#-she chews so. loud. (the sound of eating grinds my gears) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

songbirdstyles · 4 years ago

Text

white wedding.

summary: your estranged aunt leaves you her estate in her will with the stipulation that you have to be married to receive your inheritance. luckily, harry is more than willing to help.

pairing: best friend!harry styles x reader

warnings: fluff, smut, angst if you squint.

song inspo.: white wedding - billy idol

word count: 13.4k

You weren’t too close to your Aunt Alice for the entirety of your life - there’s a picture, you think, hung in your parents’ house of her and some of your other family members, crowding around your bassinet when you were just a baby, her face turned up into a scowl amid everyone else’s gleaming grins, and it was a lovely foreshadow into your relationship with her. She sent you $10 on your birthdays and Christmas (an amount that your father had always scoffed at when he thought you weren’t listening - ‘she’s a goddamn millionaire,’ he’d hiss to your mother, ‘and the most she can spare her only niece is $10?’) and you could remember, when you were 9, seeing her at a family reunion where she sat at a table pressed into a back corner and nursed glasses of wine during the entire event.

It goes without saying, you suppose, that she wasn’t the kindest lady. Your mother had told you how Aunt Alice cut off your father for some reason nobody could quite discern and, so, she never held a much larger place in your life than a mere branch on your second grade family tree project -

But, still. It’s rather difficult to regard the dead in such a negative manner so you try and focus on the good parts of your late aunt. Twice, she wrote ‘love u’ in your Christmas card. And, at said family reunion, when you walked over to her table to say goodbye before you left, she delivered a sloppy, strangely wet kiss to the side of your face that smelled distinctly of chardonnay (a scent you hadn’t quite been able to place until years later.) And -

“Are you alright?”

Harry’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, gazing out the rain-streaked car window at the night sky with an odd air of sadness surrounding you. You had been trying to hide the slight dash of sadness you feel at the memory of your aunt by disguising it with a mask of sleepiness that has you leaning your forehead against the cold window, eyes squeezed shut. But Harry can read you like a goddamn book - like the back of his hand. It’s what best friends are for, you suppose.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, tilting your head away from the window to glance at him in the driver’s seat. And, the truth is, you are fine. It’s not as though you’re entirely too saddened with the news of Aunt Alice’s passing. She’d always had health issues, according to your parents, and you’re not sure what, exactly, has sealed her fate - you’re simply more confused by it all. “Well - when we were leaving the movies, I got a call from my dad. My aunt died.”

You can hear Harry’s sharp intake of breath and there’s a brief hesitation where you know he’s trying to gauge how you feel about it. “Oh,” he settles on, turning to look at you in the eye when the car rolls to a stop at a red light. “M’sorry, love.”

You shrug, glancing down to squint at your fingernails in the darkness of Harry’s car. You’d begun to pick at the baby blue nail polish he’d delicately applied the night before (they matched his, naturally) and it really is a nervous habit you should work on, but you can’t be bothered right now. “We weren’t close,” you admit, leaning back against the headrest. “It’s just weird, is all.”

“Are y’sad about it?”

“Not quite,” and it’s the truth. “She was wealthy, though. I think she wrote novels or plays or something - I’m not sure. And I was, apparently, her closest living relative that she didn’t despise.”

He clicks his tongue softly, making a left when the light finally switches to green, and his eyes shift back towards the road. “Left y’somethin’ in her will, did she?”

“Her countryside estate,” you confess, voice soft - it’s not the climax of your story but it certainly sounds like it should be, and you can see the confused crease in Harry’s eyebrows when you look up at him. “I looked the address up online, Har - it’s gorgeous, 6 beds and 7 bathrooms. I guess we had similar tastes in that regard.”

“Y’don’t sound too thrilled, for someone who jus’ got their dream house handed to ‘em on a platter.”

“There’s a stipulation in the will.”

“Ah.”

You smile tightly. “I’ll only inherit the house if I’m married.”

It’s something you’ll never understand. Aunt Alice never married and lived in that grand old house (your dream house) all by herself, and if you’d known about your role in her will perhaps you’d have argued it with her in person - the hypocrisy of it all, how goddamn unfair it was. And it’ll kill you - truly kill you - to see that house go to whoever her next closest living relative is who she doesn’t hate. Probably some third cousin twice removed, considering how great she was at cutting people off.

And Harry sits for a moment in silence, considering it. “Seems very - very - can’t think of the word.”

“Sexist? Unfair? Dumb?”

“All true,” he agrees, giving you a sympathetic smile, and it makes you feel the tiniest bit better, even if it’s just for a moment. “Barbaric, maybe.”

“I hate her,” you declare, crossing your arms over your hoodie-clad chest, and you most certainly don’t, but you’re angry enough to mean it in the moment. When your father had told you, you hadn’t thought about it too much - besides being confused by the entire thing, being left a house by a relative you hardly knew - but saying it out loud makes you angrier, squeezing your eyes shut. “Would you know she never married? How does that make sense?” “It doesn’t,” Harry repeats, and you glance out the window, lifting your palm to wipe at the cloudy stain your forehead had made against the glass - you’re just less a minute away from your apartment building, and you rip your phone from Harry’s charger and shove it into the pocket of your hoodie. “She left you time, right? T’get married? Tha’ seems only fair.”

You snort, ignoring the way his lips turn up into a smile at the noise. “She gave me a year. I mean, I’m 23 - I wasn’t intending on settling down for another couple of years.”

If you were less distracted, perhaps you’d see his responding silence for what it is - time to think, gears grinding in his head, as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building and leans over the center console to wrap you in a hug. Harry’s a talkative person and he’s only really quiet when he’s got something on his mind, but you’ve got something on yours too (probably more than he does) so you ignore it. And his soft murmur into your hair of ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow for breakfast’ sounds every bit as distracted as you feel so you simply pay it no mind.

It’s easier that way, for now.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about your situation.”

You raise your eyebrows at Harry, bent over his plate of French toast as though he hadn’t spoken at all. His sunglasses are perched at the end of his nose so you can see his eyes - which, in your opinion, defeats the purpose of even wearing the stupid things in public. But, whenever you two go out together, he insists on wearing them, along with a grey beanie protecting his infamous head of curls from any wandering eyes, and the bizarre attempt at a disguise always makes you feel like you’re having breakfast with a burglar.

“Not much to think about,” you shrug, popping a forkful of omelet into your mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I was just mad about it last night, you know. Heat of the moment, sort of thing.”

“I’d be mad, too,” Harry tells you, and it’s getting more difficult to ignore the way his words send heat creeping up your neck, and you glance down at your plate of eggs with a small smile gracing your face. “Not jus’ heat of the moment, either. Really mad. S’bullshit.”

A second of silence passes, and you let his reassurance settle over you - simply having him agree with you on the stupidity of the entire situation makes you feel a thousand times better. Even if you don’t get the house (and you’ve already progressed into the last stage of grief over almost certainly losing it - acceptance) at least you’ll always have Harry, and maybe that’s enough.

But the house would be nice, too.

“What were you thinking about?” You question, lifting your eyes back up to meet his through his tinted glasses, and if there wasn’t the barrier between your gazes you’d be able to note the nearly shameful glint in his eyes as he digs into his stack of sugary sweet toast, doused with maple syrup and towered high with fruit. “About the situation, I mean.”

Harry begins to speak once more just as you reach over with your fork to nab a piece of banana, and he swats at your wrist as you pop the slice of fruit into your mouth. “Don’ steal my banana, babe,” he tells you, eyes narrowing in mock anger, and you roll your eyes at the name. “Anyway. S’not totally crazy, that you could get married in less than a year.”

