Harry has you bent over the edge of his bed, one hand fisted in your hair while the other digs hard into your hip, holding you steady as every thick inch of him stretches you open, the drag of his cock so relentless it borders on overwhelming. The wet slap of skin against skin fills the bedroom, mixed with your broken moans and the guttural, filthy sounds he makes every time he bottoms out inside you.
Your thighs are trembling, slick with how wet you are, and the sheets are crumpled beneath your fists as he fucks you like he has all the time in the world. ''Fuck, look at you,'' he whispers, voice raspy. ''Taking me so well. So fucking greedy for it, aren't you, baby?''
You're close, thighs trembling, walls fluttering around his thick cock, when the bedroom door suddenly swings open.
You freeze for half a second, head turning toward the doorway just as Matt steps inside, phone in hand, mid-sentence about some change in Harry's schedule. His voice dies the moment he sees the two of you.
Matt is one of Harry's older friends, tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that always looks a little messy and a sharp jaw that made more than a few heads turn the night you met him at the pub with the rest of his friends. His eyes go wide, the door still open behind him.
Harry's hips keep moving, but he slows down, grinding into you so you can feel every ridge and pulse of him. He lets you clench helplessly around the full length of him when he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. His grip on your hip tightens, possessive as usual, and he leans down over your back, his lips brushing your ear.
''Don't you dare stop making those noises,'' he murmurs. ''Let him hear how pretty you sound when you're so full of me you can't even speak.''
You whimper, heat flooding your face and your cunt at the same time. The knowledge that Matt is standing there, someone you've shared drinks and easy conversation with, watching Harry fuck you open makes everything feel that much more intense.
Your pussy clenches hard around Harry's cock at the thought, and he feels it immediately. A low, satisfied groan vibrates against your spine.
Matt is still standing there, frozen, clearly unsure whether to leave or look away. Harry doesn't give either of you the chance to decide. He pulls almost all the way out, the thick head of his cock catching at your entrance, then slams back in hard enough to make you cry out. The force of it pushes a fresh rush of wetness down your thighs, the sound of it obscenely loud in the quiet room.
''So tight,'' Harry says, louder this time, his voice thick with arousal. He glances over at Matt for a brief second, calm, unbothered, almost amused, before focusing back on you. ''You like that he's watching, don't you? Your pussy just clenched around me so good, baby.''
You shake your head, but the moan that spills out of you betrays the lie. Harry chuckles darkly and reaches around to rub tight, slick circles over your clit, never once slowing the steady roll of his hips. Every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, the pleasure building so thick and heavy it makes your vision blur at the edges. The bed creaks under the force of it. You're so wet it's almost embarrassing, the sound of him fucking into you louder than ever with an audience.
Matt clears his throat awkwardly, still standing in the doorway like he's been turned to stone. ''I... Fuck, sorry, I didn't—''
''Door's open,'' Harry interrupts, voice strained as he picks up the pace again. He yanks your hips back to meet every thrust, his cock hitting so deep you can barely catch your breath. ''Either close it or watch. She's not stopping, and neither am I.''
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you. You bury your face in the sheets for a second, overwhelmed by the stretch, the wetness, the thrill of being seen like this, but Harry tugs your hair gently until you're forced to turn your head again. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted as he watches your face while he fucks you.
''Look at him,'' he orders softly. ''Let him see how good you take this cock.''
You obey, cheeks burning, and catch Matt's stunned gaze for a second before your eyes flutter shut again. Harry's thrusts turn sharper, deeper, the wet sounds of your body accepting him filling the room. His fingers work your clit faster, and the pressure builds so quickly it steals your breath. Every nerve feels lit up, hypersensitive, the knowledge that Matt can see the way your body is shaking and clenching around Harry making the pleasure almost unbearable.
''Harry—'' you gasp, voice cracking.
''I know, baby. I know.'' He leans over you again, chest pressed to your back, fucking you through the rising pleasure. ''Come on my cock while he's watching. Show him who this pussy belongs to.''
You shatter with a loud, broken cry, walls clamping down hard around Harry as the orgasm rips through you. Your legs nearly give out, but he holds you up effortlessly, talking you through every tremor, never once slowing. The wetness between your thighs is almost dripping now, the slick sounds of him moving through it filthy and perfect.
He's not far behind. A few more deep, punishing thrusts and he buries himself to the hilt with an almost pained groan, spilling inside you in thick, hot pulses. His hips stutter, grinding through the last of it, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he catches his breath. You can feel every throb of him as he comes, the warmth of it filling you while your own aftershocks still ripple through your body.
For a long moment the only sounds are the two of you panting and the quiet shift of Matt's weight in the doorway.
Harry finally lifts his head, still buried deep inside you, and looks over at his friend with a completely unrepentant little smirk. ''You needed something?''
Matt's face is flushed. He opens his mouth, closes it, then mutters a rough, ''I'll... text you,'' before turning on his heel and shutting the door firmly behind him.
The second the latch clicks, Harry lets out a soft, satisfied laugh against your skin. He pulls out slowly, watching the way his cum starts to slip down your thighs, then turns you around so you're on your back.
His hands are gentle now, brushing hair from your flushed face, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
''You did so fucking well,'' he murmurs, kissing you deeply. ''Didn't even flinch. My perfect girl.''
You can still feel the residual heat of being watched, the throb between your legs, the way Harry's cum is leaking out of you. He notices the look on your face and grins, slow and wicked.
''Don't worry,'' he says, voice already turning dark again as his fingers trail down between your thighs. ''We're not done. I'm just getting started with you tonight.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
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In which: Harry is so kind, you wish he loved you less. *inspired by “less” by OR
+++
A nudge to your side brings your eyes back to focus, your brain snapping back into the present. You blink, once again submerged into Ron and Hermione’s lively conversation about who does which chore more often in their flat. A warm hand finds its place intertwined with yours, and you turn your head to meet the concerned eyes of your worried boyfriend.
Your heart skips a beat, but it feels almost like fear.
Harry squeezes your hand in his, and although you try to give him a reassuring smile, you know neither of you fully believe it. He returns it nonetheless, turning back to the couple in front of you. You take a sip of your butterbeer, hand slipping from his as you use it to cradle your mug.
Laughing at Ron’s defensiveness after his fiance accuses him of never washing dishes, you miss the way Harry’s hand clenches by his side, and the knowing glance he gives you after you look away.
The rest of the night goes as usual, the three of them chattering and occasionally stopping to learn more about you. For the most part, you’re a third party observer- not quite one of them yet, maybe not ever. It feels normal like this. You even think it feels good.
The walk leaving is laughter and swinging on streetlights. Harry’s jacket weighs heavy on your shoulders while you link arms with Hermione, walking three steps back from the rambunctious boys. Ron’s impulsiveness rubs off on Harry, and soon they’re singing pub songs and hanging off icy lampposts like they’re tipsy. Your eyes linger on Harry, but they never stay long.
Eventually, you and Hermione disentangle, the pairs once again finding their natural order. Ron’s hand slips into Hermione’s naturally, and Harry’s arm slips around your shoulders like second nature. You say your goodbyes with a hug and apparate back home.
