Chapter:

Lonely Hearts and Jagged Edges

Part Three of Seven


Warnings/Tags: Disaster!Harry. Distaster!Jon. Miscommunication. Attempted Clothes Stealing.


Jon & Haraella


XII

The third time Haraella awakes at three am in as many nights burning from the inside out, she knows she's in the home stretch now. And it was a stretch. A weary emergence from a dark, dreamless sleep, and a reach across her bleary bed, a patting of her loose hand only to find cool blankets and an undented pillow, and a heart rendering jolt of realizing something was gone.

Not there.

Left.

It was always the same. Haraella jerks awake, wide-eyed, and by the time her mind catches up with her blooming Omega senses to tell her that no one should be in her bed, she was already feverishly ruffling through the layers of sleep and cotton desperately searching for pale skin and black curls and the calloused hands she could still feel on her chest-

The third time she catches herself doing it, the third time she flops back into her destroyed nest with sticky fingers and sticky thighs and no-way to stop the burning between her legs-

Bed, it was a bed not a nest, she wasn't a bloody beast, Haraella realized the fight was over. There had been no fight at all, really. Biology wins, full stop.

People will age.

Skin will shed.

Omega's will eventually go into Heat.

If Haraella were lucky by her own estimate she might have… A week left before the big event? Perhaps even less? It was hard to tell, but she knew something was strange, something was… Building up, something was-

Aching and empty.

The throbbing of her glands on her neck, wrists and the inside of her thighs that bruisingly chaff only further highlighted the portentous countdown of the ticking genetic bomb her mother Lily had gifted down to her.

Haraella slunk from her bed then, refusing to look back at the mess of bedsheets she had made, and softly padded into the en suite bathroom, where she forwent splashing and instead dunked her head into a basin full of chilly water. It did very little to cool her off, and when she pulled up and out, choking on urges and tap water, and caught sight of herself in the adjoining mirror above the sink she found herself not looking wholly herself, staring back in the dark. The girl in the mirror-

Her eyes are a little too glassy.

Her pupils a little too blown.

Her cheeks a little too flushed.

Her lips a little too swollen.

A girl made of too much.

Even from under the explosion of white-curls she left unbridled for bed, Haraella could see the blossoming gland on her neck, inflamed and edged in wanting purple, in yearning, in need-

She yanked open the medicine cabinet and snatched her suppressants out from their neat little home on the bottom shelf, popping the lid and not caring as it fell and bounced away across the tiled floor to lay forgotten somewhere by the shower.

Haraella downed them dry, swallowing over the zinc like taste and the knowledge that one night soon, very soon, perhaps in the next week, these little yellow pills would stop working and-

Bam.

Heat.

It was fine. She just needed to hold out a little longer. Just a bit longer.

Hold out for what?

She told herself it was for that LordCommander998. She had already messaged him last night, rearranged their meeting for a week early, and she didn't want to be rude and ask to change plans again, to postpone his life for her, an internet stranger from Reddit of all places.

It was only polite.

It had nothing, nothing, to do with the little voice, particularly loud at three am, that whispered an incessant ,Jon, Jon, Jon, stay for Jon, be good and hold on for Jon-

No. Nothing to do with that.

Things were going… good. Finally. Three days ago he had stayed for dinner, and though Haraella doubted the other's had noticed it, there had been a… Lighter note at the island table. Rhaenys had been a little more chatty. Aegon a little more animated. Rhaegar's smile had been a little less reticent. Lyanna's laughter a little louder. Elia's delight a little more transparent on her face.

The family had been a little more… Whole.

Their little mores mixing with her own little mores, them more themselves, and she a little less, and there was something bitter in that bite Haraella thought.

A bitterness that felt like a lack of control.

Haraella didn't like that. She didn't know how to not be in control. With Tom Riddle running around, it had never been safe enough not to be the one with her hands squarely on the wheel. Yet-

Yet.