Yes, it is, you want to reply back, but you can tell he’s ramping up to something important, so you rest your fork on your plate and furrow your eyebrows at him pointedly. Truthfully, even if the love of your life happened to be sitting in front of you, you’re not sure you could go through with marrying them, anyway. It’s such a heavy commitment and, God, you thought you’d have more time. Time to explore and experiment and not settle down (in your dream house) just for the sake of it.

“What if we got married?”

And that - is not what you were expecting him to say.

You’re not sure if he’s kidding or not so you give it a minute before responding in any capacity. Just stare at him, and he makes a point of hooking his pinkie in the center of his sunglasses and tugging them down his nose just a bit so you can see the absolute lack of amusement in his eyes. He’s all business, goddammit, as if he hadn’t just basically proposed to you in the middle of eating your fucking omelet.

But you can’t be sure he’s serious, and you also can’t be sure that the way your stomach flipped wasn’t because of a particularly egregious sip of chocolate milk and not the prospect of marrying your best friend. So you lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Are you kidding?”

Harry just shakes his head, grey beanie sliding up just a bit for one chocolate coloured lock of hair to escape the confines of the dumb hat. “M’being dead serious, babe. I’ll get down on one knee an’ prove it, too.”

“Don’t do that,” you beg him, reaching out to grab at his wrist when he makes to push himself out of his chair, and his wide grin only sends your stomach into another set of somersaults. “Jesus, Har.”

“Horrible idea?”

You don’t respond right away, grabbing your glass of chocolate milk and wrapping your lips around the straw. It’s a few seconds to process the request in all its glory - marrying your best friend, even if it’s just for show, is a lot. Sure, all you’d really have to do is head down to a courthouse (you could do it today, even - if you wanted to, and you’re not sure you do.) It’d be easier than searching hopelessly for the love of your life and arrange a wedding in less than a year, and you’d be able to walk the halls of your aunt’s gorgeous estate, decorate it how you please, and - ideally - your relationship with Harry wouldn’t quiver in the slightest.

Well, maybe that’s why you’re hesitant to begin with. Because it would quiver - or because it wouldn’t - or because it’s plain weird to marry your best friend. Even if it’s for a good cause (your dream home) and even if he suggested it in the first place, because he cares about you and wants you to be happy.

That’s sweet.

Maybe it would be a glorious fuck you to Aunt Alice in death. It isn’t as though anyone would know about the inauthenticity of the union but you would, and that’s all the revenge you need for her adding such a silly stipulation to her will, anyway. A marriage born not out of love, but out of need - sure, it’s not exactly how you wanted your life to go, but it’s better than watching the estate go to someone you’d never met before. You could get married and get divorced in the time frame she’d given you to find love in the first place and it would hardly be a blip in your life plans, and certainly not in Harry’s. It isn’t as though he’d suggest it if the marriage would ruin anything for him.

Sure, you’d prance around family parties with him on your arm to sell your faux romance to your family. Only one or two, though, his arm around your waist, and it wasn’t as if your parents hadn’t already begun to question whether your close friendship with Harry ventured into something further. And, when it’s all said and done, when the house is officially in your name and you can begin shopping for furniture to make it your own, it’ll be easy to sell the divorce - he’s touring, you’d tearfully proclaim, and the stress was just too much on our relationship. And then you’d both be happy, right? For the most part, anyway. Still best friends with no hassle at all, and you get your house and he gets the popstar life without the settling down part.

When you’ve swallowed your gulp of chocolate milk, it’s nearly worrying how much you’ve thought about the proposal.

“It’s not a horrible idea,” you begin, eyes diverting downward to where Harry’s fingers are fiddling with a straw wrapper. “I mean, it could be pretty easy.”

“Very easy.”

“We just elope -”

“Could do it today, even -”

“I haven’t agreed yet, Mr. Styles - but we would elope, and then I’d get the house, and maybe I’d bring you to a family reunion, just to sell it, and then we’re divorced.”

He raises his eyebrows, glasses sliding further down the bridge of his nose until their purpose has been completely obliterated, and his eyes are on display for the goddamn world to see. “Unless we fall in love an’ live happily ever after - no divorce necessary, m’love.”

Bastard. Your stomach flips again but you just roll your eyes, picking up your fork and lifting a shaky bite of eggs up to your mouth. “Shut up.”

You’re almost certain you’ve made up your mind but you still make a show of thinking about it, slowly chewing on your omelet and focusing your gaze on a paper napkin resting on the ground beside Harry’s chair. It’s almost too easy, the entire process, and maybe that should make you nervous, just a little bit, that the idea of marrying him feels so relaxing. But - well - if you had to choose anyone in the world to marry in order to fulfill a stipulation in your aunt’s will, it would have to be Harry.

He’s looking at you eagerly when you look back up at him, and you’re not sure why he’s so excited about it - not like there’s anything in it for him - but it’s something you’ll think about later.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” you tell him, watching the way his grin spreads across his face like wildfire, and you can’t help yourself from smiling, too, “but I am.”

In seconds, Harry’s reaching across the table, grabbing your hand in his larger one, and just the way your heart jumps at the feeling of your palms pressed together should certainly have you rethinking your enthusiastic yes. But then he’s picking up the straw wrapper he’d been fiddling with, and it’s twisted into a makeshift wedding ring, and he’s sliding it onto your ring finger with a wide smile like a fucking puppy -

God. You’re in too deep already, and you’ve only just agreed.

For the record, you’d rethought your decision many, many times since agreeing.

You’d drafted out the text for Harry for when you inevitably will change your mind - a block of words confessing to him that you’d reacted too quickly and you think it would be best if you simply forfeit your inheritance, but you can never quite gather the guts to do it. And every time you copy and paste the note from your notes to your text thread with your best friend, something always stops you -

The photos of the house from the real estate website you’d seen it on.

Harry’s wide grin as you accepted his offer.

FIngers delicately sliding on an engagement ring made of a paper straw wrapper, and the next day when he’d shown up at your door with an actual, real engagement ring.

Naturally, you hadn’t sent it. You’d deleted the note entirely, too, embarrassed with even looking at your words of defeat sprawled on your phone screen. Sometimes, though, you wish you had fucking sent it. Nearly two weeks after accepting the proposal that still hasn’t progressed from feeling like an absolute fever dream, you’re sitting with Harry at Aunt Alice’s funeral, his arm hooked around the back of your chair and the other clutching a glass of wine that he’s hardly taken two sips of.

You’re on your second glass already, and it’s barely been an hour. You’d signed the guestbook and hooked your arm with Harry’s and introduced him as your fiance to exactly one of your great-aunts, and you’d been so nervous that Aunt Shirley could see right through your faux-engagement that you’d practically downed your glass the second her back turned.

“This is so weird,” you confess to Harry, shifting closer to him so no one else around you can hear. Not that there is, per se, anyone else around you - not many other people are sitting down, but you and Harry were one of the first people to arrive, so you’ve given yourselves a pass to sit down for a while. “Isn’t it weird, Har?”

“S’only weird if you make it weird,” he murmurs back, and you would roll your eyes at how maddeningly calm he is if you weren’t desperate to keep up your pretense as loving fiance to the funeral goers whose wandering eyes may turn to you two. “And, babe, you’re makin’ it weird.”

Your lips spread into a smile and you lift your glass of wine to your lips, taking a small sip before bringing it back down to your lap. No matter how many times you scream at yourself, internally, that nobody knows you’re not engaged and to calm the fuck down, you can’t stop your leg from bouncing up and down, showcasing your nerves in the most outward way you possibly could. “Wonder when my parents are getting here - should’ve texted them and told them separately. Did you tell your mum?”

