#harrystylss

You’re humming a soft tune, sitting on the couch and folding some of Harry’s clothes. On the screen in front of you, a very frazzled bride is trying to pick out the ideal wedding dress. Every so often, a bridesmaid will coo or gasp, and your eyes flick up to the screen to see what all the fuss is about. You’ve already nodded along in acceptance of some dresses, but others have been downright revolting.

Like the one that she’s trying on now.

“Too fluffy,” you say to no one in particular, grimacing as the bride arranges the petticoat of the dress. “It makes her look like a chicken.”

But the bridesmaids are squealing and the bride is grinning maniacally, and your heart plummets when you realize that she’s going to wear that monstrosity as she walks down the aisle. You shake your head, dropping your gaze back down to where you’re folding a pair of Harry’s boxers. “Oh, no…”

You hear the rest of the women fawning over the dress and close your eyes. The garment just isn’t your cup of tea—if it were your wedding, you’d have a beautiful number, nothing too fancy, just enough to please you and to compliment all of your assets…

You swallow down the lump in your throat, sighing quietly. As if it can sense the plummeting of your mood, the small creature inside of you doles out a blunt kick, and you gasp, clutching the underside of your bump. “What’re you doing in there, hmm?” you murmur, rubbing the spot.

In response, your unborn baby shifts again, and you groan lightly. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you being good for Mummy?” You pause, tenderly patting your bump. “Missing your daddy, huh? Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon. He just went to go get us some food so that we can make sure you become big and strong.”

For a few moments you stay like that, rubbing your swollen belly and smiling softly, the thought of weddings fleeing from your mind. Eventually though, you’re snapped out of your blissful stupor when the bride erupts into squeals, declaring that she’s going to buy that absolute miscreation of a dress. You grumble in disappointment, muttering something about having had “high hopes” for her.

“Let’s go,” you tell your bump, reaching for the remote. A moment later, the television screen goes dark, and you stand slowly, collecting all of Harry’s underwear and bunching them up in your arms (but careful as not to wrinkle them, of course).

You trudge out of the living room and make your way to the base of the steps. It’s still early enough into your pregnancy that you’re not waddling around and needing help to climb staircases, so you conquer the steps with ease (though you’re panting a bit more than usual when you reach the top). You enter the bedroom that you share with Harry, walking over to his nightstand to put away the many pairs of boxers that are still clutched in your arms.

A few of his rings lay scattered haphazardly on the small table. Your eyes are drawn to the way they glint in the sunlight, and all of your worries and doubts come flooding back. You sigh, chancing a glance at your left hand; your fourth finger remains barren and simple.

Was he ever going to ask?

The question has been gnawing at you for months now.

It started when you’d found out you were pregnant. Harry had been ecstatic—his smile had seemed permanently etched into his face. He had been all over you for the first few months…in fact, he still is. “Just so beautiful carrying my child, love,” he always tells you earnestly, “Makes me wanna lay in bed and love on you all day.”

You definitely wouldn’t object.

You’re carrying his child, for Christ’s sake. You’re practically married already, living a domestic life and doing domestic things, like going out and fetching fast food, or folding each other’s laundry. But for you, something feels incomplete without that small piece of jewellery on your left hand. You’re scared that he doesn’t share your desires, and that he doesn’t want to take that next step. You’re happy with him—so fucking happy—but you just want to be…his.

Irrevocably and irreplaceably his.

You frown gently, reaching for the handle on his nightstand. You’ve pulled the drawer halfway out when two firm arms wrap around your midsection, the hands attached settling nicely onto your stomach. You nearly drop the folded clothing, twitching in surprise.

“You scared me!” you say breathlessly, and you’d put your hand on your heart if it weren’t for all of the fabric tucked into your arms. 

Harry chuckles, pressing a gently kiss to your cheek before following it with several playful pecks to the column of your neck. For a moment you stand there, closing your eyes and swaying slightly as he rubs his palms over your belly in a greeting to your unborn child.

“She was kicking before,” you say airily, distracted by the way Harry ghosts his lips along your skin.

He hums in surprise. “Was she now? Always waits ‘til her daddy is gone, the little rascal.”

“She can hear you,” you tell him matter-of-factly. Harry smiles.

“Well, in that case…”

He circles around you, nudging his underwear drawer shut and reaching for the laundry that is still clutching tightly in your arms. You hand it over to him, and he merely sets it all down on the bed before dropping to his knees with a quiet thud. Your heart somersaults in excitement—you love it when he does this.

“Hi there, tiny fairy,” Harry murmurs, putting both of his palms back on your stomach, “Hope you’re not giving your mummy a rough time. She’s doing the best she can.” He grins up at you teasingly, and you scoff in mock-offense.

“Shut up,” you laugh, but one of your hands twines into his hair, fingers braiding through the soft curls and nails scratching his scalp gently. Harry closes his eyes happily, making a satisfied grunt in the base of his throat. He presses his forehead against your bump before kissing softly at the skin of your stomach.

“Daddy loves you so much,” he stresses, “Just a few more months, and then we’ll get to meet you. Hope you’re excited, because your mum and I? We’re over the fucking moon.”

“Harry!” you scold, pulling at his hair in admonishment.

“Oh, come off it!” he says, shrugging in protest, “She’s never awake whenever I’m around anyways. It’s not like she heard—”

He’s cut off by your gasp of pain when your baby delivers a powerful kick to the spot right where Harry’s palm is covering your stomach. Harry’s eyes widen, and his mouth pops open in surprise. He looks up at you, almost as though to ask if you’d felt that too (which you had, of course). You let out a small, disbelieving laugh in response, and immediately his forehead is back against your belly.

“I’m sorry for swearing at you,” he says quickly, “Didn’t know you were up, you’re never usually moving when daddy’s here. Thank you, my tiny fairy.”

For a long moment, there’s only silence. And then you sniffle, and Harry looks up, finding your eyes wet with tears.

“Hey,” he says, “Stop that.”

“I can’t help it!” you say, laughing and crying at the same time, “It’s the hormones!”

Harry chuckles—you’ve come to blame everything on the hormones. It’s become a running joke between the two of you. Once, when you’d been upset with him for not washing the dishes, he’d claimed that he hadn’t done in because of the hormones; you’d both been so caught off guard with his rebuttal that you couldn’t stop laughing (he’d apologized afterwards, of course, and you hadn’t had an issue with the dishes since).

“Always babbling on about the bloody hormones,” Harry rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless. 

You tuck a short curl behind his ear before cupping his jaw gently. He grunts as he stands, his hands finding your hips and his mouth seeking yours as soon as he’s close enough. You humour him and sigh happily against his lips, and for the moment, all your doubts are forgotten.

“Better get your cute bum downstairs,” Harry mumbles once you finally pull back, “Brought you food, didn’t I?”

“As if I need to gain more weight,” you groan. The spot between Harry’s brows crinkles as he frowns at you, his lips settling into a faint scowl. He wraps his arms around you, tilting his head to the side and giving you a fleeting yet disapproving look.

“Carrying my child,” he reminds you, “And you’ve never been sexier. You know how hard it is for me to not just throw you down on this bed and lick—,” he kisses your neck, “—every inch of your body?”

Your eyes flutter shut when he sucks softly on your collarbone, and your hands tangle in his hair. “I wouldn’t complain,” you breathe out airily, and his chuckle makes his lips vibrate against your throat.

“Eat first,” he says firmly, pulling back and smirking as you pout. “Gotta keep your energy up if you wanna go all night.”

~*~

It’s a few days later when you let it slip.

You don’t mean to, really. It’s just that Harry’s head is on your lap, and your fingers are running mindlessly through his hair, and you’re watching yet another anxious bride search tirelessly for her perfect wedding dress. The show makes Harry perk up, and he turns so that he’s facing the ceiling and starts telling you all about how one of his good mates is getting married soon and that you’ve both been invited to the wedding, and hopefully your tiny fairy doesn’t decide to make a guest appearance at the ceremony.

“They’re getting married?” you say, your mouth twisting into a wry smile. The next words that leave your mouth haven’t been thought through, and they slide out before you can stop them. “Guess we’re gonna be the last ones then, huh?”

Harry’s good-natured smirk slips from his face, leaving behind an expression of shock. You mimic the look, gasping and clapping your hands over your mouth. It’s futile, though—the damage has been done. Your eyes go wide, and your heart starts beating rapidly, thumping against your chest in panic. For a moment, everything is silent.

And then Harry swallows convulsively and asks with a quiet, hoarse voice, “What?”

“I—I’m sorry,” you breathe, afraid to pull your hands away from your mouth for fear that you might make things worse. “Just—oh God—just forget I said anything, it’s not—”

“No,” Harry cuts you off, grunting faintly as he sits up. He peers at you from over his right shoulder, and you can see him closing up; he’s curling into himself, his brows are knitting together, and he’s looking at you with a wary, cautious expression.

“You said it,” he says slowly. “I’m not about to fuckin’ forget that.”

You usually brush off the curses that leave his lips, but the swear is so much more frightening given the tension that you’ve created. Your body floods with panic and your cheeks begin to burn as your eyes suddenly well up with tears.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, sniffling quietly. You hate yourself for crying—it’s the fucking hormones, it always is.

“Shit, what’re you doing?” Harry grits out. He shifts so that his body is now facing you and wraps you up in a tight hug. You cling to the material of his t-shirt and bury your face into his neck, inhaling deeply in hopes of calming yourself down. Harry shushes you softly, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of your head.

“I’m not upset with you,” he tells you, his large palms sweeping up and down your arms, “Christ, love, breathe for me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Apparently, those are the only words you’re capable of saying. “I don’t—it just slipped out, I’m so—”

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Harry says. His words are comforting, but you can still hear the strain in his voice. It makes you recognize just how badly you’ve messed up. Your lips had acted before you’d had a chance to filter through your thoughts, and now you’re afraid that a wedge has been driven between the two of you. Any hope that he may share your desires is slowly fizzling out, squashed by his initial, alarmed reaction.

“Are you gonna leave me now?” you blubber. You’re being idiotic, but you can’t help it. “Did I scare you off? Are we over?”

“What?” Harry’s voice rises with incredulity. He pulls back, gripping your arms tightly and giving you a stern glare. “What the hell are you going on about? Scaring me off? Fuckin’ rubbish, that is.”

He cradles your cheeks in his large hands, thumbs wiping away at the few tears that have streaked down your face. Your eyes are red and puffy, but they’re watching him intently, trying to figure him out. Harry knows how you get when you can’t read him—you overreact and jump to conclusions and lose control.

“I love you,” he stresses, leaning in so that he can sear the words into your brain. His right hand drops to spread over your swollen stomach. “And I love her. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I—,” you start, but he cuts you off before you can finish, giving you a stern look that tells you he won’t endure any more of your nonsense. You bite your lip, looking up at him through your wet eyelashes; his hand is still resting comfortably on your belly, and his gaze softens when your eyes meet. You reach forward with shaky hands, your fingers gripping the hem of his cotton t-shirt and keeping him close.

“Don’t cry,” Harry murmurs, pulling you in. You nestle your face into the column of his throat, curling up against him. It’s clumsy and difficult, but you manage. Somehow, you always manage.

He holds you in silence for a good ten minutes, waiting until your heartbeat has slowed and the tear tracks on your cheeks have dried. You’re breathing evenly now, eyelids heavy as sleep threatens to overtake you. It seems that Harry can sense this, though, because he’s suddenly shifting and rubbing your thigh gently to rouse you.

“C’mon, up you get,” he says quietly. You make a surprised sound low in your throat but allow him to pull you up. He intertwines both of your hands with his and tugs you along to the base of the staircase.

“Where are we going?” you mumble as he positions you in front of him and holds onto your hips, nudging you forward. You climb the steps, his large hands warm on your sides and squeezing appreciatively every few seconds.

“Upstairs,” Harry says, amusement palpable in his voice. You roll your eyes and shake your head, but a small, shy chuckle leaves your lips anyways.

