Just Alpha Eddie getting so stoned he doesn’t think he can move his limbs anymore. This wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t currently stuck in some mysterious plaid room in a house he doesn’t even remember showing up to. His eyes are a bright red, he’s curled up on the floor and trying his hardest not to float away. He needs to leave.
Time is going by so slowly, but between the weed and the comforting smell that was surrounding him he doesn’t want to move. He’s convinced that the scent was the only thing keeping him from greening out.
He hears the person coming up the stairs before he sees them. The door opening gently as the omega, Eddie could tell from his scent, walks in looking exhausted. Only to jump back startled and nearly throws a baseball at him.
“What the fuck!” Steve Harrington was the omega, and Eddie was currently in his room looking like a moron.
Eddie groans, “sorry- sorry. I ended up smoking to much and thought laying down for a moment would help but I ended up here and I don’t know how I’m so sorry.” Eddie whines out moving to lift himself up but ends up falling back to the ground with a soft grunt when everything begins to spin.
Steve watches concerned before he moves to a crouch. Taking the sight of Eddie in. “Alright, you’re probably just greening out a little. I can help you to a guest room.” He hums out as he carefully, with more strength than a normal omega had, to lift Eddie up into his arms. Grunting gently as Eddie whines loudly.
They begin to leave the room and immediately Eddie knows it’s the wrong choice as he begins to squirm around. “No- no can’t. To much. Need to be in there. Smell is helping.” He’s barely coherent but thankfully Steve catches the hint and steps back into the room. Furrowing his eyebrows as Eddie’s body relaxes. He steps out of the room and Eddie’s freaking out again.
“Alright- I uh.” Steve isn’t sure what to do. He was planning on making a nest tonight. “Here lay on my bed.” He says gently. Moving and carefully placing Eddie down on the bedding.
Eddie is quick to melt. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but he somehow flips on his stomach and buried his face into a pillow. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m being like this.” He groans out. The smell of the pillows were calming him more. His body was no longer shaking, Eddie didn’t even notice that before.
“It’s fine… we can just share a bed. But I have to make a nest. Do you mind if I-“ Steve gestures to the bed, Eddie couldn’t see him so there wasn’t any point but he does anyway.
Eddie groans as he lifts himself up. The smell leaving him and he nearly has to bury himself into the pillow again. “Yeah yeah- I’m so sorry.” He whimpers out.
Time is nonexistent to him and the next thing he knows he feels a gentle arm around him. Helping him shift over a bit. A bottle of water his pressed to his lips and he’s chugging down the liquid.
Breathing shakily he looks up at Steve who’s looking very concerned. “Alright; this may sound weird but I’m just going to have to build my nest around you. My omegas convinced it will help.” His face is a soft red as he talks.
Eddie just nods not having the energy to talk.
That’s how he finds himself in a nest. He doesn’t know how his face somehow made it into Steve’s neck but it was there when he finally comes to. It’s early in the morning now and his arms are holding Steve’s waist. He pulls away and looks down at the omega who was still mostly asleep.
He’s embarrassed. But not embarrassed enough to move away from the omegas comfort. Moving and hiding his nose back into Steve’s neck and dozes off again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It's about power. And optics. And rage and anger. And, so therefore, about feelings.
But feelings tend to be more convoluted than the simplest descriptors utilized in Page Six about a marriage that was a failure not necessarily due to the actions of one single person. Not like Miranda would ever explain herself in as much detail as it would require.
neverforpickles , 6.3K, M : implied assault & rape, small smut, murder, happy ending, establish relationship H&L, fluff
“It’s a sunny day and Harry revels on it. Breathes its rays like a starved man on a desert. The warmth of it holding his face like a lifeline.
“You really are a cat.”
: It’s a love story.
In honour to @lhgivegifts for @love-and-bubbles. Surprise xx
-
It’s a sunny day and Harry revels on it. Breathes its rays like a starved man on a desert. The warmth of it holding his face like a lifeline.
“You really are a cat.”
Harry opened one of his eyes to take a peak at Louis’ amused voice from where he sat comfortably. Legs covered in gray trackies that made his thighs look delectable and crushing. The heavy tent of his bulge was loud and present. A cup of tea in his hands. Face a canvas of amused expression. It’s so nimated that Harry falls in love all over again, thus, he grins like a love-sick fool.
“Why? Because I’m beautiful and graceful?”
“Beautiful? Yes. Graceful? Not so much.”
Harry ought to feel offended by the snort Louis’ let out accompanied by his raised eyebrows. Perfectly plucked and trimmed together. Eyes wide and blue. His lips are thin and pink. But he’s not, Harry instead, once again, was innocently bewitched by such beauty.
“I know, that’s why you’re in love with me, aren’t you?”
He confidently stated, because he knows. Soulmates or whatever. He is secure by the fact that Louis’ is his as much as he is Louis’. Therefore the sigh of contentment was so tangible and visible as he continued stretching under the sun on their long and wide terrace.
The warmth sensation sends pleasure on his skin. He can feel its energy coursing through his veins, and touching every inch of his being. And the strength of Louis’ gaze was an even more motivating purpose if he did raise his bum in the air a bit, accentuating the curves of his body. In ways he knows Louis can never resist.
Maybe he is just like a cat after all, taking pleasure on a normal sunday blues.
-
“Have you heard?” Harry screamed the moment he got past the threshold of their doorway. Rushing as always to avoid any lingering presence that might follow him to where they are residing and taking away every ounce of their privacy.
Harry might just take all of their eyeballs out. One by one. Such a beautiful temptation. One that Harry has been deprived of.
“What?” Louis’ voice groggy of sleep and a home of softness as he gets up from where he’s splayed out on the couch. A thick blanket covering him like a piece of burrito. He looks so malleable, Harry has inwardly turned into a pile of goo.
“Apparently, as per the parazzie who crowded on me when I went to do my shopping, there will be a party tomorrow.”
Harry carefully threaded, his lips pulled into a barely contained grin as he watched Louis’ face. Meticulously taking notes of every expression that would grace him when he finally understood what Harry was babbling on about.
Interest. Excitement. Calmness. Those are emotions that played out in front of him. In every Louis’ fashion. Animated and highly calculated in a way not many were able to solve. Harry is one of the many who were able to. The trick is, not to solve but to understand him as if he’s a pattern. To deconstruct and entangle his purpose. Only then would everything Louis will be laid out in front of your eyes like a blueprint. Perfect and detailed.