It broke Haraella's heart a bit to know she, in some way, had caused that riff and-

Haraella was not going to mess that up because of her fucked-up brain asking her to crawl across the table, right over the gravy boat, toward a lap that was temptingly open and-

It wasn't easy, Merlin it wasn't easy, but Haraella made do. If not for her own bloody dignity, than for the abrupt peace that had settled over the Targaryen town house. Even if, rather suddenly, Jon was seemingly everywhere at once, no longer skirting in the shadows of her periphery, lost in the corner of her eye, out the door by dawn.

He was there at the breakfast nook when Haraella stumbled out from her nest-bed in the morning, mug of lemon tea ready and waiting for her. He was there on the terrace swing when she came traipsing in from the garden barefoot, her handbook for policing students and fluffy blanket folded and waiting at his side, having at least made note of her routine by then after spending years avoiding her possibly. He was there when she hopped out the shower, right by the thermostat, cranking up the heat so she didn't get chilly.

He was-

He was there.

Unexpectedly, irrevocably there.

She hated it. She appreciated it. She felt caged in by it. She felt as if he were not close enough. She-

She didn't exactly know how she felt, not precisely, and that too rubs her the wrong way. If she could just land on one solid emotion, be it anger or joy or something that settled in the crux of her legs, hold onto it like a buoy out at sea, she might just be able to weather the storm.

But she can't.

Haraella can't decide whether she suddenly wants to strangle Jon, hiss at him, or rub up on him like some purring-preening cat and-

She can't decide which way is which, if her heart is in her chest or in her feet, if she was thinking at all or being pulled along in a stream of vague impulses, and Haraella feels all the more jumbled by it all.

Haraella, still coming down from the cresting Heat symptoms by the pills dissolving in her gut, stalled at her bathroom door, gaze falling to her ransacked bed in the moonlight.

If she had been in her right mind, she would have known by now that those little yellow pills weren't working, that her thoughts were still downy-soft, that the fire in her skin was still blistering, that she was still cresting-

But Haraella wasn't in her right mind.

For three days it had been going good. For three days, Haraella had been waking up at three am, missing something from her nest-… bed. For three days, her Heat had been hastening, quickening, speeding right on in where it was, decidedly, not welcomed. For three days, Jon had not so much as left the bloody house to go visit his cousins over at the Winterfell ranch.

She knew what was missing from her bed, knew exactly what was itching her Omega hindbrain into a frenzy, and, then and there, she couldn't seem to summon the energy to pretend that she doesn't know as she could in the day. It must be the night she thinks, something about the darkness that makes secrets want to creep out into the open, into the safe, something about moonlight that makes a person feel… Naked.

Naked and exposed.

Haraella knew, and she knew it was never going to be there in her nest-

Yet.

Maybe, just maybe, like her little yellow pills, like her little mores, there might just be something to temper the urges enough that she could have a full nights rest.

A little hit.

Just a small one.

Her feet were moving before her thoughts had finished, her bedroom door creaking open in the dark, and still faintly dazed from sleep and hormones and instincts, Haraella tip-toed into the hall.


XIII

Haraella's brain comes back to her partly when she's halfway to the kitchen downstairs, and with it the embarrassment of exactly what she was doing.

Shame and guilt, and, of course, an old friend as of late, the heady need.

Still, it doesn't stop her from edging her way towards the kitchen in the pitch black, where she knew the laundry basket from the shared bathrooms would be laying in wait in the corner for morning washing.

She winces at the bottom steps of the staircase.

She's not some… She not-… Circe, she's not a panty sniffer. Haraella wasn't after Jon's bloody boxers like a creep-

Just a hoody, maybe.

A shirt-

One of those grey oxfords.

Yes, one of those.

Definitely one of those.

Something that had soaked him in. Something that held just a little of himself in the weave. Something that would… smell like him. Something she could snatch and run with like she has seen those squirrels do with bird feeders, fold up neatly and place in her nest, maybe by her pillow, something she could breathe in during the night and finally sleep through, and-

Haraella froze by the kitchen door.