You tug off your shoes at the front and convince yourself that the heavy feeling on your chest is simply nausea from the quick travel, but you haven’t felt that in years. Your boot gets caught on your heel and Harry is quick to kneel down and pull it off your foot.
Something ugly rears its head inside you. You hate how this romantic gesture feels like alarm bells ringing in your head, hate how it questions every feeling in your black heart. Once again irritation sparks within you, once again tears well in your eyes, and once again Harry is reaching out to comfort you.
“What’s wrong, love?” His voice is quiet, and it feels like you both already know the answer. Still, you shake your head, biting back sobs into his shoulder. He shushes you, his hand running along your hair. “You can tell me the truth, darling. I won’t be mad.”
And how could you corrupt this kindness? How could you tell this sweet soul that he was ‘what’s wrong’? How could you be so cruel?
“Nothing,” you slide your hands up his chest, your fingertips memorizing the sensation of his sweater, your nose imprinting the scent of his cologne. You feel your tears dampening wool, hear his heart beating, betraying the fear you both already know is true. “I don’t know.”
You feel his hesitation. You hear the way the silence rings out in the empty entryway of your home. It’s deafening.
“Is it me?”
You’re off him immediately, shaking your head no as you wipe tears from your cheek. The action provides him little comfort, and you both know that. “Can we just- let’s not talk about this right now. Let’s just go to bed, please?”
Harry agrees with a little hesitation, and for the rest of the night the both of you are quiet. You brush your teeth in silence, get dressed for bed while the sound of the shower runs in the other room, and crawl into your empty bed once the water stops.
When he comes out of the bathroom, you’re still awake. Harry sits at the edge of your side of the bed, hands reaching out in the form of an apology he shouldn’t have to make. They grip your feet through the covers, massaging them gently.
His love makes your breath stop. You wonder if you’ve felt that yet.
“Why don’t we go to Madam Puddifoot’s tomorrow?” Harry’s hopeful smile receives one of your own, the tension in his shoulders releasing at the reciprocation. Your heart flutters in your chest and you cling onto that feeling. It may not amount, but it would be enough for tonight.
The bed creaks as he leans forward, your lips meeting each other casually. Your hands slide beneath his raggedy t-shirt and his rest just above your head, his forearms surrounding your head.
You undress and make love and something still feels not enough.
+++
“Let’s just go home.” Harry’s irritation seeps into his voice, impatience fueling the tapping of his foot against wooden floorboards.
You know he’s tired of this same old dance. You’re tired too.
You cover your face in your hands while tears silently slip from your eyes, praying nobody else really notices. But how could they not? Not when Harry seethes every word he says, when your shoulders shake with frequent hiccups, and when the two of you have sat there in the same positions for the past 20 minutes.
It started off nice. You really believed it did. Harry lent you his jacket in the crisp walk there like he did all those years ago, and you strolled into Madam’s laughing. He pulled out your chair much smoother than he’d done on your first date, and you teased him about the past as you sat down.
But it had built without you even feeling it. That same old feeling, once again, rearing its ugly head in your gut.
“How- how can I fix this?” Harry’s fingers slide beneath his glasses, pinching at the bridge of his nose. His tired eyes squeeze shut as you place your hands back in your lap. The anxiety forces your nails to pick at your skin. “I feel like- I mean, we’ve tried everything, love.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Your voice is meek and empty, and it doesn’t sound like you. You sniffle, quickly wiping the remaining tears from your eyes and meeting his. “There’s nothing to fix, I promise.”
Harry bites back a groan and slumps forward in his seat, his fingers rubbing tired eyes. You both know you’re in denial. Neither know what to do.
“I’ll just leave this here for you two,” the waitress, her eyes intrigued yet still sympathetic, tries her best to snoop in on the conversation while simultaneously pretending not to notice anything. A black leather checkbook is placed on the table beside the finger foods, and she scurries away as Harry looks at the bill. You examine the cracks in the wall of the building next door.
The tension weighs heavy on you both as Harry drops a few coins on the table and gets up, still making sure that you’ve put on his coat before leading you outside in the cold to apparate. His hand interlinks with yours, more so out of habit than comfort. Still, you take the familiar friction of his thumb running along your knuckles.
You get home and it’s so much worse. You’d thought you’d like nothing more than to get somewhere private, where nobody could access your vulnerability, but it just left you with nothing but the unspoken drift between you and your boyfriend and the overpowering doubt from your thoughts.
You’re quiet as you go back though that door you’d entered many times before, and Harry drops on one knee to take off your boot. Once upon a time, this action would fill your heart with so much affection you wouldn’t know what to do with it. Once upon a time, you would’ve kissed him and told him how much you loved him.
How come you couldn’t now?
As your feet meet cold tile floors, you watch as Harry’s mind works overtime, searching for any triggers that might’ve ignited your recent funk. You know he comes to that same answer that scares both of you. You refuse to believe it. He’s not so resistant.
“Are you… are you happy?” You hate the way his voice cracks. You hate that you caused this pain in him. You have to look away from him. “I just- are you happy with me?”
The tears that run down your cheeks are acid. They burn rivers down your cheeks you’re not sure you’d be able to fill. Your hesitation is enough. You try to remedy it, but there’s no stopping a tower from collapsing when the ground is taken from beneath it.
“There’s these- I just can’t stop thinking.” You don’t want this to be the end. But the object was put into motion already. “And I don’t think I mean them, and I just don’t know-”
“You don’t ‘think’?” Harry chokes the words out, and you know for a fact he’s crying. The entryway tightens around you. “Love, are you happy?”
He repeats the question, but he already knows your answer. He knows you better than that. Sometimes, he knows you better than you know yourself.
When he stands up beside you with his shoes still on, you know his resolve is set. The sand was slipping between your fingers, and each and every grain slid from your skin no matter how many times you tried to catch it. You flinched as he grabbed your hands, shaking your head no as his red eyes met yours.
Those same determined eyes that you fell in love with, the same eyes you doubted, the same eyes that loved you but you couldn’t love. You wanted to fight it, but it was no use. Harry’s decision was solid/
“I love you so much,”
A sob broke from your throat. Harry’s chin trembled as a sad smile spread across his face.
“I want you to be happy, love. I’m not making you happy.”
You shook your head, vision blurry with tears. “No, no you are-” your protests were no use. Harry shushed you, a tear trickling down his cheek. You cupped his face, fingers trembling as they tried their best to imprint the feeling of his stubble against your palm. “Please...”
You can’t leave me.
Harry’s jaw clenched beneath your hand, tears dripping onto your thumb. You were quick to wipe them away, but his hands made their way to your wrists, forcing them to let him go. You gasped in a breath, shaking your head.
“I love you,” Harry had to gather his breath, hands still grasping your wrists, “so this… we must end. Because I can’t make you happy the way I want you to be. The way I know you can be.”