“Oh really? Is it the party?
“The same party we have been waiting for.” Harry grins like he’s the devil himself. Wide, cunning and beautiful.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. 2000hours at the Grand Royale.” He hummed nonchalantly. As if the importance of such information were nonexistent.
He watches on as Louis slowly stood up from where he was sprawled over. Thighs strong and flexing with vigour. Harry’s mouth water. He longs to taste them. To bite and to suck until he can no longer breathe.
Louis walked over to where he was leaning against the wall. Steps slow and calculated. As calculated as he is beautiful. Like a predator of clever purpose ready to pounce on his most innocent prey. Blue eyes glinting in delight, any sane man would fear for their life should they be able to witness its deceitfulness.
With a smirk, Louis grasps both of his checks. Gripping it tightly, it would be enough to leave a mark. Thumb caressing against his bottom lips that Harry immediately licks and sucks on.
“You, my darling, is an angel.”
“Last time I checked, I have already been corrupted by you in all the ways possible,” Harry stated as matter of fact. Tongue twisted and busy licking the pad of Louis’ thumbs. Eyes half lidded in promised bliss, his eyelashes flattering slowly.
“You enjoyed it.”
“Who wouldn’t? Nobody worships me like you do.”
“Just rightfully so. You were made to be worshipped and devoured at the same time, my little precious.”
“Be careful, Lou. Golum went crazy over his little precious. We wouldn’t want that happening to you too,” Harry teasingly remarked as he moved away from the hypnotism of Louis’ blue eyes.
His laughter echoed on the four walls of their lounge as he quickly moved up to their bedroom. His steps follow that of a choreographed dance that makes his curls flop beautifully against his shoulders.
“I already am.”
-
They’re in their basement. Oak doors tightly shut on the right side. The low humming of classical music echoes like a bullet in the dark as Harry and Louis’ carefully choose what to wear. The place is filled to the brim with all types of clothing. A collection that they have managed to acquire over the years.
They’re a firm believer that who you are as an individual goes beyond the smiles you show, the hugs you envelop someone, but also from the way clothes wrap around your body, the way the colours of every piece of fabric mould with your skin tone. For Harry, clothes are what shapes an individual. He cannot be blamed for using it all to his advantage. Even if that advantage goes against the moral standard of society. But who would know?
The promise of what tomorrow brings was enough to get them in a certain mindset. Louis would often say that the sight of Harry in his utmost concentration is enough to rival those ‘creepy love stares’ as the fans have called it. In his strongest defence, Harry’s only a helpless victim to the beauty of Louis Tomlinson. He’s great like that, such beauty meant to be admired like a piece of art hanging in a museum. Mona Lisa can never compete.
“Do you think I should wear black?” Louis inquired as he held up the velvety textured three piece suit. The thought of Louis in it makes Harry weak in the knees, ready to pray right there and there. Preferably as Louis’ were tightly grasping his hair whilst looking over the debauched picture of Harry on his knees for the man he’s ready to send anyone to hell for.
He was about to respond, but a glint of white covered in diamonds caught his eyes and it was enough to flood his mind of all the mischievous ideas he could think of. He wants to tease, to dance in the art of absolute want, and to taste the quiet rage of Louis.
“How about you surprise me?” Harry responded in a poorly hidden smirk. The glint in his eyes could surely rival those of the diamonds’. He just wants, wants and be wanted in return. In the most feral and instinctive ways that Harry could be under.
To be the prey, the sheep and picture of purity ready to be defiled in all the perfect little ways a man could imprint its impurity. He knows Louis had noticed the subtle changes in his body. Shoulders now slightly dropped in posture, hunched in a coy and in the smallest portrayal of compliance.
He turned his back from Louis, but he could feel the raise of his eyebrows. A challenge that’s now carefully accepted.
Bingo.
Harry finally let out the smirk he was hiding.
Harry can also hear the thunderous steps of Louis. His stride is purposeful and of vigorous strength that the sound of them echoes. The warmth of his chest now plastered onto his back. The warm puff of his breath graces Harry’s ear. Strong arms holding Harry tightly on his waists. Strong hands splayed on his love handles. Its weight was so grounding that it made his head spin.
“I better not see you in white, or else.”
The command was making Harry feel all sorts of butterflies. But the threat behind his words was a drive that made Harry feel hot and bothered. It makes him shiver, enough to make his manhood perk up.
“Well then, I guess we shall see,” Harry sing-song before stepping out of the way. Moving out of the basement whilst his maniacal laughs made Louis’ spill profanities. He can hear Louis tripping over the pieces of clothing that Harry throws on the floor as he religiously removes them off of him. His mind is going in one direction—their bedroom.
-
He knows exactly how he ended up here. Harry’s acts from the basement were enough to send Louis’ onto the kitchen, humming to himself as he grabbed a glass of water and filled it up with ice. Harry thought Louis was just thirsty, but the sight of glint in his eyes was enough to make Harry glued to the spot. His eyes wide as he observes Louis making his way to where Harry was standing. He looked so casual, so at ease, as if Harry’s mind hadn’t just gone onto a spiral of ideas.
“I want you to strip and lay down on the bed,” Louis’ voice left no room as he continued moving towards their bedroom. Sitting down on a chair as he waited for Harry to start moving and undressing, his legs spread so powerfully that it made Harry want to sit on them. It took him a few seconds to start undressing, daydreams of being on Louis’ lap banished as quick as they came, his fingers shaking in anticipation.
The promise of pleasure were driving him to his insanity, the surge of lusts and terror of surrender touching all of his creases and his ends.
When he’s done, Harry stood in the middle between Louis and their bed. Clothes now perfectly folded. His hands clasped behind his back, eyes dilating every second that passes as he waits. He waited for what felt like hours, his body unsettled whilst Louis was just sitting unmoving and unbothered from where he was sat. It seemed like the hours were endless when he remembered what Louis instructed.
Hurriedly, he ran to the bed. As graceful as a newly born deer could.
“Are you that needy that you couldn’t even follow a simple instruction?”
The thought of disappointing Louis with his inability to do something correctly made him whimper. The shame and devastation of it all crushed Harry’s poor little heart.
Nonetheless, Harry still laid down as perfectly still and comfortable as he could. Legs and arms placed delicately on top of the silk comforter, the darked ink on his arms contrasted heavily against the white glossy textured fabric.