The ajar kitchen door.

The ajar kitchen door with pale fluorescent light filtering through the crack.

Shite.

Rhaegar might have had a late night at the office, outrageous overtime pretty common for the countries best defence lawyer, and-

She caught a whiff.

There was a hint of spice, a little like myrrh, a warmth that could heat even the coldest of nights, a spark in the winter, a sour-tangy note of lemongrass, a salivating mouth, and something coolly-clean, something hard to describe, something that reminded Haraella of snowfall on snowdrifts, the kind that almost stings but you couldn't help to breathe in deeper, let it settle in the lungs, hold it there.

Haraella was drawn in helplessly, hooked like a pond fish or those children cartoons, like the Tom-cat with his nose in the air feebly dragged along with the aroma to the pie waiting on the sill, and by the time she was slinking to the door, peeping through, she had a nice clear shot of Jon's back.

He had his back to her, across the chrome and tiled kitchen, by the washer and dryer in the corner, by the laundry basket and-

And there was no grey oxford. No white one either. No jacket, leather or otherwise, or jersey or hoody, just skin.

Pale skin.

Pale skin and muscle.

Pale skin and muscle that bleeds into low hanging pyjama trousers, and black curls that looked like they had been threaded through with trembling hands all night, tousled and sticking up in odd places.

Pale skin and muscle that bleeds into low hanging pyjama trousers, and black curls that looked like they had been threaded through with trembling hands all night, tousled and sticking up in odd places, and something red and gold in his hands, and for a moment, just one, her brain short circuits back to twenty minutes ago, back to her own hazy awakening, back to before her gulp of little yellow pills.

She sees herself in her head padding forward on soft feet, right on up to that pale expanse of back, where she would rub her face across a shoulder, loop an arm around ribcage and cling, and maybe there would be a rumble, deep in her chest, deep in her gut, deep-

Haraella catches herself lifting her foot and she…

She turns and bolts.

She runs, across the hallway, up the stairs, down the corridor, into her room, and she slams the door shut.

Maybe Jon heard her. Maybe Rhaegar and Lyanna and Elia did too. Maybe the entire neighbourhood had heard her clumsy flee, but all she could taste was spice, all she could savour was lemongrass, all she could relish was that cool-clean scent-

Sin.

It all tasted like sin on her tongue and-

And she had nearly done just what she had thought huddled at the kitchen door, nearly marched herself across the pantry and… and what? Nearly ruined the good that was going?

No. No. No

Haraella doesn't come out of her room that night. Not again. Neither does she sleep. Instead she crashes by her door, keeps it to her back, can only trust herself when she's holding it closed as she tries desperately to hold her thoughts back, and only when the sun is beginning to crest above the horizon does she dive for her phone.

By the time she comes tumbling out her room again, Rhaegar, Lyanna, Elia and Hermione are in the kitchen.

And Jon's long gone.


XIV

"Harry, Love, you're going to have to tell me what's wrong at some point."

Haraella Targaryen stopped in her pacing on the back veranda, her answering tone pitched a little too high to be considered anything but desperate.

"Wrong? Wrong? Who said anything was wrong?"

Hermione Granger, sitting on the two-seat swing, the one she and Jon had sat on only yesterday-

Don't think about him. Don't fuckin' do it you creep.

Hermione put down her own mug of tea on the railing, leant forward, elbows on knees, which was the exact same pose Harry had seen the young woman do in her clinical trials, when practicing her psychology, precisely the face of a no-nonsense-don't-bullshit-your-therapist expression.

"You rang me at the crack of dawn, crying might I add, and you only came out of your room when I called you from the kitchen. Now, are you going to tell me what's happened or do I need to go get Rhaegar and-"

"No! Don't do that! They can't know!"

A beat, a breath, a shaky drop.

"Harry… Harry, you're honestly worrying me. Please… I just want to help, alright?"