“Told her the truth,” Harry tells you, tilting his head into yours in a way that feels so natural you swear you could stay this way forever. “You’re not tellin’ your parents the truth?”

“Bless my mum,” you sigh, “but she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

Harry exhales a soft laugh, eyes darting around the room full of people before landing back on yours, and your gazes lock for just the briefest of seconds before he’s glancing down at your lap. “Y’don’t have t’do this if you’re uncomfortable, y’know. We can jus’ say - the pressure of m’job was too much.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you tell him, which is true. You’re nervous, for sure, but he could never make you uncomfortable. “And, ironically enough, that’s my excuse for when we divorce.”

Your voice drops to a near breath on the last word and Harry’s head drops back with a bark of laughter that’s entirely too loud for the setting you’re at but you can’t bring yourself to reprimand him. “Always talkin’ ‘bout our divorce,” Harry breathes, tilting his head closer to yours so his mouth is close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath, hot against your skin. “What if we fall in love, babe? No divorce then. Don’ y’want us t’live happily ever after?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” you roll your eyes, even if you’re almost positive you will (or already have) and shake your head at Harry’s resulting chuckle. “Been best friends for nearly five years, haven’t we? If we were going to fall in love, I reckon it would’ve happened already, Har.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, voice oddly soft and sounding just sentimental enough for you to narrow your eyes suspiciously at him - but before you can question him further, his eyes dart down to where your leg is still frantically bouncing up and down. “Bloody hell, love - bouncin’ your leg so much. Y’look like a nervous wreck.”

“Thanks,” you begin, and whatever else you’d been meaning to say dies in your throat as Harry’s arm shifts from around the back of your chair and his hand comes down firm on your leg. His fingertips brush your knee and his palm lays soft against your thigh, just high enough to gently brush the end of your black dress and you wish you could control the way your stomach flips again and again like a fucking gymnast.

It’s to keep up appearances, you tell yourself. So people don’t think I’m so nervous. But it feels so nice, so natural in a way you hadn’t expected, feeling his hand resting on your thigh like it belongs there, fingertips drumming against your knee which most certainly isn’t bouncing anymore.

Your eyes flit up to his, narrowing them ever so slightly as if to sniff out his intentions, and out of the corner of your eye you can see two familiar figures walking in the high arched doors of Aunt Alice’s service. Your parents break off from each other nearly the second they enter, your father skirting off to greet some of his cousins and your mother’s eyes scan the room filled with relatives before landing on you and Harry.

“Mum’s here,” you tell Harry, pushing yourself to stand, and the feeling of his hand dropping off your thigh is a sensation you absolutely despise. He stands soon after you, adjusting the cuffs of his black button down shirt, and for the first time since the funeral began, you can see the beginnings of nervousness creeping upon him. A light pink flush works its way up his neck to his cheeks and he brings his hand up to run through his hair, inhaling a shaky breath. “You look nervous, Har. You’ve met my mum before.”

“S’different. Now we’re engaged.”

“Not too different.” You hook your arm with Harry’s, patting his hand with yours, and he gives you one grateful fleeting grin before you begin walking over to your mother. She’s bent over the guestbook, scribbling her name with the feather pen resting beside the log. You stop walking when you’re just a couple paces behind her, waiting for her to turn around and see you two - and your voice drops to a hushed tone as you reassure Harry. “I think she already sort of thought we were dating anyway - so she won’t care too much.”

“Wait - she did?”

“Hey, mum!”

You’re getting married in a week.

And, sure, you’d known that the entire process would move quicker than you could imagine but it still feels surreal and you still reckon you haven’t thought it through enough. It’s worsened (or, in some way, bettered) by the absolute adoration your family had immediately adopted towards Harry after meeting him just a few days ago, your aunts pulling you aside at the funeral and the repast that occurred after and whispering in your ear about what a handsome man he is!

Well, they’ll certainly be disappointed when, in a month or two, you pop in to the next family gathering and announce that you two had gotten divorced as quickly as you’d been wed. Harry will be your ex husband and, at that point, surely people would be suspicious at the speed of which everything had happened but - hey - you’ll have your house and your best friend and that’s all you really need, isn’t it.

Yeah.

Slowly but surely, you’re coming to peace with it, and Harry’s certainly making it easier by being so zen about it all. His nerves at the funeral had been just about eradicated because your mum loves him, which you knew, and your father had seemed positively overjoyed at the news of your engagement, but they’d both seemed rather disappointed at your decision to elope instead of spending the time planning a big white wedding. And you’d expected that, but you figure that, by the time your second marriage inevitably rolls around, it’ll be real (realer than whatever you’re feeling for Harry, because you’re still not sure) and your father will walk you down the aisle and you’ll be able to go shopping for a big gorgeous wedding dress like you’d always dreamt of wearing.

You haven't even bought a dress. The one you’re wearing now, staring at yourself in the floor length mirror propped against your bedroom wall, is one you’d purchased for your college graduation to wear beneath your gown - simple and flowy, falling to just about your mid-thigh, and the only redeeming quality for even being considered a wedding dress is its white color. Still - it isn’t as though it’s a real wedding, in the traditional sense, so it doesn’t make sense for you to spend too much on a gown you’ll don for a trip to the courthouse and then get sad whenever you look at it again, post-divorce.

No, you don’t think you like it. You’d liked it for your graduation but for a wedding (your wedding) you wish you had something just a bit nicer, and you want to strip out of it and change back into your jeans but Harry’s sitting in your living room, waiting for you to model the stupid thing for him, and you’d hate to disappoint him. So you inhale softly, run your hand down the fabric, soft beneath your fingers, and reach for the door.

Harry’s on his phone when you step out of your bedroom, slowly shutting the door behind you, his body looking strangely large where he’s perched on the small loveseat in your living room. Everything in your apartment seems too small for him - or just too small in general - and it’ll be a nice change to live in a house where you can hold gatherings of more than 5 people without feeling like sardines in a can.

“Har,” you call, reaching down to tug the ends of your dress just a bit further down your thighs as you step further into the living room, bare feet padding against the plush rug your parents had gotten you as a Christmas gift the year prior. “What do you think of the dress?” You can hear the click of his phone as he turns it off, dropping it on the cushion beside him, and heat creeps up your cheeks as his gaze turns to you - you should feel self conscious, the way his eyes roll up and down your body, drinking in every bit of your dress, but you fucking love it. Love the way his lips part into a small o and upturn into a grin, how he pushes himself to stand and close the distance between you two until he’s hardly two inches away from you, how he reaches down to pick up the end of your dress as though examining the fabric.

“Do you like it?” You question as Harry drops your dress, letting the fabric fall back down around your thighs. “Wasn’t sure if I did.”

“I love it,” he tells you, immediate and forceful and you can tell he means it with his whole chest - maybe you love it, too. “Y’look beautiful.”

“You don’t think it’s too simple, do you?” Maybe you’re fishing for more compliments but you allow yourself to do it shamelessly. “It was my graduation dress - remember?”

“I do remember,” Harry grins, tugging at the bottom of your dress, and keeping his hands busy is a nervous habit of his that you’ve grown to recognize from a hundred miles away, but you can’t think of why, exactly, he’d be nervous now. “Looked so pretty, walkin’ across tha’ stage. I was so proud.”

You smile, gaze dropping down to where his fingers are fiddling with the skirt of your dress, and you think you’ll wear this dress every single goddamn day if he reacts as positively to it as he is now. “You sound like my dad.”

His nose scrunches when you look back up at him, and your heart twists inside your chest. “Don’ make it gross.” You simply shrug, bringing your fingers up to drum against his shoulders through the fabric of his Fleetwood Mac shirt, his muscles flexing ever so slightly beneath your touch. “M’being serious, though. I love the dress. Y’make the prettiest bride on the planet - m’a lucky man, aren’t I.”