He feels vulnerable, at the complete mercy of Louis. All laid out like jewelries on display for Louis to poke and probe, for Louis to scrutinise by the intensity of his gaze. The ever-changing colours of those blue orbs were a force stronger than anything else, just the sight of them drives Harry to his own madness. Beautiful and pulchritudinous; like a siren placed on earth to wrap Harry by the allure of it all without remorse.
“Raise your arms up,” Louis’ voice was commanding, the strength of it immediately made Harry’s body move on it. His arms now raised above his head, his fingers gripping the headboard metals out of anticipation. He watches on as Louis’ moves towards Harry’s head, dark coloured silk tie in his hand. He’s the perfect definition of calm and nonchalant, it sends a strong urge within Harry to please.
The feeling of silk was a grounding reminder of his vulnerability. Looking up at his reflections on the ceiling, he knows he looks every inch exquisite. The very definition of youth and beauty. Curls splayed out on top of the stacks of pillows, checks painted crimson by the flush of desire, and lips now felt raw.
“You know, I prepared a lot of nice things for you tonight, but your mischief almost made me fall earlier. I don’t think you deserve them anymore.”
“Now, that’s a shame. I thought you already fell for me.”
“You’re so smart, no?”
“Always am, that’s why we’re here in the first place, remember?”
“No, darling. The reason why we’re here in the first place is because you couldn’t behave. Stay still.”
Harry let out a hiss when a drop of cold water unexpectedly hit his cock. He was caught off guard by it. His manhood was now hardened by the sudden change in temperature, the warmth of Louis’ hands suddenly enveloping his cock accompanied by the cold drop of water. The teasing slight stroke made Harry buck up in automatic response. The pad of Louis’ fingers gently touched its slit. Rubbing it rhythmically, as if almost absentmindedly. He could feel its weight against his pelvis when Louis’ finally let it go.
But the sudden wetness and coldness that braced his abdomen made Harry groan in response. The coldness seeped within him and sent shivers and goosebumps all over his body. He should have been anticipating it but he wasn’t. On top of his belly button was the glass of water Louis got from the kitchen, the ice slowly melting and its condensation making a pool on his abdomen.
It’s cold and it pricks on his skin but the pain that resembles those from a sewing needle brings him the nostalgia of a familiar type of pain. Something that Harry embraces like an old friend.
The expectations of which are brought unspoken alongside the glass of water were loud and unyielding. Harry knows of what is expected of him, he knows the severity of the punishment in which may come shall he tif it over. He couldn’t afford to do so. He knows, for sure, being with Louis’ for years, the wild ranges of punishment he may receive should he be unable to follow an instruction unless coloured out.
The strenght of their communication behind their sexual escapades were a constant, a stable presence that both of them knew. Spoken or not, without hesitation, the other obeys and attends to the needs of the other. He knows its foundation was built by the years, the love and trusts they both have for each other. And Harry be damned if he does not fold every second he could get.
“Look at you, like a feast served on a golden platter for me to devour. It’s a shame nobody gets to have you like this, my pet.”
Harry’s eyes are closed, taking in the feeling of every drop of condensation that pools on top of his abdomen. He’s taking pleasure in every flex and subtle movements of his body, the way his muscles contract, and the small drops of sweat that run on his temples. He knew his cheeks were painted pinkish, his nose flaring in exhalation every time Louis’ grazed the birds’ feathers on top of his cock, testing his limits.
He wasn’t able to keep track of every moment Louis makes but he’s aware of his presence. His presence being a pillar of strength and stability for Harry for years now, it’s hard to miss. His thighs flexing and bucking up from where they were laid out every time Louis teasingly touched the feather against his most sensitive spots. It tickles, unbearably so.
The downside of being known by someone, is having all of your weak and strong spots be made aware of. Be used for their advantage, for the pleasure and for the calmness of it all.
It felt like hours of pure torture. His body goes against every ounce of need to move away from every teasing touch of Louis and at the same time to burrow within the warmth of Louis’ body that he knows he exudes without a price.
Harry wants it. He wants everything there is Louis could offer, everything that is Louis Tomlinson. The personification of beauty, of desire, and dominance.
It’s hot and rough and gentle all at once. The chaos of their lust exploding like fireworks in their bedroom. Harry’s legs now spread like butter on top of this bed, filled with the softest fabric and the delicious glide of silk against his skin. His hands tied on the headboard of their bed, the pain from its tightness sends pleasure all over his body.
He knows how he looks. His reflections reflected back at him from their mirror attached on their ceiling. His curls wild and unruly, eyes could rival those of a glass, and lips red bitten raw. He could feel every drop of sweat that touches his skin, wrapping him up in its glint and saltiness. His breathing is rugged and harsh as he tries to reign himself on. To be the best version of himself as he carefully stops himself from squirming away from the heat of Louis’ gaze.
“If you tip over that glass and spill the water, you’d be in your cock cage for a month,'' Harry shivers. His moans louder than thunders as it ricocheted on their bedroom walls, racing against his ragged breathing. The movement of his abdomen poorly contained, his self preservation tested as he tries to remain steady in order not to spill the glass of water carefully placed on top of his moth, the same moth that’s inked beautifully on top of his abdomen.
The thought of being on a cock cage for a month brings him absolute terror, and yet he could see his cock pulsating at the thought of being deprived. Deprived of his release, of his freedom and the satisfaction of feeling the rush of endorphins?. His body responded in all the delicious ways to the threat of his release being controlled, the keys so close yet so out of his reach, bound by the dominating command of Louis’ voice. The power that holds over him enough to make his brain touch its fuzzy edges.
“I bet you’d like that wouldn’t you? The shape of the cock cage wrapping you like a vine, visibly tenting on those tight flared pants you wear on tour, flashing up your innocent fans. What would they think?”
His dick twitches from the prospect of being known, of being talked about. The idea of his fans, their shared fans coming up to the conclusion of Harry being deprived off, and knowing who deprives him off of it. The manna of it makes Harry even more on edge, tensing from the added caress of Louis’ fingers on his chest and his buds, were enough to send Harry on the depths of his mind.
He’s free falling, giving in the desire that overflows within him by the sole combination of words and touch of Louis.
And when he gathered his bearings, it was by the soft caress of Louis’ fingers on his curls. Low humming and gentle murmur of reminders graced his ears, sending buckets of butterflies in his stomach. The warmth of both their bodies mingling and melting against the other. He knows it’s just the start of the night, and he knows they’re far from being down.
