#permanentcross fic

This took a minute (yes, I hate italicizing from Google and making a Wattpad cover that much. Yes, I will avoid it like the plague. Yes, there was a lot else going on, as well). Thank you to all of you who were patient! I hope you enjoy xx

The knock on your door was too loud, insistent, and rhythmic for it to be an accident, but it was too early for it to be anybody you’d want in your room. 

Whatever it was in the Miami air, it’d absolutely drained you of all energy. Every night since you’d landed, you’d passed out at 11:00pm, sharp, and slept until around 7:30 or 8:00 in the morning, and the only reason you got out of bed then was the only reason you were even in the city to begin with. 

“Work trip? To Miami?” 

Harry had brightened considerably when you mentioned when and where you’d be going for a quick turnaround, and you hadn’t understood why until he told you what wasn’t quite public yet. He’d be working, too, and his calendar was full (he’d absolutely deserved the ribbing you gave him when he told you that), but, “‘S’nice sometimes, y’know? To have a friend around?” 

Friend. You hadn’t seen your friend in the three days it’d been since you landed. Even despite being in the same hotel. Even despite having pockets of time in both your schedules that worked, and while part of it might be your fault and your inability to stay awake, part of it was just… timing. 

So much of what was between you could be boiled down to timing and lack thereof. Why would a weekend be any different? Why, on this weekend, would you be able to make it work when he had meetings and events jammed in and you had obligations of your own? Why would now work any better than the other opportunities that had fizzled despite every hope, effort, and intention? 

The knocking continued and you groaned, throwing the blankets you’d been huddled under down the bed as you twisted to look at the hotel alarm clock. 

Six in the morning. Six! And they were still going! They’d better be telling you something extremely good or extremely awful to be trying to break down your door this early, but when you glanced through the peephole, your annoyance was tempered with shock and a shot of elation. He was looking up and down the hall, suitcase on the ground next to him and already dressed for the day, and it was then you became aware of how little you were dressed. 

“Hang--” You cleared your throat and tapped the door. “Hang on, I’ll be right….” You scrambled back to the armchair you’d thrown your robe on last night to have something on over the camisole and underwear you’d crawled into bed with before twisting the locks and opening the door. “Is everything-- what are you doing here?” 

His shoulders rose and fell with his deep breath and you swore you thought his eyes took a quick trip up and down your body. “Morning,” he said, his own voice miles smoother than yours. How long had he been awake? “D’you mind if I…?”

You shook your head and stepped back and he and his baggage disappeared into your room as you closed up. When you rejoined him, he’d deposited his suitcase next to the luggage rack that held yours, and he’d taken off the tinted sunglasses that he had no business wearing so early in the morning, anyway. “Did they kick you out?” you asked, still struggling to grasp for real words that meant anything. 

He smiled halfway and shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” Now that he was in your room, you could pay attention to him. His hair looked like it still had a little bit of leftover product in it, but not in a dirty, greasy way. His loose-fitting trousers were fastened snugly right above his hips, but it was the t-shirt that made your mouth go dry and your mind wander. Tight and tucked into his trousers, gloves wished they could fit hands like this fit his torso. It was close, and you could see practically every line and indentation of his stomach and chest. 

“Hmm?”

He laughed once. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.” You took a deep breath. “Why are you here?” you asked.

“Figured I’d come hang out.”

You looked at the alarm clock next to your bed. “It’s 6:15.” 

He had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed. “Yeah, but… it’s my last day here. And I haven’t seen you once.”

“You were busy,” you said automatically, a familiar excuse that had become rote at some point. “We were--”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his hands together and cleared his throat. Busy, busy, always busy. “But my flight’s not until this afternoon, so I thought… my morning’s free, and if you want to….” 

“What time is your flight?”

Eleven, twelve, one…?

“Five.”

“Five!?” 

“Thirty,” he confirmed. “That’s when I leave for the airport, anyway.” 