From the moment you walked out of your room you’ve been feeling heat burning your cheeks but it doesn’t stop you from gently smacking his shoulder. “Stop it - you’re gonna make me blush.”

“Looks like y’already are, Mrs. Styles.”

Should that name make your stomach as topsy-turvy as it does?

You shake your head, smoothing your palms over the front of your dress to both eradicate the wrinkles that adorn the fabric and to wipe off the sweat cropping up on your hands. You don’t think you’ve ever been so nervous around Harry before and you can’t quite place your finger on why, but it’s getting more difficult to look him in the eye with your heart pounding as fast as it is. “I’m not gonna be Mrs. Styles for another week.”

Harry exhales softly, fingertips tapping against your hip and you hadn’t even realized how close his hands were to that spot of your body - but it feels comforting, his touch on an oddly intimate part of you. “I can’t wait,” he says, and you can’t, either. “Makin’ me a very lucky groom, babe.”

Hearing him call you babe could make you go crazy if you focus on it for too long, so you don’t - and it’s hard to focus on much other than Harry himself as his head drops down, forehead pressed to yours, and oh God you can smell his fucking gum, and if you tilt your head up ever so slightly -

Is he going to kiss you? You think your heart will explode but you’ve never wanted anything more so you tilt your head up, just a bit, grip tightening on his shoulder, and you can feel his breath growing warmer against your face -

The sound of Harry’s phone ringing in his pocket snaps you out of your haze.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands dropping off your hips, and your head drops downwards with a soft groan. It was so close. You could feel his breath against your face and how did that fucking opportunity pass you by? - “S’my mum. Fuck - m’sorry.” And you’re not sure if he’s apologizing for the call or what had (or, rather, had not) happened but it doesn’t matter.

One glance at the phone he’s tugged out of his pocket shows that he’s right - Anne’s contact photo smiles up at you and you give Harry a small nod, faking the smile you’re not feeling, before taking a step back against your plush carpet as he turns around, back to you, phone pressed to his ear.

“I’m gonna change,” you whisper to no one in particular. Harry’s head turns just a bit so you can catch the apologetic look on his face before he’s loudly greeting Anne, and you’ve never liked eavesdropping on their calls. So you turn and head to your bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind you and turning to stare at yourself, wide-eyed, in your mirror.

He almost kissed you.

He didn’t - but would he have? If Anne hadn’t rung him - would he have leaned down, breathing shaky, like how it always is when he’s nervous, and ever so gently pressed his lips to yours? And you would’ve known exactly how it feels to be kissed by him, whether it would be as dream-like as all the times you’ve dreamt of it. His hands on your hips, yours on his shoulders, bodies slotted together until your hands are roaming and you’re pushing him on to the couch, sliding into his lap and his hands would roam to your thighs -

It doesn’t do well to think about it now. You don’t want to get yourself too worked up about it - that doesn’t do anyone much good - and you don’t want to take too long to change. So you inhale a soft breath, smooth your clammy palms back over the front of your wedding dress, and you allow yourself one final glance in the mirror at the attire you’ll be donning in a week’s time before reaching around to your back, fiddling with the zipper until you can begin to tug it down.

You and Harry haven’t talked too much since you showed him your dress, and it’s probably not very great etiquette for an engaged couple, but you two have never been normal anyway.

He sent you a picture of the suit he’s wearing and it’s as every bit unconventional as your excuse of a wedding dress, and you told him that - how you would be a pair for the books, the opposite of what a regular married couple looks like. And you texted him just yesterday and asked if he would make you two a reservation at your favourite restaurant for dinner after the elopement (he always tended to get the nicer tables, and you don’t pretend not to know why) and he sent you back two thumbs-up emojis in response.

You’re getting married in three days, though. It would probably be best to talk about it with him before you cross that bridge but it’s never been one of your stronger areas, so you leave it be for now.

“Are you alright?” Your friend questions, tilting her head in so you can hear her against the thumping music of the club. Your friends had insisted on dragging you out for a bachelorette party the second they hard of your engagement and it would be out of character for you to refuse a night of drinks on them - even if you’d rather stay home and think about Harry and all the things you should’ve done when he was at your apartment. Getting drunk out of your mind does seem preferable to wallowing, though, now that you’re out and about and well on your way to getting smashed - so you turn to Olivia and nod once, a simple jerk of your head.

“I’m fine,” you tell her, reaching over to grab the cocktail Amy had gotten for you and bringing the straw to your lips. “Just thinking about Harry.”

Amy snorts from her spot across the booth, dipping her finger into her empty shot glass and licking up the droplet she collected. “Can’t believe it took you two so long to get together.”

“And I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” interjects Olivia, reaching over to grab your glass out of your hand and taking a sip of your drink. “How long have you two been together again?”

Fuck. You’re in the grey area between being tipsy and being drunk and you can’t remember how long you and Harry had claimed to be together. Was it a year or two years? You think it’s a year - you’d wanted to go as low as possible with your answer. Did we say six months? That seems too low. “I’ve liked him since I’ve known him,” you answer instead, which is absolutely the truth, and Amy and Olivia are both too drunk to ponder about your evasion of the question. “Loved him, even.”

Your fingers brush against your phone, sitting on the table face down, as your friends playfully swoon - the last time you’d texted Harry was to tell him you were going to the club, and you hadn’t checked to see if he responded. It’s always been a habit between the two of you to text where you’re going, in case something happens, which seems oddly barbaric at times but you’ve always appreciated it.

“You’re so lucky,” Amy informs you, reaching across the booth to intertwine your fingers. She gets sappy when she’s drunk and you can tell from the distinct crack in her voice that she’s mere seconds away from bursting into tears and professing how much she loves you and Olivia - you don’t ever quite enjoy being around to see that. “I mean, really. You and Harry - we always knew it would happen -”

“I should call him real quick,” you mumble, watching as her eyes water over, and Olivia rolls her eyes with a grin as she scoots around the other side of the booth so Amy can throw her arms around her. You grab your phone and push yourself out of the booth, maneuvering through the crowd of people until you’ve reached the bathroom.

It's a single stall and the club is small enough that you only have to wait a minute or two before a thoroughly shitfaced woman stumbles out of the bathroom, a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoes, but she’s gone before you can point it out to her. You brush it off with a shrug and shut the door behind you once you’re inside the bathroom - it smells like Febreze and mint soap, and the scent of the mint reminds you of Harry’s breath and you really need to call him, don’t you.

You’re scrolling through your call log before you can wonder if calling your best friend who you’re in love with while you may be quite drunk is a bad idea - the phone is ringing just as you begin to - and he’s picked it up just when you realize you’ve made a mistake.

“Hey, babe,” Harry says from the other end, voice crackling with the poor reception in the club. He sounds groggy and raspy and you can tell you’ve either woken him up or he’s trying to go to sleep, and you don’t actually know what time it is, you realize. “What’re you up to?”

“I’m at a club,” you tell him, and you can hear his soft exhale of air and you can practically picture the slow smile spreading across his lips. “I’m out with Amy and Olivia - they wanted to take me out for a bachelorette party or something - s’kinda dumb, I dunno -”

“Are y’drunk? S’just, you’re slurrin’ a lot -”

“I’m tipsy,” as you sit back on the closed toilet seat, fingernails digging into your thigh. You don’t actually know what you’d called him to say but four days without talking to Harry seems like it’s setting some sort of record and you hate it. “Just wanted to call because - um - well, I miss you.”

For a second you think the call may have broken up - you can’t hear much beside his soft breathing, and you pull the phone away to check if it’s still connected. But then he sighs softly, and you’re quick to press your phone back to your ear. “I miss y’too, m’love - ‘course I do.”