Although, he feels cared for beyond belief.
“You’re back.”
“I am, it’s been a while since we have done that.”
“It has been, I was hoping you would have lasted longer,” Harry pouted at that. Louis’ grin always makes him feel giddy.
“I was just out of practice.”
“Sure sure.”
“You’re still hard.”
“I am, what do you want to do about it?”
“I wouldn’t mind having a taste.”
“What are you waiting for then?”
-
Harry wore white.
When he walked through the front door of the private venue, he felt otherworldly. His body filled with excitement. The thrill of what the night holds for him brings him a rush of electricity. Harry, who had left the house on his own, and who had arrived by himself, couldn’t help the giggles he let out. He knew he was about to pissed off Louis, who had arrived on his own.
As part of the challenge, the surprise, they chose to prepare themselves away from the prying eyes of the other. Thus, Harry is beyond clueless what Louis would have worn when he left. But he knows that whatever Louis will choose to wear, it wouldn’t deter the fact that he would be on his knees the moment they get a simple ounce of privacy, as always. In Harry’s complete defence, he’s only a fool who’s weak and in love with Louis.
The same love who brings him soft touches, forehead kisses and at the same time drives him to become a sobbing, whimpering mess. It’s a double edge sword afterall.
With profound motivation, Harry moved towards the dancefloor. Right hand holding a glass of champagne. His body moved on their own accord, swaying to the throes of music, the melody caressing his ears like an old lover. The sensuality of it contrasted heavily against the rough and callousness of the hands now grasping Harry’s waists.
He knew who it belonged to. Having observed the man all throughout the night. The same man who held the party, the same man who Harry cannot wait to devour alive. To paint him of his own devotion. He knew, without hesitation, that it’s the same man having been made sure that he dances within arms length of him. And so with full certainty, Harry moves with even more grace, his derrière rubbing against the disappointing bulge of the man. It’s not as packed as Louis’.
“You look good enough to eat, sweetheart.” Harry tried to contain the shivers that ran through his body. It’s a poor attempt at doing so. He could smell the breath of the man panning against his cheeks. He feels nothing but disgusts, but for the sake of it all, he carries on.
Harry could feel the intensity of the sight he longs to have all night. He knew of the rage that must have been running all over his body right now. He also knew of the beauty, the stoicism and dominance in which his lover exudes from across where he’s dancing. He also knew of the glass of vodka Louis’ now rhythmically shaking as he leaned against a stunning pillar. It’s meant to be discreet, the secrecy of their thread meant to be kept behind closed doors.
“Get me a drink?” Harry asks, plans in motion.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
Like the fool that he is, he left Harry on the dance floor. He wonders where did this man had left his manners. Maybe it’s like that, too much money had gone to his head, that it made him even more of a dunderhead. He questions how this man survives the world of money, of business and entertainment.
A cutthroat world to be in, the same world both he and Louis are still thriving and constantly working to survive. Harry followed the man to the bar, leaving a wink on the blue-eyed gentleman following his every movement like a hawk. If Harry did sway his hips purposely, his dress accentuating the curves of his body, then no one has to know.
A few steps away from the man leaning against the bar top, Harry turned on the charm that makes him Harry Styles. Just a simple raise on his shoulders, a subtle lift of his chin and puckering of his lips. He knows he looks every bit magnificent. His beauty is shaped well with the dress he’s wearing, pure and elegant.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Harry attempted to hold in his disgusts at the horrible concoction handed in to him. It’s pink strawberry and mint going against the whiskey that he could smell miles away.
“Most thoughtful of you. Perhaps, there’s a place we can be?”
Harry knows the script well. It’s the same script he has been using all the time. Simple, formulaic yet effective. A few bats of his eyelashes and coy body language is usually a combination of deadly and cunning, enough to bring men like this man to their knees.
In despair and in every definition of lifeless.
Harry observes as the man grin like a maniac. His face morphs into a sardonic version of the devil, yet the difference is, the devil inflicts acts of gifts to those who deserve.
“Of course, shall we?”
He accepted the outstretched hands. It felt weird to be holding a hand other than Louis’ but he persevered. He knows Louis will be lurkin in the shadows, alert and ready to intervene, shall he needs to.
Thus, he feels safe, and that’s all that matters for him.
-
“You know what the price is for love?” Harry sat quietly on the vast dark red sofa. It’s leather, a constant reminder of power and dominance in which the rich hold over anyone. His legs were placed perfectly, with great poised, against one another. A gold chain delicately glistened against the light from where it was wrapped on his thighs. The slit of his dress showed a large portion of his skin. Milky white and soft by mere observation.
His red painted lips arched daringly as he looked at the man in front of him. The shakes of ice on a glass of whisky were the only sound that echoed in the red room aside from the subtle presence of their breathing.
“Not a great deal, I would say.”
The glint of the man’s eyes were of devilish nature. Terrifying, if only Harry’s not aware of what’s to come.
Harry’s fingers slowly rub on the rim of his wine glass. Red lipstick made their presence known. A beautiful mess, if he says so himself. “You need to try better than that, my darling.”
“A few million bucks, perhaps?”
“Tempting.”
“Over a hundred and a life of luxury in the caribbeans?”
The man, whose name Harry couldn't care less to remember, smirked with utter delight. As if the value of love, of human courage were a product of humour. Arms now spread wide against the backrest of the single sofa he had comforted himself with. Legs encased by the most expensive pair of armani were taking most of the space. It’s a declaration of faux excuse of dominance, of arrogance brought by the enormous—beyond belief amount of money.
Harry stood up, the slit of his dress slipping tenderly. The fabric feels like heaven against his skin. The countless rings in his fingers weighed heavily. Harry, by definition, is of tall stature. He could, if he wants, easily intimidate anyone but for the sole purpose of what he wants, he plays by the rules of his persona.
“Grief.” He whispered against the man’s ear. His lips tenderly touch the softness of his ears. The warmth of his derrière seeping through the high quality fabric of the mans’ pants. Hands now carelessly holding his waist tightly. The weight of his hands disgust Harry.
It’s not as comfortable as he was used to.
He is even more disgusted to have the knowledge that such men were touching an inch of his body. The knowledge that this filth laid his hands on the most treasured part of his body was an even appalling reality.
His eyebrows twitch in fury, however the way his fingers touch the man’s ties were a contradiction of its own. He supposes, it takes a lifetime of understanding to be able to read Harry without even trying to. Which is a blessing in disguise for nights like this.
