Chapter Text
It started off as a half-baked idea, as many ideas such as these tended to when it came to Lyra Black and her untethered mind.
It was fleeting, but forceful. Definitely not sober. A harmless tease, but the kind that transformed mid-thought, wrapped around her throat and snagged on her softest point until her eyes prickled with white dots — though, it lasted only a second or two.
Her gasp was a betrayal that broke the spell and the image scurried back into the crude pits of her mind, hissing at the light she cast on it like a feral cat.
She shouldn't have thought about it, let alone pictured it. But that was why it was so fucking enticing. Because she shouldn't have done it.
Like, really really shouldn't have done that. Her breath stuttered and she swallowed the marble of pressure, clearing the dirty clouded fantasy as she breathed smoke out through her nose. But it lingered, and festered, and stuck to her sweat-slicked skin like a rash she couldn't absolve. It snaked down to between her thighs and generously licked with an obscene amount of pressure she craved more than anything.
She shouldn't have imagined her best friend like that, in such a compromising, degrading position. But then again, this wasn't the first time she'd thought about it, was it?
Why deny the darkness what it wanted more than anything, especially when it felt this dangerous and delicious. Especially when it could've killed her.
Oh boy, I'm actually fucked.
Summertime at the British seaside was either one of two things — unbearably hot and full of annoying tourists flocking to the beach, or miserable and rainy with howling winds that ruined your hair and plans. Weirdly, today appeared to be neither and Lyra was beginning to think that it wasn't a coincidence.
She sat on a flat rock staring out at the waves collapsing against the foamy shore, the already scorching morning sun rising fast over the private Weymouth cove she was hiding in. The breeze stank of weed, both of the sea and the illegal variety, as both expanded her lungs and mind with the hopeful prospect that today was going to be a good day. Her pungent wisps of smoke dissolved toward the sea as Lyra puffed on her joint, her eyes fluttering closed as she waited for the drug to enter her bloodstream and quell the fire that she couldn't seem to douse.
The view was pretty, but it was nothing on the masterpiece playing out in her mind. The real sight she wished she was kneeling in front of, mouth parted in gratitude of its beauty.
Fighting fire with fire wasn't a smart play when she was this overwrought with energy, but the ten bag of green, half pouch of tobacco, and pack of glittery black papers she received from Danielle earlier this morning felt like a blessing in disguise. It was a sign that she needed to take a step back from everything and unwind from the pressures of the world.
A reminder that she was just a girl who deserved to have a fun summer like the rest of the teenagers across the country.
So what if she wanted to get high and fantasise about her best friend…? So what if she was imagining how he might taste if he was standing in front of her, his jeans shoved halfway down his thighs… One of his hands brushing the head of his flushed, salt-flecked cock against her lips while the other tangled and tugged at the back of her head, pleading with her in that pathetic whine he'd never let anyone else hear…
Then so be it!
It was her summer holiday too, God damn it!
Apparently this was what her brain had decided was the definition of summer fun, a.k.a imagining Harry harder than he knew possible and challenging her to take as much of him as she could fit down her throat. And besides, it wasn't like he could see what she was pining for, or hear how fast her heart was racing, or feel how damp her knickers were right now.
He'd never find out, it was just a fantasy.
Lyra pretended to ignore the way her core squeezed and tightened like a throbbing vice, the speed at which her stomach swooped down to her toes and forced them to curl in her trainers at the fabricated whimpers fluttering around the shell of her ear. She huffed and laid back on the rock on her elbows, flicking her lighter with unnecessary force.
Another puff, then another, and then three more just to be sure.
I couldn't—! No, he wouldn't want that. He shouldn't want me like that—
That's a lie.
He absolutely wants me like that.
Her conscience was a bloody traitor or a shining saviour (she hadn't decided yet) as it chopped through denial with cold cut facts like a delicious cliffside picnic. A picturesque tartan blanket display of every little micro-action that served to prove to her that there was plenty of truth to her dirty little secret. And it was served with an ice cold beverage of mutual thirst from a jug they were both drinking from.
She witnessed it with her own two eyes the last time they were together, and her horny high brain couldn't concentrate on anything but it.
Harry wanted her just as desperately. Hungrily, almost, like a juicy piece of fruit he'd been denied his whole childhood and now was allowed to feast upon. And she was sick of pretending otherwise.
It started during the first couple of days into the summer holiday, when she spontaneously swung by the dreary town of Little Whinging to check up on Harry like the good friend she was. He hadn't answered any of her letters so, like an impatient twat, she persuaded Kreacher to hunt him down for her. She was bored out of her mind and he was in need of being bothered, she felt the distance between them like grit in her bones.
Kreacher found Harry hanging out in a second-hand record shop jutting off the side of his local high street, hiding under his baggy hoodie while his fingers skimmed over record crates in search of a copy of the latest Radiohead album. They missed its release while they were at school and had spoken non-stop about buying it on the train ride back.