You hated him for it, but you knew he was right. You knew by the way that feeling in your gut unravelled. Knew by the way that invisible guilt was lifted from your shoulders, that feeling of dread vanishing from your mind.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, pursing your lips. Your voice was thick and warbling, unlike how you’ve ever sounded before. You choked back a sob. “I love you.”
Harry didn’t say anything, just released your wrists to run his hand along your hair like he always did when he comforted you. He leaned forward and his trembling lips met yours in a final goodbye.
You tried to remember the way his cologne smelt. The way the stubble above his lip brushed against your skin abrasively, the way he tasted like mint tea and your favorite chocolate chip scones he always bought you from Madam Puddifoot’s.
But when you parted, it all vanished immediately. He gave you a strained smile, brushed his knuckles against your cheek one last time, and left the way you came, apparating into the freshly falling snow.
You dropped to the floor crying, watching the snow wishing he had loved you less.
this may be shit and it's my first post so idrk how to work tumblr and i wrote this on a google doc but i'm just gonna put it out there cuz i've been in a major slump and this is the first thing i wrote and sort of liked in a year. oop
Do people still read Harry Potter FICS? I have a lonnnggg ass fic in mind that I'm planning on writing and want to know if people would be interested or if it should stay in my privates lol
It would be an ex! Harry X reader X Draco and follows them throughout the years so it can explore Harry and the readers relationship, as well as Draco and the readers relationship!
Summary: Harry decides it's time you see exactly how pretty you look when you're falling apart for him.
Warnings: i'm about to sound like eminem established relationship, thigh riding in front of a mirror, sex in front of a mirror, fingering, oral (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), light choking, praise, dirty talk, brief edging, overstimulation, gentle dom!Harry
Word Count: 2,301
...
Your shared bedroom is dimly lit by a single warm lamp in the corner, casting long, golden shadows across the walls and the massive full-length mirror that dominates one side of the room.
You're stripped down to nothing but a thin black lace bralette that barely contains your breasts, your panties long discarded somewhere on the floor. Harry sits on the very edge of the king-sized bed, facing the mirror directly, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs that do very little to hide how hard he is. His thighs are thick, the muscles flexing as he spreads them slightly and reaches for you with both hands.
''Come here, baby,'' he murmurs, voice low and commanding, pulling you forward until you're straddling one of his muscular thighs. Your bare, soaked pussy presses perfectly against the firm muscle, the friction immediate and devastating. Harry's hands settle on your hips, guiding you, but he doesn't let you hide. He turns your body so you're facing the mirror completely, forcing you to confront your own reflection: flushed cheeks, parted lips, nipples visibly hard through the lace.
''Look at yourself,'' he says softly but firmly, one large hand sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your throat. He doesn't squeeze hard, just uses enough pressure to make your pulse jump under his palm and remind you he's in control. His other hand stays on your hip, encouraging you to move. ''Look how fucking pretty you are like this. Dripping all over my thigh before I've even properly touched you.''
You let out a shaky breath as you start to rock against him, the slick sounds of your arousal loud in the quiet room. The sight in the mirror is obscene and intoxicating, your body moving desperately on his thigh, his tattooed arm across your chest and his fingers resting possessively on your throat. Harry's eyes are locked on your reflection, on the way your breasts bounce slightly with every roll of your hips, and darken with lust as he watches you use his body for your pleasure.
''That's it,'' he praises, voice husky with need. ''Ride my thigh. Such a good girl. Look at how wet you're making me, baby. You're soaking right through my boxers. So desperate and needy... grinding that pretty little pussy all over me while you watch yourself fall apart.''
His hand tightens around your throat, the light pressure sending sparks of heat straight to your core. You moan louder, hips moving faster as you chase the friction against your swollen clit. Harry's free hand slides down to grip your ass, steadily guiding your hips until you're desperate and humping his thigh with shameless abandon.
''What did I say? Eyes on the mirror,'' he commands when your head starts to tip back. ''Don't you dare look away. I want you to see exactly what I see: how hot you look when you're this fucking horny. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed, tits bouncing every time you roll those perfect hips... God, if I died right now I'd die a happy man, baby.''
The combination of his dirty words, the relentless pressure on your clit, and the sight of yourself in the mirror, shamelessly riding his thigh while his hand collars your throat, pushes you dangerously close to the edge embarrassingly fast. Your breathing grows ragged, little whimpers and moans spilling from your lips as your movements become more frantic.
Harry leans in closer, lips brushing your ear, eyes still locked on your reflection in the mirror. ''You're close already, aren't you? I can feel this pretty little pussy squeezing around nothing, practically begging to be fucked, huh? Come on, baby. Make a mess on my thigh.''
The filthy encouragement paired with the perfect drag of your clit against his firm muscle and the possessive grip on your throat finally sends you crashing over the edge. You come hard with a broken cry, thighs clamping down around his leg as waves of intense pleasure rip through you. Your reflection shows everything: the way your mouth falls open, how your back arches, the way your entire body trembles and shakes as you ride out the orgasm on his thigh.
Harry groans deeply at the sight, his cock twitching hard against your ass as he watches you fall apart in the mirror. His hand stays on your throat the entire time, grounding you, owning you, while his other arm wraps around your waist to keep you steady as you come down from the high, still slowly grinding against him with aftershocks.
He doesn't give you much time to recover from your orgasm. His hands reverently slide up your trembling body, taking his time worshipping you before helping you stand on shaky legs directly in front of the mirror.
Your back presses against his chest for a moment as he stands behind you, both of you facing your reflections. The sight is unbearably intimate, your skin flushed and glowing, his thigh glistening with your release, his tattooed arms wrapped around your waist. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, dark and hungry, but somehow still so tender.
''Still with me, baby?'' he murmurs against your ear, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your shoulder. When you nod breathlessly, he smiles, that slow, devastating smile, and sinks gracefully to his knees in front of you, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
You nearly come from the visual alone. He's on his knees before you, looking up at you with pure lust and affection while positioned perfectly so you can watch everything in the mirror. Your fingers instinctively tangle into his messy curls as he leans in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. Your eyes flutter shut in bliss as he takes his time, savoring you, licking and sucking marks into your skin before finally dragging his tongue slowly through your soaked folds.
A broken moan escapes you the moment his mouth makes contact with your sensitive pussy. He eats you out like a man starved, circling your clit with lethal precision, then dips lower to fuck you with his tongue. Your grip tightens in his hair, grinding helplessly against his face.
Harry groans deeply into your pussy, the vibration sending sparks through your entire body.
''Look at us,'' he rasps between licks, pulling back just enough to glance over his shoulder at the full-length mirror. ''Look how fucking pretty you look with my tongue buried inside you. Fuck, I love you.''
You force your eyes to stay on the mirror, watching as his head moves between your thighs. His back muscles flex with every motion, the cross necklace swaying against his chest. Then you feel his tongue tracing deliberate traces patterns inside your pussy.
H... A... R... R... Y.
He's spelling his own name.
The realization hits you suddenly, pulling a loud, embarrassed moan from your throat. Harry chuckles darkly against your core, clearly pleased you noticed, and doubles down, sucking your clit hard while two thick fingers slide deep inside you, curling perfectly against that spot he knows makes your knees buckle instantly.