He leads you to your shared bedroom once you reach the top of the staircase. Your brows are furrowed and you have no idea what’s going on, but Harry seems set in his plan. You wish more than anything he’d just tell you what he’s got hidden up his sleeve.

“Was gonna wait,” he tells you, sitting you down at the edge of your king-sized bed. He pushes your thighs apart, crouching between them and delivering a smacking kiss to your bump. You fix him with a confused stare, your lips curving down into a puzzled frown.

“What are you going on about?”

“Shh,” he soothes, leaning forward so that he can plant a soft yet enthusiastic kiss to your lips. He cups your face in his hands and you swear you can feel your body going lax. His affection pacifies you, steals the tension from your body before you have a chance to stiffen in surprise.

“Was gonna wait,” he repeats, pulling back and grunting quietly as he pushes himself to his feet. He walks over to his bedside table, pulling open the top drawer and rifling through it. After a few seconds, he seems to find what he’s looking for, and he holds the object behind his back as he nudges the drawer shut and turns to face you.

“Wait for what?” you ask.

“Next month,” he hums, “On our five-year mark. Wanted it to be special, y’know?”

He resumes his previous position between your thighs, but this time, he’s on one knee.

“Harry…,” you say, your eyes widening—the rest of your sentence is non-existent.

“Just let me do this, will you?” he chuckles, and you clamp your mouth shut. Truthfully, you’re grateful—you don’t know what you would have said anyways.

“So, yeah,” he continues, clearing his throat and shrugging out the tension in his shoulders. You smile, looking down as he produces a small, black box from behind his back. The item looks so tiny nestled in his right hand, and you can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up in your throat. Harry chuckles, shooting you a mock-glare. “I’m trying to be serious here!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” you say, covering your face with your hands. Harry grins, leaning in and brushing his nose against your forearms imploringly. You drop your hands, your right palm falling subconsciously to the swell of your stomach. Harry’s eyes are bright and hopeful when you meet his gaze, and you nod at him encouragingly.

“Christ, I love you,” he says, sighing happily, “I love you so goddamn much, and I wanna make you my wife. I don’t have a speech prepared, ‘cause I thought I’d have at least a month left to think of something.” He gives you a pointed glare, but his lips twitch upwards and you giggle.

“So I’m sorry if this isn’t the best proposal…or if it’s not what you had cooked up in that stubborn head of yours,” he chuckles, “Plus, I know it might not be the best time, what with our tiny fairy on the way, but…I wanna marry you. And I think you wanna marry me too.”

You both laugh.

“So…,” Harry trails off, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and glancing down as he opens the tiny velvet box. Your breathing hitches in your throat when you catch sight of the beautiful diamond ring resting snugly inside. You look up at him with shining eyes, a beaming smile carved into your face. Harry swallows, his eyes flicking up to glance at your face.

“Will you marry me?”

~*~

You can’t stop staring at the jewel that’s sparkling prettily on your finger. Every time Harry catches you peeking down at the ring, he teases you (“Wanted something bigger, didn’t you?”) and dodges the half-hearted swats that you deliver to his shoulder. It’s mindless banter, though, and truthfully, you can’t think of a better man to marry.

You tell him this a few days after his proposal. He’s in front of you, crouched down and sorting through several discs as you decide which movie you should watch (you had turned down his offer of The Notebook, because really, how has he not gotten bored of it yet?). Harry’s mumbling quietly, listing a few of the choices, and you’re staring at the way his back muscles move fluidly under the material of his white button-up. You bite your lip when he yawns and stretches, and your thighs tense.

“I’m really happy I’m marrying you,” you say absentmindedly, the thought slipping out. Harry freezes, setting down a copy of Notting Hill and turning to look at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod firmly, and he chuckles, abandoning his search for a film in favour of crawling over to where you’re sitting comfortably on the couch.

“What prompted this?” he asks, placing his forearms on your thighs and gazing up at you with twinkling eyes. You shrug, tucking a brown curl behind his ear and proceeding to run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp. He closes his eyes for a moment, humming happily.

“Dunno,” you say, “I’m just…I’m gonna have the most caring, most genuine, sweetest, sexiest husband in the world.”

“‘Sexiest husband in the world’?” he asks, grinning up at you (because of course that’s the only part that he would catch). You don’t reprimand him for his cheekiness, though, instead choosing to play along and nod with a smirk on your face.

“In the world,” you stress, fingers tugging lightly on the hair at the nape of his neck. Harry snickers. “I like the sound o’ that. ‘S quite the title to live up to, though.”

“Guess you’ll have to practice, then,” you say, spreading your legs invitingly. Harry’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops when he finally catches on.

“You little minx!” he accuses, a loud laugh falling from his mouth, “So, this all just a plan to seduce me? Hmm?”

“I meant it!” you tell him, snickering into your palms, “But, like…I just need you to fuck me,” you pause and smile before adding, “It’s the hormones.”

“Well then,” Harry chuckles, lifting himself up so that he can plop down next to you on the couch, “Can’t say no to the hormones, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” you hum, leaning in happily to meet him for a kiss. 

It starts off slow, with gentle movements and soft pecks that make you both giggle, and hands that rest sweetly on your cheeks, like how they had when he kissed you after your second date (“Who kisses on the first date? Fuckin’ wankers, that’s who.”)

After a few minutes, though, Harry’s got you panting, chasing his lips desperately when he pulls away to gulp in air because in his haste to love on you, he sometimes forgets to breathe. You whine when one of his hands sneaks up your baggy t-shirt, skirting past the swell of your stomach and gently cupping your left breast in his hand.

“S-sensitive,” you remind him, and he nods. His other hand veers off in the opposite direction, fitting snugly against your cunt over the comfy legging that you’re sporting. Harry swears when he feels a slightly damp patch, looking at you incredulously.

“Soaked through?” he asks, and you whimper in response. He sighs, closing his eyes. “Oh, pet. Been neglecting you. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head before he kisses you again, because how could he ever neglect you? He treats you so well, always putting your needs before his own, sometimes to the point of you telling him off for it. You gasp against his lips and he smiles softly, fingers hooking underneath the cup of your bra so that he can run his thumb over your nipple.

“What do you reckon?” he pants, smirking, “Should we do it on the couch? It’s got a bit of a juvenile element to it, dunnit? Necking like teenagers who’re alone for the first time?”

“’S dirty,” you moan out, and Harry chuckles, kissing your jawline hard.

“You like it dirty,” he mocks, “Remember the patio? It’s where she was conceived, innit?” His hand falls to curve over your belly as the other one hooks into the hem of your leggings, beginning to pull them down your hips.

“We—we don’t know that for sure,” you mumble as you try to help him pull off your pants. Finally, the fabric is bunched up at your ankles, and Harry pulls it off with a dramatic flourish that makes you giggle. He swears quietly when he sees the cute panties you’re wearing—baby pink with a white lace trim.

“Gonna be the death of me, I swear,” Harry mutters, “You know how much I love pink.”

You laugh.

He leans forward, rucking up your t-shirt over your stomach and chest before pulling it off swiftly, and then carefully undoing the clasp of your bra. You let the straps fall down your shoulders before removing the undergarment, hissing slightly at how sore your breasts feel. They’ve become far more tender, obviously, but watching the way Harry’s eyes light up when he sees them makes your self-confidence skyrocket (not that he didn’t love them before your pregnancy. Now, he just pays them a little extra attention every time you get naked.)

“These are gonna feed our child,” Harry mumbles, cupping your breasts and rubbing circles against the soft skin, “Gonna make her big and strong, they are.”

“What’re you gonna do with them in the meantime?” you tease, lifting an eyebrow. Harry chuckles, leaning down.

“’M gonna kiss every inch of them,” he says firmly, before he gets to work and does just that. His lips are soft as they sponge kisses along your skin, your previous warning about being sensitive still echoing in his ears. He’s gentle and graceful, and you gasp when he takes your left nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bud. Usually, he’d suck, but you’re at the peak of receptiveness and he doesn’t want to do anything that might hurt you.

“Can you please—,” the rest of your sentence dissolves into a blissful sigh. Harry pulls his mouth away—much to your dismay—and looks at you with inquiring eyes.

“Need you inside,” you whimper quietly, placing your right palm on his cheek. Your other hand plays with his hair, sweeping it back and out of his face, twirling strands around your index finger, dancing your nails along the shell of his ear. Harry angles himself forward so that he can kiss you, his lips colliding with yours messily.

When you manage to shimmy off your underwear, Harry tosses them behind him, shrugging his shoulders and making you laugh. He grins sheepishly, and you reach for the buttons that clasp the material of his shirt together. You undo each one quickly while Harry works at thumbing open the button on his jeans.

“Bloody…fuckin’ thing—,” he mutters as you desperately push his button-up off his shoulders. He discards the shirt before standing and wrestling his pants down his thighs.

“Hurry up,” you whine, closing your eyes and tilting your head back. Harry tuts at you, but you can see that he’s becoming just as frustrated, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed in concentration. You both breathe out sighs of relief when he’s finally naked, and he climbs back onto the sofa, hovering over you and pausing.

“You wanna be on top?”

You turn the offer over in your head before nodding. “Yeah, that’d probably be best.”

Harry lets out a breathless laugh, and after a few seconds and awkward, clumsy shuffles, you’re straddling his waist. You shiver and close your eyes when your cunt brushes up against him, stimulating your clit and giving you the pressure that you crave. Harry holds onto your hips, his fingers dimpling your skin as he tries to arrange you above him.

“C’mon, love,” his voice has taken on a slightly pleading quality, “Want you to ride me. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe, shifting down his body slightly so that your bodies are aligned. With delicate fingers, you pick up his cock, rubbing your thumb over the tip and reveling in the hiss that leaves his mouth. You run your index finger along a prominent vein, glancing up to watch his reaction. His eyes are closed, head slanted back and lips forming around silent words. He groans when you make a firm fist around his shaft, lifting your body so that you can angle him beneath you.

Twin sighs escape your mouths when you finally sink down onto him. You’re soaked, making the transition easy and graceful. There’s a slight pinch as he stretches you, but you’ve always chalked that up to his size—he’s long and thick, and you always feel undeniably full whenever he takes you in this position.

“Oh, God,” you murmur, more so to yourself than to him. Chewing on your bottom lip, you give an experimental roll of your hips. Harry hisses, his fingers digging into the excess skin at your sides, and his eyes shoot open, a look of panic on his face.

“Don’t!” he exclaims, his voice cracking pathetically, “Don’t, I’m—fuck, gimme a minute.”

“Okay,” you concede breathlessly, pausing on top of him. Your hands fall to his abdomen, and you can feel where his muscles clench spastically. He’s practically pulsing inside of you, and he has yet to relinquish your waist from his unforgiving hold. A burst of pride flares up inside of you, warming your chest as you realize that you’re the reason for which he’s been rendered so helpless.

“Okay, love,” Harry grits out, and you want to pout when he releases your hips; but then his hands fall to your thighs, and you decide that you’re okay with the action. “Be a good girl and ride me.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

It’s messy and sloppy and quick and passionate, but Harry’s eyes never leave your own. How could you possibly force yourself to look away when he’s staring at you like that, with determination and lust and fervour brewing just beneath the surface? When his hands roam up and down your thighs until he ultimately can’t handle how far you are from him? When he finally sits up, spreading his palms across your ass and pressing his forehead to yours as you wind your arms around his neck? How could you possibly tear your eyes from him?

You let out a frail whimper when Harry kneads your backside and begins to shallowly force his hips up into yours. He’s stretching you deliciously, blunt nails digging small crescents into the plump skin of your bum, and you can’t help but to tilt your head back as you gasp. Harry takes the opportunity to lean in, nipping and sucking at your neck, careful not to bite too hard. He kisses up your throat and moves along your jawline, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear and whispering words that are tainted with pure, unadulterated filth.

“Feel me deep, yeah, love?” his breath is hot against your skin, and you can feel how your nipples pebble in reaction to each syllable that leaves his sinful lips, “Got every inch of me inside, didn’t you? Always take me so well, ever since the first time.”

