“Oh Love, Everyone Was Crying.”

Long story short, you'd never felt more sweaty and gross in your entire life.

You only made it another quarter mile before your legs felt like they'd give out, like you were supported by jell-o alone. You hunched over, sweaty palms tacked to unstable knees, gasping for air like you'd been holding your breath underwater. The air cooled around you, licking at your sweat-damp skin with ice-cold fervor, chilling you down to the bone.

From your hunched-over position, you could only make out the bottom half of his body as he circled back— the lean musculature of his thighs, the unfair solidness of his build.

"Hey," Harry panted, "thought I lost ya there for a second." He placed a hand on the small of your sweaty back, thumb brushing against your surely sweat-damp bike shorts.

You glanced up at him past your eyebrows, eyes squinting in the brightness that loomed from behind his towering frame. And that— that was a sight to behold. Illuminated by the rising California sun, a landscape of yucca, cacti, and desert lavender the perfect backdrop for his statuesque body— the sight was near heavenly, and stole the last remnant of your breath.

The remainder of your discomfort dispersed through your shaking limbs, vanishing in the shadow of a new drive— a new desire, one that sparked in the flinty core of your body.

"Can we go back to the house now?" you asked.

With a hand solidly placed against his cocked hip, Harry quirked an eyebrow at you. "Yeah?"

Harry wouldn't be Harry if he didn't continue to jog around you in circles, as you slowly began the journey back to the house. He'd run ahead a hundred feet, before turning and practicing a new 'u-turn' technique he'd mentioned marathoners in Japan had begun to make popular— just to pace right back to you. Each time he made it back, he'd place a kiss on your lips before spinning around and doing it all over again.

Now this, you thought, this was a form of 'running' you could get on board with.

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By the time you made it back to the house, most of the sweat that had accumulated on your skin had dissipated along with the morning dew, leaving you, albeit still somewhat grimy feeling, slightly more rejuvenated than you had felt two miles into the barren Mojave desert.

Harry, on the other hand, was damp with the effects of his run. He'd discarded his shirt a mile into your trek back, tossing the damp cotton in your arms for 'safekeeping ', which you'd rolled your eyes at but still happily obliged in carrying.

The t-shirt you'd so carefully held onto was discarded the second you both stepped into the entryway. You turned, eyeing the slick skin of his chest, how his happy trail and chest hair pasted, wet, over bronze, sun-kissed skin. You skimmed over the illegal length of his shorts, eyeing the exposure of the tiger and words that were not often revealed, yet were now on full display for you.

Without a second thought, you stepped toward him, your hands finding his waist to hold him steady for what you had in mind. Your lips sank to the vale of his collarbone, hot tongue filling the hollow to lick at the salt on his skin. It was filthy and unexpected, evident by the gasp Harry let out between deep, regulating breaths.

As you nosed at his neck, you couldn't help but notice that his body radiated a heat, a taste, a smell you couldn't resist. Pure pheromones. The pure essence of him beneath your nose and tongue. You breathed deep, savoring the natural musk on his skin—similar to the coastal forests you grew up near. There was no refrain as you kissed, open-mouthed—tongue dancing, at the swallows on his chest, carving all the way down until the fine hair of his chest jelled under your tongue.

It was all intoxicating. Just a few moments with him under your nose and tongue and your mind was overtaken by the cloudy haze of 'taste him'.

"That's it," Harry murmured, a smile carving at his lips as you sank lower, your tongue laving at the thorax that adorned his diaphragm.

His hand smoothed over the loose flyaways of your ponytail, fingertips sinking into the contained hair against the base of your scalp as you nosed at fluttering butterfly wings. Licking and nuzzling, you breathed in everything his skin had to offer as you sank to your knees. The smooth, cold concrete beneath you instantly lost in the fiery blaze of your mind.

Harry's skin was still damp, his sweat having started to cool against your cheek as you kissed around his belly button, thumbs tracing laurel boughs. You pawed at the bunched elastic waistband of his running shorts, your nails carelessly biting into soft muscle of his belly as you tore the flimsy excuse for clothing down his thighs.

You were a spectacle to be mused at as you kissed down his abdomen. Your hands anchored at his hips, tongue out and spit slick, until your nose was nestled into the neatly trimmed patch of his pubic hair. You didn't care that he was still sweaty; you didn't care at all. If anything, the rich smell of him only fueled what was becoming irrepressible appetency.

"Oh, fuck," Harry moaned, fingers scrambling for purchase at the root of your ponytail as your tongue began to explore his hardening cock.

