teacher and nearest neighbour, Mr. Wilcox. The man who taught me my multiplyin’ is gonna put a bullet between my eyes.

“How does that saying go?” A deep voice says from the gapin’ hole where the barn door used to be. Mr. Wilcox turns his head toward the voice, but I keep my eyes focused on his gun. “Pick on someone your own size?”

I tried runnin’ and I tried hidin’. I ain’t doin’ it no more. It’s time to give fightin’ a chance. With my good arm, I swipe at Mr. Wilcox’s rifle roarin’ with a previously untapped rage. The hand that makes contact with the barrel of his rifle is lethal with extended claws. Mr. Wilcox lets out a yell of surprise and the gun goes off harmlessly above my head, puttin’ another hole in the barn. With another roar, I kick at his legs, keepin’ a good grip on the barrel of his gun until he goes down and loses his grip. There ain’t anythin’ graceful about the way I scramble to my feet, but I got his dang gun in my hands.

In a fit of rage, I pull the gun back and hit him as hard as I can in the head. I can hear his skull fracture under the force, and it’s that sound that snaps me outta it. My rage becomes fear and disgust. I can taste Mr. Wilcox’s blood in the air, its smell surroundin’ me. I hear the crunch of boot on straw and remember that I ain’t exactly been alone this whole time.

With faster reflexes than I believed possible, I bring the rifle up and aim it at the threat I nearly forgot about. He’s a man in his forties, but he ain’t no local. I know everyone in this town and they know me. With Mr. Wilcox’s rifle trained on him, he lifts on hand from his gun, letting the barrel point toward the ground.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He says in a steady voice. I’d be inclined to believe him, except that my third grade teacher just had this rifle pointed at my head.

“Put it down.” I growl. I ain’t never spoken disrespectfully to my elders before. Now I’ve gone and cracked one’s skull and am aimin’ a rifle at another. MawMaw would be so disappointed in me if she knew. The man slowly lowers to a crouch, placing his gun to the floor. It ain’t no huntin’ rifle--looks military grade to me.

Now that he’s disarmed, I don’t know what to do. I could circle around him and leave, but where would I go? He knows where I live. I don’t know if he’s friend or foe. I see movement out of the corner of my eye, and I’m so dang jittery that my finger squeezes the trigger. I hiss as the kickback knocks against my injured shoulder. The bullet misses the man but had to have grazed a boy who can’t be much older than I am. His features have briefly twisted into a grimace and a hand presses on his arm. I can’t tell if the blood I’m smellin’ is his or Mr. Wilcox’s.

He’s got them glowin’ red eyes trained on me. They don’t seem as monstrous on him as they did on the guy that bit me. He’s got what MawMaw would refer to as an honest face, but I ain’t about to lower this rifle based on that.

“We’re not here to hurt you.” He says with the kinda voice I use when an animal is in distress: calm and soothin’. Each step he takes is deliberately slow and he keeps both hands up high where I can see ‘em. I don’t want this to relax me any, but I can feel the tension leavin’ parts of my body.

“Who are you?” I ask for lack of anything better to say. I know he’s an Alpha, but I don’t know what he’s doin’ here or who those people shootin’ at me were. With the exception of Mr. Wilcox, of course. Are all of my neighbours in on this?

“My name is Scott McCall, and this is Chris Argent. We came here tonight because we’d heard there was a pack in hiding.” The reminder of the pack sets my teeth on edge.

“He was preparin’ for war. I didn’t ask for this life.” Scott takes another step toward me and I train the rifle at his head, though I don’t think I have it in me to shoot him.

“How old are you?” He asks in that same soothin’ tone of voice.

“Seventeen,” I answer quickly, adjusting my grip on the rifle. Scott picks up on my silent warnin’ and doesn’t come any closer.

“I was two years younger than you when I was out in the woods with my best friend. We got separated and an Alpha named Peter Hale bit me and changed my life forever. I get the feeling that you know what I’m talking about.” The thing is, I do know.

“I ain’t ever gonna be safe again, am I?” Scott’s hands lower to his sides.