“C-Can feel you,” you mumble, eyes rolling up in your head when the head of his cock brushes against a sensitive spot inside of you.

Harry chuckles, nosing a strand of your hair out of the way before pressing his lips firmly to your temple, speaking quietly but fiercely against your skin. “Doing so good for me. Just wanna stay inside you all day. Can I do that? Can I keep you on me ‘til tomorrow?”

The thought, as absurd as it is, makes you moan wantonly. Harry’s mouth has always been—for lack of a better word—obscene, and often, he’s able to fluster you and make you cum with just his words. It’s a skill that he alone possesses, and he takes pride in knowing that you’re so easy for it whenever his vivid imagination and throaty rasp present themselves in the bedroom (or any other room where he decides that he needs you right now).

“Harry,” you say softly, falling forward and pressing your forehead against his shoulder. He takes full control, then, hands resuming their original position on your hips as he guides you up and down and helps you circle on his cock. You’re limp in his arms, a tight knot curling hotly in the pit of your stomach, and everything is heightened. You’ve always been especially quick to cum whenever Harry’s involved, and your pregnancy has only helped you reach your high at an alarmingly rapid rate.

Harry can feel when you’re teetering on the edge, based on the way you shiver in anticipation and how your shoulders tense. His right hand snakes around your torso before he’s pressing a gentle thumb to where your clit is throbbing and begging for attention. The simple nudge is enough, and he wraps his arms around you when you cry out and begin to tremble in his lap.

“You’re there, you’ve got it,” he whispers the encouragements into your ear, a palpable warmth spreading from his groin to his thighs, and before he knows it, he’s letting out a guttural groan and slumping forward, burying his face into your hair. He inhales deeply, smelling the sweet, fruity scent of your shampoo and clamps his eyes shut as his cock jerks within you before he cums, twitching and pulsing and squeezing you tight.

He whines when you try to dismount him a few minutes later, shaking his head and burrowing into your neck. “Not yet,” he slurs, blinking lethargically, “Wanna—wanna keep you close.”

You smile tiredly, humouring him and staying in that position for a little while longer, until he’s gone completely soft inside of you and you can feel a bit of him leaking out and trailing down your inner thighs.

“Harry,” you whine, “I gotta get cleaned up.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back and letting out a sigh, “Let’s go.”

~*~

Later that night, when you’re toeing the line between sleep and consciousness, you feel Harry shift beside you and nudge his way down the bed. Your eyes flutter open only slightly, and in your groggy state, it’s hard to decipher exactly what he’s trying to do. You’re still breathing evenly, but somewhere in your conscious mind, your heart somersaults when he lays his head onto your stomach.

“’M marrying your mum,” Harry murmurs, his fingers tapping idly along the swell of your stomach, like he’s trying to communicate with your baby using some kind of secret sequence. “Dunno when, obviously. It’s probably gonna be after you come along, ‘cause then we’re gonna have to take care of you.” He chuckles to himself. “But I’m gonna marry her.”

And with that, he presses a soft kiss to your belly before sighing quietly, nuzzling his head against your thighs and settling down for the night.

~*~

It’s hot.

The unbearable heat that’s swept over the country still hasn’t ceased. It had been hot when you’d woken up (Harry had yelped when you’d practically pushed him off the bed, moaning about how he just wanted to love on you and being met with your rebuttal of how his body was like a furnace and today that kind of temperature just wasn’t welcome). It had been hot when you’d arrived at Anne’s, and whilst you’d been eating lunch. You couldn’t stand it.

Thankfully, Anne had insisted on giving you a popsicle; she couldn’t have her son’s fiancée fainting in the middle of her kitchen, now could she? You had expressed your gratitude with a kiss to her cheek, and now you’re happily sucking on a raspberry-flavored treat on the couch. Harry’s documentary is playing on the television–Anne had said that she wanted to watch it with him (you’ve already seen it about four times, but really, that’s something that nobody needs to know).

“You little felon!” Anne laughs as the Harry on the screen pulls off his shirt, his pants quickly following. Your fiancé covers his face with his hands, leaning forward and groaning in embarrassment.

“I didn’t know they were gonna put that in!” he protests. He presses his forehead to your bare shins, which have been slung over his lap carelessly. You smile, watching Harry and his mum interact–every so often she lets out small, teasing quips, and she even tears up a few times, her pride getting the best of her.

“Dont cry, Mum,” Harry warns, “If you cry, I’m gonna cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Anne chuckles. She reaches for the remote to pause the documentary before standing and dusting off her pants. “I’ll be right back–I need some tissues.”

“Take your time,” you say, and she shoots you a grateful smile. 

Once she’s out of the lounge, you turn back to Harry, subconsciously swirling your tongue around the popsicle in your mouth. “She loves you so much,” you say, the thought slipping out.

You wait for a response, but when it doesn’t come, you lift your eyes. Harry’s staring at you intensely, gaze focused on where you’re sucking the sweet treat into your mouth, lips molding around the shape and cheeks hollowing almost pornographically. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” he blinks, snapping out of his obvious stupor. You smirk at him, hearing his mother ruffling around in the kitchen. A moment later, you extend your arm, offering the popsicle to him.

“Want a lick?”

“No,” his voice is hoarse as he watches you. He licks his lips, his jugular bobbing almost painfully in his throat. “No, I’m—you can have it. Finish it, please.”

Your brows knit together in confusion—what’s gotten into him? It’s only when you sit back, your legs shifting on his lap, that you feel it. Oh.

Oh.

“Are you…?” you trail off, the popsicle slipping from your mouth. The pursing of his lips is an unconscious answer, and you scowl. “Harry!”

“’M sorry!” he whispers fiercely, throwing up his hands. “Can’t control it!”

“Your mum is here!” you hiss at him, reaching over to slap his arm. He groans, but if anything, the sound is more sensual than pained. You frown—your ice cream hasn’t found its way back past your lips, not now since you’re aware of the effect that it has on him. You hear Anne make a triumphant sound from the kitchen and you assume that she’s finally found some tissues. Her footsteps become louder as she nears the lounge, and you turn back to Harry with an even expression.

“I’m finishing this,” you tell him, quietly but firmly. “It’s hot, and it’s not my fault that everything is hypersexual to you.”

“It’s not!” he protests, but you shush him.

“Try to make it go down before we have to leave,” you say, and then you pop the cold treat back into your mouth, giving it a particularly forceful suck just to spite him. Harry lets out an agonized groan just as his mum sashays back into the room.

“What’s wrong, love?” she asks, having heard the sound.

Harry shoots you a panicked look before clearing his throat and glancing back up at his mother. “Stomach ache,” he grits out. “Think it might be the heat. Mind if I duck out to use the loo?”

“Of course,” Anne nods. Harry springs up quickly as his mother sits down, taking full advantage of the time that it takes for her to get settled on the sofa. He’s out of the room before she even looks back up (which is convenient, obviously—the last thing either of you need is for her to see her son’s raging erection), and you’re forced to cram your popsicle into your mouth to hold in your laugh.

~*~

That fucking treat.

Harry swears under his breath as he rapidly unbuckles his jeans, forcing the constricting material only down to the middle of his thighs. He doesn’t have much time before his mum comes knocking and wondering if his abrupt stomach ache was a result of something he’d eaten. He pulls his cock out of his boxers, hissing as his thumb brushes the tip. There’s already a dollop of precum beading at the head, and he grits his teeth, wrapping a loose fist around himself.

“C’mon,” he mutters, starting at a quick, rough pace—usually he’d tease himself, but he’s painfully aware of the time constraint. He knows it won’t take long for him to get there, but he’s paranoid, and right now, his release seems impossibly distant.

“C’mon, be good for me.” Imagining you with him always does him in—he takes full advantage of that. For one fleeting second, he’s pounding into you; the next, you’re on your knees, waiting with parted lips and wide, expectant eyes. He swears yet again, frustrated that he’s unable to focus on a single memory without being overwhelmed by nearly all the sexual endeavours that you two have experienced.

He puts his left hand on the bathroom counter next to the toilet, trying to steady himself. The position is brief, however, seeing as a prominent, incredibly bright image pops into his mind. It’s something the two of you had only done once, after he’d returned from Jamaica. You’d jumped him the moment he’d stepped into your flat, peppering his face and neck with kisses and begging him to make up for lost time.

His left hand leaves the counter and joins his right. He presses his palms to the base of his cock, slowly sliding upwards towards his tip and hissing through his teeth. Though he’s unable to replicate the sensation perfectly, it’s enough. He can see you beneath him, eyes clouded over with both lust and love, hands pushing your breasts together as his dick slides between them fluidly. His thumb runs over his tip, and he imagines that he’s just bumped your chin in his eagerness, causing you to let out a small chuckle.

“Such pretty tits,” his whispers. He can practically hear your whimper—you love the praise, and the sound has been ingrained in his mind thanks to months upon months of being together.

His hands are picking up speed, and—almost subconsciously—he reaches down to squeeze his balls lightly. He can hear the documentary still playing a few rooms away, mixed with laughter—your laughter—and fuck, he knows he’s there.

“Good girl, such a good girl, pet,” he mumbles furiously. He balls his left hand into a fist, shoving his knuckles in his mouth to muffle the groan that escapes him as he finally explodes. Thick, opaque streams of cum shoot into the toilet, a few haphazard ropes dribbling down his hand. Harry closes his eyes, his lips forming around a silent prayer of gratitude.

He pulls on the roll of toilet paper, ripping off a piece to wipe his hand. He then tosses it into the trash can a few feet away; after a moment, he grabs some more, balling that up as well and meticulously covering the cum-covered tissue. He’s at his mum’s place, after all.

He flushes the toilet and turns on the faucet, looking up at his reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands. His cheeks are slightly flushes, eyes frenzied yet fucked-out. He runs his tongue over his lips lightly before turning the tap and shutting the flow of water. Your voice floats through the air, and over the ringing in his ears, he hears something about “checking up on him”.

He opens the door after the first knock. You’re standing there, your fist raised and your eyes wide in surprise. Harry takes advantage of your posture, his hand wrapping around your wrist and tugging you into the washroom.

“Wha—?” you yelp, but then his lips are on yours, subsequently cutting off your exclamation.

The kiss is bruising, and you can’t help but to melt into him as he grips your face in his hands. The tension leaves your shoulders, and your knees suddenly feel wobbly, like they’ll give out on you any second. Harry doesn’t fight the smile that curves along his lips; after a long moment, you place a delicate hand onto his chest, pulling back and inhaling deeply.

“Hi,” you murmur. Your fingertips come up to tap gently on your lips; you do that every time one of Harry’s kisses catches you by surprise. It’s almost like you’re trying to savour the flavour of his mouth.

He finds it unbearably adorable.

“Hi,” he smiles at you, his grin lopsided. He’s feeling the effects of his post-orgasmic haze: his insides are warm, eyes droopy, muscles loose and flexible. He always becomes insanely cuddly and affectionate after his release, and his mannerisms spark a flicker of recognition on your face.

“Did you…?” your lips part in surprise. His response is simply another pert kiss delivered to your nose, and you gasp, pushing away from him.

“Harry!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but his words are painfully slow, and you can tell that he doesn’t really mean it. “Was nothing else I could do.”

“You could have—,” you break off abruptly, searching for another plausible option, but he’s right. Nothing—at least, nothing inconspicuous—could have been done to control his little problem. You abandon the rest of your sentence, letting out a long sigh and pinching the bridge of you nose in exasperation.

“I can’t believe I’m marrying you,” you say. Harry grins dopily at you, his eyes shining with love, and you just shake your head. His expression is enough to make you smile, though, and you close your eyes as you nuzzle your nose against his cheek. “I love you, you idiot.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, turning his head and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Love you more.”

~*~

Payback is a fucking bitch.

Your chest is puffed out, filled with a held breath that you can’t force yourself to release. Your lips are pursed, and your eyes are boring into your fiancé’s skull, silently urging him to quit it. Harry remains completely unaware, though, biting into the soft half of a kiwi and humming in delight. The sound is pure torture, and you have no other choice but to look away.