“Yeah? How would someone pay for that?” The man’s voice was stoic, and yet Harry still managed to notice its subtle quiver. Even the laugh he let out were of forced nature, hands now gripping even tighter onto Harry’s waist.
As if he understood, masked by faux courage. All the same from the faux bravery of which he had built his identity. In reality, he’s as shallow as a puddle. His inability to hold an interesting conversation bores Harry to his demise. His physical attributes are not with great uniqueness either. He’s as faceless as the moving crowd in a rush hour. Easily forgettable. And that’s exactly what Harry would do the moment he’s out of the horrid place they’re in — forget the man even existed in the first place.
Like any other of his needs, this man will just be another file of the faceless encounters he lures like a seafarer.
“This.” And without remorse, Harry decorated the man’s pristine suit in his own form of a vampire's drink. Bright and red. However the stench was enough to make Harry scrunch his nose. With expertise, he stood up and dusted himself.
The man’s eyes were wide in fear and surprise, hands terribly in a hurry to hold all of the crimsons coming out of his now well decorated neck. The gurgling sounds were like music on his ears. With merriment, Harry cleaned the little piece of gift, the dagger that he was holding by a tissue paper before putting it back inside his boots.
“My love, what have I told you?” Harry’s head whipped in delight upon hearing the voice that spoke behind his back. His smile became even wider when he saw the beauty leaning against the doorway. Both hands hidden under the safety of his pockets. Well-fitted bluesuit hugs his lover's body like vines. The strength of his quiff makes Harry weak on his knees, and even weaker when he takes in the sharpness of Louis’ cheekbones. Long lashes panning perfectly against them.
He looks like a dream. A risk and a challenge he’s willing to chase.
Harry slowly made his way towards Louis. As careful as he could with the height of his boots. “To not wear white when having a feast, dearie.” Harry said in delight. Fingers now expertly fixing the collars of Louis’ suit. It looks as perfect as the wearer, as always. But Harry likes its act of service nonetheless.
It’s pretentious. But where’s the fun if not to dip their toes in the luxury of it all?
Harry moved onto Louis’ space like a man on a mission. Their footwear is now touching against the other. His breath, as he is naturally taller than Louis’ panned against the top of his lip. Louis’ hands splayed with purpose and comforting sense against his waist.
“And what did you do?”
Louis rasped in between the little kisses he placed onto Harry’s jaw. The feeling was sensational. It made him sigh in relief, sagging a little. The warmth of his breath was a great reminder of his presence and the heat of where his palms were attached onto his waist were grounding.
“I wore white.”
“Do you know what happens to those who do not obey?”
“They get punished,” Harry sinfully grated whilst arching his back with purpose as he bathed in the feeling of Louis’ lips against the span of his neck. It should be a sin, a crime to be experiencing pleasure in this sinful way when a man a few steps behind them can no longer tell the tale.
It should be a time of sorrow or mourning and extended sympathies but in the case of Harry and Louis’, grief is the only thing they can offer to those who love a man whose existence was as appalling as the one covered in his own blood.
It’s a pleasure to know that this time, not even over a hundred and a life of luxury in the caribbeans can cover its costs. The act that they have done more times than they could count on, inconspicuous becomes a new middle name of theirs as they stayed behind the shadows of their persona, innocent and unsuspecting, which, how it should go. As always.
-
Harry slammed Louis onto the door. His hands hurried in their manner as they unbuttoned the shirt of Louis. His lips dominating Louis’, tongue touching every inch of his mouth. It felt euphoric to be kissing Louis, an act he never gets tired of. Moans and pants echo within their doorway.
It’s fast and hurried, the amount of pent up sexual energies thrumming widely in their veins, ready to be released. It felt like ages when Harry finally got a hold of Louis’ cock, instinctively Louis bucks up on his grief accompanied by the depth of his moans.
“Do you really think you could punish me for wearing white? I don’t think so, my love.”
Harry’s speech was obstructed by the thin lips of Louis. Blue eyes wide and blown, so glassy it reflected so brightly against the moonlight that seeped through their windows.
“Spit,” Harry commanded Louis’, his hands placed in front of Louis’ mouth, prompting him to spit. Without hesitation, Harry wrapped his saliva covered hands onto Louis’ cock. It’s heavy, thick and veiny. Harry moans loudly as his mind plays all of the ways in which the same cock tore him apart, made him fall into his own pool of subconscious vault of desire, the same cock who brought him immeasurable amounts of pleasure.
“That’s right, moan. Moan like a starved man on a desert. Hold onto the pleasure I am giving you like it’s your only lifeline,” he vigorously whispered in Louis' ears, the puff of his breath panning across his baby hairs on his nape. His hands went miles an hour as it struck Louis’ manhood. A series of ‘uh uhs’ ringing like a broken record.
It didn’t take long for Louis to release himself from the binding chain of almost. White ribbons filling up Harry’s hands the moment he touches Louis’ slit. Ropes and ropes of white cum painted his dress, blending in with its colours. Some of it splattered onto his thigh and the golden chains wrapped around it. His body spasms as he did so.
Both of them slumped against the other. Louis’ catching up his breath, his weight heavy against Harrys’.
It’s moments like this where everything went quiet. Their ears ringing by the blinding sensation of being in each other’s arms. The world quite as it moves whilst both of them are catching up by the pace of it all. It’s moments like this where it can be driven by dread or satisfaction but it does not hinder them from embracing their personal chaos, holding onto one another as their inner chaos laid bare and sated.
The sanctity of their existence and the vulnerability in which they have shown one another time and time again allows them to just slow down, to take it all in like no other. It allows them to breathe, to feel every zing of electricity that’s brought by being in each other’s embrace.
“You looked beautiful tonight. I should have expected you’d wear something as gorgeous as you’re wearing now,” the sincerity of Louis’ voice makes him feel valued.
“Silly you. You really think I’d let you win the challenge? Even though you look like you could manhandle me any seconds you want?”
“ Oh no, hun. I could manhandle you anytime I want. It’s not just the look, darling.” It’s silly and fun, is what it is.
“Have we served justice, Lou?” The feeling of contemplation never really left him every time things like this happen. It carries on his mind but just the thought of those who have been taken advantage of, it quickly turned into a rage he couldn’t contain within.
“Justice is defined differently by anyone. What we did, he deserved it. He did unthinkable things to women and children and got away with it, Harry.”