He was not serious. He couldn’t be. 

“You’re seriously--”

“Going to spend the next twelve or so hours with you, yeah,” he said in one quick breath. “If you’ll let me.” 

His eyes were wide and hopeful but guarded, you realized, anticipating the possibility that you might say no. 

“I’ve been trying for days.” The quiet confession almost drowned in the deafening silence of the room, and in that moment, you remembered every missed call, every text, every visit to your door that he’d stolen just to see you before he had to run off to an event and you had to crawl into bed. You remembered every fleeting embrace, every missed kiss to the corner of your mouth, every look that had lasted a second too long to be normal and lacked the ability to make him stay. “But we just never… s’never a good time, so I’m making the time for you now. If that’s something you want.” 

“Do I want time with you?” You clutched the neckline of your robe like an old woman clutched pearls, and your throat felt tight, full of words you’d swallowed again, and again, and again. Did you want time with him? Of course you wanted time with him. Five minutes, five hours, five days, five years, you wanted anything he could give, but you’d given up on that a little bit. Not on him, but on you. 

“Can y’make time?” His throat bobbed and the smile he gave you was crushingly vulnerable even with its self-assured charm. “For me?” 

Yes or no. In or out. Carpe diem. 

You nodded and it was like a pin had pricked the bubble around both of you, tension easing out in a whistle. Harry shuffled closer and you stood, glued to the carpet in your bare feet, as he lifted his hands. He hesitated for a moment and you saw a glimpse of his tongue held between his lips in thought before he cupped your cheeks. Together, you exhaled, and your eyes closed, heart racing uncontrollably. His hands were warm, sturdy, and soft in their own way, and your lips parted when he drew his thumbs along the apples of your cheeks. 

Days after weeks after months after who knew how long, and now he was standing in front of you in a hotel room of all places with less than twelve hours before he had to leave for the airport, but if it was all the time in the world you had…. 

He kissed you, then, and what little time you had left stood still. A distinct sensation of relief flooded through you, like a geyser that had been waiting to gush, and you sighed through your nose, leaning into his mouth. He’d shaved, but you could still feel the sandpaper of his chin against yours, and it was a sharp contrast to the soft sweep of his tongue into your mouth. For all of five seconds, you couldn’t think, or move, but when he groaned -- deep, throaty, and in a way only he could -- it snapped something in you. 

His chest and stomach were firm under your roaming hands, although you liked the softness around his hips best because of the way he sucked in a quick breath. You curled your fingers into the cotton and swayed when he stepped forward and tipped your head back to deepen the kiss further, showing both his hand and his greed, and it was your turn to whimper when he slipped one of his hands down your neck and over your shoulder underneath the robe you’d thrown on. Not anything like the friendly pats and lingering squeezes he’d given you in the past and that you’d returned in kind. There was intent for skin, skin, and more skin in this, and you’d no sooner put your hand on the knot around your waist than he’d joined your fingers with his to pull what you hadn’t realized you’d tied so well. 

You shivered when it dropped to the floor, but stretched yourself out against his body when he wrapped his arms ever so carefully around your back. It was like despite having his tongue down your throat (don’t think about it, or you’ll laugh and ruin the moment, you reminded yourself), he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you or where he could put his hands. It was sweet -- funny, but sweet, and respectful in a way you hadn’t anticipated but could have, maybe, expected? He was only a man, and common decency was a low bar, but if the situation were reversed, you didn’t know if you’d think or be able to do the same. His arms were crossed over your back at his forearms, but you could sense his palms hovering out to the side even as kisses grew increasingly frantic with nicking teeth and off center meetings of your mouths. Focusing very hard on not losing those, you clumsily squeezed his bicep until he relinquished his hold a bit, but before he could finish his mumbled question, you grabbed his wrist and, without preamble, placed his hand on one of your breasts. 