Usually, he does things like that on purpose. A tiny gesture to get you riled up—whether it be the pass of his hand on your lower back, or a small kiss to the crook between your shoulder and your neck—usually followed by a teasing smirk that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. But this…this is downright painful, and it’s all because he’s so oblivious to the effect it has on you.

Why are you making it so much more sexual than it should be? He’s just eating a piece of fruit, for God’s sake. But then he dips his tongue into the crevice created by his teeth, his eyes closing in satisfaction, and you swallow convulsively. That’s why.

When he lets out a moan of pleasure, you snap.

“Can you stop that?” you demand.

Harry freezes, his eyes popping open and his brows knitting together in confusion. He pulls the kiwi away from his lips, and you want to sob. His mouth is shining with juice, a few haphazard droplets running down his chin. On cue, his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he wipes the excess fluid away with the back of his hand.

“Sorry?” he asks—it’s not an apology, it’s him wondering if he’s heard you right.

“Can you—,” you grit your teeth, looking back down at the pasta that you’re cooking on the stove, “—just…fuck me.’

You mutter the last part under your breath, the words acting as an exasperated exclamation. Harry, however, pushes back from the kitchen table and rises from his chair. “Can I just ‘fuck you’?” he asks, his eyebrows still furrowed in bewilderment.

“No!” you say, before realizing that you want him to fuck you. “Yes,” you backtrack, before gritting your teeth; this really isn’t going well. “I mean—just stop eating that fucking fruit!”

He’s still confused—you can see it written all over his face—but your disgruntled behaviour makes him laugh. He circles around the counter, wrapping his arms around your midsection and pressing his forehead against the exposed nape of your neck. When he exhales, his hot breath tickles your skin, and you tighten your grip around the wooden spoon in your hand.

“Why’re you so cranky today, hmm?” Harry asks. He peppers a handful of kisses to your shoulder over the large t-shirt draping down your figure; you let out a shaky breath.

“’M not,” you mumble, glaring down at the pasta in the pot. You need to prepare lunch; there’s no time to act upon your needs.

“You are,” Harry muses. You sigh, setting down the spoon. It lands with a muffled noise onto the counter, and you reach forward, turning the knob on the stove and shutting it. The pasta can wait.

“Fine.” You spin around in Harry’s grasp. He steps back slightly, evidently not having expected the movement. Your gestures are dramatic and exaggerated, but you can’t find any other way to express your frustration. “I’m cranky because I’ve had to watch you basically eat out that kiwi for the past ten minutes. And it’s...it’s making me hot, okay?”

His brows were furrowed before, but now, with your confession ringing in his ears, they creep up his forehead until they’re almost disappearing into his hairline. Harry smirks, pinching his bottom lip in between his thumb and forefinger; his eyes are trained on you, smug and tempting and God, you just want to kiss the annoyingly handsome expression from his face.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you mumble, casting your gaze downward. You play with the silver band that circles around your ring finger, tapping the large diamond idly.

Harry snorts quietly, and you jut your bottom lip out into a pout. “C’mon now,” he says, stepping forward and running his thumb over your mouth, smoothing out your hurt features. “Don’t be like that. If you want something, you need only ask. Thought you knew tha’.”

“I do,” you breathe, tilting your head up so that your gaze locks with his. Your hands creep up his chest, fingers gripping the material of his crewneck. You wait, looking up at him expectantly—he usually makes the first move, and it’s something that you’ve come to love about him.

“Do you need to excuse yourself to the loo?”

You gasp, swatting half-heartedly at his shoulder, but a knowing smile curls at the corner of your lips anyways. Harry laughs loudly, baring his perfect teeth and the dimple that you constantly poke, despite his grumbling (you know he loves it though—he’d told you once while he was drunk).

“Last time I checked, we were the only ones here,” you murmur. You stare fixedly at the skin of his neck, running your fingers along where you know his veins bulge when he’s singing. You tap his jugular lightly, and he swallows in response. His hands find your face, and before you can make a sound, his mouth is on yours.

“’M sorry for teasing you, pet,” he grits out the words through hot, heavy kisses, “Lemme—fuck—lemme make it up to you.”

You whimper in affirmation, and he spins you to the side, pressing you against the counter a bit harder than was intended. A small, pained sound echoes in your throat, and Harry grimaces, kissing you softly and stroking your cheeks in apology.

“Sorry,” he says, “So sorry, love, I—”

“It’s okay!” you gasp, your voice bordering on frantic. He’s lit a fire in the pit of your stomach, and with each pass of his hands over your body, with each kiss from his lips, you can feel the flames crawling upwards, licking higher and higher until your chest is hot and tight with need. You pull at the collar of his blue crewneck. “Off, get this off, please.”

“Easy, easy,” Harry tells you. “Gonna take care of you, I promise.”

He stoops down slightly, placing his hands on the backs of your thighs and lifting demandingly. You help him, wrapping one leg around his waist before hopping up so that he has a firm grip on you. He exits your kitchen and carries you into the adjoining lounge, placing one knee on the couch before toppling over.

You squeal when you land on the cushions with a muffled noise, Harry groaning as his body plops down on top of you. A brief laugh leaves your lips before he’s stifling the sound with his mouth against yours. The chuckle that he makes melts into a moan when you run your tongue along his bottom lip, and he opens easily—eagerly—for you.

Before you know it, he’s got his right hand in your pants, wedged between the fabric of your shorts and your underwear. The elastic band of your bottoms presses against his wrist as he twists, finding your clit with ease and rubbing you through the cotton material of your panties. When you twitch underneath him, he lets out a satisfied sigh. “Oh, there it is.”

“Shut up,” you choke out, throwing your head back when he moves your underwear to the side so that he can brush his fingertips against you fully. Harry swears, frustrated with the awkward angle and the shorts that are still seated on your hips. With a final kiss to your lips, he pushes up so that he’s kneeling and moves down your body. His large fingers hook into the waistband of your bottoms and he pulls them down in one swift motion, knocking a gasp from your lungs.

“That’s it,” he mumbles, his eyes trained on the apex of your thighs, where a small wet spot is staining your panties. Your fists ball up tightly when he leans down, planting a long kiss to your left hip before running only the tip of his tongue along the skin right above the elastic of your knickers. A squeak leaves your lips when he presses his nose against where he knows your clit is practically throbbing with arousal underneath the fabric.

“So…warm.” It’s almost like he’s in a trance, his eyes closed and his lips puckered in thought as he nuzzles his cheek against your inner thigh. “Always so warm and ready for me, angel. Love your cunt.”

“Harry,” you say meekly, his name a plea for more and a reminder that you’re here, you’re with him, and you’re waiting for something. Harry finally opens his eyes, dark irises trained on you. His lips are pinker than usual and slightly swollen due to your fierce kisses, and his cheeks are flushed—he looks freshly-fucked, even though you haven’t even done anything yet.

“Sorry,” he apologizes softly. He litters kisses along the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs, and you can sense him slipping away again, getting lost in his own head. “So, so sorry, love. Lemme fix it.”

He pulls at the cotton covering your pelvis, eyes fixated on the skin that is revealed to him as he inches your panties down your legs. His nostrils flare when he smells how turned on you are—he’s been reduced to only the most primal of instincts, and your scent is driving him positively wild.

“Making me mad, love,” Harry says gruffly. He yanks your underwear down the rest of the way, and you thrash momentarily to fling them off. Harry’s on his stomach between your thighs, and you spread your legs a bit wider to grant him enough room. You lift your right leg so that your knee is nearly hooked over the back of the couch, and Harry burrows in deeper so that he can angle your left thigh over his shoulder. His large hands find your hips, holding you down as he leans in and inhales deeply.

“Fuck. Love how wet you get, angel. All for me, yeah?”

“Yes.” You hate how your voice shakes.

Harry hums in approval before pressing a quick, teasing kiss to your clit. You gasp at the brief stimulation, your hips bucking up involuntarily—he’s quick to pin them back down. The slight show of dominance makes something in your stomach curl deliciously, only adding to the flames that have spiralled out of control.

“Really wanna hear you, alright? You gonna be good for me, pet?”

“Yes, I will, I will, just—,” you huff, your impatience getting the best of you, “—please, Harry I’m so…it hurts, it—”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Harry shushes you, laying his cheek against your thigh, “’M sorry. Haven’t been very nice to you, have I?”

You stay silent, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, Harry continues, which only assures you that he hadn’t wanted an answer to begin with. “I’m gonna make it better, love. Gonna make you feel so much better.”

With that, he—quite literally—dives in.

You gasp when he wraps his lips around your clit, his tongue flicking the sensitive nub in rapid strokes. He’s merciless with his technique, pulling out all the tricks that he knows will have you positively quivering underneath him. Your hands fly down, fingers braiding into the soft tufts of curls atop his head, and you let out a shaky breath when you feel him give a firm suck to your clit.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering shut. Harry hums against you, and the vibrations make you whimper quietly. For the next minute or so, the only sounds that can be heard are those of him greedily eating your cunt and you rewarding him with heavy pants and groans.

When his tongue begins to circle your entrance, you let out a particularly loud moan, opening your eyes and peering down at him. His hair is tousled from your fingers, and you only tighten your grip when he sighs against you. His nose is resting on your clit, and his eyes are closed in bliss, eyebrows high up on his forehead. It’s the same expression he wears when he’s fast asleep, vulnerable and exposed.

Except the bottom half of his face can’t be seen. His mouth is hidden from view, but you can feel the contrast—he’s licking and sucking and kissing with a franticness and an urgency that you’ve never quite seen before. You vaguely remember him telling you once that he enjoyed eating you, that you tasted tart and ripe and inviting—but you’d never truly believed it until now, when the evidence of his satisfaction is driving you closer and closer to your orgasm.

“Harry—,” you warn, toes curling in pleasure, “Harry, I feel—oh God!”

He smirks against you. Your hips buck up, but he’s quick to pin them down, hands gripping you tightly and thumbs rubbing soothing circles along your skin. You pant, your chest heaving beneath the material of your t-shirt.

“Gonna cum for me?” Harry asks, his words slightly muffled against your clit. “Gonna help me out, love?”

“Yes, please,” you cry, “I w-wanna cum.”

“Do it for me, darling, c’mon…”

His words are utterly sinful, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge. His hand pinches your left hip comfortingly before sliding up under your t-shirt, fingers dancing over your ribs until he finds your breast. “Fucking love these,” he tells you, pressing a pert kiss to your jumping clit. “Perfect, they are.”

“Oh!” you call out when he reattaches his lips to your clit, and God, he’s really determined to get you to cum. Your fingers are positively yanking at his hair, eliciting a deep, throaty groan from his lips. His own digits are playing with your nipple, tweaking it and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and only adding to the powerful coil that’s tightening in your stomach.

“Wanna taste you, love,” Harry admits against you, his tongue stroking your outer lips with a gentle pressure. “If you cum for me, I’ll fuck you after—fuckin’ ruin you if you want me to.”

While he speaks, he keeps your clit stimulated with his thumb, rubbing harsh, unforgiving circles into the small bud. Your hips careen upwards and this time, he doesn’t bother pinning them down. A yelp gets caught in your throat, and you let out a pained, imploring sob. “Harry, I’m gonna—!”

“Yeah,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “Yeah, give it to me…there we go, you’re there, you’ve got it…”

His cheeks practically hollow when he delivers one last powerful suck to your clit, and you cry out, body wracking with tremors and fingers locking in his hair. Harry kneads your breast gently, his thumb flicking against your nipple as you ride out your orgasm. Your thighs quiver around his head and haphazard whimpers fall from your lips, piercing the air as he watches in silent awe.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, too caught up in watching the way your lips pull back over your teeth and how your brow forms that small crinkle that he loves so much. Eventually, your dry sobs die down, and you’re left spent and breathless, sprawled across the sofa. Your grip in his hair loosens and your hands fall to your sides, completely limp. In fact, your entire body has gone lax; the sight makes Harry smile with a smug kind of satisfaction.