“That really depends on you. We came here tonight to try to save your pack. Your Alpha is gone. Best case scenario is that your packmates are like you: hiding or on the run from hunters. Worst case scenario is that they’ve been captured or put down. You’ve got a choice to make now. You can come with us and we can help you learn to fight back against the hunters. Or we can help you find a safe place.”

“I can’t stay here.” I say, because it ain’t a question. I knew as soon as the arrow pierced the monster’s chest that life as I knew it was over. It’s just a matter of what to do from now.

“Now that they’ve found you, they won’t stop coming. I’m sorry.” I was expectin’ Scott to answer, but this came from Chris. Despite his more brusque way of speakin’ I got the sense that he really was sorry.

“What happened to my family?” I ask, because surely someone woulda come out to investigate the gunfire and the explosion by now. Someone shoulda been out settlin’ the horses and the dogs--all of which are awake and cryin’ out in a panic.

“They’re safe.” Chris answers. “Everyone in a 20 mile radius has been evacuated because of a suspected gas leak.”

They must have been so worried when I wasn’t in my bed.

“Will I be able to see them before I go?” I look to Scott for the answer, because I think he’ll give it to me gentler than his partner. I find the sympathy I wanted in his puppy dog eyes.

“We have to keep moving. The longer we stay the better the chance that the hunters pick up our trail.” I swallow this down, because I’m a Saracen and I’m used to tough breaks.

“We can let you write a note,” Chris concedes bendin’ down to pickup his gun. “You can tell your family that you’ve run away and that you’re safe. But we’ve gotta go now. There are still hunters running around those woods looking for strays. It’s time for you to make your choice”

I tried runnin’ and I tried hidin’.

“I wanna fight.” I tell them, lowein’ the rifle.

Scott smiles at me, and I know that this decision is right. I hid, I ran, I fought and I survived the night, but ain’t everyone been as lucky as me. I never wanted this life, but I got it and I’m gonna dang well do somethin’ with it.

I’m gonna fight.

The January Challenge

Every day in the month of January I will post a blurb or one-shot based on or inspired by a quote. How is this challenging? Every time I sit down to write a 500-800 blurb things get out of hand and suddenly I have a 3 part 18K fic on my hands! This challenge is meant to help me learn to write shorter pieces. Every pieces should be under 3K words.

Please note that I will NOT be doing a tag list for the January Challenge.

[strudeldoodlearts]

“You draw too fast!” Thoughts on a distant art class  memory

Back in grade school, I recall filling up the backsides of graded short assignments with manga-style drawings/comics. They weren’t particularly high-quality or anything. But in a small class of twenty-something children in the private school I attended, I was known to be the weird and artsy kid. That reputation, along with my own interests, lead me to learn drawing techniques a bit more seriously, even if I just drew for fun.

During that time, I developed this tendency to draw things as quickly as possible. As for why, I think there were a few things. There was the eagerness to get my ideas out on paper as soon as possible before I forget. There was also this constant feeling of being pressed for time--the pressure to keep my grades up while doing piano lessons/competitions, for example. So I did most of my drawing in between classes/during lectures that seemed simple enough to pick up quickly through self-study later on while doing homework. 

This was something of a double edged sword moving forward. On one hand, I loved things like gesture drawings and quickly picked up on how to block out sections of a picture. On the downside, as with any other life skill, rushing increases the chances of careless misses and errors. This wasn’t a problem back during the days I drew in leftover notebook space from previous classes or days I doodled for fun on computer print paper.

But it kinda bit me in the butt during the art courses I took in college (I took a few as “electives” to meet my Honors course requirements while also considering whether or not to do a minor in Graphic Design.) 

Again, some of it was due to having many commitments at once and not taking the courses as seriously as I could have. Not when being a webmaster of a student group and pulling my hair out over math equations/computer code took up most of my mental energy. But I digress.