“That’s sweet.” You hum softly, kicking your toes against the tiled bathroom floor. “I thought you might be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Dunno,” you shrug. “That’s why I was confused. But you haven’t texted me much.”

You can fucking sense him rolling his eyes. “Well, y’didn’t text me either. I thought you were mad at me -”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what happened the other day,” you interject, and you know you wouldn’t be telling him this if you weren’t teetering more towards being drunk instead of tipsy, “and I really wanted to kiss you, you know. I mean, I thought you were going to - and then it didn’t happen.”

“Well, m’mum called.”

“Would you have done it if she didn’t?”

There’s a pause for only the briefest of seconds before Harry says, “‘Course I would have.”

Your heart flutters inside your chest and you lean your head back against the wall, nails digging further into your thigh and it’s difficult to hold back the grin that threatens to split your goddamn face in two. God, he would have. He would have kissed you - does he love you like how you love him? It seems fucking unreal, like something you’d dream up in your deepest sleep. You’d never thought Harry would ever feel the same way, even as you got a fucking marriage license together and planned out the dinner you’d eat after your elopement and -

You can’t think of a single other one of your friends who would fucking marry you for any reason, house or no house, life or death. And who would you do it for? Not Amy, not Olivia, even if they asked you nicely. It’s a commitment - a huge one - one that you wouldn’t be willing to do for anyone.

But you’d do it for Harry, in a heartbeat. You know you would. You’d have the fucking dress on before he could finish asking, and isn’t that what you had done, really? He hadn’t had to convince you much at all. You’d been willing from the get-go.

“Really?” Your voice is barely a breath, a soft exhale of air, reeking of the giddy joy you’re feeling at his proclamation. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Y’know I never lie to you.” Harry sounds nearly offended at the mere idea. “You are m’fiance. Comes with a code of conduct.”

You roll your eyes, and just then there’s a loud knock against the door - you jump violently, phone nearly slipping from your grasp. For a minute you’d forgotten you’re in a club bathroom and you know you’ve been here far too long to be appropriate - you’ll give yourself just one more minute to talk to Harry. “What about when we get divorced? Gonna lie to me then?”

“Always talkin’ about the divorce,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds so full of adoration that you’re nearly overwhelmed by it. “D’you have such little confidence about the strength of our relationship?”

If it were up to you, you’d be with Harry forever - but you can’t tell him that, not yet. “It’s not as though it’s a traditional relationship, you know. I don’t think most marriages that began for the sake of a house inheritance last too long,” you smile, feeling heat burning up your face even if he can’t see you. “Just generally speaking.”

“Hope y’got the statistics t’back that one up -”

Another louder knock shakes you again, and you jump up as though someone had set you aflame. Your phone nearly slips out of your clammy grasp once more and you clear your throat, lowering the device to your shoulder and calling, “Just a second!” to whoever’s waiting impatiently outside. You raise your phone back to your ear and clear your throat again. “I’ve gotta go, Har. I’m in the bathroom at the club - been in here a bit too long.”

“Aright,” Harry says, and you can hear soft shuffling from the other end, audio still crackled by the reception. “Breakfast tomorrow?”

You tilt your head to the side, scrunching your nose up before remembering he can’t see you. “I think it’s tradition for the bride and groom not to see each other before the wedding, isn’t it?”

“Now you’re a stickler for tradition?”

“I’ll see you at the courthouse, Har,” you tell him, before pulling the phone from your ear and hanging up. For a second you can’t move, staring down at Harry’s contact in your phone with a giddy grin that surely makes you look like some child in a candy store - and, in a way, you are - and it’s only a third knock at the bathroom door that has you scrambling out the door, giving an apologetic grin to the girl waiting impatiently.

Being married - for the record - doesn’t feel too much different than before.

There’s a shiny ring on your finger that Harry had bought, and when you glance across the table where he’s sitting, clutching his menu, you can see the similar wedding ring on his left hand - it’s simplistic and small and contrasts with the rest of his clunky rings and it makes you feel strangely warm inside when you spend too long looking at it. And, even after you and Harry had talked at the club, your ‘post-elopement’ dinner doesn’t feel entirely different than all of the other dinner dates you’d shared before the entire situation began. It’s familiar and sweet and his ankle is hooked around yours under the table, forcing a permanent heat onto your cheeks.

Harry rests his menu on the table, fingertips drumming against the laminated paper, and you similarly drop yours to look at him. “Think m’gonna get the spaghetti.”

It’s a testament to the slight air of awkwardness surrounding you both that the only thing he can think to talk about is the food he’s getting - but you’ll play along. “I like the raviolis,” you tell him. “Think I’ll get those.”

He hums softly, pushing his menu further into the table. “Can y’believe tha’ we’re married? I can’t. Seems so weird.”

“Doesn’t feel that different,” you disagree, toes tapping against his ankle beneath the table. “It’s not like we didn’t go out for dinner together before we got hitched.”

“We’re playin’ footsies under the table, babe.”

You grin down at your napkin, resting on your lap on top of your wedding dress. “Be careful or I’ll kick you, Har.”

His ankle tightens just a bit around yours beneath the table and you could watch that small smile spreading across his face for the rest of your life. “Y’wouldn’t dare - don’t y’love me?”

Yes, you do, so you resist the urge to unhook your ankle from around his and deliver a swift kick to his calf - just rest your palms on the table, scratching lightly at the rustic wood of the table. It’s hard for you to even pretend to be mad at him when all you can think about is how much you want to climb over the table and straddle him - as his wife you suppose it isn’t an insane thought, and you’re nearly certain he’s feeling the same way. Hadn’t he told you he would have kissed you if he hadn’t been called by Anne? Maybe you’ll get a chance to do it again - later. You’ll never give up the opportunity again.

“When d’you get t’move into the house?” Harry questions, leaning in just a bit in his seat.

“A few months, I think.” You shrug. “Reckon I’ll start redecorating before then, though. I’m already looking at furniture - I’ve gotta save up for most of it, though. Might sell my apartment before then.” There’s a pause, and then you shrug once more, picking at a crack in the table. “I’ll probably move back in with my parents.”

Harry’s eyebrows are raised when you glance up at him, fingers paused in their drumming on the menu. “Are y’kidding? We’re married. You can move in wit’ me.”

“I can’t ask you to do that -”

“Not asking, are you? Even if we didn’t just elope at a courthouse, you’re still m’best friend. Can’t have you moving in t’your mum’s basement.”

You smile softly, flattening your palms against the table and craning your neck to examine the ring - proof that it had really happened, that you’re really married. It still doesn’t feel quite real, no matter how many times you and Harry casually talk about it. “Was gonna live in her attic, actually.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay f’the furniture, too. Don’t look at me like tha’ - s’our house. Needs t’be ready f’when we move in.”

You hesitate, trying poorly to conceal the way your grin is arching further upwards at the mere prospect of what he’s hinting at. Living with Harry? Jesus, even if you weren’t in love with him, living with him sounds like an absolute dream, only made better by your feelings for him. And picturing walking through an Ikea, searching for furniture, feeling his arm around your shoulders as you two look online for decorations - if heaven were a place on Earth, it would be your Aunt Alice’s estate, soon inhabited by you and your husband. “Well, we’ll talk about it, alright?” you land on as your response.

For a moment, neither of you say anything, and the silence isn’t as stifling with awkwardness as it had been before. Then Harry reaches over, resting his hand overtop of yours, fingers instinctively intertwining, and your heart nearly splits itself in two - he initiated it, holding your hand, and maybe you shouldn’t feel so surprised but you can’t fucking help it. Your scalp is tingling and you swear your eyes are going to bubble over and his hand feels just as soft and beautiful as you’d expected - as you’d always dreamed of.