“Oh, you did it, love,” he whispers, kissing your hip encouragingly. “You did it, I’m so proud…”

“Harry,” you mewl, “Harry, I need…need you, please—”

You lift your arms slightly before whining and letting them drop back down, lacking enough energy to properly convey your desire. Harry, however, understands perfectly. His lips part in surprise before he’s scrambling up and splaying himself out on top of you. He clings to you tightly, gently turning you over so that you’re both laying on your sides. You whimper, fingers flexing as you try to make grabby hands at him, and he hugs you, his lips pressed firmly against your forehead.

“Just need me close?” he mumbles, and you sigh quietly, rewarding him with a faint nod of your head.

You grip the material of his sweater in your fist, realizing something. “You never…never took this off.”

Harry chuckles, inhaling the sweet smell of your shampoo. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” you murmur, “S’okay. You’re…warm.”

He chuckles again, shifting slightly; you hiss when the fabric of his shorts brushes against your still-sensitive core. “Sorry, sorry,” he sputters, gritting his teeth at his mistake, “Christ, you came hard, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” is all you say. You press your forehead against his collarbone, fingers dancing up and down his covered chest. Harry’s still as you explore his body, but he wheezes in pain when your thigh accidentally nudges the full, plump erection that is still trapped beneath his shorts. Your mouth pops open in surprise—you’d completely forgotten.

“Shit,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to—?”

“No,” he cuts you off firmly, “No, I…you’re tired, love.”

“But I can—my hand?”

“No,” he says again, but there’s a faint smirk adorning his lips—he’s endeared by you and how you still want to get him off despite not being able to keep your eyes open. “Later,” he adds as an afterthought, because he knows that once you’ve started, you’re nearly insatiable, “We can do it later.”

He kisses your mouth softly, and without thinking, you part your lips and open up for him. It’s quite one-sided, seeing how you’re still drained, but he hums happily nonetheless, cupping your face in his hand and stroking along your cheek.

“Love you,” you breathe when he pulls back.

He smiles. “Love you more.”

He presses a series of smaller, teasing kisses to your lips—you giggle—before pausing. “And for the record,” he muses, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “I’d pick eating you over eating a fuckin’ kiwi any day.”

~*~

“You’re kidding!” Harry shakes his head, chuckling to himself and not buying into your words.

You stare at him with a blank face, eyes glassy and lips wet with the tequila from your margarita. In front of you, several glasses are already strewn haphazardly across the coffee table, their contents having disappeared past your lips throughout the hour. You had insisted that you could just reuse the first, but Harry had shot you down quickly.

“’S not like a real bar then, is it?” he’d said, “Whole point of this is to mimic the experience of a bar without actually having to go out.”

“But then I just have more dishes to wash,” you’d pouted. Harry had grinned, sprinkled some salt onto the rim of your first margarita, and assured you that he would take full responsibility when it was time to clean up.

So now here you are, three empty glasses standing proudly in front of you as you sip your fourth drink, nosing the slice of lime out of the way so that you can lap up the salt on the lip of your cup. Harry’s still laughing at you, and you take a heavy gulp of your drink, squeezing your eyes shut as the tequila burns a path down your throat.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, voice lilting in your inebriated state. Harry looks up at you from the other end of the couch—though he’s consumed just as many drinks as you, his eyes are still focussed, trained on you in an unforgiving fashion.

“I just don’t believe you,” he says simply, shrugging.

You tilt your head to the side, pulling your legs in so that your knees are close to your chest. Harry looks comfortable, his legs spread wide and one of his hands wrapped around the neck of a beer, making the bottle look tiny in his grip. His other is resting securely on the back of the couch, his left arm stretched out and limp.

“Why would I lie about something like that?” you say. You’re being honest, but you want to know why he’s so reluctant to trust your words.

“Are you?” Harry asks quickly, almost like he’s determined to catch you off-guard and have you spill the truth.

“No!” you cry indignantly, “I’m being serious!”

“So, you’ve never been spanked before? ‘S never even crossed your mind?”

“No,” you reply. Harry continues to stare at you, his brow furrowed and his lips upturned in a slight smirk, almost as though he’s trying to tell if you’re lying. Eventually, though, he must see that you’re being sincere, because he just chuckles again and stares up as the ceiling incredulously. You take a tentative sip of your margarita, unsure as to whether the topic has been exhausted.

“That was only one answer,” Harry suddenly says. You swallow down your drink, pulling the cup away from your face so that you can see your friend. His eyes are gleaming mischievously, and his smirk has grown. “You have thought about it, haven’t you?”

“Okay, yes!” you admit, throwing your hands out in defeat. You grimace when the tequila nearly sloshes out of your glass, steadying your hand and reaching for the slice of lime resting on the rim of the cup. “Yes, I have. Happy?”

“Very,” Harry smiles, satisfied—you want to wipe that teasing grin right from his face. God, he’s insufferable when he’s intoxicated. You briefly wonder whether he tried to get you drunk so that he could wean information from you, before shooing away the thought—he’s better than that and you know it. This is just some tipsy prying, something to pass the time. He’s always enjoyed getting a rise out of you.

Harry takes a gulp of his beer. You watch the way his pink, moistened lips cling to the lip of the beverage, molding around the glass expertly. He pulls away, and a thin string of saliva connects his mouth to the drink before he uses the back of his left hand to wipe away any alcoholic residue. He then sets his gaze on you, and you look away quickly. That shouldn’t make you so nervous and warm inside, but it does.

“So why haven’t you done it?” he inquires.

You look at him with wide eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Why haven’t you done it?” Harry repeats, smirking. You groan and look away, swirling the contents of your drink in your cup and watching how a small whirlpool forms. You know that you’re being immature, but the discussion of sexual kinks with your best friend was not an activity that you had planned for tonight.

“I was scared that whoever I was with would think that I was…weird or something,” you shrug. Harry laughs, and you pull your eyes away from your margarita to look at him, ready to scold him for being so cruel to you. Instead, you find a straight row of teeth and a deep dimple accompanying a smile that leaves you breathless, robbing you of whatever admonishment you had prepared.

“That’s not weird at all, love,” Harry assures you, “So many girls love that stuff.”

“You would know,” you roll your eyes, his words triggering a bad, bitter taste in your mouth. Harry frowns.

“Oi, that’s not nice!”

“Doesn’t have to be nice to be true,” you retaliate. Immediately, you want to punch yourself for being so nasty to him. Sure, he likes to rile you up, but he’s never done anything with the intention of really hurting you. You don’t even know where your annoyance is coming from, and you’re suddenly worried that you’ve gone too far.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Quite the mean drunk, you know that?”

You sigh, closing your eyes briefly before opening them again, staring at your friend remorsefully. “Fuck, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, but his voice sounds hollow and distant, like an echo.

You sit up—taking one last gulp of your margarita to inspire a bit of self-confidence—and set your glass down on the coffee table. Harry cocks an eyebrow, but before he can question you, you’re scrambling over to his side of the couch, flinging yourself over him. He grunts in surprise, nearly dropping his beer.

“Don’t be mad at me,” you plead, orienting yourself so that you’re straddling his lap and curling into him. Harry leans forward, and you squeal, your arms winding around his neck tightly as you lose your balance. He merely grunts again, setting his beer down next to your abandoned margarita before resuming his original position. You loosen your hold from around his neck and look at him with earnest eyes.

He doesn’t say anything, and you know you need to try harder.

“Harry,” you say, your voice taking on a feeble tone. You hug him firmly, snuggling in as close to him as possible. His hands land on your ass, and your breathing hitches in your throat before he moves them upwards quickly, also realizing what he’s done. His fingers are now situated on your waist, and your heart is suddenly pounding, but neither of you mention it.

“I’m sorry,” you try again, burrowing your face into his neck, “I’m a shit friend.”

Harry sighs, and you inhale deeply, his scent flooding your nostrils. It’s rich and deep, and smells like cinnamon. It’s dangerous, yet warm and cozy, like a secure embrace—you feel like you could spend centuries wrapped up in it.

“You smell really fucking nice,” you say unthinkingly. Harry chuckles, and your eyes widen before you cringe. You pull back, retracting your arms from around his neck. Your lips purse as you fumble with the ring on your pinky finger, twirling it around to calm your nerves.

“Thanks,” Harry gives you a small smile, enough for his dimple to pop on his left cheek. “And you’re right. You are a shit friend.”

You sigh, nodding. Harry’s smile widens, and his thumbs begin to rub circles into your waist—the action appears to be subconscious, but even so, you find yourself trying to repress the shudder that tears its way down your spine.

“But you’re a friend nevertheless,” Harry tells you, “That counts for something, yeah?”

You return his smile. “Yeah.”

His hands leave your waist, and for moment, you want to pout. But then he pulls apart your anxious fingers, guiding your arms back around his neck. You clasp your hands together, the soft curls at the back of his head tickling your skin. Harry wraps his arms around you, giving you a tight, firm hug, and you sigh. “Sorry again.”

“Enough of that,” he tells you. There’s a short pause before he adds, “Love you.”

You smile against his shoulder, your lips pressed against his skin through his dark sweater. “Love you too.”

You try to pull back, but Harry whines, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist to keep you closer. You laugh, shaking your head and repeating his words from before, making only one modification. “Quite the affectionate drunk, you know that?”

“I know,” he replies. You lift your head from where it’s nestled against his collarbone, teasingly pressing your temple against his cheek. Harry makes a surprised noise before turning his head sharply and delivering a firm, smacking kiss against your temple. You yelp and pull back, but it only spurs him on.

He lunges forward, planting wet, sloppy kisses along your forehead, your browbones, and your cheeks. You try to push him off, but with all the training he’s completed (for his “cinematic debut”, as he likes to call it), he’s much stronger than you. He wrangles you easily, pinning your arms down and flipping you so that your back meets the soft cushions of the couch within seconds. You squeal as he continues to litter mawkish kisses across your face, even having the audacity to nip at the bridge of your nose.

“Stop, stop!” you cry, but giggles are wracking your body and you’re squirming underneath him, so you’re not surprised when he doesn’t listen. Eventually, once every inch of your face is warm and damp with the imprint of his intoxicated lips, he pulls back and stares at you with a satisfied expression, like an artist admiring his work.

“My spit suits your face,” he says, a cocky smirk curling on his lips.

You sniff, lifting your chin and saying evenly, “You missed a spot.”

“What—?” Harry stops.

You know when he understands—his eyes go wide, and his pink lips part in surprise. All sense of playfulness seems to leave his face, the clear air around you swiftly turning palpable with tension. Your chest aches, and you suddenly realize how possible it is for the idea of rejection to become a reality. Regret floods into every crevice of your body, ever corner of your brain—the worst part isn’t knowing that he’ll refuse. It’s knowing that he will always remember this, remember how drunk you were, how pathetically desperate you sounded, how you wanted him and how he didn’t want you back.

But then he leans down, and your mind goes blank.

His lips brush yours, only the softest touch imaginable. You’re paralyzed, unable to move; you know that if you do, the moment will be over, and all you want is to freeze it and relive it repeatedly. Harry’s lips are barely touching yours, but God, you’re accepting the proximity and the sensation with open arms.

His eyes flutter closed, and yours follow suit. Without your sight, everything is heightened—every breath, every twitch, every movement. Harry shifts, and a moment later your arms are no longer pinned to your sides. You lift them tentatively, your hands finding his waist and holding onto him tightly. He places his left hand on the cushion next to your head, keeping his body supported above you. You feel his other hand playing with your hair, his thumb brushing tendrils from your forehead.

You sigh, and his lips stop moving. Seconds later, you feel something smooth, warm and wet dragging across your mouth, and your eyes flash open.

“I hate you!” you squeak. Harry dissolves into uncontrollable laughter, and you use his momentary distraction to your advantage, successfully pushing him off your body. His cackling is cut off by a surprised yelp as he tumbles to the side, landing with a hard thud onto the floor of your lounge.