Some of the most prominent memories of “drawing too fast” come from the model drawings in a traditional drawing class for honors students and from an intro to graphic design course I took a semester later. My honors trad drawing professor was the one who explicitly told me to “slow down when you draw.” The other professor, while they didn’t tell me that explicitly, marked me down for a good deal of technical errors that were the result of rushing. 

In the first class, even when I tried to slow down, I was consistently one of the first to finish. Or at least, in my brain, the picture looked finished enough. Detailing that could take pictures to the next level weren’t really my strong point. I also think that we were encouraged to learn how free-hand in this course. As someone who relies on blocking out structures and shapes, I leaned on that as a crutch. Had I taken more time to pause/think about practicing free-hand drawing, which pencils to use for which lines, along with what style of shading to use, I might have not finished as quickly as I did. And I might have picked up on those skills better.

The graphic design course brought out the need to slow down in the name of precision, even for simple-looking compositions. As much as I would have liked to take the class more seriously and produce better results, this was also during one of the most stressful semesters for me. In order to ensure my survival, I had to sacrifice so much time for this course to focus on the other things. With my “draw everything as fast as possible” mindset, I barely passed this graphic design course. And lo and behold, I didn’t make the cut for the graphic design minor. 

The above experience almost made me forget about considering doing art/digital design altogether. Never mind that the graphic design projects were almost entirely done with black ink and gouache paints (I’m clumsy with paints.) It probably didn’t help that I spent most of that semester jittery on coffee/energy drinks and running on an average of 3-5 hours of sleep a night. 

When I decided to add digital art into the mix of my life, I made it a point to free up as much time as possible so I wouldn’t face the same time pressures I did in the past. 

Of course, nowadays fast drawing still has its perks. It’s especially great for the initial stages of brainstorming/being able to meet deadlines. It also prevents the converse problem--the one where you overwork a picture *too much* by obsessing over a certain part or detail. 

But over time, even as I move forward and question certain decisions, I’ve generally come to prefer quality over quantity. Sometimes this is hard to maintain, especially when you run an Instagram account and worry about the algorithms/advice that generally tell you to post every single day. 

While I still like discovering time-saving “hacks” as a digital artist, I’m finding that drawing via tablet lately has become my own way of slowing things down. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’m enjoying the learning process and having the time to experiment and think of “what next.” Hopefully this time around, the knowledge will stick, and I’ll level up properly!

[thebirdunderthemountain]

Dancing Starlight

Dancetale! And because I can’t seem to stop sinning (ish? It is still SFW) suggested threesome. Or maybe just family vibes? I’m not sure, you guys pick.

It started out simple enough. A concerned word here, a worried glance there. Most monsters took a little while to understand that you just didn't dance. It was hard to after all; with your wings that never seemed to be in the right place and your legs being entirely backwards compared to everyone else. At least when it came to this planets forms of dancing. But if you could dance what you had learned as a child then maybe they wouldn't sorry so much. Especially the two skelebro's. (You had learned to dance, of course; starting at very young age. The Mystics of your home world needed to dance just like any other. And they loved it with the Mortals joined them.)

There in lay the problem though. Being trapped under a mountain gave you very little space to fly; let alone preform the sweeping graceful moves of a sky dance. It wasn't that you didn't try to learn to dance their way. Some moves hurt when you tried them or your body just couldn't preform them. You were willing to try each kind of dance, hoping to find something that would work. But it was always the same. It didn't fit and if it hurt you, the monster teaching you would put a halt to all lessons. No one was willing to teach something that could hurt someone.

Unlike monsters, you could make do with out dancing. Without magic to press and buzz at you to move when a song started, you could just go about and do things. But since mostly the monsters under the mountain still didn't know that you were not really a monster yourself, they worried. And their worrying really only made you feel guilty.

So that lead to you sneaking out the large star cave; usually after a large event when no one should be out and about. It almost to small really. Even if it was the largest cavern in the underground. Still, as long as you kept aware of where you were, it worked for a good place to practice. You wanted this to be prefect for when you showed everyone. After all, just because you did not feel the need to dance, didn't stop you from wanting to share in that joy. And what greater joy was there then showing off a new dance style.