Hermione stood, but Haraella was already in movement again, pacing, right, swivel, left, swivel.

Movement helped.

Movement kept the thoughts at bay.

"I need… I need to get out of here. Far away. I need… I need to go. Now. Yesterday. Fuck… I need to get the hell out of here. I can't handle it. I thought I could, I really thought I could, but I can't. I can't, Hermione. I can't."

The swing creaked hopelessly as Hermione pulled away from it, reaching for her, clearly, troubled and distraught friend, but Haraella would not slow down.

She couldn't.

"Harry, you have to tell me what's wrong or-"

"Jon's gone."

Hermione frowned confusedly.

"Well… Yes. Sansa came crashing into mine and Margaery's place this morning, before your phone call, spitting feathers. Something about Jon barging in at an ungodly hour, and Mr Stark saying he could stay at their place. Thing is, with the kids all grown and some out of the nest, they've downsized and Sansa had to give up her room and come to ours for the week-"

"Oh, he knows. He knows. Shit. Fuck. I need to Leave. Now."

Harry tried to dash down the veranda stairs, down into the garden, but Hermione was faster, snatching at her arm and, finally, tugging her to a standstill.

"Harry! I'm not going to let you run off into the bloody woods in the state your in-"

"He knows!"

And then, in the gaze of caramel eyes and the face of a dear friend, Harry broke, everything tumbling out like a great flood, a terrific surge.

A terrible, terrible storm.

"I couldn't sleep last night. I couldn't… Jon was in the kitchen, and he must have put two and two together, must have known what I was after, and… He's gone and it's my fault and…"

Hermione shook her head.

"Harry, you're not making any sense."

Harry pulled her arm free.

"But it does make sense. It makes perfect sense. You clocked it right from the get-go. Don't you see? Don't you remember?"

And here it came, in the flood, in the surge, in the daylight, that secret Haraella only let out in the shadows and in the moonlight.

"A bit like your brother, Jon, isn't it? That's what you said to me. I laughed, and I spluttered, and I said it was fuckin' gross…"

The wave broke on the barren shore.

"But I never said no."

Hermione froze, still, silent, and Harry thought this was it, when the horror would come, maybe blame, disappointment surely, disgust ultimately.

There was none of that, however. Only something far worse.

Heartbreak and pity.

"Oh, Harry-"

"So you see? I only… I only wanted his shirt. Something I could hold and… I wasn't going to… He must have figured it out and now Jon's gone and…"

"Harry, you're not thinking fully. Your heading into a Heat and it's making you irrational-"

"And I need to go. I need to leave. I need to get as much distance between us and-"

"Harry, are you even listening to me? Come back inside. Sit down. Have some tea. Aegon and Rhaenys will come and explain-"

"If Jon comes back here, then I haven't really fucked up an entire family. So if I just-"

"They've been together for five years. We thought you knew that. Morgana, Harry, you were there at their anniversary. Did you think it was someone's birthday? Is that why your always giving Rhaenys presents on that day, and not her actual birthday? We thought it was a bit odd but-"

"I need to go. I need to… So thanks for the car keys."

Hermione frowned.

"Wait? What-"

But Harry was already yanking away, lopping into the garden, holding up a set of keys that glinted in the morning sun.

Hermione scrambled for her jean's back pocket.

Her empty jean's back pocket.

"Harry!"

But Haraella was already dashing around the side of the house, for the drive-way, and years on the hockey and lacrosse teams had made her swift of foot, deadly fast, for the little box car waiting on asphalt.

By the time Hermione came around the bend, red-faced and huffing, the car was already pulling off into the road.

"Harry!"

The car disappeared around the bend.


XV

Haraella Targaryen did not know where she was going until she pulled up on the side of the road, gas tank nearly empty, and then thought, of course, there was nowhere else she was going to go.

Godric Hollow greeted her with a bustle of the breeze.