“Prick,” you mutter, and he grins at you. You simply roll your eyes, reaching for your forgotten margarita. You pick up the glass and take a hearty sip, wanting to drown in the alcoholic contents. Maybe if you drink enough, you’ll forget the entire evening.

“That was nice though, yeah?” Harry inquires as he sits up. You peer at him from the corner of your eye, reluctantly pulling your beverage away from your face and swallowing with some difficulty.

“Yeah.”

Harry’s grin expands, and he runs his left hand through his hair—you can’t help but to notice how much it’s grown since he last cut it. “Want another?” he asks, lifting his chin and motioning towards the glass that is still clutched tightly in your hand.

You lick your lips before reaching for the lime that is still poised on the rim of the drink. Harry’s eyes are on you as you bite into the fruit, scrunching up your face at the sour taste.

“Yeah,” you say once you drop the lime back into your glass, “I want another.”

That’s the first time he kisses you.

~*~

The second time he kisses you, it’s weeks later, and you’re both out to celebrate the birthday of a mutual friend. Basslines are pumping through the speakers in the club—you can feel your bones vibrating when you slide onto a stool at the edge of the bar. You’ve already had a few drinks, but what’s one more?

It’s not long before some boorish, intimidating man saddles up to you and tries to talk his way into your pants. He’s attractive—you’ll admit it—but quite frankly, you’re not interested in blondes. Now, if he’d had brown hair, you might think twice. Brown hair, green eyes, a bright grin…

You shake your head, both to clear your mind and to express that no, it’s okay, you have a drink of your own already. Even so, the blonde stranger persists, flashing you a dazzling smile that does not meet his eyes. His voice rises over the music flowing through the club when he reiterates his offer, as though the repetition will suddenly make you change your mind.

The only thing that changes is how secure you feel sitting at a lonely barstool with an unrelenting guest.

Thankfully, Harry comes to your rescue.

“Hey, love,” you hear, and a moment later a pair of large hands land on your hips. You jump, turning your head and feeling relieved when you see that it’s only him.

“You scared me,” you breathe. In your peripheral vision, you note that the stranger has taken a step back already, and he’s watching your exchange with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Subconsciously, you lean further into your friend behind you, your skin pricking with warmth as your front presses to his back.

Harry chuckles and kisses your temple. “Sorry.” Then, he looks up, setting a steely gaze on the blonde spectator who had made you so uncomfortable. “Do you need something from my girl?”

“No,” the stranger smiles tightly. “We were just chatting.”

And then he’s gone.

You watch him walk away, waiting until he’s out of earshot before swivelling your body around on the stool so that you’re now facing Harry. His gaze is still following the other man, eyes narrowed and ominous. You hesitate before reaching up and placing your right hand lightly over his chest, fingers playing with the button that’s clasped right beneath his pectorals. The action grabs his attention, and he finally tears away to look at you.

“Thank you,” you say, but Harry shakes his head, putting on a bright, blinding grin.

“He’s still watching,” he tells you. You look up at his eyes—they haven’t crinkled at the sides, hinting that his smile isn’t sincere.

“He is?” you ask, not daring to turn your head to search for the stranger.

“Yeah,” Harry pretends to yawn. “Just go along with it, yeah?”

“With what?” you say, but then his large hands cup your face, and it clicks in your brain. “Oh, okay,” you squeak quickly, and Harry chuckles to himself before leaning down and pressing his lips to yours.

He knows the boundaries without even needing to ask. His thumbs stroke your cheekbones, and reflexively you lift your own hands, gripping his wrists and squeezing appreciatively. Your eyelids flutter shut and you let out a small, satisfied sigh, very grateful for the loud music in the club that prevents him from hearing how much you enjoy this.

He pulls back too soon, and you press your own lips together tightly to refrain from pouting.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and he grins—a real one, fortunately.

“Already said that, love.”

You don’t bother telling him that this time, you’re thanking him for something else.

~*~

The third time he kisses you, you’re laying in bed with red eyes and puffy, swollen cheeks streaked with salty tears. You let out a low whine when he peeks through the crack in your door, his ringed fingers clasping the wood as he eases it open and sneaks inside. At the sight of him, you sob harder—you don’t understand why you’re being so emotional, especially since you had called him and told him to come over.

With a shaky breath, you sit up, holding out your arms and making feeble motions for him to come to you. He does, your mattress dipping as he places one knee onto it after haphazardly kicking off his boots.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so torn up?” he asks, and you bite your lip. It’s fucking stupid, but your head had run wild with possibilities and before you knew it, overwhelmed tears were trickling down your face.

“It’s dumb,” you mumble, not meeting his eyes, “You’re gonna laugh.”

“If it’s enough to get you like this, I don’t think I’m gonna find it very funny,” he replies.

He sits back against the headboard of your bed, spreading his legs and reaching for you. You hesitate for a moment, and he cocks an eyebrow. But then the desire to be close to him wins out, and you crawl over, turning around and settling between his legs so that your back presses against his front.

“Up,” Harry says, and you lift your arms so that he can snake his own underneath, wrapping them around you tightly. He conceals his face against your shoulder, inhaling deeply as you lean back against him. Your hands trace along his tattoos mindlessly, fingers outlining the inked image of the mermaid on his forearm.

You sit like that for a while, the sounds of your sobs growing fainter with each passing minute. At last, when it seems that you’ve calmed down, Harry tentatively ventures the question: “Wha’ happened?”

You sniffle. Your throat is scratchy, voice raw when you finally speak. “I—I was watching the first trailer for Dunkirk. And then that stupid part came on, the one where you were drowning, and I just—”

You sob again. Harry doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you feel his chest vibrating underneath you. It’s a subtle movement, nearly unnoticeable, but it’s there, you feel it, and your eyes widen at his betrayal.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!” you scold him, sitting up and swivelling around to glare at him. Now that he’s been caught, Harry doesn’t bother hiding his amusement, and he lets out a loud laugh, his hands coming up to drape across his eyes dramatically. Your eyes well up again with sadness, and your bottom lip quivers.

“Hey, enough of that now,” Harry tells you, his smile sliding from his lips. He mimics your previous action and sits up so that he’s closer to you. One of his large hands comes up, cupping your face and swiping away at a single rogue tear that’s escaped. You inhale shakily, tilting into his hand and closing your eyes.

“Sorry,” you say thickly. “I just…it scared me, you know? Realizing how easy it is to lose you.”

“Swear to you,” Harry growls, leaning forward. “’M not going anywhere.”

He stares at you earnestly, his green eyes burning through your skull as though he’s trying to sear the words into your brain. You look up at him from beneath damp eyelashes, taking in wet, thick breaths as you try to calm yourself down. Harry’s left hand rises to cradle the other side of your face as well, and you suddenly find it much more difficult to keep your heart from beating too quickly.

“Can you kiss me?” you ask him quietly.

Harry tenses, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. He seems to be turning your request over in his head until finally, he lets out a frustrated sigh. “Love, I dunno if that’s a good idea…I don’t wan’—”

“You won’t be taking advantage of me, or anything like that,” you assure him quickly. He’s still stroking your cheeks; your hands fly up to cover his, afraid that he’ll pull away. “I’m asking you to do it. I want you to do it.”

When your words sink in, he smiles a bit—you see the faint popping of his dimple, and can’t help but to return his expression. Harry leans forward the rest of the way, bridging the gap between you and connecting your lips. You gasp—his mouth is pressed firmly against yours, nothing like the previous kisses you two have shared. He’s surer, stronger, more determined now that he knows that you want this. Your eyelids drift shut, but then something wet pokes out and swipes along your bottom lip, and you gasp again.

He takes his chance, dipping his tongue inside your mouth, and you have no complaints. You wind your arms around his neck and one of his hands falls to the bed, pressing flat against the mattress to maintain balance. Unthinkingly, he tilts forward, and you’re more than happy to comply, leaning back until you feel the softness of the duvet against the length of your body. Harry drops down to his forearms, and you spread your legs, allowing him to slot himself into the empty space and brush against your hips.

It’s different. The connection isn’t playful, like that first time he’d merely ghosted his lips over yours. It’s not to ward off any unwelcome strangers either. This is just the two of you, kissing because you wanted to, and hell, you think that maybe—just maybe—he wanted to as well.

That’s why you don’t question him when he slants down closer to you, his hips now firmly nestled against yours. You lick deeper into his mouth, wanting to taste all of him at once—in response, he groans low in his throat and rolls against you. It elicits a gasp from your throat, and you only clutch him tighter to you, your hands balling up the material of his t-shirt and squeezing.

You don’t question him when he pulls away from your lips, smirking when you whine at the loss of contact. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, before travelling lower and blessing your neck with the presence of his mouth. Your eyes are closing and you’re tilting your chin up before you can stop yourself, giving him more space to make you melt. He sucks a mark into a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone, and you let out a reedy sigh.

You don’t question him when he swears under his breath, rolling the two of you over so that you’re suddenly straddling him, your hands flat against his chest as you try to slow your racing heart.

You don’t question him when he sits up, wedging one of his legs between yours and murmuring soft pleas under his breath (“Please, love…go on and get it…on my thigh—that’s it…”), or when he grips your waist, pressing his face into the column of your throat as you roll and thrust your hips against the denim covering his leg. You don’t question him when he takes your face in his hands and plants a deep, sensual kiss to your lips, nearly draining your soul from your body. You don’t question him when he praises you (“Good girl…doing so good for me, pet…c’mon, want you to feel it…”), his dark eyes fixated shamelessly on where you’re grinding against his thigh.

You don’t question him when he helps you stand on shaky legs after you’ve quivered and twitched and moaned in his arms. He guides you along the hall to the washroom and looks away when you begin to undress, busying himself instead with running a bath and making sure the temperature of the water is warm enough.

“Just relax,” he tells you when he turns back around. He’s grateful that you’ve wrapped a towel around your body, because he’ll happily get you off in the heat of the moment, but he doesn’t know if you’re comfortable with him seeing you bare. “Get in and get cleaned up. I’ll be in your room if you need me.”

“You’ll stay, right?” you ask, and the tone of your voice—small and afraid—makes his chest physically ache.

He kisses your forehead. “’Course.”

Once you exit the washroom forty minutes later, you’re feeling fresh and clean and tired. Your hair is damp, droplets of water running down your back and disappearing beneath the fluffy towel that conceals your body. You pad down the hall, cracking open the door to your bedroom and smiling when you see Harry laying on the bed, his stomach pressed against your mattress and his face tilted to the side as he snores softly.

You drop your towel and reach into your drawers for a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt. Once you’re dressed, you sneak over to your bed, pulling back the duvet and sliding in. You let out a quiet sigh and turn to your left to look at Harry.

His hair is matted against your pillow, a few curls falling onto his forehead. His eyes are closed, long eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. Every time he takes in air, his nostrils flare slightly. His pink lips are parted, faint and breathy snores leaving him with each exhale. He looks years younger like this, vulnerable and stripped and exposed.

You turn back around so that you’re facing the other way, and your eyes close. It’s only a few seconds later when Harry lets out a soft groan, and the mattress dips as he shifts closer to you. His left arm winds around your midsection, and he presses a drowsy kiss to the crown of your head.

“Gonna nap w’me for a bit?” he breathes. You nod, and he makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, his arm tightening around you.

You can’t find it in yourself to question him about that either.

~*~

He hasn’t mentioned it since it happened. When you two wake from your nap, he grins dopily at you and proceeds to rattle off a list of movies that he’s interested in watching. He pouts at you until you agree to make popcorn, and then steals half of your bowl, as always. He sits as close as usual, his thigh brushing against yours as he shovels handfuls of food into his mouth and watches the television with rapt attention.

A week and a half later, he’s still pretending that it didn’t happen. He’s still the same Harry, cheeky and gleeful and polite and profound. He still wraps his arms around you in a tight hug when he sees you, and chews loudly while he eats because he loves to annoy you.

It’s killing you.

Watching him act so unfazed, having him back as your platonic best friend who likes to cuddle when he’s drunk, listening to him laugh as though he doesn’t have a care in the world…it’s killing you.

And eventually, you snap.