He did. The disgust and inhumane ways in which he made those people suffer makes vile rise and lodge in his throat.
“What difference do we have from him in which we have served justice though, Louis?”
“The difference was that we gave it to him quickly and easily. The nightmare in which he inflicted to the women and children he touched by his filthy paws will forever haunt them.”
Harry leaned down and pressed his weight on top of Louis. His arms wrapped around Louis’ waists as they stood there on the doorway.
“I am glad to have seen you in a dress. Our extensive collection pays off.”
“Me too, it made me feel even prettier. Though, I have always wondered how no one catches up on our act,” it’s a thought that always plagues his mind. All because nobody seemed to have caught on every time they finished a job.
“Who would suspect? The darling of the Music industry, popstar Harry Styles has everyone wrapped in his fingers.”
“I suppose you're right. It must be the curls, or the dimples.”
“Must be.”
The night went on a constellation of murmured and hushed conversation, screams of pleasure and love making, whilst the rest of the world went on on their axis. Harry thought of how grief is the price of love, how there will be no love if grief does not exists in its path, and the women and children whom have been inflected by suchs devastating acts to even mentioned, they would be paying for love in the form of grief as they watch their innocence and youth and freedom being taken away from them without remorse.
For the world of Harry and Louis, they’re popstars by day and Pontius Pilate by night.
How bout some Michael POV for your masterpiece?!!!
This takes place during chapter 2, Michael has just exited the mindspace and is waiting for the agents to question him.
“I take my last chance, to burn a bridge or two”
Michael had passed the point of exhaustion both two days and ten years ago.
The thin, plastic covered cushion in the holding cell at Chaves County Sheriff's Office had the same feel of familiar comfort as his camp bed mattress in the Airstream, both places adequately met his needs after a bender or a brawl. He was never one to shy away from dropping into oblivion, met in the bottom of the bottle or at the end of a long night of working on his ship, until today. Closing his eyes meant slipping into the almost hypnotic state of the mindspace, and then he would hear her voice again.
His mother. Golden and whole for a moment. She was the energy between his cells, the original instructor of his atoms, funneling life into him; to grow and be strong.
“Oh my beloved son, oh you’re here, you’re here already grown and bound, I’m here, but no time, not enough time, there’s so much you should know my beautiful boy, I love you, I love you so much, I will always love you, now go, run, run for me.”
His eyes snapped open as the burn of tears threatened again. Goddamn it, he didn’t have time for that. Taking a deep breath, he stared up at the unremarkable ceiling to force his mind to go quiet. It was an old building, but built soundly. Not a crack in the plaster, not a flaw to betray its age. It housed the broken, who knew where home was but stayed away in the arms of intoxication; the evil, who knew home as a place for violence or thievery, and the lost, who longed for a home but never found the way back. All those souls gathered under its roof, this solid roof that sheltered without wear or tear.
At one time Michael had been all of those; deep into the dark warmth of drunk, or full of crooked wagers from dice games, he had even been picked up on a cold night a time or two with nowhere to go. Marked by violence in a tool shed, the system shocked with such a hard shove on his orbit, that he was knocked forever from the path he once had as a teenager, left to wander in all of those grim directions.
Once upon a time his English teacher assigned to the class, near the end of term with graduation nipping at their heels, some busy work in the form of a ‘where do you see yourself in ten years’ thought experiment. His hand had sketched out a good job, college degree, and a house, while his mind traveled the fantasies of holding the small hands of a child, of helping pat dirt down over a buried seed in his garden, of Alex, always Alex, playing his guitar on the back porch-
Fuck. His bare left hand, now whole and hale, mocked him.
Michael wrenched his mind back to the present, and dug out a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket to wrap over his left hand. He tied a knot, pulling it tight with his teeth. A bitter smile crept over his mouth, using his teeth again for the grip he lost in his hand was familiar at least.
Hopefully whatever trouble that Max was in, was teaching him a lesson in meddling where he wasn’t wanted. High on power Max thought to heal his hand, but took no care to think about the damn consequences of everything, of Noah, of the things Noah was up to in Roswell. He flexed his hand again, the tight constriction of the fabric felt comfortably close to how the scar tissue pulled and tugged over his ruined knuckles. Already there were too many questions to answer, he didn’t need one more on his hand.
As angry as he was at Max, he couldn’t help but hope that the flash of pain/wrong/vacuum wasn’t so serious that he couldn’t be useful now. Ride into the Sheriff’s Office, explain away the questions to his boss about Noah and Racist Hank, so Michael could be released without need of Alex and Alex’s story.
Goddamn it Alex. Showing up at the Wild Pony, those hopeful dark eyes turning wounded and betrayed as he realized that just because he didn’t see Michael as suitable, someone else did. Like he had the right to protest Michael moving on from them. It wasn’t Michael saying that they couldn’t be together because of Michael’s record, and it certainly wasn’t Michael saying that their relationship wasn’t worthy of a pyrotechnic breakup.
And yet. When the pyrotechnics were happening, Alex was there. Immovable. Saying everything that Michael had longed to hear for ten long years.
“I love you. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you and I would give anything to have this story be true, that you were mine all along.”
A tear slipped down his unshaven face as he blinked rapidly. Alex was so stupid, how could he miss the fact that Michael had been his? Across the years, through two different battlefields, and after Alex had finally come home, Michael had worn two concrete boots, Alex and Isobel. Each his own anchor to this planet, as he worked to complete his ship.
The door swung open, startling Michael off the bunk, as a tall, dark haired man was escorted into the room by Agent Ross, who shot Michael an annoyed look. “Just knock on the door when you’re ready.”
The imposing cut of the military uniform and densely packed square of ribbons on his chest sent a shivered down Michael’s spine. It was only just over two days since Michael had been involved in the destruction of a secret military operation.
“Michael Guerin?”
“Depends on who is asking.”
“I’m Major Mark Torres, attached to the JAG office at Kirtland Air Force Base.” The officer tucked his cover under his arm and held his hand out toward Michael.
None of what this Mark Torres said made any sense to him. Kirtland was three hours away, Holloman was the closest base to the Caulfield facility. Michael lifted his eyebrows mockingly, but made no move to step closer to the open cell door, “That’s nice and all, but I’ve got nothing to say to anyone until my lawyer shows up.”