Mirth danced in his pupils as he watched you— watched as your taste buds scored against the natural curvature of him. Watched as your eyes went glassy and your spit began to drip in tacky rills from how you were lapping at his cock. You were just his sweet little thing, overtaken by some carnal desire that was rare to see. And how could he deny a sweet thing like you from lavishing at his body?— sweat and all.

"Taste good?" Harry goaded as your lips wrapped around the ruddy tip of him, tongue cradling his frenulum. And all you could do was groan, your eyes slipping shut— because yes, it did taste good. Salt from skin, salt from precum, salt from him. That's all that mattered, him- him- him.

You swallowed him down with ardor. Your passion present in the way you moaned, bobbing your head up and down his length. Every twitch of his fingers in your hair, each new bead of pre on your tongue, it all kindled the desire to consume, to devour; reaching a threshold of near intoxication as you surmounted the weight of him on your tongue, the nudge of him at the back of your throat.

It was messy the way you imbibed on his cock— all spit, eyes closed. One could say you were filthy; Harry certainly said so— "My filthy, filthy girl— sucking my cock so good, baby."

There was nothing Harry felt but veneration at the sight of you— a vision on your knees, your spit frothing at the base of him. Your dedication to the cause (sucking his cock) was admirable; one could even say quixotic. So why would he interfere? To push would be to sabotage, not just to your crusade but to his own satiety, too. So his hand stayed a constant at the back of your head, a grounding force to your undertaking, fingertips biting at your scalp just enough to let you know he was there— that he cared.

Reality slipped through between gags and rivulets of your own saliva. A brief moment where interoception could cudgel through your lecherous frenzy. You sputtered off his cock, spit clinging in sticky tendrils between your lower lip and the tip of him as you gasped for breath.

Now this, you thought, this is a way you wouldn't mind being breathless with him.

You looked up at Harry through salt clumped lashes, blinking away the tears you hadn't even realized you'd begun shed. And there Harry was, staring down at you with that cheeky look of adoration you weren't sure you'd ever get past— like it was you who hung the moon in his twilight sky. It was that look, those murky, mirth-dilated pupils that made you swoon, that told you that you were safe; safe to till at the soil of his body, to harvest what he had to sow.

"Hi," he cooed, fingers smoothing over the wayward hairs that fell loose around your face.

The simple greeting, just that one two-letter word, had you blushing and nuzzling at the crook of his thigh, into the safe ravine of his muscles. It was so ordinary, so casual— too much so for the circumstances. There you sat, cold concrete beneath your knees, spit clinging to plumped lips, his cock just inches from your face, and the word he chose was 'hi'?

Harry's fingers carded over your scalp, smoothing down your hair in a soothing motion. His affection was simple but, despite this, still brought forth an entrancing kind of comfort— the type that pacified you. "Why'd you stop, baby?" You shook your head against his thigh, still too shy to confront your own ravenous behavior.

His thumb brushed over the crease that nestled between your brows, smoothing away the line with a glide of his fingertip. "C'mon, why don't we get you off the floor?" He suggested, stroking along the back of your head, skimming down until he could rub against your shoulder.

Harry coaxed you upright on your shaky legs. His touch stable as he knew that any remaining sense of stability was long lost from the soreness of your muscles and the dissipating dump of adrenaline from your endeavors. He wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you to his chest, cheek smooshed between sparrows as his palms smoothed over the expanse of your back.

"C'mon," He pulled away, bracing his hands on your slumped shoulders. "Did such a good job taking care of me," he hummed. "Why don't you let me take care of you now?"

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Harry pulled you along, slowly, your small hand pressed in the warmth of his grasp, until he was able to guide you in front of the couch and between his already denuded thighs.

He looked up at you through thick lashes, and you swore the gelation of your legs was going to be finalized just by the lithe sea foam of his irises, the leaden weight of his pupils. His palms were so warm, even through the spandex of your bike shorts, moored to the width of your hips, thumbs circling against your hip bones.

"Why don't we get these off?" he asked, timber deep.

You gave a nod, trying your best not to rock against the balls of your feet as he hooked his thumbs beneath the thick elastic band. You had half a mind to stop him when you realized how sweaty you'd been, how salt had dripped into what felt like every crevice and vale of your body. But he must have known; he'd seen how flushed and out of breath you were during your 'run', and if you hadn't cared, why would he?

Harry pulled you closer, until your knees knocked against the twill cushion of the couch, closer- closer- until he was able to paste a kiss in the well of your sternum. Your hand tangled into his short hair, the strands just long enough to stick up spiky between your fingers as you cradled his head to your body. He kissed, first gentle pecks, savoring the smoothness of your skin and the fine vellus hairs that greeted his lips— until avidity took over, until his lips and tongue weren't enough and the brusque edge of his teeth had to make do.

