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shoo the gloomy birds away

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Her eyes open to mild darkness, the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains just enough to make out silhouettes and shapes around the room. The mattress dips beside her, and she only needs to turn her head a little to see Scott rolling onto his side, looking down at her. He's frowning, she thinks. He's too close to see clearly, but he moves jerkily, like her waking up woke him up.

"Are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?" he says, a tenuous whisper of a breath because his mom is down the hall and doesn't know Allison's here. At least Allison hopes so; Mrs. McCall probably suspects there's someone in Scott's room from the locked door, but Allison doesn't want to broadcast her presence. Her parents think she's at Lydia's—her car is at Lydia's, along with her overnight bag and half the contents in it, just so Lydia can sprinkle her lies with a little truth.

Allison opens her mouth to answer, then closes it and shakes her head no instead. Her throat is scratchy with sleep, close to dry, and she doesn't want to force it, doesn't want to snap out of this blurry headspace where her body's frozen high before it falls from sleep.

Every feeling and reaction she had when she was dreaming is still rolling over her skin, her belly wound tight, big gulping breaths making her chest rise and fall, quick but steady. She wants to—if Scott weren't here, she'd slide a hand down her underwear, lazily finish what her dream started. She's not sure why his presence stops her.

His head ducks into her shoulder, nose brushing along her neck, and she hears him inhale, careful but definitely, definitely with intent. "Were you having a sex dream?" he asks. He sounds a little amused, a little surprised, a little curious. A lot curious. So she bites her lip and breathes out an affirming sound through her nose, nodding once. He comes up to look at her face and murmurs, "Did you..." trailing off and gesturing vaguely toward the lower half of her body.

She feels her closed mouth stretch into a laughing smile, can't help it, and her lids flutter closed as she mouths a 'no.' It means no, she didn't come, and she hopes she didn't misunderstand him, that he wasn't asking something else; his hand's warm on her side, thumb idly stroking her ribs through the cotton of her t-shirt—his t-shirt, because one of the things she left at Lydia's was her pajamas—and she doesn't want him to stop touching her.

It's okay, either way, because when his hand moves, it's to slide lower. Allison sighs with relief as his fingers trail down across her stomach, pulling up her shirt and touching skin, knuckles bending against the waistband of her underwear before they still. "Is this okay?" he says. She huffs out a silent laugh, nodding again, and registers Scott shifting his weight onto an elbow at the exact same time he slips a hand into her underwear, fingers spreading her out on the spot like he just can't pace himself.

"Yeah, just go for it," she says, meaning it to sound sarcastic, but it comes out painfully, embarrassingly sincere. She's just—she's halfway there already, and what she really needs is for him to pick up where waking up cut her off. This is good, his fingers sliding back and forth across her clit, smooth and easy because she's so wet already. "Just—harder?" she murmurs. "Please. Like you're finishing me off, I'm—" She bites her lip to muffle a moan when two fingertips zero in where she needs them, and it's—it's silly, he'd do it if she asked, she doesn't know why she hasn't asked yet. "Actually," she says, and stops for long enough that Scott looks at her, his attention trained on her face even as his fingers keep moving. It's simultaneously helpful and incredibly nerve-racking. "I want—" She closes her eyes and tries again. "In my dream, you were using your mouth. Do you think you could—do that?"

There's immediate movement to her side, the bedspread shifting lower as he crawls under it. She pushes it off, because the door is locked and her skin is hot and it just makes more sense that way. She catches sight of him while she does that and he's grinning like this is the best thing that's happened to him all week, which she'd take offense to if he weren't grinning like that because she just asked him to go down on her. It's enough to get that intense pulsing between her legs back, consistent now Scott's pulling down her underwear, kissing his way around her hipbone as skin is exposed. He breaks away just long enough to stretch the fabric until he can tug it off her foot, leaving it hanging from the other to get his mouth back on her as soon as possible.

His breath is warm, audible in the silence that surrounds them, and her heart quickens at the thought, the sound of it, partly out of instinct, this need she's developed to be quiet, to make sure they're quiet past the point Scott becomes so focused on what they're doing he stops caring about anything else, and partly because it feels so personal, the way he noses at her like he's going to find valuable information in her scent, the knowledge that he might, actually, given the whole werewolf thing.

He nudges her thighs apart with his fingers, tapping more than pushing, and she complies without thinking; her body's still two steps ahead of her here, flashing images at her that have nothing on the sight of Scott closing his eyes and the first brush of his tongue against her, tentative little licks before he stops—raises his head to ask, "Were you serious about being halfway there? Because I can tell you're turned on but nothing that specific."

Her head tips back as she bites in a laugh, and she rolls her hips up in response, pushing up until she brushes his chin. He smiles at her when her hips come down, wiping his chin off with his thumb then licking it clean absently, an offhand thought between catching on and wrapping his lips around her clit, sucking at it softly and increasing the pressure when she doesn't complain. He holds her thigh with one hand and slides the other higher, thumb teasing underneath his mouth, making her hips hitch and her breath come quicker.

She doesn't know if she wants to watch him through this, if she can even keep her eyes open and on one place that long, if it's worth it in the near darkness of the room. Flashes of her dream mix up with reality every time she blinks, Scott on his knees at the foot of her bed, all bare skin, the implicit fear they'd get caught toned down from reality into something subdued, a pleasant sense of privacy instead of the overwhelming feeling of impending doom that keeps Scott from setting foot anywhere near her street these days.

She throws her head back and arches her back into that midpoint, curling the leg Scott isn't holding around him, idly rubbing his side with the flat of her foot. She wants to protect him, she wants to cover him up, she wants to hide him from view, but all she can do is rub up against his mouth and feel the pressure build, hazy and almost sweet, better and better when he slides a finger inside her, gives her something to ride. The sheet underneath her is stretched too thin, so she cups her breasts through her shirt just for something to hold onto. Scott makes a choked-off noise against her, his fingers curling inside, and she's done for, gone still, her vision whiting out for a moment and her tongue pressing hard against the roof of her mouth to keep from making noise. Scott stretches at her side, fingers rubbing her shallowly, softer and softer as she comes down. She feels boneless when she's done, ready to slip back into sleep again. Losing Scott's presence at her side and lifting up her hips for him to drag her underwear back on feels like floating, and the bedspread feather-like when it falls over her legs. "What time's it?" she says through a satisfied smile.

"You look so smug," Scott tells her.

She bats lazily at his arm, not that it does much. "I do not."

"You always look smug," he says, and this time she just shrugs and curls into him.

He's nearly wrapped around her, hard against her hip, hot through his shorts, and she wishes she had enough energy to move so she could offer to help him out with that and mean it. He seems to be handling it fine, which makes her feel a bit better. She has a feeling if she apologized he'd tell her he owes her a few orgasms anyway, for those first few times he came just rubbing up against her, both of them almost fully clothed, and she really is tired. She doesn't need to get distracted by thinking about that.

"You can get another hour of sleep," he says after a while, "and you'll still be on schedule. If you want to shower before you leave, though—"

"I can do that at Lydia's," she says. There's no way she's skipping sleep so she can take a shower—not when it will probably wake Scott's mom, night shift or not.

"Okay," he says, nuzzling her ear as he speaks, soft and comforting.

She makes a noncommittal humming sound through her nose, and slurs, "Thanks," against his chest, placing a stray kiss below his collarbone. Her eyelids are heavy.

"Just go to sleep," he says. She doesn't need to be told twice.