An amused smirk flitted over his mouth, “I am your lawyer, Alex sent me.” Instead of waiting for a response, Mark entered the cell and took a seat on the bunk, turning to Michael with a patient expectation. He placed the brim of his cover next to Michael’s black cowboy hat and then pulled his slim briefcase into his lap. “I admit, this isn’t how I expected to meet you, the infamous Michael.”
“Alex got me an Air Force lawyer?” The rest of that implication, that Alex had spoken of them to anyone in the past, let alone someone in the service was too much to even think about.
“I’m a lawyer who’s in the Air Force, and I’m doing this in the civilian court system pro-bono,” Mark replied easily, and popped the fasteners of his briefcase open to pull out a yellow legal pad and a pen. “Now that we’ve covered why I’m here, let’s talk about why you’re here. Tell me everything you know about Noah Bracken, what your connection to him, why the police might think you’re involved with his disappearance, and why they found a body when they came to question you.”
Michael stared at Major Mark Torres for a long moment, weighing his extremely limited options. The distant place inside him, where his faint connection to Max lived, was still and empty. He rubbed his wrapped fist against his face before sighing as he took a seat next to him. Alex said to trust him that he would get Michael out of this, and whatever mess that lay between them after Caulfield and now Maria, Michael believed wholeheartedly that Alex didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.
As a rule Alex Manes didn’t make promises at all, to anyone, least of all to Michael.
“I know Noah Bracken, I mean everyone does in this town and I have a record, petty shit obviously, but that’s enough I guess for them to suspect me. But I have an alibi, I was with my boyfriend all night- hell, I’m with him every night. We’re kinda makin’ up for lost time since he was in Iraq, until well-”
“You’re referring to Captain Alexander Manes, correct?” Mark asked, scratching notes down on his pad without looking up.
“No one calls him ‘Alexander’, but yeah. Alex.” Michael licked his lips almost nervously, before he took a deep breath. This was the easy part of the alibi. “Alex is everything to me. I fell in love with him when we were seventeen, and I never stopped fallin’.”
“He did mention you were a romantic.” Mark nodded in approval of Michael’s words and capped his pen, “let’s start with the last time people saw Bracken in public at that-, good God, this town has a museum dedicated to aliens? What a thing to celebrate. Anyway, Alex tells me you’re a mechanic, that you can fix anything you put your hands on, were you at the gala for business purposes?”
Michael stuttered a little, feeling his face heat in embarrassment. He wasn’t used to anyone singing his praises, let alone a complete stranger. What did Alex say to this guy? “Um I helped do the lighting and sound for the organizer, Isobel. Um, Isobel Evans-Bracken. I left Alex at home, err, my Airstream ‘cause he doesn’t really enjoy the dog-and-pony show even though there was free booze. I gave a friend a ride home, Maria Deluca, and then spent the rest of the evening with Alex. In bed.”
His pen never stopped moving, “and last night, when this Hank Gibbons ended up dead, you were with Alex again? At your Airstream again?”
“Yeah, um, Alex lives pretty far out of town, and I had work in town. Um, during the week he spends a couple nights at mine, on weekends we’re at his place. Compromise.”
Spinning this fairy tale of shared residences to Torres, of disappearing to Alex’s cabin on the weekends and splitting the time apart during the week renewed an ache inside Michael. The slow turn of a bolt, burrowing into his heart as the threads of the light caught on hope and corkscrewed deeper into place.
“No one can corroborate that, correct? Other than Alex?”
“We’ve been keeping our relationship quiet. For personal reasons.”
This time Mark’s pen came to a halt, and he looked over to Michael with a sad understanding smile, “I’ve met Alex’s dad. He’s a first class prick. I’ve never met anyone more different from Alex in my life.”
“That’s for sure. Niger can have him. In fact, I hope he gets Ebola over there.” His eyes glanced up to the video camera on the corner before dropping to Torres again. Michael paused, hedging the risk of this disclosure, before continuing, “I’m not a violent man, but if I were, I wouldn’t bother with the town lawyer or the local racist asshole, it would be to protect Alex from that guy.”
Mark followed his gaze to the camera and back, before nodding. “I think I know all I need to know about you, Michael. Let’s go clear this up with the locals and get you released.”
***
“You were with Captain Manes all night? You didn’t leave at all?” Agent Ross asked quietly, his thin face placid, while his partner, Agent Rollins barely held back the curl of disgust from his face.
“Have you seen Alex? Like dude, I know I’m punching way above my class with him, you would have to be crazy to leave a bed that had him in it.” Michael smirked, fiddling with his hat on the table. Next to him, Major Torres stayed quiet taking notes.
“And he can confirm that?”
“Yes. I know he didn’t let you have a good look, but my Airstream isn’t big enough for him to miss me leaving. Trust me. We were together all night.”
“Let’s go back to the fight you had with Mr. Bracken-”
“Man, that’s bullshit, okay?!” Michael cut him off, “I did not have a fight with Noah, and whoever says differently is lying.”
Mark set down his pen to touch Michael’s hand lightly, before looking at the two agents evenly, “one eyewitness, on a dark night, does not overturn the alibi provided by Captain Manes. Let’s move on, shall we?”
“This relationship you’re in with Captain Manes, he’s alluded to the fact that it was kept secret. I find that rather convenient, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to help out a friend. Maybe cover up the fact you were having an affair with the wife of our missing lawyer?” Rollins smirked, exchanging glances with his partner.
It took a moment before Michael could catch the inference, and then only Mark’s tight grip on his wrist kept him in his seat. “Wait?! You think I’m lying about Alex to cover up for an affair with Isobel? What the fuck, man? Number one, that’s gross on a number of levels, number two, Alex is the most stubborn man alive, but he’s also the most honorable. He wouldn’t do that for anyone, especially not about adultery. He could get court martialed for that shit.”
Ross picked up his turn to provoke, offering another even almost-bored question to Michael, “I see, you deny that an affair was going on with Ms. Bracken. So you’re not attracted to women then?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Torres protested.
“Mr. Guerin opened the door earlier, basing his alibi on how attractive a bed partner Captain Manes was.”
Michael took a deep breath again, pushing down the nettled feelings of exposure. Of all things he thought he would be discussing at the sheriff’s office, this wasn’t anywhere on the list. “Not that it’s relevant, but I’m bisexual, yes. I’m also monogamous. It’s not that difficult to understand. I love Alex, I wouldn’t cheat on him with anyone.”