You’re not sure when, exactly, there would ever be a better time to tell him than now, so you clear your throat and squeeze his hand and confess, “I’ve liked you for a really long time, Har.”

Sharing your feelings isn’t necessarily your strongest spot but you’re feeling egged on by absolutely everything, and the way Harry brushes his thumb against your palm encourages you to continue. “I mean - since we met, basically - but I never told you. Never thought you would like me back.”

“I did,” he interjects, and you look up at him with furrowed brows. “Liked you back, I mean. Clearly - hope y’didn’t think I’d run off an’ marry anybody this fast.”

“I just thought you were being nice.”

“You’re silly, then.”

“A real idiot,” you proclaim, rubbing soft circles into the back of Harry’s hand, and you swear you’ll never let go unless someone fucking rips you away. “Guess I should’ve figured it out, then - seems like we did everything in the wrong order, right?”

Harry snorts, a noise that draws the slightest attention from an older couple sitting at a table beside you, but neither of you pay them any attention. “Get married first, fall in love second.”

“I was already in love,” and you’re not sure why, exactly, you had said that but it feels right and true falling off your tongue so you decide, pointedly, not to regret it.

There’s no hesitation when Harry responds, voice laced with the authenticity you’re so desperately craving - “Reckon I was, too.” You barely get a minute to process that and how it’s making your stomach do flips and turns like an Olympic medalist before he’s standing up, fingers still interlocked with yours to pull you up with him. “How d’you feel ‘bout a sleepover tonight?”

“A sleepover?”

He barely looks at you as he fishes through the pocket of his dress pants to pull out his wallet. “Not like we haven’t had them before.”

That’s true - you’ve slept over at Harry’s house so many times, it’s like a second home to you - but you have a distinct idea that, based off of your previous conversation and the wedding rings shining on both of your fingers, this sleepover will be just a bit different.

“Skipping out on the reservation, then?” you question, squeezing Harry’s hand as he tosses a $50 onto the table - a significant overkill for your lemonade and his Coke but you suppose he’s feeling rather generous today. “I am rather hungry.”

“We’ll eat at my house,” he insists, leading you through the maze of tables with a grip that’s so tight, you wonder if he’s having the same qualms as you are about never letting go. “Y’like pizza, don’t you?”

You’ve been in Harry’s house more times than you can count, but it’s never been like this.

His hand is still firm in yours and it’s a feeling you adore - even if his palm has gotten clammier with every second, every step you took closer to his front door, and you can practically smell the nervousness rolling off of him. It’s not unlike the worry that’s overtaken you because you’re not quite sure what he’s expecting - only know what you want to happen and you pray to any god above that your desires align with his.

The sound of Harry shutting the door is the only crack of noise burning through the otherwise thick silence surrounding you. Neither of you had known what to say and the car ride was taken in comfortable silence, hands clasped and heads bobbing to soft music playing on the radio, but being in his house is different - there’s no music, no excuse for Harry to keep his eyes off of you, nowhere to lean your head and pretend to be resting your eyes while your heart uncontrollably thumps against your chest.

In ways, it’s better. Most ways, in fact.

Slowly, you turn to face Harry, fingers drumming against the back of his hand. His breathing is heavy and his eyes never leave yours, and you’re reminded remarkably of trying on your dress for the first time in front of him and your position hadn’t been too unlike this one - maybe now you can do it right.

It feels entirely natural, tilting your head up until you can easily slot your lips to Harry’s. They’re soft and plump and he kisses you back with a vigor you hadn’t quite expected - deepening it before you have the chance to react, his free hand that’s not clutching yours roaming to your neck and you can’t ignore the way your stomach flips at the feeling of his hand on your throat. But then his hand keeps moving up, palm pressing to your cheek in such a sweet gesture that doesn’t at all match the intensity with which he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth - your hand lands on his waist, gripping the flowy material of his dress shirt, pulling his body as close to yours as you can get.

You only pull away to catch your breath, grip tightening on his shirt to ensure he won’t move away - you need him close to you, need to feel his body against yours - the bulge near his thigh that you can feel against your pelvis, hardening with every second that passes.

“Why’d you move?” Harry questions, voice soft and vulnerable and you can’t help but lean up and land another kiss to his mouth.

“Had to breathe, Har,” you murmur, smoothing your hands against his waist and the wrinkles you’ve surely created in the fabric. His fingers brush the edge of your jawline and you can feel your skin growing goosebumps beneath his touch.

He simply hums in response, ducking his head down to kiss you again. It’s sweeter this time, soft and fluffy but you don’t want that now - God, you want his hand around your neck and his knee between your thighs but perhaps that’ll have to wait for another time. You’re needy for just about anything you can get and if that’s sugary sweet kisses, a touch so gentle you could trick yourself into believing it isn’t there, then you’re more than grateful.

Harry’s teeth dig into your bottom lip, hard enough to have you moaning into his mouth and your nails dig into his through his shirt - the resulting whine into your mouth has you smirking against his lips, pushing your hips further into his. It’s the clearest way you can think of to tell him that you need him beyond kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” he breathes and you can feel his cock, twitching against your thigh and it’s a sensation you never thought you’d be able to experience outside of your deepest dreams - it feels twice as good as you’d imagined. “Gonna make me go crazy, babe.”

That’s exactly what you want.

“Hey,” and you pull away from him, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath still hot on your face, “don’t we have to fulfill the tradition of consummating the marriage?”

He laughs, a loud exhalation of air rather than his true barking laugh, but you smile anyway at the sound. “S’not the middle ages - no one’s expecting us to, if y’don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to.” Harry’s hand slides backwards into your hair, pulling the strands into a ponytail and tugging and your resulting moan has him smirking like a smug bastard against your lips. “God, Har. I really want to.”

It seems that that was the exact response he’d wanted - you get one last lingering kiss to your lips before Harry’s pulling away, hand falling away from your hair and other still interlocked with your own. You don’t have a second to question where, exactly, he’s leading you but then he’s tugging you through the foyer and down the halls and up the staircase you’ve grown to know so well - the trek to his bedroom has never seemed so viciously long until now, but by the time Harry swings open the door, you feel as though you’ve been walking for hours instead of barely a minute.

“On the bed, babe,” he directs you, all raspy tone and dominance lacing every last syllable and you can’t ignore the gush of arousal you can feel rushing straight to your core. It’s the stuff that makes up dreams, really, his fucking voice, and you know just the four simple words would be enough to get you off for years from now. “C’mon.”

You wouldn’t dream of disobeying - your footsteps are nearly completely silent on the carpet as you walk over to the end of Harry’s bed, pushing yourself up to sit on the plush duvet, sinking into the mattress that feels like an absolute cloud compared to the rock you’re used to sleeping on. For a brief second, he doesn’t move - just stands and stares at you, chest heaving through the baby blue dress shirt that your needy grasp had wrinkled. Then he moves, shutting the door with a barely perceptible click before making his way over to you, gazing up at him with heat blazing in your eyes.

Perhaps you’re expecting him to push you onto the bed, to fulfill the dominant tone he’d held before, so it is a bit of a surprise to see your best friend (your husband) dropping to his knees before you, fingertips ever so gently trailing up and down your calves.

The bedroom is so silent, save for your panting breaths and Harry’s shaky ones and you reckon he may be more nervous than you are - you’d expected him to handle all of the confidence between you two but his fingers are shaking as he pulls off your heels, resting them side by side on the carpet at the end of the bed. Chills crop up over your skin as his gentle touch roams up your legs, landing on your knee, and your breath hitches in your throat as the man you’ve loved for nearly 5 years leans in, lips landing a soft kiss to the top of your calf.