Your grasp tightened in the strands you held so desperately between clenched fingers. Your other hand tangled down at his nape, nails biting at the brawny topography of his shoulders and back as he sucked a mark over the projection of your ribs. The sound rewarded by his infliction rumbled gently beneath his taste buds, filling his mouth with a newfound taste of veneration. Urgency thrummed in both of your veins as his thumbs pried off the two-piece set that clung to your skin.

He mouthed at your belly, your chest, nipping and sucking and laving— savoring every inch of skin he could sink his teeth, his tongue, into. Dignity got lost in a tangle of your limbs, of skin on skin, as Harry pulled you —spread wide— into the cradle of his lap.

Caught in his snare, his hands were nearing opulency, and yet somehow still felt too finite. Fingers slid around the globes of your ass, hoisting, lifting, until he could position you where he liked. And you, you kissed at the rogue, sun-born freckles that had dared to pop up across his cheekbones under the despotic sun of the desert, as he manhandled you into the perfect, pliant position that he desired.

You honed in on the sensation of skin on tepid, sticky skin—on the heat that brewed in the bisect of your legs as his cock nudged against the cleft of your cunt and thigh. You wanted it— my god, you swore you'd never felt a hunger that deep.

You didn't even notice his hand traveling past your hip—not until you released a noise against his cheek, something caught between a mewl and gasp, as his cockhead caught at your entrance. Harry was breathing just as heavy, hot and humid, against the crook of your neck, the width of his hand broad against your lower back, his touch all encompassing.

He helped to guide you with ease, letting gravity take its course as you sank down the length of him. In that moment he occupied your every thought, filling you with such precision, such totality, that there was nothing else beyond the stretch of him against your walls. All your sensations pinpointed down to how he carved out a home for himself within your body, the give of his flesh beneath your nails, the taste of his skin between your teeth as you nipped at his cheekbone.

He pecked at your jawbone in return as you both shuddered out a breath. "Want to act like a feral kitten?" he hummed, lilt caught in his throat. "Then you can ride me like one."

And the low drawl of his words, the condescension laced into his tone, acted like he'd thrown gasoline onto the burning frame of your body. The pain of your tired muscles diffused, replaced instead by an inferno of brute appetency.

Harry's nails bit at your backside, digging into supple flesh as you dared to cock your hips forward. Your clit dragged through the coronet of his pubic hair as the compound of your ragged breaths hung heavy in the interstice of your bodies.

"C'mon," he goaded with a smile. "Show me how bad you want it."

And your overburdened muscles couldn't stop you if they tried.

The sound of skin slapping against skin overtook the room, accompanied only by frayed gasps that filtered past unbarred lips. You were thankful for the anchor of his palms against your back, broad and wide, like he was holding together the threads of your being— fearful that you'd unspool just from the pleasure of it all.

There was no need to be graceful, no gnawing voice in your head that said your movements had to look pretty— that all fell away. Everything fixated down to a single point— the mutual gratification that Harry's cock fucking into you brought. Your drive hadn't simmered down to that needy intuition to take, but it was close.

"Y'were so filthy sucking my sweaty cock," Harry bit out against the shell of your ear, nails cresting the dimples of your back as he thrust up. "My filthy, fucking, girl—"

"Fuck—" You gasped, teeth grazing against his jawbone as your clit rolled against his pelvis in that perfect way.

Maybe you were filthy— driven to madness just by your own hunger. But how could you not be when you had that pinned beneath the plush of your ass. That looking up at with hazy, lust-filled eyes. That cudgeling against the deepest, innermost parts of your being— reducing you to nothing but a vessel of desire.

There was something to be cherished about the noises that crawled up your throat, the unabashed groans and moans that dared to break free, fueled by an ardent hunger. How pleasure played your bodies like an instrument, the resonance echoing in between smooshed, sweaty ribcages. How there, reduced to subdued pleasure, your beings could surrender to one another, unbound.

Your orgasm steamrolled you without warning— hot and shuddering. And you clawed at the very vessel that guided you without second thought, nails gouging out marks in the tanned plane of his back, his shoulders; teeth grazing at the hinge of his jaw as your breaths unified in tepidity.

Slowly he nudged against the furthest reaches of your core, rocking you gently in his lap as you caught your breath against the damp skin of his neck, "How's my good girl?" He asked with a shift of his hips.