Despite not wanting to lose the kisses -- they were good kisses, needed kisses, kisses you’d waited a long time for -- you both broke and stood there, nose to nose, chests heaving with his hand cupped over your breast. This was….

“S’different,” he rasped and you nodded. Not just friends, not just kissing. You ran your thumb along the back of his hand, over tendons that were struggling not to flex and to squeeze and feel. He must’ve taken the pause as hesitation, because he started to pull his hand away, but you shook your head and held his hand in place before bearing down on it with gentle pressure. 

“Ok,” you whispered breathlessly, nodding slightly, and when he kissed you again, he caught your chin, then your jaw, your neck -- all the way down -- and then across your shoulder. You were glad he was holding onto you when your head tipped back as he pulled the strap of your camisole to the side to sponge eager kisses any and everywhere you’d let him, because honestly? If he didn’t have his arm slanted between your shoulder blades, your legs would’ve crumpled from underneath you. 

As it was, you both nearly tripped on your robe when you moved backwards towards the bed, and you landed harder than he did. Your laughs were welcome in the moment, though, and did nothing to alter the mood, and you were still giggling when he resumed his kisses. They only quieted when he reached your chest, and for some inexplicable reason, you tried very hard not to breathe as his own and his lips and the tip of his nose dragged and tickled your skin, but when he slipped his fingers under your neckline to tug it down, there was no need to try at all. 

“Holy shit,” he uttered under his breath in faint disbelief. You didn’t even have time to process the fact that he was in awe of you, before his lips were on your breasts, moving between them in a very careful, very attentive, almost laughably even way, like he didn’t want to miss anything. Your back arched slightly when he settled against you, body warm and mouth hot between your breasts as he nuzzled, kissed, licked, and sucked, taking his time to learn how they felt and what made you moan. As he explored, you did, too, if less so, but your hands found his hair, and petted his face, and ran up and down his shoulders, arms, and back. It was when his own reached between your legs that you clamped your thighs down over his wrist and he lifted up.

“Ok?” His eyes were dark and his hair mussed -- partially thanks to you -- and the pink flush in his cheeks had nothing on the color of his mouth. His forehead was damp and you belatedly realized your chest was, too, and you could feel yourself quivering with the heat of his hand pressed so intimately against you. 

“Yes.” You pressed your hand to his cheek and he turned into your wrist, breathing deeply and kissing your pulse point. 

“Is this…?” He swallowed. “I don’t-- we don’t have to do anything more, I only--” 

“No,” you rushed to say. “No, I just… wasn’t expecting--”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve--”

“It’s ok,” you said. “I’m ok. I want to, it just felt--” New, different, good, so fucking good, and it’d surprised you. 

“Sure?”

Wordlessly, you nodded, and forced your legs to open despite how tense with anticipation they were. You nodded again and let out a slow breath, but he watched you until your eyes closed and your body melted into the mattress. When he finally ran his thumb down your slit through your underwear, you clenched and bit your lip to muffle a sound, lips twitching. This felt… nice. Better than nice, this care and intention stoked something in you that you didn’t remember feeling since you were a frustrated and hormonal teenager raging out of control. He was going to fit the minutes and hours from days and months that had been squandered into every second of the twelve hours you had left, wasn’t he? 

Harry pressed his thumb into your clit and rubbed smooth, warm circles over it, and you touched the back of your hand to your mouth. “That’s good,” you mumbled, heartbeat quickening, face crumpling when he increased the pressure slightly. It was when he kissed your abdomen that you whimpered and pushed your hand into his hair, but he kept kissing along the waistband of your underwear, and your belly tensed when he took a deep breath. You weren’t quite aware of when or how he got them off you -- let alone how he’d managed to do so seamlessly and without awkward wriggles or kicks or knees to his face -- but you were very aware of when he finally had you spread open and he was on his stomach between your legs. You were very aware of how hot his breath was on your cunt, and you were very aware of the sound of that first delicate, velvety lick in dead silence. He got through three, maybe four, careful, languid strokes of his tongue in, with his eyes closed in steadfast concentration and his hair falling over his brow before he licked up your slit and finished it with your clit firmly suctioned into his mouth. 