You should have paid better attention though. Should have remember that the wall on the far east corner ended sooner then it did in the west. Maybe then you would have missed the low hanging rock ledge. Perhaps you would have remembered to drop down instead of pulling up. Instead you hit the rock hard, sending yourself into a tumble that landed you on a ledge no one could get to easily.

You had hit your head hard enough to double your vision. Dizzy and disoriented, you tried to get your feet under you; intending to try and get back to the ground but it just made things worse. Your legs couldn't take the weight of your body at the moment and you ended up face down on the rocks again. It was hard to keep couscous after that. Eventually you slipped under.

                                        ---------------

Sans was jittery the next morning. After the yearly spring festival in the capital yesterday you had slipped off to go somewhere. He had watched you carefully when he could. Several times he'd seen you twitch and bob to the beat of a song at the back of crowd. Nothing unusual when it came to any event or even a small gathering that lead to dancing. It wasn't something that worried him.

Normally he'd hear you come home late and peak out his room to check on you. You'd be tired and a little shaky; not unlike when Papyrus practiced a little to long. Whatever your reasoning for not dancing around anyone, he (and Papyrus) was glad to at lease see you weren't neglecting that part of yourself. But you always came home after wards.

He glanced at Papyrus from his seat at the table. Normally the younger brother would be dancing around the kitchen to make breakfast. This morning he was listlessly poking around in the cupboards, clearly worried for their missing Wingdancer. It wasn't like you to not come home or fail to leave a message.

"Paps, she's okay. i'll call Alphys to see if they binge watched more mew mew again, alright?" Sans stood from his chair, going for the phone. Payprus shifted, not looking at his brother. That was the first clue that Paps knew something and wasn't saying anything. His little brother was never very good at keeping secrets.

"Paps..." Papyrus turned to look at Sans, hands wringing together in worry. He kept glancing around the kitchen like he half thought you would just pop up from a hidden corner.

"Don't... don't be angry Sans, please?" Papyrus finally looked at Sans, silently pleading with his older brother. Whatever was going on the younger skeleton was sure Sans was not going to like it.

"okay, Paps. i promise i wont be angry. just tell me what's going on." It wasn't like either of the two of you kept things from anyone if it could end up with someone hurt.

"Wingdancer doesn't know... that I saw her in the star cavern. It was after the dance off at Grillby's three months ago." Papyrus looked nervous as he started to explain. He kept glancing towards the front door; like he half though just saying anything would bring you rushing in to stop him. "She... I thought she was just flying around at first. But then I saw her do something. It... I'm not sure just how to describe it but it looked kinda like a move I've done before. I've never seen a dance like that before but it just felt right to call it that. And she... she looked so happy. With her always running off after everyone else dances I couldn't bring myself to say anything. What if she stopped?"

Papyrus looked as torn as Sans felt. On the one hand, they were both glad you were dancing. And that they had been right about why you ran off. But on the other, dancing in the air sounded like it could be dangerous when done alone. Sans wasn't sure how to really feel about this. You had to know what you were doing. That was just something he was going to have to have faith in.

"hey Paps, it's okay. really. she'll tell us when she's ready. til then i think i know where she could be. pretty sure i saw cinnamon and mk almost getting her onto the dance floor yesterday. she probably danced a little harder then she should have after. let's try napsta's since he's closest." Sans smiled when Papyrus nodded to him. His little brother was already looking better. He started towards the front door, already reaching for his jacket when the phone rang.

"I'll get it." Papyrus practically raced towards the phone, hope in his eye sockets as he picked it up.

"Hello, Skeleton residents... Oh, Dr. Alphys how...." Papyrus went stiff as he fell silent, clutching at the phone. He was shaking minutely when he turned towards Sans. Worry bubbled up in Sans' soul from the look of dismay Papyrus had.

"S-sans... they found Wingdancer. She... She wont wake up." The bottom of the world dropped away. No. You couldn't have Fallen Down. You couldn't have. (Even in his thoughts, Sans' denial burned.)