This isn’t what you had expected - him fucking worshipping you, on his knees - you’d never pictured it in a million years. And maybe it’s proof of the difference between him and the other guys you’d been with - your ex-boyfriends and flings had always been worried about their pleasure, never paying you any attention, and Harry couldn’t be closer to the end of the spectrum. Your entire body feels warm beneath his watchful gaze and touch, how he brings one hand up to snap firmly when your eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me,” Harry directs, and despite the slight strain in his actions, his words still hold a never-faltering dominance that he’d had before. “C’mon, babe. I don’ want you to look away from me - can y’do that?”

It’s a task that’s easier said than done, but you nod anyway, swallowing thickly as Harry redirects his attention back to your legs. His hand, resting delicately on your left knee as though you’d break if he put too much pressure, slides down the length of your leg until he’s grasping your ankle, kneading the soft skin in his grasp while his lips linger at the top of your knee.

Using his grip on your ankle, Harry hoists your leg up onto the bed without warning, your toes digging into the end of the bed - uses his other hand to push your thigh outward so you’re on display for him like a goddamn feast and his smug grin proves that he can see just how wet you are, soaking through the white lace panties you’d chosen for the occasion. Heat blooms up your cheeks as he presses an open mouthed kiss to your thigh, teeth grazing your soft skin, and then he gives a dramatic inhale and - that’s -

You reach down, bracing both palms on the side of his face and forcing your husband (husband!) to look at you in the eye. He looks confused by your interjection and apologetic and that isn’t what you were going for but you hadn’t expected him to want to eat you out - most guys didn’t.

“You don’t have to do that, Har,” you murmur, giving a pointed glance to your lap that he’s been eyeing like it’s his dessert. “I won’t be mad.”

And Harry looks almost offended by the prospect of not wanting to, like you’d insulted him - “I want to. D’you not want me to?”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice hardly above a breath, and when he begins to pull away you continue. “No! I mean - yes, I want you to.”

He grins, wide and toothy and reminding you of exactly why you’d fallen for him in the first place, and you settle back into your spot on the bed with your nerves almost completely eradicated. He wants to - he’s not doing it because he feels obligated - it’s already a step up from any other guy you’d ever been with.

Fingers trail up your thighs as Harry’s lips close around the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, cheeks hollowing as he sucks a deep purple hickey, and you lift your hips just a bit so he can hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties and begin to tug them down. The crotch area is practically dripping with your arousal and it takes a bit more force to tug it away from your cunt but once they’re gone, Harry grabs your ankle again and straightens out your leg, making it easier for him to tug the offending material down your body and toss them away from the bed before resting your foot back on the edge.

You can hear his shaky breathing as he pulls his lips away from your thigh, thumb smoothing over the mark he’d left as if to prove it exists. You’d get it fucking tattooed if you could - to forever commemorate this experience - his mark in such a secretive place, just a breath away from where you need him most.

“Jus’ - jus’ tell me if y’want me t’stop,” Harry tells you, eyes interlocking with yours once more, and you jerk your head up and down once. “Lean back f’me, then - not too far, jus’ a bit - still need t’see you.”

So you lean back, propping yourself up on your arms, a barely reclined position from how you’d been sitting before. It’s easier to see him as he grabs the hem of your dress, tugs it up just a bit, but when you lift your hips so he can pull it out from under your ass he doesn’t comply - well, perhaps he has other plans with it, doesn’t want the dress to come off just yet, and you can respect that.

The time it takes for Harry to duck his head beneath your dress, tongue flicking against your overly sensitive folds, seems like fucking years even if it’s hardly a second, but when he does your hips instinctively jerk forward into his mouth. His eyes are flashing when he looks up at you and you breathe out a stream of apologies, heart thumping in your chest, fingernails digging into the comforter beneath you. “Don’ move,” he directs, and you nod again and again and you don’t stop until his lips close in around your clit.

Your head drops back with a low moan as Harry’s teeth graze your clit, cheeks hollowing as he sucks the sensitive nub like it’s what he was born to do. The bottom of your dress covers the top of his head so you can’t see what he’s doing - you have no idea what his next move is and it makes the pleasure rolling through your body that much better.

“Fuck - fuck, Har -” the only two words you can think to moan roll off your tongue like a mantra, your back arching upwards despite his warning not to move but he doesn’t mention it - just drags one hand up, fingertips light and dancing on your thighs until he can splay his forearm across your lower stomach, effectively pinning you to the bed. Your hand moves from digging into the sheets to digging into his scalp, tugging at the loose strands of hair that smell ever so slightly of gel and it makes your heart swell to imagine him putting product in his hair for the elopement - but before you have time to dwell on the sweetness of the sentiment, that talented tongue is licking a thin stripe up your folds before flicking your clit and you’re brought back to reality. “Fuck.”

“Feel good?” Harry mumbles, muffled where his face is pressed firm to your pussy and the vibrations of his words reverberate against your clit, sending a chill up your spine, and you let out a low whine at the sensation.

“Yes,” you breathe in return, tugging at his hair just a bit, the strands forming a makeshift ponytail like he’d done to you before. “Feels so good, Harry, god -”

His head pulls back just a bit, hem of your dress dropping to just the tip of his nose so you can see his eyes - smug and glinting and you’re sure that, if you could see his mouth, those lips would be upturned into a smirk and practically dripping with your arousal - but he goes back in just as soon as he’d pulled out, burying his face in the apex of your thighs and you collapse back against the bed with a shout.

Whatever order he’d given you to maintain eye contact disappears. It isn’t as though you can see his eyes anyway, and you couldn’t stop yours from rolling back into your head if you tried. Ecstasy rolls through your body and, God, you know you’re close already, thighs tensing under where Harry’s palm kneads the soft skin, hard enough that you’re sure you’ll see bruises tomorrow. Your cunt clenches and flutters around the emptiness you’re yearning to get rid of and your back arches up again, Harry’s restraint on your torso not enough to stop it now, and you’re so fucking close.

“Harry -” you moan, digging your fingernails into Harry’s scalp and relishing in his responding moan to your clit - “gonna cum, Har -”

He doesn’t say anything - but you can feel his tongue continuing its work, up and down your folds and circling your clit and that’s response enough. Your hips jerk into his face, back arching as you grasp his hair tight enough that it has to fucking hurt but then you’re cumming and -

“Oh, fuck!”

Your voice is high pitched, cracked with a desperate sob right in the middle of your words before you’re holding Harry’s head to your pussy, his tongue working your clit like he was born for it, his low moans muffled against you. The hand previously holding down your torso slides up your body until he can shove his hand into the top of your dress, tugging it down so your chest is. He plucks at your nipple before grasping your tit, full in his palm, and the added stimulation prolongs your orgasm, hips rolling against Harry’s working mouth.

You can’t see straight when Harry pulls his head out from the bottom of your chest but when your vision focuses you’re beyond thankful. His chin is glistening with your arousal, tongue poking out to lap at the moisture on his lips and he dons that shit-eating grin you’ve grown to know so well. You usually see it when he wins a board game or when you’re celebrating something - seeing it on his face after he’s finished giving you the best orgasm you’ve ever gotten is certainly different but not unwelcome by anyone’s standards.

There’s a second where all you do is lie back and catch your breath - staring up at the ceiling above you, chest heaving as the aftershocks race through your body. Harry, meanwhile, pushes himself to his feet, muttering a small groan about God, m’fuckin knees and gettin’ too old for this, aren’t I?

Lazily you hold your hand out towards him, wiggling your fingers, and he reaches out to interlock your fingers again. “How was that?” he questions, voice soft and almost insecure and it’s a sharp contrast from the dominance he held before, but you know it’ll come back.