Your jaw dropped in awe. “Oh my--!” His lips fluttered and your whole chest opened with your breath. “Ah…!” 

He groaned and your eyes watered, and you watched, unable to tear yourself away. He was ravenous -- eating you out like his life depended on it while simultaneously holding back and never giving or taking as much as either of you wanted. Each glide of his tongue was deep and smooth, and each suck hollowed his cheeks for only a moment. You whimpered and pulled your fingers through his hair uselessly to quell the jitters and need to do something. Every time you thought he was going to suckle for a little longer, a little harder, he’d break off abruptly and the inch you’d gained climbing would be erased by your backslide. You were sweating from the effort and duration it was taking -- your breasts and stomach had a sheen on them, and your thighs slipped against the side of his head. His roots were damp and hot, too, to the point where the air conditioner may as well have stopped working, but for all the world he looked like he’d never been happier or more content than he was to be eating your pussy. 

“H-Harry….” Your breath hitched, a muted cry caught in your throat when again he released the toe-curling suction too soon for it to matter. “Please, please,” you begged, fingers combing through his hair as your pelvis rolled under his mouth. “I can’t… I wanna cum.” Straight to the point, unable to wheedle or dance around the subject -- it wasn’t like he didn’t have his face pressed into your cunt right then or anything. “I wanna cum, I really--” 

His eyes, which had been closed up until that point, slowly opened and locked on you, darker than you thought you’d ever seen them. One of his hands unstuck itself from your thigh and he reached up your stomach and you clasped it in yours, fingers laced tightly with an almost crushing intensity between his as you nodded encouragingly, desperately, mouthing please, please to him. He shifted against the mattress, then, and, still holding your gaze and your hand, he puckered his lips.

The ugliest sound ripped from your chest, but you laughed in almost hysterical relief because he wasn’t stopping -- at long last, he wasn’t stopping, and the pressure and tension tickling your abdomen grew tighter, promising to live to its full potential. “Holy shit!” you breathed, smiling despite yourself. “Oh, God, I’m gonna cum… you’re gonna make me cum, I’m-- oh!” 

You cried out when he pressed his mouth closer, rutting his face against you in a steady rhythm. The last thing you saw before you closed your eyes were his, and you wheezed and whimpered your way through convulsions with their hunger burned into your eyes as you called out for him. You’d never felt an orgasm like this -- so thorough, deep, and full bodied, and entirely draining. 

“Fuck!” 

It wasn’t the guttural swear that made your eyes fly open even as the room spun, but the sensation of his teeth against your thigh. Not hard, but sharp, and when you looked at him you found his face screwed up against your leg, rutting against the mattress. Belatedly, your brain put the pieces together -- it wasn’t just his face in your cunt, it’d been his whole body, the whole time, driving himself against the bed in search of his own relief with his mouth full of you and your thigh when he wasn’t whimpering breathless apologies and confessions of how hard he was (“M’sorry-- oh, shit, m’so-- m’hard, m’sorry, love, m’so-- hurts, I just need--!”). He squeezed your thigh with bruising force, letting out keening moans as his shakes turned to shudders, and you knew he was finished when he let out a noise so deep your hair stood on end and he came to a sudden stop with his face still burrowed against your leg.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “F-fuck, s’so… sorry, that’s….” He pressed his forehead into your skin. “That was incredible,” he said, voice thick and unevenly pitched. “You were….” 

He picked his head up and wiped his mouth and the tip of his nose with his thumb before slipping it past his lips and sucking lightly, forehead lined in agony. With weak fingers, you tugged the back of his t-shirt, and he crawled on even weaker hands and knees up your body. It was a struggle to get it untucked from his trousers and even worse to get it off his torso from how damp it was, but eventually you did, and you threw it away with a whoosh and a thud. He kicked his worn in white Vans off his feet and they landed with a thunk off the side of the bed, and his trousers were next, and when they were gone, you flattened yourself against him, mouth on his shoulder and leg between his, desperately seeking skin on skin. 