She doesn't know if it is the sight of the old house, the last place her mother had loved and laughed and lived, or the distance she had put between herself and the confusing, instinct-maddening Targaryen town house and all those who live in it, but she feels more present in her own skin sitting in the drivers seat, staring at the blacked-out windows and the untrimmed garden, and the still broken gate Tom Riddle had smashed that Halloween night so many years ago.

Circe knows why Rhaegar had kept the place, let alone given Haraella the key.

Nevertheless, Haraella feels more at hand in her own body, finally, and she also feels hot-scorching embarrassment. Especially when she checks her phone and finds twenty-three missed calls, eleven of which from Rhaegar, and the rest from Lyanna and Elia and Hermione.

One from Margaery as well that she watches come in, and watches it go to voicemail too.

Fuck.

Did they all know now? Had Hermione told them? What did she say?

Your daughter's rightly fucked in the head. I can say that as a psychology student. Real mess inside that brain of hers. My advice? Lock the door.

Haraella can't bear to return the calls, can't stand the thought of hearing someone say and don't come back as so many of her foster parents had when they put in for a little girl and got a feral thing instead that was less into tea-parties and more likely to be found cowering underneath a bed, so she shoots off a text, simple, short, shameful.

Needed some fresh air. Speak later.

She turned her phone off after that, shuts off the spluttering car engine with a twist of the ignition key, locked the door, and made her way to the rundown family home. The key on her chain still works, clicking in the lock, and when she slinks into the dark hallways all she smells is dust, musk, and forgotten memories.

The sound of a bullet fired and Lily Targaryen's dying scream.

Harry would like to blame the latest fuck-up on Tom too, but she can't.

This one, greatly and achingly, was all her own making.

She sags against the couch in the front room, head lolling back, gaze to the cracked plaster above.

The nursery, that fuckin' nursery, would be right above her now.

"I fuckin' hate you."

Harry doesn't know if she was talking to Tom, this house where everything went so bloody wrong so fuckin' fast, or herself. Maybe all three, really. Perhaps they were all just as bad as each other.

Only good for tearing families apart.

She doesn't realize she's crying until Harry felt something warm and wet seep down the corner of her eye, trickling into her hair, leaving behind a salt-trail that would crust in her ear.

She's really gone and done it this time, hadn't she?


XVI

Haraella hadn't realized she had fallen asleep until she awoke curled up on the couch cushions, eyes puffy and bloodshot, nose red and runny, and mouth sand-dry. It took her a while to figure out where she was in the fading evening light, to recognize the wallpaper and the mantel with the thick layer of dust across its top, and to think over the slight pounding in her temple.

Crying yourself to sleep was one sure way to get a headache, then.

Still half-asleep and half-bursting by the misty dream she had been having of black eyes alight with fervour, Harry rolled on the couch, nuzzling her face into the cushions at the back to offer sweet darkness, to ease the thrumming in her head, and the one now emerging between her legs, and tried to drift back into saccharine, sugary slumber-

A floorboard above her head creaked.

Harry's eyes snapped open, the hand that had been, unbiddenly, snaking to the waistband of her joggers, yanked away as if it had been burned.

The nursery.

Harry froze as another thud came from above, this one a little to the left, near the stairs-

The front door was locked. So was the back.

There was a wooden lattice outside around the corner of the house, one that had once been full of roses, one that, if climbed up, would lead you right to the nursery window.

Thud, thud, thud.

Someone was coming down the stairs.

Harry dived off the couch, hitting the floor with her own muted thud before she rolled backward and underneath, small enough to fit between the lower bed of the sofa and the hardwood.

Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud…

Nothing.

She held her breath-

"I know you're here, Harry."

Harry's forehead hit the floor with a dejected thunk, the same kind of thunk that matched the drop of her heart into the acid of her stomach, making it sink and burn.

"Go away, Jon."

He, of course, didn't go away. Instead there was more steps, more thudding, and by the time he broached the living room door, from underneath the couch, Harry could see the shine of his shoes in the golden, evening light.