Lyra debated sneaking up behind him and pouncing on him to see if she could make him squeal, but something about watching him from afar tugged at her chest. The faint scowl on his shrouded face, his head absently bobbing to whatever indie trash the shopkeeper was playing, the crooked smile when he finally found it. She didn't want to interrupt him, though she didn't know why.
He ambled out of the shop front, plastic bag swinging from his wrist, and froze mid-stride once he recognised the curves of her shadow across the road. Their eyes locked and she tipped her head, silently asking him to join her in the cobbled side alley.
"I was just thinking about you," he had greeted her with a tighter-than-usual hug, his voice slightly breathless and gravelled in the way that told her he hadn't spoken in a while. His hands settled at her waist far too long for her not to notice, like they were supposed to be there but he couldn't take the risk.
Her thighs pressed together before she could stop herself, passing it off as a natural tick. She'd laughed at his fondness and asked him to show her around, pleading with him to save her from dying of boredom, and he took her plea incredibly seriously.
And that was when it happened.
Not right then, but an hour full of aimless adventure later. In the dingy upstairs piercing and tattoo parlour he thought she would like, his thoughtful tour stop unlocked the final padlock on her treasure chest of denial. The catalyst for this whirlwind of filth and ridiculousness she'd been stuck in all summer long. The sole fucking reason why she was imagining how depraved he'd look if he begged her to let him fuck her mouth on this beach right now.
The dimly-lit shop was practically a corridor, half of the shop floor felt like a crammed aisle of a library, barely big enough for two people. Oud incense hung heavy around shelves sparkling with piercing displays, rows of coloured glass bongs and novelty grinders, black magic candle sets— essentially a plethora of dangerous things that sparked her interest and screamed 'alternative delinquent'.
And he stood directly behind her. His hoodie was unzipped and the heat radiating off of him rousing every inch of her spine through her thin cotton t-shirt. If she took even the smallest of steps back, then he would have been awfully acquainted with more than just her back.
"Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?" She asked him while they flicked through the poster stand of tattoo flash sheets, befuddled by the vast range of tattoo artists in the area. She hardly noticed his proximity at first, like an idiot. "Damn, these are actually decent, just look at the line work on that."
She pointed at the melted depiction of Edvard Munch's The Scream in a neat rectangle, stunningly detailed and kinda scary. "I couldn't name you one person that could make that work."
Harry squinted, scratching his jaw in thought. "What about Luna? I could see her having that on her leg."
Lyra scoffed, impressed and a little offended that he didn't say her name.
"Yeah but that's not a fair answer, Luna could rock any of these," she continued to flick past sheets of cutesy outlines of flowers, all kinds of skulls, intricate copies of famous fantasy swords, and faded delicate dotwork that was purposely aged for effect. "And you didn't answer my question. Have you ever wanted a tattoo?"
"Not really, I don't think I'd suit one. They're cool and I'm anything but," he answered quietly, reaching over her to resume their browsing. She was taking too long admiring the sun and moon page, particularly the whimsical design depicting them as lovers, and goosebumps pricked the nape of her neck as his arm glided by. A tickle of his arm hair and boyish heat, his scent rushed over her and she inhaled out of instinct.
Something inside of her fell into place, a switch flicking right.
"Shut up, you're too cool for tattoos. I think you'd suit then, maybe you just haven't found the right design yet," she mused, glancing up at him with an idea already forming on her mental sketch pad. "Or maybe—,"
"—you think you should design one for me?" He finished for her without breaking eye contact with the next page of tattoos. Rich colour flushed his cheeks and he swallowed, the indulgent motion drawing her eye. "I don't even know where to begin with that. If you had your way then I'd be covered in, I don't know, a load of creepy runes."
"I will pretend that was a compliment, you'd be so lucky to get a Black original for free," she tutted, turning back to admire the next set, and she choked on her gasp as she came face to face with a dozen gorgeous pin-up girls with perky breasts and plump arses winking and waving at them.
A cheeky sailor girl straddling an anchor, mouth open in ecstasy, a sultry siren with green nipples and seaweed pubic hair. Even a kinky alien girl with three large tits and two strategically placed tentacles.
"Woah. Now that's a tattoo."
At first, she was fine with the fact that she and Harry were staring wide-eyed at a pantheon of pornagraphic pin-ups girls showing off their bodies in quite creative fashions. This wasn't the first time they'd accidentally stumbled across lewd material together, considering they attended a boarding school and Lyra was far too nosy for her own good as the Gryffindor boys had regrettably found out countless times before. At least these women were drawn rather tastefully, a small part of Lyra genuinely considered getting one of them for herself.
But then Harry made a comment and her whole world imploded.
"If you were a tattoo, you'd be that one."
Oh.
It hit her all at once.