“Alright?” He cupped the back of your head. “Ok?” You nodded and he kissed your forehead. “You’re ok,” he mumbled. “You’re good, honey.”

“Are you?” you asked against him. Because he couldn’t stop trembling -- his muscles kept jumping under your touch and his heart was giving its own big band performance in his chest. 

“L’be fine,” he said. “Be ok, just need… need a minute.” 

Gradually, his heart and yours both slowed and heavy breathing evened out. And the last thing you saw before you closed your eyes for good and slipped under was the time.

Up later than intended here -- sorry! April was a very, very busy (but positive, mostly) month. Thank you for reading these unexpected pests -- I hope you enjoy. This is the last of their total twelve hour arc, but if you’re curious about an addendum, feel free to head on over to Patreon (however, it’s not necessary to enjoy this story, not to read at all if that isn’t for you). Happy reading, loves! x

1:11. 

The harsh buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand made your eyes fly open, startled from your doze. Harry tightened his arm around you while his other hand shot out to grab it.  

“What is it?” you asked drowsily, burrowing against his chest. 

“Flight reminder,” he murmured, voice gravelly from his own doze.  

Dread cemented in a lump in your stomach. Twelve whole hours together, and somehow it wasn’t enough. “You can use the shower, if you want,” you said.

“Probably a good idea.” He sighed heavily and dropped his phone on the bed. “Later.” 

“Harry….”

“Later,” he repeated, wrapping his other arm around you and drawing you tighter into his chest. “I’ve got time.” 

Not enough, you thought but didn’t say. 

Four hours and a little bit to go, and they were going by much, much too fast. 

Twelve hours. Twelve precious hours, and you were spending so many of them sleeping, too, with both of you falling in and out of it, curled up together under the thin sheet. Every time you’d opened your eyes and seen the clock, your heart had picked up in a spike of anxiety, but when you’d looked at him and seen him with his eyes closed, brow furrowed, whistling through his nose, you’d groggily laid your head down on his chest until you were pulled back under, only waking again when a panicked thought would remind you of the truth. 

Twelve hours and time was running out. 

Cheek to his chest, you closed your eyes and listened to his breathing. He was warm and familiar. Despite being a recent occurrence, nothing about being pressed against him, skin-on-skin, felt new, or strange, or indecent. 

“Are you tired?” you whispered in a sandy voice. 

“M’exhausted,” he said, equally as garbled and worn. “Couldn’t fuckin’ sleep last night.” 

“Because of me?” 

You were teasing him, but he grunted and didn’t say anything else, and you opened your eyes, this new information settling in and making you hyper aware of the fact that he’d agonized over his decision to come to your room this morning. 

“Why?” you asked, soft enough that, if he wanted to, he could ignore it. You wouldn’t hold it against him.

“S’only twelve hours,” he mumbled at last. “Y’know? Not sure if that’s really fair.” 

You noted the use of the present tense and burrowed your cheek closer, squeezing him around the middle. 

The kit that had been delivered was on the table next to the clock radio. It was an embarrassingly lurid fucsia thing, and the man who’d delivered it had hardly been able to look you in the eye. Wordlessly, you reached across him and picked it up, resettling into his side to pluck at the plastic sealing it. He, to his credit, didn’t say any one of the smarmy lines that would be all too easy to indulge in, and when you popped the top off, the contents jumped out. Two condoms, which you pressed into his chest and he snickered under his breath, catching them. A packet of lube, a miniature bullet vibrator, and…. 

You held up the rubbery ring to him.

“M’not puttin’ that on,” he said. 

You snorted. “Not even for me?” Even as a joke it felt demanding, assumptive, that he would do anything for you. 