Words were so far astray in your mind that all Harry got was a garbled mumble, followed by the faint press of your lips to his collarbone. And that was enough for him as he held you, safe and spread as his palm slid up the sweaty curve of your spine, holding you steady as the aftershocks of your orgasm had you clenching around him.

Harry was content to just let you be, to relish in the softness of your skin, the warmth of your breath on his neck — and while the respite was nice, something still kindled in the flickering core of your body.

You could feel the muscles in his belly tremble as you shifted in his lap— feel the very effect of your body in the vibrations of his breath as he sucked in a sharp inhale. Harry's fingers were loose on your hips, your waist, as you clambered off of him. He stroked along the outside of your waist as you rose tall between his knees. There was a sense of wonderment as he looked up at you, of intrigue of what was to come.

Harry's gaze stayed firm on you as you sank to your knees, his touch light and constant on your arms, your shoulders, the cusp of your jaw— just enough to keep himself grounded to you, to remind himself that this was real.

You nuzzled into the warm cup of his palm, eyes closing as sanctity flowed in. You could envision yourself held in the haven of his branched thighs, kept safely in the web of his scent, his skin, his touch, forever— but you had bigger plans.

You let yourself look him as your nails found the insides of his thighs, running lightly across the sensitive skin. Let yourself admire how his lips parted in a gasp when you kissed the inside of his thigh, just above the knee. How, as you mouthed at untouched skin, his lips stayed parted, suspended like there was something to say— but there was nothing, just the galvanized energy that hung between you two, muggy and crackling.

By the time you reached his cock you swore his ruddy tip had deepened a few shades— still tacky with your arousal and glossy with a fresh layer of precum. Harry's hand tangled in your hair as you licked from the crook of his thigh to the swell of his sack. Dulcet and honeyed, his sweet sounds burrowed just as deeply into your being as his fingers did into your hair. You swore you could feel the tenor of his moan in your own sternum as you pulled the sensitive skin into your mouth.

"Fuck," Harry panted from above—

And that's when the impulse hit.

You'd done it before: nestled yourself so far into the bifurcate of his thighs that you'd carved out a home with just the tip of your tongue. The few times Harry had let you, you'd greatly enjoyed it— enjoyed the way your tongue on his hole made him whimper in that one specific way. How his had body wound so tight with pleasure that his muscles shook down to the source. How the daring venture and curl of a finger or two had elicited the sweetest sounds.

And now, here you were, craving to do it all again— wishing to devote yourself to the consummation of his pleasure until there was nothing left but the salt of his tears cresting on his cheeks and the salt from his cum spayed across his chest.

With mischievous eyes, you looked up at him, smiling. "Flip over," you said without pause, hand smoothing over the inside of his thigh as if to provide comfort for any apprehension of what was to come.

It took Harry a second to process what you meant, his brain still foggy with the memory of your walls tight around his cock. But he saw the ambition laced in your gaze, felt the anticipation of your touch, how your fingertips conveyed an unspoken vow as you stroked along the soft hair lining the insides of his thighs. So with the help of your guiding hand, Harry tottered into the position of your prophecy.

The position was inherently vulnerable: knees anchored apart, back arched; his rubicund cheek pressed against gabardine fabric. Still he settled with his face in the crook of his arms, blind to what you were about to do, but entirely trusting.

And it was that sight, the low curve of his back —how sweetly he arched for you— how his cock hung heavy and tumescent in the split of his muscled thighs, your juices still glistening along the length of him— it was that sight that kindled your desire.

Any whispers of hesitation from Harry dissipated as your touch stayed consistent along his thighs, the outside of his hip, the swell of his ass. You kept your touch slow and deliberate, mindful to embody veneration as you explored the vulnerable expanse of his parted thighs.

You couldn't help but press your fingers into the meat of his ass, not hard enough to leave half moons, but enough that his flesh dimpled around your fingertips as you playfully spread him open. He clenched beneath your touch as the first rill of spit fell in a viscous dribble. You couldn't help but dip your finger into your own beading saliva, drawing the slickness of your spit down and over the strata running from breach to sack.

Your lips fell to the silver striations that crested over his bum, tongue joining in the grooves of growth too fast. As your pointer and middle finger became acquainted with what would soon become your tongue’s new home, you kissed and licked and bit at the plush of his cheeks— earning a gruff little hum when your teeth sank too far.

With one hand splayed over the cleft of his cheek, your other found the root of him, fingers sinking down until your knuckles coupled with the tamed growth of his pubic hair. Your tongue rolled out, unceremoniously, spit already gathered across the soft body of your taste buds, before making sloppy landfall with his perineal stria. And you think to yourself, that at this point, your taste buds probably know Harry better than your mind ever will.