“I think you’re a natural at that, Mr. Styles,” you tell him, squeezing his hand in reassurance as you pull him closer to you until his knees hit the bed and he’s forced to collapse on top of you, grin cracking onto his face. “Gonna undress me?”

“‘Course,” Harry murmurs, leaning down to place a brief kiss to your lips, but before you can lift your head to deepen it he’s rolling off of you, shifting onto his side and shuffling upwards so his head rests on the stack of pillows. You raise your eyebrows at him - it isn’t as though he can take your dress off from that position - but, as though he can read your mind, he raises his hand and pats his lower stomach pointedly. “Climb up, babe.”

For what seems like the millionth time today, you can feel heat pulsing in your cheeks but you hope it doesn’t show - just sit up, swing your legs around so you’re straddling Harry, hands on his chest and gazing down at him like the God he seems to be. His hair is splayed out on the pillows beneath him, bottom lip tugged between his teeth, and you can’t help yourself - lean down to land your lips to his again, and this time both of you allow it to deepen. His hand starts at your cheek like it had before but you reach for it, fingers wrapping around his wrist and maneuvering it downwards until his palm is wrapped around the column of your throat, and he squeezes once experimentally.

You moan softly, hips rolling against the pointed bulge in his dress pants, and Harry’s eyebrows raise. “No fuckin’ way,” he breathes, squeezing again just to hear the way your breath catches. “Gonna be th’fuckin’ death f’me.”

You’re fine with that, and you reckon he is too.

You reach behind you, tapping along your back until you can reach the zipper. You’ve only tugged it down an inch or two before Harry’s free hand replaces yours, dragging the zipper down as far as it can go before reaching for the bottom of the dress. It’s gone in an instant - tossed off the edge of the bed, to be worried about later - and you can feel his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it comes undone, and then you’re naked.

You’d expected yourself to feel more embarrassed, or perhaps just nervous, and maybe it’s the effects of your previous orgasm but you’re feeling surprisingly calm - or maybe it’s how Harry looks up at you like you’re some sort of goddess sent from above, as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

It does wonders for your self esteem, truthfully.

“Gonna undress me, then?” Harry questions, hands smoothing up and down your thighs, eyes drinking in every bit of your exposed body on top of him.

You hum softly, pinching at the soft material of his shirt. “I don’t think so - want you to fuck me in your fancy clothes.”

“Well, if I’d known tha’ was an option -”

“Do you want me to put the dress back on?”

“No!”

You grin down at him before rolling your hips over his again, and it’s the last thing you manage to do before his grip lands on your hips and he’s flipping you over - your head lands dangerously close to hitting the headboard but it’s worth it, seeing him above you, fully clothed, pupils lust-blown and wide.

It hardly takes a second for Harry to undo the button to his pants and the sound of the zipper being undone is like music to your fucking ears - you spread your legs, letting him slot his body between them and oh, you can feel the tip of his fucking cock it’s right there and -

The first movement, Harry pushing himself inside of you, has you throwing your head back against the pillow, the moan coming from your throat mixing with a cry. He’s big - certainly bigger than you’d ever expected and bigger than any guy you’d been with - feels like he could split you in half if he wanted to but he stops, hands smoothing up and down your body, and you make a point of reaching for his hand and interlocking your fingers.

You’ll never grow tired of holding his hand, you think. Not for a while, anyway.

“How’re you doin’?” he questions, voice strained, and when your eyes shift back to him you can see the droplets of sweat beaded on his face. “Jus’ - jus’ tell me when, alright?”

“When,” you breathe almost immediately. You hadn’t needed too much time to adjust but you need him to move - you’re so pent up and you know it won’t take long to take you to your second orgasm but, God, he needs to fucking move. “Please, Har - please, fuck me.”

It doesn’t seem he needed much more encouragement than that. With one final move of wrapping his free hand firm around your neck and giving another small squeeze, Harry pulls out agonizingly slowly until just the tip of his cock remains in your heat. Just as you open your mouth to beg him to move again he slams back in with a force you hadn’t anticipated, your body rocking backwards of its own accord with the weight behind the thrust.

It’s exactly what you’d needed, though - fast and rough and his hand, cutting off your airflow just a bit, just enough to have you quivering beneath him. The low groan that rips out of his throat, reverberating through the humid bedroom has you pushing your hips up to his, trying to deepen where he’s buried inside of you to the hilt but you’re not sure how much deeper he could get. Feels like he could split you in half with every desperate thrust, every rut of his hips into yours and yours back into his.

“Oh - god - m’fuckin’ good girl, so tight around m’cock -”

Another rush of arousal gushes straight to your core with his filthy words and your head falls back into the pillow with a high whine, nails digging into the back of his hand as his other one tightens grip around your neck. It makes every desperate moan and cry that much airier and you can tell Harry likes it, staring down at you as his hips pound yours with absolutely no mercy and you don’t want any, anyway. It’s the subject of every single fantasy you’ve ever had about him, rough and hard and the sound of skin slapping skin overpowering your needy noises.

You’d never dreamt it would feel so good.

“Oh god, Harry!” Your eyes are rolling back into your head as your free hand trails down your stomach, shaking fingers focusing on your ignored clit and beginning tight circles around the nub. The jolts of pleasure that run through your body are - god, fucking amazing and you know you’re close, hardly need anything else to tip you over the edge. “Gonna - gonna cum, Har -”

It’s a testament to, perhaps, the long-growing tension between the two of you that his head drops backwards with a cry of me, too in a tone that’s so desperately vulnerable and it’s exactly what you’d needed - the reminder, in the midst of the rough thrusts and desperate moans, that this isn’t a one time thing. If you both allow it, it’s the rest of your life, just like this - and, God, you’ll allow it.

Your cunt clenches around your cock as you cum, eyes rolling back into your head and body spasming beneath him. In the midst of it Harry pulls out and you don’t get a second to question the sudden emptiness before you feel a familiar warmth hitting your lower stomach, and you open your eyes in time to see your husband, hand working at his cock as ribbons of cum spurt onto your stomach.

(You think you could cum again just from the sight but - well, you’ll hold back.)

His breathing is choppy and desperate, broken occasionally by a needy moan until he’s finished and he collapses on his back beside you, hands still intertwined with no intention of letting go. Nothing needs to be said - not yet - not for a little while, where you’ll talk about it more.

A little while ends up merely being a minute or two before Harry swings his legs over the edge of the bed, hand still clasped in yours, and makes to stand up - it’s only your tightening grasp on his hand that forces him to stop, glancing behind him to look at you.

“Don’t,” you plead, throat already feeling sore and voice raspy. “Just - another minute, alright? Then clean up.”

He hums softly but you know he won’t resist the prospect of just a brief cuddle - one of the few things you hadn’t done often when you were just friends, because you knew that, if Harry held you as close to him as he is now, lips pressed to your forehead, you wouldn’t be able to resist telling him how you felt about him.

Doesn’t matter now, though. And his arms feel so warm around you, clammy palm still pressed to yours like a fucking couple in middle school but you wouldn’t dream of letting go. It’s all so - so peaceful, lying with him and listening to his heartbeat as you rest your head to his chest, listening to his heartbeat thumping as fast and hard as yours is.

And - well. Barely a month ago you were convinced your Aunt Alice was the worst woman in the world - a hypocrite and an asshole, set out to taunt you by lording your dream home over you and snatching it away when you couldn’t find a husband in time. But now? Feeling Harry, landing soft kisses again and again to your forehead, you figure she’s not so bad, after all.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #best friend!harry styles #loose ankles #lol #one of my fav things ive written #i got carried away during the smut.... sorry

5K notes · View notes