“I’ve got this,” he said, pulling the vibrator from your grip, “if I wanna do summat for you.” He frowned, feeling around, before he twisted it and it hummed to life in his hand. “Ahhhh,” he crowed. “There it is.” He grinned at you and you snorted. 

“It’s weak,” you said.

“Sure about that?” 

You didn’t say anything, but your mouth went dry, and you shivered as he drew it up and down your arm and then across your chest and over your nipple lightly. Squirming, you grabbed his wrist, and he snickered, his voice breaking with exhaustion when he repeated, “Sure about that?” 

“You’re an idiot,” you declared. 

“Sure about that?” 

“Yes!” 

He laughed, but when you pushed away from him, he went after you and you shrieked, flattened into the bed, and you thumped his back. “Harry,” you said, grinning despite yourself, breathless from his weight. 

He pressed scratchy kisses into your neck, and you could feel his chuckles against your skin as he peppered them up and down the column and then over the top of your chest. When he nuzzled your breast, though, your breath hitched, and his next kiss on your skin was more reverent -- a small touch of his tongue before his lips fell tenderly to complete it. Laughter fell away gradually, replaced by sighs and the gentlest moans from both of you -- his deeper and drowned in his throat and yours higher and unrestrained, urged on when he kissed harder, the vibrator abandoned somewhere neither of you cared about. 

“Is this ok?” he mumbled without breaking away. He kissed the inside of your elbow and you gasped, fingers sliding into his hair as you nodded breathlessly. 

“Please,” you said. “Please, Harry--” 

He shuddered, then, and you jerked when he bit down sharply just under your breast. The jolt of adrenaline shot straight through you, and he kissed and nipped his way up your sternum, down over your belly, and then back up until he was at your shoulder, and it was then that you lifted your head and opened your mouth.

“Fuck!” His groan was deep and you could feel him tense under your touch, shuddering in your bite. Seconds later, you made a sharp noise when he returned it on your shoulder before turning your face into his cheek and nipping his jaw. He rewarded you with another groan and caught your lips in a kiss that quickly deepened and you whimpered, pushing your hands up his back to pull him closer. His cock was hard in the crease between your thigh and pelvis, and you moaned when he rutted his hips once, twice, instinctively seeking relief. 

“M’gonna….” He swallowed hard and your hands simultaneously reached for the abandoned contents of the kit scattered in the sheets. You got a condom by your fingertips first, and you clapped your hand to the back of his neck to hold him in the kiss before letting go to fumble with the packet. You slid the latex disk out before he lifted up for you to roll it onto his cock in one quick motion, and you smoothed your hand down to finish the job.

“Good?” you whispered. He nodded, eyes barely open and his jaw tight and sharp. He exhaled with rattling force, then, and dropped his forehead to your shoulder. You kissed his at the same spot you’d bitten, and when he shifted, you opened your legs wider and swallowed back your beating heart. 

“Ok, I’m…” he mumbled, turning his face into your neck. He peppered kisses up it and your jaw, and you inhaled sharply when he rolled his hips over yours, cock nestled over your clit. You whimpered and dug your left hand into his back while his own laced with your right next to the pillow your head was on. “Ok?” he prompted, voice strained.

You nodded quickly. “Mmhm.”

He kissed you through his first slow, sinking thrust, dipping in and out of you to give you time to adjust and open easily for him, swallowing up each of your noises and taking your deathgrip on his playing hand in stride. You were wet, and it wasn’t difficult or painful, but it was… he was… a lot. You pulsed with each bit more he stretched you, and you could feel him throbbing inside you, too. 

“You’re ok,” he mumbled against your mouth. You sighed, parting your lips when his tongue dipped between their seam, and he took the inch you gave him without a moment’s hesitation. You groaned together on his next thrust, and you squeezed your thighs around his hips when he repeated it, finding his angle to glide in and out. 