''That's right, baby,'' he murmurs, voice muffled but filthy. ''My name sounds so good on your tongue... and even better written inside this pretty pussy. She's all mine, isn't she?''
You hum weakly.
He doesn't stop. He keeps you right on the edge with his mouth and fingers, bringing you to the brink over and over, only to pull back at the last second until you're whimpering and begging, thighs shaking violently around his shoulders. When he finally lets you come again, it's shattering, your fingers tightening almost painfully in his curls as you cry out and watch yourself fall apart in the mirror while he drinks every drop like it's his favorite thing in the world.
You're still trembling when he rises to his feet, lips shiny with your arousal. Without a word, he pushes gently against your shoulder, guiding you to your knees in front of him, his hand carefully gathering your hair back into a loose ponytail and holding it tenderly away from your face. The gesture is strikingly loving despite how filthy the situation is.
Your hands tremble slightly as you pull his boxer briefs down, his thick, hard cock springing free. Harry keeps his grip gentle on your hair as you take him into your mouth, sucking him slowly at first, then with more confidence as his low groans fill the room. He relishes every obscene detail in the mirror: the way your lips stretch around him, the tears gathering in your eyes when he hits the back of your throat.
He watches it all with dark, hungry fascination, occasionally glancing down at you directly just to see the way your lashes flutter.
''Fuck, look at you,'' he breathes, voice wrecked. ''So beautiful sucking my cock. Taking me so well, baby.''
He rocks his hips softly, careful not to overwhelm you. His hand stays gentle but firm in your hair as he fucks your mouth with slow, controlled thrusts, the head of his cock sliding over your tongue and nudging the back of your throat. You moan around him, the vibrations pulling a deep groan from his chest, his head tipping back.
''Fuck, baby... your mouth feels so good,'' he rasps, voice strained. His hips rut into you a little faster, a little deeper, but he's still careful, never pushing you past your limit. You can feel him throbbing against your tongue, getting closer with every wet glide. ''I'm gonna come soon if you keep sucking me like that, and I still want to fuck you.''
He pulls out slowly, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. You gasp for air, lips swollen and shiny.
Harry leans down and kisses you messily, tasting himself on your tongue, before guiding you onto the bed.
He lays you on your back with your head hanging slightly over the edge, giving you an upside-down view of the mirror. The position feels vulnerable and exposed, but the sight in the reflection, your body laid out for him, breasts heaving, legs spread, makes fresh heat pool between your thighs. Harry climbs over you, stroking his cock as he looks down at you with pure reverence.
''Keep your eyes on the mirror,'' he orders softly, voice thick with lust.
He pushes into you in one smooth, deep thrust. The angle has you crying out as he bottoms out easily given how wet you are, the head of his cock pressing right against your cervix. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but it feels so fucking good.
Harry groans loudly, gripping your hips as he starts to move, his slow, deep strokes making your hands twist in the sheets.
''Look at us,'' he breathes, eyes flicking between your face and the mirror. ''Look how well you're taking me. So fucking pretty with my cock buried inside you like this.''
You moan helplessly, the upside-down reflection of him fucking you adding a deep level of intimacy to the moment. Harry reaches over to grab a pillow and slide it under your hips, tilting you at the perfect angle. The forced arch of your back makes him hit even deeper, bumping against your cervix with every thrust. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, pleasure bordering on ecstasy.
''Fuck, Harry,'' you gasp, eyes locked on the mirror where you can now clearly see his thick cock disappearing inside you again and again.
''Oh, I know, baby,'' he coos, one hand coming up to lightly wrap around your throat again. ''I can feel it. Can feel how deep I am. You're squeezing me so fucking tight every time I hit the spot.''
He fucks you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. His eyes stay glued to the mirror, mesmerized by the sight of his cock stretching you open, your pussy creaming around him with every thrust. Then he flips you over, your chest pressed to the mattress, head resting on your forearms, ass high in the air. You can see everything in the mirror, the way your back arches, how your pussy looks stretched around his cock as he pushes back inside you from behind.
Harry grips your hips and starts pounding into you, deep and relentless. ''Tell me what you see,'' he demands, voice raspy. ''Tell me how it looks when I fuck you like this.''
You can barely form words, but you try between moans. ''I look... so full. Your cock is so big, Harry, stretching me open so good.''
He rewards you with a particularly hard thrust, one hand reaching around to rub your clit while the other stays on your hip. The pleasure builds impossibly quick, and you come for the third time that night with a broken scream, clenching hard around him as your body shakes.
Harry follows right after, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, thick ropes of cum painting your gummy walls and dripping down your folds. He's briefly fixated on the sight of his release slowly leaking out of you, glistening on the soft skin of your thighs.
But he isn't done.
He watches in awe for a moment, then reaches down and pushes two fingers inside you, fucking his cum back into your spent pussy with a smug smile. You whimper, oversensitive and exhausted after three intense orgasms, and collapse onto the bed.
Harry doesn't let you off the hook so easily.
He keeps his fingers moving, curling them perfectly, thumb brushing your clit as he leans over you. ''C'mon, baby,'' he encourages, voice dark and coaxing. ''I know you can give me one more. Just one more. Be a good girl and look at yourself in the mirror while I play with you.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Draco Malfoy always liked teasing or more of "bullying" you, cultivating a never-missed ritual of teasing you every day. He'd go out of the way just to make your life even the slightest harder.
He'd take his time to snatch your textbooks away and hang it up high in the air so you couldn't reach it— either with or without magic. Being the nuisance that he is, the word "guilt" or "shame" has never come near his mind.
But it did start feeling weird when he felt a tinge of... jealousy? Not about some popular girl at school but about you. He saw how you were laughing with another man, a negative sensation of envy looming over his head condescendingly.
It floats above, almost like a halo, dark and gloomy as it takes over his mind. He's never liked you, never will. Yet the question lingers in his mind: why does he feel so jealous?
At the banquets, hallways, classrooms, you're located near the other boy. Draco's never felt low about himself, but it wavers during the time he's bullying over you. He unconsciously emulates his behaviour in hopes you pay more attention to him, failing spectacularly and rather embarrassingly.
He loathes the feeling of you ignoring him, as if your life hadn't revolved around avoiding him for the previous weeks. Now, you walk past him like he's rubbish, something to be discarded and never cared for again. After all, that was his ultimate goal for the longest time.
Malcontented and chagrined, he steered clear of any thought of you— repudiating the fact that you're moving on from him. It's not that you were ever interested anyway.
The last day of school comes by quickly and he can't take his eyes off you, wearing the uniform one last time before he's going to never see you again. It's pathetic the way he drags himself in front of you, blocking you from leaving.
That's when the confession vomit hurls itself at you and every word is an eye-opener. In the end, his fate lands in your hands and he's not sure he'll be able to move past this.
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summary ; A dream where Harry finally lets himself realize that he isn’t alone.
pairing ; Harry Potter x Reader
a / n ; ok this takes place when everybody was fake af to harry so like this is kind of his way of coping ykyk?? reader rlly has no gender but there is mention of them having long hair!