It happens on a chilly Friday night. You’re out with some friends to celebrate the completion of his first movie, and Harry’s sitting at the bar. He’s acting cute tonight, beaming cheerfully as people cheer after he downs a shot of tequila. His navy jacket has been abandoned, and he’s left the top four buttons of his shirt undone, showing off the sparrows on his chest and the top of the moth on his abdomen.

You’re sitting in a booth a few tables away, staring sadly at the water in your glass. In the crowd, you’d fought to maintain a happy composure, but now that you’re alone, you’ve dropped the façade in exchange for a session of pouting and self-deprecation. You know it’s not fair to Harry—he’s worked so hard, and he deserves to have a best friend who’s proud of him. And you are, but you just have so many questions and worries on your mind.

You swirl your straw around in your drink, watching as the water ripples and sighing to yourself. Lost in thought, you jump when you hear a loud laugh, and then Harry’s sliding into the booth across from you.

“Hey,” he smiles, “What’re you drinking?”

In response, you slide your glass across the table. Harry catches it and lifts it to his mouth, taking a large sip and sighing in relief. He sets the cup down, smacking his lips together and watching you with warm, slightly inebriated eyes. “Thanks,” he tells you. “Needed that.”

You press your lips together in what you hope to be a small smile. Harry cocks his head to the side, studying you. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” you furrow your brows and nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat. Suddenly, everything is too bright, too loud, too much. The laughter and music hurts your ears, and even the dim lighting of the bar is harsh on your eyes. The room feels stuffy and cramped, and you immediately slide to the edge of the booth, standing up. “I, um…I’m gonna go get some air.”

“I’ll come with you,” Harry says, “Gonna have to sober up if I’m gonna drive home tonight.”  

He’s not even that drunk, if you’re being honest with yourself, but your words die on your lips as he follows you out of the side entrance. You exit into an alleyway. Cars are driving along the street on your right and the music inside cuts off abruptly once the door swings shut behind Harry.

You lean against the brick wall, taking in deep gulps of air. You can feel Harry’s eyes on you, but there’s no way that you’re about to strike up a conversation. Everything for him has been so natural since he last kissed you, and you’ve been left in the dust, confused and awkward and alone. You’re tired of acting like everything is okay.

“You sure you’re alright?” Harry asks, frowning in concern. You look up at him.

His cheeks are rosy, bright green eyes gazing at you. His arms are crossed over his chest to keep warm, and his breath comes out as a faint, opaque cloud of air. You swallow heavily, turning away.

“Yeah, I’m good.” It’s difficult to force the words from your mouth, and before you can stop yourself, you’re spewing, “I’m just frustrated since you seem to have forgotten that I rode your fucking thigh last week.”

The chattering of Harry’s teeth stops.

“And—you know—,” you’ve started and now you can’t stop, “You kissed me and got me off and ran me a bath and napped with me. And now you’re pretending like nothing happened, and I just—,” you whip around, staring at him helplessly, “—I’m lost, Harry. I’m so fucking lost!”

There are creases on his forehead, and his eyes are burning intensely as he watches you. Under normal circumstances, the look would have made you shy away, but now you only tilt your chin up and glare at him evenly. It’s a silent struggle, a battle to see who will give up first, and you’re determined to win.

After a few long, painful seconds, he cracks.

“I dunno what you want me to say,” he mumbles, his eyes dropping to the ground. You shake your head—he’s had a week and a half to figure out how to approach you, and yet he hasn’t bothered to think things through. You have no sympathy for him.

“You’re going to have to say something,” you tell him, a hard edge to your voice, “Because I’ve been driving myself mad with how much I’ve been—I don’t—”

You break off with a groan, frustrated that you can’t seem to get the words right. All week you’ve been preparing what you had planned to say to him, and now that you’re confronting him, your thoughts are tripping over one another and your mouth is betraying you. It’s infuriating, and your eyes well up with tears as you swear under your breath.

“Hey, don’t do that.”

Harry notices your distress. You sniffle quietly, you hand coming up to quickly wipe away at a teardrop. You look up at the sky, inhaling deeply and trying to keep your feelings from overwhelming you.

“I just want to know what you’re thinking,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “I want answers—why did you do it? Where the hell do you want to go from here? I can’t keep…guessing.”

You wipe underneath your eyes one last time before training your gaze back on him. Harry’s biting his lip, and he uncrosses his arms so that his left hand can scratch sheepishly at the nape of his neck. He steps closer to you, and you watch him warily.

“Thought you knew,” he says gruffly.

You tilt your head to the side in confusion. “Knew what?”

“Knew that I fancy you!” he tells you, covering his face with his hands. He sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly and gazing at you with sad but fervent eyes. “I mean—I got you off didn’t I? Don’t just do that with anyone.”

“But then why didn’t you…?” you trail off, unable to find the right words.

Harry throws his arms up, shaking his head. “It’s ’cause I’m a proper idiot, that’s why! I wanted to kiss you and I did, and then it went too far. Thought you regretted it or something.”

“Why would I regret it?” you demand, your voice shrill. Nothing that he’s saying makes sense. “I’m the one who asked you to kiss me!”

“You rode my fuckin’ thigh, love,” Harry deadpans, “That’s not exactly what you asked for.”

“But I liked it,” you say, running a shaky hand through your hair. You can’t wrap your head around anything that is coming out of his mouth. This whole time, you’ve believed that he simply wanted to forget about the entire ordeal, but you realize now that maybe he’s given it just as much thought. Your heart is beating rapidly due to the unknown territory in which you’ve found yourself, dangerous and mysterious and new.

Harry drops his hands and lets out a weary sigh. You watch him closely, nervously twirling the ring situated on your index finger. He looks sad and exhausted, like the conversation has somehow managed to physically drain him. You purse your lips and he shrugs, shooting you a helpless look.

“Well, you know now, yeah? Know that I fancy you.”

You nod silently.

“So…,” he continues, taking another step closer. He’s suddenly there, brushing against you and looking down at you with inquisitive eyes. “Guess it’s your turn. Gotta tell me, love. Can’t keep guessing.”

He repeats your previous words, and you fight against the emotions that are threatening to take control.

“I—,” you hesitate, staring pointedly at his chest. It’s only when you look up at him and see that there’s a barely-there smirk adorning his face—like he already knows what you’re about to say and is simply enjoying seeing you struggle—that you scowl.

“You’re insufferable,” you say indignantly, and then your hand is on the nape of his neck and you’re pulling him into a bruising kiss.

He returns the gesture immediately, his hands finding your waist as yours tangle in his hair. He steps forward and you happily oblige until your back is pressed against the hard brick wall. Harry pries your mouth open within seconds, licking inside, and you let out a tiny blissful whimper. Your hand slides down from his hair to cup the right side of his face, and your heart somersaults when you feel his jaw moving with fervour; he’s pouring every ounce of himself into this kiss.

It’s like everything is happening in slow motion. The movement of his lips on yours, the sensation of his large hands running down your sides, sliding under the material of your shirt and skimming over your skin. You gasp into his mouth, and Harry makes a pained sound low in his throat, like it hurts to be disconnected from you for even a second.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands disappearing beneath the collar of his button up and gliding along the smooth muscles of his back. Every single one of your nerves feels like a lit fuse, sizzling along until you eventually explode. You grab him tightly, pressing your lips harder against his. It’s like you’re trying to mold into him and become one.

But Harry shakes his head. “Not here,” he croaks out, detaching from you reluctantly. “Not gonna fuck you in an alley. Got a bit more class than that.”

“You do?” you ask breathlessly, and you both share a quiet laugh. Harry presses one last solid kiss to your lips—your knees nearly give out at the sensation—and grips your hand, reaching for the handle on the door that leads back inside.

“Gotta say goodbye,” he mutters to you. “Then I’m gonna take you home and fuck you ‘til it hurts.”

~*~

The faint click of the door echoes through the tranquility of Harry’s flat. The front hallway is shadowy, and suddenly, you’re very aware of the rapid beating of your heart. You and Harry turn to face each other at the same time. His eyes find yours in the darkness, and you purse your lips when he opens his mouth.

“Do you still wanna…?” he trails off, searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

“Kiss me,” you breathe, and his inhibitions vanish.

His lips are on yours before you can blink, and it is only seconds before he’s got you spun around and hoisted up against the door. Your hands are everywhere—against the doorknob as you try to maintain balance, braiding through his hair, gripping his arms, sneaking under his coat. Harry’s mouth drops to your neck, and you tilt your head up, fumbling with the collar of his thousand-dollar jacket.

He swears breathlessly, his fingers leaving your thighs so that he can help you discard the restrictive material. With his hands busy, he keeps you pinned against the door with his lower half, forcing his hips firmly against yours. The sensation of his semi-hard cock pressing against your center through two layers of denim makes you moan.

Harry finally strips off his coat and then he’s back on you, grunting into your mouth as he tries to rip every piece of clothing from your body. You try to help, but you’re limp in his arms; every time he kisses you, your limbs go lax.

“Bed!” you choke out, “T-Take me to your bed.”

He makes a sound of affirmation before he’s pushing off from the door and carrying you down the hall of his flat. You hold onto him tightly, your fingers fisting the material of his shirt as you pepper hot, wet kisses down the column of his throat. A wheezing curse leaves Harry’s lips as he maneuvers his way through his home, his footsteps speeding up as he nears his bedroom.

You squeal when he drops you down onto his bed, and his ensuing laugh disrupts the intense atmosphere. Shedding the rest of your clothes is easy. He helps you pull your shirt over your head and undo the clasp on your jeans, and in return you flip him over so that you’re straddling his hips. You unbutton his button-up the rest of the way, kissing and licking down his chest as every new inch of skin is revealed to you. Harry groans, and you fight back a smile—who would have guessed that he enjoys sensuality?

Harry flicks on the lamp on his bedside table before focussing back on you. His eyes rake down your body, taking in your frazzled appearance.

You’re now left in only your bra and panties, and he’s still wearing his jeans.

“You said you were gonna fuck me until it hurt,” you pant, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you press a feathery kiss to the trail of hair beneath his navel.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a frustrated groan, his left hand snaking into your hair. He tugs gently and you comply, crawling back up so that your face is level with his.

“I will,” he swears to you. His green eyes have darkened over with lust, his pupils dilated and lips swollen from your frantic kisses. He places his hands on your thighs. “’F that’s what you want, I will.”

“I want it,” you tell him, pressing your foreheads together. A thought suddenly pops into your head, and before you can back down, you say, “Hurt me, Harry.”

To emphasize your point, you reach for one of the hands that’s resting on the underside of your thighs. You guide it up until it reaches your ass, and then you press a kiss to Harry’s nose and let go. His fingers splay out against your backside, and for a moment, he looks confused. But then his eyes widen, and his licks his lips in anticipation.

“You sure?”

You merely nod in response, but Harry sits up and shakes his head.

“Need to hear you say it, love. Need a safe word too, just in case.”

“I want you to spank me,” you tell him firmly. You wrap your arms around his neck and press a long, deep kiss to his lips. Harry opens his mouth, and you glide your tongue against his, your fingers braiding through his curly hair.

After a few long moments, you pull back. “Red,” you say breathlessly, “That’s what we’ll use. If we need it.”

Harry nods, blinking twice as though he can’t believe that this is really happening. You don’t bother teasing him, because you’re feeling the exact same way.

“Right then,” he clears his throat, “Get over my knee.”

It’s a quip and an order all at once. You nod, smiling slightly as you follow his command. Harry scoots to the edge of the bed, his feet falling and meeting the floor. You lay across his lap, crossing your arms beneath your head and turning to the side so that you can watch him. He leans down, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to the space between your shoulder blades. You stare at his fingers once he straightens up and begins to remove his rings.

“Good?” he asks.

You laugh. “You haven’t done anything yet.”

Harry shoots you a look, and a moment later, you gasp as his hand comes down against your backside. The slap isn’t relatively forceful, but it surprises you, and you jump slightly. Harry’s hand is suddenly there, rubbing softly against the spot that he had hit only seconds ago. You swallow heavily as the two of you share a look, and then you nod.