You huffed laughs and sputtered gracelessly against each other’s mouths, in a raw, unskilled and unpracticed way that was analogous to an inability to walk and chew gum at the same time but, somehow, held more primal appeal. You were robbing each other of finesse and patience, each one as guilty as the other, and there was some pride in that, too. If you focused and separated out each sensory experience, you could feel his necklaces dragging against your skin, back and forth in time with each roll of his hips. 

His moans were what killed you, though. Soft, lazy rumbles trapped in his throat and smothered into your mouth, his own curved in unspoken pleasure. There was something selfish in the way he grabbed you, held you, kissed you, fucked you, trying to get everything all at once because he wanted it. He broke with one that went straight to your toes and pressed his forehead against yours. 

“Look at me,” he pled. “Look at me, look at….”

You cracked your heavy lids open and caught his tremulous smile as he nodded. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glinted under the shadow of his sweaty hair. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s it, honey… oh….”

His eyes fell shut with his groan and you had the distinct thought that he should be looking at you, too, if you had to keep your eyes open. Your mouth moved uselessly, though, yielding only whimpers and soft iterations of his name. You kissed his neck, his jaw, his shoulder, and his bicep, feeling borderline hysteria swell in you because nothing was enough. Nothing satisfied you, you wanted your mouth everywhere, your hands, his mouth and hands. Twelve hours wasn’t enough. It was almost over and you’d just gotten him.

“Harry….”  

He must’ve heard it in the way you said his name, because he thrust harder, then, each fall of his hips heavier than the last and punctuated by grunts that were beyond man. 

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Please… please don’t sto-- oh!” Pleas turned to babbles and you clutched him closer, hands slipping and finding their place on his body again each time. Both of you descended into a language neither of you spoke but somehow understood, following a path made up of instinct and cues. When he rolled over and took you with him, you bore down on his chest and squeezed his hips with your thighs as he guided you by yours, restrained but encouraging, but it didn’t last long before he groaned gutturally through his teeth and his stomach tensed to pull himself up. You locked your arms around his neck as he found your mouth again, but you were just finding your rhythm when he broke with a shuddering breath.

“Over,” he whispered. “Over-- on your-- is that--?” 

Between the both of you, you managed to clamber off him, and you melted from your hands and knees onto your stomach, holding the sheets in your fists with your cheek pressed into the mattress. You shouted wordlessly when he thrust in again, his hands on your hip and ass, and your eyes watered with the even, deep rhythm he found. You could see his lips moving and eyes rolling up in the mirror on the wall, and you stared, transfixed and with your abdomen growing tighter and heavier. 

“Tight,” he said under his breath in awe. “Tight, tight, fuckin’... fuck….” 

You turned your face into the bed and your pitchy moan echoed through the mattress.

“Lemme hear,” he said. “Oh, lemme….” 

“I wanna--” You gulped, mouth dry. “Harry, I wanna--”

“I know,” he muttered, his thrusts rough and choppy. “Fuck, I know, I know….” 

Whimpering, you lifted your hips slightly, and it was then he pulled out completely again and rolled you onto your back. “C’mere,” he said, pushing your knees apart. “C’mere, good girl.” 

He pressed his fingers to your clit and your back bowed away from the bed as you cried out, throat tight. He stroked, and pressed, and teased until the room was spinning from how your head rolled from side to side. You were pretty sure he was inside you when you came, but your orgasm was so deep and powerful all you could do was hold onto him through it and cling to consciousness through endless pulses. You went lax with a wet, ugly sound, and he followed suit in seconds, trapping you against the mattress. You writhed together, seeking grounding relief, and he tucked his head into the crook of your neck as your knee went between his thighs, arms winding around the other and slipping on sweaty skin…. 

“You’re ok,” he groaned. “You’re o-ok.” He smashed a kiss to your shoulder and you absorbed every rattling breath he took. He sputtered laugh. “G-got you good there.” 