It first started off quiet.
The dreams wouldn’t have much sound. His dreams never really had a full blown action sequence to it, it was just like how everybody else described their dreams; soundless and quick. But with Harry’s, his dreams felt like a full-featured movie. He felt like he would actually could touch and interact with the surroundings in his dreams.
As his body started to get used to the dream sequence, he would start hearing chatter. It was like how everybody was in the real world; talking about him and giving him the meanest looks he could ever seen.
It was nonstop, but it slowly faded into background noise, not taking much of his dreams. He would physically see the silhouette of his friends — Hermonie’s curly bushy hair, Ron’s ruffled hair. They seemed so close, yet when Harry would reach out, they would get farther and farther away from him.
His fingers felt like they were going through a mist, whatever he touched wasn’t physical, yet it felt like it was. Whatever this dream was, it was weird, completely different from his knowledge of what dreams were supposed to be.
Looking down, he could see his slippers, and his pajama pants. Okay, he was wearing his pajamas. Looking around, he notices the world getting misty, than slowly transforming to a familiar place: the courtyard.
Here, he noticed a figure by the willow tree, their figure smaller than his, much like they were leaning over something or crouching. Harry could sense that it was somebody, and they could see their hair and their back.
Harry took a slide step forward, almost stumbling face forward. This must’ve caught the figure’s attention, as when they looked up, they were suddenly not there. He did hear rustling, so he must’ve guessed that they had scurried away.
For some reason, it felt harder to move in the dream. Harry thought in dreams you could pretty much do anything you want, but he was having an exceptionally difficult time moving.
When he blinked, suddenly he was in another place. The sudden change of scenery caught Harry off guard, resulting in him losing his footing and immediately crashing down on the ground. His glasses flew off of his face, landing a few feet away from him.
His vision was blurry as he tried to regain his body control. Groaning, he forced himself up, thinking in his head that this was his dream, and whatever he wants, is going to happen.
“Are you okay?”
Harry’s heart dropped, he froze in his position, elbow propping himself up. Did he just hear a voice? Or was he going crazy? Is it just his mind talking? Who was that voice and why does it sound strangely familiar?
Harry looked up, squinting to his best abilities and managed to make out a figure, a similar figure to the one by the willow tree earlier. Their hair was loaning over their face, as they were looking down at him, preventing their face from being shown.
Harry’s fingers dug into the dirt as he struggled to pick himself up. He used his knee to pick up his upper body, before he crashed down on his knees. Sighing, he looked up to the blurry figure, only to realize they were holding his rounded glasses.
His face went blank. He was confused, who was this person? Why couldn’t they see their face? How can they talk in his own dream?
Millions of questions were running through his head that he failed to realize that the figure was slowly but surely putting the glasses on his face. He squinted his eyes closed as he felt his glasses being put on.
When he opened them, he didn’t expect to see the figure slowly fizzled into a physical form. His eyes roam around their hair, shoulder, eyebrows, and neck.
He didn’t recognize this person, but he knew that they had to be at least his age, seeing their similar stature and robes. Harry looked down at his body quickly, realizing he was now wearing his Gryffindor robes.
Harry felt his throat tighten, his mouth getting dry. He couldn’t get a word out, and he was trying his hardest to say something, ask them a question, or at least make a noise.
“Don’t try to say anything, it’ll hurt more.” The person said, their voice hinting at empathy, clearly feeling sorry for Harry. “I’m Y/N, a classmate.” They introduced themselves.
Harry was even more confused, why wouldn’t he talk in his own dreamscape? At least he knew who the person was, and who they were to him. Before he could think anything else, Y/N picked him up, putting their hand under his armpit to make him stand. They dusted him off, fixing their robes a bit.
“There you go. At least now you’re standing,” They chuckled, seemly proud of themselves. Despite the confusion, Harry found himself smiling — to the best of his abilities. “Come on, I’ve got some things to show you.” They smiled, grabbing at Harry’s wrist to pull them along.
Thankfully, Harry could feel his body open, his legs moving on their own to follow their direction. As he followed Y/N, he noticed that they were going deeper and deeper into a forest of some sort, similar to the forbidding forest he’s been in so many times.
His eyes roam around the scenery; it’s dark, eerie, but weirdly enough, comforting. After these past few days, all Harry feels like is everybody against him, after the massive smear campaign by the Daily Prophet, Harry was labeled as an ‘attention-seeking unstable liar’, all because he said that Voldemort was back.
His classmates were being weird, everybody seemly turned their backs against him. Even as his closest friends stayed at his side, he felt isolated from everybody else. He was stuck at the Dursleys, and yet, none of his closest friends have said a single word to him all summer.
He felt himself getting emotional, but regained his composure as he realized him and Y/N stopped.
His eyes glance up to see a stone statue of an angel, their arms raised up high, their face a mixture of determination and grace. There was a small pond in which the angel was centered in, with a few of fallen algae drifting in the water, completing the whole aesthetic.
“Come, sit, we need to talk.” Y/N motioned Harry to sit, to which — surprisedly — Harry actually sat down on the stone edge of the pond, his hands dipping into the green dark water, the feeling of coldness rushing through his body. He shivered slightly, feeling it in his bones.
Y/N sat down next to him, their hands placed in their lap. They looked at the pond, then to the angel. Harry looked towards them for a second, his eyes following their jaw to their nose. Y/N felt so similar yet so foreign.
“It’s going to be a lot,” They whispered, sighing. Y/N looked at Harry, their eyes staring into his. “The world will be against you, obviously, but you can’t let that differ you from the truth.” Their hand shifted from their lap to his arm, giving him a comforting rub.
Harry looked at them surprised, but he knew what they were talking about. The whole Voldemort situation was seriously getting taken way out of proportion, and all he wanted was to have everybody believe him. He didn’t see Cedric Diggory get killed for no reason, why would he lie about something like that? That isn’t him.
“Voldemort is back, yes. Some people won’t believe you as they are scared. Fear gets the better of people, and it makes them cling to something safe.” They explained, their voice carrying power within them.
“But you do know that there are people on your side, right? People who do believe you. People who have seen the darkness Voldemort has caused. You aren’t alone, Harry. We are all here.”
As Y/N said those words, Harry could see flashes of his loved ones — Hermonie, Ron, Hagrid, Hedwig, Ginny, Fred, George, Mrs. Weasley — everybody who mattered came up to mind.
As he looked at Y/N, he started to feel his vision getting blurry. Y/N must’ve noticed this, as they softly smiled, taking a deep breath. “See you on the other side, Harry Potter. You will get through this.”
And as he woke up, those words deeply touched his heart.
Summary: Loving Harry is easy. Wedding planning with ADHD definitely isn't.
Warnings: neurodivergent reader (adhd specifically but fun read for everyone imo), hyperfocus, forgetting to eat, fluffy smut
A/N: you ask and i deliver! many of you wanted me to turn this into a series, and i'm definitely considering it. for now, here's a sequel x
Word Count: 4,742
...
