#im actually rly proud of this pls dont let it flop

[hrina]

We've talking about everything with hatefuck harry but y/n giving him oral which id wanna know how that would go about cause it's so intimate and i don't think it'd happen in the moment of an angry escapade, I think they'd have to be going really slow and sweet for that to even come up. Maybe Harry's in another funk and she feels bad so she helps him out and just being overall nice

OH DAMN MAYBE!! I’M GONNA MAKE THIS A CONTINUATION OF THIS BLURB HERE xx

Neither of you have mentioned it since it happened.

You seem to be doing just fine. You carry on with your life as though everything is fine and dandy, never gracing him with a second glance whenever you walk into the room. He passes you a few times whilst you’re chatting with someone, and it seems as though he’s practically invisible to you. For you, nothing seems to have changed.

But Harry…

Harry’s dying.

Your words ring in his head, echoing in his ears on a constant loop whenever he tucks himself into bed at night. It makes him groan, roll over, and clutch a pillow aggressively against his chest (he’ll never admit it, but he sometimes loosens his grip on it after a while, letting himself imagine that it’s you he’s got wrapped up in his arms instead).

And the fact that you’ve seem to have forgotten the encouraging talk you’d given him that day in the studio? It makes him feel like he’s drowning. The juxtaposition is comedic, really: his lungs are filling with oxygen, yet, for some unknown reason, he’s simultaneously unable to breathe.

He’s out with some friends on a chilly Friday night, slightly buzzed from having downed a few beers, when he realizes that he can’t fucking take it anymore.

He’s pushing his chair back, rushing out of the bar, keeping his head down as cameras flash in his face. He’s opening the door of the sleek black vehicle that’s pulled up, he’s sliding onto the leather seats, he’s mumbling a few key syllables to his driver before letting loose a few words of thanks. He’s waiting, drumming his fingers anxiously on his leg as streetlights and other cars pass by on the road.

And then he’s knocking on your door.

The look on your face when you see him is completely and utterly priceless. Harry would laugh if he wasn’t so wrapped up in his own thoughts at the moment.

“Harry?” you ask, your brow crinkling adorably, “What are you doing here? How’d you even get my–?”

“Want yeh,” he cuts you off. He places one hand against the doorway to keep himself from slipping and falling flat on his face. He’s tipsy, you can tell, but beneath the frivolous intoxication dilating his pupils, you can see the sincerity clouding his eyes.

“I–what?” you’re shocked, stepping back in surprise and folding your arms over your chest. You suddenly feel very exposed, wearing only a flimsy tank top and a tiny pair of cotton shorts (you’d just been about to slide into bed when you heard the urgent knocking on the door of your apartment). 

“Wanna fuck yeh,” Harry mumbles, “Wanna–wanna have yeh, please, lemme just…” 

He presses his hands to his face, groaning lowly and swearing under his breath.

“You’re drunk,” you say dumbly, unable to move. It appears as though your feet have been rooted to the floor. Harry rubs tiredly at his eyes, letting out a small, impish laugh.

“’M not that drunk,” he tells you, “Only had a few beers.”

“Oh.” There’s really nothing else you can think to say.

His hands drop to his sides, and his fists clench briefly before he lets out a soft sigh. “’M sorry,” he murmurs, “’S fuckin’…’m so stupid, ’m sorry.” 

You watch silently as he turns around. Your eyes widen when he wobbles slightly and presses his palm against his forehead to steady himself, and then the words are leaving your lips before you even have a chance to taste them on your tongue.

“Come inside.” 

Harry freezes. It takes him a moment to register your words, but when he does, he’s slowly spinning back around to face you, a caution expression on his face. “Are yeh fuckin’ with me?”

You shake your head. “What? No. Just...come inside, before I change my mind.”

He sticks his bottom lip out into a pout when you tell him that you’re not going to let him fuck you tonight. “Why not?” he lolls his head around from where he’s sat on the couch, his legs spread wide, “Just wanna feel yeh.”

You sigh, walking into your small living room with a glass of water clutched tightly in your right hand. 

“You’re drunk,” you say, and you give him a stern glare when he opens his mouth to try and convince you otherwise, “We do a lot of things, Harry, but we don’t do wasted hook-ups. That’s not us.”

And maybe you try to ignore the way your heart flutters at the last word. Maybe.

“Not us,” Harry echoes, graciously accepting the glass of water that you offer to him. He lifts the cup to his lips as you ease yourself down onto the sofa next to him. “’S not us. What’s ‘us’, then?”

“What do you mean?” you sigh, knuckling at your puffy eyes. Harry peers at you from over the rim of the glass, his irises foggy yet inquisitive.

“What’s ‘us’?” he repeats after he swallows down a sip of water, “What are we?”

The words are heavy with meaning, and you both know it. Harry’s gaze is fixed on you, and you look away from his piercing green eyes. You can feel them drilling a hole through your skull, trying to peel back layer after layer so that he can find the answer to his question.

“’What are we’?” you reiterate. Harry nods.

“We are sitting on my couch,” you say. You know that’s the artificial, easy way out of the situation, but you’re not ready to address the issue just yet. “And we’re talking. And you’re drinking water, because you’re drunk.”

Harry gives you one last stern, earnest glare before his eyes drift shut and his body slumps in defeat. You swallow down the lump in your throat, looking away and scratching at the nape of your neck. When you chance a glance back at him, you find that he’s set down his glass. His head is tilted back against the rear of the loveseat, his hands laying on either side of his spread thighs. 

Slowly, you slip off of the couch, sliding down onto your knees. Harry makes a faint, surprised sound in his throat when he feels you nestle your way in between his legs, your fingers fiddling with the belt on his waist. 

“And I’m...,” you let your eyes fall shut for a mere moment, trying to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart and the nervous coil in the pit of your stomach, “...I’m sucking you off.”

You flick open the button of his jeans and look up at him through your eyelashes. His pink, kissable lips are parted in awe, and he lifts his hips to help you slide his pants down his legs. You tentatively dip your hand into his boxers, pulling out his semi-hard cock and--in a manner that is very unlike you--pressing a kiss to the tip.

“Okay?” you ask, and just like before, the question is loaded with so much more. Harry swallows, his hands brushing away strands of your hair before gathering them all up into a sloppy yet tender makeshift ponytail. His cock twitches in your hand, and the word comes out scratchy and broken.

“Okay.”