You nodded and closed your eyes against the spinning room.

***

3:50.

You didn’t even remember falling asleep. One minute you weren’t and the next you were waking up to the sound of your shower running. You sat up with a start, hand flying out beside you, and you blinked, quickly doing the math. Just over an hour and a half left, and then he’d be gone. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, dragging your hand down your face. You didn’t even know when you’d fallen asleep, so you didn’t know how long you’d been out or how much time was wasted just lying there unconscious. Your robe was on the edge of the bed and you eased closer, with sore limbs and joints, until you could grab it to pull over your shoulders. You nuzzled the collar and took a deep breath, catching what he’d smelled like before the sex on it. From the corner of your eye, you saw a tied up condom in the wastebasket, and you snorted, burying into the soft fabric. You didn’t even remember him when he came. Not his face, or what he’d felt like, or any of it. You’d been so far gone yourself, you’d missed it.

Everything that’d happened had been real.

The bathroom door opened and you looked up as he strolled out in a towel. He met your eyes and you blinked, noting the softness in his features. He nodded, a slight bob of his head, and you returned it. When he dropped the towel, your lips quirked in amusement. Just twelve hours ago, the sight would’ve scandalized you in more ways than one. Now, you’d had sex with him and it was like he did this every day. 

Clothes on, he moved through your room in organized chaos, gathering up what he needed and double checking this, that, or the other thing in the process. Already, he looked a little less like Harry, and a little more like who he had to be. Who he should be, who people expected him to be. Not even an hour ago, he was in bed with you, naked and unguarded, and now he was sharper and looking from the corners of both eyes. 

“Do you have everything?” you asked, finally breaking the silence. 

“Hmm?” He looked up. “Yeah,” he said before you could ask again. “Yeah, I think… just feel like m’missing summat….” His brow was furrowed and again he retraced his steps through your room and bathroom and you stayed out of his way, curled up on the edge of the bed. You knew better than to get in the way of Hurricane Harry. 

“I’ll keep it for you,” you said. “If you have. Or, you know—“ you went on, faltering when he looked at you— “send it on. Probably not to London, because you won’t be there for… but if you tell me where, or who, then I can.”

Where was he going? Who would he be with? Would he be coming home at all? Twelve hours had already been tight, but suddenly they felt scarce compressed between months of vague wondering and waiting. 

“Thanks,” was all he said. “Ok.” He exhaled, smoothing his hands down his t-shirt. “I think that’s….”

You stood when he picked up his bag and followed him towards the door. Should you be? Was this pathetic? Trailing after him like—? 

You squeaked when he stopped short and turned. “What’s wrong?” you asked reflexively. His eyes were wide and his jaw was set, sharp, and his face was a little pale even in the shadows. 

“I’m gonna be back home soon,” he said. “Ok?”

“I know,” you said. 

He licked his lips. “So when I get back….” he took a deep breath. “I’ll see you when I get back?”

You were working rapidly to fit the pieces of what he was saying together, and you nodded, although you weren’t entirely sure what you were agreeing to. How soon was soon? When would he be home? What would you be figuring out, and what did that mean in the meantime? Were you, even tentatively, starting something? What went with that, for him and for you? The idea of him even flirting with someone else made your insides molten. Before, the thought would tickle and prickle uncomfortably, but you’d had twelve hours with him where he was yours and vice versa. You’d slept with him -- knew things about him and what he liked, what made him feel good. He’d made you feel…. 

He exhaled, lips turning up at one corner, and he pulled his shoulders back. He looked simultaneously relieved and cocky. “Right,” he said, mouth still twitching. “I’ll see you when I’m back.” Before you could wonder, he slipped his hand over your waist and leaned in. The kiss was quick — not like most of the ones you’d shared over the course of the day — but he squeezed your cheek. “I’ll see you,” he repeated. 

You smiled slightly and stepped back as he opened the door, and then… he was gone. Until he wouldn’t be again.