You've been curled on the couch for hours, laptop balanced on your thighs, a chaotic constellation of tabs glowing back at you. It's... a lot. Spreadsheets with color-coded columns for guest dietary restrictions, Pinterest boards overflowing with floral arches and vintage chairs, vendor emails that you've read three times and still can't decide on.
The late afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the living room, catching on the dust motes that dance above the coffee table like tiny stars. The ring on your left hand catches the light every time you type, a small, sparkling reminder of your happily ever after.
It has been just over six weeks since his proposal, and the joy still bubbles up at odd moments: when you brush your teeth and see the ring in the mirror, when you catch him staring at you across the kitchen island with that soft, wondering look, like he can't believe you're real.
But the planning... God, the planning has swallowed you whole. Your brain has latched onto it with the kind of ferocious hyperfocus that makes everything else blur at the edges. Time slips. Hours vanish while you research the perfect calligraphy font or agonize over whether the table numbers should be pressed flowers or tiny framed Polaroids.
You know this pattern. You've always been this way, letting new and exciting projects consume your focus until your stomach growls loud enough to startle you and your eyes have gone dry and gritty.
The front door clicks open, followed by the familiar sound of Harry kicking off his boots in the hallway. You hear the rustle of his jacket, the faint clink of keys being tossed into the bowl by the door. Your heart does its usual happy little flip, but your fingers keep typing, finishing one last note about centerpieces before you lose the thread.
''Love?'' His voice is low, fond, a little amused already. ''You alive in there?''
You hum without looking up, though a smile tugs at your lips. ''Barely. How was your day?''
He stops behind the couch to lean down and press a kiss to the top of your head, his curls brushing your temple. ''Long, but productive. Kept thinking about going home to you, though.'' He straightens, eyes scanning the battlefield around you. Empty mug with cold tea dregs. A half-eaten granola bar balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, wrapper crumpled. Your phone face-down on the couch, screen dark, probably dead or on silent. Again.
You feel his gaze more than see it. The small sigh he lets out isn't angry, just... worried in that nervous way he gets sometimes. He comes around the couch and drops onto the cushion beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours. One big hand lands on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles through your soft lounge pants.
''You didn't reply to my texts,'' he points out, voice light but with an undercurrent you recognize. ''I sent three. Including a meme of a raccoon stealing a wedding cake. Thought that'd at least get a reaction.''
Guilt twists low in your stomach. You finally tear your eyes away from the screen, blinking at him like you're surfacing from underwater. His green eyes are soft, but there are faint lines of tiredness at the corners. He's been gone since morning, a full day of meetings and recording, and you haven't even asked how he is beyond the automatic question.
''Shit. I'm sorry. I saw them come in but I was in the middle of comparing two different linen rentals and then I opened another tab for string quartet options and... yeah. It slipped my mind.''
Harry's face softens, mouth quirking. He reaches over and gently closes the laptop, not all the way, just enough to break the spell. ''I know that thousand-yard stare. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't mostly oats and chocolate chips?''
You glance at the sad granola bar and feel your cheeks heat. The truth is that you can't remember. Maybe noon? Earlier? The hunger had been there earlier but then a new idea about the seating arrangements pulled you under and eventually the feeling just... faded.
That's how it happens every time. Your brain prioritizes the shiny, urgent task and lets the rest of your body send increasingly desperate smoke signals that you ignore until they scream.
''I had coffee,'' you offer weakly, knowing it's a terrible answer.
He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that rumbles in his chest and makes you want to crawl into his lap just to feel it. ''Of course you did.'' He squeezes your knee, then stands, tugging you up with him.
His hands settle on your waist, warm and steady, grounding you. Up close you can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his hair is still slightly flattened on one side from wherever he napped in the studio. ''C'mon. I'm making you a proper sandwich. And you're going to sit at the counter like a normal human while I do it.''
You let him pull you toward the kitchen, your body protesting the movement after hours curled up. But your mind is already drifting back, wondering if the florist has replied yet, mentally rearranging the timeline for when you need to confirm the photographer. ''I will, I promise. Just let me check one more email really quick after—''
''Baby.'' Harry turns, cupping your face with both hands now. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, and the look in his eyes is so patient it almost hurts. He's not mad. There's only that deep, loving concern that always makes you feel seen and a little bit terrified at the same time. ''I'm really happy you're excited about this. I am. Watching you light up over color palettes and playlists makes me stupidly in love with you. But I need you here too, yeah? Not just the wedding-planner version of you who forgets to eat and doesn't answer my texts for twelve hours.''
The words sting a little. You lean into his touch, breathing in the smell of him. ''I know. I'm sorry. I get... I don't know. It's like everything else goes fuzzy and the only thing that feels real is finishing the next thing on the list. I'll eat. I'll take a break after dinner. Promise.''
He searches your face for a moment, then nods, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. ''Good. Because I'm marrying you, not your spreadsheet.'' He lets you go with one last squeeze and turns toward the fridge, pulling out bread, cheese, avocado, and the leftover roast chicken from last night. You hop onto the counter stool, watching him move around the kitchen with effortless grace.
The guilt ebbs, replaced by a warm rush of love so strong it makes your chest ache. He always does this, calls you back without making you feel broken for drifting in the first place. You open your laptop again, just a crack, telling yourself it's only to minimize the tabs. But your fingers hover over the keys, itching to dive back into the seating chart.
Harry glances over, catching you. He doesn't say anything this time, just raises an eyebrow and slides a plate across the counter a minute later: a thick sandwich, cut in half, with a handful of crisps on the side.
You take a bite and see the tension in his shoulders ease instantly. ''See? Eating. Being present. Model fiancée behavior.''
He chuckles, leaning on the counter opposite you, stealing one of your crisps. ''Mhm. I'll believe it when you close the laptop for the night.''
You grin around another bite, promising yourself you really will step away after dinner. But even as the thought forms, another task is already calling: a new idea for the ceremony music that you know you'll lose if you don't write it down right now.
The light outside has softened into golden hour, painting the kitchen in warm tones, and for a moment everything feels perfectly balanced: the man you love watching you, the ring heavy on your finger, the future stretching out full of beautiful, overwhelming possibility.
You just have to get the details right first.
...
A couple of days slip by in that strange, elastic way time moves when you devote every waking hour to a single mission.
The living room has become a war room of wedding planning: printed mood boards on your lap, sticky notes layered like colorful scales on the coffee table, your laptop screen glowing with at least twenty open tabs ranging from sustainable floral suppliers to sample playlists and seating chart templates that you keep rearranging like a jigsaw puzzle.
The air smells faintly of cold coffee and the candle you lit and forgot about hours ago. Your hair is twisted up, and you're wearing an oversized sweater, sleeves pulled over your hands as you type.
You intended to take breaks. Really. But every time you stood up to stretch or eat, another thought would yank you back: what if we did fairy lights in the trees instead of lanterns? or did I confirm the dietary restrictions with the catering staff? and minutes turned into hours.