                                             ----------------

Papyrus sat next to the bed you were currently laid out on. He had one of your hands held gently between his own, watching your face for any change. Out in the hall he could hear Sans speaking quietly with Alphys. The last few days had been nerve wracking. A couple in Waterfall had found you collapsed on a rock ledge; blueish magic leaking from your head. Alphys had found several broken bones and many bruises on you. The bruises were gone now and the bones were healing like they should. Or really how Alphys thought they should be. Your magic had always been a bit odd in that way.

While Papyrus knew he wasn't as smart as his brother, (few were after all the older skeleton had a masters degree in quantum mechanics) Papyrus was not dumb. He knew the signs just like every other monster. Perhaps a little bit more, considering his brothers more fragile health. Before this you had been healthy, social and (while it was done in secret for reasons he still didn't know) willing to dance. While a change in one did not mean a threat in Falling Down it could be an early warning. But there hadn't been any significant change. You should have bounced back shortly after your magic started healing. Instead you were still out nearly three weeks later.

With Sans and Alphys running every test they could think of to try and find out why you weren't waking, Papyrus had set himself down in the chair next to your bed and didn't move. Some one had to be here when you woke. And you would wake, he refused to believe that you might turn to dust at any time. It just couldn't happen. (A small voice in his soul whispered that it could. Whispered that maybe he had missed something vital and now they would lose you.)

Sans came in the room slowly, looking at you first before looking at Papyrus. The younger brother rubbed a skeletal thumb over the back of your hand, looking hopefully up at his brother. (No dust brushed off your hand, another hopeful sign.) Instead of giving a verbal answer, Sans moved to drop into the other chair next to your bed.

"alphys... we still don't know what's wrong Paps. we can't get a good reading on her magic but everything else checks out fine. she should wake up." Sans placed a hand over your other one, leaning forward to rest his skull on the edge of the bed. Papyrus watched his brother for a moment. There were lines of stress that hadn't been there before this.

"Sans... Have you eaten?" When Sans didn't answer Papyrus frowned in his worry. "Sans, you need to eat." Sans shifted enough to look at him without actually lifting his skull.

"what about you Paps?' Papyrus' hands tightened ever so slightly around yours at his brothers words. Sans just nodded, phalanges curling around your other hand. "ya..."

The two of them sat in silence after that, watching you. Neither of them were willing to risk leaving you. Not when the possibility of only coming back to dust was still there. Several hours later the door opened again and, to Papyrus' surprise, Asgore stepped into the room with a tray.

"Howdy. Dr. Alphys told me you both haven't left this room since she was brought in." Papyrus winced at the worry in the kings voice. He started to speak, unsure just what he wanted to say before Asgore waved him off. The older monster set the tray down on a small table. Papyrus blinked when he was handed a tea cup shortly after. Sans was also given a tea cup. They accepted the cups with little thought, trying to keep from spilling any on you.

"er... your majesty?" Sans looked a little uncomfortable, holding the cup like it might bite him.

"I'm not here to tell you news that Alphys can't, Sans. I'm here in the hopes of keeping the two of you from Falling. Bad enough we have Wingdancer like this."

"She won't fall." Papyrus might have been a touch rude, but he couldn't stand to think that even the King of Monsters might be giving up on you. He sat there, a tea cup in one hand while he still held yours in the other. Asgore looked at him for a long moment before smiling.

"I believe you, Papyrus. But neither of you will be of any good to her if you forget to take care of yourselves in the mean time." Well, there was little arguing with that.

                                               ---------------

Your head was killing you when you finally woke. The ground was a lot softer then you remember. Voices, low and soft, echoed over you and left you wondering just who found you. Oh you were not looking forward to the lecture Papyrus probably had for you. He worried when you didn't come home something fierce.

"...easy there, twinkle toes." It took a couple tries to get your eyes to open, earning a hiss from the bright lights. Someone turned the lights down and you managed to get your eyes to focus enough to find both skeleton brothers with you. Well that was different. They were both leaning over you, watching you with an intensity that you couldn't place.