His hand comes down again, a bit harder this time. It lands with a crack against your skin, and you lurch forward, inhaling sharply. Harry shakes his head and tuts.

“C’mon now, love,” he says, and you can hear the complacency in his voice. “You’ve gotta stay still for me.”

“Sorry,” you breathe, wheezing when he spanks you again. Your toes curl and you bite your bottom lip harshly, but you succeed in granting him nothing except for a small twitch. Harry hums in satisfaction, his fingers massaging your bum through your cute lacy panties.

“You like this, don’t you?” he muses. “Like a little bit of pain. How long have you wanted this?”

“A long time,” you moan, biting your tongue when you feel another hard sting against your backside. You briefly imagine what it would feel like if he had kept his rings on, but the thought is shooed away quickly—as appealing as it is, you know that you’ll have much more time to explore this new and fascinating world.

“Yeah?” Harry chuckles quietly. “Bet you touched yourself thinking about it. How sore it’d feel afterwards, how good I’d make it hurt, hmm?”

“Fuck,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s able to rile you up using his words alone. It’s a skill that he seems to have mastered, using his mouth and his imagination as his most dangerous tools.

Although…

Before you lose your nerve, you muster up the courage to reply with something slightly more elaborate. “Thought—thought about you fucking me…spreading me open…making me cry.”

Harry is suddenly uncharacteristically silent. You peer over your shoulder at him, only to find that he’s already staring at you, his eyes blazing and his lips flattened into a firm line. He’s looking at you like he wants to destroy you.

“Are you wet?” he asks. The question is so simple, but you know that it holds so much meaning behind it. This is more than a cheap, convenient fuck. It’s him finally letting you into his mind, allowing you to unlock the thoughts that he’s kept hidden for so long.

“Yes,” you say in a small voice, burying your face into your arms as your cheeks heat up. Though you can’t see him, you know that he’s smirking.

You tense when his hand doesn’t crack down again, but rather slides between your thighs. Without the usual chill of his rings, his skin is warm and his palms are quite soft, fingertips only slightly callous from plucking at guitar strings during his days at the studio. Harry notices the stiffness of your body and stops, but that’s the last thing you’d like for him to be doing.

“It’s okay,” you whimper. “It’s okay, it’s okay—please, just—”

You’re positively begging for him to touch you, and he groans as he watches you dissolve into desperate pleas. Slowly, teasingly, he nudges your panties to the side; your legs quake as he brushes the skin of your inner thighs, so goddamn close to where you need him.

You sigh in relief when he finally trails a long, sure finger up the length of your folds, and Harry curses when he realizes just how wet you really are. His thumb nudges against your clit before he pulls away, purposely teasing you.

“Fuck, you’re dripping, pet,” he tells you. You bite the inside of your cheek, looking back at him; he’s inspecting his fingers, which have come away shiny with your juices. You watch as a flurry of emotions brews behind his eyes, and then he’s sliding his own finger into his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut as he groans eagerly.

“Fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles. You gulp, your fingers twitching in anticipation when he trains his gaze back on you.

He dips his fingers back in between your thighs, and you moan when you feel his thumb tap against your clit. Harry bites back a smile as he rubs against the bundle, and his eyes run up the length of your body, trying to memorize every detail.

“Stop, stop,” you plead, and he freezes immediately.

“’S wrong?” he asks. You push yourself up onto your knees, reaching for his shoulders and promptly swinging one leg over his lap. Harry’s eyes are wide and fearful—he’s worried that he’s pushed you too far.

“Want your cock,” you whimper, trailing your palms down his chest and proceeding to fumble with the belt buckle on his jeans. His lips part in surprise, and then he curses breathlessly, shaking his head.

“You fuckin’ scared me,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily. “Thought I did something you didn’t like.”

“You were perfect,” you mumble, pressing your lips against his as you slide his belt from the loops on his pants. You toss the leather away, hearing it land with a clank somewhere in the room. Harry finally snaps out of his concerned stupor, his hands falling to meet yours and to help you undress him.

“Easy, pet,” he soothes you once you finally succeed in unzipping his jeans. Harry leans back on his forearms and lifts his hips, and you wrestle with the stubborn fabric. You let out a frustrated swear, and you hear a faint snort. Harry’s smiling when you look up at him, his eyes alight with amusement as he watches you.

“Shut up,” you mutter, eventually pulling his pants down past his knees.

“That’s not very nice, love,” Harry tells you. “Especially considering I’m about to fuck you.”

“So far, you’ve been all talk,” you scoff. “Are you actually going to do it?”

Your words elicit the desired response. Harry makes a growling noise low in his throat before grabbing you and flipping you both over. You squeal when your back hits the mattress and he uses his hips to pin you down underneath him. You begin to laugh—he’s so easy to provoke—but he cuts you off by pressing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss.

“Let me,” he says, reaching behind you so that he can unclasp your bra. The straps loosen and fall down your shoulders, and Harry swiftly aids you in discarding the material. His eyes widen and he drops his head when he sees your bare chest.

“Prettiest fuckin’ tits I’ve ever seen,” he swears to you. You let out a faint moan when he cups your right breast, rolling your nipple under his thumb.

“No,” you whine as he leans down to latch onto the erect bud, because though the thought of him sucking on you until you cum is absolutely longed-for, you much rather prefer the idea of him fucking into you until you scream.

“Get—off!” your words are garbled and broken as you hook your fingers into the dark material of his briefs. Harry straightens up so that he’s on his knees, struggling with the last barrier and trying to wrestle the constricting fabric down his hips.

“Bloody fuckin’…”

The ache between your legs is becoming unbearable. Your skin is hot to the touch, your throat is tight, and Harry’s taking far too long. All you want is to feel the heavy head of him press against your entrance, feel his stomach muscles tense right before he begins pushing in. But he’s still grappling with his fucking underwear, and your body doesn’t quite feel like your own.

“Get in me!” you finally shout, finding your voice. “Get in me, Harry! Please, I’m—fuck me!”

“Christ!” Harry mutters under his breath—he’s never seen you this desperate before, this vulnerable. Your fists are balled up in the bedsheets, and your head is thrashing from side to side, like a child throwing a tantrum.

“I’m coming, love,” Harry tries to console you, but your whimpers are growing in volume and urgency. Harry finally discards his briefs, mumbling a stream of expletives as he flings them away.

He’s about to line himself up before realizing that he’s forgotten one thing.

“Fuck…I need a rubber.”

It’ll only take him a few extra seconds to put on the condom, but he’s almost afraid of how you’ll respond to the statement. Your brow is creased and it seems as though you’re lost in the valleys of your anguish. You take it better than he anticipated, though, only letting out a distressed sob of, “The drawer, in the drawer!” even as he’s already angling himself towards his nightstand.

Harry’s pretty sure he’s never moved so fast in his life.

You feel like you’re drowning. Everything is muffled and subdued, and it feels like Harry’s taking eons to rip open the fucking packet. Your eyes are swimming with frustrated, impatient tears—later, you know that you’re going to scold yourself for being so dramatic, but in this moment, your primal instincts have taken over. You can’t find it in yourself to worry about anything else, every thought geared only towards Harry pushing inside of you.

And when he finally does…oh.

Everything is suddenly amplified. The light coming from the lamp is too bright, and his skin is too hot and his little grunts as he slides into you are echoing in your ears. You let out a reedy whimper, your back arching once he bottoms out—he’s deep, so deep you’re sure that you can feel him in your stomach. And the way he stretches you…it doesn’t hurt, but you feel so fucking full.

“Tight!” Harry chokes out, dropping down so that his chest brushes against yours. He’s got his forearms on either side of your head, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he focusses on not bursting right then and there. He breaks off into wheezes and pained groans, but for the first time since you entered his bedroom, you’re completely silent.

Harry purses his lips, opening his eyes to look at you. “You okay?” he asks, his voice an octave higher than normal. “Is it good for you?”

It’s like you’ve dissociated and are now just floating back down into your body, blinking slowly and trying to sharpen your gaze. Your chest heaves with a deep inhale—you hadn’t even realized you had stopped breathing. Harry’s still looking at you with red, bitten lips, waiting on an answer. Lethargically, you lift your right hand and brush some fallen strands of hair from his forehead.

“Thank you,” you sigh. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

It’s the only thing that leaves your lips.

After that, he makes good on his promise.

He fucks you so hard, it hurts. It starts with his hips slowly reclining—so slow, you want to cry— before he’s slamming back into you. Your back arches to the point of pain and you let out a shout. You want to touch him everywhere; you want to run your hands through his hair, feel his back muscles ripple beneath his skin, but you can’t move. His hips are still shifting, and he builds up a pattern, alternating between staccato pumps and powerful, languid thrusts that reach so far up inside of you.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful!” Harry swears, burying his face into your neck. “So…fuckin’ beautiful, pet. Wanted this for so long, thank you. Thank you for letting me have it…”

“You’re so—deep!” you wheeze. “Harry, I—”

“Close?” he asks, pressing kisses along the column of your throat. He pulls out of you, his hands snaking down your sides before you feel his fingers pressing into the fleshy backside of your thighs. You moan unabashedly when he lifts your legs so that your knees are pressed against your chest, and when he plunges back inside, you call out his name.

“’S a gorgeous cunt,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Fucking hot…and wet…Christ!”

You’ve clenched around him, and his steady strokes falter when he gasps as though he’s been punched in the gut. The air is knocked from his lungs, and he wishes—more than anything—that he could have you bare. He imagines how you’d feel—soft and warm and smooth around his cock, like velvet. The thought is enough to send a shiver down his spine.

“Gimme a kiss, love,” he begs, biting down on his lip. “Please, I need—”

You oblige, gripping his face in your hands and kissing him furiously. His thrusts are continuous, even as he moans into your mouth. Your hips buck up involuntarily when he angles himself just right, and you gasp for air as fireworks burst behind your eyelids. When your eyes open again, all you can see is him; his pupils are blown out with lust, his cheeks are flushed, and he’s gnawing on his swollen lips.

“Fucking fit me perfectly,” he whispers, his voice saturated with awe. “Taking me so deep—got every inch inside, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and suddenly you begin to shake in his arms. “Oh God, I—Harry—”

“Feel it, yeah?” Harry’s right hand leaves your thigh, and you take the opportunity to wrap your left leg around his waist, pulling him in closer. He finds your hand and grabs it tightly, bringing your intertwined fingers up so that he can press adoring kisses to the back of your hand.

“C’mon, love,” he murmurs against your skin, his eyes trained on you. “Gimme a good one.”

His pace has slowed significantly, and rather than thrusting roughly, he’s opted for a slow grind, reaching places deep within you. He drapes his body over yours, his pelvic bone rubbing deliciously against your clit, and you call out for him as—finally—a feeling of pure euphoria washes over you.

Later, once Harry’s ridden out his own high and discarded the condom and you’re pressing soft kisses along his shoulder, you remember what had happened the last time he’d gifted you with an orgasm.

“You’re not gonna fall asleep, wake up, and then pretend like nothing happened again, right?” you ask.

He emits a breathless laugh, rolling over so that you’re suddenly on top of him. He cranes his neck and presses his lips to yours sweetly, humming in satisfaction when you take it upon yourself to deepen the kiss. Your fingers play mindlessly with the silver chain around his neck, and when you finally part for air, Harry grants you a firm shake of his head.

“On the contrary,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’d quite like to take you out for breakfast tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”

“I’d like that,” you say softly, running your index finger down the bridge of his nose. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.” His reply is immediate.

“You’ll fuck me one more time before we leave the house,” you smile, tapping the tip of his nose lightly.

Harry grins.

“I promise—,” he grunts, rolling you over yet again so that you’re now pinned beneath his body, “—I’ll fuck you—at least—one more time before we leave the house.”

You giggle against his lips once he leans down and seals his mouth to yours. His left hand cups your face and your teeth clack together because you’re both smiling like love-struck fools.

After that, you lose track of how many times he’s kissed you.

~*~