The half-eaten granola bar from the other day still sits on the counter, now joined by an apple with one sad bite taken out of it and a condensed glass of water. Your stomach stopped growling sometime in the afternoon, having given up on trying to get your attention.
The front door opens with its familiar soft click, and you register Harry's arrival somewhere in the back of your mind, but your fingers keep moving across the keyboard. Footsteps approach, slower than usual, and you feel the shift in the room before you see him.
''Hi, love,'' he says quietly. There's exhaustion in his voice, the kind that comes after long days of his own. He drops his bag by the couch and crouches down beside you, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. Up close, you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He smells like outside air and the faint trace of the mint gum he probably chewed on his way home ''I missed you. How's it going in here?''
You blink at him, surfacing. ''Good. Really good, actually. I think I finally figured out the flow for the ceremony. We can have the string quartet play that one instrumental you like during the processional, and then—'' You gesture vaguely at the screen, itching to show him the new mock-up. Harry's eyes flick from your face to the chaos surrounding you. The empty mugs. The untouched water glass.
''Have you eaten anything today?'
You hesitate. ''I had some coffee. And half an apple earlier.'' The words sound weak even to you. You know how it looks.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair as he stands up. ''Baby... it's almost eight. You've been at this since I left this morning. Again.'' The worry is bleeding into frustration now, coloring his tone. He starts gathering some of the scattered papers, not angrily, but with purpose. ''You can't keep doing this to yourself. I'm serious. When's the last time you stood up? Or ate anything nutritious?''
The defensiveness rises fast and sharp in your chest. You hate that tone, the one that makes you feel like a child who needs managing. Like your brain is a problem he has to solve instead of just... part of who you are. ''I'm fine, Harry. I got caught up, okay? It happens.''
He turns to face you fully, arms crossed over his chest, clearly trying to hold back the full wave of worry that has been building. ''You're not fine. Look around. This isn't healthy. I come home and it's like you haven't even moved. I texted you twice asking if you wanted me to pick up dinner, and nothing. I don't want to make you feel small. I'm just worried because I love you, and watching you run yourself into the ground over centerpieces and playlists makes me feel helpless.''
Your heart is pounding now, shame and irritation twisting together. Part of you knows he's right. The other part, the louder one right now, feels cornered. ''So, what, I'm supposed to just ignore everything that needs to get done? This is our wedding, Harry. I want it to be perfect. For us. And sometimes that means I get focused. You do the same thing when you're in the studio for twelve hours straight.''
''That's different,'' he argues, voice rising just a fraction. ''When I do it, I still remember to eat. I still answer my phone. I don't disappear completely.'' He gestures at the mess, at you. ''Sometimes it feels like the wedding has taken over everything. Like I have to compete with your ADHD just to get you to look at me for five minutes.''
The words land like a slap. It's not particularly cruel, and he isn't shouting, but it's precise enough to hit every insecure corner of your brain. Too much. Always too much. He's already getting tired of it. You're exhausting him. This version of you, the one lost in chaos and hyperfocus, is the one that will finally push him away.
You swallow hard, forcing your face into a neutral expression. The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar instinct to shut down and smooth things over.
''Fine,'' you say, voice carefully even. You reach for your laptop again, minimizing a few tabs. ''You're right. I'll take a break. Sorry.''
Harry watches you for a long moment, the frustration on his face melting into regret. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but decides against it. ''Okay,'' he says quietly. ''I'll... give you some space. I'm sorry I came at you like that.'' He leans down, pressing a quick, tentative kiss to your hair before heading toward the kitchen.
You stay on the couch, staring at the screen without really seeing it. This is why it never works. You're too chaotic, too much work. One day he'll decide it's not worth it. Your throat feels tight.
You keep typing anyway, small meaningless adjustments, pretending the knot in your chest isn't there.
The rest of the evening stretches out slowly. You stay on the couch longer than necessary, clicking through tabs without really absorbing anything, while Harry moves around the flat making dinner. The smell of garlic and herbs drifts in from the kitchen, but your appetite is gone, replaced by the heavy knot in your stomach.
When he brings you a plate anyway, a smaller portion, thoughtfully arranged, you thank him quietly and pick at it. He doesn't push. He figures he should give you some space to process your thoughts, the way he's learned works best when your emotions run hot and fast. Usually it does. Tonight it only makes you worry that he's pulling away from you already. You noticed the way he hesitated before kissing your hair, like he wasn't sure he wanted to touch you.
Of course he's tired. Everyone gets tired eventually. The exes who thought your quirks were cute at first, the friends who slowly stopped inviting you when you got too loud or you drifted mid-conversation. He's just the latest one to realize how much work you are.
The thoughts loop viciously, feeding on every small thing: the way he keeps his distance on the couch while you both pretend to watch something mindless on the TV, the quiet ''goodnight'' he offers when you say you're going to take a shower.
You take longer in the bathroom than usual, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders as if it can wash away the shame crawling under your skin. When you finally emerge in an old t-shirt of his and soft shorts, the bedroom light is low, Harry already under the covers on his side, scrolling on his phone with the faintest crease between his brows. He looks up when you walk in, offering a small, tentative smile.
You climb into bed on your side, the sheets cool against your legs, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent wrapping around you.
The silence feels thick. You lie there staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, heart hammering. That one frustrated comment confirmed every fear you carry about being too chaotic, too scattered, too much for someone as steady and grounded as him.
Finally, the words burst out before you can swallow them back.
''Are you tired of me?''
Harry sets his phone down instantly. The lamp on his nightstand casts a warm glow across his face, highlighting the concern that floods his expression. ''What?''
You keep your eyes on the ceiling, afraid that looking at him will make the tears spill over. ''What you said earlier... about the wedding feeling more important than us. About me disappearing into the tabs. I know I've been a lot lately. I know I forget things and get hyperfocused and it's frustrating. I really don't want to be someone who uses ADHD as an excuse for everything, but it is part of how my brain works and I'm terrified you're already starting to resent it. Like maybe you're realizing this is too much long-term. Like everyone else eventually does.''
The words hang in the quiet room. You feel unbearably exposed.
Harry shifts closer immediately, the mattress dipping as he moves. His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers threading through yours.
''Love,'' he says softly, voice thick with regret. ''I'm so sorry. The way I said it came out wrong. I was worried, yeah, but I never meant it like that. I'm not pulling away. I just hate watching you burn yourself out. It scares me. I see how bright you get when something catches your attention, how passionate you are, and I love that about you. But when it means you're not eating or sleeping or even noticing the day go by, I feel helpless. But I shouldn't have taken that out on you.''
He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles the way he knows helps ground you. You finally turn your head to look at him. His eyes are open and earnest, that familiar soft green that always fills your chest with affection.
''I chose you,'' he continues, quieter now. ''All of you. The parts that go a million miles an hour and the parts that crash hard afterward. The tangents and the forgotten texts and the way you light up over color palettes at two in the morning. I knew it wasn't going to be simple or easy all the time. No one is. But I want this. The messy, the beautiful, the hard days included. I'm not tired of you. I'm worried for you. Because I love you so much it makes me stupid sometimes.''
The knot in your chest loosens, just a little. The vicious spiral doesn't vanish completely, those thoughts never really do, but his words push back against it, steady and full of conviction. You shift closer to him under the covers, needing the solid warmth of his body.
''I don't want to be a burden,'' you whisper. ''I want our wedding to be special, but not at the cost of us.''
''You're not a burden,'' he murmurs, turning fully toward you now. One arm slides around your waist, his hand stroking slowly up and down your back, warm and soothing. ''We're a team. We'll figure out better ways to do this together. Reminders, check-ins, whatever helps. I'm sorry I made you feel like you have to apologize for being you.''
You smile softly, grateful for his reassurance but not entirely convinced.
''You're not a burden,'' Harry repeats, softer this time, like he needs you to feel the words in your bones. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, and then he's kissing you.
It starts gentle, the kind of kiss that says I'm here, I've got you. You melt into it immediately, the lingering tension in your body easing as you kiss him back. One of your hands finds his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. For a moment it's just comfort, the kind of closeness you've come to rely on after hard conversations.
But the longer the kiss goes on, the more it shifts. The hunger that always simmers between you two rises quickly, especially after a fight. Harry tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a low sound rumbles in his throat when your fingers thread into his curls. You're no strangers to makeup sex; it's become one of your favorite ways to release leftover tension from heated discussions, and it works like a charm each time.
He rolls you gently onto your back, settling between your legs without breaking the kiss. The weight of him is perfect, grounding. His hand slips under the hem of your (his) t-shirt, palm warm against your stomach, then higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. You arch into the touch, a small gasp escaping against his mouth.
''Still with me?'' he murmurs, lips trailing along your jaw.
You nod, but your mind, traitorous even now, flickers for a second to the seating chart still open on your laptop in the other room. Harry can tell by the way your eyes lose focus for half a heartbeat.
He doesn't get frustrated. Instead he catches your chin gently, bringing your gaze back to his.
''Hey,'' he says, voice low and rough with want but still so full of affection. ''Focus on us, love. Just us right now.''
The words send a shiver through you. You smile, a little sheepish, and pull him back down into a deeper kiss. The rhythm between you feels easy and familiar, like coming home. Clothes come off slowly: your shirt, then his, then the rest, skin meeting skin in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking lightly at the spot that always makes your back arch. You run your hands over his back, tracing the muscles that shift under your touch, feeling the way he presses closer when you scratch lightly at his shoulders.
When he finally slides into you, it's slow and deliberate, both of you letting out shaky breaths at the feeling. The hunger is there, the need to be as close as physically possible after all the emotional vulnerability, but it stays sweet. Harry keeps his forehead pressed to yours, eyes open, watching every flicker of expression on your face. He moves with deep, steady rolls of his hips, one hand braced beside your head while the other strokes your side, your thigh, anywhere he can touch.
Your mind tries to wander again once, but Harry senses it like he always does. He drops his weight a little more, anchoring you, and whispers against your lips, ''There you are. Stay with me, yeah? Feel this.'' His hand slips between you, fingers applying the perfect pressure against your clit, and the distraction dissolves into pleasure.
The sounds in the room are soft: your shared breaths and quiet moans, the faint creak of the bed. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans your name like a prayer. The emotional openness from earlier makes everything feel heightened, more vulnerable, more loving. When you come, it's with his name on your lips and his eyes locked on yours. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he shudders, hips pressing flush against you.
For a long moment afterward you just lie there tangled together, hearts slowing, skin slick with sweat. Harry presses lazy kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, your collarbone. His weight is comforting, and one of his hands continues stroking soothing patterns along your side.
Harry falls asleep quickly after, the way he always does when the day has been long and the emotions ran deep. His breathing evens out within minutes, one arm still draped loosely over your waist, curls messy against the pillow. The room is quiet except for his adorably soft exhales and the sounds of the city outside.
You lie there beside him, skin still warm and tingly, but sleep feels miles away. Your brain is wide awake, spinning like a carousel.
The seating chart. Row seven still feels off, maybe move Sarah closer to the aisle? But then Ben will be next to his ex and that could be awkward. What if we switch the whole back row? The thoughts loop relentlessly, and you know from experience that trying to force sleep now is useless. The hyperfixation has you in its grip, and the only way out is to get it on paper so your brain will finally let go.
Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, tucking the blanket back around him so he doesn't get cold. You pull on his discarded t-shirt and pad quietly to the kitchen, the floor cool under your bare feet.
The laptop screen glows harshly when you open it on the kitchen table, making you squint. You surround yourself with a fresh notebook and a handful of pens, sticky notes filling with tiny diagrams and crossed-out names. The clock on the wall reads 2:17 a.m.
You're deep into rearranging the third row when you hear the bedroom door creak. Footsteps, soft and sleepy. You grimace, shoulders tensing, already preparing for another gentle scolding about rest and balance and not doing this to yourself again.
But Harry doesn't scold.
He stops in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene before him. His hair is wild, eyes heavy with sleep, and he's wearing only a pair of loose boxers. Instead of sighing or asking what you're doing, he simply rubs a hand over his face and heads for the kettle.
''Want one?'' he asks, voice gravelly from sleep, already scooping coffee grounds into the French press.
You blink at him, surprised. ''You're not... mad?''
He glances over with a small, tired smile. ''Mad? No, baby. Worried you're running on empty, yeah. But I get it. I know how it works by now.'' He shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world. The kettle clicks on, and the rich, earthy smell of coffee soon fills the kitchen.
You feel something tight in your chest loosen. ''I just knew that if I didn't get this out of my head I'd be up all night anyway.''
Harry pours two mugs, adds a splash of oat milk to yours the way you like, and carries them over. He simply settles into the chair beside you without a word, close enough that his knee presses against yours under the table. The warmth of his body, the quiet companionship, feels like the best kind of anchor. You lean into his side, resting your head briefly on his shoulder as gratitude washes over you.
The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of typing, the occasional scratch of pen on paper, and Harry's quiet suggestions. He points out a better set-up for one table, teases you when you get overly perfectionistic about the placement of a distant cousin, and keeps refilling your water glass when you forget. The spiral from earlier feels far away now. The work gets done quicker with his calm presence beside you, turning the overwhelming task into something shared and fun.
Eventually the sky outside the window begins to lighten, shifting from deep navy to soft lavender. Harry presses a lingering kiss to your temple, lips warm against your skin, one arm slung around your shoulders as you both stare at the finalized chart.
''Better?'' he asks quietly.
You nod, closing the laptop with a satisfied sigh. ''Much better. Thank you.''
He stands, tugging you up with him, and together you shuffle back toward the bedroom. As you curl into his side again, his arm wrapping securely around you, you feel closer than ever. Not despite the chaos, because of it. Because he adapts. Because he makes you coffee at 2 a.m. and sits in the mess with you instead of trying to fix it for you.
''Love you,'' he mumbles sleepily against your hair as you both drift off.
You smile into his chest. ''Love you more.''
...
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