"Paps... Sans... what...?" Your question was cut off when Papyrus pulled you close, orange tears gathering in his sockets. Okay, you were missing way to much information.

"You woke up..." A part of you freezes at his words, casting confused worried eyes towards Sans. The other skeleton moved closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

"you've been out for nearly a month, twinkle toes. closest anyone's gotten to falling down in a long time. later... later we're gunna talk. but right now just promise no more air dancing without someone there? please?" You nodded quickly, held very carefully between them.

"I promise." How could you not? What ever had happened had clearly shaken both of them. You would get the whole story later, right now they bother just needed this moment.

(I starting to think I can’t do fluff alone....)

[adrenalineguide]

Toronto Motorama Part 3 – Getting there in the Subaru Legacy Limited

Words and Photos By Michael Hozjan

It’s become the annual right of spring, the long, boring ride down the 401 to Toronto for the annual custom car show, better known over the last few years as Motorama. (See photos down the page.) My pilgrimage is always a one day event leaving the farm around six in the morning to avoid Toronto’s rush hour and then leaving the show around seven in the evening to again avoid the rush. I’m fortunate enough to have a friend or two come along to make the drive less tedious.

If I’m coming across as negative it’s because I’ve been down the 401 probably a couple of hundred times, more often than not in the worst possible conditions from torrential rain to freezing sleet and of course, this being Canada, snow, lots of snow. But the show, with all the fabulous cars and great people is worth it. Of course depending which vehicle I’m driving for the marathon run can be rewarding or disaster. I have come back sitting in the back on my side unable to drive because my sciatica flared up thanks to the SUV’s seats.

As luck would have it, this year I got lucky and booked a Subaru Legacy unaware it was the week of the show. I was relieved, in particular because, maybe I’ve been watching to  many towing shows and seeing all those wrecks made me, for the first time in my life, jittery about the drive. Kinda like watching a movie about plane crashes days before boarding a flight. Relieved because Subaru’s Eye Sight accident avoidance system is among the best in the business, and I trust it fully.  Secondly no matter what Mother Nature would throw at us, the Subie’s  confidence inspiring all-wheel-drive system was ready.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at it but for its seventh generation, Subaru has done some major reengineering from the ground up to the Legacy and its butch brother, the Outback. An all new platform with new suspension and two new boxer engines serve as the base for the 2020 models. Just nobody told the design department.

Six trim levels make up the  Legacy lineup; Convenience, Touring, Limited, Premier, Limited GT and the Premier GT with prices starting at $26,395. That entry level gets you the 2.5L boxer four cylinder that produces 182 horses/176 lb-ft  and dual 7” infotainment screens (my personal choice). Eye Sight and Lane Assist are standard across the board.  Stepping up to the Touring gets you a power sunroof, reverse automatic braking, rear/side vehicle detection, Subaru’s Starlink  and a 11.6 inch infotainment screen.

·      Convenience: $26,395

·      Touring: $30,295

·      Limited: $34,295

·      Premier: $36,295

·      Limited GT: $37,095

·      Premier GT: $39,095

My Limited added leather seating, a heated steering wheel, heated rear seats and the Harmon Kardon premium sound system to the equation. Stepping up to the Premier gets you ventilated front seats and Nappa leather, front view camera and a distraction management system. 

It’s only when you step up to the GT models that you’re upgraded to the sportier, 260 horsepower 2.4L turbocharged boxer four that nets you 277 lb ft of torque.  If the mill rings a bell, it’s the same engine that propels the large Accent.  Yes folks the venerable flat six has sadly been relegated to the history books.

The green house remains typically Subaru, not overly styled like some of the Legacy’s competitors, but a clean flowing design in keeping with the company’s mantra of functionality over glitz. Hard and soft plastic are the materials of choice with a sprinkling of shiny piano ebony looking plastic. The first thing you notice upon opening the door is the large 11 plus inch infotainment screen. More on this later.

The seats are comfortable with just enough side bolstering that it doesn’t compromise ingress and egress. The back seat will accommodate six footers with ease and the large opening trunk with a low lift over makes loading a breeze.