You could feel his muscles unfurl beneath your tongue, your fingers— how his hips canted back in a search for more. And more you were happy to give— happy to lap at the tautness of his rim, tongue slick, as it explored the hollow of its own creation.

You realized then that you'd do anything if it meant being in the audience of the noises he yielded. To soak in every breathy noise, each one more delectable than the last, felt like the highest accolade.

The gentle brush of his fingertips at your chin reminded you that there was more than just his hole to take care of. Your thumb replaced the tip of your tongue, fingertip prodding just beyond the tension of his rim, and you drew his cock backward, taking the ruddy tip of him into your mouth. With your own hand above his, joined at the root where your lips could not meet, you swallowed him down. And that sound —that hiss that rattled from behind clenched teeth— that told you all you needed to know.

His palm fell to your forearm, grasp tight and urgent as his hips began to rock —tipping the crown of himself into the tight vice of your awaiting throat until you were sputtering around his girth. With a gasp and a cough, your fervor did not cease. No— not when his shins were pressed to your biceps, one arm reaching back so that his hand braced at the back of your skull, caging you in the sanctity his body created.

You lapped, tongue dripping in the excess of your own saliva, until Harry's frame surrendered to the bliss you brought forth. Until his muscles unwound into tepid little pools of pleasure. Until his weight fell and your hands were forced to become anchors, snagged in the fortification of laurels. Until he was vitrified and heavy, his only movement the absent shift of his hips —of the impossible slickness that you had created— back against your awaiting, eager tongue.

You would have loved to see his face, to have watched as his brow rumpled, seen how his eyes squeezed shut, like ecstasy was blinding—bright. How his lips parted as a resounding string of nonsensical praise tumbled out — "fuck—ah—so good—always take care o'me so good—". But the triumph of his pleasure, the press of his ankles to your shoulders— how his body rended to the deftness of your tongue would have to be enough.

Harry came with a cry of your name, lachrymose and perfervid—his load warm and drippy as it fell over the cinch of your hand—

And you ate him through it— licked leisurely at the mess you'd created until he whined out in a bleat of overstimulation. Until his legs were shaking, taut with the effects of his pleasure, caging, pulling you in like if you were closer you'd feel it too. It was hard to want to pull away. Why would you when the muscles of his rim twitched beneath your tongue, spasming in waves that called you in.

Though, when you did surrender, strings of saliva strained in the chasm between your bodies, fusing you to him in lucent tendrils.

Harry was usually the one behind your undoing— the one to unravel you stitch by stich, to wind you around a spool to keep all for himself. So to see him reduced to such depths of enervation, to see your ambitions come to fruition, it all activated a new sense of pride. The kind that sat light and warm in your chest, wrapping itself around your ribs until you were buoyant and fuzzy.

There was no rush to move, no mad dash for self preservation, for clean-up. So you sat there, hand on the small of his back, winding tender circles as he caught his breath. You kissed the swell of his bum, the back of his thighs. You whispered sweetness into the softness of his skin as quiet nestled into both of your nooks and crannies.

Silence might unnerve some, carry the fear of uncertainty for others, but not for you two. The hush brought solace, a special kind of comfort. Bared entirely, there was no room for shame, no cubbyholes or shaded corners to shove the ugly things beneath.

You tumbled into a mass of sweaty limbs, of "I love you's", of gangly legs and canted feet. You held Harry's head to the swell of your chest, carded your fingers through his sweat damp hair, as he drew mindless little circles along the side of your hip. Swaddled one another in the care you'd always wished to have received before finding one another, until slowly you both regained some semblance of composure.

"I'm gonna have to take you on more runs if this is how you behave," Harry whispered against your throat.

"You better fucking not," you squawked, tightening your grasp in his hair and pulling hard in warning.

Harry moved faster than you could think, caging you beneath his weight in an instant. His fingertips activated like darts, finding the dip of your waist before you could throw a hand up to stop him. Your laughter struck, clapping like lightning as he tickled you. The sound illuminating and bright— everything that Harry wanted to hear in that moment.

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AN pt2: I wish I could say I am fully back in business after this, but alas, I am not. I'm undergoing a pretty major (and very much life changing) surgery next week (I'm getting top surgery!!) and wanted to get something posted before I am truly down for the count. I am ~hopeful~ though, that over the next 6 weeks, which is how long I am taking off work, that I will be able to get some writing done, but my #1 priority will 100% be rest! (I can just see myself bored out of my mind cooped up at home and getting writing done once I'm off the painkillers). Any whoosle, if you've made it this far I appreciate you so so much and am sending you all the love (๑ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵) ♡

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