Speechless, Lyra followed his gaze and spotted the devilish culprit amongst the angels instantly. The sheer force of the fire punching through her ignited her cheeks, unintentionally mirroring the sensual crimson skin of the devil girl that resembled her in a way that made her shy. Ink black curls, pouty lips, unapologetic bare curves and a dusting of freckles that she couldn't believe were real. None of the other pin-ups were freckled, none of others would have suited them either.
"Mhm, I mean, she does have my tits after all!" she snorted unflatteringly, trying to joke through her heavy breathing though she couldn't feel the sheen of sweat glazing the back of her legs. The back of her arms, the curve of her neck he was mere inches from. Had he always smelt this good or was it the incense?
"And your arse," his voice dropped, wary of the tattoo artist babbling on to a customer at the end of their aisle. Her eyes fluttered as his hot breath teased her. She couldn't look up at him, her head wouldn't move. "She's got your arse too, that's literally you in your true form."
Fuck.
Lyra cocked her head and bit her lip, picturing herself in the pin-up's twisted sexy pose that accentuated both her chest and her shiny cheeks. She was on her kneels, forearms lifting the back of her curls with a temptress' wink that she knew too well.
Harry was right.
"Is that the kind of tattoo you'd have then?" She purred, purposely catching his eye now — and her core clenched around nothing, pulsing for something to devour when his eyes darkened.
It changed his entire face, and whether he meant for her to see it or not she would never know. There was a primal hunger in his eye she'd seen in other boys before, not him. The fantasy the tattoo triggered in his mind's eye flashed crimson in his own, and they darted to her lips for half a second before flicking back to the naked devil girl drawing.
"Depends," he murmured back, barely a whisper, barely a joke.
Lyra didn't want it to be. Not anymore.
"On what?"
Something glinted back at her in those God damn dark eyes of his and she swore she felt it trickle down the inside of her thigh.
"On whether I could endure everyone finding out I had a naked tattoo of you on my body," his voice fractured, failing, but she hadn't noticed.
The words landed between them like a spark catching a shard of dry grass, but then he faltered and stepped away, turning to find purchase in anything else. Dousing the fire with a panic spray of doubt, backing away before he had the chance to flirt back.
"Obviously— It's not you, I— I couldn't pull that off. I mean, not that it's not pretty. It's cool," he coughed as though suddenly remembering where they were and who he was, pretending to browse through the array of rainbow hair dye instead. "It wouldn't suit me, but it would suit you."
Lyra could only laugh as his awkward inner-saboteur spoiled the confidence she yearned from him. The kind of confidence she only saw when he wasn't fully focusing, like when he'd been drinking or exhausted after a particularly draining day. When his guard was completely at ease and he fell into her safe embrace without doubt whispering in his ear conspiring against her.
But she also understood why he had this uncrackable guard. Their friendship was their rock, what they'd built between them meant more than blood at this point in their lives — they were basically family. Neither of them wanted to ruin what they had, one wrong move could cost them their world and they weren't prepared to take that gamble.
His hesitation was a trauma response, one she knew like an old jacket she couldn't give away yet, but as she sat on the flat rock, breathing in time with the rolling shore and caws of the seagulls flying overhead, she decided the risk was worth it. Like her father always said, life was made to be risked for love.
And her life felt meaningless without Harry.
"Fuck," Lyra kneed the resolution from her warm forehead and flicked the ashened tip of her joint into the sand, trying not to collapse. "This is it. No more holding back, no more resisting."
She slapped her hands in her thighs and spoke solely to the glimmering sapphire ocean that had never looked more inviting. "It's gonna happen today."
She sat up straight and checked her watch, slightly bleary-eyed from the joint.
09:48
It was happening in exactly twenty one minutes, to be precise.
Because at approximately nine minutes past ten, a grimy buttercup yellow Wessex Electric train will pull into the sunny Weymouth train station. The doors will hiss as they slide open, and she will either go into cardiac arrest or melt into a puddle when a certain best friend with anger issues, the kindest heart, and what she once felt to be at least seven ample inches will appear at the spoked gates like the lanky cherub he was.
It was the final bank holiday of the summer, and Lyra had invited him to stay with her at her social worker turned big sister's free flat for three whole days. Danielle was in Wales visiting her family, and Harry jumped at the chance of playing house for the weekend.
And she couldn't bloody wait.
"Kiss it for me, Ly… Please baby, just suck on the head, just a little bit—,"
Lyra groaned as she stretched, the phantom growls from fantasy Harry getting way too ahead of himself confounding her as she tried to bring herself back to reality. The languid ooze of the weed in her system helped her muscles glide like butter, but the subsequent mind filth wasn't ideal. How the fuck was she supposed to look him in the face and act normal?
"This is going to be so much fun," she giggled, readjusting her tight running shorts and cropped hoodie before snapping her headphones on. Nine Inch Nails gave her no warning before blasting away, setting the intense pace of her run from the get go, and she embraced the passion that rushed through her as adrenaline kicked in.
Harry had no idea what was heading his way, and neither did she.