“So on the night of the Gala, that was thrown by your platonic good friend Mrs. Bracken, you were there, without Captain Manes, but in the company of a Ms. Maria Deluca. Another platonic friend, I assume. Do you remember anyone bothering Mr. Bracken? Someone who might have wanted to harm him?”
***
Hours later, after they had combed through every minute of Michael’s time at the gala and the night before when Hank Gibbons was at the Wild Pony, the agents finally concluded their questions and granted his release from temporary custody. There was still an air of disbelief from both agents regarding his alibi being with Alex.
From the outside, Michael couldn’t blame them. Even setting aside his spotty employment record, rap sheet, and history of being in care of the state, anyone with eyes could see that Alex Manes was a man who could have his pick of partners. Why would he pick the outcast of Roswell? It didn’t make sense to Michael that was for sure, and that had been true almost from the beginning.
“This was fun, Agent Rollins. Let me know if you want me to go over my movements from the other night again, and Alex’s even better movements. I can really open up on that, if it helps,” Michael offered, stomping the blood back into his boots as he left the interview room eagerly.
There was some satisfaction in seeing out of the corner of his eye, Agent Rollins looking as if he had bit into a lemon.
Next to him, Torres grabbed Michael’s forearm with a warning squeeze and steered him down the hall where Alex was waiting with a worried expression. “What my client means is, you have my number if you wish to schedule a follow-up interview. We’re happy to cooperate in any investigation, especially if it leads to Mr Bracken returning safely home.”
Alex’s eyes flickered from Torres’s hand on his shoulder to the agents and back to Michael, but there was a hint of smug satisfaction in those dark eyes. Somehow Michael knew that Alex was holding back amusement over his graphic words to the bigoted agent. Well, there was no sense in not completing the performance.
He moved into Alex’s space comfortably, and brought his hands to Alex’s neck to draw him into a kiss. His last memory of kissing Alex, had been handled and revisited to the point of being thread-bare before being set aside as an old fantasy out of reach. Feeling Alex’s arms come up and hold him close, sent shocks down his fingertips as he cupped Alex’s chin to hide the chasteness of the kiss from view.
Alex wasn’t playing fair in return.
Those big, firm hands of his slid up Michael’s back, and threaded into the sweat-thick curls of his hair. Michael felt Alex’s lips part against his, that clever hot mouth opening to Michael, and nothing tempted Michael more in that moment, than following Alex’s lead.
That long bolt of the lie, turned deeper inside him, shredding the few safeguards he had in place. Alex loved him, Alex wanted to protect him, Alex had never stayed before- so many truths, so many reasons he wasn’t able to trust this especially now. Michael kept his mouth closed, and after a second, he felt Alex back away. They were good at that at least, retreating.
Alex’s cheeks were warm, probably from the public nature of the kiss, even as his face showed only the firm resolve of their shared story. His eyes drifted down, playing his role of a shy lover with Michael expertly. “You uh, ready to go home then?”
“Long past ready, darlin’.” Michael exhaled tiredly, already wondering how he was going to make it through this without losing more of his heart than he had to spare in the process. He reached for the familiar weight of his hat in his hand, and tipped it to the still watching agents.
Isaac had started falling for Stiles shortly after his Dad died.
He wasn’t sure if it was some kind of last “fuck you” at his dead father or just teenage hormones, either way his father would have been so angry. It would have been the icing on the cake, his already disappointment of a son, liking boys? He wouldn’t have been lucky enough to get the freezer after that.
It doesn’t matter though, his Dad is dead and Isaac himself is a potentially gay werewolf. Funny how things can change in such a short amount of time.
Isaac is not quite sure why he is even having these Stiles related feelings.
Stiles is absolutely infuriating.
He’s sarcastic, he never stops talking and he makes far too many arm movements.
Stiles is all dark hair, pale skin and ridiculous brown eyes. He is funny and smart and he has made it clear on several occasions that he can take care of himself. Okay, maybe there is some indication as to why he is having these Stiles related feelings.
Aside from all that, Isaac thinks it has to do with the fact that Stiles doesn’t look at him like he’s pathetic. Doesn’t look at him with pity, doesn’t dance around the fact his father was an abusive bastard. Stiles is as blunt as a hammer.
Isaac isn’t sure if the banter that occurs between them is actually banter or if Stiles just hates him, but he’s glad that Stiles treats him like a normal human being, how Stiles doesn’t change how he behaves or what he says just because Isaac has a traumatic past.
Then there was, what Isaac has started referring to as “The motel incident”, when all the old thoughts came back at Isaac tenfold. He was scared and pathetic and Stiles was the one who saved him. The one who stopped him from going out of his mind. He was doomed after that.
Stiles is usually the one trying to help save them all, even if he does voice a desire not to whilst doing it. Thinking of Stiles is a bit like drowning Isaac thinks, utterly consuming.
It does not help that Stiles is everywhere. At school, at lacrosse practice, along for all supernatural and werewolf related occurrences. How is Isaac meant to get over these feelings if Stiles is a heartbeat away, making some witty remark, pulling a goofy smile and always so determined to sort everything out.
He just needs to get over him.
Then everything changed. Things go from bad to worse. The Alpha pack, the nemeton.
Stiles is suddenly a shell of himself and there is nothing Isaac can do but watch. He tries to help, tries to show Stiles that he cares but it’s too little too late.
Allison and Scott have changed too, but for some reason it’s different. Scott is too busy trying to help everyone else as usual, keeps whatever darkness there is at bay. Isaac keeps a close eye on him just in case. It’s easier now they live under the same roof.
Then there is Allison. She tried to help him before, even when she didn’t have to, so it is the least Isaac can do to try and help her as well. He talks to her at school, makes sure she is okay. They start to spend more time together. They talk about all the weird stuff that is going on and what they’re going to do, strategies to help. They talk about how they wish sometimes that everything could just be normal. Allison smiles at him and Isaac’s heart jumps in his chest and he focuses his attention on her. On making her smile at him like that again.
He tries to ignore the feeling of guilt in his stomach in relation to Scott. He pushes it down with the tight feeling in his chest every time he thinks of Stiles.
Isaac started falling for Allison shortly after the Alpha pack rolled into town and almost killed them all. So it would appear that Isaac isn’t a potentially gay werewolf. Allison is kind and beautiful and makes his heart race.
She is all dark hair, pale skin and ridiculous brown eyes. She is funny and smart and she has made it clear on several occasions that she can take care of herself.