 On the Road

At the risk of repeating myself the Legacy proved itself once again to be a very capable four-season sedan. My legacy came with the base engine, which now has direct injection and auto start/stop. While the mainstream engine did run out of steam and made a lot of clatter when the go pedal was pushed to the floor (only for research), at normal speeds with normal throttle openings the Legacy had no trouble passing semis on my Toronto run and made gave us a combined thirst quotient of 7.0l/100kms. Excellent numbers for a medium sized all-wheel-drive family sedan in winter with warm ups and plowing through the white stuff, and reason enough to get your butt into one.   

Likewise, the ride is among the best in class, with the new chassis taking the brunt of road irregularities and not sending it into the cabin. Just cross some train tracks and you’ll see how well the sedan soaks up the bumps, a testament to the new car’s additional torsional and front-suspension rigidity (improved by 70%) and the rear’s subframe rigidity which according to Subaru, has been by increased 100 per cent compared to the last year’s Legacy.

The use of additional sound deadening in the new car is easily evident, greatly reducing road noise into the cockpit. While I don’t have access to decibel meters, I’m sure the Legacy is now quieter than some of its pricier counterparts. It took me a few days to get my seat adjusted just right but from then on, the ten plus hours of my Motorama run were comfortable and without any “seat” pain.

The only thing that lacking in the Legacy to give it some fun factor is a standard tranny, instead we get the Continuously Variable Transmission (CVT). Subaru has been a pioneer in CVTs, and over the years I’ve learned how to get the best out of them, but it will never replace a standard.  

 Thumbs Down

Ok, I’ll be the first one to admit it, I’m old school. Yes, I welcome and admire new technology, but when it is warranted and not for the sake of competing with the Joneses. I still back up with my back turned looking out the rear window, I prefer knobs and dials over flowing my fingers over screens – which usually takes three tries anyway because most screens think I’m a zombie and can’t read me. Truth is and I wish all car manufacturers would listen up; WE ARE NOT FLYING THE ENTERPRISE THROUGH SPACE, we are driving cars with other cars, trucks, bicycles, motorcycles, pedestrians, skate boarders and whatever else sharing the road with us, often-just inches away from us. Screens may be great for Mr. Chekov hurtling through space. I need to keep my eyes on the road and not on a screen. I’m sure you know where I’m going with this. Not only is the new 11.6” screen a magnet for reflecting glare into your eyes, it also takes away the ease of use. 

When I first started in this field Subaru’s radios had tiny little buttons that were perfect for newborns. Over the years they went from good to great. In last year’s Legacy everything worked as how it should. In the new car if you want to warm your seat, first you need to press the screen’s seat warmer button, then that opens up the large screen where you see images of the seat and a temp gauge, press the seat warmer button again to activate the warmer. Thankfully rear seat passengers still get regular switches. You’re on the phone, well, the phone screen won’t deactivate when you hang up and go back to the radio screen, nope that would be too easy. Instead press the home button, once the main menu pops up press the radio button. Oh and all this time you’re supposed to have your eyes on the road. And since when do we have to have reminders about anniversaries and birthdays popping up on our screens? Don’t forget you are PAYING for this. I’ll take the base car’s screen any day thank you.

Again a note to all car manufacturers and not just Subaru, please, please hire some drivers to design you’re dashes and not some bicycle riding computer geeks that would rather be designing computer games.    

Thumbs Up

The family sedan is going through a crisis these days, and while I’ve reported time and time again that most of my friends prefer sedans to the latest soccer mom ride, the SUV, sedans are facing a tough road. The Legacy provides a lot of bang for the buck and with room for five is a smart alternative to the SUV/crossover and a perfect choice for the four-season Canadian family. I couldn’t have thought of a better car for the occasion.

Oh and it’ll be interesting to see if the OPP car that had its trunk pushed into the back seat by the tractor trailer while having a car pulled over will make it to the towing show, there were certainly enough tow trucks on the scene.   

 Price as tested: $35,945 *

* Includes freight and dealer prep