She wondered what his eyes would look like in the amber glow. Warm? Hot? Dusted in gold-

"What the fuck were you thinking running off like that? Were you even thinking? Do you know what you've put our parents through? Mum rang me up, half out her mind with worry, saying you'd switched your phone off and weren't answering-"

A cramp, a little, tiny spasm in her belly, and it was almost enough to take away the heat of anger in Jon's voice, the burrow it left in her own chest, the little voice in the back of her mind telling her she shouldn't have left. Made Alpha angry-

"Just piss off, yeah?"

Harry barks out from underneath the couch, eye full of shoes, refusing to coming out, refusing to take a full breath, refusing to take in much more of Jon because for some-bloody-reason, the little yellow pills were wearing off and she hadn't grabbed them in her mad dash from the Targaryen town house, hadn't thought of much more than getting away, and now-

Now Jon was here with his bloody scent, and his bloody deep voice, and her throat itched, burned, burned as hot and bright as the spasms in her belly, and Harry can't look at him, can't risk seeing more than his shoes, can't trust herself.

Can never trust herself when it comes to Jon, she's now realizing.

Running had been the best option she had, for Jon.

She thinks she hears the squeak of Jon's shoes on the hardwood, as if he was going to take a step closer, the intake of a breath-

Silence.

"Harry?"

A shudder in the voice, a shiver, a tremble, like a ripple in the deep-black-sea. Harry's nails dug into the cracks in the floor where boards met.

"Go away. Please."

Harry wasn't the kind of girl to ask, normally she did and then she asked for forgiveness after the fact. It had been the only way to survive sometimes. Jon must have known at least that much about her because he lingers where he is, hesitates, and then, slowly, almost begrudgingly, which is obviously something Harry super-imposes on the moment because it's what she wants, wants so bad it hurts, to think he feels as he takes a long stride backwards and away.

"I get it. You saw me in the kitchen in the laun-… You wanted to get away, but you shouldn't have left like that. I was gone and you should have stayed safe at home-… How-"

The sound of a gulp, harsh and dried up.

"How close?"

Harry digs her nails in further, until the beds of them hurt in her fingers, until she feels grounded in the dark of the underneath.

"The pills have stopped working."

Another shaky breath, another step away.

"Is there anyone I can call to-"

Jon doesn't finish the sentence. Maybe the thought disgusts him after what he had figured out last night, after, surely, Hermione had told him what she had been after, and what it would all mean stitched ugly together, and-

Harry feels like a coil, metal wound too tight with no spring to release.

"My phone. Table. Reddit. He should be top in my private messages."

More footsteps, more coiling, more terrible, terrible want on the draft of snowdrifts and myrrh and home.

Harry shoves her face to the floor and snorts in the dust underneath, just to wipe out the scent of Jon from digging up her nose and laying roots in her brain. Her terrible, fucked-up brain-

Thud.

The last one. Heavy, harsh. The sound of Jon sinking onto the table as if he's knees are suddenly weak, maybe as weak as her own.

"LordCommander998?"

Harry doesn't get it, can't grasp it, the sudden, unexpected croak to Jon's voice, as if someone's just reached into his chest, grabbed his lungs, and squeezed the air out.

Was the thought of someone, anyone, wanting her so bloody awful?

"Yes."

Harry hisses.

"Him. Just… Just ask if he can get here before nightfall."

And then go. Please go. Please leave. Please don't put me through this anymore-

"I didn't know you liked John Carpenter films."

He's reading her messages now? Has he seen the pillow-

Nope.

Don't think. Don't speak. Just hold on for a little longer. That's all she had to do. That was all she could do.

"Everybody likes John Carpenter films. It ain't that special. Please can you just… Go now?"

The clink of something being placed down. Her phone perhaps.

Another boiling spasm.

Shit, fuck, bastard-

"Harry… Why did you leave the house?"

Her fingernails were threatening to break off at this point.

"You know why!"

A hum in the air, drawn out and purposefully, the noise imbedding in her skin like it had soft-thorns, soft-thorns that dug down and into her muscles, relaxing them, easing them, making her soft-thorn-warm and gooey.

"Do I? Because I thought I did, but I don't think we're reading from the same page right now."

Was this payback for what she was trying to do last night? A sick little revenge on a nearly stolen shirt? Or because she left and forced him to come looking for her, made Lyanna cry and Rhaegar worry and Elia fret?

Was he really going to make her say it?

Fuck it, if it meant he would piss off, she'd yell it in his face.

Really get the revulsion flowing.

"I was trying to steal one of your shirts from the laundry basket and you bloody caught me and then bolted from the house. I'm not a fuckin' idiot, alright! I get it too. So, please, just leave me be and let me be disgustingly fucked-up on my own, far away, where I can't-"

She chokes.

"Just leave me be."

One more hum, and this one itches the gland in her neck, the one on her thigh and wrist, tickles and melts and leaches in like jasmine oil.

How can one noise make you so boneless?

Jon's responding silence speaks enough to Harry. Tells her there's no going back now that she's said it, admitted it. It's like an open dirty secret-

Not dirty. Sex wasn't dirty outside of mud wrestling, but it was an unspoken secret.

An unspoken secret now spoken that Haraella wanted to fuck her brother.

"Come out from under the sofa."

The thought of facing him head on is enough to bring the fire back to her muscles and bones, to erase the ease his husky hums had brought, to dig her nails back into the hardwood.

"Harry, come out from under the fucking sofa."

There it is again, that deep-rough voice bordering on something it shouldn't border on.

A huff, a few taps, and then a phone is being skidded under the couch towards her, screen lit and on the Reddit app. For a moment, she thinks Jon's just mean enough to throw her messages to LordCommander998 back in her face, but this phone isn't cracked in the corner, has no dented case.

And somehow it still has her messages to LordCommander998 on it, staring starkly back, but their swapped around, bubbled in the wrong colours and-

No…

The phone nearly breaks in her grip, the writhing, needful tremors in her belly a full tidal wave now, threatening to drown her, to drown her nickers and her joggers and her trembling thighs-

It's the worst, and possibly best, time to hear Margaery Tyrell whispering in her head.

"The post, if I'm not mistaken, said; must be between 20-25, lithe, below five-five preferred, and have curly blond hair. The lighter and curlier the better. Must be willing to wear contacts, which I suppose means-coloured contacts in this context."

It was her.

It was her all along, as it was always, always Jon.

"I thought you ran from the house because you saw me trying to swipe your sports jersey from the laundry basket."

There's a disconnect in her head, a sudden, irrevocable moment where all her neurons are firing quick-speed and simmering hot, a flash in her head soaking out everything else echoed by an oh, oh, oh.

Harry doesn't breath, she doesn't move, she can hardly think above the pounding between her legs and the smell of snowdrift seeping under the couch.

She can see Jon's legs from her spot, from where he's sitting on the coffee table and her cheeks pressed against the floor, slacks pressed and spread, feet grounded, and she thinks, maybe, she's dreaming, still curled up on the couch with her hand edging into her knickers and her nose full of lint, but then it comes.

Then it comes.

"Are you going to be good for daddy now, and come out from under the sofa?"

Oh.

Harry scrambles out from underneath the couch.


A.N: The next chapter to this is just plain, dirty, filthy smut. I really do mean that lol, so make sure to read the warnings/tags above when it's published in case you have a trigger or something. We're in the mud from here on out. I know I haven't updated in a while, and a few of you aren't fans of Jon's set on this fic, but I'm easing back into writing, and this was just fun to do which is what I need right now. I hope it was at least a little fun to read, even if you don't particularly like this short story. I will get around to finishing the rest soon.

Hope you guys are looking forward to what's in store, and please don't forget to help a girl out and go drop a review. Hopefully I